My great grandfather died (of a ruptured appendix) when my Nana was only ten years old, her mother, my Granny, had only ever been a wife and mother and in those days it was far more difficult for a woman to find work especially when she had four young children at home.  Granny managed to pay the bills by doing a bit of sewing and housework for other people but there was little left at the end of the week for anything extra…even food.  The five of them had to subsist on what they had or could grow which was very little at that time so their cupboards were bare and their meals were meager at best.  Granny tried to stretch her groceries as far as she could but times were tough and she had to fill her babies tummies as best she could with what she had.  There were a few staples that could be bought cheaply back then and it’s funny to me that many immigrants used similar ingredients to feed their families…Italians had gnocchi, my husband is of Russian descent and his Doukhoubor ancestors made perogies from flour and potatoes, my Irish clan did about all that can be done to a spud and were nearly wiped out without them.  Granny could buy old potatoes for much less than the new ones and was often given the soft spongy spuds that other people thought were no good.  Flour and salt pork were also inexpensive so she called upon her Swedish heritage to fuel her family. 

We call it palt but when I looked it up online it had other names as well, pult, kumla, kropps and klub, and some just call them Swedish potato dumplings.  Apparently the original recipe was for blood pult and called for blood (cow blood I would hope) instead of potatoes…I am thankful that that was not the version handed down in my family.  We peel the tubers and grate them…last time I used my food processor and that saved the added bonus of knuckle meat in the mix…we then add a little salt and enough flour to glue the shreds together in a sticky doughy mess.  The salt pork is chopped into small pieces and while some suggest pre-frying them we prefer them raw.  The dough is formed into baseball sized orbs and a tablespoon or two of the salinated pig is inserted into the center.  The balls are then placed in as-big-as-we-can-find pots of boiling water and let them cook for an hour.  We salivate waiting that sixty minutes for the palt to be ready.  It’s sick really but we can’t wait to dig into the leaden spheres of high carb, high sodium pasty goodness.  This may very well be the most dense dish ever but it slides easily down the gullet with the slab of butter we slather on each hemisphere as the balls are cut open.  It sounds disgusting (and honestly they don’t look terribly appetizing either) and really there are very few non-family members who enjoy the heavy meal like those of us who were raised with it…though there are a few who don’t mind it fried up the next day with a little ketchup…which is a waste and sacrilege to those of us who preserve the purity and blandness of the freshly boiled blobs.  We only eat palt once or twice a year (because it takes six months to digest it) but when we do we make it to share with as many relatives as possible… which also serves to distribute the guilt that comes with eating such a meal.

My nana called my (tattooist) brother a few months back and after their chat he was so homesick he made palt for his family.  It’s just one of those little ties that bind my maternal family together.  We were going through my grandmothers old photos a few weeks ago at the lake when we decided we should boil up a batch the following weekend.  My youngest brother (sic) is a celiac and unable to eat gluten (flour etc.) so he has not had the ‘treat’ in years.  He and his wife were coming to the lake the morning we decided to make the dish so I made them a few with soy flour, it may not have been the same but he enjoyed it nonetheless and I think he appreciated being re-included in the tradition.  We boiled the balls over the campfire as we all sat around visiting and drinking coffee, celebrating the moments of our lives (General Mills International coffee) as we waited the sixty minutes until we could dig in.

I think part of the appeal of palt (because really it’s not about the gourmet-ness of it) is that it’s a meal that is prepared collectively, we all pitch in, peeling, grating, chopping mixing and whoever is not in a palt-coma afterwards even helps wash up the messy pots.  It’s a beautiful thing really…too bad we don’t get that excited about salad.

Last Saturday my mom’s cousin Kris and his daughter were on their way home to northern Alberta when they decided to pop out to the lake to visit us and take a break from driving.  We were all quite excited that they stopped in, it’s been far too long since we last saw them and it was barely moments after hugs and greetings when he announced in what is like a familial battle cry “We brought potatoes and salt pork!”  We didn’t have the heart to tell him that we were still digesting the palt from two weeks prior so first thing the next morning with our peelers and graters in one hand and our coffee cups in the other we tackled yet another batch.  It was while we were waiting for the palt to cook that Kris told us of their origin and the hardships my great-grandmother faced and triumphed over.  I think my granny would be proud to know that what was once a monotonous staple to her children is now a delicacy and as much about comfort and family to her descendants.

My mom’s sister Jen came to visit us at the lake last weekend.  This aunt has always been on the familial fringe and only chooses to partake in gatherings when it suits her…which is rare and that suits the rest of us just fine.  Aunty Jen is a bit of a black sheep, her husband is a redneck asshole who lives to kill critters and takes pleasure in groping his nieces.  Gross.  Their children are not exactly popular with the rest of us either.  Harold is not a bad guy but he and his sister Glenna both smoke a bale of weed a day which makes them less than scintillating as conversationalists and their lifestyles about as appealing to me as housework.  They are all fairly monosyllabic and ignorant but worse than that they all self-centered, self-serving and self-righteous.  They have a collective chip on their shoulder and they think the rest of the world owes them, they know the way the universe ‘should’ be and in every way shape and form is ‘should’ benefit them.  Glenna is pissed that her neighbor’s son (he was 22 years old) died in a car accident because it ruined her life…though she doesn’t give a shit what it did to his mother.  He was supposed to live quietly next to her with his horse-loving girlfriend but he had to go and die and that land got sold to someone with noisy kids and now she has to go into debt for a ten foot fence to tune out the volume of the new people and block their prying teenage boy’s eyes from watching Glenna suntan naked.  Seriously, the fence is in the kid’s best interest, he’d be more likely to turn to stone after seeing that homely witch in the raw than get any sort of pleasure from ogling her hideosity.  Glenna is a total douche, in fact she is such a douche that even other douches think she is a douche.

Harold has a bloodhound that he and his wife can’t be bothered to look after so the responsibility often falls on his mother.  The dog is pretty cute and about as threatening as a butterfly but he is big and he is very slobbery.  My aunt calls the oodles of drool “wog” as in “The dog shook and flung his wog all over the inside of her truck.”  Thick, ropy, white spit hangs from his jowls at all times so when he shakes you need an umbrella.   Aunty Jen is used to the soggy mess but Aunty Eddie is not.  Eddie is Trixie and Barry’s mom and she’s so not a dog person at the best of times.  It always cracks me up that it is these kinds of people that canines are most attracted to.  Eddie was sitting in her lawn chair visiting with her sister when Diesel (the hound) decided to make her acquaintance.  He first nuzzled under her hand so she gave him a perfunctory pat.  Diesel took this as a sign of affection and rested his head on her shoulder but as she pushed him away he left in his wake a mouthful of slobber that trailed across her shirt like something left behind from a slug…a really really big slug.  We all noticed the ‘wog’ before my aunt and when she looked at her shirt to see what had us all giggling she made a face somewhere between horror and revulsion which had me literally pissing my pants.  If it had happened to anyone else it would not have been nearly as funny…and even though I am a dog person I would have gagged had my shirt been the one drenched in the slimy drool.

The visit with Aunty Jen was not so bad really, she was far more sociable than usual and she did have a great story to tell us.  It is no secret that her husband is a drunk.  The man has his first beer to wash down his breakfast and continues pounding them throughout the day.  Lawrence can polish off twenty to thirty beer in a day and not get ripped but if he gets into the rum it’s a different story entirely.  One weekend at the lake (they camp at the same lake but about fifteen km away from us…which is still too close) some of his cronies stopped in to see him and they brought with them a bottle of Captain Morgan and it didn’t take long for the Cap’n to work his inebriating magic.  Aunty Jen had planned a lovely steak dinner for Lawrence that night and because she went over her budget purchasing his gorgeous slab of cow she figured she’d cook herself a hamburger to balance out the cost of the meal.  By the time Lawrence began demanding his dinner Jen was  already disgusted with him for getting so loaded and she knew he wouldn’t appreciate either the steak or her sacrifice so she cooked up a little something special instead.  She went into the trailer and opened a can of ham, sliced a ‘steak’ from the moulded meat product and grilled it on the barbeque.  Lawrence gobbled up his dinner like it was his last and when he was finished she asked him how he liked his steak and he told her it was fantastic.  When he passed out she cooked the real hunk of beef for herself.  By the next morning everyone knew the story and they were all chiding him on not knowing the difference.  It took some time for him to believe he had been duped and he was not very happy with his wife’s deception.  Still, when he gets all ripped up he doesn’t know the difference so she continues to deceive him whenever she can.  I think it’s her way of calling him a drunken loser…since she can’t just say it aloud like the rest of us do…and getting a piece of meat that has to be better than anything that waste of barley can provide.  Now if only she could figure out how to exchange his beer for prune juice.

Twenty years ago today a pregnant twenty year old took her father’s arm and walked (waddled?!) down the aisle toward the boy who knocked her up.  There were over a hundred people in my parent’s back yard that day but that boy with the big 80’s hair and the atrocious mustache was the only person I saw.  He had tears in his eyes by the time I reached him.  “You are so beautiful.” he whispered to me as he took my hand from my dad.

It was not a fancy wedding, my parents were caterers back then so they did the cooking, my cousin tended the bar, my maid of honor wore her grad dress from two years earlier, a friend of my mom’s made my dress (they don’t make maternity wedding dresses), the DJ was a family friend and the cake was a gift from my former boss.  It was a lousy day for July, cloudy and blah but just as we said our “I do’s” the sun broke through.  The day was full of stresses beyond the unsettled weather (rain really puts a damper on an outdoor wedding), the mosquitoes were the worst I had ever seen, there was a smorgasbord of scents to attract them and the bastards were ravenous.  My brother-in-law spent the entire weekend telling anyone who’d listen that I was trapping his baby brother, I only wanted him for his money (HA!! If only!!) and that we were too young to get married.  The biker neighbor got loaded and passed out before the ceremony even started but fortunately (NOT!) he woke just in time to strategically place himself in the background of several of our pictures.  Some people have a flowery background in their photos…we had a drunk biker they called Klinger.   The best man broke his leg the week before so he hobbled around trying to keep his crutches out of the photos.  The same photos that were taken by a supposed professional photographer friend of my MIL, the photos that got ‘lost in the mail’ only to resurface six years later when she was moving, sadly they were mostly crap anyway.  None of that matters any more now than it did then.  Yes I was disappointed about the pictures but even they were not what that day was about.  I didn’t care that we had to string up ugly orange tarps in case it rained, I didn’t care that my brother-in-law was (is) an asshole, I didn’t care that it looked like a shotgun wedding (I totally would have loved it if my dad had walked me down the aisle carrying a shotgun!), it wasn’t about the gifts or the food or the music (although they were perfect) the day was about celebrating our love and future together with our family and friends.  For my mother-in-law however it was about ensuring that her grandchild not be born a bastard.

The preacher stood atop the lid to the septic tank as he joined us in matrimony.  We giggled about it later knowing that it was not a sign that our marriage was bound for the shitter, it was more about not taking things too seriously.  Laughter has gotten us through some pretty rough times over the years, my husband knows how to tickle my funny bone…even when he doesn’t mean to and it’s really hard to stay mad at someone when they make you laugh.  The ceremony was short and sweet and the word ‘obey’ had been removed from the vows at my request.  It was easy to promise to love and honor but I told the minister “Obeying is for pets and children.”  

We spent our wedding night in a hotel not four blocks from where we lived at the time.  We thought we’d have some dirty hotel sex but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t stay awake to consummate our marriage on our wedding night.  The evidence of our premarital consummation was six months along in my belly so between him and the whole wedding thing I was worn out.  My husband had a feeling things would work out that way so he thought ahead and booked the room for a second night and we made up for the momentary abstinence.  

My husband is upset that we can’t afford to give this milestone the attention that he feels it deserves.   Financially it’s just not possible to do anything big this year.  We are putting any extra into our cabin and that’s more than enough celebration for me.  We could have gone into (more) debt for a vacation but what we’ll spend on that little shack by the lake will be far less than what a holiday would have cost and it will last us much longer.  We fully intend to sit on that deck and watch our grandchildren play on the lawn one day.  Still he feels bad that he isn’t giving me some kind of gift.  I know it sounds corny as hell and it’s all I can do to keep from gagging on the syrup of it, but he is my gift.  He is everything to me and all that I want from him is his love (and patience) and he gives that to me freely and without condition.  He is my best friend (I typed ‘fiend’…that works too) he is my favorite companion, he knows me better than anyone and loves me in spite of it and he still rings my bell in bed…or on the picnic table or the kitchen counter or in the bathtub or the front seat of the truck etc. etc.

It doesn’t feel like we’ve been married twenty years, I still adore him as much as I did back then and I still get all squishy when he gives me that look that tells me that I still make his heart flutter too.  Sure he makes me mental some days and we’ve had plenty of rough (and some really shitty) times where it would have been easier to go our separate ways than to do the work to stay together.  I guess somehow we knew if we could make it through those bad times intact that we could survive anything.  I can’t even imagine a life without him and I look forward to the rest of my life with him.

I don’t normally post pics of myself but this was too good (bad?!) not to share.  Please note the drunken biker behind us and the pathetic attempt at photography…wtf?!

just the two of us...and Klinger

If I had the energy I would be writing my last will and testament right now.  Fuck it, it’s not like I have anything of value to leave to anyone anyway.  Instead I’ll take my last moments to blog about my impending death…or what feels like it might very well be death at least.  

It began as a slight belly ache on Saturday afternoon.  At first I didn’t think much of it, I hadn’t had a movement in a couple days (TMI!!!) so I figured my bodily disposal unit was just playing catch-up.  As the evening progressed the pain increased as did my trips to the outhouse.  I was trekking to the ‘long drop’ every two hours through the night and sometimes it took two trips before I felt like I was empty enough to get some sleep.  By 4am I was exhausted, I took two Pepto Bismal and tried to relax and about the time I fell asleep the now familiar pressure had me tossing on my hoody and some pants and heading back down to the toilet.  By 7am I was near tears and begging my husband to bring me home.  Of course he obliged.  It was obvious to the family how distressed I was, I never want to leave the lake early!

I had a hot bath…careful not to sneeze or cough…drank some Gatorade and went to bed.  It was nearly 2pm before the urgency subsided and I finally got some rest.  When I woke I felt much better.  I had a little dinner and crashed again for the night.  I was sure the worst was over.  

It was not.

I had to work this morning so I had my alarm set.  I didn’t need it.  When that kind of intestinal wrenching pain seizes hold it is impossible…nay dangerous…to not heed its call.  I went five times in the hour it took me to get ready for work and I barely made it to town before I had to go again.  I went another four times before my first client arrived.  I could barely stand up I was hurting so badly so I decided to cancel the rest of my day.  Thankfully it was a short day for me anyway and everyone was completely understanding.  I hate calling in sick even when I don’t have anyone to answer to.

I couldn’t even stop to pick up groceries, I was afraid I’d need a clean-up on aisle five.  I drove home…very quickly…and got back into the bath to warm up.  I am freezing even though it is sweltering outside.  I tried to eat but knowing that what goes in must come out makes all food completely unappealing so I just went to bed.  My legs are achy and my lower back hurts no doubt from all of the stand-up/sit-down/stand-up/sit-down I’ve been doing…it’s like my own Catholic wedding without the wine and crackers.  I dozed for a while, cried for a bit and finally decided to get up and seek some online sympathy.  I had a whole other post in my head for today but it’ll have to wait until I get my shit together (literally) and I am feeling better.  If things are not coming out better tomorrow I will be going to the doctor but until then Dr. Google says to keep replenishing my fluids and to eat bland foods, no dairy and no caffeine.  If the incessant shitting doesn’t kill me I am convinced that the caffeine withdrawal will. 

If you think it is distasteful to read about this, imagine for a moment what it’s been like for me.  I feel like I am turning inside-out, my entire body aches like I’ve been hanging out with Tyler Durden (I watched Fight Club last night) and my ass is so sore that even the softest tissue feels like 80 grit sandpaper, I am ready to start wiping with bunnies! 

The Boy called us tonight to let us know that he got a job for his next co-op  What should have been very exciting for all of us got a tepid response at best.  At the end of August he’ll be going on an eight month work term to South Bend Indiana where he’ll be doing research at Notre Dame University.  It sounds pretty cool at first right?  Upon closer inspection we discover however that this position pays about half of what he should be making in third year.  He’ll be lucky to be able to cover his living expenses never mind his flights and any tuition for the next term at school.  Financially I guess we’ll have to figure it out and for him this is yet another learning experience…he should have opted out of the job as soon as he found out what it paid…but then again money isn’t everything (except when you don’t have any) and I have told him that since this is now a done deal we’ll have to look at the positives in the situation…because you know me, I’m all Pollyanna and shit.

Now we have to find him a place to live, in a foreign country with imperial measurements, strange customs and stranger politicians from thousands of kilometers away.  He has to get a passport and a working visa and probably a Canadian/American dictionary.  I had to explain to him that the first thing he has to know is that Americans don’t pronounce Notre Dame the same way we do.  We say “not-ra-damn” and the ‘r’ has the little curdle in the back of the throat thing.  Americans pronounce it “no-turd-aim”. 
The boy has so much to learn.

I had a client this morning who asked about my son.  I talk about him quite a bit at work so most of my clientele know him or at least know of him.  He is an easy source of conversation and very few people know anything about nanotechnology so I can bore them at great length on the subject while I rip out their hair.  I told the client that he was going to South Bend in September for his next work term and she said, “Oh, Notre Dame?”  I was surprised, most people (here at least) have no idea where the university is.  “How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because I used to live there.”

It turns out that her ex husband still lives in South Bend and she offered to call him and ask if he or any of his family in the area might have, or know of, a place for a well-raised, polite, clean, fabulously parented, respectful, intelligent, good cooking Canadian boy (man) to live for eight months.  We don’t know anyone in that area…if it were not for Google I would not even know what area it was…and the kid has never been there which makes it extra difficult to figure out housing…beyond the language barrier.

I’d be forever grateful to anyone who would help out my kid in this situation so if anyone who knows anyone in that vicinity who might have or know of a place to rent please let me know.  He’s part Irish if that helps at all…not the fighting or drinking Irish although I am sure he could be persuaded to give it a go if it would help.  

In other news…the cabin now has three walls!  Yay!!  We’ll be out there for the better part of the next week and a half so hopefully by then there will be good start on a roof as well! My brother (sic) and his wife are coming out for a week so I figure they’ll be the perfect <strike>victims</strike> helpers to send up on the widowmaker (antique ladder) to attach the trusses and the tin.  They are both pretty lithe and agile so I figure they’ll be perfect for that job.  

Oh if you only knew how funny that last sentence really is.

*slaps knee and giggles madly*

Imagine if you will two friends, both male, one married and one single.  We’ll call them Barry and Edward, Barry being my the single one and my cousin.  Ed moved away a few years ago and it had been a while since the two buddies had seen each other.  Last weekend Edward and his family came up for a short visit and with his wife’s permission (because all good husbands ask permission) he decided to hit the watering hole with his old friend for a night of catching up and drunkenness.

Barry got home at about 1:30 am, he is not a lightweight by any stretch but he knows when he is fully loaded and it’s time to quit.  He had only been asleep (passed out) for a while when he heard something and opened one eye to find he was not alone in his room.  In his inebriated state he assumed it was another friend Marty and although he wondered why the fellow would be standing at the end of his bed he either didn’t have the wits to ask or didn’t care what he was doing there.  This begged the question from me “Do your friends often show up uninvited in your bedroom in the middle of the night?”  To which Barry replied, “Just listen to the rest of the story.”

When he awoke in the morning Barry discovered that all of the bedding from his spare room was piled on the floor at the foot of his bed and all of his porn was strewn about the room…and Barry has a lot of porn.  Apparently Ed, after many many beverages, was feeling the need to sew his seed and since he and his wife were staying at her parents he knew he’d not be getting any action from her so he decided to take care of business manually…at the foot of Barry’s bed while his buddy was sleeping!!!

I did ask Barry if there were any ‘pop art’ prints around the room or if there was any disturbance in his rectal area and he swore there wasn’t though I don’t think he’d be admitting it if there was.  If Ed was bold enough to spank his monkey in the presence of his friend I am not sure he wouldn’t try to shoot for the moon.  

I’ve had some good friends in my life but thankfully none of them have ever felt comfortable enough with me to overstep the boundaries of friendship in that particular way.  I’m quite ok with that.  As for Barry, he says that this might be the worst thing that Ed has done but he’s come close (no pun intended) before.  Apparently one morning Barry was in the shower when he smelled a horrific stench.  He peeked out the curtain to find Ed sitting on his toilet taking a shit.  Ed was a little early picking Barry up for breakfast and told him matter of factly when questioned on his (lack of) decorum, “When you gotta go you gotta go.”

By that logic apparently “when you gotta come, you gotta come” too.

I have a blister at the base of my index finger that is the size of Manitoba…which is a province in Canada for those not in the geographical know…actually it’s more the size of a pea (the blister, not Manitoba) but it feels frickin’ massive.  

The moment I left home on Thursday I was sure I’d get a flat tire.  My husband was catching a ride out with my parents on Friday but since I was able to sneak away early I took advantage of the opportunity and the dog and I headed for the lake on our own.  The freshly graded road seemed pretty hazard free but I had a bad feeling so I was paying close attention to how the truck was handling, dreading the idea of having to change a flat on my own on the side of the dusty logging road.  Fortunately all tires were well inflated by the time I arrived at our camp and while I am sure some kind trucker would have stopped to give me a hand I was relieved at not having to test my mechanical abilities or my feminine wiles.  

A few hours later the dog was nudging me and running for the driveway…her not-so-subtle hint that she’d like to go for a swim…so once I got all of our stuff put away we walked down to the water where she frolicked (I swear she was grinning and laughing) in the water for a while.  As we walked back up the driveway I noticed that the backside of the truck looked lopsided…and believe me I’ve seen a lot of lopsided backsides.  The rear driver’s side tire was completely flat.  

When my husband arrived the next day I showed him the deflated tire and told him I was sure I hadn’t driven on it that way.  I was certain I would have felt some kind of disturbance in the force if I had but in my head I was thinking I probably would have driven on the flat anyway though I wasn’t about to admit that.  When we (he) removed the tire it was obvious that I indeed had not shredded the flat by driving on it and upon closer inspection (with some soapy water) we discovered that the leak was a small puncture between the treads. 

Heiny says I am not allowed to go to the lake on my own anymore, apparently he worried about me all night.  I thought it was sweet that he stressed about my well-being until he added “Because if anything goes wrong you’ll be mad at me.”  So really he couldn’t care less about my safety he’s just protecting his own ass…from my foot.

My dad hooked up to the old trailer with his pick-up and it came out of the ground like shit from the ass of a goose.  Smooth baby, smooth.  I was sure that because it had been in that spot and settled into the soft ground for over twenty years that it would take more than a gentle tug to get it moving but despite the fact that there was only one tire inflated it rolled out without a hitch…besides the one on the truck.

You’re still picturing the shitting goose aren’t you.  

On Saturday Dad brought the Skid Steer (Bobcat, miniloader thingy) out to do some earth moving and leveling for us.  We cleared the brush from the backside of our property (why is it I seem destined to trim bushes even on my days off?) and mowed the shrubberies down.  We framed up the base of the cabin and with a wiggle here and a shuffle there we now have it situated on the property so as to maximize our space and views.  Heiny and I put a couple of lawn chairs where our deck will be and sat for a while to be sure it was exactly where we wanted it.  My aunt asked us what we were doing and Heiny answered “Watching our grandkids play on the lawn.”  Someday.

On Sunday we got the joist hangers nailed in and most of the floor joists cut to size and put in place.  It was hammering all of those nails that gave me the blister on my hand.  It hurt like a sonofabitch but I didn’t complain and when my back and shoulders and arms ache from the rest of the construction I won’t bitch about that either.  Well, I might whine a little just for sympathy but the truth is I can’t wait to get back out there to work on it some more.  It is so rewarding to see it start to happen, this dream of my cabin by the lake is finally becoming a reality.  Now if only my other dream of becoming a lottery winner would come to fruition.

My blister will be a calloused over in a few days and while it may not look very good to have workin’ man hands in my profession it should save me from further pain and aggravation when I pick up the framing hammer next weekend.  Feel free to call me ‘ben the builder’…she can build it, yes she can.  Well, she can help at least.

I was tagged by Betz ages ago for this meme and I finally got around to doing it.  I’m off to the lake tomorrow for an extra long weekend.  I worked very long days this week so that I could take off early so dammit I deserve it.  Heiny got a big bottle of Goldschlonger for his birthday so the weather forecast is calling for drunkenness.  We have to do something to keep warm!

Three names you go by (that won’t give away your identity): ben, red & sugarlips…because I sugar lips.

Three screen names you’ve had: benthere, benher, hornybitch69 (kidding, it was really hornybitch67)

Three physical things you like about yourself: my hair (at the moment), my feet and my beautiful spleen

Three physical things you don’t like about yourself: the excess baggage in my trunk, the cottage cheese on my thighs and the pain in my left knee

Three parts of your heritage: english, irish and insane

Three things you are wearing right now: just my jammies, my tattoo and a smile

Three favorite bands/musical artists: goo goo dolls, collective soul & seether

Three favorite songs: Crash-DMB, no time for later-the trews, I wanna be sedated-the ramones

Three things you want in a relationship: honesty, loyalty and mind blowing sex

Three physical things about the preferred sex that appeals you: smile, eyes and a sexy little tushy

Three of your favorite hobbies: gardening, word games & sex and when I can combine them all I am one happy camper.

Three things you want to do really badly right now: win the lottery, finish the cabin, see some sunshine (my fingers and toes are starting to web from all the rain)

Three things that scare you: the dark, snakes & stupid people with too much power…that is to say I am afraid of stupid people with too much power, not snakes with too much power although I guess I fear them too.

Three of your everyday essentials: coffee, a chat with my boy (msn usually) and a good poop

Three careers you have considered/are considering: writer, rocker and candlestick maker

Three place you want to go on vacation: Europe, Hawaii & anywhere warmer than here!

Three kids’ names you like: I like my son’s name (Cameron) and Gene Simmons’ kids names too (Sophie and Nick)

Three things you want to do before you die: see my boy settled and happy and giving me grandbabies, watch the season finale (finally) of LOST, tell my husband that if he remarries too soon I will haunt his hairy ass!

Three ways you are stereotypically a boy: I dig video games, I swear like a sailor and I love the penis

Three ways you are stereotypically a girl: My nails, hair and makeup are always done (unless I am sleeping, camping or gardening), I don’t like spiders and snakes (and that ain’t what it takes to love me) and I have a vagina and I am not afraid to use it 

Three celeb crushes: Johnny Rzeznik (lead singer of goo who turns me to goo), Adam Brody (he’s my Mrs. Robinson fantasy) and Sarah Ramirez (Callie from Grey’s Anatomy, I want to give her a full physical)  Rowr!

I once heard a comedian say, “It’s a small world but I wouldn’t want to paint it.”  That thought bounced around in my head for the five hours it took me to clean the bus.  The Bluebird Hilton doesn’t look very big from the outside but it’s a bloody monstrosity to vacuum and scrub it to a sanitization standard that I can live with (in?).  I’ve tidied the converted school bus before, removed the cobwebs and given it a spit polish when company was coming.  The surface shine was enough for them…no offense to those people…but it had to be a little more pristine for it to become my lake residence, temporary as I hope it will be.  

Bleach and Febreeze are my NBF’s (new best friends), the place smells fantastic thanks to them along with the addition of some peppermint oil.  While we’ve never had mice in the bus it’s also been many years since there was any food in there to attract them.  Most residences at the lake are shared (unwillingly) by the nasty vermin and while we’ve been fortunate that they never found a way into the trailer we weren’t about to take any chances living in the Hilton.  I read that the potent oil confuses the rodents and they don’t like it so I applied it to cotton balls and tucked and stuck them in every hole and crevice I could find…in the bus.  I used an entire bottle and the place smells like gum…bleached gum…so even if it doesn’t keep the mice out at least it is a lovely scent.

My aunt has had lots of mice in her place…they always poop on her dresser as a kind of hello/fuck you.  She has tried everything to stop the disease infested defecators from getting into her trailer to no avail.  Last summer she finally resorted to placing mothballs around as apparently mice don’t like the smell of them.  The problem with that is that humans don’t like the smell of them either.  It’s taken her nearly a year to get the odiferous chemical stench out of her carpets, bedding and walls.  Even now when the wind blows just the right way we catch a whiff of the vile white pellets.  To add insult to injury the mothballs didn’t stop the rodents at all.  

Build a better mousetrap?  We did.  We take an empty pop can and smear it with peanut butter, we run a wire through the can (end to end) and attach it to the top of a five gallon bucket that contains about four inches of water.  The mice are attracted to the peanut butter (remind me to tell you the story of the girl whose dog is too) so they jump for the can which spins in some kind of bizarre mouse log rolling competition and the vermin then splashes down into the drink and is unable to get out.  They drown in the water when they become too tired to struggle.  I know it sounds inhumane but they are mice for fuck sakes and it’s really not much worse then the snap of a wire on their neck as they nibble a bit of cheese.  The reason we don’t use the bucket method (which is incredibly effective by the way) at the lake is because it has also been known to attract and kill a couple of our ground squirrels who are practically pets.  It’s hardly fair to feed the little guys peanuts out of hand and then lead them via peanut butter to a watery grave.

It was a cold miserable weekend weather wise.  It pissed down rain all Friday night and we awoke to a six degree celsius (42.8F) morning and fresh snow on the mountains.  It’s not gotten a hell of a lot warmer since then.  Right now it is 12 degrees outside and I am thinking about turning the heat on in here.  My poor kid on the other hand is perspiring like a fountain out in Ontario.  He says the humidex puts the temperature at over 40 degrees celsius(104F).  Thankfully at least his classes are air conditioned but his home is a sweat box.  He has a fan (besides me) but all that does is blow the sweat around.  He says before he can dry off after a cold shower he is already sweating again.  Where is the happy medium???  Where is the justice???  Where is the fucking sun???  Oh yeah, it’s in Ontario being wasted on those who can’t appreciate it.  

It is no surprise my son is not a fan of the humidity, he’s never really had to deal with it before.  Out here we don’t get anywhere near that kind of humidity (I could never deal with that musty damp smell) even on the hottest days it cools down significantly at night so relief is always only a few hours away.  I never complain about heat because we really get so little of it but I am pretty sure I’d go mental out east right now, total meltdown, literally and figuratively.

Tomorrow is Heiny’s birthday, the old fella is 41.  I gave him an early present on the picnic table the other day..it wasn’t cake but there was some swallowing…oooh too much info…but I also got him a Home Depot gift certificate in case the bruises on my backside were not evidence enough of my love.  The truth is both gifts are as much for me, I enjoyed the outdoor romp and he’ll use his gift card on cabin related purchases making it a win-win all the way around.  I love it when I can share his presents.  I am generous that way.

Speaking of my brilliant mate…

“I am feeling so disheveled.” he said several times the other day after we’d been landscaping.

“You look fine, why are you feeling disheveled?”  

“Because I shoveled too much.”

I should have known.