Oh just skip this.

This is the first time where I'm deliberately making a personal post. Please feel free to skip, I fear it may turn into a pity party and I'm not really into that.

I was talking to my mom today about my grandmother, her mother. She's the last living grandparent I have. She's going to turn 89 I believe, on Monday.

Eighty-nine. She's always been there. My earliest memories are a lot to do with her. She's been there through my high school, university, working years to now, she's been there for me during breakups and bad turns. She used to play dress up with me when I was 4 or 5. I developed an unreasonable love of the colour pink. She used to try to convince me there was a little fairy living in her juniper bushes named Elsie Bullrush. She'd make peanut butter sandwiches rolled up and cut into cute shapes and tell me Elsie made them for me.  She used to chase my brother and I around her house. She'd babysit us at our house and let us stay up until Mom and Dad came home (she made sure we were in bed before they walked in the house for fear they'd find out) When I was a teenager she used to try to crack through my sullen goth non comittal-ist glassy stare and try to relate to me by dancing the jitterbug, which had a high following back when she was my age. I stayed overnight at her house well into my late teens. We used to play cards and games, we'd have so many laughs. I didn't want night time to come.

She would tell me all about when she was little, she made it so it felt like I was there, that I knew all the other little girls she used to play with. She'd describe Woodroffe (as the area was known back then, it's rather close to Westboro) back when it was mostly farmland and her sister would hop from log to log on the river when it was a logging corridor. Reeny (Irene), Einie (Eileen), someone had an Aunt Isa, Olga MacLaren...she named off her entire neighbourhood like it was yesterday. Her family was the first on their street to own a car. She would describe her friend's older sister who was a flapper and cut the buttons off her coat so she'd hold it closed (flapper fashion, apparently). She described working for the government in a war department that obviously no longer exists and how she worked with a bunch of pervy old men who always tried to get her to well...it's not like she'd come right out and say what.

We don't have that much living history of the 1920's anymore. Our elderly are fading away and now it's more common that the oldest ones were born in the 30s. I read that Manitoba's oldest person recently died and she was born in 1899. So if anyone's left in the world who was born in the 1800's, they are at least 112.

Even more depressing is that my own mother is around the same age as Nanny was when I was born. So then I think of Rayna or Seth sitting there blogging 30 years from now about my own mom. Ah the cycle of aging and now it finally hits me. I guess I have a bit of a twisted Peter Pan complex, I don't want the world around me to age. I don't want to lose Nanny, I don't want my parents to get old and pass away. My mom and I both work at Health Canada. In 30 years time I'll be retiring and remembering how I worked with my mom and she had the mental capacity for it. The most sobering realization came when Nanny's younger sister died last year. The three sisters are down to two and I'm not sure about the health of my living  great aunt.

Anyway it looks as though Nanny is going downhill. Where she used to be a little bit on the worry wart side, she is now full blown panicky and forgetful. She's going to have to live in a home and at that point, it's going to be game over. And I'm feeling guilty because whenever I do see her, I don't know how to talk to her anymore because she's spooked me a few times with the words of someone who thinks I'm someone else. I don't know how present she is. I'm really thinking that I need to go over to her apartment and find out for myself and reconcile myself to it and to express my feelings of undying love to her while she still is cognizant for it. I am so lucky to have had her for this long. No one can ever know how much she has meant to me throughout my life and what a treasure she is. I guess she passed on to me her gift of telling the story, and I hope my mom remembers a lot of her childhood to pass on to my kids.

Joan Elizabeth Warnock Hobin Dale, you are reaching the very twilight and I'm trying to keep you awake so you'll stay up with me. I don't want night time to come.

I'm calling Nanny this weekend and I'm going to her.

Oh the sick child

I had to stay home today. It used to be a nice treat to be able to stay home so I could recuperate or catch up on my sanity. This time, and many of the times lately, not so much. I had to stay home with a sick child. Last night was pretty horrific but fairly tame in comparison. Both kids were waking up in the middle of the night several times. My arrangement with Wayne is that he gets up when it's Rayna and I get up when it's Seth. Seth prefers me and wants me when he wakes up from either a bad dream, a loud neighbour or a big turd. Rayna is good with either of us but she very much prefers Wayne. Last night I was apparently snoring on top of it all, so I gave him a break when Rayna woke up. Well. Nothing went well, never does.

She's a funny kid...one minute we'll be calling her dolly and the next we'll be calling her Chucky. A blood curdling scream aimed straight at your eardrum is just the thing you need at 2am and you're still kind of asleep. One minute she'll be crying, the next she'll let out a loud toot and then start laughing maniacally. And we wouldn't have it any other way. Kids are a live in entertainment.

I'm on tenderhooks right now because she's still feeling gross and I just heard a little shriek from her bedroom. If I go in there, will I find Holly Hobby or Linda Blair?

Desperately Seeking Word to Replace Susan

You know what? That last post left such a bad taste in my mouth that I avoided writing anything in here for a while. I tend to do that. I start writing something, be it a blog post or part of my book that's taken years to even get past forty pages, or part of a play that I'm supposed to be writing; I'll write something that doesn't work, has fucked up subject matter or gets weird and I abandon the whole thing altogether.

Time to break that trend, I guess.

I'm getting sad...I'm seeing a lot of forestry or nice land being ripped up for more housing. I have watched Stittsville go from having just a Beckers (remember them?) no McDonalds, one public school, no catholic, and there actually were a few ponds near my parents' place. Now...It's like a suburban nightmare.I really feel (and I'm ridiculing myself here) like I'm one of the elves in Middle Earth and it's time for me to retire to the Grey Havens. (Yes, I'm slapping myself upside the head for being such a geek, Leslie if you're reading this. I still play the Sims btw) Now Beaver Pond is in severe danger of being destroyed for more cookie cutter houses.

I realize that I'm writing this from a townhouse in Barrhaven so I'm being a hypocrite but I chose to live here because there's Government-owned farmland surrounding us. I assumed when we moved here that it was always going to be here because the gov't was in charge but now they've gone and sold a bunch of it for expansion from what I understand. Now they're ripping up farmland off of Fernbank...this is depressing. Seriously depressing. My kids are going to climb the germ-y jungle gyms at McDonalds instead of climbing trees.

Wayne's and my plan is to eventually retire in the country, buy a nice property with the closest neighbour being a half a mile away and be one with nature. Where can we go? How do I know that there will be anything like that left in 34 years?

Stop procreating. You're fucking up my retirement plan.

NEVER acknowledge the nuisance that is the belligerent customer

Boy did I get my ass spanked tonight, and I'm not talking about anything of the kinky variety. I went to a walk-in clinic today because I've been battling this really annoying cold since before Xmas and I've noticed my throat has been exceptionally sore, so I wanted to rule out strep. I originally intended to go to one at Woodroffe and Fallowfield but they were closed. I ended up going to one that I really did not like: Strandherd Crossing Medical Centre, 3161 Strandherd Dr.

I brought Rayna there last winter when she had a really bad cold and I wanted her ears checked. Firstly they had a sign that said Dr. Sweet was prohibited from prescribing opioids such as oxycontin. Hmmm... Docs who contribute to the oxy problem... reassuring! Now apparently NONE of their doctors can prescribe them...but I think that that's probably because they wanted to avoid the issue altogether and not risk getting into more trouble. Anyway on that occasion there were probably 30 people waiting and the line up was getting bigger and bigger. We got there to be maybe 12th in line. After waiting for over an hour a man saunters in and announces that he was the doctor on duty and no one called him to remind him to come in. His shift had already been on for over an hour! Great organization skills on everyone's part! The redemption was that Rayna was fine and the doctor was very kind.

Oh this time. It's my fault...I can't help it. Remember this post? Well I was waiting this time, again for over an hour and noticed that there were a lot of people who came in after me who were being let in before me. I considered asking about it but I didn't care that much, surely they'd announce my name any minute now. Up stands this "I eat the Jared diet" guy wearing outdated tinted creepy man glasses and a lazy 'I can't be arsed to shave for four days' shit lip. He asked why people were being let in ahead and the receptionist said that if people were coming for their flu shots, they would be let in first since it only takes a few minutes. He pointed out that there was no signage and she mentioned the one on the outside door. I could see his point, being annoyed but he took it to a whole new level. I knew he was going to do it but I was hoping he wouldn't. He started acting like a belligerent bully to the receptionist, acting very aggressive, intimidating and quite frankly foolish, and of course, giving the ultimate announcement that we all love to hear and yet never believe, "I'm never coming back here again." The receptionist is a bit rattled but she handles it well. He stalks back to his seat and catches me rolling my eyes. (oops) He puffs up like he's trying to suck his thunder thighs into his shoulders and shrieks "What?!?" and I said "Oh nothing except that you're being rude and I wish you'd stop." then he starts arguing his case about why he's justified in throwing the f-bomb at the woman. I try to go back to reading and he shrieks again: "WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM???? RAWWWR I LIKE TO YELL AT WOMEN, IT MAKES ME HARD" (Ok, lying about the second sentence but that's where he was going with his tone) I conceded defeat to this mentally unstable rageaholic who I can only hope was getting a refill of anti-psychotics and say "Nothing. You win." and went back to my magazine. Man, you could hear a pin drop after that. I thought he was going to brick right then and there.

They let him through, (who the fuck names a boy Patrica??) warned all the staff about him and had him seen ASAP. When he came out, they handed him a sick note. He seemed to be over his tantrum and asked about payment and the receptionist he yelled at said "No, that's alright." and out he went. I seriously considered calling out to ask if the anal stick extraction was a success but thought better of it.

Finally I was called and taken into the same room dickwipe was put in. I felt gross being in there and felt the hate vibes he was oozing in there previously. After being in there for 15 more minutes (at this point I'd been there two hours exactly) a pretty blond doctor comes in and she looks at my throat and swabs it. Then she says she'll meet me at the front for my note. I go to the front and the receptionist charges me twenty bucks. Which I then paid. So I couldn't just walk away...noooooo....I HAD to ask. "Hey why did that rude guy who yelled at you get his for free?" She smiled a syrupy non apologetic smile, "The doctor just wanted to get him out of there. We didn't charge him."

What?...........What?????

My jaw hit the floor. "But...why did you just give it to him? You just REWARDED that guy for being a disruptive idiot!" She didn't have a clear answer beyond "It'sveryunfortunatethedoctorjustwantedhimtogoawayhowlongdoIhavetokeepontalkingpleasejust
leavewearespinelesshaveagoodday." I walked out of there feeling reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaallly upset. I could NOT believe that they saved that guy twenty bucks for being a complete prick. Basically, they were saying "Thank you for being disruptive. We welcome this kind of behaviour. Please come back to our office. And just so you know, the more you act like an entitled bully, the more you will get free stuff and preferential treatment."

Well fuck you very much, Strandherd Crossing Medical Centre. I would say that it's because of your perpetuating this behaviour that you require that sign so prominently hung in your front desk: "We will not tolerate rude or abusive behaviour. Failure to adhere will result in expulsion of the clinic." And dear Patrica,  I hope after your appointment, when you rushed to your car to masturbate over your triumph that you got a painful papercut on your tiny dick from that twenty dollars you saved by being a complete and utter scumbag loser. Keep up the good work!