List One

 I like lists.  I am a lister.  I list therefore I am.  In light of this I decree that March shall be list month on my blog.  Starting with:

Harmless Bad Habits I Refuse to Give Up or Apologize For So Sue Me Already 

1. I only make my bed if I think someone other than Husband or I may go upstairs in our house. Or, to put it another way, never. 
2. I make no attempt at all to recall names if I think there is even the slightest chance that I can get away with calling someone "Hey!"
3. I will ignore a ringing phone if I am really enjoying the newest Cadbury's Easter Egg commercial.   
4. I swear when I am upset or speaking about a topic I am passionate about like friendship or cheese.
5. I eat potato chips.  That may not seem like a biggie but you can't see my tush from where you are sitting.
6. I am, on occasion, every now and then the slightest tiny little bit loud.

Everything I need to know I have already forgotten...

Things I have learned from my 16 year old yellow dog:

1. Stretching is important.  Don't rush.  Do it every time you standup.
2. Napping takes time, patience and repetition to perfect.
3. Begging doesn't degrade you.  Begging and still failing to get what you want does.
4. If the cat is sleeping in your spot, find another spot.
5. Take the time to stop and smell every bush, even if it's pouring rain. Especially if it's pouring rain.
6. Just because you are old, stiff, half-blind and nearly deaf doesn't mean the paper boy should get away with any nonsense.
7. It is never too late to say sorry for ruining someone's favourite shoes.
8. Stairs are scary. Period.
9. There is always time for one more Milkbone.
10. When all else fails, wag your tail.  It may not change the situation but you'll feel better.

A Little of Tit, A Little of Tat

Husband has pointed out that it's time I evened up the score, shenaniganly speaking, when it comes to story telling.  He feels that I am unfairly swaying the audience and that I should perhaps tell a few of the tales which feature me as the 'antler clad boob with poor depth perception.'


Fair enough.


A few nights ago we loaded the beasts into the family van for our nightly walk.  When we hopped out of the van at the park I may have accidentally locked the doors to the van without noticing that Husband had left the keys in the ignition.


My darling man gazed across the hood of the van into my eyes and said those three little  words, "You're kidding me."


Cut to the house of the nice total stranger who let me use his phone.  I had to resort to the phone book after I realised that I have lived here for two years and I have never, ever dialed a phone number which was not already stored in my phone, the phone which was locked in the van.


After the nice total stranger drove me back to my house to retrieve what turned out to be a set of spare keys for the wrong vehicle, I was able to drive back to the scene of the crime.  Coat hanger in hand,  Husband and I thanked our savior, a man named Pastor Alan who turned out to be a marriage counsellor which I said only goes to show.   We then proceeded to completely fail to unlock the van.


After 45 minutes of fiddling around and swearing I called a locksmith.  He showed up in six minutes, had the door unlocked in 45 seconds and spent four more minutes processing my credit card.  


Husband and I drove our respective vehicles home, stood down the troops who had been receiving panicked messages from a strange number all night and went to bed.  It wasn't until we awoke the next morning that we discovered I had left our Rottidog Jesse in the back of the Volvo all night.  It took a half dozen Tim Bits and a box of Milk Bones before she would even look at me that day.  


So there you have it.  The truth is out, the score is settled and none of you ever need to mention this little incident or the crazy messages I left on your phones.  Ever.

Search and Rescue This

I sensed there was something wrong the moment I pulled up to the house.  There were subtle signs.  All three animals were crowded into the front window, cold wet noses pressed to the glass, eyes beseeching me to hurry up, hurry, hurry up!  When I opened the door I heard... The Sound. Somewhere in the house there was buried a faintly beeping pager. 


"beep beep beep.... beep beep beep..."

And Husband. Was searching. 

Some history: Husband, the song in my heart, likes to take on new challenges in order keep himself mentally fit.  For this reason he refuses to set vital items, like pagers, car keys and wallets, in the same spot twice in a row. 


The sound of the pager bleating faintly from some secret location in the house is  Husband's cue leap from his constant state of well-napped readiness and spring into Search and Rescue Mode. Loosely translated this means 'hunt for the damn pager.'  


The search leads him stomping and muttering about the house, employing the classic method of staring at piles of things without moving them and declaring the pager is not to be found.  When things do start getting moved about Husband will end up having to apologize to at least one of the critters for being overly vigorous when flipping the sofa cushions.  You haven't been reproached until you have been reproached by a senior Labrador who has just had a desiccated Cheeto bounce off his nose.


I am Husband's raison d'etre, or so he tells me, his guiding star and cherished heart.  I am also his remote memory storage device because after seven years, one of us had to learn to watch where Husband puts his stuff.


"It's in the office on the bookshelf, dear one," I told him as the dogs and cat peeked out from under (where else?) the sofa.  Husband retrieved the pager seconds before the battery died, kissed my cheek and went out the door to save the day.  


When one's job is to be ready to leave the house at a moment's notice, one would think the other one would get's one's respective ducks in a row. Or at least hang the bloody ducks on a hook within easy reach of the door.

My Bitter Master

Dear Fans, I apologize for my long absence.  And thank you, thank you, for the many kind words of concern and encouragement you posted daily on this blog while I was gone.  You capricious sonsabeeches.

After a month away, during which time I forswore that precious brown elixer and took up hot yoga, lemon tea and (more on this later) home renovation, I have come to realize the following Truths:

1. Hot yoga is not for the faint of heart.  Or for anyone who has a diet high in carbohydrates.
2. Lemon tea tastes like lawnmower clippings steeped in hot lemonade and is only marginally better than green tea in that it does not also taste like bottom.
3. I am extremely open to suggestion, such as the suggestion from someone I love to give up something I love while that someone I love sneaks off to Seattle and slurps that special something on the sly.  
4. I can give up coffee any time I want to, but not if I want to function, operate a motor vehicle or stay out of prison.

I love coffee.  I adore coffee.  I love it the way I love life: Double hot with room for cream and extra sprinkles on top.