One Saturday night a few months ago, Greg and I were up late watching movies on Netflix. It was about 1:30am when we decided to go to sleep. The routine is that we let the pups out to go pee-pee before bed. One puppy was in the TV room with us, but the other one was lounging on our bed at the other end of the house, taking a nap before he went to sleep for the night.
I pounced on Danger who was laying on the bed to give his a wake-up hug, and I noticed on the security camera (yeah, I know, what kind of country-girl has a security camera?! Story for another day)....that we had left the garage door open and there was a light on in the garage. I watched the security camera for a few seconds, and then to my shock and amazement I saw a big brown or maybe black thing wander past the doorway. A bear! I have never in my life had a bear in my garage. Oh, goody!
With that thought in mind, I ran at warp speed to the other end of the house, with one goal in mind. I was going to capture a bear in our garage! I yelled to Greg a summary of the situation as I passed him in the hallway. My poor husband did not even have a chance to speak before I attempted to use the remote to close the garage door to keep the bear inside. Fortunately for both the bear and I, the noise of the garage door got his attention, and he ran out of the garage, not even 25 feet from the patio door. He looked back at the garage door, which was slowly closing, and I swear that darned bear looked at me and shook his head and gave a pitying sigh.
Greg finally found his voice and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to capture the bear in the garage but it got away. He asked me what I was going to do with the bear if I had captured it. Um. Good question. Hadn't really planned that far ahead.
Greg gave me a little lecture that night. I have been told that I am not allowed to capture any wild animals in the garage unless he gives me permission. Seriously?! He's no fun at all!
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Friday, October 21, 2016
Piggly Wiggly
I've hit the wall. As it turns out, there is such a thing as TOO MUCH COUNTRY!
I have been very proud of myself these last 5 years. I arrived back in my hometown all full of energy and confidence as I embarked on my journey to become a country girl. And now I figured that since I have been home for 5 years, I have seen it all.....camps, outhouses, 4-wheelers, fishing, campfires, porch-sitting, peeing in the forest....what else could there possibly be? In fact, I think I got complacent, and way too cocky, so the Universe decided to demonstrate to me I am not fully country just yet!
Last week-end, our friends decided to have a pig roast. I have been to Hawaii several times, and I have been to a luau where a pig is roasted in the ground for many hours. When it is done, the meat is served along with salad, veggies and poi, a Hawaiian dish made from the fermented root of the taro, which has been baked and pounded into a substance like mashed potatoes, but way more gray and tasteless. Roasting the pig was all a very civilized process, mostly because all I really got to see was roasted pig meat (ie pork, as we like to call it in the city), on my plate.
Cut scene to a pig roast in rural New Brunswick. I SAW IT ALL! I didn't just see pork on my plate, but I saw a little piggly wiggly with his front legs up in the air like he was saying, "I don't want any trouble, please don't shoot!" I saw the little piggly wiggly as he (I assume it was a he, since surely some mean old farmer wouldn't kill a girl pig, would he?) was turning round and round on a barbecue spit. It was like he was on one of those rides at the fair that turns round and round and makes your stomach twist all up, but he didn't have a stomach anymore! Instead, it was making my stomach twist all up, and I was neither on the spit, nor on a ride at the fair.
And then there was the turkey. Well, what can I say about the turkey? The barbecue spit is only so long, so in order for the piggly wiggly and the turkey to fit on it at the same time, the pig's nose was shoved up the turkey's bum. I am sure that in the world of barnyard etiquette, it's politically incorrect for a pig to stick it's nose up there. The turkey surely has rights, and in my opinion its rights were being violated terribly!
About 10 hours later, we ate.
I have not been the same since. All I see in the background of my brain is a rotisserie with a pig and a turkey, both waving at me. The turkey is looking frightened, trying to get away from the pig, whose nose is in the turkey's no-man's land.
I have been eating a lot of toast and cheese whiz since last week-end. Cheese whiz doesn't have eyes that will haunt you for weeks.
I have been very proud of myself these last 5 years. I arrived back in my hometown all full of energy and confidence as I embarked on my journey to become a country girl. And now I figured that since I have been home for 5 years, I have seen it all.....camps, outhouses, 4-wheelers, fishing, campfires, porch-sitting, peeing in the forest....what else could there possibly be? In fact, I think I got complacent, and way too cocky, so the Universe decided to demonstrate to me I am not fully country just yet!
Last week-end, our friends decided to have a pig roast. I have been to Hawaii several times, and I have been to a luau where a pig is roasted in the ground for many hours. When it is done, the meat is served along with salad, veggies and poi, a Hawaiian dish made from the fermented root of the taro, which has been baked and pounded into a substance like mashed potatoes, but way more gray and tasteless. Roasting the pig was all a very civilized process, mostly because all I really got to see was roasted pig meat (ie pork, as we like to call it in the city), on my plate.
Cut scene to a pig roast in rural New Brunswick. I SAW IT ALL! I didn't just see pork on my plate, but I saw a little piggly wiggly with his front legs up in the air like he was saying, "I don't want any trouble, please don't shoot!" I saw the little piggly wiggly as he (I assume it was a he, since surely some mean old farmer wouldn't kill a girl pig, would he?) was turning round and round on a barbecue spit. It was like he was on one of those rides at the fair that turns round and round and makes your stomach twist all up, but he didn't have a stomach anymore! Instead, it was making my stomach twist all up, and I was neither on the spit, nor on a ride at the fair.
And then there was the turkey. Well, what can I say about the turkey? The barbecue spit is only so long, so in order for the piggly wiggly and the turkey to fit on it at the same time, the pig's nose was shoved up the turkey's bum. I am sure that in the world of barnyard etiquette, it's politically incorrect for a pig to stick it's nose up there. The turkey surely has rights, and in my opinion its rights were being violated terribly!
About 10 hours later, we ate.
I have not been the same since. All I see in the background of my brain is a rotisserie with a pig and a turkey, both waving at me. The turkey is looking frightened, trying to get away from the pig, whose nose is in the turkey's no-man's land.
I have been eating a lot of toast and cheese whiz since last week-end. Cheese whiz doesn't have eyes that will haunt you for weeks.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
What Not to Say
When I have an "interesting interpersonal experience" with someone, it always makes me want to write. Simply put, when someone acts like a -butt- in my presence, it makes me want to ponder how this person's brain operates. I enjoy analyzing people's behaviour....including my own.
Since I LOVE lists (just ask my husband, who may not love lists as much as I do), I have come up with 6 of my least favorite things people have talked about at the dinner table. My advice is to -not- talk about this stuff with strangers, near strangers, acquaintances, friends, family, or any other human being.
I have compiled this list using my experiences from the last 47 years, so if you think you see yourself described, it is surely pure coincidence. Really.
Top 6 things NOT to talk about at the dinner table:
6) Body parts on yourself or others that aren't working up to snuff and what needs to be purchase at the pharmacy to make sure there are no "accidents".
5) How you were at this really cool ethnic wedding once where guests were eating parts of animals that typically are discarded into the dumpster.
4) How you wish you had known your date had such handsome friends, because if you had known, you would have attended the dinner with one of them instead of your date (who is sitting beside you).
3) How you are not sure if your teen son is old enough to have lustful thoughts and take lustful actions (see an earlier blog I wrote for more gory details).
2) How great you are. Surely, you are the very best at what you do. It is obvious by the way you carry yourself in the world. But please do not attempt to entertain us with details of your terribly successful (and yet terribly boring) career. We all think we are the very best at what we do, but it is all a fanciful illusion.
1) Who has died in your family, what they died of, and where they are buried.
In the event you are at dinner with someone you never want to see again, start at #1. You may not even make it to dessert.
Sunday, October 9, 2016
5 Years!
It has been 5 years since I " officially" moved back to P-A. I know that because it is 5 years since I met Greg. I am not nearly so city-girl-ish anymore. In fact, I think I may have reverted to being a little bit country! Here are 5 things I have done recently to convince you I am truly getting back to my country roots!
1) I made pickles. I have always been such a pickle snob! In the city, I would buy the expensive kosher deli pickles like I was all-that. I am not Jewish, so I have no idea why I felt it necessary to buy kosher pickles. I don't even know what that means, but whatever it is, makes the pickles worth $7 a jar. Greg planted the garden and brought the cukes into the kitchen for me to "process". Sounds very sophisticated. I boiled up the pickle juice, put everything in a jar, and hoped for the best. Costs about 13 cents a jar, by my calculations.
2) We bought a tiller. Back when I was a kid, my Dad didn't have enough money to buy a tiller, so he McGyvered up an alternate solution. He took a square piece of wood, nailed some giant spikes into it, attached a set of handles and then hooked up the motors to it. By motors, I mean my little brother and I. Dad fashioned a harness around our waists, and we pulled while he bared down on the handles to till the soil. Since Greg and I don't have kids to harness up, we had to buy a proper gas powered tiller. (BTW, this is one of my favorite childhood memories! What fun to be little plow ponies!)
3) We have a 1976 trailer parked in our yard, like true billies from the hills. Ok, so it is not ours, we are storing it for a relative, but every true country-girl dooryard needs a hoaky camper trailer in their yard!
4) I was involved with cutting wood, straight from the forest. So.... Let me rephrase that. I helped throw a few pieces of wood onto a trailer. The other people I was with got really dirty and sweaty while I more or less watched. I didn't want to mess up my hair.
5) I had a rhubarb social on my porch. You may ask, "what would a rhubarb social be?". It was an idea I got from our honeymoon in PEI several years ago! I made 6 or 7 home-made desserts using the rhubarb from the patch in our yard. One Sunday afternoon, invited everyone I know to come and eat sweets, drink tea and socialize on my porch. Who the heck does something that wild on a Sunday afternoon?
I wish I was able to add a 6th thing to my list of country-escapades, but I am not able to at this time. I tried to convince Greg to let me buy 2 goats and they could live in the garage. He said no. I am actually somewhat relieved, as the only goats I have really been around were on my plate at the Indian Restaurant on Queen Street West in Toronto.
1) I made pickles. I have always been such a pickle snob! In the city, I would buy the expensive kosher deli pickles like I was all-that. I am not Jewish, so I have no idea why I felt it necessary to buy kosher pickles. I don't even know what that means, but whatever it is, makes the pickles worth $7 a jar. Greg planted the garden and brought the cukes into the kitchen for me to "process". Sounds very sophisticated. I boiled up the pickle juice, put everything in a jar, and hoped for the best. Costs about 13 cents a jar, by my calculations.
2) We bought a tiller. Back when I was a kid, my Dad didn't have enough money to buy a tiller, so he McGyvered up an alternate solution. He took a square piece of wood, nailed some giant spikes into it, attached a set of handles and then hooked up the motors to it. By motors, I mean my little brother and I. Dad fashioned a harness around our waists, and we pulled while he bared down on the handles to till the soil. Since Greg and I don't have kids to harness up, we had to buy a proper gas powered tiller. (BTW, this is one of my favorite childhood memories! What fun to be little plow ponies!)
3) We have a 1976 trailer parked in our yard, like true billies from the hills. Ok, so it is not ours, we are storing it for a relative, but every true country-girl dooryard needs a hoaky camper trailer in their yard!
4) I was involved with cutting wood, straight from the forest. So.... Let me rephrase that. I helped throw a few pieces of wood onto a trailer. The other people I was with got really dirty and sweaty while I more or less watched. I didn't want to mess up my hair.
5) I had a rhubarb social on my porch. You may ask, "what would a rhubarb social be?". It was an idea I got from our honeymoon in PEI several years ago! I made 6 or 7 home-made desserts using the rhubarb from the patch in our yard. One Sunday afternoon, invited everyone I know to come and eat sweets, drink tea and socialize on my porch. Who the heck does something that wild on a Sunday afternoon?
I wish I was able to add a 6th thing to my list of country-escapades, but I am not able to at this time. I tried to convince Greg to let me buy 2 goats and they could live in the garage. He said no. I am actually somewhat relieved, as the only goats I have really been around were on my plate at the Indian Restaurant on Queen Street West in Toronto.
Clowns? Seriously?
My 10 year old niece, Lara, called me from Toronto the other evening. She was very concerned about my well-being. When I assured here I am fine, and that all is well in rural New Brunswick, I was curious about the specifics of why she was concerned. She said, "New Brunswick is part of Atlantic Canada, right?" I said yes. Then she said, "I heard on the news there have been clown sighting in Atlantic Canada and I wanted to warn you so they don't get you and Greg".
I laughed out loud. Of all of the things I might be scared of in this world, evil clowns are certainly not on the list.
When I was about 20 and living in Moncton for the summer, I had a job at the public library. I would often hold children's programs. There were these two little ruffian boys that attended regularly. They were brothers, and I could tell they likely were poor and were having kind of a dodgy childhood.
One day I was holding an activity where I was to be dressed as a clown and read to the children. I have full clown makeup, outfit, big shoes, ... The whole nine yards. I pretended to be just another participant in the activity and bounced in to the room and plopped my clown butt onto the floor beside the youngest ruffian. He glanced at me and said "Hi Donna".
Now I had full clown makeup on. That was just irritating that this little guy recognized me instantaneously! I actually look the same WITH or WITHOUT clown makeup?
In grad school I always had two or three jobs on the go to support myself. One day I saw an ad in the paper that an entertainment company was hiring clowns. I mean, people to dress as clowns. I got the job!
I went to my grad school classes and casually mentioned to my friend I just got a job as a clown. He nodded and kind of looked uncomfortable, and then walked away. A few minutes later a couple of my other friends came over and asked me if I needed help. Baffled, I asked why. Apparently, my friend Orville thought I had a meltdown when I told him I got a job as a clown. No, Orville, a person can really have a job as a clown. Just like some people can have the name Orville, but have nothing to do with popcorn. The job didn't last long for me: I got fired for my poor balloon animal making skills. When a balloon animals busts, it can take out an eye, you know.
I was on a cruise with my family, and one of the afternoon shows was to have guests on the cruise face a panel of people who would guess what unusual jobs a person had. I got chosen to go on stage! One of the panel members looked me over and said "did you have a job as a clown?". Ok, not that was a little over the top. I didn't even have clown makeup on or funny shoes.
I have a kind of love-hate relationship with my clown history.
So maybe the clowns should be scared of me.
I laughed out loud. Of all of the things I might be scared of in this world, evil clowns are certainly not on the list.
When I was about 20 and living in Moncton for the summer, I had a job at the public library. I would often hold children's programs. There were these two little ruffian boys that attended regularly. They were brothers, and I could tell they likely were poor and were having kind of a dodgy childhood.
One day I was holding an activity where I was to be dressed as a clown and read to the children. I have full clown makeup, outfit, big shoes, ... The whole nine yards. I pretended to be just another participant in the activity and bounced in to the room and plopped my clown butt onto the floor beside the youngest ruffian. He glanced at me and said "Hi Donna".
Now I had full clown makeup on. That was just irritating that this little guy recognized me instantaneously! I actually look the same WITH or WITHOUT clown makeup?
In grad school I always had two or three jobs on the go to support myself. One day I saw an ad in the paper that an entertainment company was hiring clowns. I mean, people to dress as clowns. I got the job!
I went to my grad school classes and casually mentioned to my friend I just got a job as a clown. He nodded and kind of looked uncomfortable, and then walked away. A few minutes later a couple of my other friends came over and asked me if I needed help. Baffled, I asked why. Apparently, my friend Orville thought I had a meltdown when I told him I got a job as a clown. No, Orville, a person can really have a job as a clown. Just like some people can have the name Orville, but have nothing to do with popcorn. The job didn't last long for me: I got fired for my poor balloon animal making skills. When a balloon animals busts, it can take out an eye, you know.
I was on a cruise with my family, and one of the afternoon shows was to have guests on the cruise face a panel of people who would guess what unusual jobs a person had. I got chosen to go on stage! One of the panel members looked me over and said "did you have a job as a clown?". Ok, not that was a little over the top. I didn't even have clown makeup on or funny shoes.
I have a kind of love-hate relationship with my clown history.
So maybe the clowns should be scared of me.
Clowns? Seriously?
My 10 year old niece, Lara, called me from Toronto the other evening. She was very concerned about my well-being. When I assured here I am fine, and that all is well in rural New Brunswick, I was curious about the specifics of why she was concerned. She said, "New Brunswick is part of Atlantic Canada, right?" I said yes. Then she said, "I heard on the news there have been clown sighting in Atlantic Canada and I wanted to warn you so they don't get you and Greg".
I laughed out loud. Of all of the things I might be scared of in this world, evil clowns are certainly not on the list.
When I was about 20 and living in Moncton for the summer, I had a job at the public library. I would often hold children's programs. There were these two little ruffian boys that attended regularly. They were brothers, and I could tell they likely were poor and were having kind of a dodgy childhood.
One day I was holding an activity where I was to be dressed as a clown and read to the children. I have full clown makeup, outfit, big shoes, ... The whole nine yards. I pretended to be just another participant in the activity and bounced in to the room and plopped my clown butt onto the floor beside the youngest ruffian. He glanced at me and said "Hi Donna".
Now I had full clown makeup on. That was just irritating that this little guy recognized me instantaneously! I actually look the same WITH or WITHOUT clown makeup?
In grad school I always had two or three jobs on the go to support myself. One day I saw an ad in the paper that an entertainment company was hiring clowns. I mean, people to dress as clowns. I got the job!
I went to my grad school classes and casually mentioned to my friend I just got a job as a clown. He nodded and kind of looked uncomfortable, and then walked away. A few minutes later a couple of my other friends came over and asked me if I needed help. Baffled, I asked why. Apparently, my friend Orville thought I had a meltdown when I told him I got a job as a clown. No, Orville, a person can really have a job as a clown. Just like some people can have the name Orville, but have nothing to do with popcorn. The job didn't last long for me: I got fired for my poor balloon animal making skills. When a balloon animals busts, it can take out an eye, you know.
I was on a cruise with my family, and one of the afternoon shows was to have guests on the cruise face a panel of people who would guess what unusual jobs a person had. I got chosen to go on stage! One of the panel members looked me over and said "did you have a job as a clown?". Ok, not that was a little over the top. I didn't even have clown makeup on or funny shoes.
I have a kind of love-hate relationship with my clown history.
So maybe the clowns should be scared of me.
I laughed out loud. Of all of the things I might be scared of in this world, evil clowns are certainly not on the list.
When I was about 20 and living in Moncton for the summer, I had a job at the public library. I would often hold children's programs. There were these two little ruffian boys that attended regularly. They were brothers, and I could tell they likely were poor and were having kind of a dodgy childhood.
One day I was holding an activity where I was to be dressed as a clown and read to the children. I have full clown makeup, outfit, big shoes, ... The whole nine yards. I pretended to be just another participant in the activity and bounced in to the room and plopped my clown butt onto the floor beside the youngest ruffian. He glanced at me and said "Hi Donna".
Now I had full clown makeup on. That was just irritating that this little guy recognized me instantaneously! I actually look the same WITH or WITHOUT clown makeup?
In grad school I always had two or three jobs on the go to support myself. One day I saw an ad in the paper that an entertainment company was hiring clowns. I mean, people to dress as clowns. I got the job!
I went to my grad school classes and casually mentioned to my friend I just got a job as a clown. He nodded and kind of looked uncomfortable, and then walked away. A few minutes later a couple of my other friends came over and asked me if I needed help. Baffled, I asked why. Apparently, my friend Orville thought I had a meltdown when I told him I got a job as a clown. No, Orville, a person can really have a job as a clown. Just like some people can have the name Orville, but have nothing to do with popcorn. The job didn't last long for me: I got fired for my poor balloon animal making skills. When a balloon animals busts, it can take out an eye, you know.
I was on a cruise with my family, and one of the afternoon shows was to have guests on the cruise face a panel of people who would guess what unusual jobs a person had. I got chosen to go on stage! One of the panel members looked me over and said "did you have a job as a clown?". Ok, not that was a little over the top. I didn't even have clown makeup on or funny shoes.
I have a kind of love-hate relationship with my clown history.
So maybe the clowns should be scared of me.
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