I got a phone call yesterday evening from my sister.

“Louise?” “Hi.” “Hi. Um. Emilio Estevez is dead.” “What?” “He died today, we don’t know what happened, the kids are all crying.”
Then I dropped the phone so Rob picked it up. She wasn’t joking. When he hung up we just started crying– not even sniffly quiet crying, either, but bawling, screaming, snot-faced weeping. Then we headed over to get him.

As you know, we’d been keeping the leems at my sister’s house because my father has a bit of a rodentphobia. My niece was taking care of them. We’d visit every day or so, clean their cage, give them baths, etc., but she was responsible for making sure they had food and water and hay and everything. Yesterday morning, they were both fine, running around and doing their little dance for food.

Yesterday afternoon when my nephew got home from school, he went down to check on them. He picked up one igloo to check one of them out (they have two little igloos, and they never share one, because they like their space) and there were both of them. Emilio was dead, and Judd was in there too, snuggled up to him. I’m writing this and crying right now.

So we went over, and my sister had already, thoughtfully, wrapped Emilio up and put him in a box. Judd had been taken out of the cage and was looking all confused, running around in his carrier. We brought both of them home. I know it seems silly, maybe but we love those guys. When we got home, we set Judd Nelson up in our room. Then we had the sad task of burying Emilio Estevez. We re-wrapped him in some nice fleece material. Rob put a piece of carrot in with him, and some hay (“in case the Egyptians were right, he should have something for the road”). He’s in my parents’ backyard now. Two 29-year-old people, outside at 10 at night, crying and digging a hole. We loved that guy.

Emilio Estevez
March 15 2004 – October 26 2005.

Oh boy, am I not excited to be up and about this morning. I worked last night until 8, then instead of the half-hour it usually takes to drive home it took extra-long because the remnants of Hurricane Wilma are hitting us right now and it’s really, really crappy outside (of course not to minimize the actual REALITY of Wilma because Wilma? Worse than Wilma Remnants). Then I got home and I had to leave again, to go over to my sister’s with some food for the leems. When I got there, my nephew asked me to help him with his homework. By the time I finally got into the house last night and got to eat supper it was 10:45 pm. And I found out that I was working today.

I am grateful for the work, I am I am. I’m just cranky this morning is all, so please let me vent:
My mother seems to think she has become my secretary. But at the same time as being my secretary, she has also become the Boss Of My Life. What do I mean? Oh, here, let me tell you:

When it was decided that I would be substituting this year instead of going back to teaching full-time, the decision was made mainly as a means to help preserve my mental health. You know, so I wasn’t spending hours at home each night prepping, so that I wasn’t up half the night worrying about parent-teacher things, so that I wouldn’t have to teach subjects which the kids don’t take seriously, and also, so that if I needed a day off, I could take a day off without having to freak out and find a substitute for myself.

I told this all to my parents (so that they’d understand my decision). “Good for you”, they said. “Good for me,” I said. I also told them that if a school called their number (I gave our cellphone number, but also my parents’ landline, just in case) when I wasn’t around, they should a) get Rob because he would know the deal and if he wasn’t home b) take a message and I would get back to them. “Definitely”, they said. Yeah, not happening. Today? I am working teaching core french (yuck!) to grades 7, 8, and 9 (super yuck! not that I hate those ages just the combination of core french + junior high = volatile) in a school where I did my practice teaching and swore that I’d never walk into again. All because my mother has been answering the phone, then being like “Yes! She’ll teach anywhere! She’ll do anything! For the money! It’s all about the Benjamins!” Oh, wait, this is Canada. “It’s all about the John A. MacDonalds!”

1) MISSING THE POINT OF MY SUBSTITUTING — yes I realize she’s trying to do right by me financially BUT is it worth having money if you’re curled up in a corner crying your face off?

2) WHERE HAS THE ASKING ROB BEEN? I asked Mom this last night. Just, you know, out of curiosity. “Well he was downstairs!” (in our room) “I had to give them an answer right away!” (no you don’t, actually, you have every right to say “She’s not here right now but let me put you on with her fiance)

3) I AM EXHAUSTED AND I AM SICK AND I HAVEN’T BEEN PAID YET SO THERE’S HARDLY ANY GAS IN MY CAR AND THE CHECK ENGINE LIGHT IS ON SO I HAVE TO GO OUT AND CHECK THE OIL NOW AT 7:30 IN THE DARK AND IT’S RAINING SIDEWAYS OUT THERE AND THAT MAKES ME CRANKY.

CRANKY!!!!!!!!!

There you go. Thanks for listening.

One of my favourite authors, Diana Gabaldon, is going to be at the Bayers Lake Chapters on October 27th, at 7 pm. Signing her latest book, A Breath Of Snow And Ashes.

I am most put out.

When her last book, The Fiery Cross, came out, my friend and I headed out to the selfsame Chapters at 7 am (!) on a cold December morning to meet Ms. G and have her sign our copies of the entire Outlander series (along with about 200 other people). There were people there dressed in cloaks (cloaks!) but I think I was probably still in my pyjamas. Hey, it was 7 in the damn morning on a Saturday! She was really nice and holy crap, a BEAUTIFUL woman. For some reason or another, during her little “talk” to her rabid fans, she told us her age. Unbelievable — the woman was born in 1952. Which means she’s… uhm… 53 years old? I swear to God she looks like she’s in her 30s. So yay for her!
Anyway, it was very cool, and I now have the entire set of Outlander books, personally inscribed, from the author. If you haven’t read these books, and are looking for something to entertain you for a week or so, I highly recommend this series. The author is an amazing writer and you will totally be sucked in.

Except now, I live too far away from Halifax to be able to jaunt over on a Thursday night at 7 pm (esp. since who knows when I’m getting paid, but also because if I work at 6 pm on Thursday night, how am I supposed to also be in Halifax? I don’t even have an evil twin or ANYTHING! damnit) and so my (as yet unpurchased) copy of A Breath Of Snow And Ashes is going to have to remain unsigned. If you know me at all you’ll know that I’m sort of anal about things “matching” so this is going to drive me INSANE.

I am right now offering to send anyone who is willing to go hang out at Chapters for me a) the cash for the book and postage, b) any knitted item you want (er, that I can knit, please don’t request socks or you’ll be sadly disappointed) for standing around in line and having it signed for me.

I know, I know, it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try, right?

NB: just because I haven’t purchased the book yet doesn’t mean that I don’t know what happens. Rob was kind enough to find me the book on tape so I’ve been listening rabidly for the past two weeks. Oh, how I laughed, and cried, and nearly became a lunatic when certain things happened that I won’t spoil here but holy cow! ARGH! And now we have to wait what? Another 4 years til the next book?
Gadzooks!

Remember how Rob and I are getting married next summer? Okay, I have a totally hilarious story to tell about that.

Rob has always joked that if he were to set foot in a church, he’d probably burst into flames or be hit by lightning or something. He was baptized in the United Church, but is more agnostic with leanings toward liking the eastern religions better than anything right now. All good. I’m Catholic, and it’s important to me (yeah, okay, so I’m Living In Sin and I say bad words sometimes and things) although I’m not like “Okay everyone who isn’t Catholic is going to BURN IN HELL because they’re crazy heathens!”Everyone should do what they wanna do and not hurt others, is what I think.

Anyway. The church where we planned to get married– it’s where I had my first communion lo these many moons ago, and after my parents finally retired from the military and we stopped moving around, it became the church that we have attended the most. It’s about 100 years old (not that old, in the grand scheme of things, but when you consider that it was all built by hand and took more than 20 years to complete, well, it’s pretty special). I never was a girl who imagined her wedding day and like, planned for it and such, wearing the paper-towel veil and everything, but I guess I kind of always took it for granted that if I did get married, that’s where it would be. Rob has been incredible about it– basically he’s like “Look, as long as I get to keep you, I’ll get married wherever you want”. He really is a sweet, sweet bean, in case anyone was wondering.

Well. When we moved back to PEI, we found out that the priest had been sent to a ‘rest home’ (uhm, ‘rest home’ means ‘psychiatric hospital’ for those playing along at home). No, not because of us moving back home! It’s just that it’s very stressful, being a priest, and he’s been working hard at a lot of things for a lot of years (among many other huge accomplishments, he has been petitioning the Vatican for EVER to allow Catholic priests the right to be married. Trying to get the Vatican to change its mind about something is bound to make you mental). So that meant we didn’t have a priest at our church– they’ve been having visiting priests but since this is a french community, the priests need to be able to speak french, and there is only one other priest who speaks french well enough to conduct Mass and he’s busy at his OWN church so this has been pretty sucky. Rob and I (okay mostly I) had been hoping to have a bilingual ceremony because his family doesn’t speak french, and half of my family ne comprend pas l’anglais. Looks like that’s not gonna happen.

And then, to add more fun to the situation– the church building? Fell down.

Okay, not the whole building. Some of it. Here, I have a link to a picture of the outside of it (actually it’s the only photo I could find online). See the two bell towers? Yeah, they fell apart. They’re crumbling. Just one day everyone went to Mass and all was well, and the next morning, the church is falling apart (I shall try to go take a picture of it later for anyone who’s interested). Rob swears that God heard he was planning on going in there and struck the building down.

So. There’s no money to FIX the church, of course. Which is a shame because as I said, it’s an absolutely beautiful building. The community has been holding meetings, trying to figure out what to do, and no one’s been able to come up with a solution. I hate the fact that the most likely thing that’s going to happen is that the building’s going to be condemned and torn down, and not rebuilt because there’s no money and no priest anyway, and our area is going to be left without what has been basically the ‘hub’ of the community since time immemorial. Yes, I realize that’s very old-fashioned and probably archaic but it is how it is. For the time being, services are being held in the Legion. A friend of mine said to his wife the other day (I’m translating here), “Leonie, if I drop dead this winter you’d sure as hell better not have my funeral in the basement of the Wellington Legion”. I laughed my head off but at the same time– I refuse to get married in the basement of the legion! Damnit!

So. It’s a funny old life, huh? We’ll see where this all leads. I’m not too worried — after all, as long as I get to keep Rob, who cares where we get married? As long as it’s not the frickin basement of the Legion.

Little secret post:

Turns out I wasn’t paid due to the bank’s error, not my work’s. So uhm… I guess I’m not allowed to feel the rage toward work anymore, no matter how much I love it. I’m still not getting paid til next week sometime, so it still sucks. I phoned the bank yesterday to see what was going on. They said I had to go in for something. I asked what I needed to bring. They said my ID. So I brought my drivers’ license. I get there (it’s a half-hour drive to town) and give them my ID. “Oh, no, we need two forms of ID. Do you have your social insurance card with you?” Dur, no. So another half hour home, and another half hour back in. Which equals an hour and a half. For them to tell me “Yeah sorry, that’s our fault. Your payroll dep’t will have to send the payment in again, which will take a couple of days”.
Feh.
Hey, have you guys noticed I’ve only been writing sad things lately? THAT’S NO FUN.

In other news, uhm… there is none.
Oh wait, there is.

When I get paid? I’m buying new pants!
NEXT WEEK SOMETIME IS NEW PANTS DAY!
YAY FOR NEW PANTS!

… and the rest? Goes into the vault.

One thing that I hate about myself is that when I get really angry, I start to cry. I look like a fool when it happens, and usually I can hold it in until I’m not around people — but eventually the floodgates open and I’m bawling.
At the moment I’m about half an inch from crying. Why, you might ask?
Okay, as you may know, I haven’t worked in like, a year because I was sick and everything. So I’ve been really excited about how I’m easing back into the working world (with two jobs!) because I finally feel like I’m contributing to our little household again. Not that I haven’t been contributing– just that now, it’s monetarily, which is just as important as my opinions about whether or not the whole secret behind Lost is that it’s Stefano DiMera’s secret island and soon John Black is going to come rescue them all.
Well, guess what? Today is payday for one of the jobs. Remember how a couple of weeks ago, the first payday, there had been some kind of mixup so I didn’t get paid, but they told me that this week I’d get 4 weeks worth of cheques?
Yeah, didn’t happen. Just checked the bank account and there’s nothing there. I haven’t called yet because I don’t want to seem like a pain in the ass, and also because I’m still so upset that I don’t want to cry on the phone with the lady. I don’t even know if I *should* call. If I weren’t so upset, this would probably be funny. Right?
Right?

Your Monster Profile

Omega Troll You Feast On: Olives You Lurk Around In: The Empire State Building You Especially Like to Torment: British People

Thanks, Sheri!

I have that Tom Petty song “American Girl” stuck in my head, for anyone who was wondering about the title.

Thanksgiving was on Monday here in the Great White North (it’s more of a harvest celebration here rather than the celebration of pilgrims landing and bringing the gift of syphillis to the native americans, which is why it’s in October– that would be when the Canadian harvest typically ends). My family had our Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday, though, to accomodate various peoples’ working schedules– and I’m pretty glad of it. Why? Because of the dreaded Turkey Belly. We ate lunch. Which included turkey, baked potatoes, various vegetables, cranberry sauce (homemade, not the canned kind), stuffing, and apple pie. I was SO FULL, people. Rob often jokes about how sometimes his dad eats so much that his stomach expands to twice its normal size and is hard to the touch– that’s how I felt. And yet! Everytime I walked through the kitchen, I’d see the bird carcass and have this inexplicable urge to go pick at it. Do you know what that means? I’m carrion! Anyway, it was good to have Monday to recover from the Turkey Belly. Although I don’t think *anyone* ever fully recovers from it. You’ll always have the flashbacks, you know.

My week has been going pretty well, otherwise. Last Thursday afternoon I substituted at the high school in town– Grade 11 law and grade 10 french. I’ve forgotten how independent the gr 11′s can be (grade 10, on the other hand, can be just as bad as primary kids). On Friday I was in for a grade 2 french immersion class. Not bad, especially since the afternoon was spent on a field trip (we went to the Jubilee to see some Jillian Jiggs play which sucked but hey, what can you do? The seven-year-olds liked it). Tonight I’m working at the night-school-jobbie, and tomorrow I’m in a grade 1 french immersion class. With only 10 students. Hoo boy. It’s been, like, almost non-stop. I paid all my fees last Monday, and by Tuesday afternoon I was getting calls. So it’s good to know that I’m in the system. Yay! for working! And not going insane from it!

Speaking of insanity (okay, not really) — Rob recently linked a list of 50 useful tips for people with adult ADHD. I of course haven’t been able to concentrate on reading it (little joke there. About >< that big) but I think it’s time to go ride bikes now, right? No, anyway. As someone with ADD it made a lot of sense to me.

Oh, and one little complaint about work and then I’ll shaddup because hey at least I’m working. The teaching french at night school thing — we had to have our hours in on the 27th of September, and were to be paid on the 6th of October. The sixth came and went, and there was no pay in the bank for me. I was sad. Other people said there was something weird going on with their pay too– they’d received a weird amount or something. So today (yeah, I know, the 11th) I phoned my boss to see what was up. “Oh, yeah, I meant to call about that last week– we messed up with the pay codes so you’ll be getting your pay next week instead”. Er, gee, thanks for the info. I know that for some people this is extra money but for me, at the moment, this is my livelihood (and thank goodness Rob’s still getting EI or we wouldn’t have been eating– wait, that’s not true, how could I forget about the Turkey Belly?!).

“Someone mentioned something about my weight a while ago…about image…the endless comments about image. Didn’t I feel the pressure to be thin? I said that no, I didn’t feel the pressure, because I am exceptional at what I do. I am leaving my music behind me eternally, not my tits or my ass or my head.”

If you’ve never listened to Jann Arden‘s music I suggest that you give it a try.

Continue reading →