wanted: hookers

You know what I did yesterday?

No, not that. Although that would be fun…

I watched people work. It’s one of my favourite things to do. I watched them work, occasionally offered beer/water/pop, then retreated to try to nap. And was unable to nap because there was so much Work To Do. I wasn’t doing the work, involved in the work, or expected to contribute to the work, but hell, it totally interfered with my nap knowing that six strapping DIYers were in my basement, using drills and sharp knives.

I watched this:

Before Drywalling

Before Drywalling

Turn into this:

After Drywalling

After Drywalling

I am swimmingly impressed.

There is also a bedroom with a closet AND a utility/laundry room with a sliding pocket door. That pocket door brings me a type of joy that I can’t quite express. It’s a door. It slides into the wall. It makes me giddy.

This reno must be part of The Husband’s nesting process. I’m busy growing the little one into a bonafide being that can breathe in the outside world, making lists, crossing off tasks, filling out copious amounts of paperwork. And he is preparing by Making Beautiful Space. Yes, we really could use extra room now that a small person is about to come and live with us and I will have to move everything from the spare room (aka The Inner Child’s room) to somewhere else in the house but… we live in a house equipped with a large unfinished basement designed to pile loads of crap and The Inner Child is expected to be very very small for quite some time. But, once reality hit that this babe could really be joining us, The Husband declared that The Basement Will Be Finished In Time For Inner Child’s Arrival and holy batshit, he wasn’t kidding.  It’s flown together, friends and family showing up with drills and tool belts and sweating until deep into the night to help The Husband Get Shit Done.

This morning, the morning after The Drywall Party, he can barely get out of bed but the Massage Nazi is on her way over to help him finish drywalling the staircase.

If the upcoming volunteer painting crew is as effective as the drywalling crew, I think I’ll be expected to provide food, drinks AND hookers.

So… anyone got a line on hookers that work for breakfast sammiches, pizza and beer?

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thunderstruck

The thunder and lighting early this week had The Husband sitting outside under the protection of the porch roof, wrapped in a blanket, concentrating on the sky. It’s something we missed when living in B.C. – there was always rain, rain, rain, but never a show to go with it.

On our wedding day in Saskatchewan almost eight years ago, the intense heat during the day gave way to a violent sheet lighting storm that awed our guests. The intense flashes of light, the colors revealed when the sky cracked open, the ground shaking thunder was one of the best shows nature has to offer. Friends and family joked that our joining had angered the gods.

And now we’re back on the prairies where the forecast of rain means our eyes turn to the sky. While the northern part of the city flash flooded, downpour so heavy that cars came to a halt, we watched the heavens, waiting.

bragging about the bald ones

I’m the only human in the Gypsyhick Emporium with hair.

The Husband

I wonder what my hair will look like on a little girl?

Miss Noodle, Resident of the Spare’r Oom

After the hair has fallen

My newly red hair blows across my face while I walk between the two stubble-headed philanthropists. They have matching black down on their noggins, soft and alluring to run under fingers. The Husband shaved his head to send his long unaltered tresses to Angel Hair, an organization that collects human hair for wigs for children undergoing baldness-creating illnesses. Noodle shaved her head to raise money and support a breast cancer fundraiser – chicks shaving heads brings in loads of money for research! My only contribution is that I got to cheer them on AND be the Shaver Of Heads in both cases.

I’m so proud of them.

Shortly after they were shaved, it blizzarded in Calgary and both were left scrambling for toques and scarves to keep them warm. It was then that I was even more proud to walk with them as they pull off their hats when we came in from the snow and people looked quizzically in our direction. I embarrass them, openly telling strangers and cashiers how wonderful they are to use that hair for good.

What they looked like before their respective shavings

The Husband showing off, one last time, the 14 inches of healthy hair that’s been grown for just this purpose. Some child will sport some of this beautiful hair someday. It takes up to 10 donations to make one wig for a child .

I'm a hairy hairy man

 

Noodle (left) colored her light highlights bright pink for the shave. It’s not very clear in the photo, but it was symbolic as so many pink hairs hit the floor. People stopped and applauded as her hair fell.

Noodle & Me

Voodoo The WonderMutt still has her hair mostly, although her belly was shaved from being fix’d. And since the rest of us have photos in this post, I’ll give her a shout-out too:

000_0218.jpg

latex doll

A story from The Husband:

“I’d been waiting weeks on end for this life size replica worm alien from the movie Men In Black. The doorbell finally rings and I answer the door to be confronted with a female postal worker who is giving me a look of such disdain and disgust. She very gruffly said “Are you The Husband?”. I answered “Oooh yes! Finally, my package is here!”. I was excited, and she forcefully thrusts the box into my arms and snidely asks me to sign the clipboard. I cheerfully sign my name and thank her, but she’s already turned her back and is marching away. I look down to see this shipping receipt attached to the box:

LATEX DOLL

I gasped and yelled towards the deliver truck ‘IT’S AN ALIEN!’ but she was already in the truck and may have heard me, but at this point, I decided to just let it go and went back inside to unpack my latex doll.”

It’s never boring here in the Gypsyhick Emporium. Here is The Husband’s adored alien, relaxing and smelling the flowers before going to live above our, of course, coffee station:

Alien LATEX DOLL

rash

I was leaning against the side railing at the edge of the arena, the once ice covered surface layered over in sandy dirt, and surrounded by competitive dog enthusiasts. The beagle on leash sat at my feet, head near my knee and long ears trailing on the ground, calmly taking in the hyper puppies then glancing up to me for direction. The sirens of trials starting and ending, dogs panting, and cheers as the next canine completed the course became buzzing white noise.

And then I realized the buzzing was the alarm clock, it was waaay past time to get the hell out of bed, and what the heck had I been doing with a giant beagle?

“They” say not to make any major decisions in the year immediately after any life altering event. I kmpww that coming to terms with the Amazing Tectonic Baby no longer existing, and my physical scars still healing has been enough to throw me “off” so that I’m less clear headed and more prone to rashness. I’m naturally not one who is able to do things the right way, the easy way, or the prescribed way, and really, before my world spun off its axis this past November, I was already prone to rash decisions and spontaneous jumps into the ravine. Now, I’m just more so. Take a spin in this chaos!

Insanity expresses itself in many ways: we at the Gypsyhick Emporium are shopping around at rescue societies for a puppy.

What the hell are we thinking?!?
And why oh why does it seem like such a fantastic idea?
And why do I sometimes wonder if we’ve completely lost our ever-lovin’ minds?
And why am I falling so hard for a photo of a 9 month old black lab / rotti cross, or a descriptive ad for a year old grungy whippet mutt?
Are we in need of a formal intervention?
Are we thinking about this for the right reasons?
Are we weighing the pros and cons wisely?
Are we compensating for our loss?
Are we ready?

Are we NUTS?!?!

the bomb

The Husband and I are childless. We are aunt and uncle to a total of 16 (I married into The Brady Bunch) but we are rarely the only adults around. We are not usually The Adults In Charge. Yes, for nearly a year, we lived in the same household as our five year old niece and her father and it was fantastic – I took her swimming pretty regularly alone back then, but, you know, she can communicate in plain English, is fully toilet trained, and feeds herself. There was also a full time lifeguard and a plethora of other adults, mostly parents, at the pool, so I had a soothing safety net should I accidentally light her on fire.

Our Big Challenge a few weekends past was being entrusted with a tiny human. Alone. By ourselves. On one hand, it was quality time with the six month old nephew X for the weekend – exciting! On the other, it was responsibility for a six month old for the weekend – terrifying! He was delivered to us all bundled up and snoozing, smelling like warmth and giggles with a backpack of stuff. When his big black eyes fluttered open, he went from sleepy to cooing and giggling. We were wrapped around his little fingers in moments.

He liked to hang out in his excersaucer and have us make faces. He laughed, drooled, stared wide-eyed at our antics. We are skilled at making funny faces, especially when accompanied with even funnier sounds and finally, we’ve found someone who really appreciates us. I do this at work, and all I get are strange stares from the programmers. We goo-d and gah-d, armed with one page of instructions from his grandmother, a phone number, and the backpack full of stuff. The backpack actually made us wonder if we were suddenly keeping this child for a week – so much STUFF. Naive we were.

After two quick phone calls to verify a few details on the “baby cheat sheet” – when IS bedtime? Our sink is smaller so are you sure we bathe him in the sink? How much food is 1/2 inch in metric? – we were off. He was fed, bathed, and only protested when moving from the warm water through the cold air to a warm towel. He cuddled into the towel and into the crook of my neck, and I was aflutter with warm butterflies. The Husband started off as a mass of nerves – he’s grown better at holding the little ones but they still make him nervous with their little breakable bits. Telling him that they’re rubbery with cartilage only makes him more nervous. He did well – by the end of the evening, he was enjoying bouncing X and being rewarded by laughter.

Bedtime came, and after a very gurgly stomach and some really smelly gassy output (holy man – how can such a little thing put out so much bad smell?!), X fell asleep quickly just before 9 in our bed. His stomach gurglies seemed painful, so I msg’d Super Dad (my brother) and he suggested baby anti-gas. The Husband, at 11pm, went out to the drugstore “just in case” where the pharmacist concurred with Super Dad. I sat on the couch under a blanket, warm and fuzzy, content at how lovely and satisfying the evening had been.

Good lord.

Silence shattered at 11:05 with screams that denote murder. The Husband arrived home and brought up a quite professionally made bottle, and with that and another terrifying gaseous emission, the little guy was sound asleep. The Husband has a gift with the making of bottles. We tiptoed and whispered and dared not wake X, so each of us decided to take a couch downstairs rather than transfer him out of our bed.

The Bomb went off at 1:15, 3:00, 5:00. I started to doubt that the bottles were solving a problem – it seemed that it would satisfy him only to have him squealing within hours, big tears running down his cheeks. We would pick him up in the darkness, put him on our shoulders, pat his back until the horrible gurgly sounds from his stomach diminished. Just after 5, I fell asleep next to him once he was content, rubbing his side and too exhausted to lumber back downstairs. Between the anti-gas dosing, a fuller extent of burping, and possibly my lulling snoring in his ear, he actually slept for an extra hour until his eyes fluttered open at 8am. I awoke next to an adorable gleaming infant who smiled brightly and wiggled all his appendages. The demon had been exorcised by the morning light.

He is beautiful and awe inspiring in the daylight.

The moral of the story: He is fine, possibly teething but fine. We lived, cared for him well, and no blood was spilled. Most importantly, when a baby’s caregiver says “Please, for the love of god let me have a night of rest”, do not be fooled by a cooing package of warmth: assume that you will put to bed an angel and be up all night with a demon, to rediscover the angel again when the sun returns.

And the best feeling in the world is the nuzzling head and happy sighing of a cuddled little person.

my shoes don’t work after last call

Just a couple of notes before I crawl away into a hovel to deal with my splendid crapulence:

1. Walking downhill in heels after consuming massive quantities of beer is not a Good Idea. Beer causes shoes to no longer work in the way they were designed. It must be a dehydration thing.

2. The Husband sleeps with his eyes slightly open. I was staring at him this morning, telepathically urging his snoring to quiet as it was bringing my hungover brain to shrill peaks of flashing pain. Reflection of light bounced back from below his lashes, and on (much) closer inspection, I found his eyes to be slightly open. It also startled him and brought him defensively awake and asking what the hell I was doing, but it does solve the mystery of why his eyes are so sore lately. He’s sleeping with eyes open – I married a ninja.