Lost Items

This afternoon, I forgot my keys at the office for the second time this week.


It's been a rough week.


The first time, I left the office at 11:00 am to run home and grab my camera so I could take some pics for the office's trip to Taste of Edmonton. That time, I only made it as far as the street corner by the office before I realized my keys were in my backpack, and me with my purse instead. I ran back upstairs, grabbed my keys, ran back down, ran to the condo, grabbed the camera, and ran back.


It sucked.


But it didn't suck as much as this afternoon sucked.


This afternoon, I checked the temperature before leaving the office to determine whether I should wear my coat. It's a lovely sunshine-yellow coat. The CEO, who was in absurdly early this morning, commented on it when he saw me arrive ten minutes late (aaaawkward).


With a humidex of 29 degrees, I decided that the coat could bloody well stay in the office. I proceeded to Sobey's to get some milk and other amenities for dinner. I was hungry, so I ended up also buying sour cream, frozen shrimp, plums, and a bag of Lay's (depending on my mood, they can be as irresistable as Hawkin's Cheezies).

Here, you can see my nephew, Cobrastarshine, as mesmerized by a Lay's commercial as I was until I noticed how mesmerized he was, and snapped a pic. Thesis: Lay's chips obsession is genetic.

It wasn't until I arrived home that I realized my keys were not in my backpack, where I usually put them, but in the pocket of my yellow coat.


I'd cleaned my office this afternoon because it was so messy I simply could not do any work, but in my head, all I could think was,

I didn't fancy carrying two bags of cold, sweating groceries back to the office, so I tried the buzzer. The buzzer goes to Hawk's phone. Hawk would be driving, but that never stops him from answering the phone.


But it did this time. I thought, "Maybe it's because he didn't recognize the number. I wish he'd save the buzzer as a contact," and tried calling him from my phone.


He didn't answer my call, either. Silently cursing Hawk, I gathered up my bags, and then followed the next person into the building, which that person was not supposed to let me do because I might have been a criminal element.


I dropped off my groceries outside the door of the condo in the suddenly sinister hallway. Shuddering in apprehension, I gave my doorknob a try, just in case I'd been an idiot first thing in the morning, too, and hadn't locked the door.


No such luck.


I gave the groceries a final look and hoped there was no criminal element living on my floor, then headed back out, untucking my chambray blouse from my black lace skirt. The sweat around my waist was becoming unbearable.


I charged out the lobby of the condo building and hit a red light at 104th St. I charged along 102 Ave, praying my shrimp weren't defrosting, and hit a red light at 103rd St. My phone buzzed. It was Hawk. "Did you just call me?" I explained the situation. He explained his: his phone had been on silent. It didn't matter. There was nothing more to be done.


I charged across 103rd St and down 102 Ave. I waited for the red light at 102nd St, crossed 102nd St, then was inside and charging up the escalator. Halfway up, to be precise, where a lady and a suitcase were stopped and I had to wait, elevator music playing in my head.


I charged and charged some more, bursting into my (much tidier) office, and grabbing my keys from the pocket of my yellow jacket. I made my egress.


Whom should I meet in the hallway moments later but the CEO, wondering where the jaunty yellow jacket from this morning was?


Embarrassed, I burst home.


Step 1: Secure groceries. Cold stuff still cold. Relief.


Step 2: Remove high heels.


Step 3: Reduce clothing to underpants. Sweaty blouse and tights triumphantly thrust into the laundry.


Step 4: Realise hat is still on head, remove hat.


Step 5: Pour a bowl of chips, crack open a club soda, and settle on the couch to finish one of Hawk's birthday books.


Step 6: Realise this was one of my more spastic afternoons (ever). Enjoy feeling of pride.

Heat Waves

It was super hot here last week and there was a forest fire in Northern Alberta.


SHA-ZAAAM

The moon

 08 July. I only noticed it because Hawk said he could look at the sun, but was afraid to,
in case it burned his eyeballs.

 08 July, zoomed in. I was very glad Hawk happened to glance out the window.

 08 July, mere moments later

 10 July

 10 July. There is so much crap in the air, the sun looks squashed. That's science.

12 July 

12 July 

12 July, north

12 July, north

12 July, 10:09 pm, more or less north.

FIN

Careers

Today Sandcat and I were discussing how awesome sleep is, and I began daydreaming about ways to integrate sleep more into my daily routine. That lead me to thinking about awesome jobs. Here are some.


Mattress Tester
Requirements: sound napping ability
Special skills I bring to the table: I drool, so I'd be able to test the ability of mattresses to withstand water damage.
Drawbacks: I seem to need Red Danda to be able to sleep.

Sleep soundly, Red Danda. Sleep soundly.

Hawkins Cheezies Quality Assurance
Requirements: enjoying Hawkins Cheezies above all other cheese-flavoured snacks
Special skills I bring to the table: I've been eating these since I was a child. I know what they're supposed to taste like. I'm sure I'd be a prime candidate for identifying batches lacking perfection.
Drawbacks: One time, Dad said I could eat Cheezies until I barfed if I wanted to and I did. On my pillow. I might lack a bit of control in the tasting department ... it could morph into full-on eating. Then gorging. Then barfing.



Parade Critic
Requirements: a big mouth and a phone with Twitter capability
Special skills I bring to the table: I grew up on a military base, so I know what walking in formation is supposed to look like.
Drawbacks: I don't really like noise.

Extra-large Space-Pyramid turns against crowd. D+.

Well, there you have it. If anyone sees these jobs opening up anywhere, let me know so I can tune up the ol' résumé!

Apologies

Dear friends, I didn't abandon you. I merely had a two-week period wherein finding time to write was very difficult. Now, it's a Wednesday evening, I have a few hours to myself, and it's so stinking hot I want to crawl under a rock like an insect, not write. Sure, I could pack up the laptop and head out to an air-conditioned café, of which there are two within metres of my doorstep. But that would require putting on pants. So, rather than blinding you with my brilliance, I shall blind you with my dear, dear friend Ted Finchley's brilliance. Here's the second-to-last instalment of Dick's Surgery! Check out the last post here if you need to catch up.

DICK’S SURGERY 

Instalment Five, a New Day and More Stress

Much of the next day was spent training my bladder. The approach was simple:  Nurse Laura pinches off the tube from the catheter so the bladder can’t drain; this reminds the bladder what it’s like not to void freely. Open, then pinch off the tube a couple of times more and the bladder should be ready to handle urinating on its own. Laura then reminded me of the 200 mL peeing rule and its deadline. And the pain in my crotch and the pull on little Dick increased. Could things get any worse? 

Mrs. Dick headed off to carry out her daily errands; I was left alone; and the shift changed. I quickly found out that things could get worse.

I’m Gillian. “I’ll be giving you your first fragmin* injection.”

“Where does it go?” I asked.

“Below your belly button.”  To illustrate, she innocently raised her tunic to expose a very pleasant tanned plumpness, crowned by a shiny trinket dangling from her navel. “Just clutch a handful, like so, and stick it in. By the way, before you leave, as part of the sign-out procedure, you’ll sign that you’ve administered the injection yourself.” 

“Not gonna happen, nurse Gillian,” I boasted. Without stopping to argue, that merciless caregiver grabbed my belly with one hand and jabbed the needle in with the other. No sooner in, than it was out; not so bad after all. “Next time, you’ll do it!” 

With false bravado, I muttered under my breath:  “In your dreams, nurse Gillian.” 

What Dick saw

What Dick thought he saw

Great, now I have to try to get some sleep with the thought of that needle hanging over my mid-section. As well, the increased pressure on me to poop is tying my anus into knots, and a fate worse than death awaits me if I can’t pee 200 mL in three hours. Sleep could have been a relief, but Nurse Fanny had other plans for me.

Shift change.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” said Fanny. “First I attach this syringe to the secondary arm of your catheter. Then I use the syringe to deflate the balloon that’s inside your bladder.” 

“Inside my ... bladder,” I repeated.

“Then, I pull the tube out.” 

“O-h-h, that doesn’t sound good,” I thought.

“Then, you’ll be free to pee. Are you ready?”

 “No,” I thought. “Yes,” I said.

I put aside all my horrid imaginings and, with one hand tenderly embracing little Dick and the other grasping one of the bed bars, I nodded. Fanny pulled steadily and quickly. Blip, blip, blip I felt, and out it came. With trepidation I looked down:  everything was intact, no blood, no stinging, no more fear; only relief.

“200 mL before morning or I re-insert.” 

“Until morning,” I thought, “not a few hours.”  Finally, the break I needed.

“And I expect a full bowel movement,” I heard as Fanny left the room.

“Oh great, I’d forgotten about the poop.” 

More to come! What will happen to poor Mr. Dick in the stunning conclusion to this epic tale of heartache, woe, and human triumph? Will it even be, in the end, a tale of human triumph?!