OCD and SCD = Two things that go Greeeeat Together.

     If you ever get the chance to try Scottish Country Dancing, just do it. You'll laugh your fool head off and sweat like a whore in church! Just don't bring your Obsessive Compulsive nonsense with you.

     Big Rod and I just returned from our first lesson at the Yacht Club in Picton. We were one of the first couples there. It was just us and another lady from a retirement community nearby sitting in a corner making small talk and thinking we didn't have enough people for a Ceileidh (the Gaelic term for a Scottish hoedown). But, more and more people started showing up and joining in the fun.

     Poor Rod was thrown to the wolves almost immediately, being one of the only men. And, they don't really tell you what's going to happen. It's alot like the first time you do Zumba... You get a couple of quick demonstrations, then the music comes on and it's all legs and arms and feet everywhere. He was a pro. He had his heels and his toes in all the right spots and always knew which way to turn.

     The basic gist of things, is to skip around in circles, weave in and out between other people and always, ALWAYS be holding someone's hand. Seriously, you've got to check your germaphobe shit at the door! You hold your partners' hands, you hold hands in a circle, you hold hands to spin around, you hold hands like you're playing London Bridge (which is even worse because it is sweaty and people have to walk under your stinky, drippy armpits!) Some people have those clammy, just-came-from-the-bathroom-and-we're-out-of-paper-towels, kind of hands. You can't pull away in disgust! You just have to keep your social phobias to yourself and smile.

     If your partner forgets to "pas-de-basque" before you "doh-see-doh", you can't stop the music and start again. You've just got to catch up. And, you can't mess around. There's no time for error! One of the dances we did (with a London Bridge situation) requires running from one and of the room to the other behind all the other couples and giving a high five to your partner before running back and grabbing someone by the (sweaty) palm and walking around in circles again. I was exhausted and my partners, who were AT LEAST 20 years older than me, gently suggested that I should move it or lose it. It was shameful really.
   
     I also stepped on my own foot and nearly took out my partner, which would have created an epic domino effect had I not recovered before the allemande.

     All jokes aside, I can't wait to go next week. And kudos to my husband for trying something new outside of the bedroom just to make me happy.

Elvis Costello - Veronica

She used to have a carefree mind of her own and a devilish look in her eye

     I don't like small children and retirees. Plain and simple. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. There are some small children that I think are totes adorbs. Even when they are being little bastards. Similarly, there are old people that I connect with. even if they are crotchety old pricks.
     The reason for this passionate dislike of all things too young and too old probably stems from years in the service industry - children like to lay in the middle of the floor and scream where I am trying to walk with hot plates and they like to make a really big mess of EVERYTHING. Old people, on the other hand, like to take their sweet fucking time when placing their own orders, but want you to serve them without having to wait. They also like to complain about everything and then leave a tip that might have been acceptable in 1962.
     So, why in the name of Holy Pete Noble* did I take a job as a dietary aide at a local retirement home? Simple. I needed the money and I am terrible at blow jobs.
     But, "dietary aide" sounds nice and easy. Perhaps it involves mashing up food for people with no teeth. Perhaps I would be feeding people too feeble to lift their own spoons (who would also be too feeble to speak - fingers crossed). Maybe it's just running plates of healthy food out to hungry and grateful septuagenarians, who are (hopefully) fully functioning and pleasant individuals enjoying their golden years in comfort.
     I wash muhfucking dishes. That's what it means to be a dietary aide. Means I wash three courses worth of dishes for 35 people every shift for about two hours. The other two hours, I fill water glasses, serve coffee and tea, and take around a cookie tray before bed time. But, mostly, I wash muhfucking dishes.
     When I first started, most of the residents wanted to know how my classes were going. They all assumed I was still in high school. I should have been flattered by the unintended compliment considering I am in my forties. In fact, my pride was wounded horribly - only high school students had previously been employed here as dietary aides. And, it wasn't like they thought I looked young enough to be a teenager, it's just that their eyesight is bad and they made an assumption.
    Sigh. So, I struggled through the first few weeks. Swallowing my pride (I'm a college graduate, ffs!) and biting my tongue (minimum wage sucks ass). My eyes are firmly locked on the prize in the form of a ten day vacation in May, in which I will be backpacking through Massachussets... but that's another blog.
     Meanwhile, I've become very attached to some of the residents whose dishes I have been washing all the time. I've gotten to know all their preferences and all their little idiosyncrasies and...I've fallen in love. One man likes to take my hand in his every time he comes in for dinner. Not just a handshake, but a hand HOLD. This is one thing I really like about older people; when they take your hand and hold onto it while they speak to you. It's so comforting to me and... affectionate. Personal. Warm. It's just a good feeling.
     One lady likes coffee for dinner, but only filled three-quarters of the way and with half a teaspoon of sugar. Another man wants his tea filled all the way to the top so there's not enough room for the two milk he wants in it. Yet another woman wants milk for her tea before the tea is even poured AND she wants more milk than she will ever use... just in case.
    I'm in love with all of them. I'm in love with the lady who is so quiet and dainty who has a beautiful cat, but she eats more junk food than a seven year old on Halloween. I'm in love with the man who walks to the dining room every night because it has the best view of sunsets. I'm in love with the cantankerous woman who will hit you with her cane if you try to touch her walker, but beams when you bring her a snack and always wishes you a good night. I'm in love with the old dairy farmer who falls asleep at the table so I have to vacuum around his feet until someone comes to take him to his room.
     Yeah, it's been pretty good times with this bunch of hoodlums. LOL. One day, while waiting for lunch, I overheard this conversation between a woman at one table and a man at the table behind her.
     Sally**: Bill***, is Tiger playing golf today or tomorrow?
     Bill: What did she say?
     Sally: I wanna know if Woods is golfing today. Do you know?
     Bill: I can't hear you, Sally. What are you asking me?
     Sally: Oh for goodness sake. When is Tiger playing?
     Bill: Yeah, I'm having the chicken salad sandwich!
     Sherla (at this point, I intervene because everyone is yelling at everyone else): Bill, Sally wants to know when Tiger Woods is playing golf.
     Bill: Oh... I don't know. I don't watch golf.
     So, it is with some sadness that I am leaving my new friends to meet some crazy hippies while hiking through the Berkshires. But, I won't miss dish pan hands, stray peas that refuse to be sucked up with a vacuum and room temperatures that reach very close to 30- C even in the dead of winter.

*I don't know anyone named Pete Noble.
** Not her real name
***not his real name, obvsly
   

Oreo Cake

     In keeping with my need to eat all things Oreo-entated, this is how you make the cake pictured above.
     Prepare a chocolate cake mix in two round cake pans. Blend 3 1/2 cups powdered sugar, 1/2 Tbsp sugar, 1 tsp vanilla, 1/2 cup vegetable shortening and 3 Tbsp hot water. Roll the icing mixture into a disc and put it between the two cakes. Voila.

Landscaping - How it`s done.

     It`s been a cold winter here in Prince Edward County. January has been consistently in the negative, often negative double digits (Celsius). I could say that is why I haven`t been looking after myself. You know, regular maintenance stuff like shaving and buffing and moisturizing. But, it`s not so much the cold as just... who cares?

     This is a poor attitude to have! And, it contributes to poor self-worth that leads to hours of pity crocheting, watching repeats of the Incredible Doctor Pol and eating anything that vaguely resembles an Oreo. Oh, and facebooking. I scroll down my news feed about every half hour looking for answers to life's biggest questions. I mean, why else would I need to know what all the other losers are doing to waste their waking hours? (Sorry, friends. Don't unfriend me. You know it's true.)

     And then there's Youtube! Devilish little website that really does have all the answers to life's biggest questions! I've learned how to make a penny can stove, watched Nicki Minaj's Anaconda video like a hundred times to perfect my twerk, and watched several abscessed pimples explode! Oh my gawd, that zit popping stuff is better than porn (one of the few things I don't watch on the Internet, believe it or not).

     Speaking of spreading one's legs, I had a Pap smear two weeks ago. This was when I started to realize how far I have fallen this winter. My appointment was with a female intern. I figured if I just did a quick scrape of any excess undergrowth in my nether regions, she would understand. So, that's all she got. A quick scrape. Just around the flaps. I kept the 70s bush in the front for warmth. This is Canada and I feel it's my patriotic duty to protect the beaver.

My husband and I at a wedding in October.
Doesn't look like I even brushed my hair!

     In hindsight, I could have done better. I should be doing better! It should be my belated New Year's Resolution to landscape things a bit better. Not just "down there", but I have really let myself go in my 40s. If my husband does care, he doesn't say so. He's a freak anyway, and I like him that way ;) 

     First thing's first - get up off my ass. I've started a new job as a server at a retirement home; which I have come to understand (because everyone keeps telling me) is usually a job for highschoolers. No jokes, one of the PSWs, a woman 10 years younger than me, said the other day, "I used to do (your) job... back when I was in highschool!" The residents frequently ask me how school is going. I would take it as a compliment, but some are legally blind, so I can't.
     Meanwhile, I will use the Youtube to do every free, half-hour aerobic workout I can find. I do hip hop abs, Bollywood, jazzercize, Jane Fonda, walk-dancing and yoga... whatever I can find. Trust me, there's lots. My dog, Muffy, hates when I work out. At first she grabbed me by the shirt sleeve and tugged me to the ground, but now she just sulks around my feet and brings small items for me to step on.

     Step two, get back to the tanning bed. My pasty, fish belly fish belly and cottage cheese thighs could do with a bit of bronzing. I'm not looking to become a piece of beef jerky, I just like a nice sand colour. Dark enough to blend into the landscape at the Sandbanks. I don't buy any of those expensive creams that the Jersey Shore stars sell for an exorbitant amount per ounce. It's bad enough I have to pay for something that is free anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. The heat and light feels so good on a miserable January day full of cold slush on your feet and air that hurts your face.

     Next, scrubbing the feet. Cold, dry weather makes heels and toes build layers and layers of dead skin that cracks and catches on your nice clean bed sheets at night. It's horrible.

     Now, I thought about getting a pedicure at the mall, but I hate, hate, HATE anyone cutting my toenails and the skin around my toenails. It just sends me. Mother fuckers pick, pick, PICK at your feet for twenty minutes when all I really want them to do is soak 'em, scrub 'em and rub 'em with something luxurious and flowery. I REALLY hate, hate, hate that it will cost me $32 plus tax and tip to do it, too. Cheap bitch that I am, I bought a $5 pumice wand at the drug store and I'll scrub my own dogs raw while I watch the Super Bowl. Just the half-time show and the tight ends - that's what I like.

Nice eyebrows, not threaded though.
And, a nice scarf that I made

     Something that IS cool at the mall, and affordable to boot, is what they call threading. I have nice eyebrows, I think, but they get unruly sometimes. Threading is the coolest thing! I was directed by a woman of East Indian ancestry - now, I don't know if that's politically correct to say these days. If there's a more appropriate way to say it, I don't know, so I will apologize in advance. All I know is, she had really nice, kohl-rimmed eyes and I'm sure rich women would pay alot of money for her hair.

     Anyway, she takes this piece of thread, puts the ends of it in her mouth and magically (literally, I cannot scientifically explain how this is done) uses her hands and mouth to direct the thread around my eyebrow hairs and rip them out at the roots. My "threader", the one with the nice, chocolate-coloured eyes, was very... terse. She told me to "sit", told me to "relax" and then she told me to "stretch". When she asked me to stretch, I assumed she wanted me to do a full-body kind of thing, so I started to raise my arms up over my head and gave a little yawn. It's not like we had been at this for more than a minute, so I really didn't know what kind of wimp-ass, white girl she took me for.

     If you go... please note that the command "stretch" means to pull your forehead up and your eyelid down for optimal resistance while threading one's eyebrows. I felt like such a tool. Also, keep in mind that the "threader" is going to be about an inch from your face, so bring gum. Or, at least skip the sushi before you go. I was so worried about offending her with wasabi mouth, I had to hold my breath. It was $11 or something and I was quite happy with the results. Smooth, not too red (like waxing), fast and not as irritating as tweezers. 

     The bottom line is, I'm on my way to getting ready for spring. It IS, however, a work in progress. Tonight, while soaking in my tub of Epsom salts that smell of lotus flower and white tea (gag) I realized I should at least shave my legs. So, I took a disposable razor from before Christmas off the bath tub ledge and began to hack away at the inside of my calves. I didn't bother with my knees or the shins or the outsides of my calves... I couldn't see them while I was cross-legged in the tub. Out of sight, out of mind, I always say.

YES Therapy

     I find myself with alot of time on my hands these days. The appropriate thing to do when one is in this situation is a) do not panic b) reconnect with friends and c) don't say no, just say yes.

     Monday, I got a text from Danielle. "Do you have a skill saw and a T-square and some spare time?"

     In this case, I have to say no, but only because I don't have those tools. However, I do have lots of free time. So, I guess I'm laying laminate flooring with Danielle.

     The first thing you learn from YES Therapy (which I may patent; Dr. Sherla has a nice ring to it) is that "There is so much to learn in life", and learning is what makes living worthwhile to me. Learning, connecting and making memories. When someone asks you to help them lay laminate flooring, they aren't asking you to make a sacrifice for them! They are asking you to participate in learning, connecting and making memories.

     I learned that Danielle's dog, Miller, likes to hump me. Alot. I'm his favourite. We certainly made a connection. I had to take him for a walk to get out some of the sexual tension. Meanwhile, Danielle managed to move a refrigerator singlehandedly into her bedroom. I also learned that Danielle is stronger than she looks! Especially in her pink pyjamas.

Danielle installing underlayment, cos we ain't stupid

     Also, according to the directions on laminate flooring, it is preferable to lay the floor parallel to the light source. At 6:30 at night, Danielle's light source is a round, ceiling light as far as I'm concerned. How in the fuck are we going to determine what is parallel to a round light?

     Fortunately, there are people who actually use their brains when assisting with home renovations - unlike myself. Apparently, it is preferable to lay the floor parallel to the NATURAL light source - which would be the way the light shines through the window during the day. This seems stupid to me, but at least now I know. Laminate flooring looks better if the sunlight shines on it lengthwise. (I call bullshit on this one).

     Tuesday morning, I get a text from Janet. "Are we having breakfast this morning?" To which I replied, "I dunno. Are we?"

     The answer is, of course, yes.

     While having breakfast, Janet mentions she has sooooo much laundry. I like laundry. "Do you want me to come over and help you do laundry?"

     Again, the answer is yes.

My Lopsided Green Lantern

     While I am at Janet's house doing laundry (which is uncommonly slow work FYI), Danielle asks if I want to throw a ball around for the dogs at the Bloomfield tennis courts.

     What else? YES!!

     Wednesday, I see they are looking for people to make paper lanterns for the annual Firelight Lantern Festival in Picton. I love lanterns and crafts! YES! Do you know the kind of work involved in making a paper lantern? You basically have to tape wooden skewers together to make a shape and then cover that shape with tissue paper. Surely, A child can do this. I chose to make a nice, simple square. Three other lantern makers arrived and left before I finished my lopsided, green lantern. Two of them had children with them. But, I learned that you need an awful lot of masking tape to keep wooden skewers together and there is some benefit to having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, like Danielle. When I got home with my green lantern and Danielle's white star (yeah, she made a fucking star! Overachiever!), Rod says, "Oh, you did such a nice job on the star... what happened to the square?" Asshole.

A Beer Mitten for cold days

     Thursday, I started working on a new crochet project. Someone posted a photo of a beer mitten on facebook and asked if I could make one. Of course, I said yes. But, I don't like to do things without a recipe, a pattern or some kind of step by step directions. I just don't have that much faith in my abilities. Here is another benefit to YES Therapy. "You never really know what you are capable of until you try". The results were actually much more impressive than I would have imagined! I did it! I really did it. 

     Then, another facebook friend asked if I had a pattern I could share. I didn't, but I certainly COULD write one out. This was a conditional YES. I could share the pattern, only IF I could figure out how I had done it in the first place. The results were.... acceptable. More of a crochet guide than a pattern. If you are so inclined, check it out at http://roshalau.tumblr.com/post/102655864693/beermitten-crochet-homemade-handmade-mitten.

     In other news, my son has wanted to join the Canadian Armed Forces for quite some time. This would not be my first choice for a career for my son. When I imagine his future, I picture every horrific war movie I've ever seen, particularly Saving Private Ryan. Out of respect, he has never enlisted. But, on Friday, it was time for me to say yes to his dreams for a change. So, we went to the recruiting office in Kingston. He is very excited to start a new chapter in his life, and if I'm not completely elated, I'm at least excited on his behalf. Sometimes saying yes is hard. That is another life lesson brought to you by YES Therapy - "It's not all about you".

     Finally, on Saturday I taught Rodney the value of YES Therapy. He never wants to do anything or go anywhere. He's always so tired. So busy. So much more interested in laying on the couch or working in the garage. But, he said yes to a walk with Muffy and I. He let me choose where to go, so I decided on the Dunes Trail at Sandbanks. We were walking along, enjoying the beautiful November sun, when it struck me. 

    "Wanna go have sex in the trees?" I asked.

     Surprisingly enough, the answer to this question is, "No, you fucking loon!"

     We had been walking for about a kilometer when we decided to turn towards the lake. The view was beautiful. It was an amazing day. That's when it struck him.

     "Wanna go have sex on that picnic table?" He asked.

     Surprisingly enough, the answer to this question is also no. Although, I considered getting down in the tall grass. I just couldn't figure out the logistics of sex on the beach in 0 degree weather.

Lake Ontario in November

     I couldn't find the trail back to the car at first. We had walked almost 5 km according to the GPS through sand (which is harder than regular walking) when we came upon a lovely spot of pine trees. It was a perfect place for some winter cuddling. The final lesson from YES Therapy is, "sometimes you just shouldn't ask". Sometimes, you should just walk off into the pine trees and drop trou. It is unfortunate that ones lips tend to be ice cold after an hour long hike in freezing weather. So, you should probably say no to any oral sex. Otherwise, maneuvering around your long underwear on a bed of pine needles is a perfectly acceptable way to finish a long week of learning, connecting and making memories.

     

She's looking wider with cider inside her!

So, let's be real for a second.

     Life's way too fucking short. For me, it's too short to do all of the things I want to do. It's also too expensive. I'm broke. Like, still keeping my head above water, paying bills and still-buying-fancy-coffees kind of broke, but really only living on borrowed money.

     It wasn't any better when I was making $16 an hour as a bookkeeper. More things were paid on time, but I had no time to enjoy my dog, no time to crochet slippers, no time to walk in the woods and no time to bake cookies and have nice meals with my husband. What kind of living is that?

That's bullshit living is what that is!

     So, as you are no doubt aware, I was working at the County Cider Company for a few weeks. Which was awesome - frustrating dealing with tourists, but awesome nonetheless. However, the pizza oven closed down on Canadian Thanksgiving Monday about two weeks ago. Bye Bye Tips... I miss you terribly :'(

Don't cry for me, Large and Teenie. The truth is, I never left cider.

All through these broke times. My crazy whimsies.

I kept on working. I go the distance!

....Sorry, I had a brief Andrew Lloyd Weber moment there. Back to business...

     Now I am doing three things: Retail, Pressing and Bottling. Retail is fairly simple and self-explanatory. I offer people tastings of all the cider products we sell. I have met more people from more countries all over the world in the last two weeks than I have EVER met before. And, of course, I have more opportunity to talk with them about life in these countries and make connections with them than I ever did as a busy server. 

     Turns out, people like to talk about themselves and what they do and where they're from. 

     Huh. That was a light bulb moment for me, despite the fact that I clearly like to talk about myself and what I do and where I'm from.

   Did you know: People from Normandy used to serve cider in pitchers with every meal. And, Germans (not unlike Canadians) are very different depending on what part of Germany they come from, but they all know about Apfelwein. Some Scots speak a completely different language - Doric. I can't understand a fecking word of it (Ken Fit a Mean?) I feel like I've traveled the world without leaving work!

     But, being fascinated by all things new and interesting, I was anxious to research the beginnings of hard cider. How it's made; where it gets it's subtle flavours; what tools are required to make the beverage I have been serving up.

Chris and the Lifty Thingy

     First of all, sorting and pressing apples is dirty work. I wore my sweats and brought my gloves. The apples arrived in the barn in huge wooden crates via tractor. Then, they put it on a hydraulic lifty thingy so we could dump the apples slowly onto the conveyor belt. This is a bit of an art because apples don't roll out as nice and even as you would like. They either fall too slowly and you stand there with one finger up your ass doing nothing, or they come out hundreds at a time and then the conveyor belt won't work.

     Anyone who has seen the Lucille Ball episode where she is working in a chocolate factory and the chocolate is coming out too fast can imagine my dilemma. When the apples poured out too fast, I just grabbed handfuls and handfuls of apples. The rotten ones were flying behind me, mushy apples were getting in my hair, I mostly tried to push them to the next person in line so THEY could deal with it.

     And, when I'm talking about rotten apples, you don't even KNOW! I'm talking black, shriveled up chunks of penicillin. I'm talking, sat-on-your-counter-in-a-plastic-bag-for-weeks, full of weird little larva and smelling like fermented fruit (obvsly).

     From there, the good apples went through a washing machine and then got chopped up to itty bits and put in a holding bin, where they were sucked up through a hose and deposited into the accordion press. The press got so much juice out of the apples, the leftovers looked like pressboard, known as "pomace". And, the cider went through another hose to a huge holding tank.

Billy and the itty bits

     When I got home after seven hours of sorting apples, lifting filthy crates of rotten apples, I smelled horrible. Like I was dipped in apple cider vinegar two months ago and hadn't had a bath yet. The old man wouldn't even give me a "welcome home" kiss!

     My next stop on the cider-making train was the bottling facility. I heard everyone likes it there because you don't have to deal with people and it's quiet... until the capper breaks the bottles and glass goes flying and people die from exsanguination. This has never happened. Well, the capper breaks, but people have never died. I'm not even sure they've been cut. In my mind, it is a disaster. I just crossed my fingers and hoped they wouldn't put me in front of the capping machine.

Accordion Press

     That's exactly where they put me. I walked in the door and my first station was the capper, ffs. My job was simply to make sure there was a cap on every bottle as it left my station, make sure there were caps coming through the machine properly (not getting stuck) and make sure the bottles didn't fall over before they got to the capper. Basically, I had to watch the machine do all the work.

     I was there less than five minutes when one of the bottles smashed! It sounded like an Alka Seltzer commercial - there was a loud POP POP of breaking glass and then a FIZZ FIZZ from the sound of cider spray... there was no relief. Not for me. I just stood there like an idiot while Sean grabbed the surrounding bottles so they wouldn't continue to go through the glass shards. He then yelled for Amanda, who rushed to clean up the mess, all while the rest of the process continued to move along. I just watched, horrified. 

     My one job (to make sure there was a cap on every bottle) sounds like an easy enough task, right? Wrong. You watch one hundred bottles go by every minute and see if they don't start to look alike - cap or no cap. Sean had to watch my station, as well as his own, and occasionally grabbed an uncapped bottle as it moved along the line. After a couple of hours, though, I became an expert Chief Looker and Bottle Watcher. Since then, I have manned the bottle drying and labeling station and the packing station. They may even invite me back. 

     The important thing, from my perspective, is that I am continuing to learn knew things and meet new people and make connections. Life IS way too short and I want a path that takes short cuts and scenic routes, through orchards and assembly lines, along my journey.