A Few Tales From the North

The Graffiti artists should have been in school. Attawapiskat.

The Boys in Blue brought someone to the clinic the other night, just to be checked over. They needed  my name and date of birth for their report. I told them 1982. For some reason, I didn't get away with it.

Winter

We have a lovely machine here in the clinic pharmacy that prints labels for our prescriptions. I was giving a lady some Flagyl, and typed the directions as follows: "Take 2 tablets BID until finished. Do not drink alc." I had used up all the character space, so alcohol would not show up in its entirety on the screen. What printed out was this: "Take 2 tablets twice daily until finished. Do not drink in the left ear." Yeah, I know. I didn't get it either. I thought I saw Godzilla somewhere outside the window, made me wonder where I was for a minute. Cancelled that label.

Mud season. Okay, so it's a pot hole.

There are really just two seasons up here: winter, and, mud and dust. Winter is pretty much over. It still freezes at night. Then the sun comes out and melts all the water in the pot holes and beyond, giving way to some pretty serious glue for your boots. I bought wellies up here, leopard printed ones, but just one good dry day, and all that water will dry up. The roads aren't paved in any of these communities, so what you have now is dust. And there is a Murphy's Law that says, no matter which side of the road you are walking on, or which direction the wind is blowing, the dust kicked up by the ATVs, the SUVs, pick ups and latent snow mobiles, will always be directed at you. The wind is funky like that up here. The dust is the sunflower of the pedestrian world, always following and settling on those who deem to put one foot in front of the other in a town where vehicles rule, even though you can circumnavigate it in 20 minutes or so. Then it rains, and it is mud all over again. Or it freezes, and winter is temporarily back.

Dust in the wind.

When I was in school, we were overjoyed when it was announced we would get a March break. I don't remember getting 2 weeks at Christmas, but then I also thought I was born in 1982. And of course, summer vacation. Up here, things are a little different. In addition to the March break and the two weeks at Christmas, there is Goose Break. Which is now. Folks go hunting in the bush for two weeks. In other communities, there is  also the week long Moose Break, in the fall portion of the mud and dust season. I would imagine this community has that too, although moose aren't in great abundance here. That's because the moose knows what happens to the goose, so he just doesn't show up for the party.
So now I have been a week without the internet. I have bug eyes, my hair is greyer. Much like everyone else in this town. The air is blue with collective F-sharps cried out in abundance daily. Why is it in the poorest countries of the world that I have visited as long as I have electricity, I have the internet? And in developed CANADA, I have gone as much as a month before connections could be fixed?

And of course, there is nothing like a puppy to make it all better.

A Spoonful of What??

This guy had nothing on me. He never got the onions either.

I used to listen to a radio show every Sunday morning while driving to church, and then on to see my Mom. It was a Toronto paediatrician giving advice to all the parents out there at loose ends. He would say you will never win a fight with a child when it comes to food. Or much of anything you try to put in their mouths. Then I think back to my childhood. I would have a nasty hacking, spitting, sputtering chest cold. The kind that as we got older garnered me the nickname of "Honky the Christmas Goose". In the middle of the night, I would practically heave a lung into the mattress, my head covered tightly, in my estimation, by two pillows. And then I would hear the footsteps down the hall, the flick of the kitchen light, the sound of what seemed like a hand saw going through a log. Okay, I was young. The clink of a spoon against that little porcelain fruit nappie. It had a particular clink, different from all the other bowls. And then the footsteps treading ever so softly towards my room. I would hold my breath. See, I'm not coughing anymore, until I would explode into a cacophony of gurgles and rasps and, yuck, mucus. On with the light, and my Ma would magically appear, with her secret weapon, when the Benalyn with codeine (my favourite) had failed. Onion juice. A magical elixir of onions grated finely on that side of the cheese grater. Mixed with a spoonful of honey and a squeeze of lemon juice to make it taste better. As if. And even though the tears would be streaming down my face, I swallowed that stuff without a fight, because my Ma knew best. My brother and I respected her that way. And magically, the cough would disappear, and we would all sleep again. Fast forward to when I had a child of my own. Oh how I swore I would never torture her the way I was tortured, with raw onions. Ick. And they made so many better tasting cough preparations that worked better, didn't they? But one night, after a couple of very long, exasperating nights, that cough continued unabated. So I pulled out that grater, and that onion and the honey and the lemon. And while my daughter absolutely detested the stuff as much as I had, she swallowed it too, because she knew I knew best. And all was well.

Big hat, big brain, 'cause this Mama knows best.

So these days, we have all sorts of lovely antibiotics to give kids, with flavours like banana and raspberry. But the difference is, kids don't respect that their parents know best. I had a youngster in the clinic, and she was allergic to the banana flavoured stuff. So I had to give her the raspberry flavoured stuff, a different antibiotic. And she dutifully spat it out. Gave the syringe to Mom to give to her, and she spat it out some more. Then I was asked to give her the banana stuff, the one she was allergic to, because she doesn't like this one. After a couple of more tries (not the banana one) by Mom, I, the big mean nurse, forced her mouth open, shot the stuff into the back where she couldn't spit it out, held her mouth closed just for a second. Down and done. If looks could kill. Well, if Mama didn't know best, the nurse certainly did.

And that was my week.

Really, From the North

One of my walking buddies.

So many things I have observed during this first short week.

Mush!

1. I always think I'm pretty tough. I can stand up to most emotional situations quite well, reason being that I feel for everything there is a purpose. And today I was smacked right down. Dogs are a commodity up here, in other words, cheap, if one dies, you get another. Dog shoot? Yours is gone? A host of other wiggly bundles of love to take its place, until the guns go off again. Today, I had a lovely walk, accompanied by two local mutts that I believe are owned. We went to the dump, the older of the two much like my beloved Rocky from another reserve (who was nailed in a dog shoot), she would trot on ahead, and wait patiently for me to catch up. The other a young husky mix, just an adorable babe. So we walked the roads, and trampled through the bush together, exploring. On the way back, close to the Really Expensive Grocery Store, I noticed a small silvery brown heap in the ditch. People were walking by the heap all morning, I found out, this young husky cross. She was breathing, and seemed to welcome a gentle voice and a pat on the head. I was too far from home to carry her, I was pretty sure she was either very sick, or had been dinged by a car or snow mobile. As I passed the locals, I asked them who would take care of her. By that I mean shoot. There is no vet. There is no needle to give, up here. Death can be swift, or it can be slow. But it isn't necessarily kind. And no one wanted to take responsibility. I found someone who would look after her, but I had that niggling feeling, so after a couple of hours had passed, I walked back, and she was still there, still alive by a thread. I picked her up, I could neither see nor feel any injuries. She was limp, but she managed to turn her head to try and give me a "kiss', which I pulled away from because I wasn't sure what was wrong with her. I stood her on the porch to the residence after a bit of a slug over (dead weight seems to weigh more than its numbers report), and she stood on four legs, then tried to lick a bit of the melting ice water from the boards. I found her a bowl and left her there. When I went out again, she was lying down, the bowl knocked over. I managed to get a knob of peanut butter into her, which encased some Keflex, in case she had an infection. One pill went down, the other dutifully spat out like a toddler tasting brussels sprouts for the first time. Or me for that matter. I kept watch over her the afternoon. The sun was shining joyously, keeping her warm, but as the afternoon waned, so did she, and she moved herself just under the raised oil tank, still kissed by the sun, and died. And just a little piece of me went with her. And my exterior cracked a wee bit, enough for a few tears to find their way onto her rich silvery brown coat. 

2. Once again, no good deed goes unpunished. I turned on the water to do dishes, went to do a quick check on the dog, and forgot the water. There was a huge puddle in the kitchen, I mean a half inch of water pooled to one side. Which then mostly disappeared before I could mop it all up. They are worried about the river overflowing its banks here. Hah!

Hard to say if my kitchen flooding would add up to this. 

3.One should never pound that chicken breast in the vicinity of a breakable plate full of butter. Just saying.

4. My room began to smell like there was something dead in it the other day, and no amount for Febreeze would cover it. One lonely little chicken breast declined to be involved in the aforementioned pounding process, and continued to inhabit my soft cooler until I found it, 5 days after getting here. The cooler is still airing out. My room smells much nicer now, thank you very much.

5. Witnessed a take down at gunpoint right within the clinic. Most of my friends watch one form or another of CSI. I think I will pass.

6. The best line of the day: I went for a second walk in the early part of the evening. Met up with a hulking figure staggering down the middle of the ice road, hat on, greying hair sticking out in triangles from beneath the rim. Oh he was happy! Big toothless smile with a few dribbles of spit down his grizzled chin, he bid me a slurry good evening. Good evening, says I, looks like you've been drinking. I know, says he, but it's okay. I'm an Indian. And off he goes to find his home.

Just a tad breezy.

And that was my world this week.

Sailing, Sailing, la la la la, la laaaa

By now, you will have figured out that you can't click on the cruise video in the previous installment, because THERE WAS NO CRUISE. At least not much of one to speak of.
It all started out well enough. After weeks of planning, hives and other assorted things, the girls met at the airport and wound our way to beautiful Puerto Rico, to board our 115,000 ton or so ship, the "Caribbean Princess." I must say, from the outside, she is magnificent. I have never been on such a large liner in my life. One of 3200 heads of cattle passengers ponying up to the feed trough buffet most mornings for a bale of hay delightful repast of eggs covered with congealed hollandaise benedict, and every other sort of egg imaginable. Waddling Rolling Wheel barrowing Sashaying ever so nimbly between other bloated porky

The goats couldn't compete when the cattle filed off the ship

fat fellow cruisers who were eating more like Elephants Draught horses They had never seen food before they were feeling at home on this soon to be broken down tub resplendent floating hotel.
Once aboard, we were shown to our postage stamp broom closets cozy staterooms, where we proceeded to throw our belongings about unpack, and check things out. Like the shower with the handle grab bar, in case we hit a rock and tipped over rough waters while cleaning up or just wanted to get kinky. It too wasn't big enough for my fat arse, or anyone else's huge, but if you didn't mind spraying more water than Niagara Falls all over the place mopping up a bit afterwards, it was  woefully inadequate adequate.

Which way to St. Lucia?

We set sail at 2300 Sunday evening, we were to awaken to the island of St. Maarten right outside our scuttle worthy  ship. Instead we awoke to that bloody awful ship's noise that announces whatever disaster is awaiting you  the captain announcing that we wouldn't be arriving to St. Maarten until July 14, 2013 later on that afternoon. The port propeller was shot to hell  not functioning properly. We would have technicians aboard that afternoon to tell us why the propeller was shot to hell   not functioning properly and that  we would be on the cruise to no where  when repairs could be ineffectively effectively carried out. By the time we girls whirled around the island on our Segway tour moving much faster than the boat, it had been decided that the first set of technicians was incompetent more assessing was needed, so another set of people who didn't know what they were doing  technicians was needed. So we spent the next day in St. Lucia  St. Maarten. By Tuesday evening we knew that we were screwed returning to Grenada  Puerto Rico the following day for more useless drivel assessing by folks who didn't have a clue as to how to fix the damned boat would be able to possibly have us on our way. By mid Wednesday, it was all over except for the raping and pillaging, we would be fighting with other cruise liners for excursions moored in San Juan with the offer of a cruise refund and a spit diddly squat WTF  whopping  useless insignificant piss poor generous 25% off our next Princess cruise to be taken not when the hell we would like it by the end of next week  of next year.

It wasn't all bad, except for the chunk in the speedo.
Fortunately not captured on camera.

By our second day in San Juan, Princess had finally shown some balls and arranged our shuttle into Old San Juan thoughtfully provided us with transport to the City. A list of about 2  available excursions came through so we could plan our escape  days off the ship. We hired taxis and even rented a car one day since the excursions were woefully inadequate not quite what we wanted to do, especially when we wanted to be in Bonaire, anywhere but here  somewhat active. But we had a great time in spite of Princess and the debilitated barge all the unfortunate circumstances. Had we not had 1st class flight tickets on the way home, we would have been screwed again missed our flights as Princess had the same useless techs working on the disembarkation process neglected to give the disembarkation list to the Customs folks, who only had the cast of Two and a Half Men- 4 people to prod the cattle clear all of us. We didn't take the pre arranged livestock transport shuttle back to the airport as we would have become murderers  arrived in the next millenium  too late to check in. Fortunately for 1st class, we were able to avoid the long pointed horns of the crushing herds  economy class line and we sailed through just in time for our flight.

It's all better with Bacardi.

Which left Air Canada and the almost 4 hour delay to our flight from Newark to Toronto, on top of the 3 hour layover. This was because the stupid pilots called in sick and Air Canada sucks  there was no one who could fly the plane  crew available. Three of us managed to get on the earlier flight, and poor, poor Eunice, because they were woefully inadequate could not find her luggage even though we had already been there for 2 hours, had to count nose hairs  eat airport slop  count Hare Krishna amuse herself until a pilot had the decency to show up for work crew could be bribed into working  found.

And that was the week that was.

The Princess Diary in Pictures.

The video of our Southern Caribbean Cruise. 

"The Love Boat,
Soon will be making another run..."
Ah yes, the memories I want to share with you of our Southern Caribbean cruise, Aboard the lovely Caribbean Princess.

Day 1 St. Maarten

Day 2 St. Maarten. Wait, we were supposed to be...

Here, doing...

This, maybe.

Day 3. Supposed to be Grenada. Looks like Puerto Rico.

Day 4. Bonaire. Funny, it looks like Puerto Rico.

Day 5. Aruba. Looks like Puerto Rico.

Day 6. Our Fun Day at Sea.  Hey, is that Puerto Rico?

Disembarkation day. Someone else's Fun Day at Sea. In Puerto Rico.

Salud!

Pre Princess Diary 2

Twas the night before cruising,
And all through the house, lingered incense a burning,
To stifle a mouse.
The chewable vitamins, all taken with care,
To banish the flu, which no one could bear.
The eyes started flaming, all red, full of tears,
The skin started itching, 'til welts did appear.
Aw, chuck it. So I started having trouble breathing, and wouldn't you know it - ended up in the hospital, itchy, teary and breathless, with a slightly low for me blood pressure. The doc gave me  prednisone, told me I wasn't too bad, they were going to keep me an hour until the welts subsided and then send me home. While sitting in the corral with the other poor patients, I started to feel funny. Instead of crying the universal distress call (NURSE!!), in an attempt to not bother anyone much, I stood up, walked to the nurse's desk, and told her "Excuse me, I think I am going to pass out." Something every good nurse like me would do. Out came the wheelchair and the BP cuff, and with a pressure of 72/41 or something similarly in the boots, I was placed in a lovely vinyl recliner, tilted feet up, and plugged with liquid. Unfortunately, it was normal saline and not beer.  After a couple of hours, my pressure was up, the breathing was better, the spots subsiding. Now all I had to do was go home and pack for the cruise. Which meant less than 2  hours of sleep. Not sure if it was the incense my girlfriend's sister was burning in the house, or the two Sunkist chewable vitamin C tablets with natural strawberry flavour and carmine red colouring that caused the reaction. It was the start of an eventful cruise. Sort of.
Cheers!

The Pre Princess Diaries

I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts....

Today, I went shopping. Two hundred and twenty eight dollars plus change, and four bras later, I am now privy to Victoria's Secret. Apparently Victoria thinks DDs need a push up bra that will catapult them into Fs and Gs. To this I say, why? I tried one on, lovely salmon coloured thing, didn't just make me look perky, or voluptuous. I think projectile might be more the word. Because my thus contained girls would fire through that door long before my arms could reach to push it open, and annihilate everyone and everything in their path.
After many, many bras that lifted and separated everything into lethal weapons, I finally hit upon the perfect bra. The one with memory foam. Which suits me fine because the girls no longer remember which way is up. Now they have help.
And that was my day. Wait for it... ta ta for now!