The Midnight Smoker

My brother and his wife, along with their three children under three, are visiting us this week. When they come, smoking within the walls of our old Ranch House ceases and desists...

There have been times when this has been problematic for me, but for some reason, tonight, I am completely at peace with not smoking within the confines of my home.

Night time at The Ranch, outdoors, is very peaceful. The yard light is working, so I can look out at the glory that is the barn. I can commune with God in the late hours of the night, just me, my trusty cigarette, and God, reflecting on the day's happenings.

The silence of the night in the country is somewhat overwhelming, and one of the main reasons I've moved back here. I love going outside at night and not hearing people walking and horns blowing and sirens wailing.

Usually when I post on my blog, I am mid cigarette, mid puff when I think of something to say. But not tonight. Tonight I am free of my addiction, if only for a few hours, and I plan on savouring those moments outdoors.

There have been countless songs written about smokers late at night: The Gambler, by Kenny Rogers, of course, and then Gary Allan's Smoke Rings in the Dark immediately come to mind.

Except, of course, that I couldn't blow a smoke ring to save my soul.

Regardless, I love the sounds of nothing (except Dixie hunting her latest prey off in the distance) and looking out over the expanse of nothingness that to most, appears to be nothingness, but to me?

Is the whole wide world.

Long Days

I returned home from work this evening to find my mother in a fit of cleaning and shower-related woes. I walked in the door, not bothering to take off my boots, because after a fifteen hour shift?

I really didn't feel like expending the energy to lean down, unlace, and remove boots from my feet. Sometimes I'm amazed that I have the energy to turn off and get out of my car once I get home. I've often contemplated sleeping right there in the driver's seat of my Little Chevy.

My mother immediately began to bemoan her day, which involved men, chain saws, our bathroom, and the state of our non-functional shower stall.

And then she stopped.

And she said:

"You're bleeding."

And I said:

"Yes."

And she said:

"Then I guess I can't really complain about my day?"

And I said:

"Nope. Unless you're bleeding profusely from the face, you can't complain about your day."

And then I cracked open a nice, cold beer, threw on some jogging pants, and retired to the comfort of my computer.

A Fly By Night Post...

A lot has been going on here in CowTown, mostly in the form of not showering and finding a way for us to resume our regularly planned showering activities.

I'm not sure exactly what it was that led to the death of our thirty + year old shower; however, it met its end and was escorted out of our home in a somewhat less than dignified fashion.

The trials and tribulations we've faced in trying to obtain a new shower that will fit into our 160 + year old farmhouse have been of great magnitude. It exhausts me to even think of the professionals we've called, the decisions we've been forced against our will to make, the bloodshed and the tears that we have all endured.

We have made numerous trips to the Big City in my dad's (not so) Trusty Pickup. We've gone to fancy shower stores and regular shower stores; we've dealt with helpful shower salesmen and not-so helpful salesmen.

Our first shower experience was not a good one, and as we tried our mightiest to bring a shower home and wedge it up the stairs of our old house, we gauged out the panelling on the walls and gave up in a fit of rage and unshowered misery.

To experience a fit of rage and misery is one thing. To experience a fit of rage and UNSHOWERED misery? Let me tell you, that is misery on a whole new level.

We've successfuly brought home a shower today, successfully taken it apart and brought it to the second story of our beloved house. Tomorrow is the big test, the test to see if we can actually get this mass of fibreglass and piping to turn into somethig suitable for modern day body-washing.

May the Gods of hygiene smile down upon us from their freshly showered heavens and grant us the ability to resume normally functioning hygenic practices once more.

Well, Hello, Blog...

I had to charge my phone this evening, and I was wondering what I would do with my time and thought, I know! I'll write on my blog! Then I had a mild and brief panic attack wondering if my blog would still even be active, seeing as how I never even write on it any more.

I've been working quite a bit these days, something I though would end once I was done school. Not so. I'm averaging around sixty five hours a week at work. When the overtime pay rolls in, I'm usually quite happy, but beyond that?

I miss my couch while I spend all those hours at work.

I was trying to think of something wonderful and witty to write about as I waited for my dial-up internet access to bring up my Create Post page. I could write about work, but that would probably be illegal, what with confidentiality and such. I could write about the inordinate amount of sleep I'm (not) getting due to being at work all the time, or the amount of time I sit on my couch, completely zoned out after a week at work watching A&E. I don't even have the energy to go out any more because by the time a day off comes in, I'm all "HEY! I'm not at work! Where's my jammies?!"

My nephew and I took part in our annual gingerbread house making fiesta last night. These days I'm feeling like the worst Auntie in the world because our precious Thursday nights together have come to an end. I was so desperate when I left my last job that I told my new employers that I would work any hours, any hours at all. And so, I do an overnight shift every Thursday and my nephew and I don't get to spend any time together at all. I miss him. I was so tired on Monday night that when I picked him up at the baby-sitter's, I told him that I was very tired and very grumpy and that he would have to work with me on that.

Our gingerbread house turned out grand, grander than any gingerbread house in all of CowTown, and I told him that next year, he would be old enough to do all of the icing all by himself. He one-upped me there and said that he would rather make a gingerbread castle next year.

So, I suppose this is my newest one-year goal. To fashion a gingerbread castle. I'll have to enlist the help of friends in the construction industry.