I Can Talk About This Now ...

Ever have one of those situations where people mention it and then look at you and say "too soon?" Well, sit down and let me tell you one ...

I was home in NS for two weeks before mobilizing to my new job up north. As is the characteristics of time off, days meld into each other and slip away in blissful succession. (yes, i said blissful)

My flight home was on Sunday night at 5:45pm on June 18 landing in Calgary at 12:30am June 19. I look back I think that I was quite aware that I wasn't aware of which day was which given my vaction mode so I checked my itinerary fairly frequently.

After two absolutely fabulously glorious and carefree weeks hanging out with family and helping Dad around the yard, I was floating through my Sunday at my sister Heidi's. She was quietly doing laundry, bro in law Kenny was watching football and my dear, sweet, quiet, peaceful dad was in the living room on his computer.

I'd leisurely taken an impromptu nap, and I was chilly so I was wearing my little dress with lulu pants underneath (not very attractive) and upon waking up, with mascara running down my face (see above comment), I, too was surfing the internet and casually looked over at the stove and saw that the time was 4:45.

It was at that instant I realized something very, very terrible was happening.

With a sharply risen core body temperature, I went calmly to get my itinerary in hopes I was wrong; and sure enough, I'd sailed right through my vacation with peripheral attention to my departure time and date. Thinking because I was arriving on the 19th, then I was also leaving on the 19th.

I shattered the silence of a lazy dayz Sunday afternoon in disbelief with a frantic 'I AM SUPPOSED TO BE AT THE AIRPORT RIIIIIGHT NOW'.

Yes indeed. I was. Today was the 18th. The day of my departure and it was presently and precisely one hour prior to take off.

Laundry dropped, TV instantly abandoned, Laptop shoved to the side, the rest of the house came racing to my aide with me in full panic mode. I just stood over my suitcase motionless and crying. I was completely paralyzed with no cognitive thoughts or decision making abilities running through my brain.

Dad pushed me out of the way, hauled my suitcase on the bed, Heidi shoved all my belongings into it leaving me sweaterless for my chilly plane ride home. I didn't care at this point, and had enough sense to take my lulus off and pass them to her. I knew enough to change from the dress to jeans and she threw a shirt at me and I grabbed my giant red/black leopard print scarf. The only footwear I could find (she's a VERY speedy packer) were my cowboy boots, and there was no room for my fedora (which has lace and sequins) so I wore it. Not exactly what the gal / guy who envisioned either the boots or the hat had in mind when designing ....

So within, lets say, 5 minutes, Kenny got the car from the garage, and Dad carried my big suitcase out. And Heidi got all the odds and ends packed and microsecond decisions made on what items would stay, go or be mailed out at a later date and we were out the door.

After locking the apartment, Heidi and I both picked up my handbag at the same time and didn't even have time to decide who would carry it, so we both did. We felt like were in a scene of Home Alone. We giggled as we awkwardly ran down her hallway, but it was more of a nervous, 'we're going to pretend you're not an idiot' kind of laugh.

Still with make-up all over my tear-stained face, and me painfully aware of what a walking, well, at this point, running, fashion crime scene I was, we drove (i can't tell you the speed) to the airport.

I got there with 20 minutes to spare, and when I was calmly assured the plane wasn't leaving without me, (sweet, sweet Nova Scotians - really - there's noone else like them) I stuffed one last item in my suitcase and broke my (fake, gel) fingernail right off, ripping into the actual nail bed, (ouch) causing blood to go everywhere. The agent went to get me a band aid, sauntering away, la la la la la, and finally came back with it opened ready for application. (meanwhile, back in Leanne Land, the train had fully de-railed and sauntering wasn't on the agenda)

After hasty apologies and hugs goodbye, I got through security and my gate was directly at the top of the escalator so I was nice and close by, but let me tell you - I hadn't been sitting very long when they made the boarding call.

The more I ventured to tell the story, the more I heard 'oh, that happened to me ... blah blah'. So I eventually stopped feeling like a twit but I still feel terrible for wrecking a perfect Sunday afternoon!

oh! and there were no flights with availablilty on Monday from Halifax to Calgary so I would've missed my flight to my new job on Tuesday.

I still get hot when I think about it.

That is all.

My Grandma

I've just returned from saying goodbye for the last time to my sweet grandmother. I've been half expecting 'the call' for a couple of years now, but nothing prepares you for the moment you hear those words. Though I'd been missing 'her' for a few years, the hours after hearing of her passing were flooded with memories, fresh as if they'd just happened. And by 'her', I mean the Grandma I knew before age, and the effects of it had gripped her mind and memory and physical capabilities.

I want to take a couple of moments to share my grandmother with you.

Born as Isabel Alexandra MacQueen MacPherson; she garnered the nickname Queenie. I always thought it was a bit strange (as a child and never really knowing why she was called that) but in reality, she lived up quite nicely to the moniker. She was also know as Grandma is many, many other people who had no blood relation. She was everyones Grandma.

I find it hard to talk about Gram (I shortened her name to Gram when I was a teenager for no other reason to be different. Or was it lazy? I don't quite remember) with out talking about her husband. My amazing grandfather - but don't get me started on him, I'll be here all day. And this post is about her so I'll carry on as planned.

Growing up across the field from my grandparents had its perks. We could see them drive up the road, and sometimes would practically race them into the house in a frantic run from our place to theirs just for the chance to hang out and probably to snag a freshly baked roll or slice of bread with molasses. But really, mostly just to be with them.

Gram was a school teacher in her day so I had a math tutor (bless her heart) at my fingertips. I remember the plastic cover over the gorgeous lace tablecloth on the dining room table as she patiently went through the 'new math' with me. Pretty sure we didn't know about ADD then, but I likely had it and drove her nuts but you'd never have known it. The lace underneath was apparently distracting and I would trace it with the eraser tip of my pencil (??). Can you even imagine how annoying that would be??

Her hands. Very distinctive, and hard working. Those hands have so much meaning and memories for me. They were the hands that kneaded bread regularly; they were the hands that wiped my tears, and Amway-sprayed my numerous cuts and scraps from biking (or falling from running and tripping over my too-big-for-my-body feet- as running was my main mode of transportation). They were the hands that hugged me constantly and brushed my hair and tucked me in at night. They were the hands that I held when I sat next to her in church or when I just wanted to be in her presence. The hands that held so many of her own children, her childrens children with unbridled love and full blown affection.

She loved very simple things in life; like her lilac tree and pussy willows. The lilac tree bloomed every year outside her kitchen window and with, oh, at least 12 grandchildren around in the summer each bringing her flowers from it, the same amount of fuss was made over every grubby little fistful that was passed to her with proud smiles.

I don't remember Grams favorite color, or her favorite meal, or her favorite Bible story. But I also don't remember her ever raising her voice at me (there were countless situations that warranted it). I don't even remember her being visible annoyed at me (see above comment). She had a gentle soul and didn't particularly move quickly, which brought a sense of peace to her surroundings. She'd stop what she was doing no matter how many times I'd come bursting through the door and tend to me. Whether it was 'exciting' news from school, Mark and Stephen chasing me with a snake, or dropping by on the ski-doo to ask if she'd seen the cool jump I did outside her kitchen window, she made sure I felt welcome and loved. (and gently told me to be careful on the snowmobile and questioned my wisdom in performing such acts- always - and as she should have)

Out of all the charactoristics that tend to define who my Grandmother was; the most obvious, no thats not the right word - the most telling, was her fairness to her grandchildren. She had twenty two grandchildren - and we all think we were her favorite! We were all treated equally and over the top with attention.

At the funeral, her grandsons were the pallbearers and sat at the front of the church against the wall. And when they stood to sing, two thoughts struck me: The first being how incredibly proud she would've been to have seen her boys looking so handsome, and the second how she would've basked in their strong, beautiful voices.

I wouldn't wish her back for a second, she's hanging out with Grandpa right now and quite frankly, I'm a little jealous. (he's one of my favorite human beings) but I did wish that for just a glimpse she could've joined us.

I could go on and on, really. But I'll stop with this 'tip of the iceburg' post and hope you've gotten a small peek into the life 22 of us were lucky enough to live. And if you have memories of your own, I'd love to hear so leave them in the comment section.

xo cheers, LeeLeeMac

As a side note: I feel very lucky in that I live in Calgary where her mini-me sister lives and who I see regularly. I've been here for over two years and while it was super weird at first to see someone who looked and acted so much like my grandmother, now I find it almost comforting. Its like I have an extention with Grandma, and for that I am grateful.

Today's Burning Question

Why do we cover up zits?

I have one, nothing horrendous, (pardon the personal information here) that has decided to make its home on my forehead. I knew it was moving in, and I took the proper measures to thwart its habitation, but its managed to make itself nice and comfortable on real estate with a sweeping view of the countryside.

So today after lunch I bring out my little emergency kit of makeup (foundation, bronzer, brush, mascara, eyeliner) that is stashed in my desk drawer, and open it up to reveal the mirror so I can take affirmative action on this pesky little visitor.

As I'm blending in the foundation oh so carefully, squinting into the 1" x 2" mirror provided, I suddenly realize its futile.

The zit is still there.

Its still in the middle of my forehead.

Its still visible.

The only accomplishment of this procedure is a shinier, paler patch of skin on my forehead with a little protusion showcasing my feeble attempt at concealing the offending zit.

So the question remains - why do girls cover up their zits? Sometimes I think I do it just so people know I know its there; and its not an awkward "want to look you in the eye but can't because a massive, um, thing is crawling off your face" situation. Who knows?

side note: as a joke I was going to add in a picture of zit (not my own) and I googled it, hit images and promptly almost puked. And didn't think it was the christian thing to do to put that in your mind. Now if you go and google it yourself, then thats done on (in? by?) your own free will and beyond my control, thus out of my conscience.

Now back to your regularly scheduled thoughtlife.