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maystone1. I colored my hair this morning. The cut is so short that I felt it needed to be darker than its current reddish blonde, so I went to a medium ash brown. My true hair color is a light ash brown/dark ash blonde, so this is in the same family. (There's still some red in there, too; it's a family trait.) I also thought I'd dye my eyebrows since they've just about disappeared thanks to their light color and my David Boreanaz brow. That didn't turn out so well due to all the grey in my brows, but it wasn't a true tragedy.
2. We decided to take a drive out to near our new property and check out a company that custom designs sheds, barns, run-ins and the like and then delivers them to your farm. We tracked down one of the very nice (and quite attractive) young men who work there, got some quotes, and had a bizarre little chat with one of the guys who was clad in jeans, a baseball cap, and a sweatshirt.
YM: Beautiful day out today, eh? (It was sunny, but there was a wicked wind and a wind chill of about -25C)
Me: (Bundled in coat, toque, mittens) Oh, yeah. If it weren't for that howling wind you'd think it was spring.
YM: (Big grin) True, eh.
Canadians :)
3. We decided to drive by the new place and get a feel for the other farms on the street. Most of the street was plowed, but there was snow on either side of the road. I passed a man on a bicycle and then slowed way down so we could crawl along and check out the other properties. I saw another car heading down the road behind us, so I did the polite thing and pulled the car over to the side of the road so he could pass. And promptly landed in the ditch that was hidden under all that snow. The passenger side of the car was buried up to the door. Uh. Oh. I used to carry a shovel and sand or kitty litter in the trunk for just such an emergency, but I took all that stuff out of the trunk to make room for the mountain of groceries that we haul around a couple times a week.
The guy on the bike stopped to help and told us that the plows routinely cover up the ditches with all the extra snow. Oops. He turned out to be a Mennonite farmer and one of our new neighbors and apparently a member of a very large and well-known Mennonite clan in the area. He seemed a bit surprised that I didn't recognize the name, but Dar stepped in to assure him that she knew of his family and to let him know that I wasn't from around these parts.
So I start kicking snow away from the tires and the body of the car; Dar takes the long-handled ice scraper and tries to use that for a shovel. Oh, by the way? She's up to her knees in snow and she's not wearing boots. Because this was just going to be a little ride in the country. The wind is blowing, the temperature is near arctic, we're freezing, but Mr. Weaver seems comfortable as a polar bear, fortunately. We decide to see if I can back out with him pushing from the front. Dar decides to help push - which I strongly object to - but she takes one fender and he takes another and I step on the gas and we start to move and then I go a bit crazy and really step on the gas and I screw it all to hell. Sigh. I know better than to do that; I really do. I've been driving for over forty years, and I know how to work myself out of snowpiles and mud and such. I just . . . fucked up. So the car ends up even more entrenched. We dig some more and I try again to back out, and . . . no. I ask Mr. Weaver if he wants to try to back it out, and when he gets a bit embarrassed and declines I suddenly remember that he's Mennonite, doofus, and he won't drive a car because of his religion. I'm not doing too well here at all.
I have no cell phone. Or any kind of chain or rope or anything. But luckily, Mr. Weaver informs us that he just sold a tractor to the farmer whose place we're stuck in front of, so off he goes to see what he can arrange. Poor Dar drags her poor frozen self and her poor icicle feet back into the car and we wait. Suddenly we see a gargantuan tractor backing around the corner toward us. The back end - the business end that's heading for us - has this thing on it that looks absolutely deadly - it's like a giant horizontal drill. Yikes! Mr. Weaver stops about six inches from the car, drags out a chain, and loops it around the hitch under the car frame. He drives forward, I put it in reverse and oh so gently step on the gas and POP! we're outta the ditch. Yay! Of course he wouldn't accept any money for helping us, but you can bet your bottom dollar that he's getting some homemade cake or cookies or cupcakes or something for all of his help.
4. We head out for home, and just as I feared, Dar is feeling some bad effects from all that effort; she needs a Tim Horton's French Vanilla and something else with carbs and sugar to set her metabolism on the right road again. This is Ontario, Canada. There's supposed to be a Tim's every 1/4 mile or so; I believe it's mandated in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. So of course I can't find one. I end up back in freakin' Kitchener on one of the mainest of the main streets and I still can't find one. I suddenly remember the location of one nearby and zoom in - only to be met by the world's oldest trainee and her completely incompetent supervisor. There was a long line, and people were starting to get, shall we say, unhappy. If this were the States instead of Canada, I'd have started worrying about someone pulling out a gun and demanding some service. But finally I get the coffee and the food, and Dar starts to feel a little more human.
5. We make it home with just enough time for Dar to get some warm, dry socks and shoes, and then we head off to the hair salon where she has an appointment to get a new hair color. It turns out that the red dye she had been using had been doing bad things to her scalp, so she had to change colors. (It looks lovely, btw: brown with streaks of copper and gold. Just beautiful.) I schlepp around the mall for a bit and then decide I should get my brows done while I'm waiting. Next thing I know I'm being waxed and tinted to within an inch of my life. The aesthetician (sounds better than "brow lady", I guess) was a tad anal, but it turns out that she's from Peru and she absolutely squeed with excitement when I told her about the alpacas. She also gave me some good ideas for alpaca products and made me promise to drop off a business card when we get all set up. She was very nice, but (there's always a but) she did a number on my eyebrows. They're very thin and quite dark. I would describe them as sinister looking. I have sinister eyebrows. If The Tick were still in production, I think my eyebrows would show up as one of the super villains. It's OK; they'll grow, they'll lighten. At least I like my hair now.
6. Just to put the capper on the strange day, Pixel decided that she wanted to be my parrot. She perched on my shoulder and simply refused to get off no matter how many times I tried to dump her. She'd jump back up on the counter and then leap back onto my shoulder. After a couple tries I just left her there as I cooked my omelet and washed out the pan and carried the dishes and coffee upstairs and sat at the computer to eat and read. I'll say this for her: she has very good balance. Now she's asleep under my bed, and I should follow her example, except, you know, sleep on top of the bed.
I fully expect to find her perched on my shoulder when I wake up.
2. We decided to take a drive out to near our new property and check out a company that custom designs sheds, barns, run-ins and the like and then delivers them to your farm. We tracked down one of the very nice (and quite attractive) young men who work there, got some quotes, and had a bizarre little chat with one of the guys who was clad in jeans, a baseball cap, and a sweatshirt.
YM: Beautiful day out today, eh? (It was sunny, but there was a wicked wind and a wind chill of about -25C)
Me: (Bundled in coat, toque, mittens) Oh, yeah. If it weren't for that howling wind you'd think it was spring.
YM: (Big grin) True, eh.
Canadians :)
3. We decided to drive by the new place and get a feel for the other farms on the street. Most of the street was plowed, but there was snow on either side of the road. I passed a man on a bicycle and then slowed way down so we could crawl along and check out the other properties. I saw another car heading down the road behind us, so I did the polite thing and pulled the car over to the side of the road so he could pass. And promptly landed in the ditch that was hidden under all that snow. The passenger side of the car was buried up to the door. Uh. Oh. I used to carry a shovel and sand or kitty litter in the trunk for just such an emergency, but I took all that stuff out of the trunk to make room for the mountain of groceries that we haul around a couple times a week.
The guy on the bike stopped to help and told us that the plows routinely cover up the ditches with all the extra snow. Oops. He turned out to be a Mennonite farmer and one of our new neighbors and apparently a member of a very large and well-known Mennonite clan in the area. He seemed a bit surprised that I didn't recognize the name, but Dar stepped in to assure him that she knew of his family and to let him know that I wasn't from around these parts.
So I start kicking snow away from the tires and the body of the car; Dar takes the long-handled ice scraper and tries to use that for a shovel. Oh, by the way? She's up to her knees in snow and she's not wearing boots. Because this was just going to be a little ride in the country. The wind is blowing, the temperature is near arctic, we're freezing, but Mr. Weaver seems comfortable as a polar bear, fortunately. We decide to see if I can back out with him pushing from the front. Dar decides to help push - which I strongly object to - but she takes one fender and he takes another and I step on the gas and we start to move and then I go a bit crazy and really step on the gas and I screw it all to hell. Sigh. I know better than to do that; I really do. I've been driving for over forty years, and I know how to work myself out of snowpiles and mud and such. I just . . . fucked up. So the car ends up even more entrenched. We dig some more and I try again to back out, and . . . no. I ask Mr. Weaver if he wants to try to back it out, and when he gets a bit embarrassed and declines I suddenly remember that he's Mennonite, doofus, and he won't drive a car because of his religion. I'm not doing too well here at all.
I have no cell phone. Or any kind of chain or rope or anything. But luckily, Mr. Weaver informs us that he just sold a tractor to the farmer whose place we're stuck in front of, so off he goes to see what he can arrange. Poor Dar drags her poor frozen self and her poor icicle feet back into the car and we wait. Suddenly we see a gargantuan tractor backing around the corner toward us. The back end - the business end that's heading for us - has this thing on it that looks absolutely deadly - it's like a giant horizontal drill. Yikes! Mr. Weaver stops about six inches from the car, drags out a chain, and loops it around the hitch under the car frame. He drives forward, I put it in reverse and oh so gently step on the gas and POP! we're outta the ditch. Yay! Of course he wouldn't accept any money for helping us, but you can bet your bottom dollar that he's getting some homemade cake or cookies or cupcakes or something for all of his help.
4. We head out for home, and just as I feared, Dar is feeling some bad effects from all that effort; she needs a Tim Horton's French Vanilla and something else with carbs and sugar to set her metabolism on the right road again. This is Ontario, Canada. There's supposed to be a Tim's every 1/4 mile or so; I believe it's mandated in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. So of course I can't find one. I end up back in freakin' Kitchener on one of the mainest of the main streets and I still can't find one. I suddenly remember the location of one nearby and zoom in - only to be met by the world's oldest trainee and her completely incompetent supervisor. There was a long line, and people were starting to get, shall we say, unhappy. If this were the States instead of Canada, I'd have started worrying about someone pulling out a gun and demanding some service. But finally I get the coffee and the food, and Dar starts to feel a little more human.
5. We make it home with just enough time for Dar to get some warm, dry socks and shoes, and then we head off to the hair salon where she has an appointment to get a new hair color. It turns out that the red dye she had been using had been doing bad things to her scalp, so she had to change colors. (It looks lovely, btw: brown with streaks of copper and gold. Just beautiful.) I schlepp around the mall for a bit and then decide I should get my brows done while I'm waiting. Next thing I know I'm being waxed and tinted to within an inch of my life. The aesthetician (sounds better than "brow lady", I guess) was a tad anal, but it turns out that she's from Peru and she absolutely squeed with excitement when I told her about the alpacas. She also gave me some good ideas for alpaca products and made me promise to drop off a business card when we get all set up. She was very nice, but (there's always a but) she did a number on my eyebrows. They're very thin and quite dark. I would describe them as sinister looking. I have sinister eyebrows. If The Tick were still in production, I think my eyebrows would show up as one of the super villains. It's OK; they'll grow, they'll lighten. At least I like my hair now.
6. Just to put the capper on the strange day, Pixel decided that she wanted to be my parrot. She perched on my shoulder and simply refused to get off no matter how many times I tried to dump her. She'd jump back up on the counter and then leap back onto my shoulder. After a couple tries I just left her there as I cooked my omelet and washed out the pan and carried the dishes and coffee upstairs and sat at the computer to eat and read. I'll say this for her: she has very good balance. Now she's asleep under my bed, and I should follow her example, except, you know, sleep on top of the bed.
I fully expect to find her perched on my shoulder when I wake up.
