(I definitely don’t have her songs on my favourite iPod playlist. Nope.)
So I go to run a bath last night and notice a little black spot hanging out in the back of the tub. Casually, I back away and return to the kitchen to retrieve my trusty bug killer. i.e. Adam.
"Baby, there’s a spider in the tub."
Big sigh. Big show of pausing iTunes, directing a very pointed look at me that clearly says “Why must I always deal with these things?” (which is probably because he is as nervous about spiders as I am) and I follow him back into the bathroom, but not too close, just in case he thinks it would be funny to try to put said spider anywhere near me.
"Oh." Stands up, hands on hips, glances at me and then grabs five handfuls of tissue. "That’s uh, that’s not a spider." Holding what looks supsiciously like a spider out to me on the bed of tissue, he watches my face for signs of revulsion or perhaps an indication that I might run away and leave him forever. "That’s a tick."
And then he spends twenty minutes coaxing me out of the car.
Welcome to the country. Land of bugs that will just fly off random bushes as you pass, hoping to adhere themselves to your clothing long enough to smuggle themselves into your house where they will lurk in your bathtub until an unsuspecting person comes along and they can feast on their blood.
Or, y’know, it just wanted a little soak. Either way, I am thoroughly grossed out and have told Adam in no uncertain terms that we are never going outside again ever ever ever as long as we live. Ever.
The Little Yellow House by the Legion, or, “Who’s Yer Daddy?”
The Little Yellow House by the Legion - this is how I explain to people where I live. It also does an excellent job of explaining who I am.
You can actually see the light dawn in their eyes as they realize I’m “ohhh, that girl”. I’m the one who was driving all those various rental cars that were in the driveway last year. I’m the one with the pink rain boots and the blue jacket, occasionally seen running after that super cute blonde toddler down by the windmills. I’m the new kid at the Co-op/Home Hardware/library/playgroundround here*, there are two categories of folks:
From here, and not from here.
(*see also “rural Prince Edward Island”).
When you meet someone, they immediately ask who your father is, so they can place you. We took The Bean and The Dog for a walk down by the old bridge the other day, and a man was sitting alone, smoking, and greeted us as we passed. On our way back, he stood (patting the dog again, who had rushed ahead to get some attention from this total stranger), looked right at Adam and said “Who’s yer daddy?”
The reply was managed with a straight face, as Adam explained that he’s not from here, and his dad lives in the Valley. “We’re transplants,” he added. “We live in the yellow house by the Legion.”
The house is not actually little, and after this summer, it may no longer be yellow (hellooo, Benjamin Moore sale on exterior paint! How are you?) But for now, that’s how I introduce myself when I meet people down here. Those who already know me are more likely to sum it up in a manner distinct to this particular (Francophone) geographical location.
I’m Jill á Adam. Jill, of that guy. Like, there’s that guy, and then there’s his Jill. You’re nobody if you don’t have a somebody attached to your name.
Usually it’s family related. Son, known by son’s name and father’s name. The guy who owns the gas station is known this way. So is the guy who runs the fish plant, and the woman behind us with the loud dog.
I don’t mind being Jill á someone. It’s kind of nice to know that everyone realizes we’re connected. What I like even more, though, is that while Adam and I keep a fairly low profile within our little community, there’s no low profile for The Dog. Everybody knows who he is. He’s always in the yard, or laying on the porch, or running full tilt boogie to greet someone. He’s a retriever, but he’s a gorgeous dark red, a unique colour that sets him apart from all the other dogs in the neighbourhood. And he’s friendly, so on the odd occasion when he takes a little break from family life and goes gallivanting around, he comes home with a new legion of fans, and is far more well-known down here than either Adam or I.
He’s two. Two and a half, actually. Those six months matter when you’ve only been around for 30 months.
The foof is older than the bean, but not by much. He’s three and a half. He runs on four legs where the Bean has two, although when they wrestle, it’s just a big tangle of limbs…
Welcome to the blog about the kid (bean), the dog (Jinx, aka foof), the big guy (Adam), and myself. Just your average boy meets girl, boy marries girl, marriage doesn’t work out, boy meets new girl after separation, new girl falls wildly in love with boy and his kid and his dog and his house and his family (not necessarily in that order), and leaves city life to become a down-home country mouse.