A furniture store in Foam Lake is closing out so we took a drive to see if it had any dressers and what else might strike our fancies. I waited in the truck at the north end of the town's main street while Scott had a piece of tin or steel cut in the building behind me.

Then we went over to the furniture store, only to be met by a handwritten sign stuck in the window of the door: Sorry, closed Saturday 19th. Sorry for the inconvenience.

***

It's pretty cold. Was 30C below when I got up this morning. In keeping with that theme and the furry animals in manmade clothing that go along with it, here are a couple photos I picked up on the web somewhere:

My nephew Ben at two months of age.
The kind of photo that almost makes me want to have another baby.
But not quite.
Unless someone would care to give me one...
For baby-havin' is hell.
This photo, however, makes me smile and say "Aww..." every time I look at it.

This is a photo Ben's mother took.

Some years back, the landfills in the small communities were closed down and are now operated closer to larger centres instead. Which means most of us have farther to drive to get rid of our household garbage, which they discourage us from burning in barrels out in our farmyards like we used to do when I was growing up.

On Fridays, residents from the rural municipality we live in are permitted to drop their bags of refuse off in the back of a garbage truck parked along the highway outside the hamlet of Kuroki. Each week, the garage door is left open for this one day only.

Everett and I were driving past Kuroki, so we took our garbage along and he loaded ours into the back of the garbage truck. I noticed this sign tacked up above the door; looks like someone's been dropping their garbage outside the door on the wrong day, so that magpies and crows can make a mess of it.

What Part of Friday Don't You Understand

Karen had invited me to help her and her sister-in-law Sam make perogies, so in spite of the 30-below temperature we headed out the driveway around 9 this morning. The girls had already started when we arrived. Everett got busy with his homework and I patted the dogs, washed my hands, and picked up a teaspoon.

Karen made the dough (for which I provided the flour, getting off easy compared to the other two) and rolled and cut it into small rounds.

Sam had brought mashed potatoes mixed with chopped onion and/or bacon, and we put a large teaspoonful into the centre of each piece of dough, stretched the dough over it, and pinched the edges carefully together.

Lined up in three layers on large trays, they were set on a table on the deck to freeze. We kept a close eye out for magpies and cats, but none appear to be venturing out of their shelters today, and who can blame them. It wasn't long before the perogies were frozen and could be bagged.

We stopped for a lunch of (among other things) delicious perogies with fried onions and sour cream, followed by dessert (Sam had come bearing a plate of dainties) and tea, and then went back to work. At 2:30 we ran out of the prepared potato mixture, cleaned up the kitchen and called it done. I brought 16 dozen perogies home to the deep freeze.

Karen's two house dogs have to go outside several times during the day, so this little suck was sporting a sweater:

Behold the newly coiffed face that has one man fantasizing about me as a dominatrix, and which only scares the hell out of other men, and children.

Except my own children:

Actually, Everett may quake in his boots upon sight of me as well, but not when I'm smiling. He got a haircut too.

Before our appointments we stopped to see Grandma, and Everett trudged through the deep snow to refill the birdfeeder that hangs on her window:

Trying to hold a smile till the damn camera on the computer does its thing. This is my morning hair, I'll point out, but I'm going for a long-overdue cut today and thought I'd show you the "before."

Heaven knows what the "after" will be, because I'm tired of the same old same old but there are few options for straight-haired women like myself, who refuse to spend any time in front of the mirror fixing themselves up. No curling, no blow-drying... why, I'm not even willing to apply "product" and even if I was, I'm no good at the whole thing. I can never make it look like the stylist does.

It's almost enough to make me consider letting it grow long again. Ah, the good old days when a simple elastic took care of the mop! But no ... no, no, no ... the memory of the jerk on my neck when the long tresses would be caught under my bedmate's shoulder when I tried to move is enough to vanquish that idea. Or the shedding ... as soon as my hair is collar-length, it is everywhere, worse than a cat's. I have lots of it so there will never be a shortage, but still.

I have an idea, but with my luck the hairdresser will know some reason why it won't work. Bet I come home with the same old same old, again. Wish I looked good in a ball cap, that would solve the problem.

***

At the back of the November issue of Vanity Fair, which I bought because it contains a two-page photo of Joni Mitchell, there is what the magazine calls a "Proust Questionnaire." One of the questions asked of actor/writer Shirley MacLaine is, Who are your favourite writers? She replies, "Those who tell the truth about themselves."

A couple more:
"What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?"
MacLaine: Prison.
"What do you consider the most overrated virtue?"
MacLaine: Monogamy.

Now Playing: James Taylor, One Man Band," which I gave Emil for Christmas

Corey Amaro is show-and-telling a sweet story on her webpage, which is top of my list when it comes to blogs that are irresistable.

You will have to scroll down the image-heavy page (with apologies to my fellow dialup users; the wait is interminable but well, well worth it) to find the first entry where Corey explains how the idea of matching up these two people came about. Its title is Blogger Turned Matchmaker.

Before you start reading the matchmaking story, you may wish to read the previous entry called The Source of Love, where Corey shares with her readers her memory of the marriage proposal made by her "French husband."

1:30 p.m.
Store-bought cookies are not often found in our kitchen cupboards, but I have a weakness for these Maple Leaf cremes and purchase a couple bags whenever they come on sale. Then I eat two or three with my afternoon tea most every day until they're gone.

The kids won't partake of Red Rose tea with me, but they have no problem scarfing back the cookies.

*

Right about now I was to pick Grandma up and take her to Aunt Vera's 80th birthday party, but had very little sleep last night and my head is not right today. I called Grandma to see if she remembered we were supposed to go; she claimed she did, but I don't believe it. Not long ago she said to my Aunt Reta, who was on the phone from Phoenix and asked if I'd been in to see her lately, "Kathy! I haven't seen her since I moved in here!" Uh huh. I've been hearing her say that about everyone else in the family since she moved to the seniors' lodge in April 2006. Now I know it isn't true.

Anyway -- the point of all this -- is that she said she doesn't care whether she goes or not, so if I'm not up to it ... no problem. And honestly, I am not. I need a nap.

Now that the teenage boys are home, I've no choice but to go to town for groceries once a week. Thank goodness the fridge holds plenty of grub. Here it is yesterday afternoon after Emil helped me put away $250 worth.

I am always trying to figure out where my time goes.
Email to my friend J:
"I have just spent another day that looks like very little was accomplished; honestly I cannot tell Scott how it was filled, just that it was. I only actually 'worked' two hours and the rest was putzing (laundry, stoking fire, picking things up, putting things away), along with a couple phone calls, a bath, breakfast dishes, folding a bit of laundry and making a simple supper. Oh and a short walk. How can that possibly require an entire day? Not that it matters, as long as I'm happy, right? And I am."

J’s reply:
"The way you describe your days, that is how mine are now, and whenever I get a chance. You get a few things done, but the world doesn't change because of it, and for me, those are the best days. Because you've included a walk, some work, some cooking, some attention to others--I call that balance. Hard-working people may not think much of it, but I think balance is important when you can get it."

Yeah!

Emil's walker waits patiently by the road where the bus will drop the kids off after school.

When I go out, Sara the dog seems to lose her mind. She grabs my hands and jumps on me; today she actually knocked me over when I knelt to cuddle her. Little bugger.

Everett has never seen her grab anyone else's feet. Either she is determined to get me to go in her favourite direction — out of the yard, on down the road, and perhaps across a field — or she thinks I'm a cow (don't say a word, Gord). Because this hoof-nipping is how blue heelers herd cattle.