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I’ll be Thelma…you be Louise…

April 11, 2015

This is how I picture Bianca and I in Arizona (except put a few pounds on thelma and you’ve got me..heh) …(and yes day 3 involves horse riding at sunrise, tomahawk throwing and shootin’ guns…real guns…not my daisy red rider bb gun)


The canyon is 3 hours from where we’ll be staying, I’m praying there won’t be any circumstances which would necessitate us having to go off the cliff of the canyon …but I can’t make any guarantees. This is going to be one action packed girls getaway…

(When in reality…)



(by the way, I completely forget what happens in this movie, and if it’s really bad I apologize, haha, I saw many, many years ago!!)

Sometimes, you just need to stop eating.

April 1, 2015

It had come recommended, this restaurant on the Island. It was toted as the ‘longest buffet around these parts’, and a ‘must see’. So we went, and we saw…and boy, did we see more than we’d bargained for.

Walking in, we met the cliched tourist area laden with PEI memorabilia, little jars of red sand (we packed our own jars and filled  them thankyouverymuch), stuffed lobsters and PEI snow globes..(which seems oh so fitting this year) … But we weren’t there for the stuff, we were there for the food, so we sauntered past and that’s when we saw the sign that said;

LUNCH – Salad bar $45.00 (kids $20.00)

With meat (lobster, scallops or steak) $85.00

Being a devout budgeter, my brain wouldn’t let me comprehend the fact that I’d be spending my 2 week grocery budget on one lunch for our family. I calmed my rational side, thinking that this would go down in history as one of the Garrett’s best meals ever, and since we were on holidays, I should just let it go. (I did end up letting it go…then someone else let it I got it back, read on to see what I mean..)

The jolly maitre’d himself sat us by the window in a bustling area of the restaurant, where we were amongst a number of school aged children. Turns out we picked the same time to mow down as the local school’s grade 3/4/5 classes end of year field trip. Super.

The teacher of said children came by our table as we had just received our soup and bread, and let us know we’d be in for a bit of noise as the children were off to their next destination and would be needing to exit by the door nearest our table. The Hubs gave me a knowing wink as he knew silence would materialize shortly.

I watched the crowd of children grow and draw near to our table, each one gawking to see what we were eating and loudly talking amongst themselves about who had won the eating contest. (Seeing as this was ‘The longest buffet on the Island’ I could understand how young boys would see it as an opportunity to hone their competitive eating skills). Little Jimmy piped up that he had surely eaten the most oysters, and his buddy slapped him on the back to congratulate him.

That, you see, was the fatal error. Young Jim needed nothing more than a simple slap on the back to begin the horrendous purge that ensued. You could see by his feeble smile that something wasn’t sitting quite right. And then it happened.. his own personal Barf-o-rama began, right there beside our table.

The next moment was an overload to the senses, my eyes were torn between the wide eyed, gape mouthed faces of my children and the volume of matter spewing from young Jim. My ears heard the slosh as 25 shucked and pre-chewed oysters came to meet the carpet, and the screams of little sally who happened to swerve to the right just in time to miss the blast. My nose…(well I dare not get into too much detail here as I hope my readers will remain…) could no longer smell the chowder in front of me, but rather the innards of young Jim, that had now become…outers.

There was a flurry of activity that proceeded after the barf-o-rama, there were skilled clean up folk who appeared out of nowhere to sprinkle the splatter with a variety of powders and using brooms and vacuums they were able to lift the majority of the mess off of the carpet. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this.

Unfortunately for the Garrett’s, the damage was done. There was no un-seeing what we saw, and even the best magic powder couldn’t clear the acrid scent from our nostrils. We had seen the insides of Jimmy boy, and we knew that those insides were what our plates were composed of.  We no longer had any appetite to speak of, and it lessened each time we watched the next poor soul tromp through ol’ Jimmy’s carpet christening .. It became a sort of revelation to me as I watched people load their plates up, balancing their culinary treasures, whilst walking through the vomit of another.

The Hubs decided that he wouldn’t like to leave our grocery budget there that day, He spoke kindly to the Maitre’d about our situation and how we hadn’t gotten past the buns and chowder before  the barf-o-rama took place tableside. The Maitre’d graciously gave us back the majority of our money and understood the situation completely.

This moment in PEI just added to our memories, the holiday we’ll never forget. And yes, we would visit the Island again in a heartbeat…no buffets please.


She Man.

March 21, 2015

It was purely practical. Why would I wear my own clothes when I could wear The Hubs’ work clothes and not worry about the mess we were about to dive into.     Oh, if only I’d known.

I ventured into the back of our closet, to that spot that housed the neglected and thread bare … the clothing I would typically throw away or cut up for the girls to practice stitching on. I dug out a pair of well used and oversized blue dickies, they had a few stains and holes, but for the job we were doing that day, they were perfect. I also dug out an old, light blue, large collared, button up work shirt with armpit stains…something the Hubs wore on the farm for 10 years of hard physical labour, it was begging to die, but I yanked it out for one last day of purpose.


That day was “Board Staining Day”.  The Hubs and I tried to do as much in the new house as we could to save money where we could, so todays project involved staining every last piece of wood that would be screwed onto the exterior of the house. We had designed the house with a board and batten finish, so you can well imagine the amount of wood involved. At least 300 large planks of wood and 300 more slim battens for on top.  It was going to be a despicable amount of work, but we were up for the challenge.

After staining in the hot July sun for several hours, I was roasting in my nasty man clothes, wishing I had worn shorts and just scrubbed the stain off afterward. My hair was a mass of wily fly aways and frizz, and my cheeks were fire engine red. If you’d seen me I would have died of embarrassment … thank goodness there was no one else around, I looked like a beast of a woman, The Hubs and I began joking about my appearance as his manly wife…laughing our heads off and becoming slightly crazed in the noon day sun.

Funny, became un-funny, really fast as I watched a car roll into the laneway. If the house had been clad with said board, I would’ve run in and hid … but since the walls were see-through, there was absolutely nowhere for me to hide my manly self. I had to stand there and face the music…or whoever that was inside that car. (At this point of the story I need to say that without any doubt, I know God has a sense of humour.)

As we stood with stain rollers in hand we watched as our family friend got out, and just as my relief began to rise, a second door opened and his son, pastor James MacDonald, stepped out of the car.

(Many of you know James as the founding pastor of Harvest Bible Chapel and as well from his audio show ‘Walk in the Word’. If you’re not familiar…just google his name .. and then recall my manly appearance. *ahem*)

I’m not sure if you’ve ever experienced this level of complete and utter awkwardness. But, I assure you, it is not lovely. To add to the unbelievable mess I was in, I peeled off my latex painters glove and watched as the sweat poured forth from it’s innards, after a quick wipe on my hole-y man pants I offered a shake. No lie.

The Hubs was on cloud nine, being able to talk with James was a real treat…and it was okay that he looked like a hard working, sweaty mess of a man, because that’s just what he was. I, on the other hand, would have been a confusing sight to behold. Dressed and sweating like a man, yet with the voice of a woman…..

Poor pastor James probably didn’t know what his father had led him into….was he supposed to pray over us and donate to our clothing fund…or just be his regular old gracious self?  Thankfully..he chose the latter, and spent the next half hour ignoring my appearance and pouring some wisdom into us.

As their car pulled away from the house and out the lane, the Hubs and I could hardly look at each other without busting a gut. Needless to say, when the work was finished that day, those clothes found their way into our burn box, and I am careful about what I consider “work clothes” to this day…because you just never know…


Rollin’, Rollin’, Rollin’…

March 10, 2015

The Hubs recently took me to a nice running shoe store in London as he was tired of seeing me hobble around the house like a wounded animal from the foot pain I’d been experiencing. I never thought I’d set foot in this store, as it’s called ‘The Running Room’ and well…the only time I’m running is when raccoons are chasing me or when (wow…I really, truly just tried to think of any other reason I run..and I couldn’t .. haha, shameful.)

At any rate, I went, hoping for some relief.  A super helpful teenaged boy analyzed my gait (what a sheer delight that was, parading back and forth in front of The Hubs and this athletic, gazelle-type creature,  who tried to figure out why my ankle had an inverse roll .. I wanted to say ‘it’s the weight, young man, three pregnancies and great deal of home cooking will do this’…but alas, I let him do his thing.. ) and he had me try on umpteen shoes. I finally settled on something that felt supportive and wasn’t too flashy…because, well, I just felt as though the flashy shoes should be reserved for those that actually sport….not to middle aged women with painful feet and cankles. (cankle=calfankle real distinction between where the calf ends and the ankle begins. Or, my legs.)


Anyhow, a couple of weeks later and my foot pain has decreased a great deal due to my indoor, un-flashy runners…that is, until yesterday. I was pretending to be super mom and I heaved the full wicker laundry basket onto my hip and the plastic laundry basket into my arm and traipsed down the hall, only to fall in a heap from the dreaded ankle roll. So here I am, shoeless, elevating my swelling cankle and icing it. Just. can’t. win.

It brings me back to another time in my life when I experienced an ankle roll … It was on our honeymoon and The Hubs and I decided to go and see an opera about John The Baptist..(No really.) I had gotten dressed up to the nines in my operatic ensemble …long jacket, hair up and a nice pair of sky high heels…I was feeling pretty good about myself. The opera house was nearly full, we were walking the aisle to our seats, and then it happened.. Ker-snap, rubber ankle right over the heel. Down I went like a sack of potatoes, nearly completing a full face plant on that coarse red carpet. (‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’ Proverbs 16:18..I knew you were thinking it, so I thought I might as well just type it out.)

But, as in all things, there is a silver lining…I found this goody on youtube, and can totally relate to how this poor soul’s ankles must feel. Shucks, I’m so glad someone got this on camera, Have a great day everyone!

A Tale of 2 Tractors…

February 25, 2015

(There’s a shame factor that has prevented me from sharing this story until now. I still blush when I think about what went down this day..)


I could hear the calls from afar, shouts and hollars, the loud speaker ignited with the rolling babble of the auctioneer. The smells of the old and new items up for bid, mingled with the deliciously deep fried smell of the food trucks.

We had spent most of the morning walking through the buildings, scouting out the wares. There were sprawling wagons and tables of new and used everything. You name it, and it was there … don’t believe me? Name a few things…

Playground equipment, RV’s, couches, gardening supplies, tractors, hay balers, manure spreaders, golf clubs, dog food, rabbit hutches, paintings, trees, canoes, motorbikes, hot tubs ..and the kitchen sink y’all.

I had my eye on just a few specific items…the landscaping area had just about all I would need to get the lifeless dirt bed in the front of house up to snuff. Then there was the shiny pink bike that I knew Ashlyn could use, as she was becoming a little too big for the family hand-me-down, the red, blue and rusty number that each kid has learned to ride with.

And finally, the piece de resistance….a gorgeous little red Massey compact tractor that had all the fixins, a bucket, a back hoe attachment, and a mower….a gardeners dream come true. It looked like a spaceship compared to the clunkers it sat beside, and there were rows of them, none as shiny and new as my little red tractor. I oogled over it and when the Hubs said ‘put it on your list’ …I knew I had a chance.


A few hours in and there was our pick up truck loaded with plants, bushes, trees, flower pots and nice shiny pink bike. My auction card had gotten a work out and I was privy to the ways of the seasoned buyer…the wink, the finger lift and the head nod. The callers knew to look in my direction,  waiting for the next item that struck my cheap fancy. As I checked my watch, I knew it was time to move my card outside  … I bid the landscape men adieu and went to find the tractor callers.

The Hubs decided that he would bring the truck load home and unload the auction items and the whining children…apparently the spring auction just wasn’t their idea of fun(….whaaaat?!)  He figured the pretty red tractor would be up for bids right around the time he got back.

He was wrong.

I slipped into the crowd gathering around tractors, and elbowed my way past the farmers young and old…(I stuck out like a sore thumb in my nike hat and pretty spring coat, – note to self: wear carhartt overalls and rubber boots next year…) Did I mention I was the only GIRL in the crowd of say 60 men? As I got near the front of the crowd, I realized I was JUST in time…the auctioneer trailer had rolled up in front of my tractor and was already calling numbers for the Massey…ACK!! I took a deep breath and was nonchalant about getting my card ready, always keeping in mind that if I show excitement, someone else will smell it and bid me up.

I couldn’t believe what I heard “three, three, three, who will give me thirty-five, three, threeeee..” I was stunned…the hands were slowing down and my little red tractor was only at $3000…The Hubs and I had previously discussed that we would only go as high as $5000, knowing full well it would be a miracle if it sold this low, when in reality this tractor should have sold for well over $10,000.. so my heart was aflutter at the thought of possibly bringing this beauty home!

I raised my hand for $3200 and waited, all eyes were suddenly on me. I have to admit, I may have felt a sinful moment of pride here as I watched the faces of the farmers stare.

I bid my way up to $3500 and that’s when I heard the sweet sound of victory, ” Going, going….SOLD! to the Little lady up front” … I was elated, being able to represent my husband at this moment was so great, He would be so proud of me, Proverbs 31 was here in the flesh…and being called a ‘Little Lady’ too? Well Shucks, this was my day!! I knew the farmers were still staring, so I decided to put a little icing on the cake and I let out a “Woo-hooooo” and did a really nice high fist pump to show my pride.

~This moment is etched into my memory so deeply, it shall never be forgotten. I bear a burden of shame for my pride. If this were a play, I would now be reaching for mask of tragedy and would be putting it upon my blushing cheeks. ~

I was still relishing from my big purchase when I heard the words that nearly brought me to my knees. I looked behind me to where the crowd was now….All of the farmers, gathered around MY tractor…and numbers were being called. I couldn’t compute…all along the auctioneer had been spouting numbers for the Massey tractor…which I thought was my red tractor…so what were they doing now?? I peered through the crowd trying to determine what was the last item that would have been sold, the item to the right of little red….it was a blue jalopy with the blazing black word “Massey” on it… the sinking feeling nearly killed me. This is when I realized at no point did the auctioneer distinguish between a blue or red Massey tractor, and I had jumped the gun…

I was the new owner of a 1968 Massey Ferguson 300.


What kind of individual buys the wrong TRACTOR?? That would be me.

I did what any rational woman would do. I called my husband. Although he could hardly understand me through my shaking vocals, he quickly recommended that I speak with the auctioneer. I was sick….what if they wouldn’t let me ‘return’ it ?? what if I had just spent $3500 of our hard earned dollars on this big, ancient beast that really wouldn’t hold any purposeful spot on our farm?

I approached the back of the auction trailer and slowly opened the door (I might add that he was auctioning off the little red tractor whilst I was begging for forgiveness….oh the irony…) The woman who assists the auctioneer saw me and said  ‘Oh girl! Good for you for buying that tractor!! I was so proud of you!’… Ouch. My head hung low as I went on to explain that I had made a terrible misjudgement and was wondering if perhaps I could return my purchase, when the extremely loud auctioneer caught wind of my pleas. He did not release me in a gentle and forgiving manner, rather he roasted me within and inch of my life on his loud speaker and explained to the gathering crowd what I had just done. …

All I could think was ..Oh, Lord, take me now….if ever there was a perfect time in my life for rapture, this would be it.

I bore the shameful confession and apologized profusely when the auctioneer asked if I would please come and sit upon the little red tractor while he auctions it off…. I politely refused and walked away from the trailer with my knees knocking.

When The hubs finally found me, I retold the entire event from the corner I had currently been hiding in. The look on his face was of pure delight, He found such amusement over the whole ordeal. He made me repeat the woo-hoo and the fist pump wanting to see what kind of a spectacle I had made of myself…

You can thank him for photographing the tractors, he decided we needed proof of the event, and here, 2 years later…I guess I’m thankful to have them to show you.

I can just imagine the story that went home with the farmers that day … sitting around their dinner table telling the tale of the of the two tractors…and the crazy, fist pumping lady. *blush*