LOVE NOTES

I am not allowed to put things on my fridge.  Wait, let me rephrase that.  Ian prefers that I not put things on the fridge.  I get no sympathy when I bemoan the fact that all my friends have photos of their kids and grandkids slathered all over theirs.  I felt like I scored a small victory a couple of years ago when he relented a little and made the compromise to allow small souvenir magnets from places we have visited to be placed on the side of the fridge(the side no one can see).

 A year ago I was feeling particularly daring and I purchased a set of valentine phrase magnets from the dollar store and placed them right on the front of the fridge.  Ian was not impressed but said he could put up with them but just until Valentine's Day was over.  I left him little notes.  The kids came home for the family day weekend and we all left little notes on the fridge.  The day after Valentine's Day Ian asked if he could throw them out.  I protested saying I would take them down but they were not to be thrown out,  I would save them for the next year.  It was at this point that he gave me his little smirk.  Most would read this expression as "as soon as you're not paying attention, I'm turfing them out".  I knew otherwise.  What he really meant was " I know you, you won't have a clue where you put them a year from now."  It was all good, we were both happy.
I put them in a safe place and miracle of miracles, I remembered where that spot was...

and miracle of miracles he left me a message.

COLDFINGER

I have a friend of Scottish descent who lives up to the stereotypical image of the cheap Scotsman.   His ancestors would be more than proud of him.  I remind him that I was actually born in Scotland and while I love a bargain as much as the next person, I do not even come close to being as tight with my money as he.  He is a great source of entertainment for me.  I once saw him drop a couple of hotdogs off a barbeque and onto the grass at a public park.  The same grass that kids had just been running all over and  dogs had been squatting on to do their business.  I nudged the person next to me and bet that he would put them back on the barbeque.   He did.
It is a well known fact for those who have ever had an invite to his home, that a sweater and slippers are a must if you are to experience any level of comfort.  When he and his wife first moved into their new home, Ian and I were invited for dinner.  I took my slippers and wore an extra heavy sweater (it was winter).  Ian mocked but I didn't care, I knew what was coming.  Upon arrival at the house, our friend took us on the grand tour.  We found the main floor chilly but when we descended down into the basement, we could literally see our breath.  In one corner of the basement  sat a beautiful wood stove, lonely and forlorn just begging to be lit.  Sorry little wood stove, that would cost money not just in wood we were told, but if the rec room was to be warm, then his son's friends would come over to hang out and if his son's friends were there, chances were good that they would eat his food.  There was to be no heat in the basement.
Last week his wife held a baby shower in Kere's honour but I was not forgotten. There was a special note just for me left above the thermostat control.

He knew I would be the only one brave enough to actually touch the thermostat. My plan was to crank up the heat just as I was leaving but he made it home before I could do so.  That my friends is why I am able to blog about it tonight with all ten of my fingers intact.  As an aside... my mocking husband now brings slippers and wears sweaters to their home. They wear T-shirts to ours.

IF IT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ANYONE...

I'd had a mammogram before so I knew what to expect.  A technician would hand me a gown, I'd go into the little changing cubicle, take off my top and bra, put on the gown with the ties at the front, and then come out to the mammogram machine.  My breast would be placed on a cold metal ledge by the technician while I stood right up against the machine with my one arm raised high above my head, the other arm trying to clutch the gown closed across my other exposed breast.  The machine would then lower a clear acrylic plate down on top of my breast and squeeze tight, and by tight I mean like a death grip.  My breast would then do it's best Scottish, chocolate chip pancake impression. (cheap Scots only put one chip in per pancake) It's at this point that the technician goes round the corner, tells you "take a deep breath and don't move".  The machine takes a picture, another button is pushed, and the machine releases it's vice like grip on one of your twins.  Yep, I had done it once before, no biggie, so when my doctor suggested I go for another mammogram a couple of years later just as a check up, I never gave it a second thought.
 I showed up at the hospital at the appointed time and was told to have a seat and wait for the technician to come and get me.  A few minutes later I looked up from the magazine I was reading and noticed coming down the hall in her blue scrubs, the woman I had run against for PTA president.  She had desperately wanted the position whereas I could have cared less... in fact, I had only run because the principal of the school had asked me to as a favour. ( I think he was afraid of her.)  She was rather austere and rarely smiled.  I won the election, she was not impressed, and she had come to every PTA meeting that year it seemed just to make trouble.  When I saw her walking down the hall (I had forgotten she worked at the hospital) I quickly glanced back down at my magazine, avoiding eye contact at all cost.   She stopped in front of me and you can imagine my horror when I realized she was THE technician.  The conversation went something like this.
Her (not smiling): "Are you ready to come in?" (No hello, how are you?)
Me: "Ummm... are you doing the mammogram?"
Her (still not smiling): "That's my job, so yes!"
Me: "Is there someone else that can do it?" ( I mean honestly, would you want your arch enemy handling your private parts?)
Her (Overtly unimpressed with my questions):  "The only other person available is a man.  Would you rather have him do it?"
Trapped!  If I said yes, then a rumour might start floating round the community that I had asked a man to handle my breasts (albeit innocently) or at the very least that I had preferred a man over a woman to do perform the procedure but saying no meant that she had full exposure to my breasts and I was definitely not comfortable with that.
Me (with great trepidation): "I guess I'll have you do it"
It was the first time that day she smiled at me.
I followed her into the room, changed, presented myself at the machine, and cringed as she grabbed my breast and placed it on the glass. How humiliating.  She fiddled with some buttons and the machine closed down on my breast... tight... extra tight.   "hmmm" I heard her mutter.  I could hear her playing around with the machine but trapped like I was, I could not see what was going on.  It seemed to be taking a long time.
"There seems to be a problem with the mammography machine" she informed me. "I'll need to get some help."
She had the male technician come in to have a look.  He fiddled around for a couple of minutes without success, left the room and came back with a maintenance guy.  He also had no luck and another maintenance guy was called in and yet another.   They all seemed oblivious to me, still stuck with my breast flattened in the machine, arm still raised high above my head.
It appeared that the machine would not easily be fixed, the problem now ( I could hear the discussion) was how to get me out of it.  The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by the men as they struggled with the acrylic plate, straining to lift it enough for me to slip out of its grip.  Free at last, I quickly changed and tried to sneak out of the room unnoticed.  "You'll need to rebook your appointment at the front desk" I heard her say in a rather loud voice.  I turned, the men all looked up from their work, and for the second time that day, I saw her smile.