Still Steamed, But Can't Drink My Tim Horton's Tea

You Facebook followers probably know that Jim went in for surgery yesterday—for an inguinal hernia repair. We arrived at 6:00 a.m. and left at 1:30 p.m. (pretty good), but by 11:00 a.m. I was ready for an Earl Grey tea. (See how his pain and suffering becomes my ordeal?)

Anyway, the coffee shop in the hospital (Jo Brant) is a Tim Horton’s, so I lined up and placed my order for a travel-mug refill. I handed over the green plastic mug, but hung onto the lid.

The cashier told me I HAD to relinquish the lid, because of a safety concern (apparently, they can’t carry open hot drinks at that location).

I resisted because I’m fussy. Plus, I’ve never had this problem before. Never. Not at other Timmie’s, drive-thrus, William’s coffee shops, or Starbucks. But here’s the thing: I had seen the server sneeze, and you know what I was thinking,

Sure enough, she’s carrying my precious green comfort mug in one hand, and my home-sterilized lid in the other (yes, I’m that fussy) and the server sneezes into her arm. Anyone who has seen time-lapse photography of that scenario, knows where the shmutz goes.

I quietly told the cashier that that was the reason I wanted to hang onto the lid, and she shouts to her cohort, “This lady says you sneezed on her lid.” After that, they double-doubled me with rudeness. (Have they never heard of antibiotic-resistant bacteria and auto-immune disorders?) I grabbed my mug and left. I don't know whether I was more upset at the sneeze, or at being told I HAD to hand over the lid, but I didn’t drink the tea.   

I’ve been a happy Tim's customer for years. In fact, I was at the grand opening of the first location. (Boy, does that admission make me sound old.) I was about 12 at the time, and my friend and I were as excited about meeting Tim Horton—can you believe it?—as we were about the donuts. We showed up, autograph books in hand, expecting to find our hockey player in a Leaf’s uniform. He was sitting with a bunch of suits, though, so we didn’t know who was who.

I left disappointed and too shy to speak up for what I wanted, on that day too.

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My Dog, the Surgeon

Auggie Doggie as a pupp (an anniversary gift from my husband )

Who says veterinary bills have to be high? We have just returned from the dog doctor and it only cost me $26 bucks! Better than that—Auggie, my Border Collie/ Australian Shepherd mix, didn’t require any treatment. It seems he took care of the problem himself.

Two weeks ago I noticed a small growth on my dog’s chest while I was petting him. It freaked me out (although not as badly as the time another dog of mine ate some carpet, and had trouble pooping it out. How do you put a dog in a cab when there are 18 inches of nylon coil hanging out of his arse?) 

Anyway, I immediately put Auggie (short for Auggie Doggie) on a raw foods diet and budgeted for the worst. Although I worked as an RN for 18 years, I couldn’t bring myself to examine the area, so I had a friend (formerly a vet in Bulgaria) take a close look at this ugly black protruberance. He advised me to clip the hair around the area, clean the spot (it now looked like a nipple) and apply some antibiotic ointment twice a day for a week, after which he promised to take a second look.

That plan fell apart the first day. There’s no way Auggie would keep a cone on. Actually, I could only stand five minutes of him racing back and forth shaking his head, so I stopped with the ointment and let him lick the darned thing.

I found out on Friday that he could do more than just lick the area. I heard a yelp, and discovered he’d bitten off whatever was there. Bigger freak-out! I made an appointment with the veterinary hospital, (surely the base of this would have to be excised), but the doctor told me there is nothing left to remove or biopsy. Probable diagnosis: a wart. Let’s hope it doesn’t grow back.

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Wayne Gretzky, Jean Béliveau, and Gary Carter

Leaving the Chidren's Hospital, 1974 

Wasn’t it Gretzky who said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take”? Well, I took a shot and told a few of my friends about the blog I have started. This morning, when I checked my emails, I found the very response I’ve been dreading: “You are not turning 60 this year???”

It’s a nice message, oozing with incredulity. But isn’t that’s the problem? If people can’t believe I’m turning 60, why tell them? Will my older friends think I’m a wuss? Will my younger friends consider me too old to hang around with? Last week I heard the news that Gary Carter died. For an afternoon I relived my former life as a Montreal Expos fan. I met Carter shortly after I graduated as a registered nurse. It seems a lifetime ago, and I guess for Carter, it was.

I felt the same way a few days ago when I heard the news that Jean Béliveau had been hospitalized following a stroke. I was with my youngest daughter at the time. “Who is that?” she asked.

That’s right, folks. I am old enough to remember (a very active-on-the-ice) Jean Béliveau. He also made regular visits to the teen ward of the Montreal Children’s hospital, where I worked at the time. (That’s me above, leaving work after a day shift in 1974.)

In the 70’s, I was the kind of hockey fan that took autographs, stood front row at the Stanley Cup parades, and went to the airport when the Canadiens won ‘away’ games during the playoffs.

I have lots of stories, but rather than bore my daughter, I decided to keep the memories to myself.

Maybe that’s it…getting older simply means we have more stories. Take a shot at something, and let me know how it turns out. At the very least, you'll end up with a great story.

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