Recycling, Pinterest and That Bastard Sun

So, I saw on the Internaught, which is what I lovingly refer to the Internet, because more-often-than Not, I can't quite make it do what I'd like it to. Plus, I'm Canadian, so I had to make the spelling more difficult, with more odd consonant pairings, and an extra U for good measure. So, I saw on the Internaught, on Pinterest to be exact, this amazing summer craft idea that I've been dying to try.

"Thankyouvellymuchyou'revellykind."

Oh Pinterest, if you were something that cost money, I would not pay for you. However, the amount of free crap that I am inspired to try (or dream about) is priceless, and for that I quickly say "thankyouvellymuchyou'revellykind" in my fake British accent.

Right, so I saw on the Internaught this amazing craft where you take an empty two-liter pop bottle, cut some slits in the sides, attach it to a garden hose, and VOILA, instant crazy sprinkler. What? All for the price of a female-to-female connector? I'm in!

I set out to scour the recycling bins of my neighbours (there's that tricksy spelling again!) for that two-liter pop bottle. I missed it the first time I was going to look because I had to take Kiddo #1 to school and Kiddo #2 to daycare (which I'd set up so that I might scour the neighbourhood for the bottle in peace and tranquillity). I threw the kids into the car, zoomed to the school and to the daycare only to zoom home and find that not only had the recycling truck already been here, but I'd also forgotten to put out OUR recycling.

I have rage issues. Given that information, you might think missing the recycling trucks may have set off my rage in a beautiful, green, Hulky-type way. Really though, missing the recycling and garbage trucks doesn't make me rageful-- instead it sends me into a sort of post-traumatic-stress-disorder panic. Husband doesn't quite understand why I start sweating and silently cursing and pacing up and down the driveway, pausing every once in a while  to shake my fist at the Sun, when we don't get the bins/cans/bags out to the corner on time.  Frankly neither do I, but I do. And, yes, I realize it's not the technically the Sun's fault I missed the garbage or recycling trucks. But I've got a constant wish for malice at the Sun, so whenever I'm having a meltdown, I bring up all the Sun's past transgressions like they're new again. Fuckin' Sun. Gah!).

There's nothing like Nelson's laugh in a bottle.

I sigh deeply, still mad at the Sun, and hope that perhaps one of the recycling guys threw an empty pop bottle into my garage to taunt me. I've never wanted to see someone making fun of me as much as I hoped to find that bottle. Needless to say, our recycling guys (gals? I have no idea I guess) aren't complete a-holes, unlike YOU, SUN! GAH!

Our recycling gets picked up every two weeks (oh, and we don't ever buy liter bottles of pop so it's not like we'd have one) so I knew I now had the next 14 days to mourn my lost opportunity. But, in those next 14 days, there was a long weekend-- and several birthday parties and fireworks parties, so I just KNEW I'd have my pop bottle in no time.

Plus, let's face it, I'm at Superstore at least 4 times a day. Between actually getting groceries, stopping back for a prescription (Drive through scripts while sick kids sleep in the car? Yes please.), running in for cookie cutters or a navy shirt for "navy day" at school... I think I probably owe rent to Superstore.  So, even if I couldn't manage to score an empty (free) bottle from someone, those 2-liters are no more than a couple of bucks anyway.

Once 10 of the 14 days passed with not one empty liter bottle to be collected (I mostly forgot about the project about 5 minutes into the two week waiting period) I started to get annoyed.  See, all of a sudden, it was 27C (hot) and like a lightbulb over my head, I remembered about my awesome, free craft ... that I still couldn't do!

Realizing I (still) had no bottle, and also feeling like I'd been trying to do this craft for months now with no help from pop-drinking neighbours (which made me shake my fist at the hot, hot, wretched Sun again) I calmed myself and realized all I had to do was make my regularly scheduled 4th visit to Superstore, pick up a pop, hit Home Depot on the way back and pick up the connector and VOILA, instant kid-happiness.

Not even the stupid Sun could ruin this plan!

When I returned with my basket of goodies, (connector: $8.99 plus tax, pop: $.89) I called everyone into the house and sat them at the kitchen table.

Me: Ok guys. I have a great craft idea. In order to do it, you all have to help me.
Kiddo #1: Yippee!
Kiddo #2: BAN! Uh-huh!
Husband: Um, I've heard this before.
Me: (setting glasses down in front of each person) I need you to drink this entire bottle of pop in the next 3 minutes.
Kiddo #1: Yippee!
Kiddo #2: BAN! BROWN!
Husband: Wait. What?
Me: Hurry hurry! I don't have time to explain! Drink!!
Kiddo #1: (gulping) Momma. This is fun. But also, it's kinda hurting.
Kiddo #2: Ban. Owchee. Owweee.
Husband: Why did you get Sprite?
Me: Because there's no artifical colour or caffeine. Just pure sugar and carbonation.
Husband: (huge burp) But it's almost nap time (burp).
Me: Quit talking! Drink! Do you need inspiration? What's that Engineering drinking song again?
Husband: Godiva was a lady who/ through Coventry did ride...
Me: QUIT TALKING! Drink!
Kiddo #1: My tummy hurts. But I also want to run around a lot. Really bad.
Kiddo #2: (running from the table to the pantry and back to the table and back to the pantry) BAAAAAN!
Me: We don't have time to be pissing around. Get drinking.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was really about 7 minutes, the bottle was empty. I, lacking skill and care, took a paring knife and stabbed it several times in the bottle. In retrospect, it wasn't the safest way to carve up a bottle-- given my lack of both skill and care and the fact that I was holding the bottle against my chest and all, but it all worked out this time, so whatever, right? Besides-- the clouds were getting dark-- I had to get this damn sprinkler going before the heavens opened up and stole my thunder. Possibly with thunder.

I took my $10 connector out of the bag, screwed one end on the bottle and smugly went outside to screw the other half onto the hose. Screw the other end onto the hose that needed to be screwed into something? What? Oh, what? I didn't actually buy a female-to-female connector, you say? Screw it. I'm too close to my goal to make another stupid trip to the stupid Home Depot to stupid get the right part. I got the duct tape. No, I got the electrical tape. No, I got the stupid, stupid packing tape, which is the only tape I could find, save even stupider gift-wrapping tape. Oh the rage. Oh how I HATE and DESPISE the wretched, filthy, blistering SUN!  SCREW YOU SUN! GAAAAAH!

I'm rapidly wrapping miles of stupid packing tape, that goes useless once wet, around the hose and top of the bottle. I've given the tricksy and false connector to Husband to return to my car in hopes I might get my money back having both not used it, and not needed it. The temperature has gone from 27 to 17 in a matter of 10 minutes but I don't care. I'm going to have a frickin' sprinkler today even if we all end up with frickin' hypothermia because the FRICKIN FRICKTY SUN WENT AWAY!

"This is SO MUCH FUN!"

I scream/yell/slo-mo exclaim: Open. The. Water.
I stand there while the bottle fills and wait for the water to splash out like so much hilarious summer fun.
...
Luckily, I think the bottle was quite afraid that this might not work, so it played along quite nicely. Feeling like a champion, I hoisted the hose above my head just as the warm hose water was tapped out and the freezing-from-the-tap water came shooting out all over me. Screaming in pain and triumph, I yell for the children to join me in this amazing, freezing, fun.

Kiddo #1 looked at me, looked at her brother and then said, "Um. I think it's gonna rain. And I'm cold."
Her brother nodded emphatically and said, "Uh-huh, Momma."

The two of them went back into the house leaving me in the (suddenly) freezing outdoors. Husband popped his head out the back door. "I only have one thing to say: burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp."

I let out one more animalistic howl, shook my fist at my arch nemesis one more time, and turned off the hose. A hard, cold rain erupted finishing the job the crafty, fun, Pinterest sprinkler had started. As my mascara ran down my face I lifted my head toward the heavens.

One day I will have my revenge, bastard Sun.
One day.
Mark my words.
Ban.

That Travelocity Gnome Gets Around

You know how you walk around a bit in the daze because you're not sure whether you're coping well with everything, or if you just don't give a shit anymore? Yeah. That's about where I've been for a little bit.

To see whether I really was sad or really was coping well (odd that there might be a fine line between both, don't you think?) I decided to book a vacation for myself-- just me, all alone, single status.

The Travelocity Gnome was looking
forward to a warm baguette.

I started off with all these grand plans; two weeks travelling in France, with one full week spent in Paris touring the Louvre, Versailles (which is not actually in Paris, but whatever), buying amazing fabrics and accessories from Hermes, Yves Saint Laurent and Colette. Oh yes, the fun I would have. But then I realized that I would miss all this fun with Husband and the kiddos, so I nixed that Travelocity search.  Plus, two weeks is a really long time to have to put together enough childcare so Husband could still work while I was away.

Oh Gnome, there's no Kory Kardashian.

Then I decided to look into a fantastic one-week all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. One week would be much more doable. And, frankly, despite my ongoing disdain for The Sun and all things Hot, Jamaica sounded quite good while my feet were sitting on the cold basement floor.  So I clicked and found a wonderful resort with an amazing spa-- even a treatment for kids, so Kiddo #1 and #2 could be little Stars -- as in, they arrive on a red carpet while "paparazzi" take their pictures and ask for their autographs. They'd get a special badge they could flash to get unlimited pop and ice cream anywhere in the hotel, as well as a "mini" mani-pedi-colonic version of whatever I booked.  And don't even get me started on the couples massage/botox combos. I was getting really excited until I realized the spa I'd found wasn't in Jamaica, but in Los Angeles, and frankly, I didn't want to potentially run into any of the Kardashians or Lohans; who needs all that drama? 

So I moved into something more local. Surely something not too far away could be a deluxe as what they've got in LA, without the riffraff; as fashion-minded as Paris, without the two week stay to justify the jet lag. 

Ok. Thinking...

Ok. Uh. Yes. Thinking... 

Um. Almost there... 

Poutine? Yes, please.

Montréal?  Yes! That's it! Montréal is everything you love about Europe without the 7 hour flight. I'd get to wear my stilettos on the cobblestone, like a real European, without needing my passport!  Plus, the buildings are old, they speak French (uh the people, not the buildings) and there's quite a little fashion district there, too.  Yes! But, I wouldn't have to worry about annoying things like whether Europe will still be financially solvent by the end of my two weeks, or the general rights of women, or like, spending way too much money on cool shit and not being able to sneak it all back into Canada without paying scads of duty. Not that I do that, but Europe makes me temporarily crazy. Plus, (back to the solvency thing) if I got a chance to buy myself a Picasso (or a Garfunkel <-- that's some Canadian/Barenaked Ladies humour) for cheap to keep Spain afloat for another week, how could I refuse? And you KNOW that shit doesn't just go through the x-ray without being questioned. Gah.

Where was I? Ah yes. Montréal. So I started looking into 5 days in Montréal-- there's this amazing Jazz festival, but that's not until the end of June, and really, I can't wait that long. I need to know whether I'm depressed or fine as soon as possible. I can't just be walking around not knowing whether I should be laughing or crying. I mean, limbo is not an appropriate place in which to live. (as an aside, I wonder if I could get an original copy of Inferno now that Italy's for sale?)

So I nixed my 5 nights in Québec and decided on two nights in Our London, which is to say London, Ontario, Canada.  I looked up some art shows that will be going on over the Mother's Day weekend and where a girl could find an outdoor market and then I realized that it's stupid Mother's Day this weekend, and LORD KNOWS it's entirely inappropriate to leave the things that make you a Mother over Mother's Day.

All I wanted was 45 minutes where no one was touching me, covering me with bodily secretions or banging on the bathroom door while I hide, with the lights off, so I can figure out if I'm mentally stable or fricking not.

Wait a sec. I've been writing this wee blog all by myself for at least 45 minutes.  I've been sitting here without so much as a sneeze in the next room. ... Glory, glory hallelujah! 

Clearly I'm ok, because if I weren't ok I'd be sobbing while writing this, right? Rock on! Yeah me! I'm a pillar of normalcy and happiness! I'm so excited I'm almost ready to bust out *two* exclamation points! (but not three, because we all know more than two exclamation points is a sign of mental instability!!!)

Quickly, I decide to celebrate by going to the grocery store. I grab my purse and decide my new ME needs a new look, too. I dump the contents onto the bed and scour my closet for a different handbag. I find one (chartreuse if you care) and begin reassembling the interior. With the addition of each lip gloss, I feel more powerful, more alive, and even, yes, more mentally triumphant.  

Hold the phone: what is this tiny envelope amongst the random crap that came from my other purse? 

Seriously? A thank you note? To Friendy Frienderson? What is this even for? 

I open it up and realize the note refers to the excitement I have that Friendy is finally having a girl (after 4 boys!!!) and thanks for the mani-pedi-colonic gift card you gave me for my birthday.  For my birthday. Nice. That was uh, well, my birthday is coming up again. Next month, actually. And, Friendy has had the baby; the baby is already crawling and is trying to talk. Dear Lord. 

So I do what anyone who is mentally stable and normal and happy would do.  

I walk downstairs, get an identical envelope and put the ancient card inside. I then take the ensemble outside and run it over with my car 4 times. I cut the engine, pick up the grimy, rock-pierced card and carefully put it in my bra between my boobs. Then, I switch into my jogging shoes and jog around the block.  

Once I am revived by some nice passersby, I limp home, taking care to put a stamp on the card after I remove it, wring it out, and shove it in the mailbox. Baa haa haa. I'm so slick I look like I'm made of grease. Wait. That actually doesn't sound good. But it's kinda appropriate. Anyway, I chuckle to myself at my genius; obviously that card got stuck in some post office machine and that is why it's almost a year late, not because my purse is a black hole from which most things never return.  Ha.

Ha ha. Haaahaaahaaa!!!!

And with that, I realize without a doubt, that I don't need a vacation to figure out if I'm ok. Clearly this is the case: only a completely sane person would go to so much trouble to look good for her friends. The crazies would just laugh and hand the card over the next time they saw you. 

Wait... uh...

I Can't Get Into Trouble, I Have Dance

I got my first truancy email today. 

I nearly had a heart attack-- I dropped Kiddo #1 off at school, and for some reason had this nagging feeling that I should watch her walk into school because today would be the day she didn't go inside. I decided not to watch her enter the school, however, because a) that's STUPID and b) I refuse to give in to the frantic lunacy of a woman running on very little sleep.  

She's four, in case you've forgotten. And yes, we missed the bus, again. 

I got the email at 10:20. It said that Kiddo #1 isn't in school this morning. Before I could even respond, Husband was on the horn asking me if everything was ok (he got the email too).  Panicking, I hung up the phone and called the school. 

Yes, Kiddo #1 is there, no, the sub that is in her class accidentally marked her absent.  Cool. 

But seriously, I had half an attack over this-- first off, I'm running on very little sleep (Kiddo #1 was up all night with an earache and Kiddo #2 was up all night because he kept losing that dang Poochie in his bed) and secondly, I had that stupid intuition thing that I ignored.  I really try hard not to ignore those little nagging feelings I have, because, 95% of the time they're right; my brain is much smarter than I am, as it turns out. 

Well, plus I was at the ballet store, getting Kiddo #1 her third pair of ballet and tap shoes for this year (anybody need a size 11 or 12 in near mint condition?) spending oodles on these shoes and all I could think of is "Wait! Maybe she's got herself a day-job and can buy these damn shoes herself!" 

So, when I got a second email this afternoon, reporting that Kiddo #1 was missing ALL DAY now, I called the school half expecting a huge intervention-- we all know that kids who are At Risk start showing problematic behaviours at 4-- they cut classes, are aggressive and never learn to read, pretty soon they're hooked on drugs and have triplets at 16.  I've seen it time and time again. Well, mostly on "Pregnant With Triplets At 16" or whatever that show is, but still.  Frightening. 

Oh, sure Kiddo #1 isn't aggressive, and she can read. But yesterday, I got this note from our daycare provider (remember her? The bootcamp instructor?) saying that Kiddo #2 had been hitting. Hitting, I say! How is this possible? Mellow-Kiddo #2? The kid who nods emphatically when he likes something and can knock you down with his gigantic hugs? Say it ain't so!

Yesterday I got wind I have a hitter, today, I have a truant.  If the dog could take a big dump on the carpet, that would round out the trifecta of awesomeness, no?

(Horse racing announcer voice) 

And they're comin' 'round the last turn, in third is "Kiddo Hit-o," second is "Truancy's 4 Jay-Kay," in first is "Carpet Crappin' Dog." Wait! Comin' up on the outside like a bat outta hell, comes "MommasBackToWork."  MommasBackToWork is speeding passed Kiddo, Truancy's AND Carpet Crappin' Dog! Carpet speeds up but there's nothing that can catch her-- MommasBackToWork For The Win. 

Yeah. Nice. 

FTW is right.