While My Tea Bag Gently Steeps

I sit and exhale slowly,

 releasing my day into the universe.

I sit with a cup of warm tea in my hand 

and replay bits of today

while I half-watch images in a box designed to engage me.

I sit and make a tally of the laundry not finished,

dishes not dried, phone calls not answered and 

emails destined to be lost in the limbo between "read"

and "replied to" on my phone.

I think about the harsh scolds and wonder

why I have to beg you to practice piano,

or dance, or any other thing you love to do?

(unless I'm asking you to do it-- 

and then it's a wall of

resistance

no army of 

firm words 

and scrunched eyebrows can penetrate)

And then, I exhale slowly,

releasing my frustration to the universe.

I sit beside you on the bench 

and fit your hand over my hand.

We half count, half curse.

We slow down. 

We count while we sing rhythms with a box designed to entertain us.

Slowly we both calm and fall into the pattern.

Ti-ti, ti-ti, ti-ti, ta.

Ti-ti, ti-ti, ti-ti, ta.

Ti-ti, ti-ti, ti-ti, ta.

Ta, ta,  half-note.

We slow down the world.

We make the time signature count for us. 

You and me. 

Both learning something difficult.

Both patients of patience.

I sit and exhale slowly,

releasing your forehead from my kiss.

I quietly leave your bedroom and remember 

that when you told your Daddy that your favourite part of today

was sitting beside me, 

drinking warm tea, 

that was my 

favourite part of today, too.

I sit and exhale slowly thankful for tea, and ti-ti and toi.

I hope I don't forget to tell you tomorrow morning.

I exhale slowly and let my eyes close the rest of the way.

I Got 99 Problems but a Squash Ain't One

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"
"Eek!"
"Oops. Sorry, Ma'am. I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Oh. Yes. Well, I startle easily. Can I help you?"
"Yes, can I see your licence and registration?"
"Sure. Uh, why?"

Normally, there would be any host of reasons that an officer might need to see my particulars and I would think to myself, "Dear Buddha, please don't let him catch me ______."

See, I often don't signal turns.  I occasionally don't believe in 4-way stops (just in some areas where it's scary to linger and in other places where the homeowners simply want you to gape at their huge homes, and in other spots where clearly there should be a LIGHT not a 4-way stop).  Oh, and sometimes, I speed.

More often, I have music blaring while singing with my children, and I am drinking lava-tea (which is tea you get at Tim Horton's that comes straight from active volcanoes and one tiny dot on the skin will eat a hole straight through to the other side), or am zooming home to get a forgotten Pinkie or Poochie thus ensuring I will be Late to wherever I  left early to get to on time.

Equally as frequently, however, I am returning from some terrible bank heist gone horribly wrong and Mr White is bleeding out in my backseat (after I restrained him in my son's 5-point harness for safety) while I sing "We're gonna be okaaaay."

When I got out of my car having fake-parallel parked it on King St (there were two spots open, so I just drove through the first spot and parked my car while the (unbeknownst to me) Officer of the Law parked behind me, and was told to fork over my plastics, I was flabbergasted.

I stood there thinking to myself, "He must be a fan! He must've recognized me from CK Child Magazine and wants to let me know my blogs touch his heart and funny bone! Or maybe he has seen the Twirly skirts  and wants to get one for his wee daughters? This is gonna be the coolest pull-over EVER!"

Then he said, "Do you realize your plates are expired?"
Chuckling, I said, "Oh no, my birthday isn't until November. They're just coming due."  I tapped the date on my licence and pass it to him.
Chuckling, he tapped the licence plate.

Sept '12? What the?
Oh. Yes.
Yes.

When we imported my car (upon our return to Canadia from Amerrica) there was some Title/registration glitch that required us to purchase my car outright in order to receive said documents, in order for me to, like, get a damn licence plate. And I think because of freedom of information or something equally as un-free as that, my name couldn't be on the title when we got it because I wasn't there in the office on that day and blah blah blah. Whatever. It was a very sad day for feminists everywhere.  

I then have a movie flashback of the registration notice coming in the mail with Husband's and me saying "Oh yeah, you're on the title for both cars-- and they're expiring soon. Can you deal with this; I'm sure with all the anti-fraud laws I can't pay for this because I'm not you."
"Sure." he said, "I'll get it done Monday."

So, returning to the present day, I text Husband "Hey, Honey, uh, did you get the licence plates renewed?  What about insurance?"
I wait 30 seconds and type back "Because I've been pulled over and neither one appears to be legit."
I wait 30 seconds and type back "And I remember getting the insurance card and saying "Honey, can you put this in the car for me, I'm making dinner." and you said "Sure. I'll do it right now.""
I wait 30 seconds and type back "Cuz it's not here. And the very tall, very good looking officer would like to see it. And I had to write he's good looking because a) he is and b) in case he looks at this and wants to know what I was saying, I want to suck up a little. I hope he doesn't read this last part though."

Then I get "The insurance is good. My card is good.  Oh shit. I have your card too. Sorry."
And then I get "Shit. I remember getting that notice."
And then I get "Shit. Are you getting a ticket."
And then I get "Shit. Happy Friday!"

And then, I get a ticket.

Nicely, the good-looking police officer who is at least 6 inches taller than I am (which is saying a lot since I'm 6 feet tall) didn't charge me for the expired insurance issue.  He nabbed me as a "gentle reminder" to renew my expired-by-one-month plates though, to the tune of $110. That is about as gentle as exfoliating with an SOS pad.

So, I stopped what I was going to do and drove straight to the DMV to pay for those stickers. Figuring I could only do my plates, I went over kinda annoyed. However, the Gods of the DMV smiled upon me and allowed me not only to pay for my plates, but for Husband's as well AND I was out of the office (including the time I was waiting for Husband to email me his pertinent info) in 20 minutes.

Seeing as I had all this extra time, I decided I'd drive the sticker out to his car and put it on there to avoid the potential for a second "gentle warning" today.

All the way to Husband's work I kept replaying the police officer's last remark in my head. He asked what I was going to be for Halloween, gesturing to the butternut squash bushel he could see in my backseat.

I have a slight major butternut squash buying addiction; I eat them only so I can make room to buy more. Honestly, I think they're amazingly delicious (and we eat them a lot) but mostly I just buy them non-stop in the fall. I mean non-stop. In fact, I even had a fleeting idea that the officer might be pulling me over because I was clearly hording all the best butternut squash in town.

I said "Well, uh, I guess probably Betty Rubble? Why?" and he said (this is the part I kept replaying), "Oh! I figured you' were for sure gonna be an Oompa Loompa."

Smiling (mostly to (again) suck up) I said "Oh that's hilarious!" and tried to figure out what the heck he meant.   Oompa Loompas?  How would that even work for me? Was he making some bizarre short joke? Cuz I'm 6 feet tall. I'd have to cut myself off at the knees to be an Oompa Loompa.  Was he referring to my ploofy hairstyle (which, by the way, is RUDE to say because, like, I know I need a trim!)? And how does an Oompa Loompa have anything to do with a basket full of butternut squash? Geez cops are bizarre.

I was thinking so hard about this that I had to slam on the brakes to avoid missing Husband's driveway. All my precious squash went tumbling onto the floor (and I could smell that at least one was damaged. Gah!) while my purse hit the front window despite throwing my right arm protectively across the front seat.  Luckily it was only the shell of the purse that hit the window: my wallet, 104 receipts, 3 pens, 2 pairs of sunglasses, several raisins or nuts or both, and at least 4 Thomas the Tank Engines exploded from my open purse mid-flight. Is there any wonder why my car looks like they filmed a disaster movie inside it? Sigh.

I turned in, and double parked behind his truck. I debated searching the debris for baby wipes that I know I have and gave up. I got out and licked my finger to clean off the sticker. I looked down, baffled. I scrubbed the dirt away and started to giggle. His plates expired not 1 month ago like mine, but 2 years  and one month prior. Say WHAT?  I snorted that, effectively my ticket was how much two years worth of licence plate renewals would've been anyway and shook my head.

In shaking my head, I caught a glimpse of myself in the puddle beside his tire. Then I really started to laugh.

Apparently when all you do is eat butternut squash so you can buy more butternut squash, your skin gets a delightfully, odd, orange hue. Somewhere in the distance a drummer just played the Ba-bum-bum Ching!

I clearly could be a live-in companion of Gene Wilder or Johnny Depp.

I text Husband one last time: Charlie Bucket: I found your golden ticket and pasted it on top of your expired plates. Expired in 2010, btw. What's better than an Oompa Loompa? Your wife, but not by  much. Dinner tonight is some gum I got from a fat chick named Violet. Could be fun.

He replied, "What? No butternut squash?"

It's Exhausting. We're never getting back together. Like, ever.

I need to return my glue-gun.

It seems that instead of heating up glue sticks so that I can create amazing things out of toothpicks and twine, all the glue-gun has done is left little pearls of glue stuck to our couch in a nice line between where I was sitting and our table in front of me. Oh, did I mention the game of Connect The Dots that was created by the spider webs of melty glue? It looks like a giant spider was used as an air-hockey puck between my knees and the table. Oh joy.

Fortunately, Husband continues to be more enamoured with my crafting abilities with every passing day. Wait. Oh, wait, uh, no.   

Worst part: it's so clearly obvious that I did that damage that I can't even come up with a way to blame the dog.

Rizzo, our Jack Russell Terrier, got herself a long, blonde curly wig and has been trotting around the house singing, 

"You. Are never, ever, ever, blaming that on meee! 

You-oo. Are never, ever, ever blaming that on meee. 

You try convince Husband, convince Kiddos 1 and 2, 

but You-oo are never, ever, ever, ever ... blaming that on meee."  

Like, ever.

I mean, the freakin' dog doesn't even have thumbs to work the glue gun; whose idea was it to NOT get a gleeful chimpanzee all those years ago when we opted for dogs?  Obviously my unstable crafting future did not come into play when we were at the dog shelter. 

Next time it will. Oh, yes. Next time it will.

See, we started this new "Plant-strong, whole-foods" diet, which is code for Vegan, but sounds less crazy and less extreme. If you have never given up meat or dairy at any point in your life, I tell you-- take this month and give it a try. Who gives a shit about all the obvious health benefits-- I'm telling you that the minute you start eating foods you've (likely) never had to eat before, you become a real, serious machine gun of gas.

When governments cut back army funding, they secretly change their
soldiers' diets to Vegan thus simulating the sound of assault weapons;
it tricks the other side into surrender every time. 

Machine gun. 

Of gas.

There's no such thing as a subtle vegan. In fact, I guess that's why they've kept the kinda-scary name. Nothing about being vegan is discreet or quiet, least of all the farts. 

Remember when you were 8 and fart jokes were HI-larious and you'd giggle hysterically when someone would say "Pull my finger?"  Remember how you took all that time to classify and sort all the different types of farts that exist? The S.B.D. (silent but deadly), the pfffffft (that just kinda sounds like some wind slipping through a crack in an open window, the full-frontal (which defies gravity and comes out ... well you get it)... so many names, so many varieties, so so so many laughs.

Let me tell you, if you've left your heart in grade 3, the Whole-foods, plant-based diet is right up your (stinky) alley. Sure, the toots abate after two weeks, but you'll probably die laughing long before then. 

Or asphyxiate. 

See, Rizzo is thrilled with the glue-gun incident because, possibly for the first time in our life together, I have to take responsibility for something and not blamed her.

Friends visit and leave covered in dog hair? Rizzo! (that's mostly her anyway, but if I were a good dog-mom I would get her groomed or at least vacuum her to avoid that problem)

Can't find my keys? Rizzo took them.

Visiting friends gagging at the S.B.D.? Dang it, Rizzo! Outside! 

Just farted and sounded like end of a fireworks show? Rizzo! Naughty girl! 

It's not like I don't reward Rizzo for taking the blame; she gets those no-gluten, homemade dog treats that cost more than an entire bag of dog food. She and I go for walks and she has been allowed to chase and kill two bunnies in our backyard this year, as well as jump into the pond whenever she feels like it. It's a sweet life (except for the part where she sleeps under our covers and went deaf from the Rice Krispies farts <--- those toots that go "snap, crackle, pop.")

Maybe I can make a voodoo-style dog out of the glue gun strings and dots? Every time the lentils venture forth into the atmosphere, I can push on the tummy of my voodoo-glue dog and Rizzo will know to grin sheepishly while whispering "Oh excuse me! How terribly embarrassing! Good heavens!"  

But this time, I'm telling you, I'm telling you ... I need a new glue gun.

Spontaneous Sleeping Behind The Wheel

As recently as 6 months ago, I began jogging. I'd say running, but I think some people's stroll is still faster than I run, but that's beside the point. In fact, you could say it's keeping pace with the point in an aggravating manner, but I digress.

While jogging today I had an epiphany. Exciting, non?

See, a friend of mine posted what I thought was a very eloquent article about why it's hard to be a teacher this year. Frankly, I was reading it and thinking the whole time, "Boy, this is exactly how teachers feel this year! This is an excellent article!"  The crux of the thing, by the way, is that teachers, even the peppy ones, even the ones that make differences in your childrens' lives every day, are Tired.

So I sat there ruminating and thought "Man! This is exactly how I feel. I should totally share this article."

And then I didn't.

There was something that stopped me (beyond the lack of 'share' button from my phone, which irks me), and I couldn't put a finger on it until I was doing my 4th circle around the park today.

At 28 minutes into my 30 minute run, I realized what kept me from posting that article is the same thing I was feeling right then and there: I'm tired, too.

I'm not working full time. In fact, with the amount of subbing I actually do, I'd hardly qualify as part-time. Yet, I'm tired, too.

And it occurred to me, while I was running in circles, that I think, finally, everyone is tired.

To qualify my sweeping notion, here's my idea: what if, after almost a decade of living with a completely shitty economy (in Canada and the US), living in turmoil of losing a job for fear there is literally nothing else out there, we are ALL tired?

We are all doing the heaps more work given with little or no compensation; yet the blue bird on our shoulders keeps saying "Well, at least you've got a job! Just smile and do this little bit extra and be thankful for what you've got!"

As a teacher, as a tax payer, as a parent of school-aged children, as a (seemingly) perpetual student myself, I feel inundated with a whole lot of propaganda about teachers. I'm sure there have been years where things have been so heated and emotional. I'm sure there have been other years where things haven't been and should have been. But I use the term propaganda correctly here-- there is a whole lot of information being tossed around that is meant to sway public opinion.  As a teacher, tax payer, parent of school-aged children, and a perpetual student, I'm kinda torn.

On one side, I dig it. Teaching is not the profession it used to be, even 5 years ago. The teachers who have been around for decades must be truly beside themselves for the unrealistic amounts of change required of us in our classrooms on a daily basis.

And yet.

When people say "Oh, you get summers and holidays off!" we, as a profession, go on the defense. We say things like "You could've been a teacher, too!" and "We don't mandate our holidays, the government does!" and other such things that make people feel sad in their smug exclamations. We do things like create clever charts and graphs and do crazy math (well, other teacher friends do this, I simply read it and am amazed that they did that) to prove that with all the extra hours teachers put in, we earn cents on the dollar. Sad right?

And yet.

We chose this profession. Teaching hasn't changed so much in the last 200 years that we didn't know we'd be doing, planning, marking/grading, attending functions and chairing clubs/coaching teams etc.  To that, I can't help but say "You could've been something different, too, dear Teacher."

Ouch.

The other fact is that not every teacher does things like coaching or leading a club or (frankly) prep/marking etc. Some teachers suck at their jobs, or worse, hate their jobs. Those teachers, in my humble opinion, are the reason Great Teachers feel so shafted. Why-oh-why does Shitty Teacher get to earn $$$ and keep a job they clearly suck at?  I think those Shitty Teachers, too, are the reason public opinion isn't exactly pounding down our front doors right now.

Double ouch.

Not to mention, and this is the most important part, I can't think of any person in North America who works at any career who is not putting in thousands of extra hours of overtime just to keep a job.  I mean really, let's compare apples to apples shall we? Anyone who makes a paycheque that is equal to or greater than that of a teacher, or  a career that requires at least a post-grad certificate, is undoubtedly putting in time outside of their regular day. If they're not, they're lying to you to get your goat.

I promise.

The local business owner, the big-company person, the small-company person, the engineer, the teacher, the nurse, the Dr... do you think any of these professionals starts or ends a day at a prescribed time? Sure, they're supposed to, but if something needs their attention, it gets it, 5pm or not.

In this economy, everyone has to hustle to make a buck. In this economy, everyone puts in extra hours to make ends meet. In this economy, everyone is still pretending to not have hard weeks or months... and in this economy, we're ALL TIRED.

All of us. We're tired. I know you feel it, or you wouldn't still be reading this post.

We're tired of pretending we're all billionaires. We're tired of waking up and the problems of yesterday are still here. We're tired of hearing that, for all the great things we have going on in our two countries, there are some real, tough, shitty things out there that we've tried to smile through. And the shit is not going away.

So, here's what I propose: let's all stop pretending anyone works harder than anyone else. Let's all stop pretending someone else has it so much easier than you do. Let's stop blaming, and being jealous and get to the heart of the problem: we're tired and something has to change or there's going to be a nationwide pileup on the highways caused by spontaneous sleeping behind the wheel.

There are a lot of broken things going on in each country. We need to, as countries, figure out what is True and what is False.  No one is having secret diamond parties.  No one is living it up without worries or cares. Even celebs are wearing outfits more than once. The NHL is on strike or locked out or whatever the line is. Our teachers in Canada and the US could be in the same boat (and might already be, mentally), our Doctors are feeling the same. That's not a pretty picture, folks.

Appreciate what you have. Don't worry about your neighbours or your friends across town. I assure you, they're as tired as you are.

Now go take a nap. Or take two weeks and get 10 full hours of sleep a night.
Don't lie and say you don't need sleep. Yes you do. YES. You do.

De-occupy yourself and your family-- your kids don't need to be in 10 thousand things to make them good people. They need parents that care about them and show them how to take care of themselves.  They need to see what it's like to be engaged in the here and now.  And stop over-caffeinating yourself to get through your day. Sleep 8 hours at night instead; I promise it will change your life.

Nothing seems as daunting once you're rested.
Nobody has it better than you when you've had enough sleep.
The sun isn't even as annoyingly bright and cheerful when it's not reflecting off the bags under your eyes.

It's time to stop being tired; that time starts now and it starts with you.

(don't worry-- the regularly scheduled hilarity will begin again once I've had a nap)

Do you agree? Or am I off my ever-loving rocker?