Staples: Now That Was Easy

Pushing my trolley down the hall at the end of the day, a boy from my grade 2 class approached me with a mournful expression on his face.  I glanced up the busy hall and saw the principal nod slowly like he'd been watching to make sure "Little Joey" stopped to talk to me.

Dang. This kid was here to apologize for being rude and nasty to me, but I was just trying to get home to my big glass of wine.

I smiled brightly and said, "Hi Little Joey."

Little Joey: Uh, hi, Mrs Madame. 

Me: How can I help you this afternoon, my friend?

Little Joey: Well, the principal told me I have to apologize for being mean to you today.

Me: Oh? Well, you did make a really horribly nasty face at me when I asked you to put away your pencil crayons.

Little Joey: Well, it's just that ... I was told that I'm not allowed to use my fingers to tell you what I think of you."

...

...

And with that, my day ended the way it started. Only, the driver who flipped me The Bird this morning DID use his fingers to tell me what he thought of me.

Must've been the kid's dad.

I stopped on the way home and got some groceries (read: I spent 30 minutes walking through Superstore, amassed multi-hundred dollars worth of food that fits in 2 bags and holy shit how is that possible?? Gaaaah!)

I got into the car (kinda still chuckling about the "use my fingers" thing) and headed home.  Then my phone was ringing. Wow. I've never heard it ring. Yeah me! I'm getting better at being a cell-phone carrier. 

But wait a second: call display says it's Husband, who never, ever calls me. 

I mean never.  

I have deliberately gone "missing" over a period of hours and he will not phone to see if I'm still alive.

... Ok, it was me escaping for some alone time, in a huff but the fact is, he never did call or text to see if I'm ever coming home. In a few hours, I could be in ... well, I could be waiting at the America/Canada border on my way to Mexico. Just sayin'.

I think he probably doesn't want to indulge my antics, but seriously, pick up a damn phone and call me sometime. Sheesh. What's a girl to do?

So, then, of course, when my phone rings, and it's him, I know something big is up.

I pull over and pick up the phone. 

Me: Hi.

Husband: Don't freak out.

Me: Uh, ok?

Husband: Well just, don't freak out but we're in Emerge. 

Me: (trying to fake it) Uh, ok??

Husband: Well, Kiddo #2 was jumping on the bed...

Me: (groan)

Husband: Well, yes. So I was in the kitchen making dinner...

Me: (grooooan)

Husband: And I heard this huge bang.and then I waited and didn't hear crying.

Me: (gasp)

Husband: So I ran in and there he was working up a huge cry and I went to hug him...

Me: Ugh!

Husband: And my hand came back with a lot of blood.

Me: UGHHH!

Husband: He's all bandaged up now and he's fine but he's gonna need stitches.

Me: (groaning)  Ok. I'm on my way.

I arrive at the hospital with a coffee and hunker down for a long night.

Oh my lanta. There were a dozen babies (and by babies, I mean anything under the age of 2) who took turns screaming the entire time we were there. It was like the worst day in Walmart met the first day at Gymboree and the two had a secret devil spawn called Emily Rose.  Or whatever ER stands for.

When we all got into the exam room, Kiddo #1 became instantly interested in all things going on and needed to be underfoot.  I nearly came home with only one child that night. I know she wanted to make sure her brother was ok, but holy lordy get the eff out from my armpits! Gah!

Perhaps this would have been the part in the movie where the music changes ever-so-slightly to indicate the beginning of my undoing.

Maybe it was Kiddo #1 being all up in my biznas.
Maybe it was the screaming waiting-room-sextet.
Maybe it was all that, coupled with the whimpers of my kidlet, but I think this truly was where I went from calm and rational to "woman on the edge" complete with twitchy eye.

When the (very kind) nurse arrived and began washing his head with saline, I started sweating.

There was my little guy, shivering from pain, or shock, or both (I've only seen him do that one other time, and it was when we were in emerge and he'd cut open his hand and they were washing out his gaping wound then, too.) but I could feel the beads of cold sweat collecting on my forehead.

When Kiddo #2 started to whimper, I looked at Husband and felt the world start to give way.  I don't think I was gonna faint; I was getting bigger...

 I think that must be what Bruce Banning feels just seconds before he goes from doctor to Hulk.

I choked back tears and rushed out to "get something from the car."  I was gonna lose my mind watching my kiddo in pain.

Nursing, thy career is for anyone but me.

I stood out in the freezing cold night and let my sweaty self cool off.  Oh, look in my armpits, I found Kiddo #1 again. Thank heaven she has sense enough to stay out of the path of a charging elephant.

Wait.

I mean, GAAAH give me some space, kid! I'm trying not to scream at you because I feel awful and here you are being all innocent and helpful. She was practically BEGGING me to lose my shit all over her.  I deftly told her to find 4 pink things in the backseat of the car to get her away from me.

I took a breath and felt my chin quiver. I slowly exhaled (which calmed the need to yell. It takes a lot of breath to lose you cool, so slowly exhaling tricks your body into thinking there isn't enough energy to use for a real freak-out).  I inhale and there is that lump in my throat again.  I can feel my eyes filling up.  Frick.  Exhale.

And then I decided that crying in front of my kiddo is ok because the best gift you can give a child is to show them that adults are human, too.

But then, just as I was allowing my first tears to fall, it occurred to me that if I was sobbing, it might make Kiddo #2 panic that everything wasn't going to be ok, which I really didn't want to do.

So I held the tears back.

And then I thought that I probably wasn't going to have a complete breakdown, and that a few tears could fall and that is OK, since everything WAS going to be ok.

And then I thought well, there's no need to over-emote and scare the kid: no tears.

And then I thought that I could tell her that the reason I'm crying is because I'm relieved that he's ok and that tears are just the body's natural mechanism for getting rid of stress.  Ok tears.

And, then, frankly, after having a stupid debate in my head about whether or not to cry in front of my well-adjusted child, I was distracted enough not to have to cry at all.  Handy.  Debate ended.

So I cried tears of joy and we returned to the centre of all human suffering (via screaming children in the emergency waiting room).

When I go to Hell, one of my circles will be thousands of crying babies. I think it's the 3rd circle, just outside the lawyer one.   Kiddo #1 and I sat down and played games on our devices until  Kiddo #2 and Husband emerged.

Ok.

Kiddo #1 played a painting game until the guys returned.  I battled incessantly with stupid level 65 on stupid Candy Crush. I've been on level 65 for three months now, and focusing on the level while a bunch of babies were crying their heads off in an echo-y emergency waiting room did nothing to help me finish that damn level.  Stupid chocolate squares!

Almost chucking my phone, it was a relief that the boys returned with staples and stickers for being good.

Yeah we may be done in Emerge, but I'm still on stupid level 65.  I was gonna flip Candy Crush the bird, but I was told not to use my fingers to express myself anymore...

Meeting Margaret Atwood

For my birthday this year, Margaret Atwood decided to go on tour to promote her new book.

I know, right? Lucky me! So my mother got us tickets to go see my most beloved author speak.

I arrived in Amsterdam with the kiddos; everyone was ready to have a great night-- Husband was home playing video games (win), Kids were with Grandpa (win) and I was with Grandma and Margaret Atwood (So. Much. Winning.).

She came, she spoke, she conquered.  Margaret Atwood is one of the most incredibly diverse and thoroughly educated people that exist.  Her wry smile from her various jacket covers is real, and her wit is sharp as a razor.

I would've probably cried had she read the back of a cereal box, but as it was, she read an excerpt from her new book (Maddaddam).  The second one she was asked to read was laced with "fuck," (which is my most favourite word in the world, ps), afterwhich she answered some (rather mundane) audience questions.

Not that I meant to judge--but, like, why would you ask Margaret Atwood why she "[has] female protagonists so much?" Uh, hello? When a guy asked "When are you going to get back to the regular stuff? This new stuff is... weird." Margaret Atwood didn't bat an eyelash and answered his question.

Margaret Atwood could have rolled her eyes and whisper-shouted "why weren't the questions pre-screened?" or just stared at the audience without blinking until everyone was uncomfortable, which would silently shame the question-asker, and yet we all would have understood. 

Margaret Atwood merely answered the questions and went off on similar but more interesting tangents when the question was too boring for conversation.

But with every sorta weird question she answered, I felt the urge to ask my own question gaining strength.  Oh, it's a dangerous game you play when you're nice and answer dumb questions because other nice people  who are driven mad with excitment that MARGARET ATWOOD is talking in real life might start to get crazy notions in their head that MARGARET ATWOOD might just answer her very dumb question if only the microphone person might come closer...

Hypothetically speaking, I mean.

And then some guy asked what "writing means to her" and as could be expected, Margaret Atwood was incredibly gracious and kind in her answer, ... after rebutting with "what does dentistry mean to a dentist?"  which made several of us giggle.  And I started to think my question might be valid and real and at least better than "what does writing mean to you?"

Oh Dear God. It's happening.

All I can think of is to control my screaming desire to put up my hand, stand up, grab the microphone and say "Margaret Atwood, could you be my BFF? I could come to your house and have dinner and we can laugh about Rob Ford and hashtag "in a drunken stupor," and then speak seriously about the state of Canada's environment and if we kill the bees we're all done for, but they're less important than saving the oceans, since that's where 80% of our world's oxygen comes from. Just, could you be my BFF?"

I'm seriously sitting on my hands, and my left hand comes up to my throat and I smile like a nutter thinking "Oh, no! I shouldn't invite myself to her place, I should invite her to mine and then say we could have dinner and laugh over wine and play Scrabble... or maybe just Candy Crush. I'm pathetic at Scrabble. Would have to live in the brothel not be a Handmaid."  and my hand covers my smile and I'm really, truly, insane.  I've been driven insane by my respect for Margaret Atwood, and my brain forces my left hand back under my legs so as to keep myself from looking crazycrazycrazy.  Now, from the excitement, I have to pee. Really bad.

Now I'm not only squirming because
I'm crazy for Margaret Atwood,
but
I'm also quite uncomfortable
in my seat because
I have to pee from my excitment
to see Margaret Atwood.

I think in a past life I must've been a puppy because that super freak-out that puppies do when you come in the front door? Yeah, that's pretty much what I was trying to NOT do.  I'm not 100% sure I was successful on any level though.

I nearly fell off my chair from awe. My mother kept squeezing my arm to calm me down.  But really, the difference between me seeing Margaret Atwood and a 5 year old meeting her favourite Disney Princess is nil.  I'm just bigger, and Margaret Atwood is really real. And if she's not, if she's a Canadian Princess, don't tell me and ruin it. I'm cool.

 In fact, looking back, I probably looked like I was having some sort of seizure or something, but finally my will to look normal and possibly get an autograph won out over my will to be Margaret Atwood's BFF because they announced that there was time for one last question and a guy in the corner put up his hand to speak.

Before he even opened his mouth, that he was crazy.  I mean, CRAY-ZEE.  Sure, he wasn't wearing a tinfoil hat, but you knew it was folded neatly in the pocket of his puffer jacket.  This guy, in his puffy jacket, exuded an aura of "I could explode into a crazy jig the next time I bat my eyelashes, OR I could be fine."

You know, he looked just like me. Shit.

And as he began speaking with an almost unintelligible accent, my hands flew into an outrage.  Here I'd been good, kept to myself, and pretended that Margaret Atwood wasn't making me turn into a teen at a 1Direction concert, and THIS GUY was here being as crazy as I had WANTED to be.

AND he had the mic.

And now I was so jealous that I couldn't even come up with a semi-smart question to ask to save the day at the end. You know, "Hey, that guy's done being crazy. Can I ask you how you came up with leaving the period off the end of that chapter in Handmaid's Tale? Am I supposed to think she skipped her period, and is pregnant, or is it to alert the reader to the cassette tape ending prematurely or something entirely different?"

Because then Margaret Atwood could say something profound, leave us all feeling good, and I could look like a hero.

But no, while Puffer Jacket Guy was busy telling Margaret Atwood, MARGARET ATWOOD that his life is very interesting and that, since she's a very, very good writer, could she write his life story for him? all I could do is watch in envious horror.

"Because you are a very, very good writer and I am not very good with English, but I have it all written down and could you translate it for me into English? Or just write out my words in English and then make sure they sound really good? Because I think my story is a good story and lots of people would like to read it." He continued, while I seethed with jealousy that he didn't restrain himself and got to have a direct audience with Margaret Atwood.

And the worst part, the WORST part, was how Margaret Atwood skillfully suggested his story was his and he needed to write his own story and perhaps he's needing to find a ghost writer, and to do so he need search the Writer's Guild of Canada for an appropriate one.

Like. The. Pro. She. Is.

And now all I want to do is ask her to come over and make Rice Krispie squares because she'd likely say yes and make me look cool, even though we both know she'd never show up, and I'd be cool with that.

But Puffer Jacket Guy refused to be quieted.  He continued to tell her how maybe she could write the story and he could tell it to her and she could make it sound good, because, she IS a very good writer and has won awards and could you do this because lots of people would find my story very interesting.

The moderator was making not-so-subtle gestures to get the microphone from the hard to understand man. The gender-neutral runner who gave him the microphone in the first place was blushing wildly, embarrassed that s/he had fallen prey to the crazy guy, and freaking out that it would be up to him/her to get that microphone back from the nutter.  The event organizer had appeared on the stage and was whisper-cursing at the not-girl-or-boy to hurry up.

Finally, we were saved from Puffer Jacket Guy and I was saved from trying to be crazier and ask Margaret Atwood to be my BFF and we filed out of the auditorium to dutifully wait in line for her signature.  After walking a considerable distance to be at the end of the line, we all decided to talk about the crazy man that no one could understand and how kind Margaret Atwood was to even listen to him.

And wow this line is really long and why isn't it moving at all? And where did she learn all her stuff? And someone blithely suggested she probably learned it all from Wikipedia and we all rolled our eyes at the thought. Honestly. Cretan.

I stood there eavesdropping and thinking "That woman is a Pro-fesh-un-al" for dealing with those random questions tonight. And, I was also thinking "Yeah me! I didn't do anything really dumb to keep me from being able to ask for an autograph, and possibly a picture!"

And then I was thinking "I really have to pee, but I'm not going to leave my place in line"  I decided I'd head on down to the bathroom once my super hip mother had returned from her trip.  And while I was smirking at my awesomeness to not be insane,  I felt a tap on my shoulder.  Figuring it was my super hip mother returning from her quest for the bathroom, I smiled and turned.

Oh, yes.
Puffer Jacket Guy.

He said hi.  Then he said (several times, until my ears had re-acclimated to his very thick accent) how amazing a writer Margaret Atwood is and how he'd be so honoured to have her write his story because he was many important things in his homeland, including a movie star and possibly a doctor, and now he was having trouble getting a job, but he's got this great story and, really, getting Margaret Atwood to write it-- it would be a business venture right? I would pay her the right amount of money, or I would give her some of the royalties.  Or whatever she thought was fair.  Being Margaret Atwood, she probably would be too kind to accept any money, but maybe since she's a professional writer, she might need to make some money for the sales and what do you think?

I nodded and tried to focus on his mouth and words.  I lip read and still it was exceedingly difficult to figure out what he was saying.  But I also felt like, but what if this is Margaret Atwood's agent dressed up as a crazy guy to see if her fans are shitty or crazy or not, or maybe it is someone else from her camp, because the line wasn't moving at ALL and I kinda had cramps waiting to go to the bathroom, too, and where was my mother anyhow?

So I listened to his story, and then he asked me if I'd take a picture of him with Atwood when he got to the front, and I thought to myself, "Well, why not? Who does it hurt?" and he gave me his business card so I could email him the picture, and also if you know anyone who writes, just in case Margaret Atwood still doesn't think she can do it?  I took the card thinking "Well, if Margaret Atwood can be kind to him, so can I."

My mother returned to the line just in time for a grey-worsted sweater wearing guy behind me to butt like, 30 people in line (including me), which irritated me mostly because I didn't have the audacity to actually try to do that.  That's twice in one event that someone had guts I didn't have: Puffer Jacket Guy and Butter-Sweater Guy.  Gah.

Puffer Jacket Guy just relaxed for the long wait and disappeared into the back of the line the way people disappear into things in The Matrix.  Mom made friends with a lovely woman in line with a cute grey beret on and I chatted with a girl with a dragon bookbag.

We got to the front, and I nearly screamed and cried.  Margaret Atwood signed my books.  I, trying to sound funny but not creepy, said, "Oh! I worked really hard on getting my daughter's name to be Atwood. I laboured really hard but my husband wouldn't go for it." and then she said, "What is her name?" I said "Zadie but she'd have been a good Attie, too."  and my BFF Margaret Atwood replied, "Oh, well, Zadie's a good writer, too." and I chuckled inwardly had an English Major moment because I've never NOT had to explain that my daughter's name comes from another amazing writer, Zadie Smith.

So I smiled.  That was all I could let come out without unleashing the floodgates of my geeked out self.

My mom got her books signed while I had my picture taken with Margaret Atwood. WHAT? Yes! I asked her if it would be any trouble at all, she said no, and I had my picture taken with my idol.  Seriously, I probably don't need to accomplish anything else for the rest of my life.  Except that now, I realize that with meeting Margaret Atwood, and having my picture taken, I now have screaming cramps and am about to shit my pants from the excitement.

Oh my GOSH the pain was blinding.  I needed to get to a bathroom and FAST. Almost doubled over, I try to politely ask the bookstore guy where the bathrooms are, while discreetly crossing my legs and sweating from the pain.  Oh Lordy.

I start slowly heading towards the stairs (because the cramps are strong and my lower body is weak and I'm afraid I will lose it (literally and figurativly) if I go any faster.  And I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Realizing I'd sold my soul to Puffer Jacket Guy so I could meet Margaret Atwood, and here he was collecting, I stopped.  I took a deep breath.

Like childbirth, I was gonna have to stick this one out to the bitter end.

It was time to pay the piper.

Or, I needed to take a picture of the piper.  Sweating from the screaming gut pain, I go back to the guy. I'm in too much pain, though, to figure out a good way to show Margaret Atwood that I'm not actually WITH Puffer Jacket Guy, that his crazy has nothing to do with me.

And here I stand while my mother is behind me asking "What are you doing? I thought you had to go to the bathroom? Why are you talking to that guy from the lecture? What are you doing? Why are you taking his picture? I thought you had to go to the bathroom?"

Puffer Jacket Guy stands behind Margaret Atwood and asks that she stand for the picture.  She shoots him a gentle, but firm look of no and I say, "Oh no, you need to get down to her seat, sir." and he tried to convince her, which I really don't recommend doing. In fact, I think I'm glad I didn't have to convince her to let me go to a dance with Jimmy Hair-gel in high school because I think she would have been difficult to persuade.

But Puffer Jacket Guy tries a third time to get her to stand and she looks at me with this "Really?" look and I was like "AH! He's not with me! I don't know him! Don't let this tomfoolery mess up our BFF status!"  

Well, I thought that, and I'm sure the panic in my eyes told the same tale, but really, I took the picture.  When he asked for a second and third and I said, "I got this one, we're good sir. I'll send you the picture to the email address on your card, sir. I have to go, sir."  and I slowly cramped away.  I just needed to get outta there.  NOW.

I hustled out of the lobby, gut still screaming in excitement and IBS, with my mother trailing behind me.  I get halfway down the lobby when I hear my mother chatting it up with random strangers to tell them about how Puffer Jacket Guy had me take his picture and expects me to email it to him and why is my mother slowing me down because I'm either gonna shit my pants OR Puffer Jacket Guy is gonna find me again and need a ride somewhere and I'm not taking him.  There is a certain amount of crazy I will oblige; the rest can all go to hell.

I shoot a look worthy of Margaret Atwood at my mother, who figures it out and hustles down to meet me. We get into the car and drive to the nearest coffee shop, where we both decide to bring in our precious books lest some random stranger break into the car and steal our autographs while we're inside.

It was a night I'll never forget.  And, yes, I emailed the picture to Puffer Jacket Guy. No, I haven't heard from him since, so no, I'm not his ghost writer.

But I'm sure he has an incredible story to tell, and it might even start with "You  might wonder how I got Margaret Atwood to ghost write for me..."

I swear, if that happens, I'll tweet "Wanna come for dinner and Scrabble?" to Margaret Atwood, and then run screaming to the bathroom to await her reply.