I Think I Just Rage-Quit the Car?

The problem always starts when I put on boots. I fucking HATE wearing boots. Maybe it's my super high arches that started this abhorrence? Maybe it's that my socks are always too small or too short? Who knows.

However, the most vivid memory of my childhood is the scrunched sock, half-on, half-off my foot while trying to frolic outside but I am too distracted by my stupid sock to have any fun.

This isn't fucking Mordor where you can just stop,
mid-quest, and have an existential crisis. 

Because, let's face it, one does not simply pull your boot off and adjust your sock when it's -40. You just have to deal; this isn't fucking Mordor where you can just stop mid-quest and have an existential crisis. This is Canadian winter, Frodo.

Canadian. Winter.

And as I've aged, my sock-boot issue has grown, blossomed as it were, just like my feet.  In fact, my dogs are sassy, large, and unwilling to be held down by other peoples' notions of "acceptable" and "appropriate for the weather."  They're like cheap drag queens, and my bitches wanna werk!  When you think of my feet, I want you to envision Chewbacca in a pink prom dress. Now you get it.

However, it's slushy and snowy and generally approaching 0 Kelvin (not 0 Celcius, which isn't even cold), so boots were necessary last week.

Oh, I'd tried to go out in shoes, as I'm sure you guessed. Only, I stepped in a massive puddle IN THE GARAGE and got a delightful slush-soaker.

Cursing under my breath, I amble back inside in search of socks; I relent that socks are probably necessary, at least, while at breakfast. Stupid-slush-soaker-ruining-my-shoe-plans-mid-winter.

I try to put a dry tube sock on my sweaty, freezing, water-logged foot. It gets stuck just passed my toes. Husband pokes his head in from the garage and shouts (nicely), "The kids are in the car. You comin'?"

I bark something back and tug at my stuck sock. I twist it and get it to my heel but now it is bunched everywhere and there isn't enough sock left to pull up. And it is twisted. And stuck.

I'm breathing heavily just recounting this to you, and it's a week later. I think there's some PTSD going on cuz I kept having panicky flashbacks last week, too. This must be what The Hulk/Bruce Banning goes through afterwards. Lordy.

Husband arrives again and says (nicely), "Honey? We have to leave or we'll be late. You ok?"

I rip and tug frantically at the other sock on. I muffle a squeak and bang my feet against the carpet to try and get the socks on properly while I walk to my shoes. My soaked shoes.

Gah. It is gonna have to be boots. I inhale deeply and put my foot in.

Something happens where my sock gets caught on the top of the tongue but I thought I could just push and get the damn boot on. So, when I put my heel in, it pulls the lining down just enough to bunch up under my heel.

I'm sweating now. I hope you appreciate what I'm going through just to tell you a story.  Good lord, I need therapy.

So, I pull my heel up and then smash it down again, only now my foot's in, the heel is ok, and the top of my sock is pulling on my toes like quicksand; the more I wiggle my toes to free them, the more confined they become.

The garage door opens and the truck begins to back out. Gaaaaah!

I shove my second foot in the boot. Instantly, I remember that I never wear socks with boots for this exact reason. I limp out the door like a rageful zombie.

The next part of the story happened both quickly and in slow-motion.

I head out of the garage and towards the waiting truck.  I'm already agitated at my footwear, feeling confined and suddenly I know exactly what it's like to be Tara from Sons of Anarchy.  Tara is like my toes, stuck and twisted into a horrible shape in a sock and even worse, in a boot she didn't want to be a part of, and she knows she has to be free, but there's no help coming from anywhere so she's gonna have to figure it out herself. Only my toes aren't quite as smart as Tara.  Oh, they're as aggressive, just not as smart, so they're trying to wiggle to freedom in vain.

But I have to face facts.  My toes are bound. Also, I have to wear my winter coat. FRICK!  See, I intended to wear my hoodie and vest with sneakers in this balmy -13 C day, but the soaker ruined that plan and in my haste to put on fricking socks, I am now wearing the Trifecta of Doom: boots, hoodie and winter coat.

For the win?
FTW, anyway. You decide which one.

I climbed in the passenger seat and the kids ask, "Momma! Are we gonna be late?"

I say, sweetly, sweating just a little, "No, darlings."

My toes screamed and faked a miscarriage
to try and get out of my boot and sock.  

We head down the driveway and turn onto the main road. My toes are faking a miscarriage in hopes of getting the hell outta my Charming boots and socks, and I'm trying not to focus on it but it's preoccupying my brain.  And that's when it happened: Husband's passenger seat belt locked because the mechanism is quirky, just as my foot got a weird cramp because my toes were crunched in my fricking boots and I couldn't bend down to fix the damn boots because I was cinched in by the fricking seat belt, huge ass coat and damned hoodie! GAAAAAAH!

So, I may have, kinda, somewhat... fuck it.
I. Lost. My. Shit.

Clawing at the belt that had me inextricably pinned, and gasping for air, I smashed my hand at the window controls figuring if I could just get some cold air on my face I might make it to our breakfast date with friends. Might.

I undid the seat belt and tried to take off my coat but the belt is still wrapped up in the coat sleeve and hood. Also, I'm maybe sitting on bits of it so no matter how I shift, I just get more tangled? And it doesn't matter how much yoga I do, because when I try to pull off my coat in a car, my arm gets stuck in a horrible angle above my head and the shoulder blade goes into a panic pain thing of its own and now I'm writhing and sweating and freaking the FUCK out.  And it's not getting any cooler in here. I must've missed the window button when I hit it initially.

Trying to remain calm, I mash my paw into the window button again. Nothing happens. I press it again. NOTHING!

Me: HUSBAND! WINDOW!
Husband: Whaaa? Are you ok?
Me: (Like Satan) WINDOW! OPEN!
Husband: That's cuz the child locks are ... Uh, I'll unlock it.
Me: (sounds of a demon gargling virgin goat's blood)

I greedily gulp the cool air once the window is down. Deep, long, cold breaths enter my lungs, freezing my need to murder and pillage.  The cold air cools my rage and makes me able to get out of the stupid spiderweb that is my coat and seat belt.  Soon, I can even Hulk outta my coat. And get my feet outta those mofo boots.

Sweet Home Alabama, the freedom.

And so I decided I can probably put up the window. So, I calmly, gently, push the button to raise the window up and there is a horrible crunching sound. A terrible, crunching sound. A awful, terrible, broken-glass sound.

Husband looked at me like I'd just performed a vasectomy on him while he slept, without his consent.  Or, like, you could also say "in shocked disbelief."

Me: Uuuuh...
Husband: What did you do?
Me: I just pushed the button.
Husband: Like, rage-pushed?
Me: No! Promise!
Kiddo#1: I think she was ok, Daddy. It was after she stopped sweating...
Kiddo#2: Actually she's still sweaty, right Momma? It takes a few times to stop sweating.
Me: Ok everyone. Thanks.
Husband: Will the window go up?
Me: Nuh-uh.

I wiggled my freed toes, gulped in the refreshing, calming cold air and felt wonderful. Felt happy.  Euphoric. Felt... kinda cold, really. Geez. This window stuck down is kinda chilly. The kids said nothing of the cold, but their snot-scicles spoke volumes. I looked at Husband.  He glanced back at me, sighed and turned the car around for home while I texted our friends that we would NOT actually make it to breakfast today. 

I carried my boots, socks, coat and pride back into the house and sighed triumphantly.

I turned on the fireplace and warmed my drag queens by the fire while the kids ate cereal and husband made himself some coffee and toast.

Just another day in suburbia. Oh, and for Christmas this year, I got a $600 mechanism for Husband's truck window on the passenger side.

Meh. Beats a new vaccum.

Remember My Name, Bitch

It was lunch time when Maurice found me in the hallway.  I was just finishing my 20 minutes of hall duty, which is to say I was roving the halls looking for miscreants out of their seats and tossing their garbage away without asking.  On any given day shit can go DOWN during lunch, so I’m not complaining, but life was less than eventful today.

When Maurice approached me, mid-lunch, I knew we would be hanging out for the rest of the break.  You know this kid. He’s the one who is entirely too chatty, always kinda off-task (or mostly off-task) and so immersed in his own world that he feels free to ask any question at any time, regardless of what’s going on around him.  That kid who asks the gravitational pull of the moon and wants a serious answer during the sex-ed film, or in a game of dodgeball, or in the middle of the drama performance in the darkened, echo-ey gymnasium. 

If you aren’t sure who that kid is, chances are you were that kid.  

Just gonna throw that out there, friend.

So, out of the classroom Maurice appeared and, like when the phone rings during dinner, I knew I was about to be hijacked.

Maurice:  Hi Mrs. Su….n……uh, Hi. I forget your name? I think it might be Su..ll..or what’s the name of that blue one from that one movie? Or maybe it’s like Sudden, like a fast stop. One time my mom and I were on the bus and the bus driver had a sudden stop, which means to stop quickly, in case you don’t really know what that means, and we almost were thrown from our seats. Well, not really thrown from our seats, but like, kinda we were jiggled and it was really scary.  Not really, really scary. More like just odd.

Me: Sunnen. My name is Ms Sunnen.

Maurice: Ahh yes. Mrs. S u… l…n..nn…

Me: Sunnen. Ms. Sunnen, Maurice.

Maurice: It’s just hard for me to remember things, I have a really bad memory. It comes from my mom, or my dad.  I can’t remember.

Me: Ha. That’s funny.

Maurice: Why?

Me: Because you can’t remember who you get your bad memory from?

Maurice: I can’t?

Me: (Pause)  You’re a funny guy, Maury.

Maurice: Thanks. I don’t hear that very much. Mrs. Sudden?

Me: Ms Sunnen. And, you’re welcome.

Maurice: Hey, do you think you might want to let me sit and each lunch with you after lunch is done … Mrs … Summen… and everyone goes outside for recess?

Me: Sunnen.  And, uhh…

Maurice: Cuz I’m not really allowed to go outside because it’s too cold and I don’t like to get cold. I’m really sensitive to the cold, Mrs. Sunnem… it makes me feel really cold in my chest and my head and my privates. And today I was walking to school today and I got brain freeze, even with my hat on.

Me: It’s Sunnen.  Uhh…

Maurice: It’s just that it’s super cold outside and I really have sensitive skin and body parts and I really just don’t have to go outside because my mother doesn’t want me to go outside either because I have so many sensitivities.

Me: Where do you go when I have outside duty?

Maurice: Well, my teacher sometimes lets me stay with him, or sometimes I sit at the office and eat my lunch, which I haven’t really eaten my lunch because I’ve been out here talking to you, so do you mind if I come and eat with you and it’ll be nice to eat together and talk and stuff.

Me: Uhhh….

Maurice: I’ll just get my lunch and (sound of the bell) there’s the bell, so now it’s too late for me to get ready to go out to the cold, and really I’m too sensitive of the cold it makes everything so cold, Mrs. Sullen… Especially my privates.

Me: Ok, uh, Maurice, you can’t talk about your … sensitive bits ok?

Maurice: Ok. I’ll stop.

Me: Ok. (deep, silent, inhale) Maurice, you can come sit with me and eat.

Maurice: Ok. Are you one of those really smart people who can listen to me talk and work at the same time, Mrs. … Uh, S…i…lll…nn…? I’m one of those people and you seem like you might be like that, too. But if you can’t I can be quiet. Sometimes people ask me to be quiet because I talk a lot, but sometimes I think they tell me to be quiet because I think they need a break from me talking all the time, so I be quiet and then after a few minutes of the break, I can talk again.

Me: What have you got there to eat, Maury?

Maurice: I have Zoodles. Do you like Zoodles or do you have the no-name brand? Do you think the no-name brand is made at the same factory or do you think it is made at a different one? I think it’s at a different one because it’s a different name. Well, one actually has a name and the other one doesn’t have a name. That’s what no-name means. 

Me: I think it’s made in the same factory, but when the Zoodles people see that the noodles were cooked a little too much or too little, they give that batch to the no-name people.

Maurice: When did you put purple in your hair like that Mrs… Horrible? Did you do that between when I saw you this morning and right now? How would you have done that in such a short time? Did you leave the school and put that in or is it those things you glue in your hair or clip into your hair?

Me: I haven’t changed my hair. And (laughing) it’s Ms. Sunnen. Like in the sky. Sun in the sky. Sunnen.

Maurice: The purple? Did you put your hair up?

Me: Can you say Ms. Sunnen?

Maurice: Mrs Sinnen…

Me: Getting closer.  Uh, and nope, the pink has been in there since September or so, and I came to school with my hair already done like this today.

Maurice: Really? How did you get it in there? Is it dye or is it a hair clip?

Me: The pink or the bun? (pause) Dye. It’s dye, Maury.

Maurice: Are you sure?

Me: Uh, yes. I’m sure it’s dye because I … I just was there when she put it in.

Maurice: Huh. I never thought of that. I know all about S-E-X and C-O-N-D-O-N-S. 

Me: Oh boy.

Maurice: You know, S-E-X? My mother and I both think that boys who are 12 through 45 need to know about S-E-X because it’s something important but it’s only for marriage.

Me: Oh...

Maurice: But it’s about S-E-X that you can—

Me: I’m not sure you should be having this conversation with me, Maury. I think that’s not something we’ll talk about, ok? I’m glad you trust me, but there are things we don’t talk about with just anyone, ok?

Maurice: Oh ok. Sure. It’s just a natural part of life that boys need to know about or they could get into trouble.

Me: Maurice, what else are you eating there?

Maurice: Do you know how my mom made my Zoodles? She puts hot water right from the kettle into my thermos and then puts the Zoodles on top and then when I get to school and open it up, I can stir it up and the water will still be hot. She’s been doing that for a few years now. Before this year, the only other time I went to school was for Kindergarten. It was a long time ago. Back when my dad moved out.

Me: Oh, Maurice. I’m sorry.

Maurice: Yeah, he moved away and he was fat. My mom had to give back her credit card when he left because she was defective. No. I don't think that's the right word.  I think it’s that word when you have someone else take care of you? It was a Dependant card but when my dad moved away, the card got taken away. 

Me: I think your mom wouldn’t be happy that you’re telling me this.

Maurice:  Oh. Why?

Me: I just think there are some things that you shouldn’t tell just anyone, is all.

Maurice:  Oh. We’ll just zip that away then.

Me: Yes. Ok. Sure.

Maurice: My dad was fat and my mom is fat, too, and you’re fat, too. But not like, a bad fat, like my dad was a bad fat so he'll probably die with heart attacks and strokes maybe? –

Me: Uh--

Maurice:  And so you can die if you’re too fat. You’re not fat like my mom, but you’re just like a little fat. It’s ok. I’m a little fat, too.

Me: Um—

Maurice:  You know when you’re really fat and then you’re just a little fat? Because you’re really, you’re more fat than a little fat, but you’re more like a big, black ---

Me: Ok. Maurice. You just. Sometimes you just have to stop talking. Just cut your losses and … kinda move on... You haven’t hurt my feelings, but you probably don’t want to have a conversation like this with other people.

Maurice: Well, it’s just like those big guys from uh, Hawaii--

Me: MAURICE. We’re good. Just stop talking. You need to take a break.

I gulped in the 8 seconds of Pure Silence the way I used to gulp back my dinner when I had a newborn, which is to say frantically and without chewing, like it was my last meal.

Maurice: You know what I call The United States and Canada?

Me: (quiet sigh) What’s that Maurice?

Maurice:  I call the United States and Canada “Brothers that love each other and hate each other.”

Me: Ok—

Maurice: Because there are people in the United States who hate people from Canada and there are people from Canada who hate people from the United States, but also there are people in the United States who love people from Canada and people from … well you get the picture.

Me: True.

Maurice: I had to go across the pond. 

Me: When did you go to the UK?

Maurice: Oh, well, I mean on the ferry to the United States when I say that.

Me: I think it means going across the ocean.

Maurice: Oh? I suppose that’s an odd way to say that. At least the Great Lake is closer to a pond than the ocean is.

Me: True.

Maurice: I went there and I had the best fries. And I saw a friend of my mother’s.

Me: Sounds fun.

Maurice: If I had a genie that granted wishes, I know what I’d wish for.

Me: Ok. What’s that, Maurice?

Maurice: Yes. First thing I would wish for if I had a genie that granted three wishes would be for a wallet for my mother that had never ending money. Every time she opened it it would overflow with money and kinda fall out and she’d always have lots of money.

Me: That’s a nice thing to wish for, Maurice.

Maurice: The second thing I’d wish for from the genie would be that all the poor people in the world had enough to eat. It’s bad enough being poor without also needing food.  In fact, I’d make it so that no one in the world would need food.

Me: Maurice that’s even nicer. It’s nice to know you’d spend a wish on helping someone else.

Maurice: And then for the third wish I’d give my mother a mansion because I’ve always wanted to live in a mansion.  I think the stairs are pretty cool in a mansion. Well except just the stairs that only go up, because there’s no point to those. Plus for fat people it might buckle under their weight and I wouldn’t want the stairs to fall on someone and hurt them. Or worse, if the stairs broke and then we had to get them fixed because they buckled under the weight of the fat person.  You know, those big black—

Me: MAURICE. Just stop.

Maurice: No, I mean those big black—

Me: Maurice. Just stop. Really. You just need to stop.

Maurice: Ok. Hey, there’s the bell.  I’ll see you later, Mrs Horr--? Mrs Sunnible? Mrs? Uh?  Gotta go.

Sometimes 

I forget what it’s like to live with me 

and then 

I get a reminder 

from an outside source 

by way of a Freaky Friday-style 

role reversal.  

Just like I get very confident in my ability to get somewhere when my GPS is working, it’s the raw panic that sets in when it’s not, that drives home how bad I am with spatial orientation.  Likewise, it’s scenes like this one that remind me how scattered and nutso I must sound to the untrained ear.  Ha, and how patient those around me have to be.  I wasn’t being kind to Maurice so much as I was paying the minimum on a large credit card debt to the Universe.

I’m quite confident in who I am when I have Husband playing David Spade’s roles to my Chris Farley.  Take away David Spade, though, and it’s just Rob Ford.  Ain’t nobody wanna be Rob Ford.

So, from the bottom of my heart, thanks for being my King of Spades, Husband. You can expect a big, fat present under the tree this year-- the kind that makes the stairs buckle under the sheer weight of it. You know, those big, black… fat presents, but not the bad kind of fat, the good kind where you know there's something really excellent inside it. 

Just. 

For. 

You. 

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.

Halloween Haze

Friendly Friend: Hey! You're creative! What are your kids being for Halloween this year?!? I bet it's amazing! Don't you always make their costumes?

Me: Uh, yes. I, uh, usually do. But--

Friendly Friend: Oh yeah! I remember the pictures-- you even make them for your dogs right?

Me: Well, yes, I -- but we only have one dog now--

Friendly Friend: I can't wait to see what you're doing this year! I bet they're amazing and totally original! Didn't you make Pascal last year for your son?  And your daughter was Rapunzel?

Me:  Well the Rapunzel costume she got for Christmas the year before but I did make the Pascal one.

Friendly Friend: Oh! And I remember you making Princess Leia for your little dog. What's his name?

Me: Rizzo. It's a girl. Yeah, those brown buns were fun to make.

Friendly Friend: Well, gotta go, but I can't wait to see what you post this year! Woot!

Awesome.

Cuz this year Mommy went back to work full time and doesn't have time to pump out anything except orders for extra-large teas.  Seriously.

This is the first year both my kids will have store-bought costumes.  I think I'd be more sad about it were it not for the exhaustion.  And the tiny bit of glee that I don't have to be up for 48 hours straight on October 29th sewing my brains out.

It was much more limiting, costume searching, this year. Usually I have them pick a favourite book or movie or idea or whatever, and we figure out how to make that happen using all available methods of adhesion and random bits and bobbles.  Like, this year I was hoping my kids would want to be Minions from Despicable Me, and we could make overalls and yellow foam heads and it would be awesome because then Hubster could be Gru and I could be Vector (or whatever) and have all sorts of fun.

And then I realized that it was October 4th and I'm working full-time and holy schnikes, who has time for crafting meticulous costumes when they work.

It was that thought that made me realize two things: 1) parents who work buy costumes and 2) parents who don't work make 'em.

THEN, suddenly, I fully appreciated Paris Hilton, who up until her TV show, had never made a trip to Walmart, let alone done a load of laundry; she's too rich to know how to do those things. Too rich to know how to do that stuff-- it's for the 'masses' to have to do.

Sigh.

Here's to working and buying homemade costumes from parents who don't work.

Here's to hoping our kids are so fabulously wealthy that they are utterly useless.

Here's to Halloween, my favourite holiday full of unnecessary decorating that stays up for a total of 6 weeks (dependant on which side of October you  put them up or take them down), to make room for Christmas decorating, which stays up for another total of 6 weeks.

Let the merriment begin!

10 Years to Life

10-years later. It was a lot like time-lapse in the movies,
but without the fake sleeping and fast moving alarm clock. 

"Ok everyone, instead of a guest book, we decided to put a time capsule together.  Write your names and your best wishes or guesses as to where we'll be in 10 years, and we'll open it up for our 10th anniversary and see who was closest."

That was the note I left on the table at the entrance to our reception, 10 years ago.  Rather, I assume it was but I have no real recollection of that day except that I cried (a lot) and rode in a carriage (princess-style) to find my best guy at the end of a walk with my parents.

I figured (even then) that we'd never open a book with a bunch of signatures on it -- although if I had thought about it, I would have kept the signatures to use in some bank heist fraud thing, possibly involving magicians and/or Kaiser Soze, but I didn't think that far ahead, I guess.

And yes, I know Photo Shop, even PAINT, existed 10 years ago and that our can looks pretty ghetto by today's standards, but it worked for 2003.

Just outside the frame is a claymation Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, with his friend a California Raisin.

Plus, you're seeing it the way you watch Original Star Wars in 2013 (not the blue-ray enhanced edition).  The Original Star Wars, as seen on VHS copies, is just a bunch of claymation and bullshit. I am a Star Wars Fan; I know stupid amounts of trivia although I have never done any costume stuff for it (I secretly want do but don't really know how).

But as I sat there, basking in the ... pain of the original edits of the '77, '80 and '83 films, I asked myself repeatedly why I thought the movie was even GOOD, let alone amazing.  I had a complete existential breakdown while watching this films every time Yoda latexed his way through a scene. Do or Do Not, there is no Try? Trust me, Yoda baby, your special effects are not very special 25 years later.

It was quite a mountain, no matter how paltry this might look. 

How did I not notice this in the 80's, or when I re-watched everything in the 90's? I guess it's like an old boyfriend; all the signs were there from the beginning, you were too busy making out every 5 seconds to notice them.

Anyway, we had our guests fill out their thoughts for us on little note papers and stick 'em inside for us to read later.

What. A.  Hoot.

Let's just say several of the notes were proof that things get x-rated after a few glasses of wine.

"A Strip Pole would be fun in the bedroom." "Buy a trapeze!" "Order out!"
I think we were being told to get dinner and make a movie, but I could be wrong.

Then there were lots of notes figuring we'd have several kids-- I mean litters worth. I don't know if I was all "I can't wait to get on the baby train!" at the reception or something, but seriously, there were at least a dozen that suggested we'd have 7, 8, 9 kids.

Oy.

Then there were a bunch that were very sweet, wishing us well and all sorts of lovely things, like wild success and love and happiness untold. Or, in this case, wishing us to know that Sept 13, 2013 would be a Friday, which it was.


And then there were the notes written in handwriting we'd lost in the last 10 years.  Family and friends who were at our wedding, but are no longer here to hug and laugh with. Reading those notes was bittersweet-- it is all I have left of some of these people.

To feel everyone's love again was wonderful.  If you are getting married, I highly recommend doing this paint-bucket time capsule.  I wish we'd done one for 25 years, too, but on our wedding day, even 10 years later seemed impossibly far off into the distance.

This is why I have trouble with History. I can't remember and feel connected to things 10 years ago, let alone 30, let alone 3000 years. I feel like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, with even less understanding of the past, but with slightly better hair.

If Bill had red hair, and Ted was Theodora, this would be exactly what it's like. I think this is exactly the haircut I had in 1993.  No wonder Rufus is rolling his eyes.

That paint bucket, by the way, followed us when we moved to Denver, Colorado shortly after we were married, and to 2 dwellings while we were there, and back again to Canadia to our house now.

That paint bucket has seen us through 2 dogs, 2 cats, 2 kids and 2 cars.   Our bucket hung out while we ripped up carpeting and put down laminate flooring, and when I painted the wall of our house with crazy squares because we couldn't afford to buy any art that would fit the space. It lived in the spooky crawlspace of our 1-floor house and didn't manage to piss off the werewolf family that lived in there and guarded our Christmas tree.

These notes of love sent encouragement when I had to wait a year for in-state tuition even though we'd lived in Colorado for 363 days prior to the cut-off date.  The "get take-out" one was especially loud before we had kids and completely changed the way we eat so they could be healthier.  Now it's quieter, but still (as far as I'm concerned)  quite insistent.  ha.

Our bucket of ideas and wishes planned out some "really, really, really, really" tall kids, which, as predicted by my friend in Missoula, "Two Great Danes do not a Chihuahua make."  Prophetic? Possibly.  Hilarious? Yep.  And do we have two gigantic children? Uh-huh.

What the bucket didn't say was how many people we'd meet that would be so important to us.  Some friends have been constant, some more temporary.  But all have a special place in our hearts and lives.

Now I sound like a Beatles song.

It's true though. Just like Star Wars (VHS) there is a time and a place for that fun stuff, and if you want the people who are important to you to remain that way, you have to update them for the times.  Lucasfilms gets a lot of flak for adding background, adding cut scenes et cetera.  But, I think everything that is different is (initially) troublesome to people resistant to change.

If it's awesome, why change it, right?

Well, I'll tell you why: because no matter how awesome it seems today, the same thing 10 years from now will seem like a bunch of 2-year olds invented it with playdough and sticks.  You don't want your friendships to seem like a bunch of toddlers are running the show do you? Well, do you?

When you watch VHS Star Wars TODAY, you feel cheated, like there's so much AWESOME that you remember, and yet, where is it now?  Nobody wants their marriage to be a "greatest hits" album. No one wants their partner for life to be some idiot reliving glory days from 10 years ago.  That's why Lucasfilms did what it did.

Those edits are like friendships maturing, changing but being the same because everyone changes.  No one stays the same without choosing to do so.  Everyone changes, and it's those of us who insist on changing together that make it down these long roads to milestones.  I mean, the Me that was ME 10 years ago, is not the ME I am today.  Not wholly anyway.  I remain Mostly Me because Husband has remained Mostly Him.  And together, we're the same people we were, only better.

So thanks for being there (if you were), and for showing up late (if you're new).

We appreciate you keeping a spot in our lives, and letting us occupy a spot in yours.

Happenstance and New Pets

One morning as the reddening leaves swirled in the wind and we readied ourselves for school, I heard our front door open and close.  Intrigued, since I could see our 3-year old and knew it wasn’t he who was making the escape, I called for our 6-year old. 

No answer. 

I glanced out the front window and noticed she was returning from the end of the driveway quickly.  I also noticed a giant, big, cardboard box in the drive.

She slipped quietly back into the house and I pretended not to notice.  She went to her bathroom and brushed her teeth.  She finished getting ready for school.  Nothing out of the ordinary except she’d left the house secretly for about 60-seconds and as a result (or perhaps because of it?) there was a cardboard box at the end of our driveway.

I figured we were going to miss the bus anyway, so I let things take a little longer this morning and got Kiddo #2 ready for a drive to school and daycare.  Nonchalantly, Kiddo #1 entered the kitchen and sat down in front of her cereal. 

Me: Morning, honey.  You look really ready for school.  Yay you!

Kiddo #1:  Thanks Mom!

Me: How’s the cereal?

Kiddo #1: Good. Pretty good, Mom.

Me: What’s the box in the driveway?

Kiddo #1: Oh, I uh, I dunno.

Me: Really?

Kiddo #1: Well, it might be for anything.

Me: Really?

Kiddo #1: Well, it might be.

Me: Ok. 

I let it go and packed up the book bags and lunches and got Kiddo #2 into the car. The bus was long gone by this point and the two of us nonchalantly, no-big-deal-ish, got into the car.  I backed it out of the garage and faced the car at the end of the driveway and stopped. 

It was at that point that I noticed there was writing on the box.

Me: What do you suppose it says on that box?

Kiddo #1: I uh, well, I uh, dunno.

Me: Really?

Kiddo#1: Well, it’s in black marker, I see.

Me: Sure.

Kiddo #1: Well, that’s a serious-message colour.

Me: Yes.

Kiddo #1: If it was silly or not real, it would be in lots of colours.

Me: Yes.

Kiddo #1:  So. It could be for ... uh, puppies.

Me: Puppies?

Kiddo #1: Well, I mean, I don’t know for sure.

Me: Let’s drive up and see.

Kiddo #1:  No! You should just leave the box.

Me: Well we have to go to school anyways, so we’ll just check it out when we get to the end of the driveway.

I pulled up and looked at the box. On one side it said “Free Puppies” and on the other side, it said, “Please Leave Your Free Puppies here” 

Honestly.  Then, I giggled.

Of course. 

Where are puppies left in any assortment of children’s movies? In cardboard boxes on the side of the road.   

I started to really chortle when I thought of some cartoon guy in overalls driving around in a 1950’s style truck with a litter of cute puppies crawling all over the passenger seat.  He’s frantic; he loves the puppies but he can’t keep them.  He’s looking for a box –any cardboard box would do-- to put them in so he could give them away.  And, as luck would have it, here is a box at the end of a driveway, begging for free puppies! 

How could he not oblige the polite request? He looks back at the pups, then to the box and back at the puppies.  Surely the people who put this box out were serious (hence the black marker), good people (good manners goes a long way!) who could take care of his litter of beautiful pups. 

Then, I realized how incredibly smart Kiddo #1’s plan truly was. 

... And that’s how we ended up with 3 identical puppies, Husband.  I swear.  It was just a flukey thing... totally random... happenstance.  

Learning to Skate

Kiddo #2 turned 3 two weekends ago.  He’s big enough that I call him Baby Thor which, minus the beard, is pretty much what he looks like. Yeah. He’s big and blond and has a great smile.

My brother called in the months preceding his birthday with the following statement:

Brother: You gotta get Kiddo #2 on skates this fall.

Me: Ok.

Brother: No, I mean, you gotta do it. Look at him. He’s gonna be 6 foot 7 and 260 pounds of muscle. If he learns to skate, he’ll write his ticket to the NHL.

Me: Ok.

Brother: No, you gotta get him on skates.

Me: I feel like you can’t hear me.

This, by the way, is a pretty typical conversation—I agree with everything he says and he still feels the need to pitch it to me. Brothers! Ha.

Then, because I clearly needed more convincing, he followed up with:

Brother: The Mites program where I live is amazing. I mean, really amazing.

Me: Ok.

Brother: I think you should put him in up here. 

Me: Ok.

Brother: No, I mean, just sign him up.  I’ll come out and do the one-on-one with him.

Me: Ok.

Brother: No, like, I’ll do it. I’ve stepped back from the Mites program this year, but I’d come out for Kiddo #2.

Me: Ok.

(see? Totes typical.)

The only caveat was pitching it to Captain Fiscal Responsibility, AKA my Awesome Husband.  While I was on board, I wasn’t sure it was going to be an easy sell to drive an hour to where my brother lives, just for Kiddo #2 to learn to skate; it’s not like we don’t have 5 arenas offering the same lessons, just without my brother.  The gas alone would be reason enough to say nay.  The hours of driving on the weekend, plus the cost of getting equipment… You see where the logic leads here, yes?

So I approached Husband while he was eating (which is the best time to convince him of things). 

Me: Hey, so Brother wants to teach Kiddo #2 how to skate.

Husband: Ok.

Me: Well, like, in the Mites program in Brother’s town.

Husband: Ok.

Me: Well, I think it’d be great for Kiddo #2.

Husband: Ok.

Me: Seriously, how cool would it be for Kiddo #2 to learn to skate from his uncle?

Husband: I said OK.  Let’s do it.

I signed us up online, paid the 4.5 billion dollars for the various fees and equipment (holy shitballs, seriously?!?) and off we drove to the first session this Sunday. 

Kiddo #2 was super stoked to get on the ice with his hockey gear and learn to skate with his Uncle.  So excited, in fact, that he talked non-stop about the cool things he was gonna do once he got his gear on.  For an hour. All the way to the small town where my brother lives, we heard about how my son is going to “shoot pucks and get scores” and “use his green stick” and “go really fast” … I won’t go on because while it was super cute and endearing for us, I’m sure you’re gagging at the sucralose.

Off Husband and Kiddo #2 went to the dressing room while Kiddo #1 and I hung out in the lobby (mostly because we didn’t bring our portable space heaters and arctic winter jackets to the arena today).  

And the most amazing things happened.

First off, Kiddo #2 spent 90% of the skate time crying.

And wailing.

And refusing to move.

And turtling on the ice from falling down.

And refusing to get up.

And refusing to roll over.

And using his extra-long tongue to try to keep the salty snot from dripping off his chin.  

We didn’t find out that last part until afterwards though, or I might have puked all over the arena. In all honesty, the only thing Kiddo #2 DID do was listen.  He listened to every word Uncle Brother said; he flat out refused to do any of it, but he listened.

Secondly, while Kiddo #2 was doing all that, there was my brother, with the patience of Job, coaching him. He was literally on the ice on his belly, showing Kiddo #2 that it’s ok to fall.  And he was literally on his back, showing Kiddo #2 how to get up.  He skated away with his back to Kiddo #2 to see if that might motivate my stubborn son to take a step or two closer just so Uncle Brother could hear him flat out refuse to skate.

And every parent around me went on and on about how lucky that kid was that was working with my brother. 

It would’ve been sickening if I wasn’t so dang proud.

I mean, we knew why we’d driven the hour there and back to have my brother teach Baby Thor how to skate, but man was it cool to hear the other parents saying the exact same things. I stopped counting how many times I heard “Oh! There’s Coach! He’s so excellent with the kids!” “He’s the best!” “He doesn’t care how he looks, he just wants the kids to learn to skate and be happy.”  “He taught my eldest and middle child. I hope my youngest gets him, too.”

It was like having Brad Pitt as your brother, and you know Brad Pitt’s brother goes around saying “Yeah, Brad Pitt is my brother.”

So, I’d say, “Oh, yes, he’s my brother.” And the compliments would start pouring out like a fire hose.  “He’s here for the kids,” “He’s not interested in politics,” and “He’s so patient and gets the kids to do stuff that no one else can do.”

It would’ve been sickening if I wasn’t so dang proud.

When the session was done, Uncle Brother (which sounds like a toothless banjo player should pick a few notes every time it’s said, but you know what I mean) brought Kiddo #2 off the ice and he and Husband hit the change room.

And when the trio emerged, Uncle Brother was high-fiving my son, my son was giggling and having a great time. My husband was smiling... it was like an 80's gum commercial without the blonde twins on bikes.  

Like, really? Was this the bawling, snot-faced kid who went in? Miracle of miracles, here was my son loving life, bragging about how hard Hockey is but that he’d been skating and a good listener and that next week he’s surely “get some scores” with his green stick.  “Momma, my uncle is AWESOME!” he shouted. 

It would’ve been sickening if I wasn’t so dang proud.

Tea For Two

I pushed open the door to the staff room at the school where I work and sized up the tea kettles.  The first thing I do, after I do the first thing I do (which is pee), when I arrive in the morning, is make a huge bucket of tea.

I'd make a bucket of coffee, but I'm not sure it comes that big. Ba-dum-bum.

There are two kettles on the counter-- one is the first electric kettle ever invented.  It says "Property of Mary Magdalene's Mani Pedi Shoppe, 1 Resurrection Blvd, Jerusalem, Israel" on one side.  The other is a much newer looking stainless steel number.  For the first week of school, I defaulted to the newer looking kettle because, well, honestly, the other one, Mary Magdalene's, looks like a fire hazard.

Of course, we all know that kettles in a school staff room are toss-outs from the teachers of the past:  the machines take forever to heat up, but they still technically work, so instead of throwing it in the garbage (it still works) or donating it to Goodwill (it doesn't work THAT well), it finds it way to the staff room to torture and crush the souls of the future.

Sure I'd been using the stainless steel one but waiting upwards of 10 minutes for the kettle to boil was getting old. I mean, I could heat up a whole cup of water in the microwave in 90 seconds.  Why wait for a wretched kettle?

Yet here I was, waiting for that stainless kettle.  I glanced back at Mary Magdalene's kettle and back to the stainless one.  Mary Magdalene's kettle was apt to also suck at heating up, and frankly I wasn't going to give up 20 minutes of prep time at 7am (between waiting for the first kettle, giving up and starting the next one and waiting another 14 minutes) so I waited.

And then I had an idea. I had a totally awesome idea!

I plugged both the kettles in and decided to do a scientific experiment.

I filled both kettles with 8 cups of water (according to their guidelines) hovered my fingers on their start buttons and counted down slowly from 5.  I was gonna count down from 10 but by the time I got to 7 I was bored and then I forgot what I was doing, and then my mom texted me so I just restarted but from 5 this time.

5... 4... 3...2... 1 And they're off!

I pushed down the buttons and brought my face close to the two kettles so as to monitor the precise second the winner ... uh, won. And then, 3 minutes later, when I remembered that these were pieces of shit, I sat down to return my mom's text while I waited.

Mom:  Hey! Tennessee is wonderful. Did you guys get lots of rain last night?
Me: No. We got some gusty winds and about three drops.
Mom: Uh, nope. Impossible. There is power out all around your house. 2300 residents.
Me: I thought you were in Tennessee, not driving around in a Hydro truck.
Mom: Haha. No, I read the news. Don't you?
Me: Oh wow. Nah. Any idea when this heat is gonna end?
Mom: Probably Friday. Are you sure you didn't have a storm last night?
Me: Hold on I'll text Husband.

-----
Me: Hey, was there a storm last night?
Husband: Yep. Pretty bad.
Me: Really? Are you sure?
Husband: Yep. Remember when I went to the grocery store for bananas?
Me: Yep.
Husband: And you were outside and everything was blowing around?
Me: Yep.
Me: Oh yeah.
Me: Huh.
Husband: I was almost blown over going in the door at the supermarket.
Me: Really? That is fascinating. I don't remember any of that.
Husband: It's cuz our house was built well. We don't hear a lot of the outside noise.
Me: Really? Fascinating. Thanks.
-----

Me: Hey, I'm back. Husband says there was IN FACT a storm last night.
Mom: I know.
Me: A BIG one. He says I didn't know because we have a good house.
Mom: I know.
Me: Were you two texting or something?
Mom: No.
Me: Well, anyway, I guess it was a big deal.
Mom: Well, I figured there wasn't some invisible dome around your house keeping the storm only from you.
Me: For the amount we pay in taxes, there SHOULD be a dome around our house, made of politicians, and it should magically go up at the first sign of scattered showers.

And that's when, after 18 minutes, I realized that neither kettle had gone off.
In fact, neither kettle was still on.

Or even remotely warm.

Mother-effer.

Down the hall I walked, shamefully, trying to figure out how to explain to our janitor that I'd blown the fuse in the kitchen because I was racing the tea kettles.

I found him, asked him how to reset the kitchen fuse panel, and he got a strange look in his eyes.

Janitor: (pause, sizing me up) Hmmmmm.  Racing the tea kettles?
Me: (astonished) How did you know?
Janitor: You just seem... like someone who would do that. Plus, you haven't had your first cup of coffee, and racing tea kettles is a before-caffeine thought.


I think I'm gonna fit in here just fine.

You Must Be Ned Stark's Bastard and Other Tales

Spirit Airlines called us to the gate in Zone 1, which is code for "You paid more than $225 to check your baggage for this flight alone, so we're letting you board first to keep your rage and impending bankruptcy simmering" and we hustled over to the boarding area.

To be fair, apparently if we'd checked our bags online during any of the prior 24 hours, but not including the hour before our flight, we could've saved roughly $10 per bag, but, we didn't know about that policy until we were reading it on the sign at the airport line.  Yeah. 

The green was starting to swirl around my irises before we even got on the plane.

I got the kids in a row and Husband took his lonely seat on the aisle of the row beside us. We took out iPod, iPad and iPhone and I plugged in the kids à la The Matrix.  I played some John Coltrane in my headphones and closed my eyes to the other bazillion passengers boarding.  I think Husband was playing Fruit Ninja on his phone, but since it's not an Apple product, I refer to it as "Ned Stark's Bastard" or "Jon Snow" (depending on whether we're north of the wall or not) from Game of Thrones. 

Within a few minutes, however, the sweet smell of booze wafted into my nostrils and I smiled thinking Husband must've bought me a little "settle-your-shit-down" bevvie before take-off.

I inhaled deeply, opened my eyes and realized, that a) there was no booze for me to swill and b) the guy directly in front of me might be the dark hole where booze comes from. 

Seriously, he smelled like my early 20's.  

Raising my eyebrows in a way only a smug 30-something can do, judged him harshly (albeit silently) and redirected my children to their iDevices.  Ryan Coke, as I began to silently call him, was the middle seat, and as luck would have it, the ladies on either side of him were equally as judgemental. We all rolled our eyes in unison and sat back in our smugness to enjoy the flight.

About an hour into our three-hour flight, there was a disturbance in the force. Ryan Coke passed out shortly after an additional drink before take-off, and was snoring audibly. But the other two women both stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other, nervously, too. 

Then time slowed down.  It was like any horror film where everyone knows shit is about to go down, they're just not sure who's gonna get axed.  Even my daughter paused her game and said, "Momma?" just in time to watch Ryan Coke launch himself forward violently out of a booze-coma to puke up THE WORLD all over his row mates and the people in the row in front of him.

Kiddo #1 looked at me and said, disgustedly, "Well THAT'S gonna give me nightmares for the rest of my life!" and the two ladies propelled themselves out of their seats into the aisle way screaming and swearing the whole time.  Frightened and contaminated, they went in circles swearing while I pressed the "help" button for the stewards.  

Now, I'd set out this flight planning on being pissy and annoyed that Spirit Airlines had stolen an extra $500 from our pockets by making us pay almost $50/bag for each of our checked and carry-on luggage.  But, mad and poor as I was, I couldn't blame them for Puke Fest 2013.  

The ladies were yelling swears at Ryan, the people in the row in front of him were saying nasty things to him, and a whole lot of negativity was swirling around the air.  Maybe he deserved them. None of my shit got puke on it, so maybe it was easy for me to be nice.  But I kinda figured if it was me, I'd be dying of embarrassment, and plus that shitty taste of puke in the mouth makes it impossible to even say "Sorry" without reliving the whole damn mess. So I took out my $4.00 bottle of Spirit Air water that Kiddo #2 HAD TO HAVE and drank 1/3 of, and reached it across to Ryan Coke.  "Uh, you're probably dehydrated."  

I mean, what else do you say?

The stewards arrived, assessed the situation, and sent Ryan (puke-covered) to the bathroom to clean up. It was disgusting, but two of the three stewards were professional, and the third one was so visibly anxious that I nearly gave her my $50 Xanax that I HAD TO HAVE and didn't end up taking.  But, $50 is a whole checked bag in some circles so I patted it through my purse, smugly, and joked with the responsible stewards.

Once we got off the plane (which went by very quickly once they poured the coffee grounds all over the floor to cover the smell), we rang in the new day with our bags, limped to the shuttle and got to our car within an hour. 

The kids were already in their jammies for the flight, so we buckled them into their careats, got on I-94 E and headed to the bridge between Detroit and Canada.  I looked at my sleeping babies and started charging my phone when Husband came to a quick stop (STOP!) on the highway.  

Me: What the frick?

Husband: Uh, I don't know? Everyone's stopped.

Me: What the frick?

Husband: I don't know? Everyone's stopped.

Me: What the frick?

Husband: Seriously. This isn't Groundhog Day. It's 2am.  Get your feet off the dash and see if you can see around the cars.

60 minutes later, we haven't moved an inch, and my phone is charged but we still have no idea what's going on because overnights on radio stations are pre-recorded (I used to do those, in another life) and offer no help.  Plus, I won't turn my phone off airplane-mode because Roaming-Data in America costs as much as two overhead bags on Spirit Airlines.  No joke.

At 3am, we finally got near-ish to the bridge,which is to say we drove through some of the parts of Detroit that Eminem is scared of, and Kiddo #2 started coughing. He'd had a cough for a day or so since he'd eaten something he shouldn't, but this cough was awesomer.  It was weirder, harder and ... oh, now he's puking.

I turned around in my seat and started whisper-yelling at Husband. I'm trying to keep Kiddo #1 from waking up to Puke Fest 2013's second show: Live in Detroit from Denver, Colorado. 

Me: FRICK! HE'S PUKING!

Husband: Is he ok?

Me: Uh, he's PUKING!

Husband: Ok. Uh, so is he ok?

Me: This isn't Groundhog DAY! Cheese and RICE!

Then, I decide that Kiddo #2 can't lean over and get all the mess out of his mouth and therefore he must be suffocating.  Seeing panic (that may or may not have been there, in retrospect) on Kiddo #2's face that he can't really breathe, I did what any insane, sleep-deprived mother would do.  I did The Sweep of his mouth, which sent me front row tickets into Puke Fest 2013, and I start heaving and have to stop helping because I am puking into the garbage bag in the front seat.  

And while I'm puking, I'm crying because my CPR training is reminding me that I shouldn't sweep his mouth because it could lodge stuff further into his throat or something, and I'm crying for Husband to pull over and he says I'm on the highway doing 65 and it's 3AM, in Detroit, and we'll be killed.

We get to the exit and now I'm cry-puking that, like Frodo and Sam, all we have to do is get across the frickin' bridge and this nightmare will finally be over. And, also like Gollum, I'm making crazy, shitty sounds while I puke-cry in the front seat.

"Just get us to Canada, Sam. We can finally get married, er, ...uh,  I mean destroy the ring..."

Husband puts the windows down and now it's a Hurricane in the car as we head toward the "You must Go to Canada from here" lane.  I, removing hair from my mouth, shout "Why the frick are the windows down?"  and he says that he's airing out the car because there's a kid covered in puke and there's no way the border patrol will let us into Canada with a kid covered in vomit and a wife looking like she's been in The Hangover IV: One Night In Detroit.

I glance down at the bag filled with vomit and seriously think we can pull this off.  I look in my handy overhead mirror at my mascara trails and wild hair, at Kiddo #2 who just kinda looks... off, and my comatose daughter who can literally (I can say this now) sleep through anything, 

And, this, friends, is why I will never EVER be invited to be in a Heist.  I'm sure you've all assumed that I'd be shite in a Heist anyway, but this scene is definitive proof.  

At the duty free parking lot, the last stop before paying the toll and zooming to Canada, at 3:30AM, we pulled over and attempted to de-vomit our cars using only the "flap it in the wind to let it fall off" method, and the salty tears of a woman out of her mind.

I don't know if I looked too crazy to deny entry, or if we'd done a great job of covering up our mess (which, actually, makes me an AMAZING Heist-mate, so eat it, Mofo!), but they let us back in.

Glory, glory, hallelujah

.