Just Like A Vacation

You know that Blue Rodeo song? It’s pretty, isn’t it.

When I used to work out of the home, I took vacations very rarely. In part, because the days before the vacation were so whirlwind, chock-filled with tasks and lists and leaving things so that when I got back my desk wouldn’t be a flaming pile of poo. Invariably, the last day of work before my vacation, I would be at the office late, leaving file folders strategically placed and post-its written in my neatest hand and then, by the time I was on vacation, it would take me hours to actually come down from the hell of preparing for it.

I am choosing to think that this is the case in my current job as well. It is either that or that there are gods and those gods are angry and those angry gods are telling me No! Don’t Go To The Vacation! Bad Shit Will Happen!

So today is Wednesday. We are due to leave tomorrow for Penticton. This morning I unveiled the first of the kids’ vacation gifts: two rolly suitcases, one with Spiderman and one with Hello Kitty. They were ecstatic and immediately set to rolling them about on the hardwood floor so I had to tell them to stop as it was only 6:10 am.

Oh did I mention they’ve been getting up earlier and earlier every day? Yesterday it was 4:45. Today a bit later. I am so tired I can’t see my own cornea. Also they have colds and there is snot everywhere.

SA came down with heinous flu-like symptoms on Sunday night and has been home, in agony, with a headache and fever ever since. Yesterday’s doctor said it looked like allergies and a virus or maybe just one or the other, here, try some Reactine. I said it looked like a sinus infection but I can’t prescribe drugs yet, since my medical degree is from Crack of My Ass University. No respect!

Anyway, he decided to go to work today to show his boss how sick he is.

I decided to take the kids to Safeway and get supplies for the road trip tomorrow. My mom called just before we left and while I was talking to her, the kids started fighting over the suitcases. Who gets Spiderman. Who gets Hello Kitty. Who gets to LOOK at Spiderman. Etc. So I went into the bathroom and closed the door. Heard screaming. Came out to find Trombone with his arm around Fresco’s neck. Lost it.

Safeway was great. Quiet! Except for the Michael Bolton.

Next errand: getting the cat to the cat kennel. Maybe not strictly necessary because if SA is still that sick (ie: sweaty, moaning, unable to bend over) he won’t be coming with us to Penticton so he could stay home with the cat but I know if I cancel the cat kennel, SA will be OK to come with us and then we’ll have nowhere to put the cat.

Here’s a fun one: cat in the carrier, kids in the car, car to the kennel. Say it 5 times fast!

Engage in brief conversation with next door neighbour on my way to the car to put the cat food in / get the carrier and bring it upstairs. Next door neighbour tells me about her friends who were in Europe while their pug was looked after by relatives. Pug got a scratch on its eye and had to have its eye replaced. “Do they do prosthetic dog eyes?” I wonder. “Probably,” she says, “they do prosthetic testicles. In different sizes.”

I start to giggle and I don’t stop for three more minutes.

Back upstairs to convince the cat to get in the carrier. Doesn’t help that the kids are yelling, “Seamus! Time to go to the kennel!”

The cat is underneath our bed, at the back by the wall. He will not be lured out with any number of treats. Though I have left the children downstairs, the cat and I (and possibly people as far as Israel) can hear them loud and clear. The cat is not budging. Time is passing. I feel bad, because he is a damaged cat anyway and he is fearful of people but I have to: I yell at him. I tell him I just want a good night’s sleep and for there to be no more snot. I tell him I don’t want to take him to Surrey to a kennel but I have to. I tell him I don’t really want to drive the kids to Penticton all by myself. He is unmoved. So I rattle a plastic bag at him and he runs out from under the bed. I get him in the carrier.

Get the kids. Get the cat. Get to the car. Get Trombone in the car. Buckling Fresco in his seat, I smell something. Of course. Now is the time to poop! Please! Do!

BUT! It is all right! I do not have to take everyone out because I have already packed the diapers for our trip in the trunk! Ha! I change Fresco’s diaper in the front seat of the car. Buckle him in. Start the car. The radio is set to the traffic station. It says, “There is an accident on [the road you were planning to take].” Seriously, it wasn’t even on for two seconds. First item.

I turn off the ignition and pull out the map book. I am going to Surrey, you see, to a cat kennel I’ve never visited before. My directions are from google. Now I need alternate directions. My map book is incomprehensible. I stare at it for a minute or two. I am so tired.

“Mommy?”
“Yes Trombone.”
“I do have to go to the bathroom after all.”

Did you guess this is a conversation we already had? You’re right.

BUT! It’s all right! Because if we go back upstairs I can look up alternate directions on google while Trombone uses the bathroom!

On our way back down to the car we run into a different neighbour coming from the gym. We chat pleasantly for a minute and then I go to open the door to the garage and – shit! We have a little electronic scanner that opens the outside doors and I took mine off my keychain when I was in the car because I need it to open the garage door. And I left it in the car. Which I can’t get to without the scanner to open the door.

The car where the cat still is, by the way.

BUT! It’s all right! Because my neighbour hasn’t gone far, and I know her name and call her back and she lets me in.

“Prosthetic dog testicles,” I mutter to myself.

Back in the car, cat yowling, kids’ bowels cleansed, we drive our alternate route. Ha ha! I think. I take the correct exit off the highway and the directions I wrote down say turn right. But there is no right. So I turn left, on faith. Maybe there will be a right turn soon?
Maybe the directions know something I don’t?
Or maybe – just maybe – they are trying

– to fuck me?

Yep. That’s right.

BUT! It’s all right! We see the Surrey Transfer Station! turn around and end up on the correct road.

(I double checked the directions when I got home. I wrote them down right. There is no right turn. Fuck you google maps.)

Many, many winding roads and numbered avenues through farmland later, we arrive at the cat kennel. I think. I go up to the door and ring the doorbell. Nothing happens. I look at the piece of paper I printed with the address. It’s correct but there is no phone number. Then I take the path around back and find a cat kennel. Whew. Leave the cat. Almost leave the children.

Drive back.

Eat lunch.

Plan to nap. So tired.

Oh but of course today the children aren’t napping. Why would they? Fresco is awake and shrieking because he napped for 20 minutes in the car. Poor dear, he missed the Surrey Transfer Station! And Trombone is busy packing his Hello Kitty suitcase.

I can’t nap.

BUT! It’s all right! SA is home. He saw a different doctor, who diagnosed a sinus infection and gave him the big antibiotics so he should be on the mend pretty soon.

Prosthetic testicles.

And I just remembered I left the dirty diaper in the trunk of the car.

(PS: Will have much more delicate, less pissy post up tomorrow for Trombone’s birthday)