Saint Aardvark shook his head. Continued whittling at the cardboard chair with his Leatherman of Doom. Reached a satisfactory point, I guess. Put the knife away and presented the chair with a flourish.
There! he pronounced. I MAKE THINGS.
Whaddaya want, your own magazine? I said. I guess they could call it: “Saint Aardvark. He Makes Things.”
It is pretty cool, though. Trombone calls it his “couch.” Note space for tape measure and water cup. And unintentionally, SA claims, the “Down Under – NZ” logo is centred on the back of the chair.
There is a metal box in old-style women’s bathrooms. It’s for used sanitary pads. It is often attached to the stall wall, next to the toilet paper dispenser.
The metal box in the women’s bathroom at the small mall near our house has two labels (from a real label maker) stuck on it:
Please use bags to dispose of pads
and below, a helpful addendum:
Place pad in bag and then place bag in box
But there are no bags in the bathroom stall.
However, the bathroom itself is surprisingly lovely. Spacious – easily 10 stalls – and clean, with real sink taps that turn on and off and release hot water and cold and, best of all, have written on them “hot” and “cold.”
It has become a special hatred of mine, public bathrooms with only cold water taps that only stay on for 5 seconds at a time. Especially those public bathrooms that post signs accusing me of being a filthy germ-bringer. Yes, after using your moist, unkempt facilities, Metrotown, I would love to wash my hands for the full, recommended 20 seconds but not in icy cold water and not if I have to keep taking my hands out of the germ-killing water to turn the tap back on, thus re-contaminating myself. Usually I don’t worry very much about germs but if everyone who uses the bathroom at Waterfront Centre does a quick swish under the cold tap and then hits the paper towel dispenser with their wet hands, well, I’m predicting mass germ transfer and there are a lot of cruise ship patrons strolling through that building.
This morning we bought a new stroller. One of these . It is orange!
Seriously, I know you don’t believe me, but it wasn’t going to be orange. I was ready to buy the green one because Saint Aardvark liked the green one and he never gets to choose. But the stroller is a two-parter: the single stroller and the double kit that attaches to it for the second child and none of the BC stores had any double kits that weren’t orange. Apparently, no one wants orange but me. I don’t know why. And I guess I could have mixed; had a green stroller with an orange attachment but you know how you all just winced, reading that? Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.
Bright points about this stroller:
– it is no wider than a normal stroller
– but it seats two children
– it has TIRES, not little plastic wheels
– and an adjustable handle
– and there is a flap in the hood where you can reach through and poke your kid in the head while you’re walking
not-so-bright points:
– orange is a Very Bright Colour and there might be days when my stroller and I clash philosophically
– it doesn’t stand on its own when you fold it
– the instruction manual was quite poor – thankfully I am married to someone who has a gift for spatiality and interpreting obscure commands
– apparently, I’m not supposed to jog or skate with it. Also, it’s not a flotation device. I guess now I have to sell the damn sailboat.
That’s all I can really say, having not yet taken it outside. I can offer a critique of our experience at TJ’s Kiddie’s World, which is a strange store in that its strollers are all decently priced but everything else is as much as it costs at babysaurus. (Wait, this all feels familiar. Yes, yes I have posted about TJs before.)
We found the stroller we went to find and we drove Trombone around in the store a few times and then Trombone and I spent some time sitting on beds and playing with a really fun wooden play stove and sink. SA spent 20 minutes looking for a salesperson to ask if he could take the stroller out and around the block because never having owned a three-wheeler before, he was wondering if he would like the way it handled over curbs and short pedestrians.
Once he found her, the salesperson said no, you cannot take this stroller outside.
SA asked about their return policy.
She said that with an sale item (a piddly $50 off but whatever) our option would be to exchange it, not refund, but ONLY if the stroller had not been used.
And if it had been used? Well hey, that’s your stroller now. Enjoy.
1. The people who work at TJs need to identify themselves as staff. They’re all wandering around, putting things on shelves, taking them off, mingling like civil servants at a free lunch, but I was shocked, standing at the counter for a few minutes, to note that approximately half of the people in the store were staff. I had assumed they were customers because they had that vague, stare-y look about them that people get when they are trying to decide between bassinet A and bassinet B and they don’t know if the bassinet will really make a difference but if it doesn’t make a difference then why are there so damn many of them!
(overheard –
pregnant customer: but what is this strap for?
staff: so you can secure the baby
pregnant customer: but why would I need to STRAP THE BABY IN to the bassinet? It’s sleeping!
staff: Right, but, it’s just there as a safety feature
pregnant customer: oh my god! mom? did you see this?)
2. I clarified with her when I paid; “not been used” means all the bits and pieces are exactly as you found them in the box. Ready to sell to the next person as brand new. Sort of impossible to do with a stroller that requires assembly in a city such as this one with its winter on.
3. I do understand why they don’t refund or exchange. Everybody wants a brand new stroller. Nobody wants the one that’s not all sealed up pretty. Not for $500 anyway.
4. So what the fuck is with the “no test drive” policy? You have two floor models sitting out here that you are not going to sell for full price (I hope) so take my credit card, take my driver’s license, hell, take my HUSBAND and put him to work stocking shelves if you want, and I will go drive around the block and see if I like this $500 stroller enough to commit to buying it!
However, with this particular stroller, about which I have done some research (all reviews applicable to our situation were positive) and which is rarely for sale on craigslist (I have been watching for months) and when it is for sale on craigslist, sells in a matter of days, we decided to take the chance.
And the staff is very helpful, once you’re on their radar.
And there was a very cute child-sized armchair that Trombone grew very attached to but I think we’re going to make him one out of the cardboard box the stroller came in because that way we don’t have to pay $119 for a child-sized armchair.
Speaking of, he’s been asleep long enough. Time to orange-up the Mizzle!
(Writing the title before the post is a hard habit to break. I guess it comes from habitually filling out forms; the title box is at the top of the page and begs to be filled before the larger text box.)
Ponder ponder ponder.
Driving this morning, I was waiting for the light to change so I could turn left onto the highway. From the backseat piped Trombone,
“Go go go go go!”
“No, I can’t go,” I explained, “I have to wait for the cars to stop before I can go.”
“Watch out!” was his reply, “Watch out, watch out, watch out.”
He’s got this sing-song tone going, like a little old lady criticizing your skirt length. “Watch ouu-uuut.”
I am very tired. I am waiting for my pizza to cook. Speaking of recipes, I have a new annoyance. While I’ve not come across any as horrifying as Sarah’s daycare lady’s spaghetti recipe, I have, in the past weeks, noted that recipes lately, not unlike The Kids Today, are not what they used to be.
From Chatelaine (possibly the most useless magazine in existence anyway but I was on the ferry and I thought it wouldn’t kill me)
Spicy tomato pasta with melted brie.
Ingredients:
1/2 of a 500 g package of pasta (was 250 g too hard? What?)
1 jar tomato sauce
black pepper
1 lb brie
I bet you can guess what comes next.
There was also a recipe for garlic mashed potatoes, which are a delicious food but – a box of potatoes with garlic powder mixed in? Is not a recipe!
An INGREDIENT is something I can’t make myself, like chocolate. A RECIPE is a combination of proportioned ingredients that creates some delicious foodstuff. I don’t care if you make pasta with spaghetti, canned sauce and a hunk of cheese on top and give it to your sweetie for valentine’s day. I have eaten stranger, less home-cooked things for less heart-shaped occasions. Hell, I have eaten a toaster-oven-tray coated in cheese and called it dinner.
But your combining of convenient packaged foods is not a recipe and you shouldn’t advertise it on your front cover. Chatelaine. Watch ouuuuuuut.
Garrr!
I also read The Walrus magazine on the ferry. It was all right. Not as precious as I’d expected. And no recipes, thank jeebus.
This week I listened to the song “Sweet City Woman” by The Stampeders a total of, I think, about 18, possibly 35 times. 5 of those times was just today, at work. There is just something about this song. The Stampeders singing this song are the best thing to come out of Alberta. Ever.
How do these lines even exist without evaporating into thin air? They are so perfect! They are like china in my hand!
…and she sings in the evening
old familiar tunes
and she feeds me love and tenderness
and macaroons
How, you ask? With banjo!
Here, watch this while you read the rest. (or open it in a new tab
if you prefer)
I’m not going to link to the site because it’s kind of spammy but I was greatly amused by the following pronouncement, below the recipe – yes, a real recipe! – for the drink called “Sweet City Woman.”
[site name removed] is proud to present you the SWEET CITY WOMAN cocktail recipe. Our main goal is to spread bartending and drinking culture to the masses. Our huge cocktail database has been assambled with enormous effort during the Cocktail Test phase. Hundreds of cocktail glasses had been consumed. ..Let’s promote the art of cocktail making, and bring the drinking culture to another dimension. Please Drink Carefully and Never Drink and Drive! Only one glass can sometime be fatal!
Go, mix one. Tell me how it tastes. I am picturing a warm summer afternoon on a porch with The Stampeders on repeat and a blender full of Sweet City Women. OK and now I am picturing diabetic comas for everyone. Damn these hyper-aware times we live in. The Stampeders wouldn’t care, would they? They’d just drink on and play their banjos while their guests dropped around them.
It is now February and winter shows no signs of abating (though Saint Aardvark’s parents have returned to Ontario this morning so perhaps our normal, mild winter is waiting in the wings? I mean after the current slush fest is done, of course). As my clothing is increasingly limited to over-the-head items rather than around-the-waist items and I am wearing a lot of not-pants, my not-pants must be accompanied by some kind of leg-covering.
But leg-coverings of the sock variety don’t go high enough for my short, tarty dresses.
And leg-coverings of the tights variety are, by necessity, held in place by a waistband. Even the maternity tights, which are regular tights with less tightness focused in the belly area. The ones I own are comfortable, yes, but they are from my first pregnancy and need refreshing after every wear, else they sag most irritatingly around the knees.
Oh, I got problems all right. You don’t even know.
And so it came to be that a couple of weeks ago I was at a department store and, unable to find maternity tights for sale, came across the thigh-high stay-ups. These are, of course, stockings that, using a thick band of elastic, cling to the thigh like a koala to a eucalyptus tree
The last pair of stay-ups I owned was when I was in my early 20s. I don’t remember why I bought them. I think I thought they were sexy. They cut off my circulation and left horrible red welts in my skin. And I weighed about 80 pounds less then than I do now.
However, you can’t win if you don’t play so I bought the stay-ups and wore them today. I was pleased to note that great leaps have been made in the comfort of the thigh elastic. I was delighted to not have to massage my thighs all day to keep the blood flowing (I am sure most of my co-workers were also glad for this). And I love love loved that I had absolutely nothing over my belly that dug, tugged or otherwise impeded baby hippo’s hourly calisthenics.
Near the end of the day, after a bunch of trips up and down from my desk, I noticed that the left stay-up was sagging a big low. I yanked it up. I walked to the elevator to leave the office. It sagged. I yanked it up. I walked to the station and by the time I reached the train, I had one stay-up up and one stay-up down. My left knee was suddenly very cold.
I tend to overestimate how much attention people are paying to me. Partly this is because I am an only child and partly it is because I am ultra-observant of other people and assume that other people are too. I would have noticed that some gigantic pregnant woman at the bus stop had one of her thigh-high stockings drooping over the top of her boot. But no one looked at me at all. They all just kept squinting at the slush falling from the sky and waiting for their buses.
When I finally arrived home and removed my boots, I noted that the cursed left stay-up had also acquired a run. Also, my legs are currently in giant, marathon-running pain from my toes to my buttocks. I am blaming the stockings.
Final score, stay-ups: 6/10
Next step: go to that website with the socks that Arwen was all het up about last year. And maybe get these ones.
