Expectorate

Posted on 3/10/2011 by cheesefairy

Today we are having a wind storm. We were supposed to have one last week, too, but it didn’t pan out. The news has been panicking itself with warnings. I don’t really listen. The weather happens, or it doesn’t.

I was sitting in my bed today, in the mid-morning, watching the tops of the trees bend like dancers outside my window. The wind came, as promised. It came and blew everything sideways. It is here again, now dashing rain against the windows and rooftops.

Two weeks in a row, I have been sick. In between, I got better. Just like those sunny days we had last week, warm licks of Spring against our cheeks. The weather wasn’t done with us yet. The viruses weren’t done with me yet.

It is hard not to feel like this is a betrayal; two illnesses back to back, this second one so vicious and viscous too. Lots of vicious viscosity. To have every inch of my body throbbing for two days was bad; today every inch of me is throbbing, hot, cold and aching. Day three is worse. Day Three: The Worsening.

That’s what I get, for so often complaining, “Oh I wish I could just get SICK and get it OVER WITH and stop with the Mom Sickness.” The mom sickness is so irritating; it lasts two weeks and never progresses or ends and you just feel low-level gross but still functional and then one day you don’t anymore and it’s summer.

Yeah this is worse. This is so bad I had to call in help from my parents. I could probably look after my children, where ‘looking after’ means ‘8 hours of television’. Because that is it. I don’t even have the energy for balloony ball, and if your body hurts where the balloon touched it, you are wimpy, indeed.

This morning, after two days of aching, moaning, and shivering, the flu monster in my head turned on the taps and I have been blowing my nose ever since. I am out of tissues, out of cut-up receiving blankets, out of anything soft. I am down to the environmentally friendly recycled toilet paper, which is plenty soft enough for my nethers but definitely not soft enough for my beleaguered nose.

Like the tree branches and plastic toys captured by the wind, I am caught up by this virus, tossed around, thrown across the floor. The flu monster pins me down with its slimy feet and hands.

‘Next year get a flu shot,’ it growls.

I can barely nod. My temples throb.

‘Or I’ll be back. And meaner.’

‘Just..just don’t call sinusitis, OK? I promise, I’ll irrigate…’

It shakes its head and drops of goo land on me. Its green, mucousy eyebrows furrow.

‘..and, spare the kids? Shit, they will be so miserable if they get this…’

‘Flu spares no one,’ it says, ‘nooooo onnnnne.’

Ominous. I lie quietly until it releases my limbs and squelches away. I reach for another wad of toilet paper. Quickly turn my head when Fresco tries to kiss me. Hope for the best. Smear some Vicks on my chest. Sleep, sleep, sleep.

I feel like when all the snot is gone I will be a cleaner, faster version of myself. I guess I have to think that. After feeling completely torn down, the only way to go is up. Like the blue sky after a wind storm. I am looking forward to that blue sky.

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Spotlight

Posted on 3/4/2011 by cheesefairy

Our townhouse is pretty new – younger than ten years old – and it is exactly the same in layout as all the townhouses on either side of it. Big living room windows overlook a path often clogged with middle school students or groups of women doing ‘strollercize’. The living room features a gas fireplace, above which is a solid wood mantle, above which is an expanse of white wall and attached to the ceiling is a spotlight pointed at that expanse of wall. You are meant to Put Your Art Right There.

If you walk along the foot / bike path after dark you can look up at the townhouses and see a variety of spotlit art pieces in the homes where people, like me, assume no one is looking up from the path and leave their blinds open. One house has a gigantic Buddha painting. One house has a landscape painting in a gold frame. One house has a tiny, framed photo.

For a long time after we moved in, there was nothing in the spotlight but light. I guess we felt like we didn’t have anything spotlight-worthy. Or maybe we are just lazy unpackers who couldn’t be bothered to dig in the poster tube for the Breakfast at Tiffany’s poster that SA has been hauling around forever, or the Ministry of Silly Walks poster I’ve been hauling around forever. Eventually we put up a wedding picture.

No, not our own wedding picture. Our own wedding picture is on the fridge.

This wedding picture is from my dear friend Melissa’s brother’s wedding. Melissa’s brother got married on top of a mountain in Colorado, a number of years ago, and Melissa was in the wedding party. The photographer, bless him, was either a beginner or a no-talent-ass-hack because the photo we love so dearly is composed very poorly. The bride is on the far left and because of skewed perspective, she appears to be about three feet tall. Her two bridesmaids, visions in pink, strapless gowns, stand near her and seem also to be three feet tall. In the foreground, there is Melissa, who was Maid of Honour, and the father of the bride, standing next to each other.

Melissa is my height and size, so roughly 5’10 and a healthy weight. The father of the bride looks to be about the same size but more burly, like a wrestler, and he is also shiny-bald and has ham-hands. Picture Daddy Warbucks making an “Imma kill you” face straight to the camera. Melissa wears a strapless pink dress and has one hand on her hip, looking at him with a facial expression that makes no sense, either visually or contextually. Because the three women in the background look miniature, the two people in the foreground look immense and the whole thing feels like it should be subtitled:

“I will steal my Beautiful Giantess from the clutches of these evil Munchkins and we will make huge, angry babies forever in my mountain cave! Bwahahahaha!”

Melissa forwarded me the link to the photographer’s site when he put the photos up and I scrolled through and enjoyed the scenery and the shots of people in pretty clothes and then I came to this particular photo and peed my pants laughing. I forwarded the link to SA and he peed his pants laughing. After we washed all our pants, we ordered two 8×10 prints from the website and had them mailed to us.

Years passed. We moved to New Westminster and acquired a spotlight.

SA decided one day he was getting the photos framed. But he didn’t just want to go to London Drugs and buy a $10 frame. He took them to a framing store and had a serious discussion with the framing store person about what colours of mat to use and how to best set off the pink dresses and black tuxedo.

That Christmas, we mailed one to Melissa and put the other on our living room wall, in the spotlight.

The photo has been there so long that I forget about it. People come over who haven’t before and I wonder why they are acting funny and then realize that it’s because I have a wedding picture on my wall that I am not in. I see people staring at it. Wondering if I look that different in a pink strapless dress or if I just stole someone’s art? Both, I guess!

(When the doula we had for Trombone came over to meet us and find out about our hopes and dreams, she sat on our couch for a while and chatted and filled out a questionnaire and then, at one point, looked quizzically at the wall and asked us about the photo. When we explained, she said,

“You like to do things your own way, don’t you.”

Very diplomatic! You’re hired!)

Last week, I was in Burnaby, hanging at my parents’ house and we took the children out for a walk to buy mushrooms. On our way to the grocer’s, we passed the Salvation Army Thrift store and in the window I saw the most perfect gift for SA. A picture. Like my unicorn picture, but better, way better. On our way back from getting the mushrooms, I stopped in to make sure it wasn’t too expensive ($3.99!) and then I bought it and brought it home. With some sadness – but not very much – I took down the wedding picture and hung this new piece of art in its place. In the spotlight.

I say I bought it for SA, but really? I might have bought it for both of us. For all of you. For all the people who walk by our house at night, looking up at the windows, hoping to see something good. You’re welcome, passers-by.

Tiger, with beer keg. For the rec room in all of us.

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There is Always A Bright Side, which Doesn’t Help When You Have a Headache

Posted on 3/1/2011 by cheesefairy

My car is dirty, inside and out. It is silver-coloured, and it drives through mud sometimes and we don’t have a big yard to run a hose through so I can’t wash it by hand but have to take it to a car wash for a run through the big scary machine. Both kids have gone through phases of terror re: the big scary car wash machine. Fresco is in the final stages of that phase now, so even though we live two blocks from a gas station with a car wash machine, I don’t go. The car is dirty.

Inside the car there are orange peels, fruit bar wrappers, cracker crumbs, crusts of bread, toppled no-spill cups, board books, all the hats, all the other mitts, the occasional sock covered in cracker crumbs, my dented aluminum water bottle. I am not joking, it is filthy and would probably give half of you lovely people nightmares. It is far easier to clean the interior of my car than the exterior; we have indoor parking, the parking spot is right by an electrical outlet, we own a Dyson vacuum. And yet, down around item #8 on my perpetual to-do list, right after ’email HR to follow up on dental claim’ and before ‘clip toenails’ sits ‘vacuum car.’

Today we went to Metrotown, a very large mall nearish to our house. We go there every few weeks. I always park in the same spot, although I was informed by Trombone today as I drove into the parking lot that in fact I usually park ‘somewhere else’ and I was gravely mistaken if I thought this was a good place to park. Chalking it up to ordinary 4.5 year old obstreperousness, I ignored him and parked in a perfectly fine spot where I have parked before a million times before you were even born, kid and we went into the mall to do mall things like stare at toys we’ll never buy, run headlong into old ladies and shellshock the new mothers wheeling huge strollers. I also tried to buy a new travel mug but failed. Incidentally, the mugs that are $19.99 at Chapters only cost $9.99 at Winners, which is just upstairs. However, the lineup at Winners was prohibitively long so I am still travel-mug-less, which is probably for the best given that I would have just left it in the car to be stolen. Foreshadowing!

Several hours later we returned to our car to find that someone had broken the rear driver-side triangle window, you know, the one behind the proper window, unlocked the two driver-side doors, and then — left. I guess. They didn’t vacuum, they didn’t straighten up, they didn’t take the container of crackers on the front seat or my water bottle. They didn’t take the car insurance or pop the trunk to find the AXE (weapon, not body spray) (but aren’t they the same thing?) we keep back there. They just shattered the window, made a big fucking mess, and moved on.

Note to the non-stealers: I know that you’re probably junkies and you’re not thinking clearly but would it be too much to ask to take a quick peek in the window you’re smashing to see if there are things that look stealable? I don’t have a CD player or even a tape deck and I know there wasn’t so much as a penny in the cup holder. It’s just so .. pointless to shatter a window, especially one over a child’s carseat, not that you should care more about my car because kids ride in it otherwise I’d have one of those stupid baby on board signs, but really. You have so much to do in your junkie day that you can’t take two seconds and look before you smash? Damn.

Amusing though it was to stand there with two confused children, staring at the pile of shattered glass around and within my filthy car, I decided to go back inside and find a security guard. Mostly because I assumed a mall security guard would have a broom and could help me get the glass out of the car seat where my kid was going to have to sit if I was going to take him home and believe me, if I could have left him at the mall, I would have. It was late, past naptime, and I have a sinus cold that makes my head really hurt a lot, like, so much that the Leapfrog toys at ToysRUs have all been disabled by my pain-induced laser-vision.

I just wanted to go home but the security guard came upstairs with us on his bicycle and filed a report in a little book, all of which was good, I guess, but I read the disclaimer on the wall where ‘the mall isn’t responsible for damage,’ and I have car insurance and can I just get someone to clean this up so I can go? Turns out no. He very kindly brushed out as much glass as he could from the car using his gloved hand, but there was no little vacuum in his saddle bag so I put a towel in the car seat and duct-taped a piece of paper I found in the trunk over the hole and we drove home.

There is a bright side. I mean, other than Trombone’s declared bright side, which was “Good thing the bad guy didn’t break ALL the windows!” The bright side is, now I get to go to Crystal Glass again, where I had my windshield replaced several years ago and where the fantastic Randy vacuumed my car. And then, tomorrow, there’s going to be a torrential wind and rain storm, which is basically mother nature’s version of a car wash!

The lesson I’m taking from this: if you’re lazy enough, eventually, things will work out in your favour.

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Be True to Your School

Posted on 2/25/2011 by cheesefairy

My approach to parenting can often be described as lazy. Sometimes I think it is a self-protection measure. I do have a tendency to over-analyze. And I prefer the path of least-resistance if I know it’s taking me to the same location as the other path. I see the tense parents with their hunched up shoulders and their furrowed brows and I wonder why they bother. Shit’s gonna happen whether you’re tense about it or not.

Of course there are things I am tense about, as anyone knows who has read this blog for longer than five minutes. But not school, as it turns out. I am not tense about school.

School is starting in September for my kid. I have mentioned before that we lucked out when we moved to this neighbourhood because we live three blocks from an elementary school and less than one block from a middle school, which it turns out we will be needing because the elementary school is only grade K – 5. I assumed it was K-7. That is how lazy I am – I didn’t know until three days ago that it was only K-5. But see, now I know and it’s too late to do anything about it. Kind of like the whole time we lived here I was assuming because it was a French Immersion school that I could just sign my kid up for French Immersion. Technically true, but I would have had to do it while he was fetal. Oops. No French Immersion for us! No problem!

Perhaps I’m not lazy. Perhaps I am just naive. Certainly I am lucky, and sitting in this lucky place it’s easy to not do much. For the entirety of Trombone’s life I have thought: There is a public school up the road. My child doesn’t have any special needs that I am aware of, therefore the public school up the road should be fine. I will think about it when he is five. Oh look, he’s almost five. I guess I should sign him up for school. So I did, the other day. He is registered for full day kindergarten. Yay, milestone!

I am fully aware that without any first-hand knowledge of The Public School System I am setting myself up for a fall, here. I have heard people complain about the school system (probably because of its “system”ness, not because of any inherent good or badness) but I can’t pay attention because it’s like warning a pregnant lady about toddlerhood. I’m just not there yet. I’m sure you’re right and I’ll tell you so in a couple of years okay?

I am also aware that I approach this from a place of privilege; as a white, middle-class, nuclear family in an upper-middle-class part of town, with my blond, blue-eyed boy who has had all his shots, of course it is easy for me to sign him up for school.

Anyway, with those disclaimers, here is my idealistic view of school, grades K – 7.

I think school should teach kids how to learn. Have them learn their basic math and basic writing and the principles of reading and then set them free in a well-stocked library. Let them follow their interests. Guide, pique, support. I fully think a kid who is curious – which is every kid I’ve ever met, though some have the curiosity ‘beaten’ out of them – and can read and is supported in her interests can do anything. Despite bad teachers. Because of good teachers. I hated math. I don’t remember a single math teacher’s name. I can still do multiplication tables in my head and make change faster than the cash register at the store. I loved English. I remember all my English teachers. (I have a blog! Success is mine! Snort!)

And I think school should teach kids how to get along with their peers. How to play and argue and bond and do it respectfully.

I think school should expose kids to differences; cultures, abilities, opinions. And teach them how to respect those differences.

There should be safety in school. Not terror, not diminishing, not shame.

Yes this is ideal. And it doesn’t account for variables like: funding. Quality and satisfaction of staff. Kids who need more attention than others and don’t get it. I still remember that kid called Sean who used to sit behind me in grade 2 and hit me on the head with a ruler. I still remember his snaky blue eyes. But hey – life is long. School is only part of it.

Even if, in two years, I have to eat my words, I want to start out by expecting the best.

When I say I expect the best, I don’t mean I expect perfection. I mean I expect that there will be mishaps and apologies and learning experiences. It is, after all, school. And a school is a building full of people, not robots. Teachers are human beings doing jobs. I know a few teachers. Every single one does it because of a calling, not because it pays well and has great benefits. (I hear you all laughing) And my kid is a human being doing his job; learning. He’ll screw up. Some teachers might screw up. Probably not nearly as often as I screw up. And yet, I didn’t research my own ability to parent before I just started in on doing it. Imperfectly.

I intend to go into this thinking – and expecting – that everything is going to be fine. Unless I have to sell chocolate almonds. Then we might have some trouble.

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The Glory of Boring

Posted on 2/22/2011 by cheesefairy

A while back I mentioned to Saint Aardvark that we could ask my parents to look after the kids for a couple of days as a joint birthday present to us. He liked the idea. My parents liked the idea. The kids didn’t like the idea. Too bad, kids. No vote for you.

We decided to go to Victoria, which is on Vancouver Island and a short ferry ride away.*

* Right? Isn’t Victoria a short ferry ride away from Vancouver? Sort of. The city of Victoria is an hour from the Island ferry terminal. And the city of Vancouver is an hour from the Mainland ferry terminal. The ferry crossing takes 90 minutes. So it’s a four hour trip from here. Which, if you take public transit at rush hour on a Friday, feels like fourteen hours, but hey we saved $90 in ferry charges. (Yes, $45 one way for a car. Blergh!) Also, BC Ferries frequent riders, who can tell me where to get water on board – water I can put in my own bottle? Not the hot water from the bathroom taps. Thanks.

We stayed in the Rialto hotel, which is where I stayed the last time I was in Victoria. I guess last time I was feeling flush because the spacious, modern apartment-style room I remembered was not what I got this time. This room was the size of a peanut shell. It had weird heating that came out of a creaky flap in the ceiling at totally random times. And the whole hotel was full of static electricity! SA had to touch everything before me because otherwise all the other hotel guests would hear was motherfucker, all the time. If I have recommended the Rialto to you in the past, I wish to rescind that recommendation. It ain’t all that.

Victoria Attractions include:

– Miniature World: a museum of small things.

– Wax Museum
– Royal BC Museum
– IMAX theatre

Instead, we went to Russell’s New and Used books and spent a very happy two hours browsing. This is something we used to do every weekend, before we had kids. Used bookstore browsing. I had forgotten how wonderful it is. I touched every single autobiography and trade paperback in the store. I bought two Madeleine L’Engle books (non-fiction) and a copy of “Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets.” The latter for Trombone. Best $2.99 I ever spent; he is in deep love with his new book.

When we got hungry we walked over a pretty, tourist bridge and along a lovely, empty seaside path (seriously – sunny, cold Saturday morning and we saw only three other people, all with shivering tinydogs) to Spinnakers Gastro Brewpub. Many people have recommended this place to me and holy cats, were they right. It is a beautiful old building, overlooking the water, they make their own fantastic beer and they also have amazing food. It is there we ate the crackers – made in-house, sort of cheesy and herby, sprinkled with hunks of salt the size of a Real Housewife’s diamond earrings. The crackers were part of SA’s antipasto tray and he died just a little every time he ate one.

We asked about the crackers and were directed to the front of the pub where a small gift shop was selling chocolate and beer and t-shirts and the woman who was working behind the counter said oh yeah, just a minute, went upstairs to the kitchen, brought back a big aluminum tray of crackers, slid them into a bag and SOLD THEM TO US OH MY GOD.

I also bought some toffee that is out of this world; buttery and exactly the right texture and also it is coated in dark chocolate and possibly pecans.

I also bought a croissant stuffed with red onions, cheddar and jalapenos.

I also slept on their stairs and cried till my eyes were sore because they wouldn’t adopt me.

Loaded with beer and brunch, we staggered out into the 1:30 pm sunshine and decided to walk back a different way. We ended up going through the industrial part of town and added a good 30 minutes to our walk so by the time we got back to the hotel we could only lie there and groan. When all you can do is groan, it is so nice to not have anyone jump on you, and that is only one reason our vacation was better than being at home. Unmolested groaning. Wait that doesn’t sound right.

That night we ate at Canoe, a brewpub down by the water. It was all right; trendy and full of people with well-highlighted hair. I ate some delicious tacos and then we went to see a movie in a theatre! (Barney’s Version.)(It was very good)

The next morning we ate at a truly inspired little spot called Cabin 12, where the coffee tasted like coffee and the wait-dude brought us water. Water! I love water! So few places bring you water anymore. I know I sound like an old biddy. I ate something called “Willie’s Hash” named after Willie Nelson. It was a bowl the size of my head full of eggs, bacon, sausage, cheese, potatoes and salsa. SA ate a breakfast wrap that brought him to tears.

I decided maybe Cabin 12 could adopt me, since Spinnakers blew their chance, but the adorable shempsters running the joint just smiled politely and wished me a good day.

Five years ago I would have read this and said, you loser. That is not a vacation. That is a normal weekend in a west coast city. Up to and including the guy out in the street on Saturday night who was throwing trash cans at the wall and the constantly running toilet. Shades of the West End apartment, man.

But now that I spend every weekend at the playground, I so deeply appreciate those things I used to take for granted. Walking where you want and stopping when you feel like it: good. Eating what you want and having another beer, because you can nap later: good. Sitting in a restaurant long enough to start digesting your food, not having to head for the door while still chewing because your toddler is colouring on the bald head of the guy at the next table: really good. Someday I will want to spend a month in Europe but for now, I don’t need much. Sleep + coffee + food + beer + time + no kids = vacation.

Actually, just the no kids = vacation. Everything else is gravy. And crackers.

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