Lessons from a New House

I am learning how to load a dishwasher. I am learning that pasta bowls don’t nest properly in the slots of a dishwasher. I am learning how to purchase and install replacement pot lights for a bathroom. I am learning how to program the thermostat. I am learning how to jiggle the garage door key just right so it opens. I am learning patience. I’m learning how to commute in rush-hour traffic. I’m learning how to spend two hours on the phone with tech support for an internet issue. I am learning how to pick a colour for my roof shingles. I am learning that a blind will keep heat in the house. I am learning that the one in our spare room is broken. And I am learning how to use a nail to temporarily fasten it in place until I can learn how to build a new one. I am learning that our neighbour starts his truck at 5:15am and goes to work. I’m learning that his wife leaves at 5:20. I am learning to live without the sound of the GO train every half hour. I am learning how a house is a work-in-progress.

You Put Your Finger Where?

I talk with very emphatic arms. And I often forget that kids can really sneak up quietly behind you. Well, today, I was half talking to Carolyn and half leaving her room, so I found myself standing in her doorway. I think I was leaning around to grab the doorway with my right arm when I felt something hard and wet and ridged on my index finger. (Right now, take your index finger and run it along the roof of your mouth - that's exactly what it felt like!) And I turn and it's a grade six girl trying to get into the classroom and I apologize profusely and she blushed and said it was okay and rushed by me. But how do you say you're sorry for sticking your finger into a student's mouth?

Dealing with It

Poco is a cartoon boy who gets very annoyed by his dog (I think his name is Linus) and sometimes he feels very angry or sad. He has various strategies for dealing with these disagreeable feelings. I think one strategy is counting slowly to ten. Then he feels better. This is a great program for teaching children that when upsets occur, they have tools they can use to conquer them. (As opposed to grown-up strategies which involve flipping someone the bird or honking the horn and yelling unflattering adjectives).

I went to visit the Shavers yesterday and Abby was having a few difficult moments. She really wanted to play outside (even though mummy and daddy were eating dinner). Even though I suggested we play Candyland or draw a picture or do a puzzle, she just really wanted to go outside. When I finally conceded, she grabbed her brand new Dora fork and spoon and really wanted to take them outside too. Unfortunately for Abby, they are an INDOOR fork and spoon, not designed particularly for digging in the sandbox. This news made her bottom lip tremble (so quickly she forgets she's just won the "going outside" battle). We finally convinced her that it's still fun because she and I have matching vests. Her mom reminded her many, many times that it will only be a five minute play time outside 'cause it's almost dark. And that she HAD to listen to me when I said it was time to come in. Jen also gave me instructions on the 4 and 3 and 2 minute warning method.

So we played in the sandbox and we played soccer and Abby did a dance to represent what Conan the baby does in mummy's tummy. She was happy as a clam to hear the 4 and 3 and 2 and even the one minute warnings. But when I said it was time to go inside, she got that look on her face.

She explained she didn't want to go inside. I was sympathetic, "I know, kiddo."
She dragged her feet and when we got indoors she told her mum and dad she wanted to stay outside. She said she was feeling sad and then she began to cry.

Luckily, mummy knows some of Poco's methodologies.

"What would make it better, Abby?

Do you want to hug mummy?"

Shake of the head.

"Do you want to hug daddy?"

Shake of the head.

"Do you want to hug a monkey?" (I'm pretty sure the Shavers don't have one but luckily Abby shook her head."

"Do you want to hug your poop-on-the-potty puppet?"

Eyes open wide, "Yes!"

She runs off to go hug a horse puppet that might be called Harold. He is a very lucky horse. He was given this home because Abby had a very successful first-ever-entire-poop-into-the-potty experience (versus a half a poop in the potty and the other half elsewhere OR the other option which is holding the poop in for four days til mummy has to give her a suppository).

And just like that, the upset is over.

Never underestimate the power of hugging a poop-puppet....or maybe even a monkey.

Shaver Residence

I go to the Shaver Residence often enough. Maybe I've been there a total of twenty times. That's enough times that I definitely don't have to look at street names any more.

But today I decided to take a different route (this is precisely why I am a woman of strict routines! Order buffalo chicken fingers when at a restaurant and check left and right eight times before crossing the street). Somehow, I became convinced that I could just take Lakeshore all the way to Royal Windsor (which I did successfully) and then Royal Windsor would curve north and BECOME Ford Drive.

It does not.

It stays Royal Windsor. Then I suddenly saw a huge ramp ahead of me and a sign over it that said "QEW" and I thought "OH NO!".

I had to get off this crazy street. I turned right and found myself in the heart of the Ford Plant. There were speed bumps and parking lots for employees and an enormous parking lot filled with Ford Minivans of all different colours (not all shapes and sizes though, just one of each). I began to feel panicky. I wondered if I should pull over or if I should place a terrified phone call to the Shavers themselves. I knew they would be too hysterical with laughter to be helpful, so I decided to unstuck myself all alone.

I decided if I kept turning right, I should end up back where the mistake had been made. The QEW, that was once in front of me, was now to my left (I'm not sure how that happened) and I eventually DID find my way back to Ford Drive (and the junction where it meets with the good old familiar Truscott - but named Kingsway in Oakville - it's no wonder people get confused) and I did find my way to the Shaver Household.

So take it from me - Royal Windsor does not turn into Ford Drive.
In case you thought it did.

Between a rock and a .... reminder in 3 days...

I have this stupid blasted pop-up window that keeps appearing on my computer. Maybe it's for Java something. Definitely it's for some software I don't need. (With my luck, it's something I DESPERATELY need but don't realize it). And the window pops up with a short description and then gives me two options..... click here if you want to Update Now.... or click here if you want a Reminder Later. I want neither, but must choose or the window will forever be on my desk top. So I choose Remind me Later. Then I have MORE choices (which aren't really choices because I'm now stuck in a vicious cycle I want OUT OF)... I can view the annoying reminder in 30 minutes or 1 hour or 3 hours or 5 hours or 3 days (which is the longest I can go without a reminder). I'm positive there must be a way to break out of this perverse cycle, but I cannot do it alone!
HELP.

Conan, they’re talking about you

Naming an unborn child becomes a whole new adventure when there’s a three year old who wants to have a say. Also, when said three-year old is being manipulated by other adults.

Abby is going to be a big sister. Someone told her Bob would make a good name for a little boy. Someone else (I won’t say who), said Nangina would make a good name for a little girl. Abby thinks Ava would make a good name for a girl because her cousin’s name is Ava (or maybe it’s the baby of a friend – I can’t keep all these things straight) and everyone is always saying baby-Ava, so it’s more like a reflex….You say “Baby”, I say “Ava”….

Then there’s Abby’s babysitter, Claire, who decided to teach Abby that a good name for a little boy would be Conan. And that STUCK!

“Is the baby going to be a boy or a girl, Abby?”

“Girl.”

“And what will its name be, Abby?”

“Baby Ava”

“What if it’s a boy, Abby?”

Puzzled stare.

“It might be not a girl, Abby. What will the baby’s name be if it’s a boy?”

Pause then “Conan!”

Well, yesterday the speculation ended with Jen’s ultrasound. Abby is going to have a little brother. Jen thinks it’s the Universe’s way of aiming to make her feel like a rookie again. I think the Universe has more important motives than vengeance. Anyway, Jen and Chad told Abby that the baby was going to be a boy.

To which Abby replied, “But maybe it’s a girl?”

“Well, no Abby, we’re pretty sure it’s a boy.”

So Abby replied, “Conan!” (She’s been well trained).

So Jen and Chad came up with a plan. “You see, Abby. The special thing about babies is that they have one name when they’re inside Mummy and then when they come OUT they get another name! So we can call him Conan while he’s in Mummy’s tummy but we’ll give him a new name after he comes out.”

And without missing a beat, she says, “BOB!”

Dodgeball Team Kicks It Up to Staggering New Heights

Professor Pain and the Balls Busters were born this day. Where two weeks ago there cowered some bumbling, fumbling pre-dodgeballers, today there stood athletes to make Vince Vaughn proud. The opposing team, a mysterious acronym STB, stood fearfully in our midst. They played courageously despite our intimidating presence and if someone was counting carefully, it’s possible they scored more games over all. We do have to thank them for a severely amusing evening of heart-racing, spirited, and fair dodge-ball fun. We’d rather give a victory to a team of integrity than the ass-munchers who trampled us last week.

The highlights:

Jason “The Prankster” was stealthful and calculated. Many a time, holding the team afloat for three or four minutes (an eternity in dodgeball-land) all by himself.

Balls-Buster the First was off today recovering from a ridiculously long race, but her spirit lived on in each of her team mates.

Joann “The Secret Weapon” took several balls in the face like a trooper and as sweet justice picked off a few players from the opposing team. Watch for her super-spin dodgeball move with hair flying she can go four to one with the other guys without even breaking a sweat. She’s even been know to force the other team into the kamakazi-suicide-maneuver (and lived to tell about it).

Mark is “Professor Pain” and though he seems unassuming with his sweet face, he moves like a jaguar across the court. One of our favourite offense players at “face-off” time, he’s developed a cooperative “pass off” move with The Butler that deaks out the bad guys every time.

The Butler is our former Waterpolo pro and although he doesn’t feel as comfortable without his speedo, he’s got a canon for an arm and magnets for mitts making him a very valuable member of the Balls Busters.

Craig the Chemist doesn’t say much, but he’s solid like a tree and when the chips were down, he still chose to be part of Team Hillcrest, which says a lot for his character.

Delia is “The Machine”. She can bench four times her own weight, she can run circles around anyone you can throw at her and she can make mince meat out of Team STB (“Sont Très BAD” if you ask me!) She’s got us huddling and cheering and psyching out the other guys. She’s got strategy and she’s got game.

Mattie “The Flash” Magic forgets he’s not on the basketball court, so he slam DUNKS a few foam balls right down the throats of the blue-shirt dude. Solid performance even in his civilian gear (he left his cape at home today).

And me, well, I’m just thinking that Rubicon ought to feel pretty stupid for not sponsoring this fine dodgeball masterpiece. We may not have matching uniforms and we might not wear tights under our shorts, but we’ve got heart and this certainly won’t be the last you hear of us!

I'm too old for the mall

I decided this today. First of all, I go in feeling alright and I come out angry. Irrationally angry.

It's October 13th and there are Christmas decorations lining the aisles adjacent to the halloween candy. That's assinine (I wish I could spell). And the parking lot already has cars battling for parking spaces. How can it be that the festive chaos has already begun?

And we've headed to the mall with a goal in mind. We would like to buy a dehumidifier for the basement in our new house. We have some gift certificates, so we're quite excited to spend someone else's money.

We go to Sears. And Walmart. And the Bay. And Zellers. And HomeOutfitters.
What's more aggravating than finding that none of these places has a single dehumidifer anywhere in them and wandering aimlessly through crowds of pushy shoppers is the blank look I am shot every time I ask a salesperson if they have any dehumidifers. They sometimes say things like "midifiers?" or "oh, you mean HUMidifiers!" or "De-hu-wha?"

Getting back into the car feels like coming back from war. I am irrefutably too old for the mall.

A Special Man

My husband, Kram, is a special education teacher. He is also a very special man. A story he recounted from today illustrates this perfectly.

He began with, “I felt so bad about something that happened today….”

Then he told me he went into Nanna’s classroom to support a boy we’ll call Kirk. Nanna instantly said, “Kirk didn’t do his homework.” Apparently this is code for, “Take him out of my room.” Nanna, like many teachers, has little patience for kids who don’t do their homework. And apparently this year, Kirk hasn’t done any homework at all this year. He probably hears a lot of impatient, curt comments from frustrated teachers.

Kram though, has read Kirk’s student record. And what most teachers don’t know is that Kirk’s got more baggage than most adults. His dad was killed in a freak car accident five years ago on Thanksgiving. And his mother has schizophrenia. He was taken out of her custody a few years ago (also around this time of year) and he now lives with his 21 year old sister who takes care of him.

Kirk and Kram sat in an office while Kram said, “I am going to have to phone your sister, Kirk.” Kirk got upset. He said, “You don’t know me. Nobody knows me.” And he began to cry.

Kram said, “Kirk, I do know. I know what you’ve been through. I know about your dad. You’re a strong young man. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost my father so young.” Kirk still didn’t want Kram to phone his sister. But Kram said, “I’ll never do anything to hurt you. I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I’m only doing things that are best for you.” So he phoned his sister while Kirk was in the room so he could hear everything that was said. And afterwards he said, “Did I say anything that was untrue?” And Kirk said no. And Kirk typed away at his homework.

Then Kirk said his birthday was coming up. And Kram said he’d buy him a doughnut on his birthday. And Kirk’s face lit up. And Kram wrote it down in his agenda (and he doesn’t write all that much stuff down in his agenda).

And when Kram told me this story, he only remembers that he made a kid cry today. And I said, today he made a kid feel like someone truly cares about him. And I think I have a wonderful, crazy caring husband.

A Mockery of the Word

Yesterday, a woman came into the school seething mad. She demanded to see the principal regarding a bussing issue. I could hear her in the vice principal's office, tearing a strip off him. When she had left, he explained what she was so upset about.

Apparently, her son has to walk 15 minutes to get to the bus stop. (Not uncommon with cut-backs these days). Other kids (obviously the ones who live closer to the stop bus) have to walk LESS than 15 minutes. THIS, she claims angrily, is DISCRIMINATION!

Angelina Just Can't Win!

I appreciate brain-dead gossip as much as the next person, and I glance at those cheezy hollywood magazines while I'm waiting at the cash register line-up in the grocery store. I muse at what passes for news and I take everything with a grain of salt. But today, I really got angry with those ridiculous idiots who call themselves editors!

Angelina has been the focus of intense scrutiny for the past, I'd say, six months because of her dwindling weight. They have been harping and harping on how thin her arms are and how her ribs are protruding from her chest. They call it "irresponsible" and "dangerous" and they question her relationship and her parenting skills as a result. BUT TODAY, the tabloids noticed she's gained about 10 pounds, landing herself with a more healthy-looking figure. She's got meat on her arms and more shapely legs. She's probably only a fraction of an inch above emaciated still, however, she's getting there. And do you know what the headline reads?
"Is Angelina Pregnant?"

Hills and Valleys

First, let's talk hills. This weekend, my little brother woke up and made sandwiches. He bought champagne and packed wine and his Debbie Travis wine glasses. Then he convinced his girlfriend, Michelle, that despite the persistent rain, a picnic would be a good idea. They went to eat by the Frolf course and then proceeded to Jackson Park, where, beneath a shelter, he read her a poem about his love and asked her to marry him. We're so excited to have Michelle in the family!

And now the valley....Frankie (my very obese cat) made a trip to the vet yesterday and had some bloodwork done. Apparently, she's got diabetes. Which sucks for her because although we're willing to reduce her caloric intake by purchasing expensive special food and we're kind of willing to give her pills if they're not too expensive, we're just not the kind of people who are willing to buy insulin for our cat and inject her every day. In 40% of the cases, reducing her weight and giving her the pills will be enough. And if she's in the 60% portion, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Still, lucky for her, she's been getting a lot of love as a consequence of her new-found ailment. She got a new giant-sized cat litter and she got a bath (fun for the whole family) and she got more pets than she has in years.

Friday Afternoon

It was a hectic week.

It was tiring on several levels.
My cat is sick and incontinent and living with my mom. She needs to go to the vet.

My car got sick and incontinent and, being in a rush to get it fixed before the weekend, we had to take it to the dealership.

The school is being reorganized, effective at the beginning of next week, and we have no schedules or class lists.

None of these things individually are a big deal. Altogether, they just make me want to curl up and have a nap.

So I decided to finally cash in that gift certificate that my loving friends gave me as a bridal gift last June.

The Silvery Butterfly Spa is a spa like none other. You walk in and there's a martini bar to your left with an aquarium that takes up an entire wall. You have a host that gives you a tour and escorts you through your visit. You get your own bathrobe and flip flops. There's a lounge with sink-into-sleepy-bliss cushions and iced tea in a pitcher and wine glasses. There are fish in there too. There's a steam room and a hot tub and a dining room for eating your catered dinner (I had spicy tuna salad and calamari maki). And the room with the pedicure chairs are is a circle, so you could actually easily chat with your friends if you went together. And the best part, I dare say, was the incredible foot and hand massages I got as part of the manicure and pedicure treatments. I actually fell asleep. I'm sure Mrs. Manners would scoff, but I didn't care.

Coming out of the spa, I felt like a brand new woman. Not a woman who just spent $1600 on her car. Not a woman whose fat, old cat is teetering perilously close to the after-life. Not a woman who has no idea what she's teaching come Tuesday morning.

I emerged with my soul rejuvenated, just like the spa booklet promised. So I came home and I made an oil pastel drawing of Picasso's Blue Nude.

And I hung it up in the living room.

The Art of Aimless Surfing

I am alienated from my peer counterparts. I have been struggling for years to learn the art of aimless internet surfing. Just to kill time, to wander around for pure amusement and wasteful bliss with no particular aim except to find things that could be classified as interesting or unique or at the very least mind-numbingly entertaining.

Not twenty seconds ago, I found myself doing what I often do when I have a short void of time to fill with nothingness, I began to scan through my Internet "Favourites" looking for something to take the edge off.....Do I want to read the blog of one of my siblings? Do I want to visit Free Web Arcade? Do I want to fantasize about a marathon I might someday tackle? And there ends my surf.

Please, someone either send me an amusing and time-wasting link or at the very least, provide me with some guidance or a How-To step-by-step program.

I'm a shame to my generation.

Dodgeball: A Game of Stealth and Speed

Monday marked the first of ten evenings of dodgeball madness for me, my husband and several of our other teaching buddies. We've joined a rec league at the local community centre. We tried, with no success, to get our friendly neighbourhood wing and beer pub to sponsor us (in hopes of being able to get really fun uniforms). Monday arrived and not only did we have no uniforms, but we had no real team name!

Here were some of the suggestions:

Balls Deep
Professor Pain and the Ball Busters
The Rabbits (Who are we kidding? We're no threat to anyone!)
Mitchondrion: The Powerhouse of the Cell (I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't me!)

It was awful how brutally the other team wiped the floor with us. They won 15 games and we won 5. I feel the need to point out that we were painfully honest about the rules and the other team was less so. Regardless, they WERE a more skilled (possibly more youthful) and a much more competitive group of dodgeballers than us. We can certainly take the experience and learn from it.

The nameless team shall only move forward from here!
(However, over the next few days we won't be moving very quickly - dodgeball certainly can stiffen up the dominant side of your body)

Purge

I am making Mark proud. I am ridding myself of old chi. Stream-lining my life. Making way for new junk.

I am getting rid of an old friend – the desk my father made me when I was a kid. It’s the desk that I took apart and reassembled every two times a year during my University career and a half a dozen times since then. And finally, I’m going to kiss it good-bye in favour a newer and shinier desk. One that has less storage space.
So I am exploring the depths of my old friend’s three drawers.

In my desk drawer there are:
Farm animal stickers.
A wax seal kit for the letter “L” which I purchased in England when I was sixteen and went there on a band trip.
Pictures from Hilary’s wedding (well, the ones when we were in the hair salon).
Shoe polish and lots of it.
Knitting needles.
Lots of chopsticks.
Old Christmas greeting cards.
Floppy disks.
The computer power cable I swore I’d lost two moves ago.
Yellow balloons.
A really old address book.
A really old camera.
Chemistry goggles.
Swimming goggles.
A molecular model kit.
A human anatomy dissection kit.
And my beloved Pumpkin Carving Kit!

How can a person part with such treasures!