My Own McHell

In university, I spent a few summers working near Vancouver in illustrious summer occupations, such as Box Packer, Internet Teacher to People Who Don't Know How To Use A Mouse, and the ever-popular Key to Deadbolt Matcher. This was in my public transit phase; I had to ride the bus and skytrain every day.

It usually took at least two transfers to get where I was working, yet no matter what time of day it was or what bus route it was, if I was lucky enough to get a window seat I was also lucky enough to sit at the window with the greasy head smear. For reasons unbeknowst to me, people seem to have a need to rest their oily heads against the window and sleep. It looked like someone had thrown a bowl of well-oiled angel hair pasta at the bus window. Napping bus riders = non-hair-washing bus riders = me barfing in my mouth.

I'd drown out the possibility of inane stranger small talk by retreating within via the help of a little Led Zeppelin II or the soundtrack to Annie on my yellow Sony Walkman. One day even my Walkman couldn't protect me from the bus riding grease stains or crazies when, thinking I could avoid the pomaded public transit porthole by sitting in the aisle seat, a man holding the bar behind my head became entangled in my hair. After some tugging, apologizing (on his part), and retching (on my part), he was free to leave the bus and I was free to relive the nightmare for years to come. Even though my bus rides these days are part of school field trips, I still tie my hair up whenever I board.

Living in a small town (that thankfully lacks public transit with greasy windows) affords few options for grocery shopping. I shop twice a month, making the 45 minute trek to The Big City (just kidding, we only go to Chilliwack) a full day event. I save all my errands for Shopping Day, but with so many stops to make I find it helps to bribe my kids let my kids know that we'll have a special lunch and stop at a playground. Most days we get take out and have a picnic at a park. Some days the weather fights my plans and we find indoor places to play and eat.

The most recent Shopping Day was too hot to play outside, so we went to McDonald's, to the extreme joy of Maya and Ben. Really, Maya was extremely joyous, and Ben. . .well, Ben will smile and put his hand up to agree to anything.

"Who wants to go to McDonald's?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up.

"Who wants to play on the slide?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up.

"Who wants a bath?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up.

"Who wants a kick in the pants?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up. Bless his heart. He's sweet, that boy of mine.

The play area is a separate room, sealed off so as to not frighten the non-parents who may be dining in the fine establishment. It's roughly 5 degrees warmer in the play area and smells of kid sweat. To add to the whole enjoyable experience, McDonald's lovingly pipes in non-stop kids' music. Not the stomachable kids' music, like the Jonas Brothers. The kind with banjos and annoying character voices, following three basic themes: pets, sandwiches, and weather. Maya wanted to sit at the special table with the hamburger head stools. Turns out those hamburger heads are really meant to hold children's bottoms, because I was sodomized by hamburger eyeballs all through lunch. Good times.

It was within this McHell that I was forced to relive my bus riding days. I watched Maya carefully help Ben manoeuvre the playground, lifting him up when he couldn't quite reach, coaxing him through the tunnels, teaching him to scream and pound on the playground plastic windows. And it was at that exact moment of screaming, pounding, and pressing of faces against the plastic that I suddenly noticed how absolutely filthy it was in there. Greasy, grimy hand and nose prints, like the greasy, grimy head prints on the bus. My feet stuck to the floor, like the random guy stuck in my hair. I panicked.

And so we left. Right then. And I vowed never to return. Next Shopping Day we're eating in the Jeep with the A/C and Dave Matthews blasting.

All the -tion words my inner thesaurus can muster

restoration - rejuvenation - resurrection

I have the sudden urge to create, to record, to write. I often get this way in August, the Sunday of my year. I realize that the sands of my summer time have slipped too quickly through my hands and I want to have something to show for the two months of blissful laziness I've spent with my kids.

revitalization - regeneration - resuscitation

My obsessive blogstalking casual reading of talented writers has inspired me to get my own little blog going again. I may or may not have fantasies of my children, years from now, reading my humble ramblings and exclaiming "Mom, you are so witty, so insightful, so fantastic! Here's a spa day/new car/cabin on the lake to show our thanks for digitally preserving our childhood for all the world to see."

Or not.

The reality is it'll be more like "huh, uh. . . that was. . . interesting, Mom." And then behind my back they'll choose the shoddier of the the nursing homes they were considering. Payback for the pictures I post and stories I share.

reanimation - revivification - reblogification

Long has the blog sat fallow. But no more. No more I say!

P.S. - Grown-up Maya and Ben - please choose the place with air conditioning. Mama doesn't do well in the heat.

Get your house Hantavirus clean!

I woke up Friday morning feeling yucky. Maya and I went to the beach that day, but came home in the early afternoon because I was feeling rotten. By 4 o'clock, I was stuck in the bathroom being sick. I had to miss sweet Cheyenne's first birthday because I was so sick (that and we had been exposed to chickenpox).

Seeing how we've been having rodent visitors lately, my mind starts spinning. OMG, I've got the Hantavirus - the virus that is spread by deer mice. A quick internet search revealed more than I wanted to know about those filthy buggers. A trip to Health Canada's website to read up on the Hantavirus and I was in full panic mode. Trouble breathing? Well, yes, I've had a cough that I can't shake. Bathroom troubles? Unfortunately, yes. Fever? Yes, and the 36C (99F for those of you still in the dark ages) has nothing to do with why I'm so warm, it HAS to be the Hantavirus fever. Fatigue? Hell yes, I need a nap everyday. Holy sh*t, I've got the Hantavirus. We'd better disinfect the house before Maya gets it, too.

We've probably spent about $90 on Lysol in the past few days. Most people know that I clean everything in my home with vinegar, baking soda, castille soap, and essential oils. Nothing toxic, nothing harsh. So for me to relent and bring Lysol into the house, you know I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Turns out I just had a bit of a stomach bug, a 24 hour flu of sorts. We haven't caught a mouse with the killing bar in about a week. I now have a clean, disinfected home. Our garage is tidy, we're caught up on laundry, and it's spotless behind the stove and fridge and under the sink, too. Our house is no longer in C.H.A.O.S. (Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome). Maybe Mouse Infestation 2006 wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Not that I'd ever want those filthy buggers in my house again.

See how they run

Our townhouse complex is still being completed. Brand new homes on the snobby hillside. Love the home, hate the location. It's far away from everything, within walking distance of pretty much nothing. Oh, and it's got mice.

Ah, the joys of "cottage living", the phrase coined by the builders themselves. Freaking mice. We noticed them a few months ago when our dishwasher suddenly started pouring water all over the kitchen floor. Appliance guy said a filthy mouse had chewed through the drainage hose. Eric bought one of those things that emits a high pitched noise that only rodents can hear to irritate them enough to bugger off. That worked, until this week.

Friday night, Eric and I were playing Monopoly in the living room, when I hear something rustling under the sink. I peeked in there, only to see a stinkin' mouse in the garbage can, desperately trying to jump its way to freedom. I trapped it with the bottom side of a baking pan and Eric took it outside and "disposed" of it. Ok, he shook the little guy to death, but he wanted to make sure it wasn't coming back.

15 minutes later, I heard rustling again, this time from Maya's Fisher Price kitchen. I checked the little oven and fridge, no mouse. Eric lifted the kitchen off the floor, and a foul little creature went darting towards the couch. Man, that mouse ran fast. I started to shriek, and then laughed at myself for shrieking, and then shrieked again as Eric lifted the couch up and the disgusting thing ran under the loveseat. The couch lift, mouse dart, shriek, laugh pattern continued for about five minutes as we tried to get it to run out of the sliding door.

Then Eric suggested that I turn on the vacuum. Unfortunately, we don't have built-in vac, so I was worried that our little vacuum wasn't big enough to kill a mouse like Mom did in Pokey the gerbil. But the noise sure helped scare the horrid little mouse into running. Lift, vacuum, dart, shriek, laugh, repeat. It took another 10 minutes to finally get it to run out the door to freedom. At last, we're mouse free.

Saturday night, after Maya was in bed, Eric and I headed downstairs to watch a little TV. We weren't down there five minutes before I saw a mouse run across the floor. WTF?! This is getting out of hand. Sunday afternoon we went to Canadian Tire and purchased a couple of mouse traps. We weren't sure which one to buy, until Eric read the back of one of the packages and saw that this particular model had a "killing bar". A killing bar. That would be a lot more useful than what we were doing before.

So I filled the trap with peanut butter and show Maya how they worked. After two demonstrations she started to cry because it scared her. Awful, I know, but I had to make sure she wouldn't touch it. It took two days, but the killing bar finally worked. Hopefully we're mouse free now. I reset the trap and put it back in place, just in case.

I did get a bit of a chuckle this morning when I saw an Orkin truck at the neighbour's house, two doors up. Looks like we're not the only ones with this problem. Filthy little f***ers.

Death of the Hot Rod

ACT ONE

Scene One - 3 weeks ago

(Aimee is driving in the car, noticing that the temperature gauge is rising steadily. She calls Eric.)

Aimee: Honey, there's something wrong with the car. The temperature gauge is really high. I've got the heat on full to help.
Eric: Good. Don't worry about it. You'll be fine. I'll take a look at it when you get home.

(Eric never really looks at the car, but says it's just a busted sensor.)

Scene Two - 2 days later

Aimee: Did you order a new sensor? The indicator says it's way too hot.
Eric: Yes. It should be here tomorrow. And the engine not's really overheating, the sensor just needs to be replaced.

Scene Three - 3 days later

Aimee: When's the car going to get fixed? I'm dying of heat exhaustion from having to drive with the heat full blast all the time to keep the engine from overheating.
Eric: It's not really overheating, the sensor is broken. I'm ordering the parts today. Should be here tomorrow.

Scene Four - 2 days later

Aimee: When's the car going to get fixed? The temperature keeps saying that it's overheating.
Eric: It's not actually overheating, the sensor is just broken. I'm ordering the parts today. Should be here tomorrow.

(This repeats over the next 2.5 weeks)

ACT TWO

Scene 1 - Driving home from work yesterday

(Aimee hears a strange pop and feels the car jerk like it's stalling. She calls Eric.)

Aimee: Eri, something weird just happened. I just heard the car pop, and now I'm losing power.
Eric: You'll be fine. Don't worry.
Aimee: The temperature needle is now above High. It's way too hot!
Eric: It's not really overheating, the sensor is just broken.
Aimee: Hey, have those parts come in yet?
Eric: Should be here tomorrow.

(Another pop is heard, followed by a large black cloud out of the back of the car.)

Aimee: Crap, it just happened again! Am I going to die?!
Eric: Nah, you'll be fine. You probably just blew the headgasket.

(Aimee drives the rest of the highway route, and gets off at the exit for home. The car pops again, more smoke billows out of the rear of the car, and smoke begins to plume from the hood.)

Aimee: Eric, the car is done. It won't work at all. Come down the hill and get me.
Eric: What do you mean, the car is done? Just restart it, you'll be fine.
Aimee: No, there is smoke coming out of both ends. Come and get me!

(Aimee hangs up the phone and tries to back the car to the side of the road, using only the emergency brake. She grabs her cell phone and her jacket from the car and gets the hell outta there, just in case it blows up. Eric soon shows up with Maya in Clifford Truck.)

Eric: Did you take a look at it and see what's wrong?
Aimee: NO! I was afraid it was going to blow up with all that smoke, so I grabbed my coat and phone and booked it.
Eric: WHY DIDN'T YOU TAKE MY GOLF CLUBS OUT OF THE CAR, TOO?!!

(Eric raises the hood and discovers the engine is covered in coolant and oil. Three of the four plug wires were blown apart and clear out of the plug bores of the cylinder head cover.)

Eric: Huh. That looks like a catastrophic engine failure due to overheating.

{END PLAY}

This theatrical presentation was brought to you by the letters ohshit and procrastination.

Close lid, THEN flush!

Today was a blissful, relaxing family day at home. Mostly.

It started and ended innocently enough. It was declared Family PJ Day, so none of us got dressed until late in the day. Maya didn't even get dressed until 7pm when we went to the neighbour's for coffee (lazy girl!). This morning was spent by the fire, me knitting a kitchy kerchief, Eric playing the guitar, and Maya alternating between wildly shaking her booty to Daddy's music and experimenting with her slide to see how many different ways she can get down it (for those keeping score at home, she stopped when she got to 8).

Eric decided he had enough of me gently suggesting that we go out for some family fun and decided I should go shopping by myself for some new clothes, maybe even get a manicure. Really, I know that he wanted some uninterupted XBox time, but you know, part of being a good spouse is being agreeable occasionally. And today, that meant going shopping. So I oh, so begrudgingly got myself ready. And that's when it all went down the toilet. Literally.

Let's pause for a moment and flash back three years to when I was with child and accidentally dropped my glasses into the toilet as it was flushing. I couldn't get the glasses out, the toilet started to back up, and then an unnamed family member visited and made good use of said toilet. Dad came over, took the toilet apart, and with some huffing, puffing, and a few choice words, he was able to retrieve them for me. Keep in mind I was pregnant at the time and had an extreme case of pregmentia. I didn't want to wear poopy glasses on my face, so I had to disinfect them and what better way to disinfect plastic glasses than to boil them. Yeah, they melted. Let's just say that Dad did a lot more huffing and puffing and left soon after.

So what does that trip down memory lane have to do with today? Well, I was trying to multi-task and flushed the toilet while I changed the toilet paper roll (SOMEBODY in this house has to!) and the roll holder fell into the toilet as it was flushing. Maybe it's time we rethink our plan to NOT childproof the toilet. It sure seems that one of the girls in the house needs to be kept away from the flusher. And Dad, if you're reading this, don't worry, we're not asking for your help on this one.


This evening I shared a deeply intellectual conversation with Maya over fruit snacks. We decided after many taste tests that strawberry is a superior flavour to blueberry. It was during this confectionary colloquy that we discovered Maya's new talent: storytelling. Luckily for me, I had the camera handy to preserve the moment to share with everyone on her wedding day. I wish there was some way to attach the file to the blog, but until I figure that out, I'll give you the Cole's Notes version: Once upon a time, there was a boy named Robin. He got stuck in the mud. His friends helped him out. The End. True, it's not Pullitzer Prize winning yet, but the story has characters, a problem, and resolution, which is more than I can say for most of my students' writing.

What have I learned today? 1. Blogging is tasty when done with Lucky Charms. 2. Close the lid before you flush. 3. Teach my poor students how to write better stories.

Ft. Lauderdale, here I come!

Ah, Spring Break. A venerable cornocopia of boozing, dancing, beaches, and general debauchary. Good, clean fun without any regrets...

Oh, wait, I forgot. I'm pushing 30, a wife, a mother, and a teacher. These days, Spring Break is a venerable cornocopia of sleeping in until 7am, catching up on laundry, playdough, fingerpaint, and the local rec centre. Maybe I'll get to sneak in a beer after Maya is in bed, but chances are, I'll be snoring on the couch next to Eric by 8:30pm.

Sounds awful? Not in the least. I wouldn't have it any other way.