Generation Exhausted

That's what I call karma

Remember the stolen bike last summer? Remember how I mentioned that it was the THIRD bicycle we'd had stolen over the course of a few years?

This morning, I took the little daughter to Safety On Wheels, put on by the local Optimists. This was our second year participating. At the end of a morning that involves bike safety. maneuvering, balancing, etc. there's a draw for prizes. They also give away one bike each to a boy and a girl between the ages of 5 and 12. We were hoping for a helmet, as hers needed replacing badly.

She won the bike!

It was a little too big for her, but I called the Canadian Tire, which donated the bike, and they let me bring her in to trade it for the next size down. Since it was a little less money, she was also able to get a helmet and a handlebar bag.

She's absolutely thrilled. She's been giddy all day, practically vibrating over her good luck, and as she said tonight, "This has been the BEST day."

And we've already found a cousin who will appreciate using her old bike, which she only got last year, but was getting a bit small for her.

This has been a good day indeed.

Didn't we already vote this year?

Just in case you are either A) not Canadian, or B) not paying attention, I thought I'd mention that we're having an election. What's that you say? We just had one?

You're right, we did. In fact, in the last seven months, we've had two rounds of electoral ecstasy here in Ontario, first the municipals in October and then the provincials in November. Or was that the other way around?

Regardless, we're going to the polls again, this time to elect the Big Cheese, the Head Guy, the Leader of the Country. Although not really - we don't get to vote directly for the Prime Minister, you see. It's complicated. Don't ask me to explain it. If you really want to know how it all works, go take First Year Canadian History in high school.

But we still get to vote. And vote-weary though we may be, it's still a good thing.

Murphy called again

Is there anything more frustrating than digging a seven foot deep hole in your front lawn, only to realize that you have to call the professionals in to dig it better, and do the job for you?

Why yes, yes there is.

It's watching the professional continue to dig your hole for four more hours, only to come to the conclusion that the hole's in the wrong spot.

Ohmydog, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

So tonight and tomorrow, I will be putting the dirt back IN the hole, so that the professional can come next week and dig ANOTHER hole. Who knew the sewer line would run to the street on a 60 degree angle? I'm beginning to think the city planners that designed this neighbourhood back in the 1920s were perhaps hitting the sauce on their lunch hour a little too often.

Watch your step

Glancing at my front lawn, you might wonder just exactly what's going on. I'm sure the neighbours are - they were peeking out their windows, and walking casually by, but no one really seems interested in why we appear to be digging a grave in the middle of the yard.

Perhaps it falls under the category of "Oh god, what are those crazy people up to NOW?" Or maybe they just figure I've come up with a surefire way to catch any would-be bicycle thieves. Falling into a seven foot deep hole would sure teach those little punks a lesson.

But alas, the motives are less interesting, though far more icky than that. Having dried the basement, and stopped the torrential rains from pouring in, Murphy looked around and said, "Well, whatever else could go wrong probably should right about now." And so the sewer backed up. We've known for some time that the day would come when the 85-year old sewer line would need to be dug up, a section replaced, and an outside cleanout installed. And the day came today.

Like all good citizens, we called before we dug, and were informed that someone would be around next Tuesday or Wednesday to verify that we weren't going to blow up the neighbourhood by hitting a gas line, or cause a mini-drought by striking the water line. Knowing the gas meter was on the other side of the house, and assuming that it ran straight to the street, and also not wanting to wait until next week, we had shovels flying an hour later.

Handy tip - never mind Call Before You Dig. Dig a little, then call and tell them you hit something. They got here in 20 minutes after I came across a pipe about two feet down.

Turns out it was the OLD gas line. Heh.

Huge thanks to Keith for digging - hubby just can't.

So there's a big hole in the lawn, the sewer's still another foot down, and once again I'm facing an interesting week.

Weather Update

It rained again last night. And then it rained some more.

Does the Devil wear ice skates?

Surely, Hell has frozen over, because Leah McLaren, aka Journalist Barbie, has written something I can get on board with.

Miss Blonde With A Book Deal is talking about the awful, inescapable trend toward low-rise apparel for the bottom half in this weekend's column. I know of what she speaks, though I take mild offense to her use of the term "surrendered soccer mom." But seriously, low-rise has got to go.

It's almost impossible now to find jeans, capris, or even skirts with a normal rise. The store for us Suburban Moms, aka Old Navy, even offers choices between low-rise, low-low-rise and ultra-low rise.

Why? WHY?

I've borne three children, and even though God has seen fit to bless me with a nice flat tummy, there's no denying that I've acquired a stretch mark or two. I'm not too afraid to show off my navel, and can appreciate a good crop t-shirt, but I draw the line at showing off my pubic bone, thank you very much. Jeans that require a good bikini wax before you can wear them is going too far.

Oh, I've tried. But I find myself unconciously trying to pull up my pants, and, there being no more pants to pull up, I'm left with a minor wedgie. I'm also tired of telling my daughters to pull up their pants. Where my mother once checked to see if I was wearing too much makeup before going to school, I now find myself inspecting the girls to make sure I can't see their underwear peeking above their so-called waistline.

Which is another problem altogether. I find myself arguing with the girls about the actual location of their waists. They seem to believe that it's about two inches lower than it actually is.

So today, one single day out of the last 365, Journalist Barbie is spot-on.

Drying out

Fear not, we haven't been submerged yet, though things came close. My dear computer has been unplugged for the last 24 hours, as I discovered, shortly after last night's post, that the power bar was sitting on a damp patch that was quickly becoming a puddle. Nothing like living on the edge. I unplugged everything, piled my desk high, and hoped for the best.

The seepage that had become a stream appears to have been brought under control, for now. This afternoon, we discovered that one of the downspouts - the one located directly outside my office window - had become completely plugged with several decades worth of accumulated guck. You see, it was actually two downspouts that met in a "Y' - the "Y" had become impassable. So we ripped 'em off, and installed two new, completely separate downspouts that will divert the water away from the house. It rained again about an hour ago, and no new water came in. Yay!

It's very telling that this seepage started a few months ago, and we didn't investigate the downspout then. We figured it was inevitable that, as we waterproof the basement section by section, the water would move. Since there was never a lot of water, and it all ran down the drain and dried quickly, we put off doing anything about it. This week's deluge brought in a LOT of water, and came close to causing HUGE problems, and it turned out the fix was as simple as a hundred bucks worth of downspout and an hour's labour.

How many things in our lives do we respond to in a similar fashion? It's easy to ignore the minor problems that seem more annoying than they do damaging, and it's not until things reach crisis proportions that we act. Goes along the lines of "when the pain is great enough..." Food for thought.

One additional thing I realized while attending the reunion. I miss singing the national anthem. Twice this weekend, a gym full of people belted out "O Canada" and I was absolutely moved by it. I don't attend sporting events very often, not ones where they sing the anthem anyway, and it's been years since they played it before movies. I hardly ever get to hear it, or sing it, anymore. I like singing "O Canada." There's something about the way it brings a crowd together that just gets me.

Choppy thought: I know all the words to "The Star Spangled Banner" too, and like to sing them. As a Canadian, if I'm attending something in the States and they sing their national anthem, is it appropriate for me to sing along? I always wonder.

Time to shut the office again, and aim the fan to dry out my carpet. Hopefully, by the end of the weekend, I'll be dried out and back to business as usual.

As the waters rise

Racing to get this post in between flashes of lightning. Also, we're near the point of having to bail in the basement. So far, the water is running mostly in a nice straight river toward the drain, but if this keeps up, I may have to move the office to higher ground. Just call me Noah.

Interesting day today, filled with many of those "I have to blog about this" moments. There's a big high school reunion in town this weekend - it's not mine, but my mother, her siblings and my brother are all alumni, and the older daughter is a current student. Also, most of the kids from my own elementary school went there. So I'm kind of an alumni by osmosis or something. I've known the school song since I was eight.

So my uncle is in from the West, and this afternoon he and some former classmates had arranged to visit their old elementary school, where they graduated from Grade Eight fifty years ago. Since it's the same elementary school where I'm currently Queen of the Parent Council (actually, they call me the Chairperson) I had offered to be their tour guide.

So the tour began, and we wandered down to the basement. While we were down there, there was an announcement of some kind, and as we came back up the stairs we found students streaming past us into the halls. My mother (who was tagging along) remarked that there was little daughter's class, but she couldn't see little daughter. The class was all lined up along the lockers, sitting on the floor. As I looked up and down the hallway, I realized that all the primary classes were lined up along the hallways, sitting on the floor. In fact, students seemed to be coming down from the second floor to sit in the hallway.

Yeah, it took me a minute to figure it out, too.

They were having a tornado drill! At that point, the VP raced down the hall saying "Down! Everyone get down! Staff too, get down!"

Well, our little tour group, consisting of me and four older Baby Boomers, hit the floor in a hurry. The sound of hail and rain started just as I glanced toward the front doors of the school - through the window I could see the sky was Frankenstein Green.

Maybe it's not a drill after all.

I called home quickly, and hubby answered with "Wherever you are, stay put."

I scurried down the hall and found my little one, and her teacher said she could come and sit with us. So Little Daughter now has the memory of the day Grandma and Uncle and Mommy got to have tornado drill with her at her school.

We have pictures.

By the way, Middle Daughter was up in the front hall with the big kids, many of whom were, as the daughter puts it, "Drama Queens." The seventh grade girls were crying more than the little kids.

In the end, the storm blew over, and we all returned to our routine, and now we have something to talk about at future family gatherings.

I went up to the reunion tonight with the relatives. At the Opening Ceremonies, I discovered that no matter what, there will always be people in the world who have absolutely no class whatsoever.

Backstory: The provincial government, elected last fall to perform miracles, made it clear this week that miracles are not on the agenda. And people are angry. (I'm not. I didn't expect miracles.) Very angry.

So, one of the visiting dignitaries who is an alumni also happens to be a Provincial Cabinet Minister. Now, she's a good lady. I don't support her party, but I like her. She's smart, funny, and works hard. And when they introduced her tonight, someone booed.

And then other people booed, and it was just nasty. It was pointless, and ugly, and really cast a shadow over what should have been a night for celebration. Sandra handled it with an incredible amount of grace and dignity, and I was really impressed. Her short speech was not the least bit political. I was really disappointed to see that some people would see this night as the appropriate place or time for that nonsense. Yes, she's a cabinet minister, but she was there as a graduate, and there was no need for that kind of behaviour.

And the guy that started it didn't let up either, to the point where finally his wife told him to leave the gym.

Anyway, I found it offensive, and I don't even support the party.

Other highlights included someone I haven't seen in twenty years recognizing me without my name tag, and telling me I looked good. We'll see what tomorrow brings!

My kingdom for a sandwich!

Spent several minutes last night driving around in search of sustenance. We'd gone to pick a relative up at the airport, and arrived at 11:39 to discover that the 11:46 had been delayed until 12:25.

Wandering off track to comment about the airport...

In a way that is sure to have the FBI and CSIS camping out on my blog, worried that I'm giving away important security info, allow me to tell you about our airport. It's small. The traffic tends to be heavy, but it's not passenger traffic, it's cargo traffic. The place is normally so empty, you could send a bowling ball rolling from one end to the other without hitting anything. (see how I avoided the suggestive "shoot a cannon" analogy?) I've been there several times, usually in the early morning or late evening hours. There are two different rental car desks, but I've never actually seen anyone working there. There's also a small restaurant/cafe - I've never seen it open either.

Digression over

Last night when we arrived, my mother worried that I'd get a ticket for parking in front of the door, instead of in short-term parking. Well, I've never gotten a ticket there either. That's where everyone parks. If you're dropping off or picking up, you're rarely there longer than ten minutes anyway. And since the security guards were enjoying a rousing game of soccer in the lot last night, I wouldn't have wanted to park my car in there and mess them up.

The arrivals area was quiet. Since all the ticket desks are closed at that time of night, and there are no departure/arrival screens, I looked for an official-type person to ask them about the flight. He was sitting at the cargo desk, which was shrouded in darkness, staring at a computer screen. I may have woken him up when I asked about the flight. He said there was a notice on the board.

Sure enough, over on "the board" was a piece of paper taped over the "11:46" and "12:25" was scrawled on it in black marker.

Having, literally, nothing else to do, we decided we would have a snack.

We drove back up the road to Tim Hortons, in search of a chicken salad sandwich. Regular readers here will know how important those chicken salad sandwiches are to me. But alas! the Tims, while being well-stocked with chicken salad, had run out of bread. So back in the car, and up the road a little further to Burger King.

Burger King was closed, as was the McDonald's across the road, and the Subway just past that. It was only midnight, but the city seemed to have turned off its lights, locked its doors, and gone to bed.

This is a 24 hour town, folks. Chryslers runs three shifts, there is a casino and multiple bingo halls, and dozens of little manufacturing plants all running around the clock. Yet somehow, this area, which is adjacent to an industrial park, and also on one of the main roads from the highway, shuts down at 11.

How very sad. I guess if you want to grab a bite before the midnight shift, you're limited to a Tims donut, or Doritos out of the airport vending machine. So much for the thriving metropolis theory.

In the end, it was Doritos for us, and the plane arrived, and all was well. And I didn't get a parking ticket. And the rental car girl turned out to be one of the soccer players, so she went back to her post as well.

Didja miss me?

Pardon me while I dust off the blog and clear away some of these cobwebs. Hope you all haven't stopped dropping by in the hope that I might, some day, post something new.

I can now rest securely in the knowledge that my children have seen an ironing board and will, in future, be able to correctly identify one.

"Hey, I know what that is! You stand on it in the ocean and ride the waves!"

"No dear, you're thinking of a surf board. This is an ironing board. You iron clothes on it."

"What's an iron?"

Sigh.

I'm still looking for the word "insanity" which surely must be hidden inside the word "sponteneity". At the very last possible minute this weekend, faced with an out-of-town event on Sunday, we decided to surprise the children by going up a day early and staying at a hotel with a pool. (and an ironing board)

The thing is, we didn't tell them. Well, most of them. I let the oldest one in on part of the secret, because I couldn't pack for everyone on the sly without some help. So we snuck (sneaked?) the suitcases into the van and hit the highway Saturday afternoon for "a drive in the country".

The middle one was nearly having an anxiety attack, as she knew something was up. She'd seen suitcases on my bed. And her grandfather had hinted that we might be going somewhere. But we weren't giving anything away. After visiting the blueberry market an hour out of town, we told the kids we'd stop at Smitty's for dinner on the way home. Thanks to a well-timed nap, the two little ones didn't realize that we actually drove onwards to the Smitty's in London, which happened to be located in the hotel. After they were all seated at dinner, I excused myself and went out to check us in. I dumped the suitcases in our room and raced back to the table, where the children had all reached the conclusion that Mommy was just a wee bit off today.

After dinner, we suggested that we look around a bit, and I led them right to the room. As we entered, the little one saw our bags and said "Those look like our suitcases!" (perhaps she thinks Mommy can just walk into hotel rooms by divine right?)

The best part was right after they finally clued into what was happening. Daddy drew the curtains back, and this is what they saw from the balcony of the hotel room:

Yes, there was a waterslide. No, I didn't go down the waterslide. I'm not a waterslide kind of gal. My job is to stand at the bottom and fret over all the ways my children could suffer injury on the waterslide. I serve the same purpose poolside.

However, I enjoyed most of my time in the hot tub, except for the umpty-thousand kids whose parents were not supervising them, and perceived the hot tub as a wading pool. I only got kicked in the head twice.

We had a great time, but it's good to be home again!