Autopilot

I am in such a daze today that I’m not even sure what happened last week. Canada Post is still on strike, and I think are due back to work on Tuesday. If our carrier doesn’t look disgruntled, I shall get the skinny on the strike for you. All I know is last week he looked mighty sad and sighed and said he just came to deliver pension checks, and I thought that was generous for folks on strike. At least they are thinking of the elderly.  I have nothing to wait for in the mail, so I’m rather relaxed about it. My days of getting excited about Chinese takeout menus are sadly behind me.

All I did this week was get even more baffled about road rules, prepare a dinner for some friends, and look for a new place to live. I continue to battle with my driving instructor. If anyone made a bobbing head hood ornament out of him, it would screech ‘Fail!’ every five minutes.  It has become such a bad habit that I’m inwardly mocking his tag line every time he takes an exaggerated deep breath.

I mean the guy tells me never to go on the bicycle lane. So I think I’m being brilliant and avoiding it. Then I have to turn right and I’m yelled at for not going all the way to the right—into the bicycle lane! It’s a no win situation. And I’m expected to stay on the right lane and merge if there are parked cars. I say, just turn onto the lane that has no parked cars—sure beats changing lanes! I need to get a job where I can make road rules.

I stupidly asked him if we could go on the highway so I could practice merging in high speeds and taking exits and what not. As luck would have it, it was pouring down with rain and everything was so gray, I couldn’t even see where my lane was. Between a lot of praying and not a lot of breathing, I survived that barely. After that excitement, we went into the suburbs.  I wanted to go on the highway again when the rain cleared, but for some reason, the instructor didn’t want to. Hmm.

All of a sudden, I realized that there was no squawking going on from the passenger side.  Surely, I couldn’t have gone five minutes without messing something up and getting scolded?  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the instructor’s head was bobbing down jerkily. The motion seemed even more exaggerated by the giant black visor he had on his temple. Please tell me I did not give this guy a heart attack.  Should I pull over? Call 911on my imaginary cellphone? I had no idea how to drive to the hospital. 

You got to be kidding me. Dude was asleep! I was let loose on Canadian roads, basically on autopilot. I felt like I was in that movie, you know, where the pilots get knocked out, the control tower is not responding, and the brunette flight attendant with big hair has to take the wheel, read a manual, paint her toe nails and land a jumbo jet full of hysterical passengers on a narrow gangway all by herself.

The smart thing to do would have been to wake him up, but I suddenly enjoyed being in control—also we were in a low traffic neighborhood.  I thought it would be good for me to get a feel of driving with him not messing with the wheel or his pedals. Childishly, I also enjoyed the fact that he screwed up—he was asleep on the job! Fail!

I followed his last instruction, ‘did I tell you to turn? No! If no one says anything, just go straight’. So I headed straight, literally for the hills. My smirking came to an abrupt end when I soon found myself in a high traffic area and he sprang into action just when I needed him to.

This lesson, he said ‘Fail!’, about forty-six times. I stole one line from him just to take the fun out of it for him, so it really would be forty-seven. Apparently,  I go too fast in playground zones and too slow on the highway. I turn left for right and right for left—I’m wondering if that’s covered under disability? I just can’t get it right when I’m on the road, pun intended.

I was really glad the lesson was over with, and the only thing the instructor and I agreed on was that I'd probably wind up in a mental institution at the end of the lessons. I was really emotionally exhausted when I got home and spent the rest of the day in a comatose like state—or as much as I could be in one with my three-year-old Lanes lurking about.  Moral of the story: driving makes me a zombie. I have another lesson this week. I hate it.

Also, if it’s any consolation, if I literally drive my instructor into early retirement, he can always get a job as a narcoleptic drill sergeant. ‘Drop and give me twenty. Zzzzz’. Or perhaps even a building inspector or something. I can get him a job in my building! ‘Fixing burst pipe with low grade duct tape. Fail!’. ‘Elevator eating up tenants. Fail!’. ‘No water on Tuesdays. Fail!’.

The rest of the week was better. We enjoyed our dinner party with our new friends, and last I heard I think everyone survived my cooking—I just made my entire limited repertoire. I actually made desert—a chocolate biscuit pudding, which even my fussy Lanes enjoyed. Whew! Her usual reaction to my creations is ‘hmm. No thank you Mamma’.

On Sunday we had a depressing run looking for a place to live.  The only thing I came back with was a headache. To make it worse I kept dreaming of the places we looked at. It was exhausting and apparently will be a lengthy process.  My diligent spouse, P, said we need to move by December to wherever Lanes has to go to elementary school. 

You know looking for a new place to live is trying and tiring when you come home to this crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous joint and think, ‘ah, it’s not so bad, why do we have to move?’. And then you hear someone screaming that they are stuck in the elevator in tune with the grumbling of the pipes in the hallway…more crazy adventures next week…

Strike That

My three-year-old Lanes and I just returned from Seattle. We went down for my father’s birthday and to spend some time with my parents before they left for Sri Lanka. My nutty sister is usually the one who gets to cart them around for various doctor’s appointments and so I was glad to be able to be part of the travelling medical circus that is my family.

We were really a comical site at the hospital(s). My sister was sitting in the waiting room frantically meddling around with her blackberry because she had so much scheduling to do with her work and kids, then she had to run and discuss payment terms with the financial office. My father was supposed to fill out forms. 

I grabbed them and filled up half and gave him the rest, but he was daydreaming and holding onto them, not realizing he couldn’t go to his appointment until the forms were handed over. He tried to accuse me of not showing him all the forms, but that didn’t fly and my sister muttered under her breath and confiscated the forms and filled them out herself.

Lanes was clinging onto a pink dinosaur with green camouflage markings, my mom was sitting with her handbag on her knees, like she is waiting on a crowded bench for a train or the next bus out of town, and I was henpecking my father about his hearing aid.  He is notorious for not wearing it to his appointments, causing my long suffering sister to repeat everything the doctor is saying into his ‘good’ ear. For the longest time, his doctor thought he didn’t speak English.

After all the forms were finally filled and blackberries were put away, we suddenly heard a high pitch noise, and we turned in surprise to find my father trying to tune into Mars or something with his hearing aid. No wonder I always told him he was on another wavelength. After much ado, he got it into the right setting just when the doctor walked in.

Long story short, even if we are not really sure about a plan of action to battle my father’s cancer, the doctors took a lot of time to explain procedures and the disease well enough for people with no medical background to have a understanding of what’s going on. Well at this point my sister, I am sure, would beg to differ because she has been known to use her PhD as a MD, often doling out unwanted medical advice and warnings at whim--she also thinks three Tylenol is a panacea for most ailments.

I was grateful I could finally be part of these meetings because understanding what’s going on is half the battle. It is not knowing the information that leads to fear and confusion.  And when all of us trooped in (complete with my brother-in-law’s uncle who was almost intimidatingly taking detailed notes), I don’t know what went through the doctors’ minds. They must have laughed in their lunch room saying the only thing we didn’t bring was the family goat.

On the way back from one of the visits, we stopped by a grocery store and my parents stayed in the car with Lanes. For some reason, my sister decided to run across the parking lot. Not knowing why she was bolting, I broke out in a run after her as a reflex (perhaps because she was always ‘abandoning’ me when we were little).

When we got to the store I asked her what she was doing (right after I asked myself what I was doing since running is usually something I wouldn’t be caught dead doing unless a cockroach was chasing me). I am definitely built for couch-sitting though. I am a fully accomplished sitter. Any old how, she said she felt like giving all the other cancer patients in the parking lot a good laugh to see two fat ladies running.  I was not amused.  

My sister is constantly getting me into one sort of situation or another, yet I wind up gravitating towards her.  I need to get some insurance before visiting her in the future. On Wednesday, she ran off to the gym in the wee hours of the morning, happily setting her alarm and securing us while we slept. 

I was trying to convince Lanes that breakfast is a good idea when we were suddenly deafened by a whole slew of sirens, thereby stifling my pleas and her protests. My father sheepishly announced that he opened a window and set of the alarm. I had to run downstairs before the police showed up and I managed to slip and have a thundering fall. I just slid from one end of the corridor to the other like a bowling ball racing down an alley. 'Luckily' a wall came in my way.

I bashed both my knees, and I was unable to get up. My mom was in the loo, and my father couldn’t come down because his feet were sore from chemo.  He was watching me from upstairs in horror and Lanes was looking me like I was crazy to create such a drama over her not eating breakfast. Eventually, I scrambled up and got the alarm off.

Then I had to run upstairs with bruised knees and all,  because the alarm company called to make sure I wasn’t an intruder. After I gave them almost as much information about myself as I did to the Canadian Census form, I was asked for a password. I hadn’t a clue, but luckily my mother materialized at that moment and supplied me with the right answer, thereby averting my potential arrest. 

The next day, I had Lanes secured and eating breakfast for once (probably because she wanted to avoid the fiasco from the day before) when my sister sauntered in from the gym and said she had to pick up her daughters in five minutes and that we should go. I protested at first because Lanes and I were both in our PJs, but she hurried us along like an over-caffeinated drill sergeant.

I dashed into the car after getting Lanes in her booster seat and proceeded to bash my head in as I was trying to sit down. The bump and throbbing in my head at the point of impact was one thing, but my neck got slammed down to the side and it was hurting from my ear to my shoulder. I had terrible visions of having to walk around with my head tilted to the side.

My sister quickly thrust a frozen juice box at me as a make shift compress and she kept asking me if I was dizzy, which only succeeded in making me feel super woozy. When we got back I was thankful for my nieces because Lanes was following them around like a puppy and I had such a big headache that I had to have a nap.

When I came down, Anna, my niece’s aunt/nanny and frequent announcer of the end of the world, told me my neck was swollen badly and that I should see a doctor at once. Considering she had no idea that I had that ‘accident’, she really freaked me out. At the end of the day, after much pain medication, I was sorted out. My kind elder niece promised me that my neck didn’t look as bad as Anna made it out to be, and I derived some comfort from that.

Then the day after that, I decided I should be extra cautious and aware so I won’t hurt any limb or vital organ.  We went out for a peaceful lunch, and Lanes decided to break free from me in the parking lot and she tripped and fell face first on the ground before I could grab her. My younger niece and I were the only witnesses to this and we were so horrified that it took me a second to pick her up. Luckily, she broke her fall with her hands. I wasn’t even breathing when I checked her face, I was so scared. I was actually quite shaken by that.

In the end, it seemed like a long week and I had much to do when we returned.  While Lanes and I were in Seattle competing to see who can accumulate the most boo boos,  my meticulous spouse, P, was searching high and low for a new place for us to live. Lanes has to go to school in the neighborhood in which she lives, and she must be at that address beginning the January of the year she turns five (which is next year--she turns four next month). 

Obviously, that is not the only reason we need to move.  Between pipes bursting, mold sprouting, neighbors jumping, and elevators crashing, this is not a place we want to live in, let alone raise a child.  It’s a real ‘crazy ass, ghetto-fabulous joint’ as I call it. How did we wind up here? I'm still waiting for some cameras to pop up and for me to find that we're on some reality show or something. It just can't be real.

It’s a pity because it’s in such a safe looking, pretty neighborhood, it’s hard to image that there is a whole lot of crazy within these walls. But alas, we are bound also by P’s terms of employment and as he is still a ‘temp worker’ we are in a bit of a bind because we are still uncertain where he would have to commute to should we find another place to live depending on the schools.

We will be focusing a lot on that this week. Meanwhile, June is almost over and it’s been chilly on and off. I am on a one woman strike about this so I defiantly go out in my summer clothes, despite the weather. No jackets for me (I’m not so sure  I’ll be as adamant about it when I get pneumonia over this). Speaking of strikes, Canada Post is on strike, so we can’t mail anything or receive mail.

Boy I’ll really miss seeing bills and pizza menus in our postbox, let me tell you. I did see the postman today, but he was not really in uniform—I heard him in the distance telling someone who was surprised to see him working that he had to deliver pension checks. So that’s a good thing.  Will keep you posted on that strike next week… 

Street Smarts

I have returned from traumatizing motorists in the greater Vancouver area. This week, I was let loose on the roads not once, but twice! The instructor and I would have looked quite the sight, me clinging onto the steering wheel with crazy eyes wide open maniacally scanning at the intersections and the instructor randomly flailing his arms around and stammering in distress.

I realized that when I'm driving, I’m not breathing most of the time. Surely the lack of oxygen can’t be good. The second day, I had to drive in Vancouver itself and let me tell you I was on pins because the lanes are so narrow, if I was walking on them, I’d have to walk sideways (mostly because I am a wide load).

Strangely, the instructor was flapping around a little less that day. He actually even began to chat, telling me about the latest in dentistry for dogs. Random, but sure beats his usual topic of a hundred and one ways I will fail my road test, which needless to say is a topic I don't much care for, because deep down I knew one hundred and two ways I could fail.

I’m not so sure that knowing how to care for my imaginary dog’s teeth will come in handy for my road test, but as an avid dog lover, I was interested in what he was saying.  I doubt I’ll be asked during my test, as I am about to do one of my many illegal maneuvers, ‘you’re turning left in a one way street and you see a dog with bad gums—what do you do?’.

Just when I saw the instructor in a more humane light, rest assured, he peppered is conversation with warnings, ‘oh four wheels over the white line—fail!’, and ‘you didn’t see a merging sign—fail!’. This last statement was emphasized with some hysterical whacking of the rear view mirror.

I don’t know if he is trying to trick me from time to time to see if I am my own person while driving—like the time he yelled at me to go at a red light, but he suddenly wanted me to change lanes at one point. I told him no way since the car on that lane was speeding and he turned his wheel since I was defiantly holding onto mine.

Net result, the instructor couldn’t turn because that car was going too fast—but the driver did slow down to call me an ‘idiot’. Great. To add insult to injury, as he sped off, we noticed he had a big ‘N’ on his car, indicating he was a new driver. That’s an all time low, even if it’s not my fault, I was a victim of drive-by verbal abuse by someone who was probably only a splattering more experienced than me. Wonderful.

The instructor did his crazy little giggle and went on to say that that guy should be reported since he was a new driver and he was not driving safely and that he could get his license taken away from him after three offenses. Before he made it my fault suddenly, I reminded him that I said it was not a good time to change lanes.

I noticed there was an odd button near the handbrake. I assumed it was an eject button or something crazy like that. I figured he certainly would need it with me as his student. On our way back from Vancouver, some joker decided to cut across two lanes to turn right into a gas station.

He succeeded in dangerously blocking my way, and while I was delighted that there was a bigger moron than me on the road, the instructor was really angry with him, and he began pressing the mystery button. I expected to see torpedoes launching from the car, but it turned out it was just the horn (he didn’t have a horn on the steering wheel on his side).

That took the heat off me since I was accused of speeding right before this incident. No wonder I loved ‘Speedy Gonzales’ when I was a child. Apparently I’m a regular lead foot. No wonder I weigh so much: ) I pleasantly coasted home from then on because the instructor was pointing out loads of people on the road who need their licenses revoked.

Right after asking me which center I want to take my road test, he told me there was an 84 year old lady who has been trying to pass the test for the longest time. She had been to every single driving school in town, including to him, but she kept failing because she wouldn’t turn the wheel the way she had to in order to pass the test, but she refused to change her ways.

The last time she took the test she begged the person testing her to give her the license because she just wanted to go to the grocery store down the road and nowhere else. I hope I don’t wind up like that old lady. I can see it now! Seeing as I turn left for right and right for left, and I hate to follow instructions, I had a terrible sense of foreboding.

Meanwhile I have arrived in Seattle (no fear I was not driving) because it’s my parents’ last week here and I have had a really tough time typing up this blog in between Lanes having various issues and my nutty sister coming and bugging me because she thinks I’m playing on the internet.

As the baby of the family, even if I say I’m typing my blog, which they all thoroughly enjoy no matter what light it casts them in, nothing I do is apparently of any value as I get no respect. I could be finding a way to use potato chips for fuel or creating a serum that guarantees longevity, but it still would be considered trivial because I was the one doing it.

So I must sign off and upload this entry before I run through the house singing ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T’ out of tune. More blogs from Canada next week...

Out and About

This week I had a terrible cold, and on Tuesday I had one of my infamous driving lessons. My ears were blocked, and I found it even harder than usual to hear what the instructor was saying. Considering I have a hard time understanding him on the best of days, this was a challenge to say the least. My head was so heavy, I felt like I was driving around in a cast iron helmet.

There seemed to be only a fraction of a second between words coming out of my instructor's mouth and me having to step on the gas or hit the brakes or strike a pose, or whatever it was I had to do. Net result, I was dreaming of going home, taking cold medicine and sleeping until self-driving cars were invented.

The instructor was flailing about like an angry chicken for most of the lesson. Every second he alternated between squawking an instruction and yawning. It was ‘turn here, stop the car when you go past one lane (yawn), why are you stopped? Go go go. Stop the car (yawn) You’re turning too wide. yawn’. I mean if I’m told to stop the car, I’ll stop the car. Why is he asking me why I did it?

About every ten minutes or so, he would remind me how I would fail the test miserably. Come on, surely they would let you go if you miss one stop sign? At one point I was trying to listen to him and found myself stuck at a red light—in the middle of an intersection. Why do these things only happen to me?

I was glad when the almost two hours were up. Having the instructor is like having a highly strung girlfriend: ‘you don’t listen to me, can you hear me? Why did you do that? How many times do I have to tell you?’. I came out of it with some empathy for my long suffering spouse P: )

The rest of the week was so so—I wound up coughing up a lung through most of it. It’s been hot at night and I can’t get much sleep. Of course the geniuses at the apartment, having deprived us of heat in the dead of winter, are putting the heater on in the summer. Reason number five hundred and seventy eight why we have to move.

Luckily, the weekend turned out better for me. The sun was shining and we were determined to have a good time. On Saturday we went to the Burnaby Village Museum. The village replicates life in the 1920s, and the best part is that there is a lovely carousel that dates back to those times. 


It’s huge and each horse looks like a work of art. Our three year old Lanes and her dad and a ball going on it. Although there were some folks that were far 'sturdier' than me going on the horses, out of respect for a historic 'work of art' I opted to stay on the sidelines and take pictures.

We came back early because P was going to watch a Canucks game with some of our new friends. I was sadly at home with the Lanes. I tried to do a spot of laundry before he left and found myself stuck in our cantankerous elevator. By myself. With no phone. In comes reason number five hundred seventy nine for us to move.

Apparently, ringing the alarm several times and yelling for help are of no use in this building. I decided to press the alarm first, not wanting to scream like a blonde in a horror movie, but I had no choice. I had to start shouting. No one came to my rescue. Not even our handy super dandy fire department. I had to get stuck there the one time they were not in the building.

I was swearing and was wondering how long I’d be stuck in there. I was thankful for the Canucks game because eventually P would look for me when it was time for him to leave for the game, but I couldn’t be stuck there for more than an hour.

What if he walks past the elevator the one time I am not screaming? Do I have to keep shouting nonstop? My lungs were hurting too much for that. Would I run out of air? Why didn’t I have a candy bar and some water to while away the time? Yes, only I would think of food at a time like this.

And crazily in between all that I really didn’t want P to miss the game because he had to wait with Lanes until I was rescued (or my body was found, whichever came first). I resorted to praying, and jumping (hoping my weight would make the elevator budge) and by some miracle, it went to the lobby and the doors finally sprung open.

I leaped out, giddy with relief and the lack of oxygen, and went about my business. Meanwhile, my loving spouse was yakking away on the phone, loud as ever, completely unaware that his wife was nearly lost and gone forever. I was much annoyed when he found it amusing. Needless to say, I refuse to use the elevator again. I’d rather hyperventilate lugging the laundry up and down the stairs. It was a long Saturday afternoon for me.

Fortunately, Sunday was a much better day--we went to Fort Langley. There were some farm animals in the back and Lanes and I were delighted. We actually got to get inside a pen and pet some rabbits!! Guess what I’m asking for my birthday this year? P will not be thrilled. 

I’m so glad Lanes has inherited my love of animals. She was talking adoringly to a baby sheep, calling him ‘little guy’ and then she tried to kiss a rooster and I had to take her away quickly. She was then spotted trying to hug a pig, but her father stopped her in the nick of time.

While we were there she had her first experience with fur though. She was lovingly petting the hides of what used to be raccoons, beavers, otters and what not. Strongly anti-fur, I was mortified and I was holding my breath, hoping the nice lady who was explaining the specimens to Lanes would not tell her where the fur came from. Luckily, I think in her child's mind, Lanes classified them as akin to her fake stuffed toys. 

We were happy we finally went out and about in BC this weekend, although we were pooped at the end of it. It was well worth it. I’m still not feeling 100% better, but life goes on. I have to do more driving this week. For some reason the thought of it makes my stomach churn. I wish I could be beamed up to wherever I needed to be instead. Seems the safer option for everyone concerned. 

On that bright note, I have to sign off to go and attempt to make dinner…until next time.