Happy Holla Daze

This week, eight years of marriage were celebrated, seven days of busy work were wasted, four birthdays were forgotten, two old men were unwittingly rescued, and one brilliant surprise arrived in the mail. Welcome to my world. 

The week started happily with our anniversary on Monday. As I have very little time and even less mobility, my poor spouse, P’s, present was probably the most boring it has ever been since we met—clothes.  What was sad was that I was hoping for Pyrex dishes or a saucepan in return. 

Considering I  didn’t cook until 2010, that’s saying a lot.  If someone made a movie of our lives, it would certainly not be a romantic film, or even a romantic comedy, but probably a mockumentary.

Meanwhile, the madness continues in my crazy neighborhood.  Friday was my day for rescuing random old men.  I had coffee with one of the mom’s from my four year old daughter, Lanes’, preschool, and since I have the sense of direction of a blind folded penguin, I was ambling along and swearing because I was losing my way and I didn’t bother to use the facilities before leaving her home.  

I have a horrible knack of making nonsensical decisions.  The name of my autobiography will be ‘Against Better Judgment: How to Sit Around Doing Nothing But Defying Common Sense’. The icy cold breeze didn't help the situation and I was wondering what I would do if I got lost.

I was jet propelling myself down hill, willing my bladder to cooperate when an elderly gentleman crossed my path. He started talking to me and I had to slow down since he was walking with a cane—on the middle of the road. The path was frosty and he said he had to go on a narrow stairway on the edge of the hill to get to his house.

I have a major soft spot when it comes to the elderly and animals. I was determined to see him home safely, whether he wanted me to or not. I didn’t want him to feel like I thought he couldn’t manage, but the ice covered stairs were sparkling menacingly, and I knew I’d be wondering if he made it home if we went our separate ways. 

Much to my bladder’s despair, I pretended I was going his way and asked if he could help me down the stairs.  He looked at me quizzically, and I hoped he didn't see through my plans, but he went with it.  I guess I looked harmless enough. By that time, I had found the right road for me as well and I never walked home faster in my life!

Later that same day, after I got Lanes from preschool, I bumped into my nice Italian neighbor who seems to think that my name is Sweetie.  He was in a spin because we had lost electricity a couple of weeks ago and it had done something to his computer. He insisted that since I was old enough to be his granddaughter (ok, fine, daughter), I was sure to be able to fix his machine. I tried to explain to him that I was more likely to nix it but he was not having it.

Lanes and I reluctantly followed him—there is one thing I learnt—there is no point arguing with old people. If all failed, I’d unplug and plug in his computer. After pressing enter several times, his computer was revived and he was so delighted, Lanes got a sugar free ice cream cone out of the deal (the look of disgust on her face when she dug into it was priceless).

Turns out the nice Italian man is really Spanish and now he knows my name is not Sweetie, but insists Lanes’ name is ‘Beauty!’.  I must say Lanes does not mind at all, because the next day when he brought a homemade dish for us by way of thanks, she tried to share her toys with him. 

Her father, was looking confused and wondering why there was a stranger in the apartment and why he came bearing treats.  The nice Spanish man recounted the tale of his computer with great gusto and anyone would have thought I saved it from being run over my a Mac truck while simultaneously whipping up pancakes. P, surprised at my sudden technical prowess, was amused when I told him later that I just pressed 'enter' for all it was worth.

As a reward for my ‘good deeds’, I got a lovely surprise in the mail. No, not rainbow colored dinosaurs, geriatric rock stars, or chocolate treats. My driver’s license! Finally, after months falling downhill on foot and rolling up to red lights in a rickety car with a screaming driving instructor, my dream came true. I’m 100% motorized.

I no longer need a ‘chaperone’ with me to drive around town.  I might have to get a sign for my car--yes P, your car is now officially ours. Instead of ‘baby on board’, I might get ‘babe on board’. When I get down in the parking lot, those reading it will still be waiting for the babe to get out—sadly those days are long gone now that my hips and stomach are into acquisitioning more space. But at least my hair looks good.

So this is how I wound up getting my license. Last week, I mentioned I went in to inquire about swapping my US driver’s license for a BC one. I did this while holding onto P’s car keys so that they will subliminally think of me as a driver—for what it’s worth. They wanted to get a sealed copy of my US driving record, which I dutifully secured (after much ado after failing to navigate websites).

I then took it in, and before there was any more deliberation on the matter, I just said in a matter of fact way that they said I could do the swap if I brought in this document and voila there it is so I’m ready for my headshot. I wanted to grin like a jackass, but I was kindly asked to keep a neutral facial expression. And there you go! Or rather, there I go: )

The rest of the week, I have been working really hard on my children’s book.  I had written it back in the day and illustrated all but the last two pages of it.   The colors had run into each other, so I scanned the artwork and I was fixing it on the computer. I am having a really hard time figuring out the technical issues and various rules that CreateSpace has for uploading the book. 

I’m assuming not being able to upload the book is a bad thing. On their website you can click an icon and they call you back immediately. I have been clicking so much on that thing, they must be thinking I’m a lonely cat lady that gets a kick out of getting call backs.

One night when I was sitting in a cloud of gloom, my four year old, Lanes, came up to me and said ‘don’t be sad, Mamma. Take a deep breath’. She gave me a gooey kiss and everything was ok—for about twenty minutes after that.

I must sign off now and squint and mutter at the computer when I can’t figure out trim sizes and some weird thing called a dpi.  I see dpi and think dipstick. Apparently, it's dots per image, whatever that means. If there is something wrong with the images and they fail to upload and my days and nights of hard work are wasted, I'm going to cry! Lanes goes on holiday after next week and then any chances of me getting work done are slim to none.

I have been so obsessed that I have not noticed time passing and I missed wishing my dear friends on the right day for their birthdays. In my head, it’s November 28. I learnt the hard way, when Lanes’ teacher was reminding me of the holiday party, that it is really December, and almost mid-December at that. Even when I rest my eyes, I see pages from the book and I just can't sleep due to anxiety of not being able to figure out how to hand in this work.

All I want for Christmas is for a tech guru to solve my problems. Meanwhile, it’s back to pressing that ‘call me’ button on the publisher's webpage. I wonder how long before they put a warning on my number or blow up my picture for dart practice. More shenanigans from BC next week…