Memory Lanes

We have been taking a hop, skip and a jump down memory lane this week. My four year old, Lanes, is suddenly bringing up people and random items, like my brief stint with a trainer and her crib that were left  behind when we moved.  Her dad, P, homesick from Christmas season revelry, is trying to figure out dates for us to visit the motherland. At any given moment, he is surfing the net and exclaiming and guffawing at prices. Years of marriage have given me enough sense as not to play into that. Meanwhile, I have been going through pictures from my childhood while trying to make a present for my nutty sister.

I started out the week a little glum because the 5^th was my beloved Labrador and BFF, Muttley’s,  birthday. He would have been only fifteen years old had he been alive. I made a donation to the BCSPCA in his memory and successfully used guilt and pity (Yentas be proud of me) to lure close family and friends into doing a kind deed for an animal that day.

I decided I wanted to write a book about Muttley and give all proceeds to a deserving animal charity.  However, remembering things like how he thought he could fly  and how he was petrified of butterflies just made me burst into so much tears that I probably couldn’t get through the first paragraph without issuing a flood warning. Besides, I was having enough problems getting through my other works this week.

As a treat, we ran down to Seattle on Friday night. Lanes was besides herself and quickly packed her stuffed rabbit, who is faithfully dragged along with her for all long trips. She carries him by his ears, like a freshly plucked carrot.  It’s simultaneously endearing and disturbing.

She spent all weekend chasing her cousins while clasping onto the bunny’s ears.  I was going down memory lane with my sister as she brought back never seen before pictures of my grandfather in his youth and some of her things from the late 1980s. We felt young and old all at the same time.

My sister  also regaled me with present day stories from her holiday. The most amusing one was how she went to the beauty parlor and the guy doing her hair told her he just won a beauty pageant—for women.  The grand prize was a set of bedroom furniture and bragging rights.

While he was bossily supervising as each item was hauled into a delivery van, his wig got stuck on a piece, or should I say his piece got stuck on a piece, and he was unmasked—literally.  Gasps followed, and the folks who held the contest were flabbergasted, but decided regardless of whatever body parts he was born with, he was the best looking dame in the show, and he got to keep his set. Good for him, sad for those other chicks.

We only had Saturday really to spend with family, and my nutty sister kept her Christmas tree up and we were going to celebrate it all over again since we were finally together.  All we had to do was get haircuts and some winter boots for Lanes.  We got her hair cut first and packed her off to my sister’s house so she could have family time.

Meanwhile, P came out looking like 1980s Erik Estrada. I was slapping my knee and cackling but not for long. As  soon as I saw my hair do, my phone rang, because Jon Bon Jovi, circa 1994, called and asked me why I dyed his hair black.  Looking quite like a sad blast from the past, we stormed Target in search for Lanes’ boots. Of course we bought the wrong size.

P was dawdling, trying to get the week’s shopping done at the same time since they had groceries at the store. I was keen to go back and not incur the wrath of my sister who was ferociously cooking Christmas dinner.  I ran to the cart with my arms full of items and that scared P into leaving the store.

Lanes was not at all bothered that her parents were gone for a couple of hours. My sister’s eyebrows went up a little so I plotted to distract her with a fashion show of the three items I bought from the store.  I was really tired. It was just the girls around, including my sister’s unsuspecting mom-in-law, so I decided to change in the living room, after sending my niece to make sure her father was duly occupied elsewhere in the house.

I did one quick change and decided to stop, but was egged on by my bevy of female relatives, who were heehawing over a sequined number. My last words were, ‘whatever you do, don’t mention my brother-in-law’s name, because he will show up’. What does my genius of a sister do? She calls out for him.

He popped up faster than a genie from a bottle, and I avoided flashing him by a millisecond. If he had caught me, I would hear about how he was scarred for life by my show every time there was a family get together--complete with sound effects of sighing and tsking.  

I know this because my shorts fell down in front of him when I was a teenager, and that news made it into a speech at our wedding. My lunatic of a sister (and everyone else), thought it was funny, but I was not at all amused, and I think that was the day I realized brown people can turn red.

The rest of our short one day stay, my sister made a huge helping of pancakes for us, happily offering me some first and foremost, only to suddenly realize that maybe the batter was stale. I was saved by her husband coming over and trying it and asking her to toss them.  But I guess that is nothing considering she was offering me medicine I’m allergic to for my back pain at every given opportunity.

So all things considered, it’s amazing that we made it back up to Canada in one piece. The trip back was another drama onto itself.  I was under the impression that we were going to change Lanes’ shoes and go back to my sister’s house for some reason. Turns out, it was not the case and halfway up we had to stop for coffee and a potty break.

I brilliantly spilt half of mine all over my lap—not to worry, as usual I was madly enticed by the sight of chocolate, whipped cream and ice and fortunately had a sugar laden cold mocha. Considering my ample lap and not the car seat incurred the brunt of the spillage, P found it hilarious (Lanes was in lala land otherwise I’m sure I’d have enough comments from her as well).

As we approached the border, the cold coffee had zipped through me and I had to go again. There was no turning back and P faithfully promised he would stop soon. Lanes was up by then and she was on a twenty question rampage. I was about ready to turn into a human sprinkler or explode or implode or something. It had to rain then and there, making me nearly want to pass out.  We got lost in a nearby town and I was desperate enough to jump out the car and into a bush when we found a lonesome gas station.

Even though I’m a certified germaphobe, I didn’t care. I dashed in and the woman there was so kind she just quickly handed over the key to me (I was a distinct shade of blue) and I made it just in time. Sadly, my pants were still wet from my coffee episode so I shudder to imagine what she was thinking.

We are now back in Burnaby, exhausted after the brief holiday and at the thought of the long week ahead. I really need to get cracking on the children’s book. I also need to find a job soon because come September, Lanes will be in kindergarten full time. So if anyone needs a smart mouthed, chaotic, clumsy mother of one in their office, do let me know—I’m auditioning. I mean applying. More musings from BC next week…