Lights, Camera, Inaction!

We finally got cracking with our apartment search. My time challenged spouse, P, got all activated and has been looking up new places for us to live.  Considering we are going on holiday to the mother land in a matter of days, I was less proactive. My motto is, finish the holiday, then look carefully and move. When did I become the practical one? Did I wake up in another dimension?

Perhaps that’s why, as I type this, we are without electricity here in our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous building. Maybe it read our thoughts and is protesting. Well, not really.  Turns out a wire is down and the entire block is in the dark.  Between the lack of lighting and my early morning stupor, it was rather entertaining getting my four year old, Lanes, ready for school.  I hope I brushed her teeth and not her nose. Luckily, I made her lunch last night.

Yesterday, she requested that I cut her apples the same shape and size as her friends. It took forever for her to even look at fruits, so I would have spent a month of Sundays to cut the apple to look like Barney in a tutu, if it meant she would eat it. If only she knew! This morning, I was left to figure out how to cut an apple in the dark.

If you ask anyone I know well to name five things I shouldn’t be left alone with, they would include but are not limited to: matches, knives, my thoughts, a certain aging Canadian rock star, and super glue.  I’m as clumsy as a seal trying to play Nintendo. Considering I might as well have handled a knife blind folded, I did good.

Of course, I could have just cut the apple in the living room where there was some light despite it being a gloomy day. Never mind. At least I qualify for the Darwin Awards. Aside from that, the good news is that the generator in the building is kind of working.

The one elevator that’s not jammed up is in service  and  brave (read: foolish) tenants are using it.  We have one light on in the hallway of each floor.  Last time a line went down, the generator was not working (well, I’m just impressed there is one).  Between it being pitch black in the hall that day and the obstacle course that is the strollers full of recycling our neighbor keeps by the stair well, we had a time getting out.

Any old how, for some reason, P was all motivated to move. I’ve made my peace with ghetto fab.  I’ve grown accustomed to the madness. This place grows on you—like warts or barnacles.  Lanes asked me this morning while we were waiting for her bus, ‘mamma, how come you talk to everyone who is coming out for the building?’.  So I guess I’ve got used to our neighbors as well. P, on the other hand, couldn’t pull out neighbors from a line up.

Curious to find a place with laundry en suite as per my request and no elevators as per Lanes' request, Lanes and I went along with P’s quest to find a new home.  If all fails, we get lunch out of the deal.   We looked at places close by because we love how green this neighborhood is. By that I mean we like looking at the green from the comfort of our sofa.

You won’t catch me camping or running through meadows barefoot—much to the relief of park rangers, forest rangers, and the fire department. I’d do something like feed a bear, adopt a skunk or drop a match. Perhaps I’m the one who needs supervision. But I digress, point is, we looked at stuff near our ghetto.

We tagged along, keeping an open mind. One thing living in ghetto fab has thought me is that one should always look up at the ceiling for tell tale signs of cracks, water damage or mold. I tried to pretend I was my mom or my aunt, who would have made stellar building inspectors or detectives had they not stayed home to raise their brood. 

Place number one was fabulous, not a single flaw in its structure, but they want an answer by Thursday. There were three bedrooms, en suite laundry, but the bathroom was tiny. I’m not sure I fit in sideways. Then there is the whole thing about being on the ground floor.  Even I could easily jump in through the windows. I watch too much CSI and SVU so I was saying OMG, no way.

The second place just made me mad. The hallways were narrow and dark. You know how when people have near death experiences they say they see a tunnel and the light (assuming that’s Heaven or something?). Well, this would be the opposite.

The corridors were winding here and there and I feared we’d get lost.  The closets didn’t have bars on them, just a ledge to hang the hangers—crooked and not facing the way I like (not good for my slightly OCD self).  The closet doors were in a dismantled heap on the dark brown carpet in every unit we looked at.  

The ceilings were cracked  and even the locks were not fixed properly—they looked like giant peep holes. Might as well leave the door open. My mom and aunt would have run screaming from this place after telling the manager how to manage it.

Lanes and I were trying to fly out of there, but P kept looking everywhere! Seriously?  He is not one to be overly polite and stick around to appease the manager so I was wondering why he was even considering the place. He thought it had potential. Until he turned and saw that I had potential to spontaneously combust and take him with me. 

No offense to the tenants of the building, but everyone we met really looked like they just came back from the Jerry Springer show and were getting home to eat spaghetti out of a can. Plus there was a dead bee in the kitchen that still had cabinets from when the first Star Wars movie came out

Lanes sat on the floor in one unit with a toy and from that point on, all I could think of is disinfecting her and her little hippo figurine. I wanted to come back to ghetto fab and kiss the floor. Even as I sit here without any way to surf the web, cook a meal, do laundry, make a call or watch TV, I still prefer it to that place. I really don’t even know why they were showing those apartments to people. I can’t see anyone in their right minds taking them.

Any old how, now P thinks he wants to look at townhouses. Between packing, gift buying for the trip, and trying to find a place to have Lanes’ fifth birthday party next month, I really don’t have time for wild goose chases. So hopefully, by the time we go to the motherland and return we can worry about this. G is for ghetto, it's good enough for me.

More musings from BC next week, after I get my liver checked out, find a venue and date for Lanes' party and freak out last minute that I have not packed and have forgotten something important for our trip.

ps Those worried about the two old men I adopted--they survived the power outage and my attempts to feed them and are doing A OK. 

Meals on Heels

I was blissfully musing that things have been quiet in our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous building. I should have known better.  On Friday, I was buzzing around the apartment, whizzing down to do laundry, shoving things in the oven, and cleaning, because some of our friends were coming over for dinner. I put in some extra effort since it was their first time over. After that, it's a take me as I am, free for all, kind of deal.


I sat down with five minutes to spare to see what else there was to do before the madness that is my four year old, Lanes, was due back from preschool. All of a sudden, an alarm goes off. It sounded more like someone hitting two metal dust bin lids together. At first I thought it was the panic button in the elevator. It is not uncommon for folks to get stuck in it or to be sandwiched by the doors--it's a dangerous metal Venus Flytrap. 


I debated going out and seeing if someone needed to be rescued, but it was in the middle of the afternoon and there were other people who could play hero. I was too darn pooped. Plus, I have lingering resentment that no one came to rescue me when I was trapped. My far more fortunate spouse, P, had a whole bunch of folks rooting for him when he got stuck. Not fair.

Any old how the sound was incessant. I looked out door and of course, I live on the most dormant floor in the building. I looked out the window and saw people had actually left the building. That's not a good sign considering most of those people stayed in during the great flood of '11.


The usual cast of characters had assembled outside: my friend, the cleaning lady with her tired eyes and equally tired mop, the nice Indian lady who is battling moldy walls,  the friendly guy who reminds me of a creepy ice cream van driver, the older Spanish man who thinks my name is sweetie, the lovely French Canadian couple who has a daughter a year younger than Lanes, the  new family from the 11th floor that came down with a bread maker, etc.


I realized that the good news is that the fire alarm works! Granted, you can't hear it if you are sleeping in the bedroom, but still. Like that's important. As I grabbed IDs for the entire family, I couldn't think what else needed to be saved--perhaps because I don't have a bread maker.  I should get one so I can keep our IDs in it. 


Suddenly, as I was loitering around talking to the neighbors, I noticed that there were two old men missing. As you all know, I love old people. I was helping this old man get out of a taxi one day and he started talking and then the next thing you know, he introduces me to his father! His father! Oh my goodness! They were living together on the first floor, since they take turns being rescued by paramedics.


They recently moved up because their apartment got flooded out. Not an uncommon experience, here in ghetto fab, but in their case, it was with sewage. Yep. I'm not sitting on any of their furniture, ever. Any old how we became friends.


I saw their beat up van was in the parking lot, but they were missing. Oh no! I was about to run in to rescue them, all the while hearing P's voice in my head ''are you mad to run into a burning building?", but although the nice French Canadian couple saw smoke on the 10th floor, no one else, including the firemen, did. 


As I was about to enter the building, I see Senior sitting on a stoop. When he saw me, his face crumpled and he said Junior was in the hospital and he was all alone. He said he was managing but about to run out of food.


After the firemen gave us permission to go inside, I quickly packed up food I made for the party and gave it to Senior along with two cans of soup that he could just put in the microwave. 


Yesterday, I went to the mall and got him some freshly baked bread and when I knocked on the door, Junior opened it and said they had just run out of bread, and it's amazing that I showed up with a loaf. They have decided to call me Angel! So see, not only Redbull, but compliments can give you wings.


Both of them were gushing about how delicious my food was. My food! I didn't even start cooking til 2010 so I was grinning like a jackass. Of course, if they found it so scrumptious it probably means that they have been living on Ramen noodles rather than me being the next Top Chef. So guess who is going to take them up some  homemade Bai Kra Pao stir fry today? Me!


However,  I don't know how that will go considering they thought the pasta had a little kick to it. Hmm. I'll add lots of white rice. And some antacid. Or perhaps I should give them more soup and a couple bottles of Ensure.


They said they had no one. Now they have me, by force (I can see P shaking his head in defeat). Sometimes, he just goes with my madness--no point fighting it.


No wonder P thinks I have a bleeding heart.  Hallmark ads and ''The Lion King" make me cry.. I'm not sensitive, I just have overactive tear ducts. Don't even get me started on BCSPCA commercials. I was this close to getting a rescue puppy the other night. 


It would make Lanes happy, and she would give him an unfortunate name like Bumpy, but as P says, we have to move out of the ghetto and I need to find a job, so plans for furry additions to the family will have to wait. 


Lanes has settled on getting two goldfish, who she has already named Bemy and Chany (at which point I feared greatly for the names of my future grandchildren).  The deal is she gets them after our trip to the motherland this summer only if she looks after them (I don't like fish poop or the smell of fish water or fish for that matter). Speaking of which, folks in SL, if you are free to meet, please do let me know.


In other news, Lanes and I are eagerly awaiting her next field trip, which is to the planetarium. Truth is, I might be more excited about it than she is--I'm really a kid at heart!  Last night, she was talking in her sleep and she was asking her teacher if they are going to the moon. 


When I teased her about it in the morning she said her teacher drove a blue, orange, and yellow rocket to the moon and she and I, and all her friends and their moms were playing with fountains and rocks on the moon while snacking on chocolates and candy. Apparently, it's a happening place and it only takes 40,000 minutes to get there.


With that I must sign off as I have to go get Lanes and drop off the food to my two favorite senior citizens. Plus it takes a while because they love to tell me about how the health care system failed them. Twenty five minutes tops for that conversation. It's a good thing I'm good at nodding and hearing without listening. And they said that was a bad thing in school! More musings from BC next week, and folks in SL, do let me know if you want to meet up:)....

For Sonali

The palpitations have begun. My four year old, Lanes, got an invitation for kindergarten orientation. She is growing up and I want to keep her to myself--at least until she has a meltdown or serenades me with nonstop requests for babysitting her favorite stuffed toy--Max the bunny.

She is very fond of her preschool classmates and teacher (as am I) and none of the kids are going to the same school as Lanes. I think that is part of the reason why I'm anxious. Guess who will be lurking around the parking lot with rhododendrons on her head as camouflage?  I'll jump out to the rescue if there is any mayhem in the sandbox.

Meanwhile, we realized that there is a course kids can take called Kindergarten Prep or something to that effect. Seriously? Is she going to med school or is she going to a place where she can do fun things like glue beans onto paper?

Being four/five is tough these days. By the time Lanes has kids, the average two year old will be doing calculus. Any old how, were late in the day to figure out about this class so Lanes will have to go without the prep work because all the classes are full. I know she is doing some of it in preschool. I'll have to figure out the rest! Good luck to all of us.

Kindergarten doesn't only mean growing up time for Lanes, but for me as well. I now have to leave the ranks of the unemployed.  I'll have to do fun things like update my resume. Somehow I don't think key phrases like ''lassoing child and spouse'' and ''drill sergeant to recalcitrant family'' will fly. This is the down side of being a stay at home mom. I'd say it's thankless, but Lanes thanks me for something everyday.  No wonder I'm feeling sad kindergarten is full time.

The other problem I have is that when I finally do have a job interview, do I say "I'm not working during Spring, Summer, and Winter breaks and sick days''? That'll go over well. I have no idea what to do with Lanes on those days. I wish I lived closer to my nutty sister! She is always waiting to grab Lanes.

I am also unsure what types of jobs I would want to do. Now I've come to a point where I really want to enjoy what I am doing, but I've been out of the game so long that I don't know what ''it'' is!  These are the ideas that have come my way so far:

1.) Doggy daycare/Humane Society: I love animals. I think they are cute and kind and I've been known to accidentally rescue a pit bull when I was in college--much to the horror of my roommate. She unwittingly got embroiled in my plot to hide him in our room until I could reunite him with his owners. 

It was a long night that involved cop cars and animal shelters (I can hear my mother gasping as she reads this). But on the bright side, I got to play with the sirens in the cop car. My roommate, who was stuck in the backseat with a jumpy pit bull, was not amused. But we are still BFFs so there you go.

The down side is that, as my pragmatic spouse, P, points out, I'll try to bring various animals to our ghetto fabulous apartment that barely fits the three of us and that every time an animal dies, I'll be weeping so ferociously that strangers would think I'm auditioning for a role in a soap opera on Telemundo. So that's out, because on  those counts, he is right.

Also I can hear my mom saying ''are you crazy? If an animal gets scared and bites you, you will need rabies shots. Do you know how painful it is? You must be nuts!". I swear, I can hear those words as I type this.

2.) Counselor: Everywhere I go, someone winds up telling me their troubles, and no matter what I'm doing, I willingly listen. My sister and my parents always thought that I would be really good at that because although I sure can't take it, I can dish out good advice. This would entail taking some classes, which can even be done online. 

While my sister was enthusiastic about this career choice for me, P thinks that I'm going to make other people's troubles my own since I'm ''too soft and kind''. Hmfph. Again, he thinks there is a danger that he will come home from work and find random people have moved in with us (I doubt it--I'm not a people person--oops so much for this career).

3.) Work with the elderly: I love old folks. I greatly enjoy their company, and for some reason, the feelings are mutual. Without even hearing P say it, I know the cons of this job. Every time someone passes away, I'll be upset, but I'm strongly considering sucking it up because  I'm sure the happy days will outweigh the sad.

4.) Food/Restaurant critic: I love eating and I love writing. Sadly, I couldn't tell you what's in a bechamal sauce nor do I care if my carrots are cut in the perfect julienne. I can also spot the slightest spot of dirt on the inside of a fork. This would be a dream job for me, but it would remain just that, a dream. But gosh, getting paid to eat? Is that fabulous or what?

Meanwhile, I have to sign off because I just realized I was supposed to RSVP to Lane's kindergarten orientation. I really wish I wasn't so chaotic. More musings from BC next week...

Lost in Space

I'm sorry for the silence. April was quite busy with family visiting, and it was a struggle to get back into the usual groove of things. It reminded me of gym class when the teacher would shout 'get ready, get set, go!' and everyone shot off and I was caught off guard while contemplating the virtues of Velcro verses laces. 


By the time I started running, my classmates would be on lap number two and I had to pretend my asthma was holding me back.  The only time I run fast is when kamakazi roaches are chasing me--if only the coach knew that. So after waking up from my stupor, I was busy blowing smokescreens, whacking plants, and embarking on missions with aliens.


While it was all fun and games when we had guests in town, the aftermath of their departure was rather torturous. My four year old, Lanes, reveled in having company, especially in the form of her doting cousins. She was their willing confidante, sidekick and co-conspirator, so she was really bummed out to return solo to our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment.


Lanes was sad not to have any companion or sibling. I had to divert her attention and figure out ways to keep 'her little heart happy', as my aunt puts it. Turns out that I only had about three good ideas and for the rest of it I was thankful she had preschool and friends to pick up the slack!


By three good ideas I mean basically just the variation of one. She loves spending time on the home made dollhouse my nutty sister literally dropped on us so I got her some extra furniture to go with it. As an activity, we spent hours painting and decorating various tiny cupboards, tables and closets. 


By we spent hours I mean, Lanes would splatter on the top coat and when she was in bed I would laboriously 'perfect' it and paint flowers on them. My less than amused spouse, P, made some rude gargling noise about my new 'hobby'. Luckily, Lanes was always appreciative of my efforts.


She was also tickled pink by an advertising strategy used by o.b. tampons of all things. You go to the following website, http://obtampons.ca/apology, type in your name, and an older boy band type of fellow starts singing to you and he whispers your name here and there in the lyrics. 


In the video you can see your name written out in rose petals, on a hot air balloon, the whole nine yards. Enough things to make a teenager delighted! Ok, P was fascinated too, saying he really liked the melody of the song. He fancies himself to be a musician of sorts. That's a whole other blog.

Any old how, I put in Lanes' name and she was gasping with delight to see her name tattooed on the singer's arm and written on the beach and to hear the singer referring specifically to her. She thought he was one of our friends and I tried to explain that it was just a commercial and that we don't know each other.

She ferreted an envelope from somewhere and was meticulously drawing rainbows on a piece of paper. She then scrounged up some of her tiniest toys and then shoved them into the envelope with her 'card'.


She had made it for the 'nice man' who sings for her. "He doesn't know mommy's name, he doesn't know daddy's name, he doesn't know mamma wears glasses. He only knows my name. So nice of him to make a song for me. You have to mail this to him." Lanes has been so adamant we send it that I have hidden it and we are pretending it's on its way to him.


Somewhere out there, in her teenage years, some boy in some glee club will start singing and P will take to following Lanes around all day--especially if he has a tattoo. Or rather, I will have to because it might be too much for P. Considering my affinity for aging Canadian rock stars,  guess it's in the genes. Oh well. 

On Friday, Lanes was packed off to a garden store for a field trip, where she was going to learn how to pot a plant and take care of it. P hoped it would end there because last week she brought home a potted bean plant from school to take care of and I killed her homework. I'm all thumbs and none of them are green.


Soon after, my favorite aloe plant, which I was actually fond of, went to meet its maker. I turned in the trowel. Leave it to me to whack a plant that doesn't even require much tending to. I heard that if you give plants Sprite they perk up for the sugar. I noticed the 'leaves' starting to droop and so I poured a little of the beverage in. It died the next day.

Imagine my horror when Lanes came home with a lovely pot of violets after her trip. Well, they are dark purple, so I'm calling them violets. Tomorrow, it might be called mulch. I think I'll let her take care of it. Preschool is tough work--for me!


I also have to read up on my astronomy. Lanes said they were learning about constellations in school, and about a super nova, which is when ''two big stars crash into each other and they are really far away--like England''. What I know about stars I can write on the side of a thimble. I must get smart before I'm declared a Mornonis Major.

With that I must sign off, as Lanes has jumped on the bed and wants me to go on a space adventure with her. She is the friendly alien and I'm the lost astronaut. After she feeds me blue alien food she will take me home in her rocket. Leave it to Lanes to bring me down to earth when I'm on another planet.  I guess she is biologically obliged to! More musings from BC next week...