You Spin Me Right Round

I feel like I've been blindfolded and placed on a merry-go-round. My dutiful spouse, P, has been so kind as to share his germs with us.  As I type this, he is probably making spreadsheets, coughing and highlighting away merrily in office and I'm wondering how in the world I'm going to chase my feisty five year old, Lanes, later today. 

No doubt the horrible flu P had last week was impairing his judgement. Uncharacteristically for him, he took two days off work and proceeded to retch so ferociously the very atoms that make up my being were rattled and reorganized. Sadly, it did not make me any taller, slimmer or brighter.

Turns out, my maternal grandmother was right, idle minds are dangerous things. After spending much time on the sofa and the bed, P decided that we should get a sofa for our living room and an additional twin bed for Lanes' room. Considering her room is literally the size of a very large basket ball player's shoe box, I don't even know if that's feasible.

While I was busy doing the school run, P allegedly made measurements and ensured that the extra bed would fit--if we put half Lanes' stuff in the hallway. I did a couple of mental sighs, wondered what karma brought me to this, and thought about tampering with P's medications. Surely he was not taking enough.

As the weekend rolled along, P was doing better, and I was hoping he abandoned his notions like the stray tissues I found around the apartment. However, he was determined to go shopping. By that time, I was tired and felt like I had a hot coal wedged in my throat, and I was fuming that I had to tag along to do damage control.

Within an hour of browsing around, P, surprisingly handy with a measuring tape, had secured a bed, box spring, and couch. Initially, he gravitated to a corduroy brown two seater, no doubt made with trousers left over from the '70s.

That couch seemed destined for the basement of some beer soaked frat house or the home of a spaghetti-from-a-tin-Star Trek fan somewhere, but it was not for our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment.

He then tried to get the same thing in sage green, but that didn't go with our other two couches. If we brought that home, it would look like a hurricane blew three random couches into our living room and we decided to keep them.

I tried to convince him that we really didn't need to have another sofa, but he remained stubborn as a cranky mule. Eventually, he found one that I agreed on, mostly because it came with fabulous cushions. That and it got us out of the store.

These things are due to get here on Friday and I really have no idea where to keep them.  Maybe we can have bunk sofas like the way folks have bunk beds. We'll have to hop, skip and jump over furniture to get from point A to point B. 

On the bright side, with all that practice, Lanes will have a bright future doing the hurdles in the 2024 Olympics, and I can do the proud mother crying with joy in the sidelines bit. For now, with one sofa per person, we are doing the Mamma Bear, Daddy Bear and Baby Bear thing.

As for me, I'm still channelling little Miss. Muffet.  The battle with that blooming spider who sits down beside me at night is still on. She only makes an appearance when I'm watching 'CSI:Miami'. That spider must be having a thing for Horatio Cane. 

Any old how, I'm out 4-0. My game plan was to take a jar, scoop her up, scream, fight with the sliding door, chuck the container out, slam the door shut and scream again. That spider must be laughing her tiny hiney off under the vents because apparently, I've been throwing out empty bottles.

This was greatly annoying to my neat freak husband, who thought that neighbors were throwing trash onto our balcony.  Little did he know that his wife was the culprit. He was swearing with a broom he insisted we didn't have, cleaning up the mess.  

Besides the whole trying to populate all of Canada with her spawn thing, that spider is really not too bad. I could use a little company to watch my crime shows. Turns out, spidey does not care for the Food Network.

Other than that, I'm really upset to find out that the transfer we requested for Lanes' school did not work out. On the other hand, she says she doesn't want to move, but our commute might be dreadful as winter approaches. Maybe we could use a bobsled.

The weather is already starting to turn. On Friday there was a fair at her school and since I think a chimpanzee in a tux probably can park a car better than I could, I decided to leave the car at her school in the morning and walk back to school in the afternoon.

As usual my flashes of brilliance failed me because of course it had to rain cats and dogs the minute I started walking to school.  I was wearing a black outfit that unfortunately made me resemble a drenched witch missing a broomstick by the time I arrived at the fair.

It was a long two hours and I was thinking that only a mother's love got me to stay that long. Lanes got to sit in a fire truck and the firefighter was saying that even they have their own special thoughts about our ghetto.

Just as we parted delighted that we hadn't crossed paths recently, a few days later, those very same firefighters were back here at the ghetto in the middle of the night because our fire alarm went off. The good news is that it works. The bad news is that most of us waited around trying to figure out if we should stay or go.

After jumping over my neighbor's stroller full of trash, I mean recycling, kept in the hallway, P had to lug a fast asleep Lanes and we waited in the cold, swearing, until we got the all clear. The colder it gets, the more drama we have.

I must sign off soon so I can get some rest and find innovative ways to get Lanes to school.  The good news is that my parental units might visit me for a week. The bad news is that they can't settle on a date and every time I ask my father he sounds starts squawking and then he announces he wants to go watch 'Two And A Half Men'.

I find that completly baffling and it throws me off my game and I hang up the phone, still not sure what dates they will be here. Meanwhile, my mother wants me to tape every episode of 'Bones' before their arrival. Somewhere out there, this old couple from the motherland are throwing off the typical demographics for all these shows.

With that I must sign off, slather my nose with Vicks and stick my head under the pillows. Maybe that will make everything stop spinning around. Or I could just take some cold medicine, but that would be far too practical for me. More musings from BC next week...