How P Got His Groove Back

My 'always look on the bright side of life' spouse, P, was floating around our apartment as deflated as a punctured blimp. He was dragging his heels around our tiny patch of an apartment, his cheeks as droopy as the leaves of the last plant that graced this joint. The reason for all the woe was because there was a dance coming up and as usual, we were going to stay in because we didn't have a sitter for our five year old, Lanes.

Cautious rather than pessimistic (I have a way with euphemisms), I immediately turned down friends when they invited us, but P, ever the optimist, lived in hope and said yes at first. I don't know what magician’s hat he was going to pull a babysitter out of, but three cheers to him for thinking it possible.

Two years ago, my nutty but reliable sister drove all the way up here from Seattle so we could make it to a dance. He was living in hope of such a moment, of her bursting in and saving the day (or me as usual) but she had her hands full with looking after our parents, two kids, and one mellow puppy.

Last week, our friends in Maple Ridge were kind enough to invite Lanes for a play date with their daughters so that we could go to the dance.  P looked like his Fairy Godmother came to life.

Before my Cinder-Fella pranced around shinning his shoes,bursting into song, and tranforming neighborhood mice into coachmen, I decided a quick talk with Lanes would be prudent. She has never spent an extended time without us since we moved here. She would have to go to bed there til we showed up, and I was not sure she was comfortable with the idea.

I anticipated a lot of opera style drama, but she as game for it and turns out she absolutely loved spending time with the girls and their grandma.  I kept checking our phones to see if we were summoned to fetch our spawn, but all the worry was in vain. She was busy playing hot potato and basking in the attention of her most adorable hosts.

Meanwhile, miles away at the dance, P was unleashing his inner John Travolta and was hot stepping like it was 1999 and Prince was still in fashion. My moves were less exuberant as I was acutely aware of the fine line between getting jiggy with it and getting jiggly with it. I think P was even spotted doing the Electric, at which time I was shocked and soon made myself scarce.

While P was letting loose, I had to pull myself together. Spending more than two minutes on my hair was a novel concept, and I started out the night with heels, but opted for boots at the last minute. It was so long since I had to get dolled up for an event that I felt utterly confused at the thought of having to take a tiny handbag with me to the dance.

I carried it with all the panache of a dog walker carrying a litter bag after his dog took a laxative. Gone are the days where I would use all my skills with logic to stuff 'essentials' like perfume and lipstick into a tiny purse.

I realized sadly, that before I left home, I made double sure to pack my heartburn medicine, allergy medicine, and pain killers for good measure.  Eating possibly fried foods after 8pm would make my cranky liver mad, so I brought all the backup I needed.

Did I mention I'm only in my 30s? I'd probably need to drive up in an armored truck full of medication when I'm in my 40s at the rate I'm going. Any old how, in the end, we had a good time,  and neither of us needed any medication--that night. P was a little worse for wear after his stunts on the dance floor, but he remains rejuvenated.

Meanwhile, the same can’t be said for me. I remain on the fence about Lanes' school, where she and her classmates will move on to have illustrious careers as either human popsicle sticks or polar bear impersonators.

I still don't understand why they have to line up outside in the freezing rain before getting into class.  I've gotten used to the idea of them playing outside regardless of the weather. I have resigned myself to spending the hour between five and six in the afternoon scrubbing grass and mud stains off Lanes' jacket.

I pretend it's a work out for my arms, but in reality, the only thing on me getting an exercise is my tongue. A lot of colorful language escapes it with every huff and puff. As the New Year dawns, I’m left wondering whether to transfer her to the school that is walking distance or not. I wish I could just flip a coin on it!

As winter approaches, the issues with our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment continue.  Last week, just after posting, I ran off to wash my hair in peace. When I was emerging from the bathroom, P nonchalantly walks by and points to the door and says ‘oh the ceiling in front of the elevator is leaking’.

He was just so blase about it, like he was announcing that we ran out of milk.  I opened the door to find water furiously dripping from a crack in the ceiling (which came to be with the great flood of Jan 2011). 

It was ten minutes before the apartment manager left for the day. I was in PJs and my hair was a sopping mess. I had no time to dry it and get to the office in time. To say P was disinterested in the entire issue was putting it mildly. Clearly, his sense of community and self-preservation checked out of the building a long time ago.

I was hyped up because big floods come from little drops in this building and if that ceiling gave way, all the apartments on our floor would have been flooded. P, in trouble with me for refusing to run to the office, made a call about it in a feeble attempt to make an effort, but got the machine as usual. I left a message and swore while I got my coat to brave the cold.

Luckily, my college student neighbor, resigned to his fate, was casually leaving his apartment to tell the manager that the water was leaking into his kitchen. I was spared a trip and my lungs were spared potential exposure to pneumonia (and P was saved an earful).

Net result, no water Tuesday again. Maybe there is comfort in knowing that some things never change. Why did I sigh while typing that last sentence? With that I must sign off and rest my weary but now dry head. More musings from BC next week…