Weekend Woes

All things considered, my weekend was pretty good.
Except for the dead animals in my back yard.
We had some company over on the weekend, and THANK GOD they weren't of the high fuluting variety, they were low faluters (whatever faluting is), which was good, but even still I was kind of mortified when a few minutes after the kids had gone outside to play in our backyard they all came rushing in.
"Your back yard is full of dead animals!"
"What?" I asked, feeling a cold lump forming in the pit of my stomach.
"I just stepped on a dead mouse"!
"Oh God! Just stay inside," I said, herding them in and casting my cat a spiteful glare.
"It's okay," said the oldest, a ten year old boy. "The mouse is gone now."
"What did you do with it?" I asked, another knot forming.
"I picked it up and threw it over the fence into the neighbors yard."
I handed him a bottle of antimicrobial soap and shepherded him to the bathroom. "Wash your hands," I said as I liberally pumped soap into his hands.
The neighbors will hate me, and I can probably count myself out of a fruit cake at christmas, I thought, but I'll have to deal with that later.
I donned a pair of latex gloves, feeling fortified by the sharp snap as I pulled them on. With a garden trowel in hand, I set to work at the grim task or removing small animal carcasses.
I found three mice and three beheaded birds.
It was disgusting.
Never get a cat for a pet.
Just don't.
They look cute and cuddly, but if you've ever felt the squish of a dead mouse give way between your toes, it's really not worth it.

And then I take my darling children to the store to buy Slurpees, the day being uncharacteristically warm.
"Cash or debit?" the cashier asked.
"Cash," I replied, pulling a twenty out of my wallet.
"That's good because our debit isn't working right now."
"That's okay," Payton said. "My mom's debit card isn't working right now anyways."
I shot her a look of silent reprimand.
"It works," I told the cashier. "She just..."
"What?" she asked. "Remember, the bank called and told you not to use it."
"That wasn't..." I said, looking at the cashier plaintively. "That was just because my debit card got used at a store that's been involved in card copying. I got that all straightened out," I said, pleading, my voice slightly desperate.
I was tempted to go over to the ATM and print off a bank statement and shove it in his face to prove my point.
And then I realized that I was defending my financial situation to a sixteen year old boy with greasy hair and a lazy eye. What's the point, I thought with a sigh.
He looked at me, still skeptical.
Although it was hard to tell with lazy eye being so wandery.

And then today, I'm drinking my coffee, and Gage, my oldest calls to me. "I'm turning the coffee off.  You're wasting energy when you leave it on all day. Just leave it off and then if you want another cup later you can microwave it."
I think they must be taking a unit at school about energy conservation.
Thanks, school.
Now I'm drinking cold coffee.
Meanwhile, he's got every light on in the basement, the TV on, the XBox on and the computer on with thirteen unclosed screens.

Anyways. I should be going now.
Have a happy Monday.

Creative Financing

"It's called creative financing," I told my husband when he reacted with less than enthusiasm about the fact that I had recently acquired a new (low interest!!) platinum Master Card. I really tried to sell him on the low interest rate, but it didn't seem to matter.
"It's called going into debt," he said with a dour expression on his face. "And creative is bad when it comes to finances. Very bad. 'Creative' and 'Financing' just don't go together."
"Mmm," I said, pausing, as though thinking about it, but really I was thinking about something else, namely the trip to Mexico I was planning on booking ASAP.

"We can't afford to go to Mexico," my husband said for the millionth time on that matter.
Which was true, to a certain extent. There wasn't exactly money in the bank to fund it. But that's where the creative financing comes into play.
"We can't afford not to," I told him.
"What the hell does that mean?"
I wasn't exactly sure, but I had heard Suze Orman say it once, although it sounded much more convincing coming from her. Why I was even watching a crap financial show like that, I can't imagine. She must have been on Oprah or something.
In fact, I think she was.
People in the audience were asking her if they could afford this or that, and she would give her take on it, which was usually no, by the way. According to that lady, from what I could gather, it was all about squirrelling all your money away like chipmunks during- whatever- monsoon season. Whenever they do the bulk their storing. I don't know. I don't know that much about chipmunks and their habits, quite frankly. 
Anyways, in this one instance, a lady asked if she could afford a divorce.
Suze broke down the numbers.
Sadly, she couldn't. They were up to their eye balls in debt, house was being foreclosed on. They had like seven kids, no savings.
But she said yes!
She said "the reason being: there are some things in life that you can't afford not to do."
And I know that sipping tequila in the sun is a divorce not, but- but I quite honestly feel that if I don't get a vacation at some point, I might as well reserve a room in a mental institution sometime soon.
Quite honestly, I feel that I left a piece of myself there last year. A piece that, who knew, wasn't opposed to drinking daiquiris at ten in the morning.

Leaving Mexico last year was tough, to say the least.
We took the kids to the beach, dug our heels into the sand, looked up at the sun.
"Feel the sun on your face," I told the kids. "And try to remember that feeling," I said, knowing that we would return home to a city blanketed in snow, amidst a winter that was dark and oppressive and unrelenting.

Later, as our cab pulled away from the resort, Payton looked up at me, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, her chin wobbling.  I squeezed her hand, and she smiled at me through the tears, a sad sort of smile, which made me start crying, which made her start laughing. "Mom! You're crying!"
And then we were both laughing and crying all at the same time.
"We won't say good bye," I told her. "We'll say "see you later!"
And only with that were we able to board the plane, and watch Mexico disappear beneath us.
I feel the need to go back there physically, viscerally.
Hopefully we will get there, somehow.

Things I Don't Understand

Things I Don't Understand...

-The "Emergency Feed" button on my paper towel dispenser at work. I cannot,simply cannot, imagine a paper towel emergency, and I have a pretty good imagination. I have never been in an emergency situation and had someone yell "Get some paper towel, medium absorbency, STAT."

-Why the makers of Canesten, etc, produce, market, and distribute a seven day treatment alongside a one day treatment. Especially when said treatment involves a giant, disgusting suppository. I mean, who's buying the seven day treatment? It's not even cheaper than the one day treatment.

-Why my shampoo bottle contains the warning "For external use only."


-Why my daughters bathing suit, size 6X, has a built in bra in it. Really? Really? Six year olds need bras now? WTF.

-Poker

-Why the label on my underwear contains the instructions "lay flat to dry. Low iron." I mean, I'm not going to lay my underwear flat to dry and have it draped all over the house, much less iron it. I wear it on my ass for Gods sake!

-The show Intervention. Last night, after a long day at work and dealing with a great many things on the home front, I finally sat down after the kids were in bed, poured myself a glass of wine, and settled in to watch some TV. It happened to be Intervention. Let me tell you, if anything can make a person not enjoy a glass of shraz at the end of the day, it's that show.  It kept on showing all these grizzly statistics about how drinking destroys people's lives. Grim faced addiction counsellors speak on camera that drinking alone is a "major red flag."
I took a slow sip of my wine, tentatively, feeling it burn uncharacteristically as I swallowed.
"It's not my fault that my husband works such long, bloody, blasted hours."
And now I'm talking to the TV.
Probably another ":major red flag.
It ended up that most of my wine down the sink.
That's the last time I watch that show, y'all.
Anyways, have a good day!

Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever

On Friday, when I picked up Alex from daycare, I noticed something on his nose. A red dot.
By Saturday, there were several red dots. I wasn't sure what they were, so I did what any good mother would do.
I googled it.
I typed  "red splotchy facial rash" into my search engine and diagnosed him, tentatively, as having Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.
Which is, apparently, quite serious.
Lethal, even, it said.
I looked at Alex, who was noisily playing with his trucks. He didn't look at all like the picture on the Internet, where the afflicted was laying on his back, mouth agape in an apparent cry of distress, his body covered in angry lesions.
But still. I decided I had better take him in.


So I took him to the doctor, reluctantly. I am naturally suspicious of doctors that work on Saturdays.
All of the legit doctors work Monday-Friday. The ones that can't afford their malpractice insurance have to pick up an extra shift. But I had no choice. It's not my fault these things always crop up on a weekend.

I took a seat next to someone after registering, offering an apologetic smile. She looked a little nervous when she saw Alex's little splotchy face.
I felt kind of bad sitting next to her, because it would be sad if she ended up catching Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from him, being that it's lethal and all.  Although, being a tick borne illness, I wasn't sure if she could catch it like that. Nonetheless, I promised myself that I wouldn't let him share a straw with her, which I probably wouldn't have anyways-- being that I'm naturally suspicious of people that want to share sodas with random kids.
It took a long time, but finally we were called in.
The good news is that it wasn't Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Google lied to me.
The bad news is that, whatever it was (the doctor wasn't sure himself) - it was quite contagious.
So yesterday found me driving my little splotch head up to Candle Lake, to be with his grandma and grandpa, since he can't go to daycare for a week or so.

I miss Splochy Splotch.
Even though he's actually pretty bad, and he does have a propensity to throw things at me. And bite sometimes, although not very hard. It doesn't hurt that bad and doesn't leave any marks, so it's all good.

But anyways, it will be OK.
I have a busy week this week.
I'm  going to attend my first writing function: a reception for the new Writer in Residence here.  Saskatoon, I'm told, has quite a supportive writing community and I should be out there, meeting people. For some reason I've always been nervous about using the title 'writer'. Even on here, you'll notice it says 'wannabe writer.' 
But it's time to stop being a wannabe.

Beautiful Distractions

Tonight I bathed my kids, rinsing suds from their hair, water rushing down their backs in soft, streaming rivulets, the scent of Johnsons soap hanging in the air.
I put their pyjamas on. We sat down and read stories. Payton is learning to read. I pointed words out to her carefully. I cleaned the kitchen. I put a load of laundry in. And for once in my life, I was grateful for these tasks. These wonderful distractions that smell of baby soap and laundry detergent and bubble gum toothpaste. Their warm bodies that press against me when we read in a slow cadence. Their incessant, sometimes overlapping, chatter.
My beautiful, noisy, distractions.
I reflected tonight on the irony that I complained bitterly that these same distractions made it nearly impossible for me to write Having Grace.
And now that the writing is done, it is these same distractions that keep me sane while I watch and wait for word on my full.
Life has a certain structure to it. A loose and chaotic, but charming nonetheless, structure.
What am I so afraid of? I asked myself as I tucked my little kids into their respective Princess and Toy Story beds, hair spilling across their faces, back lit by the soft glow of a Sesame Street Night Light.
In many ways, I am already rich.
In many ways, I am already successful.
In many ways- in most ways, actually, I've already made it.

I remind myself why I write.
Not to be represented.
Not to see my name in print (although, OK, I wouldn't totally hate that.)
Not to get rich.
But simply because I enjoy doing it.
And because I honestly don't know how not to do it.
So I've let it go. Whatever happens, happens. With Tricia, with anyone. With Having Grace, with any future projects.
My manuscript is my baby, yes, to a certain extent.  But I have real babies.
My beautiful, wonderful, distractions.

Words I Dislike

Here is a list of words I dislike.
It's a short list, because being writerly, I like most words.
But not these ones:

Guesstimate: This is a guess/estimate hybrid. I find it very annoying. "Guess" is implied in "estimate" and vise versa. One or the other will do but meshing them together in an attempt to make yourself sounds smarter or more precise is just not cool with me.
Pick one.

Ridonkulous: Okay, this is not a word, strictly speaking, although, according to the urban dictionary, it apparently is.  I have heard this "word" crop up in conversation from time to time. I guess it is supposed to mean ridiculous, but for some reason, the person feels compelled to infuse the word "donkey" in there, or whatever "donk" is supposed to be short for.
Someone used it last week during a conversation, which shortened our convo considerably. Coincidentally, she was wearing Crocs. "Ridonkulous" seemed a perfectly apt word for a Croc wearer. Maybe that's why I hate the word. Maybe if she would have been wearing nicer shoes, I would be writing "Words I Love" instead.
Maybe.
But I doubt it.

Nekkid. This word is supposed to mean naked. Well, I guess that much is obvious. But I really hate this pronunciation. It seems high school-ish to me. Juvenile. Although, to be honest, I don't really like the word "naked", either. I would prefer not to hear the word 'naked' in any sentence, ever, except for in reference to the wine "Naked Grape." I do not want to hear about anyone in their unclad state. But if you are going to say naked, if you must- (although, honestly, I don't see why you must), then say it properly, at least. Give it the respect it deserves.

And this isn't a word, per se- more a category of words, but I also dislike it when people use random nouns as verbs.
 Eg) "I corkscrewed the ball over the fence."
WTF is that supposed to mean?
These types of impromptu verbs seem to crop up mainly in the context of sports stories, which by the way- I also dislike. Don't talk to me about sports, as a general rule. Unless you're Tom Brady. For you I would be willing to listen.

I think I would keel over and die if someone used a combination of these words on me.
As in: "I guesstimate that he would feel ridonkulous nekkid."
If you are ever stuck in a conversation with me that you want desperately to get out of, that will work.

State of Disaster

I spent seven hours last night reading my manuscript.
I recant what I said yesterday about still laughing out loud when I read it.
There was no laughing out loud. I have now, officially, read it too many times. I'm kind of starting to hate it.
It makes me sick. Literally. I got motion sickness from scrolling through the document, and a headache as well.
And my house looks like a pack of rabid animals ransacked it, which in a way- is exactly what happened.
At one point, I glanced into the living room to check on this kids. They were supposed to be watching Marmaduke. Alex was sitting, sans diaper, on a pot.
And no, when I say 'pot' I do not mean 'potty.'
I mean an actual pot. 
"Where's your diaper?" I asked him, alarmed.
"In the wagon," he said.
Naturally.
"Why did you take it off?"
"Because I pooped."
Oh God. Which was bad enough.
But then I caught the dog in a compromising position with the diaper.
This morning when I woke up and opened the fridge I found the entire crate of juice boxes I had bought for back to school opened, with straws poked in them, some in various states of emptiness.
"I did it!" Alex said, proudly.
Note to self: do not leave two year old unattended.
Well, in retrospect that should go without saying.

It was with some happiness that I hit the send button and sent that blasted manuscript away.
But then when I crawled into bed, I started second guessing everything. I should have changed that, I should have looked at this or that- even though I did, but I should have looked harder. I remember that feeling of intense vulnerability from the last time I sent out the full.
It almost made me wish that I hadn't brought any of this on myself at all.
Almost.
But not quite.
Anyways, at least I didn't have to print it off this time.
But then I started to become paranoid and agitated that it got lost in the cyber world. I still don't completely trust my hotmail account since it was hacked, though I did recover everything and they say it's OK.
Note to self: Never give your password to so called Hot Mail Account Manager.
In retrospect, that, too sounds like it should be obvious.

Anyways, things are out of my hands, at least for the time being.
And now we wait.
And restock the juice boxes.
And the cookware.