Jiminy Crickets

I can hear a cricket chirping.  No, I am NOT in some warm climate, camping by a creek.  I am in my house, post-holiday turkey dinner, it is minus 4,000 outside and a bloody cricket is chirping.  You see, Lenny the lizard is growing up and he requires more food.  So we began buying the ‘large’ crickets.  The reason that they are larger is because they are older and when they get older, some sprout wings.  What the hell and why me?

I have had an aversion to winged things since the time when I was four years old and was chased by geese while my parents and grandparents laughed.  I can still hear them shouting “drop the bread” while I ran and ran and was eventually bitten.  Rude!   

While I do not dislike all birds, I am not terribly fond of them either. The only bird I have ever really liked up close was a Cockatoo named Casey that my cousin had.  That bird was cool. He talked a bit and on command he would stand on top of his cage and do a head bobbing dance.  We would laugh and call it “the Stevie Wonder” (with apologies to Stevie Wonder).  The louder the music, the bigger the dance.  But I never had enough guts to hold Casey and over the years I have not developed a fondness for any other close encounter of the bird kind.  Sometimes at work the loading dock door gets left open too long and we get a sparrow inside.  Recently one made its way to back offices.  The poor thing was terrified and in a panic it flew fast and furious around the area.  I have no shame in saying that I screamed “get it out” and took cover.  No, I’m not fond of winged things.

But the crickets are not going anywhere; they are a staple in Len’s diet.  At some point I have to “man up” and deal with this chirping insect.  Lenny has not been successful in hunting the creepy thing down. In fact, he has become a little reclusive.  I think the chirping freaks him out.  This afternoon I was looking in the cage, shuddering at the wings on that bug.  Its head has changed shape too and it looks awful, akin to the head of a praying mantis. Gross. I then observed it and a couple of its nearly winged friends drinking from the water bowl like a herd of cows to the trough. At that moment I made a plan make the winged villains a little less agile by way of dehydration.  Less agile means better chances for Len for a successful hunt.  And even if the hunt fails, seeing those dudes on their backs with their toes up to the mesh lid will give us all peace of mind.

Tonight I fed and watered Len outside the cage and did not refill the water bowl inside the cage.  Len will be fine and hopefully the winged one will be gone by the morning.   In the meantime I will try not to hear the chirping.  I will probably dream of geese...

The Tree

I picked up the Christmas tree tonight.  It is thawing.  We have always had real tree.  I like the ‘charlie brown’ style, full of holes and usually missing a limb or two.  This year’s edition is nearly 8 feet high, I had to break off part of the top as our ceilings are not that high.  It is sure to be a beauty tho.

Generally, I am the one who decorates the tree.  On my tree you will find a mishmash of ornaments.  They are not the perfectly matched units from cylinder tube costing $20.  No, my tree is full of odd pieces of history and they tell the story of my family.

The lights go on first.  I like the small lights, no blinkers, just the lovely multi-coloured rays.  The first ornaments are two that make me cry every year;  they belonged to my grandparent’s- my dad’s parents.  I do not remember giving the ornaments but I cherish them as if they were made of gold. They are old Hallmark balls that say Grama and Grampa.  The silky string that is the canvas for the bulb is getting frayed.  I always hang the balls near to each other; Grama’s just a bit higher than Grampa’s.  Dad and Grama would laugh at that, Grampa not so much.  When I put the ornaments on the tree, I feel sad that they are not here now.  I wish they knew my kids.  I wish I knew them now, as a grown up. But I know they are together, wherever they are. And I swear I feel all each person's spirit with me when I put out those ornaments.  Those two Christmas balls alone are worth half a box of kleenex. My family have learned to just say nothing and let me blubber.  I will be fine in an hour.

The other ornaments are ones that we have collected.  There is The First Christmas from 1989 and some of the other tree trimming we bought that year has survived.  I laugh when I see the Woolco price tag on the boxes. Two Baby’s First ornaments exist.   The Kids have various tree trimmings from their childhood craft times, too.  I love those the best.  My favorite of all time is the year we made clothes pin angel decorations. The pin was the body, coffee filters were cut to make wings and The Kid’s faces where the faces of the angels.  Absolutely hilarious – and perfect. The past few years we have begun to collect memories of our vacations for the tree.  I have found out this is an entirely fascinating and tacky industry; yet highly appealing.  Funny thing, I haven’t been able to find the right ornament for Maui – I guess I will have to go back to continue the search.  Last year I completed the ornaments with photos of the dogs inside.  Those make me laugh out loud.  I must get one for Lenny the Lizard.

From time to time people make jokes about the tree.   Those folks do not understand that the random collection of things is really the true reflection of this family, of this house, of these four walls.  It is a snap shot of time over many years.  Nothing on the tree matches, nothing is perfect.  It is a real tree.  Pass the tissues.

Rinks

Today I was in a hockey rink that I have never been to before and yet it was exactly the same as all the others.  Some rinks are built with bricks, some are the tin can variety, and some are throw backs to another era with wooden benches.  Two things remain universal inside every rink: 1) everyone’s opinion of what the “right” call the referee should make is different and 2) the loudest person in the rink usually knows the least about the game.

As I stood there today, I realized that I have been in four different rinks in the past two weeks.  This is not earth shattering but it is odd since I am no longer a ‘hockey mom’.  The Boy is an adult and my role is no longer chauffer.  I am a mere fan.  I love it.  I simply show up when I am ready, watch the game and the leave at my leisure.  I treasure his nod of the helmet acknowledgement I receive – once - during the game.  Last week I went to a game and it was a real treat to run into another hockey mom that I haven’t seen in ages.  We agreed it was good fun to see the boys (for they will always be the boys, not men) on the ice together again.  Gone are all parental delusions of grandeur, these boys are playing for fun only.  This rink is brick rink with wooden benches and the flooring looked like it had been redone since the last time I was there. 

Earlier in the week I was loitering in the community rink looking at old hockey team pictures.  It was really, really hard to find The Boy amongst all the faces.  I tried doing the math of how old he was in 2005 or 2007 and what level that age is and then figured out if Atom came before or after PeeWee and what year did he not play because of the broken wrist….Oy.  I ended up relying on the coaches to landmark the years. I laughed at the pictures of hockey hair and smiled at the memories.  Sadly, the boys will not be playing in this rink again – no ice time available.  This rink is made of bricks and cement.  It has remained the same through all of our years of hockey.

Last weekend my little niece asked me to come to her skating lesson.  I found it odd to be sitting there with my little brother watching his daughter navigate the ice.  As we adults talked I kept remembering him learning to skate when he was about the same age.  There are still moments when I find it hard to believe he is a parent – because he has always been my little brother.  But there he is doing up skates and zipping jackets and this little girl calls him dad.  It was one of those full circle moments.  This rink was more bricks than tin and so new it does not yet have smell of frozen sweat permeating through it.

And that brings me to today. When I am watching a game, I prefer to stand at one end of the rink, just off to the side of the net. I was standing there today, Tim’s cuppa steeped tea resting on the ledge, watching another niece play in a girl’s hockey tournament.   Many years ago The Girl played a season of girl's hockey before deciding it wasn’t for her.  Her games were usually in a community rink with a terrible viewing area.  She did not have any tournaments other than the standard minor hockey week tourney.  This was a very short lived hockey career and yet very memorable. I’m not even sure The Girl owns skates now.  Today’s rink was like a tin can, metal frame, tin roof, metal seating.  It had the rink smell, the loud ‘fan’ and young referees being judged by the crowd.  New rink for me but it was oddly familiar. Good game, too.   

Wind

Once upon a time I went to Maui.  It was such an adventure for me.  I had never travelled any great distance by myself. Prior trips I had made were with The Husband or friends.  But one day I got on a plane, by myself and went West.  I landed in complete darkness and was immediately assaulted by the humidity of Maui.  It took my breath away.  I was in heaven.  I easily found my luggage and made my way to the car rental.  Once in the car I drove away from the city lights into the darkness of the valley to Kihei and it was as if I had been there before.   I had studied the maps and had a good idea of the roads and in the dead of the night I found my way to a condo that I had never seen before.  It was a ground level walkout to the ocean.  When I opened the patio doors I couldn’t see the ocean, it was too dark.  I could hear it though, and I could taste it.  I left the condo and found my way to grocery store to get coffee and the basics of breakfast.  When I got back I fell asleep hard.  I was exhausted. 

Something woke me up super early the next morning.  I went to the kitchen and as I looked out, there was a field of sculpted grass and the ocean. The sun was just rising.  I opened the patio door and walked to the embankment before the ocean and just stood there.  It was perfect.  Eventually I dipped a toe in the water then made my way back to the condo.  Coffee in hand, I took up a perch on the lanai and never moved for hours. I just listened to the ocean. I did this for 7 mornings. To the left of lanai was the pool area with the umbrella chairs and community bbqs.  The caretaker was washing off everything, a task I learned he did every day.  A couple took off for a run each morning, returning to do stretchy things in the sun.  I could have done without seeing the stretching but I appreciated their dedication to the run.  I brought my shoes but they remained untouched the entire week.  I just let the island recharge me.  In the beginning, I explored the island by myself.   The Husband flew in a couple days after me and I was so happy to be the one to show him around a new area.  The Husband has travelled much more than I, but he agreed that Maui was a special place.  We drove to the top of a volcano and felt like we really were at the top of the world.  We also drove on the “do not drive here” part of the island.  It is a one lane road with two-way traffic.  Amazing adventure – so good.

My best lesson to learn was on day one.  Earlier that day I had read a bit about the trade winds and how a person needs to heed and plan around them.  I discounted the winds until about 2:30PM when the first gust hit and never stopped.  It was amazing.  Relentless.  Because of where I was on the island, the wind was stronger.  It funneled in through the valley and exploded down the seaside sometimes carrying dirt from the cane fields. The wind also started a game for me to see who is ”the newbie” arrival at the condo.  Folks would be sitting around the pool with the umbrellas up and when the wind hit, the man would get up to hold the umbrella.  After about 10 minutes, a “local” would let him know that the wind wouldn’t be stopping for another 10 hours.  Good entertainment from my deck chair.  That was also my cue to take on a new adventure or go get fish tacos.

Soon The Husband and I are returning to Maui.  Same condo, new adventure.  This time it will have a different feel because we have been there before.  I am loving that. I know there are new things to discover.  The Husband was back once already to ride his bike up the volcano.  I told him this time I will drop him off at the top and he can coast his way down.  I look forward to setting up a new perch to wait for him.  I might even take my running shoes and use them this time.  I do not need the same level of recharge as I did last time.  I look forward to the wind, fish tacos, good coffee, spending time looking at ocean at sunrise and planning for what is next in our crazy life. This is good. Aloha.

Fresh

It has been an interesting couple of days.  Two notable things happened this week.  Leonard got new skin and I took a chance.

This morning as I was walking by Lenny the Lizard’s cage I tossed over the usual “Good Morning Leonard”.  Out of the corner of my eye I thought he had two heads. As it turns out he was shedding his skin and the two headed effect was a result of the cracking of the old skin off of his head.  He is a reclusive nocturnal dude and I have never seen the actual shedding process.  It is pretty cool and it made me a few minutes late for work.  Well, 20 minutes late. The gross part is that he eats his old skin but that is another topic. 

I took a chance on a crazy ad to sell my remaining inventory of jerseys – and it worked! Who knew?  Six emails and two phone calls later and it all will leave on Monday.  I have had a business selling hockey jerseys for the last 6 years.  The Husband and I had the mesh spun and jerseys manufactured for us from a friend in Asia. We imported 15,000 pieces and JJ’s Jerseys was born.  It has been a successful run and I have met super people. Hockey guys are great to deal with. Over time my inventory has dwindled and I feel the business has run its course.  As a result I have been left sitting with a mix of leftover sizing in my garage – until now.   Not only does this sale mean The Boy has more room for his social life in the garage (he has a poker den for his friends) but it is a big weight off my back. And rather than me having to pay to landfill the jerseys someone is buying them from me and they are picking them up.  I am pretty freaking happy about the entire scenario.

Tonight I walked by the lizard’s cage and tossed over the usual “Good Night Leonard”.  He was resting proudly in his new suit of armour, pulling off the last bits of his old skin from his toes.  He looks fresh.  Tomorrow I think I will put on my weekend bra and dye my hair.  Why not?  Life is good.

McFly...McFly...

So it is back to school day today.  This day ushers in the return to routine for many folks.  It is kind of a late year new resolution time.  Back to the gym or to eating right or to regular bedtimes.    For me it is some of that but mostly it is back to the future for me.

No, I do not have a Delorean – sad face – but I do have a bit of a time machine:  Old photos.  They capture moments in time.  I tried my very best to be that mom who took the photo of the kids on their first day of school.  I have many of the early years and I will freely admit that at least one was taken a day or so late.  But somewhere around junior high those ended.  Probably a mix of teenage distain towards me and my overwhelming relief that they were out the door for 6 to 8 hours per day lead to this photographic documentation breakdown.  I admit to celebrating more than one back to school moment with a shot of Baileys in my coffee and toast to me for not being arrested for a rendering a child silent over the super special summer break.

Today I have a different non-Baileys toast though (non-Baileys becasue I have to go to work soon).  This toast is not to me but to The Kids.  I toast them for having graduated high school.  I toast them for having at least one good friend that they can count on and a few more waiting in the wings.  I toast them for both being strong enough people to know what they do not want – for now – because they have the rest of their life to figure out what they do want.  I toast them for making me (and The Husband) crazy with some of their choices and decisions and having the fortitude to challenge ours.  I toast them for being good people with big hearts and open minds.

Life lessons cannot be taught.  They have to be lived.  I am not a teacher of such lessons but I am a student.  Every day opens a new chapter and it is up to me to let the lesson of that day resonate.  My photo today looks different than it did 14 years ago.  The Girl was out the door early to work on her way to her next chapter.  The Boy was gone soon after on his way to his new beginning, text book in hand.  The Husband is immersed in his next edition.  And me, at the moment I am hanging with The Dogs before work.  And this is all good.  It is time to put the back pack on and get learning.

Magic Mats

I was driving the QE2 today.  Windows down, sun shining in, the Fuzz nowhere in sight and I was transported to a summer gone by when I was at my grandparent's farm in Manitoba.  I think I was about 13 or 14 years old, my cousins were 2 and 4 years older than me.  While we sometimes watched my eldest cousin wreak havoc on the locals – she was the early version of punk in small town rural Manitoba – mostly my other cousin and I pouted and cursed our lives.  We were stuck in hell.  One day we were sun tanning, the day was hot and the wind warm and I wrote a poem called Magic Mats. It started out “here we sit in the flats, brought here by our magic mats”.  And that summed it up.  When I look back on it I can still feel the palpable boredom and distain at being on this secluded farm.  No other kids. The biggest excitement of the day was seeing if the mail truck stopped at the gate or not.  Usually it did not.  And if it did stop, none of us kids wanted to walk down the hill to get the mail – it wasn’t going to be for us anyway.

I arrived at the farm with my cousins via my cousin’s mom, my Aunty.  I’m not certain of the logistics but at one point I remember being part of her entourage that was visiting my Uncle’s relatives.  Those folks were kind and welcoming and I remember listening to The Cars – Drive on cassette in a tree swing.  Eventually we got to the farm and Aunty went home; leaving us cousins on the flats with no magic mats.  It wasn’t a full working farm then.  The orchards were overgrown, the fields were rented by other farmers, the barns were empty but the place was picture perfect.  Not a weed in sight. My Grampa would be gone from sun up to sun down “farming”.   Just before suppertime he would show up, cook supper for us and then sit back and watch. We grandkids must have been entertainment for him; surely we filled up the house with noise.

During the day we would sleep until the afternoon then go exploring, play silly games in the barns like scaring ourselves silly imagining ghosts. There was a river nearby and we would do all the things you shouldn’t do.  My cousins would get leeches on their legs and run screaming all the way back to the farm house for Grama to help them.  I was always too scared of the water to go in so they would be the ones to get into trouble for playing in the river.  On rainy days we would try to use the satellite dish.  Gramps liked to watch the playboy channel at night so we were warned not to touch the tv.  But sometimes we found the MTV satellite/channel and I remember Bruce Springsteen and Courtney Cox - Dancing in the Dark. There was a big picture window in the kitchen that overlooked a meadow.  I would spend hours looking out that window watching for coyotes crossing the field. It was a real score to see more than one.  I admired their independence, their sideways loping, ever wary of the unknown.   I think that is why I have such an affinity to the coyotes now.  

Eventually someone, maybe my mom, came and picked us up and we went home.  The next time I was at the farm was probably 7 or 8 years later for Grama’s funeral.  I did not stay very long.  My cousins were not there.  The picture window was dirty and the view was obscured by overgrown trees.  Some of the barns had obvious structural issues. But it was still beautiful.  I haven’t been back to the farm since.  But on days like today, sunshine, wheat fields, windows down and farmers in the field – I think about the flats and the magic mats and I am back there.

Angry hair

I went for a run this morning.  Nothing earth shattering about that.  The fact I haven’t run for a while is a sign for me that I need either a kick in the @ss or a moment of reflection & refocus.  In this case, all of the above.

The past couple of years have been difficult on me in mind, body and spirit.  After I finished my first (and only!!) marathon in 2009, I felt like life started slipping thru my fingers. Work is not the centre of my universe but what was supposed to be a good thing eroded into a not-so-good thing.  That was frustrating and made me sad, disappointed.  Then the other parts of my universe – the things that happen inside your 4 walls - went off the rails.  I’m not sure how other houses function but in my house, I am the constant.  I am the main support beam and when the rest of the house has ‘renovations’, it is me who taps in the supporting braces.  And this is ok; for my 4 walls.  But – it takes a toll.  I had to become immersed in the renovation process.  All of my time and energy went to other people’s projects.  In turn I got fat, tired, out of shape and fairly pissed off at the world.  Being pissed off is different than being angry.  When I am angry I lash out, when I am pissed off it is a slow simmer of reflection served with a side of brownies.

The past winter I started moving to get back to me.  I lead some running clinics, finished my first half marathon in several years.  That was good. But I’m still feeling fat and unhealthy.  My blood pressure is elevated.  I am sure I can look/feel/be much better if I truly focus on ME now.  I pretty much stopped running in the summer to do some additional renovations. Lame - cannot believe I let all those physical gains go.  However, I have come to the understanding that renovations may be a life long journey for some folks and that I cannot be sitting on the sidelines, wearing a tool belt and watching it happen.  I can only tap in the support wall and carry on.  Work is good too.  And let’s be real – it does matter because you spend a significant part of your time there.  No one needs to be surrounded by negativity – anywhere.  I signed up for a course that I have wanted to take for a couple years.  I will even get to drive my car to campus. And it is Fall; my favourite time of the year.  Crisp, clean air.  No bugs. Less allergies.

Today’s run was hard.  I could not find my footing.  That doesn’t mean I fell. I mean the rhythm of pace and breathing was jumbled and jagged. When running is good, it is like time stands still while you move thru it.  The measure of distance is not in the front of your mind and the concern of the public at large watching your giggly parts evaporates.  It is magical.  That is why I run – for those moments.   As I rounded my last corner on the final stretch to home, I was met by this ridiculous looking dog on a leash.  It had this goofy white hair blowing in the wind and was hell bent on going somewhere but the leash was holding it back.  The sight made me laugh and I felt a connection with the dog.  I thought – it has angry hair!  Hope it gets to run free soon - and gets a hair cut.

 

Main Street

On a recent road trip The Husband decided he wanted some Chinese food.  Now, in all my days of travelling – including the times with my parents, what I know to be true as the sky is blue when the sun shines is that in every town and hickville there is a Main Street.  And on this Main Street you will find a place that says Chinese Western Canadian Food.  And 9 times out of 10, when you go inside you will find a fish tank with a gold fish or plastic flowers or paintings depicting waterfalls or lanterns with red tassels or a combination of such treasure. If you are truly lucky – you will also find the paper placemats with Chinese Zodiacs.  I’m a rooster.  I verify this every time.

So, we are in a medium sized town and we enter the doors of the Chinese Western Canadian Food establishment.  My radar was on high alert because we had to enter via 2 doors which contained no windows; perhaps an airlock of sorts. The first door was painted bright blue, the second pink.  Inside we decide on the lunch buffet.  It is 2PM.   We are seated near to the buffet and before we can even sit down, the resident local has literally ran to the buffet to scoop up treasures.  That sort of spirited hoarding raised our hopes that the airlock was not a bad omen.

At first pass of the buffet, The Husband returned with a plate of 4 pieces of deep fried shriveled up things. I have yet to go up as I am stunned into silence and amazement by the decor. After we stop laughing at his plate of crap, we hear the shouts of kitchen folks and then the buffet begins to have fresh food.  The fresh stuff was ok.  But let’s be serious.  The only things  in Chinese Western Canadian Food places you are truly safe with is fried rice, fresh chow mien noodles, fresh mixed vegetables and chicken balls.  That’s it.  Also up for the offering were 4 colours of gelatin and 3 colours of ice cream, all in pre-portioned  parfait glasses.  The ice cream was housed in a new looking chest freezer with the glass sliding top.  Jello on the counter in 8 neat rows. I always wonder who cuts the jello into cubes.  

Let’s talk about the décor.  The pink from the airlock door carried forward as an accent colour, everywhere.  The wire tracks of the drop ceiling were painted pink as were the air registers. The 80's track lighting had a not-so clever disguise of plastic flowers and vines. There was a large brick fireplace which was not in use.  The opening had a hand created zodiac diagram and the mantel housed a giant waterfall picture.  A precious print embossed with metalic paint and a rounded edge gold frame.  Other such pictures were on the walls, too.  I didn't look at the floor but I know it was a cloth-like substance.  My best instinct says it was 70's fuzz carpet.

The mantel. I was nervous to sneak the photo. If you look hard you can see the pink drop ceiling track.

The people were friendly and polite. When they asked about the food we mustered up the word 'fine'. The fresh stuff was fine. We never did figure out what the 4 pieces of deep fried shriveled up stuff was. Come to think of it, I never saw a fish tank either. Is this a coincidence? I think not.

Safety glasses please.

I admit it.  I almost bought a “magical” bra off of a TV infomercial.  I got totally sucked in with the hype and stories and pictures.  No wires poking , no uncomfortable straps, no squishy bits???  Sign me up!  Ever the cautious consumer, I did some online research and there are people who actually post reviews about this “magical” bra.  You do not even have to buy it from the TV – the local big box store sells it.  One reviewer’s comment has stuck in my head.  In part it read “this is a good weekend bra”.  A Weekend Bra.  I started thinking about a “weekend bra”.  Who knew there was such a thing?  What would this mean? Is it less conforming?  Less confining?  More flexible?  Is it supportive?  Are there options to be exercised at your discretion?  Does it have a calendar attached to it so that it knows when the weekend is over?  What if you wore it on a Tuesday?

I got my first bra when I was in grade 6.  Disgusting.  Who wants that? (Trust me, you don’t).   I still cringe at the memories of the teasing and gawking and losers trying to look down my shirt.  Back then "El Torro" did not exist, just the shy girl who did not want to be noticed was there.  I feel like Grade 6 was the start of the end of my childhood.  Sure I got older because of the earths’ rotation but I also got Old. My dad died that year and there was just me and my little brother and my mom.  By necessity I grew up; along with the bra came new responsibilities and expectations.  No, Grade 6 was not a great year.  Then we go to grade 7.  Not much better.  We moved from hick town to the city mid-year. Terrifying.  There may have been a slight advantage to the needing a real bra in grade 7, but I was too shy and shell-shocked to use it to any advantage.  Of course there have been other bras.  There have been pretty bras (I got married), nursing bras (I had kids), sport bras (sometimes I am a runner) but never a Weekend Bra. 

Maybe it is a metaphor.  Perhaps you put it on and then you are freed from your weekly grind.  Meh – I’m pretty free with my weekly grind though.  Kids are young adults now (YES!!), sometimes I drive my own car, my job is fine, dogs are good, lizard is cool, there’s food in the fridge, neighbour boy cuts my grass each week.  What else is there?  A housecleaner would be luxurious… but honestly I pretty much do what I want, when I want.  Maybe it is about freeing the mind!  If you do not have things poking you for no good reason at inopportune times you are able to clear your head?  Maybe not having wires or uncomfortable straps which encapsulate, compress and control the situation causes so much flopping around that you are knocked silly and cannot remember what you are supposed to be bothered about?  I don’t know.  I am very confused about the Weekend Bra.

Today I had to go buy vacuum cleaner bags.  Usually I go to the local retailer of tires and household appliances for this very exciting purchase.  But today I deviated from that store and went to the local big box store.  I told myself I was going there because I needed yogurt but the truth is I went to buy the magical bra. I am totally confused about whether or not I picked the correct vacuum cleaner bags, but I now have a Weekend Bra (and yogurt). Look out world – here I come.  Hope I don’t lose an eye.

I've been driving!

If you have teenagers/young adults you will understand that I am celebrating driving My Own Car this week.  This is the car that I pay for, that I picked out for me, that I enjoy driving.  In the last 2 weeks I have driven to and from Edmonton, Canmore and to work.  The work part is kind of lame because it is a 20 min walk down hill to work - but whatever.  I have been driving My Car! My car is a Jetta, shiny and black.  I named her Betty and while she is a good car, she isn't the Jetta we *heart*.  Once we had Jonny.  Some folks met Jonny, some didn't but this is the story of Jonny.

A coworker was selling his car.  We talked.  $1900 and a $25 coffee card later, I was the owner of a 1998 VW Jetta K2.  Blue, rusted, super styling roof rack, temperamental passenger door, 3 of 4 electric windows opened, hatchback, 5 speed manual transmission, battered windshield and the rain would sometimes come in.  It ran like a dream.  I drove that car for 2 months before I learned it was named Jonny.  I never asked why.  It just fit.  Jonny the Jetta.

The Boy was 17 and needed to get his driver’s license.  We had the “good” car and then Jonny.  Both were manual transmissions.  The Husband announced that the “good” car was off limits for learning, so Jonny became the teaching car.  The Husband’s tutelage of the art of driving a standard lasted 3 minutes at which time he announced, “We need to buy an automatic”.   I laughed and shook my head no.  I always knew I would be the one to teach them to drive a standard.  It is a life skill and the kids will have it. 

So it began.  Oh poor Jonny and his over-heated clutch.  The lurching and lunging and cursing he endured!  I thought I was going to die many times.  It all came to a head one day in a parking lot.  The Boy was feeling mighty spunky and wanted to drive home.  I looked at the steel toed work boots and paint covered clothes and thought that maybe this was a bad idea.  But I gave him the keys.  That session of driving lasted 90 seconds during which time there were 4 stalls and one tantrum where The Boy stated “Dad was right, we need an automatic”.   I kicked The Boy out of the driver’s seat, drove home, made him change into runners and get back into the car.  I drove to the country and parked Jonny on a hill.  The Boy got in the driver’s seat and I said, “Go”.  It wasn’t pretty and I’m sure it cost me a whole tank of gas and half a clutch.  But the light bulb went on.  The Boy felt the car, listened to the engine and drove.   He received his license and voila – Jonny became his car for the grade 12 year.   I bought Betty the Jetta.   We worked out a system for Jonny's gas for “fun” vs.  gas for the apprenticeship job.  Jonny needed new tires that fall and some strut work.  After a cool $1500 all was good.   The battery went the following spring and there was leak of some kind. The Girl learned to ‘drive stick’ and in the summer, The Boy got a new old truck (manual transmission!)  and The Girl took over Jonny.  Jonny was again a fixture at the high school.  At long last his front window was replaced.  And then it happened.  The Snap.  I wasn’t there but The Girl describes it as the saddest sound she has ever heard.  After a left turn onto a quiet street there was a snap and then Jonny was still.  The transmission had gone.  The expense to repair could no longer be justified.  Jonny was retired.  I was sad, my family was sad.  The 5 or so other kids who my kids, (unbeknownst to me) taught to drive stick on Jonny were sad.   

Since the demise of Jonny I have been on car share program with The Girl.  How this works is I ask her if she needs the car and then I can figure out my day.  And this is ok - minus the bottle of fake nail glue which is now permanently affixed to the accessory box inside My Car. But I miss Jonny.  Not only for the freedom he gave ME but the awesome unit he was.  My new Jetta rattles and whistles.  The seat warmers are not nearly as warm.  Betty is far more plastic than Jonny ever was.  The Girl miss Jonny too - he was much easier to hide the bumps and scrapes on.  The Girl is working  towards getting her own car - I will return the favour of the nail glue. 

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Jonny on his retirement day

Betty

The Ants came back...

So, the ants came back. They are back in the basement. Effers.. Disgusting little insects with an unwavering sense of purpose. A little army marching from under my baseboards and across the carpet.  It got me to thinking about the last time I did battle with them.  At that time too, I am fairly certain I was solo in my efforts.  All the people who live in this abode were elsewhere, as they were today.  I shuffled around heavy furniture to spray chemicals along the baseboards and found particular glee in shooting out the lights of the small swarms. I hunted on hands and knees like a soldier going to war.  I followed their trail, perhaps found a general point of entry and took some sense of satisfaction in this "recon" work.  The previous battle was waged two years ago in the exact same location, different entry point.

Two years ago I initally used a different approach to the ants.  The kinder, gentler method of the  baited food traps.  Useless.  Food traps take time and the ants, with their endless marching, multiplied many thousands of times over within days. The "food" probably gave them energy and vitamins.  It was like a horror movie - Ants on a Plane! Then I got angry and bought the chemical and got the mutherhugging ants outta my mutherhugging basement.  By the time it was all overwith, all the carpets needed replacement.  Too many ants, too much chemical needed. Stupid food traps. So this time, I am going with the big guns blazing the first time. Work smarter - not harder, right?

Two years ago was when I first had this blog.  At the time it served a purpose, a purely selfish need for reflection and release. I mean, really, isn't that what a blog is for?  I had a couple reasonably funny things written but I couldn't find the guts to write the real stuff I wanted to say.  Too personal.  Too close.  I'm not sure I have those guts yet. I closed the blog off without the intent of ever bringing it back. I needed the private, internal self-reflection for my own growth.  I have missed the outlet though. And I feel ready to share again.  So, like those ants, I am marching forward, not quite sure of the destination.  I have resolved to make the best of the best and not take one moment of crap or heartache or disappointment more than I have to. Life is good. I choose to write now. The ants came back...and so did my blog.