You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2008.
Not sure if it’s the Canadian air, or the lack of sleep and regular showering, but I’ve woken up the last three days looking eerily similar to a slightly younger version of Ozzy Osbourne.
Perhaps this is why G recently asked me to pray that he’d get a new mommy and daddy…’because his are getting old.’
I chose to ignore my less than stellar appearance and went out of the house on another mission to IKEA and Costco. We ended up becoming card-carrying members of the bulk-buying enterprise. Only problem is, they take your picture for the membership card. So now my tired face and bad hair have been captured for all Costco employees to see.
We decided to see if groceries and household items would be cheaper if purchased en masse. It will be an interesting experiment, especially since we don’t have that much storage space, and particularly since I don’t like eating the same thing too often. I picked up a carton of Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese (12 boxes inside the carton). Definitely a good price – but who has room for 12 boxes of macaroni and cheese? And while the grapes were a decent price, I’m not sure anyone can (or should) eat several pounds of grapes in a short space of time. And the three gigantic packs of cheese tortellini would surely fill a refrigerator shelf.
As we checked out, I realized I was going to need a ‘pick me up’ for the ride home. But of course it is not possible to buy a singular candy bar at Costco. Instead, one must buy a 24-pack. So I settled on the lesser of the enormous evils, a 1.58kg bag of peanut M&M’s. Granted I’m a little rusty with metric. I did, after all, look at the paper the other day and freaked out when I saw the low for the day was 21. Twenty-one degrees Celsius, of course. (Which is still not particularly hot for the end of August, but apparently we’re living in the hinterland now.)
Either way, 1.58kg is probably about 3 1/3 lbs or thereabouts. I greedily tore into the bag of peanut goodness during the ride home. Jason eyed me suspiciously. ‘There’d better be some left when we get home,’ he cautioned.
Sheesh, what does he take me for. I’m pretty sure I can make 3 lbs of M&M’s last…. at least 3 days. After all, if I’m going to survive this winter, I’ll need a couple of extra layers of fat.
The University very kindly hosted a barbecue on Wednesday night for the families of new faculty members. It was another nutty day of trying to make arrangements so of course we were running a tad late to the event. But we pulled ourselves together, put actual shoes on the kids and off we went. I even combed my hair.
The outdoor barbecue had been moved indoors, so we followed a series of directional signs to arrive at the new venue. We walked in the door toward the registration table, where we were greeted very enthusiastically by the women in charge of registration. So enthusiastically, that I immediately concluded something was awry.
Out of this year’s 100 new hires at the University, it seems only two families showed up for the family barbecue. The Johnsons and another Birkenstock-wearing foursome. There were, of course, other people around – all current staff members at the University. I’d venture to say there was a ratio of 4 staff members for every ‘family’ member.
One of the administrators was scheduled to give a ‘welcome speech’. After waiting around for the better part of 45 minutes he decided, wisely, against making a speech to 8 people.
Supreme awkwardness aside, it was actually most enjoyable for the kids since they got to play with all the toys by themselves. There was a mini jumping castle, and remote controlled cars to drive over a huge parquet dance floor. They ran around with wild abandon. The Hen even climbed into the jumping castle all by himself and just sat there, eliciting ‘awww, he’s so cute’ comments from everyone. And we had some nice conversations with a few of the remarkably friendly administrators.
The food was pretty bad. I believe Jason said ‘this fruit doesn’t even taste like fruit.’ And it’s true, it didn’t.
[*A slight exaggeration]
I’ll admit the first time I flew into Calgary I decided not to look out the window of the airplane. I wanted to be surprised when I saw the city for the first time.
But the second time, I looked. I was surprised. I’ve never before seen an aerial view of a landscape that reminded me of colored concrete countertops. Perfectly smooth, perfectly flat, from above.
Flying into Calgary is sort of like flying into the set of the Truman Show, which is what the outskirts remind me of. Jason rolls his eyes at me every time I say this, but it’s true. All I can think is there was a great big expanse of flat land and somebody said ‘hey, let’s put a city here.’ And so they did. They got out their ‘city-in-a-box-kit’, shook it a couple of times and let the pieces tumble out. Voila. Calgary. Sort of like a Little People city.
Our mover guy shared his thoughts on Calgary in his Airdrie accent (which I thought was Irish): ‘Victoria (British Columbia) is where it’s at….in Cal-gehry…if you want to ride your bike, you’re riding it on [a paved trail].’
So, what, bike trails are for sissies? I guess I won’t be a true outdoorswoman any time soon.
We spent Wednesday night faux-camping. With the movers not bringing our stuff until Thursday (instead of Tuesday, but who’s keeping track of things-not-going-to-plan at this point…) we decided to rough it and spend the night at ‘our’ house instead of paying for another night of hotel.
I actually, stupidly, thought it might be a reasonably fun experience. Unfortunately, I hadn’t considered any possible roadblocks in this night-o-fun. Like an uncooperative child, or a chilly house.
The evening started out auspiciously enough. We’d picked up an air mattress at Wal-Mart and some cheap bedding at IKEA. Assembled, it looked practically inviting.
But there was a slight snag. The Hen spent the first forty-five minutes of the evening screaming. Which wore down the limited remains of our patience reserves. Eventually, around 10pm, both boys fell asleep. Around midnight, I woke up, freezing. I begged Jason to turn on the heat. In August. But the $6 fleece blankets I’d picked up at IKEA just weren’t cutting it. They were a little on the short side, and in order to cover my entire person, I had to contort my body into something akin to the fetal position. In a chilly environment, that’s a recipe for a sore body.
J turned on the heat, but since the furnace hadn’t been on in a while (on account of the whole summer business) it smelled. On top of the fresh-plastic smell of the air mattress. A near-lethal combination.
At 1am the Hen awoke to begin celebrating his birthday. And adamantly refused to be put back in the pack ‘n play. He spent the next 6 hours alternately crying, crawling on us, crawling (falling) off the mattress, patting our faces, poking our bodies and occasionally sleeping for an hour or so. It was easily one of the longest nights of my life. Much like the time we had to wait from midnight until 8am to get croupy Hen to the pediatrician’s. But that time we had heat and comfortable bedding.
In an attempt to divert my mind from thinking about the cold and the lack of sleep, I mentally composed a blog entry. This one. When that didn’t work, I thought of incentives for getting through the night. Like a Caramel Macchiato first thing in the morning. Venti size. And then I moved on to thinking about which items on the moving truck I’d be most glad to see. Perhaps my sweaters and my jackets. Or a pair of shoes besides the black flats I’d been wearing for a week. But then I got poked in the ribs again, and decided all I wanted from the truck…… was the crib.
In an attempt to test the proverbial waters of outdoor life, we went to Banff yesterday.
The night before our excursion, J was looking at some of the travel books in the condo where we’re staying. He found a book about Banff and started reading about the National Park – specifically strategies for surviving an encounter with a bear. I wasn’t really listening to everything he read aloud, but when faced with a grizzly, one should lie down and play dead. That much I remember. And if it’s a brown (err, black?) bear one is supposed to fight back.
On our drive the next day, there was a scenic pull over spot near a stream. It was also marked with ‘e’ which we didn’t understand – but assumed it alluded to the little log outhouse. So we parked our Goldfish-cracker-encrusted Ford Fusion and J and G embarked on a trip to the outhouse. G turned around and came right back. He wasn’t going to do anything in there.
We walked to the stream and, after some maneuvering, took a few pictures. Total estimated time outside the car: 7 minutes. But enough time for all of us to be bitten by mosquitoes at least 5 times. One even came back in the car with us. The nerve!
There’s a reason I like to see the outdoors from behind a car window.
As we continued along to Lake Louise, we came upon several cars pulled over to the side. Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out they had spotted something.
Sure enough, a young-ish grizzly was sitting near the side of the road munching on some berries. We pulled over and I got out of the car to take some pictures.
And this is what was funny, Jason was really freaked out about my standing on the opposite side of the road with several tourists, taking a picture of the bear. The same guy who had pooh-poohed my relatives when they insisted that it wasn’t a good idea for him to get out of the car in a game park in South Africa to take pictures of the animals.
Some people might demand their money back when they find out the condo they have rented for a few days is located less than twenty yards from a train track. Where at least 3 trains pass by every hour.
But we’re not those people. When the tell-tale bell sounds ‘ding ding ding’, announcing the arrival of a train, both boys run to the window or the balcony (well, the Hen merely shuffles a little faster). G typically makes up a number for the train – ‘it’s the number 10!’ And proceeds to inventory every single piece of said train.
‘There’s a box car, and another box car, and another box car…..’
As one of the trains left the station, I pointed to the last part of the train and said ‘and there goes the caboose’ in my excited-mom-voice.
‘Actually, it’s a diesel,’ replied my four year old.
It’s one thing to FEEL like the new kid on the block when you move to a different place. You don’t know where anything is, you’re probably not observing the local customs – whatever they might be. But it’s another to obviously LOOK like you’re not ‘from here’.
In my attempt at packing lightly I failed to pack any warm clothes for us (besides 2 sweatshirt jackets for the boys) thinking it was going to be the end of August and probably quite hot. And the first day we got here it was 93 degrees, which, even in ‘dry’ weather, is still really hot.
But today it’s more like 50 degrees and it’s raining. And the warmest thing I own is a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. And black thong sandals.
Since I was going to be husband-less and car-less for the entire day, I decided to seek fortification early this morning. And by early I mean 8.30am. Nothing except for one lousy coffee shop was open in the town of Canmore. Maybe the day here starts at 9am. Or maybe today is some kind of national holiday that I am unaware of (trust me it has happened before).
Either way, I finally found one coffee shop with an open sign. And as I walked across the road, people stared at me. Not because I looked good (because, trust me, I didn’t.) But because they’re all wearing their North Face fleece jackets and sensible shoes and here I am, a Hoosier, dressed in a t-shirt, jeans and sandals.
But any feelings of embarassment subsided as I stepped up to the counter and purchased a nanaimo bar. Or, in my case, a sanity saver.
They’re Canadian AND delicious. Go figure!
Since arriving in Calgary about a week ago, we’d been living in a vacation rental basement condo while our stuff meandered up from the States.
The suite, possibly 300 square feet or so, was nice enough – a small kitchenette, a bar table with 4 stools, a bathroom and a bedroom with a very comfortable bed and pillows, and a small little entryway with a bed where the boys slept. It had internet access and free telephone calls. There was a washing machine and dryer in the hallway. It had a television – much to the delight of two of the Johnson men.
But it was dark and felt like a cave – the walls painted a deep taupe, heavy blinds in front of the windows for privacy. While I was grateful to have a ‘home base’ from which to operate, I was also grateful for opportunities to escape.
I guess I associate basements with despair and our situation was quickly turning desperate.
When we made a leap-of-faith move to Berlin in 2002 some friends of ours very kindly put us up in their basement for more than two months. Our bed was a bizarre futon-esque contraption that could not be made comfortable with all the padding in the world. It was also too short for our bodies. We called it ‘the pallet’.
The basement and the pallet represented everything that was going wrong for us in Berlin – unemployment, homelessness and a general sense of ‘what have we done?’
Fast forward to a little more than six years later and it seemed we were in the same place, if in a different city, and with two sidekicks. This time the bed was a lot better and at least one of us had a job, but things had not been going according to plan.
When we flew to Calgary we had tentatively agreed to rent a property in the Crescent Heights neighborhood. But when we arrived to check out the house that was about 1000 square feet there were a few tiny problems: the windows either had storm windows behind them or did not open; the gray/black mottled carpet was loose and bubbling up all over the place, in addition to being beyond ugly. The closets in two of the bedrooms consisted of slight indentations into the wall about 12 inches deep and 24 inches long. The closet in the third bedroom consisted of a square opening in the wall about 3 feet by 3 feet in size.
I was trying to be ‘brave’ as G would call it, but I couldn’t get on board with no airflow, no closet space and nasty carpet. We were back to square one, combing the internet for listings in our price range and a reasonable distance from the university.
About 75% of the properties we called or emailed about had already been rented. The other 23% were downright scary. And the remaining 2% were in good shape but had other ‘issues’ – people living underneath who may not appreciate two screaming boys, scary decks or bad locations.
And so we awoke this Sunday morning faced with the reality that we had to be out of our basement condo by 11am; that we’d plunked down an obscene amount of money for an additional three days of vacation rental living; that our furniture was scheduled to arrive on Tuesday and we had nowhere to put it.
- We had the possibility of renting a professor’s house near the University. Except the professor hadn’t responded to our emails and phone calls, and for all we knew the house had been rented already.
- We had the possibility of a beautifully remodeled main floor of a home. But it had a tenant in the basement who might not love hearing two boys carrying on upstairs. And the deck was not safe for little children. And getting to the university would be complicated. And it was $100 a month more than we could afford
- We had the possibility of our ‘original’ Crescent Heights landlord agreeing to replace the carpet and put screens on a few windows.
- We had a 3pm appointment to see another property – but couldn’t recall its specifics beyond location.
Jason got up to check email and announced: ‘Eduardo has said he doesn’t want to do the work – they want to rent the place as is.’ Eduardo being our original landlord.
We hadn’t even had our coffee yet.
The professor still hadn’t responded to Jason’s email or phone call which left only one solid option – the slightly expensive, main floor-only home. It would be fair to say we were a tad discouraged.
We started packing up when Jason’s cell phone rang. Mysteriously, since it didn’t seem to ring reliably in Canada (or Muncie for that matter). It was one of the many people he’d emailed earlier in the week – just a random listing from the newspaper. Jason made an appointment for us to look at the house at 11.30am, on our way out of town to the new vacation rental.
Of course, as life with two little kids goes, we didn’t leave the basement condo until 11.28am. I tried calling the woman to let her know we were on our way but she’d only given her home number. I left a message anyway. Jason suggested I try the professor one more time, since we were, after all, desperate. She actually answered.
And informed me the place had been rented.
At 11.47am we arrived at the possible rental home – or what we thought was the possible rental home. The street was beautiful, lined with million dollar homes. There was no one at the home, but the number on the house matched what J had written on the paper. I called her home number again, but no one answered, so I left another message.
Just as I was despairing that we’d hit yet another dead end, the phone rang. It was Gail, the owner of the property. She was very understanding – had actually waited until 11.45am before driving home – and said she could be back at the house in ten minutes. In the interim, I took a walk down the street to scope out the area. I got excited when I saw the nice playground just around the corner.
The house itself was pretty shabby from the outside and Gail had said on the phone that it was an old house – which is real estate speak for ‘not in very good shape’.
And despite its good bones, the house is spectacularly ugly inside, with a selection of wallpapers that will never make it into the vintage hall of fame. A bathroom with a french blue bathtub and two french blue sinks, no doubt original to the 1912 home. Two windows in the entire house that actually open. A basement with red shag carpeting.
But it’s in our price range. The beige carpeting lies flat on the floors. The kitchen is big and filled with light. There are actual (decent-sized) closets in the three bedrooms. There is an office, another room for storage, and a play space for the boys. No one lives in the basement. And it is empty and ready for us to move into once our stuff arrives (please let it be Tuesday!).
And just like that, in a way we could never have foreseen, we were out of the basement.
2008 has been a difficult year so far. Not for the obvious reasons like dealing with a challenging infant or having to move to another country. But because it’s the year I stopped having crushes on Jason Bateman and Colin Firth. As my friend said, the posters have had to come down.
I should not have to explain my crush on ‘Mr. Darcy.’ I think every woman who has ever seen Bridget Jones or the BBC’s version of Pride and Prejudice feels the same way. That is, until they see Mamma Mia.
It’s not just that he’s gay in the movie, which obviously lessens his attractiveness to heterosexual females. It’s hearing him sing; and ‘Our Last Summer’ at that. A song which is best appreciated sung by a singer whose first language is, say, Swedish.
But when Colin Firth sings it in his thin, proper British voice, there is no mistaking the beyond-cheesy lyrics: ‘and we sat down in the grass, by the Eiffel Tower…..Those crazy years, it was the time of the flower-power.’
The flower-power?
And Pierce Brosnan – formerly James Bond. It just doesn’t work, listening to him sing, well anything, but particularly ‘when all is said and done.’ When sung by Abba, one doesn’t fully comprehend the lyrics, which is for the better. But when sung by a former spy with an Irish accent, there is no missing the proverbial cheese.
‘In our lives we have walked some strange and lonely treks. Slightly worn but dignified and not too old for sex.’
I don’t think my fellow moviegoers appreciated it when I chuckled audibly.
I wonder if he has watched the movie and if he cringes when he does.
My darling sister and brother in law came into town to celebrate little H’s birthday and to help with the final housecleaning frenzy.
They were cleaning out the refrigerator when a cardinal flew into the adjacent screened-in porch and started freaking out because she couldn’t figure out how to get back outside.
Little did she know that my sister has a crippling fear of birds. I really can’t recall a traumatic childhood incident involving birds or anything else that might explain this profound phobia, but she always freaks out when a bird comes within a hundred yards of her. So much so, that when we visited Trafalgar Square many many years ago she stood as far away as possible from the fountain where the birds were gathering, certain they would attack her.
We (mostly cruel Jason) have often thought it would be fun to cover her with honey and breadcrumbs and fasten her to a park bench. Just to see what might happen.
So, naturally, when the bird flew into the porch, my sister was a little skittish. The poor (dumb!) cardinal couldn’t find her way back out again, despite the fact that the door to the outside was wide open. My brother in law, who is no Steve Irwin, ‘bravely’ stood on the deck motioning for the bird to come out of the porch. Not surprisingly, the cardinal didn’t budge.
Finally, fearing we’d have a dead bird on our hands, I summoned my father in law to come to the bird’s aid. He shook his head at the useless city kids before him and went into the porch where he escorted the bird out to the deck. A veritable bird whisperer.
[You'll note that at no point in the story did I make any attempt to help the bird.]
(Title from Abba’s ‘When all is said and done’)
