What to do?

Austin informed me tonight that he wants to quit soccer. He was on the verge of tears, all because some of the little shits players on his team are being…well…little shits.

For the past few practices and games, he’s been on the receiving end of comments like “you suck at soccer!” and the like. The coaches are nice guys, but they’re either deaf and dumb or they don’t give a fuck. To top it off, I heard from another mom in the division that last Saturday’s game between our team and hers was, to quote her, “a blood bath.” Niiiice. All these kids know each other because it’s a small town, and they can’t seem to bear the thought of losing to each other. So they get violent instead. Add a new and slightly ineffectual referee into the mix, and things will (and did) get ugly.

So. Rock meet hard place. While part of me wants to encourage him to fulfill the commitment he made to the team, and not to let other people ruin his fun, the other part of me thinks that tears after soccer practice - not even a game! - is just fucking ridiculous.

Of course, that part also wants to drop-kick the little shits into next week, and ask their parents if they purposely taught their kids to be assclowns. If they’re proud that their kids made mine cry.

Oh. Shit.

The probability of a freshly-laundered GameBoy Advance SP recovering any function: 1 in a bajillion (give or take a kajillion)

The probability of my 5 year old crying his little heart out when he discovers his toy is dead: Um, yeah. It’s going to happen. Don’t take the bet.

The probability of him being over the damn moon when he discovers mommy & daddy, courtesy of Future Shop gift cards, have upgraded him to a DS? Again, going to happen. Not a good betting day around here!

Now to figure out the timing of the new DS his big brother is sure to covet. Oy.

How not to dial 911.

First, decide that the Panasonic cordless phone you have had since Christmas 1998 - good memory, eh? - is in need of replacement. Then, proceed directly to WallyWorld the next time you’re in BigCity. Once there, peruse the shelves, rejecting brands such as VTech (they make annoying kids toys, so how could they master a telephone?) and Uniden (uni-who?). Settle upon a set of GE cordless 5.8 gHz phones.

Return home with said phones, and retire the trusty, but old, Panasonic. Enjoy the new phones and all their splendour for several months. Have vague pissiness about the “can only use one phone at a time” feature that these new things seem to have.

As the one-year mark - surely, the limit of whatever piss-ant warranty GE might have provided - approaches, realize that one phone is possibly possessed. Either that, or it’s just fucking with you. Dialing out? A crapshoot. Answering properly? Not always going to work. Realize that the phone is slowly dying, but it’s not that bad. Decide to live with it for now, using the good phone for most calls.

Wake up last Friday and decide to call Karate Mom/Friend to see if Austin will be riding the bus to her house and proceeding to class. Dial her number, which looks something like this: *9*-1122, using the Crappy Phone.

Reach 911 operator instead. Try vainly to explain to dispatcher that you did NOT dial 911, and that NO, nobody is being beaten, killed, maimed, burned or flayed at your home at that very moment. Confirm the number you ACTUALLY dialed. Realize that Crappy Phone has now turned into Evil Incarnate Phone.

Hang up, curse violently at phone. Vow to disembowel it forthwith.

Call Karate Mom/Friend from the Good Phone, confirm plans. Answer phone when it rings almost immediately after hanging up. Explain to RCMP officer that NO, you did NOT dial 911. Mumble something about a faulty phone. Assume the matter is closed.

Leave for work. Drop kids at daycare and proceed to office. Debate answering phone before office is actually open - lose debate and answer it. It is your mother-slash-roommate-slash-employee. The RCMP have arrived AT YOUR HOUSE. To check to see if anyone is being maimed, flayed, burned, killed or otherwise injured at your home, even though you kindly explained that NO, you did NOT call 911.

Thank mother for telling officer that Evil Incarnate Phone will be removed from the premises shortly. Tell story all day long, still in disbelief that the phone could be such a piece of shit.

OY.

Once again, the month of April is kicking my ass.

Too much going on, not enough time to do it. Tonight is packing and phone calls. OMG, the fucking phone calls. I am coordinating two divisions (yes, am dumbass, thanks for the reminder!) and trying to be perky! convincing! and persuasive! in suckering other parents into coaching. Going semi-well thus far, but for all the sucky-ass voicemails I’ve left. One division is teeny, with a mere 3 teams, so it’s not that bad.

The kids & I are off to Calgary tomorrow for A’s karate tournament. Woo! He’s so freaking excited. I’m looking forward to the tourney, but not the 12-hour bus ride (the club chartered one because it was easier) with all those kids. And several parents I barely know. Thank god my good friend and former daycare provider will be there.

Wish me luck.

We’ll call it a draw.

It’s a very good thing I don’t live-blog.  The vitriol spewing forth today was….er….epic in nature.  I really and truly detest abhor  hate with the fire of a thousand suns the job of assembling furniture.  Especially wardrobe-y things that have been constructed with the most evil of wood products:  MDF.

ARGH.

Medium Density Fibreboard, my ass.  More like More Damned Fuckedup or Momma Done Fuckedup or even Man ‘dis FUCKED.

My children heard the f-bomb more times today than they have in the past year.  And I swear a LOT.  (yeah, yeah, bad mother, what the fuck ever)  At one point, I tried to scream in frustration, only to become more frustrated because my voice is not fully back yet.

That’s when I walked away.  About 30 minutes past the point of some slight, but now permanent damage to the wardrobe.*  Yeah.  I really know when to quit.  Stubborn may just be my middle name.

Anyhoozen, I’m not proud of my language today, or the couple of times I snapped at the kids, or even the door-slamming I did in a failed attempt to calm the fuck down.  (stubborn + temper = EVIL Bitch)  But hey.  We all have bad days.  Right?

Right?

*You know how all these DIY things have the stupid goddamn boards for the back?  And how you’re supposed to oh-so-easily nail in about 50-kajillion teeny-tiny little nails?  All while managing not to a) place them incorrectly and miss the intended spot, thereby leaving a mangled hole in a very visible place; and b) slam your full-size hammer into your fingers, which are just *thatmuch* to large in nature to properly hold said teeny-tiny nails, of course.  Yeah.  Didn’t happen.  There are several fuckups, and I have to vacuum again just to get the MDF bits up.  What a great day.

Some assembly required.

Possibly the most dreaded phrase ever.

In a fit of I-really-hate-this-dresser-that-is-as-old-as-me pique, I asked my parents to pick up a new wardrobe/dresser* for Austin. It was one I’ve been eyeing, and it had gone on sale for a decent price. Unfortunately, it’s from one of those Swedish places - not THE Swedish place, but close - and guess what? I get to put it together.

I should be assembling right now, but holy crap, is that kid’s room a nightmare. I worked up a sweat just cleaning and moving the furniture that will allow me to put the new furniture together. It went something like this:

1. Remove drawers from old dresser, place on bed (if full) and stairs (if empty**), move old dresser out and into the garage (up a flight of stairs!).
2. Decide that desk can be moved to spot vacated by old dresser.
3. Pick up crap that fell behind old dresser, vacuum carpet.
4. Move desk.
5. Determine that if bookcase is moved to spot vacated by desk, then night stand and bed can be moved over, thus allowing room against the far wall for the new wardrobe.
6. Clean up crap on floor between desk & bed. Vacuum more.
7. Move bookcase. Hm. Sucker’s heavy. Removing books is for pussies.
8. Vacuum dust bunnies that were living behind bookcase.
9. Slide Very Heavy Box #1 into room. Follow with Even Heavier Box #2.
10. Move night stand over. Vacuum again.
11. Slide Heavy Boxes over to lean up against book case, after realizing they can’t stay where they are.
12. Remove folding storage bins from under bed. Curse about how much CRAP one’s children have accumulated in their short lives.
13. Roll bed over, until flush with night stand.
14. Walk around other side of bed, to discover a new pile of crap to clean up. Curse louder.
15. Pick up junk, throw out garbage, vacuum yet again.
16. Shove folding storage bins back under bed, vowing to cull the toys.
17. Look at desk in relation to bed, realize that desk will have to return to original spot. Bookcase will need to go where desk is.
18. Lay Heavy Boxes of assemblable furniture down. Rip open like it is Christmas.
19. Curse heavily when one realizes there are 1.4 trillion pieces involved, and none appear to be labeled.
20. Remove empty boxes from room. Look back once, decide to go eat something instead.

*Austin’s bedroom is an odd one: no closet. Well, there is one, but it houses the pressure tank and some of our water system stuff, and it’s cramped and under the stairs. So, no closet for him.
**the empty drawers? A happy by-product of my reluctance to put all their clothes away. Am looking forward to hangers, which Austin can certainly handle himself. Folding he just can’t master.

Lurk? Who, me?

Turns out Oct 3rd was National De-Lurking Day. And I missed it. Maybe it would have motivated me to comment on one of the many blogs I frequent. Alas, I was sans internet, in the wilds of Southern Alberta.

I was learning, people. About how to manage my staff. And about how to spy run reports to see what they’re doing (and perhaps, what they’re not). I thoroughly enjoyed the 2-day workshop. I did not enjoy the travel required to get there and to return home.

Scare Canada? You people can suck my ass. You clawed back minor points for actually managing to get my luggage to the right destinations. I do, however, have some problems with how much stress you added to my life in getting me there. I especially enjoyed the highlights:

• Landing in Vancouver 20 minutes after our Calgary flight had left.
• The “customer service” rep who was helpful, while also managing to be completely negative about our chances of making the next flight on standby. (we did)
• Sitting at the gate in Calgary for 45 minutes. For no fucking reason. Sorry, Mr. Pilot, that wussy explanation about the ground crew/luggage/closing of doors? Didn’t wash.
• Running like a madwoman from the end of one gate to the end of another, just to catch my flight home.

My lowest moment came while sitting in row 27 (of 29), at that goddamn gate in Calgary.  I was sandwiched between a guy whose family was across the aisle, and some woman who annoyed me just by having the window seat.  And all I wanted to do was cry.  I played by the airline’s rules, and thought that it was only fair that we leave on time, so I could GO HOME.  To my kids.  To my life.  I hate that I almost cried.

I am so freaking glad to be home.  Except I’m not.  The boys & I are visiting D tonight - one of of his last in this damn hotel.  Woo!

The one in which I almost fell off a mountain.*

*drama queen? MOI? Never!

It’s been quite a week. The best thing about returning to work after 2 days off was the AC. It’s been crazy-hot here the past 2 days - we hit 37C (100F?) yesterday. GACK.

Special K and baby B landed here on Tuesday afternoon, and thus began our adventure. Wednesday included some sightseeing, a mountain lookout, and swimming at the nicest lake in the area.

It’s the mountain lookout that freaked me out. There’s a perfectly nice logging road to the top, at which there is a forestry station for forest fire spotting. K went with Jack first, and she took the appropriately-named goat trail.

Goats? Totally fucking insane.

Once K returned (B was asleep, and Austin & I were staying with him), she mentioned the path, specifying we’d be smart to take the hard left at the tree. Uh. Yeah. We did that, and we still missed the damn trail. So, just imagine for a moment, the following scene:

Goat trail: thinned into non-existence.
Austin: perched on a rock, peering down the face of a mountain, deciding this was a Really. Bad. Idea.
Refinnej: quietly panicking, not letting A know this, also looking down the mountain.
REALIZATION: we either go up, or we go down.

Down it was.
On our asses, in a crab-walk that has basically wrecked me the last 2 days. My arms are so freaking sore. I was shaking a little bit when we finally made it down to the van, although I didn’t panic at all (Austin was doing enough for both of us). If I’d known how steep that path was, there’s no way Jack would have gone with K. I trust her, but damn. That’s some scary shit. Luckily, J is still mostly oblivious to trivial things like danger.

More to follow…..the Bitch on the Beach is up next, and she deserves a post of her own.

Achy breaky arms.

We live on an acre. 1.01, to be exact (the .01 means ever so much when lording it over people living on a mere acre. Har.)

Imagine, for a moment, what an acre (1.01!) means when faced with the task of Mowing the Lawn. Or, as Jack is fond of saying, mowgrassing. (we don’t own a lawn mower, it’s a mowgrasser.)

1 point 01 acres is fucking huge. Sure, there’s a (small) house taking up some space, and there are areas that don’t get mowed - ie. 3/4 of the front yard, many parts of which are covered in trees, crappy landscaping that we have yet to bother replacing (heh, been here 6.5 years, what’s the damn rush?), or are rather pathetic in the actual grass coverage. All told, I bet we have to mow about 1/3 of it. The backyard is big, and there are very few trees in the way.

I usually mow the front or the back, and D takes whatever I leave. He’ll get out there and do the entire front yard, and then spend 2 days complaining/remembering why he doesn’t like to mow. Silly man.

Tonight? I mowed the front and the back. And then I broke out the clippers - because we just haven’t managed to buy a damn weed whacker yet - and trimmed the crap I couldn’t mow. Fun. Times. And now my arms are shot. I suppose I should feel happy I have a desk job, and the heaviest thing I lift is a 2-inch thick file. Sometimes. Ok, rarely. Whatever. The point is, I am sore.

The Dregs of the Bucket o’ Booze Edition

What a week it’s been. Somewhat less insane than say, half of May, but still go-go-go.

First up: D’s truck. After buying it on the 10th, he put on a grand total of 25 km before it broke. This, unfortunately, seems to be his lot in Car Ownership. It’s been 2 years since he had his own vehicle. Having multiple issues with his new ride the first week? Not exactly fun times chez Refinnej. The silver lining is that he works in the automotive industry. He is decidedly not a car guy (read: gear head), but he understands a lot of it - more than me, that’s for damn sure. He called in some favours - the cost of which we have yet to be told - and the truck is back. Complete with: new motor mounts, new transmission mount, new CV shafts, new front shocks, and a repaired muffler system. I think that’s it. Maybe. Hopefully.

 

The biggest downside to the truck debacle is that D’s mood and attitude went steadily south until last weekend. He was grumpy and being an all-around jerkoff. He even went so far as to suggest we move back to Vancouver, because obviously moving here fucked up my career and he was to blame, blah blah blah. Same old bullshit that comes out when he’s down & out. I ignore it. Lucky for me, he had to attend a work seminar in Burnaby today, and he’s not enjoying the drive around the city. I usually do the driving, and he just ignores the people and the traffic. Not this trip. Ha!! I do believe his brief urge to move back has been tamped out.

Next Big Event: Preschool graduation for Jack! OMG. SO. Freaking. Cute. I have pictures to be posted separately. We’re talking cap & gown, people. The cuteness may break my damn screen. Hee!

We’re also into the home stretch of grade 3 for Austin. This translates to permission slips, field trips and very little learning. Tuesday is primary play day, his last. (sob) Next year he’s in with the intermediate kids. Gack. Karate is winding down, and this is the last soccer Saturday until September. Woo! His sensei chose tomorrow for the karate grading, and I’ll miss it for the second year running because I have to work (of course).

 

For a Friday night, I’ve been fairly productive. The children were fed something resembling a real meal – chicken nuggets count, don’t they? - and I cleaned the gutters at the back of the house. Someone has been promising me he’d do them, to no avail. We’ve had some torrential rain lately, and it’s awful. The gutters were filthy and filled with pine needles (thanks go to the lovely pine beetle ravaging our forests), and it rendered them useless in anything more than a light misting rain. Jack was my helper, picking up all the crap that dropped from the gutters. Now I have to source out a taller ladder and finish off one part of the front gutters. Fun.

 

Work – thank christ – has improved. The first two weeks of this month were horrifying. Take whatever job you’ve been doing for years and imagine having to relearn all the ways in which you do that job. The basics are the same, but the steps to get there are VERY different. Now imagine your brain exploding because even though you catch on quickly, there are five other people in the office who learn at different speeds. Some of them (ok, one person) have even dug in their heels, proclaiming the new ways to be “stupid” and “impersonal.” What. Ever. She’s the least productive member of the team, and she wouldn’t know customer service if it bit her in the ass. I’m quite done with her, and am actively encouraging her to just quit already. Funny thing is, she rarely threatens to quit in front of me, knowing full well what I’ll say. She’s just looking for a captive audience for her manufactured dramas. Gag. /end rant. Really, things are better. This person has been a problem for a while now. (shocking, isn’t it?)

 

My reward this evening is the remainder of the pina colada booze bucket. I’m using a wine glass, which is pretty silly, but it was handy. Still yummy.

 

Pictures next!!