Happy Thanksgiving, Deer

Happy belated Thanksgiving! We spent the weekend where we usually do on Canadian Thanksgiving… in the States.

Since we head down every year, I wanted to do something a little different than usual, so I decided to turn my trailer into a “Thanksbucks”. I brought my espresso machine and served Pumpkin Spice Lattes, Caramel Macchiatos and Crème Caramel Lattes (among others) to whoever came by. It was a lot of fun!

I almost got busted by the Park Ranger for not having a concession license but when he found out they were free, I was all good. Evan, on the other hand, was hustling out of a wagon.

Every year, the kid’s Preschool has a “mandatory fundraiser”. You must, MUST sell 30 chocolate bars for $2 each. Oh, and don’t send the coins in. They require a CHEQUE for $60. So basically, we give the school $60 and then I have $60 in change to waste spend on coffee.

This is our 4^th and thankfully last year to do this. We got the box right before the trip, so we brought it with us. Colin and Evan went from site to site, selling the chocolates to the hungry hunters who shared the campground with our crew. He pawned them all off except 5. The best part? We were paid mostly in USD! Nice!

Since Thanksgiving was quite late this year, we were lucky enough to be at the campground at the commencement of the hunting season. The campground is obviously a no-hunting zone. The deer must know that, because it is FULL of deer. They mosey around the campsite, and you can get quite close to them before they spook and bound off. I once stood in one place and counted 40.

The Park Ranger came by to our campsite in the morning and “warned” us that the hunters may be bringing back their kill later in the day.

“Yup, we’re veterans of hunting season at this campground” I said, trying to look tough. Sadly enough, we have experienced this several times. Not the kids though.

I decided it was necessary to prep the kids for what they might see later. In their short number of years on the planet, they have no experience at all seeing dead animals (except fish and crab), and certainly nothing as big as a deer. Their poor innocent and pure eyes and minds are about to get a shock. I, Mama Bear, must protect them.

Me: “[blah, blah, blah] camo [blah, blah blah] guns [blah, blah, blah] shoot [blah, blah, blah] dead. Then, the hunters are going to hang the dead deer in the trees from their antlers. How does that make you feel?”

Nathan (wide-eyed): “AWWWWWWWWWWESOME!”

Clearly this won’t scar them for life.

Sure enough, I looked out the trailer window a bit later in the day as I was waking up from a nap and saw a lifeless deer hanging by it’s antlers from a nearby tree.

I have never in my life seen my kids get their shoes on so fast. Nathan is practically running as he puts his shoes on mid-stride. And Evan? If he EVER falls limp on the floor and says, “I don’t know how to put my shoes on!” EVER AGAIN… I swear…. I’ve seen proof, Evan.

I break into a sprint so I can get there first. I want to assess the gore factor before they get too close. I probably looked like a red-neck woman who just couldn’t WAIT to get a good look at the kill. Not so. 

First, I asked the hunters if we could come and take a look. Talk about inflated egos. I purposefully corral the kids to one side, the side without the bullet hole or slashed open belly. Yes I realize this is, like, the best day of Nathan’s life, but let’s ease into it.

A few quiet moments of reflection, and then the questions/comments come out like rapid-fire.

 “Can I pet it?”

“Why are his eyes open?”

“Is it dead?”

“Look! There’s blood dripping from his bum!”

“Why does his belly have a cut?”

“How did it die?”

“OH LOOK! There’s where the gun shot it!!!”

I managed to tear them away from the CSI scene before they noticed the slice through the, um, throat. We went back to our campsite. Not long after, a truck drove by with a dead bear on the back of it, and it stopped just feet from our site.

Here we go again.

“Are his claws still sharp?”

“Can I pet it?”  (ENOUGH WITH THE TOUCHING!! IT’S DEAD!!!)

“Are you going to eat it?”

“Look! His tongue is hanging out of his mouth!”

I just wished it was Bob.

Later still, Nathan ran up to me and exclaimed, “MOMMY!!! COME SEE!!! They’re peeling off the deer’s fur and now you can see the MEAT inside!!!”.

Um, no thanks. I have to, um, make a latte.

Growing Pains

 I am SO not as young as I used to be. My body reminds me of this from time to time. Evan is also not as young as he used to be. My baby is growing up.

Yesterday was proof of both of these.

We HAD to take advantage of a blue sky, no rain day, so we went on a bike ride by the river. There were so many things that could have gone wrong on the ride, but didn’t. That in itself is blog-worthy.

Going bike-riding with Evan is always a patience-trying adventure. Don’t get me wrong, I am SUPER proud of him for learning to trail ride a 2 wheeler at 3 years old. He’s really awesome at it.

But only when he WANTS to be. And that’s where the problem lies.

He is capable of going really fast and keeping up with the rest of the family. He showed us this last night. Two blocks into our ride, he caught sight of a girl his age standing in her front yard. Evan pressed the imaginary “rocket” button on his bike and started speeding forward, while staring intently at the girl with a “look what I can do, sweetheart” grin on his face.

You know what’s coming, right? He’s not watching forward at all, so bails and ends up crying on the street in view of the little girl.  

Not a successful first attempt at showing off for the girls, my son.

He suffered a scrape on the back of his heel from his pedal. After his cry, he sucked it up, puffed out his chest, reassembled his 4-year-old pride and kept going.

I think one reason I get so frustrated with him when we ride is because of our differing personalities. I like to go fast. Evan however, doesn’t care if he ever GETS to the destination. For him, it’s all about the journey.

There were many, many stops along the way. Some were for actually interesting things, like fuzzy caterpillars, but most were to scratch his head. Note to self: must check helmet for fleas.

We had a 10 minute break at a boat launch so Evan could rest his tired legs. So he got off his bike and stared somersaulting and rolling down a grassy hill, jumping off concrete walls, and using up all the energy he said he didn’t have to begin with.

There’s a fun spot at the boat launch I like to ride on. It’s a very steep downhill for maybe 6 meters, then comes back up again. If you go fast enough, you coast back up the other side. I did it over and over while I waited for Colin and Evan to show up.

When it was time to leave, Evan asked if he could go down the hill. Um, no. Sorry, but you’ll have to wait a few years. Nathan’s never even done it, and he doesn’t have a good track record for hills (another post, another time). Getting a bloody kid home from this spot would be very difficult. Plus, if you neglect to make the turn at the bottom, you will end up in a river.

Nathan called Evan a baby because he can’t go down the hill. Evan must have taken that as a double-dog-dare, because he turns around and sails down the hill! His front tire wobbles, but he maintains control and has enough speed to coast back up the hill!

He’s trying to show up his big brother, and he did a great job at it! I was sort of proud and horrified at the same time.

Then Nathan gave it a try and also did not injure himself. My boys are growing up, sniff.

Several minutes and head scratches later, we were back at the trail head, and saw 2 bears. The boys get super scared, or maybe excited? I’m not sure, as they just dropped their bikes and ran down a hill to their dad, leaving me to walk my bike and both of theirs simultaneously down a steep gravel path.

“It’s all right, guys. No one come and help me. I’ll nurse the bruises and cuts these bikes dangling from my arms are causing me when I get home”.

We saw 2 more bears before we’d ridden another block. I’m praying Evan won’t have an itchy head for the next minute or two…

We stopped at a playground on the way home. This is the part where I realize I’m getting old.

One awesome thing about Colin as a dad is that he jumps right in there and plays with the kids. He’s hanging onto those spinning wheel-monkey-bar-things that didn’t exist when we were kids. After spinning on it a few times, he got off and admired to quality of the bearings (there’s an engineer for you).

Last time I tried that, my shoulder hurt for a week. No way I’m trying that again.

Then I see it… a chin up bar!

If you were an elementary school girl in the ‘80’s, you know what I’m talking about. We didn’t actually use them for chin ups. No, we climbed on top of the bar, and with one knee on it, we spent hours upon hours, spinning around and around and around until blisters had formed and broken on our hands (and behind our knees if we wore shorts). Recess and lunch were competitions as to who could spin the most times without vomiting!

Come on ladies, can I hear a, “That was choice!!”?

I told Colin about this ‘80’s trend and start thinking, “I bet I can still do it”. He must have read my face because he insinuated that I probably can’t do it now. This is the equivalent of a “triple-dog-dare” in our relationship, so I MUST do it. One spin around? How hard could it be?

As I approached the bar, it seems to get higher and higher. Truth be told, I didn’t think I could actually get up on the bar let alone spin around it.

I grabbed with both hands and swung my knee onto it with about the same gracefulness as a drunk monkey.

Next, hanging upside down, I had to remember how I got right side up on the thing. I swung to get momentum and after a few tries, I heaved myself up onto the top! Everest conquered!

Time to show off my rad stunt. I swung around that bar like an 8-year-old gymnast! But when I tried to stop at the top, I fell sideways and landed with my armpit and ankle on the bar.

The dismount was equally as graceful as the mount, but at least I landed on my feet. I did not get injured. Tubular!

This morning, my leg was hurting every time I bent it. I thought it was due to the workout DVD me and Nathan did last night until I looked at the back of my knee. There’s a big red “burn” with a line of broken dark red blood vessels across it. Seriously? I can do a Jillian Michaels DVD but can’t handle one swing around a chin up bar?

Getting old is a double edged sword. Sometimes it can be really awesome, but sometimes it just plain hurts. Right, Evan?

Scratches are Forever

I think my car got keyed the other day. Or maybe sideswiped? I don’t know, and I don’t really care either. Let me explain…

The year is 2000. I have no ring on my finger yet. Some friends had a bet as to when Colin would propose to me. Amber guessed 2000 and Tim guessed 2001. As the year was coming to a close, Colin said, “I think Amber’s prediction is going to be right”, meaning, “I’m going to propose before the end of the year”.

As the days grew closer and closer to year-end, I was increasingly more excited every time we saw each other, as I knew “the day” was coming soon! At our New Years Eve party, I could barely contain myself! TODAY WAS THE DAY!! If Amber's prediction really is correct (as Colin says it is), it would HAVE to be tonight at this party!!

I really started to stress out as the hours ticked on without a proposal. Then the countdown:

10…

9…

8…

7…

6…

5…

4…

3…

2…

1…

Nothing. Happy stinking New Year.

Up to this point, I’d been saving up money for our wedding, but had yet to earn the bling. And since Colin tricked me, I blew all I’d saved up on my first car a few days later.

I let Colin choose the car for me, since he’s the mechanic who’d be doing all the maintenance. And I knew NOTHING about cars.

My budget wasn’t huge, so I ended up with a 1984 VW Diesel Jetta.

I’m not sure how he talked me into buying a standard (or a 1984 VW Jetta), as I didn’t know how to DRIVE one. I learned on the freeway on the way home from Vancouver though.

Colin proposed 10 days later. He claims he thought Amber predicted 2001, not 2000. So now I have a junky car and no money.

Right from the get-go, this car was a PIECE (surprised?). Being a diesel, it had “glow plugs” (is that even a technical term??) instead of spark plugs. I can’t remember how I got it started, but I know it involved a lot of waiting to let the glow plugs warm up, button pressing, hood opening, and an occasional push start at 4 way stops.

Our first basement suite was on a steep hill. The e-brake didn’t work, so I had to park at the top of the hill where it was flat, and walk down to our place.

The horn was a small button somewhere near my knee.

Within the year, I noticed that when I depressed the clutch pedal on a rainy day, my foot got a shower. Kinda pathetic to need boots to drive. Initially, Colin took the carpet off floor and noticed that there were holes all over the bottom of the car.

Sing along to find out what happened next:

“There’s a hole in my beater, dear Colin, dear Colin.

There’s a hole in my beater, dear Colin, a hole.”

“Then cover it dear Nancy, dear Nancy, dear Nancy.

Then cover it dear Nancy, dear Nancy, cover it.”

“With what shall I cover it, dear Colin, dear Colin?

With what shall I cover it, dear Colin, with what?”

“With my old sock, dear Nancy, dear Nancy, dear Nancy.

With my old sock, dear Nancy, dear Nancy,  my old sock.”

“The sock is not sticky, dear Colin, dear Colin.

The sock is not sticky, dear Colin, not sticky”.

“Then wet it, dear Nancy, dear Nancy, dear Nancy.

Then wet it, dear Nancy, dear Nancy, wet it.”

“With what shall I wet it, dear Colin, dear Colin?

With what shall I wet it, dear Colin, with what?”

“With fiberglass dear Nancy, dear Nancy, dear Nancy!

With fiberglass dear Nancy, dear Nancy, with fiberglass!”

So Colin mixed up the stinky concoction, saturated the sock and WHACKED it onto the holes, where it will sit for all of eternity.A jackhammer wouldn't get that off.

Turns out the holes weren’t the problem though. Now, the perfectly sealed car floor filled up like a foot bath, as there were no drain holes anymore. It was the window seal that leaked. I did the worst caulking job you’ve ever seen in your life around that windshield. The window looked like it was oozing jell-o. But hey. I was sick of being wetter INSIDE my car than I was OUTSIDE.

We got rid of it eventually. One of Colin’s friends asked if he could BUY it from us. Um…ok? If you insist! Another friend was selling his 1994 Purple VW Golf GTI, so we bit the bullet and bought a better car.

I loved that GTI. Not the day we got it, because our friend hit a skunk the day before, but all the other days. It drove awesome, hugged the road curves and practically begged me to drive faster! It didn’t do well on logging roads on the Sunshine Coast though. Maybe because it was lowered?

I would have kept that car forever, however, with both of us in school full time, tuition had to be paid. I cried as it drove away…

Enter…the ’92 Honda Civic. We proved the statistic that says Honda Civics get stolen more than any other car. It got stolen once and broken into two (maybe three) times. Granted, I used to watch crack deals at my apartment, so we weren’t living in the best part of town (PoCompton, as some might say).

In a one month time period, we had to pay $900 in deductibles to fix the damage. That’s when we got smart and stopped locking it. Nothing bad happened after that.

Fast forward several years of Civic bliss. Nathan was about to arrive and a 2 door isn’t ideal for those bulky baby seats. The car still worked pretty well, even though it had reached “beater” status. We sold it for cheap, informed the guy of all its problems, and took him for a terrifying test drive. He couldn’t drive a standard to save his life. 

We received a nasty phone call shortly after he bought it, as the clutch died on the Port Mann bridge on his way home. I wonder why it broke? He put more wear and tear on the poor clutch in 20 minutes than I EVER did. Gee whiz. Who in their right mind buys a standard if they can’t even DRIVE standard??? Oh wait…

With the exit of the Honda in 2007, my 1996 Toyota Corolla came into the family! The newest car I’ve ever owned! Rear defrost! 4 doors! Power locks and steering! Maybe my tendonitis has a chance to heal now.

I really liked this car. I was proud of it until a friend called it a beater. I honestly thought she was kidding. I mean, it runs AWESOME! Then she reminded me that it is nearly 15 years old. Which is how old my ’84 Jetta was when I bought it.

Ok, yes so this small list may make my car a beater:

-         Headlight is held on with packing tape (maybe we should fiberglass that)

-         Half the dash lights are burnt out (which makes seeing my speedometer impossible in the dark)

-         Heat doesn’t work anymore (I forgot about that one over the summer)

-         The seatbelt warning light has flashed nonstop since I got the car

-         The e-brake light is always on (even though the dash lights are out)

-         The interior lights are gone (I think Evan’s to blame for that one)

-         I took the right side mirror out with a construction cone. Colin tried to fix it with a DIY kit. Now, objects in the mirror are less distorted than they appear. Business on the left mirror and Fun House on the right

-         Countless scratches and scrapes from speed parallel parking in Vancouver alleys (don’t diss me. I’m a parallel parking BOSS. You should see what I shoehorn myself into. I’m not gonna lie though, I occasionally touch a cement wall or telephone pole, especially when I’m running late)

-         Leaks oil

-         Gouges from Colin dropping stuff (like skis and shovels) on it while working in the garage

The main reason I don’t care about how awful it looks, is because I park in Vancouver alleys. You never know when someone’s going to scraaaape all the way along the side of your car, smash your bumpers while parking, or bust the windows to get an empty water bottle worth 5 cents. If something happens, I honestly don’t care (as long as I don’t have to make a claim through ICBC)!

If I sound like I'm trying to be un-materialistic, I’m not. I’m not better than those of you who take pride in your cars. I just use my materialism elsewhere (like an iPhone 4 or higher, Colin, preferably before Thanksgiving).

So until I run that sucker into the ground and NEED a new car, I plan on parading around in my Corolla, dents, scratches, tape and all. As Mater, a wise tow truck once said, “I don't get them dents buffed, pulled, filled or painted by nobody. They way too valuble. I come by each one of 'em with my best friend. I don't fix these. I wanna remember these dents forever.

Bear-rogant Bob

Last night, while drifting off to sleep, I heard a “sliding” noise… like a window being opened. I lay perfectly still trying to hear other noises from a possible intruder over the sound of my pounding heart. Just when I was ready to dismiss it as my imagination, we hear a BANG! Both of us spring up from bed and ran to a window.

Then I see him.

Bob. The biggest black bear you’ve ever seen, has just smashed right through our fence, and is sauntering down our driveway. How arrogant can he be? He’s as big as a car, and is easily 8 feet tall if he stood on his back legs. According to Wikipedia (the source of all things true), “despite their heavy build and awkward gait, [bears] can run quickly and are adept climbers”, so CLIMB OVER THE FENCE YOU LAZY BEAST!!

In the midst of our adrenaline rush, I managed to get a few photos of Bob.

 

 

Bob has quite the reputation in our neighbourhood. When the moms at school say, “Bob came to visit last night”, we all know we’re talking about a bear and not gossiping about a midnight affair. You see, MOST of us have had encounters with him.

He’s broken our fence three times now. He’s broken my parents’ fence I don’t know HOW many times. He’s left claw marks in their trees. Teeth-marks in their garbage bin. He’s knocked over COUNTLESS garbage, recycling and green waste containers around the neighbourhood. (Maybe if people got the mandatory locks for their garbage bins there wouldn’t be a problem, but hey, that’s just my uneducated opinion). Our garbage is locked and in the garage, so he went after our recycling. Maybe the toy fish on the Duplo box in the bin made him salivate?

Bob freaked the living snot out of me last year (although technically, it was Colin’s fault). We were watching TV and heard a noise. We went to the door to see if anything was amiss. Before I could see out the door, Colin SLAMMED it, shouted “GET UPSTAIRS!!!!!!!”, and proceeded to run up himself instead of helping his terrified wife (who thought there was a crazed gunman at the door) clamber clumsily up the stairs, receiving several bruises on her legs in the process.

It wasn’t a gunman, of course. It was Bob. Riiiight outside the front door. We went out on the deck to see Bob sauntering away from our broken fence. It was the first time we actually saw Bob. He was walking the same route he walked last night, and went across the street to the same house he went to after ours last night. 

Well, Bob. 2 years in a row you didn’t get SQUAT from us (except maybe some slivers), so get the hint and STOP COMING!

Then there was that time this exact week in September last year when a different, MUCH smaller bear got stuck in our yard. I got home from work to a house decorated with police tape. That’s a sign that your evening is about to get interesting…

The police showed up after a few minutes to tell me that there’s a bear trapped in my yard. He’d eaten all the plums off the neighbours tree, which makes them get woozy. So he came into our yard and passed out like a drunken college boy after leaving 13 extra-large piles of crap all over the yard. A lot of fruit will do that to ya.

The conservation officer and police have their shotguns and tranquilizer guns out. We were new to the neighbourhood at the time and the neighbours were really nervous when the police tape went up. “What kind of gangster young family moved in here?” they thought. So I invited the curious ones over to watch the show from my porch. Really was a good icebreaker.

The police and conservation officer decided that it was better to tranquilize the bear after they gave it a chance to run away on its own:

-          in a family neighbourhood

-          at 4:30 in the afternoon when the kids are home

-          on a hot sunny day

Makes PERFECT sense, right? So, they scared it, got it all mad and aggressive, and chased it up a tree. NOW it’s time to shoot the sleepy juice. So that it will fall 30 feet when the meds kick in. SMRAT.

Even though I was glad the bear was being transported back to the mountain, hearing that “THUD” when it fell wasn’t a particularly happy sound.

I am SO TIRED of having these visitations. I have 2 young kids. We can’t even let them play outside by themselves. I’m more scared sleeping in our trailer when it’s in our YARD than when it’s in a CAMPSITE for crying out loud.

I know there are readers out there saying, “It’s not their fault, you are living in their territory”. Yah, yah, I get it. Other people (ie. not us) are destroying forests and building houses on their ex-territory. But for Pete’s sake, our house has been there for 35 years. Time to buzz off and find a new home in the wilderness.

Meet Evan's Friends

For Pre-school, we have to make “Emergency Care Kits” every year. They’re to be filled with familiar things that would comfort my child, in case of a natural disaster (as long as the natural disaster doesn’t hinder the teachers from getting out these kits from their storage space).

I take special care in assembling these kits. I, am one of those paranoid people who think that a natural disaster will most certainly affect us. I actually get teary, picturing him upset without me to comfort him, because I’m on the 10^th floor of my burning office building, crushed underneath it, or sinking in a tsunami wave. 

I really want to put something in there that will make him smile.

This past year, I put a several photos of our family, all with stories written on the back about our summer vacations, and about the members of our family. There was also gum, Spider Man tattoos and a small bag of chocolate chips. I also put in a cute bean bag chocolate lab. It was given to him by Colin and I Santa for Christmas 2011. It was so cute sticking out of the top of the stocking! I smuggled it out of the house to put in his kit, and he didn’t even notice it was gone for 8 whole months. Wow. Good thing I gave it to him. He really must love it.

End of the year came, and due to the lack of natural disaster again this year, he got it back and took it to Grandma’s house after school. He LOVED the new stuffed dog in there! Didn’t even remember he had it before! As there were also chocolate chips in his comfort kit, he thought they were food for the dog. So he opened the bag of chocolate chips and “fed” them to the dog.

When he wasn’t looking, Grandma took the chocolate chips away, so it seemed like the dog had actually eaten them. He believed the dog had eaten them.

He comes home and says, “MOMMY MOMMY I have to show you something! Where are the chlocate chips?”. Yes, I do mean “chlocate”. It’s one of those words he doesn’t say correctly but it’s so cute that I don’t want to correct him. Like skabetti for spaghetti or breftast for breakfast.

After a bit of coercion, I got him a few chlocate chips. He fed them to his dog….. waited a minute…. looked under the dog…. and they were still there! He was quite upset. He was coaxing the dog to eat them, but the dog just wouldn't do it (I hadn’t got the memo on the trick Grandma played on him). Nevertheless, the dog’s name became “Chlocate Chip Eater” because he actually did eat chlocate chips.

Cute name, except at 10 pm when he’s screaming “WHERE’S CHLOCATE CHIP EATERRRRRR? I CAN’T SLEEP WITHOUT MY CHLOCATE CHIP EATERRRRR!!”

Next up is a cute, fluffy, white dog with brown and black spots. It was given to him by his Auntie, Uncle and cousin the day he was born. It’s gone almost 4 years without a name, but apparently he needs one now. Evan named him, “Peanut Butter Licker”. Or “Peanut Butter Liquor”. I’m not sure which. But I’m hoping it’s the former.

Last up, is the latest one he named. 

He’s on such a roll naming his stuffies, so I decided to ask what his Build-A-Bear frog’s name is (don't do it... don't ask)...

I’m thinking, “Hoppy”, “Ribbit” or something that relates to a frog.

Nope. His name is “Mussaf**k”.

Really? REALLY, Evan? The fist thing that comes to your brain is “Mussaf**k”?

Parents know that if you make a big deal of things, it makes them want to do it again. So I calmly push the name aside without trying to draw any particular attention to it. I suggest a few ones: Mr. Frog. Froggie. Frogger. Hippity. Hoppity. ANYTHING! But he keeps insisting on the name above. That’s going to go over well with the Grandparents.

So if you're ever walking past our house at bedtime and you hear him screaming in his not-so-subtle voice, “I NEED PEANUT BUTTER LIQUOR” or “MUSSAF**K”, don't call social services. He's just missing his friends.

Say CHEESE!

One thing on our “must do” list when we go to the Oregon Coast is the Tillamook Cheese Factory.

I’m surprised they let us back in.

3 years ago (Nathan was almost 3, Evan was almost 1), we were enjoying ice cream. It must have been Evan’s first one. Because I'm a good mom and would never ever feed him an ice cream cone before he turned one....

We JUST sat down with our four ice creams in the overly crowded ice cream cafeteria. The brain freeze effect apparently numbs the signal the bladder sends to the brain that says, “Get to the bathroom NOW”. Nathan peed EV.RY.WHERE. One of those messes that waterfalls off the chair and forms a nasty puddle on the floor.

[this is the second time I’ve mentioned pee waterfalls on my blog. I must have boys]

Did I mention we were each holding an ice cream cone?

I don’t remember how we wiggled our way out of that intensely embarrassing situation. It did involve a roll of paper towels and me having to hold 4 dripping ice cream cones though.

They let us back in last year and this year, so our slates must be clean.

I like people watching there. You get to observe people on their assembly line job. Woo hoo, sounds FASCINATING! I wonder if they get paid extra for that little perk.

There are 4 basic types of people who work there. I’m sure they jump from one to the other, depending on the day.

My observations:

The 15-Minutes-Of-Fame Employees:

These workers are perma-smiling, waving at the tourists. They like to be on display and in the spotlight. They would be the people who should be in customer service: the ones who wouldn’t rip the faces off annoying customers. They think, “Wow, my job is so important that people take their holiday time to come and watch me!”.  

I like those people. I tried to be a perma-smiler a month or so ago. Within minutes, a friend asked me if I was pregnant. When I said no she asked what the good news was. Apparently I need to smile more.

The Make-The-Most-Of-It employees:

So your job is boring? So what! Lets try and have fun at work anyway. These fun-loving people are joking with each other and ignoring the onlookers.

The Brain-Teleporters:

They are clearly bored out of their tree. These people seem to be able to separate themselves from their task: their hands are feverishly keeping up with the conveyor belt while they stare off into space.

Like me when I’m blogging.

Lastly, the Wrong-Side-Of-The-Bed Employees:

Maybe they don’t find cheese packing fulfilling, or loathe the tourists who are enjoying a holiday while they’re being displayed working in a cheese-coloured fish bowl. Maybe they woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or are just having one of those days.For whatever reason, they are grumpy, and have a perma-scowl. I especially like smiling at these people. [Evil laugh…]

Evan was fascinated at the machines. I have no doubts that he’s going to be an engineer. Even in our own house, he’ll look in cupboards and at our unfinished walls and will show me what pipes the water from the sink travels through on it’s way out of the house. He was staring at the machines with fascination, trying to determine what each one did and how it worked.

It took a long time to pry him away, but I HAD to. I knew what was next…

 

I love cheese. I love free. I love the free cheese samples. I load those toothpicks full, and make sure to grab samples for the kids, knowing full well they won’t want to eat half of them. Sure, cheese causes the body to block up but vacation constipation is never a bad thing ;-)

 

Let’s be honest though. The main reason we go there is for the ice cream. DROOL. There must be 40+ different flavours to choose from. Fruit ones, coffee ones, chocolatey ones. Bubble-gum, cotton candy, pumpkin. Brightly coloured ones, swirled ones, chunky ones, smooth ones (surprisingly, no CHEESE ones). SO many choices, how does one choose??

Know what flavour BOTH my kids chose?

Vanilla.

Are you joking? We drive 597 kilometers for an ice cream cone and you’re having VANILLA?!?!

I almost didn’t let them get it, but white doesn’t stain shirts. Plus, they were already making a scene because I got them a junior cone instead of a whopping 2 scoop cone even bigger than the one Daddy had. They were lucky I even got them a junior one at that point. Any good mom would have denied the ice cream and ate it herself.

Apparently, mom (aka, ME) is always right, because I ended up finishing one of the cones. “Mommy, I’m too full to finish. Can you finish for me?”. [Why I oughta…] 

I am a bit of a germophobe (aka Mysophobe. There. You’ve learned something today). Hand sanitizer is my friend. Interac machines and public toilets are not (that is a blog post all in itself).

However, when it comes to half eaten ice cream cones, my mysophobia goes into remission and I don’t care who has licked it. I’ll finish the sucker off.

As I ate the cone, I also ate my words. The vanilla was a good choice after all.

Pretty in Pink

Have you ever done a math magic trick like this? Come on, do it with me:

Step 1: Think of any number (Except 1).
Step 2: Double the number.
Step 3: Add 9 with result.
Step 4: Subtract 3 from the result.
Step 5: Divide the result by 2.
Step 6: Subtract the number you first chose with the result.

The answer is always 3!! What madness is this??

I have another number magic trick for you. 

It was my birthday yesterday. I made up my own magic trick for you to discover how old I turned.

Play along:

Step 1: Think of how old I LOOK.
Step 2: Multiply the number by 3.
Step 3: Subtract 2 from the result.

The answer is 34!! Every time!

You see, according to strangers and some friends, I have not aged a day since I was 12. You would not BELIEVE how many people ask my age and say, "REALLY?!?!?!? I thought you were 12!!!".

Not eleven, not thirteen, always....ALWAYS....twelve.

The next thing these people say when I look at them with a blank stare is, "you should take it as a compliment!".

Oh, ok [with continued blank stare]. So I should be happy that people who see me with my 5 year old think that I conceived when I was in grade 1?? And I should be flattered when I'm ID'd to...wait for it.... buy GAS??? Fantastic.

Luckily I didn't run into any of those people yesterday, and I had a great day! What really made my day was Nathan. At 5 years old, he told Daddy he wanted to get me 5 things and rattled off this list:

1. Make-Up [nail polish]
2. Necklace
3. Bracelet
4. Flowers [a dozen pink roses]
5. Dress

He went shopping with Grandma and Daddy and got everything on the list above.... all in pink! Apparently he was very specific in the items he chose. Looking through racks and racks until he found exactly what he was looking for. Evan even chose a pink pair of sunglasses for me!

I was so touched by their gifts! It made me feel special beyond words to know that my boys pay that much attention to what I like! Now when Nathan's not looking, I have to alter the pink dress to make it look a little less...frumpy. Even if I never wear it out in public, I'll wear it in the house with pride!