Absolutely Bananas: Seattle mom blog

Hives, ninjas and dog bites, OH MY

I had a longer (and wittier) post all planned out in my head but it’ll have to wait.

See, I didn’t expect my knee to come solidly into contact with the large and powerful teeth of a snarling dog while I was peacefully ordering my tamale at the Farmer’s Market this morning.  (He was aiming his teeth at another dog and my knee sort of got in the way.)

Now before you get really worried, I should tell you that my knee survived this brutal attack relatively unharmed, although there is a big blue bruise.  My jeans (thank you! Jeans!) kept the incisors from piercing through my flesh.

So that was exciting.

I also didn’t expect to spend the evening covered HEAD TO TOE in hives.  Big scratchy puffy red inflamed angry HIVES.

You just don’t plan these things.

So for now my more interesting post will have to wait while I scratch and itch and nurse my injured knee.

I’d now like to give a quick shout-out to

1) Blue jeans. Thanks for the dog-bite-protection.  You rock!

2) Benadryl. WHERE would I be without you?! (A bloody shredded mess of scratching, that’s where)

Here’s to a FRESH START tomorrow (without all the drunken kung-fu warriors, dog attacks and hives, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!)

The man with the fighting stick (whose name is Mud)

We’re sitting on our back patio, enjoying a leisurely evening meal, when we hear him.

HY-UH!

HAI!

HUH!

HAY-HU-HUUUH!

I look at Jay and he raises an eyebrow.  What is going on in the alley behind our house?

I leap up and race to the back fence, peering through a slat between cedar fence posts.  There, behind our house, is a man whirling a five-foot-long martial arts fighting stick over his head.

He crouches, then he leaps.  He jabs and turns and grunts.  Then he stumbles.

Even from my narrow vantage point, it’s clear that he’s had WAY too much to drink.

I get that sick feeling in my stomach.  Dinner is totally ruined.

“Mommy, WHAT IS IT?!” CJ asks.

“A bad guy.” I say, “Don’t go over there.  DON’T make any noise.”

CJ’s eyes widen.

Jay looks at me with disgust.  “It’s not a BAD guy,” he says, “Just a weird guy.”

Hmmph. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.  No matter how you say it, all I know is he SHOULDN’T BE HERE, behind our house.

“It’s ok,” Jay assures me, “I’m sure he’s harmless.”

And sure enough, when our neighbor-across-the-alley comes out and gets in her car, the man with the big stick vanishes.

Jay walks around and through the gate to make sure he’s gone.

“Daddy!” CJ tugs at his shirt, “Daddy!  Is the man with the stick STILL THERE?”

“No,” Jay assures him, “I scared him off.  He knew his name was Mud and he took off.”

CJ is impressed with the POWER that is daddy.  “You scared him away!”

I’m not so sure.  I remember seeing him walking down the alley several hours earlier, stick propped across his shoulder. I fear that our backyard might be his new preferred venue for drunken-martial-arts-with-stick practice.

We sit back at the table, but this time, we’re all on edge.

“All I know is, if he comes back, I’m calling the police,” I say.

“Oh Jen, he’s harmless.”  Jay honestly seems unruffled.  Still, I’m not convinced.

And, fifteen minutes later, he’s back.

This time, Jay tells me to call the police.  He’s seen the guy with the stick in all his glory, and agrees that this is not the type that we want hanging out behind our house.

I call the local precinct, where the on-call officer directs me to call 9-1-1.

And so I do.

I don’t call 911 very often and talking to the policeman on the other end makes me nervous.  My heart is racing and I stumble over my words.  The very nice operator on the other end gently guides me through, and then asks for descriptors of our kung-fu friend.  The funny thing is, the main thing I remember is the STICK.

I’m sure he had clothing, and a relative height, and a race, and hair color… but those things seem to have vanished from my mind.

I make an attempt at describing him, and go to hang up.

CJ tugs urgently at my shirt.  Which is surprising, because he knows that I’m on the phone WITH THE POLICE and so far has been miraculously quiet and well-behaved.

Note to self: next time I want to have a normal telephone conversation, tell CJ that I’m talking to the police.

“Mommy!” he exclaims, “Mommy!”

I hang up, and CJ moans, “Mommy, you forgot to tell the police that his name is Mud!”

To trade in or not to trade in. There’s not even a question.

I like to think of myself as a practical and well-informed woman. A savvy woman. A women in the know.

So when it comes to buying and selling cars, I have some hard and fast rules. These rules are based on research and experience, but mainly on what my dad always told me.

1) Thou shalt not buy a new car. Ever.

2) Thou shalt not trade in. Ever.

I will admit to you that every time someone buys a brand-new car (you know, the kind with that new car smell) I feel all judgmental and smugly think, tsk tsk tsk that is SO irresponsible. Every time someone tells me that they (GASP) traded in their car I nearly fall to the floor in horror.

OH THE HORROR OF THE TRADE IN!

DON’T YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH MONEY YOU’RE LOSING?

So yeah. Strong opinions.

The thing is, it’s easy to have strong opinions about things you’ve never done.

And it’s true that, until yesterday, I had never sold my own car.

Selling a car is a MAN’S WORK! is unspoken rule #3. Although I like to think that I’m a feminist and all about equal rights and gender neutrality, the truth is I’m totally not.

The funny thing is, every time we decide to upgrade or downgrade or sideways-grade or otherwise replace one car with a different one, I shout my rules at Jay’s head.

“WE ARE NOT BUYING A NEW CAR!” I holler, “WE MIGHT AS WELL THROW OUR MONEY RIGHT DOWN THE TOILET!”

“But the new car smell… the 0% financing…” Jay’s attempts to change my mind are inevitably met with firm and vigorous resistance. When I know something, it is a fact and therefore NOT open for debate.

If Jay dares to suggest the option of trading in our car I nearly come undone. “WE WILL NOT TRADE IN!” I shout. And taking this stance mandates that JAY handle the tedious and rather uncomfortable process of finding a buyer, negotiating the sale, and doing the paperwork.

This time, though, I decided that I would sell the car myself.

After all, it’s my car in my name and I’m THIRTY so it’s high time I start doing these things. Plus secretly I believe that I’m a way better negotiator than my dearest husband.

I list the car on Craig’s List and Auto Trader. I get it detailed. I start fielding calls and emails.

Check! Check! Check! Easy, easy, easy.

Why didn’t I do this before? Selling your car is totally SIMPLE.

You see what’s coming, don’t you? A big fat breakfast of EATING MY WORDS. Yeah.

The first person who looks at the car decides to buy it.

(I am such an amazing saleswoman)

His name is Happy (I’m not even making this up) and he’s from Canada. Happy is his nick-name, short for something like Hareekmetshex Bazzlemubp.

Here’s the thing. From the day I met Happy, my name has been Irritated. Because that man drives me crazy.

We make a deal, he gives me a $500 cash deposit, and we go our separate ways. Since he’s from Canada and I’m from the U.S., we need to have all sorts of paperwork to finalize the deal. Like, for example, I need to get the title.

I pay off the balance of the car loan and wait for the title. I call Happy and tell him that I’ll call him when the title comes in. I honestly don’t expect to talk to him until then.

WRONG.

Happy calls my cell phone first thing the following morning and leaves me a voice mail requesting that I call him back. By the time I get the message, I have four missed calls from Happy.

“Hello! This is Happy! How are you?”

“Mmm fine…”

“I called you four times and you did not answer!”

“Yeah, well it’s Saturday. What do you need?”

“Yes, I was just calling to check and see if you got the title yet?”

“No. It’s only been one day, and I told you it’d be at least two weeks.”

“Yes, I was wondering, can you drive to Olympia and pick up the title there?” (Olympia is 2 hours away)

“Uh, I don’t think they let you do that.”

“Can you call and find out?”

This is the first of many, many, MANY calls from Happy in which he makes requests and demands.

Can you take the car into the BMW dealership and have the lights modified?

Can you call the Dept of Licensing and find out the status of the title?

Have you gotten the title yet? Have you gotten it now? Is it there now? What about NOW?

Happy seems to be under the illusion that I’m a CAR DEALERSHIP rather than a PERSON WITH A LIFE.

I start to resent this constant intrusion on my life. I convulse in horror every time my cell phone rings. I hear the word “Happy” and want to punch someone.

Finally, I call Happy to inform him that the car will be sold as-is, and that I will NOT be spending my time running around having modifications made to it.

He gasps, as if I am totally letting him down. HOW DARE I not want to spend a day running errands for him? Isn’t that his right as a buyer of a used car?

I say, “You know, this is turning into a hassle for me. How about if I send you your deposit back and you can find another car to buy. I’m sure I can find another buyer.”

Which turns out to be a good approach. Happy immediately starts to backpedal.

Anyhow. After four weeks of Happy’s daily calls I am ready to tear my hair out.

Then, at last, the title comes.

Happy and I seal the deal, sign the paperwork, and I hand over the car.

Jay and I breathe a HUGE sigh of relief. When we get home, we sit at the dining room table in a minor state of shock, just staring at each other.

Finally Jay says, “What a pain. I am so glad that is over.”

“You’re glad!” I shout, “What about ME?! I’m the one whose had to DEAL with that man!”

“I have to admit that I’ve changed my perspective on trading in,” I continue, “I would gladly hand over a couple thousand dollars to not have to deal with that again.”

Jay nods.

My phone rings.

I look down at the 604 area code and then at Jay. “It’s him!” I whisper in horror.

I answer the phone and Happy is talking fast. With his accent, I can hardly understand him. Finally I make out his words.

“There’s a picture of the WHOLE CAR by the speedometer!” he says, “I was just wondering, what is this picture?”

are you freaking kidding me?

I take a deep breath and then say, “Without looking at it, I can’t really say, but I think it’s always there.” I pause, and then ask the question that really needs to be asked. “Did you check the manual?”

“No,” he says, because really WHY WOULD HE CHECK THE MANUAL WHEN HE CAN CALL ME?!?!?!

I hang up and Jay and I look at each other in disbelief. “You’re going to have to block his calls,” Jay says. “You know he’s going to be calling all the time, about every little thing.”

He’s probably right.

I lay my head face down on the table and practice deep breathing.

Eating your words is exhausting business.

I’m just happy GLAD it’s over.

***
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©2008 Absolutely Bananas. All Rights Reserved.

Reinventing date night

Last night after CJ went to bed, I sat down on the living room floor and put together Legos for three hours.

See, I’d decided that they needed to be organized, and the only way that I know to organize Legos when they’ve gotten all jumbled together is to build each set and then put them away in their respective boxes.

I had it in my head that this could be a fun date night activity of shared laughter and play… Sort of like collaborating on a puzzle. Only different.

“Jay,” I call out as he heads towards the stairs, “wanna do Legos with me?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Excuse me?”

“Legos! I’m putting Legos together. And, you know, I though we could like talk and bond and stuff while we put together Legos.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “No. I do NOT want to put Legos together with you.” He sees my doleful expression and adds, “but I’ll sit on the couch with my glass of wine and talk to you while you do Legos.”

So he did.

And I did.

And… oddly enough… it was fun.

#245 on the list of things that I never thought I’d do before I had kids.

***
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©2008 Absolutely Bananas. All Rights Reserved.

and then POOF! it was gone

You know how sometimes you know you SHOULD do something, but you don’t? And you really don’t know WHY you don’t do the thing because every time you think of that thing, you think “I really should do that!” but still somehow the thing goes undone for days and weeks and years and decades…

And you would do it only you haven’t done it for SO LONG and nothing bad happened and there are all these other things that you’d rather be doing so you continue not doing the thing that you know you REALLY SHOULD DO.

You know how that is?

This is a story with A VERY STRONG MORAL which I will yell at you at the end. For your own good, of course. Just thought I’d warn you.

For quite some time we have had two computers. There’s my laptop which sits upstairs in the kitchen and gets daily use. Then there’s Jay’s computer which is the size of a small horse (and much more expensive), which sits in the downstairs office and holds ALL OUR FILES and EVERYTHING DEAR TO US.

We mainly use the laptop unless we need to download pictures or do taxes or save consulting files or… you know… important stuff like that.

So here’s a thing that EVERY ONE OF YOU should be doing and I’m guessing a whole lot of you aren’t…

Backing up files.

Do you do it? DO YOU?!?!

We didn’t.

And we so TOTALLY know better.

And then our computer crashed and gave the “blue screen of death,” WHICH, turns out really is the blue screen OF DEATH.

Because it results in much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

My teeth are gnashing even now just thinking about it.

All those digital images? Gone.

Tax returns? Gone.

Photoshop files? Gone.

EVERYTHING UNDER THE SUN THAT I NEED? Gone.

It makes me sick.

So we took it to this fancy computer repair shop, who kindly charged us $150 to tell us SORRY, BUT WE CAN’T DO ANYTHING BECAUSE THIS IS STAGE FOUR AND THAT IS BAD.

And Jay says (with my prompting), “Seriously, nothing? Because there’s pictures and other important stuff on there.”

And they say, “MAYBE IF YOU TAKE IT TO THIS OTHER PLACE AND PAY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS.”

At which point my stomach leaps into my throat and bile mixes with air and I feel I definitely will die.

Cough

Sputter

GAG

“We’ll pay the 5,000 dollars!” I tell Jay, “I must have those pictures!”

Which brings us to where we are today.

We haven’t yet paid the vastly exorbitant sums of money and we deeply feel the loss of oh-so-many things.

And worst of all is that nagging knowledge that we knew better.

“I guess we’re learning the hard way,” I say to Jay. Then I throw my hands over my eyes and moan, “but I don’t want to learn the hard way!”

Learning the hard way is totally lame.

So the lesson is this:

We have to learn the hard way.

YOU DON’T.

Back up your files!

NOW!

DO IT!

***
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©2008 Absolutely Bananas. All Rights Reserved.