Absolutely Bananas: Seattle mom blog

Dashing Through the Snow (The Bananas version)

When did playing in the snow become so exhausting?  

I lean back and push the hair out of my face.  The snow fort wall is growing… slowly… but growing.  It would go faster if Bella would stop leaping over it in feverish excitement and then biting off big chunks. Or if CJ would HELP rather than running inside for a cookie or a cup of milk every five minutes.  

“Mom!” CJ leans his head out the back door, “Mom can I eat this candy cane?”

I shrug in acquiescence.  Since the day after Thanksgiving CJ has maintained a diet that is almost solely made up of sugar and artificial flavoring.  Oh, and butter.  At this rate Santa will need to fill our stockings with Weight Watchers meals and toothbrushes.  And maybe some sugarless gum.  It is Christmas, after all.

(and yes I did say OUR stockings.  CJ’s not the only one with a sweet tooth, turns out.)

“Fine, eat the candy cane,” I say.  ”And close the door when you come out!”

CJ closes the door with a slam and races down the stairs.  ”Mom, you’re doing a GREAT JOB on the snow fort!” he announces.  

Gee thanks

My head is pounding and my thighs are screaming out for mercy.  ”CJ,” I say, “I’m going to go inside for a while. I have a headache.”

“Just keep working mom,” he says earnestly, “that way you’ll get DISTRACTED and your head won’t hurt any more!”

Right.

But five minutes later my headache has only gotten worse.  I need Tylenol.  I need a roaring fire and a cozy blanket and a big cup of egg nog.  But right now I’ll have to settle for just the Tylenol.  Wearily I straighten up to head inside.

CJ is already at the top of the stairs… on his way for the next hit of sugar.

“Mom!” he says, jiggling the door knob, “Mom, the door is LOCKED.”

Locked?

I stare at him blankly.  ”But, but… how?… why?… why did you shut it?”

“You told me to shut it.” CJ informs me.  And yes, now that he mentions it, I do remember saying that.

Drat.  Of COURSE I don’t have my keys.  Or a hat.  Or my phone.  

“Well,” I say, “We’ll just have to wait until daddy gets home from the Seahawks game and then he can let us back in.”

But even as I say it, I notice the darkening sky.  The cold air.  The falling snow.  

It’s basically a blizzard. 

We are NOT going to sit out here for the indeterminate amount of time it takes Jay to come home from the football game.

“Well, let’s go down to the neighbors,” I say.  ”We can call daddy from their house.”

“Ok,” CJ opens the gate and Bella bolts out.  

Like a deer she is off! Leaping! and! bounding! through the snow!

Oh to be able to run like that!

“BELLA!” CJ and I shout in unison, “BELLA COME BACK HERE!”

Through the side yard and onto the front sidewalk she dashes, CJ and I racing behind.  

Down the sidewalk and towards the street!  She’s picking up speed on the packed pavement!  Snow flies up around her as she goes.  

“BELLLLAAAAAA!” I howl.  She doesn’t even pause.

And just like that she’s around the corner and gone from view.

We’re locked out of the house AND we’ve lost the dog.  GREAT.

But then, around the corner comes a tall man- lovely man- carrying Bella.  I heave a big sigh of relief.  

“She was running through the corner store,” he tells me.  

Of course she was.  She could have at least picked me up some Tylenol while she was in there.

I take Bella from the kind saint of a man and tuck her under my arm.  Which is quite something when it’s a squirming 32 pound dog you’re tucking.  We hike down the sidewalk to the neighbors’ house… who, thankfully, are home.

Long story short…

All I want for Christmas is THIS:

(I’m NOT kidding)

(I need this)

(Really)

A flake’s a flake’s a flake… right? Wrong.

… sometime around 5:30am …

The room is dark and- thankfully- warm.

I am jolted from a deep sleep by the harsh ring of the telephone.  I leap out of bed and across the room in a single bound.  My sister!  She’s having the baby!

But when I answer, “Hello?  Hello?  HELLO?” it’s only a recording on the other end.

“Seattle Public Schools will be CLOSED today,” says the nasal voice, “due to the threat of snow.”

I hang up and stumble back to bed.

A few hours later… at a more reasonable hour… I take a look outside.

The roads are bare.  Not even a teeny-tiny speck of new snow.

Well that’s sort of odd.  

I shrug it off.  The clouds ARE rather grey and foreboding.  Maybe Seattle Public Schools has an inside track with Mother Nature. Maybe they know something that the rest of us aren’t privy to. 

… 9:27pm …

The roads are still bare.  The day has been nice and on the warm side.  What residual snow we started with has long since melted.  

And so ends the first snow day that I can remember where THERE WASN’T ANY SNOW.  

Not one single flake.

I’ll give you a hint… you can’t clear up these flakes with Head & Shoulders.

How many Seattle Public School officials does it take to change a lightbulb?

The other day CJ’s teacher described to me the district policy for lightbulb replacement.

It is seriously unbelievable.

My mouth fell open in dismay.  And then I told the other moms and THEIR MOUTHS fell open in dismay. And then we all told our husbands, whose mouths fell open in dismay.

So I’m pretty sure that YOUR mouth will fall open in dismay when you see this. (just thought I’d warn you, in case you’re eating a meatball sandwich).

Witness… OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK:

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!)

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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