Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Make Your Own Damn Lunch
Yesterday the power of the force was strong within me--the B*TCH force, that is. (It should also be noted, that since Sunday, I've had a near constant soundtrack running in my head thanks to that new Mumford And Sons cd I bought. Seriously, it's playing right now, and it's great, but if you're a person like me who has a zillion things highwaying around in your head PLUS a constantly playing song, it gets a tad tiring).
Speaking of other non-sequitar things, the ongoing "issue" my family and I are dealing with, or, my brother and I specifically, is that my Mother's headstone STILL hasn't arrived. At the end of September, a lady from the funeral home called my Dad and told him it would be arrive in about two weeks. October has come and gone. No stone. We called a few times, but the only guy who handles the stones, has been either busy, sick, or "out at the moment." Let's call him "Fred" for the sake of this little story. FRED is also the funeral director. Okay, let's bear in mind that Fred has the ironic good fortune of being extremely busy; aging population, recession-proof death business, etc, etc. I see all the new "arrivals" all the time in the section of the cemetary where my Mom is buried (and I picture a big, shiny, retail-worthy sign: New Arrivals EVERY WEEK!)
Rewind back to the summer when my brother and I were in his office to choose a stone--the next step after burying our Mother. That in itself was a surreal experience. Fred had this nice basket filled with different coloured samples of stone, and my bro and I would say things like; "yeah, that's nice," or "no, I don't really like that one," or "oo, that dark stone and light base would look good together." Bah, ridiculousness. So, when we got there, Fred looked at us with all seriousness and said; "Now, we need to set a date for the interment of your mother." P and I looked at each other..."er...ah...we did that?" If you're Canadian, you may have the tendency of being so retardedly polite that you add that "question mark" onto the end of what you say in situations like these so as not to make THE OTHER GUY FEEL BAD. Fred was properly flustered.
Last week, when I phoned, Fred was out, and I was told by the other funeral guy on the line (who I pictured as tall, bony, bald, bow-tied and looming for whatever reason...sorry, dude), said he wished he could help me with info on the whereabouts of the stone, but "that's Fred's baby." That's Fred's BABY. Does anybody else feel a touch of hysteria shoot through them when they read this???
So this morning I phoned, and Fred was unavailable, but they took all my information, including my name and phone number, and who the stone is for, and I was assured he would contact me. And he did! Fred: "hello, may I speak to Barb please."
Me: "uh, who?"
Me: "who were you looking for?!?"
Fred: "Barbara Somethingorother??"
Me: "that's my mother. You're probably looking for karen."
Fred: "oh geez! Oh my goodness, I'm sorry. Yes. I apologise. I was looking at this information about the stone I have here."
The runaraound continues. The stone is ready, but the monument company's been having problems, bullsh*t, bullsh*t, bullsh*t, it should be coming on the next delivery. Thanks for bearing with "us."
Yesterday, I had taken my daughter to one of those government run "Early Years" places: you know, an open space filled with toys that your child hasn't played with to death, so they can play and play and play, while you sit and rub, and rub, and rub your face, and yawn until your jaw cracks and the tears squirt out of your eyes? I usually go with my sister, which is great fun, because we can laugh about stupid things like bygone days of overly abundant breast milk production, and the trials of dealing with the little people from the age of 1 1/2 to 3.
I had a hell of a time coaxing Ella to leave, but finally managed to, so I could race home to make her lunch, and lunch for her brother before I had to pick him up to bring him home for his lunch break. Ella insisted she wanted an egg salad sandwich for lunch. Was she SURE? I asked. Uh huh! Egg salad? I asked. "Yes, I LOOOOOVE egg salad!"
Well, I barely had time by this point, but I raced like an idiot to mash up that filling, which was delicious if I do say so myself. Ella came by to watch me spread it on the bread. "Mmmm!" she said with enthusiasm. Then she took a bite.
Ella: "hcccck...hhhcccckkk...hhhccck..." (that sound like when you're trying to uck a hair or a popcorn kernel from the back of your throat).
Me: "what's the matter?"
Ella: "hccck...BLEH! BLEH!"
Me: "WHAT'S WRONG?!? You don't like the sandwich?"
Ella: "I HATE egg salad!"
It's pointless to try to remember the slew of words that became my tapestry of rage just then, but I no longer had any time, and had to race off to school to get Jack.
The Man came into the kitchen as I was getting my coat on, chuckled, and said; "why does egg salad have to smell so disgusting?"
Me: "WHY DOES EVERYBODY HAVE TO SUCK THE F*CKING LIFE OUT OF ME?"
The Man: ".... "
Jack skipped out of school with no coat ON, and no coat in his hand. It was cold outside, and the kid has a cold. I told him to go back in the school and get his coat. He tried to sputter out a protest, but turned back to go to his locker.
Me: "always a battle. Why does it always have to be a battle?"
Mom standing beside me: "that's a battle? You haven't seen 'nothin'! That wasn't a battle! That was complacent!"
Me: "wait for it."
Jack comes flying out of the school with pure rage: "I HATE YOU!" I feel the peripheral vision of many other moms on me, but try to remain calm. Ah, the balmy love of the ASD-influenced child...
So then I get the kid home, having ranted in the car the whole way at him. He took one look at his 1/2 of a cheese sandwich (he was off peanut butter for about five days, and I had no clue what to make for lunch), and burst into tears, then ran screaming and sputtering away from the offending object.
There was much freaking, ranting, hyperbole and spitting (probably all from me), and then I remembered: oh yeah, it's The Man's birthday today.
Poor husband. Happy Birthday anyway.
image reference: http://www.aapscot.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/eggsalad.jpg