I Am Never Moving Again

Unless it is to retire in Victoria (thank you Jesus for Canadian healthcare) or Michelle Bachman becomes president.

It's moving day today! The past weeks have been a blur of paint cans, boxes, and packing tape. I figure it's taken me at least 50 hours and 15 gallons of paint to get to this point. (Apparently the fifth time was the charm to cover The Boy's ceiling.)

My life is pretty much one big "before" picture right now, but as soon as we get back on the grid and I find my camera, I'll show you some fine, fine "after" action.

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The Social Obsession

Nice Teller at Big Bank: Sure, I can activate that check card for you. Can I see some identification?

PM: Sure! [rummages through purse] Oh...shoot...you know what? My husband and I were doing all this banking stuff online yesterday and I forgot to take my driver's license back from him. Do you want me to come back? [suddenly dreading what's coming next]

NTBB: No, no problem. Could you just give me the last four digits of your social?

PM: Um...okay...yeah. This is going to sound a bit strange, but.... I don't know.

NTBB: [with disbelief] You don't know your own social?

PM: [miserably] No.

No. I don't know my social security number. I have a finite space in my brain, and the "government-issued ID number" slot is currently occupied by my social insurance number, thank you very much.

Part of me is scared that if I memorize my "social," it will displace my SIN. And then, I ask you, how am I supposed to call to find out my student loan balance?

But I think the main reason is that I just can't. It's like that whole Fahrenheit thing. It is impossible for me to wrap my poor little Canadian head around.

Now ordinarily it isn't an issue. I've got the number hidden in my phone in a sneaky format, and if I'm filling out some form, I can go look for it. But when they ask me point blank, it looks a wee bit suspicious for me to surreptitiously look at my phone while trying to stall with comments about the weather.

Last week, the reconnect-my-cable guy actually laughed at me on the phone. "You don't know your social? Bwa ha ha ha ha?'

Yeah. Super funny.

The only solution I've found (since actually memorizing the darn thing isn't an option) is to play the Canada Card. It's amazing how much you can get away with.

"See, I'm from Canada. We don't have them there, and I never need it, so I have trouble memorizing it."

To which the nice, if still somewhat suspicious, teller said, "Ah, I see. You're from Canada and your husband was here and you just came down to be with him. Makes sense. For a minute there, I was really wondering. I almost confiscated your card."

Um. Yes. Exactly. I just came. Four years ago. Yep.

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Ohhhh Yeahhhhh...

I think about an unopened paint can the way some women think about new lipstick. Or some folks think about a new kitchen appliance. Or a power tool. Or a new outfit. Or a new set of file folders.

(Am I the only one who could spend hours strolling through Office Depot and dreaming about new supplies?)

We all think, "This - THIS! will change my life."

And if I think that way about one paint can, this is pretty much the PM equivalent of coming within $100 of my showcase without going over and winning not only Bob Barker's undying affection, but also both showcases:

Heh heh - I had that Home Depot girl running yesterday.

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Be the One Who Stops It

As we all know, I have perfect children. They listen the first time, they cheerfully obey, and they always get along.

[cue Pinocchio nose]

Well, okay, occasionally they have a wee disagreement.

(Possibly more than occasionally.)

In fact, pretty much every day, someone looks at someone else's cereal bowl for a tad too long, is accused of "staring," retaliates by showing off a mouthful of half-chewed food, is rewarded for her efforts with a "STOP IT!" and it goes on from there.

After it's descended into the hitting and kicking realm, I step in and the conversation goes something like this.

PM: Okay, tell me your side. What did you do?

The Boy: I hit her. But she...

PM: No. Stop. There is no way that you can complete that sentence in a way that makes it okay that you hit her.

The Girl: [smirking]

PM: Your turn kiddo. What did you do?

The Girl: I yelled at him. But he...

PM: No. You, too. There is no way you can complete that sentence in a way that makes it okay that you yelled.

Both kids: BUT HE/SHE STARTED IT!!

PM: You don't get it. I don't care who started it.

All I care about is that you are the one who stops it.

I'm reminded of these conversations as I think back to world events of this past week. Where an eye for an eye has made the whole world a bit more blind, murder has been justified (if not outright glorified), and this country has been plunged back into a turmoil of bewildering emotions, swirling beneath the cloud of the (inevitable) threat of retaliation.

I know that I'm a bleeding heart liberal pacifist, and I know that there is perhaps merit to the scorn I'd receive from those who might point out that I enjoy a tremendous freedom in being able to sit here in peace and comfort and type these words, a freedom that is somehow guaranteed by events such as this past week's.

I know that I have never (thank God) known the pain of having a loved one torn from me by someone else. And that it might seem insensitive and insulting to compare that horror to a sibling spat.

I also know that when I have been hurt badly, my instinctive reaction is to hurt back. To somehow do unto him what he's done to me. Not only to wound, but just to know that he knows how much it hurts.

But.

I also know that violence begets violence. In our house, it starts with a look. Then comes a mean word. Then a shout. Then a shove. Then a vicious kick. Then something gets thrown. And both sides invariably get hurt.

I also know that it's really hard to remain an unaffected bystander. As the shouting intensifies, I find my own heart racing, I charge in with as much physical presence as my grown-up body can bring, and I start trying to out-do them in yelling, bringing my own threats to the party.

And finally, I also know that neither of my kids has ever said, "you know, I thought I was right, but then you hit me and now I know you're right." Nor, given some time to calm down and talk about what happened, has anyone ever said to me, "I'm glad I hit her back."

I hate what is being done in this world in the name of security and justice and "he hit me first." From both sides.

I just want someone to step up and be the one who stops it.

(Also: in our house, when a child retaliates against some insult by sneaking into the other child's room and destroying something, we don't call it "justice" or a "good day for the PM house." We call it "a payback," and the child who took the law into his/her hands gets a timeout and loses screentime and reading privileges. Wonder if the UN has that kind of power....)

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Wow. Sorry, Guys.

The Husband: Remember how you said last week that if Trump won the presidency in 2012 you were moving back to Canada?

PM: Totally.

The Husband: Take a look at these election results.

PM: [shocked disbelief]

The Husband: Now where you gonna go?

PM: [Thinking...I hear you can live in Belize for something like two dollars a day...]

(P.S. Told you I so, Mr. Ignatieff. Twice.)

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Apologies in Advance

We've been plunged into the DIY world over here:

And it might be awhile before I can come up for air.

One month, to be more exact. We have exactly 30 more days to get our new house up to move-in condition, pack up the old house, move, and clean up behind ourselves.

And, like all homeowners before us, we are discovering that a "simple" project suddenly mutates into a days-long affair (especially since we both come from DIY households).

The original thought was to do a bit of painting (living room, dining room, kids' rooms) and rip up the carpet in the master bedroom. Easy peasy, yes? Just those things that make sense to do before we move in because they're way easier to do without furniture and people inside.

But then you see a couple of cracks and think, hmm, best patch those before I open a paint can - might as well do it now.

And you rip up the carpet and find existing hardwood (huzzah!) and figure out how much it will cost to hire a professional to re-finish it and you think, you know, I could totally do this myself for way cheaper.

(Note: That is not me saying that. I could not do that myself. At all. But The Husband is a man of many talents, not least of which is a stunning ability to figure out how to do things for himself and get it exactly right the first time. Like changing a suspension on a car. Who does that??)

And then you think, you know what would be a pain to do after we move in? Ceilings. Better add that to the list - I've got the rollers and paint trays out anyway, right?

And then you look in the kitchen cupboards and realize that the paint/contact paper solution of years past has gotten slightly oogie, and you imagine having to take everything out of the cupboards, temporarily storing it, and coming up with three meals a day during the chaos of sprucing them up. So, add that to the "let's do it while it's empty" list.

So, our list is very long and lengthening, and our time is short. Fortunately, our two houses are only a mile apart, so it's not a huge deal to pop over and spend a bit of time. Our kids are really independent and they haven't yet met an episode of Garfield they didn't like. I do suspect we'll be doing noodles from the box a bit more often, and blogging might get a little lax.

But it'll all be worth it! And you're all invited to come see the end result once we've completed everything on the list. The big reveal, our place, June 2016 - be there!

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