IN FITS AND STARTS

There are those who systematically carry out their house work on a regular schedule, you know; spring cleaning in the spring, washing windows multiple times a year, regular cupboard and closet purges according to the seasons.  I’m even related to some of them.  I watch them from the sidelines amazed at their resolve and work ethic.  Whatever the genetic material required for this is, I do not possess it.  Luckily my genetic coding does seem to cover thriving in a dusty environment.

It’s not that I don’t clean at all; it’s just that the urge do so only hits me sporadically.  I will be drifting through life, oblivious to the dirt and grime accumulating in my house, and then one night I will sit down to watch TV and see the smudges around the light switch, or the spider’s webs in the corners, and know something has to be done.  What ensues is usually a week of chaos.

You would think a dirty light switch is a small problem, easily remedied.  Wrong.  If I wash where I can see the dirt, then there’s a comparison patch of clean and not clean … which means I have to wash the whole wall … which means I wash the whole room … which means I may as well paint the darned thing since it’s all clean.

Which, of course, means I have to clean out cupboards if I’m doing this right … and now I have stuff to sort to other cupboards and closets.  Soon there are piles of ‘garbage’, ‘give away’ and ‘God only knows!’ spread all over the house.  I think that’s why I hate cleaning so much; the way I do it the job always spirals out of control.

Lately it has been the state of my kitchen cupboards that has been getting to me.  A few people I know have recently upgraded and renewed their kitchens with the help of IKEA, everything looks so modern and well planned, storage is a dream come true.  But, as envious as this makes me, I am cheap too.  Do I want to spend that kind of money?  No.  How about I just shine up the ones I’ve got?  A little soap and elbow grease is all that’s called for!

So began my Monday morning.  All I was going to tackle was the outside of the cupboards.  But first the fridge had to be moved out … which meant removing some of the heavier stuff in it … which led to cleaning it – inside and out – while I was at it.  Which led to washing some dishes … and putting them away … which led to rearranging one shelf … which led to sorting to another one … which led to taking all the ornaments and souvenirs off the shelving unit in the living room and washing them … which led to cleaning out my china cabinet and washing everything in it … which took me back to the top kitchen cupboards to sort out more of the fancy stuff and washing all of it, as well. 

I stepped down off the step ladder for the last time that day at 4:30 in the afternoon, clutter all around me, supper still to make, and realized the only panel of kitchen cabinets I had actually cleaned was the one no one could see because the fridge was back in its place.  I had worked all day and not done the one thing I had set out to do.  I’ve made a deal with myself that I will not do any Christmas baking until those cupboards are shiny. 

It gives me a deadline. 

And the reward of butter tarts will keep me going.

I got a post from my niece last night telling me that she also suffered from ADCD (attention deficit cleaning disorder).  I don’t think it’s fair to even compare us.  She is so clean conscious that she runs her own cleaning business; that would never happen to me.  Granted, we may clean the same way – from room to room to room – but she does it on a regular basis.  At best all I manage is fits and starts.

FLASH FROM THE PAST

My husband has always maintained that if you stay in one place long enough, the whole world will eventually come to you.  I’m not saying that this is impossible, but the timeline required is probably longer than more than one life span.

Never the less, several years ago as we watched a beaver wander through our yard he stated this phenomenon as proof.  If we waited long enough there wasn’t a single animal we wouldn’t see from our front porch.  As I recall, he set his sights on the next one being an elephant.  We’re still waiting.

On the other hand, he’s not entirely wrong.  Just because we live a very rural existence and very far from the maddening crowds, there are unexpected little treasures that come our way from time to time.

Take last Saturday night, for instance.  Our town is small – around a thousand people, give or take, but nearby is an even smaller town, Maryfield, at about a third the size.  Never pre-judge the size of a town’s heart by its population’s numbers though; one has absolutely nothing to do with the other.  I’ve always said, the smaller the town, the bigger the heart.

At any rate, to get back to my husband’s theory of “it comes to you”, there we were seated in a curling rink (where, by the way, a few top echelon Canadian curlers threw their first stones) and were transported back in time to the big band years of our parents’ youth.  Who knew that this music existed anywhere but on old, dusty 78 rpm records?  Who knew that people still liked the genre enough to learn to play it?  Who knew there were enough of them in the vicinity to get together and form a band? 

I mean, really, who knew?

In a day and age where getting four or five musicians together to practice and play in a band is too hard, how did they manage to get seventeen?  Think of the love of music, the determination, the driving force needed to make something like that come together!  But it was so worth it.

There were dancers too.  The crowd was not young, but almost everyone responded to this music actually created to dance to.  Folks who probably don’t even go to dances any more (if such social events even exist) were there and happily made their way to the dance floor every time the band struck up a tune.  

Even a sweet old couple with the gentleman wheeling his sweetheart around the dance floor in her wheelchair, revisiting memories from long ago.  

Even my husband – backing up his point that if you wait long enough the improbable eventually does happen. 

And then there was the couple who came dressed for the occasion.  I don’t know if they were locals making the best of the treat, or if they love big band ‘40s music so much that they are this band’s groupies, and followed them to Maryfield to dance the night away.  They looked like they’d just stepped out of a photograph from WWII.  While the rest of the dancers covered the whole range of talent, these people could DANCE.  If the music wasn’t enough to send you back in time, watching them gave the evening an extra bit of magic.

Who would have thought that on an otherwise unremarkable cold Saskatchewan night you could enter a curling rink and be transported back in time?  The household we grew up in appreciated music and our parents loved to dance, so my sister and I recognized and welcomed the music they played.  Mom would have loved being in that time warp bubble with us, I know.  Oh heck, maybe she was.

All I’m saying is that you never know what is out there.  There are talented people everywhere, all they need is a spark to bring them together and the imagination to want to share it with others.  The time bubble last Saturday night in Maryfield was a hidden gem that we lucked into.  Apparently my husband is right – just give it time and the whole world will come to your doorstep.

He’s still waiting for his elephant.

GENERATIONAL KARMA

The text read “Well you will find this humorous.  Rosie shoved a LEGO up her nose and we are on our way to emergency to get it out”

Well, actually it was spelled ‘humerus’, but you get the picture.

And yes, yes we did find it very humorous.  It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving mama.

Not that we were happy poor little Rosie had to experience a LEGO extraction at the hands of a medical team, but one hopes that she’s taken the lesson to heart … LEGOs have their place, but that place is not up a toddler’s nose.

After a few more texts about the apple not falling far from the tree, grandma and grandpa signed off.  The young family had arrived at the hospital and some real fun was about to begin.

It took us back though - approximately 30 years ago to a time when Rosie’s mommy was toddling around this house … inquisitive … curious … experimental.  There are so many questions that need to be answered at that age.

And so it came to pass one evening that she took it upon herself to see what would happen if she stuck something other than her finger up her nostril.  She didn’t share her intentions with anyone, just wandered off into a quiet place, sorted through a variety of smallish, roundish trinkets that might fit and having evaded any and all persons who might have stopped her fiendish little game decided to carry through on her plan.  One Hot Wheels tire up her left nostril, just like that.

Not that it’s unusual to see a little kid with her finger up her nose, but when she reappeared in the living room a few minutes later it was obvious that something was amiss.  A mother can always spot that guilty look no matter how much nonchalance a kid tries to portray.  With clues like a bright red beezer and the snorting/snuffling sounds coming from that worried little face it was obvious to know where to look.  Can’t say as we expected to spot a shiny black object sporting tire treads up there, though.  But hey, she was the third kid; it takes a lot to surprise once you’re that far into the game.

Of course Mom and Dad tried to retrieve it themselves.  Why traumatize a child in a medical situation if you can accomplish the same level of distress at home?

Did you know that once a Hot Wheels tire has been lubricated (ewe!) and pinched together, it slides neatly up a nostril?  But, once it reaches a certain place – a place where the channel widens back out to form a roundish chamber, the tire can expand back to its natural shape.  The resulting tension holds it in place, the winter tire treads provide added traction.  Who knew?  Certainly not us until we tried to get it to slide back out again.

Another pertinent observation from that night: two adults, not matter how calm they make their voices sound, no matter how many arms they have, no matter what they can think of to offer as a bribe, there is no way to get a pair of tweezers close enough to a flailing, manic, berserk three year old’s face to do anything more that probably take out one of her eyes in the process. 

Plan B was the inevitable trip to emergency.

It went quite smoothly once we got there.  This time both Mom and Dad could hold her down and soothe her- and just maybe the child given her all in the first fight.    Also, Dr. Pesenti’s tweezers were much more suited to nostril extractions, and the speed with which she operated made one think that this wasn’t her first rodeo. 

As we stood around afterwards examining the well-travelled tire someone asked our little princess why she had put it up her nose in the first place, wasn’t she scared it would get stuck up there?  To which she famously replied in a bit of a disgusted voice “Well, it came out fine the first time!”

And now it’s her daughter choosing to store LEGO in that little nasal chamber at the bridge of her cute little nose … not a pointy piece, mind you, just one of the LEGO people’s heads.  Apparently they fit in there perfectly. 

I wonder what the next generation will think of?

 

SUCK IT UP, SUZIE

These days my life is nothing more than a series of hunting expeditions around the house.  From window to window I go, armed with my trusty vacuum cleaner hose, seeking the vile little insects that invade my territory each autumn, and sending them off to what I hope is “bug Hell”, the vacuum canister in the basement.

Bug hunting season begins about the middle of August.  Who knows what goes through their microscopic brains, but around about pickle-making time we go from two people and a dog to two people, a dog, and 1,462 insects at least 6 of which are mosquitoes.  You know … one illusive, menacing, stealth-stinger per room? They probably enjoy the meal they are after but their real mission is drive folks crazy.  Sadly, that first killing frost finishes off the gardens, but the silver lining is that mosquito season ends then too.

I know that the purists will balk at me lumping spiders in with insects; I am fully aware that they are arachnids.  If this were a scientific article I would keep them separate, but this is written as a home owner’s defense plan … hence all the creepy crawly things in my house are classified simply as bugs.

Spiders are a year round kind of bug.  Some years are worse than others.  Sometimes they are big and spindly like a daddy-long legs, and sometimes they are pitch black, compact, and move like race cars.  As long as they stay out of my immediate space I have no malice toward them.  Besides, their main mission in life is to capture and eat other bugs – what’s not to love about that? 

Our puny Canadian spiders are capable of biting but they’re nothing to be afraid of.  Interestingly though, when an Australian grandchild shows you a red, itchy spot on her arm, the absolutely wrong thing to do is say “Oh, it’s probably just a spider bite.”  Funny story, that.  It’s been four years; she might even laugh about it now, herself.

And all bugs are not treated equally.  Every once in a while a bumble bee finds his way inside.  I confess, this is one bug I do fear.  Their pointy parts hurt.  But, I also hold them in reverence.  They are vital to the planet.  I like to eat; they are integral to the making of food.  They do not die at my hand.  They alone benefit from my catch and release program.

Fruit flies are easy.  Build a bottle trap, bait it with anything from red wine vinegar to rotting tomatoes and they honestly can’t help themselves from dying.

From there on though, we are into vacuum territory. 

First, there are the vile little striped winged flies that only showed up about fifteen years ago.  Our daughter’s professor of entomology identified it as some sort of fruit fly although I have never seen one near fruit of any kind.  On the other hand, if you hit them hard with a fly swatter you get what looks like a smear of grape jelly squished all over your counter/window/table/floor so maybe that’s where the fruit connection comes in.  All I know is that it is because of them that the vacuum cleaner is my weapon of choice.  The warmer the day the more alert they are, the faster their reflexes, but my hunting skills have improved vastly over the years.  Entering my house is their self expression of a death wish, which I am more than glad to assist them with.

A much easier critter to catch is the maple bug.  Slow, plodding, predictable, mechanical, monotonous maple bugs.  If you’re too lazy to go get the vacuum and just shoo them away they will plod right back, creepily reclimbing your pant leg or crawling across the same shoe.  It’s not that they are sneaky, or hard to kill, it’s just that there are so damned many of them.  1,073,928 at last count. 

And last, but not least – the common house fly.  Clearly outnumbered by the thronging masses, but as unwelcome as ever.  I have to say that coming across one of these heritage stock insects does incite a short wave of nostalgia and I briefly find myself longing for the good old days when they alone grossed me out. 

It’s been a few hours since I patrolled the combat zone.  It’s time to fire up the artillery and wipe out the enemy’s newest recruits.

One of these days I’m going to have to empty that canister …