Spring Break

Spring break sends me into escape mode.

I love my son but I am really not a ‘kid’ person. I used to be when I was younger but now I’m  a parent and jaded. He’s seven. Gone are the days when I could stare in fascination at his cleverness. I am just Lego-ed out. We also know each other so well that we bore one another after eight hours together. Yes, it sounds awful. Yes, you go through the same thing.

When five o’clock hits and Daddy gets home, I look for any excuse to get the hell out of the house.

“Oh Hi! Honey, do you want a beer? Oops. Shit. Out of beer! Let me just run and get that for you!!! Back in a flash, you big stud of a man.” (I don’t really say that last part. That’s what I’m sure goes through his mind. And any other variation of stallion, hero, sex machine, etc. I let him dream.)

Off I go, twenty precious silent fucking minutes to myself!!! Amen! (Can you hear the angels singing?)

I get to the small town country store that sells gas, groceries, prophylactics and booze. We require one-stop-shopping here in the wilds of Alberta. You have to be able to live your whole life in your truck. And apparently, to work in said store, you have to be certifiably batshit crazy.

As a reformed mental health worker, I still carry that wondrous professional demeanor that attracts all manner of folks to engage in conversation with me. I believe it’s the kind look, the tented fingertips and the sympathetic nodding. I look like you can confide in me. I look like I give a shit. Oft times, I’m okay with it. Hubby is too. He stands off to the side as I get my ear bent by a dirt covered street person who is telling his story as I give him money.

But on breaks from school? Yeah. NO TALKYTALKY!!! I am here to get beer, groceries, gas and prophylactics!!!!! Not to fucking VISIT!!!

As I walked into the store, the gal who’s been there FOREVER said to me “Greetings”. Because I was in a good mood from being in the cone of silence (otherwise known as my car) I responded with “Earthling”. That was the absolute worst thing I could have said.

“Oh, did you know that on other planets, they don’t call us earthlings? They call us Terrans”! (oh my fucking god.) “Did you know that aliens with tails already live here??? They’re called shape shifters”! (nod and smile, Leanne. nod and smile.)

That woman blathered on excitedly for I don’t know how long. So much so that she started to get those little pockets of spit at the corners of her mouth.

I have never before prayed for a horrible, slaughtering blood-bath of a hold up. I figured I could sneak away while she was busy with the carnage.

SPRING BREAK!!! NO TALKYTALKY!!! I extricated myself, finally. Got in my happy silent car and with a sigh of relief, headed for home. Ahhhhhhh…

As I was motoring down the road, quite near my home, my car did this weird thing. It decided to spin its rear end around. I thought, “Well that’s puzzling.” A well-trained winter driver remembers to drive through the skid and not lose their shit. I tried that. For a moment. It didn’t work.

I believe my exact thoughts were “Whoops!WhoopswhoopsWHOOPSWHOOPSWHOOPSOHDEARGODTHISISGOINGTOHURT”! 

I stopped with one front tire almost squeaking over the edge to take me down sideways into the coulee. I grabbed my wallet and phone to jump out and as I did so, the car slide another foot towards the trees. Which hurt my feelings. I was like, “Really, Subaru? 165 pounds? Really? I’m that heavy?”

I rang the hubby and the neighbour to pull me out. Then I tried to call Jesus. I couldn’t get him so I called his dad.

“Hey, Holy, it’s me. What. the. fuck?”

“Hi. Listen, hang on a sec. I have to pause my PVR.” (Yes. God has one.)

“So….?”

“Oh that! Look, I was just fucking around with you! You seemed kinda bitchy to that alien lady in that store and well, I thought I should, you know…”

“Kill me?”

“Aw, no, just, you know…”

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“Little bit.”

I hung up. When Holy is bored, there is no point in telling him to knock his weird shit off. If he thinks he’s getting a rise out of you, he feeds on the attention.

When hubby pulled up, he got a strange look on his face. “How the hell…”

“I don’t know! There was an alien lady at the beer store and Jesus wouldn’t take my call and I’m never leaving the house AGAIN!!!”

“Oh. Well. That explains everything.”

I kissed my son. Many, many times. We loved each other hard for the next few days. And yesterday, during a tickle fight, his foot flew out of nowhere and hit me on the bridge of my nose. We all heard the crunch.

Three days into spring break. Not sure if I’ll survive.

The Husband Doesn’t Believe

You’ll be happy to know that stinky wife week has ended. Well, you won’t, but my family is. Although the dogs paid me much more attention than usual.

As I’ve said in my previous post The End Is Nigh, it is practice for the apocalypse. The hair I let grow on my legs is for camouflage (I figure I can hide like a Sasquatch. Or a Wookie. Lets say Wookie, because Wookies are real!) but I do shave when it gets to the point that if I move quickly, I smell burning hair. This is all stuff that my husband can’t understand.

“What’s with the armpit hair?”

“I’m pretending.”

“What in the fuck are you pretending? That you are a hairy man?”

I don’t tell him a Wookie.

“I’m pretending I’m a French girl. Or Italian. Spanish. I don’t know. Some European country where it’s considered sexy not to shave.”

“Well maybe you should be pretending to be a not hairy Canadian and get a razor. And a bar of soap.”

That man has no sense of adventure.

Last spring I was alone here in the country. Son was at school. All peace and quiet. I looked out at my neighbour’s and saw three men in orange vests moving slowly across his property. They had helmets and walkie talkies, and some sort of weird machine that I thought was a Geiger counter. I was convinced aliens had crashed in his yard.

I phoned my husband and spoke in a terrified whisper.

“There are guys all over the place! They’re looking for aliens! I think it’s the government! You’d better get home! They might kill me because I know too much!”

To which my hero replied: “Did you put a bra on this morning?”

Ummm, what?

I’m not sure how that would have saved my life. Perhaps he thought if I was buxom and pert, they may let me survive.

I have pulled him out of bed to look at something in the sky that I was sure was a UFO. That was headed for our house. To get me.

“C’mon! Just look at it! What d’ya think it is?”

“A plane. Listen. Hear It? Are you even sober? I’m going back to bed, weirdo.”

He doesn’t believe. It’s all right. He indulges my whimsy and I think it gives him something to talk about at work.

The upside? When my emergency preparedness funkiness ends, he thinks something really exciting and special is happening.

“WOW! You look great! Is it our anniversary? Did I miss it?”

No, baby. This is just for you.

(And because my pit hair was actually starting to tangle. He doesn’t need to know that.)