Adult in Training

So I’m going to Ottawa this weekend to help my aunt move.  Because I do a lot of schlepping at POE, and have to consider myself something of a professional now.  And also because I am not a dick.  So then why, on the morning I am supposed to leave, has God stricken me with crippling stomach pains?

And no, I do simply mean cramps.  Trust me when I tell you that I have no problems talking about that type of pain.  I went to an all-girls high school, it was weird when of us wasn’t talking about cramps. This time I am talking about a fist in my stomach, made of lead, that has gathered up the contents of said stomach and is holding everything hostage.  That’s what it feels like.  But only when I am standing up.  I’m sort of fine when I am sitting.  Then just my back hurts, but I’d like to think that’s unrelated.  What is my problem!!!

Last time I went to my aunt’s house, I drank a red bull before I left, and then pounded another one when I got there.  Then, about four hours later I’m pretty sure I started having heart palpitations, while simultaneously suffering a huge allergy attack to her (hypoallergenic) dog.  And then I passed out and slept for thirteen hours.  The inside of my nose has still not recovered completely. 

So now, I sit typing, while both my mother and I ponder what could be wrong with me.  I sit, because it’s the only time I don’t feel like there is something very wrong.  Something that neither Tums nor gingerale can fix.  Mom won’t let me have Pepto-Bismol, because she says that my stomach isn’t upset, due to my lead fist analogy.  She says I need to shake it up, so to speak.  I find that extremely concerning. 

So I am hoping that within the next half-hour I am feeling better.  Because I have places to go and people to see.  If I was only missing work, I wouldn’t be so concerned.  In fact, if I was only missing work, I would probably be treating this situation much the same way I would have if I was having exams right now; which is to say that I would be thanking my lucky stars and crossing my fingers, hoping that the mysterious illness would last long enough to stop being inconvenient and morph into awesome enough to get me out of my responsibilities.  Not the case.

I have tried to explain to the guys I work with that most days it would be safer for everyone if I wasn’t allowed to leave the house.  They think I am exaggerating.  It might be because I have something of a tendency to exaggerate.  But in this case, I am not.  My time at POE has left me with more bumps, bruises and scars than all my other jobs combined.  It’s absurd.  Just the other day, I was shaving, and had to skip a huge patch on my shin, because a bruise there made it too painful to run a razor over the skin.  Before that, one of my bosses asked me if I was depressed because I now have gross scars on my forearms that sort of make me look like a cutter.  Cool.  And the best part?  Knowing that I inflicted every single one of these injuries on myself.  The boys at work are so careful around me, I think they would die where they stood if they ever hurt me.

My driving is another thing all together.  I have always maintained that, minus a few incidents, I have a very good driving record.  I like to drive fast, but it keeps my mind on the road.  I like to play loud music, but instead of distracting me, it helps me to focus.  I’m not really sure how.  I guess it would be like playing music while doing homework; it blocks everything else out. But now I can officially say that I have become a hazard on the road.  Why, you may ask?

Because I only have one working windshield wiper, and it’s on the passenger side!  That’s right.  My windshield wiper chose to break during the week that we are supposed to get precipitation every single day.  Last night I had to start my car then, standing beside my car, I had to move the wiper myself a couple times.  Then I got back in the car and drove like a mad woman all the way to work, all the time avoiding driving behind anyone who might spray their tire shit up onto my windshield.  By the time I got to work, I had about 60% visibilty.

So I took my car to Canadian Tire when I woke up – after checking the weather see that we are supposed to get either rain, snow or a mixture of both all night long.  I thought I was being a responsible car owner.  Only when I got there – four hours before they were supposed to close – the lady told me that if they took my car all apart – I hadn’t realized that it would be such an ordeal – they wouldn’t be able to get me parts this late.  Sweet.

So if you are driving down the road tonight and you see a crazy person with the window rolled down and a windshield wiper in their hand, frantically trying to clear the windshield of all the crap that’s falling from the sky, you’ll know it’s me.  Because only someone as hazardous to themselves and others as I am could work themselves into such a predicament.

I’ve always been the sort of person to laugh at cheerleaders.  I mean, while watching – the original – Bring It On I gained a better understanding of how hard it is to be a good cheerleader, but still at heart, I mock them.  And not because they wear unnecessarily revealing clothes, or because they spray their panty line with hairspray (that’s actually a good idea) but because they cheer.

I have never been into cheering.  In fact, I have loathed every situation in which I may have been forced to cheer.  Particularly when I first started playing girls’ softball, only to find that it was really just a conveinent front for cheering.  I cannot express to you how relieved I was the year that my team finally grew out of it.

That’s not to say that I don’t like to encourage my team.  I am all for the encouraging.  Particularly in softball, when I used to be the catcher.  The position easily lends itself to encouragement, especially if you have a nervous pitcher.  Oddly, I’ve found that when I’m encouraging someone, I feel the need to say everything twice.  It’s a compulsive habit that I sometimes find embarrassing, but can never seem to stop.

“Let’s go!”  turns into: “Let’s go, let’s go!”.  “Come on, now!” turns ino: “Come on, now, come on, now!”.  And no matter how long the phrase is, it gets repeated in some form.  “Alright, we’ve only got ten more to go!” would turn into something like: “Alright, we’ve only got ten more to go, ten more to go now!”  There’s no explaining it.  Do I think that maybe if I say it twice, the person will be doubly encouraged?  Frankly, if I was on the receiving end, I think I would just be annoyed.  But then, I am easily annoyed.

Some team cheers I believe in.  Before a game, when I played hockey for my college, we had a ritual cheer.  It got us pumped for the game, and brought us together as a team.  But the point was to scream as loud as we could.  There was no co-ordinated movement involved.  There were no sassy questions with smart-aleck replies.  There was no “Extra, extra, read all about it, (name) got a triple and we’re going to shout it!” There was simply “Who’s house is this?”  “Our house!” 

The old overnight manager at my Place of Employment (POE) used to feel – I think – the same way.  He would forego to usual long, drawn-out cheer, replacing it instead with a simple: “Go night crew”.  I can deal with that, even if I think that turning your pre-shift meeting into a pep rally is silly and naively optimistic.  But that manager left, and so to prepare us for the eventual permanent replacement, we have been forced to do the long, drawn-out cheer before every shift.  It involves much clapping, the “giving” of letters (as in “Gimme a ‘P’!”) and in the middle it requires an action that we are supposed to assume denotes a “squiggly”.  More than actually doing the action, I’m upset by the fact that the head office employee who wrote this cheer felt is was neccessary to add the “squiggly” at all, as though if it were left out, I wouldn’t know what I was spelling, or who I was working for.

I wish that I could simply abstain from the cheer.  Politely decline to give any letters.  Tell my boss that cheering makes me break out in unfortunate hives – not true, but a good excuse.  Forcing me to tell you that I am “All fired up and ready to go!” just makes me feel like more of a drone, with no identity and no control over anything – including apparently my emotions, since frankly, somedays I’m not all fired up and ready to go, I’m counting the minutes until I can leave. 

There’s no sense of identity in these cheers.  Saying the words doesn’t make me feel like a part of something larger, something better than just myself.  In fact, sometimes it just serves as a reminder that I’m under-acheiving and should be at a job that doesn’t require a spelling bee in the morning.   Cheers and chants and secret handshakes can make you feel “in”.  Make you feel like you’re part of something, anything, bigger and more important than yourself.  Or they can make you feel like you would do anything to get out.

So the first snow of the year was yesterday.  I had my snow tires put on last Friday.  Four of them this year.  The other two were an early Christmas present from Dad.  They are amazing!  I felt like I was driving a tank!

I work at night, so of course the roads are crappy and the weather is colder.  The upside is that there are less stupid people out and about in their cars as well.  Needless to say, I made it safely to work and back without even noticing that there was snow on the ground.  The only beef I have is that my window wipers are still utterly crap.  And I think it’s the actual arm of the wiper, and not the – easily replaced – wiper blade.

When I got home today, I brushed off my mom’s car – in my super sweet Mad Bomber toque from L.L. Bean, who is still my favourite man – and then I went up the porch to go into the house.  And then I was like: “Hmm… maybe I’ll give these a shovel.”  So I did.  And before I knew it, I had suckered myself into shovel the porch, our front walk, our side walk and my neighbour’s sidewalk as well.  He died last year, so I figure that’s a good excuse not to do it himself.  But he was always super nice to us, and I feel bad for him because he house just went up for sale like a week ago.  Which I think might only make sense in my head.

Anyways. With my sweet toque, my Newfie mitts and my snow tires, I figure I’m pretty much ready for anything Winter thinks to throw my way.  Not only am I ready, but I think I just might laugh in it’s face.  No longer will I be the girl who won’t leave her house, for fear she won’t get back up the driveway!

I am struggling like whoa this year with my Christmas List.  Usually, I have to admit, I kick it’s ass.  Starting a little after American Thanksgiving (last weekend) I make a list of all the people I’m getting presents for, and what I’m getting them.  And then, following this carefully laid-out list, I shop until I drop.  Which isn’t as dangerous as it sounds, because usually I am shopping from  the comfort of a couch or chair, as I am a HUGE supporter of online shopping.  And an equally huge hater of each and every mall from November through December.  If I am honest, I hate malls all the time, but will occassionally brave them.  However, you had better be Jesus if you think I’m going to a mall for you from now until New Year’s.

This year I am coming up blank though.  Absolutely blank.  I’ve bought one present.  And I didn’t even come up with this idea on my own, it was broadly hinted to me, so I’m not really counting it as a stroke of genius, like I do most of my presents.  I know what I’m getting my boys, and I have to say I sort of impressed myself with those gifts.  “The Dangerous Book for Boys – Canadian Edition”. I am excited for them.  Even though one of them can’t read English yet – though he reads better French than I do.  There is a lot of stuff to do in there, and frankly, if you are going to do it all, you have to start quite young. 

And I’ve already had a super awkward moment for Christmas. I was out with my brother, and we were looking at some magazines and I was all like: “Hey, I was thinking about getting Dad a magazine subscription for Christmas. Does he like to read anything?”  Do you know what his response was? “He reads Playboy.” Oh, does he?  I don’t really care, and neither am I particularly suprised.  But that is not an appropriate gift from a daughter.  And frankly, not something I want showing up on my credit card statement.  Call me crazy.  My brother does.  He can’t understand why it makes me itchy just to think about it.  Needless to say, Dad is just one of the many people on my list that I am struggling with.

It all combines to make me sad.  I love Christmas shopping (minus malls).  It puts me in the Christmas mood almost as much as when “W” channel starts playing like three Christmas movies a day.  And this year I am drawing all blanks.  It’s like all my warm, Christmas-y feelings are being trapped behind my Gifter’s Block.  I worry that I may be forced to brave the malls, just to get my creative juices flowing. On the other hand, I’m not sure who would want to get a gift that I was inspired to buy while I contemplated killing an entire family who decided it was a good idea to hold a Family Meeting at the top of the escalator, forcing me to climb in place until I could get them to notice me, and the other twenty people getting pissed-off behind me (Both a nightmare and a true story).

So wish me luck.  And if you are one of those people getting presents from me this year, keep yourself warm at night with the thought that while no animals were harmed in making your present, small children may have died in my quest to get it.