Wait a minute Mr. Postman

There seems to be an alarming rate of illiteracy among the mail delivery people that service our neighbourhood. Like most moms, I have a note posted on my door. It reads, "please do not ring the bell or knock... Baby sleeping.

Perhaps it should read, "make any noise and I'll castrate you", for all the respect my little plea is getting these days. And yes, it should be noted the all the offenders are male. Because no self-respecting female would incur the wrath of a mother whose baby was awoken by their inability to follow instructions.

USPS, FedEx, UPS... All the biggies are hiring idiots that must have flunked out of kindergarten, because two days is a row, Mattias has been woken early by their stupidity. My adorable son usually takes a 3 hour nap in the afternoon. Which he needs, or else he turns into something decidedly... Less adorable.

It's actually not the bell itself that wakes him up, but our dog's reaction to the bell. She sounds the alarm like nobody's business, and while I appreciate that in most cases, this is not one of them.

I came very close to chasing the mailman down today to kick him in the... Errr, give him a piece of what is left of my mind, but he was already in his truck and starting to drive away. The thought of running after his truck crossed my mind, but this neighbourhood is just not ready for that kind of crazy.

The only non-offending company is a little rinky-dink delivery service that sometimes brings me my Amazon shipments. He never rings the bell. The first time he ever delivered a package, I was sitting in my front room and saw through the window that he actually took the time to read my note and follow the instructions. I figure if he can do it, why can't the rest of them?

When I was recounting the story to my next-door neighbour, and I told her the part about chasing after the mailman, she told me, "I would have liked to see that."

She might just get her wish, if the illiteraci keep it up.

All God's creatures

The list of bugs that I can tolerate is very short. I do understand that there are some bugs out there that have some purpose in this world and I'm fine with that. The moment they step one of their creepy little legs in my house though, all bets are off and I will squish or flush their buggy asses faster than you can say RAID.

The only bug that gets a pardon is the ladybug, they get a one way ticket outside instead of the business side of my shoe.

Regardless of any good qualities they may have, I hate them all; spiders, wasps, cockroaches and weird-ass beetles that I have to google just to figure out what they are.

But the bugs that win the award for "biggest jerks" are mosquitoes and ticks. Politicians too, for that matter. I cannot abide by something that lives off the lifeblood of another and offers nothing in return.

My daughter, however, loves all these nasties and more. If I am going to dispose of a creepy-crawly unfortunate enough to be found crawling inside my house, I usually have to pretend to put it outside first before I dispatch it into a watery grave. I don't return it to the wild lest it crawl right back inside.

Why the charade? Because my daughter has an extremely sweet and soft heart. She loves these bugs as if they were her friends, or worse; her own offspring. I don't want her to think her mother is a horrible person... she'll decide that soon enough when she is a teenager.

Remember this post? When she was befriending the flies that had gotten inside our house to the point of giving them names? And then she would plead with me to not kill "Sally"? Well, it happened again, this time with a significantly more vile creature.

We brought the kids home from playing in the backyard of a friend's house the other night. As I was taking Elise upstairs for her bath, she complained that "something was crawling on her", then she shrieked and batted at her cheek. The offending bug was thrown to the ground.

I took a look and my blood ran cold. I scooped it up in a baby food jar for a closer look and my fears were confirmed... it was a TICK.

Of all the nastiness on this earth, I don't think I hate anything as much as I hate the tick. I had a run-in with them before that still makes me shudder. I kept it in the jar so I could google it's ass and spent the rest of the night certain that our house was now infested with them.

The next morning I come downstairs to find Elise holding the jar and talking to her new friend, "Tina". She wanted to keep her new friend and "feed her and give her water". Ha... fat chance.

Now granted, she does not know how awful ticks are because I chose not to disclose their modus operandi. And thankfully, the tick never bit her.

But this befriending of the nasties has got to stop lest we end up run out of the neighbourhood for having some freak show menagerie.

"Tina"

Why you won't find me on facebook

In the recent weeks, I have had some people trying to cajole me into getting on facebook. I know, I am the last person in the known universe to not have a facebook profile. So what? I didn't get a cell phone until after Elise was born.

I don't facebook.

I don't have a myspace.

I don't twitter, tweet, nor am I a twit.

I'm not even sure what friendster is.

The funny thing is, I would jump through fire for these woman who are doing their best to turn me, yet I will not sign up for facebook. And I understand why they want me on there... but I have this thing against facebook.

I think facebook, and other social networking sites like it have ruined the very notion of community. "What?" You are saying to yourself, "Joanne are you stupid?" And while the answer to that question might be yes, the footnote is; not about this.

I actually love the idea of facebook. I don't have an issue with using facebook to keep those that you love (that don't live in your general vicinity) in the loop about the goings-on in your life. I also like the idea of re-connecting with old friends that you have lost touch with and it's not always easy to keep up with them using other methods.

I also don't mind it as a way to communicate quickly and succinctly, even with those who live near you.

What I hate is how it has taken the place of any meaningful communication with the people who are supposed to be your real-life, living-and-breathing friends. You know, the ones that live within a 25-mile radius of you. People that you could get together with, if you decided to put any real effort into it.

The other thing that bugs me is how people update you on every single mundane thing in their life. I don't care if you; just walked your dog, or are going to bed, or are waking up, are shopping or not shopping on Black Friday, hate/love Black Friday, like that it's Friday, etc. But that's a whole other post.

And no, I don't think that I'm hypocritical for having a blog on which I post about MY mundane life. I do it for therapeutical reasons. Having people out there that actually come to my blog of their own volition and read my verbal spewings is just the cherry on top.

I think what started my hate for the facebook is when Elise was diagnosed with diabetes. Did you know that during the four days we were stuck in that hospital, only 5 people came to visit (and one was a couple, so really is was 4 people)? There we were, during one of the darkest times is our life; our child was diagnosed with a chronic, life-changing illness, and people thought it was okay to text us to see if we needed anything. It really made me sit up and take notice of the people we counted on as friends.

Facebook has made it okay for hands-off kind of communication, taking the place of any real community. It seems nobody wants to get involved in anybody's life anymore, especially when things get messy. Does receiving a text with a sad emoticon and the words, "hope u r ok", really convey to people that you care about them?

And that is why I shun facebook and all of it's cousins. I don't want to be okay with drive-by community. And I never want to get to the place where I'd rather write on someone's wall when their world has been shattered instead of coming alongside them and being that living, breathing, real-life kind of friend.

Why I'll be taking up residence in a mental insitution soon

I don't know what you think it looks like, but it's dog fur.

But that alone is not enough to make me want to commit myself.

It's the fact that this tuft of hair (admittedly rather small compared to some of the tumbleweeds that roll through my house), appeared a mere 60 seconds after I had just finished vacuuming.

But that's not even the whole story either.

This seemingly innocuous furry flotsam showed up only a minute after I turned the vacuum off, AND my dog was not even inside the house!

Which begs the question, where did it come from?

It shouldn't surprise me, really. I mean, my dog sheds her body weight in fur every day. And while I should roll out my Eureka at least every other day, I don't. Because who has that kind of time? Who would eat all the bon bons if I did that?

I've threatened to shave Seven on many occasions, but Fred is not cool with it. Not even if I do something funky, like just shave her body and leave her head and tail intact.

Sometimes Fred is just no fun.

I may do it anyway.

Just Bad Timing that's all

When Fred and I made our way onto foreign soil at the Peace Arch Crossing in February of 2000, we had nary an idea that we'd still be living in the U.S. almost 10 years down the road. In Texas, no less.

But here we are, and here we will remain until we have received our coveted not-actually-green cards. We started the process about seven years ago.

"Wait," you say, "did you just say you've been waiting for your not-actually-green cards for SEVEN years?"

Yes. Yes I did. And I have come to the conclusion that the U.S. government is a testimony to really bad timing. I offer the following:

Since moving here, I have never been able to legally work. It was a frustrating existence to say the least; being a willing, able-bodied and somewhat able-brained, employable person with no outlet and $75,000 of consumer debt, but not able to do my part made me a very cranky person. Alas, I found my place in a volunteer position at my church where they treated me very much like part of the staff, yet never took advantage of my vast quantities of free time. I stayed until Elise was born.

About three months after Elise's arrival, came something else. My Employee Authorization Document (EAD). In plain English it meant I could now legally receive a paycheque in the U.S. Except now I didn't want to.

Good one, American government, very funny. Have I mentioned that it's been SEVEN YEARS???

I think I forgot to mention that with the not-actually-green card application came the advice from the lawyers to not travel outside the country. That's right, Fred hasn't been able to leave the U.S. since 2001. I am more free to come and go as I please since the application is not in my name, but the last time I left was in 2005. Because let's face it, it really isn't so much fun travelling on your own unless you're 20 years old and riding the train through Europe with nothing but a backpack.

Do people still do that?

But about a week ago came Fred's long-awaited travel document. Huzzah! We can now take Elise back to Canada to meet friends and family that have only been able to watch Elise grow through our borderline-fanatical taking of the daily picture. If have no idea what I'm talking about, go here.

Except about two weeks ago I had to send my passport back to Canada for renewal, so according to the new laws, I'm not even able to enter MY OWN COUNTRY, because I am now passport-less.

Seriously, does the government keep tabs on stuff like that? Is there a guy who works for the government whose sole purpose is to send out the documents you've been waiting for at the very least convenient time? Or are they just masters of bad timing?

Oh, and 200 Senility Points for anyone who knows where the title of my post comes from (without googling it, thankyouverymuch - and yes, I'll know it if you do).

Dear Idiots

This is a letter to all the unpleasant, feel-like-they-own-the-whole-trail morons who were biking or rollerblading at Campion Trails Saturday, September 26th, 2009.

Yesterday I witnessed just how terrible people can be to one another and added yet another reason to start saving for that deserted island I'm going to need to buy to get away from people like you.

I don't understand it, but I do realize that you twits feel entitled to pathways where cars do not tread. But you do not own them. They are not yours. They are open to EVERYBODY, especially when we are walking in a CHARITY EVENT.

I'm guessing that all the tents that were set-up, or the giant balloon-arch, or the vast hordes of people wearing all sorts of matching shirts, or even the BIG SIGN THAT SAID JDRF WALK FOR A CURE, were not enough of a clue for you dimwits, but yesterday at Campion Trails in Irving was the annual Diabetes walk.

You know, I am so sorry that all those people got up early on a Saturday, took the time to raise money and awareness for this horrible disease, and spilled out onto your pathways in support of the people they love who have to live with, or take care of someone who lives with diabetes every day. How very inconvenient for you.

But for you to huff at us, and mutter things under your breath as you pushed your way through us, was a new low... even for people that are known for being so openly hostile towards those that dare to get in your way, or violate your "sacred rules of the pathway".

And to that cantankerous, old biddy on the bike who practically ran a mother who was pushing her kids in a stroller off of the pathway, then had the balls to yell at her; I have something very special to say to you. Except I'm not going to, because my Mom reads this blog and I am too much of a lady to say those things out loud.

I will say to all the pinheads on two and eight wheels; get a freaking life and chill out a little. You now have your precious trail back for the next 364 days. But we will be back, and next year I won't be above sticking my arm out to clothesline the first discourteous jerkoff-on-wheels who rolls by.

Sincerely,
Joanne

Forms, glorious forms.

Like about 99% of the population, I hate filling out forms. HATE. IT. Seriously, it makes me break out in hives just holding them. If you belong to that 1% who actually enjoys it, you're weird. No, really. You need to go look at some ink blots or something.

Then, come over to my house, because I have a job for you.

My Canadian passport is expiring in less than a month, and although I've had the renewal forms for about 6 months now, I have yet to fill them out. Because we all know that forms of ANY type are terrible things, but government forms are the worst. You know that when your forms come with instructions on how to fill out the forms, you're in trouble.

I think I've mostly procrastinated because filling these forms out takes the sort of concentration that a chemist making a very volatile concoction needs. One mistake and it's all over. Trying to do this type of stuff while you have a toddler running around intent on destroying your house, is no easy task. And I just knew at some point I would do this:

GIVEN NAME: J ¦ O ¦ A ¦ N ¦ E ¦ L ¦ I ¦ S ¦ E ¦ S ¦ T ¦ O¦ P ¦ I¦ T¦ N¦ O ¦ W¦

But when my Mom was here a few weeks ago, I though it would be a perfect time to give myself an ulcer finally complete the forms while my Mom entertained Elise.

The shrieking began about about three or four questions in; "what the crap do they mean former surname? I've given them my maiden name and my married name... I have nothing more to give. What do these people want from me? How can I have three last names? I need a drink!"

So for sanity's sake, I decided to skip that section (you know, the one where I need to know my own name) for the time being, and went onto some questions I could definitely get right.

Birthday: too easy!

Sex: yes please! (does that one ever get old?)

Then I got to the part where they outlined what ID I would need to send in along with my application. And when I discovered that I owned none of them, the shrieking commenced again at full volume. I swear I saw birds flock to they sky. This time I will not quote my exact words.

Right before I started hyperventilating, my Mom suggested I call the passport office and see what they suggest. Because phoning a government office would make me less irate, wouldn't it?

But since it was my only option, I called. I almost had a heart attack when all I had to do was press 0, and the automated system immediately directed my call to an operator. Even more surprising was the fact that I only waited on hold for about two minutes.

But what really made my jaw drop to the floor is that the person I talked to was nice, knowledgeable and helpful. Sweet-mother-of-all-things-holy, was this really the government I was talking to? I had to look out my window to see if it was snowing in Dallas, or if there were swine elegantly gliding through the air.

The answers were no and no, respectively. And the kind, could-not-be-a-government-employee lady made me swoon further when she told me that I didn't need to fill out the long, cumbersome form that I was presently trying to muddle through. There was a shorter, easier form available on-line. And because I met a bunch of certain requirements, I didn't need to send any of my ID.

Joy!

So, I'm presently procrastinating on filling out yet another form, and writing this post instead. Because although this form is indeed shorter and better, it still has that worrisome "former surname" question.

And let the shrieking begin...

Is the econmy THAT bad?

You know what I hate? Stupid people.

You know what I hate even more? Stupid people that steal our stuff.

You know what I hate most out of all of these? Stupid people that steal our stuff that they could otherwise get for free if they just made an effort.

I came out of my house a few Mondays ago to find only one of our two blue recycling boxes missing. Fred looked up and down the street, but it appeared as though some thief had absconded with it. This is annoying on so many levels, least of which that we now had too much recyclables and not enough receptacle.

Fast forward about a week, and we now have a spiffy new landmark in our garage; the Leaning Tower of Plastic (and aluminum, and cardboard, etc). How am I supposed to live with only one blue box? And what kind of a person steals them?

The only reason my muddled brain can come up with as to why someone would make off with our recycling box is because someone took theirs, so they in turn, helped themselves to ours. It can't be for the reason we used to "borrow" our neighbour's boxes as kids; when you pack them full of snow, they make wonderful bricks for snow forts. Perhaps one of our neighbours is making himself a good ol' dirt fort, or something. Who knows?

Anyway, you know what I love? Living in a city that, even though I called the water department because I had the bill downstairs and I was too lazy to go upstairs and look on the internet for the phone number for whatever department handles recycling, the lady who picked up the phone (and it was a real person who picked it up, no annoying "press-one-for-this" menus) answered my question on how to get a new box, as well as giving me directions to the office, and telling me the hours of operation.

Do you think you can install Lo-Jack on a recycling box? I might just try it.