Li’l squirt

My brother has been in town all this week. He’s been staying with my mom, of course, and she’s loving it. My brother loves to eat, and my mom loves to cook for him, so it’s a win-win situation.

Still, I wanted him to come for dinner to my house. I invited him and my mom to come yesterday. Unfortunately, she had a dental appointment that afternoon and was still very sore and frozen (she was having a crown done), so she begged off. So it was just my brother, Darling Daughter, and me.

You have to understand, I’m not a happy cook. I can cook, but it’s not something I really enjoy on a daily basis. DD is so fussy about what she likes, and she doesn’t like much of what I make, so that’s a bit challenging. I can get inspired and produce a very nice meal, but I don’t do it easily. It requires much thought, planning, and mental preparation.

Anyway, I managed to figure out a quick-to-prepare menu for a worknight when I wouldn’t have much time to cook. I managed to find time to whip over to the supermarket on my way home from my nail appointment the night before. I even managed to bake a cake that night.

DD was delighted. “Dessert!” she crowed. “We actually have a dessert!”

“Don’t touch it!” I snarled. “It’s for tomorrow when your uncle comes for dinner.”

So late Thursday afternoon, I was busily preparing my chicken, rice and broccoli. I set the table with the good china and silverware, and scattered candles all around the place. I turned the stereo on to a radio station with more music than talk.

Then I started zoning out over my cake. It was a fruit cocktail cake, meant to be served warm with either ice cream or whipping cream. I had both, but I wasn’t sure if the whipping cream was still good, so I thought I’d better check before offering scuzzy whipping cream for somebody’s cake.

I squirted a bit from the dispenser and tasted it. Yuck! Definitely past its prime! So much for choices – ice cream was going to be the only option for the cake.

My whip cream dispenser is one of those with the CO 2 cartridge that you shoot into it. I hate doing it, because the noise always startles me and I tend to throw things when startled. I just got it at Christmas, so I’m not very proficient with it yet. Still, I had to dump the sour whipping cream and clean the thing out. How hard could it be?

I started to unscrew the lid. The lid that is under pressure. At least the dispenser was aimed slightly toward the sink. Just as it occurred to me that perhaps I should squirt the cream out, THEN unscrew the lid – it exploded.

There was sour whipping cream everywhere within a two metre radius, including on me. I was dripping.

And just then the doorbell rang.

Fortunately, my brother is too nice of a guy to comment on things like how long it takes for his sister to answer the door, or what is the sour smell emanating from her, or why she keeps wiping the fridge or the floor or the wall while they are having a pre-dinner cocktail.

PS – Dinner and dessert were wonderful!

For my dad

Today it is two years since my dad died.

Although it was a shock, it also wasn’t. My dad had suffered four strokes in the last nineteen years, the first one when my daughter, his only grandchild, was only two weeks old. It was on the right side of his brain, meaning that the left side of his body was affected, but not his speech. He spent many months in rehab relearning how to dress himself, bathe, walk. Through it all, he remained upbeat and optimistic. Having a new grandbaby around also kept his spirits up. As he once told me, “At first, I was a little depressed, wondering ‘Why me?’ Then one day I thought, ‘Why NOT me?’ and then I felt better.”

All this was very hard on my mom, who not only worried tremendously that he might fall and injure himself, but also had to become my dad’s caregiver and take over all the household chores. She hadn’t driven much prior to this, but now she had to. She now had to deal with all their financial affairs, house repairs, car maintenance by herself. This is not to say that my dad had always done everything and my mom was completely uninvolved, not at all. My parents were always a team, doing things together, but now, Mom had no choice, she was forced into a solo role for which she wasn’t quite ready.

Still, life went on. Darling Daughter grew, and adored her Papa. He may not have been able to walk without a cane or pick her up and put her on his knee for a cuddle, but he spent many, many hours with her. He read to her, told her stories, drew for her, went for (slow) walks with her. She had the best grandfather, even if there were things he couldn’t do.

About ten years later, Dad had a second stroke. This one had more debilitating effects. His speech was affected more, and sometimes he had more trouble articulating words. His balance was shaky, and he began to spend more time in his wheelchair. His memory started to go. His body weakened.

There was a third stroke, but Mom and Dad both realized that it was fairly minor and that the hospital would be able to do nothing except keep him in for observation for a few days. The ambulance wasn’t called this time, but Dad’s overall condition was a little worse, especially his memory. He became very quiet and much more withdrawn after that.

Our last Christmas together, in 2006, it was clear to me that we were not going to have Dad around much longer. He looked so old and seemed to have so little energy. Yet, my brother was able to come home for the holidays, and Dad rallied amazingly. He was charming and witty – almost his old self (except he sometimes forgot what he had just said and sometimes it was pretty obvious that he had no idea which family member we were talking about!). But we had a wonderful time, and we were able to forget for a while just how weak Dad was.

Then, near the end of January 2007, Dad suddenly looked at Mom and said something entirely unintelligible. Mom asked him to repeat it and he didn’t seem to understand what she said. He mumbled some more gibberish and looked totally confused. Heart sinking, Mom called the ambulance again.

He’d had another stroke. But this time, the doctors told her, there was no way she could bring him home and look after him herself. He was just too mentally confused, and with his weakened physical condition, she just would not be able to cope. She understood, and plans were made for him to be transferred to the geriatric department of the hospital for a while, until a more permanent place could be found for him.

The last time I saw him, Dad’s speech was coming back, but he couldn’t remember a lot of words. He could only recall my first name, and I wonder if the only way he knew that I was his daughter was that I called him Dad. He asked after his granddaughter many times, and when I told him she was at work, he chuckled, “Oh, he loves his money, doesn’t he!” He repeatedly asked Mom if she’d help him get dressed and then they could go back to “her place”. When it was time to leave, we had to get the nurses to distract him so we could actually slip out the door.

The next day, Mom went back to the hospital to help transfer Dad to his new room in geriatrics. She said it was very nice, and that Dad quite liked the view of the mountains from the window. He had friendly roommates, and seemed content. I was unable to visit him that night, but Mom assured me he was as comfortable as could be expected.

The hospital called Mom at about 1 a.m. on January 26, 2007. She called me. He was gone. But really, he had left us about five years previously, when his memory really started to fail him and he seemed to just withdraw.

I know we were lucky to have had him for all those years, that we were on borrowed time. But I think about him a lot and miss him and love him. I always will.

Karma

At work the other day, I had to fill out some paperwork that I had never done before. There wasn’t much direction given, and I was doing it the way I thought was appropriate. I’m a bit of a stickler for details like correctly filling out forms and following proper procedure, so I was rather uncomfortable with this particular form. I wanted guidance. I wanted support. I wanted to do it right. Above all, I didn’t want to look like a moron.

We have a specialist that comes into our school a couple of times a week, and the form I was trying to complete was in his area of expertise. I finally cornered him at lunchtime, and asked him about twenty rapid-fire questions while the poor man was trying to get some coffee. He very patiently answered every question, and he even pulled out the relevant form from his briefcase to show me exactly where I was meant to write certain required information.

“Thank you so much!” I gushed. “I’ve never done this before and I really want to do it properly! I’m such a moron when it comes to stuff like this!”

Behind me came instant guffaws. It was Classy Dresser and Marathon Runner. I work with these two women, and the nicknames I have given them pretty much describe them. But they truly are terrific people, and both have a wonderful sense of humour. We laugh an awful lot when the three of us are together, and we are each constantly trying to better the other two. So the fact that they heard me refer to myself as a moron was manna from heaven for them in the teasing department.

“WHOA! You’ll never live that one down!”

“Moron, huh? You said it, not me!”

“YOU don’t know how to do something???”

“I’m gonna milk that one forever!”

I threw a few offhand (unrepeatable) comments back at them, and we all giggled for a good ten minutes. Then the bell rang and we all had to go back to work.

They both left the room, while I quickly finished up wiping the counter and checking to see that the dishwasher was properly loaded. Suddenly, there was Classy Dresser back, with a sheepish grin on her face.

“Speaking of morons,” she began, “look at me.”

Now, this woman has some beautiful clothes. She is tall, blonde, pretty, very good at her job. I would hate her if I didn’t like her so much. Still, I obliged and looked her up and down.

She was wearing two very expensive boots, one brown and one black.

I tell ya, what comes around, goes around.

Another reason I love my BMW

If you have been reading my blog regularly (all one of you – hi DD!), you will probably recall that I am the proud owner of a 2009 BMW 135i, my dream-come-true car. I planned and saved for this car for a long time, so when I took delivery of it last June, I was just over the moon.

Further, you may recall that just two months later, I was involved in a collision in which I totalled said car. Yes, I did. I cried SO hard. For a car. I know, just a car, but it was so upsetting! Fortunately, I was absolutely fine, only a slightly sore nose where the airbag had bonked me – but that didn’t matter. I had just totalled a brand new car that I had owned for only two months! How could I!

I had no problems dealing with the insurance company, and since I had a full vehicle replacement cost policy, they paid me the full price of the car. But the car had been a custom order, and my dealer couldn’t find me the exact same one anywhere in Canada (I wanted a colour called Monaco Blue, the all-season tires, and a standard transmission.) So I had to custom order the car again. And I had to wait again. And I had to rent The Mighty Hyundai for a while – a very long while, it seemed.

But my new Beemer did arrive in October, just as good as the old one, and I was just as happy – and twice as careful, believe me! And at some point later, driving around, I allowed myself to really think about what had happened, and about what MIGHT have happened if I had not been in that particular car. What if I had been in that accident in my previous vehicle, a 1995 VW Golf GTI?

It was clear to me that I’d be either dead or badly hurt. The Golf had no airbags and it was a smaller, lighter car. I wouldn’t have had much of a chance to escape entirely uninjured in it.

So I decided to write a letter to BMW. I wanted to thank them for building such a strong and safe car. I recounted the whole story, and concluded my letter by praising my salesperson at my dealership, who was so understanding and helpful throughout all my lengthy dealings with him. I told them that I planned to drive my BMW happily – and safely – for many years to come.

I mailed it off, expecting perhaps a return form letter along the lines of “Thank you for your interest in BMWs”.

Ten days later, UPS delivered a package to my house. In it was a box and a personalized letter from the Customer Interaction Specialist for BMW Canada. He thanked me profusely for sharing my experiences with them, and expressed his relief that I was able to walk away from such a serious accident. He wrote that because of the time and effort I took to write them such a positive story, he was sending me a small token of their appreciation.

I opened the box. It was a folding, black BMW umbrella, with the BMW crest (it’s actually referred to as a “roundel”) on the handle. It’s big and sturdy. It also retails for 80$ (I know! For an umbrella?!).

But I got it for the price of a stamp. (Oh, and I guess I had to buy the car in the first place, didn’t I. Twice. But let’s not nit-pick.) Regardless, I was thrilled! I got a personalized letter from BMW! I got a present from them! They know who I am! They like me!

This is what a luxury car is all about. It’s all the little extras.

Just shifting gears here …

Porsche Guy drives a … Porsche. (What – you thought maybe it was a VW??) No, he really does drive a Porsche. It’s not a brand new one, but he is quite handy with cars and has always loved to spend time tinkering on them. He claims that one of the reasons he prefers older vehicles is that he can work on them himself. I KNOW that the other reason is that he can’t afford to buy brand new the exoticars that he really wants to own – and also, he hasn’t got a clue about computers, and since new cars are full of computery things – well, it just wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

So okay, the man is a gearhead. Fine. I accept this. And since I have been known to share his enthusiasm for cars, we seem to have that weird thing known as “something in common”. (Except when he gets all technical on me, but he’s learning to recognize the glazed look I take on at those times and immediately switches to telling me how shiny and pretty the exterior paint colour is.)

Now, his Porsche being “d’un certain âge”, it requires repairs and replacement parts every so often. For example, the digital clock doesn’t work. He did get a replacement, but there is some wire missing or connection broken (or maybe it’s computer-related?) so he can’t get this new one to work yet. The hatch doesn’t always close properly – but he’s working on that, and today said he thinks he’s almost got it. The air conditioning gave up the ghost long ago, but PG says he’d way rather open the windows and feel the wind – and besides, how hot does it get in Vancouver anyway?

None of those are absolutely crucial elements to a car, really. Well, maybe the hatch is, but honestly, it mostly does close properly after a few tries. But when the gearshift broke off in PG’s hand a couple of months ago, as he was driving, now THAT was crucial. Somehow, he nursed the car home, after he pulled off the leather boot that covers the bottom half of the gearshift and gingerly gripped the five remaining centimetres of unbroken gearshift to shift as best he could. I was sure he would replace that sucker right smartly, because a gearshift is a pretty integral part of a car, especially one with a standard transmission.

Oh, he replaced it all right. With vice grips.