Are we there yet?

It’s almost noon and I’m still sitting here in my jammies, café au lait beside me. This is technically the first day of my summer vacation, so I figure I’m entitled.

However, we are leaving in two days for sunny Greece and Istanbul, and I have a million things to do in preparation. And I sit here at the kitchen desk, sipping my café au lait and pottering about on the computer.

I started packing last night. There are clothes strewn all over my bedroom (still) as I attempt to choose which capris, which skirts, which tops, which damn shoes to bring. I thought I had this packing-for-Europe thing down pat, since I’ve done it almost every summer for the past 7 years. I do actually have it down to a science, but I’m second-guessing myself, as usual. Hence the early start to packing, in the hopes that by tomorrow night, I’ll have it all done.

DD is working today and tomorrow, and is off to a concert tomorrow evening. I asked her earlier today when she was planning to get her packing done. She gazed at me for a long time, then haughtily informed me that she had it all done in her head, then rattled off exactly what she was bringing. O – kay. That’ll work. That’ll also take her all of five minutes, probably on Wednesday morning as we await our ride to the airport.

A friend of DD’s will be staying in our house while we’re gone, which, while great for security and plant-watering, is another thing I have to think about. What does this girl like to eat? Should I leave any food in the fridge for her? She hasn’t yet replied to DD’s email asking those very questions. Did I remember to tell her where the vacuum is kept, just in case she needs it? Um – no, I didn’t. Did I show her where I keep the laundry detergent? Well, no. Did I tell her that PG will be coming to take my car for a week or two so he can have the paint looked at (he’s not entirely happy with the quality of the paint on the roof or hood and thinks that “something” needs to be done about that)? Again, no.

So I must leave DD’s friend a note detailing all of this, plus anything else I can think of that might be pertinent. And she’s really a lovely, very responsible young woman whom I have known for 13 years!

I need to chill out about these things. I’m not doing any of the million things I need to do anyway, I’m just thinking anxiously about them all.

Yes. Relax.

I’m going to go watch “Shirley Valentine” on DVD now. That is definitely good preparation for Greece.

Nailed

It was the last day of school yesterday. The kids weren’t there, only us teachers. We all had to organize our classrooms for the janitors to do their big year-end cleaning, as well as clean up designated areas of the school, like the gym equipment room or the art room.

I’m changing classrooms for next September, so I have also been taking boxes over to my new (smaller) classroom all week. Yesterday was the day to unpack and store all my stuff in its new home – only my new classroom has a lot less storage space than my old one had. I ended up just leaving a number of boxes sitting on tables, waiting for September. I know some teachers will show up next week to continue their cleanup, but I won’t. I’ll come in a couple of (unpaid) days early in September and finish up.

So, yesterday, I had to move my computer and its desk, a shelf unit, several stacks of chairs and tables, two small bookshelves, as well as unpack a whole bunch of boxes – and there are still more boxes to empty. It’s quite amazing to see all that I have accumulated in four years at this school! I tried to rearrange the furniture in the room as best I could, but I have to say that I’m not entirely satisfied with what I’ve done so far. I’ll have to redo it, I know. I’m kind of fussy about things like that, but I’ll know when it’s right. Feng shui is important.

But all that moving stuff around is NOT good for gel nails.

You can’t really tell in these crappy photos, but I broke two nails on my right hand. I think my thumbnail on my left hand is ready to pop off, too.

Yep, that was 26$ well-spent for those gel nails. Every two weeks yet.

Good thing I already have an appointment booked with my nail lady for next Tuesday.

Pardon?

So I’m sitting in my kitchen after dinner, reading the morning newspaper and sipping on a bottle of water. (I know, living on the edge, aren’t I?). I’m reading the comics page very closely, because that’s the only really interesting part of the morning paper. Then I jump out of my skin because there is a knock at my back window.

My back window. Yes. Someone has come into my little back yard and is knocking at my back window. Nobody ever does that – except Porsche Guy all summer long, and that one time the Unbook Club gals all arrived at once, and my mom at Easter because it was raining and she didn’t feel like going around to the front door, or DD’s friend who actually thought that he was at the front of our house the first time he came over – okay, maybe not “nobody” exactly. But the fact remains that most people do come around to the actual front door and ring the doorbell. It’s not that far: just down the driveway and a quick turn to the right and up a few stairs. It takes about a minute, tops, from the street.

Anyway, after I put my skin back on, I glance up and see a really large hairy man with aviator sunglasses peering in my patio door. I cautiously slide the patio door open about two centimetres and look at him blankly.

The really large hairy man with aviator sunglasses says something, and so help me, I do not understand a single syllable. I do not recognize anything he utters as a known language. It is a bunch of sounds to me.

“Sorry?” I say questioningly.

The really large hairy man with aviator sunglasses says something else (I think. Maybe he just repeats himself. I can’t tell.), and all I get out of it was that he appears to be looking for somebody. Somebody else who also doesn’t speak any recognizable language.

“No,” I say regretfully, shaking my head. I really haven’t a clue what I am just refusing.

The really large hairy man with aviator sunglasses then, wonder of wonders, throws a few words of English at me, along with a bunch more sounds that I still cannot place as a language. I understand only “Do you know?” and “Drive a big – a big – Ford Explorer” and “South African”.

“Ah!” I say, comprehension finally dawning – sort of. “Next door!” I gesture towards the home of the next-door neighbours whom I don’t like, the noisy ones with the birds and the barbecue and the four kids.

The really large hairy man with aviator sunglasses does not say another word to me in any language, but turns and waddles down the walk to the back gate. He passes through and heads into the neighbours’ backyard. Someone comes out of their house and they all joyously make noises in what I now realize is Afrikaans.

It seems that I am not as good at recognizing languages as I thought I was. And I should have recognized that accent and those sounds as Afrikaans, since the family of one of DD’s good friends speaks the language, and we also lived next door to another South African family for a long time when DD was younger. It’s not like I have never been exposed to Afrikaans before!

But I do recognize rudeness. Especially in my own backyard. The really large hairy man with aviator sunglasses never even said thank you.

Frequent flyer

A week from today, DD and I shall be on a plane heading to Athens. The one in Greece. The ancient city one. From the west coast of Canada, it’s going to take almost 15 hours to get there (almost 20 hours, if you count connection time, but I’m not going to. That’s too depressing.).

We have to take three separate flights to get there. We have to take three separate flights to get back home again. In between we will take a few bus trips, an overnight ferry ride, and two more flights. All this in 18 days.

All this because DD has graduated from university (with a very high GPA, too, said her proud mama) and when I offered her a grad trip, she chose Greece. I agreed, then suggested Istanbul too, seeing as how we’d practically be already there. That’s the two extra flights in between getting there and going home: a flight of less than an hour from Crete back to Athens, then another just a bit longer than an hour to Istanbul.

That’s eight flights within eighteen days. That’s also a problem. I often, though not always, suffer from incredible sinus pain whenever I’m in a descending plane, and it’s gotten worse every year. The only way to curb it is drugs. Copious amounts, according to the pharmacist I consulted the other day. I should starting taking them a couple of days before flying, he advised, so as to keep those sinus passages open.

“Okay,” I said dubiously. “But what about all the flights I’m taking on this trip?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s probably a good idea to take the pills the whole time you’re away then.”

He handed me a box of fifty tablets. “That should do it.”

As I paid for them, he added this little gem. “And the only problem might be that they’re non-drowsy. You might not sleep very much.”

I might not sleep very much, he said. For eighteen days. But my sinuses will be clear.

Non-dad

Porsche Guy and I went out for breakfast this morning, to our favourite little breakfast place. We go there quite often, because we like the food, it’s good value for the money, and it’s a one-of-a-kind family-type restaurant. We mainly go there quite often because PG doesn’t always have food in his fridge of the kind that I would deign to eat for breakfast.

He had a huge waffle, scrambled eggs and sausages. I had French toast, bacon and lots of coffee. The bill came to about 15$. Cheap for a good amount of food (meaning I was stuffed, he was “comfortable”).

When the server brought our bill, she said cheerily to PG, “And Happy Father’s Day to you!” She placed a chocolate bar on the table beside the bill.

PG and I looked at each other. We’d both completely forgotten that it was Father’s Day, which is not entirely surprising since both of our fathers are gone now. But the funny part was that PG has never had children, so he’s not a father.

“Should I tell her and give the chocolate bar back?” he wondered.

A free chocolate bar? Even under false pretenses? Was he kidding??

We ate it.