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Jasper Ave, 5:05 pm

5:05 p.m.  At the top of the hill, two girls wait to cross Jasper.  Both pacing, both with the swagger of the chemically altered.  Sensible enough to wear jackets, but not jackets meant for the season.  Those impossibly tight faded jeans can’t be helping them keep warm, either.  A pickup truck, Ford, mid-80’s, rusty, pulls up, to wait for the same light.  The girls stare down the middle-aged man inside, taking in the grey hair resting on his shoulders, the mustache-beard combo.  Does he have money?  Will he party?  One girl yells.  Not at him, necessarily.  Just yells.  The other thrusts her pelvis, grabs her crotch, by way of advertisement.  His jaw tightens, he stares ahead with self-imposed blinders.  The girls laugh, the pitch too high.  They missed their light, but they cross, anyway.

5:09 p.m.  Columns of glass and steel rise, meeting the sky, choking out what little sunlight lingers.  Three men, two in trench coats step quickly onto the curb.  Then, turn to cross again, doing their best to ignore the gentleman with the matted hair, who is engaged with a tree planted in the middle of the sidewalk.  As the man, whose jacket and fingernails match his hair in filth, approaches the trio, they tense, but only slightly.  Even a homeless man should know that these are men of purpose.  Men who do not hand out nickels to other men.  Knowing he’ll be rebuffed, he perseveres, asks the Important Men for help, hand held out in the universal gesture of supplication.  And in return they give him the universal shake of the head, the refusal to acknowledge that both types of people exist, are necessary.  But men who talk to trees are not always easily rebuffed.  He advances.  They close ranks, Armani shoulder to Armani shoulder, and turn their collective back.  A small woman, black hair tied at the nape of her neck, business-suited, silently presses a bill into his hand.  And they stand together, staring at the wall of Armani.

5:12 p.m.  A man and a woman come up out of the underground tunnels.  The man leads, pace brisk, focused.  The woman runs to catch up.  Briefcases in both their hands confuse, initially.  Co-workers, rushing to catch the same bus?  Or a couple, meeting up at the end of the workday?  The confusion clears as the woman talks, talks ahead, saying twice as many words as she needs to, in the vain hope that some of them will stick to him.  He hears the words, the irritation and resignation on his face showing that he does.  But he’s not listening.

5:17 p.m.  A pink snowsuited girl, curly brown hair sneaking out from under a toque, extends her hand above her head, in order to hold the hand her mother offers.  A flashing Do Not Walk hand is failing to enthrall her.  She jumps, as high as a small child in winter boots can.  And then higher.  And higher.  Her mother, same curly brown hair, is loaded down with shopping bags, purse, messenger bag, and a My Little Pony backpack.  Any trace of sunlight is now completely absent.  A fiery ball of pure energy is attempting to tear her already overloaded arm out of its socket.  And the mother looks down at the ball.  And she grins.

(Image is On my way to work by Nelson_77)

Tuesday, Crappy Tuesday

Here are the facts:

1. The Boy is being un-dilligent about finishing his school lunches. It doesn’t matter what we send him – he’s not going to eat it. Healthy, fatty, salty, sweet, crunchy, chewy, whatever, it’ll come back home in his lunchbox. (I can only assume he’s existing on oxygen and potential at this point.) But every now and again, we hit on something he’ll eat. I emptied his still-heavy lunch bag after school today. The contents: a whole wheat bun, an apple (with, it should be noted, a bite out of it), a container of carrots, a granola bar. And two empty yogurt containers.  So at least he’s eating something, right?

2.  The Husband went grocery shopping no more than 3 days ago.  Included in his purchases were two family size tubs of yogurt.  Not just any yogurt.  The kind that makes your intestines do a happy dance.

Both The Husband and I can recall doling out bowls to The Boy over the last 3 days.  Neither of us recall eating any, ourselves.

Both of those tubs are empty, in the recycling bin.

3.  We have one bathroom in this house.  This imposes an intimacy on our family that, while stifling at times, keeps us all apprised of where the others are on the regularity spectrum.  And The Boy, shall we say, is Due.   If you know what I mean.

Tomorrow could be one hell of a day for a certain elementary school teacher.

And maybe an elementary school janitor.

If you were here a year ago, you might remember Holidailies.

Wherein I promised to blog every damn day for a month. But not just any month – December. The craziest, most out of control month on the calendar.  Last year, I was busy.  This year, I’ve added a full time job into the mix.

Despite the craziness, the busy-ness of this time of year, I loved Holidailies last year.  (It may have been the only thing that kept me sane.  Ish.)  So every day, from now till January 6, I’ll be here.  Daily.  For better, or oh-good-god-why-won’t-she-shut-up-worse.

If you are new here, if you came over from the Holidailies page, then as the title of this post says, Welcome!

Poke around, find out as much or as little about me as you want.  And since this is the festive season, I think one of the quickest ways to get to know me is to hear about my favorite Christmas carol.  Or, more specifically, my favorite version of my favorite carol.

When I was a kid, in middle-of-nowhere-Canadian-prairie, we got two TV channels.  Two.  Nowadays, if my family misses the 6:30 showing of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”, we can catch it on another channel at 7:30.  Or 8:00.  Or next week.  Or wait for the live-action Jim Carrey version.  Not so when I was a kid.  It came on once, and there was no PVR, and you either watched it or you didn’t.

So we fell into the habit of taping damn near everything that came on TV during the month of December.  On a couple of VHS tapes, that no matter how much we adjusted the tracking stayed snowy, and just got snowier.  If you were to sift through the detritus of my childhood, you’d probably find the tape, in an orange box, labeled “DON’T TAPE OVER”.  That was the tape with  A Claymation Christmas Celebration on it.

Nope, that's not poop.

For those of you born after 1985, the Claymation clan included the California Raisins.  Shriveled grapes designed to market raisins to me, they also sang a jive version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”.

We were obsessed.  My sisters and brother and I couldn’t stop singing it.  If we started it, we had to finish it.  Four little white Canadian kids doing their very best blues version of a Christmas classic.  And the fun didn’t end in December.  Oh no.  No, we’d watch that snowy VHS tape right into the summer, butchering harmonies, channeling our inner Arethas.

This Christmas finds the four of us as spread out, geographically, as we’ve ever been.  Between us, we’ve brought another four little kids into the world.

I miss my sisters and brother.  I’m sad I won’t spend Christmas with them.  But the one thing that makes me feel a little closer?  That any time any of us hears the song, or sings it to one of our kids, whether we mean to teach it to them that way or not, it will be the Raisins’ version.

“Hey RUDOLPH!  C’mon and guide my sleeeeiiiigh!”

West Jet, FTW!

Admittedly, I don’t fly a lot. I never even boarded a plane till I was 18. I’ve flown less than a dozen times since then. But when I have flown, it’s generally with West Jet.

Started in 1996 here in my corner of the world, they are the anti-big guys.  Affordable, friendly, reliable.  For someone like me, who didn’t always know what was what when it came to air travel, they just seemed more approachable, not all cold and corporate, like some other airlines that shall not be named (rhymes with “Schmair Schmanada”).

But then….

about a week ago, I was booked on a flight.  Under the wrong name.  (It’s complicated, but suffice it to say, “Ginny” is not the name on my driver’s license.)  I needed to fix it, and kind of quickly.  I called the company’s 1-800 number.

And my call got dropped.  Repeatedly.

On the fifth try, it didn’t get dropped.  Instead, a recorded voice told me no one could take my call, and to try back “in a couple of hours”.

Really?

They also directed me to their website.  But like everything else in my overly-dramatic life, my problem just didn’t fit into the parameters of what could be done on the website.

And in the year 2009, where is one to take their frustration?

Twitter!

I threw out a snarky tweet, aimed at West Jet, with the hashtag   “#customerservicefail”.  Publicly called them out.

Within a minute, less than 60 seconds, I had a direct message from the company.

Seriously.

And within another 5 minutes?  The problem was completely and utterly taken care of.  Without so much as a “So THERE” from the company representative who saved me.  (There’s a real good chance I wouldn’t have been so gracious.)

It doesn’t end there, though.

Because a week later, I had to cancel the flight.  And again, the phone system let me down.  And again, it was too complicated for the website.

So what worked once might work again, right?

Back to Twitter, hat slightly in hand, I ask for help.  And I get it.  Immediately and without hassle.

West Jet’s having some big, ugly problems with their reservation systems, according to their website.  They admit that right up front.

But what impressed the hell out of me is that instead of being defensive, bombarding me with excuses, making me feel like I should just accept the situation (like some bigger companies might have),  they quietly and efficiently made it right.  Even when confronted with a customer who came at them publicly and full of snark.

West Jet, I will wait for you, through this hiccup your company is experiencing.  Because if there’s one thing I want to impart to my kids, it’s that they need to take responsibility for their own actions.  And this is a most excellent example of that.

The first time I remember hearing Pat Benatar, I was in front of a TV, watching “Video Hits” on CBC after school.   Makeup slashed across her face, ripped clothes, fierce glare, telling me love was a battlefield, and I believed her, even though I was seven and had not a hot clue what she meant by that.

On the rare (ahem) occasion I drink too much, nothing makes me feel happier than belting out “All Fired Up”.  (Try it next time.  You’ll see.)

I even followed Pat into her blues era, for god’s sakes.  Not many people did.  But I could dig it.

This week, I went back to work.  I love it.  I love the job, I love the people I work with, I love the work the organization does (And that’s the last you’ll ever hear about the job itself.  Because it’s just one of those jobs you don’t discuss the details of. )

The husband is in favor.  The Boy is virtually unaffected, as all of this work stuff takes place in the hours he is at school.

But The Girl…..

She’s having a tough time.  She’s in a daycare with a reputation for being among the very best in the city.  I’ve met all the people involved.  They are great.  Really, really great.  And the first day was pretty darned great.

Not so much the second day.

Nor the third.

She woke up this morning, mouth still full of sleep, eyes still closed, mumbling “I not go to daycare, ‘kay?”  It’s what she fell asleep saying.

I think I’m doing a good thing here.  I’m bringing home some money, hopefully relieving my husband of some of the financial burden he’s under.  I’m being mentally stimulated, making me happier, making me a better person and wife and mother.  I’m giving The Girl the opportunity to socialize, gain some independence, break her budding addiction to electronic devices in all their evil forms.  I’m showing my kids that mommies work, just like daddies.

And I’m tearing apart my little girl’s entire world, taking away all her safety nets and touchstones, and making her question my commitment to her, and scaring her, and just generally (possibly, maybe) fucking her up.

I know it will get better.

No, I don’t know that.

I’m hoping against hope that it will get better.  I’ll never ever know if I did the right thing.

As I left this morning, I got to hear her scream.  Scream louder, from a place more primal than I’d ever heard.  More of a keening than a scream.

And as I tried to put one foot in front of the other, see through the freezing streams of tears, Pat’s words were there, in the front of my brain.

“I’m gonna harden my heart.  I’m gonna swallow my tears.  I’m gonna turn…and…leave you here.”

I’m sorry Pat.  I don’t know if I can.

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