Gauss.

Last week, I left the house to take the garbage out back. I heard terrible cat sounds. Terrible. Now, remember.. this is the ‘hood, so there are cats everywhere. In any one day, there may be 4 – 5 loose in my backyard, and another taking a nap on my front steps. There are scraps and well, new litters being… created… and all kinds of feline sounds. I just tune them out.

But this one was different. It was urgent, not fading (that wacky Doppler effect!), and I decided to poke around my yard to investigate. I eventually realized the meowing was coming from the neighbour’s back shed. The house is vacant (the ‘hood again!) so I walked around the property to look for an easy in. I hopped the fence. Approached the shed, which I noted had a shiny new padlock and a tiny crack under the door. I made that hissy-kissy cat call. And out he came. Shaking and scared and alone.

I scooped him up. And brought him in.

So now we have a cat. As far as cats go, he’s alright. But I hate cats. I’m allergic, and I hate them. For some reason.. at that moment.. I didn’t hate him enough to call the shelter. They’re overloaded with cats right now, and would have put him down. I didn’t hate him enough to turn him back to the shed, where he certainly would have frozen to death. I didn’t h– Oh, hell. I think he’s growing on me

Can’t feed em? Don’t breed em.

What a great bumper sticker. Except not really.

I found this story about a Maryland housing official proudly displaying it on his vehicle. I’m sure he grew up in the best neighbourhood, went to only the best schools, never ever lived paycheque to paycheque, and had life handed to him on a silver platter. (And then got a job in public housing. Good for him.) I only kinda partially agree with this statement. It’s hard to look at pictures of emaciated babies in third world countries who will starve to death before they learn to walk, and it’s too easy to wonder what their parents were thinking.

Now let’s snap into context. This is North America. There is no reason for anyone to starve to death here. In particular, there is no reason for a child to be homeless. We help each other here. Now, it’s not ok to have eight or ten babies when you really can’t afford them.  No one has children just to get a roof. That would be like chopping your feet off to save money on shoes.

I have never ever met a little girl whose wanted to be a “welfare mom” when she grew up. I never thought I would be going through school with two kids and a mortgage by myself. Shit happens, life happens, and we make the most of it. But public housing is usually a temporary thing. It’s there to help. It’s there to lower rent payments so children can have food and clothes and diapers, etc. It’s not always long-term, and it doesn’t need to be a shameful thing. If the help is available, who would be foolish enough to not accept it?

I’ve heard comments. Unnecessary comments. Posed to myself, and others in my situation. I’ve always thought.. my goodness.. if you cannot help me, you don’t need to make it worse. There has to be a middle class. There has to be a lower class. That’s just the way it works. If we all got paid the very same amount of money.. well, correct me if I’m wrong.. but didn’t Hitler have an idea about that 60 years ago or so? It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to raise a child from birth to college age. Should I have set that aside before I had children? Should I have aborted them?

I hope others can begin to think twice (at least) before passing judgement. It could have been you. It could have been your mother who applied for government housing to keep you safe, and to keep you warm. Or it could have been you who looked in an empty refrigerator one moment, and a hungry child the next, wondering if your baby was getting tired of rice and hotdogs.

Be thankful you are in a position to criticize. And not the one needing help. 

Cars, cops, n’ stuff.

In September, I was 6 months pregnant. On my way home between classes, I stopped for a train. And my car was trashed by someone who didn’t. No harm done, but the car was a write-off and my eye was messed up for about a week (actually, it’s still numb, but whatever).

I’m not the type of person who car-hops. I city-hop when I can, but car shopping is such a pain, so I drive what I have until it runs into the ground. I miss my car. I’m crying over spilled milk, I know. BUT THAT WAS MY CAR.

A family member gave / lent me a car in the meantime (so, between now and forever, I hope). It was free, and that was so great, but somehow it’s led to this post

In the 8 months I’ve been driving this car, it has broken down 4 times. It’s only 10 years old and has a reasonable amount of mileage on it, but somehow, it was cursed at the dealership. Or something. The first time it got towed, I had to abandon it in a church parking lot. I started walking to a gas station about a half block away (7 months pregnant, -40, and late for a doctor’s appointment). A few cars drove by, and one stopped. One stopped. The stranger told me to get in, and I obliged, though only after we assured each other neither was an axe murderer. He drove me to my doctor’s appointment, never to be seen again. The car was towed later that day, some belts were repaired or replaced, and although the ABS line was severed (really?) on the hoist, the car place told me all was well and the indicator light would remain on. Fine.

Then,

the tire blew. On the coldest day of the winter, when it was stupid to go out in the first place (especially with a little girl and a newborn), I heard the classic thumpity thump that only an exploded tire will give, and drove the last few blocks home from the grocery store. I purchased an emergency road service membership, and called for assistance. Since it was -55C or so, you can imagine the emergency trucks were in high demand, so after a refreshing 11 hour wait, the donut was on, and we were off to the tire store in the morning. Now, I’m not so good with cars, and I don’t pretend either. So I trudged in with two kids, two carseats, pointed to a stack of tires, and said “Hi. I need one of those thingies.”

“One of those round black things? A tire?”

“Yeah…”

And who knows what a reasonable price is. At that point, it doesn’t matter. They see me comin’.

In February, the heat in the car decided to stop working. It’s cold in February. Really, really cold. We drove around for two weeks with blankets and mittens and touques. Finally, I made a call to a car repair shop that had “courtesy shuttle” in its ad. I made an appointment, drove the car in, moved both kids and both carseats into the courtesy shuttle, and the driver took us home… about 6 blocks away. When the car was repaired, the guy working the desk decided that the shuttle only goes one-way. I explained to him that The Girl was sick, and I needed to get her to a doctor. I explained I was on my own, and even the shuttle driver agreed that he would be able to pick me up for a return trip. “Nope. One way. He’s off in the afternoon, and we only run shuttles in the morning.” (Which was as bold-face lying as I’ve ever heard, as my original shuttle was at 3pm, and as my cab arrived — with two carseats, and two babies — the shuttle driver was seen working in the parking lot. For an $8 cab ride, I will never, ever go back.)

Yesterday, I was driving home from my brother-in-law’s birthday party. I approached a stop sign. And yay? No brakes. I’d heard that feels-like-there’s-a-dead-body-under-my-car thing before when my brakes were shot with my old car. I drove a few meters, and turned around. I got out, and looked under the car. I got back in as a police car was approaching from the other direction. I flagged. Them. Down. There was a time in my life when seeing a police car meant, “Shit! Cops!” But now, especially living in the hood, it means “Oh thank God. The police are here.”

One of the officers thought it was a CV joint, which sounded mildly important when he insisted that was the piece that held the wheel on to the rest of the car. I drove back to my sister’s and called a tow truck this morning.

When the car was ready to be picked up, my sister dropped everything and came to get us. Again, two kids, two carseats, it’s an epic. She probably doesn’t drive through the hood too much, and ultimately drove 57 in a 40 zone (some hidden playground somewhere). We were pulled over. There was another car in front of us, and just as my sister handed her licence over, the driver in the front car was suddenly in hysterics. He opened and slammed his driver door, and was either refusing to get out or otherwise cause a scene. He started screaming. We were on our way shortly with her licence in hand, no ticket or warning, and a great sight in the rearview of a man parked in a crappy old white car next to a lawn that hadn’t been mowed in months, being successfully subdued by two officers who figured he was more of a pressing situation than two girls, two kids, and two carseats. Yay, no ticket

But alas, after the car was towed from my sister’s, then to the only auto shop open on a longish-weekend Sunday, and an appointment was cancelled getting us closer in line (and it really only took 3 hours to fix), it turns out some sort of disc.. or something… had exploded. The shop guy said it was the worst he’d ever seen, and actually showed it to me, next to what “one should look like.” He knocked 20% off the repair bill for some reason, which was awesome I swear driving this car is practice for the kids’ teenage years. Every time I turn around, it needs $200. Bah.

Lawnmowers and Lunacy

I’m not burning the candle at both ends. The candle is long gone, it has erupted into a full-fledged forest fire, and many of those cute little bugs you see on nature shows are now screaming for mercy. It’s been a long couple of weeks.

On Monday, I went to school entirely exhausted. Now, nothing new here, but a conversation was playing out in my head as is also quite usual. And when I’m tired (or all the time, maybe) my face is completely dettached from my brain. Completely. I make faces. I give looks I don’t intend to give. I burst out laughing for seemingly no reason. I also laugh when I’m nervous or when I hang up the phone. No good reason, just weird that way.

Anyway. Here’s honest-to-goodness what was going through my head as I approached the door to the University:

       “It’s Monday. Did I take The Boy’s bottle home from daycare on Friday afternoon? I’m so tired, I don’t remember if I did or not. I don’t think I saw it in his cubby when I dropped him off. I wonder what would happen if I left him without one. They’d probably find and use another sterile bottle. They won’t let him starve, and I’ll call after class to make sure he’s ok.”

Heaven knows what my face was doing. Apparently, it was up to no good.

I reached for the door just as those last thoughts dissolved out of my head. The windows on the door are tinted, and I couldn’t see in until it was physically open. There was a girl there, and she was flipping me off.

“Keep looking,” she said. I was confused. Was she trying to tell me the door was locked? Or I missed some construction and couldn’t go in that way? Was she lost? Mistaking me for someone else? Do people REALLY flip others off when they’re not in a vehicle or freaking out on a private blog?

She threw her finger in the air again. “Keep looking!” She was furious. I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but as I passed her, my eyes (consciously this time!) got big.

“Yeah, you keep your eyeballs in your HEAD.”

I ignored her, but I was walking quickly between her and a flight of stairs. A uniformed campus security guard passed us and smiled. (Hellooo.. .helllp..) I had no idea what the nut behind me was capable of (and she had no idea what I might have done, either). I exchanged smiles and waves with the guy who cleans the floors, as I do everyday. She noticed this, of course, and asked him if he was my brother.

Then she followed me. Through two buildings. Screaming at my back the whole time.

I have zero idea what that was all about. Zero. I must have given her a look of some sort, but I honestly don’t know what my face was doing at that moment. I’m shocked that someone would act like that. If this were a different country, she’d maybe have a gun. Nuts.

Incidentally, after class, I walked back to my car alone. Here what I was thinking:

     “Wow, that class was weird. I’m so frustrated I could pummel a small animal to death. [Ok, and I NEVER WOULD.] If n! = n*(n-1)!, that works nicely for all positive integers. But 0! = 1 because 1!=1(0)!.. so it absolutely must. But what about 0! =0(0-1)! Can that even work? What gets precedence? The factorial or the multiplcation? And crap. What about negative integers? What’s the precedence? Where the hell do the extra parentheses go? Should I just find a squirrel, break its neck, and be done with it?”

And then I burst out laughing. So, anyone passing by would have seen me looking extremely puzzled for a few minutes, and then laughing hysterially out of the blue. Nice.

I got home. I had a small window of opportunity where I could mow the lawn. I don’t weed, seed, feed, water, or garden. But I love mowing. It’s instant gratification, and a control freak’s dream to see the blades go from long to short, long to short. Wonderful! The Girl is fine to play outside where I can see her without going near the mower. But I couldn’t very well leave The Boy outside, or inside, for that matter, while I did yardwork. So while they were still at daycare, I dug the lawnmower out of the garage and set out to mow.

Except it wouldn’t start.

I added gas. I checked the oil. I primed it about eight times. I fiddled with the spark plug. (I think it’s a spark plug.) I pulled that cord probably 20 times. Nothing.

Heard a lawnmower going a few doors down, and figured there would be little harm in going to ask for help. Either that, or I would have to wait another week at least to mow. Now remember, this is The ‘Hood, so even asking for help on a Monday afternoon can lead to a Tuesday morning newpaper article, “… and she was never heard from again.”

There were two girls and guy doing yardwork two doors down. I asked the guy (because he was mowing!) if he was any good with starting stubborn lawnmowers. He said he would take a look when he was done. And I thought, wow. Not everyone sucks all the time.

One of the girls came instead. I expressed my embarrassment at not being able to get it going, but I suppose after being in the garage for a winter of many -50 days, not starting was reasonable. I told her I’d pulled the cord 20 times.

She reached down, gave it a yank, and it started. On try 21.

Hopefully my face didn’t do anything stupid at that moment

The ‘hood

The house across the street has been particularly busy this week. I’m pretty sure it’s a crack house, but I could be wrong. We keep to ourselves, mostly, and I honestly don’t think living in this neighbourhood is as bad as most people say it is. The night we moved in, I foolishly parked my car on the street instead of in the driveway or garage, and it was egged. Most houses don’t have driveways (much less garages) here, so a lot of cars on the street are prone to people walking by with markers or pieces of fence (!) or keys, and dragging them randomly across vehicles.

I had a security system installed soon after I moved in, with stickers on every window and a sign on a post in the backyard, warning others that there is, in fact, an alarm. Then someone stole the sign. Then the post.

One thing I like about living here is that I don’t need to try to keep up with the Joneses.. so to speak. I can stand outside barefoot with a baby on my hip. I can leave garbage bags on the back step until I make my way to the dumpster out back, I don’t need to grow flowers or fertilize or even water my grass. And if I only mow the lawn every 10 days, I still have the nicest lot on the block. I locked myself out of the house once, and approached the front door with a crowbar. (Well, what would YOU do?) One car slowed down, but did nothing.

Oh, and things like this crack me up.

 

This was sitting in the middle of the road — ever-so-randomly — one afternoon. I took a picture, and it was gone a few minutes later. So, someone either realized they’d dropped it from the back of a vehicle and went to retrieve it, or someone else stole it and got a new-to-them mattress. (The dumpster is also a great place to dispose of recyclables and semi-useful things without having to make a trip to either a recycling plant or the actual dump. It eventually gets picked up by someone who needs it more than I do.)