I know a lot of you like the name.  I know Gary likes the name.  But the only posts I write that are appropriate to a blog named "Hummingbird Homemaker" are the ones complaining about the name Hummingbird Homemaker.  Also, only INSANE people would take homemaking advice from me.  Or advice about hummingbirds.

The new blog kicks off with a post about politics and kittens that are not now and never were or will be dead.

http://rebelwithalabelmaker.com/2012/10/11/you-keep-using-that-word-i-dont-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means/

 

Yesterday, tiny childhood tragedy struck.  The kind that's not tragic to anybody else, but is an Injustice of Huge Proportions to the kid. 

Anthony saves up for Webkinz, which are these little stuffed animals you buy that have tags that let you wander around in Webkinz land on the computer, which is a happy place filled with blue sky and rainbows and opportunities to give money to the webinz people.  It's actually quite lovely, except that I am always kind of wishing they were actually wandering around the real world, which has real blue skies and rainbows, and still of course lots of opportunities to get rid of money. 

So he'd worked for weeks to save up fifteen dollars for a Webkin, and we went to the store last week and there was a Huge Unexpected Dilemma.  The lady told him that in a few days, there'd be a five dollars each sale on Webkinz and he could buy THREE for that same amount of money.  We deliberated in the store for hours, or what felt like hours, and Anthony went home with nothing but a dream -- talking incessantly about how on Wednesday he was going to buy THREE Webkinz.  And which ones.  And what they would be named.  And how he had told them he would take them home soon and he was sorry to leave them but if he waited a bit more he could have all three instead of just one.

On Wednesday, he had to go to the babysitter’s and after that the store was closed.  On Thursday, my Uncle was visiting, and Friday the old babysitter came by, and Saturday someone ran a stolen car into the wall in front of our house.  You know how schedules fill up.  

And then Anthony forgot because he is seven and I forgot to remind him because when have I ever remembered to remind anyone of anything in my life? 

Once, actually.  Last night.  When Eric and Anthony were rolling around on the playroom floor yelling about who modified whose Lego creation and I was trying to think of supportive ways to assist them in working on their conflict resolution skills and drawing a blank.  So instead I was thinking that I should yell "who wants ice cream" or poke them with a broom, but only bad mothers do those sorts of things and we were all out of ice cream and maybe out of brooms.  And then I thought that the nearest place to get either of these was Brunskill pharmacy but I am lazy and how could I get the kids to go get me ice cream, and then...

I remembered, and yelled "WEBKINZ" into the thrashing mound of arms and legs and Anthony yelped, leapt up and raced outside like he'd been lit on fire filled with sudden anticipation of the THREE WEBKINZ that he had waited and waited for.  (Four, actually--he had saved up an extra five dollars).

Gary took him to the store, and that's when the tragedy struck.  

The sale had ENDED.  

Anthony stood in the store, holding four Webkinz.  Only one of which he could take home.  Tiny Sophie's Choice in the middle of the drug store and he was all lower lip trembling but totally holding it in.  I would have bailed him out, since it was half my fault that he didn't make it to the store in time, but Gary had the sense to say nothing.  Except that Anthony was doing a really good job of dealing maturely with his disappointment, and maybe he could explain to the people who ran the store?

Anthony gathered up his future children, and headed to the cashier, where he gravely explained in great detail and using what he later described as his "very cutest face" what had happened.

"You know what we can do?" the lady said, with an air of great empathy, "You can leave the Webkinz with us, and we'll ask the store owner tomorrow if we can extend the sale for you by one day."

Which was awesome and generous of her.  Anthony swallowed hard at the prospect of leaving his children to sleep one more night in the dark pharmacy after he had long promised to take them home.

"Do you think," he said, with every ounce of bravery and politeness he could muster, "that it would be possible to ask him tonight?"

 

He came home bursting with pride and accomplishment and a sense of his own power in the world.  Gary came home talking about community and society and going the extra mile, and that Brunskill Pharmacy is owned by an awesome guy who loves kids and is totally not grumpy when you phone him during his evening off (okay, I added that last part).

"You should put that on your blog." he says, "about how that could never happen at a big box store, and how local businesses aren't just about convenience but about relationships and community and caring about one another."

"That's not what it is about at all," says me, "it's about how you didn't rescue Anthony and he looked to his community and got all empowered and it takes a village to raise a child, and…"

"Same thing" said Pooh.  (Note:  Winnie the Pooh did not actually interject.  This is one of those times that I have embellished the dialogue).

Anthony is building a little community himself, giving each baby his own name and taking them each on a tour of the house and explaining the world to them (which, by the way, is a whole hilarious blog post of its own).

Best Daddy Ever.  

Both of them.  More, if you believe that a village raises a child, and that the village includes the people at Brunskill Pharmacy.

Which I totally do.

This is exactly what happened, pretty much word for word.  Unlike with my usual adventures, this one has 911 tapes to prove it.

Just before seven Saturday night, I heard a shrieking of tires like you sometimes hear when I am driving, except I was in my living room.  And I was not driving.  I looked towards the front window to see what was causing the noise, and saw a car headed directly towards me.

Remember when I said that bed bugs is the worst thing that can infest your house?  I take that back.  A car infestation of even one would be Not Good.

I started backing away from the picture window, but before the car reached us it ran into a concrete retaining wall which was originally built for retaining dirt.  Turns out it also retains cars pretty well.  I raced out--pausing for just a moment to duck into the kitchen and grab my cell phone.

My heart was sinking as I approached the car.  The airbags had deployed, and I couldn't see any movement.  The doors were open, I walked around to look in… nobody.  Two teenaged girls were standing, dazed, looking at the car.

"Do I call 911?  Is anyone hurt?  Where are the people?" I asked.  The girls said that no, I didn't need to call 911, and that they had been the ones in the car.  They were fine.  Which is incredible because they had been going very fast, and the car was a wreck.  I'm telling you, not a scratch on those kids.  If you care about safety, the make and model that will keep you safe in a crash is definitely the--white kind.

"Come on inside," I said, "Let's call your parents."

"No," said the one girl, "We'll call them from… over there." and they started to leave.  I looked at Gary, who'd just arrived, to see if he thought they were okay to be walking, after that crash.  He made the face he always makes to indicate that there are no spinal injuries.

As they walked away, it began to dawn on me that something wasn't quite right.  I turned off the car, and picked their cell phone out of it, thinking that once they were done panicking about what their mom was going to say, they'd come back for the phone.  And if they didn't, we could use it to identify them.

I figured it was not a 911 situation, but then remembered that I'd promised myself based on previous experience that whenever I figured something was not a 911 situation I would let the 911 operators decide.  Because I have the absolute worst judgement you have ever seen in an emergency.  Worst. Judgement. Ever.

I called in, and summed things up for the operator, who said "And they just ran off?"

Me:  Yeah, but they aren't hurt.  Just scared.

 Operator:  Right.  What direction were they headed in, and what did they look like.

Me:  They went to the park.  One had blond hair.  But don't worry, they're okay.

Operator:  What else can you remember about them?

Me:  Um…  (pause)  That's really it.  (another pause)

Operator:  You can't even remember the hair colour of the other girl?  Or what they were wearing?

Me:  I'm sorry.  I'm not good with clothes.  But hang on, I'll just nip over to the park to check.  They're still there.

Operator:  Don't put yourself in any danger…  (my perception was that she meant this like people sometimes say "oh, don't bother tidying up…" but they don't mean it at all).

Me:  It's okay.  There's a bush.  I'll hide behind it.  They won't see me.  I'll be discreet.

The two girls were arguing loudly.  I took a good look at them and then headed back to the car, thinking--I swear--that I didn't want to be rude and get caught staring.

As I was walking back to the car, I suddenly heard two sets of footsteps running up behind me, and I--startled--let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

"MA'AM!!!"  said 911 operator, since my clever cover of hiding behind a bush was clearly not panning out.  She kept repeating "Do not put yourself in danger", which they totally have to say for liability reasons.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm fine--they just startled me." I said.  I'm pretty sure I apologized to the girls, too--I remember feeling like I didn't want to be rude.  But they did not seem to be very focussed on me.  They ran for the car, and began rummaging around in it.

"Oh, they came back," I told the 911 operator, "I guess it's nothing to worry about.  Do you want me to help you call your parents?" (This was directed at the girls).

The two girls totally gave me the cold shoulder.  This is what high school girls have always done when I am around.  I didn't take it personally because they didn't want to talk to the 911 operator, either.  They just kept rummaging around in the car looking for something.

911 Operator:  So they're there now?  

Me:  Yup, looking through the car.  Sorry to have bothered you, I guess it's all okay.

Operator:  Can you describe them?  What was the second girl's hair colour?

Me:  Bright pink.  Sorry I didn't notice that before.

Gary:  It's not pink, it's red.

I thought the girls were looking for their phone.  I gave it to them, feeling it is one thing to pick up a phone they forgot, and it is another to hide it when they were clearly looking for it.  I am not a thief.

That made one of us.  They rummaged for a minute or two more, then took off at a dead run.

Me:  Oh dear, they're running away again.  Maybe we should involve the police.

911 operator:  Which way are they headed?

Me:  To the park again.  It's okay, I'll follow them.

911 operator:  DO NOT PUT YOURSELF IN DANGER MA'AM.

Me:  It's okay.  They don't have weapons.  There is nowhere to hide anything in those outfits.

911 operator:  What are they wearing?

Me:  Not slutty clothes, I wasn't saying that.  I'm not criticizing.  Just tight clothes.  Like lululemon.

911 operator:  What colour of clothes?  Can you be any more specific?

I am not good at noticing clothes.  Or cars.  This is part of the reason teenagers do not think I am cool.  Which is not so much of an issue now, because I am 34.   

Me:  Part of their outfit was fluorescent.  Just a second.  I'll go check if they're in the park again…

911 operator:  MA'AM!!!  DO NOT PUT YOURSELF IN DANGER!!!

At this point, I was jogging to the park, feeling self conscious because I am not supposed to be running on my operated leg yet and I wasn't sure if Dr. McTwitchy would define chasing down criminals as "exercise".  Come to think of it, I'm not sure Dr. McTwitchy would authorize chasing down criminals at all--fragile leg or not.  So then I thought it would be good to go get my bike, but on the way back to grab it, a police cruiser pulled up.

Police guy:  What did they look like and which way did they go?

Me:  One had blond hair, the other had pink hair.  They went that way.

Police guy:  Can you remember anything else about what they looked like?

Me:  (trying really hard) No, I'm sorry, I'm really bad in an emergency.  And I'm terrible with clothes.

Police guy, pointing:  Is that them over there?

(pause)

Me:  Yup.  That's definitely them.

Police guy, it turns out, is much calmer in an emergency than I am.  He, and several other officers and a police dog, were able to quickly catch the two girls.

Since they didn't seem to need my help, I went inside to find that Gary had just cooked dinner.  Because that's what he does when I am chasing down criminals.  He cooks chicken fried rice.

I wouldn't talk to him because I had to write everything down before I forgot any tiny detail.  And then the police came back and were all "Oh good, you took notes for the statement" and I was kind of "Oh… right… a statement" and I had to rewrite a bit because blogging and writing police statements are sort of different literary genres.

I didn't think of taking a photo for the blog until it was too late, and when I asked Gary if he thought the police would have let me label the car with witty labels and photograph it before they towed it he just kind of shook his head to himself.

And Anthony was all filled with awe and kept repeating "They were real robbers?  You helped catch real robbers, mom?"

They were, it turns out, driving a stolen car filled with stolen goods--but they weren't "real robbers".  They were two terrified girls who probably weren't even sixteen yet, making stupid mistakes, and making more stupid mistakes trying to avoid getting caught.  I can't remember what they were wearing, but the terrified look on the blond girl's face as is etched in my memory.  And the bubblegum pink hair streaming behind the other girl as she retreated into the distance with the police car tearing after her.

I couldn't seem to find a sense of pride that they were "caught".  This isn't to say that I feel I should have let them keep running.  Something or someone had to stop them.  I just wish that something didn't have to be three men in uniform and a police dog.

It made me think of a conversation I had with my dad, when I was about thirteen.  I repeated what he said, word for word, to my boys when they hit teenagerhood, and David tells me it had the same memorable impact on him as it had on me.  It went something like this:

Up until this point in your life, the world has been organized in a safe way--to keep you from making any huge mistakes.  People watch over your shoulder.  For the most part, they still will.  For the most part, little mistakes will continue to produce little consequences, and big mistakes will produce big consequences.  Except that from now on, there are five special areas where the laws of fairness don't apply.  They are Alcohol, Drugs, Sex, Smoking, and Driving.  In these five areas, a tiny mistake can ruin or end your life.  Or you might make huge mistake after mistake and be fine.  It's random.  It's unfair.  The next few years will be filled with mistakes, and that's okay.  But when you're about to do something stupid, think "Is this to do with Alcohol, Drugs, Sex, Smoking, or Driving?" and if it is, remember that any tiny screw up in one of these areas can cost you for the rest of your life.

I lived by those words.  I went on to screw up left right and centre, but not in the areas of Alcohol, Drugs, Sex, Smoking or Driving.  I treated those with great caution.  And it turns out, that was awesome advice, because if you avoid screwing up in those areas, you're pretty much left with cutting class and making poor fashion choices.  Both of which I did copiously.

Maybe the speech made a difference.  Maybe I just had good judgement.  I've always put my bets on the first one.  And putting my bets on this speech means repeating it, often, to young people in my life.  Alcohol, Drugs, Sex, Smoking, and Driving--mistakes in these five areas may be punished ruthlessly, randomly, and unfairly.  Steer clear.

At one thirty a.m. that night, I still couldn't sleep.  It's an odd feeling--so much drama and the 911 calls, and the flashing lights--all of it with the goal of putting those two kids behind bars.  As I was putting my kids to bed, my seven year old said proudly "Did you hear, mom, the policeman said that without you they wouldn't have been able to put the robbers in jail!"

Success!

The next day I was sitting, head down, staring into space.  Thinking that stealing a car and getting away with it is probably even worse for a kid than stealing a getting in mounds of trouble, but...

Gary looked over and said "There's words for the thing you're looking for, you know."

"What?"  I asked.

"The words.  For what would have been better.  It's called Restorative Justice."

I'm glad they have those words.  Because it turns out "catching" is a terrible word.  It's become about chasing and punishment and "robbers".

Catching.  I wish it meant like you do when someone is falling.

It is not satisfying at all to be responsible for putting someone in jail.  I would way rather be responsible for keeping them out.

We are now really starting to make ourselves at home at the new house.  For me, "making myself at home" means breaking things. 

You know to expect this when you move into a house that the realtor says "has character".  But we didn't use a realtor, we bought from Reader Who Is Not Named Carol, who is not into euphemisms like that.  He sent us an email saying "It's an great house but an old house--attached is a list of all the things wrong with it" and followed by telling us the price that they'd accept if we haggled. 

Which, I have to say, is a great way to bargain with someone because you can't get distracted and forget what number you were at or start moving in the wrong direction.  Also, it saves a lot of time.  The whole thing took about ten minutes, minus the paperwork part of course which is not important because Gary does it.

So we knew that the house had "Character", although we did not know that it had Characters… as in more blood sucking Characters than a Stephanie Meyer novel… but as I mentioned before those did not come from Carol and his wife.

Things that Gary loves about the new house:  

This is our magical deck.  It is magical because the mosquitos don't seem to know it exists.  We can sit there in the evenings and nothing bites us.  Until pretty recently, it was actually the only place on the property you could go without being bitten.  I always introduce it as "this is my deck that I made for our family".  When I say I "made the deck" I mean I bought the plants and laid them out.  Also, I stripped and repainted this chair:

You may or may not recognize it as the chair from the dining set that I brought home on my bike.  Gary did not even recognize it.  He was so impressed that he said "How did you strip off all the lead paint?" 

"I know." I said, "Amazing, hey?"

"No, really," he continued, "How exactly did you remove the leaded paint."

He doesn't usually take such an interest in my hobbies, but apparently he really cares about furniture stripping because he wanted to know what chemical I used, and where I did it, and whether I used a respirator and everything.  I am glad he's getting involved in our home decorations.

Things that I love about the new house:

This is our story book bathroom.  I love it because it is so cute and unique.  With it's custom little radiator cover and it's low window that gives you a lovely view of the yard and deck.  Of course, it's a very low window, so it gives the yard and deck a view of you as well, if you get my drift.  Which is only a problem in early August, when the apple tree produces hundreds of pounds of awesome delicious not at all sour apples, and I have to invite children 3,231 over to pick them all.  Fortunately, there are a lot of families in our Church that have 3,231 children so works out well.  So long as we remember to close the blinds.

Isn't this the cutest laundry chute you've ever seen?  I thought so too.  I was so excited because in the house I grew up in we had a laundry chute and you could put the laundry in and then magically it would show up folded in your drawers.  I pictured how tidy our bathroom would stay because we could all easily toss the laundry down the chute in one movement and that part has worked wonderfully.  The part where it comes out of the chute at the bottom, though… not so much.

Me: But the dirty laundry doesn't come out anywhere.

David:  So, it's not a laundry chute then.

Me:  I know, it's way better.

Eric:  How come I have no pants?

This is or kitchen.  Part of it.  I can't show you the whole kitchen because that would require cleaning the other half:

Everyone who sees it says "Are you sure Gary will be happy in this kitchen?" because of how we love to have dinner parties.  Gary will cook dinner for forty people, and I will provide entertainment (getting people playing piano, or playing board games, or whatever).  We can still do this, of course, but only in early August, and only if by "dinner" we mean apples.  And by "entertainment" we mean sitting in the apple tree watching people pee.

Actually, the new house is very well laid out for dinner parties.  Although so far nobody has come over.  This may have something to do with how I am constantly posting on the internet about having bed bugs.

The old house was all one big room, mostly, in the dinner party department.  It had a living room the size of the Northwest Territories, which is actually not great because of the 3,231 children who would alternate between running circles around the adults as they are trying to talk and disappearing into the back yard where they all piled onto the trampoline which would collapse under their weight except that reliably the swarms of mosquitos suck out enough blood to lessen their collective weight by a good third or so.

The new house has a normal size living room, a normal sized dining room, and the worlds coolest giant play room above the garage so kids can play not right on top of you but close by.  You can see them as they are playing and intervene if there are fights or swarms of blood sucking pests of any variety.  Which there mostly aren't because we redid the floors and trapped all the bed bugs in.  I am fond of telling people that the boys did it, and then Eric interrupts and says "No, we didn't, Mom did the first part.  We did the parts that are straight."

Then, as an afterthought he adds "And we're going to finish tiling it when Mom buys us more tile."

Well, it turns out the new kitchen is awesome.  It doesn't have stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops, but it's the best laid out kitchen I've ever lived in.  It's like it was custom built for us--there's a spot for everything exactly where we need it to be.  My favourite part is how when you turn on a burner, the result is a hot burner.  Not a clicking sound for three minutes followed by a bunch of whining about how gas stoves don't work.  Gary is not sympathetic because he insists that 1) the stove does work, and 2) if I don't like the sound of the whining, I should stop whining.

Gary is also, unexpectedly, a fan of the new kitchen, although you can't please everyone because I love the new stove but he hates it.  He is replacing it with a fancy shmancy stove.  Which makes me very sad because I love the new burners. 

Me:  Do we have to get a new stove?  You are prejudiced against the burners.

Gary:  The oven door hangs off the hinge.

Me:  I fixed that.

(pause)

Gary:  What did you do with the oven door?

Me:  I needed somewhere to store my canning supplies.

(In my defence, I did this after we decided the oven wasn't fixable or useable.  And also after we'd decided we were going to replace it.  Because somebody doesn't want to cook his h'ors d'oeuvres in the toaster)

Me:  See?  No more hanging door.  I can use tools after all.

Gary:  The new stove will be here Saturday.

Me:  Whaaaaaatt?  I was just about to label the old one!

Gary:  Go ahead.

Also, guess what guess what guess what?  Long time readers will remember the series of posts about my nostalgia for the broken toilet from last year (Part One and Part Two, and will be happy to know that I once again have a label-able toilet!

Of course, I realized in retrospect that the label isn't in a very good location because users will not notice it until after the, um, relevant moment has passed.  You can't read it when it's behind you.  

Oh well, the kids in the apple tree have a good angle on it.  I'm sure they'll help people out.

 

It's is a complete double standard, because he is married to someone else.  Which I probably should clarify, now, since I've never actually explained this part on the blog.  Be warned, it's not particularly funny.  Even though it sounds like it might be, from the description.

Gary and I met when I started nannying his kids, because his wife was very ill with schizophrenia.  That was fifteen years ago.  After a couple of years, his wife who is not named Valerie sat me down and said "I'm not getting any better, I'm going to get worse and I'm going to end up permanently institutionalized.  I want you to marry Gary and raise my kids."  and I said "Ewww, he's too old."  Actually I said that part in my head.  Out loud, I said "you're going to get better soon".  But I was wrong. 

I didn't marry Gary, though, because that would require that he and Valerie get a divorce, and she really didn't want that.  She was good with us being a family and having kids and all that, but wanted to still have him be her husband.  I figured that she'd lost more than enough already, and also I hate paperwork so we had a commitment ceremony and that was that.  It's no big deal except to Revenue Canada who kept sending us confused letters but eventually that's all been sorted out and Gary has two wives according to the government.  Even though they said that was illegal--but they can be hypocrites like that.

So, I'm sure you've already realized the central point of this story, which is that I have a spare marriageability I am not even using.  Which I never properly appreciated until American Unitarian Ministers trying to work in Canada started having immigration troubles.  So I started asking Gary if I could marry various people, and he kept saying no, because he's grumpy like that and doesn't care about helping people.  But I kept letting it go, because when you're not-married to someone you learn to overlook the little things.  And because if I get all "stop being hypocritical" with him, there is a chance he will point out that I freak out if he leaves his socks on the chair even though we live in a house that looks like a Lego store came over and started projectile vomiting.

So this morning, I texted him asking if I could marry Kimberly Rivera, and I expected him to be all "who is Kimberly Rivera" but he just texted back "no" because he is the middle of a fancy conference in some big city right now and doesn't have a lot of time.  Which is too bad because if he were home I could explain how that's really hypocritical because she's being deported for refusing to fight in a war that Gary completely agreed was wrong.  Him and Harper, I might point out.

Me:  But then she could stay in Canada.

Gary:  Not likely.

Apparently, you have to convince people that you're actually in love for the marriage to count towards your staying-in-Canada points, and Gary doesn't think that the government would believe Kimberly and I are in love.  Which I thought was pretty heterosexist of him.  Apparently, he's okay with lesbians, but only if they aren't married to him.  Well, married to him according to certain parts of the government but not others--which as I understand it is also how they do it in the United States.

Anyway, the bottom line is that the government may question the validity of Kimberly and me's marriage--citing things like, say, this blog entry.

Then he suggested our friend who is not named Steven, who is also single, and I texted "why would I marry him, he's already a Canadian" and Gary texted that he meant for Kimberly to marry Steven.  Which is a great idea because Steven totally said he would put his name on the letter to the government, so refusing to marry her would be kind of hypocritical at this point.  

But then I realized how totally inappropriate it would be for me to email Steven and suggest this because he would think I was suggesting him just because he's gay.  And when you think about it that is incredibly offensive, so I will avoid embarrassing myself by just blogging about it instead. 

So now I am back to plan A which is not going to work because Gary is apparently all anti gay marriage.  Of course, if he were home he would point out that he is actually very supportive of gay marriage for people who are, you know, gay.  And that if anybody is being hypocritical, it's Stephen.  Stephen Harper, I mean (please do try to keep up), who is deporting someone for refusing to fight in a war he said was wrong.  

I know, I know, if we let her stay then everyone will want to live here because we spend all our time skipping and singing and getting free operations and same sex marriages (which is great for a small percentage of us, but for the majority who don't need the operations and are fairly heterosexual, it actually gets kind of awkward at times).  I'm not saying let everyone in.  I figure that the fact that Kimberly's been told that she'll face prosecution when she returns to the states is grounds for a little help.  She'll be thrown in jail for refusing to do the very stuff that most of us, including Harper, said was immoral and unjust.  It kind of seems like time to back her up.

Because some kinds of hypocrisy are a bigger deal than Lego on the living room rug.

So, I was at the farmer's market a couple of weeks ago, and I ran into reader who is not named Polly as I was buying tomatoes.  This happens all the time, because Polly is the person who sells tomatoes.

Polly:  I keep reading your blog and thinking "better you than me".

Me:  A lot of people say that.

Polly:  I don't know how you keep your positive outlook.

Me:  A lot of people say that, too.  But I look for the little gains.  Like when the spots stop itching, or we're not contagious, or whatever.  There are upsides.

(There really are upsides.  For example, normally I have to wait a long time in the line to buy tomatoes, but I discovered that by carefully engineering my conversation with Polly, I can clear that problem right up in a jiffy).

I am starting to worry about what would happen if bad things stopped happening to me.  What would I blog about?  But it's been almost a year and a half, and I never seem to run out of stuff.

Me:  What about "when bad things happen to mediocre people" as a name for a blog?

Gary:  There is nothing wrong with hummingbird homemaker.  Everyone likes that name except you.

I do need to clear something up, though, about the Bad Things.  I've had quite a few people say to me that they don't know how I stay so positive with the bed bugs, and keep being all sunny and witty instead of posting "kill me now" over and over.  First of all, I can't post "kill me now" because too many of you know where I live.  Also, too many "kill me now" posts, and you will be depressed too, and I don't want that because one of us has to be the grown up in this situation.  It's not going to be me. 

But enough people have said "How do you keep your positive attitude?" in this kind of envious confusion that I feel I need to clear something up.

I don't keep a positive attitude.  I am not enduring cheerfully because I have chosen to endure.  You have to endure.  There's no option #2 with the bed bugs.  You can't say "I give up, you win" and they get a prize and move out.  It's not like that.

The being cheerful part I do choose -- on the days when I'm able to --because you can only endure in panic or depression for so long.  It gets boring. 

But I have really hard days with this.  Being itchy sucks.  Trying to get to sleep sucks.  Paying for treatments sucks.  But the worst part is when you work all day long researching and cleaning and treating, and turn everything upside down and you put in all this effort but it's worth it because your kids who are sitting there wracked with sobs from itchiness will sleep well and they do and they wake up all bright eyed and bushy tailed and you plan to spend the day doing Fun Family Stuff…

… and then about ten o'clock the anesthetic that bed bugs use when they bite starts to wear off and their little faces and limbs start slowly blistering up like someone has put them under a broiler and you can't do anything other than watch and offer ice packs.  And weigh how much of the day to spend cuddling them and taking them to the park and how much to spend cleaning and treating.  

I don't write funny lighthearted stuff instead of wanting to light my house on fire.  I write it because I want to light my house on fire.  Like some people clean up their house for company, I clean up my whining for the blog.  And, like cleaning for company, there can be a negative effect if people start comparing your public days to their private ones.

I am not Tragic Infested Hero of Great Courage.  I am just Infested -- and making the best of it because trying to think of what was funny or good about my day is part of what gets me through.  And it reminds me how many funny or good parts there are.  During the Awful Beginning when the bites were covering us head to foot and most of the cleaning needed doing, people came forward to have my kids over for days at a time, and I knew they were safe and loved and being showered with affection.  And also with showers.  And new clothes. 

Gary took the worst shifts of bait duty, and let us sleep at the old house or in the tent.  And, unlike a lot of the people who get bed bugs, we had the resources to hire, replace, dry clean, etc as needed.  There are people out there doing everything I am but without any of that help -- working twelve hour shifts and dealing with kids and staying up late to do all the laundry in a coin op machine.  And, there are people with the kind of problems that they can't -- sooner or later -- count on winning the fight against. Without anywhere close to the support I am so lucky to have.

So, to all of you, thanks for your help -- for the magical internet support, and for those times when some of you have seen me in person and laid a reassuring hand on my arm (or shouted encouraging things from five or six feet away).  And to those of you who have just followed along, or reposted my entries to your various social media corners of the world.  Watching the blog readership slowly and steadily climbing has been a total ray of sunshine for me in the last couple of months.  I feel like you are cheering for me.  Either that, or you are bad people who are amused by the misfortunes of others--but that seems unlikely.  I choose to believe you are not on Team Bed Bug, but on Team Liz.  Except for the 10% of you who found your way here by googling "Martha Stewart and Porn".  Um, sorry about that.

We're almost there, though.  With the bed bugs, not the porn.  The days of wanting to set the house on fire are behind us.  Bites are few and far between now, and there is no more ominous-midmorning-blooming-of-children's-skin.  Now, a bite is dispiriting because it reminds us we aren't done, but it's no longer our whole life.

Which is good, because I will be needing your help -- and you have already come through awesomely on this one -- in cheering me on as I attempt to put on, take off, and wash the stupid support stockings, from my surgery.  You must not snag them.  You must not stretch them.  You must not wash them wrong.  You must not fill fill them with anthrax and send them to the varicose vein surgeon's office.

Which would be really awkward, because they would know it was me because 1) I'm pretty sure some of them read the blog, and 2) one of them is Gary.  Who claims that he has no advice to offer in the anthrax department because he "doesn't know anything about that stuff"…

Me: You're a doctor!  

Gary:  Um, what kind of doctor do you think I am?

Me:  Fine, be that way.  Can I borrow your computer?  When I use my own for blog research I get really weird ads on my google account.

Gary: No.

Me:  But The Internet already thinks I direct porn.  And grow weed, because of all the googling about creating carbon dioxide for the bed bug traps.  I can't have them thinking I'm also a terrorist.

Shockingly, this was not as convincing an argument as I thought it would be.

Me:  Fine.  I'll call David.

Gary:  You think he knows how to use Anthrax?

Me:  No, but he knows about search tags.  If I'm going to post about Anthrax, I need to make sure it doesn't end up in the page tags.  Or I will disappoint all the terrorists like I disappointed the porn community.  Don't look at me like that.  You could do worse than a wife who spends all day disappointing the porn community.  I could be not disappointing them.  

Gary:  Hey, speaking of that, somebody told me that you were blogging about --

Me:  You see, you need to learn to look on the bright side of things.   

I am good at looking on the bright side of things.  Because of my blog readers.

Recovery is humming along over here.  I am not in pain--I'd describe it as "tenderness" and by that I actually mean tenderness and not like when they say childbirth involves "discomfort" which is code for "being ripped in half".  I am shocked by how tired I am, though, needing many naps.  I was warned that this would happen, but figured I would overcome it through force of will.  I am a very willful person.  Until around eleven thirty, turns out.

The only time it hurts is if I stand still.  Walking is fine, sitting and lying down are fine, but standing is very painful so I've learned to kind of sway back and forth which is much more comfortable but makes me look crazy.  I'm okay with that.

Absolutely the worst part of being knocked out, having your legs cut open, and someone ripping out a bunch of your veins, is the stupid socks you have to wear.  They are one hundred and ten dollars, and I have a personal policy of not owning anything that costs more than one hundred dollars unless it comes with an Apple logo on it.  You have to put them on using only friction and these stupid gloves, and the lady had me do it in the store and she was all "no tugging, no bunching--no pinching the socks!!".  I was about ready to start pinching her.  It takes me twenty minutes to put the stupid things on, and by then I am ready for a nap, but I can't nap with them on because I'm scared of them getting bed buggy, because I'm only allowed to wash them in cold water and hang them to dry.

"You don't understand," I protested to Overzealous Sock Lady, "Everything must go in the dryer.  It's the only way to kill the bed bug eggs." (I was swaying back and forth as I said this, of course.)

She seemed a bit creeped out, but I reassured her that they aren't our bed bugs--they were here when I moved in.  I bought her stupid socks because the demanding surgeon said I had to, and went home muttering "Everything must go in the dryer" fanatically as I walked.

We are nearing the end, we hope, of the Bed Bug Battle--no bites for almost a week.  Starting on Thursday, we may get to ease up on the every-48-hour laundry-and-vacuuming-schedule, which would be very nice.  I have to tell you I cannot wait to go back to living in squalor.  The cleanliness suits me even less than the hundred and ten dollar socks.  Which, by the way, also itch.  Which causes me to get paranoid that my careful guarding of them hasn't worked and some bug got in there and laid eggs.

So I spend a lot of time following Gary around declaring "There are bugs on me!  My socks are full of bugs!" and swaying back and forth.  Until 11:30, when I fall asleep drooling on the keyboard of my laptop, muttering "force of will… stuff to do… must stay awake… must guard stupid socks…" and Gary removes the computer so I don't drool on the keys, since the laptop cost more than all of my socks put together which these days is saying something.

Wednesday I had my operation for my legs.  Don't worry, it was a small operation, according to Gary, who is clearly thinking of it from the other end of the scalpel because in my world anything involving two needles, four sticky monitors and a gas mask is a big operation.

"I mean 'small' as in how long it takes" says Gary.

"It took fourteen seconds, by my count" says me.

"You may have missed some parts." says Gary.

"Why would I care how long those parts are?" says me.

They gave me the choice of a spinal, or being put to sleep.  I asked Gary what would be better for the surgeon and so less likely to result in screw-ups causing death.  He said that screw ups causing deaths are "highly unlikely" (oh why do they never say "impossible"?) in this type of surgery, but that it's easier to operate if the patient's "not too chatty".  I figured that since the patient in my operation was going to be, you know, me, the only way to achieve "not too chatty" would definitely be general anesthetic.

Of course, all of them emphasized that I should pick whatever anesthetic was most comfortable to me, and that risks of either one were minimal.  Gary said "you're safer in the OR than you are driving to the hospital".  Except I did not drive myself to the hospital (or home from it), and I'm not sure that the risk comparison holds true for other drivers.

It was fun to get to see the room (one of the rooms) where Gary works.  Everyone was very nice.  The head operating nurse even squeezed my hand when I looked nervous and said "You're doing a great."

"Thanks."  I said.  "My job is pretty easy." 

Then, as an afterthought, "I think you're doing great too."  Because she was.  Nicest nurse ever.

And then the anesthesiologist came in and joined the resident and introduced himself as the other half of the the anaesthesiology team and I introduced myself as both halves of the patient, and he asked which way I divide (left-right or top-bottom) and I said definitely left right because everyone had been asking "right leg" over and over all morning. 

And I also said "I throw up a lot" which is not how I usually introduce myself to people but Gary said to be sure to mention it to the anesthesia guys.

Favourite part of operation:  Hands down, when the surgeon took out a marker right before the surgery and started labelling the dysfunctional veins.  I told Gary that I should have put witty labels on all of my veins prior to surgery, which I'm sure would have been hilarious, but Gary said blah blah sterile field.  I don't know about that, because they say you have to take off makeup, undergarments, and jewelry, but they say nothing about any witty labels you may be wearing.

Least favourite part of operation:  That they ask you if you have any final questions in a room full of your husband's work friends.  You see, I had a final question to do with the instructions regarding exercise, which were:

"No exercise whatsoever for six weeks--no yoga, no biking, no jogging… What, do you mean by 'trapeze'?…  No, definitely do not do that.  No exercise of any form.  Why do you keep asking what I mean by 'any form'?  I mean don't exercise."

You see, there are other types of exercise that I wanted to ask about that I was pretty sure Gary didn't want me discussing in front of his work friends… also, perhaps, he does not want me posting about that on the internet, so I will change the topic.

Posting something on the internet and then changing the topic is almost as good as not posting about it at all, I find.

So, in my haste to cover all of the important points of the day, I didn't clarify what kind of surgery it is.  They were pulling out my veins, which you'd think would cause problems for circulation but it turns out that what's important is pumping the blood out and one way or another it will find it's way home.  Like kids.  Although so far it seems to mostly be pooling in large bruises under my skin which makes me look very brave and stoic.  Which is nice because I like to be all "I am suffering in silence" but the trouble with that is if you are silent, how is everyone expected to notice you are suffering?

This is why I blog.

Of course, I can't actually post a picture of the bruised leg (I know, tragic) because the surgeon insists that I wear the World's Least Sexy Garter Stocking for 48 hours.  Frankly, the surgeon is very bossy.  No trapeze, wear this stocking, no eating after midnight before your surgery.  And then I'm supposed to wear these other stockings for two weeks and only wash them in cool water and hang to dry and I said "but how will I kill the bed bug eggs?" and he said "Pardon?" and it turns out that he doesn't read my blog.  Which is a good thing because now I can post whatever I want about him and so I can tell you that my surgery team was very good looking--even before I had any drugs.  It was like Grey's Anatomy.  Which frankly didn't give me a very happy feeling, because I don't know if you noticed but never once on that show do you see a simple surgery going fine.  I have to say, they are all very pretty but I don't think they know what they are doing.

I don't actually watch Grey's Anatomy.  I tried to in the beginning, but found it annoying to try to hear over all the giggling from Gary.  I told him to be quiet because I was trying to learn about what the world of surgery is like, but that only made him laugh harder.  I guess it's good that he finds it unrealistic because a) in the real world, we like drama free surgery, and b) it was nice to lie on the operating table reasonably sure that nobody had just been using it to conduct clandestine affairs.  No exercising on my sterile field, thank you very much.

My main complaint about the day:  When Eric had his ears done he got a popsicle.  I got toast.  This is age discrimination.

On the other hand, I got morphine, which it turns out is even better than popsicles. 

Anyway, when I first woke up somebody asked me to come by and rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, and I said "four" then I thought "why did I say four, this is very painful" but then the guy started talking about giving me an epidural to get the baby out and then he turned green and flew away.  The next nurse was much more--opaque. 

She said "Are you in pain?" (kind of a stupid question, really), and then "Would you like something for it?" (also a stupid question in my opinion, but I guess she needs to ask).  And then she pressed a button and I looked over to see my best friend ever, the Oh-Dance-A-Tron from when I had Hepatitis A last September (I wonder what will bring me to the Hospital next September?).  Turns out it's a very versatile little critter and in addition to odansatron it dispenses morphine which is also a Good Thing.

And then the nurse looked down at the chart confused and said "I'm supposed to page Dr. Groat when you wake up" and was clearly trying to figure out whether or not I have cancer, but I explained that he's my husband and she gave me post op instructions to not do any housework for six months.

Perhaps she's trying to make up for having had an affair with him.  That happens a lot in the world of surgery, as I understand it.  According to the TV.

Saturday was officially our last day in the old house.  Farewell, old house.

Things Gary will miss about the old house:

Now, even if you have never been to our house, you can picture where we lived for eight years. 

Actually, now you can picture it only if you have never been to our house, because if you have been there you know that it never actually looked like that.

That said, I'm sure you will appreciate the new outlook on it and will declare "Oooohhh, I thought that it was actually made out of piles of lego… this makes much more sense".

Things I will miss about the old house:

1)  The altar.  We had an altar in our front yard--we were the only ones on the block with an altar.  It was there when we moved in.  Made it easy to give directions.  Here is my first born son on the altar. 

I was not sacrificing him--my sister's super artistic professional photographer friend insisted on taking this photo because it would look "unique".  I don't know about unique--but perhaps they don't study the story of Abraham and Issac in Photographer school the same way we do in Minister school.  Anyway, at Photographer Guy's insistence we took this picture, after clearing off all the string.   ("The older boys like to tie one another to it" I explained in embarrassment.  As though this explanation made our family appear any less, um, unique).  Now I have a keepsake.

2)  The labels.  The old house has "character", which is realtor speak for "stuff breaks".  I have character, too, which is me-speak for "stuff stays broken" because I am not what you would call "handy".  I did rewire a light in the dining room last year, but haven't yet worked up the courage to flip the breaker back on. 

That's not a joke.  Anyway, since I have character, instead of fixing stuff I label it in a witty fashion. 

 

As you can see, labelling is just as good as fixing, (unless you want to see things when you are in the dining room). 

Which you probably don't, because I am not much of a cook, either.

Actually, I'm a fairly good cook.  I used to say that I like to cook, but then I realized that actually I just like to eat, and cooking is the fastest route to eating that I know of that doesn't involve a Drive Thru window and an annoying 16 year old kid explaining to me that you're supposed to have a car to use a drive through and... what is up with your bike?

It's a cargo bike.  All the coolest people have sold their Mercedes Convertibles to get them. 

Because that's approximately how much they cost.

But they carry way more stuff than a wimpy sports car.  I carried a dining set home on the cargo bike one time.  It was a folding dining set.  I thought it was great, but Gary thought that 1) it was clearly meant for children, 2) it was about 50 years old, and 3) the fire engine red paint that covered it was clearly loaded with lead.  And I said I could take off the old paint and refinish it, and he said "Do we have lights that work in the dining room yet?" and I said "You're right, good point.   The paint job doesn't really matter so long as I don't flip that breaker back" and he said "Lead paint is dangerous, you know" and I got out my label maker.

Of course, nobody can see to read in our dining room...  ...well, not in the old one.

We are settling happily into the new house.  Yes, happily.  Even Gary--you can ask him.  Everyone keeps saying "Are you sure Gary will be happy in that house?" as though he is the Crown Prince of Snoof-Land or something.  And, lest you think that we are casting aspersions upon the Snoofiness of House Formerly Owned By Loyal Reader Who Is Not Named Carol, I should mention that not-Carol was the very first person to ask that question.  Several times.

It's a silly question, because a home is not created by stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops.  It isn't the house that matters, it's the love that's inside it.

By "love" of course, I mean piles of Lego, broken appliances, and witty labels.

Normally, I do not do product endorsements.  Well, one time I considered putting a "pesticide free" sign on our lawn, but then I realized that might be taken more as a warning than as an endorsement.

But I have to say, if you are looking for an exterminator in Saskatoon, Kreepy Kritters is awesome.  Not Kreepy at all.  In fact, the main guy looks kind of like Captain America.  All clean cut and such.  And very understanding if you happen to be, say, hysterical.  Apparently, he gets that a lot from people who have bed bugs.  Of course, I become hysterical in odd ways.

Me:  Which chemical are you using?

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  Cyfluthrin.

Me:  Oh good.  I spent the weekend reading Pest Control Professional Journals, and I was hoping that was the one you are using because the bed bugs don't avoid walking across it and because of how long it stays active.  It's a very good chemical.

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  Um, thanks.  I thought so too.  It stays active for 30 days.

Me:  Well, that's what they say on the label, but in lab settings it lasts way longer.  In one study, 120 days.  I'm just saying, I'm glad you're using that one because it's my favourite.

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  Oh.  Um, great.

Me:  I've been running trials on dry ice versus yeast and sugar for bed bug traps.  Would you like to see my dead bugs?

Okay, I didn't ask if he wanted to see my dead bugs.  But we did discuss the merits of the two types of traps--and he had questions about what I was learning.  A big part of the reason I think he's an awesome exterminator is how assessment oriented he is, and how he talks in terms of bug behaviour.  Other Exterminator Company, does not do this.  They have no assessment at all--they just book an appointment to treat, and treat everyone the same way.

Kreepy Kritters Guy asked a lot of questions, looked around, and spent a fair bit of time educating me not only on how to maximize the effectiveness of the chemical but also how to avoid spreading the bugs.  Which you, my friends and loyal readers, will appreciate.

Apparently, bed bugs do not spread online, so you can read this blog safely.  In theory, anyway.  Preliminary field testing, however, has shown that although it doesn't cause actual bites, my blog can cause itchiness.

I was initially very suspicious of Kreepy Kritters Guy, because he claimed that in over 90% of cases, only one treatment is required.  He offers a guarantee.

Me:  That doesn't line up with what I've read on the internet.  What do you mean you can guarantee treatment?

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  I mean that if you need more treatments, they're free.

As you'd expect with an infestation that was left untreated for almost a year*, we were not in the 90% that can be cured in one treatment.  I offered to help pay for the second treatment, since we are a highly unusual case (nearly all rooms infested, high numbers of bugs, home owner who calls every day citing journal articles and inventing bed bug treatment options).  Kreepy Kritters Guy refused this flatly, stating that he charges a fee for extermination--period.  Not extermination attempts.

Or, fortunately for me, phone calls.

Me:  The bugs hate movement.  If I put Eric in the old massage chair from the garage, would the bugs not bite him?

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  Um, I don't know.  I don't think anyone's ever tried that.  It's an, um, novel idea.

Me:  I know.  I couldn't find any journal articles covering that approach.

I decided not to tell him about my plans for a passive solar closet that you can put in your yard to kill the bugs in your clothes using the heat of the sun.

Gary:  I think we should go with the clothes dryer.  We know it gets hot enough.

Me:  This would, too.  Like a solar oven.  You know those stories of mean kids using magnifying glasses to kill bugs on the sidewalk?

Gary:  Please don't put my clothes in that thing.

Me:  I'd better call the exterminator for his opinion.

I have been so impressed with Kreepy Kritters Guy that I asked him to have a look at the old house, too.  I am hoping that I will qualify for the Frequent Infestation Rewards Program soon.  First I have to convince him to invent such a program, which in my opinion sounds very professional and FIRPy.

Me:  The ants are new, but we've had the mice for years.  The other exterminator said that there's no place he can see where they could be coming in, and we had the entire house re-sided to cover any invisible cracks, and the contractor also says--

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  (reaching underneath one jut out beside the chimney and pulling out a tuft of insulation--literally 90 seconds after arriving):  They're coming in right here.  You need to put a tight fitting board across this insulation--they're burrowing through it.

Me:  Wow.  Can I write about you on my blog?

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  Sure.  I get that a lot.

Me:  I bet.  We've been fighting these mice for years and nobody could figure out how they were getting in.

Kreepy Kritters Guy:  Also, your back door is hanging wide open.  Did you know that?

*"Almost a year" is defined as eight months.  Meaning, reader not named Carol did not sell us a bed buggy house, just for the record.  Did not want to commit that blogging faux pas of accusing my readers of infesting me with bugs...