Fambily Reunion

I don't think I've ever mentioned the little known fact that I've graduated from two high schools, have I?

There's home town from grade 12, but then, there's also that other place, Parts North from grade 13. Anyhow, the only person I'm currently in touch with from that year is Mindy, and honestly, that's probably more because of the genetic link than it is the deep bond we formed during that year our high school experience overlapped - she in grade 9 and me in 13 - excellent though that time was.

Imagine my surprise, then, to have found myself smack in the middle of a Parts North high school micro reunion. Which, really, is strange, considering I had no idea who these people were. Well, except a few.

See, Mindy's got a few best friends from her time there, so when she's in North America, she usually tries to get a visit in with them - and luckily for me, one of them is in the Toronto area. This visit, we weren't able to make it to Parts North, so we met up with the fam in Toronto. At Ms. R's place for a wonderful weekend slice of family and kids together time.

Ms. R married her high school sweetie. Who invited his high school best friend over to dinner. Both kindly asked if I knew their older brothers. (NO.) They were born in 72? Nope. Still older than that.

But Ms. R's awful older sister? (Yep. I said it.) Oh, as soon as she walked in the door, I remembered her. Sigh.

As I walked in the door from the drive on that first night, Ms R's first words were 'Hi honey! You look exactly the same as you did in high school!'

The thing is, I like to think of myself as rendered near unrecognizable through the urban fabulousness of 20 years of hard work, beautification and polish. True, I wore a bob that year, much as I do now. Apparently, the truth is, I still look like an 18 year old from a small town in the mid-west living on a remote island in Northern Ontario, riding the bus for an hour and a half each way and eating far, far, far too much buttered toast.

And Mindy? Mindy is so unrecognizable that I spent the weekend looking into her grown up turquoise eyes (still, stupidly unfair of genetics to do that to me) and trying to see in her the teenager I remember. She is a virtual stranger, my only sister with an incredibly gorgeous blonde German baby - a confident, smart, accomplished and beautiful stranger, pulled together and fabulous, and I am 18 and unchanged to the world.

I know it is so unfair to say this, but I am looking forward to the expiration of the Irish visa in 2014. I'm hoping Berlin doesn't make the cut (although I somehow expect that it will), and I'm really, really hoping I get the chance to reaquaint myself with the girl who left 10 years ago.

FAQs

In response to questions I recieve via the google search terms [actual searches used to view this blog], I'd like to take a few moments to start a new feature and answer what I can:

Q) [Can I see] Katie Valentine fotos/petartas?

A) Aww, sweetie(s)! I'm super flattered. And yes, there are 'fotos' (But no petardas. Come ON!) of me available, but, honey(ies), this isn't my real name. In case you hadn't noticed from the pseudonyms and all.

Q) Does Katie Valentine have fake boobs?
A) No. These lying down and taking a nap rapidly disappearing wonders of female magnatism are all natural, baby!

Q) [Can I see] Katie Valentine naked?
A) Only if you live in the Casa Valentine. Or on really, really special occasions! (Like those fed/prov meetings or yoga classes I show up for in my dreams having forgotten some very important things.)

Keep em' coming! You know I'm responsive, if secretive...

The plagues.

Well, hell.

Here's a little story about something I wish hadn't happened last week:

On Monday night, as the skies opened and Husband stepped out of the bathroom, there came a weird extended pouring water from a bucket noise. (or, in a particularly fitting nod to Mr. Maiden, piss from a boot. Him so classy!)

Strange enough for me to raise my head and look at Husband. Who looked right back and opened the basement door.

And descended the steps only to begin cursing.

Yes, my dears. Yes.

Through a process of scientific elimination, it was made clear that indeed, it did rain in the basement when we flushed the powder room toilet.

Well, I guess, thank the Lord for small mercies - I've got a little Bissel cleaner to suck all the water up (and scrub), and it had been a 'clean water flush', whatever that is.

I managed to convince Husband that it was time for the professionals and perhaps a new toilet (low-flow, natch), and so by Friday evening, and after a fairly hefty investment, I think we'll be able to flush again. With, hopefully, a lower water bill.

It should offset the cost in, I'm thinking, roughly 5-6 years, but everything after that is just gravy, right???

Dreams used and wasted

In update to MlleL and the zombies:

The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....

I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]

Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....

In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.

I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laser to help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.

This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something like Velcro in my leg.

Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husband among them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.

Bedtime.

It is far, far past bedtime. Especially for one we are trying to wean from afternoon naps before she starts afternoon kindergarten in two weeks.

"Mama," she says in a small voice, "I can't sleep because I keep thinking about zombies."

"What?" I say, "Zombies? Where did you see them?"

"On tv," she says, "they eat brains and make other people zombies too."

"Oh," I say, trying to think of a solution, "first of all, that was not great tv for you to be watching. It sounds way too scary. Also, zombies aren't real. They're scary make believe."

"But I can't stop thinking about them."

Remembering past success with logic - monsters? Not in Ottawa - Monsters have big feet, too big to buy shoes and boots, and you sure can't live in Ottawa without shoes and boots - maybe somewhere warmer - polar bears and Elephants? Well, when they knock on the door, we just don't let them in. Also, they can't really fit through the door anyhow. Witches? We don't let them in either, but because you don't want to offend a witch, I offer them tea and cookies on the deck - I start to think about how I can make her safe.

"Well, honey, number one, zombies aren't real. But if they were, did you see them walking around? I mean, number two, zombies are stupid."

"And number three," I say, counting them out on my hand, "their fingers don't work all that well. All of our doors are locked, so the zombies, if they were real, wouldn't be able to open the doors."

"oh!" she says, inspired, "and they're really old and break really easily!"

"Right!" I say. "Number four, they break really easily."

"But what about them coming in the windows?" She asks. (Stupid tv show. What the hell was the care provider doing while this was on?)

"Well, honey," I say, "remember they're stupid. And break easily, and their fingers don't work. So they really can't climb up anything, and if they tried to get in the windows down here, they'd just break up into zombie bits. If they were real, which they aren't."

"AAAAND," I say, moving the party back upstairs, "They're really slow. So if they were real, which they're not, they can't get you inside the house because they're stupid, and slow, and break up really easy and their fingers don't work."

"But what's the most important reason," I ask?

"They're not real." She agrees and climbs back into bed.

"Exactly."

Unless, of course, zombies are real, and you took a day off this week to drive one home from dental surgery.

And although she wasn't stupid, she was kinda slow, and her fingers didn't work all that well, and if I had dropped her while I walked her crazy zombie laughing self to the car, I bet you she would have broken into pieces.

ooook.

I realized rather late in the game that the extreme efforts I made to minimize the amount of luggage travelling to Points North may have also minimized my access to things I wanted and possibly needed.

Despite that fact, I thought outside of the box, found one of the refillable juice boxes in the car, filled it with water and stuffed it down my pants. I took two puffs of the inhaler, laced my shoes and set out.

Sure, it wasn't on schedule. It was, to be exact, Thursday morning.

This year, I avoided the Worst Run Ever (up hill both ways past the cemetary containing my father's unmarked grave and substanital emotional discoveries) and took a more circuitous route through the village, past the Inn and out the new road to complete the 16k.

I would see 7 trucks on my journey, a motorcycle, and one car -my dad's, the Crown Vic, which is now owned by others in the village, and still appears to be in really good shape.

Two of these vehicles (NOT the car) would follow the long standing Points North tradition of the wave. One of them, which I saw a happy total of four times during the two hours, merrily waving away before he even passed me, was driven by the man who sold me the first sweatshirt I ever bought with my own money (I was 8), copious amounts of candy (aw hell, it would have been this time if the general store had still been open), countless loaves of bread and my first legal liquor (20).

In fact, when I tried to buy that liquor, he asked me to wait a minute and had a whispered conversation with his 'wife'. Having not reached a successful conclusion, he returned, fixed me with a stern look, and said "Katie? Are you over 19??" And then totally took my word for it.

Oprah talks about the secret socio-economic indicators that instantly identify your class - vocabulary, teeth, etc.

It was like that. The running made me not from there. It was like wearing a suit of away. Not only did they not know who I belonged to, they could not see past the suit to recognize the kid I used to be.

It was his wave - each of those four times - that eased that feeling of being different, and helped me remember a time when my vacations to Points North were the stuff of family, of freedom, and of wild amounts of McIntosh's Toffee. Even when I had the braces and Mrs. Maiden asked him not to sell it to me.

Oh my god, you guys, Oh my god!

You will never, never guess what we happened upon on our drive to Parts North, and so I will tell you.

In Deep River, my dears, at perhaps the most frequented Tim Horton's in all the world, there is now a COLD STONE CREAMERY counter.

No word of a lie. Apparently, it's part of a test market. I promise you that it's almost worth the drive to Deep River alone.

Don't let this be a Krispy Kreme y'all. Seriously. Please help encourage them to stay.

You'll be glad you did!