The argument for cars

So, back to regularly scheduled programing: life without a car.

The day before yesterday, my daughter, H, arrived, laundry in hand and with a stiff neck and aching shoulder. As a hairdresser, sore muscles and joints are cause for concern. She has to do what she can to ensure these issues don't persist. Let's face it, if she can't lift her arm to blow-dry a client's hair, her career could be in trouble.

I encouraged her to get to a doctor and we left on foot to the nearest walk-in clinic -- no pun intended.


It was a 20-minute hike -- no big deal except that she was in pain. When we arrived at 11:20, there was a sign on the door that said they were backlogged and would not be accepting anyone until after 1:00.

Swell.

Since H was scheduled for work at 3:00 and that without a car there was no way she could wait the 100 minutes, be examined and catch a bus in time for her shift.

We opted for another medical centre, a 15-minute walk back toward home. As it turned out, this wasn't a walk-in clinic. Neither was the next one we tried at the IWK Health Centre.

In desperation, we travelled back, past  the first clinic we'd tried en route to the emergency room at the QEII complex. The emergency room has been revamped with a better triage and registration area. We were whisked through to an examination room in minutes. It was 12:50.

We were finally smiling. This was going to be a breeze.


A medical student arrived to give a preliminary exam and then returned for more mobility testing.

And then we waited.

And waited.

At about 2:10, a doctor arrived with the student. As he walked into the room, his cell phone began to buzz and he excused himself. More than an hour later, he returned to a couple of pretty angry faces.

"I had a chest," he offered by way of explanation.

And we got that. We were in emergency after all.

But what a difference that bit of knowledge would have made while we were waiting. We would have understood that he hadn't simply strolled off to take a call but was attending to someone in a worse situation than we.

I realize doctors aren't in the business of client service. They are in the business of healing.

Still, how difficult would it be to recognize that patients who are isolated in closed-off rooms without access to information -- or distractions -- are going to be less cranky if they're given a smidgen of info?

In our case, H -- who had taken two muscle relaxants and was valiantly fighting sleep in order to be coherent when the doctor arrived -- could have napped. I could have gone in search of a magazine or crossword puzzle.

In the end, it was sometime after 4:00 by the time we arrived back home. It had been a five-hour excursion.

In addition to this frustration, was my feeling of impotence at not being able to properly care for my family. That we had to spend so much time walking and walking while my ex had the car that I was, in theory, supposed to be able to access whenever needed. In practice, this doesn't work. I'd have had to be able to somehow get it from him while he was at work. And then there is the fact that we're no longer in touch.

I was in a horribly depressed mood by suppertime.

And then I received a message from an acquaintance of my son's. This guy works at a car rental place and offered to give us the "friends and family" plan that will allow us to take a van for my son's move to Toronto at a savings of $1,000! Plus I can drop it off there for $100 rather than the $1,600 that some companies charge allowing me to avoid the two-day solitary drive home no doubt made while bawling my eyes out over my empty nest.

How sweet can you get?

So, thank you for making my day, Jason.

I still want a car.

Colleen

The Tavernier Stones Blog Contest!

 Ladies and Gentlemen!

To get your weekend off to a great start, I have a super-easy contest for you to enter.

I have in my little mitt a brand-new, fresh-off-the-press copy of The Tavernier Stones by Stephen Parrish.

If you'd like to make it yours, here's all you have to do:

1. Visit Stephen's blog at http://stephenparrish.blogspot.com/
2. Find your favourite blog entry
3. Post the link here in the comments section of this post
4. On June 1, 2010, I'll select my favourite of your favourites et voilà! someone will own a free copy of a great, new book.
5. I'll announce the winner on this blog and be in touch to get your address so I can mail your prize to you. (Yes, I will cover the cost of postage.)

Odds of winning? I'd say they are pretty good. It's not like 1000s of people follow me. The bonus is that you get to read Stephen's posts. They're good reads.

And the extra-super bonus is this: you will now have one of the needed tools to solve The Armchair Treasure Hunt and be in the running to win a DIAMOND!

How's that to add some excitement to your Friday?

Colleen

LEARN something, damnit!

I am in such a pissy, sorry-for-myself mood today and I hate that. I hate feeling woeful and whiny. If I could remove my own leg, I'd boot meself in the arse.

I'm usually a very optimistic person. At least that is how I see myself. When something goes wrong, I know things will eventually get better. They always do. While I don't subscribe to the theory that "things happen for a reason" I do believe that opportunity abounds in challenge.

It pisses me off that I can't see what the opportunity is. I feel like I'm blindfolded.

If I wasn't so fucking flounder-y, if I hadn't been so fucking flounder-y for months now, I'd be okay. As it is, I still don't know how to dig myself out of this hole I so aptly dug for myself.

It all started when I moved to this province, thinking I'd find home. I didn't. Nova Scotia has never seemed to fit me comfortably. But I did find space to write. Space that I carved for myself with little or no encouragement from my significant other. As long as I had money to cover my kids and myself for the year I was going to take away from work, he was fine with it. Taking time away from a paycheque was a bold step for me as I have long carried the mantle of being a sole-support parent. I felt brave. I felt that I was setting an example for my kids that it's important to follow your dreams. To take a chance on yourself.

After some time off -- which turned out to be needed as I'd reached burn-out -- I returned to work, having found a job that would cover the bills while taking only half of my day. It was to allow me time to write.

Then, over a year ago, I started getting these neck tremors. They seem to have no biological basis and, in the past, I have developed physical manifestations of unhappiness. That said, I thought they'd go away when I figured my life out.

Neither has happened yet, so I can't prove my theory. 

The tremors aren't evident when I am walking or being physically active but when I am still. On the computer (like now), watching television, chatting with others. Sometimes I can control it; sometimes I can't. All that jerking around can make it difficult to read.

I used to get tremors in my right hand making writing impossible so I learned to use my left. After seeing different specialists, it was determined that they were caused by some over-firing in a section of my brain.

Those are now gone and have been replaced by this much more intrusive head bobble.

It makes life a little difficult. Embarrassing even. People either think I'm disagreeing with them or that I have some neurological disorder.

I thought they might vanish after my partner and I ended our relationship because ending it was a good thing to do. Of course, losing half my meager fortune to him was not.

Shortly after the split, I quit a sucky job when they changed the terms of my contract without being willing to negotiate my rate. When I quit, I had no idea that I'd be this long out of work. I've never, ever been unable to find a job. In the past, with only one exception, when I've had an interview for a job, I've landed the job. It's what I do.


Where do I go now? Do now?

I wish I knew.

And I wish I could figure out this big life lesson because I'm sure that is what this is: life screaming at me to LEARN something. But what?

Fuck.

C

Installment VI

While I was waiting for the boy's text message this afternoon, I had a call from The Brick. We'd been to a local store and ordered some furniture for him to be delivered to his apartment in TO.

Should have been simple, but when I hadn't heard from the TO store to arrange the delivery, I called the number the sales clerk here had given me.

It was indeed a number for a Brick outlet, but not the right one. They had no record of the order.

I called my sales clerk back. Turns out she hadn't faxed the order in properly.

The Toronto store and the Halifax store called me later to let me know that the sales clerk had forgotten to have me sign the invoice and asked me to go in.

Now, those three or four loyal readers will know that I no longer have a car. (Long story.) It would take me over an hour to travel to the store by bus. My son had a brainwave. Let's go to Kinkos and fax it over.

Great idea, son. Let's go.

We did. We got the confirmation of successful delivery. We paid. We walked back home.

The next day, I get another call from the Toronto office. They don't have the signed invoice. The Halifax store claims they didn't receive it.

I shlep back to Kinkos, refax, reconfirm, repay. I call the store to ensure they have received it. They have so I leave.

This afternoon I get a call from the Toronto store. Where's the signed invoice? the woman asks.

At the Halifax store I say aloud. This is not what I was saying with my inside voice.

Nope, she tells me. Hali says they don't have it.

They do, I insist. Please call them back.

She does. They do indeed have the invoice. The TO sales clerk explodes. My god, she says. How slow can they be there in Halifax? How long does it take to send a fax?

Welcome to my world, I want to say, but I don't. I've become so used to crappy service since moving here that I barely notice it anymore. The high blood pressure and spewing of vitriol wasn't worth it.

I'm really sorry for bothering you, she says. Delivery has been arranged with the landlady. Everything is right in the world.

Back to real time, I have just checked the virtual flight view monitor on the Halifax International Airport's website and my son's plane is now over Bangor, Maine.

He'll be home by midnight and then the real countdown begins.

Eight days till the move.

He won't know if he's made it into the film centre for two weeks.

Keep sending those good vibes, gentle readers.

And thank you.

Colleen

Installment V

I finally broke down and texted the kid.

Turns out he got lost somewhere out in Greek Town and had a long hike back to where he needed to be.

I've just gotten off the phone with him. He is already at Porter Air's lovely airport on Toronto Island for his flight home, proud of his budgeting for meals and transportation and tired.

He thinks the interview went well although can now barely remember what was asked or said. He does remember that at least two of the panel were impressed with the quality of his script given how little training he has. He was also asked if his script was made into a movie which director would he chose to direct it. He said Mike Nichols.

Anyway, he's checking in, going through security and calling me back.

He'll be home about 11 Atlantic Time.

And I have a going away party to organize.

Colleen

Installment IV

I'm sitting at the restaurant that my son worked at until last week, using my blackberry to enter thism

I'm waiting.

I hate waiting. I do it poorly.

I'm waiting for my son's ex-boss to arrive so we can discuss his going-away party.

I'm also standing by to get a text message from junior to let me know that he's out of his interview so I can call him.

My legs are twitching. My hair is a ball of frizz from running my fingers through it. Hair product can only do so much. I'm not drinking decaf. That is a mistake.

Could his interview have run one hour long?

I'll let you know.

Colleen

Installment III

It's 7:20.

That's 6:20 in Toronto. Too early to send a morning greeting. And I probably shouldn't do that anyway.

I hop out of bed, not quite remembering the list of things I have to do today.

I'm alone. I think about this, feeling the quality of the apartment's stillness. Even though I often wake alone on the days that my son leaves early for work, today's solitude is different. I have to get used to this.

Get laundry started. I make a mental tick against that chore as I shove dirty socks and towels into the washing machine.

I had coffee with a friend a couple of days ago. She's another single mom. When our kid's leave, it's different for us, I told her. Us, as opposed to them -- married parents.

She nodded. They're not just our kids, they become our social lives too.

I knew she'd understand.

This feels like a divorce.

I have to shower now and get on with my day.

There is a lump in my throat.

Colleen