School Project Blues

School projects.

BANE OF MY EXISTENCE.

I think it is safe to say that I hate them. I hate the stress that they bring upon our household. I hate the fact that my children seem to think that they have to reinvent the freaking wheel; that they need to have the most creative, technically difficult and absurdly expensive presentations.

Oh, and did I mention the nagging?

There are only so many ways that a parent can harrass gently prod a child about his/her project. And it all comes down to that last week, anyway, because no matter how much time the teachers have given to complete the project, these are MY children. They came out of the womb with finely-tuned procrastination DNA. There is an unwritten rule that NO PROJECT SHALL BE COMPLETED BEFORE ITS TIME.

Olivia had to create a family tree showing at least two generations beyond herself and include a timeline of significant events in her life. Easy, right?

Not so much.

Because I am an idiot of the highest order, I suggested that her tree should list four or five generations. Finding this info would be no problem for my side of the family because I was the first born, when my parents still had white picket dreams of sweet-smelling cherubs and thus, unlike my cheated siblings, my baby book was painstakingly compiled by a first time mother and featured a very detailed family history. But, Olivia does have a father and when she called him to find out the names of his grandparents, my ex said, "Pops and Nanny". I am not kidding. So, we ended up sticking with the minimum requirements and as she tottered off to the bus today with her poster board, I noted with relief that we had one down, one more to go.

Dylan is in the seventh grade. School projects at his level are serious. Detailed rubrics are handed out months before the due date. The children are expected to work on them a little at a time, doing experiments, research and following up with thoughtful notes and summaries. To say that this year's science project has caused us grief is an understatement.

Dylan's first idea was to make a hovercraft. In his defense, when he suggested the idea, I really wasn't paying much attention and gave him the perfunctory nod of approval because he seemed enthusiastic. The whole conversation was a bit like a Charlie Brown experience in that Dylan was talking and all I heard was bah bah blah, ba blah, ba blah.

Not one of my stellar parenting moments.

Then, I was presented with the supply list. Some things were expected: bolts, a plastic sheet, plywood.... What I didn't count on were the BATTERY POWERED LEAF BLOWER, CANNISTER VACUUM CLEANER, BLOW DRYERS, STAPLE GUN, SABER SAW, DRILL AND FREAKING RAZOR KNIFE!!! Dylan was upset when I told him that unless he found a way to print dollar bills, he needed to come up with something other than a hovercraft for his project. What I didn't mention was besides the insane expense of the whole thing, I had visions of him and his equally impulsive friends on the hovercraft taking my suggestion to go play in traffic literally. So, Dylan resorted to making batteries out of fruits and vegetables, which was cheaper and less likely to land us on the ugly end of a lawsuit.

I thought that agreeing on what he would do would be the hardest part. No so. Getting him to complete this project has been about as pleasant as being clubbed to death. I don't get it. The rubic clearly defines the expectations and provides a detailed outline to be followed. His science book, the internet and his school library give him everything he could possibly need in the way of research. All that is required of him is to spend the time and actually get the work done. But that's the trouble. I've had to threaten CONSEQUENCES (you know, that conversation that sensible, loving, rational parents have with their kids). He has until Friday to turn it in and he assures me that I'm getting my panties in a twist over nothing.

*exhale*

Okay.

Something tells me that I'll be medicating with chocolate on Thursday night, though.

Retin-A Pirates

So sorry. The rest of the repo man story will have to wait until next week because I have better blog fodder. Because I am the ass end of a giant cosmic joke.

Yesterday after work, I had my hair done, which is usually a little slice of nirvana for me. I get to catch up with my stylist (who has her finger on the gossip pulse of our town), read all of the latest celebrity rag mags (did you know that Brad and Jen are having clandestine meetings?) and for nearly three hours, I get coloured, waxed and delightfully pampered with nary a child in sight. It is worth every single penny.

Last night we had a wee hiccup, though.

Everything was going along as it usually does and after my colour had finished processing, I walked over to the shampoo area. Like usual, my girl removed the foils, washed my hair, gave me a fabulous scalp massage and then prepared to wax my brows and upper lip. For the men that are reading this, try not to be shocked. Women are not naturally hairless, especially after a certain age. Along with sagging boobs, wild mood swings and deepening crow's feet, Mother Nature has also seen fit to bless the aging woman with facial hair. It's a freak show.

Anyhoo...

I have been having my brows waxed every six weeks for seven years. It hasn't hurt in ages. Now, the upper lip ranks right up there with childbirth on the pain scale but the brows are easy so I was surprised when the first strip was ripped off my left brow and it felt like someone had set me on fire. I didn't say anything, though. Then, it began to throb.

Completely unaware of my discomfort, my girl moved over to the right side and when that strip was ripped off, I yelped. I opened my eyes to find my stylist looking at me, horror etched on her face. Something was wrong. She was bent forward, blinking rapidly and slightly shaking her head as if to clear it.

"Have you been using something different on your face?" she asked.

When Dallas and I were in Mexico in July, I had picked up a tube of Retin-A at the local pharmacy. In my quest for the holy grail of youth, I'd heard that regular use would repair some of the sun damage and diminish my wrinkles. Sign me up, right? Unfortunately, I couldn't read all of the directions for use that came in the box since they were in Spanish and so, I'd stuck the tube in a bathroom drawer, promising myself that I would Google the instructions. Well, I didn't get around to doing that until about ten days ago. I've been using it five nights out of seven since then.

One side effect that wasn't mentioned anywhere in the published literature was the fact that if you use Retin-A within a week or so of waxing, you could expect AN ENTIRE LAYER OF SKIN to be removed along with the hair. Stylists know this. Regular Retin-A users know this and I would imagine that dermatologists warn their patients that waxing is a BIG no no. But for those of us who trot into the Mexican pharmacies and stock up on all of those drugs that require a prescription here in the US, it's caveat emptor, baby.

And oh sweet baby Jesus, I look like I have had surgery. Or an accident of some sort. It's hideous. And while make up has helped to diminish the angry red appearance somewhat, the gash running just below my eyebrow is like a blinking neon sign. Every single person that I have greeted this morning has found themselves involuntarily staring at it, their eyes narrowing in revulsion and a sick sort of fascination.

"WHAT HAPPENED?" they ask, slightly breathless.

The truth is just too stupid to even contemplate sharing so rather than be the subject of a cautionary tale, I mutter, "pirates," and leave them standing there, wondering if they heard me correctly.

Repo Ordeal Part Two

What a difference a day makes.

Yesterday was something right out of one of Rod Serling's Twilight Zone episodes. It went from a weird inconvenience to hysterical disbelief to relief tainted with residual anger.

In a nutshell long winded diatriabe, here's how the day unfolded.

After we discovered that the truck was gone, we called the police. The dispatcher informed us that this was a civil matter and not a police issue but that she would certainly have an officer call us back if we felt that was necessary.

Um, YES.

While we waited, Dallas and I tried to get our heads around the fact that our vehicle had just been repossessed by Capital One Auto Finance, a bank we've never used. When something like this happens, your brain automatically tries to find a reasonable explanation. Neither of us could come up with anything plausible and thus, we were forced to sit on our hands for two hours until the Repo company opened for business and we could speak with someone there.

At nine o'clock on the button, I called Justice Brothers Recovery and spoke with Lynda Justice who while very sweet, basically told me that there was nothing she could do about this "unfortunate" event and that she would have Walter (presumably one of the "brothers") give me a call. I'm not really known for being a shrinking violet so I sort of pressed the issue with her and made her aware of the fact that I had the clear title in my possession. That gave her a moment's pause but apparently, it wasn't enough. She still insisted that the disposition of the vehicle would be decided by Capital One Auto Finance. We went over the VIN number, the auto history and the fact that the person who had defaulted was named Brandy Porter. They even knew she lived in Rogers. Obviously, we were not Brandy and we live in Bentonville so what in the blazes were they thinking? Moreover, we had purchased the truck in July of '07. What finance company do you know of who would allow non payment on a vehicle for 28 MONTHS before instigating repossession proceedings? Exactly. Didn't smell right to us either.

Clearly reasoning wasn't working with Lynda but she finally did agree to allow me scan and email our title to her.

Walter eventually got on the phone and he exuded all kinds of southern charm, sympathizing with our plight, peppering his conversation with , "I understand why you might be upset" and "believe me, if it was up to me..." but he still refused to make the sensible decision to BRING OUR TRUCK BACK. He claimed that it was out of his hands and that he couldn't release the truck until Capital One gave him the okay to do so. When I specifically asked him where the vehicle was, he played dumb, blaming his ignorance on the lack of communication with his driver. At this point, I wasn't so understanding anymore and as I felt the last vestiges of my self control seeping out of my pores, I contemplated making a donation to the NRA.

"Do you realize that you have proof of our ownership?" I asked, "This is no longer just a clerical error. You have stolen our truck." And to this, Walter chatted on about a hold harmless arrangement with Capital One and how his hide was covered. My jaw hit the floor and realization dawned. Walter didn't give a flying fig. As long as his arse was legally protected and he got paid for the job, I might as well have been conversing with a houseplant.

Walter promised to get back on the phone with the bank but I'd had enough. I asked for the number of their contact at Capital One and reluctantly, he gave it to me. I left message after message for some woman named Amy but she never called back and I was told that Miss Amy wouldn't be talking to us because we weren't the ones listed on the account.

MY POINT EXACTLY.

After ending the call with the repo family, I rang Dallas and keened like a crazed, wild animal. For the first time since discovering the truck gone, I understood that we might actually have to call an attorney, which sent me right over the edge.

And then an angel appeared. His name was Officer Simmons of the Bentonville PD.

He returned our early morning call, got all the details and did a bit of research into the matter. After a few hours of digging, Officer Simmons came to the conclusion that our truck had indeed been improperly repossessed. He spoke with Justice Brothers Recovery and told them that they had 15 minutes to produce ownership documentation or he would file a stolen vehicle report on our behalf. Well, apparently this got the repo man's attention because he couldn't get the truck back to us fast enough but not before he asked why the police would get involved considering it was a "civil" matter. I guess this question chapped Officer Simmons who acidly commented that a stolen vehicle was police business.

Late afternoon, our truck arrived back in town. We met the driver in the parking lot of our gym, inspected the vehicle and then Dallas was presented with a document to sign. It was a hold harmless agreement releasing Justice Brothers and Capital One Finance from all liability in the matter. Dallas's name still wasn't on the paperwork AND it listed Capital One Auto Finance as the owner. Dallas, in his polite, charming and reasonable Kiwi manner refused to sign the document.

Me? I had four letter expletives rolling around on the tip of my tongue just begging to be spat out. But I didn't say a word.

So, the truck came home and once or twice last night, like anxious new parents, we each peered out the front windows to make sure it was still in the driveway. We have since learned heaps about why this happened but I'll have to save that for tomorrow. I've babbled on long enough for today.

Da Repo Man

This morning started out like any other. Showers, breakfast, the packing of lunches, garbage bins to the curb and the final brushing of teeth before heading out the door.

And that's when things got weird.

I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when Dallas walked in, waited for me to look at him and said,

"My truck's been stolen. I don't know how else to tell you that."

Well, I think he did a pretty good job. I got the message loud and clear.

I stopped what I was doing and followed him into the garage. He hit the opener and as the garage door rolled up, a very empty driveway came into view. No truck. It seems kind of funny now that the two of us went out there to confirm that, yes indeed, there was no vehicle. He told me about how he had used his remote to open the truck, failed to hear the telltale, "Beep, Beep" and assumed that he had a dead battery. That would have been a reasonable conclusion and right in line with our luck lately but to walk out and find it GONE...

Well, we called the sheriff who let us bleat on about the truck only to tell us that it wasn't under their jurisdiction. We needed to call the city police, which we did. They told us the truck had been repossessed for non payment, which would have been understandable except THERE IS NO LIENHOLDER! We've had the title since April 2008.

So, we call the repo company and clearly something is wrong. They have a different owner name and a different owner address but Capital One Auto Finance (apparently, they want to know what's in your wallet AND your driveway) has the year, make, model and VIN number of our truck.

Weird. Makes my stomach hurt.

So, after scanning a copy of the title and emailing it to the Repo Man, Dallas and I have been asked to sit back and wait while the powers that be sort things out.

What has struck me as mind boggling is that in the middle of the night, while we lay snug in our beds, a bank that we don't do business with, was able to send out the goon squad to an address that doesn't match their files to pick up a vehicle that has been paid for and legally registered in a name since 2007, that doesn't match the one they have on file.

What's worse is that nobody will call us back and they don't seem terribly concerned about the fact that they have, in essence, stolen a vehicle.

So, in addition to being one of the great credit card rate hike offenders and one of the guys that accepted 3.56 billion dollars in taxpayer bailout funds, Capital One can add car thief to their resume.

I'm sure we'll get our vehicle back but I wonder just how long we will be inconvenienced because of someone's clerical error.

Save Me

You hear that gurgling sound? No, it's not a retch although I can understand why you might have confused it as such. It is me, just below the surface, DROWNING.

In work.

Issues? Of course because if I were to actually get several days strung together, IN A ROW, where everything ran smoothly and according to plan, the world might tip off its axis and twirl away into another galaxy.

What is worse than building a chair, shipping it to the Middle East to a new, high profile restaurant and having it break when your buyer sat in it for the first time? Tough one right? Wracking your brain for an answer? Well, how about building lots of chairs, shipping them to the Middle East to that new, high profile restaurant and having GOBS of them breaking right out from underneath their occupants? Yes, it's true. And the restaurant grand opening is set for tomorrow. And replacement chairs will take 90 days to deliver. Welcome to my life.

Oh yes, there is that meeting I had last week. Remember? I fretted about that baby for a week and a half. For nothing. The buyer was charming, respectful and completely reasonable. But like most in his position, he is faced with crazy deadlines, enormous responsibilities and limited help. To be considered for his new modular plan that rolls out next spring, I have exactly 6 days to get him pricing, samples and concept packaging on no less than eight items. For those that don't know, that's a bit like asking Britney Spears to chew gum and think at the same time: CHALLENGING.

Dallas and I are scheduled to fly home to Canada on Friday. It is not a pleasure trip. Over the weekend, one of my clients is scheduled to be on television with his products and between props, customs, couriered samples and on air protocol, I'm buried alive in the details. To top everything off, my daughter is sick with a cold. It's not horrible and yesterday, after a hasty nasal swab at the doctor's office, we learned that she isn't suffering from the flu, which is great. The trouble is, she goes to her father's house on Thursday night and conditions over there are less than ideal. Under normal circumstances, I can live with the thought of her foraging in the trash for scraps of foods and going unwashed for days but now that her little immune system is compromised with a cold, I'm concerned. So, I'm home with her, forcing heaps of vitamin C and cleansing her sinus cavities with saline and running to the school to pick up her schoolwork... DURING ONE OF THE BUSIEST WORKWEEKS OF MY LIFE.

I've been pretty good at treading water but lately, I can't feel my fingers and toes. I understand why some people give up and allow themselves to sink. I'm not there yet but I could sure use a mouthful of air.