Stinky

I believe I have blogged about our sewer problem before, right? Wait. Let me check.

[Warning: I have had two glasses of sangria.]

[Warning: They were pretty big glasses.]

Yes, I referred to it here.

About 40 years ago, the City planted a lovely maple tree on City property at the edge of our front lawn. Unfortunately, they planted it right on top of the drain from our house to the main sewer line. D'oh!

We've had some intermittent trouble with it "backing up" and filling our big laundry sink with effluent, but it seemed to always drain eventually, so we let things slide until Steve could be home to wait for a city rep to show up at the house. He's on vacation starting on Monday.

Well, things kind of hit a crisis this weekend. On Saturday, we couldn't do laundry or take showers. (Emily and I spent the morning at the laundromat. It was kind of fun, but not something we want to do every weekend.) On Sunday, I was afraid to flush the toilet. So I finally called the city's emergency line. Someone was there within the hour to diagnose the problem.

This was not our actual technician.

This picture is from Wikipedia, by Pmsyyz

Another couple of hours later, the next-level technician started roto-rootering out the line. He pulled out about ten pounds of ... solid matter. Let's call it roots. Then he called for back-up: the big truck with the high-pressure hose that cuts through all the roots that have grown through the pipe. That took about an hour.

They've told us that this will have to be done every two years (and paid for by the city) unless the city decides to move the sewer pipe.

When all the men in boots had left, the house smelled of sewer. Badly. But it is too stinking hot out [pardon the pun] to open all the windows yet. (Although Brian said he would rather be hot than smell this stench.)

So we spent a while in the back yard, where the pool is (finally) nice and clean & clear. But then we came back in. You'd be surprised how you get used to smells after a while. Nevertheless, as I write, Steve is sanitizing the basement.

Not that I would invite any guests over right now. And we will open the windows as soon as the sun sets this evening.

So, at the end of the day, we have fully functional plumbing, and that is a very good thing. And we didn't have to dig up the front lawn, which is also a very good thing. Biennial maintenance is a small nuisance.

Procrastination is My Downfall

[Note: I started this post on May 24. Of this year, but still.]

I know where my kids get it from. Every time I ask one of them to do something, I get, "Okay, just a sec. Can it wait til ___________?" Fill in the blank with one of the following:

• a commercial
• I die (video game)
• I finish my homework
• I sign off IM/Facebook/texting
• I finish watching this video
• this paint dries

I have the same dreadful habit of leaving any task until the last possible minute.

In fact, as I write this, I am procrastinating about going upstairs and getting ready for work. I'm always trying to squeeze in one more moment of indulgence.

[BREAK, BREAK: I got that far and realized I was being really stupid.]

So, here we are a full two weeks later, and I still haven't finished this post.

[BREAK, BREAK: Got that far and realized I had nothing witty or insightful to say.]

Some people claim to be procrastinators, but never seem to have missed deadlines or late fees. Their claims to being procrastinators is similar to mine for having Alzheimer's: I have just enough occasional flashes of forgetfulness to keep me aware of how good I have it, but not enough to really impair my life.

MY degree of procrastination, however, puts other sluggards to shame. It has caused crises and screw-ups that cost money (that hits where it hurts).

Ferinstance: my passport has been expired since January. I started the paperwork in December. I got new passport photos taken in February in anticipation of a March trip to California. But that trip fell through so ... no motivation to get anything done.

Remember that inexplicable scratch?
On the right is the passport photo taken the following day
(stylized so it can't be stolen and used for  an illegal passport).

Yes, I'm a little paranoid.

I also have slightly wonky eyes. Never really noticed that before.
They really kind of creep me out.

Also, please note that one is NOT permitted to smile in Canadian passport photos.

The forms sat in my basket since the beginning of February.

In March, I started e-mailing my brother about a potential trip to Georgia to see him and his family. Did that get me off my duff? No.

So, here we are, approximately two weeks from my departure for Georgia. I have an airline ticket and a bevy of family ready to welcome me in Atlanta. What I glaringly DON'T have is a passport that will allow me to cross the border into the U.S. of A.

Fortunately for people like me, Passport Canada has a solution: a $70 "dumbass" fee on top of the usual usurious charge.

And that, my friends, is why I will likely not change my habits: because things usually work out in the end, as long as you're willing to pay the dumbass fine.

Retroactive "Live-blogging" Tax Season 2011

You know what? I'm only half way through writing this and have come to the conclusion that it is boring as shit. Actually, shit is far more interesting (just ask any mother of a newborn). So let me just give you a couple of highlights:

- Steve did my taxes! Yay!
- Then, because I am sick, he took them to the post office and brought me back a chocolate-mousse pastry with a gooey caramel centre!
- If Steve did the numbers correctly, it looks like I'm getting a tax refund from Canada this year!
- Next year, I will have one source of income, in one country. My taxes will be straightforward, and I should be able to do them myself.

- Fin -

One of my very first posts on this here blog was about how much I detest doing my taxes. It's ridiculous, really. This year, I procrastinated worse than any year previously.

My taxes are complicated because I have five sources of income from two countries, I cashed in some RRSPs, sold a house (and made a profit), and ceased owning a rental property. Do you have any idea how many supplementary forms that demands?!

March 5, 2011
Filed my U.S. federal and state tax returns. Since they won't do direct deposit to a Canadian institution, I had them snail-mail it to me.

In the past five years, the amount I've owed Revenue Canada has been roughly equal to what I've received as a refund from Uncle Sam. So waiting for the cheques to arrive gave me a credible excuse to dilly-dally.

All my tax files remain neatly stacked in a green folder on the coffee table.

April 1, 2011
Cheques arrive.

All my tax files remain neatly stacked in a green folder on the coffee table.

April 8, 2011
Cheques are deposited, but require a two-week holding period. Yay! More reasons to procrastinate.

At some point, Steve took pity on me and bravely offered to do my taxes for me this year, which saves me great sums of cash. Hiring a professional to do just the rental property part cost me close to $500 last year. (Maybe Steve just got tired of seeing all my tax files neatly stacked in a green folder on the coffee table.)

April 23, 2011
Steve declares, "We should do your taxes this weekend." I proceed to place the newspaper sections erratically over all my tax files which remain neatly stacked in a green folder on the coffee table.

April 30, 2011
Tax Day. [Note: I learned after the fact that taxes are actually due on midnight Monday, May 2, but I'm heading out of town on the 1st, so that extension is kind of moot.]

- 2:00 p.m.
Open the green folder and realize that my Canadian T4 is not in there. I must have left it at work. 
Get a paper cut.

- 3:00 p.m.
Drive to work. Half way there, get a call from Steve saying that he has found the errant T4. Return home.

A Quiz!

Question: What is worse than spending a morning at the Department of Motor Vehicles (a.k.a. the ServiceOntario office)?
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Answer: Having a gastric attack after waiting in line and finally reaching the counter. And there being no restrooms on-site. And leaving without what you came for.

First a little background: [TMI alert! Quit reading NOW if bodily functions turn your stomach.]

According to my gastroenterologist, I have "microscopic" colitis - intestinal inflammation that shows up only under the microscope and results in chronic diarrhea, cramping and other unseemly afflictions. It's not severe, and is mostly well controlled by diet, but every so often it catches me off-guard -- and when it does, it can happen very suddenly. My biggest fear, like anyone else with chronic gastric trouble, is having an "accident" in public, which has never happened to me. I learned, early on, that when I'm having one of "those days" I don't dare even try to fart unless I am on a working toilet. And, like most people with this kind of disorder, I've become quite adept at scouting out restroom locations whenever I enter a public place.

(One of the fringe benefits of my last job was that our office was right beside the women's restroom!)

But, oh, there have been close calls, one of the most memorable being when I was directed to restrooms only to find that they were closed for renovations! I couldn't even bust in and disturb the cleaning staff - the plumbing was not connected.

So there I was this morning, trying to clear up one of the last pieces of bureaucracy from our move - registering our vehicles and getting plates for them. When Brian and I arrived at the office, there were six people in front of us. Not bad!

But as the minutes wore on, I gradually felt something building. The line moved slowly. The wave of urgency abated. I marked a doorway near the back of the room that I hoped might lead to a restroom, though there was no signage to indicate so. The line moved. The gastric wave began to crest again. I debated whether I should give up my spot in line and make a dash for the restroom. I was first in line. Dammit, I would just have to exercise that sphincter! I breathed. The wave abated.

About an hour into it, I finally made it to the counter. The efficient clerk flipped through the kazillion papers I'd brought with me. We were missing one form. And, for some reason, the van is registered in Steve's name only, so I couldn't register that today.

Fine, I thought, just tell me what I need (and let me go find a toilet). She had to go consult a colleague to get the final answer. She left.

Tick. Spasm. Tick. Clench. Tick.

I asked the adjacent clerk if there was a bathroom I could use. "No. Sorry." (But not really sorry, sort of a happy, isn't-that-funny sorry.) Right. When was the last time an office was built without at least a staff washroom?

Finally, my clerk came back. I leaned over the counter and whispered, "Excuse me. I'm having a gastric attack. I really need to go to the bathroom! Is there a restroom I could use?" I gave her a desperate "sh** will start flowing soon if you don't help me" glare.

She stuck to the story that the office had no toilets. Instead, she directed me to a skivey restaurant a couple of doors down. Sensing my desperation, she told me to go ahead and come back to the front of the line when I was ready.

I skedaddled to the restaurant, leaving Brian standing in limbo. I ignored the "customers only" sign on the women's room door, praised God that it was unoccupied, turned a blind eye to the decades of grime that caked the door, floors and walls, and found sweet relief.

When I got back to the ServiceOntario office, I waited just a couple of minutes while the clerk dealt with her current customer, then she told me which forms I still needed.

So I survived, but still have to come back some other day. Because evidently this isn't enough paperwork to get plates in Ontario:

More paperwork!

The packers were only here for half a day yesterday, which was expected. It was only a "pre-pack" - just the stuff we could live without for the weekend. When they come on Monday, they'll pack everything else.

Those of you who are Facebook friends know that the packers actually packed our passports (and all our other important documents (like birth certificates), which we keep in a locked cashbox) into one of the boxes! If we were just moving across town or across the country, it wouldn't be a problem, but we NEED those passports to enter Canada, and especially to retrieve our vehicles. No passport = no stuff crossing the border.

Fortunately, the (very keyed-in) packer came across our stack of (expired) passports. He knew we were moving to Canada and thought we might need them - he didn't notice they were expired. So he brought them to me. I gasped! It took us half an hour to dig through eight boxes (multiple times each) before we found the treasure box. Phew! I don't know what we would have done ...

While the packers were noisily and busily wrapping, stuffing, taping and stacking, a technician came to "certify" all of our high-value electrical items: anything that plugs in and is worth more than $100. With the help of Brian - who is small and can squeeze into awkward spaces - the technician annotated every item, with serial number. He didn't actually turn said items on, or test them in any way, so I'm not sure how this differs from the agonizingly detailed inventory I created, but he gets paid to do it and we aren't covered for damages if we don't, so...

Just before he left for the day, the head packer brought me a sheaf of papers. I thought he wanted me to sign something, but no. They were triplicate forms for us to list every high-value item, with serial number and declared value. I told him I had already done this, but he said, "If it's not on these forms, we don't acknowledge it." Great.

So we now have three inventories: the exhaustive one I laboured over, the one the electrical certifier created, and the triplicate high-value inventory for the moving company.

***

Other move tidbits

Today Steve emptied the crawlspace. I didn't realize how much stuff we had in there, too. Groannnnn. But Brian was excited to see his long-lost Fisher-Price Flip-Track. It hasn't been out of the crawlspace in five years, so I would donate it, but seeing Brian's excitement vetoed that.

Steve and Emily are now on their drive up Pikes Peak. Emily has never been to the top, despite three previous attempts, so it was something she needed to do before we left.

Our fridge and freezer have nothing but bizarre remnants: unsalted butter, meatballs (but we have no tomato or spaghetti sauce), hamburger buns (but no basic bread or meat patties). On the bright side: it'll be easy to clean everything for transport.

We have five huge "china barrels" of crystal and "good" dishes that have nowhere to go at our new house. The dining room is just too small for any kind of china cabinet or hutch, and the kitchen will barely have enough room for our kitchen stuff (and that'll be AFTER we add more cabinets). This downsizing kinda sucks lemons.

Brian is carefully putting each of his treasured Bionicle creations into a ziploc bag so none of the pieces will get lost during the move.

The cat was sedated yesterday because the veterinarian recommended we test the sedative before we give it to her for her long travel day to Canada (and we thought it might be stressful for her to hear all the packing noises). She was very funny to watch - staggering drunk, but still trying to escape the room to which we had confined her. It lasted a good twelve hours.

When we took the cat for her travel certification check-up, the vet noticed that another one of her teeth has gone rotten (she has feline stomatitis). Rather than waiting till we move to Canada, we've scheduled surgery to remove the tooth on Tuesday, while the movers are loading our stuff on the van.

Emily needs bloodwork to check the level of one of her meds (it's one that the body metabolizes differently the longer you are on it). We'll be doing that on Monday morning.

Even with OCD, this is a little excessive

One of the more monumental tasks I have to complete today is an exhaustive, itemized inventory of every single thing we own. Every. Single. Thing. From salt shakers to lawn mowers, from sandals to drapes.

The Department of National Defense even gave us a Word template to use. For each item, we are to list:

• Qty


• Item (Brief Description)


• Year of Purchase (Do you remember what year you bought that platter or that food processor? Heck, I can't even remember what year we bought the fridge! Hence begins the hunt for receipts.)


• Replacement Cost (CDN)


• Condition

There are two reasons to do this:

1. For clearing Customs into Canada - anything we have purchased in the past six months will be subject to Duty. Also, if we had any, we would have to declare any weapons or other controlled items. (What other "controlled items"? Fireworks? Fertilizer? Illegal aliens?)



2. For insurance purposes - if any of our stuff goes missing or gets damaged, we will be able to file a claim.

I tell ya - it's almost enough to make me want to have the mother of all yard sales and just start from scratch when we get to Ottawa. I've heard there are people who actually do this every time they move. But I'm too attached to my little treasures, items I've picked up in my travels that strike my fancy. And I can't help but think you would lose a lot of money along the way - you'll never sell a food processor for full replacement cost.

So, I have started going through every room in the house and photographing everything - including inside cupboards and drawers. I even had the boys pull out all the shoes and boots and line them up for a photo op. This picture shows only the shoes that were in the back hall. Most of them are mine (and there are more upstairs). No surprise.

But I have decided that I'm not going to itemize every single low-value item, like grocery items or most of our clothes. I'll list them as a group (e.g., 30 pairs of women's shoes). If Customs or the insurer quibbles I'll just pull out the photograph and show them all the shoes (and how lovely they are). And if I can't remember the year it was purchased, I'm leaving it blank.
That's reasonable, isn't it?
Anyway, I'm now on page 15 of the list. Time to get back to work.