Our lovely rental home in Calgary has been put up for sale. Again. For the low, low price of $499,900 you too can have a nearly one hundred year old home with french blue bathtub and sinks. And red shag carpeting in the basement. And a stove so antiquated, the home repairman begged us never to call him should it fall into disrepair.
The bottom line for us is that the realtor now calls to schedule showings. And we have to clean the house and vacate it for a period of time. While it’s beyond tedious, I can’t complain because my dear friend in Muncie is doing the very same thing for me. Vacating Alden Rd at the whim of realtors who then pilfer her candy.
Tonight we had to be out of the house from 5.30-6.30pm. Most inconvenient since that is when we normally eat dinner. To make it even more stressful, the nutty professor spent all day in bed with a stomach bug.
But troopers that we are, we pulled ourselves and the house together and left at 5.15. In search of food for the little people and the ailing one, since I had a 7pm dinner date with friends.
On the way to the shopping center, the kids were in fine form. Sure, the world economy may be in tatters and our Indiana home may not sell until 2011, but I glimpsed nothing short of a miracle in the back of our car.
The boys held hands – albeit for less than two seconds – and G told his brother that he loved him. Without any parental encouragement whatsoever. It was strange and heart warming. And there were no cameras anywhere to capture this miracle. For all I know, I might have dreamt it.
I mean, these kids do little else but pester each other from the minute they wake up in the morning. For twelve hours a day, every day – rain or shine. And then they have a thirty second exchange in the car that tempts us to think we’re not terrible parents after all – we are, in fact, the world’s most amazing parents. Because clearly our children are the best of friends and have nothing but the highest regard for one another.
Then it was time to find a place to eat. We parked in front of Swiss Chalet, mostly because it wasn’t Wendy’s or A&W – hence we assumed it would be tastier and possibly healthier fare. The menu promised ‘famous’ (or was it world-famous) rotisserie chicken and dipping sauce. We made the mistake of assuming ‘famous’ was tantamount to good.
But it wasn’t. Not unless you like dipping greasy chicken in brown sauce laced with nutmeg.
So far our track record with Canadian eating establishments is 0 for 2.