M says I am a self-hating American because I have generally insisted that the one rule we must follow on July 4th is to leave the country, even if only for the day. (I seem to recall having the same rule for Thanksgiving. I think it has less to do with America and more to do with my pathological need to cross borders. Consequently, I do not think it possible to be a self-hating American and a Springsteen fan.) Hence, we are off to the great white north this afternoon: Vancouver, BC. Because we only have the girls, we can squeeze into one hotel room, which is a rare and affordable treat for us. In all honesty, the room only has beds for four and now that Sidney has been ejected from the pack-n-play, Francie will be spending the night in a sleeping bag. She is beyond excited. It’s amazing how easy it is to please a middle child.
If this is our last boy-less act (Efram comes home Tuesday, Bennett the following Sunday), our penultimate act was cleaning out their boy-cave. First, we attacked the walls, which meant removing the 3,000 baseball cards and other random shit they had stuck up there, mostly by un-approved means. (Painters tape = approved. Gum, staples, and duct tape = NOT approved.)
Speaking of gum, we even had to dismantle the gum wall:
When I say “we”, I am not really speaking of the me of we, but rather of M. As I have made clear many times, I do not do anything that requires the lifting of things, and apparently that includes my arms. After ten minutes my arms ached and I grew irritable. I made an excuse about something burning in the kitchen and beat the hastiest of retreats.
So now the room that looked like this:
All barren and Pottery-Barn-Ish. We even removed the NFC and AFC walls of fame from the bathroom:
(One league on either side of the toilet.)
Next stop: the carpet. This scares me, and I’ll tell you why. We currently have three different plug-ins running in the boy-cave. (You can see one in the lower left corner of the photo above.) The room is a melange of apple cinnamon, lavender, and something called fresh linen, which smells more to me like fresh paint. The minute one of those plug-in runs out of scent, the smell of urine wafts out of the room. It’s bloody awful. Apparently we need all three to make the room habitable. I cringe to think what sorts of smells lurk in the fibers of that carpet.
But I’ll think about THAT next week.
In the meantime, Happy Independence Day to all of us.