relentless minutiae

Ever had one of those days that it feels like you’re working hard but getting nothing done? I had one like that today.

I am on day 8 of a bad arthritis flare-up in my hands. I had trouble sleeping last night because my fingers were swollen and hot like freshly boiled bratwurst sausages. I decided to sleep in a bit later to make up for it but at 8am sharp, the doorbell rang. I bounded out of bed and greeted the Express Post guy who had an intriguing package for me. It was a wooden box about two feet by two feet and four inches deep and it had a little rope handle on it. I pried it open with a screwdriver and sore hands. Inside was a beautifully framed first page of Bill C-331, which recognizes the injustice of Ukrainians being interned as enemy aliens during WWI. It was signed by Inky Mark, the MP who brought forward Bill C-331 as a private member’s Bill, and he wrote a nice note on it about how fortunate the Ukrainian community in Canada was to have a storyteller like me.

Very nice. The nicest thing that happened all day!

Once I got out of bed for good, I plunged into a major ironing marathon. We drove to St. Catherines last night and had dinner with our son Neil (who is in 3rd year at Brock) and he gave me a month’s worth of laundry. Unlike normal 21 year olds who wear t-shirts and jeans, Neil doesn’t even own a pair of jeans, and he rarely wears t-shirts. He likes silk Hawaiian shirts and they need ironing. Being a Ukrainian mother, I also iron his boxer shorts. I ironed for two solid hours.

In the midst of ironing, the doorbell rang again. Our mailman (who also happens to be an alderman) had a package for me. I thought it was my contract for the sequel to Aram’s Choice. No, it was a package that I had couriered out at the beginning of the week to Elizabeth, a special little girl in London Ontario, who I send autographed children’s books to every month or so (not mine, but ones that I pick up when I get the chance). I had to pay $7.50 to receive my own package. I thought it was being returned because I hadn’t put enough postage on it. Seeing as I had sent it from the post office and put the postage on that they asked for, I couldn’t figure that out, but already this $20 book had cost me $15 in postage and it hadn’t gone anywhere. I had to mail another package anyway, so I decided to go to the post office and figure out what was going on.

Before I could go to the post office, I had another errand: to get a police check. I do alot of school and library readings (approx 150 this school year) and I had never been asked for a police check before, but the school I’m spending the day at next Wednesday asked me for one. When I phoned the police station, they said all I needed was photo ID and they’d process it in 24 hours. No problem.

So I drove to the police station. The guy at reception said he couldn’t process me because I live in the county.

So I drove to Paris to the OPP station. This is a 20 minute drive and there was a blinding snowstorm.

I got there and the woman who does the police checks said that I needed a letter from the school and said that I would need a different letter from each school that I went to and each time I went to a school it would cost me $25 for a new police check and it would take a week minimum to have each one processed. I felt pretty aggravated by all this but took the forms and left.

I drove to the post office and showed them my undelivered package. The lady said that it wasn’t postage due, but that the sender’s address didn’t exist. This was simply wrong. I mail packages to Elizabeth all the time. I went to look up the postal code to ensure that I had it down right (I did) but by then, there were a dozen people in the lineup so I left. sigh

When I got back into the car (still a blinding snowstorm) I took a good look at that police check form. It was all about sex offenders and people in constant contact with kids.

????????????

When I do a school reading or presentation, I’m up at the front with a microphone and the kids are in the audience.

I called the OPP back. The woman said, “Oh, you want _that_ kind of police check.” Turns out there are three different kinds. I had explained when I was there what I did but I guess it didn’t sink in.

So, I was about to drive BACK to Paris but the woman told me she’d only be there for another 20 minutes and it wouldn’t be enough time to process it.

Sigh.

So I called the teacher who had requested all of this in the first place. She said, “Don’t worry about it. We don’t need it.” Argh.

By this time it was almost 4pm. I had not accomplished anything for the whole day except to iron and open up a wooden box.

I drove to my local post office (ie, not the one from which I had mailed that dud package from). The women at my local post office are lovely. I showed them my package and explained to them that I had been forced to pay courier charges twice now and the thing was still in Brantford despite the fact that the address was 100% correct. They said, “You’ll have to go to the main post office to complain.” I said, “No.”

So they called the main post office for me. And I’m not sure but it looks like my package will be delivered and I’ll get my $7.50 back.

What a day. I’m back to where I started. And my hands are still sore.