October Equals Stress

Fall, this year, is shaping up to be just the slightest bit stressful because of decisions that I made while I was still able to read without bifocals (that would include last year but I'm not obsessed or anything). Remember when interest rates were low and the housing market was rocking? Well, I smoked some of that optimism weed and when I bought my first house as a divorcee, I chose to go for a two year ARM with a low introductory rate. I did this for a couple of reasons.

First, there was head-shaking regret that can only come when one has made an error so large that it's tombstone material. Eleven years ago, my ex-husband and I were living in an east county suburb of San Diego. I was pregnant with my son and we knew that we were going to move to Michigan to be closer to his family (must have graduated to smoking crack with that decision). He had purchased the house seven years earlier at the height of another housing boom for $160,000. It was a standard 3 bedroom, 2 bath home and there were a bunch just like it within a 10 block radius. By the time we listed the house, we were told that without a major refurb (carpet, paint, kitchen, windows and doors), the house would list for $160,000 and we would be lucky to get $155,000. My ex was beside himself and I made the suggestion that we sit on the property, rent it out and wait for the housing market to change. I tried to explain cyclical to him but he said he couldn't understand what buying a bike had to do with getting hosed on his house so I gave up, stroked my swollen belly and prayed that intelligence was passed through the maternal chromosomes.

Two years later, the house was worth over $300,000.

Today, you'd need a jumbo loan to purchase that shack.

After that financial spanking, I vowed never again to allow fear to be the deciding factor in assessing the risk of any given opportunity. So two years ago, when looking at the the cost of money, I threw the dice.

Second, I didn't have the 20% down needed to avoid PMI in a traditional 30 year fixed so I figured I'd take the lower interest rate, invest the monthly savings and sit for two years and let the house appreciate. Well, it almost worked. I'm at 14%. The trouble is, I invested most of the difference in payment each month in a mutual fund portfolio that was heavily vested in real estate paper, namely sub prime mortgages. Um, yeah...OUCH.

Now, I have to refinance by October 1st so I'll take another beating in the additional closing costs. I haven't found the perfect deal, yet, but I should be able to find something that makes me happy considering the fact that my phone has been ringing off the damn hook since I did the Lending Tree thing (just a whole pile of stupid, there). I'll save those details for another post but the process makes me want to curl up into a fetal position with a bottle of happy pills.

Did I mention that we pay our personal property and real estate taxes in October? Oh yes, and the lease on my vehicle is up October 11th with no option to renew. So, I'll be shopping for a new mortgage and a new car, paying property taxes, real estate taxes and closing costs and somewhere in there, I've got to get our flights home for Christmas.

I have a business trip to China mid October, which is usually a bit of a drag but I just know that this time, I'm going to welcome the diversion. Something tells me I'll be getting friendly with the moonshine on the flight over.

Dating Is Not For The Weak

Dating in your forties is a minefield. I entered into this process with twenty year old rules firmly planted in my brain and like our education system, it became evident that my assumptions were hopelessly outdated.

Assumption #1: Men only want one thing. Wrong. They certainly are interested in THAT but they're also looking for intelligence, humor, self-sufficiency and (gasp) conversation.

Assumption#2: If he has a tattoo, he's a bad boy with a checkered past and not someone you could bring home to mother. First of all, there aren't many I'd bring home to Mum because it would be like being put under a magnifying glass in the blazing sun. Second, the term "bad boy" is a completely subjective pronouncement and these men have more layers than an onion. Tattoos have received a bad rap.

Assumption#3: Razor blade. Tweezers. Pumice stone. Period. Apparently not. I would like to find the little porn star who took advanced waxing and electrolysis from the daring few and made it mainstream. Then, I would like to beat her until she was unable to say Brazilian.

Assumption#4: People my age waited longer to have their kids. Again, this would not be correct. Seemingly, while I was taking classes and changing majors, my male counterparts were taking vows and changing diapers.

Assumption#5: Chivalry is dead. Oh no, not by a long shot. Principle: bravery-any person who elects to jump into the dating pool after divorce, alimony, division of assets, step-parenting, custody battles and lengthy settlements is either a loon or very courageous. Principle: Gallantry and generousity- men now remember details like the fact that dark chocolate is manna from heaven. They come with little gifts casually mentioned in conversation and bouquets of the most exquisite flowers. They pick up the tab even when they know that you are perfectly able. They use words like "beautiful" and they mean it. Chivalry is alive, kicking and the rule, not the exception.

Perhaps the most erroneous assumption that I have made is that time means the same as it did fifteen years ago. This was such a miscalculation on my part. When you factor your work day, time for the kids, time for normal life chores, time for sleep, time for exercise and time for your extended family and friends, there is precious little left to give to a relationship. So what happens is that the few moments that are spent together are very intense because there is this underlying current that so much ground needs to be covered, quickly.

Wrong there, too.

I suppose exploring relationships at my age is kind of like giving birth. You are encouraged to give a little push to start things off, so you do what you're told and then all of the sudden, the situation is much further along than you had anticipated and holy crap! Someone had better be there to catch that baby before he's dropped on his head!

Pant, pant, pant, pant, EXHALE.

New York: The Final Chapter

Cafe Wha? was a blast and we stayed out very late so the next morning, (at the bloody crack of dawn), we looked like three sacks of crap when we met Sean at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Actually my cousins looked pretty good. I looked like my father and I will NEVER wear orange again.
Cindi was perturbed with what she referred to as the "hair show". Being that Jennie and I actually possessed follicles that required more work than a towel, we could understand her frustration at having to wait on us but at the end of the day, we politely told her to go pound sand. Let's face it. She had people looking for an autograph the night before and I'd have bet my last nickel that one or two of the groupies at Cafe Wha? rushed right over to their stylists to have their hair shorn the same way. Jennie and I have our grandmother's ass. We needed hair.

But I digress...

The Met was fabulous and Sean had tried to arrange a private tour. Unfortunately, his friend at the museum had another engagement but she left Sean with our admission buttons. We weaved through a fantastic stained glass exhibit which conveniently ended at the cafe where one could enjoy great, aromatic wafts of the worst coffee I've ever consumed. We then moved on to an Egyptian show which included hieroglyphics, mummies and sarcophagi (sarcophaguses for those who say fishes, not fish) or you could just say esophagus and be the biggest loser on the planet.
The final exhibit was Medieval articles of warfare. I tried very, very hard to appear enthusiastic but I would rather have had Sean take one of the gazillion swords or daggers (each with its own long and detailed history) and PUT MY EYES OUT. There is just so much chain mail and war headdresses that a person can take.

After the museum, we said good bye to Sean and went back to Times Square to queue up for the cheap Broadway tickets. We ended up securing three really good seats for Dirty Rotten Scoundrels that night. I wasn't terribly enthused because my heart had been set on Wicked but we were not disappointed. Luci Arnez was in the cast, which was kind of neat but the two lead actors were spectacular and totally irreverent. I had forgotten that Broadway was a little like HBO (no censors) only in 3D. We had a riot.

The next day we were leaving. Cindi and I had later flights in the afternoon. Poor Jen, being at the mercy of Air Canada Aeroplan miles was forced to leave around lunchtime. We decided to have breakfast in Central Park at Tavern on the Green. Jennifer thought that this might be her best chance to run into Regis Philbin since he apparently eats there frequently. Well, we didn't see a single celebrity because they hole them up in private rooms so that crazy people like us don't harass them for autographs. But we did get to see the outdoor garden and it was magnificent (lousy photography, though).
Back at the hotel, we helped Jennifer to pack her things and the conversation centered on the fact that we had not seen a single celebrity. I couldn't understand it. I've had a spotting on every single trip to New York. There have been easy ones like Sarah Jessica filming in Central Park but there has also been Tom Cruise outside of Barney's, Charo and her lips (time has not been especially kind) and this supermodel whose name I can never remember in the hotel elevator at the W hotel in Times Square. But alas, this time we had nothing- not even a "C" lister who ended up on a reality show losing weight.

We took Jennifer's bags down and waited on the street with her while the doorman hailed her a cab. There was this nondescript guy with a backpack and a ballcap waiting as well. The doorman leaned over an whispered that the dude was Spiderman.

"Tobey Maguire?"

"The very same. He just got married and was here wrapping up the latest Spiderman movie." And so it was. He turned and we got a clear view of his face. And all this time, he had been staying at the same hotel. Spidey in the flesh. All three of us have young boys who were going to be completely impressed with this information.

"Married? I thought he was gay." Oops. Got him confused with Elijah Wood.

Well, it didn't matter to Cindi and Jennifer. Both of them stared, wide-eyed and watched his every move. I'm not sure they blinked. Tobey's car came (we're on a first name basis) and just like that, Spidey was gone.

Jenny left a few minutes later with much hugging and a few tears. Cins and I then took off to Filene's Basement where we spent an obscene amount of money and had to rush back to the hotel to pack, check out and get to the airport.

So that was New York. There is much, much more to do and we have vowed to return. I have asked that we plan it around Jimmy Choo's annual sale. Jennifer doesn't care when we go as long as we get tickets to Regis and Kelly. Cindi thought that maybe we should call our cousin Michael and get him tohelp us plan our next trip.

We loved New York.

New York City part three

Day two in New York City started off a bit shaky given the circumstances of the night before, but after a shower and some food, we ventured out to midtown.

Fifth Avenue is a dream. Tiffany's, Sak's, Takashimaya, H & M, Henri Bendel and a million boutique-like settings for your mall favourites. There is something for every budget and we were in serious consumer mode. Besides the best shopping on the planet, New York is all about people watching. If you stand for five minutes at the corner of 5th and 57th, you will get a crash course in fashion. The Waif (eat something, will ya), The Columbia Student (houndstooth and ivy), The Socialite (I am not a zombie. It's the Botox) and The Incognito Star (Don't look at me. This is NY, not LA) are the four basic pillars of non haute couture. They all have their own great style and within a block, you can duck into a million stores and blatantly copy it.

After Fifth Avenue, we took a cab to the financial district because it is hard to talk about New York without remembering how we all sat riveted to our televisions on September 11, 2001 watching the horror unfold. I had been down to the WTC site several times before but the emotional impact just never seems to let up. When I lay my eyes on that yawning space, the grief just washes over me and I am always surprised at how fresh it all seems. Cindi and Jennifer were quiet. They slowly walked the length of the chain link fence that surrounds the area, reading the timeline of events and finishing up with the list of those that died that day.

(One of the steel girders left from the clean up of the towers)

We then crossed the street and went into St. Peter's church, which is profoundly sad since many of the "missing" flyers that people posted in the weeks after the tragedy can still be found hanging inside it's walls. We're nearly six years out of this event and it is still raw.

Two or so blocks south on the corner of Cortlandt and Church, we did a bit of shopping at Century 21, which has a shoe department that I often dream about. If you are planning a trip and you want designer stuff at bargain prices, this is the place. The staff is rude, the change room is designed for cattle and the check out process is laborious but the deals make up for everything. Did I mention the shoe department? Pure rapture.

We left there and took the subway all the way back up to the hotel to shower and change for the evening. We were headed out with Sean, my crazy, straight-off-the-boat, red-headed Irish friend who has a weakness for expensive scotch. Sean knows New York City like the back of his hand. He is a former chef, who has never met a stranger and he has an eclectic group of friends. Sean is extremely well connected but he's quiet about it. He just disappears, places a few calls and presto, you've got a table at Nobu. And he is one of the few people on this earth that can make me cry with laughter.

We met him and one of his friends down in the village for a leisurely dinner at a great Indian restaurant where, in true Sean fashion, he picked up the tab. We tried to protest, especially since he was doing us the favour of showing us around but he would have none of it. He embraced my cousins like they were family.

After dinner, they took us to Cafe Wha? which is one of the best places in New York to see live, local music from a house band that does mini sessions of different genres of music. Reggae, rock, gospel, R&B, blues, funk..you name it. It was a.m.a.z.i.n.g. In the 60's the place boasted regular customers like Alan Ginsberg and Bob Dylan. Besides a house band, Cafe Wha hosted comedians like Richard Pryor and Bill Cosby on its stage. Springsteen and Hendrix began their careers here. It hasn't lost any of its charm. At the entrance before going down a set of stairs into the club, there is a three dimensional face that tells you to get moving. Once inside, you are led into a dingy, crowded pub where the music is fantastic and people are dancing in the aisles.

Besides the great music and ambiance, Jennifer and I followed Cindi around in the wake of her famousness. All night long, Cindi was channeling supermodel and the men in the place were staring, open-mouthed. She had on this casual skirt, mile high platforms and a chunk of gold that made a statement. Women were poking each other, pointing at Cindi and saying, "Isn't she famous?" or "Who IS she?" All of that was fine in and of itself but it was especially cool because by proxy, Jennifer and I were famous person's posse. Excellent!

Check out the clip below from You Tube.

It captures the essence.

Tomorrow: The final chapter including culture, Broadway and Spiderman in the flesh.

Franken-elbow

I'm sorry to interrupt the NYC series with this completely narcissistic update on my elbow. Earlier in the week, after nearly knocking one of my children out with the blasted cast (NOT on purpose ), I called Dr. Sexy's office and talked to sardonic Jim.

I'm not sure what it is that Jim does but when I need an appointment, Jim's the man. He gets on the phone and I tell him that I have this event to attend on Saturday night and ugly white cast is not going to go well with my outfit. I beg him to fit me into Dr. Sexy's schedule somewhere this week. I also expressed to him that I knew that I was being a colossal pain and I extended my sincerest apologies. Then, I held my breath.

Jim (with delicious sarcasm): What is it? Your prom?

Me: (laughter)

Jim: Can't you just put a black nylon or sock over it and call it a day?

Me: (silence...brain scrambling for appropriate answer but alas...) Umm, no. I am NOT Scarlett O'Hara and I don't know how to sew the drapes into a formal gown.

Jim's turn to laugh. He tells me to hang on while he goes to consult with Dr. Sexy. After several minutes, he comes back chuckling and tells me that the doc will be happy to work me in this week at 2:45pm on Thursday.

Crap.

The children get out of school at 3:00pm and I am in a carpool. It is my duty to pick them up every day.

Me (in best subservient, I-know-I'm-an-idiot, church mouse voice): Do you have anything earlier or later?

Jim: Are you kidding me?

Me (panic): Well YES! Yes I am. See you Thursday. I'll be there with bells on.

GAH!

Yesterday morning was just one of those days. My son was sick and my daughter had chosen to play hide and seek with the tape I use to secure the garbage bag over the cast. As you know, it took me forever to have a bloody shower so, no time to waste, I tucked the garbage bag around the cast, pulled the handles and tied it off as best I could. When I got out of the shower, I removed the bag and water flowed out of the bottom of my cast. Uh oh.

So I cut it off.

And it felt goooood. Sooo gooood. And then I had a good look at my arm.



That black nylon is looking pretty good right about now.

I made it to my appointment very early and the receptionist was able to change my time with the 3:15pm slot since the other patient also arrived early. I raced to the school to get the kids and brought all of them (including carpoolers) back to the doctor's office. Oh don't even ask! The only time they were quiet was when my stitches were removed.

So the cast is gone, the stitches out and Dr. Sexy said I could play golf in two weeks. He warned that it would feel really weird and probably a bit painful but who cares? That nerve will never be compressed again.

We heart NYC part two

After leaving the hotel, the girls and I took off down to Times Square because we are shameless tourists and we all grew up watching Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. When you first lay eyes on the Panasonic Astro Vision screen at One Times Square, where Broadway and Seventh Ave intersect, you cannot help but be awed. You've seen it a million times on tv and by george, there it is. For real.



As you can tell from Cindi's hand, we took care of kid business straight away with a pit stop in Toys R Us. We didn't want to be scrambling at the airport on the way home trying to find that special souvenir for our children and settling for the $200
T-shirt that was made in China.

No, we needed something that said, WE'RE FREE "we were thinking about you" and nothing speaks to a child more clearly than new toy loot.

After negotiating our way through the crush, we caught a pedicab at 47th. Pedicabs are those cool 2 person rickshaws joined to a bike and pedaled by some beefy, hungry, college kid from Iowa. Well, we had loads of bags and there were three of us. Eager college boy said, "No problem. If you can squeeze in, I can get you where you need to go." All right, then. Did I mention that he only flinched slightly when we told him our destination was Columbus Circle, a mere 12 blocks away?

Oh my. Somewhere around 50th, he started to sweat serious amounts. By 54th, we could hear him wheeze. At 56th, he was barking like a dog. At 59th, he began speaking in tongues, alternately crying out for his mother and begging for water. He stopped, let us out, took our picture and tried to smile. He was unable to form words. His hair might have been smoking. We threw gobs of money at him and I think it was Jennie who sagely said,

"That's gonna hurt tomorrow". Yep.



After that, my friend Richie called to invite us out for a drink at Kennedy's, this great Irish pub on west 57th. Perfect! We were in the neighbourhood. Poor Jennie was exhausted and she elected to go back to our room to crash. Cindi, the brave, chose to accompany me since I have this somewhat unwarranted reputation in our family for being wild, dangerous, benignly blonde after a few cocktails. We met Richie and his friend and the drinks flowed. At some point, I will admit to crossing the line from pleasantly buzzy to 30 seconds behind the punchline. Richie and I went outside for a cigarette (nasty, filthy, blah, blah, blah) and all of the sudden, Octopus Man arrived on the scene. Richie grew six more arms, came in for the swoop and out there on the street, we had a new and improved version of The Karate Kid. Do you remember the part where the kid learns "wax on, wax off". Have you got the visual on his hands? That was me, battling the tentacles. I was Wonder Woman with her shiny bracelets deflecting remarkably nimble hands . It was a very athletic cigarette break in a self-defense kind of way. Not long after, Cindi and I pulled the chute and headed home. It was well, well into the wee hours of the following day.

The next morning, we woke up somewhere around 7 or 8. Jennie, after a full night's sleep and no alcohol, was eager to get going. Who could blame her? Where did she want to go? Fifth Ave? Rockefeller Center? Chelsea Piers? Central Park? The Village? No, no, no ,no and no.

Regis and Kelly.

I wanted the shoe fairy to get my stilettos out of the closet and drive them into my brain because Kathy Lee was annoying but at least you could despise her. Kelly is perfect. Their show is thunderously loud. Audience participation is encouraged.

HANGOVER + SHOW FOR GOOD MOTHERS DEMOGRAPHIC + ENDLESS QUEUES + TOURISTS IN SPANDEX =



Shamefully, we didn't make it to Regis and Kelly.

Tomorrow: part three- grief, the subway and the best pub EVER

NYC part one

Last year, I went to New York City with my two cousins, Cindi and Jennifer. I am fortunate enough to be in Manhattan several times a year and I have a small but certifiably whacked group of friends that I try to see when there. We were determined to show my cousins a good time and in reflection, I think we accomplished that goal.

First of all, I should tell you about Jennifer. She is sweet, petite and wickedly funny. And I love her, especially since like me, she got Grammie's arse in the gene lottery. Jennifer married a handsome, outdoorsy, man's man with these killer blue eyes. You look at him and just know he could have been frat boy bad but he chose instead to be this great dad who accidentally burns down summer cottages every now and then. Their two sons are athletic, social and in no time, they will be beating the girls off. They reside in a rural town in eastern Canada in a house they built and they've known their friends most of their lives. They are a Norman Rockwell painting.

Cindi is tall, legs up to her armpits, uber chic and well traveled. When she laughs, it bubbles up out of her in massive, uncontrolled waves. And I love her, especially because she is a rail thin girl who eats like a horse and makes no apologies. Of course, anyone who consumes that much spelt and soy should be given a medal for extreme personal sacrifice. Cindi married a South African, razor sharp wit who can make the most mundane situations positively hysterical. And when he swears in Afrikaans, you do not need to speak the language to understand. They have two beautiful children who are smart, charming and creative beyond description. They live in a busy, metropolitan area of Canada in a fabulous house and they lead a truly cosmopolitan life. They are Eurpoean in their sensibilities.

We all arrived at La Guardia at roughly the same time. Cindi was able to get a direct flight so she was well rested. I had been there for days on business. Jen had come from eastern Canada via Siberia to NYC in order to use those fabulously inflexible Aeroplan miles that the monopolyAir Canada doles out. She may have been traveling for several months trying to traverse the 1500 or so miles. She was understandably tired but excited to be in the Big Apple. I couldn't wait to watch Jen's face as she experienced her first yellow cab ride into the city.

Yellow cabs have never let me down. You get in and the driver is a foreigner who has an accent so thick that you generally make conversation by nodding, smiling and talking LOUDLY because we all know that English is so much better understood if we BELLOW. Your fingernails must be longer so you can use them to anchor yourself in the back seat while your driver makes new and creative lane changes. Once you are through the tunnel and in Manhattan, the true flavour of the ride shows up. Do you remember DeNiro in "Taxi"? "You lookin' at me?" It is not a stereotype. While Jennie was enthralled with the scenery (like we all are our first time in New York), our driver was in a flip the bird, eff you contest with one of his fellow cabbies.

My friends had secured us a killer deal at the Mandarin Oriental and the folks at check in said that our hostess had upgraded us to a nicer room with a better view. We were so excited. We got up to the room and found champagne, bath gifts, slippers and sinful nibbles. Then, there was the bathroom. I could easily have lived, with my two kids in that room. It contained one of those rain showers and a tub meant for a party. So we cracked open the bubbly, toasted our fabulous selves and then hit the streets.

Part two tomorrow including Richie the Octopus and the Pedicab man we nearly killed.

CAST REMOVAL COUNTDOWN

Whine, whine, whine

***DISCLAIMER****
This post will contain much pissing and moaning.

Have I mentioned that being trapped in a 90 degree cast will turn a reasonable woman into a raving lunatic? Look, I know that I should be focusing on the silver lining of this whole surgery but I'm having trouble getting past the fact that I am unable to button my own pants.

My hair looks like crap. It is neither curly nor straight and as a two-handed person, I am usually able to manipulate it into a reasonable coif. Not anymore. Now every morning, I go to the office and I am forced to wait for a co worker to arrive to help me pull it into a pony. Today is French braid day.

My wardrobe presents numerous challenges because pajamas are not considered business casual. Buttons, snaps, zippers and, god forbid, strings that need to be tied, are instruments of the devil. My bra? Let's just say that the girls and I are in a death match with gravity and every day that we triumph is like winning the lottery.

My morning routine has been blown like a drunken sailor on shore leave. I used to enjoy a leisurely coffee, shower and breakfast before the kids got up. Now, everything takes longer. Grasp scrunchie with right hand. Reach for bottle of liquid soap with right hand. Brain registers conflict. Put scrunchie down. Get bottle. Pour on scrunchie. Put bottle down. Pick up scrunchie. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And just try to shave your right underarm with your right hand.

School lunches are their own unique nightmare. I buy organic peanut butter. It resides in the fridge. It has a screw on lid. I can hold the jar in my left hand but applying any pressure (say the act of unscrewing with my right hand) causes pain. The peanut butter is stiff and unyielding. Getting it out of the jar with one hand while using my hip to anchor it in the corner of the counter top is a lesson in freak ergonomics.

The final insult is laundry. I have become this crazy person, screeching at my kids to help me get the stuff out of the dryer while it is still hot because the thought of ironing with one hand is too much for me to contemplate. As it is, the mere act of folding clean clothes has me muttering profanities under my breath.

There is some good. I am predominately right handed, except for eating. I eat with my left. So now, I'm clumsy and many morsels do not make it to the promised land. Instead, they end up on my shirt, usually in the chest area because I am shaped like a letter "P". I am so pleased that I have managed to get the girls holstered that I choose to view the few dribbles as artful accessorizing. And then there is the fact that food on my shirt means that there is no way it made it to my hips. BONUS. So who says I'm not a glass half full kind of gal?

CAST REMOVAL COUNTDOWN

Check- Matey

The last couple of days have been so strange.

Besides the fabulous drug haze, Dallas and I reluctantly admitted that our timing was all wrong and thus, we have stepped things down to friends but not in that fake, "let's do lunch" way. I am very fond of him and I know he feels the same tenderness for me.

Sometimes, raw emotional pain will drive a person to seek out intimacy in an effort to surface, to take in a lungful of air, to heal. Unfortunately, it is that same pain that inhibits true communion because it acts like a gatekeeper, guarding against naked vulnerability. It takes the first responsive ripples of genuine affection and chokes that energy with fear, doubt and apathy. It is heartbreaking to witness but the journey is intensely personal....and solitary.

There is nothing yucky or tsk-worthy in this ending. I consider myself to be very fortunate. My first venture back into the Mars/Venus party was with a sweet, kind and respectful man who redefines nice and makes me believe that perhaps all the good ones aren't taken. He might not be thrilled with the idea of me dating other people but Harley would be genuinely happy for me if I found love. And this is why I'm honoured to be his friend

The Day After

It was pretty awful. There is just no way to sugarcoat it. I arrived at the hospital at about 8:30am and was shuffled into the finance office where they politely asked me to pay, sign a bunch of papers and answer some questions.

When did I last eat? Long enough ago that my stomache is participating in this conversation.

What do I weigh? Hmm. Tell the truth and receive the proper dosage of drugs or lie and run the risk of being under medicated. Lie. Definitely lie.

After the inquisition was over, I was led to the pre-op and there on the sterile gurney lay the dreaded hospital gown in all its open-backed glory. There is just nothing positive to be said about this garment. I undressed, put the damn thing on and like every other woman on the planet, hid my unmentionables between my street clothes. We all do it. Yes, we understand that our doctor has probably seen a bra before but it doesn't matter. Playing pig in the blanket with our panties is part of our DNA.

Nurse Sue started an IV and introduced me to Dr. Feelgood, who shook my hand and told me he'd be captain of the narcotic express. He started my journey with a sweet little drug to help me relax. I was so happy. And I loved everyone. Everyone. Dr. Sexy Metro Boy chose this time to visit with me before the surgery. I managed to contain myself but unabashedly checked him out as he walked away from me. Shameless, I know.

The next thing I remember is waking up in hot, fiery hell. The pain was horrible. Nerve pain is distinctly different than anything I've ever experienced before. The meds don't kill it. They merely take the edge off. I also do not tolerate anaesthesia well and true to form, I got friendly with a bucket for most of the evening.

Today has been better and it's times like this that remind me how fortunate I am. My fridge is full of meals prepared by other people, my kids are with L & M, two of the most genuine, loving people on the planet, I have three enormous bouquets from people who care about me and I've received dozens of well wishes from my friends and family in the blogosphere. Who knew?

So I'll be in this sucky cast for the next 12 days and I will be forced to accept the help of others because I cannot tie a ponytail with one hand and I'm not flexible enough to get my damn foot up there. As uncomfortable and unfamiliar as I am with this particular set of circumstances, I am also profoundly grateful to be on the receiving end of so much love.

Surgery Day

Today is the day I get my nerve back. I'd be so much more excited if this didn't involve general anaesthesia, surgery casts and staples but numbies like me can't be choosy.

When I last met with Dr.Sexy Metro Boy, he told me that he was going to go in and release the five known compression points because you can't tell visually which one is the trouble maker. Five for the price of one. Who knew I'd get a Wal-Mart deal in the OR? Lucky me.

Next, he will bend my elbow and if the ulnar nerve stays in the cubital tunnel, I'm golden. If not, he will move the nerve from the bony part of the elbow to the soft inside part. Do you have a visual? No? Oh let me help you.



Gross, eh?

I'm sure everything will go well and the fringe benefit is that I'll have a doctor's note to be lit up like a Christmas tree for the next couple of days.

Easy Riding Mama

Harley's name is Dallas. I should have just used his real name right off the bat because nobody would have believed it. I asked him how it was that a kid from New Zealand gets named after an American city. He shrugged and said it was popular at the time. Simple. The good thing is that I have never dated another Dallas and thus, I do not have any negative name associations. Anyway, we spent a fair chunk of time this past Sunday cruising on his Harley and I feel like I've been bitten by a stange, exotic bug.

We began the morning on the golf course trying to squeeze in nine holes before the heat became unbearable. Unfortunately, Dallas's clubs were forged during the bronze age so he struggled a bit and I got to see another side of him. I had a friend tell me that I should conduct at least one date on the golf course because performance anxiety in front of a new friend combined with the inherent frustrations of golf would allow me to get an immediate look at the anger management capabilities of any suitor. Well, in spite of the fact that Dallas and his clubs weren't on speaking terms, the worst epithet of the morning didn't come from his lips. I won that contest. Shocking, I know. He merely became quiet. His friend, Brandon, says that Dallas isn't coy and doesn't do subtle well because he was tragically deprived of American spy movies in his formulative years. I agree that Dallas is easily read but he's so even tempered that this comes off more like strong and silent than bleeding heart.

We ended up leaving early because the heat was suffocating and every time I drove the ball, my hand felt like I had stuck my fingers into a light socket. I had lightly mentioned to Dallas that perhaps a good Christmas gift for him might be a new set of clubs, which he took in stride at the time but later, at Starbucks, he couldn't keep his true thoughts to himself. As he was handing me my latte, he begged me not to spend a penny on golf equipment for him.

He was clearly tortured.

Instead, he suggested that I might want to peruse the local Harley Davidson shop in December......for something he might actually use. Oh well, he did agree to suffer through the occasional round of golf when the weather cooled.

So back to the ride. Dallas had changed into motorcycle gear and the whole look (jeans, shirt and boots) captured my attention. I had tried to dress appropriately but I couldn't bear the thought of jeans in 200 degree weather and I do not have one article of clothing that is authentic HD. For shame. I did make an effort by switching purses to a black leather with silver studs Prada and Dallas inexplicably, found this highly amusing. The point is that the Harley Davidson store is emitting this siren call and my resistance is wearing. There is this whole slightly naughty sub culture that appeals to me on a level worthy of psychoanalysis but the bottom line is that I want to learn how to ride and I am eager to shop for some cool new gear.

I have also been flirting with the idea of getting a tattoo.

I know that I now appear to be a neon, blinking, poster child for mid life crisis but I've been thinking about this for a bit and I may just go and do it if I can find a doctor who will prescribe a morphine drip. I have to face the truth. There is a leather-clad, do rag-wearing, tattoo-sporting biker chick inside of me who is trying to claw her way out.

I casually mentioned to my ten year old son that I was thinking about getting a tat and he looked at me, snapped his fingers in my face and said,

"Who are you and what have you done with my mother?"

Taking the Plunge

When you are twenty something and Mr. Right for Right Now presents himself, the first blooms of lust and infatuation can be enjoyed without the burden of emotional intelligence because the purpose of your third decade on this planet is largely to get your groove on.

In your thirties, the focus becomes career and the raising of a young family. Mr. Right for Right Now has turned into Mr.You Had Better Be Right Because We Have a Mortgage, Kids and a Minivan. Some couples survive this decade and watching them is like witnessing the ebb and flow of the tides. They have either learned the dance of compromise or someone in the relationship is heavily medicated.

Other couples do not survive (ahem) and thus, parts of their thirties are spent getting their heads around the concept of single parenthood which is akin to being pecked to death by a sparrow. Divorce is painful and afterward, it sometimes takes years to dip one's toe into the dating pool again because relationships can be like licking a metal pole in the dead of a Canadian winter. Your tongue will get stuck and the only way to be freed is to rip yourself to pieces or allow someone to pee on your head. Neither option is terribly appealing.

Then the forties arrive and as part of a married couple, I can only assume that the main goal is for both people to withstand each other's midlife crisis. For those of us who are single, our life has come full circle and we are once more thrust back to the circumstances of our twenties. Again, Mr. Right For Right Now may present himself but in the fifteen or twenty years that have passed, he has changed. He is mature, somewhat battle weary and he is looking for a partner, not a conquest.

The trouble is that the incident with the steel pole, while firmly in the past, is still fairly vivid. Lust and infatuation are most definitely present but they are now tempered with experience and just a speck of common sense. Then one day, you are surprised to find that your breath unexpectedly catches in your throat at the sight of him. Belatedly, you realize that your heart has taken the plunge and you find yourself hoping that he knows how to dance.

Kindergarten and a Mother's Angst

To my sweet, sweet girl,



Yesterday was your first day of kindergarten and as much as I wanted to click my heels and shout, "I'M FREE", I found myself emotionally tipsy instead. I remember the day that you were born and how the cord was wrapped around your neck a couple of times. You came out quiet, fragile and perfect but you didn't stay mute for long. You have always been a child that knows exactly what she wants and I admire your ability to be singularly focused on your goal. It doesn't matter that this trait of yours causes me hours of grief. Secretly, the girlfriend part of me is cheering you on. You will never be anyone's doormat.

You have grown into this complicated creature who can bellow, "You're a horrible mother" in the middle of a Starbucks on Mother's Day and just as easily take my face in your hands and cover me in wet little kisses. When you laugh, it really does sound like music and there is nothing better than the goofy, wrinkly-nosed, front teeth exposed smile you have when you discover the absurd.

For weeks now, we have been marking how many days Mummy had left to give her spleen, kidney and right arm to the daycare center you've called home for the past two years. Then, your last day came and your favourite teacher picked you up, gave you a hug and said he'd miss you. He was misty-eyed. He walked us out to the car and waved at you until he was nothing but a speck in the rearview mirror. I sobbed at the next red light.

And then came the big day. You wanted your hair in ponies but not braids because you are not able to twirl your hair when it is in braids. I get it baby. Mummy does that, too. It's how the women in our tribe concentrate. Unfortunately, this means you will not play poker well but who cares? At least I will always know when you've got something on your mind.

You were brushing your teeth and I noticed that you had grown even more over the summer. You no longer needed the stool to reach the sink and when you looked at me in the mirror, I caught a quick glimpse of you as a teenager. You raised your eyebrows in this completely adult way and in that moment, I was reminded that I have precious little time left with my baby bug. All too soon, you will sprout a pre-adolescent brain and the landscape of our relationship will shift for fifteen years.

So, I snapped a few pictures and took you to school. You were beside yourself with excitement. You organized all of your supplies in your desk (that's my girl) and promptly got to work putting a puzzle together. Then you broke my heart.

"Mama?" (said in a stage whisper)

"Yes, baby."

"You have to leave, now. I have to go to work."

And with that, you kissed me good bye, bent your head over the puzzle and promptly forgot I existed. I managed to make it to my car before sobbing again.

I'm so proud of you, Liv. Keep swimming upstream.

Love,
Mummy

Online Dating: The New Drug

I am kicking myself HARD for not getting into the online dating scene earlier. I'm even more hacked off that I didn't think up the whole concept myself. Can you imagine? I'd be Trump without the bad comb over.

There were a few things that surprised me. First of all, I was floored at the sheer number of people registered with these services. The dating company I used made you complete a personality quiz that rivaled the phone book in its volume and however skeptical I may have been at the start, there was no denying that the profile that was created based upon my answers nailed me. Every single neurotic trait that I possess was clearly identified. The day that I signed up, within a radius of 100 miles, I had 28 men whose personalities were flagged as being compatible with my own. Keep in mind that my parameters were quite narrow, too. I had specific age, smoking and religious preferences and still, twenty eight people out there were looking for someone like me. Two of them happened to live in the same town which is astonishing considering my city boasts about 33,000 people. Three days later, I received another ten suitors.

Next, I was surprised that so many twenty somethings were trying it out, too. What has happened to the bar scene? Some of my deepest, darkest secrets fondest memories of university involved pool tables, cheap draught and loud music. What is wrong with kids these days?

Finally, I was kind of amused with how many different dating sites are out there. Even Dr. Phil is dishing advice on one. And then there are the umm...alternative sites. It doesn't matter if you want a relationship, extramarital affair, swinging good evening, twink or no strings attached company for one night..there is a dating dot com for that. I don't think of myself as especially naive but I surfed some sites that made me blush. Nothing says confident like snapping a picture of your assets and posting them for the world wide web to view.

And then it occurs to me. It's no wonder the world is in its current state. With most everyone being either a busy single or part of a married couple, nobody is getting laid with any frequency. Forget Prozac and psychotherapy, make everyone date.

Is it me or is your head on fire?

Yesterday, I met with Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and his perfectly manicured hands, which will be slicing my elbow open next Wednesday morning. I did a bit of research on him over the past couple of weeks and learned that he is the chief of surgery at one of our local hospitals, which makes me feel better because he's likely encountered a nutter or two in his career. My insane ramblings after surgery will probably go completely unnoticed.

We were discussing pain and I asked him how much to expect.

That depends on my tolerance...blah...blah..

Okay, for giggles, let's just say that on a scale of one to ten with active, cold sweat producing, toe curling, transitional labour being an eleven, where would this surgery rank?

Eight.

I see. Can we talk narcotics?

After the visit, I made the mistake of calling my ex husband to let him know the details. The following is an excerpt of the conversation which has been edited because I may have been liberal in my use of the "f" word.

"Hi. My surgery has been scheduled for Wednesday."

"So?"

"So, the kids will need to stay with you Wednesday night and likely Thursday." (slight raise in blood pressure because....)

"No. No way. Wednesday night is the night I spend with my little lady. You did this on purpose. You'll have to call your doctor back and reschedule for another day. I'm not going to take any heat from my woman over this." (and there we have it)

Notice that he used terms like, "my little lady" and "my woman" with a straight face. I think he fancies himself some sort of Clint Eastwood in an old western.
At this point, I removed the phone from my ear fully expecting it to sprout legs and give me a lap dance because something had to be more absurd than the conversation.

"Oh, yes. That should be no problem. I'll just call up the busy surgeon and tell him that the available operating room time is not going to work for YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!! Is your head on fire?"

"You deliberately scheduled it on a Wednesday to try to put a kink in my plans with her."

**sound of crickets**

With that comment, I gently turned off the phone because I felt myself running beside his shock treatment crazy train and wanting to jump on board. Choo! Choo!

Dr. J and his little shop of horrors

I'm sitting here trying to find something to blog about except my arm. I don't want to do the whiny, woe is me thing (although I have that perfected) because most everything else in my life is just this side of fabulous.

I went to my appointment last week and I am happy to report that the NCS test was "uncomfortable". However, the EMG test is its own brand of special. I should probably tell you that this doctor was another hottie. He was fifty with a martini dry sense of humor and when he planted himself directly between my legs, put my arm on his lap and proceeded to measure and mark the soft inside of my forearm with a black pen, I might have been able to pretend that it was a sensual experience. Unfortunately, he ruined the moment when he poked the needles into my muscles and cranked up the electricity. From that point on, he was Satan. One interesting note: the Lamaze technique while completely useless in labour, was remarkably effective in contolling the screams that bubbled their way up my throat.

After the test was over, he told me that I was not a conservative treatment case. When they stick the needles into your muscles, you are supposed to hear either nothing or a low hum which means that muscles are oxygenated, happy and fully functional. On the other hand, wasting muscles sound a bit like frying bacon. Mine sounded like Sunday brunch was being served.

I left the office feeling a bit sorry for myself because the prospect of surgery concerned me on so many levels, the least of which is my ability to control myself verbally in recovery.

I drove through KFC for a bucket of grease to throw at the kids since I wasn't in the dinner making mood. I had put my cast back on and while paying for the chicken, the guy in the drive through asked me what the heck was wrong with my arm. I waved it off and said it was nothing...just a little nerve issue.

He asked, "Wow, is it your very last one?"

Oh honey, you have no idea.

Update

It's official.

Surgery.

Shit.

Bad Nerves and Sharp Elbows

Today, I get to see a neurologist. I have always associated neurology with the brain and really horrid ailments like strokes and brain cancer. A neurologist diagnoses and treats disorders of the nervous system. Well, duh! And two numb fingers qualifies me to see Dr.J.

He is going to be doing a nerve conduction test or an electromyograph or both. It didn't sound too bad until I googled them. I think it would have been better if I had shown up blissfully uninformed. The idea of sticking small needles into my arm specifically to send jolts of electricity down an inflamed nerve, well, it kind of makes me want to put my head between my legs and breathe deeply into a paper bag.

The test has been described as "uncomfortable" which I just don't trust. Define uncomfortable. Uncomfortable is sand in the crack of your bum after a day at the beach. Uncomfortable is trying to choke down salty, ketchup-topped meatloaf surprise at your in-laws. Uncomfortable are any shoes except slippers between 2 and 3 pm. I'm hoping that the term "uncomfortable" is not doublespeak for agony. In any case, we will know definitively where the nerve is compressed and then Dr. Sexy Metro Boy will have a plan. Actually, I probably don't need the formality of the test because if you blow a kiss in the general direction of my elbow, little pinpricks of light burst in front of my eyes and I scream, "UNCLE!"

I fully understand that surgery may be in my future and besides the cold, clammy fear of being anaesthetized, I'm just the slightest bit concerned about post op. In 2000, I broke my wrist and had a few pins inserted. As I was coming out of the drug, I was quite vocal (some might say Turrets-like) and apparently, it was hilarious to witness. I didn't have a sensor switch and just belted out whatever thought crossed my mind. This worries me more than the anaesthesia because I've already established that I'm largely incoherent under normal circumstances with Dr.Mc Make My Heart Skip A Beat. Add drugs and the inability to censor one's thoughts...

There needs to be a plan B.

Good Date Part Two

Alright, alright. I get it. You want to hear about the second date.

At the end of first date, we knew that we wanted to see each other again and Harley suggested the next day. Sure. Call me in the morning and we can arrange something.

As soon as I got home, I went to bed and slept like a stone. Gratefully, the panic did not set in until I opened my eyes the next morning. My knee jerk reaction was to somehow find a way to bow out of it gracefully and find something else to do like laundry or ironing. I had the most insane conversation running through my head.

"What is your problem? It was a perfectly pleasant night".

"Yes, but he wants to go out again on a date."

"What else are you going to do? The kids are gone, the Nazi has left you with a clean house and the lawn guy has mowed, weed wacked, trimmed and edged."

**quiet realization that I am a lazy heifer**

"What am I going to wear?"

Just then, the first text message arrived and Harley offered several choices for our entertainment.

-Ride on his motorcycle (I can't go into how many ways this appealed to me without embarrassing myself)

-go to the lake (possibility that swim suit might be required and haven't been using cellulite cream lately so this is not a real option)

-dinner (food is always good and I knew that his idea of dinner would not involve anyone asking, "Would you like fries with that?")

-nine holes of golf (appreciated the golf suggestion but having to velcro the club to my hand to hold on to it was not terribly appealing. Besides, I'm a bit competitive and I'm not at my best with two numb fingers. If I were to be completely honest, numb fingers are only the tip of the iceberg when looking at what is wrong with my golf game.)

We settled on the ride and dinner. In my panic, I did what any girl would have done. I went shopping. There is nothing like retail therapy and on Saturday morning, it came to me in the form of a shoe store in our new mall. Nine pairs of shoes and a set of boots later, I felt much better. Excessive? Maybe but better than drinking myself catatonic.

So I showed up to the date in the perfect motorcycle outfit: black capris, blousy, ultra fem, lower cut top, accessories (Steph would be proud) and the most adorable, impractical black sandals with a two inch heel. Hoochie, goochie, mama.

So we spend a a few hours on the bike winding all through the countryside and we end up at my favourite wine shop in another county because mine is dry (means no alcohol can be purchased. Welcome to the south where you can't drink but you might be able to marry your cousin. Gah!) Anyway, we go inside and he purchases a nice bottle of a pinot noir that is made in his native country and he gives it to me. I'm floored. My ex husband's idea of romance was to give me a pair of shiny, red polyester panties and a leer.

After dinner, we go back to my vehicle and decide that we aren't quite ready for the date to be over. So, we went to the movies. First, we dropped his motorcycle at his house and I made a frantic, high-pitched squealing call to Stephanie while he was parking his ride. I was in full on whack-a do mode. The date was going well and I needed to talk to her to make sure that this wasn't just another vivid Chantix dream. I kept saying, over and over, like a mantra, "He's normal. He's really, really normal. And nice. Sweet even." All of this was said in tones high enough that only a dog would have been able to hear me.

So there you have it. The movie ended, I dropped him off and called it a night. This date was my reward for suffering through Bad Date.

Oh, and we may have snogged a bit at the end of the night.