Hormonal Havoc

I am enjoying the luxury of being off work. It is marvelous to be able to stay in bed with my coffee, my book and my bifocals. I love the feel of my sheets against my skin, most especially when I look at the clock and see that it reads a late morning hour. I am sloth personified.

But persistent inactivity comes with a price. Getting on my loathsome scale would be like trying to bludgeon a cadaver. Overkill. I don't make it a habit to jump on it these days because the fact that my jeans now cause me serious internal discomfort is all the information that I need. Which brings me to a peculiar event that happened this weekend.

Several times over five or so days, I felt the weirdest flutterings in my abdomen. Convinced that my pants were tight enough to rearrange my internal organs, I changed into my sweats to give my bloated belly a break. And still, there was the fluttering. It was most pronounced when I was idle so, as you can imagine, it was nearly nonstop.

Somewhere around the third day, I had an awful epiphany. The last time that I experienced alien feelings in my abdomen, a baby popped out five months later.

PREGNANCY.

Sweet baby Jesus, NO!

Naw, couldn't be. I was just being paranoid. My husband has been snipped for twelve years and there was no way his boys could have knit together again? Right? RIGHT?! Over the holidays, we heard a story about a friend who had submitted to a vasectomy YEARS earlier and who, when asked if he and his new wife planned to have children, answered by saying that if such an event were to happen, there had better be a bloody star hanging over their house. I understood his sentiments exactly.

As I descended into a controlled hysteria, I took a mental inventory.

Bloating? Check.
Weight gain? Check. Check.
Ginormous, tender boobs? Um...check.
Water retention from hell? Check.
Nausea? Does hung over count? Check.

Oh my god! Alcohol has flowed freely over this holiday period. Not good.

So this weekend, with skeptical but indulgent husband in tow, I went to my local Wal-Mart pharmacy and plucked an early pregnancy test off the shelf.

"You're not pregnant", he said.

"I had better not be", I whispered through clenched teeth as I slipped into the ladies' bathroom.

After following the instructions, I sat on the potty waiting for the lines to appear in the window. For those three minutes, I had a serious conversation with God.

I will be forty two in February. The thought of being pregnant makes me want to run screaming in the other direction. Please understand that we would not view this as a miracle. And yes, we read about the seventy something woman having a child and thought that was an abomination. We also heard about Mrs. Duggar birthing baby #18. Are you bored or something? I mean, I could understand how lackluster it must be to be in the same job for thousands of years but do you think you might be just a tad indiscriminate when sprinkling your fertility dust? I know that I was not a model teenager but haven't I paid that debt? By the time we finish with Olivia, I'll have had THREE teenage daughters. THREE. Which is like waking up every morning and having your face plunged forcefully into a toilet. For goodness sakes, have mercy. Listen, please don't get me wrong. I am eternally grateful to have met my husband. My world revolves around our marriage and I am keenly aware of how fortunate I am to get to spend the rest of my life with him but honestly, we don't need any souvenirs of our love. Sure, it would have been great to have a child together a decade ago and sometimes, we find ourselves thinking about that but then a call from the police or a note home from a teacher launches us like a rocket back to reality. Right now, we are able to see the light illuminating an empty nest at the end of the tunnel and we like it that way. So, please try to understand that we already have enough anecdotal stories about our life to last forever. We did meet on eHarmony, after all. There's no need for us to be at a cocktail party with dark circles under our eyes and baby vomit on our shoulders telling people about the miracle of spontaneous vasectomy reversal. Amen."

As it turned out, the test read negative. I am not pregnant. Halle-fricken-lujah.

I am perimenopausal.

I already knew this. What I didn't know is that in addition all of the sterotypical symptoms: hot flashes, night sweats, etc., etc., I can add phantom baby kicks, amplified PMS and intense fatigue to the list of goodies that comes with being a woman in her forties. Yeah me.

But I am not pregnant (clouds parting, trumpets playing) so I guess that star better find another home.

Everyone Deserves a White Christmas

It is snowing all over the country.

Except here.

Record amounts of the white stuff is falling in the Pacific Northwest, the Midwest and the East Coast. Even Las Vegas and California have received record amounts. Not us, though. We've got the big goose egg. Zip. Nada.

The local weather forecasters are full of doom and gloom about how we are going to be pummeled by the weather. They raise their voices in excitement and speculate about how terrible it is going to be. Dire warnings. IT COULD BE LIFE THREATENING. Run to the hardware store for a generator. Stock up on canned food and water. Prepare for the worst.

And nothing. Just another cold and sunny day in the pseudo south.

Yesterday, Olivia complained that I had broken my promise to help her build a snowman. She thinks that I am personally responsible for the weather. Apparently, I just need to get on the phone and call Jack Frost himself because she is on winter holiday and WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOW?

I relocated to the south specifically to avoid harsh weather. I hate the winter. I grew up in Canada and had my fill of ice covered windshields, slippery sidewalks and day upon day of bleak gray skies. When I first moved to the US, I landed in San Diego, which is like being on holiday all year round. It was April and I didn't experience a lick of precipitation until the following February when the disorienting sound of rain on the roof woke me up out of a sound sleep. I used to send granules of beach sand in the letters that I sent home to my mum. I remember waking most mornings with my windows open and being able to smell the ocean. The weather in SoCal is quite possibly the most perfect that I have ever experienced and there are days that I can't understand why I ever left.

Except that paradise can sometimes get a little boring. Sure, the sunny weather makes it hard to be a fat and lazy sloth since it practically screams for one to get outside and exercise but there is something to be said for the slow death of fall or the freshness of spring. I like the change of seasons. I even look forward to snow under very controlled circumstances. I want it to fall on Christmas Eve, when there is no work, no school and no pressure to drive. I want it to be those gentle, big ass snowflakes that you can catch on your tongue. I want it to blanket the area and make it a lovely winter wonderland so that Christmas morning is presents, a cozy fire, peppermint laced hot chocolate and cold, rosy cheeks.

Then I want it to completely melt, disappear and have the sun warm everything up to Harley riding weather by Boxing Day. And it's not to come back until next Christmas Eve. I really don't think that I'm being unreasonable.

The weathermen were calling for a mixture of snow and rain today which had Olivia nearly rapturous. Predictably, that forecast has been modified and now, there isn't a single snowflake in the foreseeable future.

I think I'll tell her that Santa wanted to golf and leave it at that.

Holiday Spirit

I am not finished with my Christmas shopping.

This is so not like me.

This weekend, we hiked over to our local Wal-Mart trying to get the necessary ingredients for Christmas dinner and to pick up some stocking stuffers. It was a freaking zoo and there is no denying that this season brings out the absolute worst in some people. It seems that every single rude and graceless tool on the planet crawls out from underneath their rock at least once a year and for some reason, as discussed before, I am the person they find. To the elderly lady in the stationery aisle whose hair smelled like rotting olives and who used her bony hip to violently move me out of her way as she took the last Crayola Disney Princess Color Wonder package:

Be grateful that you qualify to collect social security because I am Canadian, a former left defense hockey player and respect for the number of years you have terrorized the earth is the only thing that stopped me from laying you out flat in that aisle. Also, that shade (Ronald McDonald orange) that you are using in your hair is not complimentary to your skin tone. I'm just saying...

To the extremely large man who parked his motorized cart on a diagonal in one of the toy aisles and who sat there, clearly conscious of but not caring a whit for the bottle neck that he was causing:

It's bad enough that you are a thirty five year old man who has eaten himself to the size of Hummer. To make yourself even more repugnant, you come to the store unbathed, in sweat pants that haven't seen a washing machine since the Reagan administration and with something unidentifiable lurking in your mangy beard. There are truly disabled people that need that cart, mister, so the least you could do as you accelerate past the amputee with the crutches is yield the bloody right of way.

I'm thinking that next year, I'm going to make all of my holiday purchases online. Things can get pretty heated on eBay but at least I can shop in my jammies with a coffee in my hand an no possibility of walking into someone else's fart fog.

If All Else Fails, Try Pot

Lately, several of my women friends have found themselves in committed relationships after walking through the fires of hell the pain of divorce. One girl has waited sixteen years to find her Prince Charming and thanks to eHarmony, she is engaged to be married this summer. Another has walked a similar path to me in that she married a gay man and spent numerous years trying to sort through that mess. Today, she is engaged but with no immediate plans to marry. Both of them have asked me for advice on blending families. I recommended lots of alcohol and a good medical plan with a psychotherapy rider.

Like death and taxes, what is absolutely certain in middle age is that we all come into our new relationships with a little baggage. We have lived. We have emotional scars, some of which have healed nicely and others that need more time. We have children and ex-spouses and we've learned that the white picket dream is a fluid concept with many variations.

When Dallas first dipped his toe back into the dating pool, he was determined that any woman with whom he would have a serious relationship would not have children. Of course, this narrowed his options to jail bait and the geriatric crowd so eventually, he revised his criteria. I started my dating adventures with a list of twenty or so characteristics that I believed the ideal man would have to possess. You know where most lists end up, right? Yeah.

And then I met Dallas, who was everything that I had asked for and more. One day, we decided to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. In our short but intense journey, I have learned a few things that others might find useful.

1. The relationship is paramount. Period. Dallas and I put ours before anything else: children, work, family, friends, EVERYTHING. If we are okay then the other parts of our life seem to be manageable. Believe me, we have struggled sometimes with this concept because it feels counter intuitive to put your own needs before those of your children. However, I think that seeing an example of a respectful, loving, functional marriage is one of the best gifts we could ever give our children.

2. Present a united front. This sort of goes hand in hand with the one above. Dallas and I are careful to consult each other in most parenting decisions and as it turns out, we've struck a pretty good balance. I am Hitler. He is Bambi. Together, we are extremely effective. He convinced me that my 11 year old would benefit from being tucked in at night. He was right. My son looks forward to those few minutes of conversation more than just about anything else in his day. I tried to convince Dallas to beat his kids until they bled but he thought that might be too harsh and chose instead to take baby steps and hold them accountable for their behaviour. It worked wonders. Teenage daughter didn't miss a day of school this semester and manchild secured himself a great, steady job.

3. Understand that sometimes, ex-spouses suck. They do and there is likely nothing that you can do about it. They are often vindictive, mean-spirited, inappropriate, emotionally stunted, intellectually challenged and generally, a giant pain in the ass. Usually though, the fight is not worth it. When my children go with their father, they are not bathed, their teeth are not brushed, they stay up all hours of the night parked in front of a television set and they are fed mostly potato chips and Oreo cookies. But they come home alive and while I think that they deserve better from their dad, in the big picture of their lives it just doesn't matter. Dallas said, "Ninety nine percent of their time is spent with us. Why get bent out of shape because they spend one percent of their lives living like wolves?"

Finally, walk into the light, my friend. When you blend two families together, remember that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It just might appear to be way off in the distance and faint. But take heart. Time will march on, children will age and one day in the foreseeable future, there will be an empty nest. Our job as parents is to take our vitamins, eat well, exercise regularly and get plenty of sleep so that the day the youngest takes flight, we'll be fit enough to once again have sex on the couch.

Changing the Litter Box

The Saturday right after Thanksgiving, our male cat, Nate, shot out our garage door and into the night. Dallas and I shrugged and decided not to give chase since the temperature was dropping and our cat always came home when he got cold enough.

Except this time.

Sunday, I left for Denver on a business trip and there was no sign of Nate. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my belly. Driving out to the airport, there was a grey tabby laying by the side of the road. I turned the car around and went back for a second look. I was unaware that I was holding my breath until I let it out in one big, wet, exhale upon the realization that the dead animal was not Nate.

It took the kids about three days to notice that our boy was gone and they were understandably upset. I was heartbroken, convinced that Nate had met with something either bigger, faster or hungrier. The weather had been uncharacteristically harsh and I felt that there was no way a domesticated cat would be able to survive. Dallas and I both began taking different routes through the neighbourhood in an effort to spot him. We went for short walks equipped with cat food and a flash light. I stepped out on to our front walk every night for a week and called him. After ten days, I gave up.

Dylan, on the other hand, was convinced that he had eyeballed Nate with another cat. He claimed to have seen him a few streets over in the yard of an empty house but by the time we got over there to have a look one night, there was no sign of either cat. Strangely enough though, the house that Dylan led us to was an exact replica of ours. I felt the smallest tingle of hope which trickled away with each passing day.

I began to think about visiting our local humane society to pick out a new kitten. Dallas, however, vehemently disagreed. "We'll have three cats when Nate comes home", he said in the beginning and then as time passed, "I'm not ready".

In my entire life, I have only ever been attached to one other pet. When I was eight, my parents came home with a miniature schnauzer we named Nicky. She was the runt of the litter, lucky to be alive and I loved that animal more than my sister, Shaun Cassidy and Laura Secord chocolate. When my parents divorced, my mum took Nicky down to New Brunswick to live on the farm with my grandparents. Nearly ten years later, when I was in college and hadn't laid eyes on Nicky in years, I sobbed upon hearing that she had died.

So late last week, while in the throes of PMS irrationality, I walked into the laundry room to find that the litter box needed to be changed. This is Dallas's job, not mine. I have a well developed gag reflex and I simply cannot manage to change the waste receptacle at the end of the AUTOMATIC litter box. Yes, you read that correctly and if you have cats this could possibly be the best thing to happen to you. EVER. Anyway, I had mentioned the smelly situation to Dallas the night before and again this night but it had slipped his mind and he was comfortably in bed. Irritated because I cook and I clean and I launder and I grocery shop and I work and I whine, whine, whine, I was apoplectic that to add insult to injury, I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO CHANGE THE BLASTED LITTER BOX!!

Furious, I put on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed a few Wal-Mart bags and began dry heaving. After double bagging the used receptacle, I banged open the garage door, walked to the side of the house and threw the contents into the bin. I stomped back through the garage closing the overhead and into the house, slamming the door behind me. I sighed noisily as I picked up dirty clothes and threw them into the laundry basket. I heard our female cat meowing over and over again like a bloody lamb bleating, wanting to get into the other bathroom where manchild was having a shower. "Jesus", I thought, "She is so freaking needy". Maddeningly, the meowing continued. I wrenched open our bedroom door, intending to do God-knows-what about the noise when I realized the sounds were coming from the garage. I opened the door and Nate flew inside and ran directly for his food bowl in the kitchen.

"NATE!!!"

Dallas got out of bed and we both made our way into the kitchen. We cracked open a can of wet food and watched as he gulped it down. He was scary thin, somewhat ragged and the tip of his tail was sore but our boy was ALIVE.

This week, he has eaten like a horse and slept like a newborn. His personality has either changed or he isn't fully recovered. He has taken to sleeping on our bed, which he never used to do and he is a much more affectionate cat. I cannot express how happy I am that he found his way home.

Merry Christmas Kiwi

My husband has submitted his Christmas list and at the very top were two items that gave me pause.

ANZAC biscuits and Louise cake.

Since I grew up in the northern hemisphere, I had no idea what either of these baked goods were and after my aesthetically dismal but tasty experience with Pavlova, I was a bit concerned about my ability to fulfill his wishes.

The first obstacles were the measurements. What the heck does 90 grams of butter look like? Well, according to a handy online converter, it's 18.9 teaspoons, 0.40 cups or 6.3 tablespoons. For someone like me who is slightly anal retentive, these numbers made my head explode.

I am a pretty good cook and I usually bake well but not because I'm an intuitive savant in the kitchen. I CAN READ. I follow directions. I am precise in the measurements and I follow the recipe to the letter. If it calls for folding, I fold. I level the flour in the measuring cup. I set the timer. I have NOTHING in common with those who reach in, pat the top of a cake and know it needs another few minutes. I am the type that goes through an entire can of Crisco trying to make the perfect pie crust.

I have cried over pie crust.

To make matters worse, I come from a family of women who are culinary goddesses.

Effortlessly.

They are able to cook AND carry on a conversation. They own aprons. They also sew, make elaborate scrapbooks for their kids, style their hair in the mornings AND work outside of the home. I am not even close to being in their league.

But I digress.

I was able to overcome my OCD tendencies in regard to the metric measurements only to be waylaid by the damn ingredients. Unsweetened dessicated coconut? Golden syrup? I contemplated just using regular fancy coconut and honey or corn syrup but these goodies were on Dallas's Christmas list as in "Baby, seriously. All I want for Christmas is ANZAC biscuits and Louise cake", which kind of makes it hard to skimp on pesky details like a FLAVOUR PROFILE he's known and loved for forty years.

I went online in search of recipes. We called his Grammie Rhodie in Papatoetoe. There was no getting around it. The signature taste of the cookies was reliant upon a single ingredient.

In blog after blog, I was told that the crunchy yet chewy goodness could only be achieved with Lyle's. Yeah, so twenty plus bucks later, I had ordered six bottles of the stuff which was probably overkill considering the recipe only calls for two tablespoons. I plan on using golden syrup in pecan pie, in my butter tarts and every other place I had once used corn syrup because OH MY FREAKING TASTEBUDS, this stuff is liquid gold.

And the cookies are all kinds of buttery, caramely, lick-your-fingers fabulous. Dallas has been having them for a snack with his morning tea and since they have a cup of oatmeal in them, this is probably acceptable somewhere.

Great Advice

I was sent this video by a client of mine (thanks Lou!) and had to share it with you. I'm sure some of you may have seen it but it was the first time that I had been exposed to the Fruitcake Lady.

I would love nothing more than to bottle her up and unleash her on the children in our house.

I believe Jay Leno was the first one to feature her on the Tonight Show so my apologies to NBC for this lowly forum.

Unbalanced

I am mad.

Not of the raving lunatic type (although I'm sure that a case could be made) but of the rabid dog kind. I'm angry. At everyone and everything.

I am a mostly reasonable personality and while I have occasion to sometimes be high strung, most of the time I am able to talk myself off the ledge because I know that I am choosing to feel this way.

But one week out of every month, I am not rational. And as I have aged, this lack of control over my emotions seems to have worsened. My children keenly understand this shift in my behaviour and as they put on their kid gloves and their measured voices with me, I want to scream. There is something deeply disturbing about my six year old child being more judicious than I am.

My husband tiptoes around me whispering sweet nothings like, "whatever you like, my love" or "you know best" or "your bottom looks tiny in those pants". This weekend, he did really sexy things like vacuum the entire downstairs and gas, wash and vacuum my car. He is a saint and it hacks me off that I'm the only unhinged one in this relationship.

So, the cerebral self in an effort to slay the premenstrual dragon, thought it might be therapeutic to list the many factors contributing to the current state of mind. In the spirit of the holiday season, I thought it might be nice to hum it to a popular Christmas carol.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
the universe gave to me:
12 defective chair backs,
11 moldy dog toothpastes,
10 extra pounds,
9 bathroom baseboards a-peeling,
8 daily loads of laundry,
7 days too cold to ride,
6 unreasonable buyers,
5 UNGRATEFUL KIDS!!!
4 letters from the IRS ,
3 nights of broken sleep,
2 crazy ex spouses,
And one cat missing for a week!

Bah humbug.

Honey, It's The Police

We had been enjoying a mostly trouble free stretch where all of the children seemed to be clicking away in harmony. Nobody was in crisis and most days, we were able to shut the light out at night with a quick thanks to the universe for the relative calm. And so it goes. All good things must come to an end.

Last night, Dallas and I were comfortably tucked away in dreamland when his mobile began shrieking. It was close to midnight. I thought the alarm had gone off and was dismayed to find myself exhausted, which has become an all too familiar state of late.

Dallas got up out of bed and answered the phone. I could hear him answering questions and then he turned to me.

"Beth. What's Kim's last name?"

I was groggy, disoriented and had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"It's the police. They have teenage daughter."

Immediately, my senses sharpened and my heart began to drum in my chest. It is NEVER a good thing to receive a call from the police in the middle of the night. I lay still, listening to his conversation and when it became clear that teenage daughter was not hurt, I relaxed. Dallas hung up the phone and began pulling on his clothes. Apparently, the police were on their way to another call when they noticed a truck full of teenagers doing donuts in an empty field. Teenage daughter was in the truck.

It's amazing how just a few minutes of time can change one's perspective on a situation. My first reaction was anger. I could feel myself boiling. Earlier in the day, teenage daughter had asked if she could spend the night with Kim, a girlfriend. We went through the usual banter: Who is the girl? Have I met her? What were their plans? Were her parents home? There was nothing that caused any red flags so I acquiesced. Later though, I was hacked off to find that she had left the house without finishing her chores from the weekend. This may not seem like a big deal but we don't ask much of any of the children so when they push the envelope, it chaps my ass. When the officer told Dallas that the girlfriend with whom she was supposed to be staying wasn't in the truck, I felt myself flush with the first sparks of serious displeasure. Why that little....

"Where was Kim?" we asked.

"She took off with some guy," was the reply, "So I had Brandy pick me up."

Okay, I thought, let me get this straight. You plan to spend the night at one girl's house. The parents are home. Girl calls boy and leaves you alone at her house with her parents. You then call other friend to come and get you. You helplessly find yourself in a truck with girl and two boys and go to an empty field to do donuts and burn outs.

At 11:30 pm.

Which begs the question about where teenage daughter planned to spend the evening and at what point was she going to communicate the changes to us? My guess would be um..NEVER.

So I was angry. Nearly bloody midnight, police involved, clear abuse of our trust and the freedoms she enjoys.....

But after a few minutes, the view of the whole thing mellowed and in this frame of mind, a couple of positives floated to the surface. First, we weren't getting a call from the police telling us that she had been hurt when the truck overturned in the field. Second, her mother blew into town late last night but she chose to call us even though the other path would have been much easier. Finally, once in perspective, the situation was really not that terrible. Inconvenient, yes but not horrible. Dumb teenagers with a pervasive sense of invincibility were doing something stupid. Hmm...not all that unusual.

Today, we are going to have to sit her down and address the breach of trust and the need for communication but the sky is not falling. And she'll be cleaning her bathroom today.

With a toothbrush.

Dylan Part 3

We called Dylan's new hearing aids his "magic ears". They were behind-the-ear models with digital volume control which were perfect for young children. As intimidating as it was to learn how to care for the aids, that first set was a miracle for us.

Over a period of two weeks, the audiologist progressively adjusted the volume of the aids until they were at the proper level. The change in Dylan was immediate and profound. I remember baking cookies one day and as I dragged the kitchen chair across the floor, the sound of it caused Dylan to violently jump away in fright. Another morning, we were weeding the flower bed in the back yard. All of the sudden, a bird started chirping and Dylan froze, turned his head toward the tree and pointed. I said, "That's a bird. A bird." It was the first time that he had heard a sound at that high a frequency. Then one night before bed, I gave him a small glass of water. "Fankoo", he said. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. He had never said it that clearly before. Within six months, Dylan was speaking in complete, complex sentences and he became much more settled in his demeanor. I can only imagine what it had been like to not have been able to make himself understood.

He had several years of speech therapy and today, he speaks like any other eleven year old. In the early years, many of his classmates went home to their parents begging for "magic ears". He has graduated to in-the-canal hearing aids and until recently, he avoided football not because of the bulk of the aids under the helmet but because he wanted to go through his life without any broken bones. He is on the honour roll, has a group of friends and rarely does the subject of his disability come up. Now that I have several years of perspective on the whole situation, I see his hearing loss as a blessing. I know that sounds queer but Dylan has compensated for his disability in a number of remarkable ways.

He has a singular focus to detail that developed during the first three years of his life when his attention was not regularly compromised by external stimuli. He is a child who read before he went to kindergarten and today, he still devours book after book. He is able to assemble complicated Leggo kits in record time and he reads lips proficiently, which is especially useful in a plethora of situations.

He is also a person that has a well developed need for a few minutes of quiet each day. In kindergarten, I was called to the school to meet with his teacher. She had noticed that when the classroom volume got to a specific point, Dylan would reach up and shut off his aids, bend his head to his work and not surface until he was finished. While she admired his focus, she found it inconvenient to gently tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. And this is what is challenging about the hearing loss.

Dylan's disability is no more significant in the big picture than a child who wears glasses with one exception. Children with hearing loss tend to go undiagnosed and thus, seeing another student with hearing aids is not as common nor as socially accepted as seeing a child with glasses. Teachers are not as familiar and while they might move a child with vision problems to the front of the classroom, they are at a loss as to how to manage their hearing impaired students. Lots of insurance plans include optical riders. The same is not true for hearing aids. I don't know of a plan that includes them as a benefit. You can find an insurance company to help you cosmetically straighten your child's teeth but ask them to help your child hear (essential for speech and learning) and they quietly flip you the bird. And hearing aids are prohibitively expensive. Dylan's first set were $1800 per ear. His second, with multiple channels and automatic static noise reduction were $2200 per ear. I am hoping that as the baby boomers age and experience the effects of their hippie, concert attending years, they will demand good quality, affordable hearing aids. Until then, we have medical savings accounts and our charge cards.

Dylan will grow up to be a better man for this challenge and I just know that somewhere down the road, science will find a way to regenerate those damaged nerves and he'll be able to throw away his hearing aids for good.

 

Dylan Part 2

Two weeks after Dylan's surgery, we scheduled a hearing test in the ENT's office. The trouble with trying to evaluate little people for hearing deficiencies is that the standard frequency tests rely upon the child for feedback. Unfortunately, the younger the child, the less accurate the results are likely to be. In spite of this, the doctor was convinced that there was indeed something off and that Dylan required a more thorough evaluation.We were referred to Texas Childrens' Hospital.

A month later, Dylan was subjected to a battery of tests, all of which indicated that something was amiss. When taking his medical history, the nurse asked us to detail my pregnancy and any unusual events surrounding his birth. We mentioned the jaundice and she nodded her head telling us that high levels of bilirubin was a major factor in infant hearing loss. I was dumbfounded. Dylan and I were booted out of the hospital less than thirty six hours after his birth because of insurance limitations. The hospital had pricked the bottom of his foot when he was born and again twelve hours later. These blood tests showed that his bilirubin level was escalating. They did one final test before we left the hospital but neglected to call us with those results. That test showed a level of 17.8 mg/DL, which was bordering on dangerous. By the time we brought Dylan back to the hospital that Saturday, he was registering 22.3 mg/DL.

The audiologist asked that we allow her to perform an auditory brainstem response (ABR), which is frequently used when more conventional methods have yielded less than satisfactory results. They put Dylan into a twilight sleep, attached electrodes to his skull and subjected each ear to a series of sounds. The electrodes measure the activity in the auditory centers of the brain and thus, give an accurate picture of any middle or inner ear damage.

After they completed the test, Dylan was allowed to sleep off the sedation while the doctor met with us to go over the results. The ABR test confirmed that Dylan had mild to moderate hearing loss in his left ear and moderate to severe hearing loss in his right ear. There was pronounced inner ear nerve damage which meant the loss was permanent. I burst into tears. That response seems so foolish to me now that I have years of distance from the event but at the time, the news was devastating. On the plus side, we were told that Dylan was a perfect candidate for hearing aids and the audiologist felt that they would correct his hearing to within the normal range.

Hearing aids?!!! On MY child? No, no, no, no, no.

Immediately, my mind flashed to football. Would he be able to play with the aids on? What about the reaction from other children? Would he be mercilessly teased? Would he be a social outcast? I was heartbroken at the future I envisioned for my son. Why him? Did I do something wrong to cause this? I had myself a full blown pity party until we were led down the hallway to a different office where we were to be educated on the different types of aids available to Dylan. Along the way, we passed an older child with a cochlear implant and in the blink of an eye, our situation was put into perspective for me. Dylan was not deaf. He would never have to learn sign language. He had hearing loss and we were fortunate that the jaundice did not leave him with cerebral palsy or other neurological disorders. I realized that Dylan's future opinion about his hearing loss and his aids would largely be predicated upon how his father and I chose to handle his disability. Once I pulled my head out of my ass and understood that my son would take his cues from my example, Dylan's impairment ceased to be a tragedy to me.

On the ride home from that visit, I pulled down the vanity mirror over the sun shade and had a look at my boy in his car seat staring quietly out the window. He was still groggy from the sedative but he seemed to sense that something had shifted. I turned around, put my hand on his foot and asked him if he was okay. He nodded and gave me a massive smile.

"I know you are", I whispered.

Dylan Part 1

My sista cousin, Jennie is taking a course which has her doing a presentation about children with disabilities. She asked if I might email her a few paragraphs discussing my son, Dylan, who is hearing impaired. It got me thinking about his story might so with Dylan's permission, here it is.

I remember looking down at the early pregnancy test and seeing a faint, nearly indiscernible, black hash in the "YES" column. I stared at it, willing the mark to grow darker. I wanted to be pregnant, desperately, even though the medical community had told me that pregnancy would not be an easy experience. Three years previously, I had been diagnosed with cancer of the cervix and although it was discovered at the earliest stage, I'd still had to submit to several invasive procedures including conization, which jeopardized fertility and left me physically compromised. Still, when it was confirmed that Dylan was on his way, I was beyond thrilled. I had figured that conceiving would be the hardest part. Not so.

Everything went according to plan until I was 28 weeks along and started to dilate. I was given two shots of the steroid, betamethasone for two consecutive days in an effort to mature Dylan's lung tissue. We knew that I wasn't likely to carry him to term and I was put on strict bed rest to try to make it to 32 weeks. Luckily, things went really well and I didn't go stark raving mad into labour until my 35th week. Dylan came out like a bullet, screaming his head off which was music to my ears. His lungs were obviously in good shape. He had ten fingers and ten toes and after inspecting his nether regions, I was relieved to note that he was most definitely NOT a hermaphrodite, which was only one of my many irrational fears while pregnant.

He was born very late on a Tuesday night. We were released from the hospital on Thursday morning and by Saturday afternoon, Dylan was unresponsive. Panicked, we rushed him to the hospital where he was diagnosed with hyperbilirubinemia. Simply put, this meant that Dylan's liver had not matured enough to breakdown the bilirubin in his system and he had become dangerously jaundiced. Jaundice occurs to 60% of all newborns and 80% of all preterm babies. Treatment is simple and effective, though. Dylan was bathed in ultraviolet light for twenty four hours and voilà, he emerged with an appetite and a creamy complexion.

In the beginning, I didn't notice anything wrong with him. In fact, my entire family and I marveled at how serene and happy he was. Dylan was an easy, easy infant. He rarely cried, ate well, slept well and was an absolute joy. I did find it slightly odd that while he napped, I could vacuum nearby without waking him but I just attributed this to my good fortune for having the best baby on the planet. As he grew, I was slightly concerned that he didn't coo like other babies. The pediatrician told me not to worry and that those verbal milestones that I was reading about were general guidelines. She reassured me that each baby was different and Dylan would find his voice at his own pace.

By the time he was eighteen months old, I knew in my heart that there was something definitely wrong. Other babies were stringing together a few words. Some were speaking in sentences. Dylan, on the other hand, would grab onto my pant leg to get my attention and then point at whatever it is that he wanted. One day, as I found him watching my lips intently as I spoke, I distinctly remember thinking that there might be something afoul with his hearing. Again, I discussed this with his doctor and was basically told that I was worrying over nothing. So, feeling like one of THOSE stereotypical crazy mothers, I took my son home and waited for him to utter a few words. Then, the ear infections began and for nearly a year, our life became a living hell.

Dylan was in and out of the pediatrician's office with one ear infection after another. He was constantly on antibiotics. We learned through a rather frightening incident that he shared my penicillin allergy and consequently, he was put on stronger, more robust, wide spectrum drugs. One early morning, Dylan showed up at my bedside stroking my face and pulling on his ear. Tears were rolling down his face but he wasn't making a sound. I finally snapped. That day, I begged an otolaryngologist (ear, nose and throat guy), to see Dylan without a referral. Dr. P took one look into Dylan's ears and immediately scheduled surgery to insert tubes and remove his adenoids. He was appalled that Dylan had been on antibiotics for so long without any measurable relief and could not fathom why nearly a year had passed without surgery being presented as an option. I mentioned my concerns about Dylan's hearing and for the first time, I received the acknowledgment that there might be a problem. Unfortunately, we would have to wait until after the infection had drained to make a proper assessment.

Dylan woke up from his surgery with thick gobs of blood infused pus streaming out of his ears. I rode in the back seat with him on the way home from the hospital, stroking his arm and telling him that I was sorry, so, so, sorry for not doing something sooner. That car ride was a significant turning point for me and my confidence in the medical establishment. Never again, would I ignore my instincts where the health of my child was concerned.

And this new resolved served us well in the next couple of years as we navigated the services available for a child with disabilities.

Can't We Move On?

Okay.

Enough already.

Why does anyone still give a crap about the dysfunctional triangle that was Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? It's been nearly four years and every couple of months as the Pitt-Jolies celebrate some sort of birth or adoption, the rags are covered with headlines about a secret rendevous between Pitt and Aniston or some such nonsense.

Yes, the divorce between Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston was a bit messy but what divorce isn't? It must have been wretched to have the entire world witness the disintegration of your marriage. I mean, they are people after all and I don't believe that celebrity and money insulate one from emotional pain so I cannot for the life of me figure out why Aniston would elect to answer questions posed by a Vogue journalist in regard to Angelina's comments A YEAR EARLIER! Talk about picking a scab.

She said she merely answered the questions as honestly as she could.

Whatever.

Why even dignify that line of questioning by actually making a comment? It's ancient history.

They met, they married, they divorced. The fairy tale didn't work for them. Lots of us can relate. And yes, it seems likely that Brad Pitt stepped out on his wife which unfortunately, is especially juicy gossip fodder but why do we care so much? I can understand the tabloids perpetuating this non story because high drama and misery sell but even the mainstream media refuse to let it go.

I never talk to my first husband. In fact, I can barely remember what he looks like. I certainly don't dwell on the sad and confused farce that was our marriage. I probably wouldn't give my second husband a thought either, but we had children together which necessitates civil conversation. The point is that relationships begin and some of them end. And if you didn't procreate together, what would possibly be the reason to continue to rehash it after four years?

So, after reading that a Vogue journalist popped the question and Jennifer Aniston chose to answer, I can only assume that she enjoys the role of wounded ex-wife. Of course, Angelina Jolie could probably have benefited from a muzzle in the same way that Bill Clinton could have used a chastity belt but there is something slightly afflicted about the way that Aniston continues to include "victim" as part of her public persona.

Under Pressure

I am a pressure cooker goddess.

I had coveted one since visiting my sista cousin in Toronto and watching her whip up these fabulous soups and stews in the blink of an eye. They tasted like they had been slow cooked for hours and you know, I am all about modern equipment that gives the illusion of me slaving over a stove.

Dallas and I received two pressure cookers as wedding gifts and my first attempt at trying to use them nearly had me calling our insurance agent. In the instruction manual that I didn't read, there was a complimentary recipe for Coq au Vin. Yummy. Easy. Or so I thought. I dumped all of the ingredients in the pot, managed to get the lid closed and put the heat on the highest setting possible. The pressure quickly built in the pot and within minutes, the thing was positively ROCKING on top of the stove. I remembered from watching my cousin that this was a desirable effect. So, I left it there and soon, the kitchen was overcome with the smell of something burning.

Dallas: "Something's burning."

Me: "I know it seems that way but the cookbook says 25 minutes."

Dallas: "Are flames supposed to be shooting out of the lid like that?"

Actually, it wasn't that bad until we opened it. The meal looked savoury enough if you overlooked the floating pieces of charred chicken. The entire bottom of the pot was coated in a thick, scorched film of slurry. It tasted like charcoal. I was crushed. And the kitchen had a stale burnt odour for days. Visions of Norman Rockwell inspired mealtimes with the kids around the table, happily lapping up their nutritious stew were permanently dashed when Dylan walked into the kitchen, glanced in the pot and said, "That looks gross, Mum. What's for dinner?"

It all started with instruction manuals that were in-freaking-comprehensible. I am not kidding. I am able to wrap my brain around imaginary numbers but learning how the lids went on these pots took me nearly thirty minutes to figure out. The author of said manuals was either unfamiliar with the English language or a freaking sadist. So, I called sista cousin and she patiently went through the operation of the pressure cooker, step by step. Now that I know how to use it, the directions could have been written on a single page:

1. Put stuff in the pot.
2. Put the lid on. (Ask your first grader to help with this task)
3. Turn the burner on high.
4. When the yellow thingy pops up, turn the heat down and set timer for 25 minutes.
5. When timer goes off, turn dial to release steam.
6. Remove lid (again, the elementary student should come in handy to help you figure this out because they read picture books well and will understand the ridiculous symbols on the dial)
7. Serve.
8. Bathe in the accolades touting you as a fabulous cook.

This week, I have had both pressure cookers going at the same time so I was able to prepare dinner a day ahead without the slightest inconvenience.

Look at me.

I am the model of modern day woman efficiency. Come worship at my stove.

Yeah. Or get yourself a pressure cooker and get your goddess on.

Airport Observations

An airport is a wonderful way to study what is really quite awful about the human condition and last week, I found myself at Bush Intercontinental in Houston for a two hour layover. My observations:

1. We are fat. Not phat. FAT. As a nation. What the hell is wrong with us? Why do we think it is okay to consume massive portions of food, washed down with giant-sized sodas and then call for a wheelchair to assist us to the airport gate because we are too large to walk comfortably?

2. Spandex is a material that should only be worn in the privacy of one's home or by people in exceptional physical shape. I understand the need to be comfortable on the plane because nothing is more wretched than inflight flatulence caused by constrictive clothing but the line has to be drawn at spandex. It is not flattering. It's like witnessing a sausage bursting from its casing? Seriously, we all have stretch marks from our babies but do you really want the guy sitting next to you to see them through your clothing?

3. Bathing before traveling is apparently optional. I was in a restaurant eating my lunch when the hostess sat a married couple two seats down from me. As they passed by on the way to their table, I caught a whiff of something foul but figured one of them had just passed gas. Within a minute, it became evident that the smell was not a temporary thing and it was coming from the man, who was at least ten feet away. He smelled like poo. It was awful. I sent a little prayer to the heavens and politely asked that this man not be the one sitting next to me on my flight.

4. Speaking of odoriferous things, if you ever spot me in an airport and we are on the same flight, you might want to make sure that you are seated several rows away. Oh don't get me wrong, I smell delightful but apparently, I am a fart magnet. It is rare that I travel that I am not seated within the nose detecting vicinity of someone who is rotting from the inside out. It's been bad enough to make my eyes water. Where exactly do they think that their vapours go? It is a plane. With finite space.

5. It's been seven years since terrorism changed air travel forever. Quart-sized baggie for your liquids (3oz and under), no lighters and for Pete's sake, empty your bloody pockets of loose change. You bonehead. While going through airport security is most definitely time consuming and tedious, it is a necessary evil and giving TSA a hard time about procedures that have been in place FOR YEARS and sighing dramatically as you are made to remove your shoes and your belt JUST PISSES THE REST OF US OFF! Right then, moving on...

I am fortunate that frequent travel is a thing of my past because somewhere along the way, I lost my personality and it stopped being fun. Now, it is kind of like what I imagine a prison sentence to be in that you are stuffed into a cramped space and managing the passage of time with a bunk mate who snores.

Thank goodness for iPods, sudoku and tabloid magazines. They help to take your mind off the child behind you kicking your seat until your teeth ring.

Viva Las Vegas

What can I say about Las Vegas that hasn't already been written?

It is bright lights and performance on an unimaginably grand scale. It is hookers and junkies and all night buffets. It is surgically enhanced breasts, one arm bandits and celebrity sightings. It is trade shows, displaced New York cabbies and endless tour busses. It is the personification of excess in the human condition soaked in alcohol and with a wallet full of cash. A weekend trip is a little slice of naughty. A full seven days is like having an ice pick jammed into your brain.

Our team stayed at the Bellagio and when we first made these reservations, I was excited. I've had the opportunity to bunk at several different Las Vegas properties but I had heard that the Bellagio was pretty swank and I was looking forward to the luxury.

Perhaps my multitude of trips over to the Orient has spoiled me but I felt the Bellagio was just okay. I got to my room and was THRILLED with the bathroom. It was large enough in which to host a cocktail party and had one of those lighted magnifying mirrors for the terminally middle aged. The bathrobes were thick and luxurious, bedding was lovely and mini bar was stocked should I lose my mind and choose to indulge in an $8 bottle of Fiji water.

I hooked up my computer and clicked on my browser, expecting to get the usual message about internet fees, blah, blah, blah but nothing happened. Hmm. Strange. So, I called down to the main desk to inquire as to what I was doing wrong.

"We aren't wired for WiFi ma'am." (Five Star hotel? In 2008?)

"Uh, okay. Where is the ethernet cord kept?"

"We have one available for purchase through your mini bar. It's in the basket with the chocolates and our world famous Bellagio chips. It's $13.99 but be careful ma'am. The items are hooked into a sensor and if you take it out of the basket, you are automatically charged." (Of course.)

Reluctantly, I purchased the cord and was sorely disappointed to find that it was not dipped in platinum and encrusted with diamonds.

And somewhere in the visit, my "Do Not Disturb" sign disappeared, never to return. This would have been fine except that one evening, I went to bed before midnight.

The night before, I'd had a thousand cocktails, a few nasty cigarettes and settled into bed for a mere two and a half hour snooze before my alarm went off. I got up, had a shower, started a caffeine IV and stood on my feet all day. I had the kind of headache that cannot be managed with water and ibuprofen. I needed sleep. So that night, when the rest of the team went out for dinner and cocktails, I declined and dragged my sorry ass back to the hotel room. I had a shower, brushed my teeth and slid gratefully into dreamland....

Until 10:40 pm when housekeeping banged on the door in an attempt to turn my bed down. I staggered up, threw on a robe and opened the door but she had already moved on to the next room after finding my security lock engaged. When she came out, I asked her for another "Do Not Disturb" sign and was told she would take care of that for me. I never got another one. And my clock was never changed to the correct time after daylight savings ended. And one ceiling light was burnt out and never replaced. And there was no shower gel. And the chocolates that they left during the turn down service tasted like Hershey's (yuck). And there was no pen with the stationary set. And the bathroom scale lied.

The one really great event of the week was attending Cirque du Soleil's show, "O", which was playing at the Bellagio's theatre. I'm at a loss to describe how fantastic this was. The Cirque du Soleil organization has the uncanny ability to stimulate every single sense during one of their performances. I have been fortunate enough to attend shows in San Diego and Florida and they never cease to amaze me. They are worth the steep ticket price.

So, aside from the show, I wasn't much impressed with the Bellagio even though David Duchovny was apparently laying his head down under the same roof. Paris Hilton showed her face, which did nothing for me but sent a shiver through the crowd. Next time, I'm likely to stay at the MGM or try to convince my boss to pony up a few more bucks and house us at the Wynn.

As I was preparing to leave my room for the last time, I took both door keys and laid them on the small table beside the bed like I always do. I opened all of the drawers and closets and did a sweep of the bathroom to be sure that I hadn't left anything behind. As I muscled my bulging suitcase out into the hallway, I caught sight of my $14 ethernet cord hanging from the desk as the door swung shut.

Viva Las Vegas.

President Obama

I am in Las Vegas on business right now and the days are crazy long but I wanted to take a few moments to say hello.

And breathe a sigh of relief.

President Obama. Sounds right.

I was very impressed with how gracious Senator McCain was in his concession speech. Even though I do not agree with most of his politics, I respect his passion for and his dedication to this country. I felt a twinge of something unidentifiable witnessing the end of the era he embodied.

But I didn't dwell long because for the first time in eight years, I believe that there is hope.

Look Who's Forty

Dallas celebrated a milestone birthday this month and unlike me, he didn't run out and buy something shiny, fast and dangerous to herald in his midlife crisis.

Oh no. He was very sensible and mature. He and a friend flew out to the east coast for a weekend filled with Nascar, Crown Royal and hobnobbing it with racing royalty. I am ashamed to admit that I was green with envy.

Not to be outdone by said Nascar experience, I had a small group of our peeps over for BBQ and some adult beverages the following weekend to celebrate. It was a very low key, relaxed affair. This past summer, friends of ours introduced us to their recipe for the best ribs that I have ever tasted. EVER. They are unreal. I have never been a big fan of ribs because they eat like a bowlful of spaghetti minus utensils. The sauce gets everywhere and you end up a sticky, smeared mess. These ribs are worth the loss in dignity, though. Seriously, if you want people to bow down at your feet and worship your culinary abilities, try this recipe.

THE BEST RIBS EVER MADE (à la Suzy and Ron)
Cut pork baby back ribs into 3 or 4’s.
Season liberally with Head Country All Purpose Seasoning
Cover and Bake in oven 350 degrees for 2.5 - 3 hours
Pour on Sweet Baby Rays BBQ sauce and grill low to med just until the sauce has caramelized.

(If you have trouble finding either the seasoning or the sauce, send me an email and I'll try to help you out because we all can't be fortunate enough to live in the south.)



Some of us stare 40 in the face and lose our minds while others are more accepting and slip into middle age gracefully. Dallas falls into the latter group. He has recently begun to grow a and goatee but only because I've asked him to and not because he is trying to be uber hip or anything. He is a man who is quite comfortable in his skin. He's the one who suggests the beach stairs while I am making a run for the cliff.

So I knew this wouldn't rattle his chain....much.



Happy Birthday, love.

Ode To My Washer

By Sunday, I had been without a washing machine for nearly three days. The dirty clothes basket was full and I was agitated every time I merely glanced in the general direction of the laundry room or saw a detergent commercial on television. All over America the WORLD, people were folding fresh, crisp clothes while I was relegated to periodically spraying my room with "Clean Linen" scented air freshener.

I was in complete withdrawal.

And mildly desperate.

Early afternoon, I couldn't stand it a second longer and announced to Dallas that I was off to the laundromat. He looked at me as though I was vaguely alien.

"Can't it keep until the new washer arrives?"

"No."

(Quick moment of silence and rapid blinking)

"Okay, baby. Want me to load the car?"

One of the things that I absolutely adore about my husband is that he has a finely tuned sense of crazy. Additionally, he is very secure and doesn't feel the need to be right all of the time. There can only be one anal-retentive nutter in any healthy relationship and he is quite content to let that be me.

So, off I went to the laundromat.

I pulled up, muscled the basket out of the back and dragged it into the building. There were four people in the place and for the second time that day, I wondered if I had a rogue booger or something on my face because they were staring. Granted, I had taken the time to do my hair and put on make up, which was in deep, deep contrast to my fellow launderers but still, I didn't think that I looked THAT much out of place.

Then, somewhere between the door and the first washing machine, my brain dribbled out of my ears and the whole process became enormously confusing. I loaded one machine and looked all over it for the place to add the soap, even running my hands over the front to see if I'd missed a compartment when I noticed that one of the settings said "High heat".

Dryer.

I looked up to see all four people staring, again, and this time, I could have sworn that I saw pity in their eyes. I smiled, died a little inside, and tried to be casual as I scanned the room for a machine that might be a washer. Two minutes later, after wrenching my head from my ass, I had commandeered FIVE of them and proceeded to separate the basket into darks, whites with bleach, whites without bleach, towels and colours. Everything was going as planned until it I tried to pay. I had come with five dollars in quarters, which would have been perfect if I was somehow able to beam myself back to 1988. Being that Prince and the rest of the world rang in the 21st century nearly nine years ago, my five bucks bought me two measly washes and a gumball. As inconspicuously as possible, I consolidated the clothes into three machines and rummaged through my wallet for more quarters. I didn't even bother to raise my head and see who was watching this time because I could hear someone tsk tsking and my self control was beating a path to the door.

Instead, I plugged in the iPod, stuck my nose in a book and comforted myself with the knowledge that in a short 72 hours, I would no longer be forced to fold my panties in public.

Dirty Laundry

In our house, laundry is done every day. It's the only thing besides basic personal hygiene that merits daily attention. Six people generate an amazing amount of dirty clothing.

I have been content with my Maytag top loader since it was purchased back in the Stone Age. It has served me well. Until recently.

Back in July, when we had a house full of guests, we noticed that increasingly, we would find dark spots on our clothing. At the beginning, I thought it was a burn problem with the dryer. So we changed dryers. But still the marks. Then one day, after a particularly heavy load of jeans, I noticed dark residue at the bottom of the wash tub. I ran my fingers through and sniffed.

Grease.

Sticky, thick, smelly grease. My first thought was that one of the children had something in a pocket that I'd missed. To be perfectly truthful, my track record with first instincts is not especially stellar. For instance, on September 11th, I thought that there was an issue with air traffic control. Yeah, so...

I researched the problem (what did we ever do before Google?) and learned that our transmission seal was likely failing. How hard could that possibly be to fix? Dallas, slightly panicked, suggested that it might be wiser to purchase a new machine. Well, after the expense of a wedding, Christmas on the way and feeling the pinch of the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, I figured that we needed to be more like our grandparents and fix things instead of trotting down to the nearest Sears.

I took apart the inside of the washing machine, which sounds really impressive but in actuality, you lift up a thingy and expose a bolt. I wiped out the inside of the agitator which was saturated in transmission oil, cleaned and tightened the exposed bolt, replaced the thingy and ran a load. No grease spots to be found. I was feeling mighty proud of myself in spite of the fact that I got nowhere near the transmission seal. It's not like I would have known a transmission seal from a doughnut but no matter, the little voice inside my head that warns me when the sky is falling was silent. In celebration, I did a second load. And then a third. The thing is, I didn't account for the water factor. If oil was able to seep into the wash basket, logic would dictate that water was equally able to drip into the transmission.

Yeah.

Crap.

On Thursday, I ran a load of jersey sheets. Everything was normal until the agitator began to turn. The noise was magnificent. It sounded like a freight train coming to a screeching halt on a rusty track. Grinding, screaming, metal on metal. I peeked into the laundry room and since there wasn't any smoke, I let the washer do its thing because although not a particularly bright one, I am a practical woman. I could bear the racket as long as I got clean clothes.

After the second load, there was a distinct smell of hot metal in the laundry room and I finally gave in to the inevitable. We would have to purchase another washing machine or I was likely to set the house on fire. Friday, we reluctantly slogged into Sears and bought one of those front load machines. And the truth is that I'm pretty excited about it. Apparently, it cleans better while using less energy, water and detergent.

The very best feature of the new washing machine is that the controls are complicated enough that teenage daughter probably won't try to figure them out. And this way, I will no longer open the dryer to find my carefully nurtured whites in with her blue jeans.

And THAT makes me very, very happy.

Marching On Into Middle Age

A few weeks ago, I went to the doctor for my annual. I absolutely despise going to the doctor for a couple of reasons.

First, my gynecologist looks to be about ten years old and while she is obscenely smart, it is evident that she is still quite newly off the medical establishment nipple. She can barely contain her sigh when I ask if we can explore more holistic options before reverting to the pharmacy. I tolerate her superiority complex because she is attentive and thorough and I just know that one day, once she has some years on her, she will soften in her scorn of anything alternative. Besides, she is quick with her prescription pad and this is sometimes very useful.

The other reason is that having a pap smear today is no less uncomfortable than it was twenty years ago and frankly, that chaps my ass. I cannot understand how it is that we have unlocked the genetic code but I still have to sling my feet up into a set of stirrups. How can technology exist whereby one can witness the growth of a baby in utero, in 3D no less, and I'm expected to get excited about KY Jelly that has been warmed for my comfort? You see? I'm not feeling the love from the scientific community. There must not be any money in speculums.

Anyway, this year I was pretty serious about the exam. I'd been experiencing a few medical issues which concerned me and I was slightly terrified as to what they might find. My brain ran through every possible scenario, except the obvious, apparently.

Doc: Everything looks great.
Me: Oh that's a relief. So why is this happening?
Doc: For the same reason that you wear bifocals.
Me: Huh?
Doc: Because you're getting older. Period. The average age for the onset of menopause is 51 but women can be peri-menopausal for up to five years before that.

(Which means there are times when you're batshit crazy but without the estrogen replacement therapy)

Me: But I'm 41, not 46.
Doc: Yes, that is true but you smoked for twenty five years and women who smoke tend to slip into menopause about five years ahead of their non smoking counterparts. So, you are right on time with your symptoms.

Excellent. The first stirrings of menopause.

The bad news is that, at nearly forty two years of age, my doctor is going to put me back on the birth control pill (whose package instructions I CAN NO LONGER SEE TO READ) to help regulate my rogue menstrual cycle.

The good news is that apparently, there are THOUSANDS of women in their forties who are experiencing the same things as I am and getting some relief from the pill. The strange thing is that I don't feel middle aged most days. Sure, I don't see well close up anymore but that works for me because in addition to the fine print being unreadable, my cellulite and wrinkles have also softened to a blur.

I came away from my annual exam thrilled to be healthy but uncomfortable with the thought that one day, sooner rather than later, I would no longer be able to bear children. It's not that I want any more babies (HELL NO) but I'm sad that the ability to do so is coming to an end.

Menopause firmly draws the line in the sand between a woman's youth and the beginning of her mature years.

I wonder if there is a support group.

And if they serve alcohol and chocolate at the meetings.

Sucker For A Rainbow

Last week was like walking directly through the middle of a thorn bush.

Naked.

Blindfolded.

And without Bandaids.

Professionally, I could have committed Hari Kari on any one of the five days. My home life left me with a facial tic and a sour belly. Something had to go right or my head was going to explode. I had nattered on and on about parenting and the job and blah de blah blah but seriously, the good news fairy needed to be spreading some freaking happy dust. Last week was not fun.

I'm not sure exactly what day it was but in the disaster of last week, there was this:


It was breathtaking and quite possibly the largest rainbow I have ever seen. EVER. It wouldn't fit into a single frame on the camera. I was grateful just to stare, take a deep breath and forget about everything else for a few minutes.

Goethe would have appreciated the apparent sturm and drang. Me? Well, I figured that it was a sign of better things to come. Because I'm a salt-throwing, wood-knocking, evil eye-avoiding, superstitious nut job.

Dinosaurs, Jesus and Pecan Pie

Olivia's interest in writing and drawing has recently escalated. She's at it all of the time. At any given moment, I can walk into her room and find her hunched over her desk contentedly doodling away. She is very serious.

It's precious.

And hilarious.

I am probably a rotten mother but I laughed myself blind this weekend when she handed me one of her latest masterpieces.

"It's about dinosaurs," she said.

"I see that," I replied after observing her title, "Graveyards of the Dinosaurs". And then, I read her accompanying text:

I liket the purt weyru the dinosaur and it's beb dinosaur soll the huooting stor.

Although I was able to discern what she wanted to say, I couldn't understand why she was so far off on the spelling. Seriously, some of the letter combinations just didn't make sense although she was smart enough to copy hard words like "dinosaur" from one of her books. For instance, look at the word, "weyru". She meant "where" but it was spelled in a multi-syllabic fashion as if an evangelical preacher had taught her the word.

Kids learn to spell phonetically, right? And then it hit me....she WAS writing phonetically. My baby girl is a southern belle. She has an accent, which is so weird for me because in spite of her environment, I sort of expected her to talk like a Canadian. I know that this is whacked, especially since even I don't sound much like a Canadian anymore unless I get around my family. Still, to hear the word "mama" roll off her tongue makes me think about magnolia trees, cotton plantations and pecan pie. I suppose there was a part of me that thought Olivia would outgrow her southern roots and slip into a more neutral way of speaking but clearly, I was wrong. Just the other day, she gave me a very informative lecture on God.



She handed me this picture and shyly said, "This is for you, Mama." I thanked her, gave her a kiss and asked her to tell me about her drawing.

"Oh... that's you, Mama (pointing to the large figure with excellent teeth, long eyelashes and inexplicable barrettes) and that's me (small bean in my arms). It's lightning outside and raining but we're okay because THE SWEET BABY JESUS said so."

Well now.

Cramped

I have writer's block.

Mental constipation.

There are heaps of ideas in my head but expressing them in a coherent fashion seems to be beyond my capabilities right now. And lately, (umm..probably at least six months now) I have had the attention span of a gnat. So, I'm going to let the pictures speak for themselves.

Parenting:



Work:



Are You Freaking Kidding Me?



My Retirement Savings



Now, I'm going to go off and try to pull my head from my arse and see if sometime soon, I can't come up with a post worth printing.

Watching my 401K Dwindle

Oh my god.

Have you seen the economy lately?

After our wedding, I registered on this great website which tracks our cash flow. For the first time, I'm having a look at my 401K account on a daily basis. And lately, it's been ugly. Fugly.

The stock market is in the toilet which is uncomfortable but with the inflationary pressures on energy and consumer goods, our discretionary dollars have shrunk. Dinner out is a luxury. A movie and dinner is out of the question.

Yesterday, as I witnessed another chunk of change vanish from my retirement savings, I had a momentary burst of panic where I thought that maybe, just maybe, I should move our funds into something relatively safe like bonds or gold. But that choice flies in the face of what I've believed to be true and I keep hoping that history will prove to be correct and that the market will recover.

Except that I have serious doubts. The demise of the investment bank and the subsequent 700 BILLION proposed government bail out is a not so different an animal from the bursting of the economic bubble that was seen with the Wall Street crash of 1929. Both share rampant speculation, questionable lending practices and credit-based booms. In 1929, big banks and big money families like the Rockefellers, bought huge chunks of stock in an effort to staunch the bleeding to no avail. I have to wonder if the bail out is a cure or merely a band aid on a gushing wound.

Last night we were out with friends and the stock market was a topic of conversation. One of the men at our table was quite critical of the government's response and thought that we ought to just let the banks fail. I am not an economist or even remotely knowledgeable enough to offer an opinion but for a second, I imagined what that might look like and felt my stomach clench involuntarily. One thing everyone agreed upon was that eventually, the taxpayer would bear the burden of this bailout.

And here's the rub. Besides the losses to my 401K, the collapse of mortgage underwriters and the investment banks is likely to cost my family around $10,000 at some point down the road. Like most other Americans, we are feeling the pinch as the cost of living has gone through the roof. To watch the senior executives of these companies exit their positions with golden parachutes and zero accountability really chaps my ass. Gee, sorry you had to sell your Lear Jet to make ends meet.

So, as I sit and contemplate the future of my 401K, I can't help but remember what Robert Kiyosaki discussed in one of his books. He basically said that those of us who put all of our retirement eggs into the stock market basket through mutual funds, IRA's, etc need to take a closer look at that strategy. Since the stock market is not insured and requires specialized knowledge to navigate well, he couldn't understand why so many of us cede control and risk our financial futures like that. What happens if one is nearing retirement age and "an event" happens that significantly devalues one's portfolio?

Think Enron.

Think Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, Countrywide.

Think Lehman Bros.

I guess, like most things in life, achieving a balance is the key. Diversification. At this point, I'm going to sit back and try to wait out this latest crisis because Dallas and I are young, own some real estate and have the luxury of time. My heart goes out to the millions of people that don't.

HCG Diet Round Two

Did I mention that I'm back on the HCG thing again?

About three weeks ago, I figured that it was time to put down the rum, the chocolate, the bread and anything else remotely pleasurable to see if I couldn't drop another size or two before Christmas. Remember I told you about one of my office mates and that had shed nearly 60 pounds? Well, she is the model of personal resolve and just finished her fourth or fifth round of HCG since last year. She can now be classified as thin.

Thin and Beth.

(I know that last blurb doesn't make any sense but I've never had the word "thin" in the same sentence as my name before so I wanted to try it out to see how it looked.)

Yeah, so she's THIN.

As in her size six pants are a bit loose.

Size six and Beth.

(Same deal. Makes me slightly giddy)

The scale hasn't moved much since I started (10 pounds as of this morning) but I haven't been terribly well behaved. This past weekend, we went to Brandon's birthday party and I was mostly in control until I spotted this:



smothering a block of cream cheese.

There are no words to describe how good this is. Sitting next to that plateful of heaven, was a bowl of blue corn chips.

I took a small chip and dipped it, convinced that I was capable of being satisfied with a mere taste. Like THIN people are. And, of course, you know how that turned out. I parked myself at the table. Tortilla chips were flying. I would have licked the plate if I had been by myself. And then, once the dam was breached, it was nothing to have a slice or three of pizza. Did I mention the birthday cake? Finger-licking good.

So, after experiencing a food hangover late Saturday night, I renewed my resolve. I don't mind spending 80% of my life on a diet because when you don't know any differently, you can cope but seriously, in my next life, I want to come back as Michael Phelps. Who wouldn't want to be young, a man, with big dollar endorsements, abs of steel and the ability to consume 12,000 calories a day?

Exactly.

Just Call Me Landlady

A few weeks ago, after replacing carpet, two toilet seats, a tank lid and a ceiling fan and painting, scrubbing base boards, floors and tubs, we finally had the other house ready for a renter. Dallas put a sign up in the front yard, I placed a worthless newspaper ad and we fielded calls for days.

People are queer.

Caller: "Umm...hi..yeah... I'm callin' about the place you got for rent on Sugarland.."

Me: "I do have a place for rent but it's not on Sugarland. It's on Cambridge."

Caller: "No. I'm calling about the one on Sugarland."

Me: "Well, I'm sorry sir. The Sugarland house is not ours."

Caller: "But you said you had a place for rent"

Me: "Yes. On Cambridge."

Caller: "Well...how many bedrooms does it have?"

Me: "Three. Two bath."

Caller: "Your sign says it's a four bedroom."

Me: "Sir, you must have our house confused with another one that you saw. Ours is a three bedroom, two bathroom."

Caller: "Are you sure?"

(Now, how does one respond to that without turning into a snarky cow?)

Me: "Yes. I'm quite sure."

Caller: "Well, that ain't big enough for us", followed by a click.

I couldn't help but send a whisper of thanks out to the universe for sparing us. Personally, I've had enough irrational and crazy to last me a lifetime.

After several calls and a few house showings that left me feeling distinctly misanthropic, I received a voice mail from a young, well-mannered guy. If it pleased me, would I mind meeting him at the property so that he could take a quick look? He hated to bother me on a Sunday afternoon and all but he was under a time constraint and wondered if I might be able to spare him a few moments. He was as southern as a cold mint julep on a hot summer day. I immediately called him back.

I thought it was kind of odd that a single guy would want a three bedroom place when it was just him and a dog. He explained that an apartment was out of the question and smaller houses tended to be located in undesirable neighbourhoods so while our house might be a bit large, it satisfied his other needs. He was polite, had a good job and showed up on time. So we rented to him, of course, and I can't help but think that we are incredibly fortunate.

I remember coming back from honeymoon, walking into the other house and being completely overwhelmed with the enormity of the task of getting it ready to lease. The current state of the housing market has made it impossible to collect enough rent to cover the mortgage, insurance and taxes but we are 70% there and the house is no longer a financial black hole. It's one more check mark on our never ending "To Do List".

I drove by the other day because there's a wee bit of stalker in this slum lord and our boy had nicely mowed and edged the yard.

And for the rest of the day, all was right in my world.

The Joys of Parenting

Parenting been challenging lately. That is not to say that things have been crappy because they really haven't but there are just some weeks that Dallas and I vacillate between the desire to choke the shit out of our kids and the instinct to protect them from the harsher bits of life.

For instance, the man-child has really struggled with the concept of personal accountability recently. He dips his toe into the adult pond, deems it inhospitable and retreats back to the comfort of cartoons, limited responsibility and his mantra, "It's not my fault". It is incredibly difficult to remain on the sidelines and watch him make his mistakes. We know that he'll right himself eventually but as he stumbles from one life lesson to another, having a front row seat is a lot like sitting ringside at a boxing match and witnessing your boy take a few hard knocks. You can't help but wince and hope that it will be all over soon.

Lately, I think Dylan has succumbed to the great hormone monster. All of the signs are there: wild mood swings, extra long showers and armpit hair. And while it's all perfectly normal, the onset of his adolescence has me eyeballing the Vicodin left over from my surgery last year. I've always been an avid supporter of the Labrador Retriever method of parenting. You know, dig a big hole and bury your children at the first sign of hormonal havoc and then unearth them years later when they've turned twenty three, graduated from university and become civilized again. I have a photo of Dylan that sits in my office. He is about two, sitting on an old couch in his footed jammies. His hair is wild and his smile is huge. I want to crawl into that picture and give that boy just one more hug because I'm really not ready to let him go.

Being Olivia's mother reminds me on a constant basis that what goes around comes around. She is equal parts sugar and vinegar. On good days, I walk into her room after she is asleep and feel like my heart is full to bursting as I watch her delicate little chest rise and fall. Other days, I walk into her room after she is asleep and feel like my heart is going to blow into smithereens with anxiety because she didn't come with a manual and I'm quite positive I'm failing her. And while Dylan is complex, like a set of blueprints, Olivia is baffling, like quantum physics. She is the roller coaster that takes you to the very edge, hundreds of feet in the air, in the pitch black, only to jerk you back at the last possible minute with a scream trapped in your throat. Upon reflection, you are able to laugh but your legs still shake for the rest of the day. It is safe to say that I DREAD her adolescence and wish I had been a better behaved teenager because that karmic boomerang is a bitch.

On a more positive note, teenage daughter and I have managed to carefully pick our way through the minefield that is a stepmum/stepdaughter relationship (although I despise the whole label of "step" because it seems to connote something less valid) and we have landed in this place of respect and tentative affection. I am surprised to find myself emotionally invested in her. I wouldn't say that we are BFF close and the current state is most definitely fragile but there is measurable progress. In the last month, she has taken control of her sexual health, studied for her learner's permit, embraced her domestic chores without complaint and seriously hunted for a job. This week, she expressed the desire to bake and as we walked through the recipe together, she was clearly eager to learn and even more pleased when she churned out some kick ass cookies. These things might not appear to be a big deal to some but for Dallas and me, it is like watching a flower bloom. Believe me, we are under no illusions as to how long the peace will last. Rather, we are just trying to recognize, savour and be grateful for each new brick that is laid on her path to independence.

So yeah, kids can make you feel as dumb as a box of rocks. I know that I will screw my children up in some way. I mean, every parent does, right? We are imperfect souls. I think our job is kind of like the medical principle, "Primum non nocere" though, in that first we must try to do no harm.

And when we do, we ought to at least spring for the psychotherapy.

Skype Me Baby

I must have been living in a cave or under a rock or back in the time when dinosaurs ruled the earth because up until a week ago, I did not have a working Skype account. Years ago, I had registered and acquired a proper Skype logon but never used it.

Business associates would often ask if I used Skype or they would pass along their Skype name and I would smile, add it to their contact information and then completely ignore it. Sure Skype was all the rage but so was Beta video at one time and look how that one turned out. I was convinced that it was just another fad to add to the techno junkie list.

And now, we cannot live without it.

And I want each and every one of my far flung relatives to go down to their nearest geek outlet and get themselves a headset and a webcam because it is just too much FUN.

Video-conferencing rocks!

Just think of the possibilities.....

This Thanksgiving, I can call my mum and she can actually critique my pie crust making skills in real time instead of listening to me sob on the other end of the phone after I've gone through a big can of Crisco with nothing to show for it and guests arriving in an hour.

My kids can get to know their Kiwi cousins without us having to spend $20,000 (YES, TWENTY THOUSAND!) to fly our family down to Auckland. For that matter, all of our offspring can communicate with all of their cousins AT THE SAME TIME.

Recently, we shared the Skype love with Dallas's mum and dad and now, our phone calls are the next best thing to being there. Can you imagine how awesome it will be during Christmas to open our gifts together?

The absolutely best part about Skype is that it is free. Yes, FREE. There are no hidden fees. As long as you are using your computer to call another Skype account, it doesn't cost a plug nickel. They also have very reasonably priced options for those folks who want to call from their Skype account to landlines or mobile phones in other countries.

I love Skype.

(Just so you know, I'm not being paid for this gushing endorsement.)

The List

Steph the Magnificent came into my office the other day and asked me if I had seen the short blurb on David Duchovny


and his apparent sex addiction.

Um, no, I hadn't seen it and thanks to Stephanie, I wasn't able to think of much else for the rest of the day. Sex addiction, eh?

The thing is, Duchovny does it for me.

Since the X-Files.

Californication, his new gig on Showtime, is absolutely delicious. Love, love, love him.

Of course, I am a married woman now and the topic of celebrity shag lists hasn't conveniently popped up in conversation as of yet but I'm pretty sure that Dallas has a few names on his.

For instance, didn't every man his age want to bed Julie on the Love Boat? Remember her? She made polyester fashionable.


Too bad about the cocaine thing.

Anyway, my top ten list looks like this and they are in no particular order and subject to change if I find out something horrible about them.

Like if they vote Republican.

1. David Duchnovy
2. Ed Burns
3. George Clooney (please God, don't let him be gay)
4. Jason Statham
5. Mark Ruffalo
6. Hugh Jackman
7. Colin Firth
8. Antonio Banderas
9. Brad Pitt
10. James Spader

And as I compiled this list of men who I consider sponge-worthy, I couldn't help but notice that it took me forever to come up with ten. And with each name that I added, I wondered:

Would he make me tea at night?
Would he fold the towels my way?
Would he fill my gas tank without me knowing?
Would he watch Gray's Anatomy with me even though he'd rather have someone beat him to death, slowly and with a blunt object?
Would he bring me coffee in bed every single morning?
Would he send me text messages during my work day to let me know that I was on his mind?
Would he read and understand owner's manuals so that I never have to decipher one again?
Would he share my passion for Harleys, rum and a good book?
Would he find me attractive in spite of the pull of gravity, the lure of dark chocolate and challenges of an ex husband?

Umm...not likely.

My husband is a hard act to follow.