Martini Anyone?

I love my children. That's a given, right?

Okay, with that said, please understand that as much as I adore them, snow days are their own special brand of torture for me.

The day before the bowels of hell are supposed to open up, my kids are usually peppered with rumours about the pending weather. All of the sudden, they turn into mini meteorologists who discuss barometric pressure and precip odds with their peers with more authority than the guy on the evening news:

"There is a seventy percent chance of snow overnight. Depends on the temp. If that warming trend from the south hits us, it will only rain. We need to pray that the cold front sweeping down from Canada follows the jet stream and pushes the warmer weather to the valley."

If she were conversing about any other topic, Olivia, with her five year old lisp would sound like Elmer Fudd and his wascally wabbit. When she talks about the possibility of an inclement weather day off of school, she is freaking Walter Cronkite incarnate.

Anyway, when Dallas and I went to the gym this morning, there was just a sprinkling of rain. By the time we got out, the tinkle had turned to sleet. I went through my morning routine firmly believing that the weather predictions were wrong and then I made the short-sighted mistake of waking up my PEACEFULLY SLEEPING children before turning on the television. I was kind of like the child who hides behind his hands and figures that if he can't see you, you can't see him. My thought process was that if I didn't turn on the TV, I wouldn't see that the schools were closed so therefore, THEY WERE OPEN. I could drop the kids at the carpool like normal and head off to my hundred square feet of office bliss, where people form complete sentences and don't ask me to cut the crusts off their toast.

So, now I sit in my home office with SpongeBob blaring in the next room and Guitar Hero loud enough to make eyes bleed pounding upstairs. Olivia had chocolate chip cookies and a PB&J for breakfast. I'm not sure that Dylan ate. I think he gave up pretty quickly after asking for a glass of water and being told to go cup his hands under the damn bathroom faucet. I'm having to mute my end of conference calls to mask the periodic arguments between my children. I have contemplated slipping a narcotic into their milk. Why does every toy on the planet pee, squeal, honk, beep, buzz, ring, ding, bark and wail?

My sanity is slowly leaking out of my ears.

Snow days, not business meetings, are why the martini lunch was invented.

The Big Meeting

Last night's events can be summed up in one word:

Awkward.

But really, wasn't that to be expected? I have yet to meet my ex's new love interest but I've heard about her and I have to admit that my curiosity is peaked. It's natural to want to get a look at the one that has stepped into your shoes.

Is she thin? (bitch)
Is she pretty? (mirror, mirror on the wall....)
Is she smart?

So I'm sure some of that was going on last night on both sides. In the same situation, men are likely to puff out their chests, stand up straight and ooze testosterone out of every pore but women are more feral. We smile and we might even shake hands or compliment the other woman on her jewelry choice but inside we are quiet, watchful and patient as we wait for the chink in the armour to present itself. Only then, when we see that her bum is just as gravity challenged as our own do we sheath the claws and make an attempt at small talk.

For me, the most interesting part of last night was to watch the dynamic between Dallas and his ex wife. They were familiar in a way that only people with a history can be but it wasn't threatening at all. Rather, it was more like witnessing two siblings with unresolved differences. Dallas was especially considerate of her feelings and made every attempt to normalize an uncomfortable situation. She was less inclined to meet him halfway. In fact, there were times when it felt like she was punishing him, angry perhaps, that he chose to accept his divorced status and move on.

I believe that with time, she and I might find more to talk about and if we don't, that's okay, too.

In other scintillating news, the Body For Life program is fabulous. My scale is still a filthy liar except that it's telling me I have lost 3.5% body fat. I can live with that. In the morning, if I squint my eyes, tilt my head 20 degrees, stand 10 feet back from the mirror and use soft candle light, I think I can see an abdominal muscle. Of course, it could just be the way the light hits the toothpaste splatter on the mirror...........

Weekend in a Nutshell

On Friday my children were scheduled to head off with their dad at 6pm.

Sharp.

I was beside myself with joy.

If I were a better mother, I would fret about the fact that they wouldn't see a bar of soap or a tube of toothpaste all weekend. But alas, my selfish desire to spend some quality time in my own tub with some bubbles, a good bottle of merlot and Dallas, a good book superseded any maternal instincts I might have possessed.

Notice that I said "was" in reference to the whole bliss thing. Well, at about 2:30 Friday morning, Dallas rolled over for a little spoonie and it felt like I had lain down on sticky black asphalt in the dead of summer. He was on fire. Then, he started talking but he wasn't making much sense. I didn't need a thermometer to diagnose the fever but I stuck it in his ear anyway to give me a guide as to how much I needed to panic. It was 101.4, which is pretty high in a guy whose resting temperature is somewhere between 97 and 97.4.

So, he was in the doctor's office before 9am where they took his blood pressure, a hundred bucks and sent him on his feverish way. Turns out his elevated temperature was caused by a nasty tooth infection, the pain of which became excruciating right after 5pm when most dentists close their doors. Friday was a rough one for Dallas. Saturday, we went back to the clinic, got an antibiotic script and by Sunday morning, he was feeling loads better.

Sunday afternoon, the sun came out and the temperature rose to over 60 degrees. There's only one thing to do with weather like that: RIDE.

It was incredible. I have missed my big bike. The roads were full of other riders and for a moment, I could have fooled myself into believing that spring was near. But the weather report predicts that our mild temperatures are coming to an end. No matter, though. At least we had Sunday.

Tonight, we are attending a school event for Dallas's son. It will be the first time that his ex wife and I have met face to face. I wouldn't say that I am worried but I'm something. Anxious? Nervous? Hyperventilating?

And what is considered appropriate affection between the two of us in front of her? Is hand holding insensitive? I have a feeling that we'll be doing the grade 7 dance thing and standing at least two feet apart at all times. No touching. Instead, we can smile at each other and give the thumbs up. I'm making light but the truth is that this meeting is important. I want it to go well because it would be so much easier on all of us if it did. There has been a tangible bit of tension with his ex since Dallas and I became serious about the course of our relationship and I look forward to the day when that is behind us. Divorce is never pleasant but it can be especially painful when love still exists because sometimes the rules get bent and the lines get blurred. Expectations are continuously redefined until inevitably, someone draws a line in the sand. Only then, can the wounds heal. I hope that tonight works more like a Band Aid and less like a handful of salt.

You Don't Say...

This was the headline for a story on one of the news blogs that I read.

Truth was first US casualty in Iraq war: study

Ummm...DUH! I understand that Clinton had a chameleon's approach to the truth but how can one compare a blow job and creative cigar use in the White House to the disaster that is the Bush II presidency?

I have one question: Where is Osama bin Laden? I mean, shoot, Saddam Hussein was found in about two seconds buried in a bloody hole in the ground. It's been over six years since we invaded Afghanistan. Every time there's a White House press briefing, someone ought to ask, "Where is Osama bin Laden?"

"Hey Condi? Any word on Osama?"

"Yo, Mr. Chertoff. How's the hunt for Osama coming along?"

"Mr. President. See Osama Run. Run Osama Run. Find Osama George."

I can tell you where Osama isn't: Iran or North Korea. And I know this even without getting those super duper top secret national security briefings every morning that George Dubya apparently doesn't bother to read (probably because they use big words like, "classified" and "nuclear" GAH!). Here's a hint. Try looking in the desert or mountains of Afghanistan. Osama shouldn't be too hard to find. He'll be the really tall guy hooked up to an effing dialysis machine.

Jesus.

Here's the rest of the article from the Agence France-Presse (AFP)

US President George W. Bush and his top officials ran roughshod over the truth in the run-up to the Iraq war lying a total of 935 times, a study released Wednesday found.

Bush and his then secretary of state Colin Powell made the most false statements as they sought to drum up support for the March 2003 invasion to topple Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, the study alleged.

In a damning report, the Center for Public Integrity found "935 false statements by eight top administration officials that mentioned Iraq's possession of weapons of mass destruction, or links to Al-Qaeda, on at least 532 separate occasions."

"Bush and seven of his administration's top officials methodically propagated erroneous information over the two years beginning on September 11, 2001," the center said.

"These false statements dramatically increased in August 2002, just prior to congressional consideration of a war resolution and during the critical weeks in early 2003 when the president delivered his State of the Union address and Powell delivered his memorable presentation to the UN Security Council," the CPI added.

The study calls into question "the repeated assertions of Bush administration officials that they were merely the unwitting victims of bad intelligence," it added in a statement.

The US president was found to have made the most false statements referring a total of 260 times to Iraq's supposed weapons of mass destruction and Al-Qaeda alleged links to the Baghdad regime.

But then-secretary of state Powell only just lagged behind with 254 false communications, said the study by the center's founder Charles Lewis and researchers.

Charges that late Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein had stockpiled an arsenal of weapons of mass destruction were the main argument used publicly in parliaments around the world and in the United Nations to justify the US-led invasion.

But after the invasion they turned out to be untrue, when no weapons of mass destruction were found by the invading forces.

Former national security advisor Condoleezza Rice, then defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld, and ex-deputy defense secretary Paul Wolfowitz were also fingered in the study, along with former White House press secretaries Ari Fleisher and Scott McClellan.

"This is a report like no other, which calls into question more than 900 false statements that were the underpinnings of the administration's case for war," argued the CPI's Executive Director Bill Buzenberg.

Cheney, for example, on August 26, 2002, in an address to the Veterans of Foreign Wars national convention, asserted: "Simply stated, there is no doubt that Saddam Hussein now has weapons of mass destruction.

"There is no doubt he is amassing them to use against our friends, against our allies, and against us."

Former CIA chief George Tenet later noted Cheney's assertions exceeded his agency's assessments at the time, the report said.

In late September 2002, Bush with a congressional vote approaching on authorizing the use of military force in Iraq, insisted in a radio address that the Baghdad regime posed a global threat.

"The Iraqi regime possesses biological and chemical weapons, is rebuilding the facilities to make more and, according to the British government, could launch a biological or chemical attack in as little as 45 minutes after the order is given," Bush said.

"This regime is seeking a nuclear bomb, and with fissile material could build one within a year."

Other administration officials muddied the waters on the alleged relationship between Iraq and the Al-Qaeda terror network, the CPI said.

Asked in July 2002 if Iraq had relationships with Al-Qaeda terrorists, Rumsfeld said: "Sure."

Still, an assessment the same month by the Defense Intelligence Agency, confirmed by later by CIA chief Tenet, found an absence of any "compelling evidence demonstrating direct cooperation between the government of Iraq and Al-Qaeda."

Where's My Apron?

I am a domestic goddess.

Come, my children. Worship at my stove top.

I spent this weekend cooking like Julia Childs (except with better teeth and no pearls). I had the Body For Life cookbook opened and managed to saute, broil and bake our entire week's worth of meals. Oh, stop! You needn't bow down.

This flurry of domestic activity threw my children off, as well. They walked around the house this weekend with wide open eyes and they were careful to speak in quiet, measured tones. I rustled up breakfast, lunch and dinner on both days and the only comment was from Dylan.

"I like your new diet book, Mum."

Uh-huh.

To support this change in lifestyle, Dallas and I had to spend buckets of money. The first gouge to the bank account was at the fitness shop where we stocked up on protein shakes. I was quite prepared to hate them because they've always tasted somewhat like vitamins smell but the Myoplex Lite stuff is good and there are heaps of yummy recipes.

Then, we went grocery shopping. It's a pity neither one of us has shares in Wal-Mart. Between Sam's Club and our local Supercenter, we spent an amount equivalent to my vehicle note. This included a new, fancy, schmancy blender for the aforementioned protein shakes because our old one gave off that smell that happens when steel grinds against steel. We were concerned it might combust.

Finally, all of the cooking and shopping revealed a desperate need for a second refrigerator. I had been tossing the idea of a new stainless steel number for about two years but I just couldn't seem to part with the funds. I used to walk into those lovely DIY home displays and see appliances that made my heart flutter but when it came down to it, I'd look at the cost and calculate how many pairs of shoes I wouldn't be able to buy if I splurged on a fridge. Seriously. A girl has to have her priorities.

Unfortunately, eating six meals a day made it impossible to ignore the fact that I have had a longer relationship with my fridge than my son. So tomorrow, the Sears delivery guy will bring our new stainless steel beauty with nearly 26 cubic feet of space, an ice maker in the door and cold filtered water whenever we need it. Old faithful will be moved to the garage and promptly filled with beer nutritious, lovingly made meals in matching tupperware.

I could have purchased several of these (and aren't they magnificent!):


But we bought this, instead:


Somewhere out there, Jimmy Choo is screaming.

Domesticity Redefined

Well, it's official. I'm going to hell.

It's not like I wasn't headed in that direction before what with my divorce, birth control and frequent use of, "JESUS H. CHRIST! Why did you put that up your nose?"

But now, I've sealed my fate. Dallas has moved in. We're shacking up, sharing space, cohabiting, co-mingling, playing house, LIVING IN SIN...According to my brief religious upbringing, I can expect to frolic with the other sinners for all eternity. At the very least, I can assume that I'll be spending gobs of time in purgatory.

No matter, though, because everyone that I know and love is likely to be there with me.

We're in that lovely early stage when things like upright toilet seats and make-up on the hand towels don't cause a ripple. This morning, I got out of the shower to find the dishwasher emptied, a load of laundry in, my morning protein shake made and my second cup of coffee waiting for me on the bathroom vanity. I had to pinch myself to make sure that I wasn't dreaming because my past experiences living with a man were vastly different.

Husband number one was a diva and wouldn't contribute to the household chores because he was asthmatic and someone ought to have given him a purple, rhinestone encrusted star for being able to use meditation to successfully control his symptoms. Vacuum? Are you kidding? He may have had to use an inhaler and that would most certainly have caused the earth to come off its axis.

Husband number two was unfortunately, more caveman old fashioned in his view of housework. He felt that as long as he held a job, paid his taxes and loved his mother, he should be exempt from any other tasks. It didn't matter that both of us had full time demanding careers. I had the uterus and therefore, all things domestic were considered my responsibility.

So along comes this sweet, highly evolved man who believes in the equitable division of labour in all things domestic. He grocery shops, he puts the trash out, he cooks and he cleans. He is never poised with a scratch pad keeping score. He understands the concept of teamwork and I just had no idea what to do with him in the beginning. I used to shoo him out of the kitchen, worried that he might find loading the dishwasher overwhelming. Silly of me. I had to cede control. Gulp.

It's been a totally liberating experience and I find myself back to that place where I can't help but be grateful. And you know that a man this evolved and secure just doesn't happen. He had to have been well loved as a child. Now more than ever, I can't wait to meet Dallas's mum and dad even if it's just to thank them.

Welcome Back Carbs. I've Missed You.

How did it get to be Thursday already? This week has flown by in a flurry of clients, children and loathsome work out sessions. Actually, the work outs are not so bad. It's just hard to get excited about schlepping to the gym at 4:45 am. However, the alternative: late afternoon sessions, are out of the question.

Dallas has recently introduced me to the "Body For Life" plan. Apparently, he has used the system for a while with good results. This weekend, we bought the book and committed to working the plan at least until we head off to New Zealand, which is 37 days away (not that I'm counting). The absolute best part about this plan is that I get to have carbohydrates again. Pasta, bread, fruit....I can't believe it. Tonight we are having shrimp scampi over penne pasta. I may lick the plate.

Last night, we went to the gym to do an upper body work out. I loved it. After we got back home, Dallas made us a couple of protein shakes and told me to raise my arms above my head and wave them.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because tomorrow, you won't be able." Hmmm.

Then, probably because we worked out so late, he had trouble falling asleep. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be much of an issue but we had plans to go to the gym in the morning at 5am. We won't be doing any more evening sessions on weeknights.

So this morning, off we went. I don't hate the elliptical machine anymore. I secretly love it. My shins don't hurt, my knees don't scream and I get twenty two minutes of high energy music. It's a great way to start the day.

As we go through the next several weeks, I'll be posting our progress but this will never include an actual weight number because my scale lies. I've contemplated doing before and after photos but the thought of publishing my ample arse in a bikini makes me hyperventilate. Minor details...I'll figure something out.

A Very Brady Weekend

We had another busy weekend.

Friday, we met Brandon and Erin down in the big city for dinner and again, at several points, I had tears of laughter rolling down my face.

First, my eldest daughter text me asking for some advice in regard to how long she should wait before resuming sexual activity. She was quite matter of fact about the state of her va-jay-jay and included information regarding a lone, rogue, stitch. I marveled at how my daughter and I had landed in this place where we could discuss her bedroom activity but however special that was, thinking about her as a sexual being was as uncomfortable for me as picturing my parents getting their groove on. (Shudder) Anyway, I decided to share this very special realization with Brandon and Erin by handing over my phone so they could read the text messages themselves and see what a fabulous, liberal mum I was.

Brandon didn't get beyond the stitch. He froze, somewhat catatonic, paled to a pasty gray and was unable to speak for several minutes. You just know that the words in the text were forever seared in his brain and he just kept swallowing, staring sightlessly, unable to form words. He shook his head slightly from side to side as if to dislodge whatever image was planted there. Dallas and I were doubled over with laughter. Erin cautioned us that we should probably stop because from her experienced viewpoint, Brandon was thisclose to fainting. We found this hysterical. Brandon is most definitely NOT one of those people on the freeway that slow to get a look at a crash site and this is why we love him.

The second occurrence happened when Dallas decided to share his opinion on the difference between making love and shagging. Brandon had a huge issue with the term, "making love". He snorted, cut Dallas short and sarcastically created a scenario with Barry White, candles, massage oil and other stereotypical aphrodisiac accoutrements. It doesn't look nearly as funny in print but I had wine shooting out my nose and tears running down my face. My abs hurt.

I wish we could bottle up five minutes with Brandon and Erin and give it to all of the miserable people in the world.

_____________________________________________________

Saturday, Dallas and I CASUALLY began looking at houses. Now internet, before you send me emails full of "oh-my-god-are-you-nuts" advice, remember a couple of things:

1. We've been dating each other for six months and although we had a few bumps at the beginning, we're in this for the long haul.

2. I wear bi-focals. Dallas should. Feel free to translate this as, WE ARE NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER.

3. Commitment to a successful relationship is a choice that we make every day. Could Dallas find someone with better boobs and smaller feet? Absolutely. Could I date someone who remembers to take their shoes off at the front door? Well, sure but I've learned that when so many of my bigger needs (kindness, respect, laughter)are being met, the small stuff becomes pretty insignificant. I believe the ocean is teeming with fish and that when we are fortunate enough to find one that we don't want to throw back, we ought to say thank you.

4. I love him. He loves me.

5. Dallas has drawers, closet space and SLIPPERS at my house.

6. "Our" has replaced "yours" and "mine" without either of us giving it much thought.

7. We just can't seem to get this damn song out of our heads...

The Picture of Elephantine Grace

Chris over at Rude Cactus and Aimee of Greeblemonkey fame, (who we have to hate for awhile because she just got back from Hawaii..hiss), have cooked up:

What this means is that we are shamelessly asking you to make yourself known by leaving a comment. Not that we are insecure comment whores or anything but..

I have my steady few that comment all of the time but for some reason, the tens of you that read me prefer to email. I understand perfectly. I'm shy like that, too. Anyway, I'm supposed to give you a specific little something something to comment on and this is usually done via the telling of some horribly embarrassing story. The trouble is that most of those involve situations that I'd hate for my mum to read without first ingesting a pharmaceutical or two. And recently, I've acquired a couple of new readers from New Zealand (hi Mrs. J! Hi Leisa!) who after reading several posts, are probably already very concerned for Dallas. So, after mentally sifting through the debris of my youth, I have landed on a story that wouldn't get anything stronger than a PG rating.

In eighth grade, I was fourteen, athletic and newly interested in all things distinctly girlie. Up to that point, I'd had very little use for boys except as referees for our hockey games. I wore my hair like Dorothy Hamill.

Overnight, everything changed. I discovered Maybelline Great Lash mascara and Lip Smackers. My male friends suddenly became much more interesting. And I bought my first pair of high heeled shoes, which launched a lifetime obsession.

It was announced that there would be a school dance called the "Spring Fling". My father gave me $50 to get an outfit. I spent 12 bucks on the dress and the rest on the most magnificent, 3.5" (9cm), black velvet stilettos. They hurt. I teetered like barfly in them but they made my bum look fabulous because it was constantly flexed in an effort to maintain my balance. LIFELONG OBSESSION. I was the picture of adolescent pseudo-sophistication.

The day of the dance, we had rain and temperatures that were cold, even for April. That night, the rain froze making the concrete steps leading into the school an icy mess. My father suggested that I might be more comfortable wearing my sneakers until I was safely inside the school doors but noooooo, not me. I was Scarlett O'Hara in the damn drapes and I was going to make my grand entrance. Besides, I had practiced for hours getting in and out of the car with my skirt and heels on. I had the side sweep motion down to a science.

And then quite predictably, it all went horribly wrong. I took that first stair and felt the bottom of my foot slide back as I pitched forward. To stop my face from meeting the concrete, I reached out with both hands to the left and grasped the iron railing, twisting violently around, knees splayed, pantyhose ripped and slid on my arse, then tailbone and finally came to rest on the small of my back. I broke one of the heels of my shoes. At that very moment, as I was inelegantly flailing to get up, the boy I had a serious crush on chose that moment to pull up to the curb, exit his parent's car and gaze at me with a mixture of pity and barely controlled laughter. I wanted to die. Instead, I limped back to my Dad's car, got in and begged him to take me home. His shoulders were shaking and every few minutes he let out a little squeak and wiped his eyes. Awful. The worst.

So that's it. Feel free to delurk and share a moment of your own. And hey, thanks for reading.

I Hate Tornados

I have experienced hurricanes on the east coast, typhoons in China, wildfires and earthquakes in southern California but nothing, and I mean NOTHING in Mother Nature unhinges me like a tornado except perhaps those awful tree roaches in Texas.

During the week, I don't watch a lot of tv but last night, Dallas wanted to tune into the news and we left it on after dinner. We were watching something forgetful when a highly caffeinated weather team interrupted the program to tell us to

GET TO OUR SAFE PLACES RIGHT EFFING NOW!!!

At first, I wasn't comprehending what they were saying and confused it with some sort of new age directive to go to my HAPPY place. Since I am mother to one child bordering on adolescence and another who has made "Mum" a sixteen syllable word, I am quite familiar with every technique available to slow one's heartbeat.

Then, the sirens went off and it finally dawned on me that the weather guys were speaking in tongues because there was the distinct possibility that we were all going to Oz. And then I lost it just a little.

Earthquakes in San Diego involved a little toilet water spilling onto the floor and then playing chicken with the overpasses during aftershocks. In China, typhoon day meant being stuck inside a highrise hotel room while it rained horizontally. Perfectly manageable. But hearing those damn tornado sirens go off after the sun has set and understanding that I wouldn't be able to see the funnel cloud coming sends me into an incoherent, unreasonable, let's-get-in-the-car-and-drive state.

Dallas, quite camly asked me where we usually go in the house during a tornado. I had to admit that once or twice, I have not been able to find my car keys and thus, have resorted to throwing the children in the tub and covering them with a mattress. It hasn't mattered to me that the tub rests along an exterior wall (BIG tornado no no). All that I was thinking was that it might afford my babies some protection if they were hurtled through the air at 150 miles an hour. As if.

He quietly suggested that we might find it safer to be in the closet under the stairs. I did the math and agreed that I liked the odds of us being buried alive better than careening through the air in a builder's grade fiberglass tub but I still made the irrational argument that I thought it would just be wiser to get into a car and drive in the opposite effing direction.

And then the storm blew over like it always does. I got into bed fully clothed with my purse, photo albums, car keys and mobile phone by my bedside. I am a nut job, yes, but a prepared nut job, nevertheless.

We All Know A Bob

This weekend flew by in a blur of activity.

When I was single, I certainly had a social life but not like this. I don't think that Dallas did either but as a couple, we seem to have a full calendar. Friday night, we had dinner out with friends, which was fun. Saturday, we went out to the Harley dealership because I wanted to find a new pair of grips for my big bike. This turned out to be an interesting experience.

You see, during the time that Dallas and I were apart, I dated the man that sold me my Harleys. We'll just call him Bob. When Bob first asked me out, my initial instincts were to say no because on some level, I knew that we were not compatible but he made me laugh, was obviously Harley friendly and he was kind to my children whenever I was in the dealership.

Stupid.

I should have listened to my gut because after a few weeks, it became apparent that Bob and I would never work as a couple. Dallas factored into that decision because Bob perceived my friendship with him to be a direct threat. Among the other issues, I was expected to cease communication with Dallas. So, I ended things with Bob. And he was hurt. I understood that. All my life, I have tried to remain "friends" with former boyfriends. It's an illness, really, because break ups are painful, often one sided and to expect everyone to smile, hug and move on is kind of a kooky philosophy that I have embraced. However, Bob and I dated for less than three weeks so I didn't think there would be that great of an emotional ripple.

Wrong again.

In early November, I was in the dealership to pick up an accessory and I stopped by Bob's office to say hello. BIG MISTAKE. His hurt had turned to anger. Since then, I have avoided him and consequently, the dealership, like the plague. But Dallas and I love the Harley dealership so we decided to make the trip in spite of the fact that the situation might be uncomfortable.

Dallas walked in, went over to Bob and shook his hand. They may have conversed but I sure didn't see it because I made a coward's beeline in the other direction. Everything worked out fine, although if looks could kill, I'd be pulling one or two daggers from my skull.

And I guess, that was the interesting part of the visit for me. Before we went to the dealership, I had anticipated that Bob's reaction to seeing me would be anger and it was but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel it necessary to reciprocate all that negativity. Instead, I found myself whispering, "I'm sorry", and wishing him happiness. The realization hit me that my entire perspective in life has shifted. I constantly find myself asking, "In the big picture of life, does this REALLY matter?" Most of the decisions that I make these days are subjected to that single criteria. It makes things remarkably simple and manageable.

Loving Dallas has certainly contributed to this change but I like to think that he is my reward for harnessing my thoughts and emotions.

I Shouldn't Have A Pulse

Apparently, I am dead.

Well, obviously not but according to my basal body temperature, I shouldn't be able to respirate, let alone drag my fat arse out of bed every morning. I guess I should explain.

Whenever I see my mum, I come away with a boat load of new information and books that MUST be read...TODAY! I tease her but truthfully, when I look back to the "aha" moments in my life, she has been the propellant that gently nudged me in more enlightened directions. This time, I was handed a book on hypothyroidism.

The women in my family have all suffered from non-productive thyroids, me included. As a result, we are an exhausted bunch with cold hands and feet, brittle nails, dry skin and filthy, lying bathroom scales. We are all taking a synthetic form of thyroid with decidedly mixed results. We feel somewhat better but we're not 100%. My doctor, who looks all of about thirteen, told me that my sub par health is normal and just part of the aging process.

*blink* *blink*

The last time I checked, I was forty. FORTY. And according to the fashion rags, forty is the new thirty so how the bloody hell is it that my doctor and her perky young boobs could possibly expect me to accept that feeling tired all of the time is NORMAL?!!!!!

Sheesh.

Anyway, Mum chose not to swallow that garbage from her own physician and for the past several years, she has been reading everything she could possibly get her hands on in regard to thyroid disease. Recently, she stumbled upon this book and finally, everything made sense. I finished reading it this week and have begun the search for a doctor who will treat me according to the plan outlined by the author.

In the meantime, the book encourages you to take your temperature in the morning and in the afternoon for several days to establish an average basal body temp. It is the most reliable indication of hypothyroidism. Afternoon temps should hover within a tenth or two around 98.6°F. I'll be taking mine this afternoon but I've never had a temperature higher than 98.2°F so I don't hold out any great hope that it will magically correct itself today even though I've been on thyroid medication for 5 years. Healthy morning readings should be between 97.8°F and 98.2°F. Mine was 95.7°F this morning.

See? I'm nearly a corpse, I tell you. I'm lucky my heart still pumps blood. It's downright HEROIC that I make it into work most days.

Just kidding, of course but I am excited to see what can be accomplished when I'm operating at 100%. Perhaps I won't feel the need for a continuous caffeine supply or a mid afternoon nap. Heck, maybe I'd actually get friendly with my scale....ooohhh...the possibilities are endless.

I'll keep you posted.

Change

It's coming. I can feel it. Dallas senses it and both of us know that a shift of some sort is imminent.

For me, clarity arrived while I was in Canada. Although I was happy to be home with my family, it was a bittersweet experience because Dallas wasn't with us. Frankly, I was surprised at how difficult it was to be apart from him. I know that it was only a week and I can hear you gagging from here but I was startled to find that my brain had firmly shed the serial dater attitude and shrugged on commitment like a comfortable, old sweater. But the peripheral details of our relationship continue to peck at my type A personality.

We both have children. Two of mine are quite young, which is great, because they're a bit like playdoh in their ability to mold themselves to any situation. They love Dallas and have since meeting him last summer. However, their youth also means that there are still YEARS left of raising them, which is a privilege, but in direct contrast to Dallas's world. His kids are in high school. They already have one foot into their adult lives. He'll never stop being their dad but the day is rapidly coming when his wishes will be mere suggestions and not the law. If he stuck out his tongue today, I bet he could taste the freedom that comes with an empty nest. My hope is that he doesn't make like Forrest Gump and run at the prospect of living through hell the teenage years of two more children.

His relationship with his ex-wife is one of the things that I admire most about Dallas. There is respect, love and genuine concern for the mother of his children. However, there are also complex emotional layers that sometimes throw me off balance. On weak days, I can feel twinges of insecurity. The rest of the time, I am comfortable with the knowledge that we are really, really happy.

I occasionally have a tough time trying to map out how it is that we will get from our here and now to where we envision our future to be. Dallas likes lists. He is one of the few men on the planet who is capable of a successful grocery shop. He is meticulous and although I can hear the wheels turning in his head, I am not entirely enlightened as to what his vision of the plan is. Like Dallas, I am comfortable when the road is clearly lit but I am equally content just knowing that there is a destination. I have respect for the blueprint but I like to write in the margins, too.

Yes, a shift is coming and it's all good even if can't quite put my finger on what it is exactly. I have faith, though, that Dallas and I will one day sit on our porch, in a couple of Adirondack chairs, looking at the cows out in our pasture and reminisce about the year 2008 and how everything changed.