Eight Weeks and Two Days

I understand why people elope.

Planning a wedding is really a giant pain in the arse. There is nothing fun about it and any Martha Stewart wannabe who tells you differently has been inhaling too much craft glue.

Besides watching our wallet spontaneously combust, there are small, insidious issues that have jumped into our path recently and they just don't respect the fact that Dallas and I list towards procrastination, as a rule. Today marks eight weeks and two days until we say our vows. EIGHT WHOLE WEEKS!

Dallas and I were lying in bed the other night and he said, "Beth?" in a questioning voice. Immediately, the alarm bells began to shriek in my head because when he uses my given name instead of an endearment, I know there is likely to be trouble. In this particular instance, he asked if I thought it might be okay for his groomsmen to wear black pants and a white dress shirt instead of a tux. Leisa and Shane had elected to do this for their wedding in February and it made sense because they were married at the beach. The whole look of their wedding party was modern chic. I've got a horse drawn carriage delivering me to the chapel steps. Cinderella stuff. F-A-I-R-Y T-A-L-E material. But hey, I'm easy. If tuxes won't work, I'd be perfectly happy with tights and powdered wigs.

Dallas wasn't demanding that we do it this way. He was merely floating an idea. We had recently learned that he must send each of his groomsmen out to the tailor's rightthisverysecond to be measured for a tux because in JUST EIGHT WEEKS PEOPLE, we'll be walking down the aisle and apparently, time is needed to grow the cotton or shear the sheep! Dallas doesn't want to inconvenience anyone so of course, the path of least resistance was to have them pluck something from their own closet. I haven't given him any feedback on the idea yet. Lately, I can't make a decision between mustard or mayo let alone anything of any import.

Which brings me to the second issue. The honeymoon. Where do we go?

We first tossed the idea of chartering our own boat and sailing the Aegean Sea. We'd spend six blissful days island hopping. Too much work, though. And there was talk of pirates, matey. So then we thought we might like to fly to either Mikonos or Santorini and just laze on the beach with an Ouzo in hand. But that idea still didn't sit well with us. Of course being motorcycle enthusiasts, we thought we could rent a couple of Harleys and ride along the Mediterranean. We mapped a route that started in Italy, worked our way through France and finished in Spain. I loved the idea of seeing a bit of three countries this way until we had a look at the Euro versus the American dollar. Yeah, spank us! We quickly abandoned that idea.

So then, we decided to stay closer to home. We had people suggest domestic honeymoons.

No.

Mexico? Nice beaches and perfect weather but we had both been there.

Costa Rica? Hmm...we landed on that one for some time because the place is visually stunning but I just couldn't get past the $500+ a night price tag in Central America.

Now, we're contemplating the Caribbean. Actually, I am perusing the Caribbean. Dallas disengaged from the process a long time ago. He's a buyer, not a shopper and my indecision is causing him to gray at the temples. But have you seen the sheer number of islands in the Caribbean? And I feel the need to research every last one of them because I want the most bang for our buck. Tripadvisor.com has become the bane of my existence because it feeds my obsessive compulsive tendencies. At some point, I am likely to flip a coin. And apparently, it had better be soon because did you know: we're getting married in EIGHT WEEKS!!

I Am Still A Non-Smoker

This Memorial Day weekend marked my one year anniversary as a non-smoker.

One year!! Wow.

I don't think about having a cigarette every second of every moment like I did in the first few days but the psychological part of the habit is remarkably resilient. I still get the urge to light up several times a week. Sometimes, I even dream and it is so bloody real that I can feel the smoke going down my throat. I know that sounds gross but for me, it is rapture. I liked smoking but hated being a smoker. I often wake up and smell my fingers slightly panicked that somehow, I fell off the wagon in the middle of the night.

But I haven't, of course.

And I won't because there are so many positives to being free of the habit. I love the way my that my hair smells now. I love that my teeth have whitened and that they aren't nearly as sensitive as they used to be. I love that I don't sound like a gruff linebacker named Gus first thing in the morning. I love that I can travel without the anxiety of playing "hide the lighter" from the security people. I can't begin to describe how great it is to get into my car and have it smell like filthy carpool kids instead of stale smoke. And then, there is the whole self respect thing.

For years, I was a closet smoker. During the week, I would race home at lunch, strip off my work clothes and cover my hair with a plastic shower cap. Then, I'd go out onto the back porch and smoke one cigarette after another.

And I'd guzzle a diet Coke. And belch like a sailor.

Oh yes, I was the picture of health. I sometimes imagined that the heart disease fairy was on her way to sprinkle me with her cardiac pixie dust but I was more concerned about CANCER because chemotherapy meant hair loss and THAT was unacceptable. It never occurred to me that I would DIE as a result of my habit. Then, three things happened.

Late 2005, my cousin was diagnosed with lymphoma. She was 36 years old. I remember hearing the news from my mum and immediately, I was terrified of losing her. She may be my cousin by birth but in my heart, she is my sister and chasing the fear was a seething, overwhelming anger at God or the universe or whatever. Cindi was one of those people who didn't "deserve" cancer. Now I understood on a cerebral level that nobody merits a lymphoma diagnosis like a punishment but I felt that there were those of us (smokers, Enron executives, pedophiles) who sort of have it coming. I mean, who falls over in surprise when a lifelong smoker gets lung cancer? Not a big shock, right?

But when a woman, who was so health conscious and who made all of the correct life choices (never smoked, regular exercise, lots of green veg, lean meat, no refined crap) gets cancer, it feels wrong. And I had a really hard time getting my head around her illness. It frightened me. And I felt deep, deep shame because I had lived my life up to that point with very little attention to my health. I had taken it for granted. During one telephone conversation, Cindi said to me, "Eat what you want, drink yourself into a coma and smoke like a fucking chimney because obviously, it doesn't matter." She said this tongue in cheek and I could certainly understand her exasperation but instead of agreeing with her, Cindi's diagnosis was an epiphany for me. I came to believe that being disease free was a gift and to knowingly squander it, one cigarette at a time, was stupid and weak. Every time I lit up over the next eighteen months, I couldn't help but think about my cousin hunched over an airplane toilet deathly ill from her last chemo treatment. It was a sobering picture.

Then just over a year ago, Olivia was playing dress up. She had on a tutu, a pair of my heels and a cape borrowed from her brother. She had decided to use a crayon as a prop.

"Look Mama," she said, "I look like you". And with that, she stuck the crayon in her mouth and pretended to smoke.

I had always gone outside and never subjected either of my children to my habit but clearly, they were aware. I had read that kids of smokers were a bazillion times more likely to smoke themselves and when I saw my five year old puffing on a crayon, it felt like there was an anvil on my chest. This was the shining example that I had set for my children? Monkey see. Monkey do. Lovely.

The countdown to my non smoking life began in earnest at this point. I made the appointment with the doctor and filled my Chantix prescription. It sat in my cupboard for two months. I'd take the bottle out, shake it and put it back. I'd look at the calendar and try to commit to a day when I'd throw away the cigs forever. I wasn't completely there.

Then, I made the decision to try dating again. I composed a list of all of the attributes that my ideal man would have. The top three were as follows:

#1. Emotionally healthy
#2. Funny
#3. Non-smoker

Yeah, I know it seems strange but even when I was a smoker, I knew that if there was any chance for me to quit and stay off the cigarettes, I had to share my life with someone who didn't smoke. When I investigated online dating, smoking ranked right up there with "religion" and "want children" in the deal breaker categories.

The truth is, I ran out of excuses as to why I still smoked. It was hindering my ability to live the kind of life that I wanted and I just got to the point where I could no longer respect myself as a smoker.

So on May 16th, I took my first of fourteen Chantix pills.

On May 23rd at 9:50pm, I lit up my last Marlboro Light. I savoured every drag and I smoked it right down to the filter. Then, I went to bed.

On May 24th, 2007 I woke up a non smoker.

I Love Sting

Last week, my son and I went to see "The Police" in concert and I found myself blissfully transported back to one of those adolescent days that makes you shake your head as an adult.

It was August 13th, 1982 and blistering hot. I was fifteen, terminally irresponsible and like most teenagers, I had no sense of my own mortality. My friend, Katie and I began our day by boarding the Go Train in Oshawa, Ontario. We were headed to Toronto to the CN Exhibition Centre to attend the "Police Picnic".

When I asked my dad if I could go, I think he assumed that it was some sort of law enforcement shindig and I didn't particularly want to disabuse him of that idea. After all, the vision of a clean cut crowd with no drugs or alcohol was far more palatable than a stadium full of rowdies watching a concert and passing the dutchie. Bad, bad daughter.

He eventually learned that I was going to a music event and he asked about the seats. He was insistent that if he was to allow me to go, we had to be in fixed seats and not in the mêlée that was general admission. I told him that yes, we had proper seats but no, he couldn't see my ticket to verify because Katie's sister had purchased them and we were to meet her there to pick them up. LIAR! (And this is why I expect to walk through the fires of hell with my own children. It's all about karma, people.)

Anyway, we boarded and settled into our seats with the Saturday comics. Then, we did some illegal drugs. (Yes, you read that right. What can I say? I was a train wreck as a teenager.)

We arrived at the stadium and were herded with 25,000 other people onto the field portion of the arena which was general admission. This meant that we did not have seats. We were to stand. Like pink flamingos. For hours. One advantage was that we had the ability to push towards the stage with the crowd. One major disadvantage was that the concert started at two o'clock int he afternoon and finished at eleven in the evening. It was beyond exhausting to stay upright for the entire time.

I didn't.

I was doing pretty well up until about seven in the evening. I had suffered through forty five minutes of A Flock of Seagulls:


(there is very little in the way of kind words to describe the fashion disaster that was the 80's pop band)

I watched Joan Jett and the Blackhearts get booed off the stage for doing a cover of the Who's "Summertime Blues":


(If I'd had produce with me, I might have thrown it.)

I danced through the English Beat's entire set:

(Spot on example of 80's dance moves that I practiced in front of a mirror. Who knew that I could have stuck my finger in a light socket and achieved the same technique?)

Finally, after nearly seven hours in the heat and humidity with very little water and absolutely no food, I found myself lightheaded. The Talking Heads came on and the crowd lurched towards the stage. I lost Katie in the madness and at one point, I was lifted off my feet and propelled forward by the crush of people. I found myself about three yards from the barrier lined with security and then,

I fainted.

The next thing I knew, I could feel hand after hand on my head, my back, my legs and my bottom. I opened my eyes and instantly understood that I had been lifted up and was being passed forward to the medics on the other side of the barrier. I lost my concert program and my Adidas jacket during this little fiasco but on the plus side, I did manage to get close enough to David Byre to see the sweat roll off the tip of his very straight nose.



While sitting in the back of an open door ambulance drinking water and munching on a granola bar, the lights dimmed and the opening few bars of "Don't Stand So Close To Me" could be heard. The crowd went wild. I turned to the medic and told him that I felt fine. He suggested it might be better for me to stay put for a while. I wasn't sure if he could make me do that but I wasn't willing to take any chances so the second he turned his back to attend to another patient, I bolted from the ambulance and headed for the nearest exit back out onto the field. With a cursory look at my ticket, the security guy opened the gate. I worked my way to within twenty feet of the stage and quickly made friends with a tall red headed boy from Milton. I watched the rest of the concert from his shoulders.

I clung to the hope that Sting would spot me in the crowd, recognize that I was his soul mate and send a roadie to give me a backstage pass. Several times during their performance, the spotlights swept the crowd and each time it landed on me I shrieked, "I LOVE YOU STING!!!" But alas, it was not meant to be. He married a different blonde and they have been a tantric twosome for nearly thirty years. Whatever.

I met Katie after the concert (at a spot we had designated in the event that we got separated) and we slept for the entire train ride back to Oshawa. Her mum picked us up at the station and dropped me at my house. As I approached our front door, I noticed luggage sitting in the vestibule. It seems my father had seen me on the evening news on top of Red's shoulders and apparently, it was the last straw for him. The bags packed on the front stoop were mine. After much begging, tears and promises to "get my act together", he opened the door and I was fortunate enough to lay my head down on my own bed, grateful to have dodged another bullet. I went to sleep replaying the concert in my mind.

So last week Dylan and I got to see The Police. My boy watched in amazement as thousands of other middle aged folks like his mum jumped to their feet dancing, whistling and singing every note right along with the band. Oh sure, The Police had aged in the twenty plus years since they last toured. Sting's beard is now gray, Stewart Copeland wears glasses and Andy Summers has developed jowls but age hasn't affected their performance at all. They ROCKED the place. And Sting is still one of the sexiest men on the planet, although I no longer wish to bear his children.

I was hooting like a school girl and Dylan was obviously surprised to see this side of me. At the end of the concert I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "I LOVE YOU STING!" Dylan's jaw dropped. "What?" I said. He just shook his head, his eyes wide. I firmly believe that it is every parent's duty to embarrass their children. It's how they learn humility. I wanted to tell him that it could have been much, much worse but as we drove home, I was preoccupied replaying the concert in my head.

The Lights Are ALWAYS On

In our house, five things are constantly on: the shower, the dishwasher, the dryer, the washer and the parental radar.

Hot water has become a hot commodity. On any given evening immediately after dinner, Dallas and I can be heard bellowing, "Get in the shower!" or "GET OUT of the shower!" or "TURN THAT WATER OFF RIGHT THIS SECOND!!!"

Steph the Magnificent told me that she owns a dishwasher that can be programmed to start in the middle of the night and I almost cried with envy. Our dishwasher is three years old and it wheezes on for nearly two hours at decibels loud enough to scare away the moles digging trenches in the neighbour's back yard. Imagine the efficiency of burning through hot water when we are all sleeping!! Makes me a tad verklempt at the possibilities.

Mornings are hugely busy and I dread them. I hear the alarm go off and I am instantly exhausted in that tired to the marrow of my bones way that is reminiscent of being in the first trimester of pregnancy. My stomach knots with everything that has to be accomplished before I walk out the door. I know that our house is no different than millions of others across the world. How, exactly, did we get so pressed for time?

Dallas and I do laundry almost constantly. Allowing him to stick in a load of washing was a major milestone for me. I am a closet laundry Nazi and up until very recently, I didn't feel that anyone with a penis was capable of sorting a load of darks.

And I was right.

But my future husband is a ROCKSTAR!! Besides putting up with my normal idiosyncratic crazies, he has learned the difference between whites we bleach and whites we don't. He wouldn't dare throw towels in with the normal wash and you should see him fold a fitted sheet. Makes me all tingly. Yeah, like THAT because nothing is sexier than a bed made with fresh, crisp linens that I didn't have to wash.

Finally, Dallas and I have found that with a house full of kids, we have developed bionic ears and ESP. Text message received at 1:30am on the other side of the house? Yeah, we hear that. Candy being unwrapped behind closed bedroom door? Yep, we get that audio loud and clear. Curse word whispered under pre-teen's breath while banging up stairs to collect dirty laundry? He might as well have used a bullhorn.

The clairvoyance was an unexpected development, though. I guess the day that one brings a child into this world, the power exists but it may take years (and parenting a teenager) to really develop the gift. Every parent has it. We just know what they're thinking, which often, is like sticking your face into a toilet bowl. We are accurately able to predict behaviour but how hard is that, really?

Child gets their own way = happy and cooperative.

Child denied = angry, sullen and belligerent.

One thing has become clear with our new domestic arrangement: we need a bigger house, with a pool, a three car garage, wind and solar power, a full time chef, a housekeeper and energy efficient appliances. Oh yes, I almost forgot the tornado shelter. This weekend, I got to witness a funnel cloud develop right before my very eyes as I stood on my driveway and watched. Today, when recalling that picture, I shrugged my shoulders and reflected that it could be worse. I could live in Chengdu, China or Myanmar. What's a low grade twister compared to a 7.8 magnitude quake or a typhoon of biblical proportions in a country with no warning system?

A Not So Brady Weekend

You know, the more I try to plan out my life, the more I end up looking like that animal with one limb in the trap with crappy choices: either chew my bloody foot off or lay there waiting for a PETA activist to find me.

This weekend, Dallas's two children moved in with us. Now, I'd like to tell you that it was a smooth transition, with no drama and that we were the model of a blended family but had that actually been the case, we'd all be licking Fudgsicles in hell.

It started last week when his ex-wife decided she needed to drive off to Virginia to meet up with her spiritual adviser and help him conduct "classes" on energy manipulation. Listen, I am all for exploring your oneness with the universe.

(insert lotus position here)

And yes, I have been known to chant like a Buddhist monk for an open spot in the Wal-Mart parking lot but in traversing that difficult path to enlightenment, I can't say that I've ever forgotten to pay my light bill or put food on the table for my children. Astral travel? Fabulous! Just don't forget to tell the earthbound body to vacuum every once in a while and perhaps take out the trash. Such is not the case for ex-wife. Obsessed. Consumed. Sporadically in touch with reality.

Friday, ex-wife packed up her magic carpet and took off. Teenage daughter could not be left unsupervised (she of the aversion to birth control and school) so we stuffed her 20,000 spaghetti strapped tops into a bag and moved her in. Teenage son came over later and asked if he too, could get a permanent spot in our house. We were thrilled. Although adding two more adult bodies to the household put a serious dent in the square footage per person, we felt pretty good about being able to provide food, hot water and electricity for his kids.

(insert self congratulatory pat on back here)

Saturday, I left with the teenagers to go shopping for a bedroom set for girl. Boy tagged along because he wanted to badger me, until my ears bled, about the acquisition of a new vehicle for him. I said no problem but asked him if he wouldn't mind first plucking the low hanging fruit from the money tree in the back yard. Oh, and could he pick an extra several thousand for the open bar at the wedding? My brother has been known to throw back a few pints and we are slightly concerned that he alone may bankrupt us. Have you seen Kiwi's drink?!!

Anyway, we completed the shopping trip without incident and I really believed that everyone was adjusting to the new living arrangements with relative ease.

(insert big, fat, Bob Marley doobie here)

And then there was Sunday.

The morning started normal enough with a lovely breakfast, buckets of coffee and delicious calm. Late morning, Dallas and I took off on our bikes and met friends for a great ride. The weather was beautiful and to be back on my Harley again was like eating the perfect dark chocolate truffle and losing ten pounds. When we arrived home to cook dinner, the day had been damn near perfect and I couldn't help but feel like we had crested a milestone. Oh yes, I was hearing the Brady Bunch theme playing in my head. And we were all going to hold hands and sing Kum Ba Ya.

Shortly after dinner, Dallas had the kids sit down at the table. It was his plan to detail our house rules which included reasonable curfews and a few chores. Well, you would have thought that Dallas had asked teenage daughter to turn tricks on the corner. How dare he require her to put her dirty clothes in the laundry or, I don't know...bathe!

So the situation disintegrated, voices were raised, tears shed and finally, it all culminated with the teenagers on our bed and the parental units disabusing them of the notion that their welfare was a democratic issue up for debate. Ex-wife threw in her worthless drivel two cents the next morning (from a sweat lodge) which boiled down to this: THE CHILDREN MUST BE HAPPY AT ALL COSTS!!! Apparently, they were not to be held accountable and we ought to go down to the bad part of town and get them some heroin right now to ensure hours of uninterrupted bliss.

Silly cow.

Today, we are back in the groove and the teenagers seem to be on an even keel but then again, I don't appear to have a reliable sense of the storm that is girl's personality. One thing is for certain. In the big picture, these next couple of years are just a ripple in the fabric of our lives. What's two years, really? Besides, after stepdaughter one and now, future stepdaughter, I feel like I have been baptized in molten lava. By the time Olivia enters puberty with horns bared, my skin should be as thick and leathery as an old woman on a Florida beach.

Like Sand Through An Hourglass...

My kids have been out of school this week, which is an unfortunate pitfall of a non-traditional school calendar. I'm not sure what my expectations of year round school were except that I thought they would be in school...umm...ALL YEAR!

Not the case. In our school system, the interpretation of year round school means that the summer holiday is shortened by several weeks and then those filthy days are spread out in week long segments through out the year. Practically every month, the kids have a week off, PLEASE KILL ME NOW which affords all of us parents the ability to spend some quality time with our little tykes.

"Don't complain", says the administration, "It gives you plenty of opportunity to vacation during off peak times with your children." Oh yes. And this would be of great benefit if one actually believed that a holiday included children, ketchup and bug spray. Please. I love my kids (obligatory preface) however, my idea of a vacation involves a tropical beach, very little clothing and plenty of distilled beverages.

In the past, I have been forced to work from home and as you know, that is a lot like a bikini wax in that there is just nothing positive you can say about it. This time, Dallas has looked after the children, allowing me to flee go to the office and I can't begin to describe how leisurely the last week has been.

Every day, I have had a coffee waiting for me on the bathroom counter after my shower. My breakfast has been prepared and lunch is delivered to my office. The children are fed, watered and entertained and dinner has been on the table by five thirty. The laundry is done, the house cleaned, the lawn mowed and I haven't had to grocery shop in forever. Come to think of it, most of my days are like this even when the children are in school. Dallas takes care of EVERYTHING. Except the carpool and for some reason, the whole Perry Como vibe goes straight to hell when I've got a car full of kids.

Imagine that.

This week was full of small delights. Yesterday, I had the luxury of having lunch with a friend.. at a restaurant..LIKE A NORMAL PERSON! Usually, I stay at my desk so that I can leave work early to fulfill my carpooling duties. On Wednesday, I rode my Harley into work. I parked it right outside of my office window. There was something supremely satisfying about sitting on that bike and changing from my riding boots into my kitten heels. I have slept an extra half hour every morning because that is usually how long it takes for me to wrangle Dylan and Olivia into the car on school days. Not once have I had to say, "Do you have your lunch?" Pure, unadulterated joy.

Next week, we are back to the usual routine and ten days from now, Dallas is starting his new job so my hours of being pampered like a queen are numbered. I had always wondered what it would be like to have someone taking care of every last detail and I envied my male counterparts whose wives did not work outside of the home. Now that I have sipped from the domestic bliss cup, I'm not sure that I'll ever be satisfied with the status quo. So, I'm going to savour every minute of the last few days that I have left of this fantasy life that we've been living.

Shhhh...please do not wake me when it's over.