The House

Once upon a time, Dallas and his former wife owned a home. They divorced, she got the house and all was as it should be until late fall of last year when she announced that she could no longer make the mortgage payment.

Which posed a significant problem for Dallas because banks don't give a flying fig about gut wrenching divorce decrees and property settlement paperwork. As far as they are concerned, he who signs the mortgage papers is the one on the hook. Period.

So, we took over the payments.

By late April, the kids moved in with us and ex had relinquished all claims on the house. In June, Dallas had that shitty, uncomfortable conversation during which he told the ex that she would have to vacate the premises so that we could lease out the house. We just couldn't afford the charity any longer. She was given until August 1st.

After a blissful and relaxing honeymoon, we ventured over to the property to have a look at what needed to be done before it could be rented.

It was magnificently filthy.

Horrible, sickening, worse-than-you-can-imagine dirt.

We had sort of expected that it would be bad because we had been inside the house in early February and l'odour de Fido was pervasive at that time. But nothing could have prepared us for the the state of the house once the furniture was removed, the air conditioning shut off and the home allowed to bake in 90+ degree temperatures.

Besides the overwhelming stench of dog urine, the place was filled with cobwebs, insect carcasses, thick dust and ages old grime. I was horrified as each new room revealed yet another level of neglect. Dallas just blinked and kept shaking his head as if to wipe the images from his brain. It was that bad. He still hasn't recovered, really. For him, the condition of the house inspired anger, disbelief and enormous guilt. His children had lived in that filth for three years.

We contracted with a company to place a big dumpster in the yard and over the last two weeks, we have cleaned out the house, paid to have it painted and laid new carpet. Yesterday, a landscaping crew came to manicure the yard, flower beds and trees. This weekend, Dallas and I will spend several hours cleaning. We will also be interviewing potential renters so that soon, we can begin the process of recouping some of what we have sunk into the place.

Although we are nearly at the end of this whole ordeal and in the long run, it will all have been worth it, I can't help but feel a bit sad.

How does a woman, a MOTHER, allow herself to spiral out of control like that? How does she become so irreparably broken that the welfare of her children fades like an old photograph? Amidst my disbelief and disgust is a nugget of grief because the state of the house was a clear reflection of this woman's inner turmoil. At some point in the last decade, she made the choice to check out of her life. Only recently, has she really begun to comprehend the consequences of that decision. My heart aches for her. The house was fixed without much trouble. But people don't repair as easily. I hope she lands on her feet.

Post Event Syndrome

For five months, I have lived and breathed all things WEDDING.

Now it's over.

Our families have left. Beds have been changed. Gifts have been opened. Even our skin has thrown in the towel and begun to peel from our Mexican honeymoon. The children have returned and once again, their bedrooms look like wastelands. I opened one of our credit card bills the other day and had to put my head between my knees.

Apparently, this is the big exhale; the time of thank you notes and harsh buckets of cold reality.

And it bites.

There should be readily available pharmaceuticals out there to help manage Post Event Syndrome. It's like a child's Christmas Day on steroids: big build up, massive planning, the tingle of anticipation and then...

*blink*

...it's Monday morning in the office.

I would like a pill to take me back to the moment when I glanced over at my three cousins and realized that they were in matching t-shirts that said, "cousin of the bride". Like most everything the week of the wedding, this sweet gesture overwhelmed me.

We held the rehearsal dinner at one of our local restaurants and I remember looking around that room and realizing how impossibly fortunate we were to have every person that really matters to us together in one place. I wanted to consciously savour each second and burn that evening into my memory to replay over and over.

Sentimental?

Hell, yes. Like a sappy Hallmark card. But Dallas and I both had trouble shaking the dreamlike quality of the fortnight leading up to the wedding. He'd lean over and say, "Look at that", pointing to our mothers and how surreal it was to watch them connect. Or we'd glance into the backyard to witness the men in our combined families mingling over beer and BBQ. Weddings, like most life changing events, have a way of clarifying things.

For example, my biological sister chose not to attend or even acknowledge my nuptials in any way except with a short note written on her RSVP. One of my closest friends, who lives in California, backed out of her wedding party duties less than a month before Dallas and I were set to walk down the aisle. Both events stung a bit but if I were honest with myself, I wasn't terribly surprised. I suppose that subconsciously, (where all the uglies go to fester) I have known that the landscape of those bonds had shifted. Relationships are sometimes like an old, comfortable t-shirt. We often hold onto them long after they're full of holes.

On the other hand, I had relatives from all over Canada who made the trip, at considerable expense, to support me. It is profoundly humbling to understand that I rank on their totem pole of priorities. And believe me, their attendance was no small sacrifice because there is nothing much to do in my town except watch the grass grow and count abandoned chicken coops. Eight people from New Zealand came which speaks volumes about my husband. People used language like, "We wouldn't have missed it for the world". And then there were our friends. Plainly put, we would NOT have survived without them. Period.

So, in the absence of some sort of narcotic to numb the sharp pricklies of a life returned to status quo, I look forward to spending hours reviewing the nearly 1500 pictures that were taken in the last month. These are just a few. They make me smile.

My Sisters

The Boys

Cozumel

Taking the Girls For a Walk

In Mexico, I learned that there are certain truths that cannot be adulterated. For instance, if one consumes an extra 10,000 calories a day in the form of Pina Coladas, Dos Equis or Mojitos, one cannot swim enough laps to stave off the extra poundage or the hang over that sets in somewhere shortly after lunch.

On the other hand, modern science has taken the truths of physical law, namely gravity, and made a mockery of them. In the weeks leading up to our honeymoon, I had floated the idea that I might take advantage of the more liberal sun bathing options in Mexico. I spoke with my mother in law about it and she said, "How do you think that will work for you?"

Good question.

Sashaying my dimpled ass down the beach is one thing. Shedding my bathing suit top while ambling down said beach is something else entirely. I took a moment and pictured what that might look like. Do you remember the old National Geographic pictorials documenting obscure African tribeswomen. Remember how their boobs looked?

Yeah.

I quickly decided that since no such thing as an invisible wonder bra exists, I might be better off getting a bit of sun on the girls whilst lying prone. After all, we all look the same lying down, right?

Um, wrong again.

Implants. They defy gravity. They languidly flip the bird at Mother Nature and tell her to take her DNA and her ageism and go pound sand.

Dallas and I were out on the beach one day, partially shaded under our palapa when I happened to look over to our left. There, lying on one of the couples beach beds was a raven haired goddess in the tiniest black thong...AND NOTHING ELSE. She was on her side deep in discussion with her husband and thus, we had only a view of her bare back. How brave. Good for her. She must be European, I thought.

And then she turned over onto her back.

I gasped. Right there on a petite, delicate frame was a ginormous set of silicone boobs. They were not Pam Anderson large but they were big enough to begin the migration, each in an opposite direction, that you see when a teeny tiny girl gets a set of double D's. I was horribly fascinated. When she was lying down, they pointed straight up. When she stood up, it wasn't all that pretty, either. Dallas said they looked like a drawstring pouch on the end of a stick. Ouch. If they had been just a cup size smaller, they could have been beautiful. But no matter. The girl was clearly confident and delighted with her stature as evidenced by her repeated efforts to be noticed. She stood and walked around, she lay down, she sat up to sip her drink and all the while, her girls were soaking up the rays unhindered by a bikini top. Again, I couldn't help but admire her lack of inhibition. YOU GO GIRL!

So, emboldened by my neighbour to the left, I lay back on our beach bed and set my girls free....

...which was liberating and fabulous and oh so cosmopolitan until I woke up the next morning with toasty tatas. I posted a blog once about men and how they unconsciously adjust and scratch their appendages. Well, NOW I UNDERSTAND and sympathize with the urge. The day after taking my girls for a walk, I found myself repositioning them in their holsters and scratching like a dog with fleas.

The sunburn was unpleasant but I have been known to wear five inch heels so obviously, discomfort doesn't faze me. The girls made a few more public appearances and I am now a woman with a fabulous tan and boobs that no longer glow in the dark.

The Last Few Moments

Oh gosh.

Where do I begin?

I am sitting on the balcony of our hotel room. It is late evening on the last day of my honeymoon. I can hear the ocean and taste the salt in the air. It is quiet, warm and unimaginably humid. The night sky is an explosion of stars and as I take it all in, I am stunned at how quickly time passes.

My husband is lying on the bed sound asleep. Today was another busy one for us. We spent the afternoon scuba diving off the coast of Cancun in the reef by Isla Mujeres. It was fantastic. Yesterday, we did a couple of dives over in Cozumel. I can't understand why I was so resistant to Mexico as a choice for our honeymoon because it really has been a dream with one exception:

I am terrified to get on the bathroom scale.

I kept telling people that all of the willpower that they witnessed over the last two months was so that I could eat and drink like a conquering Roman on my honeymoon.

And I did.

WE did. Without restraint. Shamefully. I finally see the reasoning behind togas as a fashion choice. Back when feathers and Trojan horses were all the rage, there was no such thing as elasticized pants. I get it. Pass the guacamole, amigo.

My middle name is now 500 Calorie Pina Colada. Por Favor.

With a cherry.

And a plate of fried calamari.

There is so much to share and over the next several days, I plan to discuss such scintillating topics as going topless and bad singers in white polyester leisure suits but for now, I've got to call it a night. In six hours, the alarm will go off for the first time in three weeks and I need some good shut eye time to prepare for reemergence into reality.