The Kiwis Have Landed

On Wednesday last week, Dallas's parents and another couple they've know for ages arrived from New Zealand. And I don't think that I've had an entirely sober existence since.

Actually, that's not true. There might have been a few bad moments in the wee hours of Saturday morning but since then, things have stopped spinning steadied to a more even keel. Following along with the whole nautical theme, I'd like to relay a story we heard this past weekend.

Lloyd and his wife, Leslie, have been long time friends of Anne and Bruce's. They decided to make the trip for our wedding and it's been wonderful getting to know them a bit better. Besides being two of the kindest folks on the planet, the one thing that they do really well is spin a hilarious tale.

For instance, there is this beauty:

Lloyd's mum (Mama D) was a heavy smoker. Lloyd's dad (Papa D) was a lousy sailor. Under normal circumstances, neither one of these characteristics would be particularly noteworthy but one lovely summer morning, they came together in a South Pacific version of the perfect storm.

It all started when Mama D broke her arm after a nasty fall while retrieving mail from the letter box (all colloquialisms remain for maximum Kiwi authenticity). Her arm was casted. Then somehow (memory fails me), the other wrist or arm was compromised which resulted in a second cast. Picture this poor woman with both arms in right angle casts. Clearly, this affected her ability to get her nicotine fix as she could bring neither hand anywhere near her mouth.

Being a smart and empathetic man, Papa D employed the services of a local glass maker, who fashioned a halo with a curved tube that extended down over her nose and ended in a "T". When wearing the halo on her head, she was able to stick a cigarette in one end of the "T" and puff on the other end, thus eliminating the need for hands. Everyone was happy. Mum got her fag and dad got some peace.

Until they decided that some fresh sea air might be in order.

The day was beautiful; sunny and cloudless with a good, stiff breeze. Perfect sailing weather. Leslie, Lloyd and his parents climbed aboard the sloop and set out into the Hauraki Gulf. As previously mentioned, Papa D knew the basic mechanics of sailing but he was unable to put them all together with any proficiency. Depth perception was most definitely not his strong suit.

Early in the voyage, Papa D made a trip to the head for his morning ritual. The loo was one of those old fashioned numbers. There was a handle that had to be pumped up and down to create a vacuum. Once the business was done, a lever was pulled up and everything was sucked out of the system. It worked a bit like an airplane bathroom except the vacuum was done through manual means.

In any case, Papa D finished, pulled the lever and failed to notice that there were a few treats left behind. Mama D, on the other hand, was feeling a bit crook in the belly as she was sometimes prone to be and decided to go below deck to lay down until her seasickness passed. On her way to the forward berth, she stopped at the toilet. After maneuvering her halo encapsulated torso through the door, she sat down and lit a cigarette.

Things were quickly unraveling above deck. Papa D was having a hard time navigating. Lloyd was urgently telling him that he should bear to port as his dad appeared to be sailing directly into the path of the only other boat in the vastness of the gulf.

"Dad! You are going to run into that boat!" Lloyd exclaimed.

"Never you mind," said Papa D dismissively.

Lloyd and Leslie watched in horror as the gap between the two crafts narrowed to an uncomfortable margin. As foretold, Papa D crashed their boat into the only other vessel within twenty miles. Their sloop heaved and then listed badly to port. The anchor from the other boat was somehow lodged onto the bow of Papa D's and thus, they found themselves dragged along, unable to right the mast.

And then they heard it. A strident, high pitched keening from below deck.

"MUM!" Lloyd called.

"Mama D!" Papa D lamented.

They all three scrambled down the hatch to find Mama D, pants around her ankles lying on the floor below. Apparently during the crash, she had been pitched off the loo, along with its contents.

She was covered in a thin film of shit.

But her halo and cigarette survived and she was puffing furiously, blowing smoke out of her mouth between four lettered epitaphs.

I believe that Papa D gave up sailing that day for a less demanding pastime, like lion taming.

Hemmingway, I'm not

"You've missed your calling"

Occasionally, people will say this to me after reading the blog or one of my sales presentations and it makes me wonder. Have I? If I am bare naked honest with myself, I don't think that I have the chops or the talent to write as an occupation although sometimes, I'd really like to.

I imagine this scene where I am tucked inside a New York apartment overlooking Central Park (am wildly successful). I am wearing bifocals and clacking away on my computer (suggesting stress levels have been reduced and am now in possession of well manicured fingernails). The late afternoon sun is streaming through a window suspending dust particles in a shaft of light (must speak to full time housekeeper). It is quiet save for a clock ticking in another room (expensive, tasteful antique number acquired at auction). I am content, introspective and very much alone (omitted part about bowl of swiss truffles and bottle of French burgundy at hand). There is peace, a stillness, to this dream (children duct taped in closet) which appeals to me but there is also an undercurrent of something else that feels a lot like boredom. To me, writing is an introspective, solitary journey and I'm just not sure that I'd ever be ready to give my inner demons a little face time.

I've always wondered what goes on inside the brain of a truly gifted writer. When I first read, "White Oleander " by Janet Fitch, I was awestruck at how she strung her words together. There were hundreds of examples in that novel of sentences that were pieces of art all by themselves. I actually highlighted a large portion of this book and copied some of the more arresting bits of dialog onto sticky notes so I could digest them out of context.

I don't understand how someone like Margaret Atwood is able to carry on a conversation with mere mortals. I find her kind of genius intimidating and profoundly humbling. Her novels are labyrinths and occasionally, I am not sure if I'll find my way out. Reading her work requires patience and perseverance but the journey is worth it.

Or how about Stephen King's, "The Stand"? Where does material like that come from?

When I finish the last few words of a brilliant novel, I am always profoundly grateful for the read and quite sure that I am not capable of writing anything of that caliber for a sustained period of time. Sometimes, I'm happy with a paragraph or two but to maintain creative ability through out a book or manuscript feels like it is beyond my scope.

If I write a novel, I would want it to be so good that people would read until the wee hours of the morning because they COULDN'T put it down. I'd want them to finish it and wish that the ride hadn't ended so soon. I'd want some slick Hollywood type to struggle with the movie adaptation because it was just too complex for a cookie cutter script. I really hope that there might be one of these books laying dormant inside my brain but the reality is that there probably isn't and even if there was, odds are that you'd be able to find me in a discount hardcover bin twelve months later. There are THOUSANDS of clever writers out there who remain undiscovered. All one has to do is have a quick look at the blogging community. I've read posts that have left me speechless in their depth or breathless with laughter.

All is not lost, though. I think I could possibly have a future in romance novels. The common adage is to "write about what you know" so I could pen some fictional exaggeration about my experiences during the brief period that I was dating. The only trouble is that I believe most of the euphemisms for sex have been exhausted and I'd really have to give some thought on developing a few new ones because it's not like romance novels are read for their articles.

Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl despises boy but would like him to rip her clothes off. Boy chases girl. Girl resists. Girl eventually sees prince-like qualities within boy. Girl succumbs. Boy and girl deliriously happy. Giant misunderstanding. Boy and girl split. Misunderstanding resolved. Boy and girl shag like crazy while riding off into the sunset where they live happily ever after. It is a tried and true formula and must be liberally peppered with adult scenes. For instance, how does this one strike you?

He reached over with a smoldering look in his feral eyes, determined to take what she had steadfastly refused to surrender.

She protested weakly as the dam of her desire burst forth in a sudden, violent rush.

"Peel that banana, monkeyboy," she whispered.

Hmm... probably shouldn't give up the day job just yet.

Underwire Anyone?

There is nothing like a three day weekend, is there? Except perhaps, a four day weekend. And being Canadian, I am quite familiar with the latter. I miss those babies.

You'd start the work week with the satisfying knowledge that in four days, the weekend would be upon you. It would rain of course, because Canadians have somehow offended God, but still, FOUR DAYS. And then, we'd go back to work, with the blinding sun on our faces, knowing that in just ninety six hours, we'd be back on the couch watching the lightning with beer in hand. Statutory holidays are manna from heaven.

Right. OUR weekend. Mundane. Run of the mill. P-E-D-E-S-T-R-I-A-N. We didn't do much of anything. And it was awesome.

We woke up Friday morning, both of us slightly uneasy because we felt the need to do something. Anything.

Identify.

Organize.

Accomplish.

Naw. Sod that. Sleep.

All four kids were home and it wasn't long before the noise level in the house increased to deafening. Long weekend or not, the tribe needed to be fed. Strange phenomena lately: I've morphed into a domestic goddess and weirder still is the fact that these days, I'm happiest in the kitchen whipping up a little something for the family. Somewhere, my grammie is smiling.

In other news, I had a fitting this weekend for my wedding dress. Two words:

Oh. Shit.

It was too big and not in a nip here, a tuck there kind of way. It was TWO sizes too large. My friend who is altering it didn't say much. She just grabbed fistfuls of material, pinned and sucked a lot of air through her teeth. Listen, I am thrilled about the weight loss (28 lbs) but completely panicked. I'm not even sure that I like the style anymore. It just doesn't strike me the same way that it did when I bought it. Did I mention that the bridal shop has a fabulous "no return, no exchange" policy? Oh yes. So, we either figure out a way to alter it or I'm out shopping for another one, which is right up there with having a hockey stick shoved up my nose on a scale of painful things to do.

Since I am not right in the head of late, I attempted to acquire a new bathing suit this weekend. Now one would think that after the last swimming tog fiasco a few weeks back, I'd find some other way to punish myself like flogging or listening Dubya's State of the Union. But alas, no. Not only did I rummage through rack after rack, trying to locate a suit with underwire (BECAUSE SOME OF US BREASTFED OUR CHILDREN AND CANNOT AFFORD SILICONE, DAMNIT!) but I further compounded the headache by bringing Olivia with me.

And she thought it was just bloody hysterical to hide in the center of those round racks, which would have been fine if she had napped or quietly observed the shopping habits of others. But this is my daughter that we are talking about and she hasn't met a piece of bad behaviour that she hasn't worn like a comfortable old shirt. So instead of being normal, she crawled inside the rack and stayed quiet until someone came near. Then she would stick a disembodied hand or foot out which succeeded in scaring the tar out of some of my fellow shoppers. One of these days, I'm going to have to follow through with my threats and beat her like a filthy rug. She did have one shining moment in the dressing room, though.

I had probably tried on fifteen bikinis with no luck. As I was maneuvering into a cute brown number Olivia, who had been uncharacteristically mute, piped up and said, "That doesn't look good, Mama." And right then, I realized that it didn't matter what style I tried on, they were all going to look like crap. I am simply not bikini material yet.

"You're right, Liv." And with that, the self-imposed torture ended.

Later that night, I was sharing a bit of the bikini blunder with Dallas. He shook his head and firmly stated that he liked me just like this, no more, no less. Of course, he'd had a few cocktails and one could make the argument that he had put the beer goggles on but I think he was sincere. Truth is, I'm kind of liking this new body, too. And I haven't had a drink in WEEKS.

Silence of the Lambs

Apparently, I am not going to be a proper wife for Dallas. We have serious food issues.

I hate lamb. HATE it. There isn't enough mint jelly on the planet to force that foul, gamey ick down my throat. But I have tried to like it because it's a staple of the Kiwi diet. I have been valiant in my attempts to acquire a taste for it.

When we were in New Zealand, we went out to a lovely restaurant one night with Anne and Bruce. Dallas ordered the lamb shank. My stomach churned at the thought of being able to even smell it. Well, I was told that this particular restaurant prepared their lamb in such a way that I was sure to like it. The speculation was that perhaps my aversion stemmed from the fact that I hadn't ever eaten a properly cooked piece of lamb. And since I am such a flexible, easy-natured gal, I agreed to sample some of Dallas's shank.

Before going any further, I should familiarize you with a shank. It even sounds offensive, don't you think? Shank. Like stank. Or skank. Anyway, lamb shank, as defined by Meals For You, is:

"cut from the arm of shoulder, contains leg bone and part of round shoulder bone, and is covered by a thin layer of fat and fell (a thin, paperlike covering)". Yeah, give me some of that "fell" stuff.

The food arrived at the table and I wrinkled my nose as I caught a whiff of Dallas's meal. He cut off a generous portion and made like he was going to shove the whole thing in my mouth. I cringed.

"Not so much, please".

As soon as the sample hit my mouth, I gagged (like a four year old), my stomach involuntarily heaved and my eyes began to water. I couldn't get it out of my mouth and into my napkin fast enough. I wanted to take sandpaper to my tongue to remove that distinctive nastiness from my taste buds. I wiped the tears away, grateful that I didn't vomit and remembered that my soon-to-be in laws were sitting at the table with us. You know how it is when you sort of forget where you are for a minute?

Yeah.

Like farting in a boardroom.

"Make the lambs stop screaming", I whispered.

So last night, in an attempt to approximate a good Kiwi wife, I tried to redeem myself by making pavlova. Pavlova is New Zealand's national dessert and I figured that since I am able to make decent pie crust from scratch, how difficult could a little meringue be?

Dallas suggested that I call Leisa or his mum to get proper advice because there is a TRICK to preparing pavlova and it wouldn't be written in any recipe book. Only a native Kiwi woman would be able to furnish me with the secret to fluffy greatness. I smiled and politely thanked him, indicating (with just a hint of sarcasm) that I thought I'd be able to manage. Four ingredients. Not rocket science.



Are we all agreed that this is magnificence personified? Yes?

Well, it's not mine. This one is.



Perhaps I should have made that call.

Tonight, we are having friends over for dinner. They are not from New Zealand so I am sure that once I get gobs of whipped cream and berries on the pavlova, nobody will notice that it fell like a middle aged woman's boobs.

Gastronomically, I am a Kiwi disaster.

However, I do know the basics of sailing and I have helped to pull a breech calf out of a cow, so maybe all is not lost in my effort to cultivate some New Zealand attributes.