Bum Rap

When I turned forty a few years ago, I did everything that was expected of me. I took inventory of my life, had a small mental breakdown, a substantial mid-life crisis and I completed all of those recommended baseline medical tests that firmly usher in middle age.

Except one.

I did not have a colonoscopy. The idea of a scope up the chute was more than I could bear. If anyone was going to be that far up into my body, I felt we ought to at least share a cigarette afterward and unfortunately, I'd just kicked the habit.

Well, here we are a couple of years down the road and the details of Farrah Fawcett's illness hit the mainstream media. I read about her plight with sympathy and a cringe. Anal cancer.

Awful.

And scary.

I couldn't help but read all the gory details and in doing so, a couple of the higher risk factors grabbed my attention. It seems that women who have had cervical cancer and smokers are several times more likely to develop the disease. Both gave me pause. Then, I happened to Google the risk factors for colorectal cancer.

Oh. my. God. (again, the internet and easy information access may aggravate one's OCD tendencies)

So, last week, I picked up the phone and tried to schedule an appointment with a proctologist. I say, "tried" because while speaking with the doctor's nurse, I asked a few questions about the initial exam, chickened out and said I'd have to call her back.

Which is stupid, I know.

But it's very special territory, there.

And the doctor is a man.

Look, the cerebral part of me knows that he is a doctor, that he's probably seen it all and that one ass is likely the same as the next except for variations in dimples and hair but still, DIGITAL RECTAL EXAM! By a man who's not my husband! Do they use stirrups or is one expected to um...bend over? And the colonoscopy itself? Gratefully, they knock you out for the actual procedure but I understand that the preparations the night before are their own special brand of pergatory.

Dread. Anxiety. Barely contained PANIC.

Of course, because I am now fixated on all of the horribleness surrounding the imminent test and its results, I am now acutely aware of my ass. I purchase flushable wipes. I'M RECOMMENDING THEM TO FRIENDS.

Years ago, we were told about my paternal grandmother and how one night, she got up looking for some relief. She reached into the drawer, pulled out a tube of Preparation H and dabbed a wee bit of ointment on her inflamed behind. Then she screamed. The tube turned out to be Crest and her ass was on fire. I used to laugh myself senseless over that story. Now? Not so much. I take hemorrhoids very seriously because THEY COULD BE ANAL CANCER IN DISGUISE.

So, I am going to suck up all of this irrational fear and call the doctor for an appointment. I just have one question.

What kind of small talk do you make when a doctor has his finger between your buttocks?

Wrap, Pack, Box and Tape

The internet is both a blessing and a curse for an information junkie like me. Search engines have become part of my everyday vernacular as in, "Let me just google that" or "I don't know. I have to do a bit of research (read: Wikipedia) first." I love the internet. Thank you AL Gore. (Bwahahaha)

Anyway, now that we have committed to THE BIG MOVE, I am spending every available waking moment searching for housing in Florida.

And I am making myself nuts.

I don't know why I am so obsessed. It's not like Dallas and I are prepared to make an offer on a house today and if we choose to rent, we won't be signing anything until late July. But I can't seem to help myself. After the kids are in bed, I invariable log on to one of the many real estate sites and take tour after endless tour of the available homes. I've bookmarked them and evaluated where our furniture might go. I've tsk tsked over shoddy landscaping, heinous wallpaper and outlandish wall colours. I've rhapsodized over elaborate pools and mahogany built ins.

I am plagued.

But I understand this insatiable desire to research the real estate market to death. Doing this stops me from dwelling the labourious part of the move. I haven't a single pack rat gene in my body. In fact, I've been known to throw things out and go looking for them months later. However, I do have a well developed procrastination gene and this causes me to squirrel things away in dark places, swearing that I will file them or toss them or otherwise thoughtfully place them somewhere in the near future. You know how you tell yourself that this will be the year that you prune your file cabinet? I've been saying that for a decade. I cringe.

No matter how sparse my sensibilities, the prospect of having to meticulously wrap and pack every item in my house makes my head explode. And then there is the unpacking on the other end. I cannot bear to think about all of that...work.

So instead of stewing over it, I go online, take a house tour and imagine myself in our soon-to-be new house in our soon-to-be new hot tub with cocktail in hand.

A Gem in Disguise

Wow! It sure feels like Monday.

The weekend passed by in a blur of activity and I am positive that between now and THE BIG MOVE, the frenetic pace will become uncomfortably familiar to Dallas and me.

See, the scary thing about settling in a new place (is it just me or does the word "settle" automatically conjure up images of covered wagons and bonnets?) is that there is no guarantee that you'll get it right the first time.

Gone are the days when the bulk of my belongings could fit into a backpack. Back then, I could relocate without a second thought. When I first decided to leave Canada for San Diego, I was positively delirious with anticipation. I sold everything I owned, which wasn't much and committed fully to the idea of never having to experience a Canadian winter again. I could not wait to get on the plane.

At the time, I was working as a manager in a popular chain restaurant. One of my regular customers was this cranky, old guy who would stroll in most evenings for a few pints of draught and some hot wings before making his way home. The staff hated him. He was a big man with giant hands, a shock of white hair and fleshy features. He was bigoted, opinionated, obnoxious, demanding and generally a pain in the arse. I loved him.

Sometimes, I'd sit with him and get his advice on everything from dating (frat boys are bad news) to finances (pay yourself first). He'd lost his wife and his only child in a house fire years earlier and never really recovered. We had an odd friendship I suppose, but it worked. He was a surrogate grandfather to me and my life was richer for knowing him. When I bought my ticket to sunny California, telling him was the only thing that I dreaded about the move.

"You'll be back," he said, as if I would fail, somehow.

"No, I won't." I replied and in that moment, our relationship changed.

For the next couple of weeks, he was distant and emotionally withdrawn. The waves of disapproval that rolled off of him were palpable.

I questioned my decision to go.

Was I being impulsive? Should I stay? How would I support myself in the US? But California spoke to me and the desire to go outweighed every rational objection that I could muster.

On my last day at work, there was a mini going away party in my honour. My friend ambled in near the end of it and parked himself at the bar. He motioned for me to sit next to him, which I accepted, grateful for the apparent thaw in his attitude. We chatted for a bit about hockey and the weather.

"I bet you'll really enjoy all that hot weather in Cal-e-forn-eye-ay," he said. I was surprised.

"Yeah, I think so." I said. I felt the beginnings of a small lump forming in my throat.

He just nodded, finished his beer and called for his tab. I sat quietly beside him unsure of what to say next. He paid his bill, stood up, and put on his jacket. As he tucked his stool under the bar, he handed me an envelope. Then he hugged me, which he had never done before.

"Good luck," he said and left. I went into the staff bathroom and cried myself stupid.

When I opened the envelope, there was a corny going away card upon which he had written, "You'll do good but if you get homesick, use this to buy yourself a ticket home."

Inside were four, crisp, new, one hundred dollar bills.

It took me about eighteen months to deposit the money into my bank account in La Mesa. It took that long for me to exhale and accept my new life.

I never saw or spoke to my friend again. Email and mobile phones were non existent back then and even if they were, I'm not sure he would have divulged that information. I didn't even know his last name. If I could talk to him now, I'd tell him that part of the reason that things worked for me in the US is because I operated with the knowledge that if they didn't, I had a four hundred dollar safety net.

Thank you Frank.

Earth, Wind and a Bank Account on Fire

To summarize, my plate has been full of work, relocation, the IRS and a child in need. But wait! There's more.

During the Easter weekend, we had torrential rain and wind (some call it a tornado) and it felt like the Book of Revelations had finally come to pass. We didn't care, though. The children were delirious from eating their weight in chocolate, the house was clean and we had nothing better to do than to nestle inside with a good book and a cup of java.

I got a text message from our tenant asking me to call when I got a moment.

On Easter Sunday.

Which meant one of two things: either Jesus Christ himself had risen in the backyard or there was a problem with the house. I bet you can guess which one it was.

Yep. The house. Specifically, there was a leak in the ceiling in the front foyer. And the back fence had fallen most of the way down.

When I told Dallas, we kind of just looked at one another and shrugged.

"Can I get you a beer?" he asked.

"Make it a rum," I answered.

And it just kept getting better. We recently switched insurance companies so on the Tuesday after Easter, when I called the agent to report the issue, she couldn't find us in the system yet. I had a mild panic attack until she assured me that we'd be there soon and there was nothing to worry about. They've been great, actually. An adjuster has called but we won't see anyone for weeks because that little storm caused heaps of damage in areas further south in the state. I think the agent referred to it as "disaster management". Um..yeah. We got off lightly.

Last weekend, we had more of the apocalyptic weather and I called our tenants to see how they'd fared. No problem, apparently. The leak didn't drip. Instead, a lovely 7" wet spot has appeared in the ceiling and there is now a visible crack from one wall to the other.

(Fingers in my ears, la, la, la, I can't hear you)

This weekend, the forecasters are calling for more rain. I've been on the phone this week trying to get a roofer out to put a tarp on the problem area until we can get things fixed but nobody seems eager to do it. Apparently tarp work doesn't pay as well as say, an entire roof job. I'd ask Dallas and our handy friend, Ron, to go out there and pull a MacGyver but with our recent luck, lightning strikes and rogue squirrel attacks could actually come into play.

So we will sit, with bucket in hand and wallet aflame waiting for the other and the other and the other shoe to drop. And it's okay.

Because we've got the worst luck on the planet

got a big bottle of rum

got our health.

Who Is This Boy?

This week, we have chatted about work, the move to Florida and the IRS. But that's not all. No siree. My son has thrown his hand into the stress mix.

Last week I was out of town and received a call from my ex husband in regard to Dylan. It seems that during his phys ed class, Dylan had had a "misunderstanding" with another child.

Again.

From what I understand, he'd handed a girl a ball. Girl yells at him. He doesn't know why she is yelling at him. Dylan reacts by trying to swat ball out of girl's hand. Ball hits girl in the face. Dylan turns and walks away when it's obvious that ball hit girl in face. Girl, who is no shrinking violet, marches back to Dylan and proceeds to punch him repeatedly in the head. Dylan drops to the ground. Both children go to the vice principal's office. Both children are suspended.

SUSPENDED.

MY child.

When I got home, I talked with him and tried to understand where it was along the way that my sweet boy disappeared and this alien took over his personality. Adolescence has arrived along with the wild hormonal mood swings, the irrational behaviour and the increasingly poor judgment. I can't blame it all on the pre-teenage angst, either. The truth is that Dylan has been struggling for a few years now.

We have tried enrolling him in sports to foster a healthier social intelligence. We have tried limiting media because there is just nothing good to be said about most video games, television and internet social sites. We have spent hours talking to him about the missteps with other kids and the way he treats people. We have role played and tried to teach concepts like, "building bridges" (as suggested by sista cousin) or "deposits into the friendship bank". None of it has appeared to stick with him for any length of time.

Some days, I feel like a good parent. Other days, I feel stupid and ineffective and completely at a loss. There are times when the frustration level is so high that shamefully, I lose my temper and hiss at him about his inadequacies only to apologize later. But I know that words cut deeply and cannot be rescinded. I know this. Intimately.

Dylan served his in school suspension this week and the very next day, I received a call from his math teacher telling me that he'd gotten himself into trouble again. She wasn't jumping on a bandwagon. She just wanted to help. After hanging up with her, I sat at my desk for a few minutes trying to gather my composure and came to the quiet realization that I needed help, of the professional kind. I am not willing to roll the dice and hope that Dylan outgrows this social and emotional dysfunction.

So next week, together, we will make our first visit to a professional. I know it won't be a magic cure all but it's comforting to know that there is another resource out there for us to explore.

Facing the Music

On top work and the decision to move to Florida, my time has been occupied dealing with a little IRS issue. You know, even the act of writing, "IRS" makes my bottom pucker just a bit. They scare me. Anyway...

As a condition of his divorce settlement, Dallas was to turn over half of his stock options and half of his 401K to his ex wife, which was pretty standard as far as the division of assets usually goes. All marital bills were paid out of the proceeds and the remainder was split. Dallas took his half, put his chopper on a boat and flew home to New Zealand. He didn't expect to return.

But he did and recently, we were alerted to the fact that we might have a wee tax problem (again, involuntary constriction of said nether region). It seems that Dallas's divorce decree was missing a QDRO or qualified domestic relations order.

What's that, you ask?

Basically, it's an legal order which in this case, would have acknowledged that the retirement honeypot was raided early and split between the parties. It would have directed the retirement company to send one disbursement cheque to Dallas and one to his ex. Unfortunately, with no QDRO only one cheque was issued.

In Dallas's name.

And even though he did exactly what he was supposed to and gave the proceeds to his ex, the IRS doesn't give a fig about the details of a divorce decree. All they recognize are the tax documents reported to them. Blah, blah, blah. What this meant is that ALL of the taxes and ALL of the penalties became his (our) responsibility.

YIKES.

And even this would have been manageable except that the full value of the retirement plan and the stock options put Dallas into a tax bracket reserved for wealthy people and trust fund babies. I kept doing the calculations on the amended return over and over because I just couldn't believe the "tax owed" number that was popping up on my calculator.

And when you add a couple of years of penalties and interest....

Yeah. Fugly.

$25,000 worth of fugly.

Gulp.

The Sunshine State

Where the heck have I been?

I know how annoying it is to see a lack of fresh material day after day and I apologize. My work life has been out of control lately and in this economic environment, I am very fortunate that my cup runneth over.

For the last couple of weeks, my time has been divided between two enormous projects. The first one had me researching and writing the business plan that proposed the formation of a new company. The other involved the debut of a product line that has been in development for close to two years. Next month, I will stand by my client as his innovation is introduced to the world retail market. It's all very exciting. And exhausting.

I was crazy busy but managing well until last Thursday when my boss and the chairman of the company dropped the F bomb.

The corporate home office is relocating to Florida.

And I was invited to make the move.

After hearing that news, I went from being busy to being completely overwhelmed. What about the kids? And our ex spouses? And our houses? And our friends? And my husband's job? And that income? And...

We live in Bentonville, Arkansas which is a surprisingly modern small town with all of the amenities and a great regional airport thanks to the fact that three large companies are headquartered in this region. The schools are great, the traffic manageable and the weather gives us four distinct but moderate seasons. Some of the best Harley riding in the US can be found in this area. For a big city girl, I've become remarkably attached to this town. I've been here for ten years and it's a wonderful place to raise children.

When Dallas was told, he was equally stunned and the two of us spent most of this last weekend trying to assess the situation. We scoured the internet for information on housing costs, schools, taxes, amenities, culture and all those things that grown ups consider when weighing a decision like this. We sought the advice of parents, friends and colleagues. We drew up pro/con lists. We LABOURED over this decision.

Yesterday, I spoke with one of my colleagues in Florida and after our conversation, the answer became crystal clear to me. I stepped outside, called Dallas and explained how I felt.

Together, we came to a conclusion.

In early August, just after the celebration of our first wedding anniversary, Dallas, Olivia, Dylan, manchild and I will become Florida's newest residents.

Alligators, mosquitos and hurricanes, be damned.

Texas Hospitality

Sorry to be away so long. Things have been absolutely insane lately. More about that later.

Last week, I was in Dallas to witness the first production run of a product that took seventeen long months to bring to market. Watching a pallet being stacked with the first cases off the line was a tad emotional for me.

It was like giving birth.

With a really LONG gestation period.

Like an elephant.

I took pictures.

And stroked one of the cases lovingly while whispering, "Fly off the shelf, baby".

I called for a taxi to take me to the airport for the flight home. It was driven by a very, very, very large man and as I climbed into the minivan, I was hit with the overpowering scent of cinnamon. I commented about the smell. I think I said, "Wow! your car smells like Christmas"...or something like that.

He enthusiastically held up a bottle of pink Febreeze which turned out to be Apple Spice Delight fragrance. And I am sure that under normal circumstances, it is probably a lovely scent but the dude kept spraying little puffs every five minutes or so and what was at first, a pleasant diversion quickly turned into a cloying, eye-watering, get-me-out-of-this-vehicle experience. I was afraid my clothes would be saturated with the smell by the time we reached the airport. I struggled not to gag.

I rolled down the window in an effort to keep breakfast in my stomach and as the cloud of Christmas was swept outside, I understood why the driver kept his Febreeze bottle so handy. Buried underneath all of that apple and cinnamon, was a mixture of sour sweat, greasy fries and dirty bum. There was a large, grimy patchwork comforter inhabiting the front passenger seat and a small suitcase in the very back of the van. Then, it hit me.

My driver was living in his taxi.

Since I am not the most subtle girl on the block, I came out and asked him what was up with the bedding in the front seat. I half expected him to tell me he napped between fares but he unselfconsciously confirmed my suspicions and shared that he was homeless after foreclosing on his house. For the rest of the day, I had a hard time thinking about anything else.

It's really not a level playing field out there and I suppose we are all products of the choices we've made but as I snuggled next to my hubby in our king bed that night, after a hot shower and a home cooked meal, in our comfortable house, in our sleepy, safe neighbourhood, I felt a gratitude that has been absent for a few months.

I despise the use of the cliché, "it could be worse" but when I think about where that taxi driver is likely to lay his head tonight, I know that for some people, the worst has arrived.

Makes my heart hurt.

My Body Hates Me

Oh my. I can barely move this morning.

Monday night, we were back at the gym for our Body Pump class after a two week hiatus. Dallas warned me to go light with the weights and I heeded that advice for the most part but it didn't matter. Today, I am a stiff, painful mess.

The soreness is so widespread that I actually had a fitful night's sleep. Every time I moved, I woke myself up moaning. This morning, I stumbled into the bathroom, quads and calves screaming and used the bathroom walls as braces to lower myself onto the pot.

We have another class tonight. To say that I am dreading the squat set is an understatement of biblical proportions. And tears spring to my eyes when I think of the lunges that will have to be performed.

I have decided to encourage both of my brainiac children to enter the field of research medicine with the specific purpose of developing a magic pill that will melt body fat without diet or exercise or any ill side effects.

Once they discover this little gem and sell it to big pharma my children, having been conditioned to understand that I gave them life therefore they OWE me, will buy a tropical island somewhere and allow us to spend the rest of our days drunk, well-fed and THIN.

I can hope, right?

I Failed

Parenting is sometimes a giant kick in the gut.

My ex husband's daughter (the one who made me a grandmother) and I have been at odds since before Christmas, mainly because she took it upon herself to lecture Dylan about the benefits of regular marijuana use. Yes, let that sink in for a bit.

He's eleven.

And hormonal.

And easily influenced these days.

It should be mentioned that my step daughter and her partner haven't two nickels to rub together and yet they are somehow able to fund a cigarette and marijuana habit. Oh yes, there is also the small issue of pot being ILLEGAL. Recreational drug use is not something that I want for my son.

She finished her conversation with Dylan by telling him that I had done plenty of weed in my time.

Nice.

And although this is true, it was not her story to tell.

After a fairly heated discussion where she defended her behaviour, I finally waved the white flag. My stepdaughter has lived most of the last five years of her life moving from one crisis to the next and allowing her to have a front row seat in my life has been exhausting. On good days, she treats me like an ATM machine. On bad days, I'm the voice at the other end of the phone telling her to calm down and take a deep breath. I'd felt an obligation to this child that persisted beyond the dissolution of my marriage to her father but the last couple of years have been especially challenging.

Late last week, my ex called to tell me the latest twist in the high pitched drama that is her life: both she and her partner were in an outpatient methadone clinic. It seems that somewhere along the way, they had become addicted to prescription pain medication.

But that wasn't it.

For the last eighteen months, they had been living with her partner's father, Steve. When my stepdaughter had become pregnant, Steve had generously offered to take them in. Apparently, it's been a nightmare and last week, he finally gave them the boot. They went to my ex, looking for a place to live. He called me for advice. How does one possibly respond to that chain of events?

After mulling it over and feeling torn to shreds thinking about the innocent baby in this whole thing, I told him that I thought he should refuse her. On the outside, it may seem like a harsh bit of advice but if those two people don't make the decision to change their lives, if they don't feel the consequences of their bad choices, what will motivate them to take a different direction? The last five years have been a train wreck and now, there is a baby involved. When I view the situation from the outside, the things that we did to "help" like purchasing vehicles, paying off bills, buying bags of groceries and remaining supportive without question, look less like examples of good parenting and more like something of which I'm not proud.

It's awful.

Olivia and I sat on the couch last night while she read me a story. As I listened to her lisp her way through the book, I sent a silent prayer out hoping that I didn't make the same mistakes with her that I had obviously made with her sister.

Spend Now, Save Later

I was on holiday last week in sunny Florida.

It was lovely.

And relaxing.

And soaked in Bud Light Lime, rum, chocolate and hummus.

The drive to Florida was a long one so we decided to break up the trip by spending the night in downtown Atlanta, proving once and for all that sometimes, the neurons are not firing correctly.

I picked the Marriott Residence Inn because we could get a one bedroom suite at a reasonable price and I had a bunch of Marriott Reward cards that needed to be used. The biggest challenge for Dallas and I in our travels with my children is the whole hotel room situation.

My husband has a beautiful rear end. Magnificent, actually. But no matter how much I enjoy admiring his nether region while he wanders around in his boxers, there are two other pairs of eyes to think about. For step-dads, the rules are different and shared hotel rooms pose some unique challenges. Hence, the decision to stay at a Residence property, which tantalized with offers of two room privacy for the price of one.

Whatever. It sucked.

Parking at hotel: $21.00
Hotel room: $150.00
Dinner at cool downtown tappas restaurant: $150.00 (Gulp)
Bottle of chlorinated tap water: $4.50
Shitty, uncomfortable queen size bed: $100 future chiropractor visit
Shitty, uncomfortable pull-out couch which children shared: Whine, fight, whine, cry, whine, fight, threats of bodily harm from parental unit, angry, fight whispers and then blessed sleep. Not worth it. I promise.
Forgetting Wii Fit in hotel room (because we were afraid to leave it in the car because we were in downtown Atlanta, don't you know) where it promptly grew legs and vanished when housekeeping was called from the road several hours later: $100.00
Starbucks one block from hotel and open at 5:00am: Umm...priceless. It was the one good thing in a sea of bad.

Easy come, easy go, right?

On the way home, we elected to get two hotel rooms with an adjoining door. The kids' room had two double beds so when Olivia began kicking like a bull steer, Dylan slumbering in his own bed, was blissfully unaware. Dallas and I luxuriated in a king size bed so when he turned over to sprawl in the middle of the night, he didn't body slam me like a punk in a mosh pit. We spent about $200 total and they even threw in free, potable, surprisingly good coffee in the morning.

I consider our accommodations on the way home to be the bargain of the century.