Be Careful What You Wish For

Today's blog was supposed to be part two of our most excellent Memorial Day weekend but then last night, Dallas and I were given a very important bit of information.

Now I know that there are going to be those of you that view our news with a shrug wondering why in the world we are making such a big deal of it. It's perfectly normal and we should have expected something like this.

And your sentiments will be correct but it doesn't change the fact that I am GOBSMACKED.

Last night, over dinner, and as casually as if he were talking about driving over to the local supermarket for milk, man-child announced that he had secured an apartment and would be moving out the first of July.

WHAT? WHEN?!

It's not like we didn't know that he was out there looking. The passenger seat of his car had, in recent weeks, been littered with apartment brochures. We openly encouraged him to start exploring his housing options since he wouldn't be moving with us to Florida. A few weeks ago, he invited us to come and look at a one bedroom that he liked. We were pleased with his choice since it was economical, clean and offered many amenities that would be meaningful for man-child. The only trouble was that management had nothing available in the near future and the best they could offer was to take his deposit and place him on the waiting list. So we didn't give it another thought because in our minds, the boy wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. We were quite content that he had been motivated enough to get out there and dabble into the world of adult responsibilities.

Baby steps.

Progress.

Except an opening did happen and now, that baby bird is going to hop out on the ledge of the nest, spread his wings and try to freaking fly.

Every fiber of my being wants to run underneath, with arms outstretched, to catch him if he falls.

I'm not sure he's ready.

Actually, it's me. I'm not sure I'm ready.

Memorial Weekend Part One: The Graduation

We had one of the best long weekends ever. EVER.

I have clients that live in Indianapolis. A few weeks ago, they invited Dallas and me to come up for the race. It was an interesting thought but since we had the kids that weekend and my ex husband views visiting time with his children as an inconvenience, we were forced to decline the invitation.

A few days later, they called back and suggested that we bring the kids.

To the Indy 500.

I took a moment and tried to picture what that might look like....Olivia in the stands.... watching cars go around a track....FOR HOURS...in the sun....

In spite of the fact that our heads were most definitely ON FIRE, Dallas and I decided that we would throw caution to the wind and make the trip. Then, I got a look at airfare and decided that I'd much rather have a new car or a boat or these:



"Let's drive," Dallas said. And after making the nearly 22 hour trip to Florida three years in a row, a mere ten hours to Indianapolis didn't seem all that intimidating. We happily made plans to yank the kids out of school on Friday and get on the road.

But there was a kink in our plan, of course. Man-child, in all of his non-communicating glory, announced that his high school graduation ceremony would be on Saturday. And then we were torn between sitting through boring speeches and shaking our head at all of that wide-eyed, vomit-inducing, "I'm-going-to-take-on-the-world" optimism doing the right thing and speeding off into the sunset with nary a glance in the rear view mirror doing the selfish thing. Decisions, decisions.

"Let's do both," Dallas said. So we did.

Saturday morning, found us caffeinated and out the door by 7:15am. We had offered to drive man-child to the arena and used the short drive to catch up. Our lives have been so busy lately that we often go days without seeing or speaking with him. We learned that his mother would not be attending the ceremony. I was happy that there would be no chance of running into her but quite sad for her child who has consistently been less than prominent in her thoughts.

The graduation ceremony was a pleasant surprise. The speeches were pretty good and when our boy walked across the stage and accepted his diploma, we were flooded with pride.

We cheered his name and he heard us and it meant the world to him.

He had people.

The whole experience was unexpectedly emotional and strangely enough, when it was all said and done, supporting man-child turned out to be one of the sweetest gifts Dallas and I have been fortunate enough to receive.

Rant

Nearly two years ago, I quit smoking and for the most part, I have remained firmly on the wagon except for a few weak moments in Las Vegas last year with a couple of South Africans. Anyway, I feel great and every day that I get up and my first thought isn't about a cigarette, I am grateful. Most of the time, I cannot believe that I ever smoked. Sometimes, however, I get an urge so strong that it's all I can think about. And in those moments, I have an internal conversation that begins with a "Don't even think about it" pep talk and ends with some sort of sweet, carbohydrate-laden reward. My mother tells me to reward myself with a brisk walk or twenty minutes on the elliptical and because I love her, I mute the phone while I scream obscenities in reply.

But she is right. It would be so much healthier to associate pleasure with exercise and not food. I am an emotional eater. My stress response is to snack. So lately, with the pressures of my job building to a critical mass, I started to worry about the size of my ass and the fact that it was expanding at the speed of sound.

So, back on the HCG diet.

Again.

It's a quick and dirty way to lose a pant size or two, which is especially relevant for me because in about two months, Dallas and I are once again headed to Mexico to celebrate our first anniversary. There is a catch, however. Our friends, Ron and Suzy, are joining us on this trip. It's one thing for my husband to witness the dimpling of my thighs. It's something else entirely to share that sight with our friends and since I'm not really a sarong-wearing gal, it looks like I'll have to resort to the old standby of diet and exercise.

I just wish I wasn't so cranky (Dallas nodding vigorously).

And it would be nice if the stress level at work eased up just a bit so that my body would quit manufacturing cortisol in levels large enough to export.

And I'd like for the IRS to inadvertently hit delete and erase our file.

And I'd like our insurance adjuster to actually get on the leaky roof instead of eyeballing it from the ground and pronounce the water streaming from the ceiling in the foyer a "fluke" event.

And I'd like the owl in the tree who hoots ALL NIGHT LONG to take his show on the road to some other neighborhood. He could invite his equally noisy canine friend who scrapes a metal bowl on the concrete ALL NIGHT LONG and make it a duet.

And I'd like Adam Lambert to win American Idol.

Amen.

Life is Good

This weekend, my kids were with their father so Dallas and I were fancy free to do as we pleased.

Friday night, we went to see the movie Star Trek and unexpectedly, I loved it. I was never a big Trekie back when fellow Canadian, William Shatner, helmed the USS Enterprise but as the new Captain James T Kirk, eye candy Chris Pine, rocked. And getting a glimpse into the human side of Spock was a treat. All in all, it was definitely worth the bucks.

Saturday, was a bit of an emotional roller coaster but in a positive way. One of the consequences of removing teenager daughter from our home back in March was silence.

Hers.

Text messages were either answered with one word replies or blatant disrespect or not at all, which emotionally, was very hard on Dallas but he remained resolute. As the adult in the relationship, it was his duty to continue to reach out to her in spite of her attitude and he did. However, he refused to apologize for our decision to kick her out and he refused to engage with her when she was abusive. Both of these behaviours were markedly different from the way that he had interacted with his children before and this line in the sand stance was a concept that they needed to digest.

So, a few months passed.

Saturday afternoon, he had lunch with teenage daughter. The conversation went very well and it now appears that the lines of communication are once again open. I can't tell you what a relief it is to see progress with this particular issue.

The details of man-child's life have been a source of anxiety, as well. Often, he is like a reed in the wind. One minute he sways in one direction and the next, he's pointed in an entirely different place, which is normal for someone his age. We have encouraged him to take a year and travel or work or a combination of the two. We said, "Slow down, take a personal inventory and plan." Well, some of the chatter must have been retained because late Saturday afternoon, he asked us to accompany him to see an apartment that he wanted to rent. He had researched the area to death and had landed on the best value for his buck. He chose to forgo the option of a flat mate so that he would not have his living arrangements dependent upon someone else's ability to pay the rent. We were blown away. And proud.

There is just the slightest catch in the back of my throat at man-child leaving our home. I know that he will survive and I'm pretty sure that he will find his success but there is a part of me that wants to nestle him right under my wing and make his decisions for him.

After weeks of unbroken rain, we woke up Sunday morning to a cloudless day and warm temperatures. So we rode. With the sun on my face and the scent of clover in the air, I felt a contentment wash over me that I have missed in recent months.

I woke up this morning exactly eleven pounds lighter than last Monday. LIFE IS GOOD.

Can Anal Retentiveness Be Cured?

I have got to learn how to delegate. Really.

It's not that I'm a total egoist who believes that nobody can do it as well as I can because I'm pretty sure that the world is full of people who are much more capable than me. The problem is that I am Type A.

Pathologically so.

And whether it is work, home, a leaky rental roof or picking a new dentist in a new town, I get horribly uncomfortable when I am unfamiliar with every, last detail. Consequently, my daily to do list is OUT OF CONTROL. Lately, I have been waking up in the morning with a pressing sense of panic wondering how it is that I am going to get everything accomplished. What item do I pick to tackle first when there are so many things that require my attention RIGHT NOW?

I am overwhelmed. Completely.

On the home front, We've got a leaky rental house, the pending move to Florida, a new home to find, new schools to research, small improvements that need to be done like painting and carpet cleaning to make our family home ready to rent out, sorting through moving company quotes, PACKING, the beloved IRS, summer daycare for the kids and all of the other normal, everyday activities in the life of a family.

Professionally, I have had to give up some of the control. I have been forced to admit that I cannot possibly juggle all of my projects and still give 100% to each of them. And I am quite happy to shift some of the responsibility onto the shoulders of my colleagues but I am struggling with the whole fear thing because at the end of the day, the buck stops squarely at my desk. So, at 42 years of age, I am going to have to learn the art of delegation. And it is an art. There's a fine line between following up with people and micromanaging them into a nervous break down. Guess where I drift.

Um...yeah. (Head hanging shamefully)

I think I could use a few tips.

Tweet Tweet

I had heard that Aston Kutcher and CNN were fluent in tweets, RT's and @'s but the whole Twitter thing hadn't registered on my radar.

Until now.

And I love, love, love it.

Before I understood the addictive nature of Twitter, I really didn't get its appeal. I'm still a new user and I'm not thoroughly tweet literate but there is something very cool about getting small and regular personal glimpses into the thoughts and lives of people like George Stephanopolous (@GStephanopoulos) or Oprah (@Oprah). Some of my favourite bloggers like Rude Cactus are out there in Twitterville providing mini bursts of hilarity. Several times during the day, I take a second, check my iPhone for the latest tweets and then, plunge back into the grind. Twitter has replaced the cigarette breaks that I used to take when I was a smoker except it's a whole lot healthier and it doesn't stink up my hair.

If you are interested in joining the conversation, I can be found under the name, "wackado". See you in the Twitter Zone.

Viva Las Vegas Part One

I was pleasantly surprised with my trip to Las Vegas this time. Being with Steph made all of the difference in the world because she saw things through new eyes and it forced me to revisit all of those elements that make the city great. With my tired and jaded viewpoint, I'd forgotten how fun Las Vegas could be.

We landed just after 6pm Sunday night, got our luggage fairly quickly and rushed to our hotel to check in as we had dinner plans with our client. We stayed at the Planet Hollywood hotel, formerly the Aladdin, which is evident in the magic lamp bathroom fixtures and the purple towels.

It was just okay.

The pervasive smell of cigarettes was everywhere. Even our floor, which was supposed to be non smoking, reeked of stale smoke. The room was a good size and the lighting favourable for someone like me an aging movie star who curses the invention of HDTV but for anything practical like trying to navigate the room without bumping into furniture, it could have withstood a few more high wattage bulbs. On the plus side, it was easy on the wallet and the location was excellent. There was one more thing....

The full length mirror on the wall opposite the bathroom took 20 lbs off my physical frame.

I was delirious.

With joy.

Listen, the ration self understood that this was an optical illusion. The other larger, more influential self, didn't give a shit. I actually contemplated the mechanics necessary to take the mirror home with me but it was BOLTED to the wall. Clearly, the powers that be knew of its intoxicating effects and had planned for the nutbar who'd try to make off with it. That mirror made me feel just the slightest bit like a really famous person who surrounds herself with sycophants. Every time I looked at my reflection before heading out for the night, I could almost hear one of my imagined assistants telling me that I looked fabulous and that of course my skirt wasn't too short for a woman my age. In the same way that sexy underwear changes the way you carry yourself, that mirror did wonders for my self esteem.

After we checked in and dropped our luggage, we dined with our client at a decent steakhouse. Then, we called it a night. No gambling, no shows, no boobie cards (more on that later) and no alcohol. My halo positively RADIATED.

Monday morning, we were up at the ass crack of dawn, shoveling down a typical Las Vegas breakfast buffet (expensive, expansive and soaked in greasy goodness) and then off to the convention center to set our booth. For those of you that have worked a trade show, you know that it is grueling. The hours are long, the conversation a barely modified regurgitation from one person to the next and the food is crappy and overpriced.

After we had set the booth, Steph and I went out on the town for a little Las Vegas flavour. It did not disappoint.

In the next Vegas installment, dude looks like a lady, booby cards and a trip down memory lane.