Do Over

I've often said, "If I had it to do all over again....."

We've all had thoughts like that, especially with the benefit of hindsight and a few decades worth of life lessons but then we feel the pressure to circle back around to say that we wouldn't change a thing because those experiences have made us who we are....yada, yada, yada...

Whatever.

If I could have a do over, believe me, there are things that I would do differently.

Like my fifteenth year of life. The entire thing. It was a horror show.

It began will an ill-advised lift home from a stranger and ended with me packing my belongings into a duffle bag and moving out after a particularly nasty physical confrontation with my sister. Both events were life changing.

And school.

When I was accepted to university, I was twenty one years old and in spite of the fact that I had three plus years after high school to get the crazy out of my system, I was still a complete tool. At the time, the social aspects of my life appealed to me far more than my 8:00 am economics lecture and my energies were appropriated accordingly. I was lazy, unfocused and wholly egocentric. If I had this piece of my life to repeat, I'd stick with those classes that really interested me in spite of their challenge instead of those that were easy and allowed me to be apathetic.

Spouse(s).
Geez, where do I begin? Like most girls growing up, I believed that I would meet Prince Charming, be swept off my feet and ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after. I bought into the Disney fantasy wholeheartedly. I never envisioned that I would ever suffer from Goldilocks Syndrome.

The first husband was too feminine but yielded US permanent residency.
The second husband was too caveman but helped to produce two magnificent children.
The third husband turned out to be just right. (sigh)

The third time is most definitely the charm.

I guess that in reflection, it really hasn't been THAT bad. In spite of the more colourful events, I probably ought to be grateful. Every decision that I made (good, bad and phenomenally stupid) has led me right here, to this point and I'm happy with here. So yes, I'm a walking cliché.

I wouldn't change a thing.

Yada, yada, yada.

A Week at the Gym

I'm working on a real post. In the meantime, have fun reading this. I have no idea who the original author was as I received it in an email but whoever she is, I feel her pain.

A WOMAN'S WEEK AT THE GYM

Dear Diary,
For my birthday this year, my Husband (the dear) purchased a week of personal training at the local health club for me. Although I am still in great shape since being a high school football cheerleader 43 years ago, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try. I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Christo, who identified himself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swim wear. My husband seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started! The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

________________________________
MONDAY:
Started my day at 6:00 a.m. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Christo waiting for me. He is something of a Greek god - with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Woo Hoo!!
Christo gave me a tour and showed me the machines. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring!
Christo was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around. This is going to be a FANTASTIC week-!!
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TUESDAY:
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door. Christo made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air then he put weights on it! My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. His rewarding smile made it all worthwhile. I feel GREAT-!! It's a whole new life for me.
_______________________________
WEDNESDAY:
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot.
Christo was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for that early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying.
My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Christo put me on the stair monster. Why the heck would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators? Christo told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other crap too.
_______________________________
THURSDAY:
The jerk was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being a half an hour late - it took me that long to tie my shoes.
He took me to work out with dumbbells. When he was not looking, I ran and hid in the restroom. He sent some skinny witch to find me.
Then, as punishment, he put me on the rowing machine -- which I sank.
_________________________________
FRIDAY:
I hate that idiot Christo more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic, anorexic little aerobic instructor. If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.
Christo wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the darn barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich.
The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
________________________________
SATURDAY:
Satan left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing his voice made me want to smash the machine with my planner; however, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel.
________________________________
SUNDAY:
I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband will choose a gift for me that is fun -- like a root canal or a hysterectomy. I still say if God had wanted me to bend over, he would have sprinkled the floor with diamonds!!!

Man-cold or the real deal?

My husband is sick and every woman on the planet that resides with a man understands that this is not an ideal situation.

It started Sunday afternoon. We went to the gym for our aerobic workout and in the parking lot as we climbed back into the car, Dallas mentioned that he thought he may have overdone it a bit. I didn't immediately reply and not because I didn't have an opinion. I did (of course) but I was preoccupied with trying not to vomit from my own exertions. My most recent kick these days is to give the gym everything I've got because I'm only fooling myself if I slack off blah, blah, blah. Anyway, I digress. The point was that Dallas' admission didn't raise any red flags for me. In fact, since the Daytona 500 was scheduled to start, I figured he was just giving me notice that he intended to become a part of the furniture for the afternoon.

Sunday night after picking at his dinner, Dallas mentioned that he was achy and every few minutes, he'd clear his throat with this short, raspy, old womanish cough like he was trying to dislodge a hairball. I was skeptical. In a very loving manner I might have let, "hypochondriac" slip through my lips. We went to bed early Sunday night because, you know, we're in our forties.

And then we coughed. Both of us. Inexplicably. For the better part of the next eight hours.

Monday morning came and we were both haggard from a fitful night. I cleaned up well. Dallas didn't. He looked awful and felt even worse. He made the decision to go to work though, because the culture at his job is such that you have to be sucked into the vortex of a tornado or held hostage in a bank heist or dying from ebola to be considered legitimately absent. His office is worse than a daycare center as a hotbed of germs. It's bloody ground zero. Look, I understand a healthy work ethic but there is nothing heroic or admirable about going in and sharing your diseased ass with your colleagues.

I got home from work on Monday feeling like I might be coming down with something. I was lethargic, achy and generally irritable which isn't a huge departure from my perimenopausal self but enough that I took note. Dallas was a train wreck. He walked in the door raging with fever and went straight to bed. For the next fourteen hours or so, he thrashed and shivered and sweat. Tuesday morning arrived and he was so sick, he'd become apathetic. Food? Out of the question. Liquid? Was an IV an option?

At this point, I felt just the slightest bit guilty because I was less than supportive on Sunday night. Even his dad questioned whether he was experiencing a "man cold" or something more serious. But true to form, my husband doesn't do anything half-cocked including the flu. This morning, the fever seemed to have broken but he's barely able to lift his head off his pillow. He mentioned that he thought he should go into work and then I hit him with a lamp. He passed out went back to sleep after that.

Loving Him Enough to Let Him Fall

My son is in his final year of middle school. He's struggling badly with the onset of adolescence and I am at a complete loss as to how to help him.

Dylan has never been average. He walked at eight months, was literate on the computer at three and read fluently before kindergarten. He has always been a kid more comfortable in a library than on a football field. He is painfully sensitive and quick to apologize but his anger is never far from the surface. These days, I think he is a very lonely boy. Sixth grade has been a nightmare.

Academically, he doesn't have any worries but socially, my boy can't seem to find his tribe. Like most children, he wants to be popular but with Dylan, his desire for acceptance weeps out of his pores causing other children to either recoil from his neediness or exploit it. Neither scenario is a happy one and often, as he retells the day's events to me, I can see confusion and naked pain in his eyes. He just doesn't get what he is doing wrong.

And it shatters my heart.

The protective mother in me wants to gather him in my arms, shield him from the nastiness of others and spare him the scars that adolescence will bring. I want him to understand that ten years from now, he'll have trouble recalling the name of the girl who toyed so carelessly with his emotions. I want him to be confident in the knowledge that the geeks are the ones with lasting marriages and robust retirement accounts. But there is a blurry line between being supportive and being a safety net and although I'd like to save Dylan from himself, I'm determined to be the kind of parent that allows him to learn how to creatively problem solve. My most impactful life lessons were those where I took responsibility for my behaviour, dusted myself off and got back into the proverbial saddle.

I want very badly for my baby to be happy but not at the expense of his character. Happiness and a cohesive sense of self are not mutually exclusive concepts, except perhaps during adolescence and I have to believe that Dylan will find his way. It's just distressing as his mum to remain on the sidelines hoping that unconditional love and acceptance are enough to help him weather the storm.

My Guilty Pleasure

I watch American Idol. I was a casual user up until the season with Carrie Underwood. Then, I became a full fledged junkie. I'm not a big fan of country music because it all sounds like just one continuous whine to me but you could actually track her metamorphosis from awkward Okie karaoke singer to diva superstar. Fascinating stuff.

I've got mixed feelings about this season so far, though.

I love the new judge. She's real and I believe her presence on the panel has by some mysterious means (osmosis?), caused Paula to learn how to form complete, coherent sentences. Kara is a breath of fresh air.

I love the fact that contestant Nick Mitchell a.k.a. "Norman Gentle" has made it through to this point.

He is hysterical, self-deprecating and thoroughly entertaining. He can sing, for sure, but better yet, he can perform. I hope he sticks around because waiting for him to chew through the scenery stops me from throwing furniture at my television when contestants like bikini girl are on. What the heck was up with her jerky neck movements and freaky eyes? Watching her was like witnessing a bobble head singing.

I love the fact that the tryout shows dabbled in the bizarre but didn't linger there for days because really, some of those people are obviously unstable. In past seasons, entire segments were devoted to those who were unhinged and watching, I felt sad, embarrassed and just a touch frightened for them. I guess events like the woman who committed suicide in front of Paula Abdul's home, have caused the producers to rethink the ratings strategy. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful that we just caught glimpses instead of full blown portraits of those who live in a psychiatric vacuum.

Except, of course, for Tatiana Del Toro, the affected nutjob from Puerto Rico.
(photo from American Idol website, courtesy of Fox)

I despise this contestant. She is nails on a chalkboard irritating. And she is more of a drama queen than a Cher impersonator in a San Francisco drag show. At the beginning, she appeared giggly but charming until the camera stayed with her for more than a minute. By the end of the top 36 show, I wished her bodily harm. Her giggles had turned into high pitched hysterics that screamed, "CUCKOO". She is relentless and my reaction to her is visceral. Violently so. I suppose that is why she was picked to stay and even though each season includes one or two of these no talent wonders, I am really hoping that she and her ridiculously inflated sense of self are sent packing relatively soon. Whoever gets her as a room mate should be given handicap points or immunity or something like that.

So last Thursday, with Wednesday's results fresh in my mind, I flew to Florida on business. Guess who was on the same flight?


Jason Castro.
And because I do not possess the man parts to walk up to quasi-famous people and strike up a conversation, I was taking pics with my phone and trying not to be seen doing so. I might as well have had "Groupie" tattooed on my forehead because his handler gave me a withered glance that said, "do you realize you are middle aged?" I do. Meow.


On the way back from Florida, I landed in Dallas and waited there for hours while American Airlines delayed every flight to my neck of the woods. Finally, they announced that the plane that would be taking us home had arrived from Burbank, California. And guess who walked off?


His name is Alex Wagner-Trugman. He made it to this season's top 36. Now, I feel like I have to root him on and perhaps, even cast a vote for him because he didn't have a handler and because he had the most God-awful checkered shirt on and will obviously need all the help he can get. Dude, I'm there for you.

Coincidence? Two Idols in two days?

Sure, but I think the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I should quit my job and write lyrics instead. Perhaps, I'm destined to author a hit song for my new friend, Alex. Maybe Jason and I are supposed to pen the next great folk album together.

Naw, it's probably just a reminder to count my blessings. You see, after being delayed in Dallas for FIVE hours with swollen feet, crappy airport food in my belly and an exhaustion that comes from too many chocolate martinis the night before, it could have been much worse. Tatiana Del Toro could have disembarked from Burbank in all of her delusional glory and I'd be sitting in a pink padded room, in a straight jacket, sedated right now, with my fifteen minutes of fame plastered on the cover of USA Today.

"IDOL HOPEFUL SILENCED BY CRAZED FAN IN DALLAS AIRPORT"

The Gym

I'm feeling better today. Never underestimate the benefit of sweating out one's frustrations.

Last night, it was back to the gym again for another Bodypump class. I can safely say that I HATE squats. And lunges are nothing short of torture. To make matters worse, there is this cute, pixie-like blonde in our class who has the perfect ass end and she sails through the sets without making any of the ugly faces that the rest of us slobs do. AND, she uses double the weights that I put on my own bar. Of course, she is in much better condition and has obviously been doing it longer than I have but she could hide behind a light pole if you turned her sideways. I just can't figure out how something that petite can lift all that weight. I am jealous.

I have also noted another woman. She is sixty something with perfectly styled hair and flawless make up. As far as I can tell (and I do scrutinize), she hasn't had any work done. Her forehead moves, she has lots of laugh lines and her eyebrows don't have to be plucked from above her head. She is in remarkable shape. She wore spandex infused yoga pants last night and there was nary a cellulite dimple in sight. When we did our bicep set, she piled on more weight than most of the people in the class. As I struggled through the last filthy minute of curls, adjusting my feet and arching my back, she stood there poised, firm and strong with perfect form. I was awed.

I do have to mention the men in the class. Each one of them is his own squirrely mess of dork and macho bravado. I'm not sure but I think the men are subconsciously overwhelmed by the amount of estrogen floating in the air so they compensate by switching into high school jock mode.

One guy chats up several women in the class, including the instructor. He is noisy, obtrusive and not nearly as good looking as he tells himself. His flirting is awkward and full of adolescent humour. I feel sorry for this guy. If he didn't try so hard to be funny, he might actually be charming and able to get himself laid every once in a while. He's really the only regular besides my husband. Other men come into the class, load their bars up with gobs of plates, struggle to keep their form through 55 minutes of hell, eyes bulging in effort and then walk out the door, legs shaking, never to return. Like all first timers (myself included), they always underestimate how hard it is to aerobically lift weights and use far too much. By the end of class, they are quivering from head to toe like a tub full of jello. I want to reach out to them with a tube of BenGay and some ibuprofen and tell them to be grateful that they pee standing up.

The best part about Bodypump besides the obvious physical benefit is the instructor. She's awesome. She's a real woman with real curves and an admitted appetite for American beer. She owns a preschool, teaches two fitness classes six days of the week and has a husband and children. She despises lunges as much as the rest of us do and her face screws up with the same effort reflected in all of ours. She loves junk food and admits that if she ate better, she'd be skinny. She's just oozes goodwill. I relate to this woman. She inspires me.

The truth is that I am really enjoying the regular exercise again. It doesn't feel much like work to me. I am sleeping better, my mind is sharper and the strangest side effect is that I'm not craving sweets. If I were, I'd indulge because I'm a calorie burning fool these days but I have a distinct apathy towards dessert.

Bread, on the other hand...

I Give Up

The white flag is raised. I surrender.

I have reached the absolute end of my capacity for turmoil and conflict. I am a generous person by nature and mostly reasonable but as the last vestiges of my self control slip away, I am desperate for a change in the winds.

I'm sure that there is a lot in my environment for which to be grateful but these days I can't seem to reorient my focus to what is good. Instead, my view is clouded with ex spouses, ignorant behaviour, an empty rental house, loose strings, incomplete business deals and anxiety that fills my belly with acid. Any one of these things on its own is perfectly manageable but the culmination of events has triggered an involuntary flight response.

I have always been someone who could creatively problem solve. Often, after mulling over something particularly troublesome, I have awakened in the morning with a viable answer. No such luck these days.

The cerebral self understands that most of the current turmoil is temporary and will resolve itself with time. The emotional, less rational self is thinking that a sleeping bag on a Hawaiian beach is looking pretty good right now.

No Crazies Need Apply

This morning, I woke up thinking about a conversation I had last night with the man who occupies our rental home.

He is moving out.

When he announced this, my first thought was one of blind, colon-constricting panic because even though we have a negative cash flow of nearly four hundred smackers a month on the place, the bulk of the mortgage is being paid. In this economy, finding a new tenant is not a given and having that house sit empty would seriously impact our monthly budget.

So, as I was congratulating our renter on his job promotion to Niagara Falls, I was making mental notes about our next steps and desperately trying to find the silver lining in the news. I didn't get there right away. Instead, I recalled all of the certifiably insane people that I spoke with the first time we were searching for a tenant. And I must have an aura that screams, "tell me your life story", because they do. Ad nauseam. Then, they point out the flaws in the home and try to negotiate a lower rent, which causes me to twitch like a tweaker needing a fix.

Perhaps we will get more for the home, I thought. Not likely. Maybe there are decent people out there affected by the mortgage and banking crisis who no longer qualify to buy a home but who still want to raise their kids in a good neighbourhood without breaking their bank account. We could be the answer to their prayers! It wasn't that long ago that I was a renter and I haven't forgotten how horrid the whole process can be.

We do have to face the possibility that we will have to lower the rent to get the place leased but no matter, we'll be grateful just to have someone move in an help offset the cost of the mortage.

The FOR RENT sign went up last night and today begins another chapter in the landlord tales. I'll keep you posted.

Feeling the Burn

Last night, a friend invited Dallas and me to the gym for a BODYPUMP class.

I am in hell.

My quads are screaming. My arms are dead weight. My pecs are throbbing. My buttocks are ON FIRE. I involuntarily shrieked this morning trying to lower myself onto the potty. Arranging my hair into some semblance of an acceptable coif made me cry.

It started out pleasantly enough with a warm up set that got the juices flowing but wasn't horribly demanding. In true cavalier fashion, I added a bit of weight to my bar and hunkered down for the next set, confident in my strength and abilities. About thirty seconds into the second set, I looked around the class, wild-eyed, willing the teacher to take a break. We were working on legs, doing rep after rep of squats.

Our instructor was encouraging us saying things like,"Stick your bottom out further!" and "Plant your heels on floor!"

"Die," I thought.

The third set worked chest. The fourth set was back. Fifth was shoulders. Then, we moved on to triceps and biceps. Somewhere near the end, we were told to do lunges. I looked over at Dallas and watched his eyes roll up into the back of his head. Then, we went back to squats and because I am a fart magnet, I prayed the woman in front of me hadn't had beans or broccoli for dinner.

Finally, we got to the abdominal exercises. I may have wept for joy because although the number of reps made me want to vomit, we got to lay down on the floor. This was an improvement. At the very end, we did a few minutes of stretching to cool down. Every large muscle in my body was already quivering.

I had to go up a flight of stairs to retrieve Olivia from the daycare center. Going up was magnificently painful. Coming down was agonizing. As Liv and I walked through the parking lot, we could see Dallas ahead. He was trying very hard not to bend his knees and when he stepped up onto the sidewalk, I nearly wet my pants with laughter.

I know that the pain is going to be bad tomorrow but I'll still go to class because my rear end spread like smooth peanut butter on a slice of toast during the holidays. I will say that one unexpected bonus of strenuous exercise is the boost in willpower.

Manchild's birthday was last night and as the kids were slicing into his chocolate cake, I didn't have one measly flutter of a hankering for a bite. NOT BLOODY WORTH THE CALORIES, I thought.

And that, my friends, was a first for me.

Superbowl 2009

It seems like the Superbowl is usually a blow out. Now I am sure that there have been many contests where this is not the case so please don't send me email detailing those games. I believe you.

I'm all about the whole experience. Sometimes, the game itself turns out to be the anti-climax, the opening band, or a shitty meal in a great restaurant so it's a good thing that the Superbowl has become an entertainment production. To me, Superbowl is finger food, adult beverages, half time and the commercials.

It came as a surprise last night to find myself fully engaged at 8:50 pm. The announcers called it the greatest comeback in Superbowl history. I was just really pleased to see such a close game, especially after Dallas filled me in on Kurt Warner's history. Unbelievable. The only thing better, of course, would have been to see Arizona win. The last touchdown of the game was heartbreak personified.

Actually, the whole event was pretty great. Besides the excitement of the game, Bruce Springsteen ROCKED the halftime. I know that some of his die hard fans called it a sell out and were upset with the news that he was going to play the Superbowl but just one look at him up on the stage having the time of his life should have put all of that nonsense to rest. He was clearly loving every minute of that show. Even the shtick at the end.

And the commercials were pretty funny. My top three picks: