Not All Kilos Are Created Equal

We arrived in Ho Chi Minh (the former Saigon) late Monday afternoon. The plane ride was uneventful except for two things.

First, the cost of the ticket was cheap but the baggage fees were nothing short of extortion. Vietnam Airlines allows 20kg in baggage per person.

Period.

You could check 10 bags weighing two kilos each and that would be fine but if you go over so much as a gram, the baggage police come out and demand your arm, the keys to your SUV, your first born and GOBS of American dollars.

To put this into perspective, 20 kilos equates to about 44lbs. My suitcase was originally packed for the 17 days of this trip and I've shopped a bit. My bag clocked in at 24 kilos, which would be pretty close to American guidelines. My client, on the other hand, has already had to acquire an extra bag for her purchases, which is completely understandable because it is her first time in Asia and she has lots of disposable income. Between her two bags, she weighed in at a whopping 61 kilos. Bottom line was that we were about 25 kilos over the weight limit. In the US, this would have cost us roughly $40 each. Vietnam Airlines expected $260.

I had myself a little hissy fit right there at the counter, demanding to speak with the supervisor, who patiently explained that this was the policy and that basically, I could just go pound sand. I told him that his fees were unreasonable. He smiled, agreed and then asked if I would be paying with cash or credit card. Clearly, I was not the first loud and obnoxious American to cause a fuss at the "Excess Baggage" counter.

So, out came the American Express and everyone exhaled.

While waiting to board our plane, we decided to have a bite to eat which turned out to be all kinds of stupid. I had a little curried something that caused a mini war between my stomach and my bowel. I have never wanted a Tums so badly in all my life.

On the plane, my client and I were lucky enough to have a row of seats to ourselves.

And the stinky foot of the person in the seat behind us.


















I mean, c'mon. It wasn't just a toe up there on the armrest. It was half of a very stinky foot. We swatted at it with a newspaper. We slugged it with our purses, to no avail. Smelly foot remained. We turned around and gave the death stare but still, there was no retreat. "Pinch it," I suggested. My client declined. We gave up. Finally, after take off, the flight attendant came by and since neither of us knew how to say, "Oh my God, this person hasn't washed their feet in years and we're about to vomit from the fumes," in Vietnamese, we pinched our noses, screwed up our faces and pointed at the offending appendage. That did the trick. The sock disappeared.

The rest of the flight was largely uneventful except for the karaoke singing from the person with the stinky foot and my visit to the toilet, which has caused me to wake up in the middle of the night screaming for my mother. Oh the horror.

I can't say that I recommend Vietnam Airlines.

But Vietnam, the country, is spectacular. More on that tomorrow.

Budda is Worth the Vertigo

Since the birth of my daughter, I have not been the same person. I'm not talking about spreading hips or postpartum blues although I could write volumes on both subjects. I'm referring to my newly acquired aversion to heights.

It's a weird deal.
I used to love roller coasters and carnival rides. I have very vivid memories of going to Canada's Wonderland and spending the entire day defying gravity in one form or another. Now? Not so much. My brain starts to churn with the "what ifs". What if the coaster flies off the tracks and we all plunge to our death? What if I fall out?

I realize that these are not rational thoughts but I can't help it. I watched a program recently about the lookout platform at the Sears Tower in Chicago (I know it is now called something else but I refuse to acknowledge) and felt sick to my stomach as the camera took us right out onto the ledge.

I get dizzy to the point of vertigo when I look down from more than a couple of feet in the air. Last year, we went to the Indy 500. Our seats were right across from the start/finish line, at the very top and only accessible via a set of iron stairs with open railings on the exterior of the building. It was a miserable experience climbing those steps. I kept having uncontrollable visions of Olivia slipping through one of the rails and it took forever to get to the top. I was queasy and desperately uncomfortable.

Yesterday, I took my client to the Tian Tan Budda on Lantau Island.

By way of cable car.

I've done this before and it is not a big deal as long as the wind is calm and I refrain from looking down. It's actually been a pleasant experience. Exhilarating, even. Yesterday was a bit of a different story. My colleague in Hong Kong, in an effort to give us a more unique experience, arranged for us to ride up to the Budda in one of the "Crystal Cabins". I had no idea what this was since it had never been an available option in any one of the five times I've been there in the past.
This was the view from inside our fabulous crystal cabin.
Sickening.
The entire bottom of the cable car was Plexiglas or something similar. Below my feet is the Pacific Ocean. To say that the ride made me woozy is an understatement. I've never been so glad to get off anything in my entire life. And yes, I know that I have Fred Flinstone feet so no need to point that out.

Anyway, I recovered from the ride and mostly enjoyed my time at the Budda. There were lots of changes up there and I can't say that I'm happy about most of them. There is something regretful about the commercialization of a place that was once so charming in its simplicity. I understand the need to cater to the tourist but part of me deeply resents the presence of a new Starbucks and a host of tacky souvenir shops where a grove of rubber trees used to grow. They call it progress. To me, it's just sad.

With that said, it was still pretty cool to get up close and personal with the Budda.
And those stairs...
And sometimes, there are views that remain as sublime as the first time they are seen.

Back in Hong Kong

Hi kids.

I'm in Hong Kong.

But for the last several days, I was in mainland China and they don't let me blog there anymore. It's not because I'm a political dissident or a rabble rouser or a bad egg. I'm not on any Chinese government watch list or anything. It's just that the powers that be have decided that they don't want their masses to partake of any non state-controlled social media like Blogger, Facebook or Twitter. And listen, I know the whole "when in China..." thing but I have to admit that being blocked from accessing these sites got my panties in a bunch.

It also made me especially appreciative of where I live.

Anyhoo...

I'm going to have to run. I'm sorry. I am headed over to Shenzhen, which is close to Hong Kong, relatively speaking, but still requires yet another pass through Chinese customs. My client and I will be spending the day at a factory over there. I'll try to get some pics up tonight from the last couple of days.

More later..

Litterbox Nightmares Part Deux

Okay.

I am going to try to write this post without using profane language.

This will be difficult because I'm going to tell you about our weekend and the freaking Cat Genie.

To summarize the entire ordeal, let me just say that:

a) I am an idiot.
b) My cat is no dummy.
c) Shit happens.

We received the magical new litter box early last week and my lovely husband, who indulges my every whim, patiently spent the better part of two hours putting the damn thing together and hooking it into our laundry room plumbing. His dad would have been proud of him.

He got it assembled and turned it on a wash cycle, which is supposed to begin the process of cat acclimation, which, let me tell you, is a figment of some pet behaviourist's imagination. We don't train cats. They tolerate us. A friend of mine says that we shouldn't kid ourselves. If cats were bigger, they'd just eat us rather than put up with our crap. I believe that.

Anyway, the Cat Genie's operation can only be described as deafening, like AC/DC-concert-right-by-the-speakers loud. We "oohed" and "aahed" at least I think we did but I might be mistaken because I was reading lips. Because I COULDN'T HEAR MYSELF THINK.

Our cat, bless his heart, was stretched out as far as he could be, nosing around a corner to have a look at the monstrosity. He was curious and only slightly timid, which we took to be a good sign. Over the course of the 35 minute cycle (yes, you read that correctly) he inched his way closer to the laundry room until eventually, he was perched atop the washing machine staring at his new potty below. It's safe to say that he wasn't impressed.

We left the old litter box in the room like the manual said. We were to let the old box get all nasty and full so that our boy would make the choice to use his new one.

That didn't work.

Instead, we got a filthy eyesore perched under the open window and those lovely spring breezes we experienced this weekend picked up the scent of excrement and gently wafted it through the house.

I got a bit edgy.

We read in one of the manuals that we might want to try filling our cat's old litter box full of the new plastic pellets that lined his new one. That sounded like a good idea.

Yeah, that didn't work either.

He hopped right in and used the box with the weird pellets but he didn't scrape and scratch and then, he couldn't get out of that thing fast enough. That little voice inside my head told me we were in trouble.

And instead of voicing my concerns to my infinitely patient husband, I did something monumentally stupid.

Remember hearing of parents who hope to teach their kids to swim by throwing them in the water? Well, my next move was to insist that we remove the old litter box entirely and make him use his new one. Because forcing cats to comply has worked so well in the past. Dallas raised his eyebrows but didn't make a fuss. He removed the old litter box to the litter box graveyard garage, where it kept company with all the other Littermaids that had bit the dust.

Sunday, we woke up peacefully to no children, a gorgeous morning and zero obligations. I got up to make coffee and walked out to the living room to find that our sweet and clearly desperate cat had SHAT IN THE GODDAMN NORFOLK ISLAND PINE plant. Except, I didn't know that right away.

Oh and he scratched alright. We had dirt flung over a six foot radius on the BEIGE carpet. I'm not kidding. So, being anal retentive and just one cell shy of a working brain, I hauled out my freaking $500 Dyson vacuum and began to suck up the mess until the smell and the chunks of what I thought was soil, but was actually POOP encased in soil, began to smear on the inside of the vacuum's dirt receptacle and stink up my personal space.

I retched.

And then I swore.

I marched back into the bedroom and announced that the effing Cat Genie was history. My husband calmly answered, "OK babe." Which is a perfect example of why I married him. Because he takes crazy and does wonders with it.

And then I walked into the laundry room to find our cat peeing on a beautiful, handmade tablecloth that we had purchased in Mexico.

I swore again.

By this time, my hubby had gotten up in an effort to help. For the next hour, Dallas quietly unplumbed and dismantled the CatGenie and placed it back into its original shipping container. At some point, one of us opened the door leading to the garage and our cat bolted through it. I was content to leave him in there all day but necessity forced me to open it back up to get some cleaning supplies.

On a shelf on top of a storage bin and about six inches from the shelf above it, we had placed one of the old litter boxes. Inside it, cramped and concentrating, was our cat going about his business. It was then that I knew that we had made the right decision because if the cat could find that bloody litter box in the expanse of the garage, with the golf clubs and Christmas decorations and Harley gear and garden equipment, there was no way that he couldn't find one an inch from his nose in the laundry room. He would never have used the CatGenie. EVER. And this might just an enormous blessing in disguise if the Amazon reviews of this product are any indication.

So, I'm an idiot, the cat is clever and we're going to exercise that money back guarantee because I'll be damned if I ever clean cat shit out of my vacuum again.

(And for Mark N...top left of the page. Sorry..it's not terribly prominent.)

Litterbox Nightmares

We recently purchased a new litter box for our cat.

Yes, another one. I know this has you scratching your head and wondering if we are serial litter box purchasers because we seem to be obsessed. And you would be right. We are. Or rather, I am.

See, animal waste is really problematic for me. I'm not one of those back to nature gals that will go for a walk in the forest and find a pile of scat endlessly interesting. I prefer not to see it and, dear god, please don't let me smell it.

Because I will be able to smell it for days.

In weird places.

Like my sock drawer.

Anyway...

Last year, I was at a pet product trade show and saw this machine:

And I know it looks like a giant cat toilet. It touts itself as the "World's Only Self-Flushing, Self-Washing Cat Box".

Apparently, once your cat understands that this is where it is supposed to do its business, your life will be magically transformed and you will never have to think about cat scat again.

This year, Dallas and I were back at that same trade show and decided to take advantage of show prices and purchase one of these units.

After shelling out an insane amount of money, I happened to go online and read some of the more recent reviews for the product. And they aren't pretty. People talk of toxic smells and "cooked poo".

I'M SCARED.

Asia, Here I Come

Next week, I leave on a marathon business trip that will take me to Hong Kong, mainland China, Thailand and Vietnam. I loathe these trips for several reasons but number one is the stress of leaving my family for this period of time.

My husband tells me not to worry and that he's got everything covered but I do fret. My children are generally pretty well-behaved but they are kids and they most definitely have their moments. Hopefully, with the benefit of Skype, I can threaten to beat them from 12,000 miles away and still appear credible.

Sleep will become elusive and my bowels are likely to slow to a snail's pace. Every morsel of food that I put in my mouth will be saved and tightly packed away. Consequently, by day three or four, I will be forced to go to the local pharmacy and try to explain through inadequate Chinese and indecipherable hand signals that I need a laxative. This is a big deal because in China, factory toilets are holes in the ground and you have to bring your own paper. Hot running water is nowhere to be found and if you do find some soap, it is a bar that has been lathered up by several hands before yours. Several years ago, a designer friend and I were traveling from Hong Kong to Macau when she was hit with a stomach bug forcing her to get to know all of the local lavatories along the way. Once we got back to our hotel in Hong Kong, she balled up her slacks and threw them away. She didn't speak about it but you have to agree that if a girl tosses her $500 Stella McCartney trousers, it had to have been REALLY BAD. Managing bowels prodded by a laxative while traveling in China is right up there with trying to make friends with your newly irrational teenager. You can do your best and take all the necessary precautions but at the end of the day it's still likely that shit will hit the fan.

Finally, there is the problem with my mobile. I'm not sure how I am going to cope without my iPhone. The cost of operating it overseas is enormous and thus, I will be forced to turn it off. As in OFF.

Which is a giant issue because I'm dependent upon it for everything from social networking to getting the news and weather. They have weather in Asia. And news. And Twitter. Sadly, a good chunk of my life is managed on my phone and the thought of being without it makes me twitch. Maybe we could take out a second mortgage to pay the bill. Hmmm...

The tail end of the trip will find me in Vegas. I have to work yet another trade show but I'm not the least bit bothered by this because my husband is joining me and seeing him after 18 days away will be the best part about the entire journey.

That and our front row seats to Mystère.

Redbox and Red-Faced

About a month ago, I had an unpleasant experience with the Redbox people.

For those of you who are reading from countries far, far, away, Redbox is a video rental operation. They have vending machines located all over town and with the swipe of a credit card and an email address, you can rent a movie for a buck a night. Easy.

Well, it should have been.

One weekend, we were out running errands and decided to return Michael Jackson's "This Is It". When inserted into the slot, the machine spit it out. After a couple of attempts, the machine finally took the movie but displayed a message that the return was not processed. Pardon? We shrugged figuring the movie was inside and everything would sort itself out.

A few weeks later, Redbox nicked our bank account for $26. Crap.

I called them and had an entirely unpleasant conversation with someone who was lacking any customer service skills at all. She was of no help but did offer a rebate of $10 for my trouble, this after chastizing me for not calling immediately after noting a problem returning the movie. I thought my head might explode from frustration. How is it that it's the customer's responsibility to manage a situation with their faulty equipment? I was steaming and not remotely interested in the ten bucks she offered. I wanted my bloody money refunded. NOW.

She told me to call back in a few days after a technician had been sent to the site and that's when I gave up. Clearly, she wasn't interested in retaining a customer. I agreed to call back in a few days and hung up.

Then, I got on Twitter and sent out tweet after tweet about how shitty Redbox was.

A few day later, I called back and got a more mature woman on the phone. I gave her the whole spiel about my experience and how disappointed I was with Redbox..yadda yadda yadda. She apologized and immediately refunded my money even though the technician had not made it out to the site yet. Satisfaction. Finally.

Last week, Liv was looking for one of the Harry Potter movies that we have. She held up its empty case.

"Check the DVD player, sweetie," I said.

She pressed the eject button and out came her movie.

"It's not in there, Mama," she said.

"What movie have you got there?" I asked.

Yep.

In my baby girl's hand lay Michael Jackson's, "This Is It". Apparently, we had neglected to insert the movie into the DVD case when returning it to the Redbox, which, of course, is why the machine spit out the message that the return was not processed.

Because the bar code that the machine reads is on the DVD itself.

No faulty equipment.

User error.

So now, I have to make the call of shame to Redbox and tell them that they refunded me in error, which they must know, because I'm sure a technician has been out there by now and reported the empty DVD case.

I have to tell them that I am sorry.

And pray that my first call to customer service was not the one you hear about in the disclaimer.

The one they record for training purposes.

Fuck.

Taxed

It's that time of year again.

Taxes.

I hate the IRS. Vehemently.

But, having the privilege of living in this country necessitates the paying of taxes. I get it. I'm Canadian. I was born understanding that the government would take at least thirty cents of every dollar I made.

And I do believe in paying taxes. (And socialized medicine.)

I endorse the idea that those that have should help to take care of those that don't. Absolutely. Of course, that is a broad statement and inside of it, there are many, many layers of circumstance that cause me to scratch my head.

For instance, the other day, I learned a little something while doing manchild's taxes. He didn't earn much, which is understandable considering he's young, barely out of high school and in the restaurant business. Consequently, he didn't pay much in taxes, which was reasonable in my mind. Then, things got a bit murky.

As the tax code is currently written, he was entitled to a refund of every single penny he had paid into the system. This didn't bother me because he wasn't tapping into any social service program and he was quite willing to work and contribute his share to society. What chapped my ass was that not only did he get a refund of the taxes he paid but he got an additional $300. For what? Reward for going to work every day?

I know that there are arguments to be made on both sides of this issue, obviously, because our country is a diverse nation, full of people, each of whom have a story to tell. But if my step son is only one of millions being refunded beyond their contributions, we can only imagine what a huge chunk of change this is.

The term, "fair" is subjective, at best. My idea of what is balanced and reasonable is likely to be very different from the single mother trying to put food on the table for her kids. That extra $300 could be life-altering for some. I do realize this. I'm just conflicted with the knowledge that there is zero accountability for the extra funds. It could be spent on food or it could just as easily prop up a drug habit. Who knows?

I think I'd feel better about it if that $300 found its way into a program that created jobs or provided medical care or counseled young people about credit. Something. Anything. That way, as I fork over my "fair" share every month, I can still find a way to sleep at night without being burdened by festering resentment.

Namaste and All That Crap

So now that I'm all middle aged crazy and obsessed with health and fitness, I had a few moments of panic this weekend wondering how I was going to fare with all the readily available chocolate and limited gym hours.

Saturday morning, I told Dallas that I wanted to participate in an 8:00am power yoga class and did he want to come.

"NO." Emphatic.

I pressed him.

"Why not? You said you wanted to work at becoming more flexible. This is the perfect opportunity."

"No." Emphatic, calm and accompanied by shaking head and matter-of-fact countenance.

When I opened my mouth to protest further, he said, "There is no way in hell that I am going to try to twist my body in front of a group of people. You don't understand. I am as stiff as a four by two. I'm not doing it."

And that was that. He got on the treadmill and I walked into the studio. Let me just say right now that Dallas was the smart one.

The class was called "Power Yoga" which, had I truly pondered things for one second, should have been a giant red flag. At the time, I kind of thought that power and yoga in the same headline was really just an oxymoron or a way to assuage the insecurities of the instructor who probably wished she was teaching something more challenging like Body Pump. Really, how bloody powerful could yoga be? Oooohhhh, I really stretched that one......right?

So, so wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.

The teacher arrived and like most who practice yoga, she had a body that can only be described as supple. She was as graceful as a ballerina and she emanated good will. I was so excited to be trying something new. That joy lasted exactly six minutes.

I was a warrior 1, warrior 2, warrior 3, and an upward warrior and let me tell you: I have no interest in being any kind of warrior again. Ever.

I was a chair, a downward facing dog, a bridge, a triangle, a pigeon, a plough, a half revolved belly and a freaking king dancer. There were plank poses and push ups and lunges called something pretty and deceiving instead of just telling us outright that we would be in hell for the next five minutes. For an hour and a half, I struggled through pose after pose. Sweat poured off me and I swear I could smell the Ouzo I'd consumed a week before.

At the end, the instructor went around the class and placed lavender scented cloths on our faces as we lay on our backs recovering. Every muscle in my body quivered unpleasantly. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it was WORSE THAN CHILDBIRTH.

So, I'll be back again next Saturday because I'll be damned if I admit to people that a YOGA class kicked my ass.

Medicinal Ouzo

Last week, Dallas and I traveled to Florida to attend a trade show where one of my clients was exhibiting. Now that we are all about eating clean, we had pretty serious food issues.

"My God, what will we eat?" I asked, "How will we get enough fiber?"

See, here's the thing. I have obsessive/compulsive tendencies. Oh, I know...shocking, right?

But this eating lifestyle had proven to be so successful for the two of us that I was coming out of my skin fretting about how we were going to maintain things when we were looking at having every single meal, for FOUR days, out at a restaurant. So, I came up with this great plan to take a bunch of food with us.

And this is why my husband is a saint.

Because, instead of telling me that my head was on fire, he simply asked what he could do to help me prepare. He's emotionally intelligent like that.

So, we filled a cooler full of fruit, vegetables, organic bread and all the trimmings for sandwiches, organic plain oatmeal, ground flax meal, wheat germ and protein powder. As it turned out, we ate every breakfast and most lunches from our chilly bin. Dinners were a different story.

Oh boy.

On Friday night, we went out with my customers to this noisy Greek place called "Opa". We started the evening off with shots of Greek liqueur and I can tell you first hand, that nothing good comes from mass quantities of Ouzo.

Dallas and one of my clients had lamb for dinner. They were so excited about this because lamb is one of those foods that you either love or hate and it is firmly in my gag category. I loathe it, which is problematic for my Kiwi husband considering lamb is one of New Zealand's national treasures. Consequently, the only time Dallas gets a sniff of it is when we are out. Just seeing the grease on his lips after he polished off a chop was enough to cause a rise in my gorge so, I drank more to settle my belly.

See there? What did I tell you?

That is my husband.

On a table.

With a belly dancer.

Do you think he's looking at her boobs?

Hmmm....

So this is how the evening went and eventually, we all ended up on the tables dancing because Ouzo takes every last drop of self consciousness and flushes it down the toilet.

The next morning, we dragged our sorry behinds to the gym and as I started running on the treadmill, I experienced a searing pain in my right toe. Cramp? Spider bite? Gout?

None of the above.

I stripped off my running shoe and sock, turned my foot over to have a look and extracted a sliver of porcelain roughly the size of Texas out of my toe.

Word to the wise: when dancing on tables, it is best to leave ones shoes on.

Eat Clean

I'm down a pant size.

This makes me happier than you can imagine especially considering the fact that the scale doesn't seem to know that my arse is a size smaller. But who cares what the scale says, right?

I do.

But I'm not going to dwell. I am just going to revel in the fact that I had to clean the DUST from my pants this morning before I wore them. They'd been hanging in my closet that long.

And it's all because we now Eat Clean. Click on the link and give the site a visit.

I know that it uses that filthy four letter word beginning with "d" but don't worry. It's not some calorie-restricting horse pucky nonsense that will mess with your body's survival instincts. It's a lifestyle and a fairly easy one to adopt.

Again, the author did not reinvent the wheel. The principles of this lifestyle are pretty simple.

• Eat lots of organic fruit and vegetables, preferably grown by farmers in your local area
  
• Eat lean protein from pasture raised animals, wild caught fish, beans and legumes.
  
• Eat six small meals a day
  
• Eat a fistful of complex carbohydrates from sources like buckwheat, millet, quinoa, brown rice and whole grain pasta with at least three meals
• Don't eat anything that contains ingredients that you either can't pronounce or can't identify
• High fructose corn syrup, trans fat, artificial sweetners and anything "enriched" is a no-no.
  
• Avoid processed food like the plague
• Cook
• Exercise

I bought both her book and her cookbook. It has made all of the difference in the world and I feel good preparing this stuff for my kids. Neither one of them will eat from the school cafeteria anymore (thank God).

There are a couple of drawbacks, though.

This lifestyle requires lots of planning. There's really no room for a spur of the moment pizza from Dominoes if you forget to defrost the chicken. Generally, I have a pretty good idea about what we are going to have for every one of our meals and prepare accordingly. It's work, for sure, but it's worth it.

It's also challenging to travel and try to adhere to eating clean. More about that in a post tomorrow.

And let me tell you, buying all organic product is a kick in the wallet so I don't tolerate waste especially well. I've been know to chase my children with a half eaten apple demanding that it be finished because it cost us an arm and a leg. But, when I measure the cost against the health benefits, the environmental pluses and the humane treatment of animals, there's no real contest. Eat Clean doesn't say much beyond the recommendation to know thy farmer but after reading other stuff on the subject, I will never again purchase meat from animals that have been grown at concentrated animal feed operations or eggs from battery caged hens. EVER. EVER. EVER.

Did I mention that the body reacts to the increase in fiber, veggies and beans? Oh yes. We have become a flatulent bunch. Wickedly so. Apparently, as the body adjusts, the gas will pass (pun completely intended) but I couldn't wait for that indefinite time in the future and thus, found myself at the health food store using all kinds of euphemisms (windy, bloated, ripping) to try to explain my predicament to the sales girl. I came away with a $30 bottle of digestive enzymes which I am happy to report, seem to be helping.

Regardless of the few inconveniences, eating clean suits me. I can't imagine going back to dieting or processed food or low carb or any of the other excesses that used to be a part of my life.

Now, excuse me while I go hug a tree, in my Birkenstocks, whilst munching on my granola.