Living to Eat

This weekend, the family soaked up some sun at our neighbourhood pool. I learned a couple of things.

First, the swim lessons my kids took this summer have done them a world of good. Watching my daughter, I couldn't believe that she was the same girl who started the school holidays with a floatie. Now, she throws herself off the diving board, head between her arms and legs like a frog behind her into the deep end of the pool. She is fearless. My son, has refined his stroke and now, he looks like the picture of grace instead of looking like the picture of one who is drowning. Achieving this tiny success has been good for his soul.

The other thing that struck me at the pool was the sheer size of most of the attendees. I don't mean this as some sort of sneering, looking-down-through-the-nose kind of thing, either. I just couldn't help but notice that most everyone, from the very, very, young to the middle-aged, were well beyond plump. I think the medical term is obese.

When I see an adult in that kind of shape, I always wonder what their story is because "there but for the grace of God" thing, you know? I'm in a good place these days but only because I entered my forties, had myself a mid-life crisis, experienced a few aged related signs of decay and decided to permanently change my lifestyle. I am ALWAYS just one nasty bout of PMS away from binging myself blind. I'm not kidding. The difference now is that when I stick my face into a tub of ice cream, I don't stay there for several months. And I won't add a silo full of rum, deep fried wings and a truckload of Starburst candies to the mix, either. I've spent most of my life yo-yo dieting and I'm not one to cast stones seeing as how my little glass house is pretty fragile.

But it bothers me when I see obese children. They just don't stand a chance. Marks and Spencer recently announced that they are now offering plus size clothing for toddlers, which is shocking to me only because it was a British retailer and not Wal-Mart, who adopted this idea first. The biggest threat to the health and welfare of western nations today is not some radical foreign entity but is found right here at home at the hands of Big Processed Food. If McDonald's, Kraft and General Mills are the princes, Monsanto is the king. It all starts with the corn and soybeans, kids.

I remember back when my daughter was just a baby learning to speak. We were in the car on our way home, trying to work our way through rush hour traffic. Both kids were tired, hungry and cranky. As we neared a set of lights, the familiar golden arches appeared out the window to the right hand side of the car. Olivia went crazy, pointing, babbling and finally, breaking down in tears as we passed without stopping. I was still several years away from understanding that a Happy Meal is a nutritional nightmare but something in my daughter's frenzied reaction to those iconic arches gave me pause. She couldn't yet form complete sentences but my daughter could say "french fry" with authority. It worried me. When I was a kid, fast food was a rare treat because we couldn't afford to eat out very often. Now, it seems that there are a lot of people that can't afford to eat in. There is something horribly wrong when it costs less to feed your family garbage than to nourish them with real, live, unprocessed, food. And the scariest thing of all is that it doesn't look like anything will change in the near future.

The List

Three years ago today, I had agreed to meet Dallas for "coffee and a chat". You know how it is when you reflect upon certain events in your life and you can pick out the few that were life changers? My first date with Dallas was one of those. You can read about that here.

I'm so glad that I wrote about that evening because three years later, I have a hard time remembering that I had a life before Dallas. Sometimes, I am afraid to go to sleep for fear that I will wake in the morning and have it all have been just a gorgeous dream.

One night, during my college years, a group of friends and I were sitting around drinking beer and listening to one girl lament the antics of her boyfriend who was more interested in bad boy frat events than their relationship. After several coolies, we decided that we each should write down those characteristics that we desired in a mate and commit to not settling for anything less. We would take control of our romantic destinies, goshdarnit! No more losers!
Yes, well, it was a great idea and one that I wish I had adopted as a personal philosophy but alas, it wasn't until I turned forty that I pulled out that list again and made some serious revisions. I'm not kidding. I wrote this stuff down and kept it. My top 5 traits (of 26) are listed below.

1. Kind To watch my husband wrap his arms around my daughter and give her a cuddle before bedtime and to see her entire body relax in the safety of his embrace is more important to me than words can describe. My son will emulate him and my daughter will hold up every boy she dates to the example that he has set. He is a magnificent father.

2. Emotionally intelligent Dallas is careful with the feelings of other people. Period. He thinks before he speaks and he takes responsibility for his behaviour and that's why he hasn't got an enemy on the planet. Even when I am at my hormonal nuttiest, it is more important for him to love than to engage in the crazy. He doesn't feel it necessary to be recognized as being right, even when he is. He's quietly mature and I find that irresistibly sexy.

3. Smart Intelligence is hard to define but by my standards, it's a combination of knowledge, experience and creative, original thought. My husband is a cerebral man unencumbered by pretense or posturing. He's a guy's guy who is equally comfortable underneath the hood of a car as he is in the boardroom. He reads and his retention of information is mind blowing, particularly as it relates to people. Dallas may not be in possession of a bachelor's degree but in any situation needing a great brain, I'd be queuing up behind him before anyone else.

4. Happy This might seem like an odd thing to have on my list but it was important to me that the fundamentals for personal contentment were a part of my future mate's makeup. I wasn't looking for a project. I wanted a partner; someone with whom to share my life. Four years after my divorce, I made a conscious decision to choose happiness because frankly, sad and angry people are in constant turmoil. My husband is a walking bundle of optimism. He has taught himself that real, enduring, joy is found in the mundane bits of life like a good glass of wine or the feel of clean sheets. He understands, without question, that to focus on what is right enables us to repair what is wrong. He is enlightened and empowered. He is happy.

The final characteristic in my top five was "filthy rich", which just goes to show you that there needs to be some flexibility in those lists! I still carry mine with me wherever I go and every now and then, I'll pull it out, review it and be awestruck all over again that I get to be Dallas's wife.

Three years ago today, we met.

Two years ago today, on a sweltering Friday night, we married. That was the day that my life, the one I was always destined to live, began.

Happy Anniversary, baby.

(.)

Unsavoury Options

My husband, bless his patient heart, is in the final stages of putting together his next career incarnation. For this, I am grateful because the last several years have been less than fulfilling for him. Considering the fact that we spend forty plus hours per week on the job, there should be something redeeming in the workplace, right? The worst thing is to feel like each day must be survived instead of embraced. Sadly, I bet most fit into that category.

So, I'm excited for Dallas because I think he's plugged into something good. And because the world is an imperfect place, there is a drawback, of course. The way it's looking right now, there's a great opportunity for him but it happens to be in another state.

Which means that we either live apart most of the time or we pick up our family and move.

Right now, I'm not able to fully wrap my brain around either option so I'm making like an ostrich.

It's quiet down there.


(Picture courtesy of dailymail.co.uk )

Laid Up

I have hurt myself.

My back. Oh, my aching back.

It started a couple of weeks ago when I mentioned to my husband that my interval run at the gym that night had been especially hard. My legs repeatedly cramped. I figured that my shoes were to blame and I needed to get into the running store to get fitted for another pair.

I had a pain in my right hamstring that radiated up into the glutes. I was proud of that pain because it meant that I had worked out hard enough to make my ass hurt. This is good, especially considering the fact that I am in possession of my mother's ass, which was my grandmother's and is defined only by it's incessant pilgrimage to my ankles. The pain meant that I could foolishly hope that my dedication would eventually change the shape and girth of that pancake sitting on top of my legs. I welcomed the hurt.

But then, it didn't go away. Instead, with each successive workout, it got worse spreading up into my lower back.

Last night, my routine called for squats and split squats, which I completed with special attention to form. By the time I got to my last set though, that wee throb in my lower back had turned into a scream. Uh oh.

I got onto the treadmill to finish up with a twenty minute interval training and at the four minute mark, I had to get off and switch to the elliptical, which was no picnic, but doable.

I've been chewing ibuprofen since then.

This morning, the simplest thing like GETTING OUT OF BED hurt more than I care to admit.

This aging thing sucks donkey balls.

Limbo

You know, there is a dead zone between reality and perception and I think a lot of us get stuck in that crazy place for years at a time.

My life has always been defined by an undercurrent of needing "more". While in university, I convinced myself that I wasn't traveling enough. Life experiences were passing me by. I felt that completing my formal education was interfering with more meaningful endeavours like backpacking my way across Europe. In my head, there was something noble and enlightened about surviving on Ramen noodles for months and canceling my car insurance in order to buy a week's trip to Jamaica. I believed that travel ranked right up there with food and clothing on the necessity scale of personal development and thus, the perception of being limited by the financial burden of my student status fueled my discontent for nearly five years.

The reality of that situation was a bit different. While studying for finals, I got an itch for McDonald's seasoned curly fries, which had recently debuted and were hopelessly addicting. I threw my unwashed hair into a ponytail, shrugged on a sweatshirt (no bra) and grabbed my car keys. I had been existing on coffee and nicotine and hadn't seen the inside of a shower in at least twenty four hours. I'm sure I could have peeled wallpaper with my breath.

In my quest for fries, everything was normal until I got into the turning lane for the drive thru. I glanced into my rear view mirror just in time to see a half ton truck bearing down on my little shitbox that four waiters could lift up and move (true story). I braced myself and two seconds later, I was slammed from behind and pushed fifteen feet into a truck in front of me.

I got out of the car, dazed, and with relief, I saw that the damage didn't appear to be too bad....until I walked around to the passenger side (feet freezing in my flip flops) and saw that the passenger door looked like someone had taken a boulder to it. The door wouldn't open. And damn, it was cold. Besides my feet, I could feel a breeze coming in from the hole in the right cheek of my sweatpants where I had caught them on a fence after a boozy softball game the previous summer. I crossed my arms over my chest and with horror, remembered that I hadn't corralled the girls before leaving the apartment. So there I was, standing beside my crumpled car, in the cold, no proper shoes, no make up, smelly, braless AND WITHOUT INSURANCE.

Excellent.

Let's just say that my perception of where insurance ranked on my totem pole of priorities, shifted that day. For the next year, my reality became working extra hours to pay the thousands of dollars that the accident had cost me. I never once gave travel a second thought for the rest of my university years.

So today, as I grab hold of the crystal ball demanding answers, I am aware that my indecision is fueled by the sheer vastness of that gray area that exists between perception and reality. Age might give you maturity, patience and logic but it is not entirely immune to the messages of one's youth. Occasionally, mine still whisper velvet notes of inadequacy, licking the edges of my insecurities and rendering me immobile with the fear of failure.

And even as I force myself to ignore those taunts, the thought that flits across my belly is, "what if I am wrong?".

Birth of a Handyman

Gosh, where to start?

My husband is officially unemployed, which at first, cause my left eye to twitch uncontrollably but as the idea grew on me, I couldn't help pondering all of the possibilities associated with his status change.

It's HONEY-DO LIST time! Wheee.

So, yes, where do we start?

Hmmm...

I think that the front yard would be an excellent first place. Our flower bed has become a safe harbour for every variety of grass, weed and otherwise undesirable plant known to mankind. I have two gorgeous urn planters rotting in our garage that are just CRYING to be put outside and filled with a delightful mix of seasonal blooms. The expanse of the front lawn could use a tree and not necessarily because we need the shade but more because we are desperate for some green ornamentation to detract from the jail-like, cheap, quality of our exterior. Speaking of cheap, we could really use a new mailbox because that plastic job that we currently have, that leans like a disabled ship, is a bloody eyesore. Of course, it could be worse. It could look like this:


(This letterbox, designed by the famous Fred Flintstone, graces the property of my in-laws. It was a gift from one of the nicest men I've ever met.)

Anyway, back to that list.

In the backyard, my experiment at organic gardening has gone horribly awry. The rabbits ate all of the lettuce; the peppers didn't grow; the cucumber plants grew like weeds ALL OVER THE GARDEN and they flowered but so far, we've only had a lone, runt cucumber. The yellow beans have also prospered but are devoured by a famished bug that is shaped like a stealth bomber before we have a chance to get them off the vine. The one bright spot is the melon plant, which resembles the cucumber in both appearance and reach. It's massive and growing completely out of control. There are, however, four gorgeous melons flourishing under my tender loving neglect, their presence of which has led my children to believe that I am some sort of agricultural deity. Dallas needs to get in there an use his farming skills to prune back the jungle that has become the southwest corner of our yard, if for no other reason than to help me maintain the goddess illusion.

And the compost needs turning. Kumba ya mate.

And we could really use a pool. It's unbearably hot these days.

Inside the house, the projects are just too numerous to detail here. All I can say is that I believe a skill saw is in my husband's immediate future.

Rants from the Left

Not much time for decent musings lately but I do have a comment about a couple of current events that stuck with me.

No matter how you try to tone it down, as the Los Angeles Times did when they described it as "having sex with a teenage girl", Roman Polanski, at the age of 43, forced himself on a thirteen year old child. Over here, we call that rape. Who cares that he was a brilliant filmmaker? The guy is a pedophile. The fact that the Swiss refused to extradite him is really disappointing.

I cannot believe that Sarah Palin is still in the news or that anybody gives a rat's ass what she has to say.

What the hell happened to Mel Gibson? There must be a tumor in his head because otherwise, how do you explain this crazed, violent, bigoted, racist, sexist train wreck? Could it be that he was always like this? If I were a betting girl, my bucks would be on early stage dementia. Shame. I could have lived, quite happily, without knowing that Mel Gibson (subject of many of my teenage fantasies) was such an asshole.

Every day, I turn on the television to watch the news and inevitably, the recap of the day's events in the Gulf is given a spot. Every day, it feels like a kick to the groin. I wish the horror was over. The only thing to come of this disaster that might be interpreted as being even remotely good is that the public has gotten a clear and penetrating look at some of their politicians and wannabe bureaucrats. Yeah, I'm talking about you Rep. Barton. And you Sharron Angle. And YOU Rand Paul. Un-American? Get a freaking clue.