Ch ch ch ch CHANGES

Hi there.

I know that I've been abnormally quiet lately. I've received a few emails from the tens of you reading and first, I want to thank you for your concern. Everything is fine. I've got a lot going on right now including a big change for our family that I can't really chat about publicly yet.

Until then, please know that I miss you internet and look forward catching up soon.

Life is a Bowl of Cherries

Our holiday in New Zealand began with tense moments at the Tulsa airport. I am a cursed traveller. My family knows this to be true but we all ignore the bullseye on my backside because if we didn't, we'd never go anywhere.

We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I had planned for everything right down to the little quart-sized baggies that each of the five of us withdrew from our backpacks. I had strategically spread out the toiletries that would be needed in Sydney once we reached the hotel on our brief layover there before heading on to Auckland.

We passed through Tulsa security and made our way to a restaurant which was located near our departure gate. We had about an hour before takeoff. As we sat at the table, I fished around in my purse looking for my phone. I was waiting to hear about a deal that didn't get wrapped up before our trip and I promised my customer that I would check in with them in Denver and then again in Los Angeles, when we landed. But there was no phone. NO PHONE!

In an age where business agreements happen via text and voice, I was at a loss. Dallas hopped up and said he'd go check the car for me which was really pushing it since we had taken advantage of a long term parking arrangement that was off site and required a shuttle. We had exactly an hour and sixteen minutes before take off. He called from the car to give me the bad news. It wasn't there. Did I want him to go home and get it? I barely whispered, "yes," because I couldn't work through another solution in my brain. Off he went.

And the minutes ticked by.

He called to tell me that he had my phone and was on his way back to the airport. We were 34 minutes from departure.

Fifteen minutes later, they started boarding our flight. When there was no one left in the waiting room, the kids and I got up. I sent Dylan and Olivia onto the plane. I waited. Then, I approached the gate agent and LIED, telling him that my husband had just run out to the car for his forgotten diabetes medicine and would be right back. I have no idea why I said this except that it seemed so much more reasonable to expect them to hold an entire plane full of cranky holiday passengers for life saving insulin than for an asshole who left her business phone at home.

Turns out, it didn't matter either way. His reply was pretty blunt. He said,
"The only decision you have to make is whether or not you are going to get on that plane and make your flight or wait here for your husband and miss it." It was a horrible decision and in the thirty seconds that I stood in front of him opening and closing my mouth like a fish while my brain chugged away at a solution, my husband showed up.

And thus, my marriage lived to see another happy day because the truth is, I would have boarded that plane and left a note with the gate agent telling Dallas to pay whatever it took to get the next flight out to Los Angeles. He would not have been impressed.

I'm glad he made it, though. We had the time of our lives.


View from the airplane flying into Queenstown (South Island) Queenstown cemetery which wasn't the slightest bit creepy. I can't imagine a better place on this earth to be laid to rest if that's your sort of thing. Many of you might recognize this place. It's Hobbiton from from "Lord of the Rings" which is located just outside of Matamata on the North Island. My irreverant, yet completely lovable father in law. His date scones are a work of art and he generously taught me how to make them. My gorgeous mother in law. My fabulous sister in law who sat with me on my trip to Brazil, reintroduced me to gin and who gave me the best (albeit filthiest) Chrismas gift EVER. I will share more on that in another post. This is Gilly, my brother in law. He was a lovely, gracious host and I'm just thrilled that he's in our lives.
Cherry picking in the grove behind the house on Christmas Eve, 9:30 pm. I will NEVER forget that experience. You haven't lived until you've had the opportunity to eat a sweet, black cherry right off the tree.
The trouble with vacations is that they always end.

The Joys of Brazil

I used to love the idea of Brazil. To me, it conjured up images of gorgeous, scantily clad, people on pristine beaches with nary a care in the world. Brazil oozed uninhibited, sexy, sex, sex and I often dreamed about heading down there to experience Mardi Gras for myself.

Then, I gave birth and two things happened to me.

First, I learned that my pain tolerance, while still greater than any man's, was nevertheless, on the low side. I opted for the epideural. Childbirth without the use of modern pharmaceuticals is just crazy talk. Amen.

And second, almost overnight, I became more politically correct in the way I behaved. Metaphorically, I washed my mouth out with soap, shrugged on my idea of motherhood and generally morphed into an uptight, postpartum nightmare.

My kids grew, I divorced their father and finally met the man I was always destined to marry. Our romance ignighted all of those long forgotten stirrings south of the border and one day, I found myself necessarily contemplating the current landscape in personal grooming. Things had certainly changed in the decade that I had been married. Brazilian women and porn stars weren't the only ones removing it all.

I thought about it. And then I thought about how a single, stray pubic hair caught in the elastic of my panties could bring tears to my eyes. Since morphine is not readily available for waxes, I tucked the idea of a Brazilian far, far, away into the part of my brain where things I'm scared of reside and bought a better razor instead.

But I was always curious.

I spoke to my sister who told me that she tried it and didn't get very far because of the BLEEDING. (Oh my god!)

I talked with girlfriends who said it was unpleasant but SO worth it. (Define "unpleasant".)

I asked the sweet girl who does my hair and who waxes my face her opinion and she told me that having my upper lip waxed was more painful than having the hoo hoo done. (Really? REALLY? I so wanted to believe her.)

And then I chatted with my sister in law in New Zealand who practically rhapsodized about the girl who waxes her except Leisa is not a Brazilian kind of girl. She assured me that a simple bikini wax was painless. Yes, sure BUT WHAT ABOUT THE LABIA? She had no information for me on that one except to reiterate that her girl with her magic pink wax was a gift from God and did I want her to make an appointment for me?

Yes, please.

For the next three months, I fretted about that decision. Daily. I don't like pain and every time that I had my upper lip done, which really stings, I couldn't help but think that only someone with serious mental issues would subject her delicate bits to the same treatment.

December 23rd, we flew from Auckland to Queenstown where Leisa picked me up. We left the rest of our group to fend for themselves and took off to keep my beauty appointment. The first thing she told me to do was to get some Motrin into my body. "Why don't we just stop somewhere and get drunk?" I suggested. "No time," she replied and with that, we pulled up to the salon. It is not an exaggeration to tell you that I was terrified.

If you are planning to have your hoo hoo waxed, let me help you manage those expectations.

1. It hurts. Awful. I was lied to told that there were only a couple of bits that would hurt and she would warn me ahead of time to help me manage. She cautioned me the first time and oh sweet baby Jesus it hurt. It actually took my breath away. I grabbed her arm and asked her to give me a minute to recover before she ripped away the next piece. I estimate that there were a total of about six strips that made me see stars and you might be shaking your head thinking, "well, that's not too bad," but let me tell you, on a scale of 1 to 10 with ten being the worst, it was a 9. She said, "I thought you had children," to which I replied, "Did I mention I had an EPIDEURAL?" (Beware ladies. When someone compares the pain of something to childbirth, you know that Motrin just isn't going freaking cut it.)

2. Included in the Brazilian experience is the delightful job of getting one's posterior treated, as well. Although it's not a pleasant thought, there's hair there too. That part was painless, easy peasy, and contrary to some of the information out there, one does not have to be on all fours to get that area handled.

3. In addition to not shooting Botox into your forehead, it is inadvisable to wax your girlie bits when premenstrual. Apparently, during this special time of the month, a woman's sensitivity to pain is heightened. UNDERSTATEMENT.

After it was all said and done, I was pleased with the results and reassurred that the first time is the worst. Apparently, the process gets successively easier with each visit. Whatever.

The next time, (I know, how could I be contemplating a next time, right?) if I am ever insane enough to travel to Brazil again, I am either going to be heavily medicated or drunk. I am not kidding.

Not even one tiny, hairless bit.

Home

Well, we are officially "home". So, can someone please explain to me why I feel like I don't belong here?

Home for me has always been a murky, confused concept. When I was child and living in Canada, people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I'd sometimes answer, "An American". I had visions of movie stars, palm trees and endless sunny days. I was determined that I would live in California among the rich and beautiful and I would be happy.

Our family moved every four years or so with my father's job so I never got too emotionally attached to any single location in Canada. I made friends easily and I learned how to say good bye. Home for me was a fluid, transient place. My summers were spent in New Brunswick either on my grandparents' farm or at our cottage on the Northumberland Strait and it is those two places that I most associate with the idea of home. When my parents split and our house became a place I wanted to flee, my grandmother's kitchen still provided a steady, grounding, comfort. Over the years, I returned less and less often to New Brunswick because I was safe in the knowledge that it would always be there. The last time I went back was to attend my grammy's funeral. Tomorrow marks six years since her death but it could have been yesterday because it was then, at thirty seven years old, that I finally understood home is where the heart is.

My grandmother's kitchen without her in it left me feeling out of sorts and disjointed. I went into her closet and buried my face in her clothing trying desperately to catch a scent of something familiar, to remember, but my gram wasn't really one for fancy perfumes. I'm not even sure she had a favourite fragrance. She was gone. Period. The finality of the situation stunned me. At the time, my beloved 36 year old cousin, Cindi, was sick with lymphoma and in the throes of chemotherapy treatment. The sight of her, in a wig, frail and painfully thin rocked my world. I was terrified that she would die, too. My family is my home. It's odd that it took me so long to grasp that.

When we were in New Zealand, both Dallas and I were keenly aware of how precious our time is with our loved ones. We took special care to silently document all those moments that give life meaning. I watched my citified daughter collect still warm eggs from the chicken coop as if she'd been born to do it. I witnessed my son climb his first tree and spend more hours outdoors with his cousins than in front of a computer screen. I saw months of tension and stress melt away from my husband as he became a Kiwi again. On New Years Eve, we were awakened at midnight by cheers and fireworks in Auckland. There was something deeply satisfying about starting 2011 in New Zealand. We left on New Year's Day at an impossible time in the morning. As we pulled away from the house, we could see the silouette of Dallas's parents waving from the kitchen window. It felt like we were leaving home. It seemed wrong.

All of this probably explains why, after thirty six hours of travel, I opened my front door and was a disoriented stanger in my own house. I had the overwhelming sense that we don't belong here. In this house. In this city. In this country.

I wish we were home.