Last night, my daughter graduated from elementary school and will find herself walking through the halls of her junior high come this February.
There was a point in the ceremony when they showed each child's year six photo split screen with their picture from grade one. They were so damn small with their chubby cheeks and dimpled fingers.
It washed over me then, that the parents of those twenty, precious, babies in Connecticut, will never have the opportunity to see their children graduate from elementary school.
My heart is broken.
There are no words...
Monday, December 17, 2012
Grief
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Life Interrupted
When we first moved here, one of the first people that Dylan met was a chatty, kinetic, kid named Dean. He accepted Dylan without reservation and quickly became a friend.
About six months ago, something changed for Dean.
He seemed troubled. Dylan mentioned issues at school and drug use. In late August, Dean showed up at Dylan's shack (his bedroom down by the pool) asking for help. I was in the US at the time. Apparently, Dean shared that he was really sad and that things were not good at home. He was clearly, seriously, depressed. Dylan used the word, "suicidal". Dylan asked him to wait in his room while he walked over to meet Dallas and Olivia at my in laws house to have dinner. Once there, Dylan told Grammy and Papa about Dean, which caused an immediate panic. Dallas hadn't made it home from work yet so Dylan and Grammy drove back to our house where Dean was picked up and driven to his own home. The whole event was tense, weird and uncomfortable because it was obvious that something was really wrong but not one person could articulate exactly what "it" was. All that we knew was that Dean was a problem and that we didn't want Dylan anywhere near it. I felt like Dean was a threatening black hole that if he wasn't careful, Dylan could fall in. It scared the shit out of me.
Several weeks later, one of Dylan's other friends asked him to return a Nintendo DS that he had borrowed from her. He opened his night table drawer to discover the DS and its charger were gone. We turned the house upside down looking for it. Dylan suspected Dean had taken it and I reminded him that being a problem kid doesn't make one a thief and that it was more likely was that he (Dylan) had misplaced the DS or left it somewhere. Truthfully, I was a little disappointed that Dylan would assume the worst. His lack of personal responsibility bothered me.
In September and October, we didn't hear much about Dean except to learn that he had spun out of control and that most of his old friends avoided him. Dylan had very little time for him. He was convinced that the DS had walked out the door in Dean's coat pocket and as a result, he didn't like him or trust him anymore.
On November 24th, as we were heading out to dinner, Liv told me that she saw someone walk down the driveway towards Dylan's room. I went out onto the balcony and saw Dean slip through the gate and walk into Dylan's shack. A minute later, he walked out, looked up and I waved to him indicating that he should go to the front door.
I opened the door and gently asked that the next time he come to visit, that he please come to the front door, first. Without meeting my eyes, he nodded, mumbled his apologies and asked to speak with Dylan. The entire exchange lasted thirty seconds and left me feeling anxious. Dylan chatted with him briefly and then sent him on his way telling me that he didn't want anything to do with him.
"What did he want?" I asked
"Someone to talk to," Dylan replied.
We didn't view that request at face value because of the missing DS and the fact that we'd had items go missing from our garage when the door was open. Dean seemed to be a kid who had a problem with drugs and we felt that given the opportunity to steal, he would, presumably to fund his drug habit. On that Saturday night, Dallas and I delayed our departure by about half an hour as I didn't feel comfortable leaving the house right away. Like Dylan, I didn't trust Dean.
On the evening of the 28th, after dinner, Dylan came into our bedroom, pale. He'd received a call telling him that Dean had been found dead in a small nature reserve about 1/4 mile from our house.
We have since learned that this child hanged himself with a garden hose.
In the several days since learning of his death, we have run through the gamut of emotions from shock to disbelief to guilt to profound, heartbreaking, sadness. This past Saturday, Dylan was at Dean's house for a gathering organized by his family. The family was able to shed some light on Dean's state of mind. They felt that he was lost to them for months and that he just didn't want anymore "help". Dylan went over expecting to find a shabby house and an aloof family. He wanted to be able to blame a terrible home life for Dean's death. Instead, he met a perfectly lovely mum and dad and two older sisters in the throes of unimaginable grief. I think it was important for him and for all of the kids that attended to understand that mental disease, depression and drug addiction are not reserved for the disenfranchised or the abused. They are equal opportunity afflictions.
In Dean's room, Dylan found his missing DS. There was no joy or satisfaction in learning that his suspicions were right. The discovery just deepened his sadness. He made the decision not to say anything.
Two days ago, Dylan visited the spot where Dean took his life. That night, he finally cried for the loss of his friend. He is consumed with guilt for turning Dean away. He is working through that with a school counsellor.
I know that these awful things happen. I have seen unmedicated depression before. I understand drug and alcohol abuse. None of that makes this any better, though.
Dean turned sixteen just days before he died.
Tomorrow, we will lay him to rest.
I hope that with time, we will all find a measure of peace in the shambles that is this tragedy.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Whew
Now that the election is over, I can exhale.
No more old, white, men trying to redefine the legitimacy of rape or the will of their God.
No more Donald Trump, reigning king of the asshats and bankruptcy.
I'm still surprised at the level of hateful rhetoric and the widening partisan divide, though. I don't hold out much hope for cooperative, centrist governing over the next four years.
Besides President Obama being reelected, there was one other moment for me on election night that I will relive whenever I need a little pick me up.
It's good to know that money can't buy everything. I get tickled every time I watch Mr. Rove trying to make the arithmetic work for him. I wonder if he plays the ponies...
Anyway, now that the world has been confirmed to still be firmly planted on its axis, I get to enjoy all of the awesome things that are going on lately.
First, it's nearly summer here. We've been getting some rain but I could care less because the scenery is nothing short of magnificent.
This, came from my garden and she is one of about ten different varieties of roses that are growing around our yard. We have Peruvian day lilies, geraniums, daisies, white azaleas, impatiens, portwine magnolias, a lime tree, a lemon tree and heaps of Mexican daisies. Visually, it just knocks my socks off and the hydrangeas, which last year, were the size of rock melons, haven't even begun to bloom yet.
With the summer, the paddling season kicks into full swing. When I tell people that I paddle, they think this:
These are ROWERS. They go backwards. They are not fat. Their uniforms are very tight and revealing. Hence, I don't row.
I paddle dragon boats on Monday and Wednesday nights.
My true love, the thing that has caused me to forsake my family on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Saturday mornings and sometimes Sundays, is this:
So, as the holiday season approaches, my schedule will be filled with training, races, regattas, camping, wine, food, friends and family. I've learned that in order for me to feel complete as a human being, I need to live near the ocean. My fondest memories are of summers at Brulé Beach, NB, my senior year in Vancouver, BC and the five years I spent in San Diego, CA. The ocean is the common thread that runs through them all. I will never again be landlocked. Ever.
Shame that it has taken me 45 years to figure this out.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Election 2012
It is with a certain amount of anxiety that I wait for the election results to unfold themselves this 6th day of November 2012.
Although we do not spend the majority of our time in America anymore, my family is firmly vested in the future of the United States.
I hope Obama wins. I think he has done as good a job as possible in the time that he has had although I wish he had been more partisan in the first two years of his presidency.
Mitt Romney and the idea of him as president, frightens me on a level that makes me uncomfortable.
I hope Americans show up in droves to vote.
And we wait....
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Not Your Average Pinko Commie
I'm liberal in my political leanings.
I believe in the right to collective bargaining in the same way that I believe in the right to free speech, the right for a woman to choose abortion and the right of two gay people to marry.
I'm not a big fan of unions, though, which may appear counterintuitive but let me explain.
All through university, during my summer breaks, I was employed by one of the big three auto companies in one of their parts distribution warehouses in Canada. I got paid an obscene amount of money to drive a forklift. I cannot express how grateful I am for those dollars. They enabled me to feed myself and make my car payment for the entire year after just 12 weeks of work.
And I worked like a dog. I made sure that my picking or placing stats were at the top of the employee heap for a couple of reasons. First, my father, worked for the same company, albeit, out in Vancouver and I was very much aware that I, by proxy, represented him. The other thing was that while my university friends were shlepping it out in the restaurants or painting houses or planting trees in the far north during their summer breaks, I understood how fortunate I was to have my auto job and I felt like I owed it to every server being left a $1.00 tip, to put in a full, honest, eight hours.
This work ethic, shared by a large percentage of the student employees, often got us into trouble with the regular workers, who felt that we made them "look bad". That attitude left a sour taste in my mouth. The work was not difficult. It could be repetitive and boring but it wasn't stressful and didn't require a special skill set. We were often admonished to "slow down", "go have a cigarette", "relax". To give you perspective, I attended university from 1988 through 1992. Back then, I made nearly $30 per hour driving that forklift for the summer. THIRTY DOLLARS PER HOUR. The regular workers made more.
I came away with the understanding that there was a lot of fat in the auto industry and that the biggest threat to the auto company's ability to compete had very little to do with Japan and far more to do with the pervasive sense of entitlement that the union had fostered in the workforce. I'm not saying that unions don't have their place and that they weren't formed out of necessity but how many teachers, who are crappy at their jobs, are still standing in front of a classroom today? One only has to spend a single day trying to set up a trade show booth at Javits in NYC to experience the frustrating inefficiency of that particular union.
So, today, I read about how another American Airlines flight was forced to make an emergency landing after there seemed to be some sort of issue with the landing gear. This latest incident came after a series of delays and "maintenance issues" instigated by the pilots over the last couple of weeks in an orchestrated effort to hurt the airline. There was a question as to whether or not this latest problem was real or a job action created by the pilots but the point became moot because management executives at American waved the white flag and got back to contract negotiations. I do understand the fundamental reasoning behind trying to financial cripple a company to achieve one's bargaining goals but I don't like that the consumer is the one that gets the shaft.
Maybe I am naive, but I think that if left to it, the market might just take care of itself. (That sounds so Republican, right?) There should be a fair wage for a fair day's work. If that wage doesn't attract the caliber of people that company x wants, they will have no choice but to increase wages and sweeten the benefits pot. Personally, I think teachers, nurses, police and first responders should be paid HUGE bucks, which would, theoretically, create a much larger pool of talent from which to choose. Employment in those fields would be competitive and once secured, I imagine it would be cherished.
Look, I know that I haven't covered all of the variables in a scenario like that. I know that my viewpoint is pretty narrow and I do acknowledge that unions are sometimes very, very, necessary but there has to be some sort of middle ground, which seems to be a metaphor for just about everything in the US right now. It would be nice for us to work our way to the center, which is where I think the majority of Americans reside.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
My Banker Sucks
I hate my banker. Is that okay to say in a public forum?
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Trippin'
This morning, I woke up with the familiar paddle soreness in my delts and lats, which made me happy, happy, happy. Last night, after missing three trainings, I returned to the water with shiny new blade in hand and paddled 10km. My god, how I love the sport. It is intimately intertwined with the love I feel for New Zealand. It's awesome to be home.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Boeing or Bust
I'm leaving tomorrow for an overseas business trip and like EVERY other time I cross the Pacific, I find myself paralyzed by the number of tasks that I must accomplish before leaving.
Of course, it is vitally important that I clean every square inch of the house. Why? I'm not sure but somewhere, there must exist a bible for good wives and mothers that ranks a spotless home as top among those identity-affirming characteristics.
Bedsheets must be changed. This is essential because I'm not interested in arriving back in Auckland in two weeks time to be greeted by both my family and their sheets, which will have sprung forth from the bed screaming, "For Chrissakes, WASH ME!"
Speaking of laundry...
It all has to be done because the last time I went away, Dallas text asking me to send directions on how to operate the washing machine.
True story.
I love my mother in law and if I don't do the laundry, I will be able to go on Google Earth and see my husband's jeans flapping in the wind on the clothesline at her house because he still thinks it's perfectly ok to have his mum clean his clothes.
Of course, there are also all of those last minute business issues that need to be tied up before leaving. I do have better than half a day on an airplane but I won't be working there. I will be drinking bubbles, popping controlled medicine and (hopefully), sleeping most of the way over the Pacific. You see, tomorrow morning, I will be out on the water with my teammates, paddling just over 25km. This journey takes a little under three hours to accomplish. Many, many calories will be expended. Muscles will scream. By the time I board the plane tomorrow night, I expect to be shattered. I'll probably snore, which is when I am my most attractive. Bottom line, the presentations have to be finished before I go.
Finally, there looms the job of packing. It takes me hours to decide what stay and what goes. There is nothing I like less. I am the quintessential, "what if" girl. What if the weather in Vegas suddenly turns cold? What if I get an opportunity to swim when there is not a single other person around? What if I find the perfect, sleeveless, dress in Santa Monica that begs for a wrap to keep my shoulders warm? What if we get a freak snowstorm in Arkansas? So, I will find myself standing over a suitcase packed for every imaginable contingency and I will end up wearing exactly 1/16th of it. And I will forget something essential...like a toothbrush or underpants. Guaranteed.
In the past, when embarking upon extended trips abroad, I have prepared meals in advance and frozen them with the idea that they were to be pulled out in the morning to thaw and tossed in the oven at night. I am so not that wife anymore. Gratefully, she died and fucked off to Stepford although today, I have to admit that I toyed with the idea of making pie.
Why pie?
I'm not sure except that my pie is really quite good and if anything awful, tragic or otherwise newsworthy, should ever happen, it would be nice to know that my family's last memory of me included a clean house, fresh sheets and a perfectly baked pie.
I do realize how much I need therapy.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Beast
The past few days have been pretty difficult.
I am premenstrual and it's an especially bad episode.
I hate everyone and everything.
I am not rational.
The little things that make me crazy in my marriage, my career and my life as a mother are so magnified and unmanageable right now that I want to take a handful of valium and blur my way through the next couple of days.
Since that is neither advisable nor reasonable, I've chosen to exhaust myself on the water and in the gym. Ibuprofen is my new best friend.
Yesterday, Olivia came home and one look at the anxiety on her face told me that something was seriously amiss.
"What is wrong?" I asked. I did so because good mothers find out why their children are distressed and even though I knew her answer was going to piss me the hell off, I thought I should probably fake the good mother part.
"I lost my backpack," she whimpered, looking up at me with teary, apprehensive, eyes.
And then it all went to custard pretty quickly.
The first story I got was how she "turned her back for a second" and the backpack was taken. The truth was that she had abandoned the bag at the front of the school and gone off to play at the dairy with one of her mates, who happens to be a child that I dislike. Upon her return, her bag was gone.
We drove to the school to look for it and I bellowed at Olivia like a crazy person. I suspect that individual who stole the bag saw this exchange between nutso parent and cowering, crying child because several minutes later as we were driving back home, the school office called to tell me that Olivia's PE top, her school jacket, her mitts and her umbrella were turned into the office in a torn plastic shopping bag. The $85 backpack, her lunch box, homework and book were gone but someone was nice enough to return her school uniform. It's a bit like a thief taking the money from a lost wallet but returning the ID to the owner... bittersweet, but hard not to be grateful.
We came home, ate dinner and then, I left to go to outrigger practice. While in the driveway, my husband text me. I answered and waited for his reply, which never came. This infuriated me so I spent the next several minutes driving and using the SIRI feature on my iPhone to text Dallas the following message:
"Why in the world do you insist on beginning text conversations in which you find yourself unable to participate?"
SIRI never got it right and the frustration of looking down to see that what I had said and what SIRI had written (a garbled bunch of gobbledygook) were not the same, was more than I could manage. I threw my head back and screamed in the car until the back of my throat hurt. I imagine that spectacle might have been terrifying for the other drivers stopped at the red light.
Then, Dallas called and there was so much noise in the background, it was hard to hear him. He still hadn't left the office and when he gave me the corporate line about how he was the owner of his business unit, had responsibilities, blah, blah, blah, I felt the last drops of empathy leech out of my body and be replaced by quivering, coiled, anger.
I arrived at the ramp, grabbed my paddle and POUNDED it through the water for 10km. With every stroke, the fury and frustration of my day subsided and by the time we pulled back up to our ramp, I felt mostly sane.
This morning, I'm sore and just under the surface, I'm surprised to find that the rage is still there.
So, I'm off to the gym because it's the only place where I am able to think, these days.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Just Doing It
This past weekend, I was an athlete.
As a young child, I was always involved in sport but my participation was mainly focused on those activities that didn't require primo cardiovascular conditioning. I was the kid that played baseball, volleyball and basketball at school but I didn't run track in the spring. Instead, I competed in the long jump and triple jump. There was one year that I competed in the hurdles but doing anything in a short burst is manageable so I could hold my own. In the winter, I played ice hockey and although it is a vigorous sport, I played left defense so I didn't cover near the ice that the wingers and centre did.
In my teens, after morphing into an asshole, my team sporting days came to an end. Instead, I participated in other group activities like pot bongs, rock concerts and lemon gin drinking games.
(I shudder just a bit as I wait for that karmic boomerang to circle back around.)
In my late teens, I discovered the gym and since then, I've had a love/hate relationship with weights and cardio machines. Over the years, I have had to recognise the undeniable fact that my sense of well being is directly correlated to my level of fitness. There is just no way around it.
The aging process has presented some interesting challenges, though. I have aches and pains now. I have limitations. My strength has diminished. I'm old enough to have had surgery to repair injuries from my youth. On the waxing table every month, I am so grateful that my girl leaves the room to allow me to get dressed because trying to get off that table is a freak show. My back stiffens to the point that I have to roll off the thing to get my feet underneath me. It's not my most attractive moment.
In spite of the slow decay of my body, I am happiest when I find myself engaged in rigorous activity most days of the week and thus, paddling on this outrigger/waka ama team has been a life changing experience. We train two nights and Saturday mornings. This past weekend, in an effort to get ready for an upcoming 30km race, our coach planned a journey from our Pakuranga ramp, out to Brown's Island, around, and back again. We were advised to use our CamelBaks and bring food. I was terrified.
It was a beautiful day here on Saturday. Temperatures hovered near 20 degrees C. There were lots of boats out enjoying the weather and consequently, we got some swells and took on some water.
Learning how to use the hydration pack on my back was awkward, especially, when you consider that you try to miss only a single stroke while inserting the mouthpiece. By the time we hit the point where we usually turn around, I wasn't sure I would be able to cope with the distance.
Then we went beyond Half Moon Bay and into Buckland's Beach. After cruising past Music Point, we crossed the channel, rife with ferry traffic, and pointed the nose of the waka to the east side of Brown's Island. As we neared the top of the island, the vastness of Rangitoto to our north loomed ahead. We turned into the channel between the two islands and there, spread out in all her gorgeousness, was the Auckland skyline. It took my breath away. In that moment, with the sun shining, salt drying on my shoulders and the rhythmic chant of the paddles entering and exiting the sea, my life was a little ball of perfection.
After rounding Brown's, we paddled back in much the same lane as we had come. With Half Moon Bay off in the distance and exhaustion setting in, I wondered how deep down I was going to have to dig to finish. The weird thing is that your mind goes to a different place and somehow, you endure. Even when you think you can't paddle one stroke more, you keep on.
I started singing Eminem lyrics in my head in time with my stroke. Then, I counted. Then, I worked on a specific aspect of my stroke like twisting and reaching. Then, everything quieted for a time and there was no noise in my head except the sound of me chewing my gum. I remember thinking that the faint taste of mint that remained was the most delicious flavour I'd ever experienced.
On the evenings when we train, we often head out to a green marker around which a big yellow Catamaran named, "Krisis", is moored. Those trainings out to her and back are no longer much of a challenge for me from an endurance standpoint. However, nothing made me happier than to see her come into view. She represented the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
"Almost home", I thought.
"I can do this".
For the very last kilometer, our coach asked for 100% power. I gritted my teeth and actually grunted.
The last 500 metres, she asked for 100% power and 100% speed. I felt my gorge rise and slightly panicked, I thought I might vomit my spleen.
When the call came for, "EASY", which is our signal to stop, I lay my paddle across the gunnels and gulped for air, queasy, lightheaded and completely, spent.
In two hours and forty eight minutes, we paddled just over twenty five kilometers.
We did it.
I did it.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Dark Roots Are The New Black
My roots are showing. On purpose.
In the ongoing fiasco that it has been to find someone to do my hair in Auckland, I have finally waved the white flag.
The first attempt was a nightmare and I walked out of the salon looking worse than when I had entered.
The second girl, an American in Auckland and owner of a salon, got closer, but still missed the mark by a HUGE distance, even with explicit written directions. I saw her five times and when she made the ultimate error (using bleach), I knew that I would never darken the doorstep of her salon, ever, ever again. I liked her but her results were abysmal.
At the tail end of all of this, I made a trip back to the USA and was able to see the woman who had taken care my hair for the last decade. She confirmed everything I'd already known to be true. My colour was a calico patchwork of bad, my hair was a dried out mess and my cut was an overly texturized mop. I looked like shit. It took nearly four hours but she was able to fix it to about 60% of what it used to be. It would require several more visits, which was obviously impossible since I live an ocean away.
So, to console myself, I ate a peanut butter cup and understood that at least I would look somewhat fabulous for three and a half weeks.
(At this point, the male readers might want to check out and go grab a beer because the next bit of blather may cause emasculation.)
Cut to six weeks later, with a swatch of ugly roots and I found myself at the one of the priciest salons in Auckland today. I had heard really good things about them and in desperation, I made an appointment. I was convinced that in order to manage, I was going to try a new hair trend called, ombre.
Ombre is the process of a gradual lightening of the hair whereby the darkest part is the top of the head and the lightest bit is the located at the ends. For me, that meant having a look at and embracing my natural colour for the first time in, oh, nearly twenty years. I still had perky boobs the last time I had brown hair and my hair isn't a pretty brown laced with sun-kissed highlights. My brown hair is mousy, dull, fugliness, the stuff of welcome mats and saddle blankets.
These are examples of celebrity ombre.
Camila Alves awesomeness |
Jessica Biel being stunning |
Obviously, they make ombre look great but so do the stick models who make us voluptuous girls believe that skinny jeans could work for us, which is a bit like stuffing sausage into a casing, but I digress....
Anyhow, I asked my new girl, Vivienne, to make me ombre. She refused and sensibly counseled that since I had been blonde since the beginning of time, baby steps were in order. This visit, she'd add in some darker tones and allow me to adjust to the difference. She was right, of course, because the first look I got at my new, darker, self, was jarring. You become relatively accustomed to the person staring back at you in the mirror and when you make a dramatic change, it's scary.
And then, I came home and my kids told me I looked younger.
And then all was right in my world.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Asshat of the Week
And the award goes to...
US REPUBLICAN REP TODD AKIN
Last week, this Missouri Senate candidate decided to educate us all on rape. In his opinion, there is "legitimate rape" and, well, I'm not exactly sure what else there could be. Illegitimate rape?
He used this terminology in defense of his position regarding abortion and rape victims. He said, and I quote,
"First of all, from what I understand from doctors, pregnancy after rape is really rare. If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."
What happens if a raped woman finds herself pregnant? It gets even better. Akin went on to say,
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Baked
I have been in a baking frenzy for the better part of a month and I now understand two fundamental things.
First, I could use some professional tutelage. There are things about baking, science things, that are not easily absorbed by watching one's grammy in the kitchen. My grandmother could bake the pants off of anyone I know. Her molasses cookies were worth saving in the aftermath of an auto accident. I can still smell her bread and I miss, really, really miss, the taste of it smothered in butter and homemade jam. Grammy knew the mechanics of a pinch. She knew when to fold and when to sift. She rarely used a recipe or a measuring cup, for that matter, the skill of which, would be really handy down here in New Zealand since the US cup measure and the metric cup measure are different. Baking down here is in grams. People weigh stuff. There's no shady grey area that my grammy inhabited.
On my recent trip back to America, I bought a Kitchenaid mixer at Sam's Club, took it out of its box, and packed it in my suitcase. I saved myself about $800 in the process. True story.
I have coveted that damn thing for probably the last five years or so and don't know why I never bought one. I have used it every single day since its arrival in New Zealand and it has made a huge difference in both the quality and the pleasure I take from baking. I am now on the hunt for a Quisinart food processor and since I have to be in the States again next month, I'm planning to save a spot in my suitcase.
Second thing I now understand is that my pallet is blah, boring, soaked in vanilla, pedestrian. I haven't a clue how to "create" new and exciting stuff. I watch Master Chef and the rest of the cool foodie programs and I am in awe of the some of those people. They put the most interesting flavours together and somehow, it all works. Me? I am a cookbook-reading, recipe-following-to-the-letter, have all of my ingredients out and ready to go, kind of gal. I haven't got a creative cell in my body.I mention this only because my new venture requires creativity and an ability to produce a specific visual aesthetic.
I plan to make cupcakes. The trend is still quite new here and there is opportunity. I'm also sticking a foot into the individual dessert camp and the gluten free corner, just for good measure. (Pun intended)
So, it looks like I'm going to have to take a few classes because while my baked goods taste pretty awesome, they are fugly, with a capital F. I'd post a pic but I'm completely embarrassed as to my lack of icing piping expertise.
I recently completed a council-mandated food safety course, which was surprisingly eye opening. I attended with the idea that the instructor wouldn't be able to teach me anything I didn't already know and I was completely wrong. Just as an aside, want to know one of the biggest culprits when it comes to food poisoning? I know, you're thinking seafood or some other protein, right? It's rice. RICE. Stuff sits in those cookers for HOURS at temperatures that spawn lots of lovely bacteria. Consider yourself warned. Oh, and those antibacterial wipes...let's just say that I'm not a big fan anymore.
So, over the next little while, I plan to post a few pictures here and there about some of my prettier and more successful (individual pineapple upside down cakes with warm, dark butter rum sauce) forays into the dessert world.
Could be interesting or it could end up being a bit like watching paint dry. My apologies in advance.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Whiskers
My darling boy approached me the other day and told me he needed a shaving kit.
I instantly felt like he'd punched me in the stomach.
I peered closely at his face, willing the ever more distinctive brown fuzz above his lip to disappear. I am not ready to be the mother of a son that shaves in quite the same vein as I am not ready to contemplate him behind the wheel of a vehicle.
I called his mobile the other day to inquire as to his whereabouts and a man answered, which startled me. His voice was deep down in his boots. It took a second for the world to stop spinning.
I remember my baby boy when he was brand new to the world. I remember him as got his first teeth and took his first steps. I remember getting the news of his hearing impairment and his wonder at the world when he could hear the birds chirp. I remember his first day at kindy and his unbridled amazement the first time he walked through the doors of the Magic Kingdom at Disney. I remember everything except when it was that he transitioned from a little boy to a man.
When children are babies and you haven't slept a full night in months, it's hard not to wish they were older. When they graduate to toddlers and throw tantrums in the grocery store, it's natural to look to a time in the future when they won't demand so much of your patience. When children morph into preadolescents and treat you like you like an ATM with a car, it's reasonable to count down the days until they can earn their own cash and chauffeur themselves.
Then, without warning, those days are upon you. You catch sight of him eating his breakfast and notice that his hands are those of an adult. Suddenly, he talks about politics, music and part time jobs instead of video games and tv shows. Long gone are his dimpled wrists and chubby knees. In their place is this tall, thin, young man in need of a shaving kit.
I'm still wrapping my head around that.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Another Airline Odyssey
During the most recent New Zealand school holidays which ran from 30 June through 15 July, I took the kids back to the US to see their biological father. When he and I were negotiating the mechanics of a custody arrangement that allowed me to remove the children from America to live in another country, one of the things to which I agreed, was that I would be responsible to arrange and fund their return to the US once a year.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Skip The Fifty Shades
I know that I haven't written very much lately so what I'm about to say may sound a bit like sour grapes but I just read yet another article about the "Fifty Shades of Gray" trilogy and I just don't get it. Well, I get some of it but I don't understand the furor.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
All Fired Up
Holy shit, it's cold in my house. Seriously.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Haere Ra (Good bye)
On Saturday, I went to a funeral.
At our race, the previous week, one of our Waka Ama team members died suddenly. He wasn't paddling. Since our club hosted the race, duties like the time keeping, safety briefing, waka inspecting were the responsibility of the more senior members of the club. He was on one of the support boats when it happened. He was 41 years old.
I'm not sure the exact cause of death because over the last seven days, there really hasn't been an appropriate moment to ask and frankly, it doesn't matter whether it was an aneurysm or a heart attack, he's still gone.
I went to practice on Tuesday night completely oblivious because I'd had to leave immediately after my race on Saturday and was not there when the tragedy occurred. I arrived at our ramp to find that I was the only car in the parking lot. I called my coach.
"You don't know?" she gasped, "Have you seen the canoes?"
I flipped on my high beams and there, in the glare of the lights I could see that all of the wakas had been draped in leis.
There would be no practice for the rest of the week.
At the service, the man's mum spoke. She was quiet, gentle and dignified. Her grief was raw and left the back of my throat aching with unshed tears. "No parent should ever have to bury her child," she whispered.
His partner, a lovely woman from Germany, spoke, as well. "He was the love of my life," she said.
His boss, a colleague, his friends and his brothers, all talked about how generous, loyal and happy he was and how he positively influenced the lives of all that he met. A slide show of pictures played through the whole service and in shot after shot, my teammate was smiling, surrounded by people, fully engaged. His life was very obviously rich with people who loved him.
At the end of the service, all of us who participate in Waka Ama, filed outside to give our mate a proper send off. We lined up on either side of the hearse and as the casket was brought down the steps of the church, we raised our paddles in a canopy.
As the hearse doors were closed, a lone male stood in the clearing behind it and called out the first couple of sentences of a haka. It raised the hair on the back of my neck. He was joined by one of our female teammates. Then, several in the crowd chimed in. They raged, pummeled their hands against their chests in unison and said good bye in a way that had me sobbing.
It was a fitting end to the most emotional funeral I've ever attended. I wish I had been fortunate enough to have known him for more than the blink of an eye.
Today, he leaves New Zealand for the last time. He had always expressed the desire to be taken back to the Cook Islands, to Raratonga, to be buried in the family plot when the time came. Today, he goes home.
Haere Ra, Tai.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Paddle Waddle
Because of the paddling and my desire to become much, much, better at it, I have reluctantly, shuffled my arse back to the gym.
I still LOATHE it because this place doesn't have the right vibe (yeah, I know I'm whacked) but I am making myself go. I have to get into cardio shape again because not every race is a sweet, little 5k. And I really, really, need the exercise. Working from home with my laptop mere feet from the kitchen cupboards has not been especially kind to my thighs.
I'm also in the early stages of forming a cupcake/dessert company with a friends and there is baking. LOTS AND LOTS OF BAKING. We call it research.
I can no longer fit into my pants.
So, back to the gym.
Again.
Ad fucking nauseum.
If I ever am able to reach my fitness goals, let me tell you this: I won't be so cavalier about relinquishing them to inactivity and over indulgence again. (yes, I know I've said that before)
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Little Girl Woes
Thursday, June 7, 2012
A+ for Qantas
Yesterday, I was up well before the sun and to the airport for a 6:45am departure with Air New Zealand from Auckland to Melbourne, Australia. We landed nearly four hours later to a chilly, overcast day. I picked up my rental car and then in the throes of morning rush hour traffic, I made my way into the heart of the city. I will be forever grateful that I've had seven months practice driving on the left side of the road because navigating that traffic was something again.
When I was in Vietnam a few years ago, I met several Aussies who hailed from Melbourne. We'd see them in the hotel restaurant for breakfast every morning and over the course of five days, I heard wonderful things about their city so when I found myself at the car rental counter, GPS in hand, trying to decide how to kill some time, I remembered talk of how pretty the riverfront was.
It just so happened that the riverfront was a smorgasbord of shops and restaurants and I entertained myself quite nicely until my early afternoon meeting, which went really, really, well.
I flew out via Qantas around 5:30pm and that flight is what I wanted to talk about. It was old school, in a good way.
The flight staff were professional and nice. I say that because I fly a lot and there just isn't a ton of courtesy or pleasantries in coach these days. When I fly business, I am treated differently, but economy is usually a whole other shitball experience.
The first thing I noticed was that each of us had a personalized entertainment unit built into the seat in front of us. That is something I've come to expect in business or in long hauls across one of the big oceans but to get that perk on a three and a half hour flight was a complete surprise AND headphones were included. (It's the small things) The movie choices were current, too. I watched "Mirror, Mirror" (not much brainpower required but Julia Roberts was excellent) and "We Bought a Zoo" (has to be one of Matt Damon's worst).
They fed us. I had no idea that Qantas still did this so I hadn't pre ordered a gluten free meal and thought I'd be out of luck. Not a chance. They had an extra meal on hand to accommodate me.
They gave us alcohol with our meal. There is nothing quite as delicious as a bottle of bubbles for which I didn't have to fork over $12. It tasted better, being free and all.
They served us coffee or tea and ice cream for dessert and for the reminder of the flight, they came around with water to keep us hydrated.
The really weird thing is that the ticket price was competitive, less actually, than my morning flight on Air New Zealand. As we disembarked at 11:00pm, I was a tired passenger, because the day had been exceptionally long but the Qantas leg of the trip was......
a pleasure.
I haven't felt that way about air travel since before 9/11.
In the future, with all things being equal, Qantas will, HANDS DOWN, get my business. I hope they don't eventually cave into the nickel and dime, service-deficient wasteland of the competition.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Paddle Update
So.....
The first paddle practice was COLD. I came home with icy hands, freezing feet and blue lips. Even after I'd emerged from a hot shower, my lips looked like they belonged to someone on a slab in the morgue. It wasn't an especially good look for me.
The following morning, I was so sore, I could barely move.
The following evening, I paddled again. It wasn't as cold but I do recall thinking somewhere during the 19 kms that were paddled, that I might vomit my spleen with the exertion. My right arm, on the side, up high near the shoulder started to ache, deep inside the muscle. It didn't take long for the bursitis to come back.
I missed Saturday's practice because it was a long weekend here and we went away with friends.
Last night, in the driving rain, with winds that kicked up to 16 knots, I attended practice, because, you know, I'm tough like that. Actually, earlier in the day, I called our coach to see if the weather would cause us to cancel and she snorted. Let me tell you something: these Island people are serious about their Waka Ama. There are just no excuses.
I showed up, threw my paddle into the canoe and hoisted it down to the water with the rest of my team. We paddled 15 kms last night. I got soaked. When we turned the canoe around a bridge pillar, in full race mode, it was my job in seat 5 to use my paddle to push water on the opposing side of the turn underneath the canoe. In the pouring rain, against the wind and the current, with snot streaming from my nose (sorry for that but you get the picture), it was one of the hardest things that I've ever had to do. As we got around, wind at our backs and current in our favour, the canoe lifted and flew across the water at a speed that infused my exhausted muscles with energy. It just doesn't get any better than that. It just doesn't.
When practice was over, we gently paddled up to the dock, which in full tide, was now submerged in water. I jumped out, waist high and together with my mates, we shouldered our canoe and took her up to the saddle. As I was driving home, wrapped in a towel and blasting the heater, it occurred to me that not once during the entire evening, did I wonder what the fuck I was doing out there under those conditions.
I think my transition to Kiwi might be nearly complete.
Thursday, I will miss practice because I'll be in Australia for the day on business. I'd rather be paddling. The good news is this Saturday, I am competing in my first race. I'll be on the mixed novice team for a short 5km sprint. The weather is predicted to be miserable, with pretty serious wind and rain, not unlike the conditions last night.
I could care less.
I can't wait to get in that canoe.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Shut Up and Paddle
Yesterday afternoon, I had a wee epiphany. I needed more exercise, I thought. It would cure what ails me.
The trouble is, I can't seem to find a gym that I like that has the equipment AND the vibe necessary to stimulate repeat visits. I know that this is a total cop out but it's how my mind works. I really loathe the idea of mandatory exercise and thus, I am able to manufacture very elaborate excuses as to why my big, fat, arse is, well, BIG & FAT!
Together, Dallas and I have done the cost/benefit analysis of owning our own treadmill. On the plus side: convenience and privacy, which is enormously important when one considers the freak show that is my chest in motion. On the negative side: cost, maintenance, where the hell would we put the damn thing and the fact that my husband is already fond of using most furniture as his own personal clothing rack.
So, what's a girl to do?
Yesterday, I was going through my closet and found a long sleeved shirt from the San Diego Outrigger Canoe Club circa 1995. Before children, peri-menopause and absurd cup sizes, I'd casually paddled for an outrigger canoe club in San Diego. I loved it. It was great exercise and got me out on the water, which is my most favourite place on earth. I wasn't a natural, though, as my upper body strength was lacking. Eventually, probably because of poor form, I developed bursitis in my right shoulder, which made distance races particularly demanding. Around the same time, I met the father of my children and unfortunately, I retired my paddle.
Tonight, I will attend a training session, in the dark, in 11 degree Celsius temps with one of the clubs local to me. It's the first time in 17 years that I'll have a paddle back in my hands.
I'm all atingle with excitement.....and naked fear.
Keep you posted.
Hana ka hoe, pa'a ka waha
(Hawai'ian, not Maori but close cousins)