Grief

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...

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.

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:

(Courtesy odt.co.nz)

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.

(Courtesy waterfrontauckland.co.nz)

We paddle forward, really fast and really hard, for about 250m, which doesn't seem like much but sweet baby Jesus, that last 50 metres will make you vomit your spleen.  It's all kinds of excellent.

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:

(Courtesy saltmagazine.com.au)

This is waka ama (outrigger canoe) paddling.  I am obsessed.  I love it so much that most of my spare time, rain or shine, is spent on the water.  I've roped my husband into the sport and just last weekend, Olivia paddled for the first time.  My son is not interested and I won't push him but I feel like he's missing out on something really great.  What could be better than experiencing New Zealand through her rivers, lakes and the ocean that surrounds her? Nothing, mate. Truly nothing compares.

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.

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....

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.

My Banker Sucks

I hate my banker.  Is that okay to say in a public forum?

When I first bought my house back in 2005, I was a newbie to the whole home ownership thing.  Like a lot of other freshly divorced females, I had no idea what my buying power was and thus, when I applied for and received some creative financing for my home, I signed the papers without a second thought.  I was dumb and as I've come to find out, not nearly as desperate as I thought I was.

The loan was structured so that the first mortgage was for 85% of the value of the home and the second mortgage was for 15% to avoid paying PMI, as advised by my intrepid banker.  The first two years, I paid interest only on the first mortgage, as was the rage at the time.  We were all pretty excited about housing values and annual appreciation.  Well, you know how that turned out.

After the first three years, the first mortgage converted into an ARM with a cap increase/decrease of no more than 2%.  That's actually worked in my favour the last couple of years as interest rates have remained very low.  The second mortgage was a renewable, 2 year balloon note amortized over 12 years.  My latest maturity date on that one is October 10th.  I've been working with the banker to get that note renewed and I cannot believe the information that he wants from me for a relatively small amount of money.  I've sent tax returns, W2's to verify income, an application, etc and now he wants the tax returns from my company, as well.  I've sort of had it with him.

To date and encompassing the last seven years since buying the house, he has collected nearly $100,000 IN INTEREST from me.  That figure just slays me.

I've never missed or been late on a payment.  I make one extra principle payment every year and extra payments on the second mortgage every month.  My credit report is exemplary.  I just don't understand why the process is so laborious.

On the second mortgage, I have allowed them to charge me too much interest because of the hassle and costs involved in finding another lender who will accept a 2nd mortgage application in the current economic climate.  Lazy and complacent? Probably but my point is that they've had all of my business plus loans for cars and motorcycles that were paid off early and still, this guy is giving me grief, which leads me to believe that at the end of the day, he will present me with paperwork with yet another outrageous interest rate citing this circumstance or that circumstance.  I understand profit.  I think profit is good and necessary.  I don't begrudge anyone profit.  However, there is a difference between profit and greed and considering the fact that this bank just happened to be one of those institutions that accepted government bail out funds, their greed is especially repugnant to me. 

Because of our situation, the home is classified an investment income and thus, can only be considered for a total mortgage of 75% loan to value of the home.  We aren't there yet but we're getting close and the second I am able to refinance, I will. 

In the meantime, I await the next email missive from my unconscionable banker and count down the days until I can take my business elsewhere.

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. 

My trip to the US was a good one although there were a few bumps in the road.  

I arrived in Los Angeles, checked into the hotel, had authentic Mexican food for dinner and was nearly creamed trying to cross the street.   You see, somewhere between my last trip in July and this one, my brain had firmly made the switch in traffic laws.  I looked right to see if there was a car coming, then looked left to see if I was clear in the opposite lane and then promptly stepped out into the path of an oncoming car, which happened to be barreling towards me on my left.  My brain took a nanosecond to realize that I'd made a mistake but not before another pedestrian grabbed the neck of my shirt and yanked me backwards.  I'm chalking it up to jet lag.  It scared the tar out of me.

The following morning, I flew to Arkansas and spent the next three days sweltering in inhumane temperatures.  "It's so much cooler this week than last," I was told.  Jesus.  I can't believe I lived through those summers for twelve years.  Don't even get me started on the grasshoppers which were everywhere.  These things looked like they were the product of a nuclear spill.  They were large, fleshy, things that were, surprisingly, able to hold onto the windshield wipers while I did 60 mph on the freeway.  I kept waiting for the skies to darken, the moon to turn blood red and four horsemen to appear. 

Driving proved to be slightly challenging, which is just ridiculous considering 28 years of my life were spent driving on the right hand side of the road and just 11 MONTHS have been invested motoring on the left.  However, that didn't stop me from flicking on the windshield wipers instead of the blinkers and it didn't seem to matter as I sat at a few "T" junctures and parking lots having to really think about which way to turn.  While in Los Angeles, I was terrified by the sheer number of lanes and the speeds at which people flew from their auditions to their restaurant jobs.  I barely drove the speed limit because my car in New Zealand does not have any cruise control so I've developed a pretty good feel for 100km/h (60 mph).  I'd look down at my speedometer as cars zoomed by me on both right and left to realize that I had become THAT driver...the one that people who need to BE SOMEWHERE despise.  And the biggest takeaway from the whole driving thing is that I now park like a complete asshole in both countries.  

Excellent. 

The unrivaled highlight of my trip was (*gasp*) Las Vegas.  We arrived in the morning, checked into the newly refurbed suites at the MGM Grand and hustled over to a trade show, which was much larger and much better put together than we had anticipated.  That night, we met with our customer and had dinner at Tom Colicchio's Craftsteak.  The meal was among the top five restaurant experiences I've had in my 45 years on the planet.  The waygu tartare was sublime.  The lobster bisque, one of their signature dishes, was something that I could happily consume every, single, day for the rest of my life.  The wine flowed and the conversation was easy.  After dinner, we hit the craps table, which was not an especially good decision.  At about midnight, we put our customer into a cab and then my colleague and I did the worst thing imaginable.  We went to a bar and (both of us former nicotine heads) bought cigarettes.  Not good.  We continued to drink and smoke until we realized that our flight to Los Angeles was leaving in less than five hours.  The next day was a painful mix of dehydration, sleep deprivation, blinding sun and cigarette hangover.  I spent the next two days sounding like the Marlboro Man.

All in all, the trip was a success, which is great but the best thing to come out of it was a deeper understanding of my husband and the emotional conflict he experienced living in America while his heart remained in New Zealand.  This trip, I got it, loud and clear.  While I appreciate everything that the US has to offer, I was pretty excited to return home to the shores of Aotearoa. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

"I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be on the rapist and not attacking the child."

I cannot begin to describe how absurd his statements are and when the predictable backlash hit, he released an even more predictable response.  

He "misspoke".  

Besides the fact that he will likely never find himself in a situation where another man forces himself on him, sweaty hands pinning his wrists above his head, elbow painfully jabbed into the hollow of his cheek, knees in the crotch forcing thighs to spread, tearing him apart with the violence of the penetration, Akin is a man and therefore, cannot get pregnant.  You know what a pregnancy is to a woman who has been raped?  An abomination.  A pregnancy in this situation is most definitely NOT "God's will".  Oh, and being responsible for half the DNA, does the rapist have parental rights? 

To suggest for one second that a "legitimate rape" makes pregnancy rare (and abortion unnecessary, apparently) because of some sort of magical biological defense system, is beyond offensive.  It's completely repugnant. Rape is rape.  Can you imagine a legal system where a rapist's defense is the fact that the victim didn't get pregnant?  Draconian.

Oh, and the punishment bit?  There should be some punishment?  

Ask any woman who has survived a rape how she feels about appropriate punishment.  Ask her about the paralyzing fear and the lingering taste of copper that it left in her mouth.  Ask her about that moment when her psyche cracked and she drifted away from the reality of the situation.  Ask her how many years it took for her to allow a man to touch her.  Ask her how many times she replayed the event in her head, wishing she could go back in time and remove herself from his path.  Ask her how she slept at night knowing that the man that raped her is free.

Akin is an asshat.  He doesn't belong in any public service position anywhere.  I know there will be women out there that will vote for him.  Shame on them.

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.

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.

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.  

We left Auckland late Saturday night on the 30th of June and arrived in Los Angeles mid afternoon on the same day, which is always a bit of a mind screw.  We had dinner with Dallas's son, shopped a bit and then retired to our hotel room since we had a 6:00am flight to Tulsa the following morning.

I woke up the next morning to my mobile ringing and as I stumbled out of bed and over to the phone, I had a vague, jet lagged-soaked, feeling of unease.  I missed the call and one other thing registered as I glanced down at the face of my mobile.  We'd missed our flight, too.  It was 6:10 am.

Shit.

I freaked just a bit, woke up the kids and told them to HURRY, WE MISSED OUR FLIGHT!

My son, the voice of reason, said, "Why do we need to hurry if we have missed the plane?"

I didn't have a good answer.

I called United.  The next flight out that they could get us on would be the following day, late evening.  Even though it was the Sunday before the 4th of July holiday, I could not believe that between the two recently merged airlines of Continental and United, that they could not find 3 seats from LOS ANGELES to Tulsa.  I explained that I didn't care if we had to go to the East Coast first or Chicago or Denver or Houston or Dallas or WHEREVER...we just needed to be in Tulsa that night since both the kids and I had obligations Monday morning.  No dice. Nothing.  

I had no choice but to secure tickets on another airline to the tune of $1600.  I hated myself at that moment.  Before that, though, I told the customer service agent that I needed to make sure that our return tickets were left intact and not cancelled.  She said that in order to do that, she would have to check us in at Denver, which is where our original connection was to have been.  I waited on hold while she did this for us.  Twenty four minutes later, she came back on the line to tell us that we were checked in and that our return tickets were solid.  I received emails confirming our check in at Denver.

So la de da, we get to Tulsa on the other airline and spend the next week, as planned.  The following Sunday, we head back to Tulsa to spend the night before flying out the following Monday morning to Los Angeles.  I have crappy travel luck.  It's well documented and on Sunday night, my Spidey senses were tingling and I thought I'd better get online and check us in.  Guess what?  No record of us.  Our confirmation number was no longer working.  

I get back on the phone with United.  Actually, I got on with their automated system that made me just a hair shy of homicidal.  After slogging my way through the robot system to where it would allow me to speak with an agent, I was put on hold and told my wait time would be in the neighborhood of 8 minutes.  Well, 38 minutes later, I got a real live person on the phone.  She spoke with me for about two minutes, got the gist of the problem, put me on hold again and left me there....for another 18 minutes.  She then came back on and told me that there was nothing she could do for me and had in fact, spoken to two different supervisors who suggested I show up at the Tulsa airport the following day and see what they could do for me there.  I calmly told her that her advice was not acceptable and that I needed to speak with a supervisor since I had made all of the necessary provisions on the front end to ensure that this problem would't exist and oh, by the way, we were flying to NEW ZEALAND from Los Angeles and if it was alright by her, I didn't really feel like rolling the dice since that would be upsetting to my TWO CHILDREN. 

I was placed back on hold.  At the one hour and eight minute mark, I put my mobile on speaker and picked up the hotel phone and dialed United customer service again.  After the whole series of questions by the auto system, I was placed on hold.  I think it was at this point that I lost my composure.  Then King, an agent based in the Philippines, came on the line and as I was telling him my story, I began to sob like a crazy person.  I'm not sure how much sense I was making but I do remember quite clearly that at the end of my tale, he said, very firmly, "I am going to put you on hold again and I apologize.  I will fix this.  I promise."  Back to the land of hold, I went.

In the meantime, back on my mobile, a female agent named Michelle based in Tampa, FL came on the line.  "Are you a supervisor?"  I asked?  This was at the one hour , twenty two minute mark, who for those of you who are keeping track, will note that the original agent left me on hold for another twenty four minutes after I had asked to speak with a supervisor.  Michelle told me that sadly, she was not a supervisor.  I burst into tears, again, and through hiccups, explained what had transpired with her company over the better part of the last hour and a half.  She was horrified and not in that fake, "I'm sorry you've had such a poor experience with us Mrs. X" way.  This woman was genuinely upset for us.  She told me to hang on while she took a look and also instructed me not to hang up either phone.

Back on hold, I went.  About two minutes later, King came back on the line to tell me he had sorted out the kids and was working on me but that he would have to put me on hold again.  I was so grateful, I could barely choke out my thanks.  Then Michelle popped back into my mobile and confirmed the kids had been booked and not to hang up with King because it looked like they were working on mine.  She put me on hold and went back at it, too.

Finally, one hour and forty four minutes after dialing United, King came back on the line and told me we were good to go the following day and then he did something remarkable.  He apologized for the trouble that we had experienced.  I found that impressive.  After thanking him profusely and getting his ID details, I hung up with him. Within thirty seconds, Michelle came back on the mobile line to confirm that we were all sorted.  She apologized, as well.  Her compassion for our situation and the obvious stress it caused was really appreciated.  I went to bed that night a mostly sane person. 

In the end, it all worked out and we were able to catch our flight home to New Zealand but what stuck with me was the difference in talent on the other end of the phone.  That first agent and was appalling.  She didn't give a shit about us at all.  She just wanted our problem out of her queue so she could move on to the next customer and keep her phone stats up.  That one person, and her utter lack of problem solving skills, could have really buggered things had I just accepted her response.  How is it that one agent can get it done while another tells you that even the supervisors think you're fucked?

I plan to write a letter because King and Michelle deserve to be recognized for their efforts and United should know what an ordeal it was to exercise our return tickets.  In spite of King and Michelle though, I'm pretty sure that I'll exhaust my other airline options before I spend another dime with United.  

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.  

I admit, I bought the first book because what 45 year old woman with a pulse could resist the tickle of something described as, "mommy porn"?  

And the first book was an easy, entertaining read.  It wasn't going to win a Pulitzer any time soon and a disconcerting portion of the dialogue had me cringing with the cheese factor but still, it was a fun, beach read.

So, I bought the second book, wondering if E. L. James had done any research in the Harlequin aisle since the classic romance genre was followed to the letter.  You know how it goes: boy meets girl, boy and girl have an attraction, boy and girl experience a misunderstanding(s) all with a fiery sexual tension undercurrent,  boy rescues girl (from her irrational, unsafe self, apparently), girl accepts boy in spite of the fact that he is tortured by an unspeakable past, boy and girl shag and finally, boy and girl live happily ever after.  Ick.

I haven't made it very far into the second book.  I hope it gets better because I am incapable of starting a novel and not finishing it.  To do so would be literary sacrilege.

Again, like I did after reading the Twilight series, I found myself following the sales figures of the trilogy in the news and shaking my head in disbelief.  While honestly thrilled for the two writers (because I'd give anything to be in either of their shoes), I couldn't help but wonder how it is that the universe sees them enjoying huge literary success while a genius like Gabriel Garcia Marquez will never grace us with another written word now that he is lost to his dementia.  Kurt Vonnegut is dead.  So is Christopher Hitchens.  

I digress.

I'm going to pick it up again tonight and try to plow through a few more chapters.  I wish I could say, "at least the sex is good," but alas, there are only so many euphemisms for the human orgasm and since the main characters are shagging every other page, the list has pretty much been exhausted.  

I'm bored.

All Fired Up

Holy shit, it's cold in my house. Seriously.

There is no such thing as central heat and air down here because there are no real extremes in weather so when it gets chilly, you turn on the heat pump (installed on the wall, electrically manufactures dry heat) or, if you are unlucky like me, you light a fire.

The thing is, most Kiwis are acclimated to the winter and to them, a daytime temperature of 13°C (55.4°F) in the house, is normal.

I am freezing my ass off.

As I write this, it is late morning, and I am wearing sweats, thermals, a hoody, socks, Uggs, wrapped in a blanket with a beanie on my head. And still, my nose runs from the cold. It is a balmy sixteen degrees C, in here and the fireplace beckons.

My neighbours will smell my fire.

They will likely shake their heads and tsk tsk about what a wimpy North American I am.

I think I am beyond caring.

1. Get wood. Lots and lots of wood. And kindling. Kindling is your friend.

2. Stuff the fireplace full of newsprint. Try to use the good stuff (the big city newspaper) because those little community papers are under a tight budget and their rag just doesn't burn as well. Make sure the paper is loosely wadded so there is maximum airflow. Oxygen is your friend, too.

3. Place kindling on top. My husband, who is master fire-maker, takes the time to make tepees of the kindling and strategically places newsprint underneath each of his triangular creations. I say, sod it, and throw them all on top. I have plenty of paper and will burn every scrap of it until one or ten of those suckers catches fire.

4. The best part: the lighting. I am always so hopeful at this point.

5. Beauty, eh? Now, you open the flue wide, leave the fireplace door slightly ajar, and allow the fire to gorge itself on oxygen. I try to psych my fire out. At this point, I walk away saying things like, "Burn, don't burn...I don't care," and inevitably, without me hovering, all that kindling, oxygen and flame mingle like barflies.

6. Add the big dogs, give them plenty of air, and let them burn into gorgeous little embers.

At this point, I flip on the fireplace blower, seal the kitchen up and wait for the warmth to envelope me.

I am a fire goddess. I would have made an excellent scout.

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.

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)

Little Girl Woes

Yesterday, Liv came home a little bit down in the mouth and when I questioned her about it, she admitted that she was unhappy because the previous day, she'd had a problem with one of her friends.  

I should probably preface with some background information.  The friend in question is a child with a less than ideal home life.  Her parents split several years back after repeated episodes of domestic violence triggered by alcohol abuse.  Needless to say, her early, formative years were not ideal. 

The father is a bar manager at a local club.  He's a nice enough guy and clearly loves his daughter but he's a party dude and mostly absent.  The child worships him.

The mother, is a whole other piece of work.  She is the custodial parent but shockingly irresponsible.  A few weeks back, the child showed up at my house after school barefoot and in a spaghetti strapped summer shift.  It was 13 degrees C (approx 55 F).  I asked her where her shoes were and she said she didn't have any as they had been ruined at camp a few weeks earlier.  I asked about pants or jeans and she confessed that the single pair she owned hadn't yet been washed and they were filthy from camp.  I asked her what she wore on her feet to school and she admitted, she'd been going barefoot.  I was gutted.

(When all of the kids were away at camp, her suitcase was woefully inadequate.  She had a single pair of long pants, two t-shirts, no socks, flat "ballet" shoes, a pair of shorts that doubled as her bathing suit bottoms, flannel pj's and a singlet, which doubled as her bathing suit top.  Her shoes were encrusted with mud the first day and for the rest of camp, it was a real struggle to keep her dry and warm.  Other kids, including Olivia, lent her clothing.  It must have been embarrassing for her.)

I sent her upstair to Olivia's room to put on a long sleeved shirt, jeans, socks and a sweater.  Then, we went shopping. It wasn't some big charitable thing, either.  I just couldn't get past the fact that the child went to school, in the late fall, WITHOUT SHOES. What parent allows that?  

We made it an adventure and went down to our nearest Salvation Army store where both girls were given the opportunity to grab a few items so it wouldn't be weird.  I don't know why, but need seems to be soaked in shame and that's the last thing I wanted the child to feel.  

There just happened to be a pair of brand new runners in her size.  We got them, along with a pair of pants and a book for Liv.  Total cost: $8.50.  The girls were delighted.  I told her to keep the clothes she had on, as well, with the excuse that they didn't fit Olivia any more.  As we drove home, I seethed wondering how it was that both of her parents could afford to smoke and drink but couldn't shod the child for $4.00.  

After that, we began to see more and more of her.  Often, she would stay for dinner.  I spoke to her mother, once, and when asked what time the child needed to be home (on a school night), the reply I got was, "Whenever."  It is dark here by 5:30 pm and the woman refused to pick up her child stating that she "didn't have any gas" when the child called for a ride.  It's just a sad situation.

Lately, Liv and the girl have asked to head back to the school to meet up with two boys.  Olivia is ten, somewhat of a tomboy and still mostly little girl in her emotional intelligence.  The girl, is somewhat more advanced, harder and looking at boys in a different light.  She has already learned to objectify herself with her clothing choices, which is heartbreaking.  I was uneasy about the "playing with the boys" thing and put the kibosh on it when the girls asked again, earlier this week.  I tried to explain to Liv that I felt like it wasn't the best choice and she seemed....relieved. 

Well, the day before yesterday, they asked to go back to the school to meet up with the boys.  I said no, so they picked up the phone, instead.  At some point, I heard our front door open and close and later, I noticed Liv curled up in her TV corner reading a book.  Something was amiss but I let it be.

Last night, Olivia confessed that she and the girl had had a falling out over the boys the day before.  The girl "liked" one of the boys and had asked Liv to tell him.  Apparently, Olivia didn't do it the right way and the girl was embarrassed.  In any case, at school the following day, the girl was unkind.  Olivia found other friends to play with but since they had been spending so much time together, she felt the girl's absence.  She was angry and hurt and wanted to lash out.  I asked her to forgive and move on, in spite of her perceived injustice of it all.  I told her that we cannot control the behaviour of other people and that we can only control our reaction to it.  No matter who was right or wrong, I told her that real friendship is not hard work and that true friends are careful with each other's feelings.  I shared that I thought her time with the other girl might be over and that she should focus on new friendships. That seemed to settle Olivia's mind.

This morning, Olivia was still stinging a bit but she had a good attitude when she left for school.   Selfishly, I'm grateful that the relationship with her friend has cooled for now.  Even at this young age, you can predict the trajectory of that child's adolescent life and I think it's healthier for Liv to develop close friendships with some other girls too, so her influences are varied. 

Truthfully, I want my little girl to remain a little girl for just a bit longer.

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.

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.

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)

School Camp ROCKS

So much to talk about, so little time.

No, really.

I cannot seem to dislodge my head from my arse.  I am ridiculously busy with work these days.  I just don't understand why every now and again, things can't run just a bit more smoothly in my line of work.  Why does everything have to be a mini crisis?

The stress of it all makes my bed call to me like a siren in the middle of the afternoon with all it's warm Egyptian cotton and down filled goodness....

I digress.

I'm freezing, which doesn't help to quell the allure of my electric blanketed bed.  We are firmly in New Zealand's autumn which is a lot like dealing with a crazy person.  One minute the temperatures are up and the next, they are way down.  It can pour with rain, blast wind in a million directions and a present a blinding sun, all in a single afternoon. There is an art to layering clothing here.  I've learned all about thin, soft, merino wool undergarments, polyprop shirts and serious rain gear.  I am the proud owner of a pair of fire engine red gum boots.

Last week, I accompanied Olivia to her school camp southwest of Auckland in a town called Raglan.  Up to that point, the weather had been GORGEOUS.  We'd had five or six weeks with warm, sunny days.  People were so polite and considerate because that is what good weather does to the psyche.  Only once or twice did I feel the urge to drive into the back of the cars parked on the side of the road (topic for another post).  We were all basking in that fall wonderfulness until the morning that we left for camp. Then, the sky turned the colour of a bruise and for the entire length of time that we were at the camp, it rained, with brief intermittent moments of sun.

If we had been in America, the teachers would have had to scramble to move the activities inside.  Here in New Zealand, if you let the weather dictate your plans, you'd never get anything done.  Kiwi kids are a remarkably resilient, uncomplaining bunch.  There were twelve groups of 11 or 12 kids who cycled through 12 rotations of activities ranging from archery, a confidence course, low ropes and volleyball to a BMX bike ride, orienteering and the "flying fox". All of this was done outside.  A partner and I ran the "raft building" exercise whereby the kids were given long bamboo poles, 20kg plastic drums and ropes out of which they were to fashion a raft and float it across an outdoor, unheated, pool.  The weather ranged in temperature from 45 degrees F to 60 degrees F.  I dressed like this:

I wore gumboots from the time I rose in the morning until I climbed into my bunk at night.  I kicked myself for not remembering to bring gloves.

The reason that I tell you this is because most of the kids who came through our raft rotation, elected to strip down to their bathing suits, hop aboard their floating creations and try to get from one end of the pool to the other.  While I sipped hot tea from a Tim Horton's mug, they fell into the water, screeched, laughed and hopped back up. When the girls in my cabin filed in after their outdoor activity-filled days, covered in mud and soaked through, they stripped off their clothes, shoved them into plastic bags and got into hot showers.  There were very few complaints.  I was so impressed.  I couldn't wear enough layers and I watched from the cocoon of my sleeping blanket as the children got up at the ass crack of dawn and ran out the door to the gym to exercise in their jammies and slippers.  School camp in New Zealand is character building.  I loved it and hated it at the same time but one thing is for sure: I'm awfully grateful that my kids got to experience it.

Next year, Dylan doesn't have a camp, which really makes me sad.  and Liv's year seven trip is this great adventure on the Hauraki Gulf Island of Motutapu.

I fervently hope that I'm one of the parents that gets picked to go.