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.