It's The Small Things

When we did the move in walk through after renting this house, we noticed that some of the tile work on the laundry room floor was loose. The laundry rooms sits beside the master bath and upon inspection, we could see that the tiles in the shower were starting to lift, which is never a good sign.

Sure enough, when we had a look from underneath, we could see heaps of water damage. Apparently, there was a leak. That was mid November.

Repair work was to have begun December 15th but communication wires were crossed and nobody showed up. Then, the holidays came. In New Zealand, people take the Christmas break pretty seriously. Lots and lots of small businesses are closed right through mid January as this is the summer, the kids are out of school and families tend to use this time to vacation. We didn't have a prayer of getting the shower fixed.

We were informed that February 2nd was the new start date and as it turned out, things didn't get started until the 7th. It's not a huge deal, of course, but it has sucked to be without a working master bath. Today, the job finished and tonight, after the silicon has dried, we can use our bathroom again.

This is our brand spankin', newly tiled, floor.

I am so happy, I may weep.

It really is the small things.

Birthdays are Better in Duplicate

Yesterday was my birthday. Today is my birthday, too. That's what happens when your life is split between two continents.

It seems like just a blink ago, I was single, preparing for the big four-o and having myself a proper midlife crisis. So, so, much can happen in the span of five years.

The best thing, hands down, was to have met and married Dallas. When I was fifteen and thought myself invincible, I foolishly accepted a ride home from a stranger one night. That turned out to be an exceptionally poor decision on my part and unfortunately, the events of that evening negatively impacted my relationships with men for years. By the time I divorced the father of my children, I was an angry, bitter, cynical woman. I was so broken that I wouldn't even consider dating. All my time was invested in carrying on the argument with my ex, punishing him, and trying, in vain, to get him to see my point of view, which is really screwed up when you consider how little respect I had for his opinion. I was so determined to win the battle of wills that for a long time, I lost the bloody plot.

At some point, a few years into the separation, I was exhausted with the fight. I was so tired of being angry. My mum and I were chatting on the phone one day and she said she was surprised that I continued to allow all of the best parts of myself to be sucked into the conflict with my ex. She asked, "Haven't you given him enough years of your life?" And that was all it took. The lightbulb came on. I had to take a frank look at myself and to get real about my part in the dysfunction. It's never one sided, of course, but admitting that and understanding that my choice to participate in the argument had more to do with how I felt about myself than any character flaw he may have possessed....well, that was hard. When I finally took responsibility for assuming the role of a victim, I was liberated. It was as simple as that.

Then the real healing, the getting on with my life, began. Still, though, I believed that deep, abiding, love, the stuff of movies and romance novels, was a big pile of horse pucky. Oh sure, I'd had strong feelings for some but I chalked them up to immaturity, infatuation and the desire to be in a relationship. I just did not believe that a happy marriage was a reality for most people and I felt divorce statistics were only half the story. I was convinced that inside most marriages, dwelled two unhappy people who stayed together for all the wrong reasons. There was a wee part of me, however, brainwashed by Disney and ruined by Harlequin publishers, that secretly carried a glimmer of hope that some day, I'd find "the one".

The truth is, there are lots and lots of "the ones" out there. There are heaps of men with whom I could have fallen in love but Dallas was the first to cross my path after I had decided to be happy and I can't tell you how grateful I am for his timing. I learned that it was less about finding the "right man" ( I cringe even thinking about that) than fixing the broken part of me that was attracted to people who were equally damaged. I stopped expecting perfection , which was just a tool that I used to avoid commitment. After our third date, I realized that I liked how I felt about myself when I was with Dallas and that's when I knew.

My husband, like me, is flawed. I have no prince-on-a-white-horse expectations for him. Our relationship is devoid of pedestals and sometimes we argue. At the end of most days though, you will find us snuggled in our bed, talking or reading. We hold hands. Without a doubt, that last hour or so of our day is the best part of it for me. Dallas is a lovely, lovely man. The quality of my life with him is something I could never have imagined. Being in this marriage has enabled me to be a better mother, daughter, friend and entrepreneur. It has profoundly changed my life and the lives of my children. I believe Dallas would tell you the same thing.

So yesterday and today, waking up to a gorgeous Auckland summer morning, I couldn't help but reflect back to my fortieth birthday and how I could never have imagined that my world would look like this a mere five years later. While I can't quite comprehend the number, "FORTY-FIVE", I've got to admit that I wouldn't trade a second of my forties for all of the other decades combined.

Whitney

I was driving around Sunday afternoon when I heard the radio DJ's talking about Whitney Houston. I wasn't really listening as I was concentrating on not being a road hazard. As I pulled into the driveway at home, the female host mentioned that "tributes" were starting to pour in and that information was still a bit hazy. Tributes generally mean one thing.

"Is Whitney Houston dead?" I asked Dallas the second I walked through the door.

Of course, you know how that turned out and now, we hear speculation that it was a combo of prescription medication and alcohol. I'm clinging to the possibility that the official cause of death is something natural. Not likely, I know but I can still hope. I hate the thought of her being yet another statistic.

I saw Whitney live in Toronto in 1986 and she was impossibly good. I remember watching her sing the Star Spangled Banner during the Super Bowl and being awed by that voice, that incredible, goose bump-inducing gift . How it is, that a person with that kind of talent, let's it all get away from her so spectacularly?

It's just a bloody shame.

Years ago, I tried watching Whitney's interview with Diane Sawyer and had to shut off the TV because it was so disturbing. At the time, I thought that it was shitty of the network to exploit her obvious downward spiral. Then came the Oprah interview two years ago. Whitney looked great. She was coherent and thoughtful. Gone was the telltale twitchiness and irrationality that accompanied her drug use. Although it was sadly apparent that Whitney's former lifestyle had ravaged her voice, she was alive, seemingly healthy and by all appearances, she'd put the worst behind her.

"Found dead in the bathtub of her hotel room"

I hate that her ending is an ignorant, all too familiar, cliche.

Restraint is Not My Strong Suit

( Warning: much whinging and sniveling below.)

Man, this peri-menopausal thing is kicking my ass.

One of my goals for this year was to restore my health so that I could come off all of the medications that I'd been taking. So far, it has gone pretty well but I'm thinking about resuming the use of the bio-identical creams because my PMS symptoms have returned with a ferocity for which I was unprepared and frankly, just the everyday stresses that we all encounter are seemingly insurmountable five days out of every twenty three.

There is so much information out there on how to manage the years of hot flashes, night sweats, heart palpitations and homicidal lunacy but much of it is conflicting and in no book, have I read how to curb the instinct to thrash my husband when he refers to the incessant chatter of the cicadas that surround our house as, "soothing". They are lots of things to describe the cacaphony like maddening, deafening...piercing even; but they are most definitely NOT BLOODY SOOTHING.

Today, we sat in the kitchen and he asked me what was wrong. (Clearly, something is wrong as I am not very good at hiding my emotions.) In the one nanosecond of common sense that has peppered my thoughts for the last couple of days, I told him that I preferred not to discuss anything of import right now because I am a premenstrual, emotional, nutbar, who is unsure of whether or not her current opinions are reasonable or the product of raging hormones. I asked that we table any discussions until next week. I think he agreed but I can't remember because that is another weird PMS side effect right now: lack of information retention. This is problematic because there is so much going on right now.

Like the fact that our master bath shower is non functional. At first, I thought that it would be no big deal to use Liv's bathroom upstairs. Wrong.

The repair was to have begun on February 2nd but the project coordinator, is lazy. He showed up late that Thursday morning, took a look and said he'd be back the following Tuesday because it was a long weekend, blah, blah, hard to coordinate workers, blah, blah, better to get it all done at one time...

Whatever.

Dude showed up on Tuesday the 7th, did forty- five minutes of work and took off. The "builder" (lovely, lovely, Scottish man) showed up late Wednesday morning and worked like a dog all afternoon and the following morning. He was impressive. And then, the project went silent. Nobody came Friday or Saturday or Sunday or today. We called and we text.

"The plumber will be there today."

"When?" I asked.

"I'll text you," he replied.

**Sigh**

We are renters, now. The amount that we pay per fortnight here, at this lovely home near the sea, is nearly equal to the monthly mortgage on our house in the US so it chafes when one of the amenities of the home is out of service for any length of time. We've been waiting for the upstairs window latches to be repaired since November. My first instinct is to get on the phone with the property manager and raise hell but something tells me that an obnoxious, aggressive, approach isn't going to get the shower fixed or the windows done any sooner. So instead, I stew and call the project manager filthy names when there is nobody around to hear me.

Strangely, it makes me feel better.

When I moved, I obviously knew that we would have to find new schools, stylists and doctors. It hasn't been fun. I'm so grateful that the educational situation was easy. My kids are in great schools.

I wasn't so lucky with the whole stylist thing. The first person who did my hair made me look like a leopard on LSD. Not kidding. I've since found another person and later this week, after my fourth visit, I'm hoping that I'll finally look like myself again.

Finally, let's talk about the cost of orthodontics in this country. It is harrowing. Unlike the US, one must pay for the initial consultation ($125...reasonable, I suppose) and then before the quote is issued, one must shell out another $650 for diagnostic X-rays, etc., which is NOT deducted from the treatment cost should one decide to go with that professional. It kind of discourages getting a second and third opinion because who can shell out nearly $2500 trying to find the appropriate orthodontist? So far, we have been told Dylan's mouth is going to cost between $7800 and $12,000 to fix so we are currently investigating creative payment options because what do I really need with both kidneys anyway, right?

So there you have it. I haven't blogged in over a month and when I do, it's a negative, PMS, rant. Did I mention that I'm turning FORTY FUCKING FIVE this week? And, I have a waxing appointment.

As my sister in law says, "I hate everything and everyone".

Except chocolate.

And sparkling wine.

And my mother in law.