Postponing the Inevitable

This aging thing really sucks.

I've been reading a great book that discusses the fact that we all age but we don't have to grow old. And there is a difference, which went unnoticed by me until our holiday in Mexico.

I never thought about wrinkles or osteoporosis in my twenties because I was too busy soaking up every last moment of unburdened youth. In my thirties, my body started to change but I was absorbed with motherhood, career and a disintegrating marriage. I went weeks without looking in the mirror.

Then forty arrived like a punch in the face and practically overnight, my forehead creased, my eyes began a pilgrimage to the back of my head, I developed batwings under my arms, my bottom dimpled and my boobs needed wrestling into a bra each morning. Suddenly, people stopped asking me for i.d. and called me "ma'am". My doctors are infants and I'm old enough to have given birth to some of my kids' teachers. The point is that time is passing, I'm aging and the whole process scares me just a bit because it's like being tied to the tracks and feeling the rumble of an approaching train.

Case and point:
On the Friday we arrived in Mexico, we spent about an hour at the pool and then the entertainment staff announced that it was time to head to the beach for a game of volleyball. Excellent. I'd played throughout most of high school and considered myself a decent player. I was completely delusional. I sucked. The sand made a BIG difference. What's worse was the physical response that I had to the heat and the exertion. My face turned as red as a beet and I found myself gasping for air. My heart rate was so high that I thought I might vomit. The one clear thought I had as I struggled through the game was, "WHEN DID I GET SO OLD?"

When it was over, I focused on trying not to do a big face plant as I slogged through the sand with quivering muscles, to the pool area. After rinsing off in an outdoor shower, I dove into the pool, desperate for some icy relief. As I came to the surface and swam back to the edge, I felt the first whimpers of pain in my quads, hamstrings, lats and glutes. I medicated with fruity cocktails and vowed to exercise every single day of vacation.

Sunday afternoon, I played beach volleyball again. This time, I was far more effective as a player. As I warmed up, I became more confident and consequently, more aggressive, diving for balls and blocking at the net. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I was forty two and living a largely sedentary life behind a computer. Midway through the second game, I planted my left foot and twisted violently to bunt the ball back over the net. My knee screamed in protest and I found myself limping. No big deal, I thought. Just a twist. Yeah, maybe at twenty it would have been minor. It's still buggered.

The book that I'm reading tells me that this type of injury is to be expected because my body is in a state of decay due to my lack of daily exercise. It says that if I want to stop the rot, I have to move my ass, vigorously, every single day without fail. I know this. On some level, I've ALWAYS known this to be true. Since turning forty, I've been obsessed with the cosmetic repercussions of aging. After hurting myself, I realized that it didn't matter how wrinkle free my face might be if I had to use a walker to get around. I don't want to battle cancer. I don't want to be another heart disease statistic. I don't want to wake up each morning having to swallow a fistful of pills just to keep myself alive. Obviously, I can't stop time and I am going to age but I don't want to get old.

So last weekend, with a commitment to health at the forefront of my mind, I accompanied Dallas to our local clinic while he got his Mexican intestinal issues sorted. This clinic takes a whole body approach to wellness. One half of it is purely medical. The other half is more like a spa offering services like massage, nutritional counseling, supplements, weight loss programs and..umm...Botox. They want you to get well, stay well and look well. I like that.

I got into a conversation with one of the staff members concerning a skin check for Dallas and me since both of us have had plenty of sun exposure. I'm not sure how that led into a discussion about Botox, but it did. She told me that they were running a special for the month of August....$11/unit. Since I had no frame of reference as to whether that was a good price or not, I had her explain it to me.
And I learned that it's totally affordable. She pointed to her own forehead (smooth as a baby's behind) and the to the non existent creases around her eyes admitting that she'd had it done.

"But why?" I asked because she looked to be in her late twenties.

"Because I'm forty," (GET OUT OF HERE!!!!)"and Botox is my little gift to myself," she replied.

And in that moment, my vanity took over and I decided Botox would be in my immediate future. Feel good, look good...why can't I have it all?

Keep you posted.

Adios Amigo

Back from Mexico and the second that we landed in Houston, reality hit us like a bucket of ice cold water. Both of our iPhones lit up like Christmas trees with text messages, voicemail and email that would have us buried for a week. One message, from our tenant made me want to turn around and run screaming back into the jet.

Long story short:
Big bad storm at Easter.
Hail.
Tenant calls with leak in foyer.
We think roof damage. Insurance adjuster claims "fluke".
More foul weather.
Tenant calls to say leak has progressed from intermittent drip to steady flow.
Purchase bottle of rum.
Roofing companies called.
New roof needed.
Adjuster is an asshole. Please send another.
New adjuster agrees we have serious problem. Issues first cheque. Skies part, sun shines and angels sing. But contractor doesn't show up.
Contractor doesn't start for ten weeks as he experiences numerous personal "emergencies".
Call doctor for valium prescription.
Tenant asks to move rental due date to the 10th of month. Agree because they've been so patient.
Contractor finally starts the job on a clear Sunday morning, nearly three months after leak was first detected.
Monday, with roof tiles off and only paper for cover, torrential rain pours down.
More damage.
Buy bigger bottle of rum. Contemplate mainlining it through intravenous drip.
Roof gets on house. Whew. Relief. Pay contractor balance for roof.
Tenant calls.
Water on the floor of the bedroom beside the bathroom.
What?
Fuck.
Contractor, who is nice man but one rung shy on the ladder of life, cuts holes in the walls to find source of leak. To no avail.
"Call a plumber", I say through mouthful of opiates.
Plumber called. Comes right over.
No worries, simple fix. Ice maker hose from fridge. Bada bing, bada boom, problem solved.
Wet carpet, wet pad, spotty mould.
Big, big fans and bleach.
Contractor agrees to be back Monday to begin interior repairs.
We fly to Mexico.
Seven glorious days lapping up the sun.
We arrive back in Houston to find our tenant has blown up our phones.
CONTRACTOR DIDN'T SHOW.
Apparently, some sort of personal emergency. Feel certain that if I see him, there most definitely could be an emergency situation.
We decide to fire him.
And order a cocktail with dinner between flights.
Holiday isn't officially over yet damnit.
Get home to find children happy, healthy and safe but the house a freaking wreck.
Look at each other and contemplate church on Sunday even though we are agnostic.
Collapse into bed instead.
Wake up Saturday morning and clean. Oh joy.
Call another contractor out on a Saturday afternoon, get a bid, agree on a start date and voilà, we are back in the hunt for landlord of the year award.

So, besides the pleasure of tucking my kids in the past couple of nights, being home has been like a kick in the teeth. Sort of.

Our bed, with crisp, fresh sheets, was just a hair shy of nirvana. And, when we closed our eyes, we could still feel the sun on our faces, taste the salt in the air and hear the ocean waves as they lapped at the pier.

In spite of the absence of ruby red shoes, there is still no place like home.

Awash

Do you remember a few months back when our renter called to tell us that there was a leak in the front foyer? Remember the adjuster telling us that it was a fluke occurrence?

Yeah, well he was wrong. Horribly, horribly WRONG.

After getting a second SOS from our tenant after some bad weather, we called a couple of roofing companies and had them get up there to check things out. Independently and within minutes, they each had out their tape measures, which clearly indicated that they were calculating the cost of a replacement roof. Both contractors came down and explained that the hail damage was so bad in spots that the composite was completely gone and we were down to the tar paper.

I understand the whole need to be conservative when one is an insurance adjuster but I would have thought that at least the guy would have gotten on the bloody roof. He "eyeballed" it (is words, not mine) and said that his twenty years in the business have given him a pretty good understanding of what merits a claim and what doesn't.

So, we took the quotes from the roofers to the insurance company and I can tell you, we most definitely have not been IN GOOD HANDS. (insert expletive here)
We originally called about the problem back in April. With all of the shenanigans and generally shitty service, the contractor got to start on the roof just this past Sunday. A leaking roof. THREE MONTHS after the problem was noted.

Last week the forecasters were calling for some pretty foul weather so we postponed starting the repair until the weather looked more favourable. Like this week. Yesterday out of nowhere, with not a single telltale spot on the radar, the sky opened up and biblical proportions of rain came beating down ON THE COMPLETELY EXPOSED ROOF of our rental property.

I have no words.

The contractor called from inside his car to inform us that the sudden downpour was problematic.

Imagine that.

And then, like a poisoned cherry on a spoiled sundae, our renter rang to say that the carpet in the bedroom beside the second bathroom is sopping wet after someone takes a shower.

Oh dear god, please kill me now.

This morning, we woke up to the deep rumble of thunder and the steady drum of rain on the roof. I know that there is a silver lining in here somewhere and the promise of that is the only thing that is stopping me from going seriously freaking postal.

Diet is a Four Letter Word

I love weekends but like most of the men that I have married (except for this one), they are no good for me.

By Thursday of last week, I was humming right along on my diet. I didn't cheat, the scale was friendly and I was feeling very much in control.

Then Friday hit.

I was well behaved at lunch even though temptation was licking at the corners of my self control. We ate at the most incredible bistro down in Fayetteville with Brandon and Erin who are perpetually plugged into all that is hip, chic, gastronomically divine and cool. I'm not kidding. I had a reasonable portion of marinated chicken which was served with lightly seasoned greens and I didn't so much as blink at dessert. I was the model of control.

At dinner, I stuck to the plan and was feeling very hey-look-at-me-and-my-iron-willpower-ish until I spied the remnants of some Cheetos sitting right there on the kitchen counter begging to stain my fingers orange.

And then it kind of crumbled from there.

Saturday, I woke up and baked a yellow cake in preparation for a holiday party we were attending on Sunday. While it was in the oven, I decided to make a batch of Anzac biscuits for my husband because he finds them irresistible and I wanted him to blow his diet to kingdom come.

I know that sounds odd. Why would I want to sabotage him, right? Because he indulges his every whim on the weekends with barely a flutter on the scale and then the following week, he sticks to the diet plan for two days and sheds a bloody pant size. I cannot express how much this pisses me off. If I even so much as sniff a beer cap, I can't get my jeans done up.

Anyway, the cake came out of the oven and it was perfect. I'm not sure what possessed me but instead of cracking open a can of ready made frosting, I scoured the internet for a good buttercream recipe and learned that the real deal is a far cry from how I usually make frosting. I ended up using a traditional French recipe and it tasted pretty good. As you can see, I got my "Martha" on.

The biscuits went in and as they were baking, the scent of sugar, oats, golden syrup and butter wafted through the house.

I didn't stand a chance.

I swallowed the first one before it had completely cooled. It was pretty good.

So I had another.

And then one more.

And then, I did that thing that every woman who has ever dieted does:

I rationalized.

Since I had already fallen off the wagon, I might as well have at it and get the cheat factor out of my system. I promised myself that I would make a fresh start next week.

So, the Anzac biscuits were devoured, the cake is gone and this morning, I'm nursing a mild hangover. I have chicken and cucumbers packed for my lunch.

I hate Mondays.

Independence Day

Today is Canada Day, which is a celebration of when we officially became a nation. For all of my relatives in the true north strong and free, Happy Birthday!

They have the day off, which is a bit sucky because it's Wednesday. They will still have to do the mandatory grill out with friends or relatives. They will still have to drink plenty of coolie pops and they will still have to rustle up children and hightail it to some fireworks celebration. Because that is what you do to celebrate Canada Day. The trouble is, they will have to drag themselves out of bed Thursday morning and go back to work, which I'm sure will feel like it's all a bad, bad dream.

Down here, Independence Day falls on Saturday and not to be gypped out of a paid day off work, Friday has been designated at the stat holiday. I love this country.

In other news, today is significant in our household because one of our chickens is flying the coop. Yes, manchild is moving out.

Part of me is absolutely thrilled because I had serious doubts a year ago that this day would come anytime soon. To witness this child's transformation from an puerile, awkward and irresponsible boy to a careful, gainfully employed and mature man has been a privilege. I haven't known manchild long enough to mourn his childhood but seeing my husband try to wrap his brain around the status change has been revealing.

I have been trying to reinforce the idea that leaving home is a natural progression in the life of a person and that manchild with his own flat is a very good thing. Dallas agrees but wishes that he could go back and do some of the formulative years over again. He is not certain that he has taught his son everything that will be needed for an independent life. I'm sure that those misgivings are normal because even as the step parent, I've had them myself. I don't think that we ever lose the urge to protect our children but at some point, we have to get out of their way and allow them to be adults.

Today is Independence Day for our boy and I couldn't be more proud of him.

Stopped Up

I have a clogged drain.

No, that is not a metaphor for some sort of female anatomy distress, I am serious. I have a clogged drain. In our master bath shower.

I am mechanically inclined and if I had really thought about it out of high school, I probably should have pursued a career that had me using my hands to fix stuff.

Just not clogged drains.

Because while being adept with a screw driver has a certain sexy appeal, having a well developed visual gag reflex is a bit of a problem when it comes to pulling chunks of hair, soap and goopy, sticky, brown ick out of a 2" pipe.

I had on a yellow rubber glove and tried to reach in and grasp the clog but it was lodged too far down.

"I need tongs"

Dallas looked at me, raised his eyebrows and said, "Tongs?"

"Yes. Tongs."

He is quite careful not to mess with me when I'm hormonally imbalanced and I could see him sniffing the air to see if he could pick up the scent of crazy so instead of sending him into the kitchen to forage for a utensil that we would never be able to use again (and risk hearing him mutter under his breath which could have sent me over the edge), I asked him to pass me the cuticle scissors.

While not nearly as effective as tongs would have been, I was able to use the very tip of the scissors to catch the tail end of the clog. I pulled. I dragged and like the clown who tugs foot after foot of handkerchief out of his mouth, this clot went on forever. Out came a giant chunk of something that resembled a rotting oyster. I gagged and then dry heaved.

Dallas thought it was a beauty, like I had been out on the ocean and hooked a big one on my line. "That ought to fix it," he said.

Except it didn't. I took my shower and still found water pooling at my ankles. Since I had just caught a glimpse of what lurked in the drain, I gagged again at the thought of standing in that goop.

Home ownership is dirty business.

Good Bye, Farrah.

I wasn't planning on posting today but just now, I read the news that Farrah Fawcett has passed away after her much publicized battle with cancer.

God, that makes me sad.

She was the first television star that registered on my radar. I thought she was the prettiest, most glamourous woman that I had ever seen and like millions of other girls, I sat in the beauty shop begging for the stylist to feather my hair just like Farrah's. I wanted to grow up and marry the Six Million Dollar Man, too. To me, she was the perfect combination of feminine, sporty, strong and smart. And she seemed genuinely nice. I yearned to be her.

Perhaps the news of her death has hit me like this because cancer is such a painful way to go. More likely, it is because remembering her takes me back to the happiest years in my childhood. Frozen Koolaid popsicles on a hot summer day, the feel of Brûlé beach between my toes and arguing with my cousins about who got to be Jill Munroe in our game of Charlie's Angels are all hallmarks of my fondest memories.

I am going to choose to remember her like this when she was the picture of health and the world was her oyster.

Rest in Peace, Farrah.

In the Blink of an Eye...

Yesterday, I received an email from a company I did business with several years ago. They were trying to update their files and asked that we reply with current contact information. I didn't recognize the name of the sender and since I no longer have any projects with them, I ignored the email.

But it tickled the back of my mind for most of the day.

Before Olivia was born, I was a buyer for a well known retailer. I first met the X family when they called on me trying to sell their products. Mrs. X had started the company with her two sons, Sam and Junior. Tragically, Junior died of cancer the year after we met. Sam took over most operational duties and as the company grew, he settled into the role of CEO. He was a dynamic, smart and prescient leader. The company flourished as did my relationship with the family.

After I left the retailer, I kept in touch with Sam and his mum. In my new job, we had the opportunity to once again collaborate on a deal. Then, the unthinkable happened.

While waiting in an airport lounge to head overseas on business, Sam collapsed. An undetected brain aneurysm had ruptured. He nearly died. For weeks, he lay in a hospital bed in a strange city. His parents and siblings flew in to be by his side. At some point after the initial rupture, Sam suffered a stroke. Although he survived, he never fully recovered.

Obviously, the implications for the business were profound. Both Mrs. X and her husband stepped back into the day to day operations and assumed leadership roles. It was a very difficult time. We spoke once in a while and each time I hung up, my heart ached for the family. It was bad enough to lose one son to cancer. To find yourself in your late seventies as caretakers for your other, newly incapacitated son was awful.

And that is about all I knew of the situation. So, when I received the email from a sender whose name I didn't recognize, I googled the company. Sure enough, there was a news items describing the sale of the X family business to a group of investors. I had been expecting news of that sort since Sam's illness. What I didn't anticipate was the other information that popped up. It seems the family was embroiled in a legal battle over the guardianship of Sam.

With Sam's partner of twenty five years.

Sam was gay. I never knew.

And why should I, right? Why am I so blown away by this information? It's not like he ever questioned me about who I was shagging. I cringe now at some of the conversations that we had had where I encouraged him to try to balance his life by finding a nice girl and settling down. After all, he wasn't getting any younger and was working too much, I felt. I was such a tool, especially when in retrospect, I see that he handled those conversations with such grace. "Haven't yet found the right woman," he's say.

But reading about the legal battle was very upsetting. Mrs. X was deeply religious and believed Sam's "lifestyle" to be an abomination. She felt Sam's partner, Jack, had ruined their lives and told him so. After the aneurysm, Jack flew to the hospital and was denied visitation with the man with whom he had spent the last quarter century. Mrs. X told him that she would rather that Sam not recover than to see him get well and return to "sin".

Wow.

The trouble was that Sam and Jack had never protected their interests as a gay couple with the legal provisions that existed in their state. I'm sure they never gave it a second thought believing that in the event of a tragedy, their union would be respected. Not so.

I love Mrs. X and while I understand her commitment to her faith, I cannot reconcile her words and actions concerning Sam with the woman that I once knew. To me, the whole situation is just one horrid thing piled on the next. It's incredibly sad.

I hope the court grants Jack guardianship so that he and Sam can continue with the life that they had carved out together, albeit differently than they had anticipated.

I hope that Mrs. X finds peace.

Today

There is very little to report about the weekend except that it passed in the blink of an eye. Dallas and I do not sleep well on Sunday nights and I suppose it is because our professional lives have been so strenuous lately. I tend to dream about my to do list, which just screams DORK.

Today is a monumental day for us both professionally and personally. About a month ago, my husband left his job to start a new company with two partners.

Today, his first hire begins work.

Today, revenue will be generated.

Today, we can follow the path of every career decision either one of us has ever made to this specific point.

Today, we intimately understand that the picture of one's life is designed, not accidental.

Today, I must remember to say thank you.

The Friday Whine

I'm sorry.

My job is completely overwhelming these days. I regularly read other bloggers who somehow manage to juggle demanding jobs, demanding children, a demanding social life AND still post every day. I don't know how they do it.
They're preternatural.

Me?
Well, the state of my laundry room makes me cry.
I'm popping headache medicine like it was Pez candy.
I'm eating my weight in the Starburst Fruit Chews that our office manager insists on buying and I'll FIGHT YOU TO THE DEATH for the red ones.
My work phone is the enemy. Today it told me my mailbox was full which forced me to listen to the messages that I had avoided all week. I've become that despicable person who won't take calls and who uses the receptionist as the gatekeeper.
"Delete" has become my most favourite word.
My hair is falling out by the handful which is fortuitous considering I eyeballed the clippers this morning and actually contemplated shaving myself BALD because bald people don't have to worry about humidity and frizz.
My children have not seen a steamed vegetable in a month.
By 10:00 pm, I can no longer form coherent sentences and when the alarm goes off in the morning, anxiety rises in the back of my throat like acid.
My daily task list is unreasonably long and my work days feel impossibly short.
I fight the urge, every single day, not to set my ex husband on fire.
I need a wife.
And a cocktail.
And a Xanax.
And a gratitude journal, apparently.

I had lunch with my husband today and as we were finishing our meal, the weather sirens for our town began to wail.

I don't do tornadoes well. Today was no exception.

Within minutes, I was in the car, racing towards home to collect Dylan. The wall cloud was dark and menacing and stretched as far as I could see. The sky beneath it had that telltale green hue that accompanies tornadoes. I repeatedly dialed Dylan's mobile and each time, it went to voice mail. I could feel panic percolating just under the surface.

I got home to find my son in a similar state. We grabbed a cushion off the chesterfield and huddled in the closet under the stairs. The storm passed. We were safe.

As I drove back to work, I did a little mental recalibration and decided that I needed change my attitude.

I am very fortunate to be busy enough in my job to be overwhelmed. I could be standing in an unemployment line like so many others in my town. My children are healthy in spite of their lack of broccoli and really, the situation is temporary.
We're moving to Florida where tornadoes are rare. Really, all things considered, life is good. I'm grateful.

I still want to set my ex husband on fire, though.

Getting Schooled By Your Kids

Yesterday, I got handed a couple of life lessons that leave you all misty-eyed and feeling pleased as punch that you've lived another day to see the sun rise.

No, the IRS did not realize the error of their ways, apologize, and declare our case just one big misunderstanding.

No, we did not win the $232 Bajillion Powerball Lottery because we live in Arkansas where gambling is against the law. Can't even find a decent bingo house.

No, I didn't wake up thin and fit with perky boobs because that would involve extensive plastic surgery and gobs of money, which I don't have because the IRS knows where I live and I can't buy a freaking lotto ticket in this town.

Anyway...

Man child was concerned because his job had called demanding that he hurry in for a "chat". He was nervous. Past experience had conditioned him to believe that nothing good ever came of these impromptu conversations. Consequently, he fretted and racked his brain trying to remember if he had committed some sort of transgression that would require a face to face with his owner.

I had nothing for him. Nada. I tried to think of something appropriate for the situation and the best advice I came up with was to brush his teeth before he left figuring that no matter what happened, it couldn't hurt to have fresh breath. (A shining example of one of my finer parental moments.) As it turned out, man child received a promotion and the realization hit me that it really is the right time for man child to leave the nest.
_______________________________________________

Before leaving for work yesterday morning, I'd taken a large piece of paper and penciled, "EMPTY THE DISHWASHER" in block letters because the boys will not do a lick of housework unless they are asked. It drives me MENTAL.

So, before ending our morning call, I asked man child if the dishwasher was emptied. He confirmed that it was.

"Thank you," I said.

"I didn't do it," he replied.

"Oh. Is Dylan up already?" Negative. Still sound asleep.

"Well, who unloaded the thing?" I asked, completely perplexed.

Olivia.

Really? My baby?

Apparently so. And she did a fine job. Everything was put away in its place. When questioned, she was very matter-of-fact stating that she had just followed the instructions on my note.

I read somewhere once that as parents, we should refrain from doing for our children what they can do for themselves. I've embraced that theory and often been criticized for expecting too much of my kids. And even though it was only the small act of unloading a dishwasher, I was bursting with pride at Liv's initiative. Dishwasher today, maybe med school tomorrow. Hey, I know it's a stretch but it still left me all warm and fuzzy.

Procrastination

I generally avoid tedious and/or unpleasant tasks until the last possible minute when they can be no longer ignored. Some call it procrastination. I call it stress management.

Several weeks ago, Steph the Magnificent came into my office with a bundle of paperwork that she had picked up on my behalf from the local childrens' summer program. She was busy enrolling her children and was kind enough to think of Olivia. It really is a great program. The kids swim, roller skate, go to the movies and participate in various other activities. Last year, Olivia came home at the end of every day happy, exhausted and socially satisfied.

The summer program begins today.

I waited until last Friday to submit the paperwork. The office was closed.

So Liv couldn't start today.

When I broke the news to her last night, she looked at me, knitted her brows in confusion and plainly asked me why I had waited so long. She wasn't the slightest bit snarky or accusatory. She was just curious.

*crap*

"I don't know. I should have taken care of it weeks ago," I said, deciding the truth was probably a better option than making up a story involving dragons and trolls.

"Okay," she said and kissed me good night. Clearly, I was forgiven.

As I was getting ready for bed, I passed my jewelry box upon which an IRS notification sat. We received this latest missive telling us that further revisions were needed and we had ten days to complete them.

That was a couple of weeks ago.

Something tells me that the IRS won't be nearly as understanding as Olivia.

Paring A Life

The thing about moving is that it forces you to take a look at all the crap you've accumulated over the years. I have learned several things about myself recently, none of which are particularly good.

First, I am quite possibly the cheesiest person on the planet when it comes to Christmas decorations. I have TRUNKS full seasonal corniness. If the knitted and stuffed snowmen with "2003" or "2005" embroidered across their chests weren't bad enough, there is the Harley riding Santa, which belts out the well know Christmas carol, "Born to be Wild". I don't own one of those creepy, life size, animatron Santas but only because it frightened the children. However, I am turning over a new leaf. From now on, I vow to make our holidays Martha Stewart tasteful with themed Christmas trees and fresh baked shortbread. I will no longer use fake icicles, cotton batten for snow or anything that sings, bobs or gyrates. Amen.

Second, my closet seems to be a metaphor for my life. I have no less than four different sizes hanging in there, each of which represents a distinct mindset. My skinny jeans, when paired with a snug tee tell the world that I am sassy, determined to stay young forever and just the slightest bit obsessed about what goes in my mouth. My everyday jeans are a size larger. They are worn with comfortable shoes and fitted shirts. They say, "I'm balanced and at peace and yes, I'd love a glass of wine". My fat jeans have strategically placed pockets to minimize the appearance of my arse. They contain abnormal amounts of spandex and are worn with loose tops designed to hide the muffin top. They scream, "Fuck off. I'm full. Now, get me a plate of nachos. And a treadmill." Finally, in the deepest recess of my closet, is a single pair of maternity jeans that I wore long after giving birth to Olivia. They were usually paired with an ill fitting, stained mu mu of some sort and they whispered, "Save me from myself. I am miserable."

In any case, everything goes but the items that fit RIGHT NOW. I am positively giddy with the decision in spite of the fact that I will be left with exactly two pairs of jeans, two black pants, four shirts and a bra that comes with instructions for use.

Finally, I have to admit that I have ostrich-head-buried-in-the-sand syndrome. I have been forced to actually look at the contents of the junk drawers that I have stashed around the house and it ain't pretty. I have a compulsive need to save every slip of paper from every financial transaction that I have ever completed because God forbid tax time come and we haven't got A RECEIPT FOR A QUALIFIED TAX DEDUCTION. Except that I never store the papers in the same place or file them with any regularity. Hence, on several days out of the year (usually after the acquisition of a speeding ticket or some such), I can be heard bellowing about the insurance cards and where the hell are they and I could have sworn that I put them RIGHT HERE IN THIS DRAWER!

I am hard pressed to throw out things like birthday candles that have been lit a single time or extra vacuum cleaner belts for a machine that my ex got in the divorce. As a result, there are no less than five drawers in the house that are crammed full of VERY IMPORTANT SHIT. As discussed before, being within ten feet of my file cabinet causes me to hyperventilate. But I will be a prisoner no more. I vow to sort through every bit of it and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that the mere thought of taking on this task makes my gorge rise. But it's okay because after it is all over and I have pruned and organized my life, I'm going to reward myself by getting the fat sucked out of my ass so that I can once again fit into my skinny jeans.

I'm kidding.

Maybe.

Just a Hair From Madness

I don't want to be all whiny and sucky but if I get one more thing on my plate at work, I am going to lose it.

Today, I arrived at the office forgetting my lunch in the refrigerator at home. It nearly reduced me to tears because this means that I'm going to have to take a precious thirty minutes out of my day to go home and get it. AND I JUST DON'T HAVE 30 FRICKEN MINUTES TO SPARE.

Because I have important things to do...like write a post.

*cough*

Anyway, I'm trying to deal with the stress by telling myself that I am fortunate to be this busy and to have this many balls in the air. I also know that hormonally, things are wildly out of kilter and I'm not rational. This will pass.

In about four days.

So in the meantime, I just have to keep my head down, plow through the mountain of work on my desk and stay away from sharp objects.

My husband has taken to wearing a helmet and leaving small bits of chocolate in my path to soothe the crazed bitch my nerves.

*sigh*

Memorial Weekend Part Two

Okay, back to Memorial Weekend.

After man-child's graduation ceremony, we dropped him off back home, picked up the two younger kids and beat a path out of town. We didn't officially get on the road until 12:30 pm and I was worried at how late we would be arriving in Indy.

We were set to stay with clients of mine who have become friends. Nothing says crappy house guests like arriving at midnight smelling of Cheetos and Red Bull with two cranky children in tow.

Sunday morning, we got up, showered and learned that we would be leaving for the track fairly early. I looked at Dallas and raised my eyebrows. The race didn't start until 1:00pm. I couldn't imagine what in the world we would be doing for in the four hours before the green flag was dropped.

We drove to a parking lot of some sort of gravel company located in downtown Indy. There, we met several other couples. Everyone was waiting for the police escort. Yes, you read that right. It seems that several years beforehand, our hosts had hooked up with one of Indy's finest and each year, he would escort them to the track.

"High beams on. Flashing lights on. Stick close together and keep all limbs inside the vehicle at all times."

Actually, he didn't say that last part but he should have. The officer turned on his sirens and lights and wove through the streets of downtown Indianapolis at about 50 miles an hour. Cars pulled over to the side of the road and stopped as our caravan sped by. We went through red lights and stop signs. Other police officers stationed at different points in our route stopped traffic for us. The entire ride was surreal. At one point, Olivia leaned forward and said, "Mama, are we still in America?"

As we neared the track, we could see a line of vehicles waiting to get into the parking lots. We flew by them all, bypassed the line entirely, pulled in and parked directly in front of the entrance. Dallas and I looked at each other, blinked and shook our heads in disbelief. We had never experienced anything like that before. EVER.

And it was barely 10:00 in the morning.

After having a massive pre-race tailgate brunch replete with a driver pool and absolutely the best pastry I've ever tasted, we were ready to head inside to explore. We were handed tickets and told that as newbies, we had the best seats of the bunch. Gross understatement. We were planted at the start/finish line, up in the penthouse seats, directly across from the tower, with an intimate look at pit row. UNREAL.

Nothing prepares you for the sound of thirty plus cars at full speed hitting the start line. The noise is deafening, exhilarating and the excitement that bubbles up inside raises goosepimples on your arms and leaves the hair on the nape of your neck standing straight up. I held Olivia in my arms and we both giggled and then laughed uncontrollably as the cars sped by.

Then Liv made friends with the drunk lady sitting beside us. At one point, I looked over and she was braiding said female's hair. I smiled, sipped my Coors Light and thanked God for small miracles.

There were loads of other events that made the weekend special like meeting a group of visiting Kiwis and witnessing my son at the helm of a speedboat but I suppose the best part of it all was being welcomed into the homes of our friends and treated like family.

Rant

Nearly two years ago, I quit smoking and for the most part, I have remained firmly on the wagon except for a few weak moments in Las Vegas last year with a couple of South Africans. Anyway, I feel great and every day that I get up and my first thought isn't about a cigarette, I am grateful. Most of the time, I cannot believe that I ever smoked. Sometimes, however, I get an urge so strong that it's all I can think about. And in those moments, I have an internal conversation that begins with a "Don't even think about it" pep talk and ends with some sort of sweet, carbohydrate-laden reward. My mother tells me to reward myself with a brisk walk or twenty minutes on the elliptical and because I love her, I mute the phone while I scream obscenities in reply.

But she is right. It would be so much healthier to associate pleasure with exercise and not food. I am an emotional eater. My stress response is to snack. So lately, with the pressures of my job building to a critical mass, I started to worry about the size of my ass and the fact that it was expanding at the speed of sound.

So, back on the HCG diet.

Again.

It's a quick and dirty way to lose a pant size or two, which is especially relevant for me because in about two months, Dallas and I are once again headed to Mexico to celebrate our first anniversary. There is a catch, however. Our friends, Ron and Suzy, are joining us on this trip. It's one thing for my husband to witness the dimpling of my thighs. It's something else entirely to share that sight with our friends and since I'm not really a sarong-wearing gal, it looks like I'll have to resort to the old standby of diet and exercise.

I just wish I wasn't so cranky (Dallas nodding vigorously).

And it would be nice if the stress level at work eased up just a bit so that my body would quit manufacturing cortisol in levels large enough to export.

And I'd like for the IRS to inadvertently hit delete and erase our file.

And I'd like our insurance adjuster to actually get on the leaky roof instead of eyeballing it from the ground and pronounce the water streaming from the ceiling in the foyer a "fluke" event.

And I'd like the owl in the tree who hoots ALL NIGHT LONG to take his show on the road to some other neighborhood. He could invite his equally noisy canine friend who scrapes a metal bowl on the concrete ALL NIGHT LONG and make it a duet.

And I'd like Adam Lambert to win American Idol.

Amen.

Life is Good

This weekend, my kids were with their father so Dallas and I were fancy free to do as we pleased.

Friday night, we went to see the movie Star Trek and unexpectedly, I loved it. I was never a big Trekie back when fellow Canadian, William Shatner, helmed the USS Enterprise but as the new Captain James T Kirk, eye candy Chris Pine, rocked. And getting a glimpse into the human side of Spock was a treat. All in all, it was definitely worth the bucks.

Saturday, was a bit of an emotional roller coaster but in a positive way. One of the consequences of removing teenager daughter from our home back in March was silence.

Hers.

Text messages were either answered with one word replies or blatant disrespect or not at all, which emotionally, was very hard on Dallas but he remained resolute. As the adult in the relationship, it was his duty to continue to reach out to her in spite of her attitude and he did. However, he refused to apologize for our decision to kick her out and he refused to engage with her when she was abusive. Both of these behaviours were markedly different from the way that he had interacted with his children before and this line in the sand stance was a concept that they needed to digest.

So, a few months passed.

Saturday afternoon, he had lunch with teenage daughter. The conversation went very well and it now appears that the lines of communication are once again open. I can't tell you what a relief it is to see progress with this particular issue.

The details of man-child's life have been a source of anxiety, as well. Often, he is like a reed in the wind. One minute he sways in one direction and the next, he's pointed in an entirely different place, which is normal for someone his age. We have encouraged him to take a year and travel or work or a combination of the two. We said, "Slow down, take a personal inventory and plan." Well, some of the chatter must have been retained because late Saturday afternoon, he asked us to accompany him to see an apartment that he wanted to rent. He had researched the area to death and had landed on the best value for his buck. He chose to forgo the option of a flat mate so that he would not have his living arrangements dependent upon someone else's ability to pay the rent. We were blown away. And proud.

There is just the slightest catch in the back of my throat at man-child leaving our home. I know that he will survive and I'm pretty sure that he will find his success but there is a part of me that wants to nestle him right under my wing and make his decisions for him.

After weeks of unbroken rain, we woke up Sunday morning to a cloudless day and warm temperatures. So we rode. With the sun on my face and the scent of clover in the air, I felt a contentment wash over me that I have missed in recent months.

I woke up this morning exactly eleven pounds lighter than last Monday. LIFE IS GOOD.

Can Anal Retentiveness Be Cured?

I have got to learn how to delegate. Really.

It's not that I'm a total egoist who believes that nobody can do it as well as I can because I'm pretty sure that the world is full of people who are much more capable than me. The problem is that I am Type A.

Pathologically so.

And whether it is work, home, a leaky rental roof or picking a new dentist in a new town, I get horribly uncomfortable when I am unfamiliar with every, last detail. Consequently, my daily to do list is OUT OF CONTROL. Lately, I have been waking up in the morning with a pressing sense of panic wondering how it is that I am going to get everything accomplished. What item do I pick to tackle first when there are so many things that require my attention RIGHT NOW?

I am overwhelmed. Completely.

On the home front, We've got a leaky rental house, the pending move to Florida, a new home to find, new schools to research, small improvements that need to be done like painting and carpet cleaning to make our family home ready to rent out, sorting through moving company quotes, PACKING, the beloved IRS, summer daycare for the kids and all of the other normal, everyday activities in the life of a family.

Professionally, I have had to give up some of the control. I have been forced to admit that I cannot possibly juggle all of my projects and still give 100% to each of them. And I am quite happy to shift some of the responsibility onto the shoulders of my colleagues but I am struggling with the whole fear thing because at the end of the day, the buck stops squarely at my desk. So, at 42 years of age, I am going to have to learn the art of delegation. And it is an art. There's a fine line between following up with people and micromanaging them into a nervous break down. Guess where I drift.

Um...yeah. (Head hanging shamefully)

I think I could use a few tips.

A Gem in Disguise

Wow! It sure feels like Monday.

The weekend passed by in a blur of activity and I am positive that between now and THE BIG MOVE, the frenetic pace will become uncomfortably familiar to Dallas and me.

See, the scary thing about settling in a new place (is it just me or does the word "settle" automatically conjure up images of covered wagons and bonnets?) is that there is no guarantee that you'll get it right the first time.

Gone are the days when the bulk of my belongings could fit into a backpack. Back then, I could relocate without a second thought. When I first decided to leave Canada for San Diego, I was positively delirious with anticipation. I sold everything I owned, which wasn't much and committed fully to the idea of never having to experience a Canadian winter again. I could not wait to get on the plane.

At the time, I was working as a manager in a popular chain restaurant. One of my regular customers was this cranky, old guy who would stroll in most evenings for a few pints of draught and some hot wings before making his way home. The staff hated him. He was a big man with giant hands, a shock of white hair and fleshy features. He was bigoted, opinionated, obnoxious, demanding and generally a pain in the arse. I loved him.

Sometimes, I'd sit with him and get his advice on everything from dating (frat boys are bad news) to finances (pay yourself first). He'd lost his wife and his only child in a house fire years earlier and never really recovered. We had an odd friendship I suppose, but it worked. He was a surrogate grandfather to me and my life was richer for knowing him. When I bought my ticket to sunny California, telling him was the only thing that I dreaded about the move.

"You'll be back," he said, as if I would fail, somehow.

"No, I won't." I replied and in that moment, our relationship changed.

For the next couple of weeks, he was distant and emotionally withdrawn. The waves of disapproval that rolled off of him were palpable.

I questioned my decision to go.

Was I being impulsive? Should I stay? How would I support myself in the US? But California spoke to me and the desire to go outweighed every rational objection that I could muster.

On my last day at work, there was a mini going away party in my honour. My friend ambled in near the end of it and parked himself at the bar. He motioned for me to sit next to him, which I accepted, grateful for the apparent thaw in his attitude. We chatted for a bit about hockey and the weather.

"I bet you'll really enjoy all that hot weather in Cal-e-forn-eye-ay," he said. I was surprised.

"Yeah, I think so." I said. I felt the beginnings of a small lump forming in my throat.

He just nodded, finished his beer and called for his tab. I sat quietly beside him unsure of what to say next. He paid his bill, stood up, and put on his jacket. As he tucked his stool under the bar, he handed me an envelope. Then he hugged me, which he had never done before.

"Good luck," he said and left. I went into the staff bathroom and cried myself stupid.

When I opened the envelope, there was a corny going away card upon which he had written, "You'll do good but if you get homesick, use this to buy yourself a ticket home."

Inside were four, crisp, new, one hundred dollar bills.

It took me about eighteen months to deposit the money into my bank account in La Mesa. It took that long for me to exhale and accept my new life.

I never saw or spoke to my friend again. Email and mobile phones were non existent back then and even if they were, I'm not sure he would have divulged that information. I didn't even know his last name. If I could talk to him now, I'd tell him that part of the reason that things worked for me in the US is because I operated with the knowledge that if they didn't, I had a four hundred dollar safety net.

Thank you Frank.

Facing the Music

On top work and the decision to move to Florida, my time has been occupied dealing with a little IRS issue. You know, even the act of writing, "IRS" makes my bottom pucker just a bit. They scare me. Anyway...

As a condition of his divorce settlement, Dallas was to turn over half of his stock options and half of his 401K to his ex wife, which was pretty standard as far as the division of assets usually goes. All marital bills were paid out of the proceeds and the remainder was split. Dallas took his half, put his chopper on a boat and flew home to New Zealand. He didn't expect to return.

But he did and recently, we were alerted to the fact that we might have a wee tax problem (again, involuntary constriction of said nether region). It seems that Dallas's divorce decree was missing a QDRO or qualified domestic relations order.

What's that, you ask?

Basically, it's an legal order which in this case, would have acknowledged that the retirement honeypot was raided early and split between the parties. It would have directed the retirement company to send one disbursement cheque to Dallas and one to his ex. Unfortunately, with no QDRO only one cheque was issued.

In Dallas's name.

And even though he did exactly what he was supposed to and gave the proceeds to his ex, the IRS doesn't give a fig about the details of a divorce decree. All they recognize are the tax documents reported to them. Blah, blah, blah. What this meant is that ALL of the taxes and ALL of the penalties became his (our) responsibility.

YIKES.

And even this would have been manageable except that the full value of the retirement plan and the stock options put Dallas into a tax bracket reserved for wealthy people and trust fund babies. I kept doing the calculations on the amended return over and over because I just couldn't believe the "tax owed" number that was popping up on my calculator.

And when you add a couple of years of penalties and interest....

Yeah. Fugly.

$25,000 worth of fugly.

Gulp.