The Picture of Elephantine Grace

Chris over at Rude Cactus and Aimee of Greeblemonkey fame, (who we have to hate for awhile because she just got back from Hawaii..hiss), have cooked up:

What this means is that we are shamelessly asking you to make yourself known by leaving a comment. Not that we are insecure comment whores or anything but..

I have my steady few that comment all of the time but for some reason, the tens of you that read me prefer to email. I understand perfectly. I'm shy like that, too. Anyway, I'm supposed to give you a specific little something something to comment on and this is usually done via the telling of some horribly embarrassing story. The trouble is that most of those involve situations that I'd hate for my mum to read without first ingesting a pharmaceutical or two. And recently, I've acquired a couple of new readers from New Zealand (hi Mrs. J! Hi Leisa!) who after reading several posts, are probably already very concerned for Dallas. So, after mentally sifting through the debris of my youth, I have landed on a story that wouldn't get anything stronger than a PG rating.

In eighth grade, I was fourteen, athletic and newly interested in all things distinctly girlie. Up to that point, I'd had very little use for boys except as referees for our hockey games. I wore my hair like Dorothy Hamill.

Overnight, everything changed. I discovered Maybelline Great Lash mascara and Lip Smackers. My male friends suddenly became much more interesting. And I bought my first pair of high heeled shoes, which launched a lifetime obsession.

It was announced that there would be a school dance called the "Spring Fling". My father gave me $50 to get an outfit. I spent 12 bucks on the dress and the rest on the most magnificent, 3.5" (9cm), black velvet stilettos. They hurt. I teetered like barfly in them but they made my bum look fabulous because it was constantly flexed in an effort to maintain my balance. LIFELONG OBSESSION. I was the picture of adolescent pseudo-sophistication.

The day of the dance, we had rain and temperatures that were cold, even for April. That night, the rain froze making the concrete steps leading into the school an icy mess. My father suggested that I might be more comfortable wearing my sneakers until I was safely inside the school doors but noooooo, not me. I was Scarlett O'Hara in the damn drapes and I was going to make my grand entrance. Besides, I had practiced for hours getting in and out of the car with my skirt and heels on. I had the side sweep motion down to a science.

And then quite predictably, it all went horribly wrong. I took that first stair and felt the bottom of my foot slide back as I pitched forward. To stop my face from meeting the concrete, I reached out with both hands to the left and grasped the iron railing, twisting violently around, knees splayed, pantyhose ripped and slid on my arse, then tailbone and finally came to rest on the small of my back. I broke one of the heels of my shoes. At that very moment, as I was inelegantly flailing to get up, the boy I had a serious crush on chose that moment to pull up to the curb, exit his parent's car and gaze at me with a mixture of pity and barely controlled laughter. I wanted to die. Instead, I limped back to my Dad's car, got in and begged him to take me home. His shoulders were shaking and every few minutes he let out a little squeak and wiped his eyes. Awful. The worst.

So that's it. Feel free to delurk and share a moment of your own. And hey, thanks for reading.

I Hate Tornados

I have experienced hurricanes on the east coast, typhoons in China, wildfires and earthquakes in southern California but nothing, and I mean NOTHING in Mother Nature unhinges me like a tornado except perhaps those awful tree roaches in Texas.

During the week, I don't watch a lot of tv but last night, Dallas wanted to tune into the news and we left it on after dinner. We were watching something forgetful when a highly caffeinated weather team interrupted the program to tell us to

GET TO OUR SAFE PLACES RIGHT EFFING NOW!!!

At first, I wasn't comprehending what they were saying and confused it with some sort of new age directive to go to my HAPPY place. Since I am mother to one child bordering on adolescence and another who has made "Mum" a sixteen syllable word, I am quite familiar with every technique available to slow one's heartbeat.

Then, the sirens went off and it finally dawned on me that the weather guys were speaking in tongues because there was the distinct possibility that we were all going to Oz. And then I lost it just a little.

Earthquakes in San Diego involved a little toilet water spilling onto the floor and then playing chicken with the overpasses during aftershocks. In China, typhoon day meant being stuck inside a highrise hotel room while it rained horizontally. Perfectly manageable. But hearing those damn tornado sirens go off after the sun has set and understanding that I wouldn't be able to see the funnel cloud coming sends me into an incoherent, unreasonable, let's-get-in-the-car-and-drive state.

Dallas, quite camly asked me where we usually go in the house during a tornado. I had to admit that once or twice, I have not been able to find my car keys and thus, have resorted to throwing the children in the tub and covering them with a mattress. It hasn't mattered to me that the tub rests along an exterior wall (BIG tornado no no). All that I was thinking was that it might afford my babies some protection if they were hurtled through the air at 150 miles an hour. As if.

He quietly suggested that we might find it safer to be in the closet under the stairs. I did the math and agreed that I liked the odds of us being buried alive better than careening through the air in a builder's grade fiberglass tub but I still made the irrational argument that I thought it would just be wiser to get into a car and drive in the opposite effing direction.

And then the storm blew over like it always does. I got into bed fully clothed with my purse, photo albums, car keys and mobile phone by my bedside. I am a nut job, yes, but a prepared nut job, nevertheless.

We All Know A Bob

This weekend flew by in a blur of activity.

When I was single, I certainly had a social life but not like this. I don't think that Dallas did either but as a couple, we seem to have a full calendar. Friday night, we had dinner out with friends, which was fun. Saturday, we went out to the Harley dealership because I wanted to find a new pair of grips for my big bike. This turned out to be an interesting experience.

You see, during the time that Dallas and I were apart, I dated the man that sold me my Harleys. We'll just call him Bob. When Bob first asked me out, my initial instincts were to say no because on some level, I knew that we were not compatible but he made me laugh, was obviously Harley friendly and he was kind to my children whenever I was in the dealership.

Stupid.

I should have listened to my gut because after a few weeks, it became apparent that Bob and I would never work as a couple. Dallas factored into that decision because Bob perceived my friendship with him to be a direct threat. Among the other issues, I was expected to cease communication with Dallas. So, I ended things with Bob. And he was hurt. I understood that. All my life, I have tried to remain "friends" with former boyfriends. It's an illness, really, because break ups are painful, often one sided and to expect everyone to smile, hug and move on is kind of a kooky philosophy that I have embraced. However, Bob and I dated for less than three weeks so I didn't think there would be that great of an emotional ripple.

Wrong again.

In early November, I was in the dealership to pick up an accessory and I stopped by Bob's office to say hello. BIG MISTAKE. His hurt had turned to anger. Since then, I have avoided him and consequently, the dealership, like the plague. But Dallas and I love the Harley dealership so we decided to make the trip in spite of the fact that the situation might be uncomfortable.

Dallas walked in, went over to Bob and shook his hand. They may have conversed but I sure didn't see it because I made a coward's beeline in the other direction. Everything worked out fine, although if looks could kill, I'd be pulling one or two daggers from my skull.

And I guess, that was the interesting part of the visit for me. Before we went to the dealership, I had anticipated that Bob's reaction to seeing me would be anger and it was but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel it necessary to reciprocate all that negativity. Instead, I found myself whispering, "I'm sorry", and wishing him happiness. The realization hit me that my entire perspective in life has shifted. I constantly find myself asking, "In the big picture of life, does this REALLY matter?" Most of the decisions that I make these days are subjected to that single criteria. It makes things remarkably simple and manageable.

Loving Dallas has certainly contributed to this change but I like to think that he is my reward for harnessing my thoughts and emotions.

I Shouldn't Have A Pulse

Apparently, I am dead.

Well, obviously not but according to my basal body temperature, I shouldn't be able to respirate, let alone drag my fat arse out of bed every morning. I guess I should explain.

Whenever I see my mum, I come away with a boat load of new information and books that MUST be read...TODAY! I tease her but truthfully, when I look back to the "aha" moments in my life, she has been the propellant that gently nudged me in more enlightened directions. This time, I was handed a book on hypothyroidism.

The women in my family have all suffered from non-productive thyroids, me included. As a result, we are an exhausted bunch with cold hands and feet, brittle nails, dry skin and filthy, lying bathroom scales. We are all taking a synthetic form of thyroid with decidedly mixed results. We feel somewhat better but we're not 100%. My doctor, who looks all of about thirteen, told me that my sub par health is normal and just part of the aging process.

*blink* *blink*

The last time I checked, I was forty. FORTY. And according to the fashion rags, forty is the new thirty so how the bloody hell is it that my doctor and her perky young boobs could possibly expect me to accept that feeling tired all of the time is NORMAL?!!!!!

Sheesh.

Anyway, Mum chose not to swallow that garbage from her own physician and for the past several years, she has been reading everything she could possibly get her hands on in regard to thyroid disease. Recently, she stumbled upon this book and finally, everything made sense. I finished reading it this week and have begun the search for a doctor who will treat me according to the plan outlined by the author.

In the meantime, the book encourages you to take your temperature in the morning and in the afternoon for several days to establish an average basal body temp. It is the most reliable indication of hypothyroidism. Afternoon temps should hover within a tenth or two around 98.6°F. I'll be taking mine this afternoon but I've never had a temperature higher than 98.2°F so I don't hold out any great hope that it will magically correct itself today even though I've been on thyroid medication for 5 years. Healthy morning readings should be between 97.8°F and 98.2°F. Mine was 95.7°F this morning.

See? I'm nearly a corpse, I tell you. I'm lucky my heart still pumps blood. It's downright HEROIC that I make it into work most days.

Just kidding, of course but I am excited to see what can be accomplished when I'm operating at 100%. Perhaps I won't feel the need for a continuous caffeine supply or a mid afternoon nap. Heck, maybe I'd actually get friendly with my scale....ooohhh...the possibilities are endless.

I'll keep you posted.

Change

It's coming. I can feel it. Dallas senses it and both of us know that a shift of some sort is imminent.

For me, clarity arrived while I was in Canada. Although I was happy to be home with my family, it was a bittersweet experience because Dallas wasn't with us. Frankly, I was surprised at how difficult it was to be apart from him. I know that it was only a week and I can hear you gagging from here but I was startled to find that my brain had firmly shed the serial dater attitude and shrugged on commitment like a comfortable, old sweater. But the peripheral details of our relationship continue to peck at my type A personality.

We both have children. Two of mine are quite young, which is great, because they're a bit like playdoh in their ability to mold themselves to any situation. They love Dallas and have since meeting him last summer. However, their youth also means that there are still YEARS left of raising them, which is a privilege, but in direct contrast to Dallas's world. His kids are in high school. They already have one foot into their adult lives. He'll never stop being their dad but the day is rapidly coming when his wishes will be mere suggestions and not the law. If he stuck out his tongue today, I bet he could taste the freedom that comes with an empty nest. My hope is that he doesn't make like Forrest Gump and run at the prospect of living through hell the teenage years of two more children.

His relationship with his ex-wife is one of the things that I admire most about Dallas. There is respect, love and genuine concern for the mother of his children. However, there are also complex emotional layers that sometimes throw me off balance. On weak days, I can feel twinges of insecurity. The rest of the time, I am comfortable with the knowledge that we are really, really happy.

I occasionally have a tough time trying to map out how it is that we will get from our here and now to where we envision our future to be. Dallas likes lists. He is one of the few men on the planet who is capable of a successful grocery shop. He is meticulous and although I can hear the wheels turning in his head, I am not entirely enlightened as to what his vision of the plan is. Like Dallas, I am comfortable when the road is clearly lit but I am equally content just knowing that there is a destination. I have respect for the blueprint but I like to write in the margins, too.

Yes, a shift is coming and it's all good even if can't quite put my finger on what it is exactly. I have faith, though, that Dallas and I will one day sit on our porch, in a couple of Adirondack chairs, looking at the cows out in our pasture and reminisce about the year 2008 and how everything changed.