How Do You Spell Guilt? RESOLUTION.

Today is one of my least favourite days of the year. Besides the fact that our roads will be polluted with every drunk this side of Betty Ford, there is this insane pressure to RING IN THE NEW YEAR!!! Whatever.

Yes, tomorrow will mark the start of a brand new year but it's meaningless to me except that I will have to remember to sign my cheques with an 8 instead of a 7. I fully expect to be subjected to the barrage of "Year in Review" programs that populate mass media. From the top 100 songs and the biggest celebrity meltdowns to the most compelling news events and of course, George Bush's most illiterate moments of the year, we will have a scintillating choice of mindless lists to digest.

And of course, I feel compelled to make a blasted list of my own. So here it goes:

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

• Read at least one book a week.
  

• Look, I know that I probably won't have the time to do this but what's a good resolution list without a few items that are impossible to keep?
  

• Stop using the "f" word.
  

• This may just fall into the "impossible to keep" category because there are times when no other word will do. And it is such a versatile word. It can be a noun, verb, adverb, adjective and object...often within the same sentence. If you say it softly, it's like a tickle. Say it with a little gusto and people could be wiping spittle from their eyes. In any case, I'm likely to miss it.

• Learn to speak another language.
  

• I know that in my line of work, Mandarin Chinese or Hindi would be useful but I've been looking for courses in daughterese, ex-husbandish and umm Kiwi. I still am not completely clear as to what the heck "crikey" means but a POME? Well, that's just a prisoner of mother England, don't you know? And it's a slur but compared to the ones we have here, I think we can all agree it's pretty tame.
  

• Exercise More.

• There is the gym and my perpetually psycho scale but I think that the best kind of exercise is the type that Eve whispered to Adam after that first nibble of the apple. I'm not terribly particular as to how the calories are burned, just that they are.

• Say Thank You More Often.
  

• Dallas's sister is this fiery, smart, independent woman named Leisa. I have never met her but I know that she would fit right in with the GNO crew. We are exactly one week apart in our birthdays and I'm older but I can't seriously hold that against her. Recently, she sent Dallas a note to let him know that she would like for me to attend an intimate luncheon and the wedding ceremony which was originally intended for close friends and parents, only. I had plans to shop in Auckland during this time and hook up later at the reception but her email changed everything. To Leisa, I say my first of many "thank you's" for the year. I understand how meaningful this day is and to include me in those plans is an incredibly magnanimous gesture. Some people teach you grace. Leisa appears to be a part of that group.

So there you have it. I could probably write a resolution list that would span the continental US but five is all that I'm able to manage. Any more than that would be as wasted as a common sense lecture for Britney Spears.

I hope that all of you have a prosperous, healthy and joy-filled 2008.

Where Did You Say You Was From?

It's a queer feeling to spend some time in your native country and find that it has become foreign.

I walked down to the local grocery store yesterday to grab a few necessities and as I perused the aisles, I had a hard time picking out a single brand that was familiar to me any longer. Then, I stumbled upon the sweets aisle and in a blink, I was transported back to my childhood when cookies were the only reason for choking down overcooked spinach (eyes watering, gagging).

Dare cookies.

They are a little slice of nirvana. I can remember climbing up the formal dining room chairs to get the bags of cookies that were hidden on top of the china hutch. And yes, you can assume that there was an issue when parental units are forced to hide the sweets. And because I am nothing if not patriotic, I bought a bag of Dare Maple cookies to take back home.

Old Dutch Potato Chips.

You have not lived until you have burned off the inside of your mouth with their salt and vinegar offering. It's hard to find that flavour in the US. Dill pickle is another Canadian favourite. Of course, I haven't had a chip since 1987 and can't imagine being friendly with my bathroom scale in the foreseeable future so marching down nostalgia lane is an exercise in junk food frustration.

Did I mention the drugs? According to the current American administration, Canadian pharmaceuticals are of inferior quality because negotiating the cost with the manufacturer is madness, I tell you. Certifiable. Besides, who has time to bicker over price gouging when there are more important things to do like topple "rogue regimes". But I digress.....the drugs. Yes. In Canada, there are magic pills called two twenty twos (222's).



They are basically Tylenol 3's and they are available over the counter. Apparently, Canuks are responsible enough to handle a little caffeine and codeine without too much trouble. Since most Canadians have engaged in at least one of the national past times (the consumption of beer, contact hockey), 222's are as vital in the medicine cabinet as toothpaste.

I took my purchases up to the register and noticed that the cashier had a fairly thick Canadian accent. As I paid and exchanged pleasantries with her, she asked me how I was enjoying my visit.

"How did you know I was visiting?"

"Oh because of your accent," she answered.

This took me by surprise but I guess after fifteen years in another country, assimilation will take place. My knee jerk reaction was mild panic at the thought of losing the Canadian in me but after giving my head a shake, I realized that I get the best of both countries and who really gives a flip if I can no longer be identified by the way I talk.

I was once caught speeding in northern Michigan and the first thing the police officer said to me after I opened my mouth was, "You ain't from around here, are ya'?" Today, I'd have to ask him to define, "here" because for me, home has really become less concrete and more about where my hat is hanging.

Special Gifts Come in Small Packages

Last Friday, just as my plane touched down in Canada, my eldest daughter went into labour. After fifteen or so hours, she gave birth to a healthy eight pound baby boy.

So I'd like to introduce you to the best Christmas present our family received this year:

MADDOX CADE

I can't wait to meet him.
I hope your Christmases were equally fabulous.

The Food is Better at Grandma's

I'm sorry about the lack of posts recently. After posting every day for the month of November, I had very little left to say. Then we had the holidays....

The kids and I got on a plane last Friday at 5:40 am (don't rub your eyes, you read that right) to fly to my mum's house in Victoria, British Columbia. After three flights and ten hours, we arrived to typical winter weather in the Pacific Northwest. Rain. Vast quantities of stuff. Biblical. As in Noah and his bloody ark.

In spite of the damp, I was once again awash in the feeling that comes when I go home. I think it might be awe. As soon as I step out of the airport, the visual aesthetic of the northwest blows me away. EVERY TIME.

And the air tastes...I don't know.. clean somehow. It's hard not to be impressed when a single 360° view produces mountains enrobed in mist, towering evergreens, lush holly trees in full berry bloom and the cold, gray fury of the ocean. Rain or not, the beauty of this area is unparalleled.

It goes without saying that my children love being with their grandmother because her sole purpose in life is to exist as the antithesis of me. They are lavished with attention, stuffed with all sorts of sweets and generally waited on hand and foot. When we get back to the US, they'll wander around our house asking for ridiculous things like a home cooked meal or a bedtime story. It will take WEEKS to deprogram them!

We spent Christmas day like a lot of other people: eating ourselves into a coma and talking with far flung relatives on the phone. I was sloth-like. I got up from the couch to...um....well...I guess "got up" might be a slight exaggeration. I probably slid off the thing a few times to amble to the fridge or the bathroom. Other than that, I did a whole lot of nothing. It was pure bliss. Tomorrow is Boxing Day and I intend to go shopping. I am well aware that hitting the stores on the day after Christmas is a lot like having an ice pick jammed repeatedly into your brain but the advertisments use language like, "clearance", "sale of the season" and "80% off". The cerebral self understands gimmick marketing but I am an imperfect woman and if there is the merest whisper that a real deal might be had, I feel compelled to participate.

Hello. My name is Beth. I am a female with a little money and a babysitter. Why don't you just preauthorize my Visa right now so we can get this party started.

Table for Eight

I have a love hate relationship with Christmas.

On the one hand, there are all of these memories of snow, cousins, rosy cheeks, food and laughter. On the other, I remember stomach churning anxiety. I loved shopping for gifts but as a student, I always spent an obscene amount of money which usually represented my car note, rent or tuition for the next semester. And I stressed over the gifts themselves, worried that they wouldn't be good enough. Yes, I know. I was in desperate need of approval, blah, blah, therapy, blah, blah....

And then, I gave birth.

Children give the gift of Christmas back to us, don't they? There are letters to Santa, classic holiday TV shows, baking shortbread and sugar cookies and staying up until four in the morning with a set of Japanese instructions in an effort to assemble the gadget of the moment. I have loved this time of year for the past decade. To see the look of awe on their faces Christmas morning makes it all worthwhile. Besides, Santa is a great disciplinary tool as in,

"I'm picking up this phone right now to make a report to Santa about your behaviour, young lady" which usually yields the desired results: look of horror, mouth open in silent scream and immediate change in attitude.

But this year felt funky and for the life of me, I don't know why. I sort of wanted to blink and have the holiday go away. Bah humbug! And the crazy thing is that I couldn't get a handle on why I felt this way because I have been living a charmed life. I should have been spreading Christmas cheer instead of ducking it. Then, early this week, everything changed.

Dallas and I got our respective broods together to celebrate Christmas since the kids and I are heading out of town tomorrow.

It was a madhouse.

We had dinner and then opened our gifts. It was noisy, confused, wrapping paper everywhere and quite fun. I think Dallas might have been overwhelmed because I don't hold to any gift-opening rules. I let the children run wild. WILD. It was mayhem and for the first time this season, I felt the beginning jolts of Christmas excitement. We looked like a big, disorganized family and I loved it.

For years, I concerned myself with the quantity of gifts under the tree. I always fretted about whether the children would be disappointed. Did we have enough? Would they be happy? This year, none of that crap mattered. Sure, the kids enjoyed opening their gifts but looking around the room that night, the magic for me came from the sense that we were blending together nicely and defining family in our own way. At one point, I looked over at Dallas during the frenzy and he smiled in a way that said, "Can you believe this? Aren't we fortunate?"

Unbelievably so.