Bum Rap

When I turned forty a few years ago, I did everything that was expected of me. I took inventory of my life, had a small mental breakdown, a substantial mid-life crisis and I completed all of those recommended baseline medical tests that firmly usher in middle age.

Except one.

I did not have a colonoscopy. The idea of a scope up the chute was more than I could bear. If anyone was going to be that far up into my body, I felt we ought to at least share a cigarette afterward and unfortunately, I'd just kicked the habit.

Well, here we are a couple of years down the road and the details of Farrah Fawcett's illness hit the mainstream media. I read about her plight with sympathy and a cringe. Anal cancer.

Awful.

And scary.

I couldn't help but read all the gory details and in doing so, a couple of the higher risk factors grabbed my attention. It seems that women who have had cervical cancer and smokers are several times more likely to develop the disease. Both gave me pause. Then, I happened to Google the risk factors for colorectal cancer.

Oh. my. God. (again, the internet and easy information access may aggravate one's OCD tendencies)

So, last week, I picked up the phone and tried to schedule an appointment with a proctologist. I say, "tried" because while speaking with the doctor's nurse, I asked a few questions about the initial exam, chickened out and said I'd have to call her back.

Which is stupid, I know.

But it's very special territory, there.

And the doctor is a man.

Look, the cerebral part of me knows that he is a doctor, that he's probably seen it all and that one ass is likely the same as the next except for variations in dimples and hair but still, DIGITAL RECTAL EXAM! By a man who's not my husband! Do they use stirrups or is one expected to um...bend over? And the colonoscopy itself? Gratefully, they knock you out for the actual procedure but I understand that the preparations the night before are their own special brand of pergatory.

Dread. Anxiety. Barely contained PANIC.

Of course, because I am now fixated on all of the horribleness surrounding the imminent test and its results, I am now acutely aware of my ass. I purchase flushable wipes. I'M RECOMMENDING THEM TO FRIENDS.

Years ago, we were told about my paternal grandmother and how one night, she got up looking for some relief. She reached into the drawer, pulled out a tube of Preparation H and dabbed a wee bit of ointment on her inflamed behind. Then she screamed. The tube turned out to be Crest and her ass was on fire. I used to laugh myself senseless over that story. Now? Not so much. I take hemorrhoids very seriously because THEY COULD BE ANAL CANCER IN DISGUISE.

So, I am going to suck up all of this irrational fear and call the doctor for an appointment. I just have one question.

What kind of small talk do you make when a doctor has his finger between your buttocks?

Wrap, Pack, Box and Tape

The internet is both a blessing and a curse for an information junkie like me. Search engines have become part of my everyday vernacular as in, "Let me just google that" or "I don't know. I have to do a bit of research (read: Wikipedia) first." I love the internet. Thank you AL Gore. (Bwahahaha)

Anyway, now that we have committed to THE BIG MOVE, I am spending every available waking moment searching for housing in Florida.

And I am making myself nuts.

I don't know why I am so obsessed. It's not like Dallas and I are prepared to make an offer on a house today and if we choose to rent, we won't be signing anything until late July. But I can't seem to help myself. After the kids are in bed, I invariable log on to one of the many real estate sites and take tour after endless tour of the available homes. I've bookmarked them and evaluated where our furniture might go. I've tsk tsked over shoddy landscaping, heinous wallpaper and outlandish wall colours. I've rhapsodized over elaborate pools and mahogany built ins.

I am plagued.

But I understand this insatiable desire to research the real estate market to death. Doing this stops me from dwelling the labourious part of the move. I haven't a single pack rat gene in my body. In fact, I've been known to throw things out and go looking for them months later. However, I do have a well developed procrastination gene and this causes me to squirrel things away in dark places, swearing that I will file them or toss them or otherwise thoughtfully place them somewhere in the near future. You know how you tell yourself that this will be the year that you prune your file cabinet? I've been saying that for a decade. I cringe.

No matter how sparse my sensibilities, the prospect of having to meticulously wrap and pack every item in my house makes my head explode. And then there is the unpacking on the other end. I cannot bear to think about all of that...work.

So instead of stewing over it, I go online, take a house tour and imagine myself in our soon-to-be new house in our soon-to-be new hot tub with cocktail in hand.

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.

Earth, Wind and a Bank Account on Fire

To summarize, my plate has been full of work, relocation, the IRS and a child in need. But wait! There's more.

During the Easter weekend, we had torrential rain and wind (some call it a tornado) and it felt like the Book of Revelations had finally come to pass. We didn't care, though. The children were delirious from eating their weight in chocolate, the house was clean and we had nothing better to do than to nestle inside with a good book and a cup of java.

I got a text message from our tenant asking me to call when I got a moment.

On Easter Sunday.

Which meant one of two things: either Jesus Christ himself had risen in the backyard or there was a problem with the house. I bet you can guess which one it was.

Yep. The house. Specifically, there was a leak in the ceiling in the front foyer. And the back fence had fallen most of the way down.

When I told Dallas, we kind of just looked at one another and shrugged.

"Can I get you a beer?" he asked.

"Make it a rum," I answered.

And it just kept getting better. We recently switched insurance companies so on the Tuesday after Easter, when I called the agent to report the issue, she couldn't find us in the system yet. I had a mild panic attack until she assured me that we'd be there soon and there was nothing to worry about. They've been great, actually. An adjuster has called but we won't see anyone for weeks because that little storm caused heaps of damage in areas further south in the state. I think the agent referred to it as "disaster management". Um..yeah. We got off lightly.

Last weekend, we had more of the apocalyptic weather and I called our tenants to see how they'd fared. No problem, apparently. The leak didn't drip. Instead, a lovely 7" wet spot has appeared in the ceiling and there is now a visible crack from one wall to the other.

(Fingers in my ears, la, la, la, I can't hear you)

This weekend, the forecasters are calling for more rain. I've been on the phone this week trying to get a roofer out to put a tarp on the problem area until we can get things fixed but nobody seems eager to do it. Apparently tarp work doesn't pay as well as say, an entire roof job. I'd ask Dallas and our handy friend, Ron, to go out there and pull a MacGyver but with our recent luck, lightning strikes and rogue squirrel attacks could actually come into play.

So we will sit, with bucket in hand and wallet aflame waiting for the other and the other and the other shoe to drop. And it's okay.

Because we've got the worst luck on the planet

got a big bottle of rum

got our health.

Who Is This Boy?

This week, we have chatted about work, the move to Florida and the IRS. But that's not all. No siree. My son has thrown his hand into the stress mix.

Last week I was out of town and received a call from my ex husband in regard to Dylan. It seems that during his phys ed class, Dylan had had a "misunderstanding" with another child.

Again.

From what I understand, he'd handed a girl a ball. Girl yells at him. He doesn't know why she is yelling at him. Dylan reacts by trying to swat ball out of girl's hand. Ball hits girl in the face. Dylan turns and walks away when it's obvious that ball hit girl in face. Girl, who is no shrinking violet, marches back to Dylan and proceeds to punch him repeatedly in the head. Dylan drops to the ground. Both children go to the vice principal's office. Both children are suspended.

SUSPENDED.

MY child.

When I got home, I talked with him and tried to understand where it was along the way that my sweet boy disappeared and this alien took over his personality. Adolescence has arrived along with the wild hormonal mood swings, the irrational behaviour and the increasingly poor judgment. I can't blame it all on the pre-teenage angst, either. The truth is that Dylan has been struggling for a few years now.

We have tried enrolling him in sports to foster a healthier social intelligence. We have tried limiting media because there is just nothing good to be said about most video games, television and internet social sites. We have spent hours talking to him about the missteps with other kids and the way he treats people. We have role played and tried to teach concepts like, "building bridges" (as suggested by sista cousin) or "deposits into the friendship bank". None of it has appeared to stick with him for any length of time.

Some days, I feel like a good parent. Other days, I feel stupid and ineffective and completely at a loss. There are times when the frustration level is so high that shamefully, I lose my temper and hiss at him about his inadequacies only to apologize later. But I know that words cut deeply and cannot be rescinded. I know this. Intimately.

Dylan served his in school suspension this week and the very next day, I received a call from his math teacher telling me that he'd gotten himself into trouble again. She wasn't jumping on a bandwagon. She just wanted to help. After hanging up with her, I sat at my desk for a few minutes trying to gather my composure and came to the quiet realization that I needed help, of the professional kind. I am not willing to roll the dice and hope that Dylan outgrows this social and emotional dysfunction.

So next week, together, we will make our first visit to a professional. I know it won't be a magic cure all but it's comforting to know that there is another resource out there for us to explore.