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.

Medicinal Tequila

Mexico was a dream. A lovely, sunny, white sandy, relaxing, refreshing slumber.

We arrived in Cancun just after lunch. Mexican customs was a breeze and so, we found ourselves comfortably ensconced in our ride before one o'clock. We made a detour at the first convenience store on the way and picked up a few snacks and a six pack of beer for the forty five minute drive to the hotel. I've heard it said that heroin addicts spend years chasing after the feeling they get from their very first high. Well, let me tell you. When I took that initial sip of beer and felt the ice cold sparkle wash down my throat, I experienced a moment of pure joy that I wasn't able to replicate for the rest of the week. And that's not a bad thing.

We stayed at The Royal Playa del Carmen and it was absolutely fantastic. On our honeymoon, we'd treated ourselves to a luxury resort a little farther north and didn't think that any other property would be able to live up to that experience. I'm so glad that we were wrong.

And we spent about $2000 less.

TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. LESS.

Which makes the whole holiday that much sweeter, if possible.

Highlights:

The staff.

Fell in LOVE with them. Exchanged emails. Plan to keep in touch. Yesterday morning, back at my desk and missing my poolside lounge chair, I went out to the Royal's website and clicked on the webcam for a few minutes hoping to catch a quick glance of one of our new friends. No such luck but I'll keep trying. I find myself glancing at the clock, noting the time and thinking, "the beach volleyball game will be starting in twenty minutes" or "they'll be doing the kayak tour now if the seas aren't too rough". My wistfulness is either evidence of a good holiday or I am a total sap.

The location.
We walked out the front doors and two minutes later, we were on 5th Avenue, which is notorious in Playa del Carmen for shop after shop of really cheesy souvenirs, silver boutiques, pharmacies and vendors hawking everything from Chichen Itza tours to Cuban cigars. We bought all sorts of stuff but my favourite purchase would have to be the diuretic I got for $10 that works like a charm and makes my monthly ordeal bearable. Just say NO to tankles.

The massages.

Dallas and I went a bit overboard. We each had an hour long deep tissue combo massage on Saturday night at a place called Veronica's on 5th Ave. It was the best massage I've had. EVER. It cost us $48 total. So we booked another for Monday night with the same therapists and learned that it was no fluke. They were incredibly skilled. We decided on a third visit for Thursday night with exactly the same results. And now, we will have to go back to Playa del Carmen because I don't think there is a massage therapist on the planet that can hold a candle to my boy Magdiel. I'm officially an addict.

The two seater giant jacuzzi.

The picture doesn't give you the full scope of this contraption. You climb into it and it's like sitting in a roomy car, with water jets. We used it every single night before going to bed. The last evening that we were there, we came back to our room to find that housekeeping had drawn a bubble bath for us complete with essential oils and rose petals. The first thing we did when we got home was measure the master bath to see if one of those babies would fit. Sadly, it won't.

We did experience a few hiccups in the vacation. Dallas woke up in the wee hours of our first Sunday in Mexico with a painful, debilitating belly. The side effects were with him the whole week, which somewhat diminished his fun factor. We had a fabulous poolside server named Denys who took great care of us while we were there and she recommended tequila as medicine for Dallas.
For two or three days, he consumed several tequila concoctions and strangely enough, he DID feel loads better. Who would have thought? Although, it's not a big stretch that something that can strip paint can be equally effective at killing intestinal germies. Once we got home and the free flow of tequila was eliminated, Dallas couldn't bear it any longer and made a visit to the local clinic. I am happy to report that he is drying out on the mend.

You know, Mexico is a great bang for the buck. We're already planning our second anniversary. Only 51 more weeks to go.

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.

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.

Spend Now, Save Later

I was on holiday last week in sunny Florida.

It was lovely.

And relaxing.

And soaked in Bud Light Lime, rum, chocolate and hummus.

The drive to Florida was a long one so we decided to break up the trip by spending the night in downtown Atlanta, proving once and for all that sometimes, the neurons are not firing correctly.

I picked the Marriott Residence Inn because we could get a one bedroom suite at a reasonable price and I had a bunch of Marriott Reward cards that needed to be used. The biggest challenge for Dallas and I in our travels with my children is the whole hotel room situation.

My husband has a beautiful rear end. Magnificent, actually. But no matter how much I enjoy admiring his nether region while he wanders around in his boxers, there are two other pairs of eyes to think about. For step-dads, the rules are different and shared hotel rooms pose some unique challenges. Hence, the decision to stay at a Residence property, which tantalized with offers of two room privacy for the price of one.

Whatever. It sucked.

Parking at hotel: $21.00
Hotel room: $150.00
Dinner at cool downtown tappas restaurant: $150.00 (Gulp)
Bottle of chlorinated tap water: $4.50
Shitty, uncomfortable queen size bed: $100 future chiropractor visit
Shitty, uncomfortable pull-out couch which children shared: Whine, fight, whine, cry, whine, fight, threats of bodily harm from parental unit, angry, fight whispers and then blessed sleep. Not worth it. I promise.
Forgetting Wii Fit in hotel room (because we were afraid to leave it in the car because we were in downtown Atlanta, don't you know) where it promptly grew legs and vanished when housekeeping was called from the road several hours later: $100.00
Starbucks one block from hotel and open at 5:00am: Umm...priceless. It was the one good thing in a sea of bad.

Easy come, easy go, right?

On the way home, we elected to get two hotel rooms with an adjoining door. The kids' room had two double beds so when Olivia began kicking like a bull steer, Dylan slumbering in his own bed, was blissfully unaware. Dallas and I luxuriated in a king size bed so when he turned over to sprawl in the middle of the night, he didn't body slam me like a punk in a mosh pit. We spent about $200 total and they even threw in free, potable, surprisingly good coffee in the morning.

I consider our accommodations on the way home to be the bargain of the century.

Friday, At Last.

It's Friday.

It's Friday and the weekend that my children are with their father.

It's Friday, the weekend my children are with their father AND it's warm enough to ride.

I am positively giddy.

Every time that I look out my office window, I get a little shiver of joy.


The past couple of weeks have been hugely busy. At work, deals have finally come together which is great, except the details are time consuming and never ending. I'm grateful, though. It's been a long sixteen months putting together one of my projects and I plan to celebrate like a pirate.

This week also found my husband in the office of his division VP who told him that he has been identified as rising talent and would he consider moving to fast track his career? Neither one of us saw that one coming. More on that later.

For the past twenty some odd days, I have been spending every spare minute trying to find a place for us to holiday. The last two years, we have been fortunate enough to use timeshare points through my sista cousin and her husband. This year, in the middle of an economic downturn, everything was booked solid. Weird. So, Ash and I started to panic a bit. Finding a place became paramount.

We looked at the Gulf Shores because the beaches are fantastic, the prices reasonable and the drive wouldn't be too taxing. The only problem was the weather. Iffy, at best. The last thing in the world that I wanted to experience on spring break was goosebumps. So, we scrapped the Gulf Shores and turned our attentions to the central Florida Gulf Coast instead.

I'm sure that with a little planning, this would have been a good option but at the last minute, most everything was booked and those properties that weren't had issues. Like price. One agent told me she had a great deal on a three bedroom, two bath place. It was just shy of $3000, plus cleaning fee, plus booking fee, plus extra to heat the pool and jacuzzi, plus security, PLUS tax. When it was all said and done, we were knocking on $5000. Eight people in a shoebox-sized condo looked less like a holiday and a whole lot like work. So we declined.

This past Tuesday, I was becoming seriously worried. My Aunt Bev sent over a website but I didn't hold out much hope because I'd been to just about every URL that had beach in the title with no luck whatsoever.

And then it appeared.

A large, four bedroom villa near the beach.

Two master bedrooms, huge heated pool, great location and every amenity one could imagine. It was available. And inexpensive. I called the UK to get it booked. Did I mention how reasonable the prices were? Dallas asked if there was some catch.

"Are you sure the prices are in US dollars and not British pounds?" he asked. I understood his trepidation. Too good to be true syndrome.

But it wasn't and two weeks from today, we'll be heading down to Florida with my sista cousin and her family.

It's Friday, and the weekend that my children are with their father and it's warm enough to ride, and my deal came together and we got our vacation booked. Life is good.

If I close my eyes, I can already smell the salt in the air.

Holiday Spirit

I am not finished with my Christmas shopping.

This is so not like me.

This weekend, we hiked over to our local Wal-Mart trying to get the necessary ingredients for Christmas dinner and to pick up some stocking stuffers. It was a freaking zoo and there is no denying that this season brings out the absolute worst in some people. It seems that every single rude and graceless tool on the planet crawls out from underneath their rock at least once a year and for some reason, as discussed before, I am the person they find. To the elderly lady in the stationery aisle whose hair smelled like rotting olives and who used her bony hip to violently move me out of her way as she took the last Crayola Disney Princess Color Wonder package:

Be grateful that you qualify to collect social security because I am Canadian, a former left defense hockey player and respect for the number of years you have terrorized the earth is the only thing that stopped me from laying you out flat in that aisle. Also, that shade (Ronald McDonald orange) that you are using in your hair is not complimentary to your skin tone. I'm just saying...

To the extremely large man who parked his motorized cart on a diagonal in one of the toy aisles and who sat there, clearly conscious of but not caring a whit for the bottle neck that he was causing:

It's bad enough that you are a thirty five year old man who has eaten himself to the size of Hummer. To make yourself even more repugnant, you come to the store unbathed, in sweat pants that haven't seen a washing machine since the Reagan administration and with something unidentifiable lurking in your mangy beard. There are truly disabled people that need that cart, mister, so the least you could do as you accelerate past the amputee with the crutches is yield the bloody right of way.

I'm thinking that next year, I'm going to make all of my holiday purchases online. Things can get pretty heated on eBay but at least I can shop in my jammies with a coffee in my hand an no possibility of walking into someone else's fart fog.

Merry Christmas Kiwi

My husband has submitted his Christmas list and at the very top were two items that gave me pause.

ANZAC biscuits and Louise cake.

Since I grew up in the northern hemisphere, I had no idea what either of these baked goods were and after my aesthetically dismal but tasty experience with Pavlova, I was a bit concerned about my ability to fulfill his wishes.

The first obstacles were the measurements. What the heck does 90 grams of butter look like? Well, according to a handy online converter, it's 18.9 teaspoons, 0.40 cups or 6.3 tablespoons. For someone like me who is slightly anal retentive, these numbers made my head explode.

I am a pretty good cook and I usually bake well but not because I'm an intuitive savant in the kitchen. I CAN READ. I follow directions. I am precise in the measurements and I follow the recipe to the letter. If it calls for folding, I fold. I level the flour in the measuring cup. I set the timer. I have NOTHING in common with those who reach in, pat the top of a cake and know it needs another few minutes. I am the type that goes through an entire can of Crisco trying to make the perfect pie crust.

I have cried over pie crust.

To make matters worse, I come from a family of women who are culinary goddesses.

Effortlessly.

They are able to cook AND carry on a conversation. They own aprons. They also sew, make elaborate scrapbooks for their kids, style their hair in the mornings AND work outside of the home. I am not even close to being in their league.

But I digress.

I was able to overcome my OCD tendencies in regard to the metric measurements only to be waylaid by the damn ingredients. Unsweetened dessicated coconut? Golden syrup? I contemplated just using regular fancy coconut and honey or corn syrup but these goodies were on Dallas's Christmas list as in "Baby, seriously. All I want for Christmas is ANZAC biscuits and Louise cake", which kind of makes it hard to skimp on pesky details like a FLAVOUR PROFILE he's known and loved for forty years.

I went online in search of recipes. We called his Grammie Rhodie in Papatoetoe. There was no getting around it. The signature taste of the cookies was reliant upon a single ingredient.

In blog after blog, I was told that the crunchy yet chewy goodness could only be achieved with Lyle's. Yeah, so twenty plus bucks later, I had ordered six bottles of the stuff which was probably overkill considering the recipe only calls for two tablespoons. I plan on using golden syrup in pecan pie, in my butter tarts and every other place I had once used corn syrup because OH MY FREAKING TASTEBUDS, this stuff is liquid gold.

And the cookies are all kinds of buttery, caramely, lick-your-fingers fabulous. Dallas has been having them for a snack with his morning tea and since they have a cup of oatmeal in them, this is probably acceptable somewhere.

Rollercoasters Will Fry Your Brain

The trouble with a holiday is that you have to go back to work.

This week has been a little overwhelming. The president of my company walked into my office the other day and said, "What's with the factories puking all over themselves?"

I don't know what the hell is going on but NOTHING is running smoothly right now. It's like the work fairies have gone on strike. Even projects that have been ticking along without a hitch for over two years are experiencing hiccups. It's enough to make flipping burgers at the local greasy spoon look appealing.

So last night, to de-stress, I watched "Emeril Live" on the Food Network because even though I can't get within a mile of a carbohydrate (yes, I'm on that kick again), I can at least try to stimulate some feel good hormones by observing chocolate pecan pie being made.

I'd never tuned in to Emeril before but we ate at his restaurant in Orlando (TO DIE FOR) during this last trip so I was interested to see what his show was like. He was awesome! Very entertaining. He's even got this five piece band right there with him in the kitchen. During one quick shot of the band, I turned to Dallas and said,

"Look! I didn't know Randy Jackson played on Emeril's show." Dallas looked at me as if my nose hair were on fire.

I suppose I should preface this exchange by telling you about a discussion that we had had in Florida on the day that we visited the Animal Kingdom. We arrived fairly early Friday morning and started our day at the DINOSAUR roller coaster. It was awful. I used to love rides as a kid but something changed once I had children of my own. I am convinced that the Tea Cup horror in the Magic Kingdom is an instrument of the devil. See the picture below. That was from last year. Notice the green hue.


Olivia obviously recovered nicely but I wasn't right for the rest of the day.



Anyway...

After the Dinosaur ride, we ventured onto another roller coaster so by the time we hit the African part of the park, my brains were leaking out of my eyeballs. Understandably, I was easily confused. As we walked into the African section, I noticed a kangaroo on our left and was quick to point it out to my children.

(photo courtesy of www.turtletrack.org)

Dallas swung around, eyes wide in amazement and declared, "That is NOT a freaking kangaroo!!" He laughed and laughed and the kids, sensing the opportunity to get one over on their mum, joined in. Listen, it looked like a bloody kangaroo to me. Well, maybe one that had been in a scrap with a dingo or something and lost its tail...



Apparently, this little guy is a Patagonian Cavy. He's a rodent, a BIG ASS rat, not a marsupial. Whatever. He hopped.

So, back to last night watching Emeril and how I believed Randy Jackson was on the show. Wrong again.

This is Randy, of course.



Umm..this is not Randy.


After his initial shock wore off, Dallas took me gently into his arms. He softly stroked the back of my hand and in a quiet, soothing voice he said:

"Baby. That's not Randy Jackson. That's a kangaroo."

Cheeky bastard.

EDIT:
After reading this, Dallas informed me that a kangaroo hasn't been spotted in Africa for...oh...well, NEVER.
And it's rat look-a-like? Not African. South American.
So, my recollection of exactly where my Jessica Simpson moment happened is a smidge hazy. But hey, at least I know it wasn't in Africa or Asia. Excuse me now, I've misplaced my bottle of peroxide and I need to go find it.

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.

Is Vegemite Actually Edible?

Last weekend, Dallas received a postcard in the mail announcing the planned February nuptials of his sister. Tuesday, we booked our flights to...

NEW ZEALAND

Excited doesn't begin to describe my feelings about this. Besides the obvious plus of meeting his family, I'm looking forward to seeing the southern sky for the first time. I know that it must sound ridiculous but I can't wait to have a look at the constellations south of the equator. I hear the beaches are fabulous, too. And it will be their summer. Which means shorts. And possibly a bathing suit.

Okay. I'm not going to let myself get all freaked out by that last thing because I'm going to

NEW ZEALAND !!!

Wearing My Emotions

This weekend, we had our office Christmas party. I know that many of you are rolling your eyes because often, these kinds of events are their own special brand of torture. Believe me. I have been there, too. Ours is a bit different, though.

Because we are a relatively small company, we have this intimate affair with great food, wine and some sort of live music. Last year there was a harpist. This year, we had four musicians playing Christmas carols on violin. It is low key, tasteful and very, very conservative. The men dress in suit and tie and the women are just one Spanx garment shy of a ball gown. This year, I asked Dallas to be my date. Gulp.

Besides being a great sport about shucking on a suit, Dallas allowed himself to be introduced and scrutinized by the thirty odd people at our event. They had all heard of him, knew he rode and had seen up close that I was crazy about him. In the four and a half years that I have worked for this company, I have never once showed any real interest in a man so it was only natural that my work family would be interested to lay eyes on this "Harley" guy. He was charming, attentive and a perfect gentleman. I was thrilled to be there with him.

Later that night, we went on to a local club with Steph the Magnificent and her husband. After a few cocktails, it was decided that the four of us would try to get to a Nascar event sometime next year. Steph promised me that I wouldn't have to flash my boobs and just like that, my metamorphosis into a southern Republican began.(NOT!)

Yesterday, those of us in the local office were gathered around the water cooler rehashing the party. The girls told me how happy I looked and that Dallas and I made a cute couple. I gushed like a school girl, of course because I don't seem to have an emotional off switch where he is concerned. Then, this delivery arrived:



It seems that Dallas was thinking of me and wanted me to know. The bouquet was lovely but it was the card that made me misty. One of the girls in the office whispered to me that I "wear love well".

And truthfully, this is the singular instance in my life where I could care less that I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have been a good girl this year. I did not maim my ex husband and most times, I was able to greet him with a smile. I made an effort not travel as heavily this year and sure enough, my children no longer panic when I leave to go grocery shopping. I kept three houseplants alive and there are enough weeds in my flower bed to confirm that I am capable of nurturing something more than a grudge. I ate my loathsome vegetables. And I flossed.

Please see this year's wish list below. Please note that the usual requests: world peace, an end to human suffering and the impeachment of Dubya, should be considered understood and thus, they are not included.

1. I would like a blank cheque for the plastic surgeon. Now I know that this might be viewed as a hefty request but really, if one is going to receive Botox, what's a little Restylane to fill in the crevices? And if I have to be anesthetized to receive lipo, doesn't it just make sense to keep me under a wee bit longer and give the girls a make over? ECONOMIES OF SCALE, I tell you. Is it too much to ask to be able to see my abdominal muscles again without the benefit of an MRI?

2. I would like an inground pool. When it is 120 degrees outside and the humidity is 99%, I find that it is difficult to be reasonable. Can you wiggle your nose or snap your fingers and find some way to get it installed without having to dig up my back yard or rip down my fence? And while you're back there, would you mind planting a tree that I can't kill? Maybe something like a cactus would work because apparently, two sugar maples, a dogwood and a Bradford pear require watering and who the hell has time for that?

3. I would like one week at a luxurious beachfront resort with Dallas, preferably after healing from the plastic surgery. (see item #1)

4. I would like a personal chef. I have come to accept the fact that my idea of domestic bliss is to outsource the dirty work. My yard is mowed and my house is cleaned by other people. It only stands to reason that the final barrier to total sloth be breached. The candidate should understand that sometimes, he will be required to double as a short order cook because my children have never met a box of mac and cheese that they didn't love.

5. I would like the opportunity to be fifteen again for one day. There are several reasons for this. First of all, I'd like to sit my teenage self down and veto the decision to start smoking since all of those years contributed to the vain need for Botox. Second, I'd tell her to take a cab instead of accepting a ride home from that creep in the donut shop. Finally, I'd like to crawl into her body just once more to see what ten hours of unbroken sleep feel like.

Well, Santa. That's it. I realize that there are some tall orders on that list but I have confidence in you. By the way, my dentist has recently informed me that I will require a crown and a possible root canal so if you happen to see the Tooth Fairy in your travels, would you mind sending her my way? It's obvious that I have somehow pissed her off and I'd like to apologize. Thanks!

I'd Rather Be Riding

It's official. I am Scrooge.

I ventured out to another mall today and tried to Christmas shop. I just couldn't get in the spirit, though. I am not the least bit excited.

I did make some purchases but they ended up being for me, which was fine while I was at the mall but sucked when I pulled into my driveway and realized that I had just spent sixty bucks on a sitter and accomplished nothing.

My original plan was to leave all of the shopping until I arrived in Canada because I didn't want to deal with clearing Canadian customs but this plan was flawed for a couple of reasons.

1. Have you seen the exchange rate? Our dollar has sunk like stone against foreign currency and with provincial sales tax and GST, I might as well blow up my credit card right now.

2. I am type A. I am organized. I follow a plan. For me, waiting until the 22nd of December to purchase Christmas gifts is like expecting teenagers to postpone sex until they're married. NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. I usually have all of my shopping done by November 30th. I'm a little panicky, already.

3. Traffic in my one horse town might be annoying at times but driving in Victoria, British Columbia is a whole other experience. Blue hair, horse carriages and tourists guarantee that any commute ANYWHERE is slow in the best case scenario and downright dangerous in the worst.

So, I'll try again next weekend and hope that visions of effing sugar plums finally dance in my head.

'Tis The Season

Today we put up some of our Christmas decorations. I just love opening the storage box and hauling everything out. Tomorrow, we will put up the tree and I am going to make an attempt to light the yard with pathway lights.

Obviously, I have run out of stimulating blog material. I'm dry. I did spend nearly two hours at the gym today and not because I'm dedicated. My housekeeper decided to clean and we needed to be out of her way. So, I did nearly an hour of cardio broken into two sessions and an hour of weight training. Tonight, I read Liv a book and when I descended the stairs, I felt the first twinges of what I know will be teeth gnashing pain. I'll let you know Monday because generally, the second day is the worst. I just keep saying, "Bikini in March, bikini in March", like a mantra.

In other predictable news, I am no longer dating online. Dallas and I are going to try to make it work on an exclusive basis. I hate even saying that out loud but I am determined to send positive, happy and successful thoughts out into the universe.

They'll be in good company with all of the salt I've been throwing over my shoulder lately.

Another Day After

Is the month almost over? Blogging every day is like having a deadline that never goes away. How do the writers of daily television shows do it? Burnout for them must be worse than air traffic controllers.

...not that I am comparing my pointless drivel to real talent like the Tonight Show staff or anything...
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Today was "Black Friday" and when I got into my car to drive off to the mall, I missed the fact that my HEAD WAS ON FIRE! It's not like the deals were really that great. Oh, I suppose if one got up to be at a store at 4:00 am for the "early bird" specials then who am I judge but I am old enough to remember the Cabbage Patch frenzy and the last place I wanted to be was in a Wal-Mart fighting over a Hanna Montana dress up set with a woman who could eat corn in the cob through a picket fence.

So, I waited until a reasonable time to partake of the shopping lunacy and immediately, I regretted my decision. Between screaming toddlers, Michael Bolton Christmas songs and those god awful Santa Clause animatrons just inside the door of every shop, I'd had enough well before noon. I knew that I would lose it if I laid my eyes on one of Santa's helpers. There is just something terribly disturbing about an elf with a mullet.
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In other news, I think that I may have sold Little Girl today. She wasn't really up for sale but I had someone offer me a reasonable sum and I'm probably going to take it. Strangely enough, I'm feeling sad at the thought of opening the garage door and not seeing the Sporty.

I guess it's true that you never forget your first. Of course, once she goes, there will be an empty spot in the garage......

Another Thanksgiving Post

Since today is Thanksgiving, I decided to be a total cliche blogger and list all of the things for which I am grateful.

-My children. What can I say? They are the source of my greatest anxiety and also my greatest joy. All three of them surprise me on a daily basis and I am exceptionally fortunate to have a front row seat in their lives.

-Dallas. I love this city. It is the place where the factory responsible for my home run deal is located. It is also the namesake of the man who has my heart.

-Harley-Davidson. Unbridled freedom, wind in my hair, sun on my face, the rumble that sets my cells humming and pure, bubble up from the core of my being, happiness.

-My job. Remember in university, when you'd sit with a group of other students and speculate on the perfect job and the ideal professional environment? My company has exceeded all of my pie in the sky expectations. Oh sure, we have our issues but I don't believe that it gets any better than this.

-I am a non smoker. I'm proud of that. I feel better about myself.

-My family. They're a completely whacked bunch, thank God and they make me laugh until I cry. I love them.

I know that I am living a charmed life. I have my health, a dream job, loyal friends and most of my faculties. I am loved unconditionally. Like everyone else, I have those days that make me want to hide in a spa with chocolate and red wine but they are the exception, not the rule.

In high school on the eve of graduation, my girlfriends and I wrote out what we thought our lives would look like on our 40th birthdays. Of course, we all dreamed of loving husbands, well adjusted children, brick homes and fulfilling careers. We listed all of the fabulous places to which we would travel. We were going to make gobs of money and give most of it away to worthy charities.

A few days ago, I pulled out that piece of paper where I had scribbled my vision of the future and quietly realized that I am one of the fortunate few who is getting to live her dreams.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Guilted By The Lights

People in my neighbourhood have begun hanging their Christmas lights. Five or six of them that are completely done. For Pete's sake, it's not even Thanksgiving yet. What are they thinking? Don't they know that behaviour like that causes the rest of us non-motivated homeowners to develop nervous tics that are rooted in feelings of inadequacy? That's what normal people do when they are in the presence of annoying over achievers. I get that same feeling every time a working mother tells me about how she cooked an elaborate dinner, while ironing her husband's shirts and hanging curtains in her child's bedroom. I'm just happy to get the canned spaghetti opened without requiring a trip to the hospital.

So, when I received a gorgeous full colour brochure announcing this new community service:

PROFESSIONAL CHRISTMAS HOUSE DECORATION

I nearly fainted with relief. And the pictures of their work are beautiful. The houses they have done are tasteful, elaborate and scream, "I'm in the holiday spirit, damnit!" Internet, I know that you are thinking, "Lazy heifer" and I don't disagree but have pity on me. I do not have a husband that will fall off a 20' ladder while trying to adorn the peaks with cascading lights. I don't have a man to nag mercilessly well into March to remove the damn lights.

It's just me.

And two children who cannot seem to make their beds.

And a kitten.

I'm going to make the call and get them over here just as soon as they will come because I can't be THAT house. High school might be 20 15 odd years behind me but peer pressure is still a potent drug.

The Day After

Yes, November first is one of those days that I just know is going to start off lousy. I'm not a habitual pessimist but the deck gets stacked the night before.

My children stay up later than usual, they consume their body weight in sugar and they get a bunch of exercise running from house to house right before they are supposed to go to bed. They become so wound up that you can take their pulse by looking at their neck from across the room. This year, because daylight savings time was still in effect, it didn't get dark until after 6:00pm which just compounded the whole problem.

The kids had a blast and Olivia chose trick or treating as an excuse to meet EVERY SINGLE NEIGHBOUR. She wanted to know if they had children or pets. What was their name? Were their treats store bought or homemade because Mummy was going to throw out the homemade stuff because there are bad people. Not YOU but other, scary people....

She was exceedingly chatty but she did remember to thank everyone.

Dylan was dressed as a biker but some people thought he might be a pirate which irritated him to no end. He started off the evening in a leather do-rag (the probable source of confusion) and ended it in one of my helmets. Problem solved. Before we made the switch, he came away from one house and said,

"My leather jacket has Harley Davidson right on the front. I am wearing leather gloves. I have on a Harley shirt. Mum, what pirate wore this stuff?" My son hasn't yet learned to let this kind of thing roll off his back. He's a bit tightly wound.

So, we finished up at around 8:00pm. After baths, teeth brushing, etc., they crawled into bed around 9:00. Olivia woke this morning around 6:00, had herself a peanut butter cup and spent the next 30 minutes on the toilet as the chocolate from last night shot out of her body. We had tears before 6:15 am, which might be a new record for her.

Dylan was still in a carbohydrate coma when I tried to wake him this morning. When he finally did become coherent, the first words out of his lips were about how the do-rag spoiled his whole costume. Yep...incredibly easy going, that one.

This was taken in the morning in the car. They were allowed to wear their costumes to school.

With carpool buddies.

Princess before going out last night.