My friend, Maggie over at Maggie's Mind, had a nifty meme on her blog last week. You can read her post here. She got the idea from Maria. Basically, it works like an interview. Maggie asks me 5 questions and I provide the answers.
A.What's the last thing you bought online? Whew! Let me tell you how relieved I was to get this question before purchasing Leisa's birthday gift. Let's just say THAT would have been enormously awkward. Anyway, the last thing I bought online was flavoured Stevia. Tired of being gouged by the health food store but still needing water that tastes like chocolate milk, I found more reasonable prices online.
B. What's your favorite thing about New Zealand? Besides the fact that it is home to several people that I fiercely love, New Zealand is unparalleled in it's natural beauty. I haven't yet been to the South Island but I'm told that it's breathtaking. The two pics below are of places on the North Island.
(Rotorua and Mt. Tarawera, courtesy of the University of Waikato)
C. How would you describe an ideal day? The perfect day would start with Dallas and I sleeping until we woke up naturally. No alarm. We'd then have coffee in bed while reading with the knowledge that we didn't have any obligations. Later, we'd get up, shower, have a little breakfast and then head out on our Harleys. The day would be warm and sunny with no humidity. We'd ride to the beach and spend the day there. The kids would arrive separately and they wouldn't fight. That night, we'd have a big lobster boil. Our extended families would have flown in for the event. My brother and two of my cousins would play music, while the young kids made s'mores over the fire pit. We'd sip drinks, talk and laugh ourselves stupid long into the night.
D. What sports do you like to play? I love golf. I am a crappy golfer but occasionally, when my club meets the ball in just the right way and I make a beautiful shot, life in that moment, is flawless.
E. If you could get one straight answer from a psychic, what would you ask? My first thoughts in answer to this question were of my children and if they would be healthy and happy as adults. Then, I wondered if it would be better to learn when and how I might die and if it would hurt. But shamefully, I decided to be pragmatic. If a psychic could give me an accurate, straight answer, I'm no fool. I'd ask to know the winning numbers of tomorrow's Powerball lottery, currently estimated at $146 million. Hello tropical island, tanned young cabana boys and drinks with umbrellas.
Well, that's it for me. If you would like to be interviewed, drop a comment letting me know. There are a few rules: 1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." 2. I will respond by emailing you five questions - I'll need your email address! I get to pick the questions. 3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. 4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. 5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
We got an early Christmas gift when Nate, our male tabby, decided to come home. He was painfully thin, scraggly looking and slept for several days in a row but he was in pretty good shape, otherwise. We did notice that his tail seemed ginger to the touch but figured he had bruised it or something minor like that.
Last week, we began to find significant gobs of hair all over the house and one look at Nate's tail told us that there was a problem. The last four inches of it had bald spots and skin was peeling off in white, cheesy chunks. Not good.
I often tell my children that if I had it to do all over again, I would have gone to medical school. Believe me, if I could have a chat with my twenty something self, I'd tell her to put down the doobie and pull her head out of her arse. Anyway, since I am a wanna be doctor, I got on to the internet to do a little research in an effort to diagnose the problem with the cat's tail. Unfortunately, there were a million things that could have caused the issue and some of them were fairly serious. Dallas suggested a vet visit and reluctantly, because I LOVE this animal, I agreed.
The vet took one look, felt the tip and said that Nate had somehow damaged the last inch or so of his tail by getting it caught in something. She surmised that it was probably a door. The tip had died and there was an infection at the wound site which went from being painful to itchy. This caused Nate to lick with a frenzy and chew other parts of his tail, trying to rid himself of the itch. They amputated the dead part, removed all of the infected hair, put him on antibiotics and sent him on his way. Tail licking was out while it healed so the poor bugger was outfitted with one of those space dishes.
Why does anyone still give a crap about the dysfunctional triangle that was Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? It's been nearly four years and every couple of months as the Pitt-Jolies celebrate some sort of birth or adoption, the rags are covered with headlines about a secret rendevous between Pitt and Aniston or some such nonsense.
Yes, the divorce between Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston was a bit messy but what divorce isn't? It must have been wretched to have the entire world witness the disintegration of your marriage. I mean, they are people after all and I don't believe that celebrity and money insulate one from emotional pain so I cannot for the life of me figure out why Aniston would elect to answer questions posed by a Vogue journalist in regard to Angelina's comments A YEAR EARLIER! Talk about picking a scab.
She said she merely answered the questions as honestly as she could.
Whatever.
Why even dignify that line of questioning by actually making a comment? It's ancient history.
They met, they married, they divorced. The fairy tale didn't work for them. Lots of us can relate. And yes, it seems likely that Brad Pitt stepped out on his wife which unfortunately, is especially juicy gossip fodder but why do we care so much? I can understand the tabloids perpetuating this non story because high drama and misery sell but even the mainstream media refuse to let it go.
I never talk to my first husband. In fact, I can barely remember what he looks like. I certainly don't dwell on the sad and confused farce that was our marriage. I probably wouldn't give my second husband a thought either, but we had children together which necessitates civil conversation. The point is that relationships begin and some of them end. And if you didn't procreate together, what would possibly be the reason to continue to rehash it after four years?
So, after reading that a Vogue journalist popped the question and Jennifer Aniston chose to answer, I can only assume that she enjoys the role of wounded ex-wife. Of course, Angelina Jolie could probably have benefited from a muzzle in the same way that Bill Clinton could have used a chastity belt but there is something slightly afflicted about the way that Aniston continues to include "victim" as part of her public persona.
Last week was like walking directly through the middle of a thorn bush.
Naked.
Blindfolded.
And without Bandaids.
Professionally, I could have committed Hari Kari on any one of the five days. My home life left me with a facial tic and a sour belly. Something had to go right or my head was going to explode. I had nattered on and on about parenting and the job and blah de blah blah but seriously, the good news fairy needed to be spreading some freaking happy dust. Last week was not fun.
I'm not sure exactly what day it was but in the disaster of last week, there was this: It was breathtaking and quite possibly the largest rainbow I have ever seen. EVER. It wouldn't fit into a single frame on the camera. I was grateful just to stare, take a deep breath and forget about everything else for a few minutes.
Goethe would have appreciated the apparent sturm and drang. Me? Well, I figured that it was a sign of better things to come. Because I'm a salt-throwing, wood-knocking, evil eye-avoiding, superstitious nut job.
There are heaps of ideas in my head but expressing them in a coherent fashion seems to be beyond my capabilities right now. And lately, (umm..probably at least six months now) I have had the attention span of a gnat. So, I'm going to let the pictures speak for themselves.
Parenting:
Work:
Are You Freaking Kidding Me?
My Retirement Savings
Now, I'm going to go off and try to pull my head from my arse and see if sometime soon, I can't come up with a post worth printing.
Did I mention that I'm back on the HCG thing again?
About three weeks ago, I figured that it was time to put down the rum, the chocolate, the bread and anything else remotely pleasurable to see if I couldn't drop another size or two before Christmas. Remember I told you about one of my office mates and that had shed nearly 60 pounds? Well, she is the model of personal resolve and just finished her fourth or fifth round of HCG since last year. She can now be classified as thin.
Thin and Beth.
(I know that last blurb doesn't make any sense but I've never had the word "thin" in the same sentence as my name before so I wanted to try it out to see how it looked.)
Yeah, so she's THIN.
As in her size six pants are a bit loose.
Size six and Beth.
(Same deal. Makes me slightly giddy)
The scale hasn't moved much since I started (10 pounds as of this morning) but I haven't been terribly well behaved. This past weekend, we went to Brandon's birthday party and I was mostly in control until I spotted this:
smothering a block of cream cheese.
There are no words to describe how good this is. Sitting next to that plateful of heaven, was a bowl of blue corn chips.
I took a small chip and dipped it, convinced that I was capable of being satisfied with a mere taste. Like THIN people are. And, of course, you know how that turned out. I parked myself at the table. Tortilla chips were flying. I would have licked the plate if I had been by myself. And then, once the dam was breached, it was nothing to have a slice or three of pizza. Did I mention the birthday cake? Finger-licking good.
So, after experiencing a food hangover late Saturday night, I renewed my resolve. I don't mind spending 80% of my life on a diet because when you don't know any differently, you can cope but seriously, in my next life, I want to come back as Michael Phelps. Who wouldn't want to be young, a man, with big dollar endorsements, abs of steel and the ability to consume 12,000 calories a day?
A few weeks ago, after replacing carpet, two toilet seats, a tank lid and a ceiling fan and painting, scrubbing base boards, floors and tubs, we finally had the other house ready for a renter. Dallas put a sign up in the front yard, I placed a worthless newspaper ad and we fielded calls for days.
People are queer.
Caller: "Umm...hi..yeah... I'm callin' about the place you got for rent on Sugarland.."
Me: "I do have a place for rent but it's not on Sugarland. It's on Cambridge."
Caller: "No. I'm calling about the one on Sugarland."
Me: "Well, I'm sorry sir. The Sugarland house is not ours."
Caller: "But you said you had a place for rent"
Me: "Yes. On Cambridge."
Caller: "Well...how many bedrooms does it have?"
Me: "Three. Two bath."
Caller: "Your sign says it's a four bedroom."
Me: "Sir, you must have our house confused with another one that you saw. Ours is a three bedroom, two bathroom."
Caller: "Are you sure?"
(Now, how does one respond to that without turning into a snarky cow?)
Me: "Yes. I'm quite sure."
Caller: "Well, that ain't big enough for us", followed by a click.
I couldn't help but send a whisper of thanks out to the universe for sparing us. Personally, I've had enough irrational and crazy to last me a lifetime.
After several calls and a few house showings that left me feeling distinctly misanthropic, I received a voice mail from a young, well-mannered guy. If it pleased me, would I mind meeting him at the property so that he could take a quick look? He hated to bother me on a Sunday afternoon and all but he was under a time constraint and wondered if I might be able to spare him a few moments. He was as southern as a cold mint julep on a hot summer day. I immediately called him back.
I thought it was kind of odd that a single guy would want a three bedroom place when it was just him and a dog. He explained that an apartment was out of the question and smaller houses tended to be located in undesirable neighbourhoods so while our house might be a bit large, it satisfied his other needs. He was polite, had a good job and showed up on time. So we rented to him, of course, and I can't help but think that we are incredibly fortunate.
I remember coming back from honeymoon, walking into the other house and being completely overwhelmed with the enormity of the task of getting it ready to lease. The current state of the housing market has made it impossible to collect enough rent to cover the mortgage, insurance and taxes but we are 70% there and the house is no longer a financial black hole. It's one more check mark on our never ending "To Do List".
I drove by the other day because there's a wee bit of stalker in this slum lord and our boy had nicely mowed and edged the yard.
And for the rest of the day, all was right in my world.
For five months, I have lived and breathed all things WEDDING.
Now it's over.
Our families have left. Beds have been changed. Gifts have been opened. Even our skin has thrown in the towel and begun to peel from our Mexican honeymoon. The children have returned and once again, their bedrooms look like wastelands. I opened one of our credit card bills the other day and had to put my head between my knees.
Apparently, this is the big exhale; the time of thank you notes and harsh buckets of cold reality.
And it bites.
There should be readily available pharmaceuticals out there to help manage Post Event Syndrome. It's like a child's Christmas Day on steroids: big build up, massive planning, the tingle of anticipation and then...
*blink*
...it's Monday morning in the office.
I would like a pill to take me back to the moment when I glanced over at my three cousins and realized that they were in matching t-shirts that said, "cousin of the bride". Like most everything the week of the wedding, this sweet gesture overwhelmed me. We held the rehearsal dinner at one of our local restaurants and I remember looking around that room and realizing how impossibly fortunate we were to have every person that really matters to us together in one place. I wanted to consciously savour each second and burn that evening into my memory to replay over and over.
Sentimental?
Hell, yes. Like a sappy Hallmark card. But Dallas and I both had trouble shaking the dreamlike quality of the fortnight leading up to the wedding. He'd lean over and say, "Look at that", pointing to our mothers and how surreal it was to watch them connect. Or we'd glance into the backyard to witness the men in our combined families mingling over beer and BBQ. Weddings, like most life changing events, have a way of clarifying things.
For example, my biological sister chose not to attend or even acknowledge my nuptials in any way except with a short note written on her RSVP. One of my closest friends, who lives in California, backed out of her wedding party duties less than a month before Dallas and I were set to walk down the aisle. Both events stung a bit but if I were honest with myself, I wasn't terribly surprised. I suppose that subconsciously, (where all the uglies go to fester) I have known that the landscape of those bonds had shifted. Relationships are sometimes like an old, comfortable t-shirt. We often hold onto them long after they're full of holes.
On the other hand, I had relatives from all over Canada who made the trip, at considerable expense, to support me. It is profoundly humbling to understand that I rank on their totem pole of priorities. And believe me, their attendance was no small sacrifice because there is nothing much to do in my town except watch the grass grow and count abandoned chicken coops. Eight people from New Zealand came which speaks volumes about my husband. People used language like, "We wouldn't have missed it for the world". And then there were our friends. Plainly put, we would NOT have survived without them. Period.
So, in the absence of some sort of narcotic to numb the sharp pricklies of a life returned to status quo, I look forward to spending hours reviewing the nearly 1500 pictures that were taken in the last month. These are just a few. They make me smile.
In Mexico, I learned that there are certain truths that cannot be adulterated. For instance, if one consumes an extra 10,000 calories a day in the form of Pina Coladas, Dos Equis or Mojitos, one cannot swim enough laps to stave off the extra poundage or the hang over that sets in somewhere shortly after lunch.
On the other hand, modern science has taken the truths of physical law, namely gravity, and made a mockery of them. In the weeks leading up to our honeymoon, I had floated the idea that I might take advantage of the more liberal sun bathing options in Mexico. I spoke with my mother in law about it and she said, "How do you think that will work for you?"
Good question.
Sashaying my dimpled ass down the beach is one thing. Shedding my bathing suit top while ambling down said beach is something else entirely. I took a moment and pictured what that might look like. Do you remember the old National Geographic pictorials documenting obscure African tribeswomen. Remember how their boobs looked? Yeah.
I quickly decided that since no such thing as an invisible wonder bra exists, I might be better off getting a bit of sun on the girls whilst lying prone. After all, we all look the same lying down, right?
Um, wrong again.
Implants. They defy gravity. They languidly flip the bird at Mother Nature and tell her to take her DNA and her ageism and go pound sand.
Dallas and I were out on the beach one day, partially shaded under our palapa when I happened to look over to our left. There, lying on one of the couples beach beds was a raven haired goddess in the tiniest black thong...AND NOTHING ELSE. She was on her side deep in discussion with her husband and thus, we had only a view of her bare back. How brave. Good for her. She must be European, I thought.
And then she turned over onto her back.
I gasped. Right there on a petite, delicate frame was a ginormous set of silicone boobs. They were not Pam Anderson large but they were big enough to begin the migration, each in an opposite direction, that you see when a teeny tiny girl gets a set of double D's. I was horribly fascinated. When she was lying down, they pointed straight up. When she stood up, it wasn't all that pretty, either. Dallas said they looked like a drawstring pouch on the end of a stick. Ouch. If they had been just a cup size smaller, they could have been beautiful. But no matter. The girl was clearly confident and delighted with her stature as evidenced by her repeated efforts to be noticed. She stood and walked around, she lay down, she sat up to sip her drink and all the while, her girls were soaking up the rays unhindered by a bikini top. Again, I couldn't help but admire her lack of inhibition. YOU GO GIRL!
So, emboldened by my neighbour to the left, I lay back on our beach bed and set my girls free....
...which was liberating and fabulous and oh so cosmopolitan until I woke up the next morning with toasty tatas. I posted a blog once about men and how they unconsciously adjust and scratch their appendages. Well, NOW I UNDERSTAND and sympathize with the urge. The day after taking my girls for a walk, I found myself repositioning them in their holsters and scratching like a dog with fleas.
The sunburn was unpleasant but I have been known to wear five inch heels so obviously, discomfort doesn't faze me. The girls made a few more public appearances and I am now a woman with a fabulous tan and boobs that no longer glow in the dark.
I am sitting on the balcony of our hotel room. It is late evening on the last day of my honeymoon. I can hear the ocean and taste the salt in the air. It is quiet, warm and unimaginably humid. The night sky is an explosion of stars and as I take it all in, I am stunned at how quickly time passes.
My husband is lying on the bed sound asleep. Today was another busy one for us. We spent the afternoon scuba diving off the coast of Cancun in the reef by Isla Mujeres. It was fantastic. Yesterday, we did a couple of dives over in Cozumel. I can't understand why I was so resistant to Mexico as a choice for our honeymoon because it really has been a dream with one exception:
I am terrified to get on the bathroom scale.
I kept telling people that all of the willpower that they witnessed over the last two months was so that I could eat and drink like a conquering Roman on my honeymoon.
And I did.
WE did. Without restraint. Shamefully. I finally see the reasoning behind togas as a fashion choice. Back when feathers and Trojan horses were all the rage, there was no such thing as elasticized pants. I get it. Pass the guacamole, amigo.
My middle name is now 500 Calorie Pina Colada. Por Favor.
With a cherry.
And a plate of fried calamari.
There is so much to share and over the next several days, I plan to discuss such scintillating topics as going topless and bad singers in white polyester leisure suits but for now, I've got to call it a night. In six hours, the alarm will go off for the first time in three weeks and I need some good shut eye time to prepare for reemergence into reality.
Occasionally, people will say this to me after reading the blog or one of my sales presentations and it makes me wonder. Have I? If I am bare naked honest with myself, I don't think that I have the chops or the talent to write as an occupation although sometimes, I'd really like to.
I imagine this scene where I am tucked inside a New York apartment overlooking Central Park (am wildly successful). I am wearing bifocals and clacking away on my computer (suggesting stress levels have been reduced and am now in possession of well manicured fingernails). The late afternoon sun is streaming through a window suspending dust particles in a shaft of light (must speak to full time housekeeper). It is quiet save for a clock ticking in another room (expensive, tasteful antique number acquired at auction). I am content, introspective and very much alone (omitted part about bowl of swiss truffles and bottle of French burgundy at hand). There is peace, a stillness, to this dream (children duct taped in closet) which appeals to me but there is also an undercurrent of something else that feels a lot like boredom. To me, writing is an introspective, solitary journey and I'm just not sure that I'd ever be ready to give my inner demons a little face time.
I've always wondered what goes on inside the brain of a truly gifted writer. When I first read, "White Oleander " by Janet Fitch, I was awestruck at how she strung her words together. There were hundreds of examples in that novel of sentences that were pieces of art all by themselves. I actually highlighted a large portion of this book and copied some of the more arresting bits of dialog onto sticky notes so I could digest them out of context.
I don't understand how someone like Margaret Atwood is able to carry on a conversation with mere mortals. I find her kind of genius intimidating and profoundly humbling. Her novels are labyrinths and occasionally, I am not sure if I'll find my way out. Reading her work requires patience and perseverance but the journey is worth it.
Or how about Stephen King's, "The Stand"? Where does material like that come from?
When I finish the last few words of a brilliant novel, I am always profoundly grateful for the read and quite sure that I am not capable of writing anything of that caliber for a sustained period of time. Sometimes, I'm happy with a paragraph or two but to maintain creative ability through out a book or manuscript feels like it is beyond my scope.
If I write a novel, I would want it to be so good that people would read until the wee hours of the morning because they COULDN'T put it down. I'd want them to finish it and wish that the ride hadn't ended so soon. I'd want some slick Hollywood type to struggle with the movie adaptation because it was just too complex for a cookie cutter script. I really hope that there might be one of these books laying dormant inside my brain but the reality is that there probably isn't and even if there was, odds are that you'd be able to find me in a discount hardcover bin twelve months later. There are THOUSANDS of clever writers out there who remain undiscovered. All one has to do is have a quick look at the blogging community. I've read posts that have left me speechless in their depth or breathless with laughter.
All is not lost, though. I think I could possibly have a future in romance novels. The common adage is to "write about what you know" so I could pen some fictional exaggeration about my experiences during the brief period that I was dating. The only trouble is that I believe most of the euphemisms for sex have been exhausted and I'd really have to give some thought on developing a few new ones because it's not like romance novels are read for their articles.
Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl despises boy but would like him to rip her clothes off. Boy chases girl. Girl resists. Girl eventually sees prince-like qualities within boy. Girl succumbs. Boy and girl deliriously happy. Giant misunderstanding. Boy and girl split. Misunderstanding resolved. Boy and girl shag like crazy while riding off into the sunset where they live happily ever after. It is a tried and true formula and must be liberally peppered with adult scenes. For instance, how does this one strike you?
He reached over with a smoldering look in his feral eyes, determined to take what she had steadfastly refused to surrender.
She protested weakly as the dam of her desire burst forth in a sudden, violent rush.
"Peel that banana, monkeyboy," she whispered.
Hmm... probably shouldn't give up the day job just yet.
Apparently, I am not going to be a proper wife for Dallas. We have serious food issues.
I hate lamb. HATE it. There isn't enough mint jelly on the planet to force that foul, gamey ick down my throat. But I have tried to like it because it's a staple of the Kiwi diet. I have been valiant in my attempts to acquire a taste for it.
When we were in New Zealand, we went out to a lovely restaurant one night with Anne and Bruce. Dallas ordered the lamb shank. My stomach churned at the thought of being able to even smell it. Well, I was told that this particular restaurant prepared their lamb in such a way that I was sure to like it. The speculation was that perhaps my aversion stemmed from the fact that I hadn't ever eaten a properly cooked piece of lamb. And since I am such a flexible, easy-natured gal, I agreed to sample some of Dallas's shank.
Before going any further, I should familiarize you with a shank. It even sounds offensive, don't you think? Shank. Like stank. Or skank. Anyway, lamb shank, as defined by Meals For You, is:
"cut from the arm of shoulder, contains leg bone and part of round shoulder bone, and is covered by a thin layer of fat and fell (a thin, paperlike covering)". Yeah, give me some of that "fell" stuff.
The food arrived at the table and I wrinkled my nose as I caught a whiff of Dallas's meal. He cut off a generous portion and made like he was going to shove the whole thing in my mouth. I cringed.
"Not so much, please".
As soon as the sample hit my mouth, I gagged (like a four year old), my stomach involuntarily heaved and my eyes began to water. I couldn't get it out of my mouth and into my napkin fast enough. I wanted to take sandpaper to my tongue to remove that distinctive nastiness from my taste buds. I wiped the tears away, grateful that I didn't vomit and remembered that my soon-to-be in laws were sitting at the table with us. You know how it is when you sort of forget where you are for a minute?
Yeah.
Like farting in a boardroom.
"Make the lambs stop screaming", I whispered.
So last night, in an attempt to approximate a good Kiwi wife, I tried to redeem myself by making pavlova. Pavlova is New Zealand's national dessert and I figured that since I am able to make decent pie crust from scratch, how difficult could a little meringue be?
Dallas suggested that I call Leisa or his mum to get proper advice because there is a TRICK to preparing pavlova and it wouldn't be written in any recipe book. Only a native Kiwi woman would be able to furnish me with the secret to fluffy greatness. I smiled and politely thanked him, indicating (with just a hint of sarcasm) that I thought I'd be able to manage. Four ingredients. Not rocket science.
Are we all agreed that this is magnificence personified? Yes?
Well, it's not mine. This one is.
Perhaps I should have made that call.
Tonight, we are having friends over for dinner. They are not from New Zealand so I am sure that once I get gobs of whipped cream and berries on the pavlova, nobody will notice that it fell like a middle aged woman's boobs.
Gastronomically, I am a Kiwi disaster.
However, I do know the basics of sailing and I have helped to pull a breech calf out of a cow, so maybe all is not lost in my effort to cultivate some New Zealand attributes.
Last week, my son and I went to see "The Police" in concert and I found myself blissfully transported back to one of those adolescent days that makes you shake your head as an adult.
It was August 13th, 1982 and blistering hot. I was fifteen, terminally irresponsible and like most teenagers, I had no sense of my own mortality. My friend, Katie and I began our day by boarding the Go Train in Oshawa, Ontario. We were headed to Toronto to the CN Exhibition Centre to attend the "Police Picnic".
When I asked my dad if I could go, I think he assumed that it was some sort of law enforcement shindig and I didn't particularly want to disabuse him of that idea. After all, the vision of a clean cut crowd with no drugs or alcohol was far more palatable than a stadium full of rowdies watching a concert and passing the dutchie. Bad, bad daughter.
Anyway, we boarded and settled into our seats with the Saturday comics. Then, we did some illegal drugs. (Yes, you read that right. What can I say? I was a train wreck as a teenager.)
We arrived at the stadium and were herded with 25,000 other people onto the field portion of the arena which was general admission. This meant that we did not have seats. We were to stand. Like pink flamingos. For hours. One advantage was that we had the ability to push towards the stage with the crowd. One major disadvantage was that the concert started at two o'clock int he afternoon and finished at eleven in the evening. It was beyond exhausting to stay upright for the entire time.
I didn't.
I was doing pretty well up until about seven in the evening. I had suffered through forty five minutes of A Flock of Seagulls:
(there is very little in the way of kind words to describe the fashion disaster that was the 80's pop band)
I watched Joan Jett and the Blackhearts get booed off the stage for doing a cover of the Who's "Summertime Blues":
(If I'd had produce with me, I might have thrown it.)
I danced through the English Beat's entire set:
(Spot on example of 80's dance moves that I practiced in front of a mirror. Who knew that I could have stuck my finger in a light socket and achieved the same technique?)
Finally, after nearly seven hours in the heat and humidity with very little water and absolutely no food, I found myself lightheaded. The Talking Heads came on and the crowd lurched towards the stage. I lost Katie in the madness and at one point, I was lifted off my feet and propelled forward by the crush of people. I found myself about three yards from the barrier lined with security and then,
I fainted.
The next thing I knew, I could feel hand after hand on my head, my back, my legs and my bottom. I opened my eyes and instantly understood that I had been lifted up and was being passed forward to the medics on the other side of the barrier. I lost my concert program and my Adidas jacket during this little fiasco but on the plus side, I did manage to get close enough to David Byre to see the sweat roll off the tip of his very straight nose.
While sitting in the back of an open door ambulance drinking water and munching on a granola bar, the lights dimmed and the opening few bars of "Don't Stand So Close To Me" could be heard. The crowd went wild. I turned to the medic and told him that I felt fine. He suggested it might be better for me to stay put for a while. I wasn't sure if he could make me do that but I wasn't willing to take any chances so the second he turned his back to attend to another patient, I bolted from the ambulance and headed for the nearest exit back out onto the field. With a cursory look at my ticket, the security guy opened the gate. I worked my way to within twenty feet of the stage and quickly made friends with a tall red headed boy from Milton. I watched the rest of the concert from his shoulders.
I clung to the hope that Sting would spot me in the crowd, recognize that I was his soul mate and send a roadie to give me a backstage pass. Several times during their performance, the spotlights swept the crowd and each time it landed on me I shrieked, "I LOVE YOU STING!!!" But alas, it was not meant to be. He married a different blonde and they have been a tantric twosome for nearly thirty years. Whatever.
I met Katie after the concert (at a spot we had designated in the event that we got separated) and we slept for the entire train ride back to Oshawa. Her mum picked us up at the station and dropped me at my house. As I approached our front door, I noticed luggage sitting in the vestibule. It seems my father had seen me on the evening news on top of Red's shoulders and apparently, it was the last straw for him. The bags packed on the front stoop were mine. After much begging, tears and promises to "get my act together", he opened the door and I was fortunate enough to lay my head down on my own bed, grateful to have dodged another bullet. I went to sleep replaying the concert in my mind.
So last week Dylan and I got to see The Police. My boy watched in amazement as thousands of other middle aged folks like his mum jumped to their feet dancing, whistling and singing every note right along with the band. Oh sure, The Police had aged in the twenty plus years since they last toured. Sting's beard is now gray, Stewart Copeland wears glasses and Andy Summers has developed jowls but age hasn't affected their performance at all. They ROCKED the place. And Sting is still one of the sexiest men on the planet, although I no longer wish to bear his children.
I was hooting like a school girl and Dylan was obviously surprised to see this side of me. At the end of the concert I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "I LOVE YOU STING!" Dylan's jaw dropped. "What?" I said. He just shook his head, his eyes wide. I firmly believe that it is every parent's duty to embarrass their children. It's how they learn humility. I wanted to tell him that it could have been much, much worse but as we drove home, I was preoccupied replaying the concert in my head.
My kids have been out of school this week, which is an unfortunate pitfall of a non-traditional school calendar. I'm not sure what my expectations of year round school were except that I thought they would be in school...umm...ALL YEAR!
Not the case. In our school system, the interpretation of year round school means that the summer holiday is shortened by several weeks and then those filthy days are spread out in week long segments through out the year. Practically every month, the kids have a week off, PLEASE KILL ME NOW which affords all of us parents the ability to spend some quality time with our little tykes.
"Don't complain", says the administration, "It gives you plenty of opportunity to vacation during off peak times with your children." Oh yes. And this would be of great benefit if one actually believed that a holiday included children, ketchup and bug spray. Please. I love my kids (obligatory preface) however, my idea of a vacation involves a tropical beach, very little clothing and plenty of distilled beverages.
In the past, I have been forced to work from home and as you know, that is a lot like a bikini wax in that there is just nothing positive you can say about it. This time, Dallas has looked after the children, allowing me to flee go to the office and I can't begin to describe how leisurely the last week has been.
Every day, I have had a coffee waiting for me on the bathroom counter after my shower. My breakfast has been prepared and lunch is delivered to my office. The children are fed, watered and entertained and dinner has been on the table by five thirty. The laundry is done, the house cleaned, the lawn mowed and I haven't had to grocery shop in forever. Come to think of it, most of my days are like this even when the children are in school. Dallas takes care of EVERYTHING. Except the carpool and for some reason, the whole Perry Como vibe goes straight to hell when I've got a car full of kids.
Imagine that.
This week was full of small delights. Yesterday, I had the luxury of having lunch with a friend.. at a restaurant..LIKE A NORMAL PERSON! Usually, I stay at my desk so that I can leave work early to fulfill my carpooling duties. On Wednesday, I rode my Harley into work. I parked it right outside of my office window. There was something supremely satisfying about sitting on that bike and changing from my riding boots into my kitten heels. I have slept an extra half hour every morning because that is usually how long it takes for me to wrangle Dylan and Olivia into the car on school days. Not once have I had to say, "Do you have your lunch?" Pure, unadulterated joy.
Next week, we are back to the usual routine and ten days from now, Dallas is starting his new job so my hours of being pampered like a queen are numbered. I had always wondered what it would be like to have someone taking care of every last detail and I envied my male counterparts whose wives did not work outside of the home. Now that I have sipped from the domestic bliss cup, I'm not sure that I'll ever be satisfied with the status quo. So, I'm going to savour every minute of the last few days that I have left of this fantasy life that we've been living.
Well, I am home from China and back in the office. And I know that I have been neglecting you internet. I am aware that my posts have been random and scattered like bird shit on a Chevy. I will try to do better. Really. So you can stop sending me hate mail, okay?
My trip was productive. The thing about trade shows is that you either love them or hate them. Guess how I feel? Unfortunately, they are a necessary evil. So, being the glass half full gal that I am, I chose to focus on those things that made me laugh.
Take the medical supplies portion of the fair. I walked into the hall and booth after booth presented an array of products from stone massage slippers to portable blood pressure devices. There wasn't much that made me chuckle, until this:
Now I know that you are looking at this picture and wondering what in the world I might find funny. Look closely. This was a medical devices booth. They were peddling everything from ventilators to blood glucose strips. See it now? Maybe this will help: Yep. Those would be COFFINS!! And cremation urns on the back shelf. Talk about a one-stop shop. Heck, if they can't cure you, they're happy to help dispose of your diseased arse. With a completely straight face, I had one enthusiastic sales rep extol the virtues of the latest and greatest "earth friendly" version: cardboard. (far right of the picture..the water bottle is a nice touch)
"Very popular", he said. Yeah, I'll bet.
Later on that day, we had to make our way back to Hong Kong via the train. I LOVE taking the train. It's comfortable, equipped with toilets that have seats and refreshments are served. The absolute best part is the waiting area where everyone has to congregate before boarding. It is here that I plug in my iPod and unabashedly stare watch people from all over the world. I've already gone on about how differently European men dress from Americans. If they were all to land on US soil tomorrow, the gay men in this country would be in an uproar because metrosexual Europeans jam the gaydar, especially when they wear capri pants. What I admire most, though, is that no matter how eclectic the dress, European boys have got some serious style.
Unlike this poor woman who was either blind or in serious need of a mirror. Excuse me ma'am. Where did you say you parked your broom?
The last night that I was in Hong Kong, my friends took me to eat in a district known for fresh seafood. All of the restaurants are fairly similar in price and offerings so the second that we got out of the taxi, we were approached by numerous people trying to lure us into their restaurants. We walked through narrow alleyways that were lined with fish tanks. The ground was soaking wet and the air was pungent with the scent of the sea. Everywhere I looked, I saw these: It's a Geoduck Clam. My friends called it an Elephant Nose. I'm sure it's tasty but I just couldn't get my head around the appearance. Just another phallic looking treat from the ocean to keep the sea cucumber company. Every time I look at that picture, I giggle.
So now that the glow of international travel has faded, it's the small absurdities that help to make it all tolerable. I suppose I'm fortunate that my mind is a giant junk yard because everyday, while sifting through the garbage, I usually find a treasure or two and who can really ask for more?
My apologies for the last post. After reading it today, I hung my head in shame. It is most definitely not my best work. I should never fly and write.
Right then.
Today was the first day at the Canton Fair. Like most trade shows, it consists of thousands of consecutive vendor booths perched on top of cement floors. I was doing my best Johnny Cash impression by dressing entirely in black and I finished the outfit with a fabulous pair of sandals. Darling, eh? I thought so too but by the end of the day, after walking 12,543 steps ON UNYIELDING CONCRETE, they were about as cute as a fork in the eye. Late afternoon, I spied an old guy asleep on one of the benches in the center of the concourse. His feet looked to be roughly the same size as my own which I took as a lightning bolt from God. Really. My feet are size snowshoe so you understand how rare it is to find an Asian whose shoes I could steal borrow. Unfortunately, the authorities have been skittish this year, worried that some foreigner might unfurl a "Free Tibet" banner so I thought better of creating a scene. Several hours after kicking off my shoes, the outline of each one of those straps is still embedded in the top of my foot. It's a very attractive look for me. Nothing screams middle age like water retention.
From a business perspective, it was a pretty good day. We got a lot accomplished. From a diet viewpoint, it was a train wreck. At lunch, we ventured down into the bowels of the exhibition hall to the fast food court. There is a McDonald's and one of my work mates casually suggested that we dine there but I have standards and if I'm going to eat shit, it had better at least be indigenous crap. So we ordered dumplings, greasy fried noodles with ham and congee. It was a veritable carbohydrate festival. Which got me wondering how the Chinese stay so damn skinny. Practically everything they eat is loaded with carbs. Congee (rice porridge) for breakfast, rice, noodles, big buns filled with pork or sweets and then deep fried!! How, I ask you? How in the world do they stay stick thin?
Ah yes, they exercise.
Daily.
Rigorously.
And they walk, like African tribesmen.
We were on a bus coming back from the trade show. It was pouring down with rain because we are in the middle of Typhoon Neoguri and there were still gobs of people out on bicycles, pedaling furiously in the downpour. Some were even steering with one hand and holding an umbrella with the other. I don't believe there is a North American alive that would hop on a bike in this weather. No way. We'd peek outside, shrug our shoulders and walk only far enough to get a napkin to catch the donut crumbs.
So, I have made the decision to haul my lazy ass down to the gym in the morning. I have no sneakers and no socks but I do have a lovely pair of hotel slippers that ought to do the trick. See how dedicated I am? Impressed?
Or, I could just roll over and get an extra hour's worth of sleep.
Wow! There must be something in the water because lately, the roads are full of crappy drivers and I'm like a bloody beacon for the auto-challenged crowd.
Take Mr. Belligerent, for instance. He's the nasty bugger who refuses to let ANYONE merge in bumper to bumper traffic. Instead, he inches his half ton truck (with a lift kit, of course) forward to the next vehicle (because ain't nobody gonna squeeze in on his watch)and in doing so, he manages to BLOCK THE DRIVEWAY OR SIDE STREET from oncoming traffic, as well . So there I sit, while cars pile up behind me, waiting for Mr. Belligerent to move so I can make my left turn. I despise this guy.
And his gun rack.
And his Playboy mud flaps.
And his spit cup.
Then, there is Ms. Woman Driver Stereotype who is texting with one hand, sipping coffee with the other and steering with her knees. There is a virtual circus happening in the back of her car as toddlers swing from the headrests. She is always the one at the front of the traffic line and she rarely responds to the advanced green arrow because she is too busy retrieving her mascara or wet wipes or animal crackers that litter the passenger side floor boards. I NEVER honk. I just don't do it because it is so freaking aggressive and obnoxious. But people behind me do and Ms. Woman Driver Stereotype invariably pulls her eyes up to the rear view mirror, makes contact with my own and FLIPS ME THE BIRD!! Now, I'm not violent by nature but seeing her middle finger raised and pointed in my general direction makes me want to tee her pony-tailed, Chanel sunglass-wearing head up and drive it off the hood of her car.
To give you a little background, I live in a small but quickly growing cowpatch. Urban planning has become an oxymoron. There is someone in charge of the whole thing but let's just say that his elevator isn't going to the top floor. When the major artery to the ONLY mall in our area is reduced to a single lane during rush hour, I imagine him sitting in an office, his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration as he puts the finishing touches on yet another sign that says, "Smile! Your tax dollars are at work!"
Fuck. Off.
Finally, we have the guilty Catholic driver. If it's one thing that we Catholics know, it's guilt. This one drives at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of traffic apologizing profusely as he comes to a screeching halt with his nose in the crosswalk. He has turned tailgating into an art form. He accelerates and passes you only to pull in front and promptly reduce his speed to something just over a crawl. But, like confession on Saturday mornings, this guy has found a way to redeem himself. He may cross four lanes of traffic to get to the exit ramp with nary a glance in his mirrors but he's the one that gives you the nod and lets you in during the worst of the rush hour craze. Hail Mary full of grace, keep that poor bastard safe.
So, I'm guessing that people in my town, who under normal circumstances would be decent drivers, have lost all ability to be reasonable. Traffic is bad. It's not wretched like that of San Diego or the Dallas Metroplex but it's ugly. It brings out the crazy.
In me.
Just yesterday, I had to physically restrain myself from jamming the gas pedal to the floor and plowing into the vehicle in front of me.
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.
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.
Thanks to Shibue Couture, we can banish panty lines but still experience freedom and comfort. According to their website, these unmentionables are washable and reusable. They stick on...with tape. (Pause to let that sink in for a second) It goes without saying that you'll want to prepare for the adhesive.
Actually, all head shaking aside, I think the designer is one smart cookie. I remember seeing the stick on cups for wrangling the girls in a backless dress. I thought it was a ridiculous idea because I believed that only the very young, very perky or very siliconed would be able to manage the tape on idea. Apparently, not. I'm an owner.
Anyway, I digress. The panties come in all sort of colors and thoughtfully, there is a bridal version. I was especially impressed that the list of suggested uses included pole dancing because you just know that the girls at the local gentlemen's club are complaining. Chafing and all....
We need to give a nod of thanks to the inventor, Jenny Buettner. Because of her entrepreneurial spirit, we may never have to discuss the shaving habits of Paris, Britney or Lindsay again. Oh, we can only hope....
I spent this weekend cooking like Julia Childs (except with better teeth and no pearls). I had the Body For Life cookbook opened and managed to saute, broil and bake our entire week's worth of meals. Oh, stop! You needn't bow down.
This flurry of domestic activity threw my children off, as well. They walked around the house this weekend with wide open eyes and they were careful to speak in quiet, measured tones. I rustled up breakfast, lunch and dinner on both days and the only comment was from Dylan.
"I like your new diet book, Mum."
Uh-huh.
To support this change in lifestyle, Dallas and I had to spend buckets of money. The first gouge to the bank account was at the fitness shop where we stocked up on protein shakes. I was quite prepared to hate them because they've always tasted somewhat like vitamins smell but the Myoplex Lite stuff is good and there are heaps of yummy recipes.
Then, we went grocery shopping. It's a pity neither one of us has shares in Wal-Mart. Between Sam's Club and our local Supercenter, we spent an amount equivalent to my vehicle note. This included a new, fancy, schmancy blender for the aforementioned protein shakes because our old one gave off that smell that happens when steel grinds against steel. We were concerned it might combust.
Finally, all of the cooking and shopping revealed a desperate need for a second refrigerator. I had been tossing the idea of a new stainless steel number for about two years but I just couldn't seem to part with the funds. I used to walk into those lovely DIY home displays and see appliances that made my heart flutter but when it came down to it, I'd look at the cost and calculate how many pairs of shoes I wouldn't be able to buy if I splurged on a fridge. Seriously. A girl has to have her priorities.
Unfortunately, eating six meals a day made it impossible to ignore the fact that I have had a longer relationship with my fridge than my son. So tomorrow, the Sears delivery guy will bring our new stainless steel beauty with nearly 26 cubic feet of space, an ice maker in the door and cold filtered water whenever we need it. Old faithful will be moved to the garage and promptly filled with beer nutritious, lovingly made meals in matching tupperware.
I could have purchased several of these (and aren't they magnificent!):
(Gisborne, care of New Zealand Travel)
(Rotorua and Mt. Tarawera, courtesy of the University of Waikato)
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