Trying not to die

Before I even put the first morsel of holiday food to my mouth, I enlisted in a class in January called “Fat Burner”.  Not the prettiest of names, but hoping for truth in advertising, I signed myself up.  Lighting my fat on fire would have been less painful.

They should have called this class "Whip my ass and beat me".  I knew it was going to hurt.  I knew it was going to be a struggle to finish a one-hour class.  I smartly placed myself within 6 feet of the instructor figuring that if I was going to need her to perform CPR, I wanted to be within quick compression distance.  Funny, how this kind of thing never even crosses your mind until you reach the depth of middle age.

It began innocently enough with a warm-up.  When the cardio began in earnest, things started getting ugly fast.  At the half way mark of the class, I was in trouble.  My legs were like a bowl of burning jelly, my heart was pounding and I felt like throwing up.  The bottom of my feet even hurt due to an unfortunate shoe choice. Happy New Year to me.

When I looked up to see if anyone else was having a near death experience, I discovered to my horror that there were about 3 others who appeared to be in even worse shape; beet red faces and looking as though their eyes were going to roll back into their heads.  Funny, that's never the look you see on the commercials in January with all those fit, smiling women wearing beautiful outfits.    

I could tell that the instructor was doing some quick math in her head and surmised that administering CPR to 4 ladies simultaneously was going to result in tragedy.  So she suddenly spoke in earnest about staying at level 1 (the easiest) vs. level 2 or 3.  

Getting no argument from me, I committed fully to staying at level 1, if for no other reason than to finish the hour upright.  I even did burpies, ever so slowly at level one.  Remember burpies?  Another unfortunate name.  What…fartercize was already taken? 

I somehow survived the hour of endless lunges, squats and whatever the hell I was doing on that step.  I didn't dare look at myself in the mirror, not only to avoid the horror of what I might look like right before I expired, but with my middle aged tri-focal lenses, anything less than full concentration on the whereabouts of my feet might have resulted in an unexpected trip to the hospital.

I imagined a life the next day that didn’t include walking and wondered whether wheelchair service might be available for some low, low price.

As the class was finishing, the instructor suggested that we all do some kind of cardio again before the next class.  We clearly needed a class to get ready for class.  Happily, I’m scheduled to scale a mountain on snowshoes before the week’s end.  Another item checked off the old “to do “ list.   Let’s just hope some fat gets burned before this is all over.  I want to look good at my funeral.

Christmas frenzy no more

I’m sure there are people…many people…many people with children, who are busily scurrying around like their pants are on fire, desperately preparing for their Norman Rockwell Christmas.  I have a news flash for you, Christmas perfection is a myth.  Completely unobtainable.  Like men understanding women and vice versa.  Won’t happen.  EVER.

I used to scurry about the malls myself.  I used to endure throngs of people in airports at holiday time.  No more.  I’m not sure when I made the shift.  It certainly wasn’t overnight.  It was more like a very slow dawning that I could make Christmas whatever I wanted it to be.  So I decided that I wanted it to be slow and peaceful. 

I don’t even set foot in a mall until I know what I intend to purchase.  I haven’t loitered in an airport (or paid ridiculous high season prices) pre-Christmas in years.  In fact, it took all of my stamina last year to darken the doorstep of an airport post Christmas.

For me, Christmas is about spending time with friends, but not stressing to see them all before the big day.  A time to enjoy some neighbourhood holiday light displays if the weather cooperates.  A chance to gaze peacefully at my beautiful tree while soft music plays in the background. Perhaps watch an old holiday movie on TV.

I don’t stress about holiday parties, how many gifts one is giving or receiving, or whether I’ve sent Christmas cards and I carry no mountain of debt forward into January to prove my love to anyone.

Wishing you all a merry little Christmas complete with joy and yes, even a little peace.

Food I don’t eat. Ever.

Last week, I proudly admitted to my food choices.  This week, I’ll give you my Never Ever, don’t even try and make me, couldn’t pay me a $1 million dollars to eat it even once list.

Zucchini

Many of my friends know of my hardships with zucchini, and still they snicker.  Yes, it's all fun and games until someone loses their stomach.  OK, so I likely wouldn’t be hospitalized, (and I have no desire to find out how much zucchini it would take to be front of line at emergency) but let’s just say that once ingested, zucchini wants to find a way out and the quicker the better. I’ve experienced a lost weekend, not from Tequila, but from the lowly, inexpensive and yet lethal zucchini.  This vegetable should come with a warning label. I’m thinking skull and crossbones.  In my case, grocers should provide a HAZMAT suit with purchase.

Peas

I’m talking here about the basic garden-variety pea; canned or otherwise.  Not necessarily the much lauded snow pea, which has been known to get through.  The reason I don’t eat peas anymore is that when I was 18, I spent 6 weeks in England that summer.  Every single day for 6 weeks on end, with the exception of heaven sent Fish & Chip night, I was served peas.  Seriously.  I’ve had my fill.  I’ve had enough for all of us, so I’ll be passing from now on to make sure there’s enough to go around.  You’re welcome.

Tofu

Yup, it’s the healthiest thing you can put in your mouth…it will change your life, help you lose 20 pounds, make you grow tits, somehow increase your net worth…it’s the Second Coming of Health Food.  Don’t care, not eating it.  When a food has no taste, the texture of mush and needs every kind of flavoring on the planet to taste like ANYTHING at all, I’ll pass.  And for those of you who think it tastes like meat…you’ve obviously never eaten meat.  Cows just taste better.  End of story.

Sauerkraut

Need I say more?  If you’ve ever had sauerkraut cooked in your home, you’ll likely never forget the smell.  Nor will you be able to get it out of your soft furnishings.  Kinda like vomit, only worse.  The wafting ability of the cooked cabbage should be studied by scientists.  I have a sick feeling that sauerkraut may be either the cure to cancer or world peace.  It would just figure.

Liver

Smells bad.  Tastes worse.  Before I tried it myself, my best friend at the time described the taste “like eating dirt.”  Well, I can honestly say, I’ve tasted better dirt.  But liver caused me to start a new subset of items I don’t eat, which falls under the general heading of “functions”.  The function of the liver is to cleanse your entire system.  When you eat liver, you’re eating the crap that the liver deemed unworthy.  Think about that while sautéing your onions.  And you’re worried about a little mercury in your fish?  Mercury tastes better.  I’ll bet my own flesh tastes better.

What are you NOT eating…not for health reasons, but because you just plain don’t like it?

Eat! Eat!

Have you noticed that some time over the past few years, it’s become fashionable to tell people what you DON’T eat?  I’m guessing that the national obesity crisis is responsible for this, but no longer is there any talk around the dinner table about the enjoyment of food, let alone the consumption of it.  We speak only of what we have purged from our diets.  Personally, I think it’s a little sick…all this denial.
So, I’ll be brave and go first and proudly tell you what I enjoy eating, in the hope that we can get back on track, make like the French, and actually enjoy our food once more. We live in one of the most food rich societies in the world.  For God’s sake, let’s eat! And let’s stop feeling virtuous in denying ourselves the foods that we love.  It’s the last taboo…admitting what we eat, even if those choices are less than stellar.  So here’s my not so secret list.

Chips with dip:
Happily, this potent and decadent combination is only enjoyed at holiday time in my house, but this weekend I consumed rippled potato chips with DIP.  Yes, that’s right…full fat, creamy delicious French onion chip dip; a staple in the happy homemaker’s kitchen in the 60’s.  Actually, I’m pretty sure that in the 60’s, serving chips with dip was considered high class entertaining!  Good enough for company!

In my childhood, chips and dip were a somewhat sacred treat, but they did make an appearance more than once a year.  Nowadays, this high fat, but super delicious snack is a sign that Christmas is indeed coming.  Please spare me the low fat dip….go all the way or no way at all.

Bugles:
Whatever nicotine-like substance lies within them, they are highly addictive, which is great cause for concern.  Because once that bag is opened, you really can’t stop. Unlike cigarettes, which can and must be stopped after one.

Meat:
As my Mother used to say, “it takes all kinds” and that’s what I eat and I make no apologies for it. Grilled, BBQ’d, roasted…you name it, I eat it and love every protein filled moment. This year, I’ve marinated meat, skewered it and slow cooked it, all in the name of tremendous satisfaction.  No vegetable and the word “satisfaction” have ever gotten together in a convincing sentence.

Dessert:
Yes, we have childhood bribery to thank for this (no dessert until you eat a vegetable), but Ken and I enjoy dessert daily.  I’m trying not to enjoy dessert with every single meal (breakfast dessert?  Ca’mon!) and I’m also trying to redefine what dessert consists of.  My middle aged mind has convinced me that yogurt with fruit qualifies as dessert.  You wouldn’t have been able to fob that off on me as a child, but let’s just say I’ve matured.

Foods you couldn’t get me to eat as a child but must have now….

Mushrooms:
Can’t be without them or I start to break out in a nervous tick.  Happily, a good cancer protection program, especially when combined with greens (as in Caesar salad with mushrooms…YUM).
I don’t go in for the exotic stuff (let’s just say that they don’t call it shitake for no reason). No, the common button mushroom serves my Vitamin B needs nicely, but I am partial to the giant Portobello.  Although, for those of you who think that the Portobello mushroom makes a good substitute for beef, I have news for you.  Not really.  But hey, tell yourself whatever you need to in order to get in 10 servings of vegetables daily.

Brussels Sprouts:
A very recent addition to my diet, as in last month!  I was watching a PBS cooking show on the Seattle station when it was revealed that 98% of the population doesn’t like Brussels Sprouts. I was in good company.  But that’s because you never had them like THIS.  His very outstanding recipe (and trust me your Mother never got the memo on this one) involved cutting up the sprouts and sautéing them with the delicious goodness of onions, garlic, apples and bacon and then dousing the whole business with maple syrup.  Yep, that’s a marked improvement over the usual Brussels Sprout crap…er…. recipe (doesn’t everything taste better with bacon and maple syrup?) Here’s the recipe and slap me silly if you’re not a convert.  It’s the dessert of vegetables now. Sauteed brussels sprouts with apples and bacon.

Asparagus:
Not sure what the problem was here in childhood…lack of a good source?  Looked too much like a tree?  Love it now…with lemon, with just about any kind of sauce, cut up in a stir-fry.  Oh and it’s actually good for me.  Who knew?

Foods I eat but used to be forbidden...  

Ice Cream/Gelato:
This blessing I owe to my highly disciplined ingestion of probiotics over the past two years.  My theory is that I’m now ingesting the required enzyme to digest milk products, so ice cream is back!  Mostly consumed over the warm summer months, this year I sucked back some kind of Hagen Daz on a stick, smothered with chocolate and nuts.  Ummmm.
 
Over the past two summers, Ken and I have been running an informal competition for best gelato in the Lower Mainland.  Sampling required.  Top 2 winners:  the place on the beach in White Rock directly across from the pier and in Vancouver, the place at the bottom of the Fairmont Pacific Rim hotel.  I’m pleased to report that testing continues.

Cappuccino:
Thinking that despite my joy in being able to mostly ingest dairy products without difficulty, I pushed the envelope a little further still and tried some kind of cappuccino in my Tassimo coffee maker.  Still not sure what the milk product was…powdered milk?  But it was tasty delicious, nonetheless.  Mind you, I’m still cappucinoing in moderation, as should we all.

Foods that I still dream about...

Cottage Cheese
In the 70’s, cottage cheese was considered a diet food and no one wanted to eat it.  Except me.  I missed this one even more than ice cream and really want to get it back on the list.  Best done in limited quantities, but fingers crossed.

Name a food that you actually eat AND enjoy.  I promise not to tell anyone, especially your doctor.  Be loud and proud and tell us, once and for all, what’s really going on in your dining room.

Time on my Hands

With my recent job change came perhaps the most important reason for the change —  quality of life. 

Because of my new drastically shortened commute, I’ve been given the gift of time.  Not only do I get to sleep longer each and every night, but I now have two extra hours a day to frolic. 120 beautiful daily moments…10 hours a week.  An extra 40 hours a month….adding up to a grand total of almost 8 extra days a year to do with what I please.  It’s like I’ve entered some kind of black hole where time has expanded.  I never believed them in physics class, but here it is.

So what have I been doing with my newfound time?  Well, my house has never been tidier.  My bed gets made every morning (for the first time in my life!  Hear that?  That’s my Mother cheering from beyond the grave.)  My blog has been reactivated.  Frankly, I’ve been so giddy about it all; I haven’t really begun to explore the vast possibilities.  I’m hoping yoga will become a regular feature of my life, or perhaps even a few more trips to the gym.  Perhaps there will be more home cooked meals in my future. Hell, I may even take up arts and crafts, yodeling or finally learn to juggle.  My skill set should expand exponentially. Or I may just take a nap.

Whatever I choose to do with this gift of time I know this:  time is precious and we should value every minute of it.  This gift may not last as long as I’d like, so I intend to value every second of my almost 8 extra days that have been added to my wonderful life.

What would YOU do if you only had more time??

Another year ... another erection

It’s that time of year.  Ken and I have been thinking about it for weeks and now the weekend is finally upon us.  A romantic weekend away, you wonder?  Nope.  Time for us to celebrate the season by seeing if we can come to blows once more over the annual erection of our Christmas tree.

Having just put the house back together after the latest renovation…it’s time for us to make our biggest mess of the year.  Boxes upon boxes will be dragged up from the garage (cue the whining to start HERE.)  Our evil cat will likely use this opportunity to escape through the open front door to wander the neighbourhood freely, while giving us the paw and muttering “suckers” under his tuna breath.  He will be recaptured (more whining while one of us searches for him in the cold).  His punishment will be to watch us erect the tree for the next eight hours!

Never before in my life has it ever taken so long to put up a tree.  Even when I was five and was underfoot constantly.  Even when I carefully hand-crafted each link of my construction paper chain and relished in the throwing of plastic tinsel EVERYWHERE!

Nope, it’s only since being with Mr. Interior Decorator that such magnitude of time has been spent. Last year, and hopefully this year, we’ll spread this effort out over several days.  Yes, that’s right….several days for one tree!

But by the time we’re done, it will be somewhat spectacular and we’ll invite guest after guest over to bask in its magnificence (hence needing to start early).  Our BC Hydro Smart Meter will hum like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  The clean up will probably last for days as I find odd bits of Christmas decorations littered endlessly around the house, if the cat hasn’t found them first and choked to death.

But at the end of it all will be peace and beauty, which to me is the joy of Christmas and the only reason that we do it at all.

Take your best stab at it

Having successfully reached the ripe old age of 50, the time has come for another exciting test.  As if smashing my boobs wasn’t enough fun, now I get to participate in the next right of passage, the Fecal Occult Blood test.

A precursor to the dreaded colonoscopy, the FOB test checks for blood in feces unseen by the naked eye.  Having now had two neighbors diagnosed with colon cancer, I thought it best to have a lookie at my poop to see what lurks within.

I thought I was a reasonably intelligent woman who was thankful that English was my first language, until the nurse practioner started explaining how to collect “the samples” as polite people often refer to this. Place the paper in the toilet bowl. Check. Go poo poos onto the paper. Check. Take the little stick out of the very small test tube thingy and stab the poo.  Put it back in the teeny tiny test tube thing.  You lost me. 

I don’t want to brag or anything, but the average size of my feces greatly exceeds the size of the test tube thingy. Any decent Sesame Street math whiz could clearly see that one of these things is bigger and NOT like the other.

The look of confusion on my face was apparent.  She explained again, this time more s-l-o-w-l-y.  I could only conclude that the stick thing was going to take more of a “core” sample, otherwise this was going to get ugly!

I decided it best to give the printed instructions a thorough going over.  The instructions come with cute, IKEA style diagrams.  For some reason the diagram next to the instruction “deposit stool sample on top of collection paper” shows a relaxed naked person on the toilet wearing nothing but red (I’m assuming fuzzy) slippers.  Hmm.  Note to self.  Clothing optional.  Maybe this IS going to get ugly after all.

It appears from the instructions that I am to pull the probe across the sample until there is a goodly amount on the grooved portion of the probe.  I’m thinking that this is going to be an interesting game of bobbing for apples and wonder if when collecting my sample, it might be best to take paper out of the toilet and onto a more solid surface.  Starting to have performance anxiety, I consult the internet for further details.

The internet seems to confirm that the paper is best left in the toilet. We’ll see.  The last thing I want to do is fail this test and have to get back into that lengthy line-up at the lab. Not to mention face the nurse practioner yet again and have her think I was a complete moron.

What they didn’t tell me at either the doctor’s office or at the lab is this: FOB tests are prone to false positives.  Eating certain fruits and vegetables prior to your test or taking things like aspirin and ibuprofen can skew the results, meaning that a further colonoscopy will be performed in order to double check.  The only reason I’ve agreed to do this test is to avoid the colonoscopy (although I hear the drugs are great!).

Having been taking vast amounts of ibuprofen lately for a recent back problem, I decide to wait for a few days.  I’m hoping that by then, I’ll be ready to don fuzzy slippers and take a stab at it. Literally.

The summer of my discontent

Remember when I said back in February, that we were in the home stretch of winter?  I think I may have misspoken.  Apparently, we’re in the summer of my discontent, or as I like to call it, Global Cooling.

The entire planet is experiencing Global Warming.  We’re in the deep freeze.  Vancouver should start a new marketing campaign, “tired of feeling like an egg frying on the sidewalk? Come to Vancouver where you’re guaranteed to grow moldy in 2 short days!”

The SUMMER temperatures here have yet to venture above 20 degrees.  Polar fleece is always at the ready.  If rain is not actually falling from the sky, it threatens to at every moment.

I know many who are spending the Canada Day long-weekend in Las Vegas trying to warm up.  To hell with patriotism, people need heat!  40 degrees Celsius should take care of that nicely.  Why I’m not there is anyone’s guess.  I’m quite sure I will be before this summer is done.

This is the second long-weekend blown out by the weather with only two more to go.  I’m not hopeful.  Meteorologists have blamed everything from El Nino to the Russians and frankly, they’re running out of excuses.  Last summer, weathermen were getting heckled in grocery stores. Personally, I believe they are compulsive liars, trying to pretend that sunshine is coming to keep people from jumping off bridges.

Coincidentally, the bad summers started here when I purchased expensive new patio furniture.  Maybe it’s cursed.  Maybe I should have bought the cheap stuff at Walmart. If I thought that burning it would end the problem, I’d ask for a match, except that I like the chairs so much!

We endure such crappy winters…is it too much to ask for a decent summer?  And by decent, I mean actual sunshine and warmth.  The kind of day where I don’t have to turn on the seat heaters in the car or wear polar fleece with my flip flops.

On one of my forays into the U.S., I purchased a summer dress.  What was I thinking?  What I was thinking was that I could wear it with a jacket over top.  No such luck.  I have no intention of becoming a human popsicle.

If while you’re reading this, your weather outside is blue sky with puffy white clouds and shirtsleeve temperatures….go to hell.  Or bring hell here…we could use it.

If you’re cranky and you know it, clap your hands!

I’m cranky and I know why.  The common cold.  Blah.  I have a zero tolerance policy on the common cold.  Can’t stand another day of another cold, I’ve had so many of them.

I really thought I had this thing beat, not having been sick for a record breaking 18 months or so.  All winter long, I was clean.  And then I went to the gym.

I haven’t been to the cesspool of germs…aka the gym, for over a year.   AND I haven’t been sick in over a year.  Coincidence?  I think not. As soon as I got my dreaded (newly upgraded and snazzy) membership card reenacted, boom.

That gym should come with a warning: germs inside this building may be hazardous to your health.  Come to think of it, hospitals should contain that same warning.  Maybe a skull and crossbones at the front door with a cheery “enter at your own risk” sign.

I’m not sure that people should have to wear HAZMAT suits at the gym to protect themselves.  I can assure you that immediate hand washing when I got home didn’t help.  So much for those ads.

It seems no amount of decongestant, blowing, fluid guzzling, good eating, bad eating, vitamins, probiotics, eucalyptus, steam or oranges will get this thing to stop.  And I’m losing patience.

I’m done with feeling like my head is underwater.  I’m done with sprouting water from every orifice. I’d like to resume my sleep patterns of 8 uninterrupted blissful hours and not know what’s on TV at 2:35 a.m.

The only good thing about being up at such ungodly times is that you get to see what early morning television in Toronto looks like, live.  Not much to report there either. Yikes Toronto, you need some better morning shows.

I’m giving this thing about 6 more hours for my head to clear.  Or else.

The death last weekend of Whitney Houston was indeed tragic.  Here was a woman who apparently had it all; looks, voice, wealth, fame.  What she didn’t have, it appears, are people around her who cared about her enough to break through the trappings of stardom in order to save her.  Because, like so many others before her, Whitney Houston was a drug addict. 

Her talents were happily acknowledged at the Grammy Awards the night following her untimely death. There were lots of tributes and “we love you” Whitney’s proclaimed that night.  I’m not even sure what they meant.  Did they mean, I love your music?  Or I love YOU?  Because if it was the latter, in a room full of people who claimed to love her, where were these people 5 years ago, 10 years ago, when her drug addiction problems began?

Where was the love from those closest to her…who likely helped facilitate her every desire, including her wish for more drugs? 

I always marvel at people who have everything, because somehow it’s not enough for them.  Why is it not enough?  Why are they unable to recognize how good they truly have it?  How do they end up surrounding themselves with people who are simply yes men, unable to tell them the truth and get them the help that they need?

Whitney Houston could certainly afford all the help in the world to overcome her addiction, and yet she was ultimately unable to beat it, either by rejecting it or thinking that she could do it on her own.  Ego, strengthened by addiction is a very dangerous force.

Dying alone in a hotel room stoned is no way to end what should have been a beautiful life, full of joy and passion. My only hope for Whitney is that she knew more of those good moments than bad.

You've heard of pole dancing? How about hose dancing?

You know when you have a problem and you’re like a dog with a bone until you solve it?  This has been my life for the past month when our remote control for the electric gate into our complex started malfunctioning.

Uttering the words “abracadabra” wasn’t working any better than pushing the button for the remote repeatedly.  My nightly temporary solution (usually in the rain) was to pull up to the gate, and with the car running and my purse inside, open the small pedestrian gate, run inside and dance on the hose to open the gate, all the while praying that someone didn’t steal my car.  It seems that my menopausal weight gain was not enough for the hose to open the gate; hence my nightly dance upon it, trying to make myself heavier.

So I bought a new battery.  Actually, I bought two new batteries because that’s the only way you can purchase the size of battery that I needed.  Just my luck. All $12 dollars worth of it.

Battery change didn’t work.  Onto Canadian Tire to view their vast selection of garage door remote controls.  The vast selection comprised exactly three devices; two of which didn’t appear to be programmable.  So, I went with the only one that had an ancient programmable code that I could enter into it (as opposed to receiving rolling messages from space).

I took it home, opened her up and started to go blind trying to move the little teeny tiny widgets with the supplied paper clip thingy.  Wow, this really was hi-tech!  Out to the gate I went, all hopeful in anticipation, only to have the gate remain firmly shut, mocking me.

On one of my many trips inside to read the instructions further, my helpful husband called me…trying to help from afar.  He could see neither the instructions not the device, so in frustration, I hung up the phone and tried, tried again.

Hours spent to no avail.  Husband arrives home….speaks to neighbours who all concur…you don’t need a garage door opener (stupid!), you need a gate opener.  What the hell was the difference, I asserted, as long as you could program the thing?  And I didn’t recall seeing a Gate Opener section at Canadian Tire.

I took the device back for my full refund and my husband, speaking more slowly and in clearer English, tried to explain the problem yet again to the under-aged staff. We left empty handed.

Finally, at the next council meeting, Ken spoke to the one person on our strata who actually knew about such things.  Vindicated, I was…when Greg explained that I had purchased the correct device, but I simply hadn’t managed to get the remote speaking to the gate.  Apparently, yelling obscenities at the gate wasn’t going to get the job done either. I had to match the frequency of the device to the gate, program the code and perhaps face to the east, do the hokey-pokey and turn myself around, but I digress. 

Back to Canadian Tire. Back to the wall of doom to purchase yet another remote, this time in black.  I read the instructions with the concentration of a Buddhist Monk meditating on the meaning of life.  I risked blindness once more moving the little widgets ever so carefully into place for the secret code.  Finally, I took the device to the gate, along with the paper clip thingy and tried every combination of settings to get the gate to talk.  Had I been able to slap the gate, I would have. On the very last setting, the gate miraculously opened.

My eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing.  Thinking it was a fluke, I patiently waited for the gate to close fully before pushing the magic button yet again.  Happiness.

From the time we started to have problems with the remote, to the day I got the new remote to open the gate, a full month had gone by.  But at least for now, the hose dancing is over and the neighbors can stop laughing.

The end is in sight

In Vancouver at least, we’re in what I call the Winter Home Stretch.  Just about at the end….we can even see the cherry blossom finish line.  Just one more short month to go and it will officially be Spring.

I’m amazed that I’ve survived another winter.  Can’t imagine how the pilgrims did it.  I survived with indoor heating, a gas fireplace, an electric blanket and an assortment of delicious bath products.

As of yet, I haven’t even ventured out into the snow…but that will change at the very end of February.  Frankly, I couldn’t muster the courage to drive in winter conditions or face the horrendous crowds of the North Shore Mountains.  The scenic beauty of winter was not enough of a carrot to get me there.

Soon, I will be giddy with the excitement of power washing my deck and rearranging my patio furniture…not to mention making the annual trek to the nursery for new flowers.  Until then, I will hunker down in my flannel P.J.’s, in front of my roaring fire and wait for the new growth, warmer temperatures and daylight.


How are you surviving winter?

Yenlike contentment

Contentment is a crazy thing.  Amazing that one can even feel content in a world where more, better, faster, newer is always being pushed and we’re not supposed to feel satisfied until we HAVE IT ALL, whatever that means.

I haven’t been writing my blog because I realized that I was pretty happily content. Content to just be without a writing deadline.  I wasn’t really pissed off about anything, so no need to rant.  Just sitting around motionless in January keeping to my happy little quiet self and realizing that everything was just as it should be.  Yawn.

I don’t have it all and never will.  I wouldn’t even know what to do with it if I did.  Where would I put it?   There isn’t enough time in the day for ALL of it anyway…I can just about cope time wise with what I have now.

The only problem with contentment, as I see it, is inertia.  If one is truly content with one’s current circumstances, what possesses one to get off the couch and do something new?  Boredom? 

How content are you with your present circumstances?  What, if anything, do you need to do?  

Hats off to me

I am not what you call, a hat person.  Being someone who looks mostly ridiculous in any kind of headwear, I live in fear that I may be called upon to show up at a Garden Party with the Royal Family and give thanks that no Prince has ever come calling.

When I left the house yesterday morning to go to work, it was minus 7 degrees outside and knowing there would be considerable walking in my future both before and after Skytrain, I reluctantly donned my warmest hat to date. 

Ken bought me a fake fur number for Christmas.  Think something a hunter would wear in the woods, complete with earflaps.  Now imagine it covered in fake brown fur.  I looked like I mugged a wolf.

However, because all other commuters were too busy wearing their own silly hats and shivering from the cold, happily, no one even gave me a second look.  Either that or I couldn’t see them with all that fur in my eyes.  Apparently, I was the only person on the Skytrain who thought I looked odd. 

It took me a while to figure out what I looked like with my fur hat, red jacket, black pants and boots.  Hell, give me a Muscat and a box to stand on and I could have been a guard at Buckingham Palace!

The goods news is that the hat conquered even the coldest of winter days and that was the only reason to wear it.  No matter that the fur kept falling down my face obscuring my vision.  No matter that if I tried to look either left or right, I ended up looking into the inside of my hat.  I was warm…toasty even.  And for that, I was thankful.

Now let’s hope that warm spell comes back today as scheduled so I can put my Busby back in the closet where it belongs.

As they say in Poltergeist….I’m BACK!

I took the longest vacation that I’ve had in years and decided it would be as good a time as any to totally check out.  No emails, no texting, no social media…no blog. Only the odd old fashioned face to face conversation. Rest is a beautiful thing, and its impact cannot be underestimated.

My brain has definitely been recharged, if not entirely reset.  In fact, it’s taking a bit of effort to get it going again.  I hate to think what would happen with a year on a deserted island.

Ken and I went on our first cruise ever through the Caribbean.  My favourite moment of the entire trip came when at the spa on the ship, about to have a massage and a facial, they asked me to rate my stress level from one to ten with ten being the highest.  I wrote down a one, only because I had to stand upright to do it.

You have to know that this is an unusual report when even the spa lady seems surprised to see that number!  I think after the hour-long treatment, that number was probably .5 seeing that I still had a pulse.

During the daytime, I found the concept of being at sea quite relaxing.  Smelling the fresh ocean air and watching the water going by induced a kind of brainwave that frankly had me nodding off quite often.  But at night, when you couldn’t see more than 10 feet from the deck, it was a little different.  Although seeing the amazing array of stars was quite a treat and the amount of light cast by even a crescent moon was impressive.

I also witnessed more sunrises in that week than I probably will all year.  I have no idea why I was up at that time of day so often, but I’m very that I was as they were spectacular.

I’m not sure if it was the romance of the seas, but throughout the voyage I found myself wondering what it’s like to sail around the world and thought about all those brave souls who do it solo.  It would definitely be an interesting experience…until a storm hits and then I’d be totally out.

Our time on the Love Boat was good.  We met lots of nice people from all parts of the Globe.  We drank champagne, we laughed, we danced and we saw some new places.  We tripped the light fantastic and ate like Kings.  But mostly, we relaxed and recharged and I can’t wait to do it all again.

Not me baby

I don’t know what you’re all up to these days, but I’m spending every waking hour from now until the end of the year focusing of one thing, and one thing only.  Trying not to get sick.

Because I have a very expensive date with the Sun coming up and nothing is going to ruin it, least of all a pesky virus. Even though I’ve been successful in keeping illness at bay, you can never be complacent about such things during the Great Canadian Winter when we’re all cooped up together like chickens.

I’m doing all the things your Mother ever advised you to do during cold and flu season….washing my hands, getting plenty of rest, eating my vegetables, ingesting plenty of fluids, making sure that I get enough vitamin C, calcium and probiotics…all in an attempt to ward off illness prior to my departure. I’m even limiting my social engagements to keep from getting run down during this busy time of year. 

I’m hibernating, of sorts, and frankly I can’t wait to do more of it.  This woman was not made to leap into action during the dark days of winter.  My time is filled keeping warm, sitting in front of the fireplace sipping hot tea and gazing deeply into the soft light of our beautifully decorated tree. Quietude prevails in my world.

The rest of you can shop till you drop, party like it’s 1999 and infect each other with good cheer and flu viruses.  I’ll be hunkering down waiting for the solstice signaling the return of my beloved Sun, and getting ready to meet it in the sunny Caribbean.

Santa Management problems

Why is Christmas the only holiday that seems to need saving?  In all the Christmas movies someone …whether human or Muppet, needs to somehow save Christmas, usually by getting some kind of message to Santa on his biggest night of the year. They always seem to be somewhat apologetic, but that never stops them.

Frankly, if I were Santa, I’d be a little steamed about this by now.  Think about it.  364 days of the year, the Big Guy’s got plenty of time on his hands to deal with just such a crisis.  But on the one night of the year where he’s REALLY, REALLY busy, suddenly everyone needs to get in touch and the ONLY person who can save the day is Santa. No delegation will ever do in these scenarios.  Why is that?  Does Santa not have a right-hand Elf to turn to for just these kind of emergencies?  Do these folks every think to get in touch in August?

Personally, I’d be disconnecting my mobile devices if I were Santa.  I’d instruct my elves to hold all my calls while I made my rounds.  And then around the end of January, after having some well-earned recovery time on the annual vacation, I’d be sending some carefully worded messages to the people of Earth about their utter lack of time management/planning skills.  Not that it wouldn’t happen all over again the very next year, because the one thing we know for sure is that Earthlings are pretty thick in the head.

Every year, it’s the same thing. You plan ahead.  You check your list.  Twice. Find out who’s naughty and who’s nice.  And then some nutbar you don’t know starts second-guessing your lifelong ability to separate the wheat from the chafe and ends up having a panic attack on your busiest night. And somehow you’re in a crisis that frankly, you didn’t create, but seem to have to respond to all the same.  It’s enough to put the best of leaders right over the edge.

A little forward thinking…that’s all Santa’s asking for.  If Christmas needs to be saved this year, get the request in NOW.  Or as Santa calls it, The Night Before Bedlam.

The Annual Erection

It’s that time again.  Soft music is playing.  The fireplace is lit.  Romance, of sorts, is in the air.  It’s time for the annual erection of the Christmas tree.  Ahem. We have other more regular erections, thank you for asking. But this one is HUGE!

You know the warning on the Viagra that says something like, “if you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours, call a doctor.”  Last year’s erection of our tree took us 8 Godforsaken hours.  I should have called paramedics.  Maybe they could have helped us with the lights.

After spending 13 lucky Christmas’ together now, Ken and I have finally come up with some ground rules.  We both haul the tree and all the many boxes of decorations up the stairs.  We both build the tree, help fluff the branches and work endlessly to straighten it.  I test the lights, but then I sit down while Ken insists on putting enough lights on the tree to power a small city.  If you’ve noticed a brown out in your region, now you know why.  In the time that it takes him to place the hundreds of lights on the tree, I can have a relaxing lunch, a day at the spa….a night out.

For years, we’ve almost come to blows over the lights.  I like a good glow as much as the next gal, but I was convinced that our tree could be seen from Outer Space.  I trust that all those aboard the International Space Station were marveling at our tree with every orbit.  My concern wasn’t that Martians were going to find our house; I would welcome them with open arms, a Vulcan V hand-signal and a cheery “Na-nou”.  I was frankly more concerned about the fire hazard, never mind the electric bill.

Our tree is down a string this year because half the bulbs have gone out, thanks to good old Chinese quality manufacturing.  I think it’s perfect.  I’m sure Ken disagrees and will soon be off to Canadian Tire to clear the shelves.  In the meantime, our Bat Signal has dimmed, but our tree is erect. 

Honesty is such a lonely word

One of the problems with careening towards menopause is that your urge to tell people exactly what you think of them is at an all time high.  I’m well into the red zone on this front.  Not since puberty have I wanted to tell people so badly, exactly what I think of them and their little schemes, and this is not necessarily a Martha Stewart good thing.

In fact, it’s probably the worst idea ever.  Trust me, if I have an overwhelming urge to scream honesty at you, you likely don’t want to hear it and I’ve been choking on it for so long, that I’m afraid you will see it scrawled across my forehead like a CNN news feed.  I can’t help but feel the need to fasten black electrical tape across my forehead, just like I do on the bottom of my television to prevent seeing the dreaded scroll.  OK, I don’t actually do that.  Yet.

I live in fear that the dyke will not hold much longer.  What is it about Mentalpause that causes the need for such overwhelming honesty?  Is estrogen really the only thing between me and a drama worthy of an Oscar nomination?  No wonder women take supplements. WWIII we do not need.   Or do we?

This transition is about reflecting on your life and your relationships and feeling the need to make a giant list of who’s in and who’s out.  As Oprah Winfrey would say; this I know for sure ….some people are about to get the boot.  It’s simply a matter of timing.

I used to wonder deeply, really try to understand, where people were coming from.  I don’t care anymore.  Come from wherever you like; just take the first door out. You’d think in a country as large as Canada, that we could somehow remove ourselves from the truly small people that are all around us.  I think I’m going have to buy me an island and Zen out for a while to ponder my list.

Whose about to get the boot?  Small-minded individuals who care only about themselves.  The greedy.  Those who impede the success of others. Liars.  People who believe that manipulation and scheming are the way to go.  Those who get a kick out of the misfortune of others.  People who ride other’s coattails.  Abusers.  Bullys. 

Notice that the merely stupid are NOT on this list.  Those making a u-turn over 3 lanes, those who cannot organize a two-car parade, they can’t help themselves and, God knows, we’ve all done stupid.

What I’m talking about here are those with egos big enough to fill sport’s stadiums who have so little sense of self-worth, that they need to prop themselves up by tearing others down.  They’ve been doing it for so long, it’s the only life they know.  Trust me, they won’t recognize themselves on this list.  THOSE are the folks that I need to disassociate myself from.