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.

Freedom from the tyranny of the clock

I’m not a fan of November in Canada.  The days are grey and ugly and it seems that there’s very little in the way of good cheer.  But I think that I may have finally found a way to cope, short of getting on an airplane and flying to the sun that I know is out there somewhere.

Having taken this week off and staying put, I’m here to tell you that this has been the best idea I’ve had in a while.  No airport craziness and I get to sleep in my own bed.

The sheer luxury of hearing snow in the forecast and instead of crawling out of my deliciously warm and snuggly bed to fight my way through traffic chaos, I simply pull up the covers and roll over.  I’ve even been known to restart the electric blanket, just to seal the deal.  The cat is as blissed-out as I am.

The mere idea of sipping a perfectly brewed cup of coffee while watching horrible traffic reports knowing that I don’t actually NEED to be anywhere gives me such joy, tears well up in my eyes.

Not having to wake up to an alarm makes me practically giddy.  We had a power failure this week and our radio came on at 12 midnight because while I remembered to reset the clock, I forgot to reset the alarm.  I couldn’t get back to sleep and ended up awake most of the night.  Normally, that would concern me.  Instead, I went back to sleep at 6:00 a.m. when I should have been waking up.  Sheer happiness.

Breakfast out.  Having time to cook. The quiet.  Playing six games of Scrabble on my computer in a row.  Endlessly surfing the web.  Long lunches with friends.  Afternoon naps with the cat.  Priceless.

It’s the puttering that I love.  Endless hours of puttering around the house, finally getting to jobs almost forgotten, reveling in their final achievement.  Not that anyone else would care.

This week has been about having the luxury of time.  It's what I imagine retirement to be like.  Time to do whatever needs to be done, or not and the freedom to choose.  Aaahhhhh.  So rare in this cockamamie, windswept vortex called life.

Why are we all rushing around like maniacs? What the hell is so important?  This is the only reason that I play the lottery.  So that I can live in peace and quiet without all the rushing and not be any worse off for it.  In fact, if I do it more often, my life will truly be better. 

Next year, I’ll consider taking all of November off.  Fight it out amongst yourselves; I’ll be home under the covers remembering my best idea ever.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Or not.

Snow is a four-letter word in this town.  Nothing can strike more fear into the heart of a Vancouver commuter than the word SNOW and the media knows it.

That’s why they don’t just forecast or predict it, they WARN US about its impending arrival.  Snow alerts, snow advisories and, of course, the ominous snow warnings are implied, mentioned and even yelled from the media rooftops.  The Snow is Coming, the Snow is Coming….something along the lines of the apocalypse. 

This would be OK if the snow were reliably predicted.  It seems that most of the time, it somehow arrives unexpectedly like federal funding for a megaproject.  Somehow, despite all the satellites, weather stations and weathermen holding up their fingers to the wind, it often snows when rain was expected.  “We didn’t see that temperature drop coming.”  Uh huh.  Temperatures dropping during Canadian winters are really rare!

We simply can’t deal with it in Vancouver and that means we can’t drive in it, but mostly we seem vastly underserved in the clearing department.  Despite the tax load that we carry, we seem unable to ever have enough salting/sanding/clearing ability.  We also seem loath to borrow equipment from others all around us.  Instead, we hide inside and refuse to come out.

In Toronto, even if it snows, you’re expected to come to work.  Even if it snows and the temperature remains at minus 40 for weeks. Not so much in Vancouver where even if you only have to travel a few treacherous blocks, it is almost frowned upon to leave your house.  People express deep concern over your bravery if you actually venture out, like you were trying to be a hero.  God forbid you should have something important to do…. like work.

That brings me to the endless debate over the need for snow tires in this climate.  Many believe that All-Season radials will do the job in a Vancouver snow, given the fact that temperatures rarely fall below -2 at best.

Others have taken the opportunity to trumpet the media hysteria and declare that even in Vancouver, it should be mandatory for all to have snow tires on their vehicles at great expense.  All the better to avoid the 85% of other drivers who haven’t a clue as to how to climb a slight grade in 2 cm of white stuff.

I feel badly for the poor bus drivers in this town who not only have to wield huge articulated busses down streets that are coated with snow and possibly black ice, but they also have to avoid the majority of drivers who haven’t a clue as to what to do and seem intent on driving 20 km when a single centimeter has fallen.  Like we don’t have enough gridlock already.

The kids from places like Calgary and Winnipeg double over in laughter at Vancouverites dealing with snow.  In places where snow blowers are mandatory because mere mortals can’t shovel that high, the rest of the country guffaws at our unease, and I don’t blame them.

On the plus side, if it does snow hard enough and often enough, the city does take on a more peaceful and much brighter air to it.  It’s quieter (no heavy trucks on the road clearing much of anything save Highway #1.  I think it’s called that because it’s the one and only road that actually receives any attention.)

Not being able to deal with snow seems so…un-Canadian to me.  Seriously people…learn how to correct a skid.  Keep some kind of kitty litter in your car, should you need traction on the road.  If you’re that scared of the snow, use the kitty litter to poop in.  It beats using your pants.

Unattainable goals

It hasn’t happened yet, but I have good reason to be hopeful.  Being the goal setter that I am, I actually made it a goal this year to skip at least one period.  Not that I could do anything concrete to achieve this (other than pray), but I made it a goal nonetheless.  I put it out into the universe, that I, Kim Heron, officially wish to stop having periods. Period.

Yep, I’m officially “on record” as not wishing to become pregnant. No tears are being shed for Motherhood here.  Let’s get this messy and horrible business over with, once and for all.  From now on, if I’m going to have a wild mood swing, I’d like it to happen sans blood.

According to the book, “Is it hot in here? Or is it me?  The Complete Guide to Menopause”; my official menopause Bible, it seems that within the perimenopause stage that I’m in, one’s cycle actually shortens up to around 21 days before it lengthens out and periods cease altogether. 

Just for kicks a month or two ago, I decided to check out how long my periods have been in this shortened phase…thinking that it had been at least a few months.  I recoiled in horror when I discovered that my periods have been happening every three weeks for the past two years!  Holy crap!  No wonder I’m cranky!

This was a plateau that I wanted to get off of already, even if I had to jump.  “Please, please God, I don’t want to be the only 85 year old woman in the retirement home still making monthly trips to the drugstore for supplies!” was my new whining mantra.

And have you been down THAT drugstore aisle lately?  There are more supplies than ever.  Shapes, styles, COLOURS!  Really, colours?  For the more fashionable among us (and you know who you are), your tampon can be wrapped in fushia or lime green, depending on your mood.  How come they never wrap them in black? Perhaps with a scull and crossbones emblazoned on the wrapper. THAT’s generally my mood at that time of the month. Light days, medium days.  I’m always on the lookout for “God I hope I’m not hemorrhaging to death” days. My guess is that’s in the hospital aisle.

Two years and counting.  Losing hope. Stocking up on supplies.  At this rate, by the time I end up ceasing to purchase tampons, I’ll probably need adult diapers.  Do they come in Fuchsia?