Insanity

Ow. 

Ow.

Ow.

I just finished working out, which I do now six days a week (insert well-muscled, slightly-too-forceful fist pump here), and my most heartfelt wish is not to be fit, or ripped, or built.

I just want the nausea to pass.

As many of you already know, I have recently joined a 3 Month Meltdown Challenge group, and am 21 days (and very, very, VERY close to 20 pounds) into my journey to getting naked on a beach this summer. (Which will come as a complete surprise to my husband and best friends, who are unaware that we're going to a nude beach. Also unaware are the owners of the beach and the rest of the beachgoers. Fun with surprises!!!!).

Because I am the type of person who requires ABSOLUTE IMMEDIATE GRATIFICATION, lest five minutes go by and I lose interest, when I picked a workout series, I went straight for the hard stuff. No ab toners or Richard Simmons or pretty jazzercise outfits here.

I'm not screwing around.

I went on the website, and this is the first thing I saw.

THE HARDEST WORKOUT PROGRAM EVER PUT ON DVD.

Are you ready for the ultimate challenge? You can transform your body in 60 days with this total body conditioning program. And you won't need equipment or weights—just the desire to dig deep and push past your limits.

In INSANITY®, Shaun T uses a method called Max Interval Training. It's not your typical interval workout. You'll do cardio and plyometric drills with intervals of strength, power, resistance, and core training. It all happens in long bursts of maximum-intensity exercises with short periods of rest so you can burn up to 1,000 calories in an hour.

Here is what I read...

THE ONLY WORKOUT PROGRAM YOU HAVE DONE IN RECENT HISTORY. PROBABLY EVER.

Are you ready for the ultimate challenge? We don't think so, either. But this is a magic DVD, guaranteed to transform your body in 60 days. And you won't need equipment or weights— you don't even need to sweat. Just sit back, relax, and watch the fat fall off your ass.

In INSANITY®, Shaun T uses a method called Max Interval Training. You don't need to know what that means. There's a lot of nonsense about cardio and plyometric drills with intervals of strength, power, resistance, and core training and blah de blah de blah de blah blah blah..... short periods of rest so you can burn up to 1,000 calories in an hour.

Piece of cake. I am WICKED good at short periods of rest. It's stopping them that I have issues with.

The first workout is actually a 'Fit Test', comprised of a bunch of timed exercises. You do as many as you can in one minute, write them down, and compare your results every two weeks.

I don't claim to be the most coordinated person I've ever met, so I studied the pictures of each exercise on the progress chart in order to have a reference point to start with. The black and white sketch lady explained everything, and looked reasonably good in the process, so I hit 'Play' and away I went.

I watched the disclaimer at the beginning of the DVD, chuckling to myself that anyone would be so stupid as to try this workout without already being reasonably fit. I mean hell, I push a fully loaded quadruple stroller back and forth to a school four times a day, and that's 200 pounds right there! And uphill, to boot (only in the one direction, though)!

I started the first exercise, and merrily (somewhat) high kicked my way to glory. At the end of the minute, as I wrote down my number, I noticed it was a good 10 reps HIGHER than the skinny girl in the video. Holy crap! I was amazing! I was a machine! I was... Wait a sec... I was probably wrong. I know I felt reasonably fit, but that girl was like a piece of beef jerky- not a single ounce of fat on her. Then I realized that one rep equaled one kick PER LEG, and my joy deflated like a fat kid's seat cushion. I reduced my number by half.

The next exercise was a little harder, and I noticed that I was beginning to sweat profusely, which struck me as odd, as the black and white sketch lady on the progress chart still looked as fresh as a daisy.

I jumping jacked. I push-upped. I obliqued. I even finally found out what the hell 'planking' was.

And at the end of the last exercise, I found myself laying on my face, sucking in gasps of oxygen and copious amounts of dust, glitter, and the odd salt and vinegar chip from the carpet in the downstairs playroom, thinking about vomiting.

I say I was THINKING about vomiting, because when I decided I was going to, I couldn't stand up. I eyeballed the drain in the floor in front of the washing machine, and seriously thought about crawling over there, but the effort required simply to lift my head indicated to me that a ten foot trip across a cement floor would be an impossibility.

By the time I was able to stand, the urge to vomit had passed.

I went to bed.

I went into the following day's workout with a little more apprehension and a little less clothing. My eyes aren't overly great, and I didn't want to work out with my glasses on, but I figured as long as I could see what Shaun "Obviously a Cyborg" T was doing, it didn't matter how fuzzy the edges were. 

After three rounds of incredibly hard and fast jogging, jumping, kneeing and contracting, with sweat literally POURING off my face, I took my well-deserved water break when Shaun instructed me to. He led us (see how quickly you want to drink the Kool-Aid? I was already identifying with his sinewey band of workout buddies) through our stretches. We slowed down, we checked our heart rates, and we inhaled and we exhaled. When the stretches ended, as I threw myself backwards onto the couch and poured water on my face from a Gatorade squeeze bottle, I listened for Shaun's final words of encouragement for the day.

"OK, " he says, "now that we're warmed up, you have nine seconds left, then we're really going to do some work, and we're really going to get into it. This one is going to push you, so remember to DIG DEEPER!!!!!!!!!!!"

I had failed to see the countdown timer at the bottom of the screen.

As I inched my way closer, squinting for all I was worth, I could see that we had gotten all of 18 minutes into the 40 minute workout. We had warmed up. My leg muscles were shaking so bad I could HEAR THEM, you could play water polo in the sweat in my sports bra, my ears were ringing, and we had warmed up. Oh, sweet mother of pearl. We had warmed up.

I have been Googling inspirational words and phrases to keep myself motivated, and I keep coming up with mildly helpful crap like "Pain is Just Weakness Leaving Your Body", and "Suck It Up, Don't Suck It In", and "You Earn Your Scars". These are all great, but I'm thinking of having my own workout shirt made.

It will say "Just Don't Puke on the Carpet."

I'll Be Slipping Down Sewer Grates in No Time...

So, for those of you who have read my blog before, specifically 'Body Mass and Shame', you know that for me, the road to fitness is paved with both good intentions, and the mutilated corpses of my former selves who have given up and died rather than face one more day trying to change.

This time, it's different. (I can hear you. Stop laughing.)

This time, I mean it.

This time, I bought running shoes.

With my usual iron clad logic, I recently turned to Facebook for guidance in my constant struggle to lose weight. Nothing says 'really getting out there and making an effort to get skinny' like sitting on your ass in front of the computer, I know, but it seems that the fates were on my side.

Through a post from a cousin of a friend of the friend of a high school acquaintance who married a girl who had a kid in the same band as my eldest daughter (or something); I discovered Beach Body, the company that puts out the P90X and Slim in Six workouts. (Incidentally, the name 'Team Beachbody' offers a multitude of opportunities for size-inspired hilarity. More on that later). I have seen these ads before, and have mentally filed them in the same place I file the emails about my giant inheritance from the pastor in Nigeria.

This time, I bit. Not only because the woman behind the profile was an actual human located in the same province as myself, but because the signup fee was considerably less than the cost of a two year membership to yet another gym. Also, there are no more gyms in the neighbourhood, and I don't want to have to add 'not driving somewhere' to the 'not working out' portion of my exercise regime.

Basically, what I've done is joined her three month challenge group, which offers me a monthly supply of a great vegan meal replacement shake (although 'great' and 'vegan' are words that should stay in separate bedrooms, this one is actually less offensive than most), nutritional and exercisual (whatever- it SHOULD be a word) support from Rosa the coach, and a copy of the workout series of my choice. All for what is actually a really reasonable price. And I wheedled two friends into doing it, too, which reduces my misery by at least half.

I live in fear of making myself look stupider than I already do, so I refuse to get all cocky and rah-rah about it, as I have a history of multiple failed attempts to slim down, but I will say this; the combination of nonstop support, diet and the ridiculously hard workouts seem to finally be doing what all the gyms couldn't. I am so glad for Facebook. I love Rosa. I need her. I need to be held accountable. I need someone who will tell me that International Delights creamers are not a drink unto themselves and that gummy fish are not protein. I have lost 13 pounds in two weeks, and I am only just beginning my journey. And I really, truly, FIRMLY believe that my success will continue (Again. I can hear you. STOP LAUGHING!). So much so that I have vowed to buy a 2 piece bathing suit and wear it all summer (which IMMEDIATELY prompted my best friend to invent the newly-patented 'shirt for the eyes', the thought of which was so funny it caused a hysterical semi-drunken laughing fit which went on for hours).

In fact, if my progress continues, and I reach my goal by July 18th (I am not telling you what the goal is, so that if I must, I can welsh on this particular bet and you will never know the difference), I will show even you, my beloved friends, family, and strangers from cyber-space, my before and after pictures. I realize July is actually FIVE months from March, not three, but I am giving myself an extra sixty days because my goals are lofty ones indeed.

The before pictures, currently only seen by myself, my daughter, a girlfriend who REALLY needed some motivation, and Jason, (who sees a version of them EVERY night, oh lucky, lucky boy), are so truly bad that Liz had to close her eyes while taking them.

Imagine, if you will, a large marine mammal. I jest about my size, but am self-aware enough to realize there are people much fatter than I, so we won't imagine a HUGE marine mammal. Not a blue whale or a humpback (besides, I had that taken care of), but a smaller whale, like a beluga, or the majestic orca, perhaps.

Take your beluga out of its natural environment. Put it in a dire situation (perhaps it has beached itself due to its massive size and inability to manoeuvre and desperately needs intervention by Greenpeace- use your imagination!). Really stress it out. Make it all flushed and sweaty.

Now put it in a red sports bra. Take your time. There's a lot of squishing involved. Adjust if you need to, and make sure the pectoral fins are firmly restrained. It's hard work, but trust me, the end result will be worth it.

Put some spandex workout shorts on it. This is a little harder and more labour intensive, but we've got some time before the weight of the giant creature crushes the life out of it. You've got to really wrestle the tail flukes in there, because those belugas can be slippery, what with all that salt water. Tuck in the last bit of blubber, take a few calming breaths, and you're ready to go.

Stand your fish up. Prop it against a wall if need be, and before it slumps over due to lack of breathable oxygen, snap a picture. Hell- take one from every angle. Really focus on those dorsal fins. Make sure you get the most coverage possible, so that when your killer whale transforms into a beautiful.... (What's a skinny, attractive fish, anyway- are there any? Cause the only ones I can think of are pretty terrifying, like the viperfish, or the moray eel...) .... skinny fish thing, the obvious improvement will win it a free tee-shirt.   

Recently, I went to a 'Passion Party', where one of the items in the catalogue was a one piece fishnet body stocking (AGAIN with the whales- why do women DO this to themselves???). I laughingly told Jason that I was going to buy it, and he, with all the finesse of Captain Ahab, offered to give me the cost of the body stocking NOT to buy the thing. If by July I have seen a reasonable improvement, I am buying it. And I am wearing it in some 'after' pictures (his, not yours).

I digress. The point is this:

If things go well, I vow to follow through and offer the appropriate before and after pictures to everyone who wants to see them. Because if I can do this, so help me God, I will show that body off (the same body, incidentally, that got me into boy trouble in high school and knocked up four times and started this whole mess) to everyone with functioning eyeballs. (If things don't go well, I will re-title this blog, file it with my previous failures, and pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about when you ask how it's going.)

Tune in next week to find out which workout program I chose, and why I wish I would just have a heart attack and be dead already.

The Dangers Of Breastfeeding

I love newborn babies.

I love them so much.

I love the way the look, and the way they smell, and the way they cuddle right into the crook of your neck.

I love them so much that every once in a while I think I maybe want another one. 

And then I remember how much I like being the only person who owns my boobs.

I'm a big believer in breastfeeding. Not because it's good for the baby, or because it promotes mother-baby bonding or because it can prevent breast cancer. Forget all that. That's just noise.

What breastfeeding is really good for is SUCKING UP EXTRA CALORIES SO YOU CAN EAT YOUR WEIGHT IN BROWNIES. If I hadn't breastfed all four of my kids, I would be competing for my own bedsheet-draped-remote-interview-from-my-hospital-bed on Jerry Springer by now. I have approximately four years of breastfeeding under my belt, which means that in those four years I could eat (or so I thought) virtually everything in my path. That's not entirely true, which has led to some weight issues (See 'Body Mass and Shame'), but that's a whole different topic.

I don't know that men realize just how awful breastfeeding is. I was one of those moms who started doing it for all the wrong reasons (namely, I eat a lot of granola and have been known to cry over dead trees) and I very quickly realized just how irritating it is to not be the sole proprietor of one of your body parts.

Imagine, if you will, walking down an icy sidewalk with groceries in either hand, and suddenly having a loud, demanding, crying homeless man run up, knock the groceries to the ground, and grab your arms because it's his turn to use them. Or piloting an airplane and crashing it into the Andes because the flight attendant in jump seat 2 needed your eyes for a few minutes. Or filling up your car with gas, getting it washed, waxed, and detailed for a night out on the town, and having your next door neighbor insist on taking the car, throwing up all over it, giving it a really good dent on the way back into the driveway, and telling you to hurry back in two hours so he can do it all over again.

The bitterness you may have detected in the preceding statements is part of the reason why women pump breast milk. Because it's nice for the dads to get up every once in a while for the four a.m. feeding. Because sometimes you don't want any more spit up INSIDE your bra. And because you want to spend one evening getting a little drunk in a formal gown without having to whip out a boob in front of your co-workers and ring the dinner bell.

Although our first babies were 100% breastfed, with Squid, Jason and I had made a point of allowing (forcing) him to have a bottle of formula every day in order to keep him interested in breastfeeding, but allowing for the possibly that there were going to be some occasions where I simply couldn't feed him. Where Squid was OK with this compromise, Eva was not. She could be forced to drink out of a bottle, if said bottle wasn't being held by me, but no way in HELL was she drinking that horrible formula. (I don't blame her. Taste the stuff. It's right up there with paint thinner and dog vomit.)

As a consequence, I got very good at pumping. We do a lot of driving to and from the Crowsnest Pass, as that is where all of our kids attend camp, and counsel camp, and volunteer at camp, and attend camp reunions, so Jason and I decided to invest in a really good, portable, you-can-power-it-with-the-cigarette-lighter-in-your-car breast pump.

This thing was awesome. It pumped the equivalent of 3000 Holsteins worth of milk every nanosecond. It had super high-powered suction so that not only would it stay on while you drove, but would vacuum you to your seat without the aid of a seatbelt. It even had a fancy little attachment that allowed you to switch out bottles in the middle of pumping in case baby was REALLY hungry and couldn't wait any longer. In short, it was cool. Not 'show the neighbors' cool, but cool nonetheless.

In preparation for our camping trip that year, which was a five hour drive from the house (and as far as I was capable of travelling with a two month old, a five year old, and two teenagers), I pumped enough milk to get us through the drive, and a few extras to throw in the freezer when we got there. If I stuck one teenager next to each little kid in the van, we might not even have to actually stop. (Jason doesn't enjoy stopping. I have driven past more historic sights and roadside attractions than I can count, and Squid has learned how to pee in a water bottle).

We started Eva off with a really good feeding before we put her in her carseat, and placed a brand new bottle beside her for when she got hungry again, as the kid ate like clockwork every two hours.

With the perfect timing that is the hallmark of every infant everywhere, Eva promptly fell asleep, and chose that very day to have her first five hour long nap. About 45 minutes from our destination, she woke up, realized it had been five hours, and LOST it, demanding to be fed. To wait until she was screaming hysterically with hunger was cruel to the other campers, as we would be pulling in to our site around midnight, and pulling over on the single lane highway was not an option.

I congratulated myself on my foresight and planning, dug out the spare milk, and realized that the only actual bottle we remembered to bring was the one sitting beside Eva, currently full of warm, five hour old, probably poisonous, milk that had been sitting in direct sunlight since we left town. Although we had tons of those little freezer bags of milk, we had no delivery system.

Luckily, I hadn't completely finished my bottle of water, and we realized that all we needed to do was dump the old milk, rinse the baby bottle, refill, and our problem was solved. Liz passed the old bottle up to the front of the van, and (have I mentioned Jason did not like to stop on the way out camping?), in full view of the hot guy in the red sports car behind us, I rolled down the window, opened the bottle of milk, and poured.

At 110 kilometers an hour.

As it dawned on me what I had done, there was a scream from the backseat of the van. The breast milk, after flowing down the side of the van and coating the middle window with a opaque film of life-giving goodness, had found the path of least resistance, and (fortunately, by then much reduced in volume), REentered the van through the open back window, splattering Squid with the dregs of Eva's uneaten, curdled dinner. Luckily, by leaving the back window open, we had avoided having that extra milk coat the windshield of the hot guy in the car behind us, blinding him, and causing him to drive off the road into a ditch. I was grateful for that much, but I have to tell you, throwing bodily fluids at him didn't do a lot for the 'flirt with the 20 year old hottie in the sports car' portion of my evening.

I can only assume that it was new-mommy hormones and sleep deprivation that led to the debacle, but when the sun rose the following morning and illuminated the side of the van, revealing the sheer QUANTITY of milk I had poured out the window and left to dry in the night, I couldn't help but be impressed. That was one hell of a breast pump.

Yeah. On second thought, I don't love babies all THAT much.

Oops. We Did It Again....

Before anyone panics, I promise. This has nothing to do with babies.
Honey- breathe.

Sometime near the end of 2011, I published a post entitled "Dirty Night Out", detailing my and Jason's first foray into bingo.

I promised Jason I wouldn't talk about it, and I kept it to myself for almost a whole month, but a blog is like a confessional. I'm almost driven to bare my soul. Therefore, it is with the deepest shame and utmost regret that I have to inform you, my loyal readers, that we did it again. 

Twice.

I feel so cheap.

So dirty.

So.... polyester.

And oh, God, it felt so good....

Because we enjoyed ourselves so much on our first trip, we invited Jamie and Shawn to come with us when we went the second time, sometime around September 2012, which was just long enough after the first trip to guarantee that we would forget everything we had learned the previous year about how to play.

Although Jamie and Shawn were more than willing participants (especially once we told Shawn that the Grey Eagle Casino serves beer in the bingo hall), I still feel a little guilty about the whole thing, because it was obvious they were sucked in by my stories of the glitz, the high-rolling excitement, the glamorous atmosphere, and the huge windfalls just waiting to be discovered on their 6-4 Baseball cards.

Alas. It was not to be.

None of us won a thing. There were a few near misses, when one of us would get within 5 or 6 numbers of winning before some other sucker would win some lousy thirty dollar pot, but that was about as close as we came to glory. The most thrilling part of the evening was when Jason spilled his popcorn at the same time as Shawn spilled his beer and we floated the popcorn around like little boats until Jamie got back with the napkins. There was a brief bit of excitement when Jamie and I won 'Good Neighbor Cards' for sitting near someone who actually won (they should actually call these things 'Sour Grapes Cards'.  There was nothing remotely neighborly about the thoughts I was having when that ancient old crone yelled 'Bingo'), and we got to try our hands at marking real, live, paper bingo cards, in real time as the caller called the numbers. Our first obstacle there was that neither of us owned a dabber (dauber?), and we were forced to mark the cards with a pen, which I think might actually invalidate the damn things. Worse, however, was the brief hiccup in the space-time continuum, which made the caller appear to be calling numbers at light speed, with the unfortunate result that neither of us was able to keep up. We got so far behind that we finally realized that even if we DID think we had won, we could never actually yell "Bingo', because there was no way we had all the numbers right, and appearing stupid in a room full of people I am trying to look down on does a number on my self esteem every time.

As a group, we had been marginally successful on our trip to Vegas for Shawn's 40th, so we had assumed we possessed the magic. We left the bingo hall that evening, hopes dashed, dreams shattered, vowing never to return.

But it creeps up on you, see?

You go about your life, living from day to day like every addict does, and it creeps up on you. One minute you're in Old Navy, doing some Boxing Week shopping for jeans that fit (Five pairs, baby! I LOVE that place!), and the next, you realize you have a few leftover Christmas dollars with nothing to do, and you're barreling down Deerfoot, trying to get the kids home from the mall in time to make the 6:45 cutoff when they won't let you buy any more tickets.

So we went again.

We chose a different table this time, because it was clear that the side of the bingo hall we had been sitting on with Jamie and Shawn three months previously had bad vibes. We picked a single table, on the opposite side of the hall. It had a great view of the entire space, which meant we could watch the creepy, weird bingo players at the same time as we (ahem) played ourselves.

We briefly discussed buying a dauber (dabber?) and some paper tickets, but the memories of our previous Good Neighbor Cards were still too fresh. We settled on buying a few of the special games we hadn't played the last time around (but only those ones that went on the digital machines, thanks!), bought ourselves some fries and pop, and away we went.

Fail.

Was our constant belittling of the whole culture angering the Bingo Gods and ensuring our everlasting lucklessness? We stopped making fun, and I even tried to admire someone's dauber (dabber?) caddy. We changed the color and shapes of the electronic dabbers (daubers?), with absolutely no effect, put on careful masks of boredom, in an attempt to trick the caller into thinking we didn't want to win, and even asked the old guy at the next table over if we were using the machines right. All to no avail.

And then came the epiphany. Just after the last game of the first half of the evening event, immediately after the caller announced intermission, someone across the hall from us had a seizure, fell off their seat, and lost consciousness.  It was terrifying for him, I'm sure, and security had to call 911. When the paramedics came, they administered medication, the guy sat up, and when they attempted to transport him to the hospital, he REFUSED TO LEAVE THE BINGO HALL. He didn't want to leave his cards, he didn't want to leave the game, and he wasn't going anywhere, thank you very damn much. After much back and forth, and cajoling and arguing by the paramedics and the security staff, the poor fellow left the casino under his own steam, and the medical staff got a rousing round of applause.

And Jason turned to me and said, "I didn't want to say anything till it was obvious he was ok, but did you notice that guy waited for intermission? THAT'S a bingo player!!!!!"

As I dug my knuckles as far as I could into the sensitive space between Jason's 6th and 7th ribs, I couldn't help but think that maybe he had a point. All the stuff we were doing to win was kinda half-assed. We fiddled with digi machines, pretended not to care whether we won or not, and generally made a mockery of the whole game. That was wrong. In order to win, we had to go all the way, and really, REALLY commit to the process.

We picked up our stuff, and moved across the hall to our 'lucky' spot, where we had first played, lo those many (2) trips ago. We threw out what we were eating and duplicated our food from the first time (when the concession only serves two things that don't suck, and beer, it's pretty easy to remember your 'lucky' meal). We bought our late night tickets from the same lady who had sold them to us the very first time we had walked in the door, started up our machines, and waited for the riches to roll in.

The effects were almost immediate.  Not only were we getting more numbers, we were getting closer and closer to actually winning a game. And it finally happened. Jason smacked me on the arm for all he was worth and muttered, "Hey- watch this! I'm going to bingo on the next number!" (He does not have precognitive powers- for those of you who've never been, they actually display the next number for a second or two before calling it to give people (with paper tickets and far more skill) a chance to get ahead.)

"Yeah- you and ten others.... " I whispered, secretly gleeful that my plan had paid off.

The caller called the next number and Jason was the only one to yell and wave his pretty orange card in the air. Fifty bucks! There was something to the whole superstition thing after all! We had a workable strategy!

The ticket seller who stood beside him gave him and myself a few of those Good Neighbor Cards, which we promptly handed to the two older ladies sitting behind us. When Jason told them we couldn't understand them, and didn't own daubers (dabbers?) anyway, they offered to lend us theirs, but we declined. Once you have a scientifically proven system, to add unknown variables and possibly skew the results is sheer folly. Plus, we were still too stupid to keep up with the caller.

The prize runner came over with Jason's slip midway through the following game, and he kept it under his machine like a good luck totem. We had won back a portion (not nearly as big a portion as it would have been had we exercised some self control with the lady at the entrance to the hall) of what we had spent on our evening, had enjoyed some time to ourselves, and we were feeling a little smug.

With only one game left to go, it seemed like a reasonable assumption that we were tapped out, luck-wise, so we weren't really paying attention when the next game came up, and my digi machine told us I was 18 numbers away from a win.

Jason was five.

Huh. The troll doll theory was proving itself once again.

Then he was four numbers away.

We took a look at the program for the evening, which tells you what the payout is based on the attendance (something we had made a point of deciphering during the intermission that evening), and realized that Jason could very well win $150, assuming he was the only winner.

Then he was at three.

Then two.

Jason grabbed my arm and frantically whispered, "Omigodlookatthenextnumber!"

B6. The only number Jason needed to win, and the number showing on the caller's screen. Both were B6. This was freaking awesome!

The caller called B6, and, to our immense surprise, Jason was the only person in the room to yell "BINGO!!!!!"  He had won the whole prize! The whole $150! Holy crap!!!!

I did some quick math and realized that he was about to pay the remaining portion of the cost of the evening's entertainment. We were about to leave the bingo hall having spent NOT A CENT on the world's most expensive board game!

The radio lady came over and confirmed with the caller that Dean had, indeed, gotten a bingo. The caller them asked her to check and make sure Dean had purchased that evening's pots (up till just then, we still had no idea what they were, but we didn't want to seem stupid, so we bought them anyway), and when the lady with the radio nodded yes, everyone in the hall let out a little gasp of breath. Huh?

"In addition to winning the game, ladies and gentlemen, tonight's Pot #2 number was B6, standing at $1153. Congratulations to our winner!"

Seriously? We had perfected our strategy and Jason had won a measly $150, and some lucky SOB won almost $1200? As I turned to look for the person who had won all this money, the two old gals behind us started to giggle.

"See?" they cackled, "It's because of those Good Neighbor Cards you gave us. They brought you good karma!!!"

The penny finally dropped, and I turned to Jason (whose thought processes were light years ahead of mine on this particular evening), slapped him in the arm and shrieked, "HOLY SHIT, YOU JUST WON $1200!!!!!!!!!!", causing the rest of the hall to burst out laughing.

I have no idea what the last game was. I don't know if I came close to winning, if I actually won, or if the roof caved in under the weight of 3000 rabid pigs. I remember Jason being handed a cheque, and I remember the caller congratulating him, and thanking me for my over-the-top reaction, which he never gets to see, as everyone else feigns disinterest, and I remember the cashier telling us on the way out that they would cash the cheque for us at the casino slot cages (oh, I bet they will...).

We can't go back. It took exactly three trips to transform us from normal people into the type of card-carrying crazies who don't wash the socks they were wearing when they won the satellite bingo prize. We fell in line, and the Bingo Gods smiled upon us. We (metaphorically) bought their troll dolls and wore their lucky hats. We dyed our metaphysical hair purple, wore polyester Sansa-Belt slacks, bought a carton of Salem Menthol Slims to last us the evening, hooked up our O2 tanks, and waded into the crazy end of the gene pool. And gold rained upon us and plunked us on the heads.

We could never duplicate this evening. We would go broke trying. I know when we've had enough of a good thing, and when it's time to stop. I prefer to quit BEFORE the 12-Step meetings in the church basement. I see the way things are headed. I have seen the inside of my last bingo hall.

We've booked a trip to Vegas.

On Accidental Blindness

So, after my little rant earlier about how desperate I am for me time, I got to thinking about the me time I've had in the past, what I've enjoyed about it, and what I would or would not do again.

I don't know about you guys, but for me, the list of 'Things I Would Do Again' is often eclipsed by the list of 'Crap. That Was Stupid ' (see '*Appendix A' for an itemized list). However, sometimes, 'Things I Would Do Again' and 'Crap. That Was Stupid' come together in a cacophony of fun. Most of THOSE things aren't repeatable in a blog, or won't wash out of a Las Vegas hotel room carpet (Ahem. Shawn.), but every once in a while, they're G-rated enough to share.

Years ago, when Jason and I only had two kids, we bought a condo. The condo doesn't really figure into the story, except to explain to you that we had funnelled our already meagre resources into buying the damn thing and paying the mortgage, taxes, and condo fees, which, when combined, were roughly 19824659% of our monthly income (See 'On Poverty'). We had no extra cash, and I worked full time nights at Starbucks, only to get up every morning to get Isaiah to school after Jason left for work and spend the day parenting two year old Liz. I felt then as I do now. Drained. With no elastic in the budget, and with Jason and I never actually being in the same house at the same time, there was very damn little I could do about it.

And then, in a discussion with my best friends in the whole wide world, Jamie and Lana, we discovered that we were all feeling that way, and we decided the three of us would go away, sans husbands and kids, to relax.

Since, at the time, we were all in a similar financial drought, we decided that 3 nights in a hotel in Edmonton, shopping, perhaps drinking a bit, and hitting a spa, was the perfect plan. We picked a date far, far into the future, so that we could water down the apple juice and feed the kids store brand Ichiban to save money, and when the day arrived, we piled into Jamie's brand, spanking, used Chevy Lumina for the trip.

We had a blast. In the 7 hours it took us to get there (time lapse caused by the fact that Whitemud Drive crosses all of Edmonton eleventy-one times and covers roughly two-thirds of northern Alberta and most of the Northwest Territories and at no time actually connected with the street we needed), we talked more than we had in years. I did much of the talking, as I was allowed to neither to drive or navigate (my best friends were too kind to say it, but no one wanted to die that weekend, or get eaten by wolves in the back country). We found things out about each other that we had either never known, or had simply forgotten. We stopped at the A&W in Somedamnwhere, Alberta, and found out that restaurants in places north of Calgary smell funny. We sang along with the radio, and we giggled till we had to pull the car over. We curled up on the beds in our hotel room and drank till we wished we hadn't. We played Speed, our favourite card game since high school, eight thousand times. We ate real Mexican food, and tried mole sauce for the first time. We found out that Mexicans have a cruel sense of humour and that mole sauce was an evil waste of good chocolate. We window shopped, and real shopped, and found out that stores in places north of Calgary smell funny, too. We found a teeny, tiny, out of the way spa, the owner of which, when we told her we were three exhausted moms on a brief vacation away from our families, called in a massage therapist on her day off just so we could all have massages at the same time. Lana and I watched Jamie not be able to eat a Cinnabon because she was too hung over to look at the icing (it was fascinating because it was the one and only time ANYTHING has ever trumped Cinnabon), and at some point, we decided to go swimming. Near the end of the trip, the three of us spent a few hours screwing around in the wave pool. Jamie and I even got brave enough to go down the two really, really huge slides (screaming all the way), and  catching a TERRIFYING amount of air about halfway down. Lana calmed us down at the bottom.

At this point, Jamie had an awful hangover, a chlorine high, and a mother of a head cold coming on. When we got back to the room, her head ached, she reeked of swimming pool, her eyes were itchy, and the cold medicine wasn't helping. Lana passed her the bottle of Visine that she keeps with her contacts, and told her to put a few drops in, and maybe her eyes would quit bugging her so much, at least.

Jamie tilted her head back, dripped a drop of Visine into her left eye, and let out a shriek so high pitched that it sent small breed dogs for miles around into a frenzied panic.

"OMIGOD, IT BURNS, IT BURNS, IT HUUUUUUUUUURTS!!!!!!!!!!!"

What a wuss. Lana and I stared at her. Seriously? What was wrong with this woman? It was saline, for heaven's sake. We understood she wasn't feeling particularly well, but my God, did we need this kind of drama? I can't specifically remember, but I believe that at that point, we made her lie down on the hotel room bed and one of us held her head while the other one put the drops into her other eye. And the screeching doubled, in both volume and intensity.

"OMIGOD, IT'S LIKE YOU'RE POURING ACID INTO MY EYES!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT STUFF????"

It was at this point that I started to think that perhaps what Jamie was saying had some validity  No one can sustain a sound like that unless there is something, no matter how ridiculous, behind it.

"Oh, for crying out loud," said Lana, "look- it's just eye drops. I use them all the time." And with that, she tilted her head back and gave the bottle a good, healthy squeeze.

I assume that West Edmonton Mall over-chlorinated their pool because so many people used it. Who knows? They may even have stopped using chlorine altogether- I haven't been back to Edmonton since that trip. It seems, however, that this particular brand of eye drops reacts negatively with chlorine, and by the time the two of them had stopped screaming and I had gotten their eyes washed out, they looked like we'd spent the last 3 days smoking some really good Silver Haze (I actually had to look that up. If it's wrong, don't tell me. It sounds cool.) It was awesome. They blinked funny for hours afterwards, and leaked involuntary tears all the way back to Calgary.

To this day, whenever any of us does something incredibly dumb, someone invariably starts to yell "IT BURNS, IT BURNS!!!!!!!!!!" When you have friends as good as mine, sometimes you are lucky enough to participate in 'Things I Would Do Again', and be the one too smart to commit 'Crap. That Was Stupid', ALL IN THE SAME NIGHT.

These are the me times that I treasure.

*Appendix A ('Crap. That Was Stupid'):

• Every decision I made between September 1990 and October 1993, specifically those regarding boys and booze, in that order, aside from the decision to date Jason. That one worked.

• Acid wash jeans.

Farts

Come on, even if you wanted to, it's impossible to skip past a post with a title like that.

I am, at heart, a four year old. Although I am perfectly capable of appreciating the humorous undertones of Dickens' tongue-in-cheek social commentary on Victorian society, nothing makes me cackle like an ill timed blowout. Perpetrated by someone else, of course. I don't fart. But I've heard other people do.

Farts are just stressful all around. Starting with what to call it. If you were my Grandma, the solution was simple. Farts never occurred. Ever. Except by terminally ill people. But even then, you didn't refer to them by name.

My mom referred to them as 'toots' or 'fluffs', which made you think that the escaping air was coming out in pink, bunny-shaped clouds reeking of cotton candy and strawberry lip gloss. Her other term was 'passing gas', which simply brings us right back to Grandma's terminally ill breakers of wind.

I, for one, do not mind the term 'fart' escaping the orifices of people over the age of 12, but something about my darling 2 and 6 year olds using the term makes me twitchy. It's cute coming out of the mouths of tweens, and crass when uttered by toddlers. Odd. Then there's 'flatulence', which makes you feel like the gas you passed isn't good enough or smart enough... it's enough to make a person cry.

And how long, exactly, are you supposed to know someone before you can fart in front of each other with impunity? Elementary school children seem to be able to cope with each others' minor embarrassments with a modicum of class and good manners (after a prolonged bout of giggling), but let one rip in the middle of a quarterly budget meeting, and you will never get past it. They will never speak of it, but every time you push back your naugahyde chair to stand up and begin your presentation, people's noses will involuntarily wrinkle. I have tattoos with less staying power.

Is mutually comfortable farting age-dependant? In your forties, is it completely inappropriate to fart in front of anyone, but the farther you travel on either side of the golden age (be it 15 or 83), the more acceptable it becomes?

Or does it depend upon the level of intimacy? Once you have known your best friends for more than twenty years, is it acceptable to just fart and NOT spend the rest of your evening running outside to 'check on the kids' every time the urge approaches? Should you trumpet your successes, or hide your face in shame? (I tend to straddle the fence on this one, announcing "Wait for it....wait for it...." then developing stage fright, impeding my desire to thoroughly gross out whichever best friend is currently sitting next to me.)

Or does it depend on the sex of the person next to whom you are farting? I had a relationship (a long, LONG time ago) with someone who flat out refused to fart in front of me, preferring instead to percolate silently until they thought I was asleep, at which point the sudden cacophony of flatulence made it seem as though all the demons of hell were making a break for the only available escape hatch at once, screaming in frustration when they were forced to squeeze their way out, one tiny banshee at a time...

Or should you simply let it all hang out, as do some of the people I am married to, gleefully celebrating every vapour, as you surreptitiously watch to see which one of your children will vacate the room in response to your gift? Jason has actually EMPTIED THE OUTDOORS with a camping fart of such nauseating proportions that the children in the playground next to the outhouse were forced to re-enter their respective trailers. That is a shame which I, as a wife, will never live down. He has done grosser things, but I will not discuss them here. (At least, until I run out of ideas...) (No seriously. That one will never get talked about. I'm still irritated. So those of you who know it can keep it to yourselves.)

My grandpa, who I miss dearly, was always very careful what he said and did in front of his granddaughters. As I get older I am finding out that there are things he was far more likely to discuss with the boys (war, for example, and what happens on leave) than he was with us. Any time he let his guard down in front of us, therefore, was a moment to be cherished and recapped over Thanksgiving dinner for years to come.

As we get older, our muscles naturally start to relax, and our hearing naturally starts to fail. Grandpa had this issue, with the result that sometimes he farted when he didn't mean to, and when he did, he didn't always hear it happening.

After Grandma passed away, Grandpa slowly came to the realization that he might be happier in a seniors complex rather than the three story condo they had lived in for so many years. It took time, but eventually he had my mother list it and start to have  a realtor show it in the interests of downsizing. Although I don't remember whether or not the realtor did most of the showings, or whether they were always left up to us, on one occasion a couple wanting a second visit called to see if they could come back as they wanted to take a more in depth look at the place. Grandpa told them that he and his daughter would be there to answer any questions, and over they came. I had already been at mom's house with the kids, and decided that I would come with her and we'd have a little family lunch afterwards.

At this stage of life, Grandpa was starting to get more comfortable saying what he was thinking, and my mother started to get flustered immediately when the couple asked about condo fees and property taxes and Grandpa began a rant about highway robbery. As she was trying desperately to let the couple know that the condo fees were, in fact, quite reasonable, I noticed my son, who was 8 or 9 at the time, and standing beside my grandfather, turn beet red and start to giggle. It turned out that Grandpa was getting so worked up discussing the government taking whatever they could in property taxes from old men on a fixed income, that he was beginning to punctuate his sentences with a machine-gun like rat-a-tat-tat of farts. The more mom tried to steer the conversation in another direction, the more fixated Grandpa became, and the more sustained the fusillade. It eventually got so bad that my mother derailed the conversation altogether and suggested we start by looking upstairs. My mother led the way, in case Grandpa fell, as he had been having trouble with stairs lately, and grandpa, eager to show off his home, followed her. The poor couple, who had no idea what they were getting into, came next, and I, after smacking Isaiah across the top of the head and threatening him with sudden, violent death, brought up the rear.

After a few steps, it was apparent that we should have thought things through. With each step, Grandpa expelled another fart bullet, and my mother, oblivious, kept on with her tour. The couple was holding it together as best they could, with only a few grins escaping the husband's iron-rigid face every now and then. My son, on the other hand, only made it to the first landing, where he literally collapsed with glee and had to be physically removed from the condo and deposited into the car where he could howl to his heart's delight. Oddly, this is one of Isaiah's favourite memories of his grandfather. I love that.

No matter how you look at it, farting is a natural part of life. it happens to you, it happens to me (rarely, if ever), and it happens to your friends and family. It is my hope that this blog will stimulate dinner conversations worldwide, bringing children and their parents closer together. Farting should be celebrated, perhaps with its own civic holiday. It unites us in our shame and brings us together as a society and a species. It even works as a sales pitch.

They bought the condo.

Thank You Video

This is Liz's thank you video for everyone who donated to the Canadian Cancer Society for her fundraiser. Although there is a reference to the AE Cross Colts at the end, this video is really meant for everyone whose generosity made this possible! The final total raised was $3592- thank you all!

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_WYoJ21wxk&feature=share

She Did It!

(Yet Another Update: The final donations were accepted last Friday and the totals are in.... Liz's hair cut raised $3592 for the Canadian Cancer Society, which is nearly $300 more than her previous total for 2007, and nearly $2600 higher than her goal donation! Please stay tuned for a thank you video from Sabrina, to be posted on Wednesday!)

(Update: Liz's total dollars raised for the Cancer Society were $1713 as of about 9 last night. As of just now when we happened to check the website: http://fundraiseforlife2012.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=492657&supid=355560506), the total his risen to $3069 in online donations and $419 in cash/cheques (including $6 from her big brother!). With a running total of $3488, your donations to the Canadian Cancer Society have now exceeded those from her last fundraiser in 2007 ($3298), and have destroyed her goal donation of $1000. I am proud and humbled to know all of you. On behalf of the Canadian Cancer Society, thank you so much for your support!)

This one is all about Liz.

She done good.

She just cut off 12 inches of her hair to donate to a company that makes wigs for kids and adults who are suffering from hair loss (*Pantene Beautiful Lengths- see the bottom of this post for donation info and instructions) and raised $1713 (and counting) for the Canadian Cancer Society in the process.

Sometimes I take her a little bit for granted, and I forget how insanely great she (and ALL my kids) really are.

She started joking about how short it was when the lady cut off all the pigtails (to preserve as much of her length as possible).

Then she sounded a little nervous as the remaining hair got shorter and shorter and shorter.

And finally, even with a gaggle of other teenagers looking on, she couldn't hold it in any more and covered her face and cried her gorgeous eyes out.

Up till that point, we thought she was being kind of goofy and facetious- maybe putting on a little show for her friends.

And it hit me.

Holy shit.

When you're a 15 year old girl, your hair is what you hide behind.

It hides your face on a bad acne day.

It hides your blush when the hot guy speaks to you.

It hides your embarrassment when your mom does something stupid.

And it was gone.

She wasn't joking. Up till that moment we hadn't realized what a sacrifice our brave, beautiful daughter was making.

And we are so proud of her. We are proudest of the moment when she cried.
Because that's when we knew how hard this was for her.

So wear your rockabilly 'do, Liz, and wear it hard.

Because you are more beautiful today with your few inches of spiky goodness than you have ever been.

Way to go, my girl. You rule!

*Pantene Beautiful Lengths
c/o Archway Marketing Services
P. O.Box 434
2110 Kipling Avenue
Etobicoke Station B, ON M9W 5L4
Minimum requirements: length – 8 inches. Visit www.beautifullengths.ca for hair guidelines and cutting instructions
Please send by Canada Post only

Finding My Way Out Of A Wet Paper Bag

I can't find ANYTHING. You can give me a map and precise, minute by minute, turn by turn directions, and it won't help. I will get lost, and I will cry. I cannot understand even the most direct of routes without having it explained 8 or 10 times, in the very simplest of terms. When I do understand a route, I cannot retain it. I am completely locationally delayed.

I have been lost in a lot of places.

I have been lost in the States.

I have been lost in Europe.

I have been lost (repeatedly) while out camping as a child. At a family reunion at Mount Kidd when I was about 10, I went to the lodge to use the bathroom (we weren't allowed to pee in the trailer unless it was midnight. Neither are my kids. Some of the old rules are GOOD rules), and took so long coming back that my mom had to send my sister and 2 of my cousins out to look for me. It didn't even occur to her to think I had been eaten by a bear- she just assumed I was wandering aimlessly around the bathrooms, unsure of how I had gotten there and how I was going to return. That is, in fact, where they found me. To this day, I can't leave the lodge at Mount Kidd without consulting a map.

It's weird. I can coordinate the schedules of 6 very busy people, budget down to our very last penny, and remember useless information about fighter jet specs and who fought what war in England in 1066, and yet I cannot, for the love of anything holy, figure out which way is west unless the sun is setting (rising???).

I have had to take all 4 kids there at least once, and still, every 3rd or 4th time we go to the 'new' Children's Hospital, I get about halfway there and realise I have no idea where I'm going and have to call home for help.

I drive with my hands in the 10 and 2 position on the steering wheel so that if someone says 'turn left', I can make the 'L' shape with my fingers and go in the correct direction. I have dropped off a child at a mall and when I returned 3 hours later to pick them up, I have been unable to find that same store again. I once went looking for the MIllarville Farmer's market and ended up in Nanton. Twice. In the same trip.

I can sit in the passenger seat and navigate from a map for Jason and get us from small town to small town with no issues at all. But when I have to put theory into practice, I can't do it. I got us all the way to and from Stoney Plain, Alberta, using my map reading skills, and when I went out that night to pick up dinner, I forgot which exit to take on the new traffic circle two blocks from our house and ended up at the Glenmore Reservoir instead of at Joey's Only.

I once got lost in a truck stop. If you're thinking it was some sort of giant ass truck stop that covered 155.4 square miles of land, and had 13 exits and entrances, think again. It was a teeny, weeny, baby sized truck stop smack in the middle of Calgary. I couldn't get out because all the semis were too high and I couldn't see the way I came in. I had to ask for help getting out to the main road, and the guy I asked looked at me like I needed a drug test, pointed and said, "It's about 15 feet that way." (I'm not telling you which road it was, because if I tell everyone it was Ogden Road, they'll figure out I was actually lost at the Road King and I'm going to sound pretty freaking stupid).

My IQ is in the triple digits. I can tie my own shoes. I can be trusted with sharp objects like toothpicks and butter knives, and I don't need to be medicated or rehabbed on a regular basis. No one has to supervise me- I am actually trusted to supervise OTHER (smaller) people. I can usually win at Trivial Pursuit (unless we're playing the Sports Edition, in which case it's all Erik, and none of us even try.) (That's a lie. We don't play the Sports Edition. Because the only one who would ever win is Erik. And if you can't tilt the odds in favour of the women, there's really no point in playing.)

And still, about once every 2 or 3 months, I look up when my husband is driving through a neighbourhood we have driven through 817,254 times before (often our OWN neighbourhood), and exclaim, "What the hell? Where are we???" He hates that. For years he thought I was joking, until one day he made a snotty comment and I burst into tears and he realised that I really didn't recognise the kid's school if we came at it from the wrong direction.

When my best friend, Jamie, and her family had been living in the 'new' house for about 6 years, I drove over to her place to hang out the one day. I had to stop first to drop off Isaiah's lunch at school, and forgot how to get onto Glenmore from there, and ended up on Memorial. Although I had ONLY ever taken Glenmore before, I figured it shouldn't be a whole lot different- I just needed to get off Memorial on 8th. Or was it 6th? Definitely 4th. It was 4th.

I drove and I drove and I drove, and the houses started to get scarier and seedier, and the sky started growing dark. (It wasn't, but my panic had begun to make me lose the sight in one eye.) I drove for what seemed like hours, getting more and more concerned as I went farther and farther without recognising a landmark. At one point, I began to worry that I had left the city and was now in Chestermere. Short of stopping the car and actually ASKING someone if I was in Chestermere, there was no way of knowing the truth. I was a wreck.

I finally pulled over into a parking lot outside a strip mall, calmed myself down, and called Jamie's house. Her mother, who was in town for a visit, answered the phone, and I couldn't hold it together anymore. I lost it. When she realised how hard I was sobbing, she took a few minutes to let me get it out of my system and asked, "Oh, honey, are you lost again? Look out the car window and tell me what you see."

As I described the unfamiliar territory surrounding my vehicle, I could hear her relaying the information to Jamie, in the hopes that I would see something familiar to both of them. When I stopped for a breath, Marlene jumped right in.

"Jamie says to leave the parking lot the way you came in, turn right, and drive up 3 blocks. Then pull over, get out, and ring the doorbell. We'll see you shortly."

She still worries about me.

So the next time I ask you for directions, please, don't tell me to 'turn west on 64th', or 'go south at Christie Cove' or 'head towards the airport'. Just get in the car with me (preferably in the driver's seat), and take me there yourself. It may cost you a few hours, but in the long run, it will save you the pain of filling out the missing persons report. 

Sometimes, it's about the bigger picture.

On Writing

Jason asked me recently if he could do a post on my blog sometime about what it's like to live with me. (I'm sure it will be full of praise for my organizational skills and endless anecdotes about my snappy wit.) I have agreed that I am willing to try the experiment, with one caveat. Although he is a very funny individual, watching him type gives me the shakes. He has trouble remembering to use capital letters and his lack of punctuation has almost driven me into the nuthouse on more than one occasion. I'm not even going to get started on 'your' and 'you're'; 'their', 'there', and 'they're'; or 'its' and 'it's'. I will vomit. (That said, the man understands that 'regardless' is a word, whereas 'irregardless' is a nonsense term to be used only when you want to sound WRONG (see note). Were it not for that, I wouldn't have married him.)

So today's post actually started out as a brief, one paragraph preface to Jason's one-time-only, never-to-be-repeated post-to-be about the eternal gift that is life with me. However, in the process of writing my paragraph, it seems that the whole thing has now morphed into a post about one of my 'quirks'. Since there are so many to choose from, I will limit today's neurotic discussion to one of my favourite topics. I will call it: 'Proofread, Dammit!'.

(*Note: 'IRREGARDLESS' is not a word. It was never a word. However, it is used constantly in everyday conversation by people who don't know better. Generally, use of the term will cause me to stop listening to whatever the user is saying and discount all future conversations by said user as the ravings of an uneducated maniac. Even dictionary.com , which provides definitions of words that have  become acceptable language as recently as yesterday, has this to say about it:
'Irregardless' is considered nonstandard because of the two negative elements 'ir-' and '-less'. It was probably formed on the analogy of such words as ‘irrespective’, ‘irrelevant’, and ‘irreparable’. Those who use it, including occasional educated speakers, may do so from a desire to add emphasis.)

(*Other note: I also felt compelled to edit and correct the grammar and punctuation within the definition I copied and pasted from Dictionary.com. I can't help it. Someone has to help the stupid people. There are still a few errors in it, but I can't fix everything without rewriting the entire definition. And that would be silly.)

Since my blog readership has started to expand a little bit, I have gotten comments from a few people about how fast I must type, in order to cram my writing into the few spare minutes I have in each day.

Let me clarify. I am a perfectionist. I am too hard on myself. I obsess over things. If you see a post from me with a time stamp of 5 a.m., let me assure you, it is not because I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to blog. It is because I didn't get started till 11 p.m. the night before and am getting panicky that I won't be finished before the kids get up. For every post I publish, there has been a full hour of typing and at least 2 hours of compulsive checking and re-checking of facts, figures, grammar, vocabulary, sentence structure, and punctuation. And there is still always something I miss. (Luckily, my best friend Jamie is always willing to point it out to me a week later, when the whole world has already read what I've gotten wrong. She's a big fan of "Did you catch that spelling mistake in that post from last August? I didn't want to tell you in case it was going to bother you." It's all right. I love her because she's mean.) 

I do not jest. Some days, rather than do the grammar feedback loop one more blessed time, it's easier just to delete the whole thing and start again.

Here's another thing that drives me crazy. If, while you are typing, spell-check flags a word, you can't just arbitrarily hit 'Ignore'. Although I agree that there is a possibility that your computer doesn't understand the context in which you have used the word, really, honestly, 9 times out of 10, Microsoft is smarter than you. I used to work with a girl who was CONVINCED that spell-check was mistaken, and got annoyed with the constant interruptions whenever she typed an email. So the next time it popped up, she added the word 'I'am' to the dictionary. Oh. My. God. Every time I got an email from her, I twitched;

Hi, techs!

I'am going to be staying late tonight to print some reports. If you need anything printed, let me know and I will add them to the ones I'am already doing.

From,

X

Every time I opened Outlook, it was everything I could do not to correct all her errors, highlight them in red, bold, 26 point font, and re-send the email for her. Seriously. Eventually, the urge to do so became so bad, I had to quit. (Not true. I quit for other reasons. But that should have been one of them.)(And I bet I get at least 1 email from ex-coworkers at that company telling me they know exactly who it is that I'am referring to.)

To sum up: There WILL be a blog by Jason. The sentiments and thoughts expressed therein will be his, but they will have been cleaned up, spell-checked, reworded and punctuated by yours truly. So what we will have is a sort of collaborative work. When we publish it in a few days or weeks, if you laugh, it is to his credit, not mine. He has been stewing about this post for a long time, and I am sure it will be brilliant.

Should you find any errors- grammatical, historical, or factual, those should be laid at his feet as well. They’re not my fault.

(Not many things are.)

How My Mother Ruined My Life (Part 3 Of 7,000,000,000)

If I have a twisted, awful sense of humour (I don't, but occasional, misinformed people THINK I do), then the blame lies solely at the feet of my mother. Please talk to her about it.

My mom is hysterical. She is quick to laugh, and when something strikes her as funny, she will giggle about it for years. I can still bring her to near tears just by MENTIONING the scene with the bracelet in Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin's "Big Business". No joke. Those of you who know her should try it. I think it makes her pee.

Lest anyone think the reason I love to publicly humiliate my family is that I am a cruel and unjust person, it is not. It is because I have been trained and conditioned my entire life to do so.

Remember how, when you were sixteen, your entire family was awful and they all looked funny and said stupid things? And you wanted nothing more than for them to fall off the edge of the planet so you could go live in a dorm like one of the cast of 'Facts of Life'? Most parents are bothered by this snotty attitude in their teenagers. My own mother saw it as a challenge.

I was in the line up at the Bank of Montreal one day (remember back when your McJob paid you by actual, physical paper cheque and you had to give it to an actual, physical human so they could put it in your account and you would then withdraw ten dollars in cash in order to pay your $4 to get into Nightmare on Elm Street? I miss those days.)

(No, I don't. I'm lazy. I like these days.)

(Except the part about the $4 movie. I miss THOSE days.)....

Anyway. The lineup.

There I was, all dressed up in my acid-washed, 20-inch waist Bluenotes, my perfectly fitted baggy Cotton Ginny sweatshirt (with matching scrunch socks, thank you), hair tortuously teased, hairsprayed bangs standing straight up from my skull (then flopping over in an effortless (HAH!) feather), hoping for all the world that the other people in the bank had noticed my flawless Cover Girl skin and smelled my Body Shop strawberry  perfume oil and wished they could be just like me; when in came my sister.

Mom had driven me to the bank, and my sister had come with her for some reason or another. Mom had been in a giddy mood all afternoon and I should have known that to leave her in the car was to invite disaster.

My sister came flying in through the doors of the bank, dressed in what she and mom had decided was the perfect foil to my anal-retentive, obsessively planned preppie outfit.

The bright pink plastic rain bonnet (freshly yanked out of the glove box JUST for this purpose) fitted her head perfectly, bow knotted at a jaunty angle under her chin.

The sunglasses fit her face to a T, shading not only her eyes, but both sides of her head (with those giant old-lady-sunglasses-side panels). The sun would not blind her ears today, no sir!

Her shirt was inside out.

She was dancing.

She was jingling about 300 cents in pennies in her hands, and shrieking at the top of her lungs,

"Mommy says if I ask nicely, you will put all my money in the bank!!!!!!!!! Will you? Will you? Will you? Will you? Will you?Will you Willyouwillyouwillyouwillyou????? If you want, I can go out and find some more under the car seat! Then you can buy that expensive acne cream!!!!"

I died. Every customer in the bank burst out into hysterical laughter, and the rotten 14-year old skipped (yes, REALLY skipped) out the door, cackling with glee, leaving me standing in the bank, wallowing in my humiliation, seething.

My mother paid her $5 to do it.

I did my banking and went back out to the car. Mom was hysterical, tears literally STREAMING down her face. She was laughing so hard she was no longer producing noise, just a strangled wheeze. It took her 10 minutes to be able to drive again. After a while, I couldn't help but join in. Come on. That's just funny. I would have loved to have seen the look on my face.

To this day, I have the rare, wonderful ability to laugh at myself. It's a great thing to be able to do. It means I can enjoy life, and see the lighter side of nearly every situation (including some for which there is no appropriate lighter side. I apologise a lot for those ones.). It's probably the greatest single thing my mother instilled in me.

So, my sweet children, the next time I force you to dance with me at a school dance, or tell an entire wedding party the story of you peeing on your auntie's new carpet, remember this:

Every time I make you blush, you are becoming a better person. I do it all for you.

And if you believe that, I have a rain bonnet I want to sell you...

Why Camping Rules

We were over at Jamie and Shawn's tonight, with Lana and Erik and all the kids, doing our 'One-Week-Till-Easter Dinner', and the subject of camping came up.

As we near another camping season, and try to decide where we want to go as a group this year, the talk naturally turned towards previous camping trips, and we were flooded with memories.

The year Squid was born, we decided to take our annual camping trip in Parson, BC. The weather would be gorgeous, the scenery would be beautiful, and it had the added bonus of not being too far from home (it wasn't till later, when we realised that Squiddy was a ticking time bomb, that we started to add 'close to major trauma centers' to our list of requirements....)

Although Jamie and Shawn had bought a motorhome, Jason and I had not yet graduated from a tent, and Lana and Erik were still camping in a cozy little freshly painted tent trailer.

Our tent was great. We could sleep all 4 of us in a row, and still had room for Squid's playpen next to us. We could probably still fit all of us in that tent, even with the big kids having grown and adding Eva to the clan, but it died an unfortunate death at the end of one of the quickest September Long trips we've ever taken. But I'm sure that will come up in a future blog.

The only down side to a tent (aside from the fact that there is no heat, no bathroom, you're sleeping on the ground, and the condensation in the mornings might hit the high-water mark left by the last great flood) is that fabric walls are not the best defence against wildlife. But I planned for that. I married Jason. One look at his big, burly body doing the peepee dance in the morning scares away pretty much every living creature on God's green earth.

When we picked the campsite, we took into account that we would be right next to the Columbia River, and that wildlife may become an issue. We planned carefully. We bought bear bells for the kids (the added bonus being that never once did we actually have to STAND UP to find them when they wandered away), we packed our food away every night, and I was careful not to wear my prey-scented perfume.

Jason and I were the first ones to arrive, and as we drove through Parson to the campground, we caught a glimpse of the liquor store (which we knew we would have to visit at least once, as our 2 huge coolers were stuffed with stupid things like food and juice).

If Jason Voorhees ran a liquor store, this would be it. The shingles were peeling from the roof, and the siding was falling off the building. One window was boarded over, and there was an abandoned car out front and two more in the back. Somehow, the flashing 'Open' sign on the one unbroken window was not overly reassuring.

"Do you wanna stop?" I asked Jason.

And he, who usually isn't bothered by my flights of fancy, took one look as we sped past and muttered,

"Nope. I've seen that movie. I know how it ends."

Not an auspicious beginning.

Once we had set up camp that first day, we sat back and looked around. This place was awesome! We would be there 10 days, so the laundry room was a plus. There were ponds and streams for Jason and the kids to fish in, a relatively clean swimming hole with a culvert perfect for jumping off of, and the campsite was huge. I checked out the washrooms, and they were spotless. Perfectly clean and well tended, and the smell of lemon cleanser was strong enough to make your eyes water. There was a cute little guest book on the counter, and the couple who ran the place had even taken the time (I assume it was her, not him) to sew little curtains for the front of the sinks so no one would have to look at unsightly plumbing while washing all the vacation off their faces. We set up our tent and assorted other gear, and sat back, waiting for rest and relaxation to overtake us.

And afternoon hit.

Apparently, the people who ran the place preferred that people check in in the mornings, because they waited till afternoon to let the mosquitoes out of their cages.

At first, I thought a cloud had moved over the sun. Then I took a look at the sky, and a swarm of the buggers had blocked every visible patch of blue. I don't say 'little buggers' here, although that is normally how I refer to the things, but 'buggers'. That is because each mosquito was roughly the size of a sparrow. Not a little sparrow. A sparrow the size of an eagle.

They would hover over you as a group, and while one of them sparred with you to distract you, another 2 or 3 would start ripping chunks of meat from your back in an attempt to drain you dry. The only defence seemed to be to swing at them with a small child, but all our available children had taken shelter in the car.

We realised that our supply of bug spray wouldn't last the day. We also needed something more powerful than the Off Skintastic we had brought along. Remember when you would go backwoods camping as a child and your dad would pull out the bottle of straight Deet? You used one drop on each wrist (the top of the wrist, not the thin skin over your veins- that was stupid), one on your shirt (being careful not to drip on your shoes, because it would melt the rubber on your Keds), and not only would the bugs leave you alone, but squirrels dropped dead out of trees as you walked past? We needed that. And some mosquito coils. And a citronella bucket. Or thirty.

We drove back into Golden (giving us the opportunity to hit a less-terrifying liquor store, so that was a bonus), and found that although they no longer sell straight Deet (apparently it's dangerous, and has therefore been made illegal), we picked up a huge supply of mosquito-deterring lotions, creams, sprays, bracelets, coils and candles. As well as a giant supply of mosquito netting and some clothes pins. We worried they might take Squid when we weren't paying attention. He was only 8 months old, and although he was already walking, he couldn't run nearly fast enough to escape a coordinated attack.

After a full few days planning a strategic offence against the invading hordes of bloodsucking monsters, we thought we had things licked. Everyone else showed up on time, parked in a horseshoe shape with the communal firepit in the middle, and Jamie and Shawn set up their giant dining room/mosquito shelter right over top of the picnic tables. We learned to take refuge in there when the flying vampires came out (and to hide in the motorhome when the campground guy sprayed the place every morning- apparently the mosquitoes were a huge problem), and things seemed to be moving along swimmingly.

Then came the skunks.

Jason woke up early one morning, as he hadn't been able to sleep well, and left the tent to make coffee and go pee.

Turns out that skunks, like me, love nothing more than a late night snack. Turns out, that UNlike me, they prefer to do their post-midnight noshing on a nice, stinky disposable diaper full of poo. Turns out that they can also get into garbage cans. Turns out, Jason hadn't been able to sleep well because there was a food fight going on right outside our doorstep.

Apparently the last few days of skunk-free camping only happened because Squid's diapers were SO foul that the odor permeated the entire province, and the skunks needed to wait for the cloud to dissipate somewhat before they could pinpoint the location of the buffet.

They had stealthily waited till the campsite was quiet and all the inhabitants were asleep (which took some time, as we were all stocked up with liquor, and it takes a while to work your way through it), and under cover of night, began their raid.

I have no idea why the garbage can lid falling off the receptacle didn't wake any of us up (well, yeah, I DO, but you'd think one of the KIDS would have heard something, at least...). With absolute precision, they separated the poopy diapers from the merely pee-soaked diapers, and dug in. Flinging scraps of fecal matter and shreds of highly absorbent synthetic God-knows-what around the campsite, they found whatever it was they wanted to eat (we're still not sure what that was, because there was roughly 38,754 pounds of crap scattered around the campsite, so it may be that nothing got eaten, and it was just the skunk equivalent of a snowball fight), and, having had their fun, went on their merry way.

I heard Jason gagging after he got out of the tent, and much traveling back and forth around the campsite as he (I now know) cleaned up the poop and diaper scraps before anyone else exited their sleeping quarters. I don't know about any of you, but when you hear your husband gagging first thing in the morning on a camping trip, do you get up to help and see what's the matter? I don't. I don't care. If he has salmonella poisoning and is puking up his lungs and my assistance is required to get him to the hospital before he expires, he will come get me. Until then, as far as I am concerned, it's his problem. I birthed his children. That gives me a free pass. Forever.

That morning, after everyone had finished eating, we all got to hear the (exceedingly funny to us, but oddly, not to Jason) story of the diaper bandits, and a lesson was learned. We talked to the campground manager, and it turns out that skunks were a huge problem for him. He needed to clear them out every few weeks, and felt bad that he hadn't warned us. So we knew that henceforth, the poopy diapers  needed to go into a bag, then into another bag, then into the giant dumpster at the gate of the campground. Every time. It didn't matter if mommy was on her 35th bag of wine, and daddy was (still) trying to start the fire, that's where it went. I am only grateful that it was one of us that woke up, as I would feel awful having to make someone else clean up my family's poo. (Insert wild cackles of laughter here, as that did indeed happen later that day, but out of love and respect and a desire to maintain the friendship, I won't say WHICH family's poo, or describe the circumstances thereof. But as a public service, I would like to suggest to everyone out there that you should never, ever, ever, ever, ever camp downhill from someone else's sewer hookup without first making sure that everyone involved has checked and double checked that things are draining properly. Just saying.)

That night the bats showed up.

Lana and Erik's tent trailer had a white awning, which reflected the moonlight, the light from the campground office, blinking lights from orbiting satellites, and possibly the residual light from stars 8 billion years burned out. It was BRIGHT. And that, apparently, lures bats in to feed. All night, we heard them as they flapped around underneath the awning, ricocheting off the canvas of the tent trailer, and twanging into the ropes. Lana and Erik and Jason and myself were awake the entire time, but none of us could summon the energy required to get out of bed long enough to set up a light and take down the awning. Jamie and Shawn heard nothing. They had air conditioning in the motorhome. They slept like the dead.

Bastards.

We learned, though. The next day after dinner, when the sun went down, so did the awning. No one was overly upset about it. You live and you learn, and these were experiences we could take with us in life, and rely on for future camping trips. The campground guy mentioned later that there were tons of bats in the woods at night. But they weren't a huge problem, because they were scared of people.

That day, the kids found frogs at the swimming hole (in which they had ceased swimming, because there were leeches. Apparently, leeches were a huge problem out there) and spent the next 64 hours dropping them into the adults' empty cups when we weren't looking so that when we dragged ourselves up to get a drink, we were confronted with nasty, warty little creatures that leapt out into your face in an attempt to escape. We were all so shell-shocked that after the first few shrieks of terror, we were simply grateful that they weren't poisonous.

As we all went to bed on the second-to-last night of the trip, we looked forward to a good, solid night's sleep. The mosquitoes had been beaten (or at least, we had come to a mutually agreed upon temporary cease-fire), the skunk problem had been solved, the bat problem eliminated, the supply of frogs was dwindling, and a nice fresh mountain breeze had taken care of any other small issues that may or may not have arisen.

As I nestled my slightly-chilled-from-sitting-around-a-dying-campfire body into my sleeping bag, and began to drift off into sleep, I felt Jason tense suddenly beside me.

"What's up?" I asked, only to be interrupted by a hissed,

"Sssssh! Do you hear that???"

Lest you forget that I have issues with being scared of everything, everywhere, all the time, let me mention that the phrase just uttered by darling husband is never, EVER one I want to hear while sleeping in anything but a concrete bunker.

"Holy crap! WHAT????" I asked.

"Look."

I gingerly turned around in the direction my motionless husband was facing and looked out the (unfortunately unzipped to prevent condensation-related drowning deaths) tent window, and there, ringing the campsite in a perfect circle about 3 feet into the forest, were eyes. Pairs and pairs and pairs of eyes. I counted eleven without even having to turn my head.

"What IS that????? Skunks aren't that tall!!!!" I panic-whispered to Jason, who was desperately trying to remember anything he'd seen on the Discovery Channel about what animal stands with its head about 2 to 3 feet off the ground and what colour their eyeshine was in the dark.

"I know they aren't bears." he said, "Bears don't hunt in packs."

I almost died. My brain froze. I was trying to decide if Squid was less accessible to a cougar in the playpen in which he was sleeping, or whether I should take him out and shelter him with my body, and whether Isaiah and Liz were strong enough to fend off a night time attack by Siberian tigers, or whether we could scoop up the kids and make it to the safety of the car before the raging orangutans ripped off our limbs. I came up short on every count.

"At least close the tent window so they can't see how meaty we all are!" I gasped, "Make them WORK for it!"

"The bloody thing zips up from the outside." muttered Jason, "And I'd rather see where they are."

I was going to die. All those years of fretting about the bathrooms looking like the gates of hell and the bad man in the outhouse pit and Freddie and/or Micheal Myers and/or Reagan from 'The Exorcist' stalking me through the trees, and I was going to die at the hands of Bigfoot??? What the hell????

We perched there, for what seemed like hours, watching the ring of eyes as they closed in. Once or twice Jason would shout/hiss/whisper, and they would back off for a brief period of time, but they never left. And they always started to move in again. We finally realised that the only way to deal with the problem was for Jason and I to get up, grab the fire poking sticks, run around yelling, start the campfire again so that they couldn't sneak up on us comfortably, and remain reasonably vigilant for the rest of the night.

And just as we were about to crawl out of bed, we heard the handle on Lana and Erik's tent trailer door start to turn.

Thank. God.

Erik must have come to the same conclusion, and was coming out to deal with the problem. He had obviously picked up on the fact that Jason and I didn't want to accidentally show the animals where our tasty little kids could be found, and figured he would drive them away. We listened to him jump on the trailer steps, and move around the campsite, occasionally making a rush at one of the animals, and finally, blessedly, we fell into the most restful night's sleep we'd had since we got there.

When we woke up in the morning, we found a haggard, bloodshot, gaunt-looking Erik sitting alone at the picnic table, guzzling cup after cup of instant coffee.

We thanked him for getting up and dealing with the problem the night before and asked him what exactly the animals were.

"They were coyotes,"  he said, left eye twitching in a horrible, exhausted little dance, (in hindsight, this did make slightly more sense than it being a band of Komodo dragons, looking for someone upon whom to vent their pent-up rage.) "but that sound you heard wasn't ME getting up to deal with THEM. It was the sound of THEM trying to get into the tent railer. I think they were after the dog. We were up all night, one on guard on each end of the tent trailer, so they wouldn't eat the kids."

We spent the rest of the day listening to the shotgun as the campground manager tried to clear the coyotes off his land (having explained that they were a huge problem, and he had to hunt them every few months).

As camping trips go, it wasn't the worst one. No one needed to go to the hospital, and we left with the same number of kids we arrived with. But there were lessons learned.

Lana and Erik bought a trailer with walls.

We stopped allowing our babies to poop.

Nobody eats corn out camping anymore.

And we probably won't go back to Parson, BC.

Man, I miss camping!