Smart Ass Newfie

The Human Garbage Can

2012-01-26T22:24:00.000-07:00

A strange thing happened when I had kids. I turned into a human garbage can. It probably has roots back as far as my own childhood - sitting at the table and being told to eat everything on my plate, "because there are starving children in Africa". Heaven forbid I left a mouthful of food on my plate - it just wasn't done. And on those rare occasions when I did manage to escape without stuffing myself, nothing was ever wasted. My mother was always there to clean up the scraps.

Funny how we, as parents, are loathe to scrape food off a plate into the garbage can, yet we think little of cramming it down our own throats. I was thinking about that very thing as I loaded the supper dishes into the dishwasher last night. What I was doing every time I ate that last piece of whatever, rather than throw it out, was treating myself like a garbage dump. I wasn't hungry; I didn't need to eat any more, so why was I still putting things in my mouth?? Am I not important enough that I can say no to someone else's leftovers?

The answer is yes. I am important enough. I will no longer eat that "last bite of" whatever it is. I don't need it. I've actually found myself putting food in my mouth and then spitting it out - old habits are hard to break, but I'm on this one. My dreams for 2012 are big, but my ass will not be!!

It's Not You, It's Me.

2011-09-18T12:32:00.001-06:00

Usually this is where I go to make funny; to write about something that I'm excited about or has made me proud. I don't have that today. This is me looking for a place to offload all the mental garbage I've been carting around for some time now.

I'm usually quick to brag about what I've written - I love to hear the comments from friends (and strangers) when I've evoked a laugh or made someone think. I'm an attention whore like that. This, though, is something else. My personal illusion is that the people who usually read my writing will be surprised by what I have to say; but it may be just that - an illusion.

There's something wrong with me. I like to think that I've been hiding it pretty well for a while now, but if you venture into my house, my secret would probably be quickly revealed. I'm drowning. It's becoming more and more obvious to me that whatever it is that I think I need in my life has nothing to do with other people. It's what's going on in my head.

I have a husband who loves and provides for me. I have 3 amazing kids. I have a safe home and food on my table. And yet, I don't feel "happy". What's worse is that when I try to figure out what's "missing", all I find is a huge cloud of guilt. How dare I want for anything? I'm living the dream, right? I'm a "kept woman"... I should be thrilled that I'm not living on the street, scrabbling to feed myself. Or that my kids are not clinging to life in a hospital somewhere, or worse...

I keep telling myself that I don't deserve to be as miserable as I feel. So I slap on my fake smile and climb back on the hamster wheel. Yeah, that's me - the funny one; the girl who likes to make jokes and laugh harder at them herself than does anyone else. Every day I trudge along, hoping that no one looks too closely and notices that I'm just a little off...

I joke to people that I'm nuts. Crackers. A head case. Humour is my favourite defence mechanism. The sad thing is, it's no longer a joke to me. I've come to the realization that there really is something going on that I need to address. The history is there. It's a ghost that's been haunting me for several years now, and it's time I opened that dark closet and took a really good look at what's inside.

A friend of mine recently reminded me that I'm intelligent, well educated and capable of making change in my life, and that if I were to argue otherwise, I don't want it enough. I hate it when he's right.

If you know me, you might understand that this is likely the most frightening thing I've done in my life. Admitting I'm wrong is not something I do often. I'm seriously wrong now though; regardless of what I've been trying to fool myself (and you) into believing, I am not "fine". I will be, though, because I'm tired of hiding.

It just gets better all the time.

2011-07-06T21:40:00.002-06:00

It's been 2 short months since I played my first tackle football game. I had no idea what I as getting myself into; nor did I have any way of knowing how playing would change me. I've met some of the most amazing women. Our team ranges in age from 18 to 56 years old. Yes, FIFTY SIX. We are moms, professionals, students and every size and shape you can imagine. We are dedicated, crazy and passionate. We are the RAGE family. I can't explain to you how it feels to share that bond with these women who, before this spring, were total strangers to me.

As if all that wasn't enough, I've gotten more from playing this game than all the friendship and mental strength.

I can fit into clothes that I wore when I was twenty. Oh, hell yes. And for the first time since I was a teenager, I am proud to say I can rock that bikini. I never thought I would be comfortable enough with my shape to say that, but playing football has given me the fitness and the confidence to show off proudly.

This weekend I will head to Edmonton with my RAGE family to play in the Western Conference final. Regardless of what the scoreboard says at the end of the game, this season has been a giant win for me. Football IS for women. GO RAGE!

Football is for....GIRLS! WTF!!

2011-03-27T16:33:00.004-06:00

Those who know me, know what a huge fan I am of the CFL, and more specifically, the Calgary Stampeders. This spring I decided to push myself to a new level of football love. I joined a women's tackle football (WTF!) team.

The Calgary Rage of the Western Women's Canadian Football League (WWCFL) took me into their fold in February of this year. I started out going to classroom sessions to learn the basics of offense and defense, and more of the detailed intricacies of offensive plays and defensive formations.

By March, we'd moved on to indoor training. Tackling drills, proper stances, and oh my lord the running. Forward, backward, side shuffling... you name it, we ran it.

April arrived and we hit the outdoor field. Drills, running plays, and of course, running. And more running.

At the beginning of May, the team went on a weekend road trip to Saskatoon for a "football jamboree" - 4 mini games against other budding female footballers. I was unable to play due to a muscle tear I sustained at a practice, but I did my best from the sidelines to encourage my teammates and learn as much as I could.

Finally, on May 14, I played my first game as a member of the Calgary Rage. It was a win over the Lethbridge Steel (28-14) and although I didn't perform as well as I could have, it was the most exciting thing I'd done for a long time. Until yesterday.

May 21 found us in Edmonton for a match against the Edmonton Storm. The scoreboard said it was a loss, but I made my first real tackle as a football player and will never forget the feeling. It scares me a little to think that I am capable of running full speed toward another woman with the sole intention of knocking her on her ass. And knock her on her ass I did! She didn't see me coming, and I'm sure she had no idea what hit her. I have never felt such a rush. I understand now what my coaches were saying all this time about getting that rush of adrenaline. It's a day later, and thinking about it still gets my heart pumping harder.

When I started with the team, I was nervous about the hitting part of the game. I had no idea what to expect, physically or mentally. Now that I've had my first taste of real contact, I can honestly say I LOVE THIS GAME.

Apart from being in the best shape ever in my life, I've already benefitted so much from joining this team. Win or lose, the bonds I've made with my teammates and coaches are some of the deepest of my adult life. When you stand on that field with 11 other women who rely on each other to get a job done and protect each other, you become a family. That's a part of the game I could never have imagined.

I love my Rage family.

When did I start to like this???

2010-11-01T18:45:00.004-06:00

It's been an interesting, entertaining summer. I turned forty in June. Some interesting, entertaining people have come into my life from the strangest of places. What is most surprising to me though, is that something that started out as a way to get out of the house and have some time to myself has turned into a new hobby.

I've always hated exercise. Especially running. Something about it just rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe that rubbing was my thighs... but whatever the reason, I just didn't "get" why people would go out and just run - not to anything, or from anything... just ... running.

Since July, I've been racking up a few kilometres on my overpriced sneakers. It started as a stroll around my neighbourhood, without a real goal in mind. It used to take me about 30 minutes to do the three kilometre loop. When I began tracking my time, I found myself pushing to go faster and faster. It's become a game. I've cracked the 26 minute mark, and can actually run for 10 minutes without hacking up a lung.

It's now November, and I'm still interested. My father jokes that I've finally snapped my lazy bone - maybe he's right. Maybe it's the incentive of wanting to justify the newly purchased treadmill in my basement. Frankly, I don't care what it is. All I know is that this is the most I've done to take care of myself in a long time. And it feels really, really good.

The 3k game

2010-07-29T23:51:00.002-06:00

Last night I cracked the 30 minute mark on my 3 kilometre loop around the neighbourhood. I ran again. Twice, in fact.

Tonight was a little slower, but I met up with a friend on the way and we chatted as we walked. She's a runner who occasionally walks, so it's still a fairly brisk pace. I tend to walk slower when I'm with someone else, though, so I have to keep reminding myself why I'm out there.

It's going to be a good summer.

Dread the Shred.

2010-07-26T23:54:00.003-06:00

Well... I could blame it on the broken DVD player, but frankly that would be an excuse. To be honest, I hate exercising. So, when the DVD player really did die, I took it as a sign from someone that I needed to find another way to get my 40 year old ass in gear.

I've found it. There's a road that encircles my neighbourhood, and it is just over three kilometres round trip from my house. It's a lovely, well-lit road and very little traffic during my late-evening preferred walking time. It's beautiful.

I even (dare I say it) RAN for about 2 and a half minutes tonight, and I'm not barfing up a lung. Those of you who know me should realize what a monumental achievement that is.

I hope this is the start of a long relationship between my feet and the road, 'cause frankly, my ass and the couch have been far too snuggly for far too long.

Here's to a fabulous 40th year!!

Level 2

2010-07-03T10:56:00.003-06:00

Ok, so enough of level one. Time to really get serious. Day one of level two today, and it was HARD. But I still did it. And I will again tomorrow, and the next day... until the end of 10 days! Stay tuned...

Today is day 6

2010-06-28T16:44:00.002-06:00

I'm almost a week into the 30 Day Shred, and I can now do 12 pushups in a row. On my knees, granted... but it's a start.

It's getting easier each day, but I still don't like exercise. I envy those people who find joy and fulfillment in being active, 'cause I'm not one of you! It's a grunt each and every frikken time I have to drag my sorry ass off the couch and into some sort of physical activity.

I don't know if that will ever change, and frankly, I really don't care! I don't need to "like" exercising; I just need to DO IT.

Day 3....

2010-06-25T15:55:00.002-06:00

It's Shred, day 3, again... and tomorrow is day 4 :) Thanks Angela, and Bo and everyone else, including my kids - "Moooom! Did you do your shred yet???" - for helping drag me along.

I'm GOING to get to day 30. Thirty days. Consecutively.

The Shred... again.

2010-06-23T15:10:00.001-06:00

It seems my motivation level is even lower than my fitness level. Ugh. I am going to try YET AGAIN to get on track... we'll see how it goes on attempt number three.

Shred day 2

2010-06-17T10:03:00.002-06:00

Knees were making really nasty, painful noises yesterday. Took some ibupro and wimped out.

So, here we are at day two. I'm still not fond of pushups, but they seem to be less hateful today.

Shred day... um... aw hell.

2010-06-15T15:23:00.001-06:00

Well. I got 3 days in, then we took off to Scout camp for the weekend.

So, here I am at Day One again.

And I still hate pushups.

Day 3 and 4

2010-06-10T13:45:00.000-06:00

I HATE pushups.

Shred Day 2

2010-06-08T13:27:00.002-06:00

My daughters are watching me sweat it out in the living room. Youngest is running/dancing around. Oldest is taking video and doing colour commentary. I shall watch it later, laugh, and quickly delete it...

The things one does...

2010-06-07T20:42:00.003-06:00

I'll be forty. In 2 days.

Since I no longer have any valid excuses to be packing all this junk in my trunk (my youngest is nearly 4!!) it's time I do something to change my shape.

I've started the shred.

This morning when I stepped on the scale I was a juicy 173 lb. Yikes.

Stay tuned...

Un-birthdays

2010-04-04T21:54:00.005-06:00

I've heard of people celebrating half birthdays and un-birthdays, but never "other" birthdays. In my family we have one of those.

Every year on the first of May, I remember the day when my sisters and I "got our new baby brother".

Tomorrow is that day. May first. The start of a new chapter for my family and our newest member. I still recall saving every bit of spare change and pooling it with my two sisters to buy a stuffed dog for our new brother. Last time I checked, he still had it.

He's 30 now, and recently has made some really bad decisions about the people he associates with and the way he entertains himself.

After falling off the wagon again, he's looking to my parents for refuge. They're not sure they can handle having him back in their home.

It's not a matter of loving him; they most certainly still do.

All they want is for him to admit that he's an addict and to get some help.

Here's hoping that tomorrow, on his "other" birthday, my baby brother will get yet another chance to start over with the rest of my family.

Here's hoping that he will give himself and the rest of us another reason to celebrate May first.

Keelhauled

2010-03-01T21:52:00.003-07:00

My "first born" is not human.

Years before I had children, I had Squeaky. He came to us, air cargo, from Vancouver Island. My first encounter with him was peering through the mesh on the side of a plywood crate marked "live baby bird". He made an odd little sound, like the one that comes out of a squeaky toy when you squeeze it. At that point, he'd christened himself.

The first time he mimicked the word "hello", I thought I'd imagined it. And then he did it again... and pretty soon he was saying "Hello Squeaky" on a regular basis. When he'd hear my husband's truck pull up outside, he'd yell "HELLO SQUEAKY!!" at the top of his little avian lungs.

My Canadian friends of a certain age may remember a children's show called The Friendly Giant. At the beginning of the show, Friendly would whistle for his friend Gerome the Giraffe. Gradually, I taught Squeaky to whistle that call. He soon picked up a wolf whistle as well. It's really amusing when he sits on top of the shower door as I shampoo my hair in the morning, and whistles like a construction worker.

I've even taught him a trick. I know, crazy bird lady, right? Well, maybe. But if you've ever seen him perform you will agree - it's quite amusing. Squeaky will let me place him on his back in the palm of my hand. This alone is a true show of trust, as being belly up is a position birds usually only take when they have given up against a predator. But wait... there's more!! On command, he will drop his head back - "play dead". It makes me giggle every time he does it.

Sometime earlier this afternoon, Squeaky decided he'd had enough of his perch on top of the kitchen cabinets and flew down to the floor. As he has clipped flight feathers, his landing was less than perfect. His sternum hit the floor with a thud, and the skin on his stomach split. The vet's term for this was "splitting his keel".

My husband took him to the vet for what I imagined would be an application of surgical glue and a quick trip home. Not so. It seems the cut on his belly was worse than I thought. Stitches were required. Husband returned home without bird.

Shortly after husband returned sans bird, the vet called. She wanted to tell me that since Squeaky would have to be anesthetized for the stitching, I should know the risks involved. Small animals, such as birds, sometimes do not "handle being under very well". I was silent for a moment and then asked her, "So, you're saying, sometimes they don't wake up." She confirmed my suspicion. I handed the phone to my husband and tried to absorb what I had just been told.

That damn bird, whom I have cursed repeatedly for screeching for no apparent reason, crapping on nearly everything I own, and nearly re-piercing my left earlobe, was suddenly in peril of never waking up. He's been part of our family for over 10 years. I fell apart. Suddenly, the "dead bird" gag didn't seem so funny. As much as I complain about cleaning his cage or whine about listening to the cacophony of his screaming serenades, the thought of losing him turned me into a blubbering child.

My husband is on his way to the vet as I write this - he will bring home a small plastic carrier with my "live baby bird" inside. And I'll be damned if I let him perch on top of those kitchen cabinets again.

Red Tape

2010-02-04T09:39:00.004-07:00

When my son was about 2 years old he did the most incredible thing.

Now, before you run screaming from reading this, let me say that I'm not generally the kind of parent who chirps about every tiny accomplishment made by my children. They are special, but I don't need to broadcast that fact to validate myself as a parent.

That being said, my son is quite unique.

He taught himself to read. Really.

My boy has an amazing memory and, for some reason, is gifted with language. He loves to play with words and understands subtle humour that many adults struggle with. Along with his linguistic prowess, he possesses a very short fuse. Frustration and anger are easily incited in him and he does not "cool off" as quickly or easily as most of his classmates.

Because of these anomalies, his father and I had him formally assessed a few years back, in an attempt to make some sense of how to best deal with his gifts. As a result, he has been officially designated as a gifted and talented student, according to the school board criteria.

Now his father and I are faced with some decisions: Do we keep him in his French Immersion school and continue with the existing program, or try to have him admitted to the Gifted And Talented Education program? We chose to apply for the GATE and see what happened.

We filled out various forms and submitted them along with an 18 page psych assessment report. It seems, though, that the report is not current enough, even though it falls within the 3 year range described in the program application package. They would like us to have another assessment done.

Apart from the fact that this means my son will have to undergo several more hours of testing, there is a tiny problem. It seems that the school board only allocates a certain number of assessments per school per year, and OOPS....you guessed it. My son's school has "none left". Now we're on the hook for arranging and paying for yet another round of testing by trained professionals, at a cost of at least $950! Needless to say, this does not make me happy.

I have worked for this school board. I understand the limitations of time and resources, both human and financial. There comes a time, however, when I become less than understanding and veer slightly closer to pissed off. I find myself searching for ways to politely ask for answers when what I would really like to do is grab someone by the shoulders and scream,"Why the hell are you making this so difficult? Can't you see my son just wants to be challenged at school?"

For the sake of my son, and my blood pressure, I will be calm. I will follow the proper channels. I will behave in a courteous and respectful manner, all the while wishing I could strangle someone with all this damn red tape.

33 years is a long time.

2010-01-11T17:18:00.004-07:00

** I wrote this a year ago. It's now been 34 years, and the feelings are still the same. The only thing which has changed is that I've now been to 2 funerals, not just one. I'm hoping that's not a yearly trend. Thanks for reading, or re-reading. **

This morning as I was checking the fridge-mounted calendar, and my desk calendar, and the electronic calendar application on my computer, it dawned on me. Today is January 11.

Years tend to shrink and expand in relation to your milestones. Some anniversaries stack up rapidly, like those pesky birthdays - especially the ones ending in zero.

If you're talking life span, thirty-three years is not a long time. It's probably about the age when most adults are "grown up" enough to know where their lives are going. It's no where near middle age in terms of the life span of most people nowadays. At thirty-three you've likely met, and possibly married, your significant other. Maybe you've bought a home. A car (or several). Found your niche in the world.

In terms of marriage, thirty-three years means quite a bit more. It is a remarkable milestone. My parents have passed the 33 year mark and moved well past it. I hope to do so myself.

When measuring the years passed since the loss of a loved one, time is a strange concept. Thirty-three years ago today, my parents said goodbye to their daughter, my sister, at the age of barely 4 months old. She was born with a heart defect and did not survive the attempt to repair her tiny body.

I was only six years old, and yet I can still remember how strange it felt to have a baby sister one day, and none the next. Hers is the only funeral I have ever attended. I still recall seeing her tiny body in the casket and wishing I could make her wake up. I can't begin to imagine where my mother found the strength to come back to her three living children after burying one.

My second child shares her middle name. When my third child was born, I saw a physical resemblance I was almost afraid to acknowledge.

Every year on September 17, I think of how excited my sisters and I were to have a new baby in the house. And four months later, on January 11, today, I miss her.

Together again!

2009-11-24T22:44:00.000-07:00

Shortly after I got married, 15 years ago, I met an amazing woman. We worked together as members of a catering team. Through years of career changes, marital changes, even citizenship changes, we have remained close friends. Although we don't see each other often, we keep in touch - and I must admit, she is much better at calling me than I her!

"Joanie" is my real-life soap opera friend. She's one of those people who manages to attract more than her share of drama and excitement. Overseas work adventure. Car accidents. Not to mention the bizarre circumstances presented by her chosen field of work - she's a death investigator! There is never a shortage of conversational topics when she calls. We share many things in common; sense of humour, taste in music, to name but two.

One of the things Joanie and I share is our love of Canadian Football; more specifically, a love of the Calgary Stampeders! While at university (just a few years back) I developed a fascination with the CFL. Since I live in a football city, it was natural to expect that I might watch a live game or two. Joanie and I spent many hours together, cheering "our team" from the cheap seats. When she left to pursue her career, I had no one with whom to attend games, so I watched on TV, or listened to the local radio broadcast. We'd share the joy of victory or the agony of defeat via telephone and email.

At the beginning of this CFL season, it was announced that Calgary would host the Grey Cup - the holy grail of the Canadian Football League. Fans from across the country make pilgrimage to "the big game" every year. Tickets are purchased (and not cheaply, I might add!) and hopes are raised that one's favourite team might make it to the big show.

At last, the Grey Cup Festival Week is upon us. Sadly, my beloved Stampeders will not be on the field come Sunday afternoon, but my sister-in-the-stands will be joining me! Joanie is making the trek from clear across the continent to sit outside, in Canada, in late November, and revel in the atmosphere of the game we both love. Although "our team" will not be playing, we will enjoy the game. We will cheer. Possibly for the teams on the field. Definitely for the love of the game and the excuse to get together for a big ol' party!

I saw a man today.

2009-10-01T22:12:00.003-06:00

I have often heard people talk about encountering someone who made such an impression on them that the experience stayed with them for a long time. I had not ever had such an encounter, until recently. I often wondered what kind of person it would be. My mind drifted off to visions of billionaires, rock stars or famous actors. Men and women who were known globally and admired (or perhaps, more accurately, idolized) by the public at large. My recent encounter was with none of those.

I walked into a room of about 1200 people, all of whom were waiting patiently for one man to arrive. I took my place in the crowd, about 50 feet from the stage on which this man would be seated. It felt as though the whole group held its collective breath as a small man made his way slowly up the stairs to his chair. He sat, arranged his clothing, and began to speak. The room remained silent but for the sound of his voice. He spoke of education, and the need for thoughtful contemplation in all things. He encouraged us to choose our pursuits carefully, and to be ready to endure suffering and obstacles in the name of those pursuits. He urged us to focus on our goals and to consider all sides and angles before acting. His messages were simple, but so profound. He was funny and endearing. He was so matter-of-fact.

In all this, he was the epitome of the ordinary human being, and yet the most extraordinary human being I have ever encountered. I hope never to forget how grounded I felt just listening to his words.

He is the 14th Dalai Lama.

Watch Out Mickey, You Might Be Next.

2009-07-30T19:45:00.004-06:00

It's summer. People go on holidays.

Before said people can go anywhere, plans must be made and stuff must be organized. You know, the neurotic cleaning and sorting and general foolishness to ensure that the house is "in order" before one leaves for a vacation. My mother was so anal about the whole process that she would literally wash her way out the door as we left the house. Really.

But I digress... back to the getting of things in order.

This week as I scurried about, trying to round up passports and water shoes, and various other travel necessities, I was not alone. There was other scurrying going on. And chewing. And (shudder) droppings.

There was a mouse in my kitchen.

I could hear his little rodent teeth gnawing away behind my cabinets. There were tiny teeth marks on a potato in my pantry.

After cussing out every cat in the neighbourhood for crapping all over my yard and yet failing to keep the mice away, I packed all 3 kids into the van and headed out on an exterminatory mission - to find as much rodent removal equipment as I could fit into my budget and my vehicle.

After sanitizing floors and loading traps and plugging in ultra-sonic-mouse-repellent-thingies, I started to think. One of two outcomes was possible as a result of my actions:

1. I would not catch the mouse. It would nest, and inevitably, bump uglies with another mouse and take over my home with its filthy offspring while I frolicked away in the far north.

2. I would catch the mouse and its furry carcass would be waiting for my return, along with the unmistakeable stench of decomposing flesh.

Either way, I was screwed. So, I did what every rational, educated adult would do.

I dismantled my kitchen cabinet.

I hauled out my water-filter vacuum and filled it.

And then I sat in waiting for the hairy little bastard. What followed could be described as a combination of B-horror flick, performance art and general tomfoolery.

The result?

Stay the hell outta my house, vermin. I KEEEEL you!!

Go ahead and kick me.

2009-06-14T22:06:00.005-06:00

I realize that by writing this, I will likely piss off at least half of all those who read it. You are entitled to your opinions, as I am to mine! That said, I proceed.

I have secret. Maybe not a well-kept secret, but something about myself that I do not generally broadcast to the public. I don't like dogs. Usually, I can go about my daily life without even thinking about it, but occasionally something reminds me.

There is a story my parents told me about when I was born. My older sister wanted a dog. So, when my mother came home with a new baby, my father came home with a dog. It was, according to the stories, a black dog with a white spot on his throat. He was appropriately named Spot.

The dog grew, along with our family. Another sister was born. Our family moved. Twice. Somehow, over the years, Spot became more of a Smudge. His black colour changed to a mottled greyish brown. A brother joined the family mix. Years went by and we were forced to move again; this time cross-country. Spot was too old and in too poor health to make the trip, so it was decided that he be "put down". And so ended my days as a dog person.

In all fairness, I never really was a dog person. I always seemed to have a cat as "my pet". The dog was just there, as far as I was concerned. I didn't hate it, but it never really was as important as the cat.

As I've gotten older, I have become less and less tolerant of dogs; or more accurately, people with dogs. For all of the legions of responsible pet owners, there are a handful of morons who insist on exercising poor judgement in regards to their animals.

There are the "tough dog" types - with large breeds of dogs so poorly socialized that they are a menace to society. There are the thoughtless ones who let their animals run willy-nilly and defecate with abandon on public and private property alike, with no feelings of obligation whatsoever for cleaning up the filth left behind.

Most infuriating to me are those of you (and you know who you are!) who insist on treating your dogs like tiny human beings. Dog spas. Dog hotels. Dog jewelry and clothing (*snow boots for sled dogs being an obvious exception!*). I mean, seriously. What in your tiny brain would make you think that your ANIMAL would enjoy any of this?? Remember, just a few years ago, evolutionarily speaking, these were WOLVES!!! They hunted. They slept outdoors. They rolled in, and ate, whatever foul smelling material they could get their drooling snouts into.

And now? Now you feed them gourmet food, better than a lot of people eat. You brush their teeth. You massage them. You carry them in purses, for crissakes! But most bothersome to me are those of you who, in your infinite stupidity, insist on letting your dogs sit on your lap (or dash, or headrest) while you drive around the city. What incredible lapse of reasoning would lead you to believe that letting a live animal sit up in your face while you operate a motor vehicle is a good idea???

My big sister recently got a dog. Not just a dog, but a small, hairy lap-type dog. I applaud her for choosing to rescue her new pet from the pound, rather than perpetuating the cycle of breeding more and more animals when there are so many waiting in shelters to be given a second chance with a loving family. Nevertheless, she is now a lap-dog owner. If she ever makes the mistake of driving with the dog unsecured in her vehicle, I will personally put my boot in her bigger, older, law-enforcing ass.

My Mother's Wings

2009-05-21T21:11:00.005-06:00

There's a joke that says a man should always meet his future wife's mother so he will know what he can look forward to. As the years pass, we become wiser, more patient, softer. It is the softness that I noticed recently while shopping with my mother.

I recall with great fondness many childhood visits to my grandparents' homes, spread hither and thither across Newfoundland. Each summer my parents would pack up the family car and we'd head out on our annual road trip. As we would approach my mother's childhood home, my sisters and I would crane our necks to compete to be the first to catch a glimpse of "Nan's house". It was always a surprise to see what amazing colour the house would be. My grandfather would paint the house almost every year, and always with a different colour. Purple, grey, green, blue... it was always a happy sight.

As we pulled into the driveway, my Nan would be standing in the doorway with her hands folded across her ample chest, anticipating our arrival. We would be greeted with large, soft, warm hugs and those wet grandmother kisses. I always marvelled at the softness of Nan's skin as her bare arms wrapped around my skinny childish frame. It was cushiony to the touch. Thinking back now, it reminds me of how a tiny, plump baby feels against your bare skin. Such a familiar, comforting sensation.

During my most recent visit with my mother, I noticed how the years are beginning to show their effects on her physical appearance. She's become conscious of the shape of her arms and how the skin there is losing its elasticity. Later that day as she was preparing to leave, I took my mother into my arms and held her just a little longer than usual. My mother may see an old woman with flabby wings; I see that softness that comes with a grandmother's hug.

Guilty Pride

2009-05-12T21:23:00.003-06:00

Motherhood is nothing if not thought provoking.

I often share parenting experiences with my mom - we laugh, commiserate, and compare notes. Sometimes I apologize for the less than stellar moments in my teenage, hormonally-impared, bitchy years. Sometimes I can do nothing but listen as she relays to me the latest news from my brother, the incarcerated one.

Recently, in Southern Alberta, there was a court case involving what the Crown prosecutor called "the most disturbing case of child abuse he had seen in his 25 years as a lawyer". The convicted scum bag was sentenced to a mere 6 years for his heinous destruction of a young life. Coincidentally, this scab on the face of humanity was placed in the same facility which houses my brother.

There is, as the saying goes, honour among thieves. Apparently this applies to drug traffickers as well. As heartbroken as I was to accept the fact that my brother made a living by peddling noxious chemicals, I could always find solace in the fact that he wasn't one of "those" monsters who prey upon the precious and innocent children of the world.

I am somewhat guilt-ridden as I confess how my chest puffed out as I heard the latest news from beyond the bars of my brother's temporary home. It seems that he, and likely several of his law-breaking brethren, took it upon themselves to send a message to the filthy excuse for a human who was recently placed among them. My brother was involved in some type of "altercation" with the monster, which resulted in his being brought before a review board.

All I know of the outcome is that whatever choices my brother made were not considered serious enough to warrant disciplinary action. He will continue to serve out his sentence without further penalty. And I will continue to be proud of the fact that, in spite of his shitty career choices, my brother is a good man.

I'm an OGRE!!

2009-04-19T20:13:00.003-06:00

I have children. Three of them, in fact. They are funny and smart and entertaining and the loves of my life. But, as anyone with children can tell you, children = stuff in your house. Lots of stuff. All over your house. I really don't mind the stuff everywhere. The fact that my children spread themselves all over the world is a trait they inherited from their mother. As far as I'm concerned, my house is lived in. Well lived in.

I do feel the need to draw the line somewhere, though. That line is permanently etched across the threshold of my bedroom. Beyond that door is Mommyland. My space. The "kid-free" zone. The only exception to that rule happens when the kids crawl into the "big bed" for some reading time with me or their dad. Otherwise, I am savagely territorial about my sleeping space. I know, there are lots of people who believe in the benefits of co-sleeping. I am not one of them. I believe my bed is for two things - sleeping, and, well... things that my children have no business witnessing!

My husband, bless his gigantic heart, does not have the same possessive streak where our bed is concerned. He would rather take the easy way out and haul a crying youngun into our bed in the middle of the night than spend a few minutes in another room comforting the wee wailer. What my dear spouse fails to remember, time and again, is that the only one who gets any sleep "his way" is the offending offspring! Invariably, said offspring manages to monopolize the entire bed and ruin any chance I may have of salvaging a few quiet moments of sleep.

I do not function well when I am deprived of rest. I am moody and irrational. I have warned my children that "if Mommy doesn't get her sleep, she turns into an ogre!" They all believe me. If only I could make my husband believe - maybe then I could finally say goodbye to the squirming, bed-hogging, sleep thieves who occasionally find their way into my sanctuary!

Waiting to Exhale

2009-04-03T22:23:00.003-06:00

Since early in March, my parents have been playing a waiting game. Following the conviction of their son, my baby brother, on drug charges, my mother had been holding her breath. She watched him walk out of the court room. She and my father returned home and began the process of "getting on with life" while they wondered where their son was to be held for the next two years. And yet, she did not breathe.

I'm sure that every ring of the telephone made them both jump. Was it him? Was it someone from corrections telling them he'd been knifed in a riot? Where was he? Was he scared? Lonely? I shudder at the thoughts that must have haunted them nightly as they waited for news.

Finally, two days ago, a call. Corrections staff.

"Are you the mother of *******?"

Requests for verification of personal information.

"Does ******** have permission to call this number, collect?"

Shortly thereafter, I received a call at home. I picked up the phone and heard an enormous sigh of relief.

"I heard from your brother today. He sounded good."

Finally, I could hear it in my mother's voice. She was breathing again. As she relayed the details of the conversation, I detected a faint catch in her voice; the sound of someone almost starting to cry. But for the first time in a long time, this was the sound of someone crying tears of relief. Her worst fears had been set to rest; he was not caged up in a maximum security facility with murderers and rapists. He was not dead. He was safe.

Easter is fast approaching. We are all looking forward to spring, and the renewal of the earth. My parents will be spending Easter together with all their grandchildren, for the first time in many years. While the house will be full and noisy with the sounds of children and family, there will be a silent guest as well. By way of his conspicuous absence, my brother will become the elephant in the room.

I'm not sure how, or if, I will explain to my children why their uncle is not there. I'm certain the day will come soon enough when I will find it necessary to tell my oldest child the truth about what happened. Until that day comes, I will keep breathing.

The next chapter

2009-03-21T19:33:00.006-06:00

Last week my parents made what has become a fairly regular trip from their home town to a small city in Southern Alberta. Usually this trip involved stocking up on groceries and the like from a popular big box store. Occasionally they would stay overnight and treat themselves to a nice dinner out.

This most recent trip was not such a treat. My mother and father had the unenviable task of taking their youngest child to court to face criminal charges.

Since over a year ago, when the charges were first laid, and my brother was released on bail, my family has been playing a waiting game. Court dates were scheduled, then delayed. Moved later and later. My second- and third-hand information was that the Crown wasn't prepared to proceed. Trial would have to wait. And wait, and wait.

Finally, over a year later, my brother's lawyer delivered the much anticipated and much dreaded news - an actual court date. Early in March, my brother stood in front of a judge and pleaded guilty to drug related charges. The judge accepted his plea and sentenced him to 2 years in a federal facility. And then my parents watched as he was escorted out of the room, and off to a correctional facility.

It's been a difficult thing around which to wrap my sheltered brain. I know what he did. He's guilty, without a doubt, but I still can't seem to accept the fact that my little brother, the baby of the family... is now a convicted criminal.

My emotions have bounced from anger at his stupid, selfish choices, to sadness over the pain my parents must be feeling. Part of me is happy that he's facing consequences for his behaviour, and yet I'm scared that being in jail will open up a whole new avenue of criminal behaviour for him.

I can't claim to understand how it must feel to see your child taken away like that. My parents lost a baby to a heart defect over 30 years ago, and I often wonder if this weighs as heavily on their hearts.

I have 3 young children of my own, and as I stand quietly, listening to the sounds of their breathing as they sleep, I say a small prayer that they will be strong enough to make wise decisions in their lives. And then I say another prayer of thanks for having them in my life at all.

A Hair-raising Decision

2009-03-15T13:53:00.006-06:00

Gimme head with hair

Long beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming,

Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Gimme down to there hair

Shoulder length or longer

Here baby, there mama

Everywhere daddy daddy

I admit it. I like my hair. A lot. It's long and shiny and pretty healthy. I don't really have to do much to it to be happy with the 'do. It wasn't always that way, and I've got lots of high school year book photos to prove it! I had my share of '80's teased-out, hair sprayed, poorly dyed, badly permed hairstyles. Hell, I've probably had your share too!

It started in 1982 - I was an aspiring figure skater, and I hated the early morning ritual of having my mom pull my long hair up into a pony tail. She was from the school of "pull it so tight you look like Joan Rivers post-surgery" pony tails. It was painful. I whined. A lot. So my mother, in her frustration, convinced me to get the Dorothy Hamill mushroom cut. There was even a shampoo for all the girls with "short n sassy hair". That was the beginning of many, many bad hair years...

Probably number one on the list of hair disasters for me was the home permanent. (remember Toni? Remember the smell? And the burning...dear lord, the burning....). Again, my sweet, loving mother, after tiring of my complaints about my mane, stepped in to help. She meant well, I'm sure, but the results were less than attractive, to say the least! I was a buck-toothed, brunette version of Krusty the Clown. Traumatic, to say the least!

As the years passed, and the perm grew out, I progressed to the ever-popular mullet. Got braces. And glasses, tragically. Imagine a barn owl with a Bichon on its head. Now imagine that in a lovely shade of orange, courtesy of my blonde best friend's bottle of "Sun-In". For those of you who may not be familiar, Sun-In is a product intended for blondes to get that "California look" of sun-bleached hair. Little did I know the effects it would have on dark brown hair... (insert mental image of The Great Pumpkin here...)*sigh*

Then there were the "spiral perm" years. HOURS upon HOURS spent in a hairdresser's chair having my long hair rolled onto hundreds of tiny rods, in an attempt to have hair like telephone cord. Truly the pinnacle of the "big hair" years for me!

In recent years, there have been short do's (picture Jamie Lee Curtis) and the choppy, layered look that many women can identify with as a byproduct of trying to grow out the extremely short hair cut. 3 pregnancies and litres of hormones later, after the bouts of luxuriously thick pregnancy hair, followed by the months of, "oh-my-gawd-all-my-hair-is-falling-out-these-crazy-hormones-are-making-me-go-bald", post-pregnancy hair, I have come full circle, follicularly speaking.

I am now the proud owner of a lovely head of long, brown hair. Well, mostly brown, at least. Which brings me, finally, to the motivation behind this posting. Everyone loses hair; I heard somewhere that the average is 100 per day. Most people regrow those hairs, with the exception of those lucky enough to have some baldness gene graciously handed to them by an ancient family member. I have no such gene. My hair sprouts freely on all quadrants of my scalp. Maybe it's my fertile mind that keeps it growing... (insert farm animal-related fertilizer joke here).

I have noticed of late that the new growth is, shall we say, of a much lighter shade than the original hair??? Ok, I'll admit it. I'm going grey. It happens to the best of us. But unlike many of my family members, who shall remain nameless (you can thank me later) I have made the decision to let nature take its course. That's right. I have chosen not to dye. Granted, I will occasionally pluck out a particularly brazen grey strand that insists on poking straight out of the crown of my head like a beacon for passing aircraft. I am always amazed at the texture of these little devils, too... more like a twist tie than a hair, really. Why is that?

What about you? Are you content to let the years come streaking through your locks, or are you taking a more artistic route through the aging process, via some strategically placed colour?

Not another NOOB!!!

2009-03-13T21:30:00.004-06:00

This is a new adventure for me. Like many at-home-parent-types, I've decided to make the jump from Facebook, to Twitter... and now here. I'm not really sure what I'm doing, or what I want to say. I just feel the need to dump my brain occasionally. Call it cheapskate self-psychotherapy. Call it hubris. Call it what you like, but please do read on! I hope what I have to say will provoke you in some way. I guess I'm a bit of a shit disturber. I like to put things out there and see what kind of reaction I'll get.