Footnotes

Past Deadline: Six O'clock Seating

2012-01-28T16:24:00.000-05:00

I do a terrible thing.

Yes, just one. (Shhh.)

Every night, almost without fail, I have supper on the table for the family at six o’clock.

I know! It’s ridiculous!

Allow me to explain.

Regular readers have probably heard me mention before that I am rather Type A. I am a creature of habit. I like things to be just so. I like to think I am not a control freak (ahem), but I readily admit I like routines.

My kids are still young and at school they eat lunch pretty early, so 6 p.m. is about as late as I like to push it otherwise they end up grazing on snacks.

Also, eating at six allows time to finish homework, play, have sibling screaming fights, wage light sabre battles or do whatever else needs to be done before bedtime.

Because I have been cooking meals for what feels like a millennium, I have it down pat. I know how to time things so we are sitting at the table by six.

I just can’t help it.

Maybe that’s another reason I was attracted to journalism: I am deadline oriented. If the story wasn’t filed by a certain time, it would miss the press. If the student newscast wasn’t ready by six, we had dead air. And an F.

Don’t worry. I know I won’t flunk if I don’t have food on the table by a certain time. I do think, though, that good timing is a rather important part of good cooking. (This would be an excellent argument if the food critics in the household always gave good reviews.)

Anyway, if I were charged with this horrible crime of having a six o’clock seating, I would feel compelled to plead not guilty by reason of insanity because I have been cooking meals for a millennium. No...wait...I mean because I honestly didn’t realize there was anything wrong with it.

Apparently, however, I am odd. I have been called “inflexible,” too, although I am perfectly capable of adjusting mealtimes to accommodate various activities.

Groom-boy and I have had this discussion a few times, even though he is usually not home in time for supper anymore now that he commutes. (No, I am not waiting until 7:30 to sit down with the kids at the table to eat.)

I will admit that I have been known to get a little high strung when, on the occasions that he is home, he decides to “run to the store” at 5:40 to get some little extra thing for the meal, and doesn’t manage to return until 6:15, even though he knows the meal will be ready at six.

“Oh, I got talking to someone,” he’ll say, referencing my inflexibility as I peel overdone pasta out of a pot.

Sigh. He went to journalism school, too. Perhaps they had a rotating deadline at his school.

Maybe this whole issue/problem/crime/weirdness stretches right back to my childhood. I remember when my brother and I were little that we ate sometime between five and six. It was consistent. Later, I know we were all around the table by 6 because my dad liked to have the news on in the background while we ate. I remember we were always being shushed when it was time to hear the weather.

The thing is we almost always ate together. Sometimes my dad would be working shifts and, later, my brother and I had part-time jobs after school, but for the most part we had supper as a family. It was a nice ritual. We always knew what time we would be eating, so we knew when to be home. Simple.

So I won’t apologize for this weirdness of mine, and I’ll keep doing it as often as we can, realizing kids’ activity schedules can interfere with this utopian supper timing.

If I get sent to jail for enforcing consistent family time, so be it. After all, I bet they have pretty rigid mealtime schedules in jail, not to mention someone else does the cooking.

With my luck I’d be put on kitchen duty, to cook meals for millennia. At least they would be on time.

Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 26/12

Past Deadline: Weird Lady with the Cane

2012-01-20T23:57:00.001-05:00

Hello, Winter! You came back!

I am glad to see you, mostly because now I feel as if I have the right to actually complain about the weather. I mean, it’s a Canadian thing, right? I’m not going to complain about it, though, at least not in the traditional way.

We were fairly spoiled in November and December. It was downright balmy for that time of year, with no ice or snow. As I went about my outdoor business without wearing long johns and only donning thin gloves and having to decide whether to bother wearing my hat, it just didn’t feel right. After all, I like my hat. It covers up my crazy, difficult hair so I don’t frighten as many people.

“Balmy” around here at that time of year is still cool, so when it rained we got wet and cold. Yech. We had a heck of a lot more rain than snow before Christmas. Snow, at least, brightens the place up and brushes easily off of coats.

I say, if it’s going to be cold, we might as well have snow. It is Canada, after all. The kids don’t like playing outside in cold rain, but they will go out in the snow – and I don’t even have to use the crowbar to pry them away from the screens as much!

So, Winter, you gave us the white Christmas (it was a close one), then it all went away. Then everything froze. Then last week happened, when you pummelled us with reminders of your wrath: freezing rain, snow, windchill, frostbite advisories.

Hurray! Ahem.
You even arranged for bus cancellations, which typically means nothing in my world. We’re “townies.” We live in town and walk to school, so my kids go whether there is rain or snow or hail or sleet or whatever. Call me the postal service – I am devoted to getting them to school. Besides, snow days can be fun.

That all said, however, I noticed something this season that promises to be a bit problematic. It was particularly noticeable on the snow day when walking was tricky. It’s not Winter’s fault, though. It’s my own shoddy equipment.

You may have heard about what I affectionately call “My Stupid Foot”? (It sometimes goes by other names, but this is a family newspaper.) Recap: My right foot developed tendonitis in the Summer and Fall, brought on by the fact it has, after 40 long years of holding me up using second-rate construction materials, collapsed.

“Severe biomechanical failure,” I have been told.

Things have improved thanks to physiotherapy and orthotics, but I have discovered that my foot no longer does well in winter. The uneven ground and occasional slippery spots lead to sudden jerky movements and pangs in the foot, and bad words in the mouth. Not the typical foot and mouth disease.

It’s as if I need snow tires for my flippin’ feet.

I’m telling you, turning 40 has been Just Awesome™ so far.

I say this because of some other appendages that have been making noise lately – my fingers. With the onset of the cold weather, and I’m not even talking about the really cold stuff we had on the weekend, my fingers have been complaining. I am wracking my brain trying to remember if, at some point last year, I may have frostbitten my fingers, but since poor memory seems to be a worsening problem, I have come up empty. If even the slightest bit of cold penetrates my mitts, my fingertips start to holler, and as they warm up later they burn and tingle and ache. Fun!

I won’t blame that on Winter either, though.

Besides, I can accommodate these afflictions. I will make sure my mitts are cold-proof at all times and I will secure my wobbly stupid foot. Maybe I’ll even snag myself a fancy cane with some sort of gargoyle for a handle.

I’m thinking that if I let enough of my crazy hair peek out from under my hat I could become known as “That Weird Lady with The Cane Who Swears a Lot.” Maybe I’ll scatter rose petals behind me everywhere I go.

There, see? The bright side!

Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 19/12

Past Deadline: Hair Whitener

2012-01-17T23:57:00.000-05:00

I love meals cooked by someone else, especially when I don’t have to do dishes. Apparently I will even make death-defying trips to get to one.

On Saturday night Groom-boy and I set out for his New Year’s staff party in Ottawa. His employer holds it after the holiday craziness has subsided.

We cleaned up real nice. I even wore pantyhose and, as per my New Year’s resolution to respect my Hair Management Program™, my locks looked lovely. Not a grey, silver or white strand to be found.

We shipped the kids off to my parents’ house for a sleepover so we wouldn’t have to rush home. With Groom-boy at the wheel, we headed east on Hwy. 7 toward the Nation’s Capital.

Right away we noticed flashing lights in the distance. It was a police car, and either the officer wasn’t in a huge hurry or couldn’t go fast because the cruiser didn’t gain much on us as we travelled.

We soon realized why. Although a freezing rain warning for the area had ended, the roads were a bit slippery. We slowed down. We met a westbound salt truck, but it didn’t seem as if our lane had been done yet.

After about 20 minutes we came upon emergency crews, including the police car, attending to a smashed-up van in a clearing. It looked as if it had rolled.

We slowed down even more. The roads didn’t seem awful, but we had a party to go to and preferred to avoid the ditch.

We chatted happily as we travelled toward our destination. A few kilometres after the accident, however, Groom-boy suddenly asked, “Am I swerving because of ice or the wind?”

As if on cue, the car in front of us started to fishtail wildly and then, in slow motion, to spin. Headlights! Tail-lights! Headlights! Tail-lights!

I’m gonna guess it’s the ice, Groom-boy.

The car did at least one full 360 and ended up sideways across the entire opposite lane. Groom-boy managed to stop without spinning or colliding with anything, as did the three or four cars behind us.

And then we all sat there – stunned.

I imagine the driver of the other car was terrified and possibly disoriented, but it was a scary several seconds that he sat there, not moving, before finally creeping forwards to park on the shoulder of the opposite side of the road, facing traffic.

Given the fact we were on glare ice on a curve, with who knows how many cars approaching from either direction and precarious icy-looking shoulders on either side, we chose to crawl forwards, hearts pounding, and continue east.

I developed an immediate headache.

As we crept around the rest of curve, two westbound transports barrelled towards us – fast enough that we assumed the salt in their lane was working. We paled as we thought about what could have happened if those trucks had come along before the spinning car was out of their lane.

It was scary.

We considered turning around, but the farther east we travelled, the better the roads became. I consulted with Mr. George BlackBerry, Executive Assistant, to see if I could glean any information on road conditions, but there wasn’t much to find.

“I’m thinking it’s a bit icy,” I concluded with a nervous laugh. “We should probably proceed cautiously.”

And so we did. After all, there was free food waiting.

We arrived without further incident. As we mingled with Groom-boy’s co-workers and told them about our alarming journey to the party, most were surprised to hear about the road conditions. It seemed as if that one stretch of a highway – the skating rink – was an isolated thing.

Later, someone commented there were fewer people at the party than the year before and speculated it may have been because of the freezing rain warning. “Ha!” I said. “We risked our lives to come to this party!”

The food was great. Someone else took away our dishes to clean them. The roads were bare and dry for the trip home.

I bet, though, my hair is even whiter than before.

Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 12/12

Past Deadline: Headaches Past and Present

2012-01-06T00:05:00.001-05:00

On New Year’s Eve morning, I had a pounding sinus headache. I had gone to bed with it, woke up with it and spent the day with it, and as I struggled to stay awake until midnight to usher in 2012, I knew there would be no champagne for me.

Fortunately I am not a big champagne fan anyway.

So the new year began with a monster headache, which seemed like a major rip off considering I didn’t earn it by partying the night before.

As I popped headache meds and lay down with an ice pack, I mused for a while upon the symbolism of all of this. Leaving 2011 with a headache seemed appropriate in some ways, but waking up with one in the brand new year – was that foreboding?

Nah. Waking up with a headache on New Year’s Day is far from unusual.

It occurred to me on New Year’s Eve that there was something very familiar about this scenario, and then I remembered.

Ten years ago on that very night I was lying in bed with ice packs and missing out on a New Year’s Eve party, thanks to a brutal headache. The big difference that year, and I do mean “big,” is that I was rather enormously pregnant at the time with my first child.

That night, instead of tackling the monster with various drugs to make it go away, I was lying there wishing I could take something – anything! To make matters worse, I was worrying about what the headache could mean. High blood pressure? Preeclampsia? Some other mysterious bad-news pregnancy ailment that would inflict doom upon us all?

(I worried a lot with the first pregnancy. I am a worrier. It is what I do.)

Despite a learned friend’s advice that Tylenol was okay, I opted for suffering to be on the safe side. After all, I was on the brink of this amazing thing called motherhood and I was trying to go by the book: no drugs, no alcohol, no caffeine and only good food. (Probably I ate too much good food – but I would pay later (still) for that.)

Anyway, before midnight we decided to telephone the maternity ward at the hospital (where we would be headed mere days later) to ask for advice. The nurses basically said, “You’re 40 weeks? Duh. Take some Tylenol and get on with your life.”

I think the fact I hadn’t taken any sort of pain relief medication in nine months made that Tylenol something of a miracle drug. It worked really fast and I felt immensely better almost right away.

Different times, different headache 10 years later, but what hasn’t changed is the fact I still feel as if I am on the brink of something amazing and mysterious – and it’s still motherhood.

By the time this is published I will have been a mother for 10 years – a whole decade – and even though I feel as if I am a pro at some things (such as tying shoes and helping with homework and soothing booboos), just like 10 years ago I realize I have so much still to learn, so many challenges to face, lots of new and different and as-yet-unknown worries to navigate.

Such is motherhood.

Fortunately, with the current set of New Year’s resolutions I discussed last week, I feel somewhat prepared to embrace the next decade of motherhood.

Let’s see how I am doing a few days in:
1. Get more exercise – Unless you count lifting heavy holiday food from the plate to one’s mouth as exercise, then this one needs a little work.
2. Hair Management Program™ – Cut and coloured in time for my New Year’s Eve headache! Yes! Now I will look great in the face of the motherhood challenges on the horizon.
3. Don’t freak out in the face of change – So far so good, mostly because of my hair.
4. Save the world – I think part of my strategy will be to groom the 10-year-old to help accomplish this.

Happy birthday, Boychild!

Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 5/12

Past Deadline: Ye Olde New Year's Revolutions

2011-12-29T09:35:00.000-05:00

Here we are on the brink of 2012 and it’s time to reflect upon the year and pledge some sort of allegiance to revolutionizing life and making lists of promises that may or may not be broken, etc.

As I have reflected in the past, it all depends upon the type of list you make, right?

Last year, after eons of making grand lists that promised everything from the standard eating better and exercising more to the more aggressive saving of the world, I decided to aim for an achievable goal that was, nevertheless challenging. So I pledged to complain less or, at least, to use my inside voice when I do it.

How did I do? (Hahaha.)

This year, I think I might go back to some of the old standards, particularly that exercise one. THAT has definitely been more challenging since August, when ye olde right foot collapsed.

Stupid, stupid foot.

Last year I was quite pleased with my activity level. Although my running “program” had its ups and downs, I was doing it. I completed the Kilt Run (8K) and survived! Even better, because our family has been attempting to make do with one vehicle as Groom-boy commutes to Ottawa, my hoofing it about town resulted in the loss of a few pounds.

All that came to a crashing halt with the foot crisis. Walking became difficult; running is currently impossible. And while foot-related exercise may again be possible someday, I need to consider some alternate way to get the lead out.

It’s funny, a couple of years ago in this space at around this time of season I rambled (Me? Ramble?) about how I thought 2010 was going to be a nasty year because I was turning 40 and, well, you know what that means!

At the time I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but maybe the rumour is true – maybe your body really does start to fall apart once you hit that grand decade.

Within the last several months I have noticed my grey hairs are turning white, too. Yeesh. If I do not persist with my aggressive Hair Maintenance Program™, it looks as if I have pressed my forehead up against something painted white. This might be acceptable in 10 years or so, but I’m not ready yet.

Yes, 2011 brought a few physical changes to be sure.

In fact, that could be an underlying theme for the year – change. The remarkable thing (for me) is that I think I am maybe kinda sorta learning to accept the constancy of change. (That doesn’t mean I have to like it.)

In addition to my stupid foot throwing off my beloved routines, there have been many work-related changes this year, too. Some of these have been a bit unnerving for Type-A girl over here. (I like to eat my supper at a certain time, so don’t dare come to my door and ask to see my furnace, thanks.)

While I understand that change happens and can even translate into exciting new opportunities, sometimes it is just, well, difficult and unwanted.

It’s easy to immediately panic when facing an unwanted change, but that doesn’t help. I can’t tell you how many times I have said to my children or to students in my classes who are facing an unpleasant prospect: “Don’t panic.”

Now that I am firmly ensconced in my 40s I suppose the time has come to do the grown-up thing and practise what I preach. Take a deep breath, make yourself a cup of Calm The Heck Down™ tea (usually containing chamomile) and just deal with it.

So, to recap: Resolution 1: Get more exercise, even if it means not using your feet. Resolution 2: Continue aggressive Hair Management Program™. Resolution 3: Don’t freak out in the face of change (which also applies to white hair). Resolution 4: Save the world.

Had to throw that last one in just to make it interesting. Wish me luck.

(I would like to extend my very best wishes to long-time Perth Courier colleagues/friends who are about to embark on new adventures. All the best as you embrace your own changes. It has been wonderful working with you for all these many years!)

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 29/11

Past Deadline: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas 2011

2011-12-23T21:57:00.000-05:00

Christmas already? Why, that can only mean it’s time to extend my heartfelt apologies once again to Clement Clark Moore as I embark upon my annual butchering of his beloved classic, ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. After all, what would the holidays be without some wreaking of literary havoc upon poor, hapless poets and readers?

’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house

The children used light sabres in order to joust.

The stockings were buried under debris

And Mama looked a bit like she wanted to flee.

The company would be coming

The turkey soon thawed

And Mama hoped everyone would be truly awed.

“Your house is divine,” Mama hoped they would say,

“It should be on the house tour – book it today!” [That would be the Hoarders house tour, maybe?]

She snapped out of her daydream when she heard such a clatter

And ran to the next room to see what was the matter.

Boychild and Girlchild were standing alarmed

As the Christmas tree toppled – but no one was harmed. [This didn’t really happen – but I often imagine it could when the light sabre fights get going.]

“What are you doing?” Mama shrieked and she hollered,

And then Groom-boy came in and the kitty cats follered. [Ha. “Follered” is not a real word, but some people say it that way.]

“It’s her fault!” “It’s his fault!” the arguments started

But Mama just stood there, feeling all broken-hearted.

“The ornaments,” she whispered. “So many are broken.

“Some were real treasures and beautiful tokens.”

The room grew solemn and Groom-boy jumped in

Promising to make things as neat as a pin.

The children were worried. Would Santa still come?

Would they get any presents after what they had done?

Everyone pitched in while Mama went off

To work in the kitchen and, um, started to cough.

When what to her grateful eyes should appear

But the Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™! What cheer!

“You’re late!” Mama cried. “I have been so stressed out

“That I can’t even remember what Christmas is about!

“The cooking, the cleaning, the buying, the wrapping

“It just leaves me feeling as if I should be napping.

“And now the tree’s ruined and the company’s coming

“I’m just not sure how I can keep it all humming!”

The fairy, of course, sprite that she is

Gave a wink and conjured a drink with some fizz.

“Take a deep breath and then take a wee sip,

“And before too long you’ll have plenty of zip!”

The drink was quite yummy and before Mama knew it

She’d sipped and she’d sipped and got all the way through it.

Meanwhile the fairy got quickly to work,

Waving her wand as if she’d gone berserk.

Soon the clutter was gone and the meal prep completed

And best of all was the tree accident was deleted.

“Good as new!” cried the fairy. “Everything will be fine

“And you must remember to enjoy this grand time!”

With a wink and grin and a twinkling eye

She blew Mama a kiss and took to the sky.

Mama peeked in the room and to her delight

Saw the family and kitties basking in the tree’s light.

“Everything good?” she asked with a smile

And knew she’d be thanking her fairy for a while.

Phew. You gotta love that Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™. Have you seen her? I’m still hoping. Anyway, Boychild, Girlchild, Groom-boy and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and all the best in 2012!

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 22/11

Past Deadline: Striving To Be the Rare Uncollapsed

2011-12-23T21:52:00.000-05:00

You may have heard I have a sore foot. Possibly I have whined and complained somewhat incessantly about it.

Things are muuuuuuch better than they were. In August, I was basically lame. Now, after physiotherapy fixed a raging case of tendonitis and orthotics are teaching my feet how to be normal, there are lots of times when I can walk pain free.

To quickly recap, I developed a weird pain in my right foot in August. This led me to my doctor, then to a physiotherapist who determined I had a rather nasty case of posterior tibialis tendonitis brought about because the long arch was collapsing onto the tendon. It appears I have “severe biomechanical failure” in both feet, although the left one hasn’t gotten as angry as the right one. Yet.

As interesting as this all sounds (stop yawning), a collapsed foot is much more fun to talk about than it is to walk upon. So you can imagine how much fun that must be!

Anyway, physio helped tremendously and the orthotics are starting to make a difference. Still, the progress is slow. Even though it has been suggested that someday I may be able to get back into running, I am starting to have serious doubts.

At a recent event a couple of us were lamenting how much fun we were having (ha) now that we have entered our forties. One woman reported having hot flashes. I chimed in with the fact I now sport orthotics.

“I am starting to think that collapsed feet don’t actually get better,” I said.

A nurse was standing beside me. “No, no they don’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

Possibly a look passed over my face because she added the word “rarely.”

I have avoided checking Dr. Google on this matter because I am not sure I am ready to hear for certain that the jig is up – that my aspirations to be a prima ballerina are kaput and my dream of being a foot model for anything other than a medical journal is done.

Besides, I should put that week into context.

I am not terribly athletic. I continue to be amazed that I took up running at all. It is hard. I am not a glamorous runner. Sometimes it hurts. (Ironically, it usually wasn’t the feet that were sore, but I now know that the feet are connected to, well, everything.)

Anyway, the best thing about running for me is the fact it clears my head and makes me feel happy. All I need is 5K a couple of times a week to accomplish this. I also love running because I can go when my schedule allows it, which can be tricky.

The fact I haven’t run since July 24 – or even had a decent power walk – makes me cranky.

So on the evening of Nov. 27 I went on a super-fast, long-strided, loud-music-playing, orthotics-wearing, heart-pumping, 2.7K walk.

It felt sooooo good.

Even though I iced my foot as soon as I came home, I paid for it, as I knew I would. I don’t regret it, though. Besides, it was a new and different kind of pain, which was intriguing (when you are obsessed with your foot).

I was still paying for it when I had the conversation with my nurse friend.

I bounced back from that discouragement after chatting with my lovely physiotherapist a week later. I admitted to her that I had probably pushed the boundaries a bit with my mentally-therapeutic-but- pedalianly-abusive power walk.

She was undaunted, however, and has encouraged me to start a walking program – but to ease into it. (Duh.) I am also working harder on my exercises. These include such exciting things as standing on tiptoes while squeezing a small ball between my feet, as well as toe push-ups, which are harder than they might sound.

Most importantly, I am going to try to be more patient. My orthotics guy told me it could take several months before the bad days diminish. I am only about halfway into “several.”

With patience and a lot more toe push-ups, maybe I will be lucky enough to be one of the “rarelys.”

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 15/11

Past Deadline: Girl Guides Excepted

2011-12-23T21:42:00.000-05:00

I am working on a new sign for my front door.

See, lately everyone and their dog is coming to my door around suppertime and asking to see things related to my basement. (Except for the Pop Tart girls I wrote about a few weeks ago, who were more interested in my toaster.)

I am beginning to think a team of undercover agents is conspiring to recover buried treasure in my basement. It’s a very old house, and part of the basement is quite…um…rustic, which is what happened when pioneers met bedrock. I suspect the soil is too thin for a buried treasure, though.

Nevertheless, these people keep trying. They show up under various company names and pretend to care about my health and how much I am paying for things. They want to check my furnace or my water heater or my vents or my pipes or for carbon monoxide. They want to see my gas bill or hydro bill. They all have very nice name tags and vests or shirts and badges and clipboards. They look very officious.

Sometimes they also look bored. When I open the door and give them the old stink eye because usually I am making supper, it’s a bit like looking in the mirror – they give their spiel and I say “Nothankyougoodbye” and I think we all know we are getting really tired of this routine.

Of course they look professional and officious, as stated above, while I show up at the door with crazy hair and bags under my eyes and boisterous kids in the background – so that whole “looking in the mirror” thing probably only applies to how we feel, not how we look.

I’m sure I have mentioned before about how I actually got sucked into one of those fixed-rate energy deals one time. It was quite a few years ago and it was the first time one of them had shown up at my door. He was really good – he had a polished routine and it was in the midst of a big media blitz about an energy crisis and I nodded and listened and signed.

He hadn’t been gone more than two minutes before my gut kicked me hard in the…uh…gut and said, “You moron. You shouldn’t have done that.”

I called Groom-boy and my dad and everyone said, “You moron. You shouldn’t have done that.” They used different words, though. We extracted ourselves from the contract within hours of me signing it.

Needless to say, I am now suspicious to the point I won’t even entertain the spiel beyond one sentence. I go for the pre-emptive strike. If I am unhappy with the furnace or water heater or vents or pipes or carbon monoxide detectors or energy bills, I would rather go looking for a solution than do business at the door.

Except when it comes to Girl Guide cookies, of course.

For the rest, it is seriously getting to the point that whenever the front doorbell rings, I hesitate to answer it because someone is usually trying to sell me something. And if they are not trying to sell me something, they are preaching religious gloom and doom.

Does this happen in the country or is it a town phenomenon? More importantly, if I moved to the country, would I still be able to get Girl Guide cookies?

So now I have to decide what sign to put on the door.

Those little “No Soliciting” plaques are quite attractive and make the point, but are largely ignored, I think.

How about: “If you want to see my furnace, water heater, vents, pipes, carbon monoxide detectors or energy bills, forget it. Go away.” Too wordy?

We could try: “If you are here regarding anything to do with my basement or energy bills, go away.” Or a slight variation: “My basement appliances and their associated bills are not available for viewing.”

Or: “The answer is ‘no,’ so don’t bother ringing the bell. (Girl Guides excepted).”

Maybe I should just put a picture of me with my crazy hair and stink eye above the doorbell. That could be a better deterrent than a mean guard dog.

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 8/11

Past Deadline: You Will Eat These Meatballs...

2011-12-06T00:02:00.001-05:00

I’ve been a mom for almost a decade now – longer if you count the time Child No. 1 was in the womb.

I know that’s nothing compared to others. Once you’re a mom, you’re always a mom, even when your own kids are old. You’ll always worry about them. I always come back to the friend of my mom who told me – about a decade ago – that I would never sleep well again because I would always be waiting for a phone call or wondering what they were doing in a far-off city or whatever.

Sigh. I can see how that might happen.

This isn’t a column about worry or sleep, though. My (belaboured) point is that with nearly 10 years in the bag I should really know better by now.

I should know there is absolutely no point in thinking that new recipe you are trying is going to be beloved by all the short people, even if it is little tiny meatballs in a sweet tomato sauce. They like hamburgers. They like ketchup. They’ll love these, right?

You can guess where this is going.

It had been a busy day for domestic activity. I always have a feeling of accomplishment when I get the house cleaned up because a) it is a small house that is very quickly overtaken by clutter and cat hair and b) I did not pass the entrance exam for Martha Stewart’s Basic Housekeeping 101.

Recent floor work in our sun porch meant the contents of said area had been moved into our dining room. Last week we finally got everything shuffled back out to the sun porch and I was feeling quite pleased about things looking somewhat presentable again.

So on that day I was busy trying to keep up appearances, while navigating the usual mounds of laundry and heaps of dishes.

Meanwhile, Boychild had friends over, and to avoid the continuation of a very vocal boys-against-girl war, I extracted Girlchild from the melee and we made cookies.

Even with all that I had time to construct the new meatball concoction. It would be so great!

The recipe made tonnes and, because I was absolutely convinced this would become a Beloved and Cherished Family Recipe™, I was happy with the volume since that would mean I could freeze leftovers and be a step ahead with a homemade meal at some future rushed time.

As it baked in the oven it smelled as good as I expected. The kids peered in and voiced their approval. All seemed destined for success.

Until they sat down and took the first bite.

“No offence, Mom, but I don’t like this,” said Girlchild. She thought the sauce, which was sparse on her plate, tasted too much like barbecue sauce. Until now I didn’t realize that would be a problem, as usually barbecue sauce is on the “safe” list.

Even though I billed them as being “little hamburgers in sweet ketchup” (because it’s all about the marketing, you know), Boychild, my ketchup liker, didn’t like. This is the same child who said just the other day: “Oh man! We’re out of broccoli!” And he loves mushrooms. I kid you not.

At least Groom-boy liked it. He even had seconds. My make-ahead meals went to grandparents.

I couldn’t help but be annoyed and disappointed because, of course, after all the preparation there was much whining about the meal and oh the hunger and so on.

Groom-boy commenced a rant about Fatness and Diabetes and Scurvy and the Scourge of Eating Too Much Pasta. “What DO you people like?” he asked. I disappeared into my office to write an inspired column. I really like pasta, but it didn’t really seem like the right time to defend it.

It is somewhat of a personal mission for me to continue to try new recipes in the faint hope they can be added to the repertoire. Perhaps in future I will a) remember to lower my expectations and b) remind myself that my mother told me, after I left for university, that she was so sick of corn she would probably never eat it again.

I look forward to exercising my palate in about another decade….

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 1/11

Past Deadline: No Dust for Christmas

2011-12-06T00:00:00.001-05:00

In a month it will be Christmas.

For so many reasons I won’t be ready. As usual. This year, in addition to just falling behind in general, it appears likely I will also be hopelessly lost when it comes to knowing the Latest Trends in Christmas Gifts™.

One night last week Groom-boy went to great pains to explain to me he would be later getting home because a certain store was having a door-crasher special or whatever that would get us a sweet deal on a thingy that Girlchild was wanting if he showed up at precisely a certain time.

“A what?” I asked dimly.

He repeated the name of the thingy, which I won’t repeat here because a) she can read now and b) I can’t remember it anyway.

“Oh yeah,” I said distractedly. “And what is that again?”

He explained what the thingy does, which then rang vague bells as something she wants.

A few days after the secret caper, Groom-boy said something to me about the toy. I looked at him blankly before the hamster in that part of my brain finally kicked in and the creaky wheels began to grind into life.

Oh, the details to remember.

Years ago, when watching TV, Girlchild would say “I’m so getting that!” every time a commercial tickled her fancy. It became a big joke around our house. Now things are a little more calculated/negotiated on our kids’ parts, but there are still an awful lot of coveted items.

You know, our grandparents used to be happy about getting oranges for Christmas.

These days it seems as if we are made to feel that if we don’t go into debt for Christmas then we are personally responsible for sending the world economy to the brink.

Our kids – and we – have too much stuff. Getting stuff isn’t even meaningful a lot of the time. Even though, technically, we only have ourselves to blame for that, it’s a hard thing to prevent in a world driven by consumerism.

These are heavy thoughts to be thinking at a time when we are supposed to be infused with the spirit of giving, which so often translates into the spirit of spending. Three cheers for the economy – hip, hip, cha-ching!

Groom-boy said that as he waited to get Girlchild’s thingy, he and the other patrons joked about how they had become “those parents” – the ones who stand in long lines to get their kids the latest most fabulous thingy that only costs a few dollars more at the store down the street and that will probably be gathering dust in a few months anyway.

People, dust is a terrible thing and must be stopped.

Also terrible is this constant desire for stuff brought on by the brainwashing from the Holy Church of Consumerism. Even though they don’t get something every time we go to a store, our kids seem to think they should. They definitely have received things at more frequent and random intervals than I ever did as a child. In those days Christmas and birthdays were the principle toy-getting times.

Teaching our kids they have to earn an allowance to have money to buy things on their own has helped a little, but there is still this “need” for stuff.

I’m set to go all Role Model™ this Christmas. I don’t particularly need or want anything this year, so I think I will encourage gifts to charity instead or maybe giving something from the heart, such as cookies made from scratch or a craft that took some time to create. I’m not sure how long it will take to get the message across – maybe years? But it’s a start.

And this is not an entirely selfless act, anyway. After all, when you accumulate stuff you have to dust it, and that is something at which I do not excel. So less dusting is a fine gift.

I’m not saying some of the latest in thingies won’t be showing up under our tree this year because that would be really hard to process for certain people, but I definitely don’t mind being an example.

Sorry, economy. Not sorry, dust.

Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 24/11

Past Deadline: To Tolerate Tolorate

2011-12-05T23:53:00.001-05:00

Every day I walk by a bulletin board in front of a church that features interesting quotes. The quotes change every couple of weeks or so and are always a good read.

Often they are inspirational or compelling or worth a chuckle – “Be the change you want to see in the world” kind of stuff.

I am really puzzling over the current one, however: “You can never change what you tolorate.”

“Tolorate”?

I cringe every time I pass it because I have great difficulty tolerating spelling errors. Did they spell “tolerate” incorrectly on purpose to prove a point? Do they know writer-types walk by on a regular basis and this is some sort of test? Are they hiding inside watching to see how long it will be before I crack and stick a little Post-It Note on the glass with the word “TOLERATE” scrawled in red pen?

This is just my initial reaction to the sign. You have no idea how much time I have spent contemplating its meaning as I pass by.

Spelling issues aside, I tend to disagree with the statement. I think lots of people change what they tolerate. Usually this comes from the fact they increase their understanding of something they couldn’t tolerate previously.

Maybe, for example, they used to hate people who have purple hair. Once they come to realize that people with purple hair are really no different than anyone else, it can be argued they have increased tolerance.

Sometimes it comes from experience. I like to think, for instance, I re-evaluated my tolerance of pain after having my first kid. People get used to things…and they can tolerate them more.

If you go right back to the definition of “tolerate” (as distinct from the non-existent “tolorate”), it tells you something. It means to “allow the existence, practice or occurrence of; to endure or allow with patience, leniency or understanding; to sustain or endure (pain suffering, etc.); to be capable of continued subjection to (a drug, radiation, etc.) without harm.”

I’m not sure if I should commend myself for not rushing over to the sign with my Post-It Note or not. Is tolerating this spelling error a good thing or is it just showing that I am “sustaining and enduring suffering” because I suspect there may be a philosophical message behind this spelling error?

(Note: to any of my students who may be reading this, my tolerance of spelling errors in submitted assignments is definitely lower than it is in this example.)

Ahem.

Indeed, “tolerate” is an interesting word – and it goes from one extreme to another. In fact, when we “preach tolerance,” what exactly are we saying? Well, obviously, it depends upon the context. I guess in my head I have always seen tolerance as a good thing – something that open-minded people do – but it can also be a bad thing.

We can tolerate bullying, but we shouldn’t.

We can tolerate spelling errors, but that leads to a society rife with sloppiness. (Except, of course, in this case, where it is stimulating discussion.)

One of the other reasons I decided to devote a column to this subject was the story that surfaced in Ottawa last week about the singing OC Transpo driver.

For years, a bus driver on a route from downtown to Barrhaven has been belting out tunes as he drives. Well, amid all the kudos over time came a number of complaints, and the OC Transpo managers have asked him to stop.

It reminds me of the part in Monty Python and the Holy Grail when the King of Swamp Castle has to repeatedly tell his son Herbert to stop singing. “Stop that! Stop that! You’re not going into a song while I’m here!”

I can understand if the guy was a really terrible singer, but most accounts seem to indicate the opposite.

It is a sad reflection on our times that people cannot tolerate a singing bus driver.

Sometimes it’s okay to “allow the existence, practice or occurrence” of something you may not necessarily love.

This is why I will “allow patience, leniency and understanding” when it comes to “tolorate.” Nevertheless, I hope the sign changes soon before I lose my mind.

Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 17/11

Past Deadline: Retraining Wonky Ankles

2011-12-05T23:50:00.001-05:00

The good news is I no longer feel compelled to cut off my right foot.

The bad news is I still spend way more time thinking about my feet than I would like.

Back in September, I wrote about how my right ankle had basically given up on me.

It all started with nagging pain in August. Over a period of several weeks, despite rest, ice, tensor bandages and elevation, it grew progressively worse. It burned and twinged and throbbed and felt as if someone were squeezing it with a vice. That was when I was sitting down – standing and walking were much less fun. Even swimming was painful.

My doctor referred me to physiotherapy, which became my happy place. My physiotherapist took my poor, swollen, red-hot appendage and, over a few weeks, got it back on speaking terms with the rest of my body.

“Baby, you were born this way,” she said with a smile, while marveling over the fact I actually ran on those feet. I credit good shoes.

Turns out I had posterior tibialis tendonitis in the right foot, which is a fancy way of saying my tendon was very angry. My arch had collapsed onto said tendon, which is as painful as it sounds. The ligaments were none too pleased about the situation, either.

Inflammation, much? Ice became my best friend.

My physiotherapist explained I have “severe biomechanical failure” in my feet. My ankles tilt in. Things aren’t lined up properly and probably never were. It seems it is a miracle I have not had foot problems before now.

How do we fix these wonky ankles? Custom orthotics!

I am now the proud owner of an expensive set of casts that not only produced inserts for my shoes, but can also be used as weapons or a dandy set of paperweights.

The inserts are now busily retraining my feet. Although I have been told by many that orthotics are just the bestest most awesomest things ever (or as my son would say, “epic!”), I have also been suitably forewarned they take some getting used to.

Indeed.

Basically, orthotics position your feet so they work the way they should, which feels weird when you’ve been walking on them the wonky way for 40 years.

The process makes your feet a whole new kind of tired as you find all sorts of little muscles that may never have been used properly before.

In fact, when my orthotics specialist explained how to ease into the wearing of them, he said I would need double the normal time. I am just that special.

So instead of wearing them for one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon on the first day, then two and two on the second, etc., I had to do each increment over two days.

How could I have lived so long with such crazy feet without knowing it? It makes me wonder what else I don’t know about myself. (I know about the crazy hair, at least.)

After a couple of weeks I am pleased to report that, despite the onerous process, I think I am starting to notice a difference.

My ankle still yells at me sometimes, but it’s not as violently angry. Both feet get tired, but that matches the rest of me.

My orthotics guy said that after a few months I will suddenly realize the bad days are much further and farther between. I look forward to it.

Not only that, but both he and my physiotherapist have suggested I may be able to run again – someday – as long as I don’t rush it. No worries. I am happy that I can sometimes walk without pain now, so I have no plans to hinder progress.

Oh, but I sure miss my head-clearing runs.

Even though I embraced cycling as a means to get around town without having to put weight on my foot, I have had a hard time getting past the “I am going to die” feeling that set in after I flipped off my bike in Grade 12 and landed in the hospital.

I’ll keep working at it, but so far biking doesn’t do much to clear my head – and concussions don’t count.

Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 10/11

Past Deadline: You Want Me to What?

2011-11-04T19:01:00.001-04:00

Okay. Here’s something weird.

One evening last week I was scrambling (that’s not the weird part) to finish work and shovel through the kitchen in order to start supper.

Of course the doorbell rang. It always does when you are scrambling.

When the doorbell rings at suppertime I always take a deep breath and steel myself to say “No, thank you!” to someone trying to sell me something energy related. (I have learned it is easier to say no to an energy guy up front than it is to say no later.)

Anyway, I opened the door with, I presume, my best scowly face on. There were two teenaged girls standing there. One was holding a box of chocolate Pop Tarts. Must be a school fundraiser, I thought.

I opened the door. One girl smiled and said something like, “Okay…this is going to sound like a really weird question, but could you toast a couple of these for us?”

Huh?

“We won’t come into your house,” she continued, “but we’re stuck in Perth and we’re hoping someone could toast these for us.”

I honestly don’t remember my exact initial response, but it was something like, “Really?”

Meanwhile, my brain was spinning. I tend to be a charming combination of completely gullible mixed with incredibly suspicious (that last part comes from my dad, the retired conservation officer, I think), which means I do my best analysis of a situation after it is over.

I looked at the girls, who were polite, smiling and did not seem intoxicated or stoned. I tentatively crossed “home invasion” off my mental list, but kept “scam?” highlighted for the moment.

Really, though, my prevailing thought was: “How can I say no to such nerve?”

I shrugged. “Okay. I guess so,” I said.

They smiled and thanked and I took the box into the kitchen while they waited on the porch, door closed.

Girlchild, who had been hovering nearby during the exchange, was quite intrigued by the whole thing. “Can I go and see if they are still there?” she asked.

I was busy fiddling with the unopened box and preparing to get toasting. “Okay,” I said absently. (It later occurred to me that I should probably add “kidnapping?” to my list.)

Meanwhile, the girls had a grand chat. They complimented Girlchild on our Halloween decorations (which I figure may have attracted them to the house to begin with – it is obviously child friendly). They also discussed how good my spaghetti sauce smelled. “Your mom must be a good cook,” one of the girls said.

Despite the blatant flattery, I didn’t invite them in for supper.

I loaded the two Pop Tarts onto paper towels and returned to the door. A third girl had materialized – perhaps she was shy and hid behind a tree at first? I didn’t take time to toast a third one.

They thanked and I asked why they were “stranded” in Perth and the spokesperson explained something about having to go work and then youth group (or vice versa), so I got the idea they were between gigs. Anyway, they wandered off, munching on warm chocolate Pop Tarts.

So weird.

As a teenager, I never would have had the nerve to walk up to a stranger’s door – even a friendly looking stranger – and ask them to toast Pop Tarts for me. I would have eaten them cold. And I would have walked uphill both ways in the snow in bare feet…yadda yadda yadda.

To be honest, I still can’t decide whether I admire them for having the nerve to ask or am flabbergasted by their boldness. Maybe a bit of both.

I have since learned they visited at least one other neighbour on their quest, and were turned down.

So it doesn’t appear as if they were scoping the joint or invading the home or kidnapping the children or running a scam. Maybe it was a dare? Or a psychological experiment for a high school class? Or a random-act-of-kindness survey?

I have no idea. Whatever it was, I suppose it’s kind of neat that they felt comfortable enough in this little town to reach out to a stranger for…um…the use of a toaster.

Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 3/11

Past Deadline: Thanks for Calling, But....

2011-11-04T18:58:00.001-04:00

I want to preface this column by saying I really like the office administrators at my kids’ school. They are friendly, efficient, organized and generally wonderful.

That said, when the phone rings and the school number comes up on the call display, I don’t particularly want to talk to them.

Usually I would much rather dive under my desk and slap my hands over my ears. Nice. Dark and quiet.

Except those clever office administrators have my cell number, too, and they know how to use it. Often they call it first, and I will be caught somewhere with no desk for diving. If it weren’t for the fact I love Mr. George BlackBerry, executive assistant, I would be inclined to fling the phone into the bushes when they call.

Why so tense? Well, I would love to be able to say they are calling to tell me that one or both of my children have been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize or that they have been selected to be honorary chairs of a special philanthropic children’s foundation or even that they won a prize or some such glorious thing.

I am grateful, at least, they have not, so far, called to say my children have been expelled.

I think they have me on speed dial anyway, and the reason they do is because Germ Season™ has begun.

Sigh.

One of my kids (the one who is not crazy about school) occasionally falls victim to illnesses that feature ambiguous symptoms. This leaves me guessing as to the veracity of the claim, thus throwing me into turmoil: am I an uncaring mother who lacks sympathy for her child who is actually sick or simply a frazzled mother who is trying to work and has reason to be suspicious?

Either scenario is undesirable.

There are few other phone numbers that cause me such angst. Sometimes when they pop up I am tempted to dive under the desk. Usually I don’t though, because I don’t fit very well underneath. And it’s dusty under there. It’s just easier to answer the phone if I am in its vicinity.

I am cautious with unknown numbers, however. I sometimes hate talking to strangers. It’s one of the reasons I left reporting – so many strange people. I mean strangers.

Anyway, back to unknown numbers. There’s just something so darned unknown about them, don’t you find? Somehow my spirit of adventure (chortle) is not ignited by the mystique of answering mystery phone numbers.

After all, it could be a salesperson or a scammer or someone offering me something free that isn’t really free. Will I get trapped into answering questions for a survey that is “only going to take a couple of minutes, ma’am,” but ends up taking 20 minutes right at supper? Am I going to be tricked into revealing my social insurance number and bank account info and mother’s maiden name because I have trouble saying no?

Better to dive under the desk, I say. If it’s important they will leave a message.

(Okay… so if you ever call me and I don’t answer are you going to be imagining me checking messages while cowering under my desk? Hehehe.)

Ahem.

Sometimes you get to recognize unknown numbers, thereby making them somewhat known, and can still confirm they are Big Trouble™.

This is true when Utah calls (No offence, Utah.)

Regular readers may remember I wrote a year ago about getting to know all of the many numbers associated with a collection agency in Utah. I wrote them all down when they popped up in the middle of the night so I could call to lodge various complaints.

They were trying to send a fax to our phone line, and we finally figured out the fax they were trying to reach was one number off of ours.

It was definitely a relief to get that sorted out. As much fun as that was, I don’t miss the heart-pounding middle-of-the-night wake-up calls.

Similarly, as awesome as they are, I would much rather chat with the office administrators when I pick up the kids after a full, healthy day at school.

Here’s hoping! Germ season is only just beginning….

Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 27/11

Past Deadline: The Semantics of Nuttiness

2011-11-04T18:54:00.002-04:00

I think there’s something in the water at the CBC.

In the last couple of weeks, there seems to have been an epidemic of blurting and rudeness leading to two commentators becoming news items.

First is Don Cherry. I know. It’s a shock. (Caution: sarcasm!) I have to admit, I am not a Don Cherry follower. This is largely because he hurts my eyes. And my ears. Oh, and I don’t watch a lot of hockey (I know – I am a freak).

Nevertheless, his recent bungling during his Coach’s Corner segment transcended the world of sports and made news, so I couldn’t help but notice. The incident involved comments he made about three hockey players who were previously “enforcers” – or fighters.

It took me a while to figure out what exactly was going on, but I came to understand he was accusing certain former fighters of no longer condoning fighting. He called them names.

The accused players denied it, and the scandal grew because Cherry’s first attempt at an apology focused on the fact he used the word “pukes,” not that he made incorrect statements.

Meanwhile, I was having a hard time trying to understand why anyone would be mad that people weren’t condoning fighting (see above: don’t watch much hockey), especially in an era when there is much more awareness of the long-term negative effects of concussions.

I think part of the problem is that I never got a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em video for Christmas. You know – Don Cherry’s popular video series, complete with hits and fights. Ahem.

I am now returning to my ambivalence towards Don Cherry. Besides, he has since issued a new-and-possibly-improved apology (depending on what the lawyers think).

Since I am totally on a roll for making comments about things that I am probably taking out of context, I next draw our attention to a show I never watch, but that has been making a significant blip in social media circles.

Someone sent me a clip from The Lang & O’Leary Exchange. Hosted by Amanda Lang and Kevin O’Leary, the show is intended to “take you inside the world of business with thought-provoking coverage and insights that draw on [the hosts’] own deep experience and expertise.”

Sounds intelligent enough.

The show draws some big names in the business world. On Oct. 6, the guest was Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist/writer Chris Hedges, who appeared in order to talk about the Occupy Wall Street movement.

There has been a lot of chatter about this huge and growing call for change, which some say lacks leadership and has not done much to provide an effective message and solutions.

O’Leary made this point, too, running down the protesters and the movement. Hedges, who is not one of the organizers, disagreed and suggested the protesters know exactly what they want, which is “to reverse the corporate coup that’s taken place in the United States, that’s rendered the citizenry impotent.”

O’Leary countered with: “Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but you sound like a left-wing nut bar.”

Ha! But don’t take it the wrong way because “nut bar” is totally a term of endearment. (Sarcasm alert.) I love it.

Everyone knows when someone says “don’t take this the wrong way,” there’s a pretty good chance you’re going to either

a) Take it the wrong way or

b) Be insulted.

Hedges said he doesn’t usually appear on shows that “descend to character assassination” then compared the CBC to Fox News. And when he reminded O’Leary that he had just called him a “nut case,” O’Leary corrected him and said he called him a “nut bar.”

Nice. You want to be perfectly clear on that point. There’s a HUGE difference between a nut case and a nut bar. (Sarcasm! Again!)

In the end, the seemingly less-hostile co-host, Lang, thanked Hedges for appearing on the show. Hedges whipped out his earpiece and growled, “It will be the last time.”

Smack!

Maybe I don’t get out much, but I found the whole thing to be:

a) Really surprising for the CBC.

b) Very funny in a disturbing way.

I wonder if someone spiked the coffee at the CBC with grumpy pills. Hopefully there is an antidote before more nut bar/nut case-ish blurting takes place.

Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 20/11

Past Deadline: Catching a Train

2011-10-15T21:21:00.000-04:00

Help. I am trapped in a nostalgia bubble and I can’t get out.

I blame the trains. (And the fact I had to come up with a column idea earlier than usual because of Thanksgiving. Ideas need time to grow in my tiny little head.)

Some of you may have noticed a slight (ha!) traffic disruption in town last week due to the work being done on the railroad tracks. Basically, if you didn’t leave a day early for an appointment across town, there was a good chance you would be late.

Okay. I am exaggerating. A little.

One of the contributing factors to the car traffic being backed up from the tracks on Wilson Street all the way to Rideau Ferry (again with the exaggeration, sort of) was the fact the trains were moving very slowly as they passed through town because of the track work. And there was no shortage of trains travelling at about Warp Negative Five, let me tell ya!

This gave many travellers lots and lots of time to enjoy the drawings and sayings scrawled across the freight cars as they waited at crossings.

It also made me feel a little nostalgic for simpler times. (Times when I didn’t drive much.) Yes, slow-moving trains can do that for me.

A few (snort!) years ago when I was about 17, I worked at the now-demolished Burger King restaurant on Hwy. 7. It was situated very close to the railroad tracks. We would have to shut off the drive-thru speakers when a train went by or else we would be deafened by the roar.

Whenever there was work on the tracks the trains would slow down. I remember standing at the back delivery door sometimes and watching the big, lumbering freights as they crept past.

At that time I was a Restless Teenager™ who was eager to flee Perth and discover the world (possibly to save it), and I would imagine jumping on one of those slow-moving freights and heading as far west as it would take me. (Havelock?)

One of the things that stopped me (besides having an overdeveloped sense of guilt/responsibility), was the fact I would have been wearing my oh-so-glamorous red and blue polyester Burger King uniform, and that didn’t really fit the image I wanted to portray. I was thinking more along the lines of ripped jeans and jean jacket, ball cap and grubby khaki backpack. You know, a la Sullen Restless Teenager™.

So because it’s all about image and perception (not to mention fear of death), I would adopt the appropriate level of sullenness and return to my shift, continuing to daydream about escape routes and worldly travels while making Whoppers or mopping floors or taking orders at drive-thru.

That never happens anymore. Ahem. Okay, well, if it does it’s while I’m dispensing snacks and mopping floors and taking orders in the kitchen at home. At least I’m not wearing a polyester uniform at this point.

There has been a lot of talk lately by friends of mine who are in or nearing this pesky fourth decade (the era when severe biomechanical failures catch up to you, apparently) that we have to seize the day! And live in the moment! And life is short! And do it now! And this is not a dress rehearsal! Etc.

This always leaves me feeling unnerved and panicky. What am I supposed to be doing NOW? Will I need to get a sitter for the kids?

So I’m thinking, well, maybe I oughta add “jump on a freight train” to my bucket list. After all, I have friends who are jumping out of planes and getting coveted degrees and learning how to fly and so on.

Of course, jumping on and off a freight train is not only irresponsible, dangerous and illegal (gotta be a role model, you know), but also perilous when one has an unreliable ankle. I would probably land on the wrong foot, crumple to the ground and get rolled over by a boxcar.

So perhaps I would be better off snagging a ticket on a passenger train.

I could step carefully on and off.

Besides, there are snacks.

It’s all about the snacks, you know.

Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 13/11

Past Deadline: Snack Lady Leaves Town

2011-10-15T21:09:00.000-04:00

I got to go to a conference last week.

I say “got to” with immense pleasure because even though it was work-related, it felt a tiny bit like a vacation.

The conference took place in a hotel several hours away, and you know what that means, right?

Someone else prepared and served the food.

Someone else did the dishes.

Someone else made the bed.

Someone else did the laundry.

And I didn’t pack any clutter. There was no clutter!

When I go away, there’s a bunch of stuff that has to be done at home in my absence. You know, such as feeding cats and feeding children and making their lunches for school and helping them with their homework. I wouldn’t begin to suggest that I am the only one who ever does this stuff but, um, I am usually the one who does this stuff.

This is kinda sneaky (so don’t tell anyone), but I kinda like going away so that other people might notice that there is no magical fairy who does this rather unavoidable necessities-of-life kind of stuff. I have a funny feeling I am not the only mother who has ever felt this way.

On the first night I had some work to do, so I hunkered down in my hotel room with my laptop and got right to it. It was strange. There were no interruptions. No one asked for snacks. No one needed anything.

It was…quiet! (Gasp!) Blissfully quiet.

It’s interesting that I refer to the quiet in this way because the hotel is situated right next to Pearson International Airport (Toronto), so it wasn’t exactly silent. I could hear the planes quite regularly, but they were muted and muffled and the passengers were not asking me for snacks.

The whole next day was taken up by numerous instructional sessions and speeches punctuated very regularly by breaks for food. There was a lot of sitting and eating and herding and sitting and eating. It was good, though, because I learned a lot and met some nice people and ate good food and someone else did the dishes and no one asked me to get them a snack.

After about 12 hours of alternately sitting and eating, I hobbled back to my room. (My sore ankle enjoyed the sitting, but the associated knee protested against the lack of movement by snapping and grinding every time I had to walk a few metres. I am hoping it was just a fluke.)

My room was lovely and quiet. I watched things that weren’t SpongeBob or iCarly. At one point I turned the TV and the lights off and tried to capture video of the planes flying past my window to send home to the people who ask for snacks. And I read a book...with no interruptions!

I called home each night and spoke to people who seemed genuinely interested in talking to me (absence makes the heart grow fonder).

The best part, though, was the message I got from Groom-boy the second night, which basically said: “Lunches made, homework done, kids tucked in, three loads of laundry done, kitty barf cleaned up. Oh, and one of the cats is upset with you and is leaving surprises under your desk. All this being said, you have to come home tomorrow.”

Hehehe. “Some fun, huh Bambi?” I replied.

Upon my return children ran gleefully in the door shouting, “Mommy!” Then they asked for snacks.

The gift-leaving cat stopped leaving deposits under my desk, but has been seeking out my lap every time I sit down, even a few days after my return. This is odd because he tends to be Groom-boy’s cat.

Groom-boy has decided he makes better lunches than I do. I have decided if he keeps talking about it, the job is his. Girlchild is adamant Mom’s lunches are better because Dad put her sandwich in the wrong packaging – a sandwich baggie, not waxed paper. (Oh, the insult!) Boychild, the future diplomat, looked at us both and said he likes both styles the same. Smart fella.

It’s nice to come home after being somewhere where other people look after you. It almost makes one feel ready to start doling out snacks again.

Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 6/11

Past Deadline: The Perils of Change

2011-10-15T21:00:00.001-04:00

Change is part of life. That doesn’t mean we have to like it, though, and I think most people don’t. Perhaps some more than others.

I tend to be set in my ways. I like things to be “just so.” No kidding. If you don’t believe me, you can even ask Groom-boy, who has been on the receiving end of many a related growl. (Aside: this hasn’t stopped me from complaining about the way some things never change, however.)

I am so set in my ways that sometimes I am a bit slow to recognize when a change might be a really good thing.

For example, I distinctly remember when Boychild was just a wee guy that it took me forever to realize the reason he might not be sleeping well at night was probably because he was napping too much during the day. Changing his nap routine affected my routine during the day and it was annoying, but bedtime sure went better.

I don’t know for sure if I am finding change easier or harder as I get older. I suppose it depends on what the change is.

Here’s another example. A beloved supervisor for one of my 72 jobs (okay...I am exaggerating…I only have about 17 jobs) recently left to pursue new adventures. I could have thrown myself down on the floor and had an all-out tantrum or, at least, sat in the corner to weep inconsolably, but I didn’t.

It’s not because I don’t think she’s awesome and that I won’t miss her, and it’s not that I didn’t suggest (over and over) that she should stay. It’s just that she’s moving on to a cool opportunity and adventure and, for once, my happiness for her exceeded my dislike of change.

Wow. Coolio. That almost makes me sound super mature (for a change)!

Really, though, what are you gonna do? Change happens. Sometimes it’s good and we like it, often it’s yucky and unwelcome. Usually you can’t prevent it.

I have learned some change isn’t worth hysteria. Construction and its inconvenience? Why bother freaking out? Besides, doesn’t Wilson Street look lovely now?

One of the grocery stores in town recently renovated and changed a bunch of stuff around. Now I know we all like to wander into grocery stores on autopilot and go straight to our favourite comfort foods, but is it worth getting all bent out of shape if you can’t find your Mr. Noodles without asking?

Cashiers get a lot of abuse at the best of times. I know this because I did my fair share in retail when I was a student. I had one snobby lady throw avocadoes at me one day because I was having trouble correcting an error on the cash register. She called me “stupid,” too, before storming out of the store, which was awesome.

That lady is just one of the reasons I believe a three-month stint in retail should be mandatory before graduation so people learn how to treat others.

Now here’s something that’s causing a big ripple in the social media world – Facebook’s new layout. It’s some crazy stuff, people. Things have been rearranged and people are outraged by the change. There are online petitions and Angry Facebook Groups and diatribes to post online and so on. And on. And on.

And then a friend of mine posted a little thing on Facebook that said: “I am appalled that the free service that I am in no way obligated to use keeps making changes that mildly inconvenience me.”

Ah, perspective. Get some!

Anyway, I am not going to let it be The End of the World™ because a store has been rearranged, nor blow a gasket over the new arrows on Wilson Street (drivers’ ed taught me how to follow arrows in 1987), nor am I going to flip out because it is taking me longer than usual to goof off on Facebook.

Life is short. Pick your battles. The funny thing about change is that most of the time you can eventually get used to it, and when you can’t, you can eat chocolate.

If you can’t find the chocolate in the grocery store, just ask someone. Nicely.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 29/11

Past Deadline: Epic Appendage Malfunction

2011-10-15T20:55:00.001-04:00

I am getting a crash course about ankles because one of my ankles has, well, crashed.

Sometime in early August I began to notice pain in my right ankle. I couldn’t pinpoint it to a particular incident, and I wasn’t too concerned because I have always had what I affectionately call “wonky ankles.”

I used to go over on them a lot as a kid. One time, in the early days of courtship, an ankle buckled as I walked across a downtown street with Groom-boy. So graceful. “What are you doing?” he laughed. (Not: “Are you okay?”)

Throughout August the pain got worse. Ice, heat and ibuprofen didn’t help. I couldn’t walk without pain and certainly couldn’t run. Even at rest it twinged and ached and burned and it sometimes felt as if someone was tightening a vice around my lower calf. It even hurt to the touch.

While on vacation I spent some time consulting Dr. Google. My symptoms did not sound like a sprain, but more like a tendon problem. So I followed the RICE advice: Rest, Ice, Compression (tensor) and Elevate.

It still felt awful, so as soon as we got home I finally (stubborn, much?) made a doctor’s appointment.

“Get ye to a physiotherapist!” he said. Okay, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but physio was one of several courses of action he initiated.

The physiotherapist, meanwhile, took one look at my appendages and said, “You have been RUNNING on those feet?”

She set to work on my poor bedraggled right ankle to reduce the swelling and inflammation, and she took some measurements that, in layman’s terms, indicated my left foot is wonky and my right foot is almost twice as bad.

The working theory at this point is that my right ankle is afflicted with posterior tibialis tendonitis (fancy, eh?) and the long arch is collapsing onto the tendon. The tendon is angry and it is annoying the ligaments, too.

Sounds painful.

This has all been brought on by a “severe biomechanical failure” in my feet, which is fancy talk for the aforementioned “wonky ankles.”

Thing is, other than the occasional awkward moment on downtown streets, I have never really had any trouble with them.

It was, apparently, only a matter of time, which is one more reason why turning 40 has been So Much Fun.

A couple of years ago when I became interested in running, right off the bat I got a good pair of shoes. As I walked across the floor at the shop to have my gait assessed, I was asked, “Has anyone ever talked to you about orthotics?”

No one had, until that day. Perhaps I should have taken that as a hint, but when I put on those wonderful silver and red shoes – my “Rocket Shoes” (I name most inanimate objects) – it felt as if I were walking on clouds, so I didn’t really give it much thought after that. (Thank you, Mary!)

I’m sorry, ankles. I am a moron.

My physiotherapist (who still can’t believe I ever ran) tells me I probably would have been there two years sooner if it weren’t for those shoes.

I am afraid to ask her if I will ever run again.

It turns out my Google research wasn’t far off. I was on the right track with RICE, but needed to turn up the volume, especially with the ice. Now that I know this, it seems to be helping.

The swelling has gone down a bit, so now if I look at my feet in a mirror I can actually see how my right ankle sags. It looks depressed.

It definitely hates me.

I’m hoping orthotics will work like flowers and candy so that we can be friends again.

In the meantime, I am trying to find ways to stay off my feet without becoming sedentary.

For starters, I have pumped up my bicycle’s tires so that I can get around without actually, you know, walking.

I am not an avid cyclist, so I feel awkward. Whenever I ride my bike the “Miss Gulch” theme from The Wizard of Oz runs through my head. Does that make me a witch?

My ankles probably think so, my pretties.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 22/11

Past Deadline: A Day We Will Never Forget

2011-09-14T21:31:00.001-04:00

I didn’t set out to write about 9/11 this week, but then the airwaves became saturated with 10-year anniversary material and it got stuck in my head.

I don’t like the feeling I get when I watch those images from a decade ago, and as they played over and over as part of the anniversary, it cemented the fact I don’t need to see them to remember exactly how I felt that day.

It’s important to officially acknowledge the day, certainly. I think, though, we carry the aftermath of 9/11 with us every day. I don’t think I could forget how it changed the way I look at the world if I tried.

I was about six months pregnant with my first child on Sept. 11, 2001. Back then, one of my many hats was that of proofreader on Mondays and Tuesdays at The Perth Courier.

Things were trucking merrily along on that bright sunny day when one of our advertising staff walked in the back door and announced he had just heard on his car radio that a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City.

At first we found it hard to believe. It was stunning. The scope of the situation eluded us for a while.

We tried to work while finding out as much as we could about what was happening. Ten years ago our Internet was pretty slow and all the news sites were slammed, so no one could get a really good idea of what was going on – not that the networks knew for sure, anyway. The details were sketchy, but the news was grim.

The second tower was hit. And the Pentagon. And a field in Pennsylvania.

At one point the prevailing rumour was that dozens of hijacked planes were in the air and that the borders were closing.

That’s when I started to feel scared. This is Canada. Our borders don’t close. And Perth is pretty close to the nation’s capital – could we be next?

My shift at the paper finished around noon and I hurried home to switch on the news, seeing live images for the first time along with the horrifying replays. It brought me to tears.

I think the image that sticks with me the most, even though I didn’t see it live, was the dreadful moment when the second plane hit and it became perfectly clear – as the world watched – that the first plane was no accident. The United States was under attack and thousands of people were dying.

The other unforgettable image is of the poor victims who fell – or chose to jump – from those fiery towers. Those innocent people and their terrible choice.

After 9/11 we were told not to be afraid because “then the terrorists would win.” I was certainly afraid that day, and for a long time after. I was afraid of what might happen next. I also felt, like so many others, shock and grief.

Mostly though, as I sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed and watched the news coverage that day, I rubbed my belly and felt my unborn child kick and I worried about the world he or she would face. Would I be equipped to help him or her navigate this troubled planet – a planet I wasn’t sure I understood or knew anymore?

I still don’t know for sure, but I’m trying.

I know my dread of that day is nothing compared to what the victims and their families have experienced. Nor can I claim to have been personally touched by the subsequent war. But what happened on that sunny September day hit close to home physically and emotionally and made the world a different place. Some days we don’t think about it so much, but I’m sure we will always remember.

That day taught us a lot of things. Mingled with the fear, shock and grief were also anger and national pride. We have been so lucky in Canada – and in North America – to know what freedom is. On 9/11, when borders closed and the world changed, I think we learned to appreciate all of that just a little more.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 15/11

Past Deadline: Cue Vacation

2011-09-14T21:30:00.002-04:00

Vacation was a long time coming.

I know some of you could tell.

A lady who lives around the corner from us dropped by one afternoon with a photocopy of a cartoon she loves. It features a haggard-looking woman and says, “When I woke up this morning I had one nerve left, and now you’re getting on it.” She thought I might appreciate it.

I believe I referred to that last nerve in a column in early August. That was many days, hours and minutes ago.

I’m pretty sure the fact I was hanging on by my fingernails in the days and weeks leading up to our holidays was becoming quite obvious.

“Hope you have a really restful vacation,” friends and colleagues would say, gently patting my arm as they backed away slowly with a slight look of fear in their eyes.

It has only been a little more than a year since we’ve had a week’s holidays, but it feels like about 50. We had a weekend away in a hotel earlier in August that served as a dandy bandage to get us to this lovely week.

Due to a variety of work-related circumstances beyond our control, we had to schedule the week at the very end of August.

It’s a scary week, that one, with school starting right after we return. There is much to get organized for the kids, and since I teach part time at the wonderful brand-spanking new Perth campus of Algonquin College, there are last-minute preparations to be made there, too. Courses need to be organized and boxes need to be unpacked.

Still, a holiday is a holiday, and a few unavoidable work commitments (school and other) can be navigated.

Fortunately, we sagely chose to vacation very close to our own backyard.

At the beginning of the summer we reserved a cottage near Perth thinking at the time there was a chance Groom-boy would not be able to book a whole week off. Being close to home would put us within commuting distance, so the rest of the family could hang out at the lake and he could commute to Ottawa by day and enjoy the cottage in the evenings on the days he had to work.

Meanwhile, Miss Work-From-Home (with occasional meetings away from the house) would also be within close proximity of a few commitments.

Even though it would be nice to completely shut everything off and spend the whole week floating on a lake and staring up at the sky, this has been a darned good compromise. We have enjoyed a quaint cottage with lots of fish to catch (probably over and over and over again), good swimming and nice neighbours – one with a friendly dog that likes playing with the kids.

Despite the occasional work-related interruption, there was enough downtime to be able to feel some of the work weariness drift away.

It’s amazing how powerful being outside – in a quiet setting, communing with nature – can be. It’s an excellent way to recharge the batteries.

I also love how much the kids get out of it. The same short people who spend way too much time bartering and bargaining for additional screen time, find hours of enjoyment in looking for frogs and snakes, catching and releasing innumerable sunfish (and their various cousins), paddling around in a dingy, swimming and sliding down a slide on a raft.

Oh, yeah, and all that fresh air and activity tends to make them tired. That kind of tired is sooo goooood!

It makes me sleepy, too, and having that many tired people all in one place tends to bode well for snoozing through the night.

You can’t beat that.

As much as I adore my faithful assistant, Mr. George BlackBerry, I do look forward to having a holiday sometime when I can unplug him completely. I’m sure he would appreciate a break, too.

For now, though, it was grand having him along to keep things on track and – of course – to check weather forecasts up to the minute so we could decide whether to go fishing or swimming or retreat into the cosy cottage to read good books. (Or we could just look out the window, but don’t tell George.)

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 8/11

Past Deadline: On Looking Forward

2011-09-14T21:29:00.003-04:00

On the night of the last federal election, I sat in a pub with a friend and watched wide-eyed as the results rolled in on the big screen.

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement as riding after riding turned NDP orange. It was a phenomenon. It was history in the making. It was something political science and journalism students would be writing essays about for decades.

Jack Layton’s NDP – the new official opposition.

Cool.

Although I am a political junkie, I tend to be very cynical about the whole thing. After all, I worked as a reporter for several years before crossing over to “the dark side” (PR). I know about spin. I know about marketing. I know that successful politicians are often part of a complete package.

Generally, I am not one for hero worship, and I did not expect to find a hero and inspiration in a politician.

But I did.

Many years ago when I was still reporting for this newspaper, a sitting prime minister kicked off an election campaign by making Perth the first stop.

While that in itself is pretty cool, I was more excited about the fact I managed to get some really good photos of the visit than I was about being in proximity of the prime minister.

I would have loved, however, to have met Jack Layton.

I’m not a card-carrying member of any party and I never have been. When I vote, I am usually not voting for a party, but a person. First, I consider who will best represent our riding, but I also consider how that decision will affect the overall outcome – the seat count and who will become prime minister.

It is rarely an easy decision.

Strong PR can win an election, and sometimes the politician behind the spin turns out not to be who you think they are. I think that’s what made Jack a phenomenon: what his PR people dished out to the public could be reconciled with the man himself. He was who he said he was. He acted on the things he said he would and, by all accounts, it seems he treated people well when he did it.

The politics of positivism have been, I think, pretty much unheard of in my time, so Jack’s campaign filled people with a sense of optimism. It represented a change from regular political shenanigans. It was a first step to rising above everything that makes people cynical about politicians.

What a rollercoaster it has been! A meteoric rise to the summit of this hope for positive change, only to plummet into sadness as a man, who many would call a hero, is struck down too soon.

Who could help but be moved by Jack’s final letter – his instructions to his colleagues and Canadians – what Stephen Lewis dubbed his “manifesto for social democracy”? How can we not join this national groundswell to live well by doing good things – big or small – for others?

How can we not? It is the human thing to do – and yet part of Jack’s legacy is to remind us that it needs to be done.

I still marvel about what happened in Canada on election night, and I am amazed (even in this strange era of societal grief-en-masse) by the national outpouring of grief.

I was surprised by my own reaction last Monday morning when I read the “breaking news” banner on my computer that Jack Layton had died. It absolutely ruined my day – my week, actually. I wept for a man I had never met and did not really know.

Are we that starved, as Canadians – as people – for positive thinkers? I think we are.

As I get older I have learned how important it is to surround oneself with positive, constructive people and I struggle every day to be one of them. Life is too short to spend it complaining. If something isn’t working or isn’t right, it is up to us to fix it.

Jack was a positive force who put his words into action and worked joyfully to make the world a better place.

Whether it is through big actions or small, we can – and should – all do the same.

Farewell, Jack, and thank you.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 1/11

Past Deadline: Greenish Thumbs

2011-09-14T21:28:00.002-04:00

In the spring, some classes at Boychild’s school took part in the Junior Gardener’s program.

Members of the Perth and District Horticultural Society visited the classrooms and worked with the students to teach them about gardening.

For several weeks, the students in Boychild’s class took turns bringing home a different house plant. They had to enter information into a journal about the plant and its care, and then they were tasked with keeping it alive for the week.

Fortunately, keeping the plants alive proved to be relatively easy. Remembering to bring them back to school on the appointed day was the hard part.

At the end of the program, we reaped the benefits of the Junior Gardeners’ experience. The kids learned how to pot some plants and had planted seeds, and they brought home their handiwork.

We have a bowl filled with hens and chicks (the plant, not the birds), which now grows prolifically in our kitchen window, and Boychild got to bring home a little goldfish plant.

I have wanted a goldfish plant with the cute orange blossoms for years, so I was pretty happy to see the two little sprigs in a tiny cracked pot (no doubt it had been carted home by more than a few nine year olds over the weeks).

We put it in a pretty new pot and left it on the kitchen table where it would get just the right kind of light.

Unfortunately, it also got just the wrong kind of cat. One of them decided to investigate our work while we were out, and one of the little sprigs did not fare well. The other one got off to a very slow start, but seems to be showing some interest in, you know, growing.

Hurray!

That’s not all. The Junior Gardeners brought home outdoor plants, too.

“What are these?” I asked, knowing the tiny seedlings were either marigolds or tomatoes.

“I dunno.”

“Would they be marigolds?” I said.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Thinking marigolds would look nice in a couple of hanging baskets combined with some of the nasturtium and cosmos seeds that also came home, we set to work and performed the transplant.

Everything grew.

I still haven’t seen any marigolds, but I did (ahem) end up moving several tomato plants out of the hanging baskets and transplanting them into the vegetable garden. Yeah, we’re real horticulturalists over here, for sure.

In addition to the plants and annual seeds, the Junior Gardeners also brought home some vegetable seeds.

Typically at our place we plant a few tomato plants (um, done!), as well as peas, carrots, yellow beans and pumpkins.

The peas and carrots tend to go over well with my vegetable-wary crew, but I end up eating a lot of the yellow beans on my own, and each year I am amazed by how few pumpkins are produced by so many blossoms!

Thanks to the Junior Gardening program (and seeds donated by Home Hardware and Canadian Tire), we had a whole variety of different vegetables to try.

We yielded a couple of nice zucchini before the plant shriveled up when we went away for a few non-rainy days. We have one pumpkin underway so far. We have been munching green beans, which were liked by all, and the “marigold” tomatoes turned out to be cherry – our favourite.

We also got beet seeds, which I had to protect with an elaborate chicken wire-and-stake arrangement to dissuade the local bunnies from eating the tender young leaves. Despite their popularity with the long-eared critters, I suspect I may be the only one eating the root part.

With the addition of our own pea and carrot seeds, we’ve had quite a dandy little harvest over the summer. I even had a little help at times with planting, weeding, watering and picking, so it has been true Family Fun™.

Thanks to the Perth and District Horticultural Society and Stewart School for getting students involved in this program. We have learned lots about plant care, not to mention driving home the message about where our food comes from.

Oh – and if the goldfish plant thrives, it will be a true success story!

Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 25/11

Past Deadline: Are We There Yet?

2011-09-14T21:27:00.000-04:00

When I travel with the kids, I always find myself wondering whether I was just easy to amuse as a child or whether kids are harder to thrill these days.

There’s a strong argument for me being easy to amuse. (That, by the way, is a nice way of calling me simple.) After all, this is the girl who didn’t mind eating hospital food for several days when having babies because someone else made it and cleaned it up. It almost felt like a (painful) holiday.

When travelling on a real holiday in the days before in-car game and video players, I used to amuse myself by – get this – looking out the window.

I know. Ridiculous!

This wild and crazy pastime does not always work so well with my kids.

On the weekend we visited friends in Toronto. We travelled by car and throughout the journey, I would point out all the things that I used to find interesting on the trip. [Cue mediocre enthusiasm.]

I never, for example, grow tired of watching for the blue glimmers of Lake Ontario no matter how often I make the trip. My kids showed mild interest, especially when we explained the same lake goes all the way from Kingston to Toronto and beyond, but I never caught them gazing dreamily towards the water, watching for ships.

Similarly, I always liked travelling Hwy. 401 so I could watch for trains, be they VIA, freight or GO trains. I still like to do that. (Simple, I tell you!) So, of course, I always point out the trains: “Look, kids!” Usually I am ignored. One of these days they will say, “Mom. It’s a train. Get a grip.”

In the city I spotted a train yard, and Girlchild remarked it reminded her of one of her old Thomas the Train stories. That’s something, at least.

We had occasion to pass the airport, which I always find cool. “Look at the planes taking off and landing!” Apparently jet bellies low in the sky are not enthralling. It would seem we can scratch “sitting near the airport to watch planes go by” off our family bucket list.

Then there’s automobiles. We live in a small town, right? Not a lot of traffic. Not a lot of four-lane highways. For us, it’s annoying if “heavy” traffic means it takes us 10 minutes to get across town instead of three.

Cue Toronto, with its express lanes and collectors and traffic jams that leave you parked on a six-lane highway.

These days the short people in our car find the traffic mildly interesting, I think, but when I was a kid it would have been a gold mine. See, on long trips as a kid (I’m sure I have mentioned this before) I used to amuse myself by “collecting” licence plate numbers in a notebook. I had hundreds of them.

Weird little kid.

I’m quite sure I enjoyed traffic jams more as a kid than I do now. Then again, back then they would have impeded our efforts to reach our vacation destination.

Good thing I was easily amused.

I also used to write down the name of every place we drove through. That was a particularly long list when we travelled to Elliot Lake and back when I was 10. I figure Boychild might be ready for a task like that. Maybe if he checked things off on a map he wouldn’t ask “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” so much.

Yeah, right. Kids come programmed to ask those questions.

When all those sure-fire entertainment choices were exhausted, and when my brother and I grew tired of collecting nickels from Mom and Dad for every white horse we saw (there were surprisingly few!) we would turn to another favourite pastime: fighting with each other and/or annoying our parents, often by singing irritating made-up ditties over and over again.

Apparently this never gets old.

It’s safe to say some things never change, and that includes the fact I continue to be easily amused. Give me a comfy chair, a good book, some pretty scenery and a quiet place to sleep and it sounds like a great vacation to me. I’m ready. Bring it.

Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 18/11

Past Deadine: Où est le dictionnaire?

2011-09-14T21:14:00.003-04:00

On Saturday I hung out with about 1,900 cyclists when the Vélo Québec tour hit Perth.

No, I have not switched from running to cycling. I still have left over fear-of-head-trauma-after-Grade-12-cycling incident issues. (You are thinking: “Well THAT explains a few things!”) Besides, it is hard to cycle while wearing a long period costume.

Saturday was a hot humid day to be wearing pioneer garb, so what I lacked in generating heat from exercise, I made up for by wearing heavy clothing. I seem to be drawn to events that require me to wear layers of clothing on hot days (i.e. Kilt Run).

Anyway, I was at Conlon Farm with a group of other intrepid pioneer-garbed volunteers hosting a Friends of Murphys Point booth. We were promoting the many treasures found at the provincial park, including our upcoming Heritage Mica Festival. (It will be chock full of fun stuff during the last two weekends of August and the first two weekends of September.)

Needless to say, we pioneer women stood out amid the cycling shorts and tank tops. We were WAY to conspicuous to sneak into the line-up for the awesome-looking food for the cyclists.

The Vélo Québec tour, by the way, is really something. This renowned bicycle touring organization is a huge production – complete with its own transport truck shower houses, a giant tent for meals, a tent city for sleeping, a stage with entertainment, a luggage truck, a pub tent and bicycle repairs, massage therapists and so much more. The organizers look after everything so the cyclists can concentrate on the business of cycling.

Our booth joined others promoting local tourism, and we had lots of curious cyclists checking us out and talking about our lovely town and area.

At least I’m pretty sure that’s what they were saying.

There was a day when I was reasonably competent in French, but that was a couple of decades ago, and I think it was just one day. Suffice it to say, I am rusty. Comment dites-vous, “rusty”?

Now, si vous parlez lentement, I might be able to smile and nod enthusiastically and actually understand what you are saying, but I have a tough time responding. The vocabulary flies from my head or flops clumsily from my mouth.

Fortunately we had a fluent volunteer on hand (yay Jane!) while I was there, so I could be the smiling nodder. When francophones conversed with The Fluent One, I could get at least the gist of the conversation – and sometimes pretty much the whole darned thing!

On my own, though, I would freeze to the point of barely being able to speak English because I was trying so hard to be understood. I am SUCH a dork!

For example, I tried to tell one lady that Murphys Point is a “parc provincial,” but couldn’t pronounce “provincial” all French-like even after three tries. The Fluent One said, “Oh, just say it in English.” I think I could have gotten away with that word.

In fact, when listening to numerous conversations that were “lente” enough, it was easily seen how context and a good accent can make all the difference. I heard The Fluent One telling a man in French that the mica mineral “est fire retardant.” He didn’t blink an eye.

Unfortunately, I have never been convincing with accents, so I am self-conscious about my French pronunciation. It’s so much cooler to freeze and talk like a dork in English instead.

Yeah, as I said, my core French schooling was a long day ago, and with language, you’ve got to lose it or lose it.

It was fun at the Vélo Québec event to scrape off some of that rust and have French dancing through my head again. The cyclists were so gracious and forgiving as we stumbled along. In fact, we heard organizers say it was nice that so many folks in town greeted guests with hearty “bonjours” and “au revoirs.”

Still, I couldn’t help but relax a tiny bit when my “Bonjour!” was greeted with “Hi! I’m from Windsor!”

Congrats to the organizers for this great event, and to the cyclists who have many hundreds of miles yet to go, “Bonne chance!”

Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 11/11

Past Deadline: Random Summer Math

2011-08-06T00:20:00.002-04:00

Three weeks ago – that’s 21 days ago – I wrote a column about working from home while the kids were off for the summer. That was roughly 14 days into the summer holiday.

Here we are, about 22 days in, with about 34 days left to go. That’s 816 hours before school starts. I would go as far as to suggest that 238 of those hours will be spent sleeping, but that’s just crazy talk because everyone knows nobody sleeps that much around here – except maybe Groom-boy. I might be able to snag 170 hours of sleep, which sure sounds like a lot.

Incidentally, there are about 50,000 minutes until school starts, but who’s counting?

I’m not complaining, by the way, I am just doing a little math here. I love math. Really. Ask anyone.

I remember when I was a kid, my mother and her mother (Nanny) used to sometimes head off to Watertown, N.Y. for a week of shopping in the summer. Maybe it was because our dollar was doing really well against the U.S. greenback in those days; I’m not really sure and I haven’t done the research.

I remember my brother and I being intrigued by the fact Dad was doing the cooking. I remember him cooking fish and doing a great job. I remember Mom and Nanny coming back with food products we couldn’t get here and telling us about their motel and what they ate for lunch while hanging out to watch the Y&R. I also remember them telling us about how American restaurants served their lunches on platters and that they probably could have shared one meal and still come away with leftovers.

I don’t remember spending a lot of time dwelling on the fact that Mom and Nanny took off for a week. Maybe I did – I was a worrier and probably needed to know the exact details of the why and how and when.

Seven days away from home – that’s 168 hours. I betcha about 49 of those hours featured uninterrupted sleep. If you tend to eat breakfast, lunch and supper, that’s 21 meals cooked and served by someone else.

That’s zero dishes to wash.

Whoa. Now THAT’s a likeable zero!

Now, I should clarify, I am glad to be able to spend time at home with the kids over the summer, but as we get beyond day 20 and they start to squabble and squeal at each other more often, sometimes my last nerve gets exposed.

That’s never a good thing.

This happens because during summer holidays routines get dishevelled and, well, I am Type A. I like routine. It is hard for me to just go with the flow. I am not the poster child for living in the moment. In fact, my calculations show I can only relax approximately 2 per cent of the time (based on no one’s science but my own).

So, 2 per cent of one hour is 1.2 minutes. That’s 28.8 minutes of every day. This means I’m not even relaxed when I am sleeping, really.

(Psst...you may have not noticed this before, but sometimes I am prone to hyperbole.)

Anyway, this does not bode well for the remaining 34 days. It works out to about 980 minutes of relaxation – a mere 16 hours.

A really good way to throw this math off kilter (besides having me do the calculations), is to add another variable: a vacation.

Good idea! Based on the above, one would assume that vacation should happen pretty much immediately in order to alleviate the relaxation deficit. In fact, it probably should have started about 11 days (264 hours, 15,840 minutes) ago in order to have been super effective and timely.
Except...the raving lunatics in this family (present company included) thought it would be a good idea to wait until the end of August to do it. That’s about 23 days away (552 hours, 33,120 minutes). I will be relaxed for about 11 hours of that time.

Incidentally, that’s about 69 meals left to serve before we go to a cottage where I will be, well, serving more meals – but at least it’s a change of scenery.

Oh and Mom? I totally get it.
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 4/11

Past Deadline: Get a Cool Job

2011-08-06T00:13:00.003-04:00

Last week, as the mercury climbed and the population suffered, it occurred to me there isn’t really a heck of a lot to do when it’s hot. Well, I suppose there is, but there are also a lot of restrictions on things like, well, doing stuff outside.

Okay, I’m exaggerating a little. I mean, people were still going out running when the humidex was in the high 40s. Not me. I wouldn’t do it – not even without a kilt.

I suppose it stands to reason that in a country where we endure extremes, we should be allowed to complain. After all, few countries in the world can boast hitting minus 45C in the winter and plus 45C in the summer.

That’s just annoying.

Some folks spend all winter griping about the cold and the snow, only to spend all summer saying, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

So, even though the weather has cooled a little since last week, I figured it couldn’t hurt to think about some ways to beat the heat should the hot breath of heck blow on us again. Here are some of my ideas:

1. Stay inside. It’s a yucky idea, but it has to be said. Sometimes, especially for the young, the elderly, the frail, the people with health conditions and the cranky, the heat is just plain dangerous. Unfortunately, staying inside and enduring the SpongeBob marathon on television can also be dangerous because it stomps all over your last nerve.

It’s important to have a game plan for inside, especially one that involves doing things away from screens. Since baking cupcakes is not ideal when the world is on fire, maybe making sundaes would be better. Or fill a bathtub with ice and stage a fundraising summer polar plunge! Or maybe lie around with large fans and pretend you are on some sort of exotic journey! I dunno.

2. Thing is, summer is about being outside, so the more ways you can find to survive the heat outdoors the better. So get a pool! Have I mentioned this (in an entire column last week) before? Okay. So if you can’t have a “real” pool, then get one of those blow-up wading pools. We have the one that is six feet long by four feet wide by two feet deep or thereabouts, and it can be handy. The kids love it, but I remember spending a heck of a lot of time sitting in a similar one when I was pregnant with child number two during a hot summer. In fact, I think I really need to make better use of our wading pool. With a little imagination, my real pool-“covetation” issues will be a thing of the past.

3. This seems to be a logical place to suggest drinking lots of fruity adult drinks, especially ones with the little umbrellas. As much as it seems they would help to beat the heat, we (ahem) grown-ups know alcohol can dehydrate us and probably we shouldn't drink a lot of it around the kids anyway. Drink water instead. This public service announcement has been brought to you by....

4. Here’s an idea – get a cool job. I mean get a job that has air conditioning or a walk-in freezer. Become a lifeguard so you can go swimming or at least find a job that offers the promise of a refreshing swim at the end of the shift.

I’m thinking of when I was a gate attendant at a provincial park as a student. It was so nice to hit the beach at the end of a shift! Does anyone hire 40-year-old gate attendants? Of course then I would bore the rest of the gate staff to tears with stories about how “In my day, we didn’t use computers to register campers, we filled the forms out by hand! And when they found a campsite, we stuck a sticker on a big map to show it was occupied! And we liked it! We loved it!”

Well now that’s a sure-fire way to make a cool job not so cool. It also makes those fruity adult beverages sound really good right about now.

Well, off to the wading pool!
Published in The Perth Courier, July 28/11

Past Deadline: A Pool! Not!

2011-08-06T00:02:00.002-04:00

I have a love-hate relationship with the beach.

I love the beach for the swimming. Floating and pretending to be a fish (but not pretending to be a floating fish because that is rarely good) is one of my most favourite things to do in the world. I feel comfortable and free in the water. It’s good exercise and I wish I could fit it into my life more.

Say! A great way to make daily swimming more convenient would be to have a pool in the backyard. Man, would I ever like a pool.

I’m telling you, in the summer I would move my home office to the deck. Part of that rationale is also because in my current teeny, tiny Les-Nessman-style office I have to sit a mere two feet from a window air conditioner. My left side is frozen within 10 minutes, which makes typing difficult, to say the least.

If I had a pool, not only would it bring new meaning to the term “office pool,” but I would create my own personal union of one that would negotiate a contract with myself (as management) that stipulates the employee must have multiple swim breaks during the day. That’s right. I would sit beside the pool and talk to myself about how many swimming breaks I should take. (This is what can happen sometimes when you are self-employed.)

Also, I would probably have to hire staff (in addition to Mr. George BlackBerry, Executive Assistant). I'm thinking I would need a margarita-serving pool boy, yes?

No?

Okay, well let's talk about the beach some more, then. I also love the beach because my kids love it. We enjoy exploring the shorelines for critters and they are fish like I am. Their dad claims he used to be a fish. He also was, I’m told, a lifeguard while he was a student, but I am sceptical because the whole time I have known him he has rarely even gotten his toes wet. Perhaps he is still waterlogged from those days. So much for Dad teaching the little fish to swim.

You know, I think those little fish would also love a pool. I also think it would save a certain Mama’s sanity in the summer while she is trying to work with kids home, and it could form part of the negotiations in terms of health benefits. The pool boy could be tasked with lifeguarding during the times when I am not on deck.

It’s obviously a win-win.

No?

Okay okay. Back to talking about the beach.

Here’s what I don’t love about the beach: the Wearing of the Bathing Suit in Public. I have had bathing suit issues for a good chunk of my life. At first it was because I was so tall and lean that bathing suits never fit right. They literally hung off of me in order to accommodate my length, and I looked like a dork.

Oh, those days are so over now it makes me want to cry a little.

Eventually I filled out my frame decently, but this was short lived. I got a desk job and my derriere felt compelled to become a king-size pillow to keep me comfortable whilst I sat.

Thanks, but no thanks.

Then I had babies. Then my metabolism slowed down and my willpower left town. ’Nuff said. Now I am twice the woman I used to be, which would be fine if I were referring to self-esteem or philanthropic tendencies or some other spiritual or humanitarian effort, but all it means is that at the beach I displace twice as much water as before.

That’s just one more reason why a pool would be so awesome. I could displace water in the privacy of my backyard. More importantly, I could do laps and get toned. My pool boy, in addition to his lifeguarding duties, could also be a personal trainer. Soon I would be fit and fine and confident for beach appearances if necessary.

It is a perfect plan.

What? No?

Oh, right. The backyard is too small for a pool.

Could I still get the margarita-serving pool boy?

No?

Sigh. Fine. See y’all at the beach. Just don’t look at me, okay?

Published in The Perth Courier, July 21/11

Past Deadline: I Heart Lost Harbour

2011-08-05T23:57:00.002-04:00

(Sorry I am so far behind with posting! This goes back a few weeks.)

My oh my. It seems as if it was only a couple of weeks ago that the kids used to go to school.

Oh yeah. It was.

School’s out and now we are playing a 68-day game of “Let’s hang with Mommy!” Mommy works from home. Rather, Mommy “tries” to work from home. How’s that going for Mommy, anyway?

Well, let’s just say it’s...interesting.

Back when I was really new at this Mommy thing, I used to read lots of blogs about and by WAHMs – Work At Home Moms (as opposed to SAHMs – Stay At Home Moms) about the challenges and rewards of working from home. My mom was a SAHM. Probably I will never truly understand how great it was to have a mom waiting for us every day after school because it is all I have ever known.

After my first baby was born, I remember hitting the six-week mark and being amazed by the fact that in the United States that is all the maternity leave some moms get. I wouldn’t have wanted to go back to work full time after six weeks.

Being self-employed, though, meant no maternity leave at all (at that time). Fortunately, I could modify and manage my schedule and work back into things. It wasn’t always easy (lots of evenings and weekends spent working while Dad was home). Even now, being a WAHM might mean I am physically present at home, but it also means the TV might be on more while Mommy “just has to do this one little thing.”

Grass is always greener, right? Parents who work away from home often wish they had more time with the kids, while some of us who work at home greet more time with a tinge of trepidation.

Fortunately, grandparents, babysitters, play dates and day camps are part of our lives.

This summer has been interesting so far – all 14 days or so of it. My kids are much more mobile this year – they’re older and they can visit neighbourhood friends without always needing Mommy in tow.

They also nap less (read: not at all) and go to bed later than they used to, which means less quiet time for Mommy. They have vast vocabularies, too, which they try out on each other and on me at various pitches and with varying degrees of success.

When the sibling rivalry or the boundary pushing goes a bit too far, then Mommy pulls out her Repertoire of Threats. (At this point I am picturing a large heavy book with gilded pages and gold-embossed lettering, complete with monks chanting instructions about the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch. Sorry. Monty Python hiccup there.)

Suffice it to say there is no book. All that’s really there is a sketchy assembly of threats tucked in my addled brain about cancelled play dates and computer prohibitions – but one has to be extraordinarily careful that one doesn’t threaten more than one can...er...chew.

After all, one of the Golden Rules of Parenting, aside from giving instructions about not running with scissors (which I actually had to do just the other day), is to follow through. You threaten, you make it so.

Another Golden Rule (there should be a gold-embossed instruction manual with every child) is to be consistent, and that doesn’t mean you should consistently present empty threats. You do that too many times and you just might need the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch after all (what IS this woman babbling about?).

Since school ended (did I mention it was about 14 days ago), I have found myself reaching repeatedly into my repertoire to try to remember the name of the, ahem, summer camp I threatened to send the kids to last year when the going got occasionally tough. I checked a column from about this time last year and there it was: Lost Harbour Summer School and Military Camp.

Lost Harbour (tee hee!) is a magical, faraway place where kids stay for many weeks and where the program consists of four hours of school each day followed by marching and building walls out of heavy rocks.

I haven’t had to play that oh-so-believable (ha!) card yet, but it’s early, and there are still some work deadlines to navigate before Sept. 6.

Published in The Perth Courier, July 14/11

Past Deadline: Perth Kilt Run - Check!

2011-07-08T00:04:00.005-04:00

On the day of the Perth Kilt Run, I zipped around the house like a kernel of popcorn meeting hot oil. (Remember this analogy when I talk about the weather later.)

I didn’t know what to do with myself – how to bridle all that anticipation. I’ve heard that if an actor doesn’t feel nervous before a show, he or she may not perform as well. I wondered if the same would be true for running. I was excited, but not nervous.

The heat? I had trained for it (I thought). The distance? Can do. The rumoured hills in the golf course portion of the run? Too late to worry about that now.

Even my wardrobe concerns had been quelled. I picked up my race kit in the morning and very nearly wept with joy to find not only had I overestimated my size – so no emergency alterations required – but the kilt came with Velcro at the waist. An adjustable kilt with a pocket for my iPod. Awesome!

I’d purchased a “black goes with everything” shirt earlier in the week (although navy would have looked better with this tartan), so I had that squared away. The fact that black can be warmish in the sun crossed my mind, but I was prepared to make this sacrifice for, um, fashion, especially when kilts are oh-so-slimming. Not. Ahem.

The iPod was charged, the turtle earrings were donned to remind me to pace myself and I was germ free.

Bring it.

All that was left to worry about, I thought, was the mental game. When I speak to my Algonquin classes about doing oral presentations, which most of them despise, I tell students to try to turn distress into anticipation. Visualize yourself completing the job – like a figure skater finishing a successful routine. So I tried it. I could see myself crossing the finish line – plodding along slow and steady as a turtle, but also alive and smiling like Esther Williams.

I talked to my mom in the afternoon – she who had been captain of almost every sports team in high school. Her daughter? Not so much. Okay, not at all. She gushed about how she had waited 40 years to see me run. Sad, but true. I wish I had done this 40 pounds ago, but oh well.

And then it was finally time to run.

The sun beamed down onto the stone buildings, the pavement and my black shirt.

It was hot.

It was very hot.

Popcorn-popping and egg-frying hot.

As we shuffled toward the starting line I tried to pretend I was at the beach, but that just made me want to go swimming instead.

Bang!

We started off at a good pace. In that heat, it was easy to plod like a turtle.

It was a tough run.

I had to drink more water than I like to and I walked a few times to stop my head from spinning. I’ve never felt dizzy while running before but, then again, I usually don’t run while wearing a kilt and shorts. I wasn’t as prepared for the heat as I had thought, and this made the mental game harder. Still, I managed to fight off the intensely strong desire to simply stop at the 18th hole and sit in the river.

Every time I run I’m ready to go home at 5K, so the 4- to 7K stretch through the slightly hilly golf course felt long, and that’s when the dizzies kicked in.

Nevertheless, I did it. I made it just under the target I had set for myself, coming in at about three quarters of the way through the pack and my age group. Not bad for a first time. There are even pictures of me smiling and waving and looking happy (not in the golf course, though).

Thanks to all the volunteers, organizers and fellow runners for making this a phenomenal event. It was a great experience and fun seeing old friends. Thanks also to the wonderful folks who lined the streets to cheer us on – that was awesome!

Like childbirth, though, you should probably wait a while before you ask me if I am going to do it again.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 7/11

Past Deadline: Esther Williams of Running

2011-07-07T23:59:00.003-04:00

I’ve got running on the brain. Sorry.

This is because I have signed up for my Very First Race Ever – the Perth Kilt Run on July 2 – and it is mere days away.

On one hand I suppose it’s kind of neato that I’m doing this four decades in, but on the other hand, sometimes it feels about two decades too late.

Recently I wrote about things I have learned on my almost-two-year running journey. This covered topics such as, you know, not doing stupid stuff like eating a five-course meal immediately before running, not running while drunk and, of course, choosing water over coffee on a running day (caffeine is not necessarily going to make you run like the Energizer Bunny).

Yes, it took me two years to learn stuff like that. Sigh.

Now, however, as the Kilt Run creeps closer and closer, I have new concerns. You’d think one of them might be about the 8K (5-mile) distance, but I have trained and I can do it. I don’t necessarily enjoy it, though. I’m ready to go home after 5K, and those last three are laborious – not glorious.

Nevertheless, I have learned to pace myself. It’s a race – but not. I am going to wear my turtle earrings on Saturday to remind me that “slow and steady...um...finishes/survives the race.”

One of my big worries is about the kilt itself. I ordered it months ago. What if it doesn’t fit? How will I fix it in time? If it’s too big I’m sure an elaborate arrangement of safety pins and/or a belt might do the trick, but I suspect that is unlikely to be the problem. If it’s too small, do I go at it with scissors and elastic bands? Call a seamstress hotline? Can my dad fix it? (I know my mom would just laugh about sewing.) Will a tantrum do the trick? Should I just weep in a corner?

Similarly, what to do about a shirt? What if it doesn’t match my kilt? I mean, I’ve looked at the tartan online, but sometimes a screen doesn’t do the real thing justice. I hope basic black will do the trick.

Also, will I get trampled by the 900 people who will finish ahead of me or should I just start at the very back and try to work my way forward?

Another concern relates back to the enjoyment factor. When I run, I would like to look as if I’m liking it at least a little bit because, you know, there is this giant spotlight following me around to single me out of the thousand other runners. People will say, “Nice girl, but she doesn’t seem very happy.” Perhaps I have some sort of latent wish to be the Esther Williams of running – always smiling and waving – except maybe not underwater so much.

Speaking of self-absorbed, I am also a bit of a solo runner. I like to crank up the tunes and think Deep Thoughts™ (snort!) while I run. When accompanied by 1,000 other people, though, it occurs to me that someone might want to talk, and that will make me lose my breath. I’m considering wearing a T-shirt (a black one? a green one? an orange one?) that reads: “There will be no talking or chit chat of any kind, only Esther Williams-style smiling.” In case I can’t decide on the colour in time to get it printed, though, I just want everyone to know that if I don’t talk to you, it’s not because I don’t love you, it’s just that it might kill me.

Oh, and another thing – germs. We have done our bit to maintain the world’s germ pool this spring, but it would be just my luck to be afflicted before my Very First Race Ever. If that happens, I am moving to a remote island with a bottle of Lysol for the summer. Actually, I might do that anyway.

Clearly, the things that are concerning me now about the race are, well, not really related to running at all.

With any luck, next week I will be able to tell you about the actual experience! (“Yes,” the readers grumble, “with any luck.”)
Published in The Perth Courier, June 30/11

Past Deadline: Get-Offa-My-Lawn!

2011-06-24T09:46:00.002-04:00

The morning after Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final, Boychild asked who won.

“Boston,” I said, somewhat solemnly.

“Oh.” He had been rooting for Vancouver, but he didn’t appear heartbroken. Don’t tell anyone, but our family regards hockey with somewhat distant affection. It makes us a little odd, I guess. (Yes, we are all Canadian born.)

“And you know what?” I said, unable to contain my disgust. “After the game, a whole bunch of idiots came out and rioted in Vancouver.” I explained how they smashed windows and set fire to cars and that several people got hurt.

Boychild didn’t say much, but looked pensive. He didn’t have the benefit of watching the compelling coverage of the unfolding mayhem on the late news the night before.

Later that day, as I walked down Wilson Street to meet the kids after school, I noticed the landscapers had returned to replace some of the private cement walkways in front of a few homes. The forms were still in place and the cement still looked dark and wet. There were no workers in sight.

There is something about wet cement that triggers a primal urge, don’t you find? Doesn’t it make you want to draw pictures or carve your initials or leave your mark somehow? Well, that’s what I was thinking as I escorted a small throng of little boys and one Girlchild back along the same route, questioning the wisdom of leaving unattended cement along a school zone.

I stood at the end of one walkway as my entourage passed, with no mishaps to report. Right behind them were four older boys. I continued walking, casting a glance over my shoulder, and sure enough they had stopped right in the danger zone and looked as if they were about to leave a legacy behind.

“Hey!” I hollered, startling my troops. “Leave that alone!” And they did.

“Mom!” Boychild scolded. “What are you doing? You don’t even know those boys!”

“So?” I said. “They were about to damage someone’s property, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let them do it.” (Yes, I know. Next I’ll be standing on my front porch shrieking, “Hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn!”)

“But you’re not the boss of them!” Boychild insisted.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “When you see someone about to do something wrong, you should speak up.”

I don’t think the message really resonated until later that day when the stories about the riots were recapped on the 6 o’clock news. “Look,” I said to Boychild. “Come and see what these people did in Vancouver.”

He watched with rapt attention. “Those cars that are burning,” I said, “belong to people like us. What if someone had set our car on fire? That’s why you have to speak up when you see people doing bad things.”

I know. Carving your initials in cement is not the same in scope as torching a car, but teaching respect for other people’s property has to start somewhere. And, yes, I realize that not every person who has carved his or her initials in a sidewalk ends up looting and pillaging and committing arson.

It does seem to come back to respect: for people – their feelings and their authority – and for property – their own and other people’s; not to mention taking responsibility for one’s actions. It’s easy to blame “mob mentality” for what happened in Vancouver, I suppose, but that seems awfully convenient when we all have our very own brains to tell us when we’re doing something bad.

After watching the coverage and seeing the flames and the injuries and the craziness of it all, we all agreed that, yes, it was bad.

Maybe it was about hockey and maybe it wasn’t – it depends on who you ask. Whether it all comes out in the wash or not remains to be seen, but is sure is a nasty stain.

Boychild didn’t comment on the part of the coverage that showed a man yelling at looters to stop. They then swarmed him and starting beating him. I hate the thought of having to explain that sometimes the “hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn” approach doesn’t always end well.

Ah, parenting. Not for the weak.

Published in The Perth Courier, June 23/11

Past Deadline: Moments Turn to Years

2011-06-15T20:27:00.001-04:00

Rats.

Here I’ve gone and let it happen . I’ve let time slip away. I knew it was happening. I’m not good at living in the moment – I’m always jumping ahead to the next step. So as those moments slipped by, they turned around, waved, and said, “You’re going to regret those times you said, ‘I can’t right now because....’”

This thought occurred to me on Friday, several hours after attending our daughter’s graduation from Senior Kindergarten. Maybe some of this was magnified by the fact I also attended, the night before, the convocation ceremony for graduates of the Perth campus of Algonquin College (where I teach part time).

The graduations represent two ends of a spectrum. People who have been parents for a lot longer than I have say the time in between passes in a flash.

It sure does.

As you can imagine, Kindergarten graduation is a Really Big Deal. It requires the perfect dress, the perfect braids, a fruit tray and a minor shoe crisis moments before departure. One of the cool things Girlchild’s teacher does in the ceremony (she did it with Boychild’s class, too) is announce with each diploma what that student wants to be when he or she grows up. The answers are wide ranging – lots of ballet dancers and police officers and teachers and “just like Dads” and farmers.

Girlchild indicated she wants to be a doctor. This was quite a surprise to us. I certainly hope she stops licking doorknobs and gets really good at washing her hands before then. Or maybe she wants to be a doctor so she can go on a quest to kill the germs that did us in this year.

Incidentally, she has already changed her mind on this. Apparently she actually wants to be a nurse. Either way we figure she will be handy to have around. Perhaps she will be able to patch up her brother, who indicated in Kindergarten that he wanted to be a dirt bike racer. Boychild has since decided he doesn’t know what he wants to be, although computer game tester has been suggested.

That future seems so far away, but it also seems like only a few months ago that I was rocking babies to sleep and breathing in that indescribable newborn scent. I do think about this when I am walking with the kids to and from school and my youngest still lets me hold her hand.

Aw.

I remember when the kids were babies how every stage had its pros and cons. There were always some really great things about newborns (e.g. they tend to be very portable), but also some not-so-fun stuff (e.g. they poo a lot and don’t often sleep through the night).

And then there’s the old saying about how we spend the first several years of our kids’ lives teaching them how to walk and talk, and then when they become teenagers we wish they would sit down and shut up.

Sometimes those fleeting moments of childhood go by so fast it’s hard to recognize them for what they are. Sometimes you’d rather not recognize them, such as when your five-year-old gets ornery and says she’s “not even going to love you on Mothers’ Day.”

I see it as a sign I am doing my job. Apparently I am the Meanest Mother Ever™ because, time and again, I put my foot down at bedtime, which leads to unrest. And by that I mean “turbulence” and “strife,” not “unrested children.” I could live with less turbulence and strife at bedtime, though.

So what has all this reflection taught me? Nothing. I have always known how important it is to live in the moment; to live every moment as if it were your last; to savour your children’s childhoods; to grab life by the horns and yadda yadda yadda. But it doesn’t always happen.

I could use a clone.

As Girlchild prepares to leave Kindergarten behind and move on to Grade 1, and as Boychild edges away from those primary years, one thing is for sure. Time just goes faster and faster.
Before I know it, someone will be asking for car keys.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 16/11

Past Deadline: Running Lessons Learned

2011-06-15T20:21:00.003-04:00

Disclaimer: This column is about running, but is in no way, shape or form to be considered the be-all and end-all of advice on this topic. This is, I know, unusual, because my advice is generally taken as the gospel.

Ahem.

The Perth Kilt Run is edging closer. Gulp. I have a very complicated training program, which is basically this: run as much as you can before the big day so you don’t look like an idiot on July 2.

A friend of mine just completed a marathon, which I think is amazing because it requires so much commitment and training for months before the 42K race. I am not that person. I tend to avoid races, preferring to run in solitude (so fewer people can hear me gasping for breath). As admirable as it is, running a marathon is just not on my bucket list.

I am quite likely one of the world’s most amateurish runners. I have great shoes, but beyond that there isn’t much evidence of me having any sort of clue whatsoever about what I am doing.
I don’t seek professional advice. I stretch – but probably not correctly. I don’t know about the best fuels for pre- and post-run, although I did read something somewhere that said chocolate milk is good to drink after a run because it helps with recovery. It sounded good, so sometimes I do. After all, if it’s in print, it must be true. Like this here column (please see disclaimer above).

Other than the occasional advice about ornery muscles and working up to longer runs that I have received from the friend (and her husband) who got me started on this crazy running jag, I really am not knowledgeable on this subject. Sometimes I think I’m actually just a big faker.

I have, however, made a few poignant observations during this running journey of mine that I would like to share. Some of it is stark common sense that proves I am alive. As for the rest, well, remember that disclaimer (above).

Top 10 things I have learned about running:

1. If running at 7:30 p.m. fits best into your schedule, then make sure you finish eating supper at least one hour before or else be prepared to feel like death. It’s like the swimming rule.

2. Before a run, consider eating a smaller portion rather than enough for two hog-like people. Duh.

3. Avoid Chinese food before running. Seriously.

4. Although studies show a glass of red wine with supper can be good for you, it does not go super well with running. You probably shouldn’t drink and run. Hic.

5. Similarly, tanking up on coffee all day, when you know you might run that night, will suck all of the moisture out of your body. It will also make you feel jittery and death-ish.

6. Here’s a thought! On days you plan to run, drink more water in the afternoon and around suppertime! Hydration is good! Duh.

7. Once you have built up to a longer run (and for this runner that means anything more than 5K), try not to stop. It’s not that walking is for sissies; it’s that whole “a body in motion” thing. If you stop, even to sip water, it’s harder to go again.

8. Speaking of water, too much during a run can make you feel like death. The more this runner sips, the barfier she feels. Try to avoid the water unless you start to feel tingly. Tingly can mean thirsty.

9. Once you get to know how long it takes you, on average, to run a certain distance, try to avoid checking your watch. The “how much farther” mental game is a killer. Conjugate French verbs in your head instead. Or create plot lines for the Great Canadian Novel. Or try to remember Hamlet’s soliloquy. Whatever.

10. Don’t expect to lose weight by running. That was a funny joke when I started out. Hahaha.

Ah, the running journey. It is sometimes a painful one or merely uncomfortable (see Chinese food, above). It is also rewarding, though, and after two years of it I have almost decided that I even like it.

I’ll keep you posted on that.
Published June 9/11

Past Deadline: Stop Licking Doorknobs

2011-06-10T21:51:00.001-04:00

Warning: this column is icky.

The winter and spring of 2008 was horrible. Boychild was in Senior Kindergarten and for some reason that year he seemed to pick up every germ going. We dealt with antibiotics, probiotics and every biotic you can think of. Strep throat and Barfies were the highlights. I was losing my mind.

After a reprieve of several years with just the standard fare of occasional ickies in the winter, 2011 – the year Girlchild is in Senior Kindergarten, coincidentally – has come along and totally kicked our butts.

I am losing my mind again.

I am starting to think that my children go to school and lick doorknobs. Or, possibly, I am just The Worst Mother Ever. Whatever the reason, this year has left me with a pretty major complex about keeping my children healthy.

The kids have had so many germs this winter and spring that I have completely lost track of what has come and gone through this house. Groom-boy and I have been relatively unscathed, fortunately, unless you count the stress of trying to figure out who will look after sick kids whilst we are working.

I think we both had the Thing With the Cough, though. That was a fun one. It was one of the ailments that afflicted our short people early in the season. It started out innocently enough – as a cold – but it came with a cough that never seemed to go away. For weeks there was coughing. It sounded like a TB ward – not that I know firsthand what that sounds like.

That was the ailment that got shared with the grown-ups. After all, when one coughs for weeks and weeks, one starts to get lazy and forgets to cough into one’s elbow, thus spreading the Joy throughout the abode.

The Thing With The Cough was tricky, too, because for some people it turned into such nasties as pneumonia or bronchitis. Just ask Nanny. Coincidentally, she got saddled with looking after certain afflicted short people by times. Poor Nanny.

The rest of the horrible winter featured an array of ailments, such as The Thing With The Fever, the Barfies, The Sore Tummy Thing Sans Barfies and, most recently, The Thing With a Fever that Makes You Tired with a Sore Throat. Oh, and I musn’t forget pink eye. Three times for Girlchild and once for Boychild.

“Stop licking doorknobs!” we screeched while doling out vitamins. “Don’t rub your eyes!” we’d shout. “Wash your hands!” we beseeched. “Go to sleep so you can get rid of these things,” we hollered (keeping the swear words carefully in our heads).

My children will never receive a perfect attendance award at school. Not only that, but they couldn’t even coordinate things so they were both off at the same time – they always tag teamed the bugs. Just to keep it interesting, they brought home a wide variety of new and different germs.

Last week was particularly fun. As May steamrolls into June, one would think we’d be past the point of all these stupid germs. I suppose, though, when it is almost constantly raining (or at least seems so), that keeps people inside more than usual in the spring, which gives them ample opportunity to lick doorknobs.

I lived in fear as I heard tales of the latest afflictions circulating around schools and dance classes. There seemed to be a Thing With A Fever that Makes You Tired on the move simultaneously with another round of the incorrigible Barfies.

“Surely we have had those things already,” I thought. “Surely we are already immune to these stupid germs.”

Sure enough, though, Girlchild was felled by The Thing With a Fever that Makes You Tired with a Sore Throat thrown in. And it was the week of her dance recital – the culmination of a year of classes.

Sigh.

I kept her home for the first performance, but she recovered in time for the second. Meanwhile other little dancers were succumbing to the Barfies.

Horrible season, please end!

On the weekend I sprayed the entire house, its contents and the children with Lysol™ and covered them with plastic wrap. The bubble will be installed over the house this week.

Okay. Not really. But I thought about it.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 2/11

Past Deadline: Oh Bedtime, You've Changed

2011-05-26T23:55:00.002-04:00

The kids’ bedtime used to be my favourite time of day.

Forgive me if I have uttered this thought before. It’s something I think about pretty much every night, so it is constantly with me.

When the kids were really small, bedtime was lovely on two levels. First, and most importantly, it was quiet, cosy, snuggle time involving warm baths and stories and lullabies and nightlights and just...softness and sweetness. (Awww....)

Secondly, and most importantly (wait – did I say that already?) it marked the end of a busy day of kid stuff and the beginning of quiet grown-up time, whereupon I could do myriad chores or crash in front of the TV and watch a cop drama. Whatevs.

I have always thought there were good things and bad things about every phase of child rearing. Newborns are portable and sleep in most places and people like to play “pass the baby” when you visit so you can share your little bundle. On the other hand, babies poop and cry a lot.

When they get older they become more independent and you revel in their continuing innocence and enthusiasm for everything. On the other hand, there are the tantrums. (Aside: do the tantrums ever stop for girls? Oh, never mind. Don’t answer that.)

Ahem.

During these phases of growing independence, the bedtime ritual changes, too. Diapers disappear. Baths require less hovering. People are anxious to brush their own teeth. It’s kind of nice. On the other hand, there’s the stalling.

I bet we all remember stalling. I know I have written here about the weird obsessive-compulsive routine I had as a child. Every night I would concoct a question and wander downstairs to pitch it to my parents. Some of the questions were really dumb. I’m sure they wanted to say, “Oh, Steph. You can do better than that.” There was also some nightly goofing around in the bathroom, some playing with toys and some peering out of windows. It all had to be done.

That’s why I can only shake my head knowingly when I see some of these things popping up with my own children. For example, for a long time, Boychild asked for a second tuck-in every night. “Fluff the sheets and be of good behaviour,” Groom-boy and I called it because it reminded us of the phrase “Keep the peace and be of good behaviour” from our old court reporting days.

Then there’s Girlchild with her nightly, “I need to get something downstairs” and “I need to go to the bathroom again” and “Lemme just tell you this one thing.” And persistence. Man oh man. It goes on. And on. And on.

That’s why I split a gut when someone sent me a link to a new book by Adam Mansbach. It’s a book for grown-ups made to look like a children’s illustrated book (Danger! Place on very high bookshelf!). It has bad words in it and it’s all about kids going to sleep – or not going.

At our house most of the swearing would be in our heads, but we live the sentiments over and over – WHY won’t the children just go to sleep? Why? They are small and young – they need lots of sleep – so sleeeeeep!

I guess, however, I have to remove myself from my current reality of not understanding why people wouldn’t want to get a good sleep when they have the chance, and remember how exciting it was when I was a child to try to stay up later and later.

That’s why I’m so very torn. My five-year-old daughter likes to sleep with the door open, but that means I can see her and hear her as she putters around instead of, you know, sleeping. I want to tell her: “You know, if you were to keep that door closed, Mommy wouldn’t know what you are doing and, thus, you wouldn’t drive Mommy bananas with your goofing around at bedtime.”

Win-win!

I know. Not a win. And, like the swear words in Mansbach’s book, I’ll probably just keep that little thought in my head while I think whistfully of the lovely bedtime days of old.

Published in The Perth Courier, May 26/11

Past Deadline: Yoo Hoo...Mother Nature

2011-05-26T23:51:00.002-04:00

Dear Mother Nature,

Are you okay?

You know I am one of your biggest fans. I consistently speak highly of you in glowing terms peppered with words such as “verdant” and “amazing” and “inspiring.”

I am, however, a bit concerned. I think, perhaps, you may have dozed off and forgotten that now, amid the teens of May, we could be feeling a tiny bit warmer and, possibly, a bit drier if you believe in that “April showers bring May flowers” thing.

I don’t want to pester or cajole, but I found myself cooking a pot roast on Sunday because it felt like November. As I write this, I am considering turning on the furnace. I put away some winter coats just the other day, but maybe I was hasty? Boychild is growing. I thought I could put off buying a stash of pants until closer to Autumn – am I wrong? Are you in cahoots with Hydro One to get more money? I’m asking because my drier is working overtime while my clothesline is idle.

What gives?

Groom-boy and I got married one May a buncha years ago. The year before the wedding we went canoeing along the Tay and observed how much light we would have later in the day for photographs and what sort of foliage we might expect. That year it was warm and sunny with ample spring flowers and blossoming trees and leafy branches. “Hurray!” said we.

Dumb kids.

Yes, I know, we had been alive for a lot of years by then, but apparently we had forgotten about how temperamental Spring can be. The wedding year? Not so lovely.

I was reminded of this as we shivered our way into May 2011. This year was even worse than our wedding year. The weather, I mean. Perhaps Heck is finally freezing over?

I am certain there are meteorologists out there who are tut-tutting and pointing to statistics and who would tell me to get a grip, and that’s fine. Others would argue it could be much worse. But I’m cold.

I suppose the silver lining to this past weekend of rain and wind and cold temperatures was that it wasn’t conducive to gardening, which was handy because I had to work anyway.

That’s it, though. Enough already. I want to use my trowel on the holiday weekend.

Maybe I just have a bad attitude and complain too much (who, me?). After all, I look around and see creatures making the best of it and forging ahead. Two little wrens are nesting in Boychild’s birdhouse. The blossoms are starting to peek out on the apple tree. Bees are busy pollinating and terrorizing Girlchild with their mere existence. If it were warm enough to open the windows I would hear frogs calling.

It’s all good.

I suppose this gives you licence, Mother Nature, to write a snarky postcard response (assuming there is no postal strike) to tell me to “Suck it up, buttercup” and suggest I wear a parka while I weed. Maybe you will point out that after the weekend of rain, even though it was a cold, the grass is greener and the leaves are bursting and the lilacs are blooming.

It’s just…I’m shivering (she whined).

Groom-boy called home the other night while he was out on a milk run and asked if I wanted something from Dairy Queen. I don’t think history has ever recorded me saying “no” to that offer, but I did. “It will make me colder,” I said. I had, after all, spent a few hours out in the rain that day helping to set up for the Archaeo Apprentice school program at Murphys Point this week.

Which reminds me: by the time this column hits the paper, I hope you will have adjusted the forecast so that it doesn’t rain every day during the program. Rain-or-shine archaeology is great and all, but I think the shine is more fun.

So, Mother Nature, I hope this letter finds you well and ready to turn on the charm for a while. Oh – and I should clarify that some heat without humidity would be a great way to make up for the junky weather we’ve been getting.

Sincerely….

Published in The Perth Courier, May 19/11

Past Deadline: Beeps and Flashes

2011-05-11T00:06:00.003-04:00

When I was in high school, I had a part-time job at Burger King. It was great fun – despite the polyester uniforms of the early days (it got better). My friends were there, I learned lots and we had a grand time.

Sometimes, though, there can be too much of a good thing.

Working lots of shifts on a weekend meant a bigger paycheque, but there were drawbacks. I’m not just talking about the things grown-ups would worry about, such as less time for school work and the possibility of too much fast food and getting home safely after night shifts and such.

I’m talking about the beepers in one’s head.

I remember some times when I’d work a couple of long shifts in a weekend, and if they were particularly busy – maybe on a holiday, for example – I’d come away from it in a bit of a stupor.
Then I’d dream about the sound of the beepers: timers indicating when the fries, chicken, fish or onion rings were ready. Not to mention the ping of the microwaves and the beep of the drive thru.

That place was full of beeps.

When I’d dream about beeps and then have to get up and go in to work the next day—those felt like really loooong nights.

Then there’s Tetris. In university I occasionally felt compelled to procrastinate. I know...that’s hard to fathom coming from someone who writes a column called “Past Deadline.” (I seldom was actually past deadline with anything, but I was frequently working to deadline.)

Anyway, back in those heady days of computers equipped with DOS (that means the olden days, kids), the height of procrastination games for me was called Tetris. Little coloured shapes would fall from the top of the screen and the player had to spin them around so that they would fit into available spaces at the bottom of the screen. With each passing level, the speed of the game would increase.

I like to think this was a way to practise manual dexterity, not to mention brushing up on geometry, which is really important when one is taking an arts program. It was also a great way to unwind before starting on some great, lofty essay or assignment, unless, of course, you did it for hours and hours, and then it’s just plain straight stupid procrastination.

Tetris was my “beeps” for that era. I would go to sleep (often short sleeps since I would be cramming after wasting so much time) and in my dreams, dancing across my eyelids, would be innumerable coloured shapes falling at varying speeds.

So. Not. Restful.

I would love to report that my addiction for this era is something like vegetables or swimming or yoga or horticulture or reading classic literature or finding the cure for cancer...but, no. In my world it always seems to come back to light and sound.

So my current addiction? Can you guess? I introduced “him” a couple of months ago.

Yes, it’s George. Or, as I like to call him, Mr. George BlackBerry, my executive assistant.

CrackBerry, indeed.

I do love George. He has a calendar that alerts me when I need to be somewhere. I can be away from the home office and still get important messages. I can get a little work done while standing around in line. I can chat with friends when I feel lonely. He cheerfully pings and dingalings when he has messages for me.

I play with George. Probably a bit too much. I’m still learning about some of his interesting features and apps. So far there is no Tetris.

I’ve been at a few meetings and gatherings recently where questions have arisen and George has been able to answer them. “What was the theme song for CHiPs?” someone asked the other night. George found it and played it. “How long does it take for a robin’s eggs to hatch?” was another recent question. George’s query revealed it is 14 days. This is important stuff!

Yes, I am addicted to George. Some days he feels like too much coffee. Some nights I feel a little queasy as I shut him down.

If I start hearing beeps or seeing colourful shapes in my sleep, I’ll be certain.

Published in The Perth Courier, May 12/11.

Past Deadline: Downsizing the Wheels

2011-05-11T00:03:00.001-04:00

It feels good to downsize.

About four and a half years ago I wrote a delighted column outlining how excited we were about the purchase of our first minivan. As much as the word “minivan” was associated with such other dubious descriptors as “grown-ups,” “suburbia” and “environmental disaster,” we had overcome our anti-ness and embraced the space the vehicle offers.

There were times when it felt big enough to house our family of four. Fortunately it never came to that.

On that theme, though, we waxed rhapsodic about how wonderful it would be to be able to climb into it if faced with nasty tornado-like weather while camping in our tent. We were also gleeful about the fact it had roof racks for our canoe.

Ah, the glorious space! When we first got the van, both of our kids were still in big car seats, which fit into the van like a hand in a glove. We no longer had to pull the front seats up into the dashboard in order to accommodate the children, which is handy when you are a tall person.
Not only that, but we could easily stash a stroller, a diaper bag, three babysitters, groceries, a playpen, a pony, sleds, bicycles, a big-screen TV, camping gear and a small flock of sheep in it whenever we wanted to go anywhere.

It was dreamy.

Life has a funny way of happening, though, and lots of things changed. For one thing, over the last couple of years we found ourselves travelling less and rarely camping. The canoe (sadly) has become a monument in my parents’ backyard. The kids are bigger and only one of them needs a car seat. We no longer require strollers, playpens, diaper bags, ponies and small flocks of sheep. Also, their interests do not include anything that requires scads of gear, i.e. hockey bags, to be lugged from place to place. At least so far.

When I wrote that cheery column in 2006 I called myself a hypocrite and dismissed my environmentalist sentiments by basically saying, “Oh, well, at least it wasn’t a Hummer” and by justifying the family’s need for space. Our choice was, really, no different than the trailer-pulling, wood-panelled station wagon of my childhood. I suppose this means I chose to ignore anything I learned about consumption over the past few decades.

Anyway, here we are, in 2011, and the fact is we simply don’t need a vehicle that is big enough to live in. Not only that, but since those heady days of early minivan ownership, there has been another rather significant change. Groom-boy isn’t driving to work a few blocks away, he’s now commuting to Ottawa every day.

For various reasons, commuting in our personal vehicle is the most reasonable option for him at this point. I use the term “reasonable” loosely, however, because of the $#@^%$ gas prices.
For another litany of reasons, we opted at first to try the one-guy-in-a-van-commuting thing. Purchasing a second vehicle wasn’t in the cards, and I was enjoying the fact that by having a one-car family, I was losing a few pounds by hoofing it all over town.

Eventually, gas prices rose to the point that we realized we could buy a brand new car with better mileage rates for cheaper than what we were paying for gas alone for the van. We returned to the dealership we have frequented for more than 10 years and traded the van for a peppy four-door wagon. It’s smaller, but roomy and has a hatch design that gives us plenty of storage space. The kids like it and it actually fits properly in our teeny tiny driveway.

The coolest thing, though, is that it feels like coming home. I like smaller cars. I like being able to tuck them into small spaces. I love how they manoeuvre. And holy cow, how we are looking forward to spending less money on gas! (Assuming it doesn’t climb into the buck fifties too quickly.)

Oh, and it’s vivid blue. And every time I get into it to drive I turn the key and say, “Wheeee!”

Downsizing is good. Now, if I could just downsize the clutter in my house, I’d be living the dream.
Published in The Perth Courier, May 5/11.

Past Deadline: Drinking Beer with the PM

2011-05-11T00:01:00.001-04:00

I debated long and hard about whether to drive the old Armchair Express™ around the block one more time before the election.

When is the federal election again? Oh, yeah. Next week. And then possibly again in a few months.

Anyway, I couldn’t let this week go by without some sort of rambling ramble about the goings on.

I thought a really good place to start this edition of the Armchair Express™ would be by asking a pertinent question. Which of the leaders would you like to have a beer with if he or she were prime minister?

Because yes, sadly, it seems to have come to this.

Here’s another question. Can anyone tell me what the issues are that we are supposed to be considering? Or who is promising what? I’m just wondering if we’re all keeping track.

Sure – the parties are all talking about the economy and health care and education. We’re getting promises for families, businesses and corporations. We’re hearing about new taxes and old taxes and no taxes and social programs and balancing budgets. Environment? Not so much. Certainly not in a carbon tax kinda way this time.

But what this election really seems to be about is things like parliamentary procedure, contempt of parliament, integrity, coalitions and How to Form a Government 101. All related to this is stuff like who is allowed to attend rallies, who is getting kicked out, who is using a teleprompter, who is not and who is allowed to speak to the leaders.

Which, I suppose, all comes back to the beer question.

Although it would be nifty to be able to hang with the PM and have a chatty beer, is that really what we are looking for in a leader? Sure, it’s important for a leader to be able to communicate on a variety of levels in order to reach all audiences, but I’d rather he or she be working at important running-the-country things than sitting around and making me feel comfortable over a beer.

Elections, unfortunately, are as much about optics and personalities and spin as they are about issues. The leader who can successfully convince the population that he or she can manage the important issues facing our country in terms of economy and environment and health care and education (not necessarily in that order and, arguably, all of equal and interlinked importance) while having a beer with us, is probably going to be the winner.

And he may or may not be sporting a cane while doing it.

Which brings me to one of the most interesting things that has come out of this election campaign – the rise of the NDP. Look at Jack Layton go! On the weekend he had risen to second place in the polls (which are for dogs, I know).

This, of course, gets a lot of different people excited. There’s one statistician who is frequently called upon for comment on the late news who I think has gone through a transformation since the NDP began to climb in the polls.

When the campaign started this guy looked pretty bored while talking about all the numbers, which seemed a little strange since that’s his gig. Now, however, he’s all smiley and keen as he talks about the shifts that are taking place here and there. I suspect it makes the math more interesting.

And what math it is – because even though a whole bunch of people may have decided they really like Jack and that they never want to drink beer with Steve, that could very well mean they will have drink beer with Steve anyway.

In fact, our system is such that even though most people don’t want to drink beer with Steve, if they can’t decide between drinking beer with Jack or Iggy, then they’ll be hanging out on the patio with Steve and even more Harperites than before.

I picture everyone silently drinking beer (because Steve doesn’t like his people to talk to anyone), until he comes along to play the piano and sing a song.

All this while the other band, Reckless Coalition™, packs up its gear and trudges off.

Sigh.

I don’t even like beer, by the way.

Published in The Perth Courier, April 28/11.

Past Deadline: Will Power Skipped Town

2011-05-10T23:58:00.002-04:00

The other day I was walking down the street when a lady I have known since I was just a wee kid pulled up beside me in her car.

“How’s the diet going?” she asked cheerfully.

I was puzzled. “Pardon?” I asked.

“Your diet! How’s it going?”

“Oh, that!” I laughed nervously, vaguely remembering something about telling the world via my column in the newspaper that I was going to watch what I eat.

Hahaha.

I keep forgetting that I tell people things. On the one hand it’s a good motivator because, as you know, if you see it in print then it must be true.

Ahem.

Or sort of true.

The “diet” isn’t going well. I think a lot about eating the right things, but somehow the right things don’t always make it to my mouth. I know exactly what I should be eating, but you won’t see my face on a Healthy Snacking Role Model poster anytime soon.

And that nemesis of mine – snacking in the evening – is back. Big time.

I blame Will Power. Has anyone seen him? I think he skipped town.

The need for improvement hit home on the weekend.

I was at the fabulous Build a Bridge Bash on Friday night. (This was a dinner/dance for the Friends of Murphys Point Park, Tay Valley Cross Country Ski Club and Rideau Trail Association to raise funds to help build a bridge on a trail we all use at Murphys Point – and it was awesome! Thanks to everyone who supported the event!)

Usually when I am at events related to the Friends, I am behind the camera capturing the scenes. This time I pawned off the job to Groom-boy, who has been known to take a dandy photo or two.

As I sorted through the images a couple of days later, I found one taken while I was speaking with a microphone, and I look like a lounge singer. It makes me laugh.

There were a couple that did not make me laugh. One is a picture of someone else entirely, but there I am in the background, chatting with someone with my back to the camera. There is another shot from behind while I am sitting at a table.

Oh, dear.

My goodness. I am much wider than I thought I was. In fact, I think we might have faulty mirrors in our house because I could have sworn I was about half that width – at least from the front.

Perhaps I need meds? Or new glasses? Or to train Groom-boy not to take pictures of me from behind?

Or – reality check – to eat better and get more exercise?

Yeah...that last one, I think.

These are the sorts of photos that one tapes to the inside of the cupboard where the cookies and crackers live to prevent one from eating anything but fruits and vegetables ever again.

Sigh.

Another thing I have rambled about in the newspaper recently (yes, it’s true, I sometimes ramble and babble) is the Kilt Run. I signed up for this fabulous Perth event that takes place on July 2.

Because I have spilled the beans so many times in print, this naturally leads people to ask, “How’s the running going?” or “Are you still running?”

I have a hard time answering this.

The short answer is “Yes, I am still running,” but if you were to ask for proof you would be hard pressed to find it.

I am not running as often as I would like to. That said, I did manage to run 8K without dying not long ago, so there is, presuming I run at least a few/several times between now and July, hope that I will actually be able to go the distance.

The important thing, though, is will I be able to fit into the kilt? A measurement was submitted when I registered, and an assumption was made that I would be able to at least maintain that size, but with the recent photographic evidence...I dunno.

I blame Will Power for all of this. He has skipped town, thereby forcing me to snack whenever I choose and on things that are not fruits and vegetables.

It’s all his fault. The bum.

Published in The Perth Courier, April 21/11.

Past Deadline: Snippets of Spring

2011-05-10T23:56:00.001-04:00

Spring can be tricky.

Do you remember that warm spell sometime back in March that teased us into spring coats and persuaded us to leave the long johns in the drawer? And then remember how it got frigidly cold again with that mean old wintry northwest wind making our cheeks smart and our eyes water?
And recall how hard it was to pull out the long johns again and wear the hat down over the ears and ease back into the winter coat?

Yuck.

It’s hard to know how to dress kids in that kind of weather.

Girlchild likes to wear dresses to school, and that is all well and good in cold weather when snowpants are the norm. When it’s not snowy enough for snowpants, but not warm enough for tights alone and you have a Diva who turns her nose up at splash pants (which, in my opinion, are the perfect compromise outerwear), things can be difficult.

Let me tell you, snowpants worn in the spring pick up a lot of dirt and sand from a winter’s worth of sidewalk plowing. If anyone needs a truck load of sand, I think you can find it in my kitchen. I should have been saving it all along to see if I could sell it back to the town for next year.

If you’re looking for another sign of spring, you’d better use your ears. I’ve been hearing it for the last couple of weeks. Spring peepers. When these teeny tiny chorus frogs emerge and start yelling for a mate, their high-pitched peeps can be louder than any freight train. I know the grass is always greener and some of those (arguably lucky) folks who live beside swamps or water bodies may feel the peepers are more irritating than joyful, but I love the sound.

Since the peepers had already announced the arrival of spring, it was with much disdain that I recently looked out my kitchen window into the backyard toward the little patio we had set up last summer to see it still completely encased in ice. See, the nice thing about the patio is that for a good chunk of the day it is shady, which is great news in the summer. In spring, though, that means it is literally the very last part of the backyard to thaw out.

I even tried to hurry the season along by grabbing my long-handled ice chipper and hammering the snot out of the thick layer of ice one day. I made some progress – getting far enough across the ice field to expose nearly half of the patio stones – but my arms vibrated for the rest of the night and my hands actually ached for two days from gripping the handle so tightly.

I tried to go at it the next day, too, but my upper body said, “Woman, knock it off. We have sun and rain coming to take care of this. Let go of that ice chipper or we will stage a bloody coup, just like your hair wants to.”

(Ahem. You had to be there.)

So now, thanks to elbow grease, sun and rain the patio is free of ice and awaits the Great Clearing of Debris and Dirt™. This will happen in my Spare Time™. Hahaha. Little joke there.

But – this all sounds an awful lot like too much complaining. Really, I am so glad it is warmer. It is so nice to see the robins and the summer birds returning and to hear their mating songs.

As awkward as it is to have to negotiate winter gear and spring gear as they all congregate together in small spaces, it’s nice to see rubber boots instead of winter ones and ball caps instead of toques.

At this time of year as the sun brightens and gleams through spotty windows and illuminates previously gloomy spots, I make the annual list of things to clean and sort and fix.

You know what that means – I think I am almost caught up to Spring Cleaning 2007 now....

Published in The Perth Courier, April 14/11.

Past Deadline: Armchair Express™ All Gassed Up

2011-05-10T23:52:00.002-04:00

(Yeesh...I am waaaaaay behind in posting these!)

I know, I know. The federal election call was last week, so I am way overdue – past deadline, even – in terms of getting ye olde Armchair Express™ shined up and rolling. (Caution: overuse of trademark symbol ahead.)

Since last week’s column was a gripping soliloquy about my crazy hair, I think the giant photo on the side of my bus should feature me wearing a bird’s nest on my head.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I may be talking silly, but I am a bit of a political junkie. You won’t hear me saying, “I’m sick of the election rhetoric already!” Nevertheless I needed a good week to think about what I could say in this space that wouldn’t count as rhetoric.

I’m still thinking.

It’s not working.

There are, though, a few things worth dragging out. I mean barfing up. Um, whatever.
One of my favourites – I joyfully roll my eyes every time I hear it – is the use of the term Reckless Coalition™. I think it would be a good name for a band.

Prime Minister Stephen Harper thinks such a thing would be The End of the World™. At least that is what he would like us to believe. Now, I happen to know there are a good many people out there who have travelled outside of this country (more than just Liberal leader Michael Ignatieff) or who are at least vaguely aware of things that happen elsewhere (other than royal weddings or Charlie Sheen’s latest catch phrase). I have heard that in some other countries there are such things as coalitions, and they aren’t The End of the World™.

In fact, some people think a coalition here in Canada might simply be People Working Together So We Don’t Have to Look at Stephen Harper and the Conservatives So Much™. With this in mind, I had a good hearty chortle the other night when, on the late news, I heard that a recent poll indicated more than half of Canadians surveyed would be in favour of a coalition. I’m not sure if they were asked about it being “reckless” or not. One would assume not.

Now, some dead politicians used to contend polls are for dogs, while other living ones say the only poll that counts is the one on election day. But that doesn’t seem to stop the parties from paying for polls.

It’s always fun to hear how the numbers change when the same questions are asked a different way.

Speaking of which, communication is a pretty hot topic this time around with the whole matter of who is allowed to speak and when and to whom and where and so on. Don’t you find Mr. Harper’s laid back, relaxed and spontaneous style of campaigning to be completely refreshing?

Oh – sorry – I meant to say “rigid” and “orchestrated.”

Suits him, though. The part where he is sticking the media behind a fence half a mile away from him (I’m exaggerating a little, but not much) and limiting them to five questions a day is so...um...I have no idea. Bizarre? Restrictive? Control-freakish? Un-Canadian?

Sorry – was that rude?

I wonder what prompted our uber-orchestrated prime minister to challenge Mr. Ignatieff to a one-on-one debate? Clearly he lost his head, since he quickly backed away when Mr. Ignatieff agreed.

As interesting as that would be, I’d still prefer to hear from everyone, including Green Party leader Elizabeth May, who was included in the leaders’ debate last time but not this time. It’s interesting considering the Greens field candidates in most ridings in Canada, while the Bloc Quebecois, who are included in the debate, are only in Quebec.

Naturally this begs the questions: If the Greens were to win seats in this election, would they be invited to form part of a Reckless Coalition™ if one were to form? More importantly, would said Reckless Coalition™ produce a hit single? And who would play the drums?

By the way, since déjà vu seems to be a theme for this election, I was amused when I looked back to see how I started my last Armchair Express™ column in 2008: “With the high price of gas and all, it’s a darned good thing my armchair runs on hot air.”

Yep. Some things never change.

Published in The Perth Courier, April 7/11.

Past Deadline: Hair - The Not Musical

2011-04-05T21:28:00.003-04:00

You know one of the best things about turning 40? (Yes, there is one thing.) It’s that I am finally starting to feel as if I am on the cusp of not really caring what other people think about certain things.

I have a long way to go (sensitive soul that I am), but it’s a start.

The first – and possibly only – item on the “don’t care” agenda so far? My hair. At least to a certain extent. (Yes, this is one of those “really deep thoughts” columns.)

My hair and I have had a long and tumultuous relationship. It is naturally curly and I, apparently, am not.

Ever since I can remember, my hair has been difficult. Maybe when I was a primary student I didn’t notice it so much, but once I hit around Grade 3 I think even my mother had had enough of trying to tame the fine, unruly curls because at that point it was all lopped off.

Sometimes it was not just short, but “really really short.” One time, in Grade 6 or so, my mother told our hairdresser to cut it “really really short.” For those who don’t know, “really really short” basically means “buzz cut.”

A girl having hair that is shorter than most of the boys’ hair in the class? No fun for me.

Not surprisingly, sometime after that I began to assert my individuality in a kinda-sorta way and said I wanted to grow my hair longer. I’m not really sure what I had going on over the next few years. It was “undefined” at best.

And then, in high school, I discovered hair products.

Glorious!

From that moment on it didn’t matter what length my hair was – I could “style” it with truckloads of gel. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I didn’t just control my hair, I oppressed it by pasting it to my scalp. If my curls had been able to stand up on their own and hold picket signs, they would have staged a bloody coup and ousted the dictatorship that was my gel.

Remember the Robert Palmer girls from the 1980s music videos? They had my hair, except I added a weird little pouffy thing near the front.

For about a kazillion years my hair was either gelled or pulled into a tight ponytail or braid. It was too frizzy to wear down and I didn’t know how to deal with it properly. I thought anyone who coveted my natural curls was crazy. Lots of people did. Weirdos.

Eventually, though, my hair and I found a manageable style and some balance in the use of hair-care products. (So now it’s kind of like Canadian government – my hair thinks it has some control, but doesn’t really.)

There is a fine line between my hair looking “as if it has seen a brush” and looking “like a bird’s nest,” however. I have this habit of running my hand through my hair while I work (at home, by myself, with no one watching). Consequently, anyone unfortunate enough to come to the door will be greeted by someone who looks as if she should be one of the three witches in the opening scenes of Macbeth.

“Double double toil and trouble” indeed.

At least this is probably slightly more professional than being greeted at the door by the musical Hair.

The thing is, though, I am not mortified about this as I once might have been. Okay, maybe a little mortified, but not enough to go back to slapping 30 tonnes of gel on my head every day.

“Help! Help! We’re being repressed!” call the curls.

The other night my father-in-law popped in for a visit. He took one look at me. “Your hair appointment wasn’t today, I take it?” he laughed.

There was a time when I would have run from the room before anyone could see me with crazy hair. Now? I am inclined to have it declared a nature reserve for rare nesting birds and see if I can get a tax break.

The Stephanie Gray Wild Bird Sanctuary, perhaps? And Gift Shoppe?

I’m not sure what that is saying, exactly, but I’m okay with it.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 31/11

Past Deadline: Current Events 101

2011-04-05T21:08:00.005-04:00

It’s tough being a so-called humour columnist these days.

You may have noticed that in the grand scheme of things there isn’t a lot of funny stuff going on. Oh, sure, I could tell you about March Break and how, for a change, the kids were healthy but I lost the battle against a yucky slobbery cold. I could wax woeful about listening to all sorts of people jetting off to warmer climes. I could probably come up with an entire column about the misery of looking out my window and seeing everywhere in the backyard melting except my ice-encased patio, where I would love to be sitting right about now.

But now, given current global events, doesn’t seem to be the right time for minor complaints.

Groom-boy and I are news junkies, which goes with the journalism training, I suppose. So we often watch the news in the evening, and it is usually on in the background during supper, too. I realize the news and family dinners do not always make good companions. Fortunately it is mostly background noise – we can’t all see the television while we’re eating. That’s a good thing, too, because I honestly can’t think of a time in the last few years when there has been so much really bad news in one newscast night after night after night.

It’s safe to say recent current events have raised a lot of questions in our household, and it all started with Egypt. Boychild is beginning to get a handle on his place in the world, but sometimes that link is a bit tenuous. Since he is showing an interest in current events I’m not about to discourage it, even if it could, conceivably, cause nightmares. That’s why I’m around to help explain it and put it into some sort of context. This isn’t always easy, though. When he asks why people are rioting and protesting and fighting in Egypt and Libya, I have a tough time coming up with suitable answers about north African politics (and please don’t ask me about the Middle East).

“Well, the people don’t like their government, and in those countries that is the only way they can express that.”

“But why?”

So there are watered down explanations about government oppression and democracies versus dictatorships and how dictatorships aren’t considered to be a good thing and how some leaders are a bit too crazy to be running a country. (I left out the part about Gadhafi’s weird costumes.)

“But Stephen Harper is a good prime minister, right?”

Ahem. “That depends on who you ask,” I said, biting back some beautiful opportunities to be sarcastic about dictatorships in Canada.

Now we are bombing Libya, but as of this writing that development has not registered with any of the shorter residents of the house. That one might be trickier to explain. And then there is Japan and the “would that ever happen here” questions. At first it was easy to answer “no” to the tsunami and earthquake questions. First of all, we’re too far inland to ever be affected by a tsunami. But then eastern Ontario gets rattled by a tiny earthquake (which I thought was someone slamming a car door really really hard). So then we have another discussion about plate tectonics and how even though there is a fault line near here, it’s not the same as what exists in “the ring of fire.”

So far there haven’t been many questions about the nuclear catastrophe. I’m still thinking about responses to that one because even though we have been assured our plants are “safe,” it’s nuclear power, for crying out loud. Never say never. If it’s not an earthquake, it could be something else.

“What kind of disasters could happen here, Mom?”

I think about the ice storm and climate change and how we might see more severe storms roaring through here. I think about terrorism and its “randomness” that isn’t necessarily random. Flooding, fires, train derailments, chemical spills – lots of things could happen. Thinking about these things is just one more reason why being a grown-up can be stinky.

“I think we’re really lucky to live where we do, Boychild. We live in a good place.”
Published in The Perth Courier, March 24/11.

Past Deadline: Connected Like the Super Powers

2011-03-20T11:19:00.003-04:00

I have a new boyfriend. (Shh! Don’t tell Groom-boy.)

My boyfriend is small, sleek, shiny and emits noises that make me giggle. When I want him to be quiet I just turn him off and he doesn’t argue about it. I can charge him up by walking away and take him with me wherever I go without complaint.

I got a CrackBerry. I mean BlackBerry™.

I’m going to call him George.

George is red. I have wanted a red phone forever (I know, I know. Small things.) A friend of mine has a red phone in her basement and I have coveted it for my office. At some point (I blame the ’80s) the Cold War/Red Phone thing must have really intrigued me. “Mr. President? This is the Kremlin.” You know I am the go-to girl for those “we’re about to push the nuke button” type of calls.

And don’t forget the Bat Phone is red. And I’m Bat Girl. Er...batty girl. Whatever.

Anyway, when I began to think the time had come for a cell phone, I knew it would have to be red. After all, I now have the option of being constantly connected, just like the Super Powers™. (Regular readers, though, will probably correctly assume I turn it off at night. After all, Utah might be calling.)

Groom-boy has a BlackBerry™ (not red), but he takes it with him for the daily commute to Ottawa. It’s a safety feature. Besides, you never know when you might encounter alien abductions or pianos falling from the sky. Always a risk on the 417.

Generally I work from home, but there are times when I have to be away. Sometimes I would borrow Groom-boy’s phone if travelling any distance. It would make strange noises at me periodically as he received e-mails and other messages.

More and more I came to realize a smart phone would serve me quite well. For one thing, I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving Groom-boy at risk of alien abductions. Secondly, I would be reachable for Calls From the School (my favourite – not).I also realized it would be a handy office assistant for me.

See, I am a one-person show. When I am away from the home office, there is no one answering the phone or checking e-mails – and I get a lot of e-mails. That’s where George is proving to be very handy. Now if I am expecting an important call or message, George and I can deal with it while I’m away from the office, even if I am gallivanting in a forest (because that happens so often).

I love George. He is red. And he makes me laugh. Everyone should have an office assistant that makes you giggle. My e-mail alert is a bicycle bell. It’s such a happy little sound. Someone remarked, as it went off in my pocket one day, that is also sounds a bit like the cha-ching of a cash register and asked if I was getting paid.

During a recent e-mail exchange with a friend, I jokingly asked if he could send random one-word e-mails periodically throughout the day so my bell would ring. Of course he reminded me of the experiment with Pavlov’s dog. Now I think someone should give me a brownie every time I get an e-mail.

I’ve set another alert to be a sonar ping. I don’t know why that makes me giggle (see “small things,” above), but it does. You know, in this world where crazy bad things happen to people all the time, I’m going to take the little giggles when I can.

And when I feel stressed, I just look into George’s face and see a tranquil beach scene. Oh, sweet George.

I’m trying really hard not to be one of those people who walks along the sidewalk fiddling with his or her CrackBerry, but the novelty of it makes that difficult. It’s like the first blush of love, when you can’t get enough of one another. Of course if I start going to bed at night and dreaming about sonar pings and bicycle bells, that might be a good sign to cool off the romance a bit.

Still. Red phones are hard to ignore.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 17/11

Past Deadline: Milestones

2011-03-20T11:14:00.003-04:00

Guess what. You are currently reading my 800th Past Deadline column.

Whoa.

That seems like a big number. It makes me feel kinda old, actually, and maybe a little tired because that represents more than half a million words. I didn’t know I had half a million words in me, but probably some of you suspected.

I can’t even remember when I started writing Past Deadline. I think it was 1995. It was definitely before I got married because I wrote a whole series of columns about “the wedding monster,” which I still think are prerequisite reading for any bride to be (in the “don’t be a stressed-out freak like I was” vein).

So what does one do after writing a half million words over more than a decade?

Take a nap, perhaps? (Not likely around here!)

Have a celebratory beverage? (Maybe.)

Retire? (Ha.)

No, what one does is get ready for another milestone that involves the number 800, of course. So...I have...gulp...signed up for the Kilt Run.

The “800” connection, you may remember, is that the run was spawned last year as a way to help our sister city, Perth, Scotland, to celebrate its 800th anniversary. Even though I had started a running program by then, I didn’t sign up because I didn’t think I would be ready to do 8K. By the time I realized I probably could manage it without dying, registration had closed.

So, I think it is only appropriate that I sign up for this event one year late in honour of my 800th Past Deadline column. Get it? Past deadline? Guffaw. Me so funny and clever. (Insert eye roll here.)

Of course there is that teeny tiny hurdle about actually running. Some of you may recall I have fallen off the bandwagon when it comes to this most intrepid of exercise programs. The last time I did any sort of regular running was September/October. At that time I was all gung ho about the Terry Fox Run. I was definitely going to run the route – oh yes. It is about 5K, and that was quite manageable for me.

No probs, except for the fact I was coming down with a chest cold. I thought I was going to die part way through the run. I believe I was thinking, “Run through the chest pain,” which is probably not a really clever thing to do. Moron.

Anyway, that cold lasted a while and the accompanying cough (with which I believe most of the town is familiar) lasted for weeks. I ran less and less and then stopped, especially around Christmas when life got just too busy to see straight.

Motivation is a pretty big deal. You have to have it to accomplish many things in life. I’m not sure exactly why I decided one night a couple of weeks ago that I was going to go for a run, but I’m sure glad I did. I downloaded some groovy tunes, put on the ear phones, tied up the Rocket Shoes™ and set out on a winter-night trek. I figured I’d maybe be able to manage two or three kilometres. Maybe 20 minutes of alternating walking and running. I was hoping I could run five minutes at a time before taking a break.

In short, I figured I’d be starting over.

By gum, I did 5K and I ran almost all of it! I walked up the Drummond Street hill because it was near the start of my route and I figured I’d be a goner if I lost my breath so soon, and I walked for another minute at about the 4K mark.

I am amazed by the body’s capacity to remember!

Sure, I paid for it a couple of days later as I hobbled around and became reacquainted with a few dormant muscles, but it was a good kind of pain.

So, as I contemplated a topic for my 800th column, it only seemed fitting to connect one milestone to another. (This whole scheme is also made possible by the fact there is still four months-worth of training time ahead.)

You can bet if I survive the Kilt Run on July 2, I’ll have something to write about then, too!
Published in The Perth Courier, March 10/11

Past Deadline: Swarm of Bees

2011-03-05T22:09:00.002-05:00

There was a cute piece on the news last week about the creativity people are showing with excuses about why they are late for work. Of course I mean “cute” in an eye-rolling sort of way. I think it is quite applicable to excuses given for bad behaviour in general.

The CTV story indicated this is a growing problem. Hundreds of Canadian companies and employees were surveyed by an online job company, and apparently 19 per cent of respondents said they arrive late to work at least once a week, and 11 per cent claim to be late twice per week. One quarter of those tardy folks said “lack of sleep” was their reason for lateness, and another quarter blamed traffic. Public transit, bad weather, getting kids to school/daycare, Internet use and spouses were also on the list.

The story didn’t get specific about just how, exactly, Internet use and spouses made a person late, so of course I’m using my imagination:

“Well, boss, my spouse stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips and refused to let me pass.”

Or how about: “A rope came out from my computer screen, wrapped around my neck and started to tighten whenever I stopped Facebooking.” Yes, I think “Facebooking” is officially a verb now. If it isn’t, it probably will be soon.

The story went on to describe some “whoppers” that didn’t make the top five, but that were considered to be wild tales. One was that a bear stopped an employee’s car, smashed the window and tried to grab him or her. Another claimed to have been attacked by the pet cat, another said the car was inhabited by bees, and one said grandma went missing.

I dunno. They sound wild, but in a way those ones are as believable as the usual weather, traffic and transit excuses, which strike me as old and tired even if they are true.

And sometimes excuses are more of a fill-in-the-blanks thing. A teacher friend told me one of her students didn’t get an assignment finished “because she was in Ottawa.” Shrug. Of course! Ottawa! Totally understandable because a) they have no computers/Internet in Ottawa and b) spending time in Ottawa gives one an immediate homework pass. Just because. So there.

Whatevs.

I mean, it’s not as if I want people to lie to me when they give excuses, but I also think people are just not being overly accountable or responsible. Most of the time you can leave earlier in bad weather or during construction season, but you can’t really plan for a bee swarm or for grandma flying the coop.

I think we have to just face the fact that sometimes we screw up. We can’t always blame someone or something else.

That’s why I wanted to emphasize something I said in my column a few weeks ago about the guy who seemed determined to run a bunch of us down at the crossing at Wilson and Isabella streets.
There has been some comment in The Perth Courier since then about that intersection. There is no denying it’s a busy spot. Lots of folks have reported near misses. I like the changes made to the intersection in the construction. As a pedestrian who stands on its various corners with a small group of children a couple of times a day, I feel less exposed now that the crossing is set back from the corners. If drivers jump the gun, there is time for them to stop as they come around.

What happened to us a few weeks ago had nothing to do with how that intersection is designed. The driver in question waited for some of us to cross, then barged out before the rest had made it. He ignored Lloyd the crossing guard, who was standing in the middle of the road wearing his bright orange vest and holding his stop sign.

The intersection didn’t nearly hit my children, the guy in the car nearly did. And that is what is going on at Wilson and Isabella and in so many other places. People need to pay attention, slow down and be patient.

Now, possibly the driver in question was dealing with a swarm of bees in his car, but I kinda doubt it.
Published in The Perth Courier, March 3/11.

Past Deadline: Yes I Am Preoccupied with This

2011-03-05T22:04:00.002-05:00

I have good news and bad news.

The good news is I think I solved the mystery of why a fax machine in Utah is calling us in the middle of the night on our home phone number. Somehow, during one of those middle-of-the-night calls, I managed to fumble with phone in just the right way to trigger my own fax machine to wake up and connect. We actually received a fax!

The fax revealed some wacky company was trying to send information to a business in our area. I telephoned the local business and it turns out their fax number is remarkably close to our home phone number. I pleaded my case and they must have called the client service number on the fax to change the number because the calls have stopped. Thank you, local business!

The bad news? Despite the absence of Utah, this week has probably ranked as the Worst Week Ever on the sleep front.

Okay. I KNOW I dwell on this a lot, but I am seriously preoccupied by burny eyes and a slightly doomed feeling. I am convinced that a lot of the world’s problems would be solved if people would just get more sleep. Everything seems that much more difficult when one is tired.

The week started off well enough. I dealt with Utah on Monday. Girlchild was at home from school, afflicted with The Cold with The Cough (alternately referred to as the plague). She seemed to be coming along nicely, though.

Ha! Silly me.

That night Girlchild was up two or three times because of her cough and Boychild chimed in with his own woes – a sore tummy and a nagging (and I do mean nagging) inability to go back to sleep. Eventually I reached that annoying point when I had been awakened too many times and couldn’t fall back to sleep. Despite the fact I could have been up vacuuming or writing a novel or choreographing Broadway musicals, I opted to toss and turn and Think Deep Thoughts in the Dark.

The two hours of sleep I got (Groom-boy got about the same) translated into having basically no fuse for anything and feeling a bit like crying over nothing. Fortunately the risk of violence against random strangers or of sobbing in public was diminished by the fact I was stuck at home with not one, but two sick kids. (My mom spelled me off for half an hour so I could buy cat food, but there were no ugly incidents to report.)

On Tuesday night I went to bed early. Just as I dozed off, Boychild woke me up. Twice. I started to feel panicky. Would I ever sleep again? Are they trying to kill me? Everything settled down, though, and I got a glorious (and unheard of) seven hours of sleep! I felt like a new person!

On Wednesday Girlchild made it back to school, but Boychild was still under the weather. And I mention weather here because that was the calm before the storm.

One word: earache.

Girlchild began to complain of this affliction Wednesday night. In short, it was one heck of a long night that involved rotating shifts of people comforting a very miserable little girl.

Then Boychild started coughing.

Then Buster started yowling.

I expected Utah to call, but we’d fixed their wagon already.

The only good thing is that I was prepared for a bad night and had no expectations. Still, when I woke up in the morning after two or three hours of intermittent dozing, I seriously began to question things. For example, what is my name? What day is it? And who are the crazy people in this house?

I don’t think I’ve felt this tired since the newborn days.

Do any of you remember when it was fun to pull all nighters and you’d do it on purpose? You’d slug back the caffeine to finish a paper or party with friends or lie awake in defiance of parents just to see what “all night” looked like?

Ha. Been there and done that, thanks. I have seen “all night” and it is just plain dark. Night is good for sleeping.

Please.

If you don’t mind.
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 24/11

Past Deadline: Things That Went Away

2011-02-16T23:47:00.002-05:00

Sleep went away. Then it came back a little. Then it went away again.

What? Sorry...sleep-deprived columnist over here.

I thought I’d try to assemble a reasonably cohesive column based on a few “things that went away.” You can judge my success – hopefully “readers” won’t be added to the list.

Calls from a Utah fax machine rank first on the list of things I at least thought went away. Regular readers may remember we had trouble in September with an organization that insisted upon trying to send a fax to our home telephone in the middle of the night – usually twice a night.

This is as awesome as it sounds. You know that heart-pounding telephone ring in the night? The one you assume will probably come with bad news? That’s what we dealt with a few times (only with a fax squeal instead of the Voice of Doom) before we turned off the ringer.

The calls went on every night for many nights. We worked to block the numbers (it was an auto dialler, so many numbers) and we registered on the do-not-call list. It stopped.

Until this weekend.

On the same night my kids woke me up not once, not twice, but thrice, Utah decided to throw in a couple of fax attempts, too.

[Insert many many bad words here.]

Needless to say I did not attempt to perform surgery or operate heavy equipment on the weekend.

I’ll be busily following up on this little annoyance – again – because I have all the time in the world to be dealing with auto diallers in Utah.

This is just the sort of distraction that is, um, preventing me from running. Yes, that’s another thing that has gone away. Although running was darned good for clearing my head, certain parts of my body didn’t enjoy it as much. At first I felt guilty about this loss of momentum, but then something happened to change that.

See, we’re making do with one car in our family, which means I spend a lot of time commuting around town on foot while Groom-boy has the auto at work all day. Although the days when I have to plow through snowbanks and against nasty north winds are a bit, well, chilly, for the most part I am not minding the experience one bit. Fortunately I have excellent support systems for when wheels are unavoidable (parents and in-laws).

Anyway, with all this walking I managed to shed six pounds in the fall. I felt great! This was a good thing to have go away. Muscle tone going away? Not so good.

These days I rarely run (read: never), at least not in an organized, meaningful way that involves any sort of distance. Endurance? Something else that went away. In fact, if I want to keep any promises about “doing the Kilt Run next time,” then I’ll be starting pretty much from scratch. I’ll let you know how that all turns out.

Not surprisingly, something else that went away is that weight-loss achievement. At first I blamed Christmas, but I extend that to a broader culprit. Yes, I blame another thing that went away: my willpower to stop snacking at night.

Sigh.

In the summer I wrote about a remarkable discovery. I realized that if I ate less, I wouldn’t starve to death. In fact, I went so far as to substantially reduce snacking in the evening and – get this – I was okay! I felt good! Oh – and by not eating until I was stuffed, I actually felt pleasantly satiated after a meal.

Remarkable. Truly astonishing. (Duh.)

Anyway, let’s just say there has been a bit of a blip since Christmas. In fact, the new room I discovered in my waistband? Well, that’s another thing that went away. Something that hasn’t gone away is the munchies.

So. Yes. We have some work to do over here. We need to shut down Utah fax machines in order to get some sleep; we must either get back to running or leave town on the weekend of the Kilt Run; and we should rediscover comfortable waistbands by staying out of the kitchen cupboard.

And once all that is achieved, world peace can’t be far behind.
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 17/11

Past Deadline: Angry Bull Drivers

2011-02-16T23:43:00.002-05:00

I wear a bright red winter coat and a black hat. I used to think it was a good thing – I show up in the snow if lost in the woods and my kids can spot me in a crowd. Up until recently I believed my coat was a bit of a safety feature – especially when crossing busy intersections. Now I’m wondering if it’s more like a red flag in a bull ring and the drivers are the angry bulls.

This is all loosely tied to a recent struggle I’ve been having with boundaries. As our kids get older they naturally want and need more freedoms and responsibilities. My generation is prone to that phenomenon known as “helicopter parenting,” which is when we tend to hover around our kids a little more than they need. I believe other generations would have called it “over protective” or maybe even “super crazy ridiculously over protective.”

Honestly, though, it seems that every time I decide to lighten up, something freaky happens.

I believe, for example, Boychild is old enough to walk home by himself, but I usually travel with him and his buddies because I still pick up his little sister. She’s in Kindergarten and gets out first, so we wait around for the boys. Lately I had been thinking Girlchild and I could probably start ahead home and let him walk on his own or with his friends.

There are some pretty busy streets to navigate on our route, which has always been a bit of a worry. Still, Boychild’s no dummy. He knows the rules and our trusty crossing guard Lloyd is there to get him across the first hurdle, Wilson Street, so I was seriously contemplating this freedom.

One day last week I was walking ahead with Girlchild and some other kids and Boychild was lagging behind with his buddies. As we approached the intersection of Isabella/Leslie and Wilson Street, I decided Girlchild and I would go ahead across and the guys could catch the next light.

As we were crossing, though, I turned to see Boychild and his friends running at top speed to join us. “Lloyd,” I said, beckoning back, “there are four more coming.”

So there’s Lloyd, standing in the middle of the road with his bright orange safety vest and stop sign. We still had the walk signal, although it started to flash as the boys hit the street. I, wearing my bright red coat, was not quite to the other side.

That’s when some moron in a dark-coloured car apparently decided he’d had enough with the waiting and with obeying these silly laws and proceeded to turn left from Leslie and head north onto Wilson, driving between Lloyd and me just as the boys got to the middle of the street. If I had not turned and yelled “Whoa!” they just might have connected.

Lloyd leapt towards the car and tried to stop him, but the driver kept going. At least one person in the line-up of vehicles waiting for the green light in order to continue south on Wilson hollered a few choice words at the driver.

My crew and I got to the other side of the street and stood for a moment. “Well, gang,” I said, as my heart knocked around in my chest like a trapped bird, “I guess from now on we cross as a group.” I didn’t add: “...so then the idiot drivers can just kill all of us at once and get it over with.”

We were all a little shaken up, including Lloyd. You have to be a special kind of person to do the job he does. I bet there are times when he’d like to jump through car windows and grab some drivers by the neck. The fact that he doesn’t is admirable – although I worry about his blood pressure.

Sadly, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I can’t decide whether I should change the colour of my coat or simply be a helicopter parent forever.

I know one thing for sure: it does no good for my pedestrian kid to know the rules of the road if someone in a car is going to come along and break them.
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 10/11

Past Deadline: Sleep When the Baby Sleeps

2011-02-16T23:40:00.002-05:00

Guess what? I’m an auntie!

My “little” brother and sister-in-law had a baby girl last week, so I am officially an aunt for the first time. He’s my only sibling, and there are none on Groom-boy’s side, so this is exciting stuff – a first niece for Groom-boy and a first cousin for Boychild and Girlchild, too!

Being an aunt is going to be pretty cool. I suspect it’s a little like training for grandmotherhood – you get to play with the baby for periods of time and can hand her back at the end.

Being in the midst of a brand-new baby has conjured up a lot of memories and I have been finding it tricky to keep my volumes of information in check. If there’s one thing a new baby is guaranteed to produce (aside from full diapers, spit-up and sleep deprivation), it’s baby stories.

In my own little world, I figure carrying a child for nine months (twice) and then helping it into the world (twice) still rank as the most important things I have ever done. Nothing has ever come close to that overwhelming feeling of seeing my baby for the first time after a heck of a lot of hard work.

Naturally, since this is such a big job it stands to reason mamas are going to retain all sorts of memories about the occasion and about child rearing in general. I should note that an equal amount of information gets sucked away thanks to things like sleep deprivation and rampant hormones. To this day I believe my brain is too full of odds and ends and that a piece of old information has to fall out of one ear to make room for details coming in the other.

Anyway, it seems everyone has an opinion about how to raise children, whether they have children or not. There’s nothing wrong with that, except that actually having a newborn is a bit of a shock to the system the first time and it’s really easy for new moms and dads to be overwhelmed by information.

I hear myself doing it to my brother and sister-in-law. I throw random tidbits of information at them about ways to help a fussy baby (even though theirs isn’t fussy) or products I used and liked or foods I found disagreed with my kids or how to put such-and-such together and on and on. And yet if I thought about it for a moment, I’d realize two things: 1. In all likelihood my brother and sister-in-law are too tired to remember what day it is let alone the intricacies of assembling a bouncy seat; 2. Usually it’s better to be asked for advice than to offer it every time one opens one’s mouth.

It took me a while to realize it when Boychild was a baby, but one of the most important parts about raising a kid is following your instincts. Many times I wandered down a path that didn’t feel quite right because an experienced mama told me it was a good idea. We’re all born with instincts, but sometimes we forget to use them.

Besides, sometimes we just have to figure things out by trial and error. We tend to know our own children best, and since every kid is different what worked for one might not work for another. That said it sure is nice to have experienced moms and dads to ask. Sharing information is a huge part of parenting – it’s the whole “it takes a village to raise a child” thing. And I’m fairly certain any mom or dad would be delighted to share tips if asked. (I’m ready!)

After all this preaching, though, I can’t resist offering one more piece of advice, especially since nine years after my first child was born I am STILL griping about sleep deprivation. So here it is – the oft-repeated but seldom-followed mantra: Sleep when the baby sleeps. Seriously. Do it. Your house might be dirty, your dishes won’t get done and your laundry will be wrinkled, but life looks so much better if you can get some rest. Do it now – newborns are the perfect excuse for napping!

Congrats, Doug and Krista, and welcome to beautiful little Ainsley!
Published in The Perth Courier, Feb. 3/11

Past Deadline: Winter, We Need to Talk

2011-01-29T20:56:00.002-05:00

Dear Winter,

I think our friendship may be in jeopardy.

It’s no secret you are difficult to love, but over the years I have stood by you loyally, defending your character to all comers, making excuses, trying to be enthusiastic about your strange whims. It hasn’t been easy. You make it awfully difficult to be a good, true friend.

What I love most about you is your snow, which gives everyone, particularly the kids, something fun to do. That said we are not a family of winter-sport lovers. We don’t ski. We don’t (GASP!) do the hockey thing. We skate a little, if you can call it that, but not very often. We have been known to snowshoe and we like to go sledding.

With this meagre participation in the fun stuff of winter, why am I compelled to defend and love you so? Because you are you! Winter is part of everything that is this place, and life wouldn’t be the same without you.

Possibly I will feel differently about you when I’m older because, you know, relationships change and joints get creaky and the cold is felt more keenly in the bones. For now, though, I want to give you some advice, as a friend, that might help to perk up your image a bit.

First of all, it’s about this bitter cold thing. We expect it to be cold, but we’re in eastern Ontario and our normal winter highs and lows are a bit different than those in, say, Yellowknife. I think it would be a smashing idea if you could limit the number and duration of cold snaps each winter. In other words: enough already.

See, this sort of thing annoys people and then they say mean things about you. And don’t try to tell me that January is all about cold, sunny days – frostbite warnings and windchills into the minus 40s are not “cold,” they’re frigid. It’s just mean. Knock it off. The ice is thick enough for skating now, so we can move on.

Besides, when it’s cold like this it gets harder and harder not to agree with the people who say, “Bring on global warming.” But don’t worry, I mutter “It’s climate change” every time. Climate change is not necessarily a warm thing.

Anyway, my second piece of advice is to provide more snow. We’ve had the cold, we’ve got the thick ice, now could we please have a little more snow so that the kids can make forts and snowmen and such? People who ski and snowshoe like snow.

Now, I know you’re probably scoffing at this advice because if there’s one thing you hear over and over from your critics it is complaints about the snow. That’s why I’m saying just a little bit. Maybe little bits at a time.

These crazy whiteouts on major highways causing huge calamities are a bit much. And the 50-or-so feet you’ve dumped on parts of North America is overkill. Spread it around a little!

I mean, you know me. We’ve been friends for a long time, and you know that I tend to be realistic about you. It’s not always going to perfect in your season. You are loveable, but difficult. The best relationships often are.

I know you’ve crossed a line when I find myself agreeing with the late news. Usually I scoff whenever some silly winter weather story is the lead. “Suck it up, buttercup,” I’ll say. “It’s winter! In Canada! It’s what we do and who we are! We know how to use snowplows!”

When I find myself nodding and thinking, “Wow, that really IS a lot of snow” or “That really IS cold” or “That really DOES merit a state of emergency” then either I’m getting soft (not yet) or you’ve gone too far. Play nice. You’ll win more friends.

That all said, I know there are tonnes of folks who will never love you or who once did and now speak only with contempt and disdain whenever you show up – nasty or normal. I still think every little bit helps, though.

I want us to always be friends, Winter, but I could use a little help.
Sincerely yours.
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 27/11

Past Deadline: Building Wooden Badgers

2011-01-29T20:44:00.002-05:00

Wow...I think this posting has the most links I have ever included!

I have taken some Good-Natured Ribbing™ about my Family Guy column from a couple of weeks ago. Apparently there are some fine, upstanding, respectable, likeable people on this planet who really like Family Guy.

That’s cool, just as long as I don’t have to be one of them. One of the people watching it, I mean. Y’all know I’m fine, upstanding, respectable and likeable.

Ahem.

Anyway, during this Good-Natured Ribbing™ (complete with little winky-faced emoticons whenever it was done online), I felt compelled to return fire by using a series of Monty Python quotes. Immediately I was labelled as being able to laugh only at “deathly stale British attempts at ‘humour.’”

“Now go away or I shall taunt you a second time,” I said.

All this is a very elaborate segue into a story about a quest for shrubbery. (Note to readers: if you are not familiar with Monty Python and the Holy Grail, then this column will be even less funny than usual.) (Winky face.)

I volunteer with the Friends of Murphys Point Park (a fine, upstanding, respectable, likeable organization, much like myself). We are about to run our winter session of Super Kids In Parks, which is an outdoor learning program for children ages 7 to 10. One of the activities will be shelter building and for that we need, well, shrubbery.

It seems ironic that when you’re doing a program at a provincial park, you would need to go on a quest for shrubbery. I mean, the place is loaded with trees and brush and deadfall. It’s just like how when you camp at a provincial park, though, you’re not allowed to collect any kindling or wood from around your campsite to build a fire.

And why the heck not? Well, if everyone who visits a park did that, there wouldn’t be much left. And there has to be lots left because there are oodles (that’s a highly technical term for “many”) of critters who live in the park that need the various forms of shrubbery, dead or alive, for shelter or food. Besides, the dead stuff decomposes and enriches the soil, which leads to more growth and circle of life and etc.

So, if we are going to make shelters from shrubbery (“one that looks nice...and not too expensive”), then we have to import it. At least the volunteer and I who undertook this quest did not have to contend with the Knights of Ni.

And where would we find this shrubbery? Would we have to harass old crones and yell “Ni” at will? Would we be lucky enough to encounter “Roger the Shrubber” on our quest? And what is the average wing speed velocity of an unladen swallow anyway? (I warned you this column would be moronic if you don’t know the movie.)

So many questions. Fortunately, though, we had the annual curbside Christmas tree pickup in town on our side. This is what I do in my spare time. I lurk around town in the dark with my friend who has a truck and nab old, dead Christmas trees for a Good Cause™. (Not only does it conform to park regulations, but it will be educational and it’s a recycling program of sorts, too!)

The town staff, I must say, are extraordinarily efficient when it comes to collecting the trees. By the time we got mobilized for our quest (complete with coconuts we could bang together to make the sound of horse hooves) on day two of pickup week, they had already retrieved and chipped most of the trees.

Fortunately, the town was very considerate of our plight, and they piled a spare few for us to retrieve. We did not have to say “Ni!” to them even once! It would be ironic, though, if there were someone named Roger on staff.

Once we are finished with the shelters and the Christmas trees, then we have to remove them from the park because, well, they weren’t found there in the first place.

Sigh.

Maybe it would be easier to build a large wooden rabbit or badger out of them and storm a castle instead. “Run away! Run away!”
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 20/11

Past Deadline: Scavenging Cats

2011-01-29T20:41:00.003-05:00

Our cats, who I love dearly most of the time (ahem), have entered a new behavioural phase in their senior years.

It is annoying as all heck.

Regular readers will know I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with our cats. They are reasonably lovely creatures, and each of them has endearing features, but there are certain quirks I could do without.

The kitties were our babies before we had human ones, so I carry great gobs of guilt over the fact my tolerance for their behaviour decreased once we had kids. I think the trouble started when I found myself cleaning up the daily hairball, cat hair tumbleweed and other surprises in the midst of changing diapers and doing baby-related tasks. For alleged “independent” creatures, there seemed to be a lot of labour.

And that was before the serious health issues came along.

The big tabby, MacGregor, has had long-term issues with his innards. I could go so far as to say this has been pretty much under control for quite a while thanks to special expensive food, daily doses of Metamucil and an occasional hit of an anti-anxiety drug, but that kind of boastfulness would be absolutely, ridiculously foolish. (Now that I have provided these details here, you can be sure my next column will be about a trip to the vet.)

Then there’s Buster, the fluffy loud cat whose diabetes seems to be under control. Cool thing about cats? Diabetes can be reversed. So his version of special expensive food seems to have worked and I no longer have to give him two needles of insulin a day. (See above. It’s very stupid to even breathe a word of these things out loud. I am clearly asking for trouble.)

Obviously diet is a very important part of our cats’ lives. This is why the new behavioural phase I mentioned is so annoying.

We never let our cats have table scraps. We’ve always had to be careful about how much to feed them, too, because they gorge. Most cats I have known are nibblers – you can fill up their food dishes at a certain point in the day and they will come over and nibble a bit, wander off, do cat things, wander back, nibble a little, etc. One dish could last the whole day.

Our cats? Ha! They know exactly when it’s feeding time and they howl (especially Buster) to be fed. Not only that, but it doesn’t matter whether it’s wet food or dry food and whether it’s a lot or a little, the minute you set down a dish they gobble it within a couple of minutes. It’s crazy. You’d think they were starving to death, but we haven’t reduced their diet in years.

And that’s not even the issue. After years of reasonably good behaviour, things are changing. We never used to have a problem when it came to leaving, for example, our plates on the table for a few minutes after we finished eating dinner. Now, any hint of leftover food on any surface is fair game.

They’re like scavengers when we leave the room. They never used to jump up on counters or tables, but now we catch them there all the time. Nothing is safe – they will lick plates and pots and pans. They eat any kind of scrap – whether it’s meat or crackers or even chocolate cake.

Yes, chocolate cake. Very bad for cats – especially diabetic ones.

Then, recently, they decided it would be great fun to start raiding the garbage. In our town we have green bin program for compost, so there are no scraps in our garbage bag under the sink, but we figure they smell stuff on, for example, non-recyclable wrappers we throw away. We often enter the kitchen to find the cupboard door under the sink flung open, and occasionally there is garbage on the floor. Not good.

So guess what? We’ve had to re-install a childproof latch on the cupboard door, even though our kids are nine and five and our cats are senior citizens.

That will mesh nicely with the various cat deterrents we will have to install along the counter and kitchen table. I’m thinking barbed wire? I hear it’s all the rage.
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 13/11

Past Deadline: Defining Funny Television

2011-01-08T00:15:00.001-05:00

Apparently I’m no fun – at least when it comes to watching TV.

This disturbing truth was revealed while a friend of ours spent the weekend. He and Groom-boy took great delight in watching the Family Guy marathon – episode after episode – while I tried hard not to run screaming from the room. This was interspersed with sitcom reruns from the 1970s and ’80s, such as Three’s Company.

Adult cartoons and reruns from my childhood just don’t do it for me. While the two of them sat there guffawing and chortling, I thought I’d have more fun shoving bamboo under my fingernails and then poking myself in the eye repeatedly. (I’m sincerely hoping here that there are some readers out there who agree these shows are not high up on the humour meter – or am I truly no fun?)

“Well what TV shows do you think are funny? What do you watch for entertainment?” our friend asked.

The first thing that came to mind was the news. I take great delight in watching the news, especially at 11 p.m., because I enjoy mocking the anchors. Somehow, though, that didn’t seem like a good answer.

The next thing I thought of was the various dramas that run during the 10 to 11 p.m. spot, which is around the time I finally get a chance to plunk down in a chair and watch TV if I so choose. But crime dramas (because, really, that’s mostly all that’s on during that time if you’re looking for a non-reality serial to watch), didn’t seem like the right answer, either. They’re not exactly “funny.”

When the kids are home, the TV is on a lot. That doesn’t necessarily mean anyone is watching it, but there are a couple of shows they have found that are pretty cute. One is a Disney show called I’m in the Band and another is a Canadian one called That’s So Weird. They both contain some amusing humour for grown-ups, kind of like how Bugs Bunny had a few nuggets for Moms and Dads back when I was watching it as a kid. Somehow, though, citing kids’ shows didn’t seem like a good answer either.

At one point my friend was flipping through the channels and started singing, “Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.” (Remember that Bruce Springsteen song from 1992?) “Only now it’s more like ‘Seven hundred channels and nothing on,’” he quipped as we skipped over a kazillion reality shows and other junk.

And that reminded me. There was a time, way before kids and a bit before marriage, when I believed I would have been pretty content to go without television entirely. Some days I still feel that way. This weekend was one of those times – especially during the Family Guy marathon. At one point I did actually laugh and then I got heckled. “THAT is the one thing you find funny?”

I tell you, I can’t win. Or perhaps I need new friends.

I’m willing to bet that if I had more time (or interest) to sit around and explore current sitcoms I would find something appealing. I mean, it’s not as if I only want watch Dramas (with a capital D) or shows about eyeball surgery. Humorous entertainment is quite a lovely thing.

I think, really, the problem is that I have become quite “anti din.”

This is especially acute when the kids are home and super keyed up, as they have been over the Christmas break. The associated excitement has vastly increased the decibel level in the house.
Combine holidays with the fact we have NO snow (yes, I want some snow), which means they don’t really want to play outside in the cold, wet drab, and you get a lot of people rambling loudly around the house.

Of course, I also get heckled because, if given a choice between listening to CBC Radio 2 (the music) or Radio 1 (the chatter) while I’m working, I would choose the music. While the chatter is reasonably intelligent, it’s still talk talk talk (din).

Okay. End of rant. If you need me I will (hopefully) be sitting in a quiet (possibly rubber) room somewhere reading a book.
Published in The Perth Courier, Jan. 6/11

Past Deadline: It's a Revolution, Baby

2011-01-04T21:34:00.002-05:00

Well. So that was 2010.

Do you ever have a bad feeling going into a year and then when it turns out it wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be it gives you another bad feeling – like maybe it wasn’t that year that was going to be so bad, but actually the next year?

No?

Ahem. Me neither.

I think my 2010 was burdened slightly by the gloomy fact I was turning 40. Doom! Doom! Doom! That has been working out okay so far, though.

And now here we are on the precipice of another brand new shiny year, so I guess it’s time for my sometimes-annual dissertation on Ye Olde New Year’s "Revolutions."

I know in years past I have blah blah blahed about setting achievable goals. I still think this is a good idea, however, at this very point in time, when work is crazy and holidays are mayhemmish and even a goal of getting to bed before 2 a.m. for a change seems lofty-to-the-max, I’m just not too sure how reliable this list is going to be.

First, though, let’s review. My 2010 goals were not only dull, but they kept centering on a slight obsession with running. There was a bunch of chitchat about losing pounds then gaining them back over the holidays and then some blather about eating celery and running like Forrest Gump in order to lose them again.

Yeah. That went well.

Oh, I ran alright. In fact, I did pretty well through the winter, spring and early summer, going 5K at a time and even as much as 8K. Then things started to taper off. Now if I were to jump back onto the running bandwagon (and a bandwagon kind of defeats the purpose, I think), I would basically be starting from scratch.

Meh. So, maybe I’ll run, maybe I won’t. I am pleased to report, though, that since I have not had full use of a vehicle in the last half of 2010, I have walked off a good six pounds.

So one way or another I exercised and met that resolution from last year. Woohoo!

In the spirit of achievable goals, I also pledged to eat better, be a good person, and to be kind to children and animals. (That last one is because usually I’m an ogre. Actually, some of the short people’s friends say I’m “crabby.” Strangely, I am okay with that. Probably I just need to sleep more.)

Anyway, fine. Those are all good. We can keep those. But are they really resolutions or are they just, you know, things I should do because I am alive? Really, it’s almost like making a list and writing “1. Make a list” at the top just so you can cross it off. Achievable goals – yes!

That’s probably one of the reasons why I step outside my comfort zone and add “5. Save the world” as the last one.

Sigh.

Needless to say – and you might have noticed – I didn’t get that last one done in 2010. It hasn’t been going well. I was very busy not running.

So what’s the point again? Well, maybe it’s time to find some sort of happy medium between achievable and unrealistic goals. How about “learn to knit” or “get a dog to eat the cats” or “write the Great Canadian Novel” or “learn to play cello”? Maybe it’s all about setting yourself up to do something better or different. In that case I should definitely put “clean the house” on the list. That would make 2011 so much more thrilling!

Perhaps “control babbling” should also be added. Ahem.

I should probably strive to complain less or, at the very least, remember to use my inside voice when I do it. Yes – “use inside voice more often” – there’s a good one. Achievable, yet challenging. Ties in nicely with my motto: “Sarcasm doesn’t work on authority figures.” Sarcasm is often inside-voice kind of stuff.

By using my inside voice more I will be generating less noise pollution. Maybe that will be a step toward saving the world. At the very least, it might mean fewer short people will call me crabby, although some days being an ogre fits my mood just fine.

Past Deadline: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas - 2010

2010-12-24T14:57:00.001-05:00

I wonder how many millions of awful renditions of Clement Clark Moore’s ’Twas the Night Before Christmas exist out in the world? Well, here is one more – my almost-annual offering – to add to the collection. With apologies, again.

’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
People were yelling and starting to grouse.
The stockings were hung from the imaginary chimney with care
But under the Christmas tree it looked kinda bare.
“Our presents!” wailed Girlchild. “Where could they be?
“I’ve looked and I’ve looked but there’s nothing for me!”
“It’s true,” moaned Boychild, with an enormous pout.
“Presents are what Christmas is all about.”
I rolled my eyes and started to scowl
And threw in for good measure a bit of a growl
As I shovelled my way through the untidy piles
Of toys and belongings that stretched on for miles.
When I tripped on the clutter I started to wonder
If child-rearing is forever a long, constant blunder.
“Why would you people think that is so?
“Christmas is about giving, didn’t you know?”
The kids were distracted, though, by the TV
Which was blaring about some sort of house for Barbie.
“I am so getting that!” Girlchild announced
Before out of the room the kids decidedly flounced. (I spend a lot of time decidedly flouncing out of rooms myself. I mean, it makes for a perfect exit. The “decidedly” part is particularly compelling, don’t you think?”)
(Ahem.)
When in the next room there arose such a clatter,
I knew they’d be occupied with incessant chatter.
I scooped up some clutter and looked all around
But a space to put it could not be found.
I sank in a chair to consider this plight
And talk myself out of a getaway flight.
When what to my bloodshot old eyes should appear
But the Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™ of course! Never fear!
I flew from the chair and threw open my arms.
“I am so glad to see you! I have missed your charms!
“My house is awash in a sea of debris
“And all my kids talk about is ‘Me me me me!’”
With a wink of her eye and a grin big as London
I just knew she could help me with my conundrum. (Say – now there’s some interesting rhyming!)
“Now, dearie,” she said, with a pat on my arm,
“Take a deep breath and you’ll come to no harm.
“Think back several decades to when you were a child
“And remember how unwrapping presents was wild.”
“You lost me at ‘decades’ I said with a frown,
“You sure know how to bring a room down.”
“Nonsense!” she said, “You just need rest
“As well as a reminder of how much you are blessed.”
She pulled out her wand and things started to fly.
The clutter was moving from where it did lie.
Four piles of belongings formed on the floor
And the Fairy then beckoned towards the front door.
“Now gather your family here in this room
“And explain to them some people are facing a gloom.
“With these unused belongings given away
“You might be able to brighten their day.”
With that I gathered the clan ’round the heaps
And explained we were giving these items to peeps.
So as we all worked to pack up the things,
The Stress-Free Holiday Fairy™ spread her wings.
“Enjoy this giving,” she said into the night
Before winking and grinning and then taking flight.

Boychild, Girlchild, Groom-boy and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and all the best in 2010!

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 23/10

Past Deadline: Lamenting the Ickies

2010-12-24T14:55:00.000-05:00

This fall has been a bit of a nightmare when it comes to the ickies in our house. Is it just me or does it seem to be harder to shake colds anymore? Have you all had the version that comes with “The Cough” that won’t go away? For some of us it lasted for several weeks before disappearing. Others were lucky enough to have it turn into bronchitis or a wicked sinus infection.

At our house, despite washing our hands until they bled, we managed to contract that cold earlier in the fall. The coughing was deafening. Afterwards, just to be original, I felt compelled to follow it up with laryngitis, which made me sound a bit like Joan Rivers. It made delivering an hour-and-a-half lecture to one of my classes slightly difficult, albeit somewhat amusing.

The fun thing about laryngitis is the sympathy factor. I had it for several days, but I actually didn’t feel too bad during the worst of it. Nevertheless, as soon as I opened my mouth and croaked out whatever it was I had to say, I was immediately showered with concern and sympathy. It gave me the warm fuzzies.

Another fun ailment that showed up at our place this fall was pink eye. Conjunctivitis is rabidly contagious, of course, and was spreading through the kids’ school. Girlchild acquired it first. Just when we thought we had it licked, it showed up for a second time.

This time we all washed our hands to the bone, but Boychild succumbed as well. I kept looking at my own eyes suspiciously for a while, but determined they were merely bloodshot from lack of sleep.

After that round of ickies swept through the house, we all took deep breaths, washed our hands until they disappeared, and ventured out into the world once more, only to return with some sort of gastro thingy that, apparently, is also making the rounds at the kids’ school.

My favourite. Sigh.

There appeared to be two different manifestations of this ailment, and I am desperately hoping that they are the same bug. I won’t get into the details except to say that Girlchild and the adults were afflicted with the tidier version, whilst Boychild’s was less contained and required a much greater level of clean up, especially in the middle of the night. (This means I still look as if I have pink eye.)

This particular icky also seemed to be super contagious, and I lived in fear. I was scheduled to take a bus trip to Ottawa for a press conference on Parliament Hill on Thursday, and I spent the days prior dodging bullets. I washed my arms off (which made it really difficult to work), sprayed myself with Lysol and wrapped myself in bubble wrap to prevent ickies from infiltrating.

I put my colleagues on alert: my house was under siege by germs and although I was desperately hopeful to avoid them, it appeared to be a somewhat majorly virulent strain that was showing no mercy.

Cell phone numbers were exchanged in the event of my last-minute, unavoidable absence. Somehow I figured they would want to see me about as much as I would want to see them if I succumbed to the ickies.

On the morning of the bus trip, Boychild declared in a very visual way that he was still unwell. Groom-boy also stayed home that day, as his version of the ickies returned. Somehow Girlchild and I managed to get out of the house unscathed. I felt that it was only through some sort of miraculous intervention that I was able to get to the bus and get through the day.

As I write this it would appear (I sincerely hope) that we have cleared that particular hurdle and now we are bracing for whatever nasty pestilence awaits. After all, it’s not even winter yet, and already it has been a particularly sickly season.

I would like to believe we’re just getting through the worst of it early, but I’m sceptical. Now please excuse me while I cover the children in bubble wrap and put a plastic sheet over the house.
Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 16/10

Past Deadline: Meltdown Postponed

2010-12-24T14:53:00.001-05:00

This time of year is a killer.

Groom-boy said to me the other day, “You haven’t had your annual meltdown yet.”

Unfortunately he wasn’t kidding. It’s true, though, I haven’t.

Every year in November and December all of my clients band together and give me lots of work to do. While this is, of course, a great and marvellous thing for which I am extremely grateful, it also means lots of deadlines overlap. Throw in the fact that I teach part-time at Algonquin and the end of the semester (December) brings with it copious piles of marking, and it can be a bit stressful.

Most years I handle it with sheer professionalism and composure. That means I only break down sobbing at home, and usually only once. Maybe twice.

Oh, and did I mention Christmas? No, I didn’t! Why? Because around here I usually don’t have time to think about it until Dec. 23or so. (By the way, your card will be late, if it gets sent at all.)

Now, I know, boo hoo hoo. This is a busy time of year for everyone. There are lots of year-end work-related projects that need to be finished tied in with school concerts and staff parties and baking and cards and shopping and life and spending most of your weekends doing laundry so you can afford to pay your hydro bill.... Oh, wait. That last one might be a separate column for another day.

Anyway, the point is, I’m not complaining. Okay, I guess I am, but I mean it in the nicest way. Or something.

I consider myself to be reasonably organized, but I have never done well when it comes to Christmas shopping. When one considers the fact this deadline crunch of mine happens every single year and has for a good decade, you’d think I would be smart enough to plan ahead and do the bulk of my shopping by October. Same goes for Christmas cards – get on it, girlfriend! For some reason, though, I just can’t make myself do it. I think there are a few reasons for this.

First, I work better under pressure. Actually, wait. It’s true that I do, but I have to say that wears a bit thin after a while. The thrill of the all-nighter to get a job done – or even just staying up to the middle of the night – lost its charm around the same time the kids started waking me up in the night. I have enough people keeping me awake – I don’t need to be strapped to my computer at all hours, too.

Easier said than done.

Secondly, I used to put a lot of thought into Christmas gifts and try to come up with neat, creative ideas for everyone on the list – even if it was fairly close to the big day. I’m not sure when that changed. Possibly I was overcome with the feeling that everyone already has everything they need, but I also suspect my creativity waned around the same time computers and short people started keeping me up until all hours. I think at some point that section of my brain said, “Forget this noise! If she won’t let me sleep I’m going to skip town. You’re on your own, lady!”

So now? Lots of gift cards.

Lastly, I usually need snow to inspire me to shop early. Sometimes this isn’t a problem, but often we just don’t get the snow, so in those years no one gets presents. Ha! This year we’ve got a little snow, so I should get to it. I guess I can’t blame climate change for my disorganization. Somehow that doesn’t seem cool, anyway.

In November a friend and I had occasion to do some shopping for something unrelated to Christmas, but we took the opportunity to squeeze in a little festive shopping, too. So even though I am not even remotely close to finished, I have at least started before Dec. 23.

So although there is still no Christmas baking done and no cards are written, there is at least that one small victory. Maybe this means I can skip my annual meltdown this year. That’s fantastic because nobody needs to see that.

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 9/10

Past Deadline: Happy 17th Anniversary

2010-12-04T23:24:00.002-05:00

On Saturday I attended what I guess could be called a “mini reunion” of my journalism class. Actually, by the end of the event we had decided we were really the advance party scoping out the situation for future milestone reunions.

See, this year marks the 17th anniversary of our graduation from Carleton University. When this reunion was proposed, a few of us scratched our heads in wonder at the concept of a 17th anniversary event – especially since we did not mark the 10th or 15th occasions. You know, though, the whole 17 thing grew on me. For instance, 17 is much less aggressive than 20 or 25. Seventeen doesn’t make me feel particularly old. In fact, I liked being 17 and tried to stay that age up until about last year, so I am fond of that number.

While we didn’t have a huge turnout, several folks did come out and a few came from fairly long distances to attend. It was interesting to hear how many of us actually worked as journalists after graduating, and how many leveraged the degree into other things. I enjoyed telling people I had eventually crossed over from journalism to what we fondly call “the dark side” (PR).

We visited some of the old stomping grounds on campus, including St. Pat’s (the journalism building), where we were guided about by one of our journalism profs. It’s interesting to see the changes. When were there in the early ’90s, technologies were on the cusp of something new. We worked on computers that used DOS, which many of you young gaffers have probably never even heard of, just as the world was switching to Windows.

In radio production we learned how to edit in analog using razor blades to cut our reel-to-reel tapes. (And, yes, you can bet there were lots of references to stressed-out students working late at night in tiny rooms with razor blades.) The technician we worked with 17 years ago happened to be at the school during our visit and we had a long chat about the pros and cons of the changes in technology.

Rows of computers can be found in classrooms where only desks existed. Paste-upboards have been replaced by editing software in the print newsroom. Online media is now part of the curriculum. We weren’t using the interwebs much back in the day. The telephone room where scores of us huddled with phone books trying to track down sources is still there, virtually unchanged, but is rarely used in this age of prolific cell phones.

Then it was off to the TV studio where, again, we were greeted by new technologies. For example, our supply corner for making graphics for our newscasts has been replaced by editing software. No more posters – sigh. In fact, a lot of the in-studio roles we learned during newscasts – directors, production assistants, camera operators – have been replaced by computers. And the 17 tonnes of equipment we had to lug around in the early ’90s? It’s all much lighter and handier for dainty journalism students.

Then we trucked over to the site of the new journalism building being constructed on campus, complete with a glassed-in studio facing the Rideau River and the O-Train.

Of course no journalism reunion would be complete without visiting old drinking haunts, so we went to a virtually unrecognizable campus bar and had a lovely time catching up.

Now we’re busy thinking of what we’ll do for the big 20th reunion, especially since all the old familiar journalism spots will have moved to the new building. A reprise field trip to the Robert O. Pickard Sewage Treatment Plant has been proposed (ah, memories). Perhaps we should tour the city via OC Transpo for several hours looking for a meeting to cover. Or maybe we could arm ourselves with digital recorders – no – cassette recorders for old time’s sake – and scrum someone on Parliament Hill or at city hall. Or maybe we could lug 60-lb sandbags around to simulate the lighting equipment we had to transport for TV reporting.

Oh, it could be such fun! I wonder, though, if we should have it on our 19th anniversary just to be different and to prevent us from feeling elderly.

Published in The Perth Courier, Dec. 2/10

Past Deadline: "I Survived the Reconstruction"

2010-11-24T22:31:00.002-05:00

On Friday when I picked up the kids after school and commenced the walk home the most astounding thing happened.

For the first time in months my heart didn’t pound in my throat as the short people and I navigated a construction zone and heavy, impatient traffic on Isabella and Gore streets. Why? Because Wilson Street is finished! No more piles of dirt to negotiate! No more traffic jams to endure!

I know the whole process has not been a wonderful experience for all. Construction is much more than a pain in the butt and an inconvenience – it can cause financial hardship for businesses, major stress for homeowners and can pose all sorts of logistical nightmares. That said, though, I can’t help but feel it was a major accomplishment for the town and the contractors to finish the whole street – major underground infrastructure and all – in eight months while keeping at least part of the roadway open to traffic at all times.

Despite the fact it was much harder to get around than we are used to, we survived. Not only that, but many of us got to see places we don’t always frequent, such as Glen Tay, which makes a lovely detour when you just don’t want to travel north on Drummond at 3:30 on a weekday afternoon to get to Hwy. 7.

As much as it was a thrill to drive through the dirt after a heavy rain storm and experience craters and potholes and bumps that would shake your brains out of your ear, I’m pretty sure we’re all glad those days are over.

Because I walk the kids to school, I got a firsthand look at the progress on Wilson Street on a daily basis. Many days I wished this had happened five years earlier because I would have saved heaps o’ cash on the Mighty Machines video series. I’m confident my son and I would have pulled up lawn chairs to street corners to watch the variety of diggers and dozers and rollers. Pack a lunch and you’ve got a day’s entertainment.

Call me a geek (I’ve been called worse), but I felt more and more excited as the weeks passed and holes were finally closed over and dirt was flattened. When the curbs and sidewalks returned along our well-worn section of the street I was gleeful. After all, having to walk down Leslie Street and through the back field to Stewart School added an extra five minutes to our travel time. Not only that, but it restricted how much we could see of what those mighty machines were doing.

When the final paving began in earnest a couple of weeks ago I was jumpy with anticipation. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one grinning as I walked down the street. Even the paving crew looked happy. Speaking of which, I got to thinking it must be kind of crummy for the crews that precede the pavers. They do all the digging and nasty stuff and create all the detours and craters and get all the rude comments from irritated drivers and pedestrians. Then the pavers come along and make it all look pretty and tip their hats to the relieved drivers and walkers who are all smiley and grateful. I wonder if the various crews ever get into shoving matches about this?

Despite the fact I think things are looking darned fine, I met a fair number of people recently who have lots to say about crooked sidewalks, impossible intersections, incomprehensible line-painting jobs, planets out of alignment and so on. Well, I’m no engineer. I’m just going to weave down the sidewalk and follow the arrows when I’m driving.

Speaking of driving, when Friday afternoon rolled around and the lovely new street was finally wide open in both directions for that notorious 3:30 rush hour, lots of people were navigating northbound with smiles on their faces. It kind of reminded me of that part in the movie Cars when they all go cruising down the street after Lightning McQueen finishes the big paving job.

And, yes, it appears that most reference points in my life come back to children’s videos. Sigh.

Congrats to all involved with the Wilson Street reconstruction! Where can I buy the T-shirt?

Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 24/10

Past Deadline: Wipe Your Feet

2010-11-24T22:27:00.003-05:00

On the weekend I saw an article about some of the beautiful local homes that will be featured in the upcoming Canadian Federation of University Women’s Heritage Perth Christmas House Tour. I looked at the pretty pictures and sighed a little wistfully.

This is the inspiration for this week’s column: Top 10 reasons why our house will never be on a house tour.

10. Architecturally speaking, if one may do so, there’s nothing wrong with our house. It is a lovely example of an 1840s Ontario cottage-style structure, typical for the area, ripe with history, full of anecdotes, a family treasure, and so on. Lovingly renovated in the 1980s, unique interior features, etc. The key would be to move all of our stuff out of it in order to make it pretty.

9. Now, by “making it pretty,” I should clarify that, too. It’s not that we don’t have nice stuff; we have many lovely pieces of furniture. Trouble is you can’t always see them for the clutter.

8. Which brings me to that whole clutter issue. Man, could I go on and on about clutter. Sometimes I joke about being featured on an episode of Hoarders, which is a bit of an exaggeration. If there were a show about Clutterers, though (and possibly there is – I just don't have time to watch much TV because I’m too busy accumulating paper), then I could probably play a starring role. Me and the people with whom I live, that is.

7. The short people have a lot of plastic things. It is amazing how much weird plastic junk accumulates over the years. Toy boxes get sorted periodically, but that is a task that could use a bit more frequency. You know it’s been a long time when one of the kids comes along, digs down deep into the toy box and finds an item that he or she hasn’t seen in two years and either a) doesn’t remember it at all or b) remembers it but greets it as a long-lost friend not seen in, well, two years or so.

6. Speaking of those short people, in Kindergarten they learned more about tidying up than they did at home. I am totally at fault for this because I’m too Type A for my own good. It’s faster for me to do it, but I run out of time to do it and then I stress about not doing it and it just doesn’t get done. In Kindergarten, though, the kids learn little songs about tidying up. Clearly life is a musical and we should sing more at home.

5. There must be a song out there about dust. I’m a fan of the “Dust if You Must” poem, which highlights how many other exciting life events you can be doing if you’re not dusting but, really, we do have to dust sometimes. I hate dusting. I also have a trinket sign hanging on the wall that says, “You may touch the dust, but please don't write in it.” Hahaha. Me so funny. Sigh.

4. Speaking of funny, cat hair is hilarious. Gut-splitting stuff, cat hair. I know I could get away with vacuuming less if it weren’t for those darned cats and their tumbleweed hair.

3. What? I’m only on number three? Darn it. I’m starting to run out of things to say about my cluttered house. And I’m also starting to feel a little depressed. Possibly I should hire a housekeeper.

2. You know, I blame my profession for this. For one thing, I would pretty much always rather be writing than cleaning. Secondly, I’m always saving and accumulating books or papers or notes that I think I might be able to use for something later – you know, like the Great Canadian Novel I haven’t quite gotten to writing yet. Of course, by the time I run across all these bits of information later on I can never quite remember why I kept them in the first place.

1. And the number one reason why our house will never be featured on a tour? Well, obviously, I don’t want all those people tracking dirt into the house.

Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 18/10

Past Deadline: The Ongoing Food Battle

2010-11-17T21:26:00.001-05:00

I need to know. At what point can I expect my children’s palates to diversify enough that they will eat a variety of different foods?

I should clarify this. Perhaps the word should be “re-diversify.” See, when they were really little, both of my little darlings ate everything and anything – particularly in the fruit and vegetable range. Then they developed opinions learned how to speak in full sentences, and such phrases as: “I don’t like this” became frequent utterances.

Sigh.

I am given to understand that this, too, shall pass – that it is perfectly typical for young kids to go from eating everything to eating next to nothing to eating everything again. I am also given to understand that I should be careful what I wish for because once they start to eat again we will be maxing out our credit cards on groceries.

The thing is I am really hoping things start to improve a little before the “eating like a teenager” phase arrives so the whole family can enjoy a wider range of food – not to mention avoiding scurvy. Granted, Girlchild is still pretty game to try everything, but even her range has narrowed.

When I was growing up, we ate what was served or we didn’t eat. I don’t honestly remember there being many arguments about food and I don’t remember walking away from the table hungry. Eventually I even came to an understanding with my parents that no matter how many times they served Brussels sprouts, I still wasn’t going to change my mind about hating them.

I always assumed my mom was fairly uncompromising on the food front. Certainly she tried to serve things that everyone would eat, but there was a wide range of stuff on the table and my brother and I were encouraged to “at least try” something that was new or that we weren’t overly crazy about.

It wasn’t until after I moved away from home that my parents expressed their intense relief that they wouldn’t have to serve corn every other meal, so I guess they made certain palate sacrifices, too. (And I think they avoided corn for years after.)

We’ve tried to adopt the “at least try it” philosophy and I usually make sure there is one part of the meal that everyone likes (kinda like Mom’s corn deal, I suppose), but that can be limiting.
Despite this, I’m not much in favour of the “you can’t leave the table until you clean your plate” deal because I think that can set a kid up for some unhealthy ideas about food in the future.

Another thing I have started to do is to actually “market” the meals. I know, it’s kinda crazy. Lots of parents out there will be shaking their heads and saying, “The kids should eat what’s in front of them or go hungry!” Maybe there’s something to that.

However, I’m a word girl, so when I pitched shepherd’s pie to a reluctant Girlchild as “Comfort Food Just Like Nanny Used to Make for Mommy,” and added that the macaroni and cheese dish I make is also in the “comfort food” category, she totally bought it and it disappeared off her plate.

Go figure.

Previous efforts to serve shepherd’s pie were seriously hampered by her brother’s exclamations of hatred for the meal (which, I might add, he used to really like). She refused to even try it based on his critique.

Sometimes it’s not so much about the words as it is the presentation. Take chilli for example. Previous efforts to serve this classic dish (also of the “comfort food” tradition), have failed. Then one night I put the chilli in big bowls and lined the edge with nacho chips. Well. Using the chips as scoops was the coolest thing ever. It all disappeared.

Now I need to focus my campaign on diversifying the range of vegetables we eat. Our “corn” is raw carrots, and I’m getting a bit weary of them. Sneaking pureed veggies into sauces isn’t as reliable as it used to be. I have had some success, though, with melted cheese on broccoli.

Do you suppose lining a chilli bowl with asparagus spears would work?
Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 11/10

Past Deadline: Poster Girl

2010-11-09T21:46:00.002-05:00

I am the poster girl for work-life balance.

Oh, yeah. Didn’t you know?

It’s the same sort of deal as that really ugly guy (I think it was a guy – I can’t be sure) who was on the poster for smoking when I was in high school. The poster was in study hall, which gave us minor niners lots of time to stare at it during spares. It featured possibly the world’s ugliest person – scary hair, sunken eyes, wrinkles – with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The text on the poster read: “Smoking is so glamorous.” (That poster taught us about irony, too.)

Well, here it is 2010 and I don’t smoke. Yay! The poster worked!

Given the obvious success of that other poster, perhaps I should express my gratitude by making it my life’s work to help other folks to avoid my work-life balance plight. I should pose for a poster to convince people they don’t want to end up like me.

So let’s imagine it.

Well, there I’d be – with my typically scary hair, sunken eyes (bloodshot and with dark circles, too), wrinkled brow/worry frown and with a chewed pen dangling from my lips. And, possibly, there would be a mouse cord around my neck and a sheath of papers trailing behind me. The text on the poster would read, “Working all the time is so glamorous.” Possibly in the background of this poster you would see two little blurs to represent my kids and their fleeting childhoods.

The thing is, I like to be busy. In fact, I sometimes don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not busy.

That’s probably not such a good thing, though, and there are definitely limits to busyness. In my world that’s when I run into those work-life balance issues – when I don’t know how to turn off the work part and enjoy the life part.

I know lots of people who are so busy it makes my head spin. They have two or three jobs that carry a lot of responsibility, not to mention having spouses and children and lives beyond that. Sometimes those people even go out and have fun! I suspect they either a) only sleep once a week or b) are robots.

Maybe the whole thing comes down to the definition of busy.

There is actually a fairly long list of definitions for this word in the dictionary – enough to keep one occupied for a good long time, or at least for many, many seconds. First off, it is defined as being “occupied in work etc. with the attention concentrated.” Makes sense. I’m curious to know what the “etc.” is, though.

Busy can also be defined as “full of activity,” “having heavy traffic” and “excess of detail.”

Then we get into “employed continuously; unresting,” which seems to hit the nail on the head for me. I’ve been feeling a tad unrested lately.

Okay. I know that I’m taking that last definition just a little too literally. “Employed” doesn’t necessarily mean “paid to do work,” it can just mean, well, busy doing something (“occupied in work, etc. with the attention concentrated,” perhaps?). And “unresting” doesn’t necessarily mean you never get any sleep – it could just refer to doing anything that isn’t sleeping.

So, I guess this means I could be busy, say, reading a book. Or going for a run (yeah, ’cause that’s been going really well) or having a bubble bath or playing with the children or going out with friends or eating brownies.

Whoa. I could be busy having fun!

So it would seem the possibilities for being busy are endless and they don’t have to be exhausting. (We’ll just ignore the whole “who has time for fun” aspect of this issue for the moment so we don’t spoil the fantasy.)

You know, with that kind of busy, I truly should strive to be the poster girl for work-life balance. I might even like it. I could feed my need to be occupied without having to be a robot.

So the picture on the poster would morph into me with great hair, sparkly eyes, wrinkle-free skin – with a brownie hanging from my mouth.

Yeah, I don’t believe it either. Except maybe the brownie part.
Published in The Perth Courier, Nov. 4/10

Past Deadline: Imagine! It's Cold in Canada!

2010-11-09T21:43:00.002-05:00

On Sunday, I spent a good three hours marinating in a cold rain. Even though I dressed for it, by the end of it all my toes and fingers were tingly and I felt as if I needed to soak in a big tub of hot chocolate. (Yum!)

It wasn’t the nicest day to be outside, but I hate to complain. “Yeah, right,” you’re saying. Don’t worry, I have some complaining to do. I won’t let you down.

Here’s the thing. We are becoming weather weenies. Come on, people, we’re Canadian! We are all about weather. We know that if we don’t like the weather at this moment we should wait 10 minutes because it will probably change. We know that around this time of year it gets cold and it rains and, yes, it might even snow. We mutter and gripe about it and, as Canadians, we are entitled to do so with a hint of smugness. Our nation is about weather – and some other stuff, too – but weather is a biggie.

That said, there are two things that really stick in my craw. First, I loathe watching the national news and seeing a lead story about it being a cold day in Canada. This is especially true in the winter. When the lead story is that people in Canada were cold because the temperature dipped in January to -25 with a wind chill of -30, I get really cross. I have even been known to say bad words to the television.

I take news too seriously sometimes.

I mean really, people, that is just another day in our Canadian national identity. A real news story would be that it was plus 25 in January with a Humidex of 35.

The second thing that makes me grumble is when people abuse our right to smugly complain about the weather by doing so while wearing inappropriate clothing – and I’m not talking about T-shirts bearing lewd statements.

I find it utterly ridiculous (and I’ve mentioned this before) when someone being interviewed for the aforementioned lead story about cold weather in the winter (imagine!) is wearing a thin spring jacket, no hat or gloves and is trying to navigate an ice storm in stilettos.

If you’re standing on a street corner wearing a parka, a toque, a scarf and heavy mittens and there is an icicle hanging from your nose and what little exposed skin you have is blue, then you’re in the groove. You can complain freely.

The result of all this regular viewing of overexcited reporters (who are probably dressed inappropriately for the weather) interviewing similarly under-dressed people is that we are becoming soft. We are surprised and startled by cold, rainy weather.

Just the other day Groom-boy suggested to me that maybe the kids should get a ride to school because it was cold.

It was plus 4.

I, ever supportive, gave him my best nutbar look. “This is Canada,” I said. “They’re going to be walking to school all winter when it’s really cold, so they might as well ease into it. We’ll dress for it.”

Now, granted, it’s easier said than done when certain children decide they don’t like certain coats or refuse to wear hats and so on. And, of course, we always tell them “they will catch their death of cold” because that’s what parents are supposed to say, even though we all know you don’t catch colds from cold, but from germs. And, yes, I know that being cold can make you more susceptible to germs, so depending on which particular battles I choose to fight on any given day, I am apt to bring on the heavier science and make sure that if someone doesn’t wear his or her heavier jacket, it’s at least tucked into his or her backpack in case he or she changes his or her mind when he or she sees other warmly dressed kids.

I’m one to talk, though. It took me until third-year university, as I walked two kilometres across open, blustery fields to get to school, to realize just how awesome hats and scarves really are. Did you know hats actually keep your head warm?

Amazing stuff. Truly remarkable. It’s great to be Canadian.
Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 28/10

Past Deadline: How's the Running Going? Part II

2010-11-09T21:39:00.002-05:00

You may have noticed I have been oddly silent about running these days.

About that....

When people ask, “How’s the running going?” I would love to say “Great!” or “I’m up to 22K each time,” but the truth is more like “Sporadic at best.”

I have learned a lot in this running journey. My most recent discovery is the line between running enough and not running enough.

It took months for me to build up my strength and endurance to the point it felt good to do 5K each time. I’m not one for races or for going vastly long distances, but doing 5K without feeling breathlessness or pain and without needing ice, ibuprofen or A535 was a victory. I felt great when I finished, and that was success.

I discovered that even if you get off your routine a bit, it takes a long time for all the strength you’ve built up to diminish. In fact, sometimes running was even better after a rest period. I was amazed how when I missed running for three weeks in the summer due to holidays and various other things, my body could still go that distance without any trouble.

You can only push your luck for so long, though.

The start of the big trouble was mid-September. I was still running, but not two or three times per week as before. Even so, I wasn’t intimidated by the 5K I planned to do for the Terry Fox Run. In fact, I was really looking forward to it because I had pledged that this year I would run the whole thing for the first time ever.

A few days before the big day I was a little sniffly, which I attributed to some mild allergies I sometimes encounter in the fall. I didn’t think it would affect my run in any great way.

Can you guess where this is going?

Run day arrived. I was part of a team and we congregated and set off.

Right off the start I was in trouble. Weird trouble. I couldn’t catch my breath. That hadn’t happened since the early, building-up days. What the heck?

By the time I reached the halfway point I was really struggling. I wanted to stop and walk, but I was too stubborn. There was an argument in my head:
“Walk for a bit – catch your breath,” said the sensible one.
“No! I am running this route!” said the psychobananahead runner.
“You’re wheezing.”
“Shut up, wimp. It’s the wind.”
“Your chest hurts like it is on fire.”
“Run through the pain! It’s not a heart attack, just a fire.”
(Sometimes runners are idiots.)
“You feel awful. Stop running, moron.”
“It’s only 5K! My usual 5K! I can do this. I want to run with the team.”

At about the 3K mark the Voice of Reason broke into my head, which turned out to be one of my running mates announcing she was going to walk for a bit.

I nearly hugged her. Possibly she was alarmed by my wheezing and realized I was too stubborn to stop on my own accord. Whatever the reason, it was a good thing.

We walked a good while and ran the last few hundred metres. Then I spent the next several hours coughing in an I-think-I-might-be-dying kind of way before I realized the sniffles I had been experiencing were, in fact, the start of a chest cold that afflicted me for nearly two weeks. I didn’t run again in September and I’ve only run two or three times so far this month.

And that, apparently, is the line. I have officially crossed from building up and maintaining my running strength into regressing and having to rebuild.

Now when I run I breathe like a freight train. (It’s so glamorous.) My legs feel lead-like. My knees and some small angry muscles sometimes voice their opinions, which hasn’t happened since the early days. Worst of all, 3K is about all I can muster.

Sigh.

A key component to the rebuilding is to turn up the music so I can’t hear the discouraging sound of my own breathing. Ibuprofen is on standby.

Maybe NEXT year I’ll finally run the whole Terry Fox route.
Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 21/10

Past Deadline: Increments of 20

2010-11-09T21:35:00.002-05:00

I seem to have trouble with increments of 20 – at least when it comes to age.

I remember struggling with the concept of turning 20: O’ woe and pity! O’ tumultuous time! O’ dreaded decade that no longer ends in “teen.”

“Ends in teen,” you might observe, rhymes with “Drama Queen.”

The 20 years between then and now have made a big difference in perspective. When turning 30 I felt slightly cross, but not nearly so melodramatic. At 40, instead of lamenting out loud, my approach was to try to pretend it wasn’t happening and to quietly mope.

At least there was less wailing and bemoaning and such. Quite an accomplishment, I suppose. (Yes, except now I’m writing about it in the newspaper.)

The Big Day was a few weeks ago amid of flurry of other 40-year birthdays that provided acknowledgment strategies ranging from ignoring it completely to moderate celebrations to full-blown rent-a-hall type of parties.

I celebrated by eating a lot of food at various locations. It worked out well – unless you ask the scale.

So what IS the big deal? I know, I know – “It’s just a number.” I also know that 40 is a mere half of 80 and two-thirds of 60 – I’ve been told by many people who have already reached those increments. (They were, I think, diplomatically trying to tell me to “Suck it up, buttercup.”)

Maybe 40 feels weird because it’s on the edge of something.

For example, by now I figure I should know what I’m doing, but sometimes I don’t. I keep trying to tell myself that life is always about learning, but I lack conviction.

Another example is the whole biological thing. It’s not that I actually want to add another short person to the family compound, but if I were to change my mind my body might not necessarily cooperate as well as it once (or twice) did.

I think one of the really big things about turning 40 is the feeling that you darned well better be doing what you want to do with your life because it is now “officially” (at least in my mind) much more difficult to change gears. So if I want to finally pursue that latent dream of become a brain surgeon or a talk show host in Australia, I darned well better get started – and now!

Yes, 40 is just one more reminder that I’m a grown-up, and that makes me feel a tad uncomfortable. For a long time I have been fairly content in the notion I am about 17. Now I think I will officially have to change that to 29 or thereabouts.

People say different things about 40. Some say it’s all downhill from here and that my body is going to slowly fall apart. Others say these will be the best years of my life. Still others say 50 is better because after that you no longer care what other people think about the things you do. Perhaps 50 is when you finally grow into your own skin – or does that ever happen?

Of course there are some huge perks to turning 40. The biggest one, near as I can figure, is that this year it will be so much easier to remember how old I am. Sometimes in my 30s I would lose track. Am I 37 or 38? What the heck year is it, anyway? So, yeah, since that big ol’ four and zero are hovering in my subconscious, it should be pretty easy to remember my age – at least this year.

Another advantage is the joy you can get when you spring your age on an older person who’s not expecting it. For example, I was at an event recently where I encountered one of my elementary school teachers, who doesn’t look a day over 50, I might add. The subject of this silly milestone birthday arose. Her mouth fell open. “You are not!” she said. Of course that probably has less to do with how I appear and is more about how young she feels.

Other advantages to turning 40 include...um...well....

I might have to get back to you on that. I’m sure in another 20 years turning 40 will have seemed like a breeze.
Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 14/10

Past Deadline: Gotta Go, My Mom's Waiting

2010-11-09T21:31:00.002-05:00

Some women turn to medicine cabinets, beauty parlours or spas when they feel the passage of time taking its toll.

Fancy lotions, anti-wrinkle regimes, diet and exercise plans, even psychotherapy – there are lots of things we can do to help us feel younger.

I have a different plan. It’s a little complicated, but it might save you a few dollars.

Here’s how it works.

First you make arrangements for your husband to get a new full-time job in the city that requires him to commute every day. (Hurray! He’s not working from home any more!)

The next step is to stop, scratch your chin and say, “Hm. We only have one vehicle and we aren’t quite sure whether we are prepared to buy a second car.”

Then you hoof it all over town as much as you can. You get blisters when necessary, just to remind yourself about how good you are being by walking everywhere – even when not wearing appropriate footwear.

Here’s the clincher, though. The thing that truly makes you feel young again is bumming rides from your parents.

Yes, it has come to this.

My mommy and daddy give me rides to and from Algonquin College (where I teach part-time) a few times a week. I bum a ride home from a friend on one of those days. I figure it gives my parents a little break so they don’t disown me.

Sometimes I borrow their van or my in-laws’ car and sometimes even my friend’s van for far-off appointments or errands requiring copious amounts of baggage or to transport children longer distances. Occasionally I beg rides from other friends (once to get my licence plates renewed – which was kind of ironic).

This bumming of rides and borrowing of cars makes me feel like a high-school student again. It’s awesome in a this-is-kind-of-a-huge-pain-in-the-butt-for-me-and-a-buncha-other-people sort of way.

I can’t tell you how thrilling it is to utter, after so many years, that timeless refrain: “I gotta go. My mom’s picking me up and she’ll be mad if she has to wait.” Only these days instead of two friends piling into the vehicle with me, my two kids are strapped into the back.

Yeah. This is NOT my 1980s.

Okay, so let’s just say this sure-fire anti-aging plan doesn’t always make a person feel young and carefree. In fact, sometimes the additional planning it requires actually seems terribly grown-up and not-so-high-schoolish.

I know people who have firmly rejected the idea of car ownership – and I don’t just mean two cars but ANY cars. They have thrown off the chains of monthly payments, insurance and maintenance costs and the need for a bigger driveway. (Anyone who has seen our driveway knows there is barely room for one vehicle, let alone two. Vertical parking, anyone?)

I really would like to be one of those people who doesn’t rely on a car. Sometimes I think it might be possible.

I also want to be stricter about screen time for my children, eat nothing but a 100-mile diet, use only all-natural cleaners, never use my dryer, become a role model for exercise and, of course, save the world, but I seem to be much better at preaching than practising.

Every time I gather up two or three heavy bags of things on a rainy day when I have to be many kilometres away from home, I realize I might be losing the battle against owning a second car.

Fortunately my parents, who bore the brunt of my chronic wheel-lessness during one or two particularly busy weeks in September, have been really good about it. For one thing it gives us the chance to assess and discuss progress at various construction zones around town and contemplate the best routes when we hear a train coming.

Mom had a good laugh when I told her she could depend on me to return these favours by giving her a ride any time she needed one – as long as it was on a weekend or any time after 7 p.m. on a weeknight.

So, I’m going to focus on the positive: not only does bumming rides keep me dry and blister free, I’m also saving heaps on anti-aging potions. Yay!
Published in The Perth Courier, Oct. 7/10

Past Deadline: Utah Calling

2010-10-02T21:44:00.002-04:00

Regular readers know how much I dwell on sleep and the fact I’m not getting enough. Between working the night shift long after I should be in bed and kids and cats sporadically rousing me from slumber, I get a bit twitchy.

It would seem someone in the state of Utah has joined the conspiracy to make sure something or someone wakes me up every night.

It all started last week. I returned home one afternoon to find two messages on my answering machine – both of which consisted of three beeps. I checked the call display and saw that I had received two unknown calls that morning from two slightly different phone numbers.

“Telemarketer,” I thought. Whatever. In our house we tend to just ignore the telemarketers and eventually they go away.

That night, however, the game changed.

The phone rang at 2:15 a.m. In our world, a phone ringing in the middle of the night is rarely good news – it’s either an emergency or a drunk guy calling the wrong number. I shot up in bed and grabbed the phone, staring sleepily at the display. It looked like a 1-800 number. I was annoyed, but set the phone down without answering it. I was sleepy.

The message left was those three tones again.

Groom-boy and I fell back to sleep, only to be awakened by the ringing phone 45 minutes later at 3 a.m. This time I grabbed it and answered it right away – and was greeted by the squeal of a fax machine.

The home office has a fax machine, but it’s a different phone number. I quickly pressed a code to transfer the call to the fax (not bad for 3 a.m.) and received – a blank page.

The next morning (which felt like moments later) I looked closer at the number. It was not a 1-800 – the area code was 801. Utah. Some telemarketer in Utah is trying to fax blank pages to us in the middle of the night.

Awesome.

There were no calls the next day. Oh, no...they waited until that night – again at 2:15 and 3 a.m.
We don’t like to turn our phone off at night in case someone needs us urgently, but we turned off the ringer.

Since then, every night at almost exactly the same times, a Utah fax machine calls us twice and leaves beeps on our answering machine. And you can be sure that if we don’t hear the call, one of our children will wake us up instead.

I am so tired.

Needless to say, I made contact with the national do-not-call registry. I also lodged a formal complaint, providing all the dates and times of these calls, along with the six or seven different numbers emanating from the autodialler in Utah.

I tried calling the numbers myself and got a recording stating something like: “Two, one, five – test successful.” That is freaky. What test? Did I just activate some kind of telephone virus? At the very least they now know we officially exist. I tried faxing the numbers, but only got a rapid busy signal.

I got in touch with Bell Telephone and will be blocking the numbers. The nice Bell guy and I spent some time trying to figure out who was actually calling. We narrowed it down to the city of Ogden, Utah, but this is apparently a nameless, faceless entity.

Spooky.

I turned to Google University but had no luck, other than to learn we are not the only ones getting calls in the middle of the night from these numbers, too. Although misery loves company, I’m not feeling overly cheered by this fact.

My complaints about this issue have registered a lot of sympathy and many similar stories. One friend reported the same thing happened to her and continued for a year! I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear that news.

I’ll tell you this – if I ever find out what Utah is trying to sell to me, I won’t be buying it. Not only that, but I’m very close to taking a road trip down there with a baseball bat to smash up some fax machines. Wanna come along?

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 30/10
Edited to add: Our call screening service did not immediately work as the number was rejected. After a couple more calls to Bell, we not only lodged an annoyance complaint with them, but we were able to successfully block one of the numbers through call screening (thanks to some advice from a helpful Bell technician). We haven't had any calls for almost a week. Fingers crossed!

Past Deadline: The End of Plan A

2010-10-02T21:42:00.002-04:00

Do I need to just suck it up and get over the fact that parenting is generally a perpetual state of uncertainty and self-doubt? Would I sleep better if I were to just get this truth out of the way once and for all and get over it?

Sigh.

There is a lot of pressure as a parent to Do The Right Thing So Your Family Does Not End Up On The News. So far so good, but I think I watch too much news.

The start of school has been a mixture of unbridled joy and random chaos. The lunches, the homework, the morning ritual of prodding and/or harassing people to get up and get ready, the feeble attempts to remember who is going where when and what they need when they get there – it has all been an adjustment.

On top of this, something unexpected happened this year and, because I am who I am, I worry that I’m not more worried about it.

This year, ladies and gentlemen, when I dropped my youngest off at school I didn’t shed any tears.

My daughter is now going to school all day every day. She’s in alternate-day Senior Kindergarten and attends one of the new Ready2Learn programs on the other day.

At first I resisted the idea of her going every day because it was always in our family’s long-term plan that I would work from home so I could be here for the kids. That meant I would get one more year at home with Girlchild every other day.

In principle, the work-from-home idea is a great concept and, in fact, I think it has benefitted the kids. No, I didn’t have them reading Tolstoy by age two, but we had lots of time together to play games and make muffins and go for walks and stuff. That said there was also a good chunk of time spent watching television while Mommy was distracted with work-related tasks. In addition, Mommy often had to work at night in order to stay on top of things – which sometimes grew a little thin and made her tired and cranky and no fun to be around.

Overall, though, I think it worked out fairly well.

When the opportunity arose to send Girlchild to school every day at no cost we signed her up right away, thinking we’d take the summer to decide for sure.

Circumstances over the last year or so led me to take on a lot more work, and I have to admit the idea of having both kids in school full time brought with it a degree of relief.

There were pangs of regret, though, because I thought of those days spent walking with my littlest one or making muffins or working in the garden and I realized that this was it. This was the end of something. What would you call it? The end of the Alternate Days? The end of Pre-Full-Time School?

I suppose it was an early end to our Plan A, whereupon I would have been home with both kids part time until they hit Grade 1.

So August came and it was time to confirm that Girlchild would attend Ready2Learn. Groom-boy and I discussed it. We considered that Girlchild is one of the most social creatures we have ever known – friendly, bubbly, chatty, willing to make friends, eager to explore, happy to feed frogs to snakes – whatever. So what would keeping her home with me to make muffins accomplish?

Arguably lots of things but (if one is feeling testy and argumentative) it could also be seen as a selfish and nostalgic move on my part. True, Girlchild wouldn’t realize that she was missing an additional chance to learn and socialize, but I would know.

Is she mature enough to handle all-day every day? I think so. Would she like it? I think so. Is she fond of school? Yes.

And so, when I dropped her off for the first day of the rest of her full-time school career, I didn’t weep. I might have even danced a little. I thought about singing a song.

Maybe it just hasn’t hit me yet.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 23/10

Past Deadline: Summer, We Need to Talk

2010-10-02T21:32:00.002-04:00

Dear Summer. We need to talk.

I can’t do this anymore. I think we need to break up. It’s not you, really. It’s me. I feel differently about you now, and I’m sorry.

I know you’re thinking this is about the weather – those alternating hot stinky smoggy days versus cool drizzly times. It’s not that, although the last-gasp heat waves of 40-plus degrees followed by a dramatic drop to 14 are a bit harsh.

Actually, I’ve been concerned about our relationship for a number of years now. I remember those carefree days when we first met, back in the 1970s, when I could strip down to a bathing suit and frolic day in and day out without a care in the world.

Oh, how I loved you, Summer!

You were warm and loving. We were about playing outside and eating Jell-O popsicles and running through sprinklers and splashing in pools and catching frogs and building forts and looking for fireflies and camping and everything fun.

As our relationship matured, we still had a great time. Even though I had part-time jobs in high school and university, you still meant a break from school. The jobs were fun and I worked with friends and we could still gallivant and play.

In fact, even when I became a grown-up you weren’t so bad – at least at first. I still had holidays during which I could enjoy your offerings. There was still travelling and patios and swimming and hiking and camping and gardening. There still seemed to be ample free time to do these things.

But something has changed, Summer, and I’m not sure if there’s any going back. Maybe it’s because I have kids now and that makes life busier in general, but you just aren’t what you used to be. You’re hot and humid and I’m – well – less willing to gallivant in a bathing suit these days. The longer I run my air conditioner the more expensive you become.

Really, though, it’s less about the weather and more about how I set myself up for failure with my own expectations of you. Every year as you approach I say, “This time I’m going to” and out flows a litany of things to do. The list encompasses everything from changes in routine to make sure we get outside to enjoy you more to travel plans to things we hope to get done around the house and so much more.

It’s too much. The list never ends.

Soon we’re busy shoehorning all these wonderful plans around work because, unlike our kids, we don’t have eight or more weeks off the way we used to. A myriad of unexpected things pop up because everyone has weird schedules during these holidays – which can be good, but not always.

As the halfway mark passes in a flash I have to resign myself to the fact I’ll probably never accomplish everything I wanted to do. This annoys me and I start to kick dirt. And then, in a blink, the end of August appears and school is around the corner and lo and behold I’m one of those moms heaving a huge sigh of relief because everyone is getting back into a routine.

I guess I’m just not that fun-loving, spontaneous, bathing-suit-wearing girl I used to be.

Even though I have felt this way for years, I think the time has come to publicly acknowledge the end of our love affair. Summer, I have fallen for someone else: Autumn.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end this way, but Autumn offers so much more for me: routine, nicer temperatures, no pressure to wear a bathing suit, the ability to use my oven more to make the comfort foods I love and, most importantly, lowered expectations.

Sure, there are things I want to do in Autumn, but even though it’s busy as stink it’s expected to be that way. I have no illusions about languishing around on deck chairs sipping margueritas or spending countless hours gardening or swimming or hiking. Autumn doesn’t fool me like you do every year.

So, goodbye, Summer. I’m sorry, but it’s over. Here’s your sunhat. I hope we can still be friends.
Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 16/10

Past Deadline: Shiny Happy Pathetic Fallacy

2010-10-02T21:30:00.003-04:00

One of my favourite literary devices – and come on, I know you all have one – is pathetic fallacy. This is when inanimate objects, such as weather, are endowed with human emotions. It’s often used as a tool to foreshadow a foreboding event or to punctuate a murder with a thunderclap, for example.

Pathetic fallacy played a role in the first night of our recent vacation at a cottage. (I know I keep dwelling on this, but can you blame me? It was a vacation!)

We arrived after a long day of packing and lugging. We set up the beds, stowed the provisions and checked out the scenery. It took a long time for the kids to get to sleep, partly because of the newness of it all, but also because they were sleeping together in a double bed which, as you can imagine, led to much giggling and whispering and the occasional poke and kick.

It took the grown-ups a long while to get to sleep, too, being the first night in a new place. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case because I was reeeallly tired. Eventually, though, everyone slumbered – until about 4 a.m. – when the first of about a half million thunderstorms started to roll through. (I also like hyperbole, you might have noticed.)

I awoke to pounding rain.

Then Boychild came to.

Then lightning flashed.

Thunder rolled.

Then Girlchild joined in and the kids started chit chatting again. The walls are thin.

There was scolding and shushing.

Then Boychild said, “I see a bat in the cottage.”

We paused. I was too tired to move. Oh, please let this be a dream.

Lightning flashed...thunder rumbled...pathetic fallacy....

“Oh,” I mumbled sleepily, “it’s probably just a big moth, Boychild. Don’t worry about it.”

More lightning. More thunder.

“No, it’s a bat,” he insisted. He knows from bats.

So Groom-boy and I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the main room, where the roof peaks and the ceiling is about 20-feet high and, sure enough, a waaaaay up there a little bat happily circled around.

Lightning flash! Boom!

Groom-boy and I stood there, gazing to the heavens (lightning...thunder...pounding rain) arms folded across our chests. I’m pleased to report there were no hysterics.

“What the heck do we do about this?” I mumbled.

Lightning! Thunder!

I was so tired I felt a momentary panic – but not so much about the bat. It was more like: “Is this how the vacation is going to go? Is this some sort of karmic thing? Will I ever sleep again?”

In the end we decided there wasn’t really anything we could do at 4:30 in the morning during a thunderstorm, so we went back to bed, secured the curtains over the doors to the bedrooms and told the kids we’d deal with it in the morning. You know, in a few minutes.

Boychild called out, “Do bats bite?”

“No!” I said immediately. I was groggy and wanted it all to go away.

Flash! Boom!

Then I hear Boychild whisper to Girlchild, “Well, if the bat comes in here, we’ll pick it up and take it out....”

Inner groan. Flash! Boom!

“Actually,” I call out, “you shouldn’t pick up a bat because then it would be scared that you are going to hurt it, since you are much bigger, and then it might bite you to defend itself.”

With my son there is absolutely no way I am going to get into a discussion about rabies at 4:30 in the morning. He would be a basket case and keep us up all night. Which would be…like…so totally different from the way the night was already going.

As it turns out, we could have held a workshop about bats and rabies because we were up for the rest of the night. The thunderstorms were relentless, the kids were chatty and I lay there with one eye open on bat alert. The bat was the quietest one in the building, though.

The next day the sun came out. Groom-boy eventually trapped the bat and released it to the wilds. The rest of the holiday was lovely and featured good sleeps at night with both eyes closed.

I much prefer the happy-sunny sort of pathetic fallacy.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 9/10

Past Deadline: The Fine Art of Vacationing

2010-09-05T00:08:00.003-04:00

Since having kids (and sometimes even before then), I have approached vacations with a certain amount of dread. There is all the work-related preparation required to actually be able to go, then the fearsome amount of work awaiting one’s return, not to mention the planning and packing required to actually leave the building.

This is especially true when camping or cottaging, I find, as provisions are required that one wouldn’t necessarily need if going on, say, a cruise.

Once you arrive there is a fine art to vacationing properly and I seldom achieve it. I’ve heard it said that the ideal length for a holiday is three weeks: one week to unwind, one to enjoy and one to feel bored enough to return.

Because my holidays tend to be crammed into seven- to 10-day stretches, it tends to go more like this: During the first two or three days I stress about not being able to relax. For the next couple of days I might actually be able to forget about work, but the last few days are usually punctuated by little pesky stabs of worry about what lies in wait for me in my inbox.

Good times.

All that aside, though, having a week to reconnect with nature at a cottage really is a blessing, even if I can’t get my addled brain to rest in the moment for more than a couple of days. I am always reminded how much I truly need a few days in the outdoors to feel “right” again.

I think we all need this more than we realize.

For the better part of a year I have been involved with a children’s program at Murphys Point called Super Kids In Parks, which was designed as a way to get kids like mine off the computer once a week and teach them a thing or two about nature. A kazillion or so studies show a huge disconnect between kids and nature, which is leading to all sorts of nasty things like sleep deprivation, low self-esteem and behavioural problems.

Getting kids outside helps them to understand how the planet works and to identify with the environment. It helps them to solve problems. It’s relaxing. It can be an elixir to some modern woes. It also gets them moving and combating childhood obesity.

As much time as I have spent understanding this and helping to create this program for children so that good people can show them a few things about the outdoors, I often forget that I, too, need to unplug and enjoy the fresh air and catch frogs with the kids and take pictures of critters and even read a book while sitting on a dock.

It’s basic but essential, and so many of us are missing it.

A friend of mine who used to live in the country invited me and the kids over one time to see her new home. It featured woods and water and I breathed it all in. She looked at me and said, “I can see you relaxing even as you stand here.” And it’s true.

Why is it so hard for us to unplug? And what has happened that has made kids favour screen time over outside time? Sometimes I practically need a crowbar to wedge my short people out the door and into the backyard, where they claim there is “nothing to do.” Why don’t they build forts and ride bikes and make “soup” out of pulled-up grass in a mud puddle like we used to?

Of course these are mostly rhetorical questions. Things are different now. Parents have been conditioned to be alarmingly protective and in doing so we run the risk of nurturing a bunch of zombies who shun the outdoors and don’t understand their own environment.

So when I see the way my own kids respond and bloom when we go camping or cottaging, and how they remind me of myself at that age when they’re busy frolicking, it is good.

Now I just need to find a way to make this type of “vacationing” part of our everyday, and maybe we’d all feel more “right.”

Wish me luck.

Published in The Perth Courier, Sept. 2/10.

Past Deadline: Snake Girl

2010-09-05T00:00:00.002-04:00

We just spent a marvellous week at a cottage close to home (read: within commuting distance for those who had work-related commitments). The best part was watching the kids’ backs as they ran out the door in the morning, returning only for meals sporadically during the day. The rest of their time was spent frolicking in the lake or patrolling the shoreline looking for beasties.

As a kid, I was a dandy frog/snake/fish/turtle catcher, and I still think it is an important part of growing up to check out critters, learn how to treat them nice and let them go.

So that’s what we did all week.

At this cottage there is a large frog population and all of the kids (including my own) spent the day tracking them down, creating a habitat for them in a cooler, observing them for a while and then letting them go, only to do it all again later. We were also graced by the presence of two northern water snakes. The big one arrived each morning to dine on frogs near our docks, and a littler one would come by in the afternoon to do the same.

Everyone was fascinated by this. A crowd gathered to watch.

And then my daughter, the four-year-old pixie with the blonde hair and big blue eyes, tossed a frog to the big snake and we all watched in amazement as it snapped it up with lightning speed, expanded its jaw and swallowed it whole in two minutes.

We ooohed and aaahed.

I waded in with a camera to take close-up pictures, Girlchild right beside me, while men and women herded their children onto shore. “Isn’t she brave!” they said of Girlchild. She responded, “I’m not afraid of snakes. I’m like my mom!”

Oh, how my heart swelled!

Boychild was in on the action, too, but it wasn’t as noticeable because, well, it’s kind of expected that eight-year-old boys are intrigued by reptiles, amphibians and fish.

Later, Girlchild asked if she could touch the snake, but the critter wasn’t as keen on that idea, and swam away quickly upon approach. That was a good demonstration for those who were a bit nervous around the snakes: as soon as anyone got close or towered above one, it swam in the other direction. We’re bigger than snakes are. They think we might eat them, so they go away.
To repeat the old cliché: They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.

Not only that, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re too big for a northern water snake to eat. It’s only likely to bite you as a defence mechanism if you try to pick it up and, even if it does bite you, it’s non-venomous and would probably feel a bit like a scratch – not even as bad as a horsefly bite.

While some folks still seemed a little uncertain about the whole thing and probably assumed I should be charged with reckless endangerment for letting my young child wander amongst the beasties, I am pleased to report that no one ran screaming from the water and no snakes were hacked to tiny bits during the course of our stay, although they did eat a few frogs. Such is the nature of nature.

Other daily amphibian- and reptile-related activities included swimming past the turtle log several times, wearing goggles and swimming with the fishes (and not in a Sopranos way), discovering the myriad of bread products little fish will eat (graham crackers are a hit), observing how crayfish like to grab at things with their claws and learning the correct way to release fish caught with a rod and reel.

Another delight was watching two adult loons teach two babies how to dive and fish. They spent many hours drifting in the little bay near the cottage – which was very obviously a great fishing ground. Girlchild does a pretty good loon call, too, and could often be heard answering the adults. “The Blonde Loon,” we called her.

Now, if only I could figure out how to install a lake in my backyard, we’d be able to pitch the TV and computer games for sure!

Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 26/10.

Past Deadline: More Bad News About Fish

2010-08-24T23:53:00.001-04:00

I’ve learned a thing or two about neon tetras in the last six months.

There are many schools (schools – get it? Fish joke) of thought out there about these little fish and I’m tending to agree with those who say they are extremely sensitive. For those of you who have been following my Fish Tank of Doom saga, there’s more. I’m hoping some sort of fish police don’t pull up to my front door and cart me away to rehab for well-meaning fish keepers.

Neon tetras are silver with red and blue racing stripes and they are quite lovely. They zoom around the tank and are such fun to watch.

Unless they’re dead.

The whole saga started after the last of Boychild’s long-lived goldfish floated to the proverbial aquarium in the sky. We decided on neon tetras because they’re so flashy and because I had kept some years ago with no problem or fuss.

The story of our first batch of 14 ended badly. Some rather serious water chemistry issues led to 100 per cent mortality within 24 hours. We learn from our mistakes, though, and when we purchased a fresh dozen (from a different store – too embarrassed to go back to the first), we were certain we had solved all problems.

This is a great theory if you follow basic fish-introduction rules, primarily: float the bag, you idiot! Floating the bag is literally that. You put the bag of fish in your tank for a while so they get used to the temperature and so that you can slowly exchange the water. Dumping new fish directly into a tank results in shock. Their bellies puff up (swim bladders) and they swim funny and float to the top. If you’re lucky, like I was, they will survive the Fish Tank of Doom.

For a long time things went merrily along with our 12 tetras and two algae eaters. Then they got ick – a charming fish illness. I nursed all but two of them back to good health.

Over the past several months a few have died off for no discernable reason and I’m willing to speculate it is because it was simply their time. After all, I have learned a lot. I change water and clean tanks and use special stuff to keep things healthy and I test the water frequently and watch the fish almost as compulsively as I check e-mail.

When we got down to five, I suggested to Boychild that maybe we could replenish the population a little, so we went to a fish store that had come highly recommended. We got eight new neon tetras and four little peppered corys that look like spotted catfish and comb through the pebbles looking for debris with their whiskers. Very cute.

The tank was ready. I tested the water. I floated the bag. I tested the bag water. I exchanged the water. I slowly and carefully released the new fish. I tested the water again.

And we watched.

Things looked great. The new fish (which were frighteningly tiny) schooled with the old fish. They zoomed around. They ate. There was no sign of shock and no sign of ick – no sign of anything.

And then, one by one over 48 hours, each of the new little tetras went off by itself and, within half an hour of doing so, died.

Groan.

Everyone else was fine, though, including the corys. A knowledgeable friend says it sounds as if I did everything right. I even chatted with a guy at a local bait shop who has been rearing minnows for decades, and he says fish stocks aren’t what they used to be.

I turned to the Internet, where you can always find reassurance if you look in the right places. I quickly discovered many websites and blogs proclaiming the hardships of neon tetra ownership. I have concluded that these fish are likely to die if you look at them funny.

Boychild is taking it well – better than I am. He is used to Bad News About Fish. My friend says that someday, years from now, he’ll say, “Hey, Mom, remember that time when you kept killing all of my fish?”

Good times.
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 19/10

Past Deadline: Spinning the Petty Crime

2010-08-24T23:51:00.002-04:00

If a petty crime falls in the forest, does anybody report it? Even more importantly, does anybody go to prison for it? And how exactly will we know?

If there is ever another federal election, there should be some nifty spin when it comes time to discuss the long-form census issue, not to mention the criminal nature of statistics or, rather, the statistical nature of crime. It will be interesting to see what sort of stuff Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s control-freak message people come up with.

True to form, the Harper government is letting its hyper-vigilance about privacy and secrecy trump common sense in its decision to make the completion of the long-form census voluntary instead of mandatory. After all, why would you want to have real, valid statistical information that a government could use to make informed policy and program decisions? Why, that might be a way to prevent spending, say, $13 billion on new prisons we might not need, for example.

In HarperWorld™, though, you don’t actually need valid information – that’s just crazy talk. After all, valid information has to come from real people, and those folks (you and me) might not like to be asked personal questions.

This from the government that is known for ducking any forum where there is no guarantee that the message can be controlled by the PMO. In HarperWorld™ made-up information is much preferred because by the time it is verified (or not) the Harperites assume we the people have all dozed off and have forgotten the original issue.

Please oh please, people. Stay awake!

The recent example that had me slapping my forehead in disbelief was the fact that Treasury Board president Stockwell Day, who will probably never shake the wetsuit-wearing image, recently told reporters the federal government needs to spend billions of dollars to build new prisons to lock up people who commit unreported crimes.

Huh?

See, this is confusing on many levels. First of all, I would have thought the tough-on-crime-Tories would be crowing over the news that crime rates in Canada are dropping but, oh no, they are choosing to focus on a statistic (of all things) that shows the number of unreported crimes is actually increasing.

Don’t be surprised, though, for even in HarperWorld™ a statistic can be useful – as long as it is in restraints.

It was later reported Day’s information came from an honest-to-goodness Statistics Canada survey that showed a slight rise in unreported crimes. Gosh. Those surveys sure are helpful when you need them! A StatsCan analyst went on to say, though, the most common reason people give for not calling police about a crime is that they don’t believe it to be serious enough. You know, stuff like property crimes and petty theft. (Folks tend to snitch about violent crimes.)

The thing is, even if these petty crimes had been reported, they probably wouldn’t have been serious enough to warrant a jail term. Not only that, but we’re talking about building federal prisons here, and to earn yourself a spot in one of those you need to get a sentence of at least two years. Petty crime just isn’t going to cut it.

So, to recap, if we’re not locking up people who aren’t being charged or even if they are being charged but the crimes are petty, why do we need more prison cells?

Well, it’s because suddenly HarperWorld™ needs to come up with some sort of logical argument to defend the expenditure of billions of dollars to expand prisons when crime rates are apparently falling. So there’s lots of spin about imposing longer sentences and stopping the practice of discounted sentences – but it sure makes one wonder what else might be going on.

Not to mention, of course, the irony of HarperWorld™ relying on statistics, of all things, to argue its point. It’s also ironic that if this government were to keep the long-form census mandatory, they might actually need all those new prison cells to house the folks who refuse to fill out the forms. After all, I’m sure we all know someone who has gone to prison for not completing the long-form census.

Or am I being petty?
Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 12/10

Past Deadline: Squirmy Joy

2010-08-05T00:11:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I think if I could go back in time I would go back to being four. There’s just something about that age that is, well, squirmy!

Four-year-olds still need their moms. They still snuggle. They want to play and the world is still new. They are not yet fully jaded – only a little jaded. They soak in knowledge like sponges and blossom with their new experiences like the biggest, brightest flowers.

Girlchild, who is four, had her first and second rounds of swimming lessons this summer. For the previous year she had joined me on the bleachers at the indoor pool to watch her brother move through some badges and was quite delighted when we suggested she could take lessons when school finished.

Oh, my. What an excruciating wait it was for those lessons to get started less than a week after her last day of school. We counted the days. Then the hours. Then the minutes.

Kids who are Girlchild’s age start with a beginner program, and her first level was Sea Turtle because she is big enough to go in the water without a parent.

Despite the obvious anticipation, I approached the whole thing with a tiny bit of caution because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but kids can be weird. Sometimes, even though they might express unbridled enthusiasm about a thing, it can suddenly become the Most Fearsome Thing in the World and Something To Avoid Entirely.

Sometimes we seek refunds.

This time, though, there was little doubt Girlchild was excited. She couldn’t sit still on the bleachers as we waited to see who her teacher would be. That’s when a fellow named Jeff appeared and called for the Sea Turtles. I am now certain Girlchild would follow him to the ends of the earth and back – or at the very least to the end of the pool and back. Several times, even.

One of my most favourite things in the world is watching a kid “get it.” I remember when Boychild learned to read. In school and at home we worked through letter sounds and spent a long time trying to put it all together. He’d bring home the books to practise at night and we’d settle in and work ever so slowly through those words on the pages.

Then, one night, eureka! It was literally as if a light switch had been flicked on and the boy could read. The words flowed and reading became fun! It is an exciting privilege to be witness to this sort of thing when it happens.

Swimming is a bit like this because there are certain preparations to be made and obstacles to overcome before one really gets it. We watched as, day after day, Girlchild rose to the challenges and eagerly embraced them. We started calling her Esther Williams, in fact, because you couldn’t wipe the grin off her face. When it was her turn to do a task, she was so excited she squirmed in the water with joy, and when she completed it her excitement practically rippled across the water.

For example, at home in the wading pool before her lessons started, Girlchild practised sticking part of her face in the water and blowing bubbles. Putting her whole head under water, however, was a Much Bigger Deal.

It was kind of like that reading thing when it happened – when a little switch was flicked and she realized that not only did nothing bad happen when she did it, but it’s actually kind of fun to go underwater and be fish-like or mermaid-like or Esther Williams-like or what have you.

She can do it and now she does it all the time and it seems to have been a springboard into accomplishing all sorts of wonderful things – such as swimming a few metres without any floaty stuff at all.

She moved on to become a Salamander under Lorel’s care and is ready to move on to the Sunfish level next time. And she’ll still follow Jeff around anywhere, I’m sure.

Oh, to be four again, when the whole wide world is just brimming with these joyful, squirmy, exciting, new things!

Published in The Perth Courier, Aug. 5, 2010

Past Deadline: On Hunger and Gravity

2010-08-05T00:02:00.003-04:00

Just in case too much time has passed since I last told you about my apparent obsession with the Quest to Find My Waist (I think it has been a whole two weeks, after all), here is an update.

Something remarkable has happened.

Get this: sometimes I’m not hungry, so I don’t eat.

Gasp! I know! Isn’t that crazy?

If you’ve been following along, you might remember I recently lamented that despite the fact I am running my butt off I am not, actually, running my butt off. Nor my hips. Nor my gut. So, my Calgary buddy and I have set a new goal – to adjust our eating to complement the exercising in an extraordinarily clever effort to convince our bodies that, yes, weighing a tad less would be just fine, thank you very much if you don’t mind please.

The first part of the plan was to control what gets ingested at suppertime and beyond. Portion sizes and evening snacking have long been issues for me. So instead of having a big snack of cereal before bed, I’ll settle for a bit of fruit and/or a glass of milk.

Guess what? It seems to be working! Not only have I not died of starvation while I’m doing that strenuous activity known as sleeping, but I’ve even lost a couple of pounds!

Controlling my evening eating seems to have had a surprising, but welcome, effect during the rest of the day, too. Since I am eating less at night, my body seems to be expecting less during the rest of the day. Somehow, I have managed to trick my brain into doing what so many other people do naturally. Some people won’t eat food if they’re not hungry – even if the food is right there in front of them! It’s just craziness.

Believe it or not, this is a surprisingly huge accomplishment in my world. Oh – and get this! Sometimes I eat a meal, feel full and actually stop eating. I might even leave some food on my plate – uneaten! Whoa. You have no idea how revolutionary it is to do this. The best part is that by doing this I actually feel good instead of being obnoxiously full after a meal.

Here’s something else that’s mind blowing: sometimes I feel hungry and it turn out I actually am hungry because I haven’t eaten in a while – as in hours. Hours without snacking. The best part? I’m okay! I haven’t grown weak or dizzy. I haven’t died of starvation!

This little exercise has reminded me of a few simple things that are not rocket science, for sure, but it’s nice to put into practice what I have long known. For one thing, I really don’t need to eat as much as I do. Smarter choices and smaller portion sizes make me feel better and don’t compromise my energy level – they actually increase it. (Short people and/or cats waking me up in the night compromise my energy level.)

I should add there is a Best Actor in a Supporting Role that should be thanked in this drama called Adventures in Responsible Eating, and that is Humidity. Yes, the kind of heat that makes one feel nauseous when sitting still is a good deterrent against ingesting giant meals. That means it will be interesting to see what happens with these newly rediscovered eating habits when the weather cools down in the fall and all those warm, yummy, comfort foods start popping up on the menu again.

There’s another cast member, though, that deserves an Academy Award for its villainous role. That is Gravity. While I am pleased to report there are signs my waist might reappear, it is definitely in an altered form. It’s amazing how having kids and gaining some weight redistributes things in unflattering and strange bulgy ways. I now totally get why girdles were invented. They weren’t necessarily a form of torture. It’s just that some of us girls need more help with elasticity than others. I suppose I should feel gratified in knowing some of the problem is skin as opposed to fat, but strangely I am not appeased by this.

Oh, yes. It’s wonderful being a girl. Indeed.

Published in The Perth Courier, July 29, 2010

Past Deadline: Now for Today's Special- Nothing!

2010-08-04T23:59:00.002-04:00

I don’t remember being bratty about summer boredom when I was a kid. In fact, I don’t remember being bored much before the end of August. There always seemed to be something to do – whether it was playing with neighbourhood kids or reading a book.

I remember our family camping trips and travelling and the things that used to keep me happy during long car rides waaaaay before portable DVDs and Nintendo DSIs. Indeed, if I wasn’t fighting with my brother or checking out the scenery, then I was adding to my licence plate collection in my notebook.

Yes, I would record all the licence plate numbers I saw on our travels. This was particularly exciting if they were out of province or – gasp! – out of country. I had a list of hundreds.

I’m willing to admit it’s possible I was a strange child who was easily amused.

Now that I am a parent I sometimes think my children are little space aliens and I wonder if my parents felt the same way about my brother and me. Or maybe it’s just a different world today.

Something I find about kids – and maybe it’s mine in particular – but as soon as you do something “exciting” it becomes an expectation that something “exciting” will happen every day. This turns into a pester fest (“What are we doing today, Mom? What are we doing today?”) that occasionally makes me wonder if it would simply be easier to raise them in a mushroom-like environment – in the dark and feeding them lots of…well, you know.

Just kidding! Sort of.

Boychild, for example, is at an age where it seems to take a lot to enthral him, which I find odd considering he takes great delight in talking about gastrointestinal emissions with his sister. I’ve been living with this kid for more than eight years now and I still sometimes have no idea if he is ever really impressed by anything.

Friends of ours invited us for a visit that included a ferry ride to see some giant windmills, a trip to a splash pad and a meal at a restaurant where the chef cooks in front of you and juggles eggs and sets fire to things. Both of the kids had a good time, but their favourite part of the day was frolicking in the hot tub back at our friends’ place. (Scratches head.) I guess that’s sort of like the cliché of the child enjoying the box more than the toy that was in it.

Another friend of mine sometimes comments that kids today seem to need things to be really “whammy” before they are remotely impressed. Whammy often means expensive and far away and filled with constant activity. I guess it’s hard for me to understand because if you change my scenery and park me beside a shoreline where I can stare into the water for hours and look for critters I am perfectly content but, then again, I am that easily amused person….(Nice girl, but a bit odd.)

Oh, I know, there are a handful of very simple explanations for why kids are this way – assuming it’s even considered to be a bad thing. Maybe we’re supposed to be saving up for trips into space or month-long journeys on ocean-going vessels or mountain climbing or backpacking across the universe or whatever.

“They” say kids’ brains are affected by all the flickering lights in televisions and video games and, thusly, they now require constant stimulation. Or maybe it’s just that they see too much about what is out there in the world through media and are, as a result, underwhelmed when real life shows up live and in person (I know sometimes I feel that way).

Or maybe they just need to get used to the idea that life has exciting times and not-so-exciting times. Around these-here parts we are not likely to have every moment scheduled with some sort of whammy activity. For that matter, we are not likely to have every moment scheduled – period.

After all, in my day (uphill both ways) we used to collect licence plate numbers in a notebook and we liked it. We LOVED it!

(Nice girl, but a little odd.)

Published in the Perth Courier, July 22, 2010

Past Deadline: Sharp, Itchy Nature

2010-08-04T23:57:00.002-04:00

I’ve mentioned before that when we were kids my brother and I used to roam the fields, woods and river near our home. At that time, the biggest dangers we faced were some thistle scratches, mosquito bites and the wrath of our mother if we traipsed into the house with dirty feet.

In the “olden days” I remember being quite paranoid about poison ivy. We didn’t have any in the haunts we frequented, but my dad used to tell stories about the terrible reactions he had to poison ivy when he was younger, and I was certain it would be the Worst Thing Ever should I have the misfortune to encounter it.

These days, if you were at all inclined to overreact to things you hear on the news, you would have to take a deep breath before you go outside. You’d want to take that breath INside in case there is a smog alert. These days the mosquitoes might carry West Nile virus. The sun will destroy you. The water could contain unpleasant bacteria.

And that’s not even counting the invasive species.

Today there are lots of kids whose feet will never get toughened up on pebbles in the water because they are wearing water socks to protect them from slashes by sharp-edged zebra mussels. (I know a kid who had to get stitches in his foot from a zebra mussel cut.) It is sad to see our local lakes and rivers polluted with this scourge. Yes, they filter the water and “clear it up,” but this means they are removing the tiny micro-organisms that other beasties feed upon. If those beasties die off, the bigger beasties that eat them suffer. And so on. Food chain stuff.

A decade or so ago we watched as fields and marshlands were overtaken by the invasive species du jour – purple loosestrife. Now we’re as likely to see a sea of yellow – especially along our roadways.

I remember when I first started noticing the yellow flowers of the wild parsnip a year or two ago. I wasn’t sure what it was and thought it was a variation of Queen Anne’s lace (wild carrot) – the tall, white roadside wildflower that also came from somewhere else a long time ago. Since then, though, I’ve learned this other member of the carrot family is not a very nice plant. It appears to be an escapee of vegetable gardens that has spread over many many decades. The root is edible, but if you are unlucky enough to get the sap from the plant on your skin, particularly in combination with sunlight (it is photosensitive), you’re in for painful blisters that can take some time to heal.

Hurray. And it seems to be everywhere now.

Oh, and don’t forget about giant hogweed. It’s another member of the (apparently pesky!) carrot family that is even worse than wild parsnip. It’s an escapee from Europe and the sap from this huge plant can burn the skin and cause blindness if it gets in the eyes. I haven’t seen any yet, but apparently it’s moving this way so I am keeping an eye out for six-foot-tall plants with big white flowers and giant leaves.

The good news about these plants is you can generally see them and avoid them whilst out gallivanting in the wilds. Unfortunately, though, ticks are not as easy to see, and they are spreading this way from southern climes. Since some of them carry Lyme disease, you want to make sure you do a tick check when you return from your nature ramble.

So, about that deep breath. Nature, apparently, is not for the weak.

Rather than cover the children from head to toe with some sort of impenetrable bodysuit (not to mention the tin foil hat to ward off space aliens), I’m sticking with the “knowledge is power” notion. We know what to look for while we’re out and what to check for when we return. We wear water socks in zebra mussel territory and sunscreen whenever we’re outside. The end.

Sure seems that it used to be easier, though, back in the day….

Published in the Perth Courier, July 15, 2010

Past Deadline: Seeking a Waistline

2010-07-09T23:47:00.002-04:00

Next week marks the one-year anniversary of my first run with my Calgary friend as part of our virtual self-improvement project.

The idea, as regular readers may recall, was that we would do the beginning running program together, which is a plan of walking and running alternately for about 20 minutes until you spend more time running and less walking. We report in to each other online. After a few agonizing months I could run 20 minutes straight – and more – several times a week.

Despite all this activity the pounds did not melt away from my frame as I had expected. I’m not sure what made me think running was going to be the answer to my tight-waistband issues, but it turned out, surprisingly enough, not to be the miracle cure. In fact, I suspect I could run 10K per day and still be mired where I am.

At some point many months into our plan my virtual buddy informed me you don’t actually lose weight by running.

Wha-?

So, as a one-year anniversary present we decided to come up with a revolutionary plan to take care of that little problem. Are you ready for it? We’re going to – get this – eat better! I know! t’s crazy!

I announced our plan to Groom-boy, who was smugly sitting in a chair reading a men’s health magazine, possibly contemplating his own waistline. “It says here,” he said, “that the sure recipe for being heavier five years from now is to be on a diet today.”

So I threw a running shoe at him. Actually I didn’t. I just threw him a shoe-like glare.

Thing is, I wouldn’t say virtual buddy and I are on a diet. We’re actually just being smarter about eating. Look at it this way. Decades ago, when skinny girls bragged about the fact they could eat anything they wanted and not gain weight, their mamas were probably feeding them reasonably portioned home-cooked meals that didn’t come out of a package or from a drive-thru. So, sure, they could squeak in a cupcake or a sinful snack now and again with barely a blip on the scale.

Now enormous portions are routine and we are tempted by more ready-made junk than ever before.

You don’t need to go on a fad diet to eat better, though. It’s not rocket science. I’ve known how to eat properly (healthy foods and reasonable portions) forever, I just haven’t been doing it well.

We’re talking about things like when that man shows up at the grocery store to make mini sugar donuts in his little booth and they pump the lovely aroma out to the front of the store so you are drawn in like zombies. Eating well can be the difference between walking past those sinister little donuts and bringing them home. Once they are at home, my willpower is gone.

Recently I had to fast for a routine medical test. That was a reminder about what it actually feels like to be “hungry.” For a couple of days afterwards I found I wasn’t eating as much, and (gasp!) I was okay. I survived.

So my friend and I have pledged to watch our portion sizes and to make sure our meals are more balanced. We want to eat less of the junk we shouldn’t be eating anyway.

We are starting by vigorously targeting our mutual trouble spot – supper and beyond. The bedtime snack is a bane of our existence. For a million years I have eaten a bowl of cereal each night while I mock the anchors on the late news. It turns out that something I thought I “needed” is actually just something I “wanted.”

You know, that’s a meal. And who needs a meal to go to sleep? So I’ve been having a glass of milk instead and you know what? I’m okay! I don’t die of hunger in the night! I don’t feel weak and faint in the morning!

And as I continue to combine this earth-shattering food revolution with running, I eagerly look forward to the return of my waist. I’ll keep you posted.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 8/10.