Category Archives: My failing sanity

Little Quirks

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On Monday I was at Costco, and I noticed something very interesting: other than one rogue cart inexplicably shoved onto the median rather than neatly wheeled back to the corral not twenty feet away, the parking lot was devoid of carts. My faith in humanity was briefly restored, until I saw the weary-looking, long-suffering employees with the cart train, clearly having just gathered them all from where Humanity’s Laziest People left them. And lo, after spending less than an hour in the store, I passed dozens of carts strewn through the lot as I made my way back to my car. It seems he task of clearing the Costco parking lot of carts is even more Sisyphean than laundry.

The very fact that I was at Costco speaks to my recovery. My hip is getting much better, so much so that I can walk the dog without wanting to lie down and cry. In fact, I’ve been cleared for non-running physical activity, which has lifted my spirits immensely. I missed writing “Favourite Things” last month and toyed with the idea of writing a “Favourite Things: On The Road To Recovery Edition,” but happily I realized that this would be even more boring than the time I wrote about cleaning with white vinegar. Consider yourself spared, dear reader, unless, of course, you are dying to hear about the following: dry needling, yoga balls, spin and elliptical trainers, protein powder, and enough Advil to make Pfizer shareholders happy for the next decade.

My dear friend Taryn (HI TARYN) had posted a picture of a Type A person victoriously holding a box of flowers over their head, with the caption “Flower Smelling Champion” and I can feel myself going in that direction, but with recovery. I’m a little surprised I haven’t started a whole Instagram feed with the hashtag #crushingtherecovery.

I’m working on being less crazy, I swear, although it’s the crazy parts of ourselves that really make things interesting in life. Well, “interesting.” In addition to deciding, after reading When The Body Says No, that I would start on June 1 with a recovery-appropriate exercise plan, and then writing down all those things with detailed notes about how my hip is feeling, I realized that I have many, many strange quirks. Obsessively strange quirks. Or maybe they are not strange at all, maybe they are perfectly normal and unworthy of further comment. I’m just going to assume that they ARE strange and obsessive, otherwise this post will be, alas, meaningless; unlike all my other posts that are heavy with significance and import.

Nails

I was a nail-biter until I was about 23 years old, and when I say “nail-biter,” I mean I would bite them until they hurt and bled. When I did finally quit that habit, I went in the entirely other direction: I now keep my nails polished and filed at all times. You might not think this is a noteworthy thing, but the detail I have not yet divulged is that all my nails must be the same length. If one nail breaks, then I file all the other nails down to the exact same length.

Gratuitous Friday night wine shot!

Public Toilets

Most public toilets these days are automatic-flush, which is a wonderful thing for those of us who have a horror of, well, public toilets. I am unable to touch the flush lever on a public toilet with my hand; I always, always flush with my foot. Fortunately I’m pretty flexible. I have witnessed enough substandard hand washing in my lifetime to never touch a bathroom door knob with my hand; I always use the bottom of my shirt. I try not to think about what could be lurking in the bottom of my shirt.

Mailboxes and the Library Chute

Whenever I mail something, I always, without fail, check to see if it went in properly. Drop in a letter, close the chute, open it back up and check. Repeat that exact thing for the library chute. Never has a card or book NOT fallen to their destiny on the first try, but I cannot trust the past to accurately predict the future.

You know that scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Sally mails a pile of cards all individually, checking the mailbox after each one? Yet more proof that Sally Allbright is my cinematic spirit animal.

The Pre-Flight Spiel

When flight attendants go through their safety demonstration, I always – and the boys have been trained to do this as well – stop whatever I’m doing, take the laminated pictorial instructions out of the seat back, and listen. Sure, I already know that in the unlikely event that the cabin loses pressure, I need to don the little yellow thing over my mouth and nose before helping anyone, and that my flotation device is underneath my seat, and that you can inflate the little vest by pulling on the little tags or, if that doesn’t work, blowing into it. But I listen anyway because it really seems rude not to. These people are doing their jobs! It takes less than two minutes for them to go through the entire demonstration! There is PLENTY of time in any flight to read our books or watch some ridiculous YouTube video or play a meaningless game on our phones or stare at the back of the seat like Puddy. If we cannot take two minutes out of our day to pay attention to someone doing their job to keep us safe during the miracle that is air travel, well, all is lost. We may as well all leave our goddamn carts helter-skelter pell-mell in every parking lot we ever attend, we may as well all just drop garbage on the ground because it’s easier than placing it in a proper receptacle, we may as well pee where we stand and shove old ladies out of the way to get to the front of the line at Walmart. We are LIVING in a SOCIETY. This is not just some the rules are there are no rules kind of world.

God, I have to take a few breaths here. Anyway. Listen to your flight attendant, that’s all I’m saying. Well, that and don’t touch anything in public washrooms, check the mailbox, and always have a nail file in your bag.

Next Stop: The Glue Factory

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Last Friday, two days before my first road race, the road race I’ve been training for over these past many months, I went for a light run. My hip was a bit achy but I thought I would push through; this was apparently a big mistake as suddenly I had shooting and stabbing pain in my right leg and hip flexor. It took me a solid twenty minutes to get from the gym to the parking lot and once home, I couldn’t put weight on it at all. I had to crawl just to use the bathroom. I spent most of Friday lying on the couch, crying.

Needless to say, I didn’t run in my road race.

My very good friend, who is also a counsellor (HI TARYN) told me that the emotional toll of physical pain is often worse than the injury itself, especially for people who are very active. I believe it. I spent a lot of the time over the weekend feeling blue and also being in a lot of pain. There’s nothing like having to get your husband to help you PUT ON your underwear to make you appreciate your normal physical abilities.

My fear was that there was something really wrong with my hip joint and that I tore something, but I didn’t have bruising or swelling, so I didn’t THINK that was it. I have torn my groin before, just like a pro hockey player, and I knew what that looked like. It turns out that the ache in my hip was a nerve impingement which led to extreme muscle spasms. I’ve had a couple of appointments with dry needling, which is the weirdest and yet most instant-relief experience I’ve had. I have renewed optimism that maybe, just maybe, I just might make it after all.

“Next stop: the glue factory,” I said to my younger son, who just stared at me. “Like Boxer! Remember Boxer?” He continued to stare at me silently and then told me that yes, he remembers Boxer and that really, I wasn’t very funny.

The upside of all this is that on Friday the boys made dinner, including a vegetarian protein source just for me. It was a pasta salad – complete with creamy dressing made with vegan mayo – with edamame and all my favourite vegetables, and they sauteed themselves some chicken as well. AND THEY CLEANED UP, LIVING UP TO MY OWN RIGOROUS CLEANING STANDARDS. Why don’t I get them to make dinner more often? It was a highlight of what was a pretty bummer weekend.

Another highlight is my flowers arrived! I had ordered some planters and herbs from a fundraiser, and they are gorgeous. My husband brought a chair into the yard so I could direct the action as he put the flowers into pots for me. I have officially given up on trying to grow anything whatsoever except false Solomon’s seal in my very dry and very shaded front bed, and so for Mother’s Day he bought me three more big pots in which to grow annuals. I’m so happy with them! The Mayday is finally starting to bloom and the annuals are adding some very much needed colour to the landscape.

Remember last year when I talked about the surviving tulips and how terrible they looked? Well, nothing has changed on that front. The foliage is, again, all flopped over and looking terrible. How is this happening? The people just down the street have a glorious showing of tulips, all different colours, all in bloom. Why are my tulips so stupid? I was talking with one of my seniors and I told her that I have no interest, none whatsoever, in nurturing fragile plants. Our growing season is so short, I want plants that are hardy and happy and that would probably survive nuclear fallout. It’s why I have so many daylilies in my yard. It’s also probably an indication as to why I would not be a good nurse.

Speaking of nurses, god bless my husband and kids who have had to put up with me and my “confinement.” Nicole doesn’t really do well without exercise, my husband told his boss yesterday, which feels like a big understatement. I’m trying not to be too crabby about things – after all, there are so many worse things in the world. I’ve been going to physio and getting dry needled; if you’ve never had dry needling, let me tell you: it’s kind of a trip. It feels a lot like when you’re sleeping and you dream that you are falling and jerk yourself awake, but only with certain muscles.

In non-injury-related news, today is Barkley’s birthday! He’s 11! Later today he’s getting a special freeze-dried chicken treat, which he loves, and on the weekend I’ll bake a cake for the humans in the house. I was thinking carrot, but the boys think a brown cake would be more appropriate for a brown dog’s birthday, so I guess chocolate it is.

Happy birthday, Fuzzy MacFuzzfuzz. xo

Aunty Ant Takes Her Revenge

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Earlier in the week I was so tired; it was the kind of exhaustion that makes me wonder if something is seriously wrong. Why am I so tired? I kept saying, over and over, like the world’s most boring broken record. My husband gently reminded me that every so often I DO get this tired, and every time I get this tired I wonder why, and possibly I shouldn’t run myself at full throttle every single day? Well, it turns out he was correct. I am generally a Jack Russell terrier, but every so often I need to embrace my inner Basset hound. A few days of extra sleep and an afternoon spent gardening in the sunshine, and I seem to be back to my usual self.

Generally speaking, the more things I have to do, the more energized I get. It’s like I have my own little contest going on, trying to squeeze in one more thing every moment of every day. Can I bake a batch of muffins while washing the floor and folding the laundry? And then read this collection of short stories while I make pasta sauce? At some point I become like the airplane headed for Carnival in Rio in Richard Scarry’s Busy Busy World; I explode with the addition of Aunty Ant.

Looking back over the past couple of weeks, I realize that I might have been going at even higher speed than normal; every single day that the sun has shone I’ve been doing yard work on top of running 23 kilometres a week, spin classes, daily yoga practice, and dog walks, not to mention my teaching schedule. Oh, and grocery shopping, food preparation, running a household, parenting, and all of those things we all do every day without thought. A few days of rest is definitely a good thing; if I was talking to a friend or a student, I would tell them to be gentle to themselves and to take rest to restore their bodies and souls. Every once in a while I should really take my own advice.

This past long weekend we travelled to visit my mother-in-law, adding “packing” and “taking dog to kennel with all his prepackaged food and medication” to last week’s to-do list. Packing is a job that I find myself obsessing over; my husband packs his own things and my kids choose the clothes that they need, but my need for order and control means that I alone am in charge of the suitcases. Or, the Orange Suitcases of Sadness, as we call them in this house. The moment the Orange Suitcases of Sadness come out of storage, Barkley is on High Alert and will either be found sitting beside one or be completely underfoot, so that I’m tripping over him while unloading the dishwasher or stepping over him as I neatly roll up all the clothes in order to maximize packing space. I heard a woman talking on the plane about how her friend spent six weeks in Europe with only a single piece of carry on luggage, and I was amazed. A weekend away necessitates a huge suitcase plus carry on for me. I mean, how do you even pack enough toiletries without checked baggage? I guess there are pharmacies and shops in Europe but still.

My sister-in-law and I bonded this weekend with our mutual disdain for travellers who sneak too-large pieces of carry on luggage onto the plane and then cannot fit said pieces into the overhead compartments. Just spend the $25 and check your damn bag, I always think to myself, watching them nearly take out people as they swing their giant distended roller bags overhead. You people are the worst. Perhaps that’s how that woman got through six weeks; with a contraband oversized carry on.

I like to pack a lot even for a weekend, because as you well know, I love clothes. My friend Jen (HI JEN) mentioned that she is going to start her own One Year Shopping Challenge, and for a few minutes I wondered if I have been appreciating all my clothes enough; should I too do another challenge? Nothing makes you appreciate what you have like not being able to purchase new things. However, I am pretty sure my husband would stop speaking to me and my mother would disown me, so I won’t. Maybe I’ll quietly do my own six-month challenge, though, now that my wardrobe has been supplemented over the last nine months of restocking. Maybe.

Speaking of clothes, I noticed a few very interesting outfits yesterday. First, as I was walking the dog, I noticed an older gentleman mowing his lawn wearing nothing whatsoever but a pair of white shorts, the type favoured by basketball players in the 1970s, black socks, and work boots. This was especially odd given that the outside temperature was only about 15 degrees; it didn’t feel like “only shorts and nothing else” weather but then again, I tend to be cold most of the time. Then at my son’s drum lesson, a young boy came in wearing a Garfield hoodie and shorts set. It was bright yellow, adorned with the lasagne-loving cat, and the hood was made to look like Garfield’s head. This I found intriguing; is Garfield still relevant? I guess he must be somewhere, since the outfit looked quite new and bright. That is some longevity for a cartoon feline.

The most interesting outfit was really the third in a series. The young woman who gives voice lessons at the same place that my son takes drum lessons is absolutely fascinating to me. The first week I took him, she was dressed exactly as an anime character: shiny bobbed black hair with a hairband adorned with two big pompoms, a short colourful dress, and tall, shiny, white platform boots. The next week her hair was still black, but soft and wavy, and she was wearing a flowing flowered dress; the type your grandma might have worn as a housedress, but longer. Then yesterday her hair was greyish-lavender, curly except for straight bangs, and she was wearing a long grey and white see-through lace dress over top a short white dress, with black lipstick. I honestly can’t wait to see what happens next week. The mom of the Garfield-clad boy looked at me and said, “Every week, she looks different!” which seemed like a vast understatement.

I cannot recall ever purchasing anything from the Venus catalogue, and so it is for reasons unknown that I have been the recipient of said catalogue for many years. I find it fascinating just how many different iterations there are of star-spangled bikinis. The catalogue is mostly filled with swimwear and beach accessories, but a good third of it contains “street wear” and that, my friends, is the best part. Better even than star-spangled bikinis, the pages are filled with “butt-lifting” jeans and really startling spandex dresses and loosely-knit cropped sweaters worn over sparkly tank tops. There is also a whole section on “work wear” which very much differs from my idea of office-appropriate attire. Although, who’s to say work wear is synonymous with office wear? After all, my work wear consists of yoga pants and tank tops. Perhaps other people have jobs that necessitate cold-shoulder bell-sleeved blouses, off-the-shoulder wrap dresses, or wildly low-cut zipper-front sheath dresses. Who am I to say?

And the sun is shining so yard work is calling; off to embrace my inner Jack Russell. Enjoy the sunshine, sunshines. xo

I welcome my new overlord

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For my birthday, the guys gave me a Garmin watch; it has been four days and already it has taken over my life. I’m full-on David Sedaris. I welcome my new watch overlord.

I used to figuratively roll my eyes when I would hear various friends complain that their fitness tracker didn’t properly count steps or heart rates, or that they forgot to enter their workout into their app. I would think, Does it matter? You still DID the exercise, does it MATTER if it’s not recorded on your device? Well. Just like everything I’ve ever silently judged in my life, it has come back to haunt me. I am now completely obsessed and also have turned into one of Today’s Children who get all sorts of accolades and praise for participation. Yesterday I went for a run and, while I consider myself to be a very self-motivated person, I couldn’t help but be thrilled every time my watch buzzed when I unlocked a new achievement. Step counts? More than 5km run? Elevation gains? Heart rate intensity minutes? Every time I got a new Badge, I felt like I did when I was a Brownie and my mom sewed a physical badge to my sash. Check THIS out. 

The Watch is pretty bossy, though. I said this to my husband and he replied that it was just like its owner, which, well. I’m sure there is some way to change this setting, but it seems like being stationary for fifteen minutes at a time triggers it into a bossy frenzy; it doesn’t even gently or politely suggest movement, it buzzes and in all capitals and punctuated with an exclamation mark says MOVE! on the screen. I was at the hair salon yesterday when this happened; my colour was processing and I had, obviously, been seated for this procedure.

Me, silently: Don’t boss me!

Also me: *gets up and pretends to use the washroom just to clear the move bar*

It doesn’t seem to take any other activity into account before virtually shouting at me to MOVE!, as proven last night. Yesterday I had a) practiced yoga, gone for a run and a dog walk, AND grocery shopped at Superstore, with all its accompanying steps and stairs to put the groceries away, b) doubled my step goal AND my stair-flight-climbing goal, and c) got in half of the week’s worth of “intensity minutes.” And yet, I curled up in my chair after dinner to read, and the Watch began buzzing at me.

Me: You’re not the boss of me!

Also me: *waits five minutes before getting up to use the bathroom*

The book I’m reading is The Rosie Effect. I read and enjoyed The Rosie Project years ago, and I am enjoying this book just as much, if not more. However, it was a little unsettling to realize that Don Tillman’s Standardised Meal System is not dissimilar to my own Weekly Meal Plan, as far as efficiency, ingredient inventory, shopping, and zero food wastage goes. It’s always a little startling to see aspects of one’s own personality in a fictional character, particularly when that fictional character is Don Tillman.

Speaking of the Weekly Meal Plan, while I was making Thai curry on Tuessday, I realized something: the Watch has changed my household behaviour. I have become extremely inefficient when it comes to moving between floors of the house. The kitchen is on the main floor, but the pantry is downstairs, and normally I am extremely efficient at Bringing Stuff Upstairs – except, of course, when I forget what I went down to the pantry for. In Life Before The Watch, I would bring up broccoli from the basement fridge, snip some cilantro, and bring up the peanuts all in one trip. Tuesday, however, I took three trips to do this, plus a fourth to bring up the laundry, as the dryer finished while I was prepping dinner. My morning ritual, in Life Before The Watch, involves putting in a load of laundry at the same time I do my hair, my hair products and appliances being housed in the bathroom adjacent to the laundry room. In Life Before The Watch I would carry a laundry basket – with bathroom cleaner and gloves perched on top – on one hip and a coffee cup and hair accessories in the other hand, in order to minimize the number of times I would go up and down the stairs. Now, Post-Watch, I’m going downstairs to put the laundry in, going back upstairs for hair accessories, and after that, going up and down the stairs to get the cleaning products with which to tidy the bathroom.

Frankly, it’s probably safer this way, if slightly more insane. It was only a matter of time before I Emily Starr-ed and tumbled down the stairs while carrying all those items.

Slight digression for those of you who spent years of your childhood obsessed by the Emily books: did you ever feel sorry for Dean Priest? I sure did, even though he was possessive and a little bit creepy. I always thought Teddy was too smarmy. But then, I guess this is what happened back then when one lived in a small community: if you were a woman, and there was a man in your general age bracket, then it was likely that you would get married. It would only be a matter of time. Ah, romance.

But back to the Watch: memories of life before it are becoming faded and distant. It’s like trying to remember what you did before you had a smart phone. How did we interact with people? Did I call them? Email them? I have no idea. And now I have no idea what I did without counting my steps like a crazy person. This way lies madness.

To quote from David Sedaris: Why is it some people can manage a thing like a Fitbit, while others go off the rails and allow it to rule, and perhaps even ruin, their lives? Well, we all knew in which category I would fall. It’s not like I didn’t know this would happen. Give me any kind of goal – number of books to read in a year, number of kilometers to run in an hour, number of steps in a day – and I immediately want to crush it. Add in there a spreadsheet or an app and suddenly I become a monster. The saddest thing is that the only person I am competing with is myself. I thought briefly about joining one of those friendly competition groups, and instantly quashed that idea. I don’t need to be marching in place while reading at night just to get a first-place badge. Or do I?

We’re getting the band back together

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It’s official: I am in Full Spring Cleaning Mode. This includes the yard, the basement, and every closet in the house. Nothing is safe! Everything must go! Or at least everything must be in use or spark joy. About three years ago I did a full Kondo of my house – some of you may remember that – and that, along with my One Year Shopping Challenge, really changed the way I brought things into the house. I am much more mindful about purchases and I ensure that if I am buying something, it is very much needed and/ or wanted.

Still, things add up. Children outgrow their beds rendering many sets of twin sheets unnecessary, books and toys also get outgrown, clothes don’t fit or become too worn to be desirable anymore. I have a pair of platform slides that date back to the Nineties that I was keeping in my closet “just in case” but really, I think the Platform Slide Ship has sailed.

Part of my cleaning frenzy has been spurred by the soon-to-be acquisition of an item that requires a certain amount of space: a drum set. As a long-time pianist, I have been anxiously awaiting the day that my children would show interest in learning a musical instrument. In your face, Nicole, as one would say. So we now have a new drummer, along with a new electric guitar player. Could you please turn down the amp, can you hear me, please turn down the amp. In all seriousness I am actually thrilled at their interest; along with my younger son taking up drums and my older son taking up electric guitar, my husband has taken up the bass, and things have become much more musical around here. Loudly musical.

My son’s drum teacher informed him, much to my relief about hearing concerns, that earplugs must be worn at all times when drumming, so I assume that means I should probably have a set as well, since there is no door to the basement and our house reverberates with any noise from the basement. I have not yet met the drum teacher, but my husband says that he is exactly what you might expect a drum teacher to be like. I imagine him as a more modern Garth Algar.

That reminds me: our resort in Puerto Vallarta was Now Amber, and on the card key it said “Live in the Now” which made me think of the scene in Wayne’s World where Wayne is obsessed with an expensive guitar, and Garth says, Stop torturing yourself, man, you’ll never afford it! Live in the now! Every time I looked at the card key, I would hear that voice, even though I have not seen that movie since probably 1993.

LIVE IN THE NOW.

Great advice from a fictional character. Gardening and yard work is awesome for living in the now; it’s hard to multitask when you’re covered in dirt and physically active. Last week I was cleaning one of my most labour-intensive perennial beds when I discovered this little guy:

He was hidden under the silvermound plant. How did he get there? Where did he come from? No one knows. No one has seen him before or has any idea how he came into our yard. It’s a mystery and likely one to remain unsolved.

Full Spring Cleaning Mode notwithstanding, I’m going to keep this little guy. He’s cute!

On the weekend my husband and I cleaned out the gutters; a very gross but extremely satisfying job. It’s disgustingly fascinating, the way I imagine a colonic might be. OMG look at what’s coming out of there! I shrieked to my husband as I kept guard of the exit end of the gutter, as he maneuvered the hose, trying to locate the clog.

Speaking of the unspeakable, last week I had my annual physical. Don’t forget I need the large speculum! I cheerfully reminded the doctor, just in case it wasn’t on his chart. Also my cervix is tilted and really hard to find. Ah, the feminine mystique.

My physical was initially booked for a day in March, but several days prior a conflict came up. I called the office immediately and left a message; it was after hours but I wanted to get the phone call out of the way. The ball is in your court now, doctor’s strange assistant. Remember the assistant/ nurse who mistakenly booked my appointment at the wrong time, and then gave me the gears for not being at the appointment? I wanted to avoid another such confrontation. So I left a message and she later called me back and re-booked the appointment. No problem. I repeated the new date and time several times during our phone call; So that’s 2:00 on the 4th, okay. Perfect. Let me just write this down. 2:00. On April 4. 2:00. Great. April 4. All fine, full speed ahead. Then, a day later, I got one of those text reminders for the OLD appointment, the one in March, the type of reminder that allows you to type C for Confirm or 9 to cancel. I hit 9 on my phone and got the message to call the office to re-book. Well, I had already re-booked, so I just went about my day. This was, let me stress, still in March, and still before my old appointment.

By now you may imagine ominous foreshadowing music playing.

The day of my appointment (April 4!) I was in the middle of doing my hair when my phone rang; it was the doctor’s assistant, saying that she saw that I needed to re-book my appointment and TYPICALLY they ask for more than 24 hours notice and that there might be a fee involved…I interrupted her by saying I did NOT need to re-book and that I would see her today, April 4, at 2:00. Well, she said sharply, You typed 9 on your phone to cancel the appointment. I explained that I a) typed 9 over a month ago, and b) I did not even get a confirmation text for this booking. You did, you typed 9, I can see that this was sent, when was this sent…then she paused. Well, it doesn’t matter. See you this afternoon.

IN YOUR FACE! I did not say, but thought. See you this afternoon AT TWO O’CLOCK! I said instead, in what I hoped was a friendly and polite voice. I wondered if things would be awkward when I saw her that afternoon (the 4th! At 2:00!) but there was, happily, another nurse there who dealt with me, a very perky and cheerful young woman. After weighing, measuring, and doing my blood pressure, she asked if I still get my period. Lady, I’m 43. Things may be crazy in that department but I’m not in full-on menopause yet. Isn’t it interesting how we suddenly go from getting the question When was your last menstrual period and Is it possible you might be pregnant to Do you even GET your menstrual period anymore, you old crone? 

Well, the best part of this story is that I appear to be in good health, albeit three pounds heavier than at my last check-up. I BLAME MEXICO AND ALL THE DELICIOUSNESS THEREIN. My doctor was highly unconcerned and dismissive about the three pounds, thankfully, saying, Three pounds is just a bowel movement away from where you were last year. Well, possibly, but it’s more likely that six margaritas a day added up in the calorie department. Oh well, that’s what holidays are for, am I right? On that note, it’s time for my green smoothie. xo

The Miracle That Is Air Travel

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When it comes to travelling, I am a person who immediately unpacks upon arrival home. We have been home less than eleven hours from a week away, and I’m on my second load of laundry. This might not seem like a big thing but we also got home at 8:30 last night, and I went to bed at ten. I have friends who leave their suitcases packed for DAYS after arrival; my insane need for order will not allow that. Everything was unpacked before 9, and the disgusting cesspool that was the contents of my sons’ suitcase was in the washing machine.

It was a wonderful, fun, relaxing week with friends in Puerto Vallarta; I will have much to say about it, but today I wanted to talk about travelling. I love travelling; I love seeing new places and experiencing new things and meeting new people. As you know, I am a person who will talk to pretty much anyone, and I generally find out an entire backstory, birthplace, and future travel plans of the people who are sitting poolside next to me. I discovered that the “roaming concierge” who cleaned my sunglasses is going to be visiting my husband’s hometown in the summer, I learned the young girl on the beach walk with me is graduating in June from a high school not far from where I teach yoga, I found out that the lady whose husband was wearing only a speedo and a do-rag lives in Calgary now, but grew up only half an hour away from my husband, and she also hates the slow highway into that town.

On a zip line adventure tour, I struck up a conversation with a friendly lady from Utah who I would guess was a few years older than me. She wore denim shorts, a Live Laugh Love t-shirt, and the kind of cornrows popularized by Bo Derek in “10” and seen on thousands of sunburned women and girls on any given beach in Mexico at any time. She and her husband were on an excursion from her Mexican cruise ship, and this, she informed me, was the longest stop on their trip, so she was excited to “do more than one thing.” I asked what else she was doing, besides being strapped onto a wire and sailing over mountainous jungle, and she told me that she hoped to do some shopping, although her husband didn’t like to shop. Oh! So many lovely little shops around! I said, although I myself had no intentions of visiting them. Yes, well, I am going to go to the Walmart she said.

I have pretty good radar when it comes to ascertaining if people are amenable to conversation or not, and that is why I DIDN’T strike up a conversation with the woman and little boy who were next to me on the plane home. At first I thought it was a grandmother/ grandson combination, but then realized that was an ageist assumption of mine; she was really his mother. It became clear that they were DEFINITELY DONE with vacation, and I get it: vacation with young kids isn’t always so relaxing, is it?

Remember in On The Shores of Silver Lake, when the Ingalls girls take their very first train ride, and it’s all so incredible? The soft velvety seats and big windows! The speed of travel, which was much faster and smoother than the covered wagon going through the prairies? The little tiny handle that was stuck to a wall and when you turned the handle, water miraculously came out of it? Laura and Carrie took turns using that amazing piece of equipment, filling up the communal water cup for the family. Water! Available with only a turn of the handle! I tried to remember that on the flight home, on the MIRACLE THAT IS AIR TRAVEL.

My husband, who also has an insane need for order but with travel, always books us seats so we can be at the front of the plane, and often we are in the row right behind the “Plus” section, so we can have full-on Plus envy. The Plus people get full meals, including snacks and desserts, while the rest of us get a choice between digestive cookies and pretzels. I mean, of course: they pay a lot more for those seats and also, I just spent a week choosing cabernet over merlot for dinner, and requesting a Sally Allbright-like drink in my lounger by the pool. I’m not so hard-done by, but I found myself envying them more than usual because of my seatmates.

Here’s the thing: to quote George Costanza, we are living in a society, people! We are supposed to act in a civilized way. And one of those ways, when you are in an enclosed space hurtling through the air, is to ensure that your child is not watching things on his iPad at full volume with no headphones. At first it was just a few little games, and I can certainly tune those out. But soon it was a Lego Ninjago – movie? TV show? I have no idea, but after two hours of this, I felt like I was going to lose my mind. I kept looking over at the woman, but she had her own headphones on and was completely absorbed in her own iPad. I looked around at the people around me, wondering if anyone felt as insane as I did. Every single other person had headphones on, so no one else was bothered. I felt like Groundskeeper Willie sitting on a mechanical bull. How come no one else’s chair is doing this? I don’t like to watch movies on planes, I wanted to read my book, but I was feeling pretty edgy by this time. Meanwhile, I could hear the flight attendant working in the Plus section, Would you like chardonnay or sauvingon blanc?

I was turning into a version of me that was really not pleasant. I kept saying to myself that this was ridiculous, why was I so bothered by a little noise? Where was my yogic inner peace? I had turned into a witch from Grimm’s fairy tales who murders children for her own cannibalistic pleasure.

I tapped my husband on the shoulder; he was across the aisle watching Bohemian Rhapsody with his noise-cancelling headphones, and I explained the situation. He immediately swapped seats with me and that’s when I discovered that it was WORSE across the aisle. It was almost like the tinny noise was amplified. And then my husband did what I probably should have done but I was too scared of the snappy woman to do it: he asked the kid to wear headphones. Which he did. It’s like he was the yogi and I was the person who has a reputation for being impatient with shoddy work and stupidity.

We swapped back. I felt ridiculous for not doing that in the first place, but in my defense a) the child kept picking at and wiping his runny nose with his hands and I didn’t want to have any more contact than absolutely necessary, and b) his mother really did not seem friendly and I worried that any kind of confrontation would lead to a very uncomfortable five hour flight. Also, I went to the washroom and when I came back neither were in their seats. Finally the little boy trundled back and politely said Excuse Me, so I moved to let him in. When his mother came back she tapped me on the shoulder without saying a word. I got up to let her back to her window seat and she snapped at her child to NOT MOVE JUST STAY THERE and then proceeded to climb over my seat and over her child to get to her seat. In bare feet. I don’t know what I found stranger, that someone put her bare feet on my seat or that someone was WALKING AROUND AN AIRPLANE WITH BARE FEET.

Who does that, though? She certainly KNEW her son was watching an iPad with no headphones, but didn’t correct him. I am not a person who judges parenting very often but MY GOD. I have sat next to crying babies, toddlers, and overly-chatty people with halitosis, and none of those things have ever bothered me. Would you like a mint? I say, offering my little box of Excel. But this was something else again.

Anyway. I have much more to say and share but it’s time to change the washer and get ready for spin class. After a week of pure hedonism, I need to hit the reset button! Hope you lovelies had a great spring break! xo

Smooth Criminal

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Remember how I was joking about the orthodontist office, how the orthodontist who purchased the practice from the highly-respected, retiring doctors suddenly “stepped away” from said practice, and another orthodontist stepped in? Remember how I joked that maybe one day I would go to the office and it wouldn’t actually be an orthodontic practice anymore, just a dark deserted shell of a lease?

Well.

My husband was alerted by our insurance company that the forms we submitted were not correct. I was having an extraordinarily busy week, but Tuesday between classes I zipped over to the office to pick up the correct forms. When I got there, it was dark and the door was closed, but not locked. I opened it and was surprised to see all the assistants and desk staff sitting in the waiting room, all in casual clothing. On a Tuesday. At 11:45 pm. I explained my problem and the main receptionist took me to the desk and printed off a number of forms. She said they were having a “staff day” which, frankly, isn’t a thing, but I’ll get to that. I left, feeling somewhat unsettled, but I had the forms so that had to be something, right?

The next day, I was in the Superstore parking lot when I got a call on my cell from the interim orthodontist’s office manager. She explained that the orthodontist who “stepped away” really went bankrupt and although the other orthodontist had tried to keep the office open, there were all sorts of legalities that were popping up that precluded that. As I was absorbing this information, she gave me an option: I could continue with this orthodontist in the other office across the city, or I could just find a new orthodontist.

To back up a little, the last couple of weeks have been of the “just keep swimming” type. It’s just life, you know? Life is busy and hectic and joyful, but there has also been a significantly stressful thing that I have been dealing with. Add that to giving my cataract-ridden dog eye drops every few hours, and carrying him up the steps when he has been outside for more than five minutes, due to the extreme cold. Have I mentioned the extreme cold? We are in what is cutely called an Alberta Clipper, and it has been the longest, coldest stretch of weather since 1998. To give an idea of how cold it has been, every single day since February 1 the temperatures have dropped into the low minus twenties at night, windchill factors in the minus 30s and 40. After my Tuesday afternoon class, I left the studio thinking it suddenly was warm and beautiful outside; when I got to my car the temperature read -17. I have become so hardened that -17 seemed balmy. In addition, my garage door opener broke so every time I went in or out of the garage – which is many times a day, hashtag “mom life” – I would trudge through the snow, fight with our ill-fitting back gate and squeeze through, and open up the man door. So putting all these things together – plus, “ladies’ holidays!” – and I was, to quote from Shrek, a donkey on the edge.

I unloaded the groceries from the car, noting that I had an hour before I had to leave for my afternoon appointment. I thought to call the pediatric dentist for a little bit of guidance here, because, as you may imagine, it is not every day that an orthodontist goes bankrupt and leaves all his patients to fend for themselves. I mentioned to the receptionist, with my voice cracking, that I was a little upset right now, because of my son’s orthodontic treatment. “Oh,” she said kindly, “Dr. Halpern. I know.” At that point the dam burst, so to speak. I started to cry. I cried like an overtired two-year-old who missed her nap to spend the afternoon at the fair, ate cotton candy for the first time, and then, at the end of the afternoon, accidentally let go of the helium balloon given to her by the nice lady at the promotional kiosk. I cried and cried as I watched that theoretical red balloon float away, getting smaller and smaller as it floated to oblivion, probably to meet its demise in a wooded area somewhere to be consumed by, and subsequently kill, a beautiful member of the wildlife community. I sobbed so hysterically that I couldn’t breathe, as the receptionist spoke to me in a soothing voice, my mascara running down my face like Tammy Faye Bakker.

As we all know, hysteria isn’t that useful a coping mechanism. I somewhat collected myself and, while I was having a nervous breakdown, my husband was researching nearby orthodontists and calling to see who would take our son at this point. He found a place five minutes away who would give us an appointment the next day, and when I called to confirm, I was so relieved I started crying again. The office manager at the disgraced clinic was working for free, trying to help patients, and told me to get there before 3:00 and she would get help me with some administrative things. I quickly and badly fixed my makeup, and rushed over with a pounding dehydration headache, feeling hungover and swollen-eyed.

Even with all this I feel like we dodged a bit of a bullet: we are out some money but not a lot, and with my son in the early stages of orthodontia, we are better off than many, if not most, of the patients. We found a new orthodontist who is NOT a criminal, and as an added bonus my husband fixed my garage door opener. Yesterday I was on the go from 4:15 am to 3:00 pm, when I took a small break to give myself a mani-pedi and regroup a little. I was feeling much better about everything, and then my son broke a bracket last night after dinner.

Insert giant sigh-slash-rage.

Well. There are many, many worse things in the world. All of these are Princess Problems, most definitely. And yet. And yet they are still draining, and I currently feel like a wrung-out rag of a woman. I’m so tired. But there are many bright points: the new office was kind enough to squeeze us in on this Friday of Teacher’s Convention, before a long weekend. I have held off on drinking all week, despite being very very tempted, and tonight that temperance will be shattered with a nice bottle of Cab Franc. We are having my favourite dinner – Greek salad and pita with hummus – and Barkley was groomed yesterday, which has resulted in a giant Gund stuffie of a dog. Tomorrow, after all, is another day.

Barkley, helping me unload the groceries.

Barkley, wondering if he will ever find out who’s a good boy.