"We said we'd walk together..."

It's true that Valentine's Day is NOT my favourite holiday. Hubby and I don't exchange gifts. We don't go out for dinner anywhere. There are no grand, romantic gifts of flowers at the office.

But that doesn't mean that we are not romantic in our own little way. He is the king of bringing home "just because" gifts, like a piece of jewelry from one of my favourite local boutiques. And I once hand wrote him a journal of my memories from our entire first year together. So yeah, we've been known to make people groan at our sappiness.

Which is why when CBC Ottawa Morning had a little give away for the couple who shared the best story about "their song", I just had to flex my romantic muscles and tell ours. I mean, the prize was a good one - cooking lessons for two at the Cordon Bleu School. But I also just knew that we could win this, because the story of our song is just that good!

And so, on Thursday morning, I dropped Hubby off at work, pulled over into a visitor's parking spot somewhere on Tunney's Pasture (what a bureaucratic image this is), called the CBC Ottawa Morning voicemail box, and told a little story. The next day, I listened nervously to find out if we were the winners. And just before 8 o'clock, there was Robyn Bresnahan, announcing the winning clip. And then I heard MY voice, telling Ottawa about our song. Hubby seemed genuinely touched that I had submitted the story in the first place. We both got a little misty eyed at our memories as we did a little happy dance in our kitchen to celebrate winning such a great prize.

Ottawa is a small town, and tonnes of messages on Twitter and Facebook and email started streaming into Hubby and I, including from people who had heard about the contest but missed hearing us on the radio. Unfortunately, there is no link to share with you. But I can use this blog to tell you the story of our love song. With a little more embellishment since I don't have to squeeze it all into one minute. And with some pictures. Cause everyone likes pictures.

So here goes...

When my husband and I got married a few years ago, I knew that I wanted to surprise him by singing a song to him during the ceremony. And since my love of the Boss is legendary, it is probably not a shock to anyone that I chose a Bruce Springsteen song, in this case, "Should I Fall Behind."

I have always loved this song. It is about sticking together regardless of the obstacles that life might throw your way, and drawing on one another's strengths to pull you through. But now, on the eve of my wedding, this song took on a whole new meaning. It was the perfect message for kicking off our lives together as husband and wife.

And so on our wedding day, to Hubby's great surprise (and everyone else's too), I stepped forward to sing to my soon-to-be-husband. Who, it must be said, got just a little bit teary-eyed.

A few shots of me and Hubby as I surprised him with a song on our wedding day.

But when this song was really solidified as our own was not until 10 months later, when we went on a late honeymoon to Peru. For most of my adult life, I have wanted to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, and in May of 2010, we joined a group of Canadian and British tourists to do just that. 

The Inca Trail is a 4-day, 43 km hike at elevations significantly higher than those to which I am used. To put it into perspective, Ottawa sits at a lowly 70m above sea-level. Cusco, the beginning of the Inca Trail, sits at 3,400m. Machu Picchu itself is slightly lower at 2,400m. But during the hike, you climb to the highest point of 4,200m, known as Dead Woman's Pass. This is a long, windy, up-and-down kind of trek, and even though it does not require technical skills or specialized training to complete it, all who undertake it are warned of the possibility of altitude sickness. The locals implore you to chew coca leaves and drink coca tea to ward off its symptoms, but the real trick is to go slow and steady to give yourself time to adjust to the thinness of air at these heights.

But I am not your everyday Jane. I am a former bodybuilder. I am a runner. I have a resting heart rate of 60 bpm. I am one of the fittest people that I know. And I am also one of the most competitive. And although I have had a low-grade headache since landing in Cusco, I have armed myself with pocketfuls of coca leaves, a couple of litres of water, and am ready to hit the trail. Day 1 is a piece of cake. So on Day 2, as we begin to climb the infamous Dead Woman's Pass, I make up my mind that I will be first of our group to the top.

I was not the first. I was the 3rd, hot on the heels of another couple in our group (but I am okay with being behind them because they have more experience than me, having just done Everest base camp a few months earlier). Hubby was 4th, just one step behind me. The view was spectacular. We stared out along that pass, proud of ourselves for our accomplishment and in awe of the view at 4,200m above sea level.

A little tired, but mostly ecstatic to be at the top of Dead Woman's Pass, 4,200m above sea level.

And then we started our descent. My low-grade headache turned into a pounding drum in my head. Despite sweating from a day of hard labouring, I started to feel cold. My heart started to rise up into my throat. And by the time we made it to camp half an hour later, I could barely stand upright. The head guide brought me straight to our tent and ordered me to lie down. He went for the first aid kit and started administering some kind of traditional remedy. To this day, I have no idea what it was. But I know that it did not work. Because within an hour, I was violently ill.

Altitude sickness.

There was nothing to do for me but to rest. And so I curled up in a ball inside of my sleeping bag - with a bucket strategically placed right outside the flap of my tent - and I tried my best to sleep. Nausea and the headache prevented me from getting more than an hour or so, and I'm sure I kept the whole camp awake with me that night as I paid the price for climbing Dead Woman's Pass too quickly.

The next morning, I skipped breakfast to stay in bed a little longer. The head guide came to me with a bowl of quinoa porridge and implored me to eat. "We have a 17km hike ahead of us today. You will need your energy." I could not muster any more than 4 or 5 bites. But I knew that there was only one way off of this trail, and that was to make it all the way to Machu Picchu. So I crawled out of the tent, stiffened my resolve, and concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other until we arrived at the next camp.

We spent that day above the clouds, exploring Inca ruins along the trail. The views were so gorgeous and so inspiring, that I somehow found the strength to keep moving forward, despite being able to hold down no more than a half of a bun and a few sips of soup at lunch time.

A day in the clouds, exploring Inca ruins on the Inca Trail.

And then, with about 3 or 4 km left to go until we reached the camp, I began to run out of steam, as nausea overtook me yet again. One by one, the members of our group passed me by, even the slowest of the slow pokes from the previous day's ascent to Dead Woman's Pass. By the time the last person had passed us, I was practically crawling along, willing myself not to throw up. I looked up at Hubby and said, "You go ahead without me. Go and catch up to the group. The guides will take care of me and make sure I get back to camp. I'll be okay."

Hubby told me not to be ridiculous, that he would stay with me until we got into camp together, and that it didn't matter to him how long it took. We argued back and forth for a few minutes, and then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Jay, what song did you sing to me on our wedding day?"

And there it was. The first line of "Should I Fall Behind" loud and clear in my mind.

"We said we'd walk together, baby come what may..."

And I just...

started...

to cry.

Hubby put his arms around me, as I cried not-so-softly into his shoulder. I felt ashamed of myself for being so stupid as to climb up 4,200m so quickly. I was upset at myself for ruining our honeymoon. I was still so damn sick that I could barely stand up straight were it not for him holding onto me. But mostly, I cried because I knew in that moment that we were absolutely meant to be together. That our song was more than just a song. It was a vow for how the two of us would spend the rest of our lives together. In moments of weakness, one of us would be the other's strength.

After a few minutes like that, I noticed the guide kind of awkwardly waiting for us to get going. So I gently pushed Hubby away, and teasingly called him a jerk for making me cry. Then he took my hand and we slowly walked the final few kilometres into camp.

I woke up the next morning feeling well enough to finally eat something. And while not my normally energetic self, I was able to keep up with our group for the final push into Machu Picchu itself. Which was incredible. So incredible that it made being sick for most of the hike entirely worth it.

Finally standing at Machu Picchu.

But mostly incredible because I did it with Hubby. Who never once let me fall behind.

Happy Valentine's Day. 

On zebra print and other signs of aging

Last night, I sent the following message to three of my best friends:

"I am sitting in a hotel room. In Bethesda, Maryland. Drinking chamomile tea. And wearing a... wait for it... zebra print negligee. And I'm by myself... This, ladies, is me staring 40 right in the face..."

Before you get too worried that this is going to be an R-rated post, what with me talking about negligees and all, I want you to stop and think about what I just said. A zebra print negligee. Who in the world finds a zebra print negligee remotely attractive? Except maybe a zebra... So no, dear reader. I promise you I am not taking you down a torrid, sultry path. Because there is no zebra in this story.

The garment in question. Or shall I say, the
questionable garment...

Really though, this garment is patently ridiculous. So ridiculous that I'm really not even sure why I have it. Let alone why I packed it for a 2-day business trip to the suburbs of D.C. I mean, normally, I wear a Bruce Springsteen concert tee and shorts to bed. Plus, I don't even like overt instances of animal print! Come to think of it, I honestly can't even tell you how this little ditty came into my wardrobe in the first place. Did Hubby have a momentary lapse in taste and buy it for me? Or worse, did I have a momentary lapse in taste and buy it for myself?

How it came to be lounge wear in my personal collection aside, there I was, at a Marriott hotel in Bethesda, MD, at 11:54 pm, having just come back from dinner with friends in a kitschy American eatery owned by none other than Ted Turner in Crystal City, VA (from one interstate D.C. suburb to another), sipping on a chamomile tea, climbing into bed with my Kobo, wearing a silly looking zebra-print negligee, with nary a zebra in site. And I just had to tell my best girl friends about the ridiculousness of it all. Mostly because I knew that it would make them laugh. But also because I had one of those self psycho-analysis moments where I see my life - and the decisions I make about it - in perfect clarity.

This zebra thing has nothing to do with fashion (clearly). And everything to do with me turning 40...

That's right. I turn 40 this year. In precisely 10 months, in fact. Gulp.

Now those who know me well know that I have been very vocally and vehemently fighting this milestone birthday for over a decade now. Since my actual 29th birthday, Hubby has been inviting friends to celebrate my 29th birthday. Every. single. year. And they all joyfully play along, clogging my Facebook page every year with "Happy 29th!" messages and little winky faces.

Everything was right on track for me to celebrate yet another 29th birthday in November 2015 - the 11th, to be precise. Hubby and I were in Winnipeg for the Grey Cup. My Ottawa Redblacks were playing in the big game. The Ottawa Citizen got wind that I had traveled to see my team play. So they sent a reporter out to track me down and interview me. He must have read this post about how growing up, I thought my parents were throwing me a big birthday party each year when in fact, they were just throwing a Grey Cup watch party. Because he asked me all about it. It became the centerpiece for his story about my love of football. And it was a great article. Except for one thing...

He stated in his article that I was turning 40...

This article came out a few days before my actual birthday. And friends who saw it posted it over and over and over again on social media. Which means that everyone and their dog saw it. So on my actual birthday, instead of saying "Happy 29th, J, wink-wink", I got "Welcome to your 40s!!!" messages. All. Day. Long. When I walked into the office the day after my birthday, my assistant had a cake waiting for me, lovingly in the shape of a football, with "HAPPY 40TH" scrawled across the top. And she got me a Happy 40th birthday card, signed by a whole bunch of my team.

All of this was ONE WHOLE YEAR EARLIER than my actual 40th birthday!

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!! I am still supposed to have one more year of being 29!!!! It's a mathematical fact!!!! Everybody knows that you get 11 29th birthdays before you turn 40!!!! Not 10!!!! 11!!!! Oh cruel world, what ever have I done to deserve this!!!!

Believe me when I say that I shouted from the rooftops that it was not, in fact, my 40th birthday. Although I'm not proud to admit this, I even considered asking the Citizen for a retraction. Because I was not yet ready to face - one whole year earlier than anticipated - that my 30s were truly and rather quickly coming to an end. I knew that I had two choices before me. I could either continue to rage against the tick-tock of time, or I could just accept that I am, indeed, a woman on the cusp of her 40s.

A small dose of introspection made me realize that I could no longer fight this stark reality. My body, after all, has been giving me signals for a couple of years now of the impending doom that is my 40s. Somewhere around a year and a half ago, my metabolism gave me the middle finger, demanding that if I wanted to keep my 29-inch waist, I could no longer eat ice cream and chocolate every other day. Despite weekly yoga sessions, my knees practically graze my ear lobes whenever I sit cross-legged. And in the past six months, going up and down stairs hurts so much that I told my real estate agent (we are in the midst of house hunting) that our next home must be a bungalow. My body is clearly trying to tell me to give up the fallacy of the repeated 29th birthday.

So if my body is ready to accept the dawn of a 5th decade on earth, why can't my mind? What is so difficult to accept about being forty, anyway? It is, after all, just a number. It does not take away or give me additional success. It does not take away or give me any more love. It is simply a repeat of the day I was born.

And so somewhere during the past 2 months, and I can't pinpoint precisely when, I decided to start listening to that steady tick-tock of time. I've stopped eating chocolate every day, and accepted that from here on in, maintaining my waist line will take more discipline. I've come to terms with the fact that I could do yoga 7 days a week from now until the end of time but that it won't undo decades of abuse on my body. And I seriously am looking at bungalow after bungalow after bungalow for our next house.

And, I'm wearing animal print negligees to bed. Not because I find them particularly attractive. But because, at a certain point in a woman's life, it is just okay to wear animal print. It's like a rite of passage, a welcome to that age where you don't have to give a shit anymore about what people think of you because you've walked a path in life that includes success, sorrow, joy, contempt, and every other gamut of emotion. You have earned those (zebra) stripes. Or leopard spots, if you prefer. And you don't have to apologize for any of it.

And so there it is. This ridiculous looking zebra-print negligee - and it is ridiculous looking - is actually my emancipation from a life of denying the progress of time. It is a symbol of the hard-fought battle that has been my life up until this point. It is a mark of all the successes and defeats that I have had. It is...

Oh, who the hell am I kidding. It is a ridiculously ugly zebra-print negligee and I really don't know why I own it, or why I packed it instead of one of the other more me-like sleepwear outfits I own. But I did. And I'm wearing it. And I am quite sure that I would have never worn it in my late 20s or early 30s.

But I'm not in my late 20s or early 30s anymore. I'm knocking on the door of 40. And it's probably time that I start being proud of that.

So bring on the damn animal print.

On getting inked

When I was in university, it seemed like every other week, another one of my friends was coming into the campus bar with a tattoo.

I wanted one too. The trouble was, I didn't know what I wanted. Until one day, a close friend of mine grabbed my notebook and spelled out my name in Arabic cursive:

I don't speak or read or understand Arabic. But 19-year-old-me thought it was one of the most beautiful things that I had ever seen. I just knew this was going to be my tattoo.

Until a few days later, a classmate spotted my notebook and said, "Fetus?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"That word," he said, pointing to the cursive. "It means fetus."

"No it doesn't," I said, as though I was suddenly an Arabic linguist. "It's my name."

"Maybe," he said, "if your name is fetus."

"My name is Jeannine," I said. "NOT fetus."

"Well," he said. "that says jea-nay-na. Which means fetus."

Well shit, I thought to myself. Good thing I found that out before I got it tattooed on my hip.

The experience of almost permanently marking my body with something that I didn't entirely think through and that I would have surely regretted left me feeling pretty gun shy about the whole getting-a-tattoo idea. I still wanted one. But I needed to be sure I was telling the right story. You know, not one about fetuses.

My story started to come together in 2006, when I decided to enter a competitive bodybuilding competition. This was, and always will be, one of the most difficult things that I have ever done. From twice-a-day everyday cardio sessions, to gruelling weight lifting sessions followed by gruelling posing sessions, to a steady diet of plain tuna from a can, to steadily increasing carb deprivation, to a pulled groin that haunts me to this day, to pre-show dehydration, it was 16 weeks of pure hell. Not to mention that I had to completely give up wine.

But as hard as it was, and as miserable as it made me (and Hubby for having to deal with me), I stuck with it until the bitter end. And I got on that stage. And I posed my sore, tired ass off.

And I got second place in Eastern Canada.

And I'm not going to lie. I'm pretty damn proud of that. Even though I cried a lot when I didn't get first place.

Hubby was pretty damn proud too. Which is why he surprised me with the gift of a session with a professional photographer. This was doubly nice, because let's face it, I'm never going to have a visible 6-pack again.

Of the 90-or-so photos that I got back from the session, this one is my favourite:

Something about the neutral, almost vulnerable, expression on my face, juxtaposed against a chiseled back and bicep (that I no longer have) made me fall instantly in love with the soft edginess of this photo. To this day, every time I look at it, two words come to mind: strength and femininity.

And that was what I wanted my tattoo to capture. Except that I had no idea how.

Until last New Year's Eve.

Fergus and I were in the Arboretum when we met another border collie. The puppies played together while we humans chatted and walked along together. Through the course of our conversation, I discovered that he was a tattoo artist. I've never met a tattoo artist before. So as ridiculous as this sounds, it felt like a sign. That 2014 was the year I would finally get my tattoo. By the time we left the Arboretum and went our separate ways, I'd taken down his name and the name of his studio, and I vowed to give him a call to talk about a tattoo.

About a month later, I dreamt about that tattoo. In my dream, the lyrics to Thunder Road were recited over and over and over again. When I woke up, I knew that I had the rest of my story. Because Thunder Road isn't just my favourite song of all time. It is the song to which I walked down the aisle on the day that I married my best friend. The man who supports me through it all. Even when I'm a carb-deprived, bodybuilding basket case.

The next day, I called the tattoo studio and booked a consult. I brought the picture above, as well as photos of the car that Springsteen drove when he wrote Thunder Road (because the last lines of the song urge Mary to climb into his car so they can leave their "town full of losers"), and some of storm clouds over the desert. And we talked. About strength and femininity on the one hand, and about escaping and love on the other. And could we marry the two concepts somehow.

This is what he came up with:

I had no words when I saw it. In part because I wasn't expecting the "me" to be so prominent. In part because I had a cheesy vision of a car driving off into the desert storm. But as I spent more and more time with it, I fell in love with it. The intricate details of the car. The mythical quality to the female figure. Her hair blowing in the wind of a storm. It didn't match the picture in my non-artist's mind. It was infinitely better. We made some minor adjustments, to make "me" recede a little more into the storm clouds. And then I spent two and a half hours straddling a chair, as I lost my tattoo cherry.

(In case you're wondering, it doesn't hurt so much as it is annoying. In what I imagine to be a Chinese water torture kind of a way).

This was the result:

Fresh off the chair - with a little bit of blood

The next day

Believe me when I tell you that pictures do not do it justice. And the more I look at it, the more I see that even though it is another person's interpretation, it a perfect reflection of the story I wanted to tell. My love for my husband (and maybe a little of my love for Bruce) in the picture of our wedding song. Strength and femininity in the image of the "Thunder goddess" hovering over the desert sky. Two seemingly distinct concepts that I never would have imagined together, making a piece of art more perfect than I could have hoped for.

I am so proud to wear this masterpiece on my back. Thank you to Glen and Barnstormer Studio, for a tattoo that was well worth the 20-year wait.

And thank you Fergus for finding the only other border collie in the Arboretum last New Year's Eve. Had you not insisted on harassing that poor dog for his stick, Glen and I would have never met. And I'd still be trying to figure out how to tell this story.

Sexy Back on a Tuesday night in Ottawa

My 17-yr-old niece is not talking to me anymore. Because last night, I was at the JT concert. And she was not.

Now to be completely honest, I didn't even realize that JT was touring. Hell, I didn't even realize that he put out a new album. These days, I think of him more for his guest appearances on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon (that #hashtag skit makes me cry every time). Plus, I'm a Springsteen fan. I live in the blue collar world of the musical anti-hero, and not in the glammed-up world of pop/R&B. Still, when the opportunity came up to see JT, I jumped on it. Cause, well, it's JT. And let's face it, ladies. He is one good-looking man!

And an extremely talented one! He can sing, he can dance, and most importantly, he can play the guitar. Is there anything in this whole wide world more attractive than a man with a guitar? I don't think so. Am I right, ladies?

Pulling out his guitar. Oh my...

Oh no, wait a minute... there is. And it's a man with an undone bow tie and a slight southern drawl who travelled across the crowd on a mechanical, elevated stage so that he could do a guitar solo of Elvis' Heartbreak Hotel.

Heartbreak Hotel cover - made me a little weak in the knees

Seriously. I. Lost. My. Mind. I was born in the 70s and raised by a mother who, like all women with a pulse at the time, was in love with Elvis. So a shoutout to the King gave me goosebumps. Not to mention that it was one hell of a classy way to acknowledge his Memphis roots. Because let's face it - without the groundbreaking musical movement that was Elvis, he wouldn't be doing what he does now.

Props also went out to Michael Jackson, with a cover of Human Nature from the Thriller album. Another album that I grew up with, and a song that I haven't heard in over 20 years. And another classy move to acknowledge the man who was undeniably at the core of the pop music movement. It just felt right that he would honour the memories of two of music's greatest who paved the way for him to do what he does.

And then, of course, there was his own stuff. Which, admittedly, I'm not all that familiar with. With the exception of the few songs that are on my running list - Sexy Back being one of the best running songs of all time. But you don't have to be familiar with it to appreciate it. Because whether you can sing along to the lyrics or not, that man puts on a show! Yes there is all the dancing and an incredible light show, but what got me about this concert was the floating stage.

The stage that "floated" across the entire crowd

Reaching out to his fans while travelling across the Canadian Tire Centre

He was right there in front of us! I'm sure he is waving at me!

A floating stage is cool - no doubt about it. But it's also a way to reach out and "touch" everyone in the crowd. To make them all feel that, no matter where they may be sitting in the stadium, they are just as important to him as those who got lucky enough to get into the first few rows on the floor. Props to you, JT, for this element, and for staying at the back for a few songs before floating back up to the main stage. You made us all feel like you wanted to be an intimate part of our experience, even if just for a minute or two as you floated across the crowd. But it was enough to make us all feel special!

And a word or two must be said about the incredibly talented musicians and performers backing him up. The Tennessee Kids are outstanding in their own rite. From the back-up vocals to the horn section to the dancers - they bring raw energy and talent to support their front man, and they have fun while doing it! Which guarantees that the crowd will have fun too.

And speaking of the crowd... Ottawa, I am proud of you. Because let's face it, this city has the reputation for being the place where fun goes to die, in part because Ottawa crowds don't stand at concerts. Worst yet, they get angry at those around them who want to stand and dance. I've even seen security haul someone out - at a Prince concert, no less - just because she wouldn't sit down. It kills me every single time. But last night, for the first time in my 20 years of concert-going in this city, you were on your feet! Every single one of you. From start to finish, the entire crowd, minus a few stragglers here and there, was up. And vibrating with energy. So very un-Ottawa! And so incredible to see. Maybe I just need to come to more pop/R&B concerts!?!?!

So yes, it was a great night. Proving once again that music is the eternal equalizer, bringing us all together to share a few hours of magic. Well worth the 45 minutes it took to get out of the Canadian Tire Centre parking lot. And well worth the seven cups more of coffee that I am going to have to drain to get through today after such a late Tuesday night.

A few more snap shots of the night:

There's only one way to experience a JT concert, and that is with your best girls! 

First glimpse of the stage 

First glimpse of the man himself

The crowd was asked to pull out their cell phones. And they did!

The light show

It's a tough life, but someone's got to love a sommelier

I like wine. A lot. (Hiccup)

So you would think that I consider myself one lucky lady to be married to a trained sommelier. I never have to worry about what wine to serve with what I am cooking, because Hubby takes care of that. I rarely run out of wine because we have a cellar. And I go on all of these great vacations to wine destinations, like Bordeaux. What the heck is not to love!

But I gotta tell you... It's not always easy to be married to a sommelier. For instance, I can't enjoy a glass of wine without first being forced to stick my nose deep into the glass to determine its "nose". And I get in trouble when my answer is "grapes". "Come on Jay," Hubby will say with some measure of exasperation. "You must get [insert green peppers or caramel or tobacco or jam or any other appropriate wine smell here]. It's so obvious!" And heaven forbid I have a Malbec when I'm not eating barbecue meat, even if I really just feel like a Malbec. "It doesn't go with white fish, Jay. You can't have a Malbec with that. Here. Try [insert name of wine that goes well with white fish here] instead." Oh, and that wine cellar we have? I'm not allowed to take a bottle from it without first consulting the house sommelier. Seriously. I'm a grown woman, and. I. am. not. allowed. to. choose. wine. from. the. cellar. on. my. own. But don't worry. I am allowed to touch the "every day" upstairs supply whenever I want. "Every day" being code for "the stuff that the dumb girl who doesn't understand wine can have."

Perhaps the most difficult thing about being married to a sommelier is that Hubby is a member of a wine guild (sounds positively Middle Ages, wouldn't you say). I end up going to an awful lot of wine events, where I am surrounded by a whole lot of people who know a whole lot more than me. With their sophisticated palettes and their love of debating one another about the merits of a super Tuscan over a Côte de Rhone, I haven't got a chance of being the life of the party, a role I hold dear. Because you see, when you are not a wine connoisseur, going to a wine guild event is kind of like being an antelope stumbling right into the lion's den. Chances are pretty good that you will be the centre of attention, but for all the wrong reasons. You're likely to get eaten alive. Especially if the most insightful thing you can say about the glass of wine you are sipping is that it tastes like grapes.

Yes, as much as I love wine, wine events make me feel positively insignificant. And oh so very out of place.

But I am a supportive wife. So the same way that Hubby humours my blue collar passions like Springsteen and football, I cater to his love of trying to be the smartest wine professional in the room by going to guild events with him.

Some of them are really quite fun. Like the "speed dating" event where we worked our way around a room full of wineries, 8 minutes per winery table, sampling their award winning wines. Pretty effective way to get a Tuesday night buzz on in less than an hour, if you ask me.

And then there was the reception at the Argentinian embassy, where not only did I get to taste about 25 of my favourite varietal (Malbec), but I also met a talented Argentinian artist and purchased some of his beautiful art, which, one of these days, I will actually hang on a wall...

But by far, the best guild event is the yearly holiday dinner, refreshingly held after Christmas instead of before, and hosted by one of Ottawa's premier chefs. It is a five course food and wine pairing that makes foodies, sommeliers, and even regular folk like me, weep. And this year's dinner was just last night.

The first year that we went, I was seriously intimidated at the thought of being seated at a table full of wine experts and being forced into conversations about wine with them. So I adopted a strategy. Trophy wife. I was going to play the part of a trophy wife. Surely that would earn me some attention. Hubby could regale our table mates with stories about wine and I would charm the pants off of them by being the best dressed person and by making people laugh. So I went out and dropped an absurdly high amount of money on a sparkly holiday outfit, complete with new shoes and jewelry. Surely my lack of wine knowledge would go unnoticed!

It did go unnoticed. But not because of anything I did to divert attention away from my ignorance. But because wine lovers are really, really, really focused on their wine. And they don't really concern themselves with the fact that you can't contribute to the conversation, because they are happy to fill the void with the sound of their own wine-soaked voices. So I spent most of the meal in silence, a remarkably different scenario than most dinners I attend where I can't be shut up.

Still, dressing up is not something that a football-loving Springsteen fan gets to do very often. It's nice to get all dolled up for a fancy event once a year, even if it doesn't result in me being the centre of attention. So we keep going back. If for no other reason than I like to wear pretty dresses!

2013 dinner

2014 dinner - I don't know why I am squinting so much... This picture was taken before we started drinking all the wine...

And of course, there is the food. It is incredible. Where else would I ever try veal tongue pastrami. Yes, you read that right. And yes, it was delicious. This isn't a food blog, so I didn't take pictures of all of the courses so that I could describe them back to you in vivid detail. Just believe me when I say that no calorie was left behind last night. Even if I have to be in a bathing suit on the beaches of Jamaica in a mere ten-days time.

And you know what? Over the years, these events have actually become a little less intimidating. Partly because some of Hubby's knowledge is starting to rub off on me (but don't you dare tell him I said that). But mostly because those who know and love wine are simply very passionate people who love nothing more than to share their passion with you. They're not showing off. They're sharing their knowledge in the hopes that you will be as excited as they are and that you will find beauty in the sediment left behind in your wine glass just as they do. And when you finally accept that you don't have to be the centre of attention at each and every event that you attend, you can sit back, relax, meet some pretty fantastic people, laugh a little, and see a whole new and wonderful world unfold in front of you.

Oh yeah. And you can drink some damn good wine. Wine that tastes and smells like grapes. Damn good grapes.

Resolutions? They're not really my style...

Last weekend, my normally two-thirds-empty hip-opening-flow torture yoga class was packed. I couldn't salute the sun without hitting at least three people.

Hubby came home from the gym last Sunday morning, a generally quiet time, commenting on all the duos of brand new training buddies helping each other muddle through a workout using one strange machine after another.

Earlier this week, one of my colleagues left the office kitchen carrying a big ole' plate of lettuce for her lunch. With no dressing. And washing all those leaves down with water.

Yep. It's January. The month of self-improvement and resolutions. From spending less money to drinking less coffee to losing 5 pounds once and for all this year to vowing not to lose patience with the kids/husband/colleagues, everyone is making a resolution to be a better person.

I hate this time of year.

Okay. That might be a bit of an overstatement. I don't actually hate New Year's. The day itself is always quite lovely. One of my favourite traditions is hosting our annual Levée (a fancy word for open house), when all of our friends and neighbours stop by for some hair-of-the-dog and some made-with-love-by-me appies.

There is always too much food...

And cure your NYE hangover with another drink... or two...

And I don't actually hate being surrounded by all new people in my gym and in my yoga studio. Even though I almost got kicked in the head three times during last Saturday's yoga class. And even though I can't find an empty locker in the overly full gym change room. It's a great thing that people are joining gyms and yoga studios and getting more active. And besides, by February, most of them will be gone and I'll have room for full sun salutations again.

And I don't actually hate vegetables or eating healthy. See? This is an example of last week's lunch. Broccoli, celery, and even spinach hiding in my sandwich. Disgustingly healthy, isn't it?

No, it's not the day itself or the idea of new beginnings or the idea of being more healthy that I hate. It's the arbitrariness of January 1st as the day to decide to change your life. As though April 12th or July 27th or October 3rd weren't perfectly good days to decide to do something to improve yourself.

And so, I don't really make any big, meaningful resolutions at this time of year. 

It's not that I don't believe that I could be a better person. God knows that there are a million things that I could stand to improve about myself. For instance, I could stop nagging Hubby. I could stop eating so fast that I forget to breathe during ingestion. I could cut back on my wine consumption, even if Hubby is a sommelier. I could stop eating as much sugar as I do, even though I exercise regularly. I could be better with my money, and pause to consider whether I really need a 14th winter jacket before I drop a couple hundred bucks. I could clean my house more than once every couple of months (or at least hire someone to do it for me). I could stop procrastinating and use my time more wisely. I could be more patient, especially with my father-in-law. I could volunteer more. I could try to focus more on the positives in my day rather than the negatives. I could stop complaining. I could find ways to better manage my stress. I could...

...well, you catch my drift.

But ultimately, I won't resolve to do any of these things. At least not right now. Because, well, I don't like to fail. And of all the New Year's Resolutions that I have ever made - whether it be to stop smoking (something I eventually did in June, by the way) or to lose 5 pounds or to stop drinking wine on week nights or to be kinder to people - I've not succeeded in sticking them out much past January 23rd or so... And it feels awful when I cave. And I don't like feeling awful.

So instead, I like to focus this time of year on the things that I am looking forward to in 2014. Like:
- our family trip to Jamaica at the end of the month;
- our trip to Croatia later this fall;
- a new Springsteen tour likely to be announced any week now;
- my fifth wedding anniversary, which we plan to spend at the same winery where we spent our honeymoon;
- some key renovations we want to do to our house;
- more runs through the Arboretum with Fergus;
- more laughs with friends and family; and
- more yoga and gym-going and healthy-eating to continue to keep me strong and healthy and fit, even though I don't sleep nearly enough, carry far too much stress, and binge on too much sugar every now and then.

As for when I'll decide to stop nagging Hubby... Well, I guess that depends when he resolves to stop driving me crazy.

Were you paying attention in 2013?

About a month ago, I found myself trying to write a holiday letter to send out with our Christmas cards. I gave up and wrote a quiz instead, which I thought might be more fun and quirky than the overly formulaic "2013 was quite the year..." type letter.

For the past hour, I've been trying to write a blog post about 2013 in review. An exercise about as formulaic as writing a holiday letter. So I'm giving up and sharing the quiz with you instead. Also, I'm too lazy to be creative because it is Friday night and there is wine to drink.

At any rate, play along and let's see if you were paying attention in 2013!!!

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A Holiday Quiz

How well do you know Jay, Hubby and Fergus? Take their holiday quiz and find out! If you creep them on social media, this should be pretty easy! Answers below!

1.     In Spring 2013, Hubby and Jay embarked on another European adventure. Which of these cities was not featured on their tour?

a.     Vienna,Austria

b.     London,England

c.     Bratislava,Slovakia

d.     Prague, Czech Republic

e.     Munich,Germany

2.     Why did they go to Europe in the first place?

a.     To see Springsteen in concert

b.     Jay had never been to Vienna

c.     Planning for their retirement

d.     To see if there is good wine in Austria

3.     Which musical acts did Hubby and Jay see in concert in 2013?

a.     Pearl Jam

b.     Bruce Springsteen

c.     Imagine Dragons, Mumford and Sons, the Lumineers and the Cure

d.     Patti Smyth and the Avett Brothers

e.     All of the above

4.     In 2013, Fergus took his love of herding to new heights when he chased which big game animal?

a.     Black bear

b.     Our neighbour’s 16-year old

c.     An elk

d.     A deer

5.     Our first road trip in our new car was to see Pearl Jam in…?

a.     Boston

b.     Buffalo

c.     Philadelphia

d.     Brooklyn

6.     Jay and Hubby travelled to which cold prairie city for the Grey Cup this year?

a.     Winnipeg, Manitoba

b.     Calgary, Alberta

c.     Edmonton, Alberta

d.     Regina, Saskatchewan

7.     Who played and who won?

8.     Jay started a new job this year with which department?

a.     Canada Revenue Agency

b.     Parks Canada

c.     Canadian Heritage

d.     Public Health Agency of Canada

9.     Hubby won the lead role in a play at the Ottawa Little Theatre. What was the name of the play?

a.     Lost in Paradise

b.     Still Lost in Paradise

c.     Just Another Day in Paradise

d.     Paradise City

10.  For most of 2013, we welcomed a long-term visitor into our home. Who is she/he?

a.     Sadie the cat

b.     Fritz the cat

c.     Bella the husky

d.     Hobbes the French bulldog

Answers: 1(d); 2(a); 3(e); 4(a); 5(c); 6(d); 7(Saskatchewan beat Hamilton); 8(d); 9(b); 10(a)

Happy (belated) holidays!!!