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.

The Ultimate Sacrifice

The Sargent-at-Arms receives a 4 minute standing ovation when he enters the House of Commons. As Members of Parliament sing O Canada, a single tear falls down his cheek. 

"You are so loved", the words repeated over and over to Corporal Nathan Cirillo by civilian Barbara Winters, who rushed to his aid once shots were fired so that she could administer CPR alongside other like-minded civilians, as he clung to life. 

Corporal Cirillo's dogs peeking under his fence, which has become a makeshift memorial, waiting for their master to come home. 

These are the words and the images that are stuck in my mind on this day. The day after.

The day after the young, strong, beautiful Corporal Nathan Cirillo, reservist of the Argyle Sutherland Highlanders, was killed in cold blood. He has performing an act so sacred that it is enshrined in our National Anthem - "stand[ing] on guard" for our national treasure - and the memory of the brave men and women who have served in our country's name - that is the National War Memorial. 

Mere seconds later, the gunman rushed to Parliament Hill, where Members of Parliament were gathered in their respective caucus meetings. They heard shouting and gunfire in the Hall of Honour. They took cover under tables and chairs and in closets. They had no idea who or what was waiting outside those doors. They were scared. Some of them prayed. 

It finally ended moments later when Kevin Vickers, the very brave Sargent-at-Arms of the House of Commons, shot the gunman. Just outside the doors of the Library of Parliament. 

My Library of Parliament. Your Library of Parliament. Our Library of Parliament. 

Our Hall of Honour. 

Our Parliament Hill. 

Our National War Memorial. 

Our Ottawa, and our Canada. That in less than 2 minutes, someone tried very hard to take away from us. 

The view outside my office window
from Langevin block

Parliament Hill means something different to everyone. Many of us see it for the first time as tourists, and are excited by the chance to see the city from atop the Peace Tower. Some of us think of it as merely a place where politicians scream at each other from across the way. Many of us view it as a symbol of our democracy. 

Here's what it means to me. 

I love Parliament Hill. I burst with pride when I tell people that this beautiful place was my "office" for four years. First as a page in the Senate, where I had the privilege of standing in the Hall of Honour to greet Nelson Mandela during his state visit in 1998. Then as an MPs assistant, in a tiny office tucked away just below the House of Commons. Even once I became a public servant, my office in Langevin building had a clear view of Parliament Hill. Once every week, my colleagues and I would walk across Wellington, up the Hill, into Centre Block and into the Cabinet room just outside the Prime Minister's Office. I can't describe that feeling of privilege that comes from serving your country. Even now, years removed from working on the Hill, the Peace Tower takes my breath away. Every time I run along the Quebec side of the river and catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the Library of Parliament, my heart skips a beat. 

The Peace Tower pokes through the fog
on an early morning run

And just off to the East of Parliament Hill stands the National War Memorial. With that beautiful guardian angel watching over our fallen soldiers. With the tomb of the unknown soldier at her feet. A place where thousands of Ottawans gather every November 11th to honour the sacrifices made by men and women in uniform throughout this last century. A list to which Corporal Cirillo's name is now added. As well as Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent's, struck and killed in a hit-and-run attack in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu a mere two days previous. 

These places are so much more to me than monuments. They are so much more than representations of democracy and freedom. They are democracy and freedom. They are my country. They are my city. They are me. 

The National War Memorial to the right as I stand with my
fellow citizens on Remembrance Day to honour the fallen

As the capital went on lockdown yesterday, I was about 3km removed from the sheer terror of that 2 minutes. But I felt it deep within me. I felt it as I thought of all of the many friends of mine who still work on the Hill or in offices that overlook the War Memorial - close enough to see and hear the tragedy. I felt it as I thought of the childcare workers in the Parliament Hill daycare, who worked to keep the children calm during a 10+hour lockdown. I felt it as initial reports indicated that there may be a second and even a third shooter running free.

But I also felt love. As my 17-year-old niece texted me to ask "Auntie, are you guys okay?" followed by an onslaught of texts and Facebook messages from other friends and family. As one of my colleagues at work shared her lunch with me because I had not brought my own and could not leave our building in lock-down. As reports of the various acts of heroism began to trickle in. Like those civilians who did not know whether or not there was another shooter but who ran to Corporal Cirillo's side nonetheless to revive him. And the Sargent-at-Arms who, while wearing his ceremonial uniform, retrieved his weapon and led the charge of RCMP officers to contain the shooter. As the Pittsburg Penguins lit up the ice with a red maple leaf and sang our national anthem, even though they were not playing a Canadian team. 

The National War Memorial on Remembrance Day

These acts - some small and some indescribably big - are those moments of humanity that are hidden within the darkest of terrors. And they are what I want to remember the most about the past hours.

In the aftermath of an event like this, many will say, "I never thought it could happen here." I am not one of those people. After 9/11, after subway bombings in various European cities, after the death of the London soldier by machete, we know that this can happen. Even here. Even in sleepy Ottawa. And we as a nation have made the conscious choice - and I believe with all of my being that it is the right and only choice - not to lock up our national treasures. Because they belong to us. Because they can hardly be symbols of democracy and freedom if we can't access them. But in making that decision, we must also accept that it can happen here. Indeed, now we know that it can.

Thankfully, the Corporal Cirillo's, the Warrant Officer Vincent's and the Kevin Vickers of this world have agreed, through the jobs that they do day in and day out, to protect our national treasures. And in so doing, they protect and serve us. They sacrifice themselves so that Fergus and I can run by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier or up Parliament Hill. So that thousands can gather in front of the War Memorial every November 11. So that Moms and Dads can visit Ottawa and bring their children to the top of the Peace Tower. So that Members of Parliament can debate the issues of our times. 

God bless the men and women who dedicate their lives to making sure that we are free to enjoy all that it means to be Canadian. Including our national monuments. May we never take for granted the burdens that you carry so that we do not have to live in fear. 

My heart overflows with love. 

"We are the (B-side) champions, my friends!"

Some of my earliest - and fondest - memories are of playing baseball.

I must have been really young - like 3 or so - when my Dad first taught me how to swing a bat. He bought me this big red plastic bat and a plastic ball, and while Mom stayed home with my napping baby sister, he took me out to the park to practice my swing. Over and over again, from only a few feet away, he would lob that plastic ball at me until I finally figured out how to make contact. The most memorable batting practice was the day I cracked the ball right between his legs. He fell like a tonne of bricks, in obvious pain but delighted nonetheless that he had sired a little slugger.

From that day forward, he stood a little further back when he pitched the ball to me...

I've been playing baseball ever since. Dad enrolled me in fastpitch when I was in the 3rd or 4th grade. Throughout junior high, I dabbled as a windmill pitcher before moving over to first base. (I've always been better at catching a ball than throwing one accurately). I played in a league right up until the day I graduated from high school. During most of my university years, I was too busy drinking at the campus bar and playing euchre to play ball. But I missed it. So when the opportunity came up to join a softball league the summer after I graduated, I jumped at it. It was a super small Thursday night league, with only 5 or 6 teams. But it was better than nothing. And it felt great to get back out there, even though I was rather overweight and out of shape at the time...

The next summer, I was a little leaner and I had quit smoking. And I was asked to join the Parliament Hill Softball League. I agreed to join the team as long as I could play first base. The captain told me I had to earn the position. Which meant I had to be able to catch the bullet-fast throws from the short stop. So he "let me" play first base my first time out.

That was 16 years ago. 16 years and a couple of iterations of the team later, I am still playing first base in the Parliament Hill Softball League. Every Friday night. (Well, unless the Ottawa Redblacks are playing at home. I am a season ticket holder, after all...)

This year's iteration of the team is the Forbes Beauty Co. Nailers, so named because we are sponsored by the best boutique spa in all of Ottawa, Forbes Beauty Co in the ever-trendy Hintonburg 'hood. (Check her out on Twitter @FBCspa). She's the best sponsor ever because she gave us hot pink shirts. Our boys look particularly smashing in hot pink! (#realmenwearpink)

She is also a good luck charm. Because this past weekend, we played in our softball tournament. And we won! Woooooooohoooooooo!!!!

Okay, so we won the B-side of the league tournament. The "Best of the Worst", as we like to call ourselves. But still. We had to win 4 games, in a row, to get there. And we never win 4 games in a row. So who cares if it is the B-side! We won! And there was a trophy! And we drank beer our of it!

#realmenwearpink! Before we went on our winning streak!

"We are the (B-side) champions, my friends!" Taking home the (B-side) trophy!

I am super proud of us for pulling this off.

I am proud because we played through a freezing cold downpour on Saturday, making the field a soupy, quick-sandy mess.

Look at that infield. Yuck!

A girl gets dirty playing first base on a day like this. My leg after diving (or maybe tripping) while making a play.

These cleats weigh 5lbs more than they did on Friday, and I am sure they will never be clean again...

I am proud because despite the shitty conditions, we had fun!

Me, my second baseman and my shortstop. Just a little dirty...

I am proud because we frankly don't have such a great record, yet we found a way to pull off the wins anyway, and when it mattered, we all played our best damn softball!

I love Friday night softball. And I love my teammates. I am hard pressed to think of a better or more fun-loving group to spend my summer Friday nights with!

So what the hell am I going to do with my Friday nights now that the season is over? Probably mope around a little until I figure out something else to keep me busy.

And start planning for next year. Because we have a title to defend!

Or maybe, just maybe, we'll win the A-side....

Here's to you, Forbes Beauty Co. Nailers! #bestoftheworst #realmenwearpink #bestdamnpeopletospendmyFridaynightswith

See you back on the diamond in May!

Victory tastes good!

Scars

I have three scars along the left side of my body: one on my shoulder, one on my elbow and one on my knee. They are the result of an unfortunate rollerblading accident about 18 years or so ago... My first time ever on rollerblades. No helmet. No knee pads. No elbow pads. And no wrist pads. Stupid, I know. But I was trying to impress a boy.

Jason was his name. And to this day, whenever I catch a glimpse of one of these three scars, I think about him.

Jason was a year ahead of me in high school. Mostly, I saw him around at weekend parties - one of the guys that could buy the rest of us minors our beer and coolers (yes... I drank coolers). But I really got to know him when my then-boyfriend's sister started dating him, and the four of us would hang out together.

I remember this one time, in the middle of winter, my parents went out of town, and the three of them convinced me to have a party at the house. I wasn't much of a rule-breaker (well, except for curfew... I always blew my curfew), but they wore me down. As far as parents-are-out-of-town-high-school-parties go, it was pretty tame. By 1:00 am, everyone was gone except for the four of us. But we weren't done partying. Over and over again, we blasted She Sells Sanctuary by the Cult on my Dad's state-of-the-art stereo system, dancing, singing, and playing air-guitar around the living room, using the coffee table as an ad hoc stage. Then we all stripped down to our underwear, filled the two-man jacuzzi hot-tub in my parents' bedroom, cranked open the window, squeezed ourselves in, and smoked cigarettes and drank beer until 4 in the morning. (Mom and Dad, if you read this blog, I guess I'm busted...).

By the time of the rollerblading accident, I had been away at university for two years. I was home for a couple of weeks visiting my family and friends. Jason and I bumped into each other at the bar one night. He asked if I wanted to go rollerblading with him sometime. I didn't even own rollerblades, but I said yes. Then I drove to the closest city an hour away to buy a pair at Canadian Tire. The next day, he came to pick me up and we drove down to the beach. He was a pro on those things - skating backwards, sprinting ahead of me, turning around on a dime... I, on the other hand, was a total knob. He very patiently taught me the basics, and off we went to blade around the lake.

Everything was going great until we came to a pretty steep hill, sloping downwards. "You going to be okay going downhill?" he asked me. "Of course!" I said, not wanting him to think that I couldn't handle myself.

And then the inevitable happened. I started to pick up more and more speed. I began to panic. Jason was screaming at me, "Use your brake!". I turned my head to see where he was, and somehow swerved onto the gravel shoulder. I fell forward, skidding a few feet and scraping the hell out of myself in the process. When I picked myself up, I had three nasty gashes along the left side of my body: one on my shoulder, one on my elbow, and one on my knee.

Jason was by my side within seconds, helping me up and making sure nothing was broken. Once we had determined that I would live, we both started laughing, and he screamed out, "That was AWESOME!" Then he led me back to his truck so that I could get home and clean up my wounds (which involved a considerable amount of painful gravel extraction).

That was the last time I ever saw Jason. The next day, I hopped on a plane back to Ottawa. A year later, my parents moved away. I came back to Manitoba less and less as I got more and more busy with school and work. And when I did go home, there wasn't really a reason to drive down to Killarney. And as happened with so many of my high school friends, we didn't really stay in touch. At least not until Facebook came along.

Today, I learned that Jason passed away. Turns out that he was battling cancer. I've been gone so long that I didn't even know that.

It's true that we didn't keep in touch. And I didn't know any of the details about his life for the past two decades. Still, the rollerblading and hot tub episodes are two of my favourite memories of life with the high school gang. I've recounted these stories often throughout the years. And I've thought of Jason often too. Like every time that I look down at one of my three scars.

You had too little time on this earth, Jason. And during what time you did have, we may not have been the closest of friends. But you left an indelible mark. On my left shoulder. On my left elbow. On my left knee.

And on my whole heart.

Rest in peace, my friend.

P.S. Fuck cancer.

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

Sleepovers

According to Wikipedia:

The sleepover is often called a "rite of passage", as a young child, or a teenager, begins to assert independence and to develop social connections outside the immediate family.

Now I'm no sociologist, so I hardly understand the deeper societal and familial impacts of this teenage ritual. But I know this. There was nothing more fun than a good 'ole sleepover with your best girlfriends.

What's not to love? I mean, you sat around in comfortable clothes all night. You did each other's hair and make-up. You talked about boys. You read excerpts from your diaries to one another. You watched girly movies like Footloose and Beauty and the Beast. You gorged yourself on sugary pop, chips and dip, and cookies. You played silly games like Truth or Dare. And you stayed up way too late.

So. Much. Fun.

*Credit: lovelulumae.blogspot.com

But the best part about sleepovers was all the giggling. There was so much giggling. It was inevitable at any sleepover I ever attended that a parent would knock on the door and tell us girls to keep it down in there because our incessant giggling was keeping the younger kids up. 

God I miss those carefree nights. 

Which is why, just this past weekend, I found myself putting together an overnight bag and heading down to the Chateau Montebello with two of my dearest girlfriends for a little 24-hour getaway. 

It was kind of a last minute thing. The stated intention was to celebrate a 40th birthday. But really, we all just wanted to get away from our husbands/partners/dogs/cats/kids/step-kids/jobs/households/and-other-assorted-responsibilities for one night. We all just wanted to spend some quality girl time. 

And you know what? There is not a lot of difference between a sleepover when you are clinging to your 30s and one when you were desperate to leave the awkward 'tween years.

Okay. So the comfy pj's were replaced with evening wear suitable for a night on the town. 

But everything else was remarkably similar.

True, we didn't do each other's hair and make-up. (Well, I guess I did straighten K's hair for her, but that's only because she didn't believe me that it could look good worn down). But we did pay professional aestheticians to make us pretty as we relaxed in the hotel spa.

We still talked about boys. Although they are no longer the boys in chemistry class or on the football team that we had the biggest crush on. Now, we're married to them. Or living with them. Or divorced from them. Or in therapy with them. Or in therapy because of them. 

We didn't read aloud from our secret diaries - mostly because none of us have the time to keep secret diaries anymore. But we did share our secret fears about everything from work to relationships to finances. We did seek advice from one another about how to have that conversation with our bosses about the promotions that we feel we deserve. Or about whether or not we should move in with the new beau. Or about whether or not we really want to get married again. 

There was no girly Kevin Bacon movie to watch. But we did compare notes on one another's freebie lists (of the 5 celebrities you are allowed to sleep with should you ever meet them - watch Friends). And we seamlessly followed up this philosophical conversation with a debate about Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In, a book that claims that women inadvertently hold themselves back from succeeding in the work place.  

As for food and drink, well, there is still a lot of it. A LOT. We still gorged ourselves. Only the sugary pop was replaced with prosecco and rosé and martinis and negronis and Spanish wines, and even a little bit of scotch. And the cookies and chips were set aside for a four course meal in a luxury restaurant. The effect of all of this gorging is the same as it was back then - by the end of the night, none of us could move, and all of us looked forward to replacing our out-on-the-town clothes with the more appropriate sleepover attire of pants with an adjustable waist band.

We didn't play Truth or Dare. No, the "dare" part is dropped, and we play, simply, Truth. We tell each other true stories of all the crazy/silly/stupid/outrageous/wonderful thoughts that we have been too stressed out to articulate lately or that we simply can't tell our husband/partner/kids because they won't understand. And it feels good to get some of these thoughts off our chests without the threat of having to do a naked cartwheel on a silly dare.

Even though we haven't stayed up past 11:00pm in years, we still stay up too late. At 1:00 in the morning, we are still chatting and telling stories and giving one another advice and fighting sleep. And of course, giggling.

In fact, more than 20 years later, there is still a lot of giggling. We've been giggling all day long. We giggle when I tell my friends that I fell asleep during my facial and missed all the best massage parts. We giggled more when I recount the story about the guy in university who tried to pick me up after hearing me sing at an open mike night by telling me that he wanted to audition with me for a spot as a lounge-singer-and-piano-player-duet on a Caribbean cruise. We giggled even more when the three of us notice that we are being checked out by a table of men about 10 years younger than us, realizing that we have, in fact, become cougars. And we giggled the most when we call my husband - the sommelier - to ask him to help us pick a white wine to pair with our dinners that is not too fruit forward. "You know what I mean, right honey. We want a wine that is dry and tight." "Ummm... are you sure that's what you mean?" he said.

There is so much giggling. And it feels so good. 

Why don't we do this more often?

I know, I know, I know. We have husbands/partners/dogs/cats/kids/step-kids/jobs/households/and-other-assorted-responsibilities. We have too much to do and we are under too much pressure. We have calendars jam-packed with activities. We can never coordinate a date that suits us all. We are too damn busy. 

So many excuses. Some of them good. Some of them not so good. All of them getting in the way of experiencing those most enriching and replenishing of life's moments. 

Girlfriends are good for the soul. And we need more sleepovers. 

How to survive jet lag, in a few easy steps

Whenever Hubby and I travel to Europe, we take the overnight flight. Usually it leaves around 10:00 pm (or so), getting us into our destination around 10:00 am (or so). 

Why put ourselves through the torture of an overnight flight, you ask? Well, the theory is that you grab a couple of hours of shuteye on the plane, and then stay awake all day once you arrive. This way, your body more easily falls into the new 5/6-hours-ahead-of-your-normal-schedule time zone, and you, as a result, will be as fresh as a freaking daisy by the time the first full day of your vacation rolls around.

So far, this "theory" has been greeted with what I would describe as no more than mediocre success. There is, of course, the small matter of me not being able to sleep so well on planes. I might have been able to get away with pulling an all-nighter when I was in my twenties. But let's face it - those days are looooooong gone. Anything less than six hours of sleep now and I can barely spell my name the next day. At the very least, I need a nap. Enter the problem of me not being able to stick to the strict rules of cat-napping. Nope - the minute my head hits the pillow in the middle of the day, I almost immediately go into full REM sleep, dreaming away for at least three hours. Which makes it a little difficult to have to go to sleep a mere few hours later. 

So yeah, overnight flights are a bitch. So is trying to stay up the next day. 

Luckily for me, this time around, I found a way to do it.  Move over, jet lag! You're not going to get the best of me!  Well, at least not until I get back to North America, anyway.

Step #1 - Don't leave the airport without getting a coffee: A real coffee. Not that watered down shit you get on the plane. Yes, I know you are tired, stinky, grouchy, stiff, and that you just want to get to your hotel. Fight the urge to run from the airport. Instead, find a coffee place and pay the ridiculously high mark up. You are going to need your energy. Plus, it will help you kill some time.

10:00ish am at Heathrow

Step #2 - Take the most difficult means of public transportation possible to get to your hotel: Seriously, you've got some major time to kill until bedtime, so do yourself a favour and use up as much as possible by taking public transportation. And I don't mean a nice, comfortable, fast taxi either. You might be too tempted to close your eyes while sprawled out in the back seat and that just won't do. No, you need to take the subway, the train, or the bus. Preferably a combination of all three. Not only will this eat up time, but it is impossible to fall asleep when running from one conveyance to another, dragging a heavy suitcase. Not to mention that you don't want to fall asleep in a bus with a bunch of strangers in a foreign country, do you?

Step #3 - Take a shower as soon as you get to your destination. A cold one: You heard me. The colder, the better. I know it's tempting to wash away all of those airplane germs with scalding water. But now is not the time for cleanliness. It's time to wake up. So use a high quality soap, scrub yourself down, and freeze your ass off. If this doesn't wake you up, I don't know what will. 

Now by this time, if you have followed my rules, you should have eaten up a good three hours, and it should be about 2:00 pm. And really, you only have to make it to about 8:00 pm. Only six hours left!

Step #4 - Go have a drink. Or five: I know what you are thinking. Alcohol makes you drowsy. The last thing you should do is have a drink. Fair enough. I used to think so too. Instead, I would try to keep myself busy by going for a walk, going shopping, or drinking more coffee. But here's the thing - those things are not fun when you are tired and all you want to do is go to sleep. Having a drink, however, is always fun. And once you have a couple, it gets even more fun! I find that a proper pub crawl, involving good friends to keep you from slouching in the pub bench and to keep you laughing, really helps with this step. Especially when they are locals and know all the good pubs to take you to:

2:15 - the Queen's Pub (it was board game day)

3:20 pm - the Maynard Arms

5:30 - the Harringay Arms

6:50 - the King's Head

8:10 - Villiers Pub

Sure, there were times I wanted to give up. Pub #3 almost did me in, I admit it. But soldiering on is good for you. Especially when there are so many great local beers to try!

Step #5 - Go home and have some peanut butter toast: I'm not actually sure that this helps with jet lag. But after crawling your way through five pubs, it will be the tastiest thing you've ever eaten!!

Step #6 - Sleep... For twelve hours: When was the last time you allowed yourself to indulge in more than six hours of sleep? You totally deserve this! So pop a couple of Advil, slam back a few glasses of water, and sleep in!

Step #7 - Start your day as soon as you wake up the next morning: Sure, you're on vacation and you want to lounge around. And sure you don't remember telling your host that you would like to go for a run in the morning and so you can't figure out why he is already waiting for you by the front door with your running shoes in his hand when you wake up. And sure your lungs are still swimming in five pints of beer. Too bad. The fuller your days, the more likely you are to fall into your bed at night. So suck it up and go for a run.

Step #8 - Stay busy for the rest of the day: Perhaps you could take a stroll through a cemetery, like Highgate Cemetery in North London:

Or stroll through an English garden in Hampstead Heath:

Or just go back to drinking more beer:

Either way, just find things to do so that you are exhausted by the time the sun goes down. Or drunk enough to pass out, anyway. 

And there you have it. Simple, really! Just remember, all you have to do is survive those first two days, and you are well on your way to kicking jet lag to the curb!

Here's a toast to overseas vacationing!

Winter survival tips

Earlier this week, Ottawa earned the title of coldest capital on earth, when temperatures dipped down to -32C (-41C with the windchill). For my American friends, that is -24F (-42F).

Quel honneur!

The thing about this little deep freeze that I am finding particularly astonishing is that everyone is talking about it. As though it never, ever gets cold here. In Canada. The country known for its prowess at sports played entirely on ice. Which is frozen water. Which is what happens when it gets, you know, cold....

So why are my Facebook and Twitter feeds full of comments about the weather (a crime for which, by the way, I am also guilty)? And why is it that the first thing that anybody says to me - whether it's on the bus or at the office or in my local Starbucks - is something like "Man, it sure is cold out there today"? And why are the national media outlets leading with stories about winter every single day? Did we all collectively forget that last year, we went through winter as well? And the year before that? And the year before that? And the year before that? And the year... well, you get the point...

Why is the weather so newsworthy?

I just don't know the answer to that. But I do know that everyone - myself included - is getting tired and cranky of all of this cold. Particularly since the second most popular batch of comments on Facebook and Twitter are from those jerks I know friends who are vacationing on the beaches of the Caribbean, where it is approximately 70 degrees warmer than it is here and where we would all rather be.

Well, everyone, that is, except for the Beast.

Earlier this week, one of my friends posted this PSA about pets and winter on Facebook. Pet stores and vets across the city are reminding people that they should lessen their pets' exposure to the elements during frigid times like these. And other human companions I know keep telling me that their dogs don't want to set foot outside right now, not even to pee.

Fergus didn't get any of these memos. Not one. He still insists on spending 2+ hours outside every single day. This weather doesn't stop him. In fact, he seems even more energetic these days.

He may be an Aussie by breed, but that is surely Canadian blood - or ice - running through his canine veins.

So, faced with the plight of being the human companion to a dog who wants nothing more than to be outside running across icy rivers and rolling around in banks of snow, I have decided that I have no choice but to embrace this cold, barren, Canadian winterscape and make the best of it. And to do so, I am taking my cues from Fergus. Here are the top five winter survival tips that I have learned from my dog.

5. It is never too cold to run

I know what you are all thinking. Somebody, somewhere - probably at the Running Room - once told you that there are temperatures below which you just shouldn't run. "You'll develop ice crystals on your lungs," they say. Or "Ice is slippery," they say. And I admit it. I believed it too for awhile. I never ran outside if it was colder than -17C (1F). Instead, I'd go back to sleep. Because I wouldn't want to inadvertently freeze my lungs while making my way to the gym to run on a treadmill either...

This all changed when the F-Bomb became my running partner. Regardless of the bad news delivered to me by the local weatherman when my alarm goes off at 5:00am, Fergus is right by my bedside, licking my face and wagging his bum, urging me to do the exact opposite of staying warm, curling up, and going back to sleep. Up I must get, and outside I must go. And if you're going to be outside at -32C, you might as well run and get the exercise part over with sooner, right? Which is why, just this past week, I found myself running three times, in windchill temperatures of -28C, -41C, and -31C respectively. This is what I looked like coming back from a breezy run at -28C.

Frosty, n'est-ce pas? There are no pictures of me coming back from a run at -41C or -31C, by the way, because when I pulled my iPhone out, it seized up and died of hypothermia. So just picture this shot, with about three times more frost, blocking up all the air holes on my lovely neck gaiter.

I, however, did not suffer the ill effects of cold induced hypothermia. Neither did Fergus. And so, my friends, as long as you are appropriately covered, it is evidently never to cold to run. (Although admittedly, I hope that I never have to test out that theory in temperatures colder than -41C).

(And if you don't believe Fergus, you can check out this article as well)

2. Layers and anti-chafing products will increase your enjoyment of the outdoors in extreme weather

Fergus recommends that everyone needs at least two good layers - a nice soft undercoat that can easily be shed when it is too warm (and which is currently all over my floor), and a long, fuzzy overcoat that protects against the elements.

In his case, this 2-layer system seems to do the trick, no matter the weather. In my case, there are a few variables that need to be taken into consideration. How cold is it? What type of activity am I going to be doing? How much will I be exerting myself? How cold is it? It's taken me a bit of trial and error, but I've now got a flow chart to help me figure out what to wear when I go outside with the dog. And it works. Very well. Whether we are snowshoeing, running, or just going for a casual stroll downtown, we both stay good and warm.

As for chafing, there is a lot of salt out there on those sidewalks in the winter. And since Mr. Princess refuses to wear his dog booties, we've learned to protect delicate puppy paws in other ways. Vaseline, my friends. Make sure you have some Vaseline. Also works to prevent sweat-induced runner's chafing under that nasty sports bra. And, according to Fergus, it also tastes good. At least I assume it does. Why else would he walk around the house licking the Vaseline tracks that he leaves after I slather his feet with the stuff. He is so gross... 

3. Embrace snow. Because there is no such thing as too much of it.

Nothing has the power to cripple a city like a snow storm. School buses get cancelled. People call their bosses to say that they won't be in because it would be too dangerous to drive to work. Double Decker buses flip over and land in ditches.

You'd think Canadians had never seen snow the way we react to a few centimetres of the stuff.

And the whining about snow. My God. It's like the eighth plague that the Bible left out or something. Did we all forget how much fun we used to have as kids building snow forts?

Admittedly, I used to be a snow hater. A few years back, Ottawa was about 20cm shy of setting a new record for the greatest amount of snow accumulated over the course of the year (the record being 444.1cm). Local media went around interviewing people, asking them if they wanted us to get a bit more snow before the spring thaw so we could beat the record. At the time, I remember wanting to swing my snow shovel to the back of the happy-go-lucky heads of those people who kept saying "Ohhhhhh.... I hope we get a bit more snow so we can beat that record!"

But Fergus taught me that the best part about winter is snow. And nowadays, I love the white fluffy stuff. I love it so much that I went out and bought snow shoes just last year so that him and I could go hiking through the woods on the snowiest of snowy days.

I check the weather each and every day to see if we are going to get more snow. And when we do, I wake up early, throw on my snow pants and my snowshoes, grab Fergus' toys, and head out the door, with him bouncing along beside me. Sometimes, we play fetch:

Sometimes, we make snow angels:

And sometimes, we just run around like crazy:

And we always have fun. So if you want to survive winter, you'd better just learn to love snow!

2. Shovelling is not a chore. It is good fun and lots of exercise too.

Nobody likes to shovel, I know. It's hard work, especially when snow is heavy and wet. And then there is that snow plow jerk who comes by to clean the road, leaving that ridge at the end of your driveway. And if you leave it there too long, it freezes over, and is impossible to remove. And you can't justify buying a snow blower because your driveway is too short. And your wife won't let you hire someone to do the shovelling for you because you are able bodied, and it would thus be a ridiculous expense. So you just have to keep [expletive] shovelling all that [expletive] snow.

But then again, shovelling can be good exercise. And more importantly, it can be loads of fun.

Don't take my word for it. Watch these videos instead, and see how much Fergus enjoys shovelling!

1. Spend time outside with your best friends.

If misery loves company, and winter makes people miserable, than winter must love company too. (At least I think that's how I remember logic working from my first year philosophy class!) At any rate, spending time with Fergus outdoors in the winter is loads of fun. But it is loads more fun when our best buddies tag along. So if you want to survive winter, go grab some of your best friends and get out there. Fergus guarantees that it will put a smile on your face!

And with that, my friends, Fergus and I are off. It is -22 outside this Saturday morning, and it is promising to be a clear, sunny, albeit cold day. I think we will go find ourselves some woods to hike through.

Happy winter!

In with the new

The first morning of 2013 could not have been more perfect. Although there was a little nip in the air (okay, a big nip in the air, as it was -22 with the windchill), there was not a cloud in the sky. So, with a fresh coffee in my hand and a broadcast of "This American Life" playing on my iPhone, Fergus and I set out for our first trip to the Arboretum of the new year. We spent two hours outside together, running through knee-deep-on-me and belly-deep-on-him snow, playing fetch, and greeting every dog that came our way. It was a perfect start to 2013. (Except for the part where I threw his fancy, brand new frisbee over the fence and into the parking lot of a Honda dealership.... Oops...)

Sitting nice, waiting for me to throw his frisbee 

Chewing on his frisbee

So much fresh snow!

Running through piles and piles of the stuff

We came home to a freshly cleaned house - including mopped floors - courtesy of Hubby. Which Fergus promptly messed up again by tracking snow and ice through the entire house. Nonetheless, it was nice to catch a glimpse of clean floors, if only for a millisecond.

The floors (and bathrooms and all other surfaces) were sparkling so because Hubby and I were getting ready to greet our nearest and dearest to our 8th annual New Year's Day Levee. What is a levee, you ask? Worry not. I did not know what a levee was either, until I married Hubby. A levee is a fancy word for an open house, and evidently, this is a very East coast thing to do on New Year's Day. Of course, it is normally the lieutenant governor of the province throwing such an event (for my American friends, that would be the Queen's representative). Hubby and I like to believe that we are equally important. And so while he finished cleaning, I rushed around my kitchen like a mad woman for 4 hours, putting the finishing touches on the way-too-much-food-again-this-year that I was preparing.

I will stop here and blow my own horn for a moment. I never, and I mean never ever ever, serve finger foods from a box. You know, the ones that come frozen and you throw them on a cookie sheet and bake them. No. Instead, I always make them from scratch. Which amounts to an awful lot of stress for a few hours days. This year's menu included:
- goat cheese crostini with blood orange and black pepper marmalade;
- marinated chicken kebabs with lemon pepper yogurt sauce;
- mini crab cakes;
- homemade hummus and pita chips;
- figs and mascarpone cheese wrapped in prosciutto;
- veggies and dip;
- homemade chocolate chip cookies;
- homemade rum balls; and
- strawberry, lime and champagne cocktail.

Why do I make the holidays even more stressful by going through all this trouble? Because I like to cook. And because I like my friends. And this is my little way of showing them how much I like them.

(But mostly because I have an A-type, ultra-perfectionist personality, and I can't stand the thought of not being the best hostess in the whole world).

Delicious! (And yes, those are Winnipeg Blue Bombers oven mitts in the background...) 

Still delicious, but from another angle. With Fergus supervising form the background. 

There is always booze at a New Year's Day Levee. Including champagne punch. Hair of the dog and all... 

All those tears and that swearing that work is worth it once we open our doors to our friends, who trickle in and out in shifts throughout the day. And really, is there any better way to usher in the New Year? Well, if there is, we haven't found it yet. Which is why next year, we will surely host the 9th annual levee at the same time next year. Although perhaps next time, we will leave Fergus somewhere a little more quiet, as all of the in-and-out and doorbell-ringing is a little stressful on his overly excitable mind...

And so with that, my friends, I bid you the happiest of starts to your New Year. I hope that your 2013 started with a bang, as did mine, and that you make the most of your time with family and friends this year.