On June 12, I told this story on a new podcast called One New Message. One New Message is inspired by those calls that we have all made because we had something really important to say to someone, but for some reason, we couldn't say it. It's a great show, and you should definitely check it out. Especially episode 105, which you can find by clicking here.
If you are more inclined to read than to listen, here you go...
**********
It seems weird leaving you this message... I mean, we've never even met.
How could we have. You passed away 28 days before I was born.
Did you know that your son, my father, was planning to name me Dawn? I'm sure you did. Dad was always so close to you. How is it even possible that he wouldn't have shared absolutely everything with you, his mother, about his soon-to-be first born child. All his fears. All his hopes and dreams. And all the various names they went through before they settled on Dawn if I was a girl, and I'm honestly not even sure what if I was a boy.
But then you passed away in early November, 1976, after a long battle with cancer, before you had the chance to meet, or hold, your fifth grandchild. And when you passed away, an incredible sadness must have descended upon my father, who loved you so very much. How difficult it must have been for him to think about the happiness that a baby would bring to his life when he had to deal with the crushing sadness of losing you, his mother and closest confidant.
He tells me that he prayed very hard that I, sex unknown, would be a girl. So that he could give me your name. So that your soul that had just departed this earth could somehow breathe life into my own soul just as it was about to enter. So that he would have a daily reminder of you each and every time that he called out to me.
And so my name is not Dawn. It is Jeannine. It is your name.
I have to tell you that I hated my name growing up. No one can pronounce it. How could you even stand always being called Janine? Like the nerdy, shrill-voiced secretary on Ghostbusters? Which of course, you never saw. But still, you must know the irritation that comes with constantly having to correct the pronunciation and the spelling of your own name.
And then there was the fact that it was an old-person's name. At least I thought it was when I was a tween trying to find myself, wondering why I didn't have a young, hip name like Lianne, which was so de rigeur at the time.
But mostly, it was the pressure of having your name. Of hearing all the stories about your kind heart and your never-ending generosity. How you constantly sacrificed for your family. How you guided all eight of your children to know right from wrong, to become good, strong people like you. Aunts, uncles, my grandfather, Dad - they all told me how lucky I was to have your name, and what big shoes I had to fill. Shoes I never asked for or wanted. Shoes I wasn't sure could ever possibly fit me, since you were such a giant in everyone's minds and hearts.
And so I hated my name. And secretly wished that I was someone else.
Until sometime around my 12th or 13th year.
I had long since given up saying the nightly prayers that my parents made us recite before bed. But on this night, as I was feeling a particularly deep pang of teenage angst, I knelt alongside my bed, bowed my head, and recited a prayer. Not to God, but to my guardian angel, a prayer taught to me by my Mom when I was just a little girl: "Angel of God, my guardian dear. To whom God's love entrusts me here. Ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide."
And it struck me that I did not have some randomly-chosen-by-God angel fluttering around heaven on wings charged by God to take care of me and watch over me.
No. I had you.
And so began our life-long relationship. From that moment on, when there was no one here on earth who would understand what I was feeling or what I was going through, I had you. When Dad and I fought, and I howled at him that he did not understand me, I had you. When I was excited about a special event in my life or a success that I had, I had you. When I made mistakes, when I cried, when I laughed, when I celebrated, I had you. I talked to you about it all. You saw it all from wherever it is that you are. And I felt you beside me at every step.
So no. We've never met. But you are one of the most important people in my life. And my name is one of the greatest gifts ever given to me. Through it, you and I share something that has allowed us to cement a spiritual bond, although it was impossible to form a physical one. You have helped me through my darkest times. I have felt you smile upon me through my greatest achievements. Dawn may be a perfectly lovely name. After all, it was given to my younger sister. But were it mine, it would not have brought me close to you. I would not feel your love and guidance ever present in my life. And I would not be who I am today.
So I guess I just really wanted to say... I love you.
Showing posts with label life lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life lessons. Show all posts
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
"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.
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.
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.
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.
But mostly incredible because I did it with Hubby. Who never once let me fall behind.
Happy Valentine's Day.
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.
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.
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. |
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. |
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. |
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. |
Happy Valentine's Day.
Monday, February 1, 2016
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.
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.
"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... |
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.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
All grown up
Dear M,
I remember the first day that I met you. You were 3 weeks old. You had these really long, skinny legs and long, skinny arms. Your hair was so blond that you looked bald. You either slept or cried. Frankly, you weren't that much to look at.
But my god, did I ever fall in love with you. From the very first moment that your mother laid you in my arms, I knew that I would love you fiercely.
I loved you when you made me watch Teletubbies a thousand times, and then made me dance around the living room while you sang, "Tubbies, auntie! Tubbies!"
I loved you when we had our very first sleepover, and you told me that we had to sleep in your mom and dad's bed because "Your butt is too big for my bed, auntie."
I loved you when you were so excited to be a flower girl in your parent's wedding.
I loved you when you yelled at me for cutting off my hair.
I loved you when your little brother came into this world, and I watched as you enthusiastically embraced the role of big sister.
I loved you when, before you met Hubby for the first time, you asked if he was as tall as your dad, and when I said, "No," you asked if he was a midget. Because everybody shorter than your 6'3" father was tiny in your daddy's-little-girl eyes.
I loved you as I watched you goaltend in hockey, goalkeep in soccer, and tear it up on the basketball court. (That was me squealing when you got Female Athlete of the Year at your graduation, by the way.)
I loved you so much when you stood beside me as one of my bridesmaid's on my wedding day, when I got to see for the first time what you would look like when you became a woman. You took my breath away.
And now, you are a woman. Eighteen years old, graduated from high school, and about to embark on the adventure that is university. Over the past 18 years I have watched you grow from a kind, generous, intelligent, curious, and strong girl to a kind, generous, intelligent, curious and strong woman. When did it happen?
In the blink of an eye. A very teary eye...
M, being an aunt - being your aunt - has been one of the best roles that I have had in this life. And not just because I got to give you back to your parents when you were screaming for a diaper change. Or when you were throwing a tantrum. Or when you and your brother were fighting. But because there is a truly special relationship that develops between a niece and an aunt, especially from this point forward. I am no longer just another adult looking over your shoulder. I hope to be your friend, your confidant, someone that you can just have a drink with and talk about life. This is what I now have with my aunties. And it is a special bond unlike any other.
And so, from one friend to another, let me leave you with a few tips as you begin to write the next chapter in your life:
- Wear sunscreen on your face and your hands every day. Even in the winter. You don't think about it now because you are young and beautiful. But I promise you that when you are knocking on 40s door, and counting the spots on the back of your hands and the wrinkles around your eyes, you are going to wish like hell that you had bathed in SPF every single day.
- President's Choice white cheddar macaroni and cheese kicks Kraft Dinner's ass every time.
- It's okay if you skip a class every now and then. Just don't skip so many that you end up with an "incomplete" on your transcript, which will dog you for the rest of your undergrad.
- Make new friends. In university, you will meet people from so many diverse and unique backgrounds. They will enrich your life in ways that you never knew were possible.
- Keep old friends. They remind you of who you are and where you come from.
- Sometimes, after your heart has been broken or you bombed an assignment, you just need a really good cry.
- Create a playlist of breakup songs. Because when you break up with someone, I promise you that you will want nothing more than to listen to breakup songs on repeat. Bonnie Raitt's I Can't Make You Love Me got me through more than one broken heart.
- Surround yourself with people who make you laugh until your cheeks hurt and until you have tears streaming down your cheeks.
- If you ever use a friend's I.D. to get into a bar (in a province where you aren't of legal drinking age), make sure that said friend doesn't work at said bar... THAT will get you into a lot of trouble.
- Form and voice your own opinions. Engage in debate. Exchange ideas. Defend your point of view. Be passionate about all of the things that you believe in. Even if you're wrong.
- Learn new things outside of the classroom. Like how to play euchre and pool.
- Learn to like beer, because it is always the cheapest drink in the campus bar. And at the liquor store. Which will start to matter when money runs low. It's an acquired taste, but you will learn to love it if you practice enough.
- Find balance. Take a study break to grab a drink with a friend, or to go for a run, or to read a silly novel.
- All-nighters are always better with coffee, snacks, and a good friend to share your procrastination pain.
- Love fiercely, even if it hurts. There truly is no other way to love.
I love you to all the way to Ottawa and back.
Auntie Jay.
I remember the first day that I met you. You were 3 weeks old. You had these really long, skinny legs and long, skinny arms. Your hair was so blond that you looked bald. You either slept or cried. Frankly, you weren't that much to look at.
But my god, did I ever fall in love with you. From the very first moment that your mother laid you in my arms, I knew that I would love you fiercely.
I loved you when you made me watch Teletubbies a thousand times, and then made me dance around the living room while you sang, "Tubbies, auntie! Tubbies!"
I loved you when we had our very first sleepover, and you told me that we had to sleep in your mom and dad's bed because "Your butt is too big for my bed, auntie."
I loved you when you were so excited to be a flower girl in your parent's wedding.
I loved you when you yelled at me for cutting off my hair.
I loved you when your little brother came into this world, and I watched as you enthusiastically embraced the role of big sister.
I loved you when, before you met Hubby for the first time, you asked if he was as tall as your dad, and when I said, "No," you asked if he was a midget. Because everybody shorter than your 6'3" father was tiny in your daddy's-little-girl eyes.
I loved you as I watched you goaltend in hockey, goalkeep in soccer, and tear it up on the basketball court. (That was me squealing when you got Female Athlete of the Year at your graduation, by the way.)
I loved you so much when you stood beside me as one of my bridesmaid's on my wedding day, when I got to see for the first time what you would look like when you became a woman. You took my breath away.
And now, you are a woman. Eighteen years old, graduated from high school, and about to embark on the adventure that is university. Over the past 18 years I have watched you grow from a kind, generous, intelligent, curious, and strong girl to a kind, generous, intelligent, curious and strong woman. When did it happen?
In the blink of an eye. A very teary eye...
M, being an aunt - being your aunt - has been one of the best roles that I have had in this life. And not just because I got to give you back to your parents when you were screaming for a diaper change. Or when you were throwing a tantrum. Or when you and your brother were fighting. But because there is a truly special relationship that develops between a niece and an aunt, especially from this point forward. I am no longer just another adult looking over your shoulder. I hope to be your friend, your confidant, someone that you can just have a drink with and talk about life. This is what I now have with my aunties. And it is a special bond unlike any other.
And so, from one friend to another, let me leave you with a few tips as you begin to write the next chapter in your life:
- Wear sunscreen on your face and your hands every day. Even in the winter. You don't think about it now because you are young and beautiful. But I promise you that when you are knocking on 40s door, and counting the spots on the back of your hands and the wrinkles around your eyes, you are going to wish like hell that you had bathed in SPF every single day.
- President's Choice white cheddar macaroni and cheese kicks Kraft Dinner's ass every time.
- It's okay if you skip a class every now and then. Just don't skip so many that you end up with an "incomplete" on your transcript, which will dog you for the rest of your undergrad.
- Make new friends. In university, you will meet people from so many diverse and unique backgrounds. They will enrich your life in ways that you never knew were possible.
- Keep old friends. They remind you of who you are and where you come from.
- Sometimes, after your heart has been broken or you bombed an assignment, you just need a really good cry.
- Create a playlist of breakup songs. Because when you break up with someone, I promise you that you will want nothing more than to listen to breakup songs on repeat. Bonnie Raitt's I Can't Make You Love Me got me through more than one broken heart.
- Surround yourself with people who make you laugh until your cheeks hurt and until you have tears streaming down your cheeks.
- If you ever use a friend's I.D. to get into a bar (in a province where you aren't of legal drinking age), make sure that said friend doesn't work at said bar... THAT will get you into a lot of trouble.
- Form and voice your own opinions. Engage in debate. Exchange ideas. Defend your point of view. Be passionate about all of the things that you believe in. Even if you're wrong.
- Learn new things outside of the classroom. Like how to play euchre and pool.
- Learn to like beer, because it is always the cheapest drink in the campus bar. And at the liquor store. Which will start to matter when money runs low. It's an acquired taste, but you will learn to love it if you practice enough.
- Find balance. Take a study break to grab a drink with a friend, or to go for a run, or to read a silly novel.
- All-nighters are always better with coffee, snacks, and a good friend to share your procrastination pain.
- Love fiercely, even if it hurts. There truly is no other way to love.
I love you to all the way to Ottawa and back.
Auntie Jay.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Generation Y is the new Generation X
A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine shared this video on her Facebook page - Kevin Bacon explaining the 80s to Millennials:
Of course, I had to watch the video. Because like all almost-40 women I know, I love Kevin Bacon. That is because like all almost-40 women I know, I grew up in the 80s. Ahhh Footloose. What girl didn't want to dance with Ren McCormack? Am I right, ladies?
Being a child of the 80s makes me more than just a Kevin Bacon fan. It makes me a member of Generation X. Which is why this video was particularly amusing. Not only did I rock the parachute pants (watch the video), but I often feel like an out-of-date Gen-Xer who appears irrelevant to the new crew of bold, tech-savvy, short-attention-spanned Generation Y. I mean, I only just figured out Twitter in the past six months!
At no time did I feel the difference between our generations so acutely as I did last weekend, when I returned to my alma mater - the University of Ottawa - as a guest judge for a 4th-year Public Administration case competition. My job was to play the role of a Minister being briefed on a matter requiring an urgent decision, while group after group of students disguised as public servants led me through a just-the-facts briefing. A policy geek's dream weekend!
Now as an alumnus of the U of O, I return to campus often enough. But every single time that I do, I am struck by the same thought: "Wow, these kids are just getting younger and younger every year."
Of course, they aren't getting younger. I am getting older. A fact which became all to clear when I introduced myself to this particular cohort as a proud alumnus of the University who started 20 years ago, prompting one girl to yell out, "Wow! I was only 1!"
Ouch!
Let me tell you. A whole lot has changed since she was 1 and I was... um... older than that. First of all, this was my computer:
It took up an awful lot of room on my desk, it crashed all the time, and it took forever to process a simple command like "save". And it wasn't even connected to the Internet. That's because the Internet was still so new in the early 90s as to render it relatively useless for anything other than email. And if I wanted to use it to check my email account, I had to go to the computer lab, an occurrence so infrequent because no one was really using email back then. We talked to each other over the phone. And by phone, I mean a land line. Or we just hung around the campus bar waiting for each other to inevitably skip class and show up.
Because the Internet was still in its pre-Google and pre-Wikipedia days, we used the library for research. I spent hour after hour combing through microfiche and journal articles. I threw my back out every two weeks from stuffing 20 hardcover history books into my backpack so that I could write my research papers. Information was never at my fingertips. It was at least a five-minute walk away.
And this is what passed for classroom technology:
That's right. A transparency projector. The professor would photocopy lecture notes onto a transparency and project them onto the wall at the front of the class for us to copy down - with a paper and pen in a notebook - during the lecture. My more "technologically savvy" calculus professor (part of my very short-lived attempt to secure a math minor) would bring clear transparencies, and write on them in "real-time" with coloured markers during the lectures. Pretty big step up from the chalkboards of high school!
Compare that to what I saw last Saturday when I walked into an undergrad classroom for the first time in almost two decades:
It also made me think a lot about these Millennials, and the impact that they are having on public policy and public dialogue. They are often accused of being lazy, spoiled, self-serving, uncommitted, and apathetic. They don't vote. They don't trust their institutions of government. They question everything. And they don't contribute to public dialogue.
But I don't think that's true, especially now that I've spent a day with 50-or-so aspiring policy wonks. I think they are trying to find better ways to contribute to public dialogue than the traditional channels to which government clings. I think they are trying to raise legitimate questions, not because they dislike authority, but because they want to affect change. I think they are making use of social networks and forging more connections than any generation before them so that they can advance their aspirations and beliefs. And I think that they have found their identity in being able to use today's technologies and networks to solve complex social problems, and can't really understand why the rest of us aren't jumping on board.
I left that classroom feeling rather inspired. Public policy is alive and well among this younger generation. They just talk about it in different ways and on different channels. They want to find solutions to complex social problems, but they want to do it using different skills and tools than those we know and understand. And they want to forge new partnerships and new connections to help them make the world a better place.
I'm feeling pretty hopeful about the future of the public service. I hope they invite me back next year so that I can keep learning from this impressive group of Millennials.
Of course, I had to watch the video. Because like all almost-40 women I know, I love Kevin Bacon. That is because like all almost-40 women I know, I grew up in the 80s. Ahhh Footloose. What girl didn't want to dance with Ren McCormack? Am I right, ladies?
Being a child of the 80s makes me more than just a Kevin Bacon fan. It makes me a member of Generation X. Which is why this video was particularly amusing. Not only did I rock the parachute pants (watch the video), but I often feel like an out-of-date Gen-Xer who appears irrelevant to the new crew of bold, tech-savvy, short-attention-spanned Generation Y. I mean, I only just figured out Twitter in the past six months!
At no time did I feel the difference between our generations so acutely as I did last weekend, when I returned to my alma mater - the University of Ottawa - as a guest judge for a 4th-year Public Administration case competition. My job was to play the role of a Minister being briefed on a matter requiring an urgent decision, while group after group of students disguised as public servants led me through a just-the-facts briefing. A policy geek's dream weekend!
Now as an alumnus of the U of O, I return to campus often enough. But every single time that I do, I am struck by the same thought: "Wow, these kids are just getting younger and younger every year."
Of course, they aren't getting younger. I am getting older. A fact which became all to clear when I introduced myself to this particular cohort as a proud alumnus of the University who started 20 years ago, prompting one girl to yell out, "Wow! I was only 1!"
Ouch!
Let me tell you. A whole lot has changed since she was 1 and I was... um... older than that. First of all, this was my computer:
 |
| Photo credit: http://www.garethjmsaunders.co.uk/pc/ |
It took up an awful lot of room on my desk, it crashed all the time, and it took forever to process a simple command like "save". And it wasn't even connected to the Internet. That's because the Internet was still so new in the early 90s as to render it relatively useless for anything other than email. And if I wanted to use it to check my email account, I had to go to the computer lab, an occurrence so infrequent because no one was really using email back then. We talked to each other over the phone. And by phone, I mean a land line. Or we just hung around the campus bar waiting for each other to inevitably skip class and show up.
Because the Internet was still in its pre-Google and pre-Wikipedia days, we used the library for research. I spent hour after hour combing through microfiche and journal articles. I threw my back out every two weeks from stuffing 20 hardcover history books into my backpack so that I could write my research papers. Information was never at my fingertips. It was at least a five-minute walk away.
And this is what passed for classroom technology:
 |
| Photo credit: Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transparency_(projection) |
That's right. A transparency projector. The professor would photocopy lecture notes onto a transparency and project them onto the wall at the front of the class for us to copy down - with a paper and pen in a notebook - during the lecture. My more "technologically savvy" calculus professor (part of my very short-lived attempt to secure a math minor) would bring clear transparencies, and write on them in "real-time" with coloured markers during the lectures. Pretty big step up from the chalkboards of high school!
Compare that to what I saw last Saturday when I walked into an undergrad classroom for the first time in almost two decades:
- There was not one note-book, not one pen, not one paper. Save the pieces of paper that I was using to take notes so that I could evaluate the presentations.
- Every single student had a laptop or a tablet with a keyboard. So did the professor.
- Students used their laptops to build PowerPoint or Prezi presentations. They then hooked up their laptops to the class projector in under 30 seconds, without the help of a tech guy.
- There was a class projector. And it is always in the classroom. It's not special ordered from AV services for a once-in-a-while special need. It's the tool of choice for lectures.
- During breaks, students were projecting their favourite YouTube videos, most of which seemed to be Lady Gaga videos.
- Between presentations, when students weren't using the projector to present, they were using it to scroll through live tweets of the event, for which they created their own hashtag. And it wasn't even distracting for them to read through the tweets and listen to the feedback they were getting from the judges. Cause they are damn good at multi-tasking, those Millennials!
It also made me think a lot about these Millennials, and the impact that they are having on public policy and public dialogue. They are often accused of being lazy, spoiled, self-serving, uncommitted, and apathetic. They don't vote. They don't trust their institutions of government. They question everything. And they don't contribute to public dialogue.
But I don't think that's true, especially now that I've spent a day with 50-or-so aspiring policy wonks. I think they are trying to find better ways to contribute to public dialogue than the traditional channels to which government clings. I think they are trying to raise legitimate questions, not because they dislike authority, but because they want to affect change. I think they are making use of social networks and forging more connections than any generation before them so that they can advance their aspirations and beliefs. And I think that they have found their identity in being able to use today's technologies and networks to solve complex social problems, and can't really understand why the rest of us aren't jumping on board.
I left that classroom feeling rather inspired. Public policy is alive and well among this younger generation. They just talk about it in different ways and on different channels. They want to find solutions to complex social problems, but they want to do it using different skills and tools than those we know and understand. And they want to forge new partnerships and new connections to help them make the world a better place.
I'm feeling pretty hopeful about the future of the public service. I hope they invite me back next year so that I can keep learning from this impressive group of Millennials.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
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.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Dad
Social convention demands that we treat this particular birthday as a milestone. It does, after all, mark the successful completion of yet another decade on this earth. An achievement to be sure - especially with me as your offspring.
To celebrate, my entire family - parents, siblings, husbands and wives of siblings, and kids of siblings - planned to embark upon a Caribbean adventure. But alas, I come from a family of bloody procrastinators. All of us, without exception, left the finding of the dates for our island voyage to the last possible minute. By which point it became impossible to work around the multitude of events and goings-on filling our respective calendars. Because we are extremely busy procrastinators. Nephew is playing in his first hockey tournament. Niece can't miss her provincial mid-term exams. Brother-in-law's parents are coming to town. Sister-in-law has to be back in time for some work-related training. Mom has accounts that she needs to close. Hubby has to be in Toronto at the end of January. I have surgery in February. And so on, and so on, and so on. Getting ten people coming from two cities together for seven uninterrupted days proved to be too complex. Not to mention stressful.
And so, before we descended into a spiral of "Why don't you change your plans, you selfish jerk?" "No, why don't you change your plans, you more selfish jerk?", we made the family decision to postpone the trip until next year sometime, promising that we will NOW agree to and carve out a date for 2014.
(A date which, by the way, has yet to be selected. Stay tuned to this blog next year around this time to see if we actually follow through. My money is on us ending right back in this same place.)
Anyway, ruining my father's dream of having his entire family go on a trip with him has left me feeling quite characteristically Catholic - that is to say, guilty. And so, knowing that my kid brother was heading home to Winnipeg for work last week, I sacrificed the rights to my first born child (which I don't want anyway) to pay for a last-minute ticket. At the very least, Dad could hang out with his three kids for a couple of days. Even if it was here...
instead of here...
Okay, okay, okay. So it's not the same. I get it. But it's the thought that counts, right? And besides. I got him a Kobo and made him a birthday cake.
Sadly, however, he didn't really get to enjoy the surprise visit, the e-reader, or the cake. Because he was sick. Oh so very sick. The missing-work kind of sick. And my Dad never misses work. Ever. So pretty effin' sick. And not just him. My nephew was home from school with a fever. My mother was home from work, too weak to tell me everything that I was doing wrong while making Dad's birthday cake. And by the time I left the 'Peg, my niece and sister were well on their way to succumbing to this pestilence. (Latest reports suggest that my brother-in-law is now confined to his bed.)
Nothing says "Happy 60th, Dad" like a rampant case of the plague.
I feel pretty rotten about the whole darn thing. A less fabulous 60th birthday party you could not plan. Poor Dad... :(
I also feel rather introspective. My Dad is sixty. Sixty. Not very old, I know, but older than he was this time last year. With all the baggage that growing older means. Maybe seeing him so sick had something to do with it, but I've spent much of today coming to terms with the fact that my Dad, who I have hero-worshipped most of my life, is getting older. And able to do just a little bit less than he was the year before.
How depressing! And birthdays - milestone ones or otherwise - should not be about the passage of time. They should be about the celebration of life!
And so, tonight, although he is 2,600 km away, I am raising a glass of red wine in a toast to my Dad, and thanking him...
...for spending countless hours teaching me how to play baseball in our back yard, and then turning around and playing dolls with me on the living room floor.
...for forcing me to learn how to parallel park a 1979 GMC Sierra, with the cap on, so that I can now park any vehicle on any street in any city.
...for letting me spend all of those after-school-hours with him at the grain elevator, where I learned the value of a hard day's work.
...for allowing me to make my own mistakes in life, no matter how painful it might have been to watch.
...for bailing me out when the mistakes were just too big for me to handle on my own, and for not judging me for needing his help.
...for patiently waiting for me to outgrow my awkward teenage years, and for having faith that our relationship would be restored once the hormones settled down.
...for making me fight my own battles instead of taking them on as his own, so that I would learn how to take care of myself.
...for exposing me to the world beyond our backyard, our town, our province, so that leaving the nest when the time came was not as hard as it could have been.
...for the tears that he shed the day I told him that Hubby and I were getting married, which I know he will never admit to, but I know they were there.
...for always making me look up every word that I could not spell on my own in the dictionary, so that I would learn to rely on myself before relying on others.
...for being my Dad, which I know was not always easy. But I know that I am a better person because of him, so I hope it was worth it.
I love you Dad. Here's to many, many more years as father and daughter.
And more importantly, here's to a plague-free, Caribbean-based 61st birthday.
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| 1974. Mom and Dad on their wedding day. Look at those 'burns! |
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| Tuckered out after playing dolls with his girls. |
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| My high school graduation in 1994. (Oh, those glasses...) |
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| First-time, and proud, Grandpa, after the birth of my niece |
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| Hanging out on Christmas Eve |
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| Finally getting rid of me... (Side-bar - look closely at the dress. It's the same one Mom wore in 1974) |
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The sound of sighing
Today, I had a bad case of "one of those days". With a little bit of "I hate my job" thrown in there for good measure.
First of all, I am exhausted. In less than 48 hours, I have covered more than 3/4 of the exceedingly large country that is Canada by air. Early Monday morning, I left the East Coast (where I spent a long weekend losing an embarrassing amount of golf balls during a round of 18 holes, eating far too much seafood, and hanging out with a bunch of football fanatics), only to arrive in Calgary 10 hours later for work-related meetings, only to catch a homeward-bound plane Tuesday afternoon, only to arrive home sometime in the middle of the night. Running on nowhere near enough sleep, and sucking back a nowhere near large enough coffee, I barely had time to give my husband (who I've not seen in nearly a week) a good-morning kiss before I had to get my ass across town to yet another work meeting that was being held at what my jet-lagged ridden body considers to be an uncivilized hour of 8:30. Neither my body nor my mind have any idea what time zone they are currently in...
Second of all, this morning's meeting was brutal. Capital B-R-U-T-A-L. I'll spare the boring details, but suffice it to say that I found myself on the defensive for the entire three hours. Not to mention under a considerable amount of stress.
Now I've already admitted to, at times, having certain difficulties when faced with stressful situations (see http://herdinthehood.blogspot.com/2011/08/i-hate-yoga.html and http://herdinthehood.blogspot.com/2011/08/taming-screaming-banshee.html). My tendency to over-emote has led some to accuse me of being a tad melodramatic. Still, I am, after all, a professional. So although I wanted very much to climb up on my chair, hurl a jug of water at someone, and yell more than a few unmentionable profanities, I kept my emotions in check.
How, you might ask? Well, a little trick that the Beast taught me. Deep breath in, followed by long exhale out. A nice big sigh.
I love that sound! After a vigorous run, an intense play date, a satisfying dinner, or simply at the end of a long day, the Beast will sink down into a lay-down position and curl up at our feet. Sometimes he will chew on his antler for a few minutes. Sometimes he will pay rapt attention to what is on t.v. (he seems to really like baseball and football). Inevitably, he will turn over onto his side, and after a few seconds, we will hear his great big sigh.
Now a human sigh, as we all know, can mean many things. Some are negative - exasperation, boredom, dissatisfaction, frustration. But many more are positive - satisfaction, gratification, relief. I imagine that the Beast's sigh is nothing but positive. With every deep inhale and long exhale, I imagine that he is telling hubby and I, "Thank you for giving me so much exercise and so much mental stimulation, for introducing me to so many doggy friends, and for shelling out for the really good dog food. I feel really good about my life with you guys!" He is one happy and satisfied puppy!
But ultimately, that sigh symbolizes release. It is the Beast's way to finally abandon the last remnants of the vast reservoir of energy that he carries within his little self. With each sigh, this go-go-go puppy surrenders himself to a moment of rest and relaxation, allowing himself to just be. He becomes the puppy vision of zen.
...Until the doorbell rings and he is up like a bat out of hell, barking all the way to the front door. (That's what I mean by "vast reservoir of energy...")
But that's another story...
Back to the point of this story... Trapped in an emotionally intense meeting, I found myself channeling the Beast and using his release technique to calm myself down. Before answering difficult and accusatory questions, I would take an audibly deep breath, let it all out, and proceed. And although I could not make the ball of anxiety that was squeezing my chest disappear completely, I did succeed in shrinking it a little. And I kept myself from throwing something at somebody. Always a good thing when meeting with difficult stakeholders.
When it was finally over, the facilitator, who had been sitting immediately to my left, remarked on the tone of the meeting. Despite the moments of tension, he felt that we had achieved what we had set out to achieve. And he congratulated me for successfully navigating some difficult moments and keeping my own comments and responses professional and respectful. "What's your secret?" he asked me.
"Oh," I said, "just a little something I learned from my dog." ;)
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Forgiveness
A few days ago, the Beast and I were involved in a rousing game of fetch in the neighbourhood park when a man and his dog - a beautiful Rottweiler - came along. We'd seen them once or twice before, but the Rottie was the nervous sort, and didn't really engage in play with the always-energetic-and-sometimes-too-pushy Beast. So on we went with our game of fetch.
A few minutes later, the gentlemen approached me and said, "I think I just made a connection."
Um, huh?
He must have seen my puzzled look, and proceeded to ask me if (a) I have a husband/partner (b) who bikes down the path alongside the river with my dog. I told him that yes indeed, my husband does take him out biking every now and then. Perhaps he had seen them when he was out walking his own dog?
"Well, sort of," he said. "Did your husband tell you about a bike accident, by any chance?"
And then the light went on for me. So this was the guy who was walking his dog, who lunged at my dog, who went flying into the back tire of my husband's bike, which led to two weeks of cone-induced recovery, which led to (I must admit) a little bit (okay, a whole freaking lot) of resentment on the part of hubby and myself against this mystery dog and his mystery owner, both of whom were now standing here in front of me.
But I didn't have time to feel much anger or much resentment. Partly because he was clearly very upset. As he recounted the entire story of the accident in vivid detail, his voice was actually shaking a little. He told me that he had been so worried for the past few weeks that our dog had been seriously injured, especially since he hadn't seen us around the park for a while (the accident has now happened over a month and a half ago...). And he apologized profusely for his dog's behaviour, explaining that his Rottie is nervous and fearful and must have been caught off guard by both a bike and a dog running beside him.
But the real reason my anger quickly dissipated is because of the Beast, who I had spotted out of the corner of my eye, engaged in play bowing, wrestling, and chasing with the Rottie. Both dogs were having a blast, playing nicely with one another, panting and smiling as they galloped through the trees and over the small hill in the middle of the park.
And it hit me. Why should I be angry at this poor guy and his dog, when the being who was the most wronged by the whole accident, the Beast, had clearly forgiven the Rottie for scaring the shit out of him and causing him to go ass-backwards into the rear wheel of a bike? He was far more interested in living in the moment than in the past, and could see no reason in holding a grudge against a dog that was clearly satisfying his immediate need to play and be chased. If he could overlook the fact that this Rottweiler had sent him into cone-induced-exile for two weeks, why couldn't hubby and I?
So although I had always imagined that I would have very choice and colourful words for the owner of the dog who caused my Beast's accident, I just couldn't bring myself to say one harsh word. Instead, I reassured him that the Beast had sustained no more than a minor scrape and that he was back to being his usual crazy self. "They're dogs," I said. "It's not like your guy did it on purpose, so please don't worry about it, and I hope we see you around sometime."
And I slipped the Beast's leash back on and went home.
When we got there, hubby was puttering around the kitchen. I told him that I had met the dog who lunged at he and the Beast while they were out biking, and my husband's back stiffened a little. I told him to relax, and told him that the Beast had just spent 10 minutes or so running around and having fun with this dog. If he had gotten over whatever happened between them, so could we.
So there he goes again... The Beast is teaching me yet another lesson...
I think of all the grudges - big and small - that I have bore for people over the years. Like the fact that I still hold it over my sister's head that she ruined my absolute favourite pair of shoes in high school, after I had saved up all of my babysitting money to buy them. Or how I like to point out to my best friend that she once called me a "fat bitch" in university. Or how, even though he and I have since become friends, I still haven't quite forgiven this one guy for the way that he lamely ended our relationship over the telephone instead of in person...
And what's the point in harbouring all of this resentment? Has it brought me anything?
Absolutely not.
Perhaps I should just call all of these people whom I have not yet forgiven for their indiscretions and ask them if they want to come over and play fetch with me in my neighbourhood park... Certainly, it's way more fun that holding onto all this resentment...
A few minutes later, the gentlemen approached me and said, "I think I just made a connection."
Um, huh?
He must have seen my puzzled look, and proceeded to ask me if (a) I have a husband/partner (b) who bikes down the path alongside the river with my dog. I told him that yes indeed, my husband does take him out biking every now and then. Perhaps he had seen them when he was out walking his own dog?
"Well, sort of," he said. "Did your husband tell you about a bike accident, by any chance?"
And then the light went on for me. So this was the guy who was walking his dog, who lunged at my dog, who went flying into the back tire of my husband's bike, which led to two weeks of cone-induced recovery, which led to (I must admit) a little bit (okay, a whole freaking lot) of resentment on the part of hubby and myself against this mystery dog and his mystery owner, both of whom were now standing here in front of me.
But I didn't have time to feel much anger or much resentment. Partly because he was clearly very upset. As he recounted the entire story of the accident in vivid detail, his voice was actually shaking a little. He told me that he had been so worried for the past few weeks that our dog had been seriously injured, especially since he hadn't seen us around the park for a while (the accident has now happened over a month and a half ago...). And he apologized profusely for his dog's behaviour, explaining that his Rottie is nervous and fearful and must have been caught off guard by both a bike and a dog running beside him.
But the real reason my anger quickly dissipated is because of the Beast, who I had spotted out of the corner of my eye, engaged in play bowing, wrestling, and chasing with the Rottie. Both dogs were having a blast, playing nicely with one another, panting and smiling as they galloped through the trees and over the small hill in the middle of the park.
And it hit me. Why should I be angry at this poor guy and his dog, when the being who was the most wronged by the whole accident, the Beast, had clearly forgiven the Rottie for scaring the shit out of him and causing him to go ass-backwards into the rear wheel of a bike? He was far more interested in living in the moment than in the past, and could see no reason in holding a grudge against a dog that was clearly satisfying his immediate need to play and be chased. If he could overlook the fact that this Rottweiler had sent him into cone-induced-exile for two weeks, why couldn't hubby and I?
So although I had always imagined that I would have very choice and colourful words for the owner of the dog who caused my Beast's accident, I just couldn't bring myself to say one harsh word. Instead, I reassured him that the Beast had sustained no more than a minor scrape and that he was back to being his usual crazy self. "They're dogs," I said. "It's not like your guy did it on purpose, so please don't worry about it, and I hope we see you around sometime."
And I slipped the Beast's leash back on and went home.
When we got there, hubby was puttering around the kitchen. I told him that I had met the dog who lunged at he and the Beast while they were out biking, and my husband's back stiffened a little. I told him to relax, and told him that the Beast had just spent 10 minutes or so running around and having fun with this dog. If he had gotten over whatever happened between them, so could we.
So there he goes again... The Beast is teaching me yet another lesson...
I think of all the grudges - big and small - that I have bore for people over the years. Like the fact that I still hold it over my sister's head that she ruined my absolute favourite pair of shoes in high school, after I had saved up all of my babysitting money to buy them. Or how I like to point out to my best friend that she once called me a "fat bitch" in university. Or how, even though he and I have since become friends, I still haven't quite forgiven this one guy for the way that he lamely ended our relationship over the telephone instead of in person...
And what's the point in harbouring all of this resentment? Has it brought me anything?
Absolutely not.
Perhaps I should just call all of these people whom I have not yet forgiven for their indiscretions and ask them if they want to come over and play fetch with me in my neighbourhood park... Certainly, it's way more fun that holding onto all this resentment...
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Crankiness
Today, the Beast and I participated in a 5k charity walk for the local Humane Society.
For weeks, I have been convinced that this event would provide me with ample blog fodder. I mean, I own an extremely excitable Aussie-collie mix. How could he not go off the wall surrounded by 2,000 other dogs, dog food and dog treats everywhere, screaming children, and an overly-excited radio host cooing about all of the good-looking dogs in the crowd. I was sure that there would be some kind of epic meltdown worthy of a hilarious blog post.
Well there was no epic meltdown. Quite the contrary. The Beast was a rockstar. He barked a little when he got out of the car, but aside from that, he was eerily well-behaved. In fact, we got a lot of compliments for his on-leash etiquette. He showed up most other dogs there, teaching them a thing or two about how to walk nicely beside their owners and how to look to their humans for direction. He was a rockstar, I tell you! And I was seriously proud!
Proud, that is, until a little later in the day, when the epic meltdown finally came. And it was a good one.
Hubby and I decided to go for a coffee. And since it is such a beautiful day, we decided to take the Beast. A little bit of family time together on a great fall afternoon.
Getting to the coffee shop was pretty uneventful. But all hell broke loose almost as soon as we got there.
Now the Beast suffers from separation anxiety. If he is with both of us, and one of us leaves to, say, get a coffee from the local coffee shop, he gets noticeably agitated. He paces back and forth, whines a little, maybe lets out a yelp or two, but eventually settles into a super-upright sit, ears straight up, staring in the direction from which he expects his person to eventually come. Although he is clearly impatient, he is ultimately able to hold it together.
Not today. Hubby went in, and the Beast went nuts. He skipped the whining altogether, and went straight to his shrill, glass-shatter-sounding bark, causing a little girl sitting on the patio to jump approximately seven feet into the air and to let out an equally shrill shriek of her own. The two of them then spent the next minute competing with one another for the title of most annoying noise-maker on the street. Believing it best to move away from the patio and wait for hubby a little further down the street, I made my way towards a bench, causing the Beast to lunge maniacally toward the door of the coffee shop, whining and yelping as though he was being led to his death by an axe-wielding murderess. Just as I finally got him to assume a "sort-of" sit and replace his orchestra of dog sounds with something in a lower pitch, he caught sight of hubby through the coffee shop window and resumed his desperate crescendo. At this point, having abandoned all hope of calming the Beast down, I did the only thing left that I could think of. I prayed. I prayed that the barista would hurry the f$&k up and give my husband his espresso so that he could get his ass outside and take some of the heat from the coffee shop goers who were clearly getting upset that this crazy dog was ruining their perfectly lovely Sunday afternoon.
Mercifully, as soon as the Beast saw hubby emerge from the coffee shop, he ceased his downward spiral and went back to looking like a perfectly normal, well-balanced puppy. Opting not to sit on the patio, where everyone wanted to shoot the Beast (or possibly even me), we made our way to the opposite side of the street and another bench. We weren't even three minutes into our coffees when the Beast started acting up again. First, he made a grab for the pastry that my husband was eating, something that he would never dare do if we were at home. Then he started barking and lunging toward everything coming in our direction. First dogs. Then humans. Then, embarrassingly, at an elderly gentleman in a motorized wheelchair. Too mortified to be seen in public with an ageist dog that has a problem with persons with disabilities, I decided to just call it quits and take the Beast home, where he could continue his hysterics in private.
As we were walking home, I desperately tried to figure out how the Beast could be so well-behaved one minute, and so not the next. And then it hit me. He was tired. No, actually, not just tired. He was exhausted. And so he was simply being Mr. Crankypants.
A simple 5k walk, even among 2,000 other dogs, is not normally enough to exhaust my dear Beast. But combined with the rest of his weekend, it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Because here is how the rest of his weekend looked:
Saturday
8:00 - 5k run along the river to brand new dog park
8:30 - Fetch, chase, wrestling in the dog park
9:30 - 3k run (the more direct route) back home
9:50 - Take a peek in the park one block from home to see if there are any dogs
9:55 - No dogs so we go home
10:00 - Chill out a bit
11:30 - Crate time so I can go to a yoga class
13:30 - I come home from yoga and find the Beast playing fetch in the back yard with hubby
14:45 - 2k bike ride to the local doggy watering hole
14:55 - Swimming, fetch, wrestling and chase with all the other doggies at the watering hole
15:45 - 2k bike ride back home, with a pit stop at another dog park along the way so the Beast could wrestle with his best friend, a German shepherd, who just happened to be there
16:30 - Home for an early dinner
18:00 - Barbecue at my neighbour's place, to which the Beast was invited, where he spent the next six hours barking every time someone new came, playing with a 13-year-old boy, roaming around the backyard waiting for someone to drop a piece of hamburger, and generally being showered with attention
24:00 - Bedtime
Sunday
7:00 - Wake up
8:00 - 2k walk to the place where we pick up the car from the car-share service
8:30 - Drop hubby off at the grocery store and drive to the charity event
9:00 - Arrive at the charity event, register, and spend an hour wandering the grounds where approximately 2,000 dogs have been marking their territory. Lots of sniffing, lots of greeting other dogs, and lots of begging the vendors for treats.
10:00 - Walk begins and the Beast and I make our way to the front of the pack (because let's face it, all the little miniature dogs walk to slowly), and we complete a brisk 5k
11:00 - Leave the event and go to the dog park
11:15 - Fetch, wrestle and chase in the dog park
12:10 - Drive back home and drop the Beast off
14:00 - Go for a family walk to the local coffee shop
14:10 - Have an epic meltdown
Just typing this makes me exhausted. No wonder my dog was cranky today!
The Beast is a high energy dog who needs a lot of stimulation and exercise to avoid boredom. And from the beginning, I have been convinced that his first family did not give him enough of either. So I am determined to do better by him and to make sure that all of his needs are met. I'm also prone to feeling slightly guilty for leaving him in his crate during the weekdays when we're not home, so I like to give him lots of stuff to do when we are with him on weekends.
Obviously, I've taken it all a little too far...
This is pretty typical of me. When I started lifting weights to get healthier, I became a full-blown bodybuilder, going to the gym three times a day and eating nothing but chicken breast, tuna, and minuscule amounts of brown rice for 16 weeks. Now that I brought home a dog who needs lots of exercise, I find myself filling his social calendar to the brim and pushing him to go-go-go so that he will be fulfilled at the end of each day.
I think I need to let my foot off the gas, just a little bit. Because no matter how well-intentioned this is, it's just too much for the little guy. I mean, it's Sunday night, which means that he would normally be pacing back and forth between the living room and the front window, patrolling the 'hood as everyone puts their garbage to the curb for tomorrow's pick up. Instead, he's been splayed out in the exact same position in front of the door for the last three and a half hours, and only moved once when hubby came home.
So my promise is this: I'll get better. I'll get better at figuring out what is too much and what is just enough. I'll get better at accepting that it's okay for the Beast to spend some downtime in the middle of the day during the weekend when we are home with him. And I'll get better at reading his signs before he has a meltdown and chases down an old man in a wheelchair.
I'm sure that we will do this same charity event next year. But I'll make sure to keep his entire Saturday and his Sunday afternoon clear...
For weeks, I have been convinced that this event would provide me with ample blog fodder. I mean, I own an extremely excitable Aussie-collie mix. How could he not go off the wall surrounded by 2,000 other dogs, dog food and dog treats everywhere, screaming children, and an overly-excited radio host cooing about all of the good-looking dogs in the crowd. I was sure that there would be some kind of epic meltdown worthy of a hilarious blog post.
Well there was no epic meltdown. Quite the contrary. The Beast was a rockstar. He barked a little when he got out of the car, but aside from that, he was eerily well-behaved. In fact, we got a lot of compliments for his on-leash etiquette. He showed up most other dogs there, teaching them a thing or two about how to walk nicely beside their owners and how to look to their humans for direction. He was a rockstar, I tell you! And I was seriously proud!
Proud, that is, until a little later in the day, when the epic meltdown finally came. And it was a good one.
Hubby and I decided to go for a coffee. And since it is such a beautiful day, we decided to take the Beast. A little bit of family time together on a great fall afternoon.
Getting to the coffee shop was pretty uneventful. But all hell broke loose almost as soon as we got there.
Now the Beast suffers from separation anxiety. If he is with both of us, and one of us leaves to, say, get a coffee from the local coffee shop, he gets noticeably agitated. He paces back and forth, whines a little, maybe lets out a yelp or two, but eventually settles into a super-upright sit, ears straight up, staring in the direction from which he expects his person to eventually come. Although he is clearly impatient, he is ultimately able to hold it together.
Not today. Hubby went in, and the Beast went nuts. He skipped the whining altogether, and went straight to his shrill, glass-shatter-sounding bark, causing a little girl sitting on the patio to jump approximately seven feet into the air and to let out an equally shrill shriek of her own. The two of them then spent the next minute competing with one another for the title of most annoying noise-maker on the street. Believing it best to move away from the patio and wait for hubby a little further down the street, I made my way towards a bench, causing the Beast to lunge maniacally toward the door of the coffee shop, whining and yelping as though he was being led to his death by an axe-wielding murderess. Just as I finally got him to assume a "sort-of" sit and replace his orchestra of dog sounds with something in a lower pitch, he caught sight of hubby through the coffee shop window and resumed his desperate crescendo. At this point, having abandoned all hope of calming the Beast down, I did the only thing left that I could think of. I prayed. I prayed that the barista would hurry the f$&k up and give my husband his espresso so that he could get his ass outside and take some of the heat from the coffee shop goers who were clearly getting upset that this crazy dog was ruining their perfectly lovely Sunday afternoon.
Mercifully, as soon as the Beast saw hubby emerge from the coffee shop, he ceased his downward spiral and went back to looking like a perfectly normal, well-balanced puppy. Opting not to sit on the patio, where everyone wanted to shoot the Beast (or possibly even me), we made our way to the opposite side of the street and another bench. We weren't even three minutes into our coffees when the Beast started acting up again. First, he made a grab for the pastry that my husband was eating, something that he would never dare do if we were at home. Then he started barking and lunging toward everything coming in our direction. First dogs. Then humans. Then, embarrassingly, at an elderly gentleman in a motorized wheelchair. Too mortified to be seen in public with an ageist dog that has a problem with persons with disabilities, I decided to just call it quits and take the Beast home, where he could continue his hysterics in private.
As we were walking home, I desperately tried to figure out how the Beast could be so well-behaved one minute, and so not the next. And then it hit me. He was tired. No, actually, not just tired. He was exhausted. And so he was simply being Mr. Crankypants.
A simple 5k walk, even among 2,000 other dogs, is not normally enough to exhaust my dear Beast. But combined with the rest of his weekend, it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Because here is how the rest of his weekend looked:
Saturday
8:00 - 5k run along the river to brand new dog park
8:30 - Fetch, chase, wrestling in the dog park
9:30 - 3k run (the more direct route) back home
9:50 - Take a peek in the park one block from home to see if there are any dogs
9:55 - No dogs so we go home
10:00 - Chill out a bit
11:30 - Crate time so I can go to a yoga class
13:30 - I come home from yoga and find the Beast playing fetch in the back yard with hubby
14:45 - 2k bike ride to the local doggy watering hole
14:55 - Swimming, fetch, wrestling and chase with all the other doggies at the watering hole
15:45 - 2k bike ride back home, with a pit stop at another dog park along the way so the Beast could wrestle with his best friend, a German shepherd, who just happened to be there
16:30 - Home for an early dinner
18:00 - Barbecue at my neighbour's place, to which the Beast was invited, where he spent the next six hours barking every time someone new came, playing with a 13-year-old boy, roaming around the backyard waiting for someone to drop a piece of hamburger, and generally being showered with attention
24:00 - Bedtime
Sunday
7:00 - Wake up
8:00 - 2k walk to the place where we pick up the car from the car-share service
8:30 - Drop hubby off at the grocery store and drive to the charity event
9:00 - Arrive at the charity event, register, and spend an hour wandering the grounds where approximately 2,000 dogs have been marking their territory. Lots of sniffing, lots of greeting other dogs, and lots of begging the vendors for treats.
10:00 - Walk begins and the Beast and I make our way to the front of the pack (because let's face it, all the little miniature dogs walk to slowly), and we complete a brisk 5k
11:00 - Leave the event and go to the dog park
11:15 - Fetch, wrestle and chase in the dog park
12:10 - Drive back home and drop the Beast off
14:00 - Go for a family walk to the local coffee shop
14:10 - Have an epic meltdown
Just typing this makes me exhausted. No wonder my dog was cranky today!
The Beast is a high energy dog who needs a lot of stimulation and exercise to avoid boredom. And from the beginning, I have been convinced that his first family did not give him enough of either. So I am determined to do better by him and to make sure that all of his needs are met. I'm also prone to feeling slightly guilty for leaving him in his crate during the weekdays when we're not home, so I like to give him lots of stuff to do when we are with him on weekends.
Obviously, I've taken it all a little too far...
This is pretty typical of me. When I started lifting weights to get healthier, I became a full-blown bodybuilder, going to the gym three times a day and eating nothing but chicken breast, tuna, and minuscule amounts of brown rice for 16 weeks. Now that I brought home a dog who needs lots of exercise, I find myself filling his social calendar to the brim and pushing him to go-go-go so that he will be fulfilled at the end of each day.
I think I need to let my foot off the gas, just a little bit. Because no matter how well-intentioned this is, it's just too much for the little guy. I mean, it's Sunday night, which means that he would normally be pacing back and forth between the living room and the front window, patrolling the 'hood as everyone puts their garbage to the curb for tomorrow's pick up. Instead, he's been splayed out in the exact same position in front of the door for the last three and a half hours, and only moved once when hubby came home.
So my promise is this: I'll get better. I'll get better at figuring out what is too much and what is just enough. I'll get better at accepting that it's okay for the Beast to spend some downtime in the middle of the day during the weekend when we are home with him. And I'll get better at reading his signs before he has a meltdown and chases down an old man in a wheelchair.
I'm sure that we will do this same charity event next year. But I'll make sure to keep his entire Saturday and his Sunday afternoon clear...
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Happiness
I just came back from a very short business trip to Vancouver.
I love Vancouver. The seawall, noble Stanley Park, shopping on Robson and Burrard Streets, good Okanagan Valley wine... Sigh... If only I could afford to live there...
If I could afford it, there is no doubt in my mind that I would live in Yaletown.
For those less familiar with Yaletown, it is an uber trendy neighbourhood in the southeast corner of downtown Vancouver, recognizable from a distance by the high rise condo towers that pepper the Vancouver skyline. It likes to dub itself "little Soho", a nod to this NYC mecca of fabulous restaurants, hip night clubs, and off-beat shops.
My husband insists we go there every single time because his favourite wine store, which carries impossible-to-get-back-home BC wines, is there. I insist we go there for everything else: shopping in unique and trendy stores, fantastic seafood restaurants, a local brewpub that makes a mean wheat beer, and the best opportunity for celebrity sightings in Canada outside of the Toronto International Film Festival. (Although I've yet to sight a celebrity, a good friend of mine can point out the exact Starbucks where she saw Scarlett Johanson and Ryan Reynolds. How cool is that!!!!)
So during my very short less-than-48 hour sojourn in Vancouver just this past week, I made sure that I crammed in as many trips to Yaletown as I could (as well as an 11.5k run around the Stanley Park seawall at sunrise, which was freaking AWESOME!), where I bought some Okanagan wine for hubby, drank some local beer, did some window shopping, hung out with a great friend, and got a pedicure.
I also did a lot of people-watching, one of my favourite hobbies. And aside from the excitement of possibly spotting a celebrity, people-watching in Yaletown is doubly fun because of all the dogs.
Take a stroll through the streets of Yaletown and you could be forgiven for believing that the expression "everyone and his dog" has its humble origins in Vancouver. Everyone in Yaletown has a dog. Everyone. It's like the City of Vancouver passed a bylaw stating that all dog owners must live in Yaletown. Or that all Yaletown residents must own a dog. If a person is walking down the street without a leash in their hands, they are either walking home from work and on their way to being reunited with their dog, or they are tourists like me.
And everyone in Yaletown looks, well, happy. People smile at one another as they pass by on the street. They laugh as they get tangled up in one another's leashes while their puppies say hello. They coo and "aaahhhh" and giggle at doggy antics. And they swap stories about the best place in town for a doggy paw-dicure, or the best dog walker, or the best vet clinic... It is just so clear that they love their dogs deeply, and that their dogs bring them immeasurable joy.
Hubby and I experienced something similar when we were travelling in Spain earlier this spring, just before the Beast came home to live with us. We were in the Basque capital of San Sebastiàn, nestled in the Pyrenees, known mostly for it's incredible food - especially tapas - and its Old World charm. What the travel books did not tell us was that this is a dog lover's haven. Much like Yaletown, everyone who is not a tourist seems to own a dog. Most of them are even off leash, loyally and obediently right beside their owners. I spent entire afternoons watching people and their dogs. Like the boxer on the beach who stood looking out over the water, tongue dragging on the sand, waiting to attack the next wave as it rolled onto the shore. Or the Dalmatian who played soccer with a little boy, actually kicking the ball back and forth to him along the beach. Or the hound who signalled to his owner that he wanted a drink of water by sitting nicely at the water fountain, and then standing on his hind legs to gently lap water up while his owner pushed the little button.
I just felt happy, watching other people love their dogs.
And it got me thinking. Exactly what is it about dogs that makes humans so happy?
I suppose I could spout off the regular list: unconditional love, loyalty, playfulness, joy for life. And I'd be right - those are all valid reasons for why dogs make people so happy. But the truth is that there isn't a one-and-only thing about dogs that makes people smile from ear to ear and break into gushing baby talk whenever a puppy is around.
Take my new life with the Beast, for example. There are thousands of things about him that I love, little quirks that inspire me to feel true and meaningful happiness in the moment that I observe them. Like how each morning, he comes up to me for a "hug" by putting his head in my lap for an ear rub, bum checking me a little, and giving me one or two licks on the face. Or how he gets this goofy smile on his face when he wants to play. Or how he rolls onto his back, exposes his belly for a good belly rub, and then starts to do yoga poses by slapping his front paws together in front of his heart. Or that his ears give away his every thought and mood. How he cocks his head to one side when he sees something new for the first time - like the DVD player opening up - and tries to figure it out. How he gnaws on his deer antler with more focus and determination than an Olympic athlete chasing down a gold medal. How he loves to swim, even though he is so bad at it that all the other dogs lap him every time. How he wags his whole bum because his tail is bobbed. How he paces back and forth across the living room floor until he finds the perfect spot to lay in. How he could play fetch for hours on end, and then finally collapses in a heap when he's had enough. The sound of a big "sigh" when he finally releases all of his energy at the end of the day. The way he breaks into a beautiful, graceful gallop across the park when I let him off his leash. The way he sometimes runs too fast, then tries to turn around a sharp corner, only to clumsily stumble over his own front paws. That everything in life is so fascinating to him, and that he has to be part of every single action taking place in the world around him. How his entire body wiggles with excitement whenever he figures out that my husband is about to walk through the front door.
I love a thousand more things about him. And even on his worst of days, when everything that he does seems designed to drive me up a wall, all he has to do is one of these small little things, and I smile from ear to ear.
I already had a beautiful, rich, and fulfilling life before the Beast walked into my home. But the fact of the matter is that I am happier now that he is a part of it. And I simply can't imagine life without him and all of his quirks and issues.
The only way life could possibly be better is if I were to move to Yaletown...
Or better yet, to San Sebastiàn.
I love Vancouver. The seawall, noble Stanley Park, shopping on Robson and Burrard Streets, good Okanagan Valley wine... Sigh... If only I could afford to live there...
If I could afford it, there is no doubt in my mind that I would live in Yaletown.
For those less familiar with Yaletown, it is an uber trendy neighbourhood in the southeast corner of downtown Vancouver, recognizable from a distance by the high rise condo towers that pepper the Vancouver skyline. It likes to dub itself "little Soho", a nod to this NYC mecca of fabulous restaurants, hip night clubs, and off-beat shops.
My husband insists we go there every single time because his favourite wine store, which carries impossible-to-get-back-home BC wines, is there. I insist we go there for everything else: shopping in unique and trendy stores, fantastic seafood restaurants, a local brewpub that makes a mean wheat beer, and the best opportunity for celebrity sightings in Canada outside of the Toronto International Film Festival. (Although I've yet to sight a celebrity, a good friend of mine can point out the exact Starbucks where she saw Scarlett Johanson and Ryan Reynolds. How cool is that!!!!)
So during my very short less-than-48 hour sojourn in Vancouver just this past week, I made sure that I crammed in as many trips to Yaletown as I could (as well as an 11.5k run around the Stanley Park seawall at sunrise, which was freaking AWESOME!), where I bought some Okanagan wine for hubby, drank some local beer, did some window shopping, hung out with a great friend, and got a pedicure.
I also did a lot of people-watching, one of my favourite hobbies. And aside from the excitement of possibly spotting a celebrity, people-watching in Yaletown is doubly fun because of all the dogs.
Take a stroll through the streets of Yaletown and you could be forgiven for believing that the expression "everyone and his dog" has its humble origins in Vancouver. Everyone in Yaletown has a dog. Everyone. It's like the City of Vancouver passed a bylaw stating that all dog owners must live in Yaletown. Or that all Yaletown residents must own a dog. If a person is walking down the street without a leash in their hands, they are either walking home from work and on their way to being reunited with their dog, or they are tourists like me.
And everyone in Yaletown looks, well, happy. People smile at one another as they pass by on the street. They laugh as they get tangled up in one another's leashes while their puppies say hello. They coo and "aaahhhh" and giggle at doggy antics. And they swap stories about the best place in town for a doggy paw-dicure, or the best dog walker, or the best vet clinic... It is just so clear that they love their dogs deeply, and that their dogs bring them immeasurable joy.
Hubby and I experienced something similar when we were travelling in Spain earlier this spring, just before the Beast came home to live with us. We were in the Basque capital of San Sebastiàn, nestled in the Pyrenees, known mostly for it's incredible food - especially tapas - and its Old World charm. What the travel books did not tell us was that this is a dog lover's haven. Much like Yaletown, everyone who is not a tourist seems to own a dog. Most of them are even off leash, loyally and obediently right beside their owners. I spent entire afternoons watching people and their dogs. Like the boxer on the beach who stood looking out over the water, tongue dragging on the sand, waiting to attack the next wave as it rolled onto the shore. Or the Dalmatian who played soccer with a little boy, actually kicking the ball back and forth to him along the beach. Or the hound who signalled to his owner that he wanted a drink of water by sitting nicely at the water fountain, and then standing on his hind legs to gently lap water up while his owner pushed the little button.
I just felt happy, watching other people love their dogs.
And it got me thinking. Exactly what is it about dogs that makes humans so happy?
I suppose I could spout off the regular list: unconditional love, loyalty, playfulness, joy for life. And I'd be right - those are all valid reasons for why dogs make people so happy. But the truth is that there isn't a one-and-only thing about dogs that makes people smile from ear to ear and break into gushing baby talk whenever a puppy is around.
Take my new life with the Beast, for example. There are thousands of things about him that I love, little quirks that inspire me to feel true and meaningful happiness in the moment that I observe them. Like how each morning, he comes up to me for a "hug" by putting his head in my lap for an ear rub, bum checking me a little, and giving me one or two licks on the face. Or how he gets this goofy smile on his face when he wants to play. Or how he rolls onto his back, exposes his belly for a good belly rub, and then starts to do yoga poses by slapping his front paws together in front of his heart. Or that his ears give away his every thought and mood. How he cocks his head to one side when he sees something new for the first time - like the DVD player opening up - and tries to figure it out. How he gnaws on his deer antler with more focus and determination than an Olympic athlete chasing down a gold medal. How he loves to swim, even though he is so bad at it that all the other dogs lap him every time. How he wags his whole bum because his tail is bobbed. How he paces back and forth across the living room floor until he finds the perfect spot to lay in. How he could play fetch for hours on end, and then finally collapses in a heap when he's had enough. The sound of a big "sigh" when he finally releases all of his energy at the end of the day. The way he breaks into a beautiful, graceful gallop across the park when I let him off his leash. The way he sometimes runs too fast, then tries to turn around a sharp corner, only to clumsily stumble over his own front paws. That everything in life is so fascinating to him, and that he has to be part of every single action taking place in the world around him. How his entire body wiggles with excitement whenever he figures out that my husband is about to walk through the front door.
I love a thousand more things about him. And even on his worst of days, when everything that he does seems designed to drive me up a wall, all he has to do is one of these small little things, and I smile from ear to ear.
I already had a beautiful, rich, and fulfilling life before the Beast walked into my home. But the fact of the matter is that I am happier now that he is a part of it. And I simply can't imagine life without him and all of his quirks and issues.
The only way life could possibly be better is if I were to move to Yaletown...
Or better yet, to San Sebastiàn.
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