The Endless Pool

 

Today’s question: can trying to avoid drowning count as a work out? My body is still being a bit stupid and I have to be creative with my workouts. Running – bad. Spin class – bad (for now, but good soon I hope!) Elliptical – been doing it so much it is a bit boring. So I thought, Why not try the “endless pool” at my gym. It’s a small 10 x 6 foot rectangle but you can swim in it because you can turn on a current.  Sounds fun, like a ride at an amusement park!! And all the people say swimming is the best thing for me... So I reserve my hour long session and head to the gym.  On the way, a little bit of doubt creeps in because I don’t swim. Never have. I just don’t drown. I make the motions of swimming in a general direction and kick for the surface till I get air. Most of the time, I am out of breath; not from the work out, but because I am drowning. 

In fact, a long time ago, I decided I would be an avid (aka thin) swimmer and took up the sport. I never lost any weight and the process was so involved with hair washing and chlorine and knots in the hair that I got rather frustrated. So one day, Al came to the pool to “see what I was doing wrong” because he had grown up by the beach and could swim his way out of a rip tide if required. (Also, I think he was sick of me complaining that I was working out so hard and not losing weight and just in general complaining.) So he came and walked along side of me while I swam a length of the pool. When I reached the end, I looked up hopeful he would have one or two easy fixes. Instead he says,

‘What are you doing??’

I have no response to this because I thought it was clear I was …swimming…

He says ‘I mean, you are moving along, slowly, but you are like a foot below the surface. Every time you want to take a breath, you have to doggy paddle your way to the top.’ I agree this is what it feels like and then he just shrugs his shoulders and offers no further advice except ‘maybe you should try some other form of exercise.’
So, because I am in significantly better shape than those dark days, I think swimming should be better… but I was wrong. I arrive at the gym and say, to the perfect bronze god at the front desk, ‘Hey it’s my first time using the endless pool. Is there anything I need to know, like how to turn it on or is it pretty straightforward?’

 

‘Umm yeah someone needs to help you,’ he says, calling for backup.

I am led down the hall trying to explain why I am limping in ten words or less. I find it awkward to have a disease that no one really understands but think they do. It would be better if I could not limp at all but I digress…

The back up bronze goddess leads me into the room with two pools and explains I am in the shallow pool. I think to myself, I wish I was in the deep pool because that seems like the grown up pool… She walks me through how to turn it on and etiquette for changing room use. (Apparently leaving your clothes in there - bad but judging by the state of it, leaving tiny curly hairs everywhere - fine…) Then she says, ‘Now, there is an emergency button up here,’ she says reaching up high on a pole outside the pool. ‘So if you are drowning, get out of the pool and push this.’ (To be fair, she clearly realizes this is ridiculous but is contractually obligated to have the conversation with me.)

I am excited and dressed in my new bathing suit that I bought about twenty-pounds-heavier ago so it is a little loose but loose clothes make me happy. I struggle with the pool’s stupid bubble wrap cover because my hands have ceased to be functioning as hands and have decided to be stumps. Eventually I get in and turn on the current. I am confident and turn that puppy up to ten miles per hour. And I start “jogging”; well, more like just trying to stay upright. I notice that the current is in the middle and so I think to myself, on the edges it must be going the other way so maybe I can do something like laps! I try running along the outside edge against the weaker reverse current and my plan is to run up against the fast current from the back of the pool. Unfortunately, when I reach the back of the pool I lean down. I have no idea why but I do. The full force of the current slams into my chest pinning me against the back wall of the pool. I cannot get up. I am flailing and eyeing the emergency button which is 15 feet away and, let’s remember, out of the pool. I flail my arms and legs and charge forward against the current when another swimmer enters the room. I do my best to look like I should be in the pool but he is not buying it. I struggle forward to turn down the current and decide I better swim if this guy is going to be in here because the loose swimming suit is doing nothing to hold important bits in place as I flail/run. I put on my daughters goggles, only one size too small, and start “swimming”.

 I notice this little pool has a mirror. I am not sure what for … watching your form? Or, what I used it for, watching my wobbly bits wobble and making sure my swimming suit stayed up as the current was determined to pull it down. (As a side note, it also helped me figure out I was wearing the tiny goggles upside down which was why they were cutting into my nose.) But most of the time, I watch as I sink below the surface flailing frantically and then lose the view because the current is tossing me to the back of the pool again. I spend the rest of the hour trying not to die and switching between jogging when no one is looking, “swimming” and trying to fix the mat that keeps slipping every time I run on it.

It is at this point that I looked up and saw the sign that said “warning: this area under video surveillance.”

I may be paranoid but the golden god at the front desk looked awfully giggly when I returned the key…

 

As far as swimming being better for me, I am now nursing a blister on my foot from the stupid mat... perhaps another form of exercise…

Prednisone... or Possibly changing my blog to: "Angry Ranting Sick Lady"...

Recently my body has collapsed just a little. It happens sometimes and at this stage a doctor will usually put me on Prednisone. It sort of conveniently sweeps everything under the rug so the body has a chance to reorganize itself. Before the doctor writes the prescription, I usually have the following conversation:

‘How do you do on Prednisone? ‘How is your appetite? Are you overly hungry?’ and ‘How are your moods?’

My eyes start to glaze over like a true drug addict and I can feel the pain relief as the small piece of paper makes its way towards me, ‘Just fine. Yeah, no problems at all. Not overly hungry and, because I am out of pain, if anything, my mood has improved!’ I laugh (more like cackle) and try not to yank it out of his hand. And then run out of the office before he has a chance to take it back. Then one night, a few days into treatment, I am lying in bed with Alan and we are discussing some inconsequential future event when I realize that I want to hit him. We are not fighting (not that fighting in any way justifies hitting but at least fighting gives an explanation for the urge). We are just talking and he has his arm draped over me which is really annoying because it’s making me feel trapped. He says something like, ‘Well we could think about this alternative plan…’ and I say, ‘Well that’s great isn’t it? Like REALLY helpful! You are just saying words. Words in no particular order that in no way help.’ And then I sigh really loudly because, really, he should have known better… Now you must understand, I have been through this round of treatment many times before but there is something about this particular moment, his lack of response combined with a smirk and a concurrent flash back to the doctor asking me about my moods… so I ask, ‘Do I get like this when I am on prednisone?’

AND HE LAUGHS. ‘Yeah, you do.’

More sighing, ‘Why didn’t you tell me I get so angry!?’

HE LAUGHS AGAIN!

‘Yeah, that would have gone really well!’ he snarks.

I have no response to this, so I take a deep breath, calm down and assess my previous two weeks. I am sure I hadn’t been overly angry; there were just a lot of stupid, idiotic people in my path. And I wasn’t really mad, just in more of a... questioning mood. I had a lot of questions like:

Why is absolutely everything in the world so depressing? I mean like everything. People are dying, wars are raging, the earth is actually dying. And, closer to home, why are people driving when I want to drive? They seem to think they can just get on the road the same time as me and drive however fast or slow they want and they don’t even care about me at all.

 Why was that guy in my class speaking, and why did he have a face? He should not have a face. His face makes me mad.

And why do doors open inward sometimes and outward sometimes? 

Shouldn’t all doors be the same?

Why are people who put doors on things trying to make me crazy?

I am always trying to leave and smacking my face on doors that should clearly open outward. (It is normal to kick stupid doors in public.)

And why is everyone so happy?

What the hell are you so happy about? I am not happy. I am tired and I want a nap. And you being all happy when I am sad and THE WORLD IS DYING! And there is Ebola! And some new person  at the smoothie place put two bananas in my smoothie so I had to throw it out because it tasted like banana. You should not be happy when the world is dying. You should all be sad AND you should definitely be sad that I’m sad. No, I don’t know exactly why I’m sad but you should at least make a sad face with me. Actually, I am pretty sure I am sad about the extra banana in my smoothie you should understand that extra banana makes it taste like banana!! I was trying to be healthy and get a smoothie and all I really wanted was a chocolate… something…anything chocolate. I would have accepted chocolate covered, chocolate inside or both. Instead, I am drinking banana mush.

And why is putting mayonnaise on chips so bad for you? It tastes so good. There should be more things I can find to put mayonnaise on like bread dipped in mayonnaise OR PEANUT BUTTER AND MAYONNAISE YES! Or mayonnaise and ketchup and mustard on bread!! A hotdog without the hot dog: perfectly normal dinner!

Why are there so many loud noises? Just stop speaking. Your voice is like projecting across the planet. I know I asked you a question but why do you have to answer so loud?

Why is the couch weird?

It is annoying to sit on. It is trying to be annoying isn’t it? It has been waiting all day for me to come and sit on it and annoy me.

Why didn’t you close the pantry door?

I JUST TRIPPED OVER A SHOE!  A shoe people… an actual shoe was in the middle of the place where I was trying to walk to get to the bathroom. Why is there a shoe THERE?

Why is it only eight o’clock? Why isn’t it nine o’clock, so I can go to bed? If I can’t go to bed, can I at least have a sandwich with mayonnaise on it?

Why are there commercials when I want to watch TV?

Why are there rich people?

Why can’t I be rich?

Why are the rich people trying to kill us and confuse us? It’s a conspiracy! They know something we don’t know. And they have secret clubs where they share information and become landlords and then go on holiday whenever they want and I just want to go home and see my Mom, Dad and sisters.

Why isn’t there some way we can own property and not have to stay in it? I don’t like staying in places; it makes me feel trapped. And houses are bad because then you feel like you are trapped in a box. They have a very suspicious box shape and they get smaller sometimes.

I feel trapped here, on this island, where the rich people are keeping me trapped and they won’t let me have strawberries in the winter. I want strawberries on my really expensive cereal that the rich people made expensive and then laughed when they watched me buy it because I can’t get my cereal anywhere else.

And I want Monterey Jack cheese! There should be more cheese on more things. There should be mayonnaise on cheese!

Are the rich people stealing my cheese?

And they all control the airlines and make it really expensive to go home.

Why am I in prisoner on this island?

And why did they take away my mayonnaise? They had the healthy, yummy mayonnaise and then the rich people said ‘No! You can’t have the yummy, healthy mayonnaise and you can’t go somewhere else to get it because you live on an island and then you would have to get on our very expensive plane and we will laugh at you.

They are always laughing at us, in their big houses so they don’t feel trapped in a box, and on their planes so they can go see their Mom and Dad or go get yummy mayonnaise whenever they want mayonnaise...

So, I feel, I handle the chemical inbalance of prednisone with grace and ease. It was just a run of really stupid people and, when you think about it, mayonnaise is really yummy and it is not odd that I should think about it for a while. Or try to find new things to put it on.

I do fine on prednisone.

It is a great drug.

MEMORY AND 5AM INSANITY

The mind is a funny thing. Particularly the part dealing with memory; the temporal lobe, just to prove that I have not forgotten nursing school. (To be fair, I had to ask Google to make sure…) I have quite the temporal lobe if I do say so myself. Far larger than my husband’s, who I am sure suffered an injury at some point in his life; now he is one of those people who wake up with no memory of the day before. This has its upsides and its downsides. For instance, when he has to remember to pay a bill - a down side; when I have a hissy fit on par with a five year old he has no recollection of it a week later… when I am having another one…  While my memory is far superior to Alan’s,  it seems to be some sort of a filing system run by a little angry old lady living in it and randomly pulling things out at the worst possible moments. She gets angrier as the day goes on and seems to stage an all out protest at night.  Because, as I am drifting off to sleep, I sit bolt upright, heart racing in sheer panic, that I forgot to email a distant relative to remind him/her that I love him/her. And quite the opposite, in the wee hours of the morning I will wake, heart racing and remember the mean thing I said to my tormentors when I was a teenager. Who am I kidding I never got a chance to say anything to those little %^&*$. So it is usually a reliving of some embarrassing moment like when I peed my pants in front of those same tormentors. I don’t know what the little angry old lady living in my temporal lobe has against me but I am sure it is not good for my blood pressure and I wish she would retire and a hip, young, organized, type-A personality with an iPhone would take her place. Then I would become a calm, collected, organized and preferably published writer. This doesn’t seem to be the case yet but one has hope.

As many of you know, we recently returned from my sister’s beautiful wedding in Napa, super fun except for the incident of the bridesmaid with the elephant leg shoved in a doll shoe… I have not decided if I will write a blog about this because I have not stopped crying about it AND about saying goodbye, so it is not funny yet. And if I did write it, I may have to change the name of my blog to “angry ranting sick lady…” which does not really appeal… I think. After an amazing three weeks we board our flight home (one flight this time but I still manage to get no sleep). We navigate our way through immigration and collect our luggage and lineup for customs check. We of course pick the slowest line. I keep Al calm (the calmest person I know EXCEPT when traveling when he undergoes some sort of psychotic break and Amelia and I have to run after him through multiple airports. No stopping for food! No stopping for crying! No stopping for selfies! Must sit at the gate for at least an hour before boarding!) by reminding him we have nowhere to be. The message did not however get passed to the woman behind us who is sighing. Now, I understand coming off an international flight to stand in line can make us into the worst version of ourselves. I, however, a seasoned traveler am calm and lovely. Then we are next and the lady behind us yells “that one is open.” I say calmly and with all dignity and grace “umm he is waving to someone in that line” to which she responds a little louder, “NO! The other one!”  Deciding not to get into a jetlag-induced fistfight we scuttle off to the “open” customs officer who looks at us with contempt. “I was waving to someone from that line.” I try to laugh it off and explain the passenger behind us told us to come here to which she responds, “Ah, the passengers told you what to do.” She is not impressed so after a few more nervous laughs and twenty minutes loading our gargantuan bags on and off the x-ray machine, (because pissing off a customs officer is a surefire way to get put through the “needs inspection line”)  we head out into the dark 5:20am air.

Pushing our carts, we follow Al-who parked the car. He leads until we are standing in the middle of a busy road dodging buses and cars when I decide to take over and lead us to a cross walk. As we enter the parking lot, I sense there is a problem as Alan is not heading in any particular direction but proceeds as if shopping for a used car. “Where is the car?” I ask, making sure I keep the panic in my voice to a minimum (you know, because I am a seasoned traveler, calm and lovely) until he says "ummm." Then I become the raving lunatic bag lady, literally, pushing bags up and down the aisle mumbling, "I can’t believe this!" and yelling "where is it?" not caring that there are other crazed 5am people around and they could get the wrong impression about me… We go up and down each aisle, Amelia dodging in and out of parked cars declaring every thirty seconds that she found it but has apparently forgotten what our car looks like. Fifteen minutes in, I yell across the parking lot (my previous ability to be calm vanished), “Al – I need you to stop and try to remember what happened when you parked the car!” To which he responds, “ummm…” I start to unravel as we wander into yet another parking lot. I am convinced no one could completely forget where we parked the car so I stand still right in the middle and declare loudly that the car has been stolen. We finally find it with me mumbling some cutting remarks about being so forgetful. Then we drive home and stumble into the house, finding it unexpectedly warm and welcoming… I had forgotten to turn the heater off. As we anticipate the gargantuan power bill, I have to wonder, where was the meticulous angry old lady when we were leaving three weeks before? I’ll tell you where: NAPPING because she had kept me up all night worrying about whether or not I had packed socks.

Antisocial Personality

I should not be allowed to make any more new friends. I have a personality. Some people love it; some people hate it and I have come to terms with that. I have, at times, worried I may have an anti-social personality (not the DSM definition which seems to be one step away from serial killer but my own definition which is always a better use of the word). Let me explain. I am friendly, I love very deeply and I am very loyal. Plus, a good piece of cake at a party seems like a good time. However, I tend to be a little wary of making new friends. Perhaps this is because in my past, people seem to use the word friend and evil interchangeably so I was unsure of what the word actually meant for a good portion of my life. I am pretty good at spotting the difference now that I am older. (I feel a warning is needed here, once a person has proved that they know the difference between the two words, I tend to suction cup myself to their shoulder for the rest of their lives… sorry.) Spotting the difference, tends to take time; when a social occasion arises, usually with chocolate cake, (because why would you go to a social event with no chocolate cake?) I meet new people. I start out glaring at them suspiciously as they tell me what they do for a living, doubting that they really do work in retail. And I say over and over “Well… it is really nice to meet you…” interspersed with high-pitched manic laughter until they run away or I suddenly run away claiming I have to pee.  This serves to put the people in my life into two categories 1. People I suction cup myself to or 2. People I have to dive into bushes to avoid. What I am not prepared for is meeting someone new, who perseveres through my conspiracy theories and sharing of my bodily functions, and thus would like to become friends.

This recently happened to me when an acquaintance suggested we meet for coffee. I said yes because she is nice and it seems like something someone with my personality would do, you know, friendly and up for adventure (plus there could have been cake!). I was not prepared for the instant regret and panic I faced as the day drew closer. I began to realize this may be very bad indeed.  Because a social event has multiple escape routes when, for instance, you find you have been speed talking your way through the intimate gory details of your birth story. But meeting for coffee means they are trapped with you. However being an optimist… (see these and subsequent posts.) I thought, what have I got to lose? NOTHING. And I might gain a new friend.

The day arrives, I have a busy morning but manage to squeeze in a workout (which turns out to be a great distraction). However, the gym clock is five minutes off (it used to be fifteen minutes but now that it is five, I assumed it was right). So I push myself a little harder for five extra minutes as it is doing wonders for my nerves (and hopefully my curves but this is unlikely due to the constant anticipation of cake functions). Unfortunately, as I enter the shower I realize my (the gym clock’s) mistake and then have to speed my way through the shower. (see this post to see why this is a disaster.) Anyway, I am now late and must begin our relationship with an apology. She insists on paying which makes me panic and order a muffin (which I don’t want) and a latte which I never drink… Why? I will never know because there was actual cake which would have been the same calories as the muffin but I would have enjoyed it. I then proceed to ask some questions about her personal life. I will not say what they are here because despite my clear ineptitude, I do know one thing: that you should definitely not blog about a new friend’s personal life. (For the rest of you, I can’t promise anything.) However, let’s just say every subject I brought up was the wrong one and probably quite painful for her to talk about. She handles this with grace and sublime social skills; I, however, panic and begin to sweat; it’s dripping down my back, ribcage and also (strangely as I do not ever remember this occurring before) across my upper lip which I can’t hide. I check the time: one hour to go. What do I do then? Bring up 9/11 of course and discuss how horrible it was and how mean I think Osama Bin Laden is (or was, as I said over and over as I continued to forget and then remember we killed him). She listens with sympathy, as I describe in detail where I was and what I did, not just for 9/11 but the two days following the disaster. I managed to talk continuously (and when I say continuously I mean, not taking a breath and not allowing her more than an occasional “oh my!”) about this tragic day (to a New Zealander no less) for 45 minutes.  I blame the fact that I spent several evenings watching all the shows on the subject last week: 1. Because I swore I would never forget and 2. Because I keep hoping it will make sense or I will stop crying about it. I blame it on this, but really who am I kidding? If I hadn’t been watching that, who knows what I would have subjected her to… my last gynecologic visit?

I finished off giving her some pointers about writing... you know because I am a writer, not published or anything, just you know, tapping the keyboard lots of times and words come out. Ignoring the fact that she has her PhD in a related subject.  As I escape to my car, wiping the remaining sweat off my face, I ponder the epic failure. It occurs to me how it was probably a good thing I didn’t really get to date. Because if I had been let loose in those scenarios, I would have to spend the rest of my life diving into bushes or coming up with creative disguises whenever I left the house.  So I’m afraid I can’t make any new friends which is bad for all of you because if you are on my friends list, you have to stay otherwise I will end up “alone sitting in a crowded café mumbling to myself: My ass is twitching. You people make my ass twitch”[1]

---

[1] Kasdan, L. French Kiss

Dust Mites and More Floods

Sometimes in order to save a marriage compromises must be made. For an in-depth analysis of this please see post on Anniversary last year. For one reason or another it is pretty much guaranteed that each year Al and I will be fighting on our anniversary. It is coming up in a couple weeks and this year we have managed to sneak one in under the wire. Let me set the scene; hopefully you have all read my blog on why Alan and I sleep in separate beds.  I have a medical condition which keeps me awake and combined with his medical issues sleeping in the same bed is a disaster (again, click here to see how much of a disaster). Anyway, we bought Alan a bed last year it was a cabin bed which we knew was technically for children but it came with so much storage we thought it would help him keep his room tidy. (We did not anticipate how much of a hoarder he is.) Surprisingly, the child size bed has recently been “not working out” as his feet hang off the end and every time he rolls over one of the slats pop sounding like a gun going off waking everyone in the house as we all come running.

So we went to the bed store. He said he just needed a better mattress and I was not convinced and said he needed a proper bed. We agree on a very good bargain (but still more than we can afford at the moment: I agree out of guilt of having the actual grownup bed even if it is  just a mattress on the ground and he agrees because it is actually a major bargain.) We have a marriage imploding “discussion” about the bed and our inability to pay for it all day the next day but eventually we set the date for delivery. The night before, we spend getting the child bed into the actual child’s bedroom and reorganizing her room and his. This does not go well; the fourth time Amelia throws herself across the bed saying she just can’t take it anymore, I panic and tell her she has to push through or I am not sure if she will make it as a grownup. (We are both a bit tired.) I go on and on sounding a bit like a president giving a pre war speech in a movie, saying things like “This is the moment! This is when you decide who you are going to be. This is what separates the world changers from the McDonald’s workers.” (I have nothing actually against McDonald’s workers and I could tell this backfired immediately because for a ten year old a job at McDonald’s is like second place to a job at the candy store: either will do.) She said something to that effect so I switched to garbage collectors or something (I also have nothing against these heroes either. I could never do their job and am very grateful that someone gets on the back of that cesspool every week for me but I had a speech to give and the more dramatic the better.) Picture me, hands raised, an American flag behind me, (there wasn’t one but there should have been) as I beseech the flopping moaning fish on the bed to “show me what she is made of!” In what can only be described as a fluke of nature this completely insane parenting moment works and we clean her room to perfection and she even admits how good it feels to have it done.

 I leave this scene of triumph and glance into the hoarder’s room it does not look good but high from my success I offer my clearly remarkable abilities to my husband. He refuses and says his room is “not that bad” and he will be done shortly. I start to protest when he slowly closes the door in my face and I retire. In the morning, as I send Amelia off to school, I pass his room which now has all of the hoarded things stacked sort of Egyptian-pyramid style against one wall. I freak out because there is also an unidentified smell emanating from the room and he has to leave for work. Not only will the new bed not fit but the people will be unable to put the bed together because they will be unable to fit both themselves and the bed in the room at the same time. I begin carting everything out of the room considering on the way to the garage whether I should just put it all out on the street to be picked up by the amazing garbage men, but I resist.
 On a roll, I clean every surface of the room hoping to get the smell and all sources of his allergies removed. I decide that his ancient duvet that he has had since his bachelor days and refuses to get rid of, must be cleaned in hot water to kill all the dust mites. If you follow my blog you will remember that I recently flooded the garage with the washing machine. In our cleanup attempt, we damaged one of the hoses – the hot water hose. I remember this, but I think I will just turn it on because maybe the leak is not so bad and I can just put a bucket under it. So I turn the hot water on and place my hand under the tube to catch any drips. None come but the washing machine is not filling either and I hear the water rushing. My body goes cold as I fight with the child proof drawer (also adult proof) to see what is happening underneath. Unbeknownst to me, Al had unscrewed the hose all together, so now water is pouring out all over the garage again. Luckily, I am a master of garage floods, having just cleaned it up four days before. However, I still have the problem of needing to wash the arachnid infested blanket in hot water. So I call Al at work and say I need a new hose could he bring me one at lunch. He says, “just wash it in hot water in the tub”. I say not sarcastically at all and in a very loving voice, “Oh gee that sounds like so much fun please can I?” He says he has to go (but I don’t think he did).

After I hang up though, I contemplate his idea. If I do it, I can wash the towels from the flood clean up and his creepy crawly pillows at the same time. After a brief detour on Google to find out how hot the water needs to be to kill dust mites and climbing through the hot water tank/linen cupboard. Picture army training, crawling on hands and knees, under barbed wire, armed with a tiny flashlight squinting at knobs that say nothing on them about temp. I give up and fill the tub. The water is so hot, if I leave my hands in for more than a second they hurt. I am satisfied I must be killing something.(I also end up cleaning the linen cupboard out because apparently we have started throwing everything in there like vases and dinosaur party plates).  I then proceed to clean the rest of the house because I have got it in my head that the delivery boys will need coffee and thus the rest of the house must be cleaned.

 I leave the duvet for as long as I can but decide I need to pull it out so it will dry. Now, I realize it will be wet so I won’t be able to just walk across the house with it to the washing machine where I plan to spin it. So I cleverly get the laundry basket (it has holes in it but not at the bottom). I struggle a bit to get it untangled from the towels and with one last tug I free it and plop it in the laundry basket. As I do, there is a woosh and a wave of water races across the bathroom floor. (Just to let you know, screaming NOOO!! does not do anything to help) I grab every available towel from my now organized linen cupboard but they are powerless against the two inches of water now soaking into the cat food and hair that is strewn all over the bathroom. As I frantically mop the water to keep it in the center of the room and away from carpet and walls, I consider I should have emptied the water out of the tub first and let it drain. Also I probably should have had some coffee as it is now one o’clock and I am a bit ragey. (In retrospect, this may also be why I am obsessed with giving the delivery men coffee.) Al arrives home for lunch where I yell at him for making me wash the duvet in the tub to which he says, “You didn’t have to…” and “You should have let the water out of the tub first.”  To which I say… I am not sure what I said, I blacked out for a second.

Al leaves. The bed comes. They don’t want coffee. I spend the evening pouting… and Al gets the new bed which I refuse to let him enjoy (because what’s 17 years of marriage without a little immaturity? I did apologize but it went like this “I am so sorry I am not being nice about the bed… I mean, I am not sorry but I predict I will be sorry soon. So in anticipation of future feelings of guilt, I am sorry…"). On the bright side though, I think this year’s anniversary fight will be over by the actual date!

 

The Blue Paint Day

 

It all started on a Wednesday… I was having an extremely unproductive day. Often I found myself staring at my computer, yelling at characters who have decided to go on their own adventurous path – not the one I carefully laid out for them.

 I decided to do some laundry, so that I would at least have something to show for the stagnant day. I put the load on and went back to stare at my computer for the forty minutes until it was done. I hear the beeping and, on the way there, decide I need to take a long walk to clear my head so I can keep writing. However, when I enter the garage I feel a horrid squish. I find I am ankle deep in a sea of soapy water now seeping into all of our hoarded boxes (boxes we refuse to get rid of and refuse to unpack because we move so much.) I know immediately what has happened. In my I-am-angry-that-writing-is-not-going-well-and-taking-it-out-on-the-laundry-state, I had flung a sock into the sink. I thought I removed it but I had not and, since that is where the water drains with each cycle, it had formed a nice plug and every full load of water was now on the floor of the garage.

I call Al at work and give him a heart attack because I lead with “Is there any way you could come home from work?” Plus, my voice was a little panicky. We spend his entire lunch break(and I spend the rest of my afternoon), mopping up the suds and moving boxes from one side of the garage to the other and trying to figure out how to get the water mopped up from under the sink which has a quarter inch gap between it and the floor. (We are geniuses at this point because we came up with a towel wrapped around a homemade “girls rule” sign. And really, girls do rule…) Anyway this, combined with the fact that we got the free old fridge from Al’s work, meant we had to clean the garage. Our weekend plans were thus solidified: awesome day with friends/movies swapping on one day and horrible cleaning out garage the other day.

The “other” day arrives. In order to get us all motivated, I decide we should eat breakfast out. That way the kitchen stays clean (because there is nothing worse than returning from the clean garage to melted cheese-encrusted bowls and chips crumbled and crunching under your feet. (I am not sure why there are always chips on the carpet; my daughter swears it is not her but I don’t find I am swinging bags of chips in an arch until the crumbs fling out everywhere. Perhaps I am: it could be subconscious but, either way, there are always chips on our carpet.)

So, off we go to the cafe. Al orders a gluten-free pasta salad which, as he said “has no taste… absolutely no taste. It’s like they tried to find all ingredients that taste like nothing and put them in my bowl.”

I had a yummy muffin and Amelia had nachos.

As we arrive at the Warehouse (for US readers: Wal-Mart equivalent, still crappy stuff but way over priced.) We make the fateful decision to allow Amelia to redecorate her room, moving from princess (which she has loathed for a couple years now) to a style more fitting a 10 year old. This seemed like a good idea at the time; however the pricing and thought of spending the day assembling “some assembly required” furniture will be a waste of money and time, so we end up negotiating over colors of five-dollar, cheaply-made boxes and decide to repaint her current pink furniture blue. This whole process leaves Alan almost comatose as far as his ability to make any decisions and me bordering on murderous rage because no decisions are being made. It is 1pm and we still haven’t started on the post-war-zone garage.

As we stand staring at the various plastic bins we initially passed by, we are approached by an elderly gentleman wearing a bike helmet. Not particularly odd except that he is not currently on a bike and he is wearing it unclasped and backwards so the large pointy end is sticking out at us.

Here is the conversation:

‘Man, these bins are great aren’t they?’

Alan and I nod. ‘Yes we sure like them.’

‘Yeah, amazing! I just got one of those trailers for my bike. I was thinking of getting one of these for the back.’

Alan starts squinting, trying to picture how the large bin would fit in one of those.

‘Oh cool!’ I say.

‘Yeah, you guys should get one of those! It just attaches to the back of your bike and you can go anywhere. I am thinking of taking this camping!’

Al is looking very skeptical and opens his mouth so before he says something mean I jump in.

‘Wow, camping, that sounds fun.’ Alan crinkles his brow at me and shakes his head. This guy should not be going camping with a plastic bin and a bike trailer.

‘Well, excuse me. I’ll just grab one of these he says taking one and then gives us the website for the bike trailers just in case…’

We head home after purchasing blue paint from a guy with Ed Sheeran lyrics tattooed up his arm (which I found a little strange… Not that I don’t like Ed Sheeran. In fact, I REALLY like Ed Sheeran: I am just not sure I would tattoo his lyrics up my arm. Because even if some of his lyrics may really speak to you, you have to wonder, will they still speak to you when your skin is saggy and you have way more wisdom? This may just be an argument against tattoos and have nothing to do with the content of tattoos but really the content is the tattoo…) Anyway, we arrive home and get started.

Amelia begins painting and we start grumbling about the mountain of plastic broken toys that she has to keep for “the new baby”. I am not pregnant but she is convinced one is on the way… so is saving everything from the previously mentioned princess room, in case “the new baby is into girly stuff” which Amelia would like made clear she is NOT anymore and actually on more than one occasion has been very worried the “new baby will be into princess stuff and where will that leave them with nothing to talk about, that’s what!”

Anyway she begins to complain that she is not feeling well but we tell her to “just quickly finish – it should just take you ten minutes; that way we can wash everything out”. This is followed by an increase in sighing and grumbling under the breath but, as per our policy, we don’t pay much attention.

This turns out to be a mistake. When one of us looks up from being buried in Barbie dolls with amputated limbs we see that the grumbling was just the light breezes that precede a tornado. She has taken her frustration out on the paint and it is now soaking into the cement up and down the driveway (we have a home inspection from the landlord this coming week, which in and of itself is a ray of sunshine!), all over her new shoes (which she took off because we said don’t get paint on them) and slopping over the top of the bookshelf which was supposed to remain green. We now (“gently” and not yelling of course because we are outside and so are the neighbors) inform her that she must scrub the paint off the driveway while I try to fix the bookshelf, which Amelia has painted in large globs rather than smooth strokes. She spends the next hour crying and scrubbing like our own little Cinderella, saying she doesn’t feel well to which we say “ha! That is convenient….” We spend the time, as we continue to throw broken walky-talkies and lost headbands at each other for sorting, monologuing  about how important it is for her to finish cleaning off the driveway so she learns the valuable lesson of taking the time to do something right… (We are very proud of our parenting skills. And the tough love.)

The next two days she is home from school, sick… I finished painting the bookshelves and am no longer sure I am qualified to be a parent.

Loaded Baked Potato

 I recently took my parents and my 9 year old out for dinner in downtown Denver while on our way to the Festival of Death (see below). Once off the train, we alternate taking the free bus and walking to decide on a place to eat. I notice my nine year old is getting a bit nervous. She has been to a big city before but she spends most of her time in a small town with trips to the “city” once a week (the city being population 50,000 as opposed to nearly 650,000) so, the first time we pass a man yelling at himself, I find she is trying to fold herself into my side. She also can’t figure out why my parents keep talking to random strangers. Such as the courier whose legs are complimented upon by her grandpa. She wants to know why. Why would someone comment about a perfect strangers legs? In New Zealand, people pass you on the street with little or no eye contact but, in the States if you are walking  along, often conversations occur with random strangers. She feels the need after each one to say  'Why was he saying that to us??' 
After a while, we stop at a deli (just to set the scene here, this is not a restaurant, it is a deli; it serves sandwiches, soups, salads and pastries…) and place our order. My Dad goes last and he asks if he can have a baked potato with chili on it. The poor teenager at the till is very confused and says ‘ummmm. You want chili?’

‘No I want a baked potato with chili on it. Do you have a baked potato?’ 

My mother then tries to explain what a baked potato is to the now very red-faced young man who is still trying to smile at us. ‘You know, a baked potato. You take a potato, poke it with a fork and bake it in the oven until it is cooked.’

‘It says you have a "loaded baked potato" right there on your menu.’ Dad says with confidence. I can’t see it anywhere, so cannot try to help. But then the server nods and places the order. When it comes to our table, there is just a bowl of chili with a bread roll. Dad says to a nearby server ‘there is supposed to be a baked potato with that.’ 
The server looks very confused. ‘We don’t have baked potato’

Dad says, ‘On your menu it says "loaded baked potato".’

‘Umm... we have potato soup…’

‘But it said loaded baked potato…’

‘Yeah, that’s loaded baked potato soup.’

Dad studies his tiny bowl of chili that looks like a kids portion and, in fact, matches the size of my daughter's Mac and Cheese, which we got as a side dish to my half a sandwich. A little defeated he takes the bite of chili.

About half way through the meal, Dad starts to get worried. ‘Melody… I haven’t seen a single bus pass by…’

I say, ‘Dad, that’s not where the busses run. 16^th St is behind you.’ I begin to worry about how Mom and Dad will navigate around their hometown after I am gone...

Since we have eaten very little, we decide to get some cookies but there are no chocolate chip ones. It should be noted here that, if you go to purchase a cookie and they are out of chocolate chip, you should just walk away; very few other cookies are worth the money or the calories. We ignore this sound piece of advice, that I usually adhere to with strictness, and buy the inferior cookies. Mom and I share because, as stated in a previous post, if you share a cookie this negates all calories. Unfortunately, she drops half of her share on the ground. Now, most of you don’t know my mother but for her this is a tragedy, a real one, on par with being robbed.  If she is going to buy something, she will eat every last piece of it; whether she likes it or not, whether it has spoiled in the fridge, or whether it takes an additional twenty minutes to scrape the last few drops or crumbs from the bottom. She does not waste. However, thankfully she does draw the line at eating food off the Downtown Denver sidewalk.  
Dad's disappointing meal finishes with a terrible oatmeal raisin cookie. (Is this really a surprise, I mean, come on, what is the deal? If I wanted a breakfast bar, I would have ordered a breakfast bar. If you are going to make oatmeal cookies, at least put chocolate chips in them.) We divide the terrible oatmeal cookie and my remaining half between us.
I then have to beg and plead with Dad not to eat the cookie off the ground. He claims it will just build his immune system. I am trying to explain that it is not just dirt on the ground and consuming whatever is on the ground is not the same thing as getting immunized and may in fact have the opposite deadly effect. My panic, as I watch the contaminated cookie get closer to his mouth, has made my voice rather loud and shrill and I am not very coherent. I think, just to get me to stop, not because he agrees with me, he concedes and the E. coli cookie remains abandoned on the empty plate.
 We leave the restaurant, navigating around the homeless people being arrested and the man shouting at the fence. Amelia and I leave a couple of paces behind Mom and Dad and are now faced with a choice: Mom has gone to the left to have a look at the miniature golf course with mini replicas of Denver landmarks and Dad has taken off to the right and down the street to catch the bus to the event. Now I find myself trying to yell over the heads of the arresting officers to get Dad to come back, but simultaneously trying not to draw attention to myself because I do not want to be arrested. And you never know when a case of mistaken identity could end up with you in prison...
Amelia runs off to follow Mom (because she lives in a safe country where running off does not normally end up in grievous bodily harm).  Now I am yelling for both Amelia AND Dad, yet still trying to keep a "I-am-a-normal-person" expression on my face. Because I can't get Dad's attention I run over to Amelia and Mom and force them to follow me, ending their tourism. As we serpentine through the homeless people, I remind Amelia not to step on the blanket that is on the ground. She of course asks why. I then have to explain that it is the man's who is being arrested and, even though it looks like trash, it is his and we must respect it. This is all so confusing that she attempts to ask several questions but can't quite form them in her mind and gives up. We finally catch up with Dad who has missed a bus, so is waiting for the next one.  Next time, I am going to put those leashes you can buy for kids on everybody.

Festival of Death

Since many of you know me, it may come as a shock to you (it did to me and I would like to think I know me better than I know myself…) that I don’t like festivals. It seems to be a new development because I have very recent memories of being up for anything. Put some stalls up, invite all the town crazies and I AM IN. However, lately, I seem to choose to skip the festivals in favor of… sitting at home in my pjs. So I have to wonder: am I just getting old or are festivals getting more annoying?      For instance, we decided to head into downtown Denver for the July 4^th Eve festival. We take the train because all of the event organizers pleaded on websites for everyone to take public transport. I spend the whole time yelling at Amelia because she keeps touching the pole and then wiping her hand down her jacket. I can see the germs from the hundreds of people before her now crawling happily up and down the front of her jacket. I realize this makes me seem like a germaphobe; feel free to believe this about me. I am. (I do have a legitimate medical reason though, which at some point I may share with you all. But to be honest, my obsession with germs began in my first microbiology class, so with or without the excuse, I would still have been yelling at her the entire way.)
Anyway, we disembark the Petri dish disguised as a train and head out to find some dinner. This is successful in that we eat some and I get material for an additional blog post about the perils of taking your parents and a 9 year old out to dinner downtown. (To be posted soon, mainly for my sisters' benefit.) Anyway, our bellies full, we jump on a free bus to get closer to the excitement. This is when we make our first mistake. A neighbor had told Dad to get off at California St. because this is the closest stop. It is not. It is the closest stop to the Convention Center… unfortunately, we are not going to the Convention Center, we are going to the Civic Center. Both places starting with double C’s but just because they share letters does not mean they share the same space in the universe. We must now walk eight city blocks. (To be fair to festivals and people who misunderstood where you were going before they gave you directions, I was in a significant amount of pain due to the briefly aforementioned illness, so I am willing to concede that, at this point in our trip, my distaste for festivals may be biased.)  We finally make it. There is a sea of people. (I realize that this is an overused metaphor so give me a moment and I will try to figure out a better one.) We arrive at the front, near the stage and my parents begin trying to make their way into the throng. I start to panic a little. Now, I feel there is some rationale to my panic. Leaving aside the fact that I can see the germ count floating above everyone’s head like an aura, I have been living in a country whose entire population is equal to Denver but spread out over the square miles of Colorado, so I am feeling a little claustrophobic. Also, people don’t tend to hate New Zealanders so I have grown used to the low terror threat. However, living overseas has made me keenly aware of how much other countries hate Americans so I am a little afraid of the security risk of being in a large group of them. Anyway, we decide not to navigate our way through the people penned in like sheep and opt to sit at the front, on the sidewalk, behind the tape that says “Police line :do not cross”. Here is a photo.

The Event staff is very paranoid at this particular location, yelling at anyone who steps over the line that they are not safe and to get back behind the line. It occurs to me that I am sitting next to the flimsy tape and, if it is not safe on the other side of it, how is it that we are safe…?  This apparently has occurred to my daughter as well because, 45 minutes before the fireworks start, she is asking me to cover her ears and is trying to bury herself into me. We can’t tell her when the fireworks will be starting because every time someone gets on stage to talk they sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown, as we are sitting beside the stage, not in front.
The fireworks do get started, with cannon blasts that seem to be pointed directly at us, causing my daughter to scream and instantly sob. She is sure I have brought her to her execution. This is fun, I think to myself as she continues to cry and then screams as pieces from the exploding bombs fall on us, confirming her belief that I have brought her to the Festival of Death. I keep offering to leave but she is too scared to move. (And I think secretly she is against standing up in front of the entire crowd, crying.) I spend the rest of the time hoping it will just end. When it is over, we join the masses of others who have done their civic duty and taken the busses and trains. Unfortunately, none of the busses are running… apparently they just wanted us to get to the event, not leave. So we walk the two miles to the train, picking up millions of others who were at other events downtown and also did their civic duty. We arrive at the train station now really feeling like cattle. And realize that they are not running very many trains (again, I don't know why... perhaps the homeless population is dwindling and they are hoping to boost numbers?) It will be a half hour before we can get on the next train. That is, if we are willing to push old ladies and small children on to the train tracks so we can get home. By sheer luck, we end up standing behind a cute family with an even cuter baby and we shamelessly use them as a human shield to get on the train.  My daughter spends the ride home watching the baby and decides that the tiny feet and hands are the cutest things she has seen in her entire life. And she informs me that she has changed her mind about not wanting a sibling. Now she REALLY wants me to have another baby: boy or girl as long as she gets to hold it. Barely holding on with my screaming-in-pain fingertips, packed in to the cattle car, I ponder what it is about festivals that I used to like.
Perhaps it is just a question of money. The following night, the Fourth of July, we decide to drive our own car, park four blocks from the baseball stadium for 25 dollars, sit in our amazing comfortable seats, eat overpriced  yummy junk food, laugh, sing, dance, watch fireworks from a safe distance, walk the four blocks to the car and make such good time on the way home that Dairy Queen is still open, so we can finish the night off with some ice cream. Maybe money really can buy happiness...

 

The Perils of Gym Going PART TWO

I have two words for you: Stump Class. The explanation on my gym’s website states that Stump Class is a combination of two things called Stepping and Pump Class (weight training). It adds “make sure you give yourself three or four times to become familiar with the steps.” I think to myself, “I have walked up steps before, I am sure I can go up and down on just one.” I start to get a little nervous when I clarify with the front desk lady which room the class is in and she repeats the warning from the description. As I enter the large room with the stage up front, I first notice that there are mirrors on every wall of the room as well as weight machines and free weights around the perimeter. I approach a very serious person, ready to go with her step in front of her, and asked in a voice resembling a kindergartener if this is “Stump”. She informs me curtly that it is and that I need to get a step from the hallway and a “Plate”. I look frantically around the room for what she could possibly mean as a plate. I see various things that I hope are not a “plate” one of which is one of those skateboard tops with the rolly thing underneath that you use for balance… I swallow the large lump in my throat and consider running from the room but too many people have seen me. So I trudge out to get my “step”. I grab the large platform and then try to grab the four gigantic, plastic, Lego-like squares that attach to make it an actual step. This proves more difficult than I had anticipated and several people come and go collecting their own steps. I try to look like I am debating about which of the hundred identical cubes I will choose. I watch how they manage to carry all of the components at once, copy their technique and stumble my way back into the room. Then the instructor tells us we need a plate. I wait, “pondering” again, until the others go and get one of the large, round, flat weights and I follow suit like I have finally made up my mind.

Comfortable now that I can do this (because it is not the skateboard/rolly thing), I grab a big one like everyone else had and haul it back to my step. The room fills with even more very serious people. The instructor then asks if there is anyone new. I put up my hand and she says “Don’t worry; it takes at least 3 or 4 times to get the steps.” Now I definitely want to leave but I can’t because everyone is looking at me so I try and find my most enthusiastic smile and give her a thumbs-up. Then the music starts and she starts yelling “just up and tap”.

“I got this!” I think, “This is just stepping and tapping your foot.” Then it is up and tap your heal and I am like, “Whatever, they clearly don’t know I used to dance as I child. I am going to be the most amazing first-time stump person EVER!” I amuse myself for a few minutes picturing the instructor coming up afterwards to congratulate me on how amazing I am. Then she says, “That was our warm up! Okay, here we go!” Now she is saying things like Grape Vine and I know what a grapevine is but I am not exactly sure how to incorporate it into my step. Everyone is stomping in unison and the girl in front of me has decided that stepping and weight training mixture is not enough – this should be a dance class as well! So she is flailing her arms back and forth and in wide dancing arcs (still not smiling though). Then everything becomes a blur as we make our way through steps such as Sumo and Macarena (which I also remember from the nineties but can’t quite understand how to incorporate into a step nor the associated clapping). And then there is Basic which is not basic and involves stepping over (and I am pretty sure some people went under) their step. Then there is the Marching Around the Step where I am always going the wrong way and almost smacking into the guy next to me.

                Now it seems that, just because there is a class in the room, it doesn’t mean people can’t come and do other things. First there is the old man, fully dressed in jeans and a winter jacket and carrying two bags, looking a little lost who wanders in and out of the rows of steppers and up to the stage where he stops for a minute to (as I would if I were him) ponder the insanity. Satisfied that we are all certifiable, he sits on the chest-fly machine, gives it a couple of squeezes and walks out. Highlight of the class! Low point of the class was the young guys training for the… sitting marathon? It must be an event where you lift a little and then stand around and watch everyone for 20 minutes: if so, they are going to WIN!

Finally we switch to resistance training, which I can comprehend because it is things like lift your leg and do a crunch etc., words I recognize as opposed to Cross Over Double Back which sounds more like the name of a spy mission than a step move. Unfortunately, because I had copied everyone and taken one of the heaviest weights, halfway through I have to do the walk of shame back to the racks to get a lighter one. The Dancer/stepper/weightlifter is not impressed with this at all. I try not to make eye contact as I slink down to my spot again. And, much to my chagrin, the stepping portion is not over. We have to get up and do it again. The instructor keeps saying some of the same moves as before but with new endings like Sumo Double Back instead of just Sumo. And Macarena Pop and Basic with Side L…

So now I find I am just spinning around and around in a circle that sometimes includes stepping on my step (picture Alex in Flashdance). Annoying dancer/stepper/weightlifter girl is doing it all perfectly and incorporating her extra dance moves. As for me, avoiding smacking into the guy next to me becomes my only goal. At one point I am so dizzy and, along with the Michael Jackson music blaring, I am pretty sure I time traveled and was in this same class in the eighties, legwarmers and all…

I make it to the end where I do not get my accolades but instead the instructor says “Wow, you made it to the end…” and of course she reminds me to “give it time…” I nod and smile and thank her. Two days later I am back at home with my good old dumbbells and exercise ball because I do not think three or four times will ever be enough.

The perils of gym going PART ONE!

So, I joined the gym at my university… While I am glad I did, it has presented some problems. Because it is 45 minutes from home, I must plan ahead. Now this may seem straight forward, and experienced gym goers (Marleen I am talking to you) may be confused at my ineptitude. My first problem is I have to park on campus which means I have to park a mile away from everywhere. And I have no shoulders. I do not know why but, when I place a bag over my shoulder, it promptly falls off. When I look in the mirror I appear normal not, as the endless slipping bags and purses indicate, a 1920s circus freak. “Step right up ladies and gentlemen – see the terrifying, mind-bending freak lady with no shoulders!”

Anyway, so now I have to walk a mile with bags of clothes, shampoo, water bottle, three towels (one for the hair, one for the body and one for sweating). Plus various offerings to the beauty gods, such as: Hair dryer, straightener and, of course, Moroccan oil. Otherwise, no matter how much heat I apply to my hair, the beauty gods think it is funny to watch as the day progresses and my hair expands 'till I look like my daily job is checking electrical sockets are working. So, Moroccan oil to wrangle it into place.

Then I need my school bag. I am usually running late so I park and then take off jogging towards the gym. Now, the reason I joined the gym is because I hurt my Achilles tendon running so, about three steps into the jog, I must stop. But I am still late so now I look like a speed-walking homeless person with all my worldly goods slung over my non existent shoulders. People have to give me quite the wide berth as my various bags swing randomly from their perch and threaten them. I am angry at my shoulders at this point so people are also giving me a wide berth because I look like I might be trying to hit them with my wildly swinging bags. I arrive at the gym and throw all bags on the floor in front of reception. The young, large-shouldered, golden goddesses behind the counter look at me sideways, sure that I should not be this out of breath heading into the gym. I try to keep my expletives as quiet as possible as I fish my wallet from the very bottom of the school bag.

Finally I produce the entry card and stomp back to the changing rooms. Now I have ten minutes before spin class begins. This may seem like enough time but clearly you do not wear sports bras. I start by hopping around the gym with my toes lifted, to avoid the dreaded athlete’s foot, and to avoid dragging my pants on the ground while simultaneously pulling them on. Then, it is time for the bra. I like the kind that goes over your head… when they are on that is. I get it over my head and now handily absent shoulders but then I am stuck. To be fair, I have dumb arthritis elbows that don’t straighten, but still… So now it is balled up under my armpits and I am flinging my body around like I am trying to escape from a straight jacket. This is when I hear the outer door to the changing room open. I dive for cover into the shower stall, still balancing on my heels to keep my toes from touching the slimy floor. I keep flinging my body sideways, trying frantically to get the damn thing over my squished boobs. Then it occurs to me that, if I fell over in here and hit my head, it would appear to my rescuers that I had been strangled by my own bra. Determined not to be headline news “Woman strangled by sports bra” I wrestle with it determinedly until I finally triumph.

I am ten minutes late to class…