Bad Parents, or Not just Any Given Sunday

So we had the complete and utter meltdown of diplomatic relations between our daughter and us on Sunday. You may be asking, what was the shot heard round the world? It was a shoe. Well, a pair of shoes to be exact. Shoes, I feel, have always been underrated in their role in diplomatic breakdown. I mean, shoes are SHOES and I think shoes are an integral part of your personality so if someone messes with your shoes it’s like messing with you. Not to mention the whole President Bush and the shoe throwing incident!

Also it is important to keep in mind when diplomatic relations break down, the last time everyone had some protein. Because we neglected to remember that our daughter had risen at six am and had gotten herself a bowl of cereal. Thus, at twelve pm, when the war started, she is ravenous. (This gives me pause about current crises around the world. Has anyone ever tried making everyone a sandwich with some chicken on it? Because people get REALLY angry and irrational without food and I’m just saying it could be worth a shot… not that I am naïve enough to think that the problems they are facing could be fixed with food, I am just saying that perhaps negotiations would go smoother if everyone was fed.) Anyway, wanting to be parents of integrity and intending to show that she could trust us and that our word meant something, (and because we still haven't figured out the food thing and because we are a little scared of the level of escalation and what that would look like in public) Alan decides to follow through with the threat that if she doesn’t change her shoes and her attitude we will not be going to see her best friends. We deliver the news after much deliberation. The tears come, the bargaining starts and we begin to think that we may have gone about it in the wrong way. Starting with, putting a consequence in place that not only punishes her but seven other people, including us who were looking forward to spending the day with our friends.

Our day now ruined, we embark on a walk. We discuss our failings as parents and how many years back we must have made our first error because such an epic war always begins years before. I think it can be traced back to my winning of the argument that I felt we could raise our daughter without spanking even though Alan and I had both been spanked and seemed to have survived. I decided that our children would be logical and we could always come up with creative ways to discipline without using spanking. Unfortunately, it seems, at times we are unprepared for the level of creativity required to come up with a new punishment every time diplomatic methods fail. Also, sometimes we underestimate the amount of illogical behavior a child can produce. We replay the last few weeks and realize we may have lost a few key battles which may have lead to the all out, guns blazing, war. This is what we are in deep discussion about when we notice that, up ahead, our daughter who is riding her bike, suddenly stops and dives into a ditch.

“Now what?” asks Alan with a sigh.

“Probably animal rescue…” I say, knowing that animal rescue is what would send my daughter into a dirty hole faster than anything. As we approach she motions angrily for us to quiet down.

“KITTENS!” she whispers, her eyes wild with excitement.

Sure enough, three little kittens are living in a storm drain. She and Alan begin trying to coax them out. I stand by, offering helpful hints like “Aww you just scared it!” and “Oh, shoot!” Finally, since I have been so helpful, they send me home for, now this is very important: “1. A box with a lid. 2. Milk. 3. Any leftover meat I can find.” I listen very carefully and head home. I find a clean box with a four sided lid, check. Milk with a bowl I don’t care about, check. And a container of the leftover chicken that, if you are following my blog you will remember, Alan forgot to put away and it sat out all night, check. I drive back and present my offering: Al says ‘aww you should have brought tuna…’ I say, ‘You didn’t say tuna. You said leftover meat, I thought tuna would have been good but you said leftover meat, you should remember this is my first “rescuing kittens scenario…”’ (I get a little snarky there at the end; please feel free to read it that way.)

Now, we have coaxed a kitten out with food (apparently they do like leftover left-out chicken so there!) and Amelia picks up the kitten by the neck and then drops it. It goes running into the bushes. Amelia freaks out but, like a true professional, she regroups and coaxes the next one out. This time she keeps hold and brings it to Dad who showers her with praise (I do as well while trying to back away with imperceptible steps. I should make a confession here that animals have always scared me. I blame it on not having pets growing up but it is probably just my distrusting nature. I mean, animals can turn on you in a second! Also, they were living in the drain pipe and as a self-professed germaphobe… well you see my dilemma.)

 Anyway, Alan then sees the box and says “Oh… this is not a good box, you should have brought a basket or something…” I then say, in a slightly more whiny voice than necessary “…but you didn’t say basket, you said box with a lid! So I went home and found a clean box with a lid.” He takes in my defiant face, nods and approaches the box. He attempts to place the kitten in the box and close all four lids. As it claws its way back out he mumbles “not the right box, shhh calm down… not the right box…” He finally succeeds in closing the lid on the terrified kitten who is now in the dark and sure he is being taken somewhere horrible. Amelia has coaxed the last one out of the drain pipe and brings it to Dad who praises her again and attempts to place it in the box with the first one. This causes the first kitten to claw its way out by digging its claws into Alan’s skin. Now he is trying to hold both and keeps yelling “NOT THE RIGHT BOX! NOT THE RIGHT BOX! NOT THE RIGHT BOX…MEL HELP!!” to which I respond (while backing away from the carnage) “What do you need?” he responds “Just help! I can’t…” Then he loses one, who skitters off down the street (I try and look like I am making a run for it while secretly hoping I won’t catch it)  “It’s the wrong box…” he finishes, still holding the frightened first one, bleeding profusely from multiple wounds on his forearms. We decide to go and get an appropriate basket… and rescue the other one still caught in the bushes.

In the end we have arrived home with two of the three kittens immediately named Marco and Gonzales by Amelia (which I find perfect because they BOTH liked the chicken with the jalapeños mixed in).  A little later, I find the two kittens sleeping on top of each other and promptly send Alan back out in the middle of the night to find the other one who is now alone. He comes home empty handed. I am not impressed and he is confused (because I have been so worried about the kittens up to this point). He explains that he tried but it was…dark and… the pipe is now… dark… because it is the middle of the night… All the while we are explaining to Amelia that we are not allowed pets in our rental to which she tries to put on a brave face. The next day Alan spends $75 on flea treatments, de-worming tablets, specialty kitten food and a litter box… because he says we definitely have to give them away…

Clearly we are parents who keep their word.

 

The Realities of Valentine’s Day

You should know this is an unusual post for me (also you should know I had another post all ready to go so if you don’t like this one stay tuned). I used to be a romantic and get mad at all the Valentine’s Day haters. But now I am starting to see that my dad may be right. He used to say, much to my annoyance, that he didn’t like Valentine’s because he didn’t like a huge corporation to tell him to show love. I was like “Oh come on Dad, join the party! Every party has a pooper…” But now that I am old and apparently  a little cynical, I am beginning to see the wisdom in my Dad’s words. (This has been happening for a while, for my dad is a very wise man, like if he had been alive when Jesus was born he definitely would have been following a star and bringing a gift. He is THAT wise. And most days I am aware of how blessed I am to have a dad that wise. Just yesterday while listening to one of his amazing teachings online it occurred to me I had my own direct line to him literally… I called him and he sorted out my current problem with in about 15 minutes) Anyway, now I think he may be on to something with this Valentine’s Day thing too. I have a lot of single friends and some of them don’t care about Valentine’s but for some it is very painful reminder that they don’t have a valentine and the throw-up of red and pink everywhere is just like slapping them in the face.

But let’s look at this from another angle... all of us “happy” people WITH Valentines. My Valentine’s Day started with a angry diatribe about my husband because he forgot to put the leftovers away last night AFTER he said he would. (You may be wondering why I didn’t just slip them into the fridge myself; this is not the point! Stick to the real issue please.) Why so angry, you may ask. Well you see when you HAVE a valentine, NOT putting the left-overs away is not just "not putting the left overs away". It is, “You don’t love me because you didn’t put the left-overs away! You don’t respect the hard work I put into that meal… (that was WAY too spicy for you AND you were allergic to several key ingredients but told me it was yummy anyway”. Stick to the point people this is MY story).

This may have all started when having a discussion about life on our couch the other day (see the key is, this happened Valentine's week.) Something caught Al’s eye. It was an unidentified bug crawling up over his shoulder from his back. He proceeded to scream like a little girl and THEN flick it off his shoulder DIRECTLY on to ME! So now we are both screaming but mainly I am screaming at him for flinging it at me. This leaves the 2014 woman in quite the conundrum by-the-way and fighting about this must be done very carefully. Because we want to be all equal opportunities and such, so really we should not be screaming when we have a bug on us. However, I had a loophole you see, because HE was screaming about the bug too. SO it was already a case of equality. So then my argument was NOT about chivalry it was about common courtesy… see? So you can’t say “I can’t believe you didn’t protect me from the bug!” but use the carefully chosen words “I can’t believe you flung a bug at me!” which any guy could say to another guy… See it is very technical… (Secretly, I would still like to be protected from bugs by someone not screaming but feministly I am perfectly capable of handling bugs.)

Anyway, so to all the single people out there who are sad I will not say you are better off because that is insulting if you are sad and I definitely don’t feel that way. ALL of you deserve a Valentine and I hope you find the love of your life very soon. I will say though, that once you have a Valentine there is no guarantee you will have a fun Valentine’s Day… because he couldn’t get a babysitter (to be fair it is a Friday and we have like one babysitter because we don’t trust anyone with our daughter), or you are still mad about the leftover thing, or the bug incident is still very confusing. So 16 years after getting your Valentine you will be sitting at home watching American Idol with a messy kitchen (because clearly HE has to clean the kitchen because he SAID he would put the leftovers away!).

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Super Bowl sad and Mother-in-law sad

I have a confession to make. I think I may have contributed to the Broncos’ hideous game-playing Sunday. You see, I was pretty homesick and, if the Broncos had won, it would have been WAY too bittersweet. Heavy on the bitter and light on the sweet. The last time Denver won the Super Bowl, my Dad, a happy-at-home, self-described non-partier drove into downtown Denver and, in conjunction with the thronging masses, tooted his car horn and yelled out his car window. I would have given almost anything to see that but I missed it, being Down Under and all… So, if the Broncos had won yesterday and I had once again been sequestered on this tiny island, about as far away from home as I could get, I may just have cried and cried. Then I would have felt terrible because, while so many of my Bronco-brethren would be happy and Peyton Manning would have another Super Bowl ring after his record breaking season, there would be me: all self pity and sad, thinking how mean the world is.

As it is though, they not only lost but lost… wow… badly. So my Dad can recover in solitude and I don’t feel like I have missed out on something amazing and historic. So thank you Denver Broncos because, while the game was painful to watch, it is clear you need me in the country in order to win (as evidenced by the AFC championship, won while I sat in my Aunt’s living room next to my Dad). I will  humbly accept a plane ticket and season tickets in order to ensure victory next year and you may as well throw in a job (it is a long season). I mean, when going for the big one, you really should leave nothing to chance. And after yesterday, can you really be sure my absence had NOTHING to do with it? I mean, it was CRAZY bad and I think you should consider flying me in to Denver, just to see if it helps next time. (I should state that I am not a finely tuned athlete working towards a huge goal all year so I have no right to comment. However, I am not positive but, it may help if you guys sort out who the Quarterback is before you start... just so there is no confusion when it is time to snap the ball. I am not sure, but I think it's pretty mean to tell a guy he can be quarterback at the Super Bowl and then just snap the ball when ever you feel like it. It confuses him. And then for the rest of the game he is like "I thought I was the quarterback... I got to be the quarterback all season... remember, I broke all those records and such... hmmm"; meanwhile the defense is running all over and blitzing. I don't know, it is just a thought and again I have no right to comment.)

Anyway, just to be clear, I am Super Bowl sad but still a diehard Bronco fan.

Unfortunately, I cannot properly process the Super Bowl loss because I just found out that my In Laws are arriving for an unexpected visit. Now, for many of you this would not hamper your post-game blues recovery effort but (because I am a below-par daughter-in-law) I must pick myself up, dust myself off and figure out what to wear, what to cook, and of course clean the house because “we always live like this.” “This” being: sparkling, dust-free shelves, meticulously vacuumed floors, mirrors that reflect with pinpoint accuracy (not covered in spittle from tooth brushing), perfectly matched dinner table set ready with the most neutral food. The food must not make an impression; it must be delicious, but not too rich and not too bland. They should remember being satisfied without recalling exactly what you made because that would require discussion about cooking, which I do not handle well. (If I get a “this is interesting...” comment I tend to get a little insecure. Then I start speaking rather loudly and making REALLY bad jokes that no one is laughing at but I am laughing at such a loud volume I don’t notice, meanwhile shoveling more of the "interesting" food into my mouth to prove it is not "interesting" but delicious and then I am talking and laughing way too loud with the "Interesting" food coming out of my mouth… just trust me: neutral food!) I must put all my intrinsic crazy on hold so that they do not continue to get confirmation that their pride and joy son married a neurotic, dream-chasing, messy American. (You should get a bitter taste in your mouth when you say the word American. But I say, at least I’m not from Auckland! Right, New Zealanders from small towns? You know what I am talking about!) Mind you, I am pretty sure that after 16 years they have all the confirmation they need. But I like to pretend that, as they pull out of my driveway, they have a little conversation that goes, “Wow, Mel seems more normal right?” “Oh yes, much more normal…”

Or, I could just leave the underwear on the floor, the dishes half done, and the bags packed. (I haven’t unpacked from our trip to Denver… it’s for real reasons… I was busy… It is all winter clothes… OK, fine, it’s because I am not ready to be “back”, so if my bag stays packed, I’m not back, see? I realize it is a bit irrational, as I stumble over them EVERY time I need to pee, but leave me alone.) I could show that usually half of our dining table is used as storage for socks with no matches, laundry that is just to difficult to put away and bike helmets.  (It's a big table so we just eat around these things.) Then maybe I could top it all off by letting Amelia tell them that we had hotdogs for dinner two nights in a row. Normally, she gets a pre-visit lecture about what is okay to tell the in-laws. For instance: Don’t tell them that Dad has to sleep in the spare room (See blog from 20^th of September before forming an opinion please) / Don’t tell them we sent you to your first day back at school with only half of your school supplies / Don’t tell them you were late on your first day back at school / Don’t tell them I put the left over hors d’ourves from the Super Bowl in your lunchbox and talked myself into believing it was a balanced lunch (there was, like, cream cheese which is goodish and, like, salsa which has, like, vegetables… you know, balanced). And please don’t tell them that I let you have unsupervised amounts of Coke, Fanta (because, you know, it's orange… team spirit!!) and endless bags of chips while I could not tear my eyes away from the train-wreck Super-Bowl, in order to actually parent.

Also, don’t tell them that when I told your Dad I needed to make his mother a birthday cake, he suggested I take the desiccated remains of the Bronco Super Bowl cake, put it into a smaller pan as if I had originally baked it in there and THEN rearrange the letters to say Happy Birthday instead of “GO Denver Broncos!” (This was particularly bad because I actually tried to fiddle with the frosting letters to see if I could do it…)

Maybe I will go for Daughter-in-law of the year next year AND the Broncos will win the Super Bowl…

But…probably not.

Welcome Back!

After my initial welcome back to New Zealand by an idiot machine/person combo (story below), I tried; I really did. I hid out in my house. I barely talked to anyone, afraid that because I was sad, one insensitive New Zealander could send me right over the edge into raving lunatic, insane, mean and cold hearted. But after the construction crews woke me at 0615 this morning with their friendly hammering and the alarm clock from hell (the beeping of a TINY little digger going backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, back, no… forw, no… back, no.. for…) I had plenty of time to think and I began to justify my bad behavior (lack of sleep often has this effect). Let me explain:

It all started when Amelia and I stumbled off the last plane of our 30 hour trip and had to wait an hour and a half for Alan to get off work to pick us up. We wandered, we peed, we talked to the very rude lady at the information desk, who has apparently let the authority of the information desk go to her head. I am not sure if she has always hated foreigners or if she just hates foreigners at the airport (someone should really have told her in her interview that the airport has a surprising number of foreigners) or if she is just filling in for her information and foreigner loving friend who went on her own vacation via the airport. Either way, you should know not to ask her, in your sleep deprived stupor, if there used to be a door behind her (there was about 6 months ago). This will make her angry and she will have a temper tantrum about you needing to go out door eight, even though you don’t actually want to go out any doors because you are waiting for someone. Which is why you were asking about the door, because you were trying to figure out the best place to wait for someone who forgot their cell phone and therefore you have no way of actually connecting. (She will admit to there being a door in the middle of the tirade but a “LONG TIME AGO”.)

Then Al came. I greeted him with a glare reserved for kidnappers (because clearly that is what he has done, kidnapped me, otherwise why would I be in the country with the mean information lady). He says “do you feel ok to drive?” To which I respond by stopping in the middle of the parking lot and gaping at him “…be…be…because I need to go pay for parking so maybe you could just drive up and pick me up so it doesn’t charge us more because it took us so long to get out after I paid.” He tries. To which I respond somewhere in the vocal range of my nine year old “YOU HAVEN’T PAID???? JUST GO PAY!!!” He starts running away from me now. I am not sure why. Then a man comes over to me and says Al is going the wrong way; he has to pay back at the airport to which I respond by screaming Al’s name. Then this guy suddenly looks frightened and runs away from me too, for some reason, shouting over his shoulder “Oh I think I see a pay sign over there too! I think he is ok! I think he is ok! I think he is ok!” I do not say thank you.

Al makes it back to the car and we pull out and suddenly find ourselves in a 6 way traffic jam in the parking lot with one exit. Now this parking lot charges 4 dollars per ten minutes. And after you pay you have like 30 seconds to get out of the parking lot (which is why AL wanted me to get him in the first place) He is freaking out. I tell him, “Cut it out! They can clearly see we are trapped in the parking lot and will make adjustments accordingly!” Of course it gets worse. People keep pulling up to the little box and sitting there for ten minutes each. Some of them actually back up and re park (we assume they forgot to pay). When we get to the thingy it says we can’t get out until we pay 6 dollars. Alan pushes the intercom where we are privileged to overhear the conversation of the intercom person with someone else. Al keeps saying, “Hello… HELLO?” she keeps talking to someone else. Then he starts yelling “JUST LET US OUT!” To which she responds “You have to pay.” To which he responds “I HAVE paid!” We have all PAID we have just been stuck in your parking lot SINCE we paid!” Now a lovely lady who is about 75 comes to check on us and decides to try and manually lift the arm: she is unsuccessful.  Now other people are out of their cars and we are all screaming at the intercom lady, who finally lets us out.

I have some time to think on the drive home about my behavior and I decide I should really just stay away from all people until I can control myself and not scream in parking lots. But… it was Al’s birthday, so we had to do something… since I didn’t get him a gift or anything (I did try but not very hard). We go to this place that is trying to be American (but is not) and it is fine, although, apparently joking with the waiter is frowned upon. And then it happens. I ask if they will be showing the Super Bowl and he says “Yes! On that huge screen over there.” Alan’s and my eyes grow big with the shininess of the screen and we debate about whether it would be worth it to come and watch it there. Then the other waiter has the audacity to say that it is not a real sport because of the, I don’t know, short playing time or something. Alan wisely laughs loudly to cover my “Oh THAT’S how it’s GONNA BE?” and steers me out of the café before I break something on his face. But I have the blog so I will have my say now. I live in this country. I see how crazy you go for sport and, just to be clear, playing longer doesn’t make it a real sport either. I mean just because a game lasts five days and they stand around for most of it, does not make it a sport. And really, if someone brings you a cup of tea and sliced oranges in THE MIDDLE OF THE GAME you have to wonder. Am I playing a professional sport? And I TRIED to watch cricket; I really did, but NOTHING HAPPENED. So my body kept thinking I had dragged it outside to nap in the sun, in the country with no ozone layer, which it thought was stupid so it started moaning.

However, I manage to keep this little annoyance to myself when people around me talk about cricket. I nod and smile and look excited for them or sad if their team somehow lost (I still don’t know how that happens after days of playing they just stop and someone loses…???) Anyway, I manage to keep my mouth shut and then this yahoo has the gall to tell me that football is not a real sport. Look, I am not the biggest football fan in the world but the last time the Broncos went to the Superbowl was 1999. And football is home, endless Sundays sitting on my parent’s couch while my dad freaks out (actually wringing his hands!!! I love it!) all the while cheating on our eternal diets.  It is a ritual. It is tradition. And the Superbowl is the funnest of it all. Even the commercials are fun to watch. So why … why can’t you just let us have our fun? We never claimed it was the greatest sport in the world. So why can’t you just leave me alone. I am homesick and trying to have a little piece of home with me half way around the world. Why do you all have to be so mean? As punishment I was going to have a big Superbowl party at my house and invite everybody but instead we are only having people who can appreciate the game or at least respect how much the game means to us… So yes… the only people coming are my cousin and her kids… BUT we will wear our shirts with pride, scream at every first down and yell IN-COM-PLETE when the Seahawks drop the ball and we will eat yummy food without you haters and let me tell you, I can make some yummy food!

So thanks for the warm welcome back New Zealand and GO BRONCOS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(p.s. sorry… I told you I was mean when I get back…)

Lessons learned 2013. Not, you know, deep meaningful lessons ( I learned those too) but blog lessons...

PART THREE or the slightly whiny edition...

1.      People enjoy taking your money, especially when it doesn’t belong to them. And when you tell them it doesn’t belong to them they like to say “Sorry, the computer took it. We can’t do anything to help you.” Which begs the question: Why have computers started attacking us? I mean, we were supposed to be way further along in technological advances before the machines attack, right? That is what the movies keep telling us. First we reach unimaginable heights of human invention and intelligence and THEN the machines attack. So why, when the computers take my money, are we completely powerless against them? I would understand if I was already flying my own car but I am still driving on roads, so machines definitely should not be taking my money. We can renegotiate when cancer is cured. 
          As a side note, the last time this happened to me, the man who told me the computer took my money and there was nothing he could do about it, then told me I could file a complaint via email and "graciously" gave me the email address. I am suspicious that this guy could be a double agent. Because why would I complain using the enemy technology. I mean telling the computer it took your money seems counter productive. Won't the computer get my email and then just laugh manically as it spends my money on, I don't know, a new disk drive or something. I would think it would be more wise to speak with someone over the phone (which is what I tried first of course, until he told me he was powerless) or even perhaps pen a letter. Maybe the guy was being held hostage by the computers and  even though his title says "customer service" he is really tied to a chair in some warehouse or something. AND they have threatened his family if he involves the cops OR gives me my money back. In which case I totally understand but then we all should really be getting ready to fight the machines not using them everyday. So sir, if you can read this (because you are surrounded by computers threatening you and keeping you tied to chairs) try to send a signal next time so we can all be ready. Also, try to insert code word: "Elephant Rush" so that we know your family is in danger if you help me. Then we will find your family and put them in protective custody right away. Stay strong we will get you out!!

2.  You need sisters. They understand you and you can tell them how you really feel and they get it. They believe in you and that makes you achieve things you never thought possible. I do not know where they get this super power but they got it and I love them.

3.    Always be ready for a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. I find it is best to skip all meals or eat the bare minimum if there is even a remote chance that you will be given a giant freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. Because if you eat your normal healthy food, when someone offers you a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie (or you pass one in the mall) you have to decide whether you can afford the calories. If you chose not to eat all day,  then you can just happily accept the freshly baked chocolate chip cookie let the chocolate drip down your face and lick it off at your leisure. If you are not sure you will get the chance to eat a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie and you eat normally and then you do find yourself in the position of dancing from foot to foot in indecision over one. Make sure your mom is with you (this is a good general rule, just make sure your mom is always near by) because she will share it and love it with you and then the calories are almost zero. Because you danced around in circles and jumped a little while trying to decide which burns calories. AND you  are sharing, which not only reduces calories but gives you credit calories because you were nice. Calories are good like that.
4.      I live too far away from family; like way too far. But you can’t have happy hellos without painful goodbyes. But this is like saying “Hang in there!!” to someone dangling from the edge of a cliff. It is true they should “hang in there” but it is not helping. So as I say another good bye today I will leave another little piece of my heart on the DIA security check point floor. I will make the TSA agents a little edgy as I sob through the line taking off my shoes. And because, for a while, I will only be operating with a partial heart, you may notice that my blog will get a little hateful against a certain country or person who MADE me live in this country. While my criticism may be true it will come out all wrong and I will appear to be a mean person. And... AND I will once again be in a foreign country while the Broncos fight in the Super Bowl, not sitting in a room full of family screaming our heads off, which is just dumb. (I realize this is coming dangerously close to whining which is firmly against policy but... the Broncos are going to the Super Bowl I mean like... Right!?!? I should be able to enjoy the game AND watch my dad freak out!) So if I happen to run into you over the next few days and I tell you where I am going and you say “Oh you are so lucky!” and I burst into tears, don’t be alarmed I know I am blessed (I won’t say lucky because I am surprisingly clumsy and thus a bit unlucky sometimes) but it just doesn’t feel like it when saying good bye to my family… again.

Lessons learned 2013. Not, you know, deep meaningful lessons ( I learned those too) but blog lessons...

PART TWO or The Gym Edition

 

1.      Avoid the Stairmaster. Now the first time I saw the Stairmaster at the gym, I thought it looked a bit above my skill level. It is huge and seems to be mounted on some sort of stage, maybe not, but it towers above the other gym equipment so I passed it by, thinking, “that looks like certain failure and if I am going to fail at the gym, I would rather not be suspended from the ceiling where everyone can see me”. So I went about my normal workout on the super-cool-compete-against-everyone-bike and strange let’s-pretend-we-are-cross-country-skiing-devices. I worked hard on these apparatuses and began to think that I was getting back in shape finally (after recovering from my body’s latest attempt at sabotage).  

Then I had the pleasure (that’s not sarcastic it is always friendlier with sisters) of going to the gym with my sisters who let’s be honest already look amazing in their work out clothes and are quite the little gym professionals. As I got on the bike, I watched in the mirror as my oldest sister ascended the Stairmaster. She killed it! She was keeping a fast steady pace for a good half an hour, 40 minutes.

A few days later, my sisters left L (because, you know, they have jobs or some other such nonsense) and I was back at the gym on my own. My bike and slidy thingy were busy (because it is the New Year and now everybody is back at the gym). I eyed the Stairmaster and I think to myself, “If Michelle can do it so can I!” Common last words of the third born child… I awkwardly try and make my way to the top of this contraption so I can reach the buttons to make it start. What I didn’t realize is once you step on it, it starts moving so you have to keep stepping while trying to punch in all the numbers it is demanding  you enter. What I also did not realize is how often I look at my feet when climbing stairs. I was unaware of this until the Stairmaster is flashing lights demanding the input of various numbers while I trip up the steps that are now moving. I finally get it going and begin.

I try for slower pace just so I can get used to it and avoid falling on my face. (Let’s remember I am in the center of the gym on some sort of platform. There may have even been a spotlight on me. I have no idea why we must worship the Stairmaster but none-the-less this gym REALLY likes it or maybe the Stairmaster is just really tall?? I don’t know, either way I am center stage.) I have been going for about a minute but my pace is not matching my running music, which annoys me, so I increase the speed. Now I am flailing trying desperately to stay on the damn thing and my legs have gone from burning to jelly. I look at the timer it says, 4 minutes. As the steps fling me closer and closer to the ground, I desperately slap at the machines large red stop button and it comes to a screeching halt. And then, of course, it starts moving again even though the large screen is flashing PUSH START TO CONTINUE!! PUSH START TO CONTINUE!!  I have now drawn the attention of half the gym so I try and look relaxed, as I gulp in air and force the vomit to stay in my stomach, while continuing to trip up the escalator from hell. I look at the nonexistent watch on my wrist and mouth numbers to make it look like I am calculating something. Hoping the staring gymers will all think I intended to only do 4 minutes on the Stairmaster. I then must try and extricate myself from the death machine while having lost all feeling in both legs (picture Bridget Jones getting off the bike at her gym). I stagger around the gym while I wait for my vision to clear from the strange dancing spots and spinning. Simultaneously,  I avoid the concerned looks of seasoned gym goers wondering if they should call an ambulance. So the lesson here is: my sister is a kickass Stairmaster champion and she will never be beaten.

2.      This is not really a lesson but a desperate plea for 2014. To the skinny perfect girls at the gym. Umm could you stop coming? Why are you coming in the first place? Why would you spend money to get on MY bikes, put them on the lowest gear and then chat so loud that the entire gym can hear your conversation? Just to let you know if you are able to carry on a conversation that loud for that long you are NOT getting a workout. So why must I be subjected to the dangers of the Stairmaster AND your ridiculous conversation about fattening foods and “OMG I ate so much yesterday!!!” while your bony ass sits on MY bike that I sweat blood on, when you could have gotten just as much accomplished at your local coffee shop? And as a bonus, you would have saved your voice because you wouldn’t have had to shout over the whir of the machines. Sorry, I am sure you are really nice? And I have no problem with skinny people sweating and running their asses off (literally). But don’t come to my gym in your cute little outfits, stay for an hour and never even break a sweat or get out of breath. It’s really insulting. Thank you for your attention now go about your perfect skinny lives.

 

Lessons learned 2013. Not, you know, deep meaningful lessons ( I learned those too) but blog lessons... PART ONE

1.      Bad stuff happens. It sucks but it makes the precious moments in our lives more sparkly! Which is always a good thing.

2.       Your body sometimes decides it knows better. It doesn’t. If it needs to be corrected, first, try talking to it calmly to share the error of its ways. If that fails, try throwing it against the wall to reset it. (This should only be done by you. Never get help from others as this is violence and I don’t like it.) If these fail, try drugs. Feel free to skip straight to drugs if you think your body will ignore the first two options.

3.      People tend to be judgmental and mean sometimes but this is just because they are stupid or just acting stupid or feeling stupid or maybe tired or possibly hungry. So just ignore them. Or you could picture them as Gollum as this may provide endless laughter. Or even better, sympathy, if you lean that way. Because you know, Gollum used to be Sméagol and the ring made him all naked and Gollum-y and you might want to ponder what “ring” caused the person standing in front of you to turn into a monster. I find, though, that it makes me giggle so it is probably best to wait till you are in your car before picturing them as Gollum, because laughing at mean, judgmental people in front of them only makes their face more Gollum-esque.

4.      I do not ever want to see the reality series The Bachelor. I mean what the heck is happening with that show!? Do people really think we want to watch pretty people being fake to fall in fake love with a weird giving of the roses? What is that? Just stop it! It’s creepy.

5.      Don’t try to write blog posts while everyone in the room is watching TV because you will write a lesson like “I don’t want to watch The Bachelor” because the commercial came on and you could not tear your eyes away from that train wreck.

6.      Being a little overweight is okay, not great, but okay.  I would like to weigh less than the maximum weight that a firefighter can carry down a flight of stairs, you know, just in case… but we can’t have everything and sometimes I just want a damn piece of chocolate. (Plus, really body, I will throw you against the wall again if you don’t sort yourself out. I should be able to replace the calories from a meal with the calories in chocolate and you should not freak out. I mean, calm down, it is the same calories! You need to understand that I care about you and I will give you the nutrients you need. But if I want a double-shot mocha with whipped cream on top and I choose not to eat lunch you should be able to cope just fine. I looked up the calories: it is the same as the healthy sandwich! So calm down for fudge sake! Also, if you are hungry could you just snack on my ass or my belly or my arms or my thighs first THEN send the signal that I need to eat because really, it is all there, buffet style, so just fix it. Plus, you know you hate going to the gym so if you can’t sort yourself out I will drag you back there. You know I will, so watch it!)

7.        Traveling can be annoying but getting there is __________. I thought this should be a fill in the blank one. Because it is interactive and fun and you might come up with better describing words than I could. Plus then you can contribute!! And now my blog is like for thinking and a forum and stuff! I will start us off. If I could, I would insert a choir singing a high C. But this is incredibly hard to type. So, getting there is Jump up and down nearly pee my pants excited. Although, this could be because I have had to pee for the last two and a half hours of the flight and when I got off the plane the line for the bathroom was a mile long so I thought I should just hold it for another couple of hours while we fight with the carousel to negotiate the release of our bags and then realize what a mistake we have made because straining to lift a heavy bag off something determined to pull it away from you makes your body think it is free to pee. It could be that. Or I am so excited to see my family I nearly pee my pants!

8.      People are on their phones A LOT, looking down, only half hearing your sentences. They look up occasionally but it is only because they feel like they have to, not because they think you are interesting. Now, to be fair, if I had a phone like they do I would probably be staring at it as well. Unfortunately, MY smart phone only went to kindergarten. So I don’t really care what it is doing and usually I glare at it with a look of disdain that an optimist/nice person, such as me, should be ashamed of.  However this does have a bonus: because no one is ever really looking at anyone else, my lesson number 6 doesn’t matter so much.

9.      Advertising is lying. What they are selling will not make us prettier, happier or spend more time with family driving off road. And besides, is that really what we want? Driving off the roads jarring your back and neck, killing local plant life and you’re smiling because you’re supposed to be so you bite your tongue as you go over a huge rock. Now you are bleeding but still “havin’ a great time!” And if scientists had really worked out how to make us all thin wouldn’t we all be thin? I love how it is always “as part of a healthy diet and exercise program!” Really? Your pill combined with a healthy diet and exercise program “Burns the fat away!” but not just the diet and exercise. And it’s “scientifically tested” Really? Amazing! I just ran my own scientific test. All the results aren’t in yet but initial data reveals you think we are all stupid and you want our money. So drawing from these incomplete facts this researcher feels that by projecting the estimated figures she can with 85% confidence state: you are evil.

10.  Stop trying to write blog posts while everyone around you is watching TV.

11.  Raising a kid is the most fun you will ever have in your life. It is amazing and funny and challenging. They will teach you so much and you will learn just how capable and amazing and strong you are.

12.  Raising a kid is hard. I consider myself an intelligent person (you know, I get straight A’s in university and such) but often I find myself standing in front of my 9-year old unable to speak because I have no idea what is going on, how to respond or how to make it stop. So I just stand there looking stupid. It keeps happening (what ever it is), swirling around me like a dust storm and I demand “Say something! Do something!” and then my expensive, intelligent mind responds “I got nothing. You are on your own. I am not sure that thing is even human. I suggest you run very far and very fast: you never know what these things could do to you.”

13.  Raising a kid requires a certain amount of healthy insanity. To live everyday somewhere between lesson 11 and 12. To experience the most love and the most frustration simultaneously. To doubt your ability and embrace your inner super hero all in the same moment.

Stay Tuned for PART TWO! If you want or not...