ZouZou's Rant

Day 31: Final measurements

2011-04-20T15:59:00.000-06:00

BMI: 20.9

Here's my final report.

Weight Lost: 15 lbs

Inches lost
Neck: 1
Chest:   3
Belly:    4
Hips:    2
Thigh:   2
Arm:    1

Overall I'm ecstatic. I'm now doing No Sugar, No Carbs for three weeks. Except for the sugar-free salt-water taffy I just ate. It's the Nut Man's fault.

I still have to weigh myself religiously every morning, and if I stray more than 2 pounds from my final weight (118), I have to do a "steak day". That means I don't eat all day, and then eat a monster steak and a large apple for dinner. Wierd but apparently it works.

Final comment: I will NEVER do this diet again. It's immensely effective but I will never have the determination to follow through on another month of this regimen. I think I'd rather do a South Beach diet, it takes longer but is MUCH less painful.

Day 30: still breathing

2011-04-19T09:15:00.001-06:00

I finally got off the stall on Day 26 with a 1/2 pound loss, and then continued downward for a couple of days - I'm glad I extended this phase for a week. I've reduced the 15 pounds I wanted to lose, though my weight still wavers around. Drives me crazy but that's the nature of the beast, I guess. Now that I'm finally getting philosophical about it, I'm pretty much done this phase!

Sunday was my last injection, and today is my last 500 cal day. I am noticing my hunger is increasing exponentially, today might be hard to stick to the regimen. Tomorrow however, I can eat WHATEVER I WANT except carbs and sugar - which, come to think of it, eliminates most of the fun food. Oh well, it will be a huge relief to eat fatty food and cook with oil or butter. yum.

I made some homemade chocolates with stevia, dark chocolate (no sugar), margarine, crushed almonds and coconut. I'm eager to try them out tomorrow! It will be a yummy celebration.

Tomorrow is also my "final" measurements and weight target. For the next three weeks, I teach my body to stay at that weight. THEN I start re-introducing carbs and sugar. Huzzah! The crowd goes wild.

Day 25: ANOTHER Plateau!!!!!!

2011-04-14T12:42:00.001-06:00

Oh. My. GOD! I've been stuck at 120 lbs for SIX days, waffling around a half pound up or down. I could just SCREEEEEEM!!!!

I do have more trust in my body now - I know I'm still living off my fat even if my weight isn't moving - but it's so hard not to see the visible evidence. Aaaaaargh!!!

On the bright side, I am getting a few compliments on my looks - and a few puzzled looks, like "did she just get her hair done? or what? something's different"

One week to go. Four days of injections, three days phasing off. I'm into bargaining now. "okay if I can drop another THREE pounds? No? Okay, TWO pounds. TWO? No? okay, ONE?

Day 23: Time Warp

2011-04-12T13:08:00.002-06:00

How did it become Day 23? My last entry was THREE days ago!

Anyway, the weekend was fairly uneventful - no ambushes by pizzas, strudels or chocolate bars- though there was a stolen moment with an ice cream scoop - or rather with the ice cream ON the scoop - that I'll keep to myself. Suffice it to say, I still lost a 1/2 pound the following morning so we can turn our eyes the other way about my little indiscretion.

So, update: I'm LOVING my new and improved tummy. I can actually see my muscles, and hallelujah there ARE muscles there after all the work I've been doing! My pants are starting to fall off. My arms are looking toned, and I only have one small roll of fat left on my belly.

Overall I'm thrilled. Technically this was supposed to be my last day, but since I plateaued for almost the whole of last week, I'm extending the treatment till Sunday. I would REALLY like to get to 115 pounds, I'm at 120 this morning. So actually I probably WON'T get to 115 but a couple pounds less fat wouldn't hurt, and will give me a little grace room in case I "celebrate" my success too quickly.

I find myself wanting to stock-pile food. I bought THREE boxes of Girl Guide cookies. I got a ten-for-ten coupon at co-op for Eatmore bars, which I'm going to buy and freeze, and consume them in quarters after I'm done. I mentally have a little list of yummies that I'm going to wade through gradually: I can start with fatty food so I'll definitely do bacon one day. yum. Omelette with CHEESE and jalapenos. mmmm. Oh and other veggies and fruit: Carrots. Bananas. PAPAYA. mmmm.
Then I'll move into carbs: brown rice and dahl... popcorn. Home-made BREAD. mmmm.

Thinking about it is almost as good as actually eating it. I KNOW you're all thinking "she's gonna kiss that flat belly good-bye if she eats all that" but I have a PLAN. Really.

Plus, there's NO WAY I'll ever have the determination to do this diet again so I pretty much have to practice some restraint. And as you know I'm not a big eater. My idea of gorging is eating the whole Eatmore bar in one go.

Day 20: I need a Tshirt

2011-04-09T21:52:00.002-06:00

BMI: 22.0

I (barely) survived apple day yesterday! I managed to choke down 4 1/2 apples out of a possible 6 I could have eaten over the course of the day, but it was tough going. I expect eating anything exclusively like that is difficult. I can't believe some dieters enjoy having apple days. Then again some dieters do this diet for 40 days at a time. I'm down to my last week and I'm almost counting the minutes. A friend asked me "what's the first thing you're going to eat when you're done?" and I must confess I haven't thought of anything specific though it will more than likely be a fried egg for breakfast on the first day of stage 3.

I was booked for a pizza dinner (sans pizza of course for yours truly) at a friend's place last night. So there I was, chock full of apples, driving along with TWO pizzas on the seat beside me. They smelled REALLY good. sigh. I had a spare apple or two tucked into my purse in case I was tempted, but I managed to soldier through without even a nibble.

And then TODAY we went to the dreaded fundraising dinner that has a stunningly delicious indian food buffet every year. I ate my dinner beforehand, and brought along a half fruit in case I got the nibbles. I have to say, the evening was a success - I sat through everyone else eating with only one temptation: the bhajias, which are little fried balls of onions dipped in gram flour.

Three more injection days to go. I don't have a hope of hitting a BMI of 20, which was my original goal. On Tuesday I have to decide whether to extend the diet for another week and try to achieve my goal, or whether to stop where I am...

Day 19: Apple Day

2011-04-08T10:33:00.000-06:00

BMI: 22.3

I have officially hit a plateau: my weight hasn't decreased for SIX days. Ugh. I had a little blip of reduction but I'm back up to the original.

According to Dr Simeon a plateau means my body is adjusting all the tissue and whatnot that is left behind when my fat disappeared - the other stuff has to be carted away, incinerated, whatever. They call it "sculpting" because apparently you keep losing inches during this phase even though you're not losing weight.

So I'm on an apple day, which is all about ..um.. apples. Six large apples to eat when and where I please over 24 hours. No water unless extremely thirsty. It will provide a jump start to the weight loss again - mostly for my personal satisfaction since I'll only be losing water, but at least I'll feel motivated again. Tomorrow morning, back on the 500 cal diet.

Speaking of the diet, I'm kind of getting used to the food. Barring any further association with asparagus, (I overdosed on it in the first week) I think I am quite happy with my options. I haven't had to give up any meat - I don't eat pork or lamb anyway and I can still have lean beef. I only really miss bacon but that will be back on the list immediately once I'm done.

I did flirt with salmonella poisoning the other day - it may actually have been the same day I was misplacing food. I cut up some chicken, grilled it, and then chopped it into little pieces using the same knife. I realized I'd used the same knife, but ate the chicken anyway. I could have re-grilled it for a couple of seconds or nuked it, but I think my brain just stopped working and I ate it. Luckily I didn't catch anything.

The big news today is, (no surprise), I've been exercising too much. I've been sternly ordered to cease and desist because I don't have enough calories to support it - another reason I'm not losing weight, my poor body has been trying to conserve all the energy it can to meet my exercise demands.

so I'm putting off training and swimming, and will only do Kung Fu 2x week.

Day 18: Blue, Blue, Blue

2011-04-07T10:59:00.000-06:00

BMI: 22.3

I'm SOOO depressed. I GAINED a half pound this morning. I'm not sure that should have plunged me into a fit of the blues but there you have it. I really wanted to see some progress this morning.

My co-worker Mike mentioned helpfully that hockey players lose 15 pounds per game, and not to worry about a mere 1/2 pound. Sweet of him, but ineffective in improving my mood. Even my ever-flattening belly is not consoling me. *Sigh*

Day 17: In Orbit

2011-04-06T09:31:00.000-06:00

BMI: 22.2

Yesterday was a wierd day. I kept losing track of what I was eating. And considering I'm hardly eating anything, that was quite an accomplishment. I lost 1/2 an apple in the morning, to the extent of driving back to the house to see whether I'd left it on the counter (I didn't - it was already eaten). Half an apple is serious business when it's all I get between waking up and 10am, when I can have one, or two if I must, melba toast.

And then I lost a melba toast. That was even harder, because the melbas are usually lounging in the box under my desk, blowing me kisses and ogling me. I love my melbas. I sniff them, nibble them, melt them in my mouth. They're as good as .... I was going to say chocolate but that would be a blatant lie. They are however, sweet, crispy and a fabulous treat all round. So forgetting whether I'd eaten one was a surprise. I must have just inhaled it or been somehow and most unbelievably distracted while eating it.

On top of that, I went through a 'plateau' for a couple of days where the weight loss just stops and camps out at whatever number. It's quite nerve wracking. I immediately sent a panicked note to the PD only to be told it's perfectly normal, particularly for women. Men get to romp through the diet without plateaux. Plateaux? Plateaus? Okay now they're both looking wierd. I'll go with the x.

On top of THAT, I had THREE activities booked yesterday - trainer in the morning, kung fu AND swimming at night. Sheer idiocy, considering my energy levels have been decreasing. Sure enough, I barely made it through 1/2 the training session (cancelled the rest of the week). Kung fu was a total embarrassment since my teacher decided to do a 'review' which is synonymous with seeing whether you're ready for the next level. I bumbled through it somehow and staggered to the pool, to be faced with an alarmingly chirpy instructor "okay folks let's do flutter kicks tonight!" I lasted about 15 minutes out of the hour class and went home to fall into bed. (At about this point I can hear the PD giving me THE LOOK - "Does it SAY to exercise while on the diet? That's right, NO. It doesn't. WTF are you doing?!")

At least despite all that mayhem my weight is down another pound this morning.

Day 15: Water, Water everywhere...and too much to drink

2011-04-04T13:33:00.001-06:00

BMI: 22.4

(With apologies to Coleridge)

No, much though I hate to detract from the entertainment value of my posts, and despite what the title implies, this is not a confession that I hit the skids last night and downed a half bottle of scotch - though it looks more and more attractive each day. (Oddly I haven't missed drinking wine at all. Or scotch). Today's theme is all about water, in a simple equation:

Water = Pee = Weight Loss

I give full credit for this astounding discovery to the Program Director (PD) who must have a cache of pithy insights stored up to lob at me whenever I veer from the straight and narrow. (As in, every time I see her). I'm sure she has a list of 'difficult patients' upon which I am the star performer - I'm on remedial training as we speak, having been asked to return for a checkup before the week is out.

Apparently, I don't drink enough water, having failed miserably thus far at downing the mandatory 2 litres a day. If I don't drink enough water I won't lose weight. End of story.
2 litres is WAY out of my league. I think, on a good day, pre-diet I used to drink a litre or so of various beverages. Now I'm trying to double it with fewer beverages, and it ain't going so well.

I once went out with a guy who refused to drink water after supper because he hated getting up at night to pee. (Different guy than the previous post's Paranoid Poo-er). Not that that's at all relevant to this discussion. I have become a frequent habituee at most toilets around my neighbourhood, in service of the 2 litre rule. I time my out-of-house errands by duration-between-pees so that I can be home or at least near a decent toilet before my back teeth start swimming.

I keep hoping my bladder capacity will increase but it hasn't happened yet. My co-workers are becoming accustomed to my sudden disappearances, often half way through a conversation. "So then I said to him... what? again? oh okay, I'll wait". (insert eyeball roll)

I hereby resolve to drink a litre by 2pm and another by 8pm, come hell or high water. So to speak.

Day 13: Crabby

2011-04-02T18:43:00.000-06:00

BMI: 22.7

Yes, it crept up yesterday. Freakin' fibre. No more fibre for me! Besides, I had a poo today. Didn't change my weight though. I was convinced I'd drop a couple of pounds after the momentous event.

I tried eating crab today, "tried" being the operative word. I optimistically bought 12 (yes, a full dozen) cans of it at costco, thinking I would eat it for lunch every other day and imagining the yummy crab I usually get in my sushi rolls.

I've never actually bought canned crab before and eating it was a horrible, traumatic experience. I will be scarred for life. THIS crab was nothing like the sushi crab. It wasn't very sweet tasting, it was too fishy and had a bitter after-taste. I tried adding some stevia. Not much better. Salt and pepper? Now it was salty and bitter. In desperation I dumped some Frank's into it, and ate a few bites. I kept gagging on it and it didn't help that I had raw cabbage for my vegetable. I thought I was going to lose my lunch - almost had me running for the toilet. Ugh.

Ended up I tossed the whole thing out and made some cooked cabbage and dry-fried chicken. MUCH better, I managed to eat it all. I may gain weight AGAIN tomorrow because I didn't monitor how much I ate before I added the 100 gm of chicken. Groan. It couldn't have been more than two teaspoons, I could barely bring myself to eat the stuff.

Anyone want 11 cans of crab meat?

Day 12: Movement...or lack thereof

2011-04-01T18:07:00.003-06:00

BMI: 22.6 (no movement there either!)

Those with delicate sensibilities may want to skip reading this post because it deals with a universal human experience that we only talk about when we're very young or really old: bowel movements. It seems to be one of those topics that somehow becomes taboo around the age of ...well, really when DO people stop talking about it? I don't recall ever hearing a teenager saying "wow I just had the greatest poo!" so it must be earlier than that.

It fades out of our conversational repertoire, only alluded to in advertising for "regularity". Really only moms talk about poo. They discuss in extensive detail their baby's latest achievement in that arena: "...and do you know Tommy pooed THREE TIMES yesterday!" Moms have special dispensation to talk about poo. Everyone else must suffer or rejoice silently through their adventures with their intestinal vagaries. Bunged up Barry or Diarrhea Diane, no mention of BMs must arise in human interaction. I once had a date run out on me early from a supper because he had to poo and didn't want to go in a public bathroom. He left me sitting there, half way through dinner AND WENT HOME TO POO. I think that was our last date.

People will freely discuss having to pee - somehow that's not quite as unconscionable as good ol' poo. We only really pay attention to our nether regions when they stop behaving. We go through our entire lives not talking about it, except for embarrassed interactions with pharmacists - "um... do you have anything for... you know... digestion?"

THEN we hit old age. Old people will discuss their BMs until you wonder whether they actually do anything OTHER than poo. So when does it magically become okay to start talking about them - 50? 60? 70? 80? I haven't quite figured it out.

I personally am mildly militant about having regular BMs, and that brings me to today's topic: HGC and bowel movements. Or per the moniker of this post, the lack of BMs. Granted, considering I'm eating two little pieces of flesh and several cups of vegetables each day, you may think there isn't much to talk about, volume-wise. I contest, however that size DOESN'T matter in this instance (that's a whole other rant). All intestinal by-product should be promptly expelled. Well maybe not literally PROMPTLY but at least every day.

Currently I'm running at FOUR days with no action. FOUR!!! Unheard of. (Mind you I DID hear of a guy who didn't have BMs for weeks on end according to his wife. Ewww. Imagine carrying all that poo around INSIDE YOUR GUT. Gross. His weight probably dropped by 10 lbs every time he finally managed to poo).

So, back to me: I'm now taking some kind of fibre supplement to wake up my intestines. It's calorie-free and essentially invisible - Inulin, they call it. I'm hoping it doesn't affect my regimen. I'll keep you posted!

Day 11: Chastisements

2011-03-31T12:36:00.001-06:00

BMI: 22.6

I got rid of a whopping 1.5 lbs of fat yesterday, according to the scale. I went for a session with the trainer this morning only to get an earful of how I'm starving myself and HCG doesn't work and bla bla bla. It's quite frustrating, I will have to tell him I really don't want to hear any more of his opinion - I even sent him the Dr Simeon manuscript but he still discounts it. I think people with a scientific mind are naturally inclined to dislike or discount everything on sight.

The thing that bothers me more than his opinion is what it implies about my judgement: does he really think I'd be willing to subject myself to (his implied) starvation just to lose a few pounds? Or that I would engage in an activity I haven't thoroughly researched? Sheesh. He obviously doesn't know of my ongoing love affair with food.

Where was I? oh yes, yesterday I was given a stern talking to by the Program Director (PD) for trying to get creative with the eating regimen:

PD (looking at food diary): so, it says here you had chutney, what's that?
Me (chirpily): oh, I got this fabulous recipe - it's got mint, onion, garlic and jalapenos. It's divine!
PD: ...mmm hmmm. So, let's look at your list of acceptable food. Where do you see jalapenos?
Me (long pause): oh. well. you know I kind of lumped it in as a herb...sort of... (sheepish look)
PD: ...mmm hmmm. and what does it say right below your list of acceptable food?
Me (another long pause): umm. well. "If it isn't on the list don't eat it"
PD: ...mmm hmmm. Do you really want to spend 26 days and a boat load of money doing this only to end up getting less than fabulous results?
Me (small voice): umm, no?
PD: damn right! so WTF are you doing?! Get your head in the zone! You can do it! Just DO WHAT THE PROGRAM SAYS!!!

...or something along those lines. I'm pretty sure she didn't say WTF but I'm equally sure she was thinking it.

I think I'm congenitally incapable of following simple rules. Anyone who's watched me fill out a form will be able to attest to the veracity of my statement. Anyway, she was right so I've pulled up my britches, girded my loins and greased my elbows, I'm sticking to the plan! Thank God for Frank's Hot Sauce. FRANK I LOVE YOU!!!!!

Day 9: Whew...sort of

2011-03-29T12:49:00.001-06:00

BMI: 22.9

Oh. My. God! One measley little half cup of rice and my weight loss stalls for a day. AND I only lost 1/2 pound yesterday. I can't believe it. Somehow I just didn't believe deviating from the regimen would have such an immediate impact. Actually per my usual Modus Operandi I thought it would happen to OTHER people, not me ;)

Sheesh. Now the Program Director says it could take up to 3 days for my metabolism to adjust again. AAARGH. make that a double AAARGH. It's kind of like in Barney's Version when he has drunken sex with that bar hussy and then has to pay for it for the rest of his life. I mean, what an idiot. I'm not sure whether he was more of an idiot to cheat, or to tell his wife he did. I think Europeans are way more practical about these things. We like to get all high and mighty about momentary lapses of sanity. Everyone's human, everyone does dumb things. I think if he repeatedly cheated that would be different. Oops I'm wandering off. Back to me and my ASB (aforementioned Apple Strudel Belly)

I had a royal rant from my kinesiologist this morning, about how I'll waste away and lose all my muscle mass on this diet. yadda yadda yadda. He totally is against it but he doesn't really know how it works. I sent him Dr Simeon's manuscript in case he wants to learn more about it.

Day 7: Carousing with Carbs

2011-03-27T18:56:00.000-06:00

BMI: 23.0

Yay no nausea. Also no vein puncture: there must be a correlation. I'll be thinking mud produces frogs next. I fell off the wagon today - an entire 1/2 cup of spicy rice at my mom's. AND an extra wasa cracker. I'm skipping my 1/2 fruit snack after supper to try to counteract the rice but only time will tell - and the scale tomorrow morning!

I confess to sneaking peeks in the mirror to see if I look any different. I don't really feel different but I think I look different. I need to grab coffee with someone I haven't seen in a while and see if they notice. Qualifier: coffee with someone who notices appearances. It better not be anyone like me - I never notice a few pounds here and there on other people.

What else can I confess to? I'm still hungry. Not starving, just snakky. I have to really work hard every day to not stray and it's WAY harder at home when I'm surrounded by food options. Not unhealthy ones (except for the cheezies that are still leering at me suggestively) but just lots of stuff I can't eat. Carrots. Eggs. Toast. Cereal. Who ever thought I'd get nostalgic about cereal. Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, which were a Serious Tactical Error - I bought them at Superstore for the kids but.... they're just lying around flaunting their deliciousness. I'm looking forward to work!

Day 6: Puky and Tempted

2011-03-26T18:35:00.001-06:00

BMI: 23.1

It was my son's birthday party today. I decided rather than outright cheating, I'd provide myself with a little leeway by stockpiling 1/2 a fruit and doubling up on the wasa cracker. I cracked open my mom's cookbook and found a fabulous mint chutney with jalapenos and onions and (you guessed it) mint. YUM. That and Frank's hot sauce have been life savers.

So while I looked longingly at the cupcakes, cheezies and juice, I didn't actually eat any of it, if you don't count a couple of random licks of icing. It was HARD. really hard. I love cheezies. I LOVE cheezies. *sigh* I dutifully ate my (extra) wasa with aforesaid chutney and a few strawberries. I may pay for it tomorrow, but I will view it as sacrifice in the line of dutiful motherhood.

Felt puky again this morning, though I managed to hold onto my breakfast. My personal theory is I accidentally inject into a vein and have the resulting blast of hormones in one shot, which makes me nauseated. The Dr said its unlikely because I only get 125 mcg per shot which is almost nothing.

All things considered I am pretty thrilled with results so far.

Day 5: Random thoughts

2011-03-25T10:35:00.000-06:00

BMI: 23.4

I saw the Dr. this morning, he says he thinks the nausea yesterday was due to my body getting rid of toxins in general, and then I had more than one cup of coffee which put me over the edge (I only ever have one cup in the morning).

In any case it's all gone now, no more queasiness. Apparently other women have experienced this although it's rare. Also another tidbit: men lose weight faster than women when they're on this diet! Something to do with greater muscle mass requiring more calories.

Food is tasting...tastier. Somehow when I'm only eating one breadstick or Melba toast, it tastes REALLY good. I try to make it last as long as possible. And last nights' spinach, onions and garlic with grilled halibut was divine. Actually the meal sizes are fine for me, the in between snakks are what kills me. I am accustomed to eating significantly five or six times a day. No wonder I'm feeling the pain of reducing those.

It's all good! Oh, except for the blinding headache I got last night - sugar withdrawal, I don't doubt. It's gone now.

Day 4: Misplaced guts

2011-03-24T12:09:00.000-06:00

BMI: 23.6 - yay!

I feel WAY better today. That sensation of hollowness and an annoyed empty stomach has gone away. Unfortunately it's been replaced by nausea. Per the diet, I tried to eat 1/2 an orange this morning, but it refused. Or my stomach refused. In any case the two parted ways shortly after ingestion.

So there I was, puking my guts out behind the car on the way to the day home. Luckily there wasn't much to get rid of - I wonder if my dosage is a bit high. I know this is a pregnancy hormone but morning sickness is going a bit too far! I'll call Ashley (technician) today.

So far the most difficult thing has been eating 2 cups of vegetables twice a day - that's 4 cups of veggies! I don't have anything against veggies, but downing 2 cups of a single veggie is just plain boring. If the calories don't get me, the boredom will.

Splenda...ouch!

2011-03-23T12:57:00.000-06:00

The truth on Splenda, maybe that's why I haven't been able to lose this weight - I've been pounding back the splenda, thinking it was "safe". I'm going home to throw out all the splenda in the house!

http://marianutrition.blogspot.com/2010/06/splenda-bitter-truth.html

Ack! Stevia

2011-03-23T11:02:00.000-06:00

The Stevia I bought has SUGAR in it!!!! Shrieks of dismay. I luckily read the little packet label before I'd had very much - though I did feel amazed at how sugary it seemed...

Day 3: Empty, not hungry

2011-03-23T10:05:00.000-06:00

BMI: 24.0

Okay, I'm into the main restricted calorie phase as of this morning. I dutifully TRIED to eat major fat for the past 2 days but despite concerted effort, couldn't eat very much at one time. Most of the banana cream pie is still in the fridge. I did manage to choke down a teen burger and onion rings (more fat, less carbs than fries) for lunch and had a fried egg and toast for breakfast, slathered in margarine. Too bad it was the healthy olive oil kind. Dinner was mostly banana cream pie.

I even got up in the middle of the night on Monday to eat crackers loaded with mayo. All the literature cautions that the loading phase has to be done seriously. I must say I haven't had great success in finding fatty foods without sugar - I missed out on having bacon which would be a good candidate.

So far so good. My stomach is wondering what the hell happened, and where is Second Breakfast ?! (Usually at 9:30 I eat a snakky of some kind). So instead of doing that I nibbled into a few bites of my tomatoes and shrimp cheviche lunch. At 10 I get a melba toast which was entirely NOT enough, I could eat a few more of those. I am going to make some tea with stevia to wash it down.

Questions, questions, questions!

2011-03-22T10:09:00.001-06:00

A lot of the sites out there are crap, or merely repeat excerpts from Dr Simeon's original manuscript.

These sites explained the diet in an original way that made sense to me

http://www.truemd.com/blog/2009/04/the-hows-of-the-hcg-diet/

http://youthfulagingcenter.com/hcgweightloss.html

...and she's off! Day 1

2011-03-21T15:01:00.000-06:00

Woo hoo! I just stuck myself with a needle. Right in my thigh. AND I watched the whole thing. (insert french accent) Incroyable! Actually it was pretty much a non-event - thanks Judy for regularly sticking me full of pins, I barely blinked when I saw this syringe - it's about the size of an acupuncture needle. I was hoping it would be sub-cutaneous so I could slide it under the skin but no, it's intra-muscular. So it goes about 1/2 inch straight into my leg. Still, it felt rather anti-climactic. I didn't even get queasy or see spots like I usually do before I pass out.

SO, counting today as Day 1, my hormone levels will stage up until Wednesday when I can officially start the Low Calorie phase. Until then, I eat like a maniac! Really. It's part of the diet.

For 2 days I eat as much fatty food as humanly possible. Then, when the hormone levels are ramped up, I stop eating my usual amount of food, which sends the signal to metabolize my fat. The body starts with the fat I've stockpiled for the first 2 days, and then moves onto my "long term deposits" stashed in embarrassing places around my body. At any given time, I have 2000-4000 calories of my own fat circulating in my blood stream. So, typically people feel totally full of energy, are in glowing health, and are not hungry - no need to eat when I'll be awash in my own blubber. So to speak.

According to the Tech, a difficult hurdle might be getting over my sugar addiction - that may take up to 4 days I think she said.

I've started with a Timmie's English Toffee and a chocolate donut. Oops. Did she say something about sugar? I already feel stuffed silly. And I'll be going out for dinner too. WITH dessert. I think I'll have eggs and bacon for breakfast. La la la.

On your mark! Get Set!

2011-03-21T09:44:00.000-06:00

I've managed to completely relinquish all self control for the past few days, in the name of having my last hurrah before the eating stops. I've noshed my way through almost 8 pieces of fudge (yum) and have been eating full suppers. yoicks. Then I went to my mom's for lunch yesterday and ate insane amounts of food. The whole psychology of eating is fascinating. I don't eat for comfort, I don't eat emotionally, and I don't eat when I'm full. I tend to eat badly mostly when I'm bored. Bored, or in the vicinity of tempting food. What's a girl to do if there's a whole TRAY of fudge leering at her from the counter??

I'm meeting the diet tech this afternoon to learn the procedure and, I assume, how to inject myself (zoicks) with the hormones. I sure hope she has a 24x7 support plan for the wimps like me. As in "help I fainted trying to stick the needle in, what do I do now?" or "help I'm hungry!" or "help I have to visit my mom!"

Anyone who knows my past history of fainting for no reason whatever, will doubtless be shaking their head about now. Never fear, if I can't watch myself stick a needle in I'll just jam it into my butt! AND I won't be able to see the needle! Butts are very forgiving of injustices. After all we sit on them all day, what's a needle or two? ...or twenty-six? ...gulp.

I think the most worrying thing is that I won't be able to eat very much. I've never done that before. One of the guys at kung fu fasts once a week. My Aji (grandmother) used to do that too. Moi, not so much.

To the Blocks...

2011-03-18T13:28:00.000-06:00

Okay, here we go. For the record, I'm not overweight, I'm just inching toward it. Teetering. Current BMI: 24.9

25 is overweight according to this site- http://bodyandhealth.canada.com/health_tools.asp?t=5&text_id=1855

Target BMI: 20 (Healthy BMI is between 18-24.9)

Activity: Currently I do Kung Fu 3x week, and work out 5x week - 3 light, 2 heavy workouts. I don't monitor my eating beyond occasionally thinking "wow, that brownie must have been a total fat bomb, it sure tasted good!"

Apparently I have reduced my body fat proportion from 35% to 30% using this regime which translates to about 8 pounds of fat converted to 5 pounds of muscle. It turns out that the fat conversion thing isn't nearly as satisfying unless I can SEE the difference. As of today, all my clothes fit the same AND I weigh the same. I'm going to focus on BMI to take the pressure off losing weight.

Here's the manuscript that Dr. Simeons wrote, called "Pounds and Inches" which outlines his research and observations, as well as the diet I'll be following.

http://www.hcgweightloss.com/pounds_and_inches.pdf

Belly-busting

2011-03-15T13:13:00.011-06:00

I think I woke up, about a month ago. I suddenly have complete sentences coming out of my mouth, I can read an entire newspaper article without losing focus, and talk radio (or almost anything else) no longer puts me instantaneously to sleep. (I once fell fast asleep on the masseuse's table and drooled all over her carpet through the little face-hole thing. It was screamingly funny at the time but now I'm not so sure).

Friends have called it baby fog, though for me it's taken almost four years to disperse - Samuel's 5th birthday is at the end of this month. Somehow he's managed to grow all his baby teeth, sprout to 42 inches tall, and develop an affinity for mechanical objects, all without any prompting on my part. I think I may have had a small hand in the growth part, what with feeding him and all.

And he'll be going to kindergarten this fall. When did THAT happen? And, the million dollar question is, where was I while it was happening??? I'm glad I've got blurry photographs (don't ask) of most of it, or I'd start to question my own sanity. Mind you, I'm not IN most of the pictures, so it could be pure fantasy. Except there is the undeniable fact that I have an almost-5 year old living in my house.

To my dismay, while in the aforementioned fog I appear to have grown a beer belly. Without the - mandatory, you'd assume - consumption of copious quantities of beer. The indignity of it all. I mean, it's not as if I even LIKE beer.

Maybe it's a wine belly. Or an apple strudel belly. Or maybe all that girls' night junk food has decided to move in with me. Whatever it is, I've been trying - and failing - to get rid of it for about a year now. In fact I've been trying to get rid of it for probably about four years. Maybe there's a causal relationship between baby fog and apple-strudel belly. Mindless mastication syndrome.

Where was I? oh yes, belly. So here I am, increasingly frustrated with my incalcitrant belly. I'm like that movie where the evil roommate tries to take over the woman's life and then murder her. Except of course, my evil roommate happens to be Apple Strudel Belly. I just have an uneasy feeling that things are Not As They Should Be.

So here's what I'm going to do: pump myself with hormones, stop eating and live off my fat for a month. It's called the HCG diet, and I'm going to be the resident guinea pig. Each day I'll report on my progress - or lack thereof - and when it comes time to tally the results I'll have a blow-by-blow rendition of the whole experience.

You want what?

2007-02-27T09:04:00.000-07:00

Dlee, as Grog says. Why didn't anyone warn me working requires communicating in complete sentences?

I made it to noon yesterday before my breasts threatened to explode. And although I'd taken the breast pump along, there is nowhere to actually perform the task - pumping in a cubicle is ... well, something you'd probably see in "the Office" show but i'm just not up for the challenge. And the ladies bathroom has thoughfully placed two armchairs in the hallway area but there is no plug for the pump. Luckily I'm only 10 minutes from home so I toodled off to see my Beloved Offspring (B.O.) and offer him my mammalian bounty.

Mind you, I've been trying to wean Samuel from daytime nursing for the past week. I was holding out for longer and longer before feedings and felt quite triumphant until Sunday night (yes, the night before I my First Day at Work) when I got several impacted milk ducts. My right breast turned into a painfully throbbing globule of hard lumpies that refused to be pumped or manually expressed. A phone call to the nurse elicited a sympathetic but entirely unhelpful recommendation to continue massaging, warming, nursing and pumping and they "should clear up in a couple of days" DAYS?!!! I was suppsed to go to work in less than 10 hours!!! I poured hot water into a tupperware and submerged my right breast (and part of my housecoat) into it, which involved hovering awkwardly over the dining table with a hand towel poised to tenderly pat my steaming, but still lumpy, breast when the water cooled off. Then it was off to the arm chair to pump for a few minutes, all the while gingerly massaging. Change water, and repeat. I was exhasted by midnight, having stayed up past my bedtime for three hours already, and convinced Samuel to try nursing one more time before I fell asleep with the heating pad packed around my lumpy girl.

Miraculously, Samuel nursed twice more over night and she had rallied by the morning. I staggered around getting ready for work and luckily managed to arrive at the new project site without being too much of a hazard to other drivers.

So anyway, I went home at lunch, not wanting to repeat the Clogged Milk Duct Adventure, with rosy pictures of my Beloved Offspring nuzzling at my breasts. It was Not to Be. He barely turned around when I came in the door.

"oh there you are, mummy. Look at what I'm doing! I can wiggle my bum and wave my arms while standing! ... What? milk? nah, I just had some cheerios a while ago. "

I pumped. And went back to work. Sigh. the first Letting Go has already begun and I'm still on Attaching and snuggling and cuddling.

Anyway, work was okay. I seem to be perpetually bored. Maybe it's time for a new job.

Customs

2007-02-06T21:14:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention: the customs guy asked me where the father's permission slip was for Samuel. And the idiocy (mine, not his) began.

z: oh, he doesn't need one. He's a donor baby.
CG: sez you. Do you have a long form birth certificate?
z: No, I didn't bring it. I had to hand all that stuff in to get the passport, I assumed they'd make a note on it.
CG: well, they didn't.
z: actually, yes they did - see? it says "signature not required"
CG (shows me my passport and the baby's open at the same page, says slowly and clearly): ummm. Ma'am, that's for the baby. The BABY's signature is not required. See yours has your signature. He doesn't write yet. Maybe next time bring the long form birth certificate?
z (sheepish): oh, yes, okay.

I skulked away trying not to look too idiotic. But at least I got in. Whew.

aloha

2007-02-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

Samuel is currently crying his guts out in his crib. He got used to falling asleep in my arms while we were in Hawaii recently on vacation where we were cribless. Which by the way was a fabulous time. We went with another SMC mom (Single Mother by Choice) and her 2.5 year old boy, and shared a condo on Hawaii. It was hot, it was sunny and it was warm water. What more can I say? Samuel loved it and began to turn a very decent shade of brown even slathered with sunscreen. What do the Aussies say - slop slap and slip? (sunscreen, hat and tshirt I think). That boy has good genetics for tanning. grin.

Anyway, he is not happy sleeping in his crib anymore. And he has a cold which makes him cranky and sad. So I try to get him asleep in his crib and then take him into bed with me when I'm ready to go. So far, he's not too keen on the idea. Ah. I think he's off. That was only one re-settling and two crying sessions today - about 1/2 hour. a couple of nights ago it was three and three followed by me going to bed at 9:30 with him because I was exhausted!

As for why he can't sleep in my bed without me, he's too mobile now. He's crawling like a little monkey and launches himself blithely off any surface, assuming I'll catch him or it won't hurt or just not getting the interaction of gravity, hard surfaces and his noggin.

He walked when we got home on Jan 30 - one day before 10 months old. He isn't too excited about walking without help though - he hesitates and then goes down on all fours. With a little coaxing he will let go for a few steps but that's it. Oh well, it's all down hill from here. One day they're crawling and the next they want to borrow the car.

Perambulation

2007-01-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

...of a sort. Samuel is starting to crawl, at last! Here is a picture of him "practising" at my mom's house, a couple of weeks ago. He now crawls using one knee and one foot. It's quite funny. Perhaps he will eventually start using two knees, perhaps not. He still prefers to walk.

I'm thinking about starting to plan to get ready to go to Hawaii next weekend. That's how things are these days. I think "oh, yeah, gotta decide what to pack..." and eventually I make a list (sometimes) of stuff to pack. That morphs into "better gather things to pack" and then "I think it's time to pack" and finally "aaagh! I have to pack NOW!" which is followed by frantic scurrying around throwing things in the general direction of suitcases, usually about 3 days before I leave. The final two days are spent in more scurrying from drug store to department store to wherever else, filling in the gaps. And then the night before a shrug of the shoulders and a decision to buy what I've forgotten. Luckily I rarely have vacationed in a place that has no amenities whatever.

This will be my first vacation with Samuel. We're flying to LA, overnight there, and then off to Hawaii the next morning. The nice thing about that is I'll go through US Customs here in Calgary. At least if I get refused entry I can just take a cab back home, not that I'm expecting to be on their nasty people list. Mind you, we are talking about the Government after all. As far as I can tell there is not often a lot of logic behind their decisions.

Breathing

2007-01-03T11:49:00.000-07:00

It struck me last night as I lay in bed between bouts of grabbing Samuels hands - he has eczema and wants to scratch at it all night hence the grabbing - that I haven't had any athsma problems since I gave birth. I had it quite bad at the beginning of my pregnancy but after birthing Sam, it's been completely absent. Yay!

Not that there seems to be much to yay about these days - I have a bad case of the winter blues. Life is meaningless, which I already knew, but I had much more interest in creating meaning than I do now. Then of course my kitty died. and well, it's really dark a lot of the time. I miss the sun. I don't know what I'd do if I lived in Vancouver. And I'm spending all day every day with a human being that thinks fun is walking round and round the kitchen and living room holding my two fingers. It's crazy-making.

I'm trying to manage it. I'm spending more time with my family who are just about the best family a woman could be born into. It helps to have someone else to entertain my favourite monster and just to talk to. But there's still that underlying melancholy. I'm hoping now that the year has turned and the days lengthen that it will start to lift.

I've even started thinking it might be time to find me a man. As if that would make a difference. But who knows? Maybe it would be nice to share my life again. It's been almost a decade. A bad influence has been watching R. and E, who were married earlier this year. He's really a decent guy. So there must be some of them out there. Goddess only knows where. And I'm too depressed to go find one. sigh. I think I've ranted about this before. That's all I need - repetitive ranting. A sure sign of insanity.

Then again, when I got home from a quick dinner out with S last night, Samuel saw me and his face just lit up. My heart broke wide open. It was so beautiful. All that love, just cause I walk round and round the house with him? I'm truly blessed.

Bite me

2006-12-28T21:25:00.000-07:00

Daisy finally has announced her modus operandi on the two-legged kitten: dominate and intimidate. She bit Samuel today after lying lovingly on his lap, belly up and tail waving. I only saw the consequence of the bite - namely the hiccup of surprize, the held breath and the long wail. And the two fang marks on his arm. And accompanying scratches. I shovelled some anti-histamine into him. I didn't think she had punctured his skin at the time but this evening there are definitely two red spots on his arm. Now that I think it over I better trundle over to the clinic tomorrow and make sure he's not going to get tetanus or anything. I believe his vaccinations should have covered that off, but better make sure.

She's done the belly-up thing before, front paws in rabbit-position, head tucked in, fat face on (that's my word for the I'm-so-cute-I-can't-believe-it face that cats use when they're particularly pleased with themselves). Needless to say Samuel grabs fistfuls of her fur in between his bleats of delight. Yes, he actually bleats - he goes "bah! bah! bah!". That's when she staples herself to his arm. She bit him yesterday too. I'm fairly certain, since he also cried suddenly yesterday when she was nearby, and she had a guilty look on her face when I ran over.

I'm not happy. I've started putting her in the basement when Samuel's playing on the rug and I can't supervise. Even when I'm sitting right there, she tries to squirrel in between us to lie down. I feel horrible for her because she's obviously wanting to be number one cat, which she is, now, but she thinks Samuel is a cat too. To top it all off, she is really bad about letting me trim her nails. The minute I get the clipper out she puts her ears back and gazes at me with narrowed eyes "you're not planning on bringing that thing anywhere near ME, are you?". I'm trying to handle her paws every day to get her accustomed to it, and I take her to the vet once a month for her nail trimming, but they still get pretty nasty in between visits. I don't even want to think about what would happen if she really attacked Samuel.

How do I get her to understand that Samuel is not a toy, not a cat, and not a scratching post? On top of everything he's got eczema and it's getting steadily worse. I feel like a bad mom all around.

Carnal Knowledge

2006-12-26T15:38:00.000-07:00

I used to think it was a good idea to know in intimate detail where the flesh I eat comes from - chicken, beef, the odd bit of fish. Not that I consume a wide variety of animals - I don't eat pigs because they're too smart - it would feel like I was eating a dog or horse. Mind you I find it hard sometimes to resist a good bit of ham or bacon. Too bad they taste so good. I'm sure cannibals say the same thing about humans. Where was I? Oh yes, animal flesh. I don't eat lambs because they're fluffy, cute white baby animals. I don't eat anything with more than four legs or less than two unless it's been cooked beyond recognition. I don't eat anything that ran wild before it died. For the longest time I couldn't eat shrimp because they look mostly like bugs. and don't even get me started on lobsters. I mean, they LOOK at you from the plate! Ewww.

Back to anatomy: I used to think that if I was going to consume some creature's body, I should know exactly what I was eating. Kind of a karmic thing. That whole concept ran neck and neck with the fact that I'm a queasy carnivore. I don't like eating meat that actually looks like a body part - chicken wings are about as close as I'll get. Somehow I can rationalize away drumsticks - I mean, it's hard to imagine them being functioning legs. calves. thighs. whatever.

So I live in an endless bout of guilt over my mindless and ignorant consumption of animal flesh, and my reluctance to learn more about and somehow spiritually atone for its consumption. An undercurrent to that is the obscene methods of "factory" farming - do you know they chop the beaks and claws off chickens so that they don't "hurt themselves" while they grow plump in their twelve inch square cages? - that generates the neatly packaged and plasticized offerings at the supermarket, and the equally obscene amount of waste that is generated by meat packing plants and their ilk. I drove past a chicken "farm" once which was a row of immense concrete bunkers with no windows. It stank. I felt like throwing up. I didn't eat chicken for a long time after that. Now I've mostly forgotten how horrible it was so I rant about it but eat it anyway. sigh.

I try to buy happy meat from local organic farmers but it's expensive and it tastes funny - which means it reflects the real cost of ethical farming and it tastes like the animals are actually supposed to taste if they're allowed to live natural lives. sigh.

Back to my original tack: I boiled a chicken the other day. Seemed like the right thing to do - it was one of the bbq'd ones from Coop, and even my best attempt at prying the meat off the bones resulted in too much waste. The idea to boil it was lurking in my mind anyway - I've wanted chicken stock for Samuel's rice and potato mush, just to liven things up a bit.

Anyway, I threw in the chicken remnants, skin and all, water, and a couple of other things from the 'chicken stock' recipe in the Joy. I am not certain the skin thing was a good idea and I did end up fishing it all out again after a couple of hours. I had to interrupt my stewing for an evening and it sat overnight out on the back deck - the "big" fridge - there was no way the stock pot would fit in my fridge. The next day, I gave it another good boil and strained out the chicken - the stock smelled delicious and in the interests of frugality I decided to fish out the good pieces of flesh from the pile - and that's where the carnal knowledge comes in. After that little exercise I'm quite certain I don't really ever want to know what an original animal looks like before I eat it. I think I had to pick through every neck bone and vertebra to get to the good bits of flesh, and they just FEEL gross. ugh. little pointy bones that you can imagine used to help the chicken crane its neck this way and that, looking for juicy grubs or seeds. little rounds nubbies of cartilage that helped the bones move smoothly. little veins and muscles. little bits that used to make up a chicken... now frozen in my freezer. Ugh. I'm not sure I'll be able to make myself eat the stuff now. Anyone want some chicken stock?

Five Days

2006-12-22T08:03:00.000-07:00

Okay Grog Trough lasted less than a week. So I'm not a grog-swiller. Bite me.

Bedecked and bejeweled

2006-12-21T08:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, I think I'm ready. For Christmas, that is. The tree is up. The string of lights on the front of the house (which I didn't take down from last year) are a little saggy but half of them still work so I figure that can be checked off the list. The presents are bought. Well okay not quite, but only one left means that's pretty much done. The house is still a disaster but since I'm not entertaining this year, who cares? Oh wait, the gifts aren't wrapped yet. Oh well, I'll get there. All in all I'm feeling pretty good.

I'm even having Bailey's in my coffee. For some reason Bailey's signals Christmas for me. That, and early summer mornings sitting out on the back stoop in the sun. Samuel is crabbing over on the rug. Guess this will be a short post. He's working on getting from sitting to all fours, and I hope, eventually to crawling. So far he seems to want to skip the crawling part.

...

Whew. He's asleep. Time for my nap too. My latest dilemma is, stockings or no stockings? We didn't grow up with them. They are an added expense, but I've heard they can also be a lot of fun if done properly. Must mull over stockings. Anyone out there have opinions?

Merry Yule, everyone.

Grog Trough

2006-12-17T15:25:00.000-07:00

I have decided that Peel me a Grape is just too... Princessy. I am going to, henceforth, swill grog with the vast unwashed. I shall practice swearing and wear too-tight jeans and make my hair into a big pouf. and wear mascara and black eyeliner. Wait. I already do that. Okay, I'm going to do it more. And did I mention the chewing gum? I'm going to chew gum. long after it's lost it's flavour. It will be the defining feature of the new grog-swilling zouzou.

Why? you might ask. Why give up all that is refined and delicate just for the sake of a blog name?

I don't know really. I think I need a change and since my REAL life is mostly out of control, why not do it here, in blogland? Ahh. I can feel a swear coming already. F---art. Fart. Okay I didn't quite manage to blurt out the BIG f-word but I'm workin' on it. (notice the dropped 'g')

To tree or not to tree?

2006-12-13T15:20:00.000-07:00

I almost didn’t tree this year. I don’t know why, the whole Christmas thing has not got hold of me. Usually I am counting the days to the first weekend in December so I can put the tree up. This year all I could think of was how much work it would be to haul out all the bits and pieces and rearrange the living room to make a space, and then have to reverse the whole process in a mere four weeks.

On top of that, I have the nanny’s room to put together - the basement bathroom to finish off (baseboards are lying in the hallway), painting the window trim on the newly-enlarged window, putting up a curtain, a closet and the bed, and finding somewhere to store all the junk that is currently nesting happily in there. All before January 14, when I go for a much-anticipated holiday to Hawaii (I just heard a radio interview on how truly ethical environmentalism means No More Airplane Trips – Heat: how to stop the planet from burning).

It just seemed like it was too much work. Samuel would never notice there was no tree for his First Christmas. Aargh. You can see it coming, can’t you? The Guilt Trip arrived with a full panoply of associated heart-wrenching images of me in my old age, deeply regretting Depriving My Only Child of his First Christmas Tree. And Samuel, by now a strapping 40 year old, looking at me reproachfully “Mother, couldn’t you have just taken an hour to do it? For me, your only son?”

Sigh. I caved in this morning, dragged out all the boxes, and the tree is up. Not lighted or decorated, but the tree is up. All nine levels and 850 points are attached and fluffed out, waiting for further action. I figure a string of lights and 8-10 ornaments about 3 feet off the ground should do the trick. Oh no, I hear another Guilt Trip gathering momentum…

And now the evening news

2006-12-08T20:59:00.000-07:00

On a completely different note, I had coffee with this guy today who a) is at LEAST twenty years older than me b) actually hunted me down after a chance encounter during a choral concert when I was six months pregnant, and c) called several times over the past YEAR to ask how I was doing. I finally said yes to coffee and dragged Samuel and myself over to the local coffee shop after gymboree today.

It was all very wierd. I mean, I dont' want to think of myself as ageist, but what was he DOING? Why would a sixty year old man try to attract a forty something new mom? Curiosity will be the end of me. Not that I figured it out, in the end. I had coffee, we chatted, I left. I'm hoping he doesn't call again. I didn't make any effort to be particularly amenable, in fact I think I was downright ornery. Not ornery enough to come right out and ASK why he wanted to have coffee with me. bizarre.

sweet sorrow

2006-12-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

The vet brought Brandy home today. Or what was left of her, a little box of ashes. We were both running around and managed to organize our schedules enough that I drove into my driveway just as she pulled up. I took the plastic bag from her and dropped it on the floor just inside the house, being occupied with unloading Samuel and the half-million bits and pieces that accompany us wherever we go. One thing led to another (sleepy baby who didn't want to sleep, helping him toddle around the house, finding entertainment while I did laundry, phone calls, supper, then another round of play, bath, bed). In between all that I took her box out of the bag and set it on the dining table, along with a couple of envelopes. It wasn't til Sam was asleep that I had a chance to look at it all - a thoughtful card from the cremation place and a very sweet letter from my vet that talks of how she (Brandy, not the vet)will be waiting for me when I cross over and we will be together again.

It is so sad to think of Brandy as that little box of ashes. In fact, I can't do it. I don't want to open the box and see the sad gray remains of my beloved. It's irrational. I know it's not really her except in the grossest physical sense, and she is long gone to the warm loving lap of the Great Mother. But somehow that box still calls me.

The last time I had a cat die, the box sat around my house for several years, and moved with me to new houses three times along with all the other household detritus. I don't even know what I did with it, in the end. I don't want that to happen again but I can't settle on what to do with her. Perhaps I'll find some long grass to scatter her in so her last energetic imprint can play jungle cat and stalk field mice. For now, I'm going to move it to the window sill so she can look outside. I think I'm getting morbid.

Sad Day

2006-11-27T20:45:00.000-07:00

I had to bid goodbye to an old beloved friend today. Friend, confidant, surrogate child, old biddy, familiar, muse, and the only constant in my life for the past eighteen years, my cat-child Brandy made the long journey today.

She was ailing for the past month, and eighteen is ancient in cat years. However, I always hoped she would make it past the latest little complaint and regain her former health and good spirits. It was not to be. She had thyroid problems, an infected paw that wouldn't heal, a sore hip from a misplaced jump to the kitchen counter, arthritis, and was getting dehydrated and eating poorly. She couldn't make it to her bin downstairs so I brought it upstairs for her, but soon realized her hips were too sore for her to climb into the bin - if I caught her in time I could lift her in, but all too often half her pee would be out onto the newspapers lining the floor (this had been happening for a while). Knowing how fastidious cats are about their private business, it was additionally distressing to see her struggling. I also suspected she was going deaf, as often she would either ignore or not hear me calling her until I put a hand on her and she would brrrp? in surprise.

She spent her days in her basket or snoozing on the register. Which is not uncommon for an old biddy-cat, but before she used to seek out a sun puddle or gaze out the window plotting disaster for the local bird population. Now she barely looked up if birds twittered or Daisy cat streaked by, defending her territory from imagined marauding cats outside. Daisy gets quite indignant if neighbour cats enter our yard, and yowls and growls through the windows just to show them what's what.

My poor darling girl. It was time, and I knew it, inside. When the vet arrived today she was shocked at how much Brandy had declined over the past few weeks, since she had been by to look at her paw - the one that didn't heal.

"well, that was pretty strong antibiotic, it should have cleared up her paw. Her immune system is clearly compromised. She's lost weight, she's obviously dehydrated, and you say she isn't keeping her food down anymore. Her hips still have range of motion so it might be an internal problem if she's not entering her bin to pee. We could do more antibiotics, and blood tests, and see what we can find out. We could get her onto some pain medication ...." She paused, not saying the words.

"It's okay. I've been thinking about it. I don't want to put her through the stress of invasive tests, or medicate her needlessly. She's had a long and full life. I don't want her to have a painful and long-drawn death"

I decided to let my sweet girl make the long journey home. I couldn't keep her alive for my sake by increasing her medications, and I didn't want her to slowly erode away and sicken before my eyes. With Samuel to take care of I knew I didn't have the resources to constantly nurse her as I would want to if she were to die slowly and naturally, even with palliative pain reducing meds.

"You're doing the right thing. It's alright to make the decision now. Her body is shutting down, it's only a matter of time. Are you ready, do you need a few days, time to prepare?" One is never ready, never prepared to say goodbye to a beloved soul. A few days would just lengthen the pain of knowing she would be gone. I cuddled my dear daughter and wished her a safe journey home to the Great Mother and the best of new lives in the future. I held her as she slowly fell asleep.

Her little basket is empty, the heat register where she spent her last days is missing its constant companion. The house is bereft. My heart is broken. I shall go sadly for long and long.

mayhem

2006-11-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

Today has been One of Those Days. It started off with the house being a disaster. Not that it's normally pristine, but the amount of stuff obscuring every horizontal surface had reached a new high of mayhem.

I had way too little sleep due to a soiree yesterday, and went from harried to hectic to frenzied with very little provocation. Samuel, bless his little self, slept beautifully last night, which meant he was bright-eyed at six. I dragged my sorry butt out of bed, knowing I had a busy day - I had signed up for a meditation retreat. Talk about irony. I spent the next two hours dashing around getting Samuel's breakfast, preparing his lunch for later, laying out his clothes for the day, entertaining him, feeding him breakfast, feeding the cats, getting lunch for the sitter, mixing up a bean salad for the potluck at the retreat, along with the usual shower and breakfast for myself.

I packed Samuel into the car and drove over to get the sitter (my niece) - by now it was 9am and he was thinking about a nap. I left the two of them with only one false start - I had to go back to get the breast pump so that I wouldn't explode by lunch time.

The retreat itself was wonderful, except that I mostly just wanted to sleep through it. At lunch, I realized I had brought the breast pump but forgotten a bottle, so it was useless. I decided to try and stay for as long as possible, and lasted until 2:30 which I thought was pretty valiant, considering my breasts were very annoyed with me and let me know about it. At least I didn't leak all over my host's living room floor, but my Guru devotion meditation consisted of "should I leave now? No, I can wait. No, I can't wait. Yes, I think I can wait. I really should stop thinking about whether I can wait." and more along those lines.

Arriving home I learned that Samuel hadn't slept while I was gone except for 20 minutes in the morning. This meant he was short on 2 hours of sleep, which did not bode well for the rest of the day - a visit to my brother's for a noisy, busy family event. Samuel held up fairly well, until we got home. What else is new.

Then it was lots of crying, refusing to eat, me trying to feed the cats, Daisy cat stealing food from Brandy cat, me locking Daisy into the basement, Brandy peeing in the plant because the basement door was locked - actually off the edge of it which is a minor blessing since the floor washes and doesn't smell perpetuually of cat piss as the dirt would have. What else? oh yes, Daisy cat eating Samuel's leftovers AND the rest of Brandy's food while I put newspaper to soak up the pee, Samuel crying because I forgot to rescue the bottle of formula and it dribbled onto him, me realizing I'd completely forgotten to phone a new mom back to help her decipher why her baby wasn't sleeping (like I would know), and then bath and bed for Samuel where he promptly began to cry his guts out because he was overtired.

I just put on the OM cd (it chants OM for about an hour and is his usual lullaby to fall asleep), made sure he wasn't gassy or tangled in his blankets, and walked away. He cried for fifteen minutes and I am now having a big attack of Mean Mommy Guilt for not trying to comfort him more. I picked him up twice but that was against the strict orders from the How to Help Your Baby Sleep website. I just can't ignore his crying, though I do try to refrain from actually picking him up to comfort him. It's so hard. sigh. He has moved into his crib from sleeping in my bed, and we both sleep better for it. It's just these nights when everything is Too Much. At least it's only 9 pm and not midnight or something.

Resolution

2006-11-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

... bit of a denoument, really. They ended up sending the dishwasher part to my parents' house via an employee who lived in the same neighbourhood. Which was very nice of them. I can imagine the conversation they must have had...

Manager: uh, so what's going on with this dishwasher thing?
Staff: Oh. My. God. you wouldn't BELIEVE this woman, she keeps calling and calling. Can we just send her the *@!!$# part?
Manager: yeah, I guess, just don't kill yourself doing it. Doesn't Bob live over thataway? maybe he can take it.
Staff: WHAT.ever! just get her off my back!
Manager: alright, don't have a bird. Bob can take it.

And the next day, Bob (or actually, Bob-ette, it was a woman) shows up with the part. Voila! Luckily I happened to be at my parents at the time, and I was duly grateful. I gave Bob-ette the original dented part, just to prove my point. She took it, though I heard her thinking "what does she think I'm going to DO with this?!? I don't even work in that department!"

Dishwasher Insanity

2006-10-29T15:05:00.000-07:00

So my parents bought a dishwasher in July. It arrived in due course and they had a plumber come over to install it. He happened to be the retired dad of my SIL, so they thought they'd do the community-oriented thing and hire someone they knew instead of a stranger. (Can you see it coming?) anyway, he showed up one weekend morning and proceeded to spend EIGHT (8) hours installing their dishwasher, because he a) talked too much b) insisted on "fixing" (aka breaking) their kitchen tap, c) didn't have the tools he needed, d) installed the plumbing before the electrical and then realized he couldn't reach the wall behind the dishwasher to connect the electrical, and had to do it all over, e) insisted the whole time he knew exactly what he was doing and wouldn't listen to my dad's input or observations. Now being my father's daughter, his input and observations usually drive me batty but he does have a good head on his shoulders and the poor guy would have saved him (and my folks) about 4 hours if he'd listened. Anyway, it got done. Except for the kick-plate, which was dented, which is where my rant actually starts.

The Bay, the retail bastion of Canada, now owned by the chinese (god knows everything comes from there anyway) - or was it the Americans? anyway, one of them furrinners, ordered the part. So they say. A month later, no part.

My mom called the Bay. "oh yeah, it's back-ordered at the manufacturers. Call us in a week"

Three weeks later, still no kickplate. At this point, I somehow got roped into helping. I could feel a rant coming on but I restrained myself, saying it was a bit early to rant. I called their warranty, the golden we-do-everything warranty that they purchased with the dishwasher since they didn't want any hassles with it. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Warranty Guy: "Oh, we don't do that, it was still part of the installation. Call the parts department". I called the parts department. No one knew anything about it. They promised to investigate and call back the next day.

Three days later, I phoned back.
Parts Guy: "oh, umm. we have a note here that we actually sent the part to the store. I have the store number right here, we want you to be happy". Yes, he really said that. Ha. Ha. Ha. I phoned the store and asked for the manager. I ranted. A small rant, quite reasonably toned, but undoubtedly not a happy story.

Store Manager: "Oh, it sure sounds like you got the run around! who was your sales guy? Let me look into it and we'll solve the problem for you."

Two days later, the Store manager calls my mom. "Come on down any time, we can't find the part they sent but we've removed a kickplate from one of our existing models for you!"

I packed up Samuel, dropped him at my SIL's and drove to the store. No part. No sign of a part. Three staff people and not one clue among them. Also no store manager. I didn't rant but was definitely annoyed.

Store guy: "We'll have Bill (the manager) call you on Sunday when he gets back."
He busily writes my name and number on a non-descript scrap of paper that is shouting "lose me! lose me!"

Sunday: no call. (are we surprised?) I phone the warranty people and let off a good rant.

Warranty Woman: "I'm sorry I can't help you. The parts department is closed on Sundays. I can call them tomorrow for you."

I let a couple of hours go by and call the store again. Where's Bill?
Sales guy: "oh, Bill isn't the manager. He's the sales guy looking after this for you. I'll have him call you." Warren calls me. I rant unrestrainedly.

Warren: "If you want, we can order you the part. We never ordered the part, because if we had I would have done it. Bill just took one off another diswasher and left it at the front. They should have given it to you when you came in. He's expecting you today"

Me: "I'm not coming to the store again. I have a baby and am not coming in. I want the part delivered and installed as it should have been at the beginning!" (not a pleasant tone)

Warren: "well who would you like to yell at?"

Me: I don't care! just fix my problem!! If Bill had called back like he said he would I would yell at him directly!

Warren: "I'll have Bill call you."

To be continued...

Sleeping Babies

2006-10-11T16:07:00.000-06:00

I will never again underestimate the power of sleep. After six months Samuel is just starting to nap regularly and for longer than 20 minutes at a time. He has one nap in the morning for about an hour, and sometimes another one in the afternoon though it is not at all certain. I can’t predict when a large or short nap will happen. And despite repeated advice to “sleep when your baby sleeps” I still succumb to the lure of laundry, dishes, vacuuming, tidying, reading the paper, writing a blog (hee hee – obviously this one doesn’t win out very often) – all to the detriment of my sleep-o-meter, which is permanently in the red. I can understand how sleep deprivation is a form of torture. Actually, I do get the requisite hours of sleep, it’s just not uninterrupted and in two-hour stints, could be a mean schedule for the CSIS torture gang.

Torturers: tell us your secrets!
Spy: never!
Torturers: okay then, look after this baby night and day for the next three weeks!
Spy: aaaagh! Anything but that!! I’ll talk, I’ll talk!

I should probably stay off the roads on my bad days – it’s like I’m on auto-pilot and I inadvertently start driving to which ever destination gets triggered by the particular road I’m on. I have to remind myself over and over: “don’t go to the coop you’re going to the bank”.

On a sunnier note, my dad is out of the hospital as of yesterday, after five long weeks. After the depression he developed ICU psychosis which apparently hits 1 in 3 patients that have to stay any length of time in the ICU – characterized by anxiety, panic attacks, disorientation. It manifests a lot like dementia but goes away over time, thank God. A woman down the hall was convinced murderers were after her. My dad kept feeling like he couldn’t breathe, didn't know what day it was or what had really happened vs dreams. He’s much better now, but still a little confused. I think being at home will help a lot in getting him grounded back into himself. We’re all thrilled and secretly worried that he’ll run my mom ragged now that he has 24 hour access to her. Oh well. I try to stay out of their little love games. It drives me crazy but it’s kind of cute at the same time.

Sam is already six months old. Where does the time go??? I haven’t done most of the million or so things I had in mind when I thought of an entire year off work… ha ha.

phew

2006-09-24T08:41:00.000-06:00

My dad is at last getting better. Late last week he was diagnosed with ARDS – Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome which basically means they didn't know what was wrong. He was given a 60% chance of surviving and we were all frantic with worry. Finally on Tuesday he pulled through and was taken off the respirator, but we still didn’t’ know with any certainty whether his lungs would be able to function on their own. And if his lungs did function, would his kidneys be able to clear the fluids that were in his lungs?

On Wednesday morning he had survived the night without being put back on the respirator, and we breathed a sigh of relief. However, he then developed a depression and refused to cooperate with the nurses- he ripped out his feeding tube and my mom had to go and coax him into allowing it to be put back in. It wasn’t until late Friday that he was given the all-clear to be moved out of intensive care.

I went to see him today and he is unplugged from the myriad of tubes and monitors he had attached to him, and has only one feeding tube in his nose – his throat is so swollen from the respirator that he is not able to swallow. He has also lost a ton of weight, but is in good spirits. We are all immensely relieved and happy to see him back with us. He has lost memory of most of his time in intensive care, but I can’t say it would be something he would want to remember anyway.

roller coaster

2006-09-16T22:21:00.000-06:00

My dad is worse. They’ve put him on the respirator again, his lungs are filled with fluid. He was better for two days and now he’s back under sedation. We are all in shock and grief. I can only pray he will recover from this latest setback. Just yesterday he was sitting up and asking for jello and juice. It was the one day I decided to not go to the hospital since he was so much better, and all the visitors were tiring him out. Now I wish I had gone anyway, just to see him.

Breathing again

2006-09-15T14:23:00.000-06:00

My dad is off the respirator! Hallelujah. He is almost his old self – a little slow speaking due to swollen vocal cords from that blasted respirator tube – but otherwise healing beautifully. He’s sitting up in a chair, and physio has begun. The road to recovery! He still has pneumonia and his kidneys are not up to par, which means he may stay in the ICU if his lungs don’t clear soon, but generally is hugely better.

On another more annoying note, I got rear-ended last evening on my way home, and was sandwiched between two cars. Of the three of us, my car was the only one with any damage. The woman behind me lost her little VW hood ornament, and the guy in front didn’t even have a scratch – it was his tire holder thingy that munched in my front hood. So now the round of police reports, insurance and autobody has to begin. Most annoying. On top of the hospital, and having a friend over to stay who had just had surgery, it’s been a grueling week.

S. and I are going for a much-needed dinner - without Samuel. Speaking of which, he’s an absolute jewel. He’s into boisterous bouncing in his exer-saucer and loves playing patty-cake. Every day he becomes more responsive and expressive of his opinions and preferences. He started pablum a week ago, and I’m thinking he could probably easily chow down double the amount I feed him, but I’m afraid of constipating him. It’s all about input and output these days.

Progress

2006-09-13T09:29:00.000-06:00

My dad is finally starting to wake up. After three nerve-wracking days he opened his eyes, is nodding or shaking his head for yes/no, and can grasp hands or wiggle his toes. This is all very promising because it indicates he hasn’t had a stroke while on the heart machine. He may have some cognitive deficits for a while, and perhaps some permanent impacts, but we won’t know that until he is fully conscious and can have neurological tests. It was such a huge relief to have him actually focus his eyes on me when I asked if he could see me. He still can’t see very much, he said he couldn’t see my brother about an hour earlier, but hopefully this indicates he is improving steadily.

He is still on the respirator but the doctor said he is mostly using his own efforts to breathe. They may try to take him off the respirator today. Providing his pneumonia is not too advanced, he may be off it by the end of the day. This will be a huge comfort for him, he is in obvious distress from it.

The worst part is seeing other heart surgery patients come into the ICU, wake up, and get moved out to the step-down unit all within 24 hours. Although it is not unusual for patients to take a bit longer to wake up, four days is a little on the extreme side.

We are all exhausted. We take my mom home in the afternoons and try to dissuade her from making a long visit in the evening – she is also physically frail and needs to rest. We will all feel a ton better once he can communicate and breathe on his own.

too slow for comfort

2006-09-11T09:16:00.000-06:00

My dad is still on the respirator. We’re all getting a little more worried each day. Yesterday they took him off all medication except his painkillers, to see whether he would wake up on his own. Unfortunately he fights the respirator as he’s waking up(who wouldn’t, with a tube stuck down your throat?), getting too distraught and tiring out, so they have to sedate him again.

We had a family conference with the doctor, he sounded a bit puzzled but not seriously concerned about the respirator, and assured us that my dad’s blood tests indicate he should stay on it – he is not breathing enough to supply oxygen to his blood in sufficient quantities. To add to it, his breathing tube is showing some yellowish discharge which raises flags of pneumonia. The game plan is to continue trying to wake him every four hours, and hope for a lucid response.

It’s getting more horrible by the day, I am getting visions of a long and complicated recovery. But I guess alive and slow recovery is better than any alternatives.

Heart Surgery

2006-09-09T09:28:00.000-06:00

My dad just had heart surgery yesterday. A bout of shortness of breath on one of his rambling walks this spring was diagnosed by early August as blockages on three of his coronary arteries, and possibly a fourth. The only reason it took so long was his physician idiotically referred him to an intern instead of a specialist and that resulted in a delay of four months. Anyway, he eventually got scheduled for an angiogram, and then the surgery itself was delayed a few weeks while a kidney infection was treated.

All is supposedly well, the surgery took three hours and he had three bypasses. They took veins out of his leg. Sounds gross but its fascinating – veins are so stretchy you can remove a few inches and tie the ends together with no repercussions. I thought they would have to insert plastic veins or something. The human body is amazing.

They asked him to arrive at the hospital at 6am, but didn’t get him into the theatre until almost ten o’clock. I can only imagine how nerve wracking it must have been waiting for three hours!

What really freaks me out is the thought of my dad with his breastbone sliced in half and the surgeon fiddling around on his heart while some machine does the breathing and pumping. In the realm of shudder-inducing images, that one reigns supreme.

In any case he emerged from the OR in fine form, wired up to about thirty machines. We got to see him after he was “ready” (whatever that means) and in the Intensive Care Unit. He still had the respirator on and was sedated, but aside from the tube going into his mouth, he looked fast asleep. His colour was good, which surprised me. I thought he’d be pale or off-colour somehow.

Now the waiting game begins, while they ease him off the respirator (was supposed to happen last night) and then settle him into the regular recovery ward for a week or so.

My mom was a complete basket case for the past few weeks anticipating this surgery and worrying that my dad would have a heart attack before he got to the table. Hopefully she got a decent rest last night.

Fit to be tied

2006-09-06T09:53:00.000-06:00

...whatever that means. This is actually a rant about my cat. I think I would be quite happy to have my younger cat Daisy stuffed and mounted or perhaps turned into a little cat-rug, snarling face and claws displayed, just like they do with bears. She has developed the annoying habit of waiting until Samuel is almost asleep in my arms, and then walking over and yelling “MIAO!” as if to say: oh, there you are, WHERE’S SUPPER?? Or “LET ME OUT!” or some other cattish indignation. I don’t know why she waits until the moment of sleep, or whether she realizes I’ve disappeared into the baby’s room for too long and it’s time to come get me, or what. Regardless of the workings of her kittycat brain, it’s supremely annoying. Sigh. Now when she walks into the room I either make growling noises to deter her (doesn’t work, and gets comically puzzled – and awake – looks from Sam) or I try to keep the door closed altogether, which means she miaos even louder just outside.

To compound the problem, Samuel has decided he hates sudden loud noises – the blender, the weed whacker, the lawn mower, loud laughter, all will set off a screaming fit of fear which takes several minutes to comfort. Needless to say, an inopportune miao qualifies as a sudden loud noise. Sigh.

Becalmed and loving it

2006-08-06T08:19:00.000-06:00

La la la. Enzymes are my friend. Enzymes good. Two days and nary a poof in sight. I am fit for human company again! hooray!

Wind in my sails

2006-08-03T17:07:00.000-06:00

I’ve become a distressingly windy organism. Perhaps this is a bit personal to be blogging about but if I can’t share embarrassingly personal information here, what’s the point of having one? I don’t know if it’s hormones, breastfeeding or some mysterious change in what I’m eating, but most of it is converting to methane inside me. I could be a serious contender for alternative propulsion competitions – a well-placed match at opportune moments would probably propel me several feet at a time. I am turning into a walking bio-hazard. As it is, my olfactory cells are routinely assaulted by noxious fumes wafting (or blasting) through the environment. The only person who has to endure my malodorous presence is my dear offspring, who often gets a puzzled look on his face after I’ve released a barrage of particularly pungent molecules into the air, as if to say – does this smell happen randomly, or is it something I did?

It doesn’t seem to be related to anything I do, unless I mistakenly eat cabbage, broccoli or eggs, after which the –ahem- aroma - reaches lethal concentrations. Thank God I’m not on the dating scene or it would be really embarrassing. I’d have to excuse myself every half hour to relieve the pressure. I’d have to wear a “danger: explosives” sign and hand out face masks. Sigh. Whatever happened to my occasional, girlish sweet-smelling foofs? They have morphed into the stuff of nightmares. They lurk in my intestines waiting for just the right inappropriate moment to announce their presence with either silent-but-deadly guerilla attacks, or all-out bazooka blasts. I don’t go out much anymore.

My SIL Karen says I need to take enzymes. I say, what happened to the enzymes I used to have?? Are they on vacation? Have they left the building? Sigh. Yet another reason I will more than likely remain single for ever.

Reminds me of a night I went out to a play with L. We ran into a fellow I’d met at a simplicity circle (that’s another rant) and so we invited him to sit with us. The theatre was a small community affair and they were performing “Othello”. About twenty minutes into the play I heard a suspicious rumble vibrating through the metal seats on the bleacher-style chairs. R-R-R-R-R!

“Was that what I thought it was?” …and was it L that did it?? …No, couldn’t be.”
A couple of minutes later, another R-R-R-R-R! and the seat vibrated again. I look over at L, as do a couple of people from the row in front of us. Everyone sniffs the air suspiciously and tries to inch away from the source of the noise. This continued through the whole first half. R-R-R-R-R. sniff. Inch. Repeat. By intermission, there was a large, conspicuous empty zone around us.

It turned out it was our impromptu companion that was distracting our attention from the play, much to the mortification of L, who had to endure suspicious and disgusted looks from our neighbouring spectators. Needless to say, we made some excuse about leaving early and got seats closer to the door, and incidentally, farther away from our companion. He ended up marrying someone L. knows. Small world.

Rolling along

2006-07-26T10:12:00.000-06:00

Samuel is grunting happily on the living room floor. It's really HOT these days so he spends a lot of time nudy, which he loves. Unlike when he was a newborn, when he hated being without clothes. I’ve decided to forego purchasing a rug for him to lie on, partly to avoid the cost and partly to avoid the shopping – which in itself is astounding since usually I am a shopping hound. It's just too hard to flip the rugs and carry one to the till with a baby in tow.

T. also has hardwood floors and said she would throw an old blanket down, which I’ve adopted. It works fine and is cleaner I’m convinced since the cats don’t rush to roll on it as they would a carpet. Not that I’m particularly averse to dirt, I follow the five second rule or the "doesn’t have fur on it – must be fine” rule most of the time. I started out using an exercise mat for him, but he's too big for it now and an old quilt has been promoted to baby-duty.

We went outside to smell the rain today. At almost four months Sam is astronomically more responsive and interested in his environment. The cats are - and in fact any animal is - fascinating to him, specially my two brothers’ large dogs. He loves “chatting” with people, is practicing blowing bubbles, squealing and is starting to realize he can shout. In fact, considering he doesn’t use words, he does a pretty good job of communicating.

He can tell me he’s hungry, sleepy, tired of (fill in the blank), happy, excited, angry. The only one I haven’t figured out is the ‘I just pooed” one. And of course I don’t always clue in to which one is which until he injects some emotion into his words.

S:
Z: Hi honey!
S: aaah.
Z. (at the stove) Do you think we should do groceries today?
S: AAAH!
Z: no shopping?
S: AAAAAH!(angry)
Z: (turning around) oh! I see your toy has run away

Sam has mastered the half-roll now, flipping with ease from his back to his front and scooching the lower arm out from under him. He always turns to one side however, and he hasn’t figured out the return trip.

My biggest rant right now is he’s decided he has to feed every two hours. I thought he had moved past that, but he must be on a growth spurt again. So I’m spending my days in a zombie-state, praying for the three-hour sleep to return so I can get a full sleep cycle in.

Social Overdose

2006-07-16T11:13:00.000-06:00

Whew. I’m exhausted. I had a garden picnic party yesterday and with my usual gusto, invited a ton of people – about seventy, according to my last reckoning, and not counting those I forgot to invite (baby brain-spasms). Fifty people said they'd come - Thank God they didn't all show up (horrible to admit but I am relieved). I had around thirty people come through over the space of four hours, and although I was really happy to see everyone, it wasn’t a good opportunity for me to really visit with anyone properly. I realized (yet again) that I do better in smaller groups.

I got a bit worried the night before, I was feeling very hormonal and didn’t want to let Samuel out of my arms. I thought oh great, people will ask to hold him and I’ll shriek “Back away!! Back away from the baby and no one gets hurt!!” Luckily when I woke up Saturday morning I was feeling a bit better and more willing to share.

The weather was beautiful, hot and sunny. Andrea showed up with her fabulous outdoor room thingy which provided a good chunk of shade, and enough people brought lawn chairs that everyone had a place to plant their backsides. Which we did, quite cheerfully.

The original idea was to play games in the park behind my house but no one brought anything to play – and I’m sadly lacking in outdoor play equipment – must remedy that! People seemed quite happy to not exert themselves, given the heat of the afternoon. I had the kiddie pool set up, and a couple of the kids had a token splash in it.

Anyway, we all sat around and had punch and other more potent refreshing beverages, hotdogs and chips and bean salad. My brother fired up the bbq, and Samuel got passed around between bouts of crying – I suspect he doesn’t really like crowds. This is the second time he’s been quite cranky at larger gatherings. Luckily one or another of his aunties tossed him in his stroller and took him for walks – he always calms down or sleeps when he’s being walked. My clan is quite rambunctious, always fun to have around. And they’re mostly amazing too, helping with getting things set up, dished out and cleaned up. I’m truly blessed.

As usual I didn’t think of taking pictures. What’s that about? Sheesh. At one point I did take out the camera but I didn’t get any good shots of people. I think good pictures need to have a story behind them, other than “here’s everyone sitting around watching me take this shot” – I was at a wedding once where a woman walked around with a really good telephoto and got candid shots of people which were amazing. Capturing that natural moment that conveys the feeling of the afternoon is truly an art. Thinking back I’d have liked a picture of little Evan toddling around nude after his dip in the pool. The girls crammed on the couch watching a movie in the basement. Eric showing his slides on the laptop. Abhi playing frisbee with Ishan using a paper plate. Six of us huddled into the tiny patch of shade under the patio umbrella. Shaylen’s new hairdo. Callie putting up the outdoor room. Nitin being chief Chef. So many little moments that would have been good pictures. Sigh.

Why do I try to have large gatherings at all? I don’t really think they’re my style. I always end up exhausted and worried that people didn’t enjoy themselves. I think I have this misbegotten intention of wanting everyone in my world to be with me all at once and it backfires - I only get to see little snippets of people. Oh well, enough ranting already. I need a nap and a snuggle with my baby.

Rolling over

2006-07-02T12:00:00.000-06:00

Samuel is struggling to turn over these days. He rolls onto his side from his back by heaving his hips over first, and then tries to roll his shoulders over to his front. He hasn’t figured out how to get the underside arm out from under him, it keeps getting stuck in front and he can’t complete the turn. And there he lies, face and hips mooshed into the blanket, shoulders stubbornly refusing to follow. I watch him try and try, panting and straining with effort, only to fail yet again. He has succeeded a couple of times, but most of the time he doesn’t make it. Yet.

What amazes me is his complete dedication to the job. He gets frustrated in the moment, only to rest for a little while and try again, over and over. I am so tempted to just give him the extra push, or pull his arm out from under him, but so far I resist until he is completely frustrated before I help him. I will always remember this dedication to learning whenever I try and fail. All too often I want to be good at something right away, particularly physical activity. When I learned to snow-board a few years ago, the worst part was falling, again, and again, for three days until I finally got the hang of it enough to do my first turn. After that, I still fell almost every turn (in the other direction) but the falling was bearable because I’d done it once and knew I could do it again. Until then, each fall was another testament to my lack of coordination – doubly painful since I’m usually quite quick in picking up physical skills. (Except when it comes to baby strollers, but that’s another rant).

Samuel doesn’t think any of these thoughts, of course. He has no concept of failure, only of frustration. He only knows he wants to turn over and is going to do it, by gosh or by golly (cute saying, eh? Heard an old gaffer say it once). Human babies are amazing. Until now I always thought the tone of admiration in mothers' voices at each little development to be arising from maternal infatuation, but now I think its true admiration and awe at how much their babies accomplish and the effort they put into getting there.

Makes me wonder about people who get injured or paralyzed and have to relearn skills – the older we get, the harder it is, partially I’m sure to all the judgments we make about our progress or lack of it.

Dining Out

2006-06-15T12:07:00.000-06:00

S and I decided to go for dinner the other night –she had heard from her hair dresser that Piata, up on Edmonton Trail, was a kid-friendly place. (We have Trails instead of Boulevards or Freeways in Calgary – a relic from our not-so-distant pioneer settlements when they actually were trails to various locations. Now most of them are named after local first nations bands, but Edmonton Trail actually went to Edmonton not so long ago).

We arranged to go there early to avoid the dinner rush. Off I went, offspring tucked into his car seat and me all excited at the thought of a Dinner Out (yes, they have become special treats instead of the norm. sigh.) When we reached there, of course, the somewhat small parking lot was already full.

“Could you go check out the lineup?” I asked, “I won’t unpack Samuel unless they have a spot - if we have to wait I’d rather go somewhere else”

A couple of minutes later my phone rang

“It’s alright, come on in”

The restaurant is located on an up and coming street in an up and coming neighbourhood, which I idiotically moved out of two years ago (was it only two? Maybe three now) and which I grieve about every time I go there. I used to live a few blocks from my brother and his family, and we both eventually moved away further south (commonly considered the “wrong” side of the river by us north-of-the-river types). Anyway my SIL Andrea and I mope inconsolably whenever we have reason to drive back to the hood. The houses we used to live in are now astronomically expensive (as is everything in Calgary courtesy of the real estate insanity that is going on) so there is no hope we’ll ever be able to move back there. Not until we get old and rich and move into a monster house with several other old biddies and eight or ten cats.

…where was I? oh yes, I was looking for a parking spot in the old familiar streets and since I had Samuel in the car seat I wanted something near by – which, if you’ve ever had to lug a car seat around with the requisite 15 pound infant in it, you know amounts to a 30 pound load. Not conducive to hiking residential streets, and the stroller was not an option – I knew the restaurant would be fairly small inside, the hood being what it is and the building older.

Since I knew my way around I deked through the alley to park behind a small strip mall – the businesses being closed for the evening, I thought it was an ideal solution. I got out of my car and staggered around to the other side to extricate offspring.

Just as I locked up, I heard a voice call out “You know you might get towed there. It’s private property.”

I look up. Way up. Ensconced in an upper story window abutting the alleyway was a woman. What, might you ask, was she DOING, looking out of an upper story window into the alley? Undoubtedly her evening entertainment, sitting up there, monitoring traffic for absentee business owners. Some people just watch TV. She was a Concerned Citizen. That’s what happens when you have a stunningly uninteresting life, I expect. I mumbled some non-committal response about dropping off the baby and walked away. On further reflection I thought I better do exactly that, I didn’t put it past her to actually call the tow truck for extra entertainment.

I lurched into the restaurant with the intent of asking S. to move the car. As soon as I entered I felt a qualm arise. It was a small one as qualms go, generated largely by the quiet atmosphere, the tablecloths and lotus-shaped folded napkins, the classical music and adult patrons. Uh-oh, said small qualm. What if Samuel wakes up? What if he grunts, farts and squawks like small babies do in their sleep? I could just imagine the disapproving stares boring into the back of my head.

I decided to chance it. S. offered to look after Samuel while I moved the car, which I did, and I sat down and ordered a nice glass of white wine.

“this is probably your worst nightmare, eh?” says S. to the server, waving toward Samuel

“No,” he says, “the worst is when they have legs and run around the place trying to talk to everyone and eat off the servery” He looks doubtfully at Sam. “At least he won’t be mobile.”

I groan quietly to myself.

Status: baby still sleeping. No squirms or grunts. I sigh in relief and look over the menu. It’s more pricey than I’m accustomed to these days, but par for the course in a trendy adult restaurant. Most of the ingredients are familiar enough, though I can’t say the thought of blue cheese and eggplant sounds particularly attractive. I don’t mind eggplant, in fact it’s yummy in baba ganoush, but blue cheese? Yuk.

“oh my god. This is SO nice!!” I say to S, “just what I like!” (back when I had a life, I think to myself, and then immediately edit the thought – I DO have a life, just not my old one)

“do you think he’s going to make it?” says S.

“well, we can have a couple of appies and then decide whether to eat here or not. I don’t want to disturb the rest of the people” sez I. “we can head for the diner if he gets fussy in the meantime.”

Two sips into the wine, Samuel grunts experimentally and opens his eyes with the eagle-eyed look of a hungry baby. “there’s a breast full of milk around here somewhere, I can smell it!” more grunting. “You may notice I’m still being polite, so whip it out or I’ll up the decibel level!”

I consider trying the soother, but it’s not likely to work for long. I unstrap him from the car seat and latch him onto the nearest breast. More grunts, of the satisfied variety. “Service is not bad at this restaurant, Mum”. I start praying he won’t have a belly full of gas when he’s done, but as usual he’s drinking like he’s in a beer chugging competition and the prognosis is not good.

“we’d better go”, I sigh “he’s not going to make it through the appies”

The waiter shimmers over. “Have you decided?”

I have a brain fart. “yes, we’ll have the eggplant (sans fromage bleu) and the riblets to start”

“Um, Z, weren’t we just leaving?” says S.

“Eep! Oh yeah. I forgot. I’ll go cancel the order”. I dash after the waiter and cancel the order. He heaves a sigh of relief that we’re going, and puts the wine bill on the house. I take one more sip just to savour the moment, and we head over to the diner.

It’s bright, cheerful, full of noise, and has two other babies squawking happily at other tables. I finally relax and order a glass of wine just to say I did. Maybe it ain’t what I’d have picked two months ago, but at least I can enjoy myself without constant paranoia. And although I had a burger instead of the gourmet pasta, the lemon meringue pie made up for it.

Radio Rant

2006-05-26T20:12:00.000-06:00

As recently as March (BC – Before Children) I lived in silence. In my house there was the sound of the furnace, the clock ticking, the click-click (rather than pad-pad, courtesy long hind claws) of cat feet, the occasional maiao to announce that I had yet again failed to fulfill my duties as servant, or purrful praises for my humble efforts. My ears, in fact, are sensitive enough that what most people called a “normally loud ” volume is physically painful for me.

Rock concerts are out of the question unless I wear industrial strength ear plugs, and even those musical events held in more acoustically civilized locales than the city’s pro hockey rink have me sitting with my fingers placed elegantly in my ears. I’ve even been known to request the soundman at a church service to turn down the volume (whatever happened to good old hymn singing? These days churches seem to want to present an entire rock concert every week – not that I frequent churches in the general run of things). Anyway, my point is that I didn’t have much noise, ambient or otherwise, in my environment.

All that has changed since the offspring arrived. I was warned by my SIL that babies are notorious for being routine-oriented, and unless I wanted a little hellion that refused to sleep unless it was absolutely quiet, I’d better start having a noisier house in general. So I turned on the radio – and a new rant was born. I can’t BELIEVE the inanities that are broadcast across our airwaves. Commercials drive me nuts, the music is stunningly repetitive and the disc jockeys are nauseating. Intelligent radio, anywhere?? Of course I could (and do) switch to CBC, still a source of thoughtful commentary…and while in the States I listened to Public Radio or something like that which was really good.

Okay, maybe it’s not quite that bad, and I’m slowly learning to tune out the yukky stuff. Which makes me wonder what’s happening in my subconscious since it’s still taking it all in. I can’t wait until Samuel’s old enough to sleep consistently wherever he is – he is already very good at sleeping through grocery shopping and visits to the video store so I live in hope! I did switch to a lullaby CD last night, which worked fine, and also is teaching me a few lullabies. For anyone out there, I recommend it : Lullaby Berceuse, a warm prairie night by Connie Kaldor (I tried hyperlinking to a book listing at indigo but it doesn't work properly, I'm probably doing something wrong).

Posturing

2006-05-23T17:13:00.000-06:00

I have horrible posture. I could contend for the Hunchback of the Neighbourhood title, if there were one to be awarded. (Of course I’d have to beat out all the old grannies with osteoporosis first). I realized this the other day as I was hoisting the offspring onto my shoulder for the obligatory spewing of milk and air after a feeding, and there wasn’t much real estate to hoist him onto. Pondering the causes of this, I deduced via the hallway mirror that the lack of surface area was due to an inordinate curvature in my shoulders. It looks quite unattractive, now that I’m actually noticing it. I remember I had very GOOD posture at an indefinite point in the past (“my youth” ) – and I don’t know when it slouched into the current bowed position. As soon as I straightened my shoulder, Samuel immediately nestled into the now-appropriately positioned corner of my neck. Hmm.

It could be my breasts. I’ve always been morbidly aware of having obstreperous nipples, and I’ve ranted before about feeling like I – or rather they – are being stared at (there’s a book on that waiting to be read on my bookshelf – the feeling of being stared at, not the nipples). Now that they're working girls, they've become even more ...opinionated. So it would make sense that I’ve hunched in an effort to hide the girls.

Alternatively, it could be ME just getting worn out by life – I’m sure there’s a profound statement about self-esteem in there somewhere but I’m too lazy to ferret it out.

Suffice it to say I’m turning over a new leaf – or shoulder in this case, to improve my posture. I’m using S. for my inspiration since she has excellent posture – and robust girls which she does not try to hunch over and hide.

Out with the old, in with the new!

2006-05-09T12:33:00.000-06:00

So I think I’ve lost a friend to The Marriage Void. She’s met a wonderful man, they’re getting married, and have just moved in together. Despite our best attempts, we’re losing touch as they make a life together. Although I’m thrilled she’s found a good man (and am wishing that he had some single friends) I’m also grieving the loss of our original friendship. It’s weird that her good fortune brings such poignancy with it.

Is this an inevitable part of the shift from singledom to couplehood? Must one die to an old life to begin a new one? We both had hoped this would not happen but it seems almost impossible to avoid. Add to the mix my new motherhood and our shared reality becomes ever fainter.

I always thought poorly of women who dumped their girlfriends when they met a man. However, I must say that in this case, it feels like it’s almost an inexorable part of the metamorphosis from one life to another.

February?!

2006-04-29T13:41:00.000-06:00

...how did that happen? I just realized my last post was in FEBRUARY. I don't even know where to begin with this post, quite a bit has happened in my life. The biggest thing is I'm now a mother. As of March 31, to be precise. My little bundle of joy is currently grunting happily in his cradle, trying to decide whether he has gas or needs to toot. Probably both. Would that those were the biggest issues in my life too! I'm feeling really disjointed and isolated these days, caught between dirty diapers and fur-bunnies (from the cats, not the kid).

Life has indeed changed, as everyone said it would, and as I knew it would. However, intellectually understanding something, and even emotionally wanting it, is not the same as living the experience. My lifeworld, as the ed philosophers like to say, has been reframed radically and I almost can't read my environment any more. Mostly, though, these troubling realizations are transitory. I feel it when I realize I have no conversation left, or when I listen to the news on the radio and what is "old" news is still new, so to speak, to my ears.

I love hormones. I actually CAN spend an hour without knowing it, watching the baby sleep. Astonishing to my previous self, and a routine occurrence to the me-that-is.

Ah well. Samuel is already 4 weeks old, and a happy, good baby. If he continues to sleep at this time of day I may be able to post more often. Oddly enough, it helps me feel as though I'm still a thinking, thoughtful being rather than a human cow with automatic diaper-changing abilities.

SNOW, SNOW, SNOW!!

2006-02-24T11:40:00.000-07:00

Yay! the snow goddess heard me! we have REAL snow, like almost a foot. When I took the garbage out it was up to the top of my boots. It's been snowing little fluffy white blessed snowflakes for almost three days, I had to shovel my walk this morning - (my odd jobs guy did it for me yesterday lest you think I'm the delinquent of the neighborhood) - and it was quite funny, trying to shovel with an 8month belly getting in the way. It's amazing how much stomach muscles do for you, I really miss them.

Sudden Death

2006-02-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

...of infants, in case you were thinking I was going to launch into a diatribe about overtime in hockey games. Just in from the community clinic: don't have family beds (ie bring your baby into your bed) or Your Baby Will Die. So a hallowed institution has been summarily nixed by a group of middle-aged white males (namely the American Obstetrics Association) who have undoubtedly never had to feed a baby night after night.

Even my community nurse sis-in-law has joined their ranks, albeit reluctantly, after reviewing the research on the subject. Apparently until the mid 90's there was little information on what causes SIDS - now they're linking it primarily to smoking, drinking/ drugs, and secondarily "other unknown causes". Nevertheless, no babies in bed. No babies on couch. No babies sleeping on their bellies (which by the way, every single one of my ten nieces and nephews were subjected to because it was the "safest" at the time) No babies in soft cribs. No crib bumper pads. Apparently, babies on floor, on their backs, with no pillows and if you're lucky a thin hard sponge for a mattress, is the only thing that guarantees their safety. It's astonishing our species survives to adulthood at all.

...I think I'm basically callused when it comes to humanity. I mean, we all gotta die. Even babies die sometimes. The overall incidence in the States is somewhere around 1.2 deaths per 1000 births. This is less than 1/10 of 1% which to me, is miniscule.

Of course everyone says "well would you want YOUR baby to die of SIDS?" and though I'm horribly tempted to reply with a cutting remark about their intelligence levels, I inevitably agree of course I wouldn't want that. But does that mean I'll necessarily follow every recommendation by the establishment, which is inevitably based on gross statistics and more often than not, speculation? Dammit, I'm sorry but I'm not going to do that. I will do what I think a loving caring parent would do to safeguard their child. I refuse to be driven to fear-based parenting. If generations of humans have survived to maturity despite scientific and parental ignorance, then goddess willing so will my offspring.

Before you rush to chastise me, this doesn't mean I would deliberately place my child in a dangerous situation. What I'm trying to define is the line in the sand in managing risk to my child. I think 1/10 of 1% is an acceptable risk level. I will take sensible precautions, but I will have my child close to me. And if that means in my bed, then that will be in my bed. Mind you, I do have a king-size bed so it would take some doing for me to actually roll over the bolsters and onto my child - and being a light sleeper, a speed-bump like that would definitely wake me up before I had baby-pate on my hands. It's undoubtedly different if you have two adults and a baby in, say, a queen-size bed. (personally I don't know how couples manage on a queen size, but that's a whole other rant) Sometimes I think parents have abrogated their rights and responsibilities in child care to any and every expert who chooses to propound on what is or is not safe practice.

Great souls

2006-02-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

I have a little nephew (5) and niece (2) who have been diagnosed with SMA, Spinal Muscular Atrophy. What it means in English is that they never develop any muscle mass or tone, of any kind. Eventually as they grow out of babyhood, their own bodies are too heavy for their muscles to hold up and they become completely helpless. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, their mental acuity is unimpaired. They are bright, sociable and sunny children.

Parenting special needs children on a daily basis is heartbreaking, but when a health crisis is encountered it becomes even harder to bear. My sister-in law sent this note about my nephew's spinal development that has me in tears, and I had to share it with you.

Those two little bodies shelter such bright souls. My own "problems" fade to nothing when I hear about their trials.

From Karen:
----------------------------------

Yesterday was a hard day. I hate all the medical aspects to Ishan and Shanaya's diagnosis of SMA. We had what I thought would be a routine appointment, turned out to be yet another blatant reminder of what SMA is.

Ishan has had what we call a turtle shell to make it a little more inviting. It is is a hard foam vest that he is suppose to wear all day everyday. It is because he has scoliosis, and it is to buy time for delaying back surgery. I have hardly had it on him, because he feels very unstable in it, and it limits him in what he can do. Also, breathing is practically not an option in this thing. I felt justified in choosing what I felt the lesser of two evils, freedom to play and function as normally as possible or, keep his back straight.

Well I got read the riot act yesterday. I was informed that surgery is usually done around 40 degree curvature, and Ishan is at 44. I was also told that if it goes much further it is hard to correct. His rib cage is rotated, and is growing funny. Because he is still quite young he still has some flexibility in his spine, and lots more growth time, causing the doctor to want to wait as long as possible.

The doctor was pretty hard nosed about wearing the vest, and explaining what is going on in Ishan's body, and what could happen. It is not pretty. The doctor left the room for a few minutes, and I saw that Ishan was holding back tears. I asked him what was wrong, and he started to cry and said he was too young. I agree! He just turned 5! It is not fair that some children have to go through so much physical
suffering. I told him that he would be OK, and that I know some kids who have had back surgery and they are doing great. One even younger that Ishan. But we should try to hold it off as long as possible by wearing the turtle shell. He just wanted to be held, and I couldn't hold myself together , seeing him in
emotional pain. We just cuddled and cried together.

Ishan told me that he doesn't like the idea of wearing the turtle shell, but he will do it to help his back. I feel so bad, that I might have been able to delay this surgery by getting him to wear the vest all the time, but am so proud of Ishan in his maturity to do something that he doesn't like for the better.

Don't we all have those dragons that we face? Eating more vegetables, exercising, studying, working, etc. Ishan's maturity humbles me. Ishan is crazy about
pretending he is a knight lately, and I think he is truly a dragon slayer.

O Winter, dost turn thy face away?

2006-01-25T15:19:00.000-07:00

I miss winter. I miss the white fluffy, I miss the ice crystals floating in the air, I miss the chickadees chirping cozily to themselves as they hunt for food among my spruce tree branches. I miss the hare footprints on my lawn. I miss the blinding-sun-on-snow-bright-even-sunglasses-make-me-squint days. I even miss shovelling the walk. This has been a non-winter so far. We've only had one mildly coldish snap. It was too short, and snowless. *sigh*. I probably sound odd to almost everyone else, who seem to start pining for hot tropical locations the minute October arrives and don't stop till June ends. Well, call me an oddity. I LIKE winter and I miss it.

After all, I live in Calgary for a reason: we get winter. Lots of it, tempered by warm windy chinooks that make it all the more exciting when the next wave of coldness inexorably rolls in. I LIKE the fact that all the bugs die, that people have to be hardy souls to live here, that foreign-born plants get confused and die in our chinooks, that my nose bleeds because the air is so dry. I like bundling up and feeling toasty warm while my eyelashes freeze together and I lose all feeling in my cheeks. I like the little warm, wet patch from my breath on the scarf wrapped around my face. I even like the hat head I get from my parka. All because it means WINTER is really here, and all warm-weather loving wusses can just suck it up!!

This year has been useless. Have I mentioned it's been too warm? too bloody warm. No snow. no freezing. no nothing. I barely even need a coat to go outside. What if this climate change thing means NO WINTER??? I'll have to move north, I guess, though I think I'd miss the sun and be driven to drink like pretty much everyone else up there. Perhaps it's time to do a Snow-Goddess placating dance.

O Mighty One,
take pity
on your poor adoring
supplicant. Send snow!!

nasal vagaries

2006-01-23T15:14:00.000-07:00

My nose is on a rampage. It may be due to pregnancy but I secretly suspect it just got tired of identifying smells, day after day, and has decided to be a little more creative. Take, for example, my disturbing conversation with my nose earlier today:

I was going up the escalator at lunch and was about three steps down from the woman in front of me. She had on the accepted Corporate Slave uniform, carried the standard issue purse and seemed quite innocuous. Unfortunately, three steps was just the right distance, altitude-wise, to place her bum at the same level as my nose. Weren't we just about a third up when this...SMELL... came wafting through the air.

Nose: EWWWW!!! SHE FARTED!!! She FARTED on the ESCALATOR!!
Z: What nonsense. (delicately waves hand in front of face) it's just the smell of cooking from the deli.
Nose: I KNOW a FART when I smell one, and that there is a FART!!!
Z: If it was one, we would have left it behind by now.
Nose: NO, this is a FOLLOWING FART!! It's stuck to you now, you're Soooo Dead. Just wait till you get into the office!
Z: Stop it. you're being an idiot.
Nose: FART, FART, FART, FART, FART!!!!

At this point I realized that my Nose had developed Attitude. As we disembarked from the escalator I also noticed the woman was carrying take-out food, and connected the dots. The smell was actually... Broccoli. Yes, broccoli, cooked in a particular way with particular sauce (I suspect it was beef and broccoli from the chinese place) - apparently, to belligerent noses, can smell like ... well, you get the drift.

Evil Contractor woes

2006-01-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

I realize I have a sadly entrenched conviction that home fixit contractors are Not To Be Trusted. Willy nilly, I've lumped all of them into one big glob of devious, greedy, blood-sucking (or rather money-sucking) sub-humanity. All this despite the fact that most of them are quite pleasant in person, and appear anxious to help me.

I'm a sucker for the clean cut, earnest-faced conviction expressed by the salesman (they're always men, for some reason - let's not get into analysing why ;) - that I really MUST have my entire furnace replaced to fix the wierd blip on my thermostat. So I dish out the bazillions of dollars and then feel either faintly aggrieved or righteously indignant that I have once again been taken to the cleaners. So to speak.

Part of the problem is that I don't usually know what the problem is. So I have people come in, they tell me things and I believe them. Sort of. I somehow convince myself they must know what they're talking about and why would they lie to little old moi? I think that's where all the trouble starts.

I'm not skeptical enough. Even when they express doubt about their opinion, I try to convince them they're right. Like "oh, I'm sure YOU should know, you do this every day" - gag. Just shoot me now.

I need an agent. Someone who will say "my client is interested in replacing her old toilet. We have initiated a competitive bid process and you are invited to participate as a contender. All contracts will be signed in blood (namely, yours), and if you fail to show up on time or complete on time you will be charged at the rate of $100 per hour. Punishment for shoddy work will be extracted in pounds of flesh." (accompanied to fist thumping against palm, or maybe some knuckle-cracking). My agent would be called Luigi and would be an ex-navy seal or maybe a professional assassin ... slap, slap slap - that's the sound of my hand trying to wake me up.

Party Slug Strikes Again

2006-01-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

I had a rather quiet New Year's Eve this year - albeit not intentionally. I went to a fondue party which could have been a great time had I been in the right mood - as in, social, not hibernatory. I went early, given my predilection for snoozing off in the middle of sentences after about 10:00 or so, reprise the doormouse in Alice. I had great hopes of pacing myself so I could stay awake till midnight.

The fondue food was great, so I stuffed myself silly for an hour or so and then thought I'd better stop before I had violent rejections from the stomach department. Not that it helped. There's not a lot of room in my stomach anymore so I was feeling pretty miserable but not yet throwy-uppy.

The music was really good, the host had put together an energetic, fun party playlist, but it was too loud for my ears and Baby started jumping around like a jellybean with the rock beat. He was not happy.

Most of the guests were standing in the kitchen, and standing is not my forte these days - after about 1/2 an hour I feel like my torso will fall off my legs. Oddly, I haven't heard any other pregnant women complaining about this. Is it only me that's so wimpy? My hip joints started hurting quite a bit so I went to the living room to sit down, but unfortunately the stereo was blasting in there. After about an hour of relative misery, my two brain cells finally connected and I realized I had to leave.

I went home, snuggled in bed (upright, to minimize the heaving stomach) and fell asleep! I think I'm going to have a Winter Blues party later this/next month just to keep up my spirits. Maybe once the furniture arrives and the basement is done...

yay! new furniture, new paint, new year!

2005-12-29T11:13:00.000-07:00

I got a new sideboard yesterday! what fun! It's BEAUTIFUL. I think this is my first piece of REAL furniture that isn't upholstered (important qualifier since I've bought brand-new chesterfields and mattresses in the past). I have always purchased cabinets, bureaus, tables etc from second hand places or dubious antique shops that refurbish cast-aways and then price them at a hundreds of dollars. Either that or our trusty Value Village and Interfaith stores.

Amazingly enough they delivered the sideboard ON TIME, I wasn't even home yet - luckily the painter guy let them in. Yes, I'm also getting the house painted. This is Nesting with a Vengeance. I just don't want to have things bugging me after the baby arrives. Yeah, that's it. I'm feeling SO much better about the house now that things are actually happening. If only I could wave a magic wand and have the basement sterilized and redone by next week, I could start the new year off with a huzzah worth the yelling!

Speaking of New Year, it seems pretty low key this year. Mine, of course, started on the 22nd as the year turned past solstice - the earth creaked to a standstill and reversed its tilt, and we're off on another pendulum swing through to midsummer's day. Anyway, for the secular festivities this weekend I'm going to a fondue with a bunch of girls - there's something really horrible about being surrounded by kissing couples when one is single. I either end up shunning the party scene or leaving before the clock strikes. What I want to know is, where do all the single guys go? Do they mope around at home, or drink with their buddies, or what?

Loot! gotta love the season

2005-12-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

I've never grown out of my delight in receiving gifts. Big ones, little ones, ones that climb on rocks... any gift is a source of immediate pleasure. The only gift I remember ever thinking was awful was a framed patch of dryer lint that someone brought to a pirate gift exchange at work one year. Luckily I wasn't saddled with having to throw it out - even the frame was really ugly. There is a limit, after all.

Interestingly my gift-receiving delight is not matched by any semblance of gift-giving talent. This year I'm doing gifts-by-deadline. Most of them are glimmers of ideas until the day or two prior to the event where the exchange will happen - an open house, dinner, tea, whatever. Sometimes I've had an idea for a gift for quite some time, but more often I have a mild feeling of panic as I trawl the stores for something appropriate - I have realized that I just don't REMEMBER things about my friends enough to be a really good gift-giver. I can't remember what colours they like, what style of jewelry or genre of book or music. It's actually quite distressing and sad when I realize how little I remember.

One of the women at work has a detailed spreadsheet with events, ideas and tidbits that provide her with clues as to what an appropriate gift might be. I think she is my hero. I've thought about having a little notebook of ideas - maybe the new year is a good time to start.

Shriek! I have MOULD!!

2005-12-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

Does it GET ANY WORSE? well, at least this stuff is in the basement. I guess Mould on Me would be worse! It likes to eat the paper on the drywall material, which is pretty gross. Not quite as gross as backed up sewage or an Infestation by Centipedes, but Mould definitely is in the running for Most Disgusting Basement Denizen.

Apparently it lurks around in spore form (mould equivalent of a string-bikini) reading smut novels and the Inquirer, waiting for Conditions to be Optimal for setting up luxury condominiums and other mould-inspired high-density dwellings on one's walls. Once the Optimal Conditions develop (read: moisture) it shifts into high gear, the bulldozers start rolling and it's all over: Mould has Established a Destination Resort Colony. The only way to get rid of it is to institute a Complete Extermination: mould-killer, a demolition ball, a containment zone to seal off any escapees, and a SWAT team to ensure the Zone is Clear.

Sigh. Of course, all this costs a lot of money. Which I no longer have, since I just spent it on furniture and flooring materials for the aforesaid basement.

On the bright side, my athsma may actually clear up after this is over - I've been having quite the struggle with it, and was blaming it all on the pregnancy.

Try not to panic

2005-12-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

I had a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the night. Complete with cold sweat, pounding heart, lack of air and feelings of imminent doom. I jumped out of bed and was racing down the hall before I woke up enough to stop myself. Would have been ironic to go charging out of the house, have an athsma attack from the cold air and collapse from lack of oxygen. It was quite alarming at the time but seems a bit comical now. I thought of phoning the midwife but what would one say? "I think I'm going to die in less than a minute, but I know that can't be true, but it feels like it will definitely happen, so what do you suggest?" My rational mind was going "you're being an idiot. Nothing is wrong. Go back to bed" but my emotional mind was having none of that. Guess who won.

I ended up wandering in circles with the phone clutched in one hand and the midwife number in the other (I've written it in large numbers on an index card - I can never remember numbers when I'm feeling bad). It did ease after fifteen minutes or so, but heaven only knows why it happened in the first place. I was breathing fine, as far as I can remember. The mysteries of life as ... me, I guess. Maybe it was because I bought a bunch of furniture two nights ago? That's anxiety causing.

Boulders, Stones, or pebbles?

2005-12-06T14:36:00.000-07:00

A couple of pals and I forayed into the Land of Sports Bra Fitting this weekend. I'd seen an advertisement in the local fitness mag about sportsbras.ca, a local outfit who ...er.. outfit women with bras. After variously cajoling and coercing friends, acquaintances and the odd passerby to come with us, we three stalwarts set off to the Far North East (well it FEELS like another country sometimes) to be Fitted.

I can't say my girls were thrilled at the thought of a bra fitting. Usually they're quite happy to be out on day passes on Saturdays, Sundays, and evenings, but with the impending arrival of Junior they've plumped up quite a bit and are a little too...forward... to be taken into public untethered. They just don't understand the concept of "shy and retiring" and tend to bounce around, wanting to look at this, touch that, chat with the cute guy in the grocery store. You know how it is.

Once we got there we were greeted by two formidable Bras hung at eye level on the far wall: one pair was the size of two-ton boulders, the other pair could have comfortably fit only golf balls. It takes all kinds, and this store apparently stocked them.

Two equally formidable but friendly women (they were hockey players who, oddly enough didn't have mullets), greeted us and immediately asked us what sport we were into. S. could legitimately say she was a runner, and J. could legitimately say she was thinking of training for a 5k in the spring. Yours truly, on the other hand, could confess only to being a dedicated C.P. (couch potato) - one training session does not an athlete make. I mumbled something about "maternity?" and "weekend support?" and smiled hopefully. They looked at me pityingly and launched immediately into Athletics Conversations with my two companions.

Apparently the secret to a good sports bra is:
1. Find one about two rib sizes tighter than the ones you normally wear and at least one cup size smaller. Apparently most women wear bras that are too big - if they ride up in the back, they're the wrong size.
2. If it's harder to breathe, you've made a good start.
3. The kind that cross over in the back and have rebar inserts are the best to ensure No Movement Whatsoever.
4. The girls will complain. One bra we tried on (we all HAD to, it is the reigning Queen of Sports Bras and one does not refuse an Invitation from the Queen) was made so you did up the two lower front hooks, bent over, squished in the girls and then did up the rest. Once it's on, however, it's heaven. Except for the breathing part. But apparently when you're "in the zone" working out, you tend to forget minor points like breathing.
5. Bring friends with you when you go, and make a private appointment if you can. It's way more fun, and you can prance around sharing the good, the bad and the ugly. Wine or martinis to bolster (hee hee) one's courage are probably not a bad idea either if there is a convenient watering hole on the way.

I did end up finding a couple of weekend bras - which, apparently most people don't have, so I'd better explain: weekend bras are Not Serious. They have no underwire, no extra padding to hide obstreperous nipples, and no fancy lace (unless they're Saturday Night bras, which are a whole other story, the little hussies). They are, in short, mere Supports rather than Items of Armour worn against Wandering Eyeballs in the mostly-male environment in which I work.

They say men think of sex every 10 seconds. I can personally attest that it is at least that often, and is likely to occur more often than that when a) any woman walks into their office or meeting room, b) any woman shifts in her chair c) any woman passes their field of view, d) extrapolate freely from here. I don't think it's a lewd thing most of the time, though I have met those too. Mostly, it's just a one-track mind. Poor things. The well-bred ones do it with highly specialized peripheral vision. The stupid ones glance or talk directly at the girls. In any case I try not to encourage their speculative musings on my breasts (yes, they do speculate, and have admitted to it in various states of inebriation).

Oops, I think I've ranted into another topic. Back to bras: if you're jiggling when you work out, GO GET A BETTER BRA. I've seen women running on the path whose girls were doing trapeze artist imitations as they went. Not only is it distracting to avoid them as they swing by your face, I can't believe it isn't painful. And according to the Bra Shop women, the damage to your breast tissue is irreversible unless you're into expensive surgery.

So, now that we've Been and Come Back Again, and our girls are appropriately attired, we're awash in business cards to hand out to all and sundry. My own girls are cozy, though somewhat grumpy at the lack of profile. I keep telling them to wait for Baby, they'll be out and about with their own little front doors...

Slave-Drivers aren't ALL bad

2005-12-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

Had my first-ever personal training session last night. L showed up with an exercise ball in one hand and a clip board in the other. I tried throwing out a few decoys: "oh, have you seen the darling night light I bought for junior?" and "Can you believe I have these hedgehog chocolates and I still haven't eaten them!" and "I'm feeling a bit tired tonight..." -- but she was having none of it. "Yeah, that's nice Z. where's the workout area?" I could see she was Focused. Bitch. I hated her already. Off we staggered downstairs to where I had hastily vacuumed and mopped a clean spot in the disaster that passes for my basement rumpus room (I can't bring myself to call it the "home entertainment room" - that would mean it has Status and needs to be Regularly Cleaned).

She is very clever, I have to say - she started off with an innocuous "Let's start off with a warm-up: Why don't you do 5 minutes on the elliptical?" About a minute later, the whining began. "Do I have to do 5 minutes? isn't 2 enough?... my legs are a bit sore... I think I'm going to have trouble walking tomorrow". Needless to say, none of it worked. It was 5 whole minutes (at the non-programmed, zero resistance level). I got off feeling a bit disgruntled. The Princess Act was Not Working. I threw a few dirty looks her way. She beamed happily back at me.

We moved on to floor exercises, which were finely calculated to turn my muscles into wibbly bits - "okay lie down, put your legs up on this ball, lift one leg into the air, and lift the rest of your body sideways onto your first three finger tips while doing a hula-hoop movement". Okay, maybe they weren't quite that complicated but L's favorite expression is "let's add a little interest to this!" and I'm thinking "I'm INTERESTED ALREADY, and if I have to move one more body part my sadly taxed brain cells are going to have a seizure!" --kind of like when your mom said your face would freeze if you practiced too many wierd contortions with it. As a kid. I don't do that anymore. Really.

In short, the cacophony was deafening (is that redundant?) between my whining about how many reps I'd REALLY done (she can count and make chatty comments all at the same time), her exhaustingly enthusiastic count-downs, and the two cats insisting I hadn't fed them enough supper. To top it all off, she insisted on doing every exercise twice which was really very mean, I thought. After all, I was already pathetically flailing around trying to do one set without bursting any blood vessels or having a cardiac arrest.

At the end of it all I was convinced I'd be in a body cast before the next day was out, but she was heartless. "So, you'll do this two more times before we get together next week, right? Oh, and make sure you do a half hour on the elliptical too!" She bounced (and I staggered) back upstairs and in a moment of utter insanity I agreed to do it all again next week.

So far I'm still mobile, and every muscle in my body is NOT in a spasm. I don't understand it.

Packing it on

2005-11-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

I'm up to 135 pounds today! woo hoo. That means I've gained 10 lb baby-weight of which 1 lb is baby and the rest, apparently, is boobs and belly. All my weight is forward, I still look relatively normal from behind. Bring a winch if I fall down cause I won't be getting up again any time soon! I already have to roll onto my side to sit up, or do this wierd diagonal lurch if I'm sitting on a really bottomless couch. I can't see my toes any more. It's all very exciting.

I'm still pathetically behind on getting the house ready (nesting hormones) and I've already ranted about being fit (labouring hormones) so now I think I'll pontificate on eating (nurturing hormones). I haven't had any food cravings until yesterday, when I HAD to have mashed potatoes or ... well, I wasn't brave enough to resist the craving. I probably would have been driving to the Wendy's window for a potato at 3am. That's where a hubby or male counterpart of some kind would really come in handy. hee hee. I can see it now:
Moi: Get me a potato!
Him: it's the middle of the f--- night!
Moi: (brandishing nearest baby rattle) get me a potato NOW!!
Him: okay okay just don't point that thing at me!
(staggers back an hour later with piping hot potato)
Him: sweetie, wake up, here's the potato!
Moi: zzzzz ... snore.... wha?! oh. ....eww. it smells wierd. I can't eat it...just put it in the fridge, honey, thanks. ...snore...zzzz
Him: (to self) I'm going to kill her. I'm going to kill her. breathe, count, breathe, count... thank god for those birthing classes...

Buns of... firmness!

2005-11-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

I couldn't bring myself to aim for "steel" - however, I am aiming for something more robust and ...further from the ground. (I fondly remember an old Sally Forth comic where she asks her husband to measure the distance from her butt to the ground to see if it's sagging. He, being the clever pumpkin, suddenly remembers an important engagement elsewhere in the house. No wonder men love garages).

Anyway, back to me: I've hired a personal trainer! Inspired by my friend S, the Queen of Determination, I have followed her good example and decided to start coaxing my body into some semblance of fitness - mainly to train for the birthing marathon I'll be involuntarily participating in sometime in April.

What would runners do if they were told: some time in a four-week window, you will have to run for anywhere from 6 to 36 hours, and you're not allowed to stop. We might make you start in the middle of the night. We won't tell you in advance how long the race will be. We won't tell you what the terrain will look like. If you finish succesfully, you'll be rewarded with a completely helpless creature who depends solely on you for its survival. And to top it off, we'll make sure you're deprived of sleep for the next year or so.... Odd thing, Nature. She does stack the deck a bit by making babies indescribably cute, and flooding moms with baby-loving hormones, but the more I learn about pregnancy and child birth, I continue to marvel that the human race (giggle) succeeds in propagating at all.

So anyway, the trainer is in charge of whipping me into shape, mostly core, butt and leg work, and flexibility (of the leg-spreading kind. smirk.) I don't have to contend with staring jocks since I'll be at home, but I will have the usual insidious motivational gremlins haunting me. I'm not sure how often to make appointments with her, but I suspect two weeks will be as long as I can manage without falling off the wagon.

First class is next Thursday, so I'll be cleaning the basement this weekend to eliminate embarrassing armies of dust bunnies and old cat puke (don't ask).

Quitting

2005-11-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

I withdrew from my Psychology course today and am feeling inadequate. I've entered "quitter" zone and it isn't sitting well. Our society has so many negative values attached to stopping something before one has finished it - connotations of laziness, ineptitude, or lack of foresight, or plain stupidity.

A sinister little voice is whispering accusingly "You should have known before you started you didn't have time to do this"... "You haven't got what it takes " ... "Maybe you're just too dumb to go to school anymore" ... "You'll never get anywhere in life" ... yikes. I've never tried writing out all the little whispers before. Who knew that voice was so evil? I'm going to have to turn the volume to "off" for that one. We carry our enemies in our own heads. In meditation class last night (which partially led to my decision to withdraw) we were talking about how we project our own perceptions onto reality and act out our karma blindly, unaware of its gears grinding behind our decisions and actions.

Thinking about this, I realized the whole do-my-doctorate thing is yet another of my projections, based on unspoken familial expectations (every one of my four maternal aunts has a PhD or an MD, and most of my cousins have multiple undergrads and at least a Masters). Most of the pressure is my own doing, my parents never make mention of it - directly, anyway, other than to speak wistfully of all the degrees the OTHER aunts/cousins have.

What with my job, (which is blessedly in a lull right now), trying to put my house together, doing community work, providing a modicum of care for my parents, trying to take some time to myself for choir, the odd massage or hair appointment, and staying connected with my friends and family, I don't have time for academics, or exercise for that matter (and that's a whole other rant). And on top of it all, I'm worried about how the stress/anxiety is affecting Baby's anxiety levels.

Am I wrong to ditch this course? should I have finished it? There are no absolute answers. There are no rules. I've lost the money I paid for the course, which is too bad, but not the end of the world. I withdrew in time that it won't show as a "fail" on my record (which is yet another rant) At least now I'll have time for exercise.

hmm. lots of ranting going on in this corner. I know I've done the right thing for me, for my life, right now. The emotional baggage will scream, yell, burble and dissolve away into primordial consciousness. Ultimately the universe isn't judging me on how many letters I have after my name... is it?

good livin'

2005-11-18T14:57:00.000-07:00

I got one of those emails with statements of life advice in them (do guys send these out? I only ever get them from other women) so in the general spirit of ranting, I thought I'd post them and add my not-so-humble opinion. It occurs to me I can be quite snarky. No wait, let's call that 'razor-edged wit' instead.

---------------------------------------------------------

Accept that some days you're the pigeon, and some days you're the statue. And some days you get to be the falcon lunching on that juicy little pigeon that was crapping all over the statue...

Always keep your words soft and sweet, just in case you have to eat them. If I'm ever that hypocritcal please take me to the nearest river and push me in (I don't swim).

Always read stuff that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it. If I die I won't really be caring what people think of what I was reading.

Drive carefully. It's not only cars that can be recalled by their maker. And if your maker calls, it won't matter how carefully you were driving: some other idiot will do you in...

If you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague. ooh, a wee nugget of kindness. Classy too. Love it!

If you lend someone $20 and never see that person again, it was probably worth it. Amen.

It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others. eh? so does this mean I should be B-A-D?

Never buy a car you can't push. Umm so that would rule out every car ever made except for austin minis or those cute little smart cars. wierd advice. What could it mean?

Never put both feet in your mouth at the same time, because then you won't have a leg to stand on. Yawn. How about "if you're standing on one leg cause one foot's in your mouth, don't try to shove the other one in too" - If I'm that much of an idiot, just shoot me now.

Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance. I can't think of anything more uncomfortable than dancing while feeling self-conscious or embarassed - I'd change this one to "If you care whether other people think you dance well, don't go to dances, go to a therapist"

Since it's the early worm that gets eaten by the bird, sleep late. oy, now I have permission. I'm sure that makes it all okay!

The second mouse gets the cheese. ...so if you're in danger of being killed in a trap, do your best to lure someone else to certain death, and then walk away with the loot? ewww.

When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. What planet are you from? I'm supposed to AVOID good things coming my way?

Birthdays are good for you. The more you have, the longer you live. Not quite, it's the "longer you HAVE lived" - tomorrow might be the day the maker issues a recall on your particular model. Just marking time has never been my idea of a fun way to live.

You may be only one person in the world, but you may also be the world to one person. aww. toe tweet. Pardon me while I gag (delicately, of course)

Some mistakes are too much fun to only make once. NOW you're talkin! Bring it on, Beulah!

We could learn a lot from crayons. Some are sharp, some are pretty and some are dull. Some have weird names, and all are different colors, but they all have to live in the same box. And some should never have been made. Who ever thought up ecru, anyway?

A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour. And to end it all, a non-sequitur...

Two more sleeps...

2005-11-16T15:35:00.000-07:00

...till the next Harry Potter! I'm all excited. I'm going to try reading the book again before I go to the movie (yes, I'm a purist). Yet another reason why my abnormal psych homework is floundering dismally. I idiotically signed up for a distance-ed course in August, and now have missed the withdrawal date and must somehow get through the thing. Harry is NOT helping.

In fact, almost any distraction is... distracting. What's with that? I firmly resolved to study thursday nights and saturday mornings and then cheerfully proceeded to book the next two thursdays and saturdays with fun social activities. At this rate I will FAIL. That has to be THE fate-worse-than-hell for an aspiring PhD student. Not that I'm aspiring yet, but I have fond hopes of staggering through a PhD within the next ten years or so. I'll have to phone my friend S. and team-study: when she hits the books, so do I. Barring, of course, any pressing social engagements. (KIDDING! I am seriously getting worried. S, I will be calling!). Then there's my other friend S. who managed to do an entire Bachelor's over ten years WITH three children and a stunningly dysfunctional husband howling in the background (that was not a misplaced modifier. They were all howling. I'm sure of it).

For all you grammar-types out there: does the period go inside or outside the brackets? Being a compulsive bracketer I need to know. Also, if I have an exclamatory statement within brackets, do I punctuate the rest of the sentence immediately outside the brackets? most confusing. I generally punctuate outside the brackets, or inside, or both. ...Okay, so maybe I just randomly assign, but at least I'm punctuating!

But back to the topic at hand, that of Unrestrained Procrastination. What to do? I think part of the problem is I have no Study Space. Nothing that says to my errant mind: quit it, shut up, focus, we're in the Study! Of course, creating a study space would take up valuable time I'm supposed to be using for studying. But perhaps the investment is worth the payoff.

*sigh* help!

Death or the lack thereof

2005-11-08T14:13:00.000-07:00

I went to a life-celebration this weekend. A friend's 27 year old brother had a heart attack, slipped into a coma and died six weeks later. There was no "real" reason for this to happen, he was absurdly fit from a lifetime of martial arts, full of joie de vivre and packed to the gills with charisma, good looks and loving friends. He was one of the golden ones, a bright star in our benighted world.

I've never been to a funeral outside of a church ceremony so I don't know what other funerals are like. There was no body, Alexis had been cremated two weeks earlier. The hall was packed to the rafters, probably well over four hundred people were there. There had already been ceremonies with hundreds of people in Vancouver. Now it was his home town mourning his loss and applauding his life. Instead of the moment of silence they had a moment of noise, because he was just like that. Blazing larger than life.

After all the inadequate cliches and platitudes we hear around death, the ceremony was as fresh, cool and invigorating as a blast of mountain air. His life was remembered through the experiences of family, friends, and his colleagues at the radio station where he hosted a razor-edge sharp and funky show on "finding the extraordinary in the ordinary". His life was celebrated and appreciated. Songs were sung, drummers drummed, and everyone wept.

I've written eulogies for myself as part of self-help exercises, written as if I had died of ripe old age. Who would I be by then? What would I have done? The purpose of writing one is to energize people into dreaming and setting goals, even if they seem outrageous. After hearing about this young man, I thought "I hope I do half as much by the time I'm fifty" and "I hope there are more than two people at my funeral" and "Why do we do this AFTER the biggest passage of our lives, when we can no longer hear everyone's approbation?"

Bottom line, to my mind is that I don't try enough, live enough, appreciate and love enough. I try to do these things but I think I could burn much brighter than I currently do. Good intentions are worthy, but action is what brands one's life onto the universe.

I'm going to write myself a living eulogy when I pass the next decade marker, even if all I say is "Hey, I made it through another decade, emaho!"

On Having Clothes

2005-10-26T15:46:00.000-06:00

So I'm in the middle of the seasonal clothing migration, summer to storage, winter into closet, and I'm trying to purge as I go. Not that this is the best time to try, since most of the stuff I have doesn't fit for the nonce and it's very difficult to answer the question "will I wear this in the next year or so?" since I don't honestly know what I'll look like in a year. Size-wise, anyway. And the acid test "did I wear this over the past year?" didn't work because the weather was so unseasonally rainy this year, I couldn't wear a lot of my fluffy summer clothes. Yeah, that's it.

I think I have too many clothes (I can hear you all laughing hysterically). I do give away large bags of clothing to Women in Need (local charity thrift store) 3 or 4 times a year but the stuff keeps multiplying. I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with my haunting ValueVillage (local second-hand bargain store) and single-handedly keeping discount malls in business.

When I was on retreat, I took three pairs of pants and three tops and wore them all three times. Considering I was sedentary the whole time, it was feasible. It was also very freeing to not stand in front of the closet each morning and try to put an ensemble together. Although it is a creative act in many ways, it is also stressful on the days when things refuse to match, and who needs more stress? Mind you by the end of the retreat I was heartily sick of those pieces of clothing - but only because they needed washing. Could I do that as a routine? Probably would start feeling too poor (old skeleton in my closet).

Anyway, the thought is, how much clothing is too much? My friend R. has frugal tastes and an equally and admirably frugal closet, which we keep trying to remedy at Birthdays and Christmas, but she seems quite happy with a small (in my mind) amount of clothing. Another friend who shall remain initial-less to protect her identity, has four full closets of clothing, which seems extreme. I only have three, which I'm sure is WAY better. snort. At least only two of them contain routinely wearable clothes, the others are off-season and special occasion (overcoats and evening gowns and such).

What to do? I could just slash-and-burn, and ruthlessly donate everything I didn't wear this summer. (shriek!) I think I am with clothes the way other people are with food. I use them for emotional comfort and creativity, and a sense of security. Am I making too much of it? Has everyone else in our benighted society already fought and vanquished the clothing demon? Gauging by the number of clothing stores, I'd say not. And I think most people don't feel they have too much clothing. Do they?

I knew a woman once who would buy clothes and they would hang in her closet with the tags still on for MONTHS, sometimes she never wore them and then just threw them out (until I yelled at her about all the women in need). That was a bit odd, probably verging on compulsive purchasing (there's undoubtedly a well-entrenched neurosis there - shopaholic type stuff). I've done some of that in the past, but I inevitably feel dragged-out and blue if I buy too much. I can sense the bag-lady hovering over my shoulder. Don't tempt fate! You could be me if you squander your money!

Anyway. I've culled two large garbage-size bags of clothes and put the rest away. I guess my clothes are here to stay, unless I find a substitute source of security, creativity, and comfort. All in all, I'd rather my vice be clothing than food, which seems much the worse demon to struggle with.

Reality Ain't what it used to be

2005-10-24T14:53:00.000-06:00

I'm feeling quite zoned out these days. I got back from a 8-day Buddhist silent retreat last week and have just not integrated back into my old self. The retreat itself was heaven - no wonder people hang out in nunneries and monkeries (very amusing innovation from an anonymous friend - which really means I can't remember who said it). Someone else told me when to get up, when to eat, when to meditate, when I had free time, and when to sleep. No decisions required except whether to go for a walk or just sit around soaking in the sun during free time. Although it sounds regimented, it was also liberating.

And the SILENCE. sigh. What bliss. I didn't have to acknowledge anyone, I didn't worry about what I looked like (cause no one was looking at me either), and I was completely, absolutely alone, but not really. Investigating reality with seventy people all who may not even exist. Who's to say I didn't just create them in my own head? and of course Buddhism says in an absolute sense (as opposed to relative, subjective) I DO make them all up. I had no way of testing whether those people were there or not. Some of them made comments or asked questions of the lamas, but then so can hallucinations. Fascinating. And even the time-tested reality validation approach of triangulation couldn't be engaged since I couldn't talk to anyone to ask whether that guy in the green shirt really is there or is he not (he didn't say a word all week) I felt like Russell Crowe in a Beautiful Mind. I might have had several imaginary companions and will never know it.

In any event it all has me wondering about blog-world too. Are any blogs really REAL? Probably tons of them aren't real, in the sense that they are mental projections of people who are undoubtedly deluded (aren't we all?) I know I've seen some sites that make me go ewwww, quick, next blog (S, I never did read that site on the fundamentalist christian-"recovering-from-lesbianism" due to aforesaid response when I saw her site). And my site probably makes other people say ewww too. So where does it leave us all? Just dancing the dance of a make-believe world. Could drive me to existential angst, which was the pronouncement of one of the lamas who I DID actually speak with AND touch so hopefully she really exists. I thought I did all that stuff when I was seventeen and stalked dorm hallways muttering "who is John Galt?"

Upshot of the whole thing is that after weeping for two days at the thought of having to return home (yep, believe it!) I girded up my loins, and decided if life is basically a meaningless illusion, then I may as well have fun, and carry on my eccentric ways. After all, I may just be a figment of your imagination.

Dating Dilemmas

2005-10-06T15:13:00.000-06:00

I was at a very interesting soiree the other night (as though they happen at any other time of day) - in which the topic of interest was dating. A friend had decided to write a book on it so off we went to share our opinions and experiences - and of course, eat and drink wine. Lots of wine. A few interesting themes emerged which, me being me, I have to rant about.

1. The willingness of women to completely give up their lives for the (many times infinitesmally small) chance that a MAN will call/ will want to go out/ will think of them and telepathically communicate/ will mention their names in a conversation while watching girlie movies with their buddies - okay I made that last one up. But it's almost true, the way they go on about it - not as a positive thing, but as complaints about what the guy didn't do (repeat above list with "didn't" instead of "will"). I mean, what is it all ABOUT?? Would we do that for our girlfriends? NO! Then why do it for guys? I know the answer (of course) - though it remained unsaid all evening, the silent elephant in the room - women are afraid of being alone. Now let me hasten to add that these particular women are all gutsy, professional, beautiful, highly educated and wouldn't take guff from any OTHER woman or man, unless that man happened to be of romantic interest. Something is just not right there. Or to lounge out of my rigid stance a little, let me say women don't WANT to be alone, regardless of whether they're afraid.

2. Where are the men?! Everyone was perplexed at how there didn't seem to be any "good" men out there. In this case, good means: can form complete sentences, is coomfortable with words of more than one syllable, has a healthy lifestyle and no criminal record, has a job and is funny (someone else said that, not me) They also mentioned that the aforesaid male must have fully functioning ...appendages (children may read this, after all - and if I use the "p" word the IT security guys will start to read this blog). Anyway, the list was longer than that but you get the gist. We weren't thinking of the hunka-hunka fabulously rich SNAG, just normal, nice guys.
We concluded they were all married.

3. How soon to have sex? This one was all over the place. The magic 3rd date myth was summarily exploded, to be replaced by: never on the first date unless you don't really care whether you ever see them again. After that, it's pretty much a free-for-all. Some women thought men valued them more if they "held out" longer (everyone hooted them down - who wants to know that kind of guy?) but most agreed it was just more comfortable to get to know them a bit first.

Anyway, my thoughts through the whole thing were: I can't stand dating. I have only done "real" dates a few times - where you don't really know the person - and felt like I was on display. I kept expecting the guy to check my teeth and hooves to see if I was healthy. Hands off the withers! My long term relationships have been with men who I already knew as friends. So I don't think I've really reached any conclusions about the whole thing. Human relationships are messy at the best of times, and it's useless to try to cross the swamp without encountering a few alligators along the way. Or was it frogs? and what do swamps have to do with it?

Mayhem in the Animal Kingdom

2005-09-21T11:52:00.000-06:00

I saved a nuthatch the other day. It was sitting quite stunned in the middle of some steps downtown, easy prey for clodhopper feet or the odd passing peregrin. Anyway, I scooped it up and deposited it in a cozy gap between a concrete banister and handrail, the kind of place no one sees but is roomy and safe for a wee nuthatch. Cute little thing. It had flown off when I checked back a couple of hours later. I of course had spent the time worrying that it was wounded and dying of dehydration or some such.

It makes me wonder at the endless mayhem we humans wreak on unsuspecting animals - birds flying into window glass, the legions of animals killed on highways (that tell-tale dark brown smear across the ashphalt), poisonings, habitat theft, sport hunting, eating, the list goes on and on. They say humans are at the top of the predator chain. That would be alright if we were actually eating all those animals. Most of the time, we're just killing them.

The only salve for my conscience is to give money to the local animal rehab society, http://www.aiwc.ca/ which does simply fabulous work. I'd love to go up there and see what they do. Maybe next open house...

Bored again

2005-09-20T15:07:00.000-06:00

What would I do without a blog? What a fabulous way to look like I'm busy and all the while I'm ranting about completely immaterial issues. Anyone walking by my desk will hear me busily tippy tapping on the keyboard, and assume I'm creating a brilliant report on something relevant.

I decided last week I would compose a profound rant on our Sad Obsession with Consumerism but then I realized I really needed a new closet since my previous one fell off the wall (don't ask) and off I toddled to spend vastly on new closets. Then I decided I would rant about How Megalo-maniac Big Box Empires are Robbing the Innocent Consumer, however I realized almost immediately (okay it took a day or so) that I was actively supporting the Big Box Empire and couldn't really knock it without looking hypocritical - but then again, what's wrong with a little hypocrisy? A person can realize something is wrong even while they are caught in the system, I think. Awareness precedes activism. And some people take a while to screw up enough courage to activate. So to speak. Some people never do, and become perpetual complainers. Maybe that's what I'm all about. Anyway, I've moved on to much more compelling ranting: Boredom, it's Presence and Why It Exists.

I think people get bored because they're too dull to think of something amusing to do. Look at moi, for example, I get bored, I feel inexpressibly dull, and then just out of sheer orneriness, decide to start a blog (with a little prodding from L, that maven of pop culture and newfangled fads). Now I'm not bored anymore, and though I may still be dull, I like to think I'm struggling against the quagmire.

How about kids? I must have been bored silly as a kid at least some of the time, but I don't think I actually ever called it that or whined about it. Even if I had, my mom would have looked at me like I'd been possessed by aliens or something - what's to be bored? Get a book. Go outside. yadda yadda. Anyway I usually would go outside and look for four-leaf clovers or something. Yes, I did actually look for them and even found a few. Or, I'd hop on my bike and go help myself to an apple from the nearest orchard. Made the mistake of telling my Dad that once, and couldn't understand why he was so horrified - the place was PACKED with apples, what's one here or there? He called it "stealing". I somehow missed the morality bus as a kid.

Nowadays I don't think kids do anything by themselves, except watch TV, which is apparently not boring to them. I can't think of anything more annoying and boring than watching TV. Luckily, I don't have one. Before everyone points and gapes at the 32 inch monster in my basement, let me hasten to add, it doesn't work for anything except DVDs. Which are nominally less boring and can even approach amusing if they have enough chase scenes, martial arts (hee hee I wrote "marital arts" ) and dead bodies. ... where was I?

Oh yes, the boredom thing. I think boredom has a direct correlation with attention span - have you watched an older movie recently? I tried to watch the "seven year itch" a la ms. monroe, and nearly invented a new universe out of boredom. Everything took SO LONG to do, say, happen, or describe. Even the scenes were too long. No one in their right mind would take that long to say something in this day and age, people would just wander off looking for something less boring. Which is a really long way of saying, our attention spans have shortened exponentially. Which brings me to ADHD, but let's just sidestep that little rant.

So the theory is: faster lifestyle = shorter attention span = more predilection for boredom. Would changing the equation ie slowing down help any? CAN we slow down? or will the world just zip right by and we'll be like those women who wear the same hairstyle they've had for the past forty years, sadly out of date but blissfully uncaring? Perhaps we'd even stop being bored...

Neck bone connected to the...

2005-09-13T12:37:00.000-06:00

So I had my first ever Encounter With A Chiropractor last week. My neck had been acting wierd for months, and finally my whole upper back seized up. I'm talking nasty stabs, annoying tweaks and dull aches, all of the pain variety. Eventually my skull felt like it was falling off. No kidding. It wasn't on quite right any more. I kept wanting to just ROTATE it a la exorcist, in the hope of some relief.

So my Chinese Medicine Doctor Friend (the medicine is Chinese, not her) suggested La Chiropractrice (that would be spanglish). I'm a multicultural kind of girl. So off I lurched, skull teetering gingerly atop neck. Now I've heard a fair bushel of unsolicited horror stories about Chiros, not the least of which was the guy who got completely paralyzed from a neck adjustment. So even going was a huge leap of faith, let alone allowing her to poke and prod around every one of a myriad of painful muscles that had somehow knotted into little bumps just under my skin. I probably looked like the sci fi scenes where there are greeblies crawling under someone's skin just before they erupt into a mass of larva or something. Delightful imagination, mine is.

In ANY event (a favorite derogatory term meaning: would you please shut up, I'm trying to say something WAY more important) there I was belly-down on the table, and there she was poking and prodding and making comforting "mmhmm" noises whenever I yelped at a particularly nasty prod. What is it with health practitioners that cheerfully torture you and then pretend it's all in your head (pun intended, in this case)?? Could it be I have no pain tolerance?

After several hours (actually minutes, but time is relative) she said "well, I think we need to do some adjustments" which, btw, I thought she had ALREADY BEEN doing. Apparently not. So I get flipped like the proverbial pancake (are pancakes proverbial?) and THEN the fun begins. One lies "relaxed" (read: try not to spasm too obviously every time she touches my head) while she grabs the offending member (that would be my SKULL you perverts - since when has "member" been synonymous with male body parts?) twists it to its full range and then when I'm least expecting it, practically YANKS it off my spine. Well okay I'm being a drama queen. But it was a sudden jerky-type movement. Accompanied by: on one side, a VERY satisfying series of snaps and pops and on the other side, me yelping in pain.

I routinely receive horrified looks when I mention I've been to a Chiro, as if they can hex you just by association. Not sure what it's about - they're all over the place, tons of people go to them, but it's still got some kind of stick man attached. (that would be zouzou speak for "stigma". I love using really bad English, like saying "bolivia" instead of "oblivion". I was converted the day I heard a woman say "its a doggy-dog world out there" - after a moment of perplexed silence I nearly went into hysterics laughing. Of course, sometimes people don't GET that I do know the real words, at least most of the time, and think I have no vocabulary. I used Bolivia in front of my ex-father-in-law and he said slowly and clearly "it's OBLIVION". How does one ever explain? The woes of being an eccentric. )

The end of the story is, I had to Go Back for Another Treatment before I achieved a Full Release. Hopefully that WILL be the end of the story, because although I'm duly grateful for the relief, it's REALLY unnerving to have someone yank my head around like that, particularly when I have a little mantra running in my head "a guy got paralyzed by this, a guy got paralyzed by this, a guy.."

something or nothing?

2005-09-06T09:59:00.000-06:00

So an ongoing dilemma in my life has been the something vs nothing thing, specifically regarding relationship quality. A friend is currently in a relationship and is wondering whether to break it off or not. My question to her was, what are you giving and what are you getting (or not getting) in this liaison? After much whiffling and waffling, she said she was getting: affection and cuddling, regular phone calls, companionship. I thought it sounded pretty good so far, until she casually mentioned they weren't having sex. She felt like they were an old married couple and they'd only been going out a couple of months. And it wasn't like they had the big incessant bunny-action honeymoon that tapered out quickly. No, this one had never really sparked. tres interessante, non?

So, I sez, how much does the sex matter? (apparently, to her, a lot) And to be perfectly honest, despite trying to remain open-minded about the whole thing, it would matter a lot to me too, particularly so early in the relationship. Yet, she doesn't seem bothered enough to actually break up with the guy. Some of the Girlfriends say he's a free-loader (he's not working, doesn't have much in the way of possessions read: one chair, rarely arrives on time etc etc). Others haul out the give-him-some-time-he's-in-a-rough-patch thing.

I think: is something better than nothing? Is it okay to drift along in a partially satisfying relationship or should one cut it off and remain single? Underlying the whole dilemma for my friend is, of course, the thought that being single is inherently undesirable. For me, I've tried both ways - I've cut off relationships that were going nowhere, and struggled through the breakup blues, and I've also hung onto relationships that were eminently unsatisfactory in one or several dimensions. I can't say I've found one way is better than another, though the older I get, the less interest I have in lingering just for a few hugs or phone calls. I'm starting to play all-or-nothing - mostly because having no relationship has its own cache, to say nothing of a lot more freedom. Apparently 48% of the inhabitants of Manhattan are single people. Are they all choosing nothing rather than something?

approaching eccentric

2005-09-01T11:15:00.000-06:00

thanks for the comments! carrying on from my previous rant,

The oddest thing is the field of psychology, where I have been dabbling for the odd decade, insists on a concept of normalcy. Else, how to determine a psychosis or neurosis? We'd be inundated by crazies. (I say that like it's a bad thing). In the old days, every village had its crazies - the Simples, the Slightly Odds and of course the beloved icon of the Crazy Cat Lady (one of my personal aspirations). When did these people suddenly become not-okay? (I guess I'm ranting about marginalizing not-normal people now)

Despite ourselves we DO have a normal-meter inside that says ewww, that's so NOT normal. I suspect we get socially indoctrinated as we grow, reprise on my previous blog. If we're lucky we become aware it's happened. If we're brave or crazy, or both, we try to do something about it. I have several friends who are instantly judgemental about everything they see, based on aforementioned normalitis (itis = inflammation. smirk.) Most of the time, they feel perfectly justified in passing judgements, without ever questioning the standards upon which they are built. But that leads me to another rant, namely the tendency to assume that our reality is the only reality. So post-modern of me. ewww. I'll have to wait till my normalitis calms down before I tackle that one.

A bit too ....normal

2005-08-30T14:21:00.000-06:00

I spend a lot of energy deluding myself into thinking I am eccentric. Or trying to be eccentric. Or actually being eccentric. Which gets me wondering about eccentricity in general. The term itself implies some mysterious "norm" against which one is being measured and found to be...beyond merely "a little wierd", but not so far out as "whacked" (hope I used that right, I mix up my slang words a lot - for example I once said "snow job" instead of... well, you get the idea).

My smallish soap box right now is that normalcy is a myth. Yawn, you say. Well, okay so that wasn't the most original idea in the world. But just think about how much time people spend trying to prove they're normal: the mindless conforming to imaginary societal rules - grow up, go to school, get a job, buy a place, buy a bigger place, buy another place, buy a newer car, get a more lucrative job, find a spouse, have kid(s), stay thin, be well-adjusted... need I go on? And all the while, most people are nowhere close to any of these things, and are feeling miserable because of it. To top it all off, everyone colludes to pretend they ARE close to achieving normalcy. I'd call that whacked, not normal.

Then there's Moi (you knew this was coming). I decided to toss out the whole concept of normal. Or more accurately, the concept eroded as time went on. Anyway, the short story is that I now try to define normal as whatever works within the bounds of law and human decency. So now I'm mostly eccentric, with remnants of normalcy clinging to me in odd places. Kind of like a moulting mountain sheep (if you've ever seen one).