Moved

As my life has changed, so has my location.  You can now find me at www.imaybshe.blogspot.ca

Come hang out if you're so inclined.

C'est fini - my last blog post

It's been coming for awhile, but today I have decided.  It's over.  I'm done.

Those who've read this blog for the last 7 years have been with me through the first year of my mother's death, the breakup of my long term relationship, buying and selling many houses, having a litter of puppies and keeping half of them.

You've encouraged me during dark times, supported me in light times, laughed at my follies, cried at my failures.  You've participated as I branched out to find love, you've been part of my wedding, and you've gotten to know my husband through these pages.

But, the time has come for me to move on.  It used to be, I wrote what I was thinking here because I had no where else to put it.  Now I share my stories and my heartbreak with The Guy.  It's a private affair.

Who knows?  Maybe I'm growing.

Anyway, this isn't the place I want to be any more.  I said the other day "The Internet is boring me."  And so it is.  Real life is where I want to be for now.  That may change, but I'm happy with the decision.

I'll let you know if that changes.  For now, I just want to say thank you for coming along for the ride.


For all those who have Facebook or Twitter, feel free to friend or follow me.  (I haven't given up on the internet all together.)

The thing about stuff: living in a material world

I have a lot of stuff.

I think it's hereditary.  My whole family has a lot of stuff.

My paternal grandparents had two farm houses and numerous barns full of stuff.  Every thing they ever bought or received lined the walls and covered the surfaces.  My uncle took over the farm recently and is happily adding to the collection.

The maternal side had less and was tidier about it, but had stuff nonetheless. When we moved my maternal grandmother into her most recent home, she had two full drawers of torn pantyhose and over 20 styrofoam meat containers.

I used to think that my immediate family was better about having stuff.  I was wrong.  They just had different stuff.

My mother had scrapbooks filled with things she had gathered over the years.  Comics, cards, sayings, articles.  My father gathered books.  We tease that we didn't need to go to the library to do history papers, we just went to Dad's library.  That fact became less funny when Dad went to Ukraine and I got left with boxes and boxes of his books.

The rest of us aren't much better.  None of my siblings have met a book we didn't like.  It's a sacrilege in our family to get rid of books -- even for a good cause.  Add to that children's toys, school keepsakes, knick knacks, and more, there is a ton of crap out there.  I have my share.

What to do with it all is plaguing me.

I keep asking myself: Who is going to want all this when I die?

The answer for most people of what is going to happen to all their stuff is that their children will inherit it and keep it and cherish it.  They believe that because they worked to get it, their descendants will care about it and thus justify it's existance.

When The Guy and I discovered we couldn't have children, I started thinking about the things I have spent my life accumulating.  Suddenly, most of it became like an albatross hanging around my neck.
I am not quite at the point of having a garage sale, but I am questioning what's important after all.

Turns out, it's not what I thought.

Beards are gross

A friend's class is putting on a play where each of the characters has a different coloured beard.  She asked if I would make the beards for them.  I had the greatest time so I have to share my handiwork.






Here is the entire set of beards for your enjoyment.

Pork chop around my neck.

I admit it.  I have a problem.  I love dogs.  I have a seperate file of dog pictures for every vacation I go on.  Coming to this site, you might all think I'm unbalanced, but the truth is... well, yes. I am.
Without further ado, I give you: Dogs of Cuba 2011

This is our resort Monty. Except she's a girl.

My favourite dog on our whole trip, this litle resort dog captured my heart the first day.  She was obviously the outcast of the pack and was alone at all times except when she crept up to the cats on occassion.  The cats left her alone and let her be, but the other resort dogs made sure she didn't stick around long if they were there.

She lived in one small section of the resort and came out most ni the early moring.  She would not come near any of us (except for one friend who was the luckiest ever) and only after 2 weeks came within a foot of The Guy.  I tried to tempt her daily with bacon, but she ran each time.

When no one was around, or just not looking, she would play and run and jump.  She ran playfully after couples (including myself -- she brushed by my skirt) and did circles trying to bite her own tail.  She lapped up the pool water and slept on the beach chairs.  But if anyone looked at her, her tail went as far under her butt as it could and she slunk away.

I wanted to bring her home, but figured that would not go well for any of us.

Paladar dog.

This dog was at a house where we had lunch in Old Havana.  She is strictly a house dog who came next door to the Paladar (a home restaurant) to see if we would feed her. We did.
Okay, I did. But look at that face.  Could you have resisted?

Dog by the door.

This little guy lives with numerous families. They don't own him, he owns them. He has a collar though, which is a new thing for Havana dogs. On the day of this picture, he was waiting on the steps to be let into the building where he visits the old man on the 3rd floor. If you walked by, he would bark and look at you until you opened the door.

Besties

These guys wandered along in Varadero one evening. The littler one jumped about while the big one lumbered down the road. I couldn't help but want to follow them on their adventures.

For the entire catalogue of Dogs of Cuba (years 2011 and 2012) go here.
Don't judge me.

My life in 5 places - Cuba

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?

First, I described my childhood home and what it meant to me.  Second, I told you about my summer getaway.  Third, about my very first home I ever owned.
I thought it was fitting that my fourth post would be about the wonderful place where I am currently sipping pina coladas.  (Well, okay, not as I write this.  I'm sitting on my couch with the dog, but when you read this? Pina Coladas.)

Our home for the next two weeks

This is my third trip to Cuba.  It has become a place of escape for The Guy and I.  We love it and would go back a hundred more times except that I have told The Guy that I would like to explore a bit more of the world first.
 

Downtown Varedero

Cuba is a wonderful place.  I know, I have extolled it's virtues here before, but I could do so every day.  It is a place full of history and beauty, of dancing and music, of architecture and colour.  I have done amazing things in this country -- I swam with dolphins and almost drowned The Guy, I went snorkelling and almost drowned myself, I walked up the stairs of a 200 year old church, and I held a menagerie of cool animals.

Cuba has also been a place where The Guy and I have been able to reconnect.  When you have two people who work ridiculous hours, it is often hard to spend the kind of time necessary to maintain a good relationship.  When you are running from here to there and back again, it is hard to remember to stop and say "Oh, hey.  There you are."  Two weeks in a place where we have no expectations, but to eventually roll out of bed and hit the beach,  makes it a bit easier to get back to where we were.

Twue Wove

But the best part of Cuba is the people.  They are kind and happy and fun.  They always have a smile and will do whatever it takes to help you out.  They work harder than any people I've seen and the women are always wearing panty hose despite the 30 degree (celcius, of course) heat.

How can you not love a people like this?

My life in 5 places - my first home

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?

First, I described my childhood home and what it meant to me.  Then, I told you about my summer home.  Now, it's about my very first home I ever owned.

Chinook Road
For most of my life. the only thing I ever really wanted was a house of my own.  My mom and I spent hours going through magazines and the Sears catalogue cutting out pictures of things we could decorate with if we only had the money.  For both of us, having a home where people could come and be themselves was top on our lists.  Let the rest of my family travel.  I want my own bed.

When my mom died, I used my inheritance for one thing I knew she would understand.  A BRAND NEW CAR!!!!!!!  No, wait.  That's Price is Right.

What I did was use a big chunk of it for a downpayment on a house.  There were two reasons for this.  First, my dad did what they always tell people not to do in the first few months of grief -- he made major life decisions.  He sold the house where he, my mother, and my sister lived and bought a condo.  My sister was suddenly homeless and our family had no centre.

I spent a long time looking for the house of my dreams.  I'm sure we looked at 20 before I walked into the house on Chinook.  It was very 70s (and not the good retro kind) but I knew it could be home.  I bought it and less than two months later was in the doors.

My very first house.  It had a ton of hydrengeas which I happily tore out.

Much to the dismay of everyone else in the neighbourhood.

My sister, Lyn, was going to move in with me and we went to town picking out paint chips, deciding on room layout, painting, and deorating.  When the time came, I had a house that was almost totally me.  However, being the procrastinators we were (are), we decided to wait until we moved in to paint the kitchen.  In 3 years, it never got done.  I left the paint for the next owners.

My living room: Eggplant on the main wall, Lilac on the other.  

I bought the blue furniture brand new and won a trip to Mexico.

I loved that house.  Everyroom had my touch (except Lyn's... I wouldn't touch that if you paid me.) and it all meant a lot to me.  I scoured books to learn how to do electrical work and I changed every outlet on my own.  I fixed things and built things and hung shelves and pictures.  It was exactly how I wanted it to be.
It broke my heart that my mom couldn't see it.  But, I was doing what she couldn't anymore -- I was trying to create a home for my family to migrate to.

My bedroom displaying my paintings and the plant I kept alive for 3 years.  

Thanks to Ky.  She watered it everytime she came to visit.  Once a month.

Despite all the trouble there was in that place -- a ever-renewing lake in the basement, an entire yard of weeds that were supposed to be a garden, the biggest lawn known to man-kind -- it was my home.  I loved it.  I have a lot of great memories in that place.

When Ky moved in with Lyn and I, we were the happiest bunch of happies that ever happed.  We watched a lot of So You Think You Can Dance and ate a lot of take out, but we had a great time.  It was then the neighbours mentioned how great it was to see the place as it was meant to be.  They then explained how three spinsters had moved there in the 70s and they lived there until the last one of them died just before I bought the house.

I joined Lava Life the next day.  The rest is history.

My life in 5 places - North Battleford

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?

Yesterday, I described my childhood home and what it meant to me.  Today, I want to tell you about my home away from home.

North Battleford, Saskatchewan
I have to admit, when you think of a great place that impacted every moment of your life, North Battleford is not the place you normally go to first.  It is a small city (two small cities, really) on the road to nowhere.  It is a beautiful community with lots of greenery, a river flowing through it, and the worse options of restaurants in the province.  I mean, unless Pizza Hut and A&W are your thing.  Then you're golden.
For my family, North Battleford was the epicentre of our summers.  But not so much the town itself.  It was the little section of land off Airport Road where we grew up.  Sharon Schools.
Originally grounds housing a bible school and orphanage, this quiet little community made up of old airplane hangers and pilot barracks holds church camps at least twice a year.  My grandparents moved there in the 60s to take over supervising the orphanage and never left.  Grandma stayed nearly 50 years until we had to move her to a care home last spring.
My mother grew up here.  My grandparents adopted my two uncles and all but adopted my auntie.  My grandpa built the hockey rink every winter and tended flowers every summer.  Every hug my grandfather every gave me is here.  Every piece of advice my grandma gave is here. My mother's childhood is here.
My family spent a lot of time there and it is where my heart feels at peace.

The church at Sharon Schools.  Where my mom and dad got married.

As I planned to write this piece, I looked through all my photos for pictures to show.  I have none.  I went online and found some a friend had taken and he graciously allowed me to use them here.  Of course, he has none of my Grandparent's home, but he's looking through his files for me.  Sometimes, you are in a place so long, you forget that you might want to see pictures of it in the future.
Every year for a weekend at Easter and a week in July, between 300 - 500 people arrive to go to church meetings.  Everyone stays in the dorms that boast retro decor -- everything is from the 40s.  Not much has changed except the mattresses are no longer stuffed with straw.  We all go to church twice a day, eat together at the dining hall, play sports on one of the many areas dedicated to it, sit around the campfire, snack at the canteen, and soak up as much time with each other as possible.

The H building (it's built in the shape of an H -- clever) and the men's dorm.

The girls all stayed in the girl's dorm at the far east end of the grounds.  From 13 years to married, we all crowded into 6 rooms with two plug ins and one mirror each.  One large bathroom to share and a furnace room that held all late night conferences.  I have so many great memories of that place -- staying up all night talking, singing as loud as we could, exchanging clothes, and laughing past lights out until the dorm mother came to yell at us.

Once I was too old for the dorm but not yet married (stupid old person biases on the importance of having a man in your life bollox) I returned to my grandma's home during those weeks.  It was then I got to rekindle my relationship with Grandma.  She has provided me with a lot of amusement, wonder, frustration and love.

The main road from the centre of the grounds looking west.

This small area outside of the little city has been where I have experienced so much.  I have met life long friends, most of my old boyfriends, and people who have been my mentors and guides.  It has been a part of my life before I had life and will continue to be important to me for many years to come.  I know every inch of this land and have spent hours exploring every building and piece of grass.
It is the home of my family.  The home of my friends.
It is where I know I belong.
****************************
Please note: all photos used here have been genourously provided by my friend Dale.  He's a good chap.
Second note: This stupid post deleted itself twice.  The first time it was awesome.  The second time it was almost finished.  This last version will have to do or I am going to go postal.

My Jeep conspires against me

It started out like any other day.
I like to begin stories with that, even though it's not true.  It started out as a night shift and turned into the day that never ended.  Until 26 hours later.
At the end of November, my dad came from Ukraine to visit.  He spent a couple of days with The Guy and me before travelling on to visit his siblings and mine across the rest of Western Canada.  On the last leg of his journey, he returned to my fair city for another few days knowing this was the best way for both of us to keep from killing each other.
It's the same reason he moved to Ukraine.  He will tell you it was for his wife, but really it was so I wouldn't bury him in the front yard and tell someone the water main broke.
Somehow, it turned out that I was working nights for most of the time he was in town.  It worked out okay, he was busy enough during the day that he didn't need attending to until I'd slept.  We hung out the rest of the time and I went to work when the house headed to bed again.
This is a really long explanation for a back story.
The point was this: I had gone to work my last night shift before dropping Dad off at the airport the next morning.  I came home at 8am, packed up the Jeep, went for greasy breakfast, and I put him on the plane.  I was home and asleep by 10:30am and up by 3:30pm.  I knew I couldn't sleep too long for two reasons.  First, I needed to sleep that night and, second, my sister Ky was flying in that evening.
Poor The Guy was bombarded with my family for the entire month of December.  Yet, he still loves me. He's a treasure, that one.
Around 11:30pm, I dragged my tired rear end to the airport.  Monty accompanied me -- he loves car rides, Ky, and I knew I wouldn't be long.
Now, Monty weighs about 18 lbs.  Yet, if he sits in the passenger seat of the Jeep, it requests that I put the seatbelt on.  It also does this for my purse. And no, my purse weighs nowhere near 18 lbs.
In the past, I have wrapped the seatbelt around the back of the seat and buckled it in.  That way, the dog can sit comfortably (on the heated seats -- don't judge me) and I don't have to listen to the constant beeping that makes me homicidal.  It's a good system. Except that when I wrapped the seatbelt, it got away from me, wrapped around the head rest and stuck there.
At the airport, I wrestled with the stupid seatbelt, but couldn't get it loosened.  Frustrated, I jumped out of the Jeep and ran into the building because I was late.  On the way in, I realized -- I had no idea where I left my keys.  I mulled that around my brain a bit, searched my purse repeatedly, and waited for Ky to land.
Dragging her 400lb suitcase to the Jeep, we peered into the window.  There were my keys.  On the passenger seat.  Under the dog.  Son of a...
I tried to get the dog to dance around enough he'd accidentally open the door.  He's accidentally locked it before, so I figured it was a possibility.  After a few minutes (longer than I like to admit) I had to break down and get Ky to call CAA.
When they arrived, I offered them the dog in payment.  They broke into the Jeep in less than a minute (COMFORTING) and we were on our way.
Ky had to sit in the back seat.
Stupid seatbelt.

I know I am loved

In an effort to look forward, I am making the choice to remember the things that make every day better.  I have been focusing on appreciating the things I have and a lot of those things are thanks to The Guy. We're coming up on 5 years together and it is because of him I'm not always curled up on the floor behind the couch hiding from the world.
When we focus on the negative things, it is easy to get overwhelmed. When we focus on the little things people do, we can see what good is out there. These are just a few ways that I know The Guy loves me.

• Even when we've only been separated for a few minutes, his face breaks into a grin when he sees me across the room
• Every time I walk past him, he uses it as an excuse to touch me.  Yes, it is usually to smack my butt or tickle me, but it's still reaching out
• Almost without fail, he texts me first thing in the morning (either before I'm awake or when he gets up and I'm at work) to tell me he loves me and to wish me a good day
• He lets me steal his iced tea because I'm too lazy to get some myself.  And, he only pretends to stab me with his fork when I do
• He makes me a coffee and will even run me a bath to make my ease into morning better
• He does the yard work and never complains
• He remembers the recycling each time it's due to go out and doesn't tease me because I forgot.  Again.

No matter what happens in this life, it's the people who make the difference.  I wouldn't give up a moment of my life* with The Guy for anything.  Well, maybe a week or so if I got a million bucks for it.
But only if we could still text.

* changed from "lie" though I maintain it could have been correct.

My life in 5 places - Sunset Drive

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?
I love questions with that kind of history and depth to them. Also, I like when someone or something else tells me what to do. Also, I can take this to mean anything -- cities, locations, houses, etc.  That is why I've decided to show you the 5 most important places that have shaped my life.

This is the first in a five part series:

Sunset Drive
We moved to Regina the fall I turned 7 years old.  The house on Sunset Drive is the house in my memory when I think of being a child.
Shaped like a milk carton and decorated with bits of stone and glass, it was a perfect house for small kids: three houses from the school, a huge backyard, near tons of other kids, and close enough to walk to the library.   This house is the background for my favourite memories.
It is the place where my playhouse was built.  The place where I soaked my neighbour's birthday party with the garden hose.  It's where we tied my little sister to the tree and where she ran away to Canadian Tire before anyone noticed she was gone.  It's where my brother broke the window playing baseball and where my Mom watched us play out the kitchen window while she baked bread.  It is the house where Dad and I would put lights on the huge fir tree in front during the coldest blizzard in November using two long sticks nailed together with a T bar on the top.

Front of our house on Sunset Drive.

It is the backyard that holds the most importance for me here.  This is where we spent most of our time.  It's where the neighbourhood kids congregated and where I felt the safest.  It was also where I spent a lot of time being grounded for doing stupid things outside the yard, but that's a different story.
The left quarter was where Mom's little garden was and our playhouse was built on top of the sandbox once we outgrew it.  Three lilic trees grew along the back fence and created a perfect hideaway for scented excursions.  But the piece that meant the most was the playset.

The centre of my childhood. The swingset my Dad built for us.

Dad installed this shortly after we moved in.  We spent hours climbing the rope, swinging the swing as high as it would go, trying to make the entire structure sway.
It was part of the set up in our elaborate game of K!ll the Russians (can you tell we knew all about the Cold War?) where you had to climb the rope, jump down, climb the fence, run around the house, climb the gate, climb the tree, jump off the playhouse, and get back to the swing set.  I'm not sure what the rules of this game was, but I know we didn't actually kill anyone.  And, honestly, we like Russians now. (Hi Russian Step-Mom!)
We moved from this house when I turned 12.  My sisters remember the house, but don't have the same attachment to it that I did.  They have childhood memories in the house on Pasqua whereas I was a surly teen and stayed in my room for 4 years.
I drove past the house the other day when I was in the neighbour hood.  They have cut the huge Christmas tree down from the front yard.  They removed the playset from the backyard and painted all the trim on the house blue.  It is no longer the same home I knew and has likely seen many other families since ours roamed it's narrow halls.
I loved that house and the time we spent there.  And, while it's true you can't go home again, it will always be one of my favourite places.

The definitive answer: No.

The journey began here and here.

It ends here.

This week was the week we were to know if it was a yes or a no.  If we would be on the trek to having a child.  The answer my body gave me was no.

I've never been one to look forward to my cycle and this time was no different.  Except that I dreaded it.  I spent the last two weeks pretending that I wasn't spending every moment dreading what I knew would come.  Hoping, against hope, that it wouldn't.

Life's a bitch.

When the answer came, I fell apart.  I wish I could say that I met it with a stoic bracing of my shoulders, a nod to the whimsy that is the reproductive system, and a knowledge that something else was meant to be.  I wish I could say that I didn't curl into the fetal position and sob.

I can't.

Luckily, The Guy was home on a rare extra day off.  He took care of me while my world -- the one I had planned in my head -- crumbled around me.  He brought me tea, held my hand, did what good men do.  He felt helpless because he couldn't fix it.  But, who could?

I slept a few hours and then moved to lay motionless on the couch.  We watched TV and just waited.  A few hours later, I fell apart again, dissolving into a boneless pile on the floor.  The Guy picked me up, got me to bed and waited with me while I grieved.

I am grieving.  I didn't expect that.  I didn't expect the similar pain to a death of a loved one.  The pain in my heart where I knew a hole had been bored and could never be filled in the same way again.  I am grieving the loss the children I have already named.  The children I have waited for since I was a teenager.  The ones I have saved things for with the thought that I will share them with my daughter, read them to my son, experience them with my children.

I am grieving the daughter with my mother's eyes.  I am grieving the son who copies the behaviours of my husband because he wants to be just like him.  I am grieving hours of diaper changes, late nights, fighting over homework, learning to ride a bike, and playing with the dog in the park.

We don't know what the future will bring.  Maybe we will be the couple who travels the globe and experiences everything and who cannot say their life is not as full.  Maybe we will be the dog hoarders who behave as though the 4 legged creatures are children and act as though that fills the void.

Maybe we will try again when we can afford it and when The Guy doesn't live in terror thinking that I will fall apart again.

The trampoline fart kiss

It started years before the actual incident, when we were teenagers.  He was my first "real" boyfriend.  We dated over the course of a week at summer camp.  For the most part, we held hands and sat together in church on the days that I decided I liked him.  Every other day, I ran away from him.

It was a mature relationship.

It ended as the week did and all I had to remember him by was a small California Raisin figurine holding a saxophone.  We had bonded over our mutual love of the saxophone (we both played in the school band).  It was a romantic gesture to me and I held onto the figurine for a long time before it made it's way to the land of lost items I forgot about.

We saw each other sparsely after that and, in my teenage wisdom, I decided I didn't like him after all.  I spent the next few years despising him for numerous offences I had convinced myself he had committed.
I have no recollection of what they are now.

Many years later, we found ourselves present at the same wedding.  I was a bridesmaid and he a family relative.  We bantered back and forth - as we matured, it was both with a sharp tongue.  I was dating someone else, so felt quite brave at the time.  He was, after all, nothing to me.  We had days leading up to the wedding and ended up thrown together for most of it.

One evening, after a particularly haggard round of church decorationing, I slipped out from the crowd and went for a long walk before heading back to the house.  He followed and we spent time jumping on the trampoline in the back yard.  Harmlessly flirting and sparring mentally, I never thought anything of it.

Until he knocked me over on the trampoline and leaned over for a kiss once we had both landed on the mat.
The only problem was, when he knocked me down, he also knocked a fart loose.

It was silent, thank God, but at 24 years of age, I was highly mortified and, being that I still had little actual romantic experience, I panicked.  I jumped up from the trampoline and continued to bounce up and down hoping the movement would clear the air (so to speak) and he would be none the wiser.  Once I was sure the stench had dispersed I was able to relax again.

The next time he knocked me over, I was much more prepared for it and made sure the same problem did not repeat itself.  It was a brief makeout session that led to nothing more than a concession that I was not as mean as I lead others to believe and could actually be conquered.

We parted ways after that and he moved on to another woman who later became his wife.  And still, every time I see him, I think about the time that my response to a grand romantic gesture was to rip a fart.

Fertility waiting game

It has been a whirlwind few months since we started the fertility process.  More people have been up in my lady business in the last three months than ever before.  Sometimes, they've brought people to watch.

That's right.  My lady business gets spectators.

There have been doctor appointments, specialist appointments, ultra sounds, shots, counting, waiting, catheters, lights, cameras, and action.

Not quite the action I was hoping for when trying to conceive.

The Guy has been with me every step of the way.  He even comes to the doctor's office when the proceedure is going on.  I keep telling him I want him to wait in the hallway so I can say I got pregnant when he wasn't in the room, but he stays anyway.  So it's just him and me, with my legs up in the air waiting for time to pass.

The first month, I tried to follow the rules -- no caffeine, no Coke, no suishi, no stress.  When the time came, my cycle was right on time.  I was disappointed, but not heartbroken.  We had three tries, after all.
This month, I said to heck with the rules.  I still didn't drink Coke, but I had coffee every other day.  We got a rush on the proceedure because it looked like my body was ready.

Turns out, it wasn't.

So, Monday we got the call that we had to do it all over again.  The second try was a wash, so the third would be ahead of schedule.  In we went for another bout of "don't bother being gentle, just shove it in there" with the sadistic nurse practitioner and a quick "Hope all goes well" as we head out the door.

Now we wait.  I'm trying to have no expectations while I wait because I don't want to be excited only to be disappointed.  When the time comes, if it isn't what we hoped, then we come up with a new plan.  We have options.  They just cost a ton of money.  From $3000 for the simple, to $15000 for the complicated, to $50000 for the adopted.

Thank God kids are free once you birth them, right?

The one where I try waxing at home

Once a year, I splurge for a waxing job.  I do the whole kit and caboodle (you can decide which is which) and it's an expensive touch.  This year, the my regular lady was on mat leave and replaced by a woman who was less than efficient.  I ended up going back to her to make her touch up some key areas despite her telling me that "that's the way we all do it."

Since I am finding regular hair maintenance a chore I despise, I thought I would maybe try my hand at home waxing.  I mean, anything that means I don't have to shave daily and suffer through ingrown hairs, stubbly legs and painful gouges to my ankles, is a good thing.

I went to Walmart, bought myself a strip free waxing kit and came home.  The kit was "wild berry scented" so I figured it would be a nice sort of aroma therapy at the same time.

I let my hair grow nice and long, much to The Guy's dismay.  Welcome to marriage, honey!

Today was the big day.  I got my work area prepped -- tub of pink berry wax, instructions, hairy body parts -- and settled down to work.  First I noticed the stirry stick applying thingy wasn't included.  Looks like someone had snagged it out of the container.  I looked through the drawers and picked the closest thing I could find -- a spatula.

After heating the wax up and stirring it with the end of the spatula, I got down to work.  I figured my under arms were the most important things to deal with as they bug me the most.  I am the Homer Simpson of underarm hair.  I shave and, moments later,  I have a 5 o'clock shadow.

The wax looks and smells like Hubba Bubba.  I am not discouraged from my plan, though it feels odd to be using something reminiscent of Grade 6 trips to the corner store in order to remove hair.  Instead, I bolstered myself and slathered the waxy goop under one arm.

Then, I looked down.  A large glob of pink wax had landed on my tank top below the applied area.  With my right arm in the air, I frantically tried to peel the wax off my shirt.  Strands of pink bubble gum scented wax stretched into the air.  As I continued to pull and stretch, I felt like I had fallen asleep with gum in my mouth and was suffering some unpleasant consequences.

I gave up on the tank top when I realized it was time to pull off the wax on my skin.  Using the kitchen counter top as a way to keep the skin taught, I organized myself and prepared to pull.  Screeching, I pulled the wax off in a fell swoop and looked at the results.  Three hairs.

Three.  Hairs.

An hour and a half later, I had one almost hairless armpit, one armpit that was red and sore but still relatively hairy and I had dropped one piece of wax onto my lady parts that refused to be removed.

I gave up and shaved.

Shooting up, passing out

I have a feel of needles. Not the sewing kind, but the kind you stick into your arm or other areas of the body. It's not the blood or the pain, as one would expect.

It's the invasion.

I don't like the idea of something like that being forced into my arm against it's will. The initial pressure of the needle into the skin just before it gives way is enough to make me hurl my cookies.

Imagine my unadulterated horror then when the nurse from the fertility clinic announced that I would be giving myself an injection twice during each procedure cycle.

Two shots. Into my stomach or thigh. (Luck me, I got a choice!) Two times a month. For up to three months.

Once she picked me up off the floor, she assured me I would be fine. Okay, maybe I didn't faint, but I did turn a whiter shade of pale and felt my stomach making loops.

I explained that I really wasn't comfortable with giving myself a needle, but that The Guy had offered to shoot me if it came to that, so I might let him do it. However, since he wasn't with me that day, the nurse announced she was going to teach me and I could teach him. I would just give myself a shot of saline while I was with her so I could practice.

Thankfully, my heart remained in my chest and my breakfast in my stomach.

The more the nurse talked about the needles, the drug mixture, the alcohol swabs, the sharps container, etc., the more panicked I became. I breathed deeply and didn't let it show. I was determined to be brave. I heard her voice like Charlie Brown's teacher and hoped some of it would stick when it came time.

Finally, I injected myself with the saline and squealed in terror as I could feel the liquid spread. I ripped the needle out only half emptied and announced I had gotten the hang of it. I packed up all the supplies and high tailed it out of the office.

I managed to make my way to the elevator before the panic overwhelmed me. I took deep breaths and ordered myself to be calm. Instead, I burst into tears and hyperventilated. The elevator opened as I tried to compose myself.

Taking a step into the hallway, I saw a sign pointing to the right hand side doorway. It was directing me to the mental health ward.

After a quick conversation with my sister, I managed to settle and drive home. I kept the fear of the injection in the back of my mind until the time came to do it.

When the doctor's office called and told me the time I would need to shoot myself by, I knew I couldn't do it. I took my needles, swabs, drugs, and sharps container with me to church where a family friend (and peds nurse) took pity on me and gave me the shot.

The fact that some of my clients do this daily is not lost on me. At least, when they do it, they get to have a high afterwards. I have to wait 9 months for mine.

Fertile monkies

I've heard it said that most women spend the early part of their 20s doing everything in their power to prevent pregnancy and their late 20s terrified they will never get pregnant.

Well, here I am in my mid 30s.

People don't often think about the complications of becoming pregnant.  A couple decides they want to be pregnant.  They stop using birth control and eventually become pregnant.

Unless they don't.

In some ways, we're lucky.  We knew right from the beginning we would need medical assistance in procreation.  We didn't have to do the weeks, months, and years of trying and failing and trying again.  We knew that when we wanted to have children, it would take magic.  I mean... science.

Enter the doctor's appointments, the testing, the consults, the bills, the plans.

It's a strange and awkward place to be when creating a life is less about coming together in a physical expression of love (I totally gagged writing that, but did it just for my sisters who will both die in horror) and more about a medical proceedure when both parties don't even need to be in the same room.
Romantic!

As we trudge through this, it is hard not to resent the fertile. Those who can get pregnant at the drop of a hat.  For someone with infertility issues, the resentment will rear it's head.  Especially, when you are sitting in a hospital waiting room in a backless gown, no underwear, and your running shoes, waiting for someone to tell you if you're broken or just complicated.  I admit, at that moment, I resented the heck out of the fertile.

For us, just becoming pregnant is going to be a huge process -- so far involving 2 doctors, 1 nurse practitioner, 1 ultrasound tech, a whole lotta hormones, and a steady hand with a needle.  The process is overwhelming and interesting, exciting, and terrifying.

And, if all works well, it will result in a baby.

If it doesn't, The Guy has promised we can get another dog.

Being thankful in the midst of pouting

This is how I feel today.
Today, is a fat dog butt sitting on my head.
I have to go back to work today after a summer of essentially doing nothing. The next three months are packed with work and union issues that I have avoided since June. The stress I had managed to melt from my body in the last few months has returned with a vengeance. Migraines, stress headaches, bad dreams, exhaustion and sadness are threatening to drown me in a sea of self pity.
However, instead of being bitchy, I am going to tell you what I am thankful for at the moment. Who am I kidding? I'm still going to be bitchy, but I'm putting it on the back burner for public eyes.

• It's noon and I already had a nap.
• I have a coffee made in 35 seconds from our Keurig.
• I'm still in my pajamas.
• I have a husband who encouraged me to have a second nap at noon.
• I had a great coffee date with a friend last night. Talking social work with a peer never gets old.
• I have read 56 books since the beginning of June.
• I have a puppy keeping my pillow warm despite having slept 16 hours already.
• I have a job with a good paycheque.
• Even though I don't want to go back, it has been a job I love and will be again.
• My puppy is super cute.

Harder and harder to breathe: Watching Adam Levine

It has been the summer of amazing (and free) concerts/plays for a happy MayB.  After my glorious interlude with Fred Penner and my fantastic trip to the land of Oz at Wicked, I have just returned from the perfect finale: Maroon 5.
My love affair with Maroon 5 started years and years before they were overplayed on the radio. (I know, I sound like a hispter -- I liked them before anyone had heard of them.) I ran across Maroon 5 when this song was played during a scene from Third Watch.  I fell in love and spent ages trying to track them down.  When I did, I listened to their first album Songs about Jane until I knew every word, every note, and drove everyone else insane.
 Thursday, I was surfing the net -- as I am apt to do when I wake up really bloody early for no reason-- and noticed that a local radio personality Buzz Elliott was pondering on Facebook about a little dilemna he was having.  He had tickets for two shows on the same night: Seinfeld and Maroon 5.  What to do, what to do?, he pondered.
Being the resident smart ass, I commented he should go to Seinfeld and send me to Maroon 5.  He liked the comment, I went on my merry way and never thought of it again.
That evening, I was contacted and offerred the tickets.  Did I want to go?
Um, yes... yes, I do.
I called my friend Rae and told her we were going.  I would pick her up the second she was done teaching and we would haul our rear ends to Saskatoon.

Here we are -- all excited to see Adam Levine!
The opening act was Matt Nathanson. Neither of us knew who he was, but then he played two songs I recognized and I was really excited to see him. He was very funny and a good musician, but had a way of moving on the stage as though he was attempting to do The Worm while standing. It was highly distracting and had me giggling inappropriately for most of his 40 stage minutes.
After a brief intermission, the lights went out, the curtain rose, and Maroon 5 came on stage. It was the last time I would breathe normally the rest of the night.
Now, I've always had a slight crush on the lead singer Adam Levine. I mean, he's one good looking and smooth moving dude. In person? Wow. Even better. I felt flushed and sweaty and very sad I am a married woman and not a groupie with unlimited money to follow him to the ends of the earth.
They started with two of my favourite songs -- the song everyone knows right now Moves Like Jagger and the one that originally started my obsession: Harder to Breathe (I linked to it earlier.) We never sat down during the show and, I admit, I might have shaken what the good Lord gave me.

I mean, we were this close -- wouldn't you?
I could not have screamed any louder. I sang with every song. And, yes, I spent an inordinate amount of time staring at his rear end as he strutted up and down the stage. It was intense and exhilarating and SO MUCH FUN. (The concert... not just his rear end.)
When their set was over and there was one more group to come on, I looked at Rae and told her there was no way anything could top that performance so we might as well leave. She was going to say the exact same thing, so we did. Completely high on the music that is Maroon 5 and the man that is Adam Levine.
It was a really awesome anniversary present. The Guy is going to have to step up his game if he's going to beat it!

The wonder of Fred Penner

Almost every Canadian between the ages of 20 and 35 have fond memories of Fred Penner.
He had an early morning children's television show on the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corp) where he played songs and did skits and played with puppets.  He was on just before Mr. Dressup and never failed to get us all singing and dancing and smiling.





My two childhood idols: Fred Penner and Mr. Dressup

His songs alternated between great fun and jaunty tunes as well as epic and winding tales.  He was most famous for The Cat Came Back, Ghost Rider's in the Sky, and Sandwiches.


This is the short for The Cat Came Back. People of my generation will remember this fondly.

Fred Penner held a special place in our family. We had his album and played it over and over again. I am sure my parents tried to hide it from us, but like the cat in his songs, it always came back the next day. I never tired of it and still, as an adult, I find myself humming Sandwiches.
This summer, I got the chance to attend our city's folk festival. A friend had an extra entrance wristband and I was going with her to see a performer I knew (not well, but liked well enough) and I knew it would be a good time. When we got there, an older gentleman was on stage introducing acts. He seemed vaguely familiar. Like a grandpa or a favourite uncle I hadn't seen in years. I stared, but couldn't place him.
When we moved closer to the stage, it dawned on me that this dapper old man in a vest, old fedora, and bow tie was Fred Penner. Fred Penner, the musician of my childhood. I had heard he would be in town for the festival, but I hadn't given it much thought. After all, I've given up childhood things by now. Yet, standing there in front of him, I was surprised by the level of emotions welling up in me. Awe, excitement, anticipation.
Then, Fred Penner put is hand out in front of him -- palm up -- and used his other hand to simulate spreading something onto bread. He stopped. Then, he did it again. The crowd went wild. Someone in the back screamed "SANDWICHES!!!!"
When he started into his song, the entire place sang along. We all knew the words. I am sure none of us have thought of that song with more than a passing memory drifting through our cortex. But, at that moment, we were all 10 years old and in awe. I imagine it was a lot like watching a crowd of 13 year old girls at a Justin Beiber concert.
I stood in front of Fred (about 6 people deep in the crowd)and grinned. My face felt like it was going to crack open with happiness. My chest was tight and bursting all at the same time. I was so damned happy at that moment, I had no idea what to do with myself. I had no idea I would react that way.
Long after the performance was over, I kept grinning at my friend saying: I saw Fred Penner tonight. Did I mention I saw Fred Penner?
I've met quite a few "famous" people in my life. I have autographs from my favourite bands. I've been on tour buses and in dressing rooms. I've hung out with musicians I've admired and only been slightly star struck. Who would have thought the one who would make my heart race, my tongue feel too big for my mouth, and my hand sweat would be the man who brought us If I had a Rooster.
Did I mention I was this close to Fred Penner?