Tuesday, April 08, 2014

Mexico. Really.


All you world-wise, world travelling show-offy worldly people have seen all this before. You're over there, all *yawn* been-to-Mexico-a-zillion-times, I'm-sooooo-resort-y, we-always-have-guacamole-at-lunch.



Or, rather, we've been to Mexico. We can join your special clubs now.

The patio doors stayed open all night for our first sleep. There was green stuff! And ocean wind! And humidity! (remember humidity? I think I'd forgotten). And it was so. not. cold.

Plus pretty purple and pink accents to the green stuff.

I may have wept.

Even before I saw the make-your-own Mimosa section at the breakfast buffet.

And then it was really just a question of which bikini- black? or blue?

And which book? (I do believe I packed eight.....)

Brian had the courage and wherewithall to breathe underwater and search for transparent Mexican fish.

While I read my stories.

In my blue bikini.


At times it was prudent to pause for refreshments.

Look around for a bit.

Meet the locals.








Maybe change it up a little, somewhere around Tuesday? mid-morning?


So good.

So very, very good.

Then, having grown accustomed to our bellies sated, we found ourselves at the end of our trip, and hungry at the Cancun airport.

With so much to celebrate.

Not the least of it being the apparent arrival of spring in Manitoba.

Our boy Micah having turned sixteen in our absence.

And our second daughter Jane about to become an adult, right after our return.


And did I mention the honeymoon?

Crummy picture, awesome time.

There's nothing quite like a honeymoon,

after the honeymoon has been over

for twenty some years.

In Mexico. Really.


Saturday, March 29, 2014

I Had So Much To Say Today

But no time to say it.

I found no time for the cat wine.

(Something to come home to)

Though we remained committed to our tequila countdown.

The kitty is all packed.

And at 9:15 AM, we leave this all behind.

Thanks for tolerating this very obsessed countdown.

"See you" next Monday!


Thursday, March 27, 2014

Not a Really Even Three More Days

Seeing as this day is over.

And tomorrow is Friday.

And doesn't look too horrifying.

And I like starting sentences with "and" because all through junior high, I was told that you can't.

And I don't care.

I don't entirely agree- Thursday sounds to me like a day past Wednesday, and just before Friday, therefore pretty awesome. But, it was cool to find something about "Thursday" on pinterest. Validates the many hours I invest there. Plus he's cranking out a Thursday beer, which does actually apply.

I have learned that directly after "tequila time" is "beer time".

Also, in the interest of my liver and prepping for Mexico.

Since the bathing suits and skirts have been packed for weeks, there are a few lasagnes and chicken pot pies in the freezer, and the passports have been located. Just wouldn't be right to neglect the livers.

Did I mention that tomorrow is Friday? And not really even two days then? Because how ridiculous is it to count Saturday, the day that you're already on holidays, everything is ready (except what isn't) and the only thing to decide is where to take the kids out for dinner.

Thursday. And not really at all three more days to go. This just may warrant popping the cork of my cat wine tomorrow.

At noon.


Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Five, no! FOUR! More Days

ohmygosh, what happened? I have sinned by omission- it is now five four days since my last confession, and here I had committed to writing every days since countdown commenced!

For two three days now, we have been wisely climatizing.

Tequila. One ounce per diem.

Not because we want to, but because it is prudent to not shock the system by arriving at Tulum without preparing the liver.

We're just sensible like that.


Thursday, March 20, 2014

Crossfit- My Coming Out

It's been over six months now that I've been going to the gym. That's right- me. Going to the gym. I'm the kid that got chosen fifth from last for every sport in school, just before the four kids that nobody even liked. I'm the one who only ever went down hill skiing once because I fell so many times trying to learn that the group of friends that I travelled with made me the laughing stock of the weekend. I can still feel the sting of humiliation, the sore and tired muscles, the bruises.

It took about a year of thinking about it almost every day before I decided to give crossfit a try. One of the coaches kept sending me kind and gentle messages about what she thought crossfit might do for me, might help me with, might undo in me. And since I struggle on and off with my body anyway, have given up dieting for life, and I trusted this coach, I thought maybe I should give it a try. I wasn't ready. I wouldn't ever be ready, so I decided to pretend that I needed physiotherapy and that I just needed to show up at the gym twice a week and do whatever exercises I was given. For a year, I told myself. You need physio for a year.

I may be the first fledgling crossfitter to have thrown the F-Bomb on my very first visit.

I mean- skipping rope?? I loved skipping rope as a child. All those awesome little poems and songs we'd sing while we skipped rope on the sidewalk at school recess. I could totally rock that skipping rope.

And then, at 45, my first time at "physio", they said- "Skip". And I couldn't. My arms didn't know how to handle the rope and my feet moved at the wrong times, and the rope got caught on my ankles.

And so because I didn't also want to burst into tears, I said- "DAMMIT! I can't even F-ing SKIP!" Which made the woman beside me laugh so hard she couldn't skip either, and that made me feel a little better.

Well, now I can skip. Around 3 or 4 times later, my body remembered. I'm no longer skipping like an eleven year old, unless they currently wear depends, but still- I can skip. And that feels good. And we never ever skip to MISSISSIPPI, but you take what you can, folks, you take what you can.

My first visit to crossfit, I couldn't do a squat. I don't think I had ever done a squat, or attempted one since I was a toddler. When my "physiotherapist" showed me how to do a squat (stick your butt out, blah, blah, blah) I managed to get down. So far that I fell onto the floor. And couldn't pull myself back up. These days, I have learned how to do the squat- wall squats, kettle ball squats, and the one we refer to as "pole dancing squats". I'm feeling pleased that I don't fall over any more.

When I started crossfit a little over six months ago, I was around about a size twelve, with flabby thighs and a lot of cellulite, a second chin, a weird little belly, and that "second arm wave" that shows up on your fortieth birthday. Not too sure what I weighed since I got Brian to hide the scale from me some time ago.

Six and a half months later, I'm around a size twelve, with flabby thighs and a lot of cellulite, a second chin, a weird little belly. The arm waggle does seem to have settled down.

In a certain kind of lighting, when the moon is crescent shaped, and a woodpecker is pecking past twilight, I can faintly make out some muscle definition on my thighs. The blobs of fat that were falling onto my kneecap have receded, and my flabby butt sits a little higher than it used to. I also have a tiny collection of black workout gear, since learning the wrong way that if you wear stretchy royal blue leggings from WalMart and pee your pants doing a teensey little jog, everyone will know. Turns out that black is a little more forgiving. A little.

I have a new community. A brilliant group of people who know how to laugh at themselves, push themselves, be kind to one another, and just show up. I enjoy watching people who weren't the last chosen at gym class hurling their bodies up onto piles of boxes or wrapping themselves around chin lift bars. There's something marvelous about the human body being able to do that. I also enjoy working out with a particularly sweet, smily-est, most encouraging woman who isn't above saying "feck-it" under her Irish breath when the going gets just a little too hard. It's marvelous to be allowed to laugh.

I'm over half way through my initial plan to give crossfit a year of my life. It's hard to believe that I actually enjoy going to the gym. It's remarkable that challenging my body after a tough day at work feels really good for brain and body. I still tend to feel self-conscious and generally hope no one is looking at me, but the crossfit community in my town has been so kind and gracious that I'm getting kind of getting slightly over that too.

I'm pretty sure I won't turn into an insufferable nag who posts workouts on facebook or goes on and on ad nauseum about crossfit. I'm definitely not going to become competitive. I can't imagine eating paleo, as I'm addicted to carbohydrates and yogurt. I don't even like that caption: "we eat pain for breakfast", because I like toast.

But I like the kitty. And that kind of die-hard weirdo obsessive freak I'm likely to remain.


Tuesday, March 18, 2014

12 More Days

I have no idea how people can live with chronic illness or pain without throwing in the towel and just becoming miserable bitch grouches.

Brian tells me that I will make an excellent old person, waxing on about my fibroid, my knees, this cough, and - ooooh, my sinuses. I say- I'm there already. My eyes hurt, my belly hurts, my knees hurt and I want my mommy. Until I remember that she's almost 88 and the furthest thing from a whiner in the world. Her cure for spinal stenosis and arthritis is to go for a long walk outdoors in this Siberian-esque winter. She doesn't make a very good old person at all. Humph.

Speaking of chronic pain, I pulled together all my papers for income tax. Except for the inevitable dozen or so that I will have forgotten. My father in law will be messaging me nonstop asking for all the stuff I've forgotten (again), and I will be mortally embarrassed and will blame my husband for not being the bookkeeper type, forcing me to badly impersonate one. I hate tax pain. Numbers baffle me. Give me a psychiatric conundrum any day of the week, I'll deal. But not numbers. They cause me moderate to severe and chronic pain.

And lately there's been lingering parenting pain. I messaged my friend Karla the other night (she's like a 1-800-I suck, please absolve me-line). I told her my sorrows, I whined. "I can't do this parenting thing!" And in all her wisdom she said- "You are actually doing it. They're having a hard time doing the prepubescent/teenage thing. You're doing it".

To which I said- "damn it".

It's painful.

When the kids were little, and impossible, and never slept and cried constantly, some horrible people would say to me- "oh, just you wait until they're teenagers!" I would like to hurt all those people, still, to this day. I have teenagers. They never throw themselves on the floor in Walmart to weep inconsolably. They never shove their hands down their pants during dinner to whine about their panties being wrong. They don't throw fits about the toast being cut into pie shapes instead of squares. They don't poop their drawers while hiding behind the couch.

Teenagers have introduced me to a different kind of pain. It's the kind that makes me question whether I've been doing things right enough since they were toddlers, contentedly eating their own snot. It's a more existential sort of pain. It's the pain of wondering- if my teenager lives in his or her room and only comes out to grunt and root for snacks, is it because I haven't reached them somehow? Will they trust me enough to let me in when they have questions? And when they do let me in, is my response adequate? Will they be well? Physically, emotionally, spiritually well? (Don't try to answer these questions. I won't be easily reassured). The point of mentioning any of these things at all is to dwell morbidly on the topic of pain.

Which might help to explain my recent craving for a piercing or tattoo or sliver....

Twelve days sounds like a really short time. Lately at night I have been dreaming that its time to fly home from our trip and I realize I've never made it out of my hotel room. In my dream, I've spent my whole time on pinterest and sleeping and cleaning the toilet. I never found the swim up bar or the beach and I never went outside.

Maybe that's because it's how I've spent the winter- cleaning the toilet, pinning all the cats, and sleeping.

Twelve more days.


Sunday, March 16, 2014

March 16, 2014


This way to Niverville, Manitoba.

Fourteen days to the Mayan Rivierra.