Otis-less

Yesterday was a sad, sad day. For the first time in two weeks, Mark and I found ourselves Otis-less. We hardly knew what to do withourselves. Mark kept asking if I was sad. I think he was sad. We missed the way Otis would run around chasing his tail or his shadow or the way he'd eat dandelions and look up at you with a stem dangling from the corner of his mouth. We missed the way he'd jump on your head in bed and the way, when you held him in your arms, he'd squirm around to try to lick your head. We missed the way he'd burrow under the covers in bed and curl up in a ball by your tummy or in the crook behind your knees and rest his chin on your leg. We missed wondering if he could breathe under there. We EVEN missed the excuse he gave us to go for frequent walks and have conversations with neighbours who normally wouldn't even consider talking to us. We missed debating endlessly from which angle his face was less offensive. We even missed his snoring.

We reached a turning point, Otis and I, when I took him to the off-leash park and he was bounded upon by a german shephard puppy. The bound was unwelcome and it scared the ripe-old-shit out of Otis, who from that moment on, would not leave my side by more than six inches. He had adopted me. I was his protector and it was kind of nice.

Otis was kind of like a trianing-dog for us. He walked us through some pre-parenting strategies. So now, thanks to Ot-er, Mark and I are actually considering getting a puppy or puppies in the near future.

It's just hard to imagine any dog that we'd love as much as him.

Stepping with Mike

Today I went to my favourite aerobics class: BodyStep. I used to be a regular at BodyStep. Regulars have their specific spots. Mine is front and left. Betsy is front and centre and always wears black tights, a black tank top and black shoes. She did a half marathon last year for the first time. She must have missed me because she was kind of chatty today. Usually, regulars don’t have to chat to acknowledge each other. They’re just subtly comforted by the presence of the other regulars. There’s a bubbly blonde woman in the front and far-right corner who shouts loudly whenever the instructor calls, “How’s everybody doing today?” Bubbly blonde woman is quite a bit older, but I get the impression she doesn’t know that. Good for her! Botox lady is usually right beside me. She’s got enormous lips and I can’t help but wonder if she’s had some sort of injections to make them pouffy. Maybe she thinks it’s sexy, but she always looks like she’s just been stung by a bee.

Then there’s Mike. Mike stands out in part because he’s a man at a step class. He also stands out because he is a man at a step class who has very good rhythm. And I call him Mike in my head because he reminds me of Mark’s dad. He’s got a moustache and he’s about the right height and age and he seems like a very sweet man. Also, he might be a teensy bit bald on top. While everyone else at aerobics sports Nike and Lululemon gear, Mike always wears a navy blue and white golf shirt with a red horizontal strip across the chest and knee-length shorts. I admire Mike-from-step-class. He’s a regular and his regular spot is left and back, right behind me. I watch him in the mirror and let me tell you, Mike doesn’t miss a beat! Not ONLY does he get every chassé , cha cha and box-step, but that man does the extras. If the instructor asks for jazz hands, Mike gives her jazz hands. If the instructor says if you’re feeling comfortable, throw in a pivot turn, Mike does a pivot turn. Mike even does sassy hips just for fun sometimes.

It’s nice, I guess. Not only do I get some exercise at BodyStep – I meet with old friends and spend some time with my virtual-father-in-law-to-be.

Underwear at Zellers

I was always unsympathetic to the people who rip open packages of undergarments at department stores. You’d find the underwear section all askew because SOMEONE had taken the liberty of ripping open a six pack of undershirts, then they’d decided not to buy them and had stuffed the shirts back into the package. How rude. How uncouth.

The other day I found myself in the underwear section at Zellers, looking to purchase a strapless bra, when I came across a pack of no-nonsense Fruit of the Loom underwear that I decided I wanted to buy. I hadn’t bought underwear at Zellers in a long time. I’d been buying fancy pairs at La Senza and they made me feel beautiful, but I just had a desire for a pair of comfy full-bottom whities. So I picked up the three-pack of mediums (I’m generally a medium kind of a gal) and began to examine them in their rolled up state inside the plastic. It was impossible to know whether they would fit. And you cannot return underwear (thank goodness), but how is a shopper to make an informed decision?

I flipped the pack over and read the measurements associated with each size. Small – Hips…34 – 36 inches. Medium….37-39 inches…. What the hell? Who knows their hip size off the top of their head? I can see knowing your waist size… you need it to buy jeans. Or if someone forgets, they could just sneak a peak at the label of their jeans…but hip size? So I began to take advantage of the underwear vultures before me and look for a pre-opened pack to get an idea of the size. I found a medium, but it was not in the right cut. You just can’t compare low-rise to high-rise to bikini cut underwear. That’s like comparing apples to oranges to little red wagons. I pondered and weighed options and I battled internally and finally, I just ripped open a package of small bikini-style underwear that, for the record, I fully intended to buy, because I HAD to know if they would fit.

And I’m so glad I did. Because Zellers doesn’t size their clothes like Lululemon. In the Lululemon world, and in most up-scale clothing stores, and in reality, I am an average to above-average woman. I have a more-than-generous appetite and I like to eat my cake and then have seconds. I am reknowned for my ability to kill a buffet. I am a solid 140 pounds. Nearly a third of me is body fat. And in Zellers, when buying underwear, I am a small. Their mediums look like the sails of small boats. And all I can think is that there are many, many women who would not be able to buy underwear here if I am a small.

A House in Port Credit

My Mom and her partner, Stan, came to visit me yesterday. We had lunch, then I took them to Port Credit to walk along the water and to have coffee in the Starbucks by the Lighthouse. Somehow, we got talking about Real Estate and how Mark and I want to “get in the game” so to speak, but that the cost of houses varies greatly depending on the neighbourhood you’re in. I sensed that they didn’t believe me when I said that those tiny, quaint cottages right near the water in Port Credit would cost a half a million minimum.

Then we happened to walk past an Open House sign and my mother really wanted to go inside. She kept saying, “Ooooh, Let US do all the talking!” and “We just want to get an idea….”. “We’ll give them MY information, okay?” I felt a bit nervous about “putting on airs” and pretending to be someone who is actually ABLE to even CONSIDER purchasing a home in this area. But Mom had a good point….anyone can look.

It was a heritage home and the décor was absolutely stunning. It reminded me of being in a modernized Anne of Green Gables home. There was a cedar gazebo in the back yard, surrounded by flower beds on every side and a stone walkway and a beautiful little patio. There were brass-plated bathtubs and sinks and faucets. There were three bedrooms plus a huge spacious study. It was a dream house to be sure.

The Real Estate Agent was a professionally dressed woman sitting firmly on a stool in the kitchen. As we came in, she didn’t even get up, but immediately said, “It’s priced at $699 000.” She obviously didn’t think we were serious buyers. She sloughed us off as if we weren’t worthy of her attention. She probably took one look at our casual clothes or our wind-blown hair or the lack of BMW out front and made a judgment that we would not really put down an offer. She didn’t take us seriously. I felt outraged. I wanted to yell, “How DARE you look down your nose at us! How DARE you make a judgment so quickly that we could not afford your house!”

Okay okay. So she was right in all of her assumptions. But I’m still allowed to be outraged.

Or....

the two boys who live upstairs every other weekend were down in the back yard getting Super Soakers from the storage shed and their water fight began earlier than planned.

How unromantic.

Dirty Blue T-shirt

I found a dirty blue T-shirt in the yard this afternoon. I had been in the yard earlier to let Otis out and had not seen anything out of the ordinary. Then I’d gone to pick up some gardening equipment and upon returning, the crumpled thing caught my eye.

Here’s what could have happened:

A few teenage boys were walking through the long grass under the power lines behind our yard and they’d been goofing off and had gotten hot. Someone had removed his shirt (or someone removed it for him) and as a prank, they’d tossed it over our back fence.

Or here’s what could have happened:

A teenage couple is looking for a place to make out and they see our car is not in the driveway so they go into our backyard. They make out in the back yard and leave in such a rush that they forget his T-shirt.

Or maybe a squirrel stole it off of someone else’s laundry line and dumped it in our back yard.

Who knows.

I left it there in case someone comes back for it.

The Friday of a Long Weekend

The best day of a long weekend is Friday. There lies the days of rest ahead – untouched. The possibilities are endless. The Friday of a long weekend….. it’s like stepping outside right after a fresh snow, before anyone disturbs its perfection.

Bad Day

Yesterday was kind of a bad day. So after school, while my car was getting an oil change, I thought I would walk around the plaza across the road to cheer myself up. I walked past Herbal Magic and thought, “Maybe today wouldn’t have been so bad if I was ten pounds lighter…”, so I went in. I asked for some information and left with some pamphlets and the firm self-resolution that I can certainly lose ten pounds for less than $398 plus taxes.

Then I passed Hallmark and thought I could pick up a wedding guest book and thank you cards and cross some things off my to-do list. That would certainly make me feel better. Hallmark shares a space with Laura Secord and I ended up leaving with some Rolo ice cream.

I didn’t even notice the irony until I passed the Herbal Magic on the way back to my car.

Once in a Lifetime

This weekend, Mark and I went to Peterborough for a visit. On Saturday, my dad took Jay and Mark golfing at a local course called Heron’s Landing. The morning was a lot cooler than the balmy 26 C of the day prior, and my dad found himself quite cold in his t-shirt and shorts. Luckily, Mark had a light jacket he could lend him for the first 8 holes, while he warmed up. Possibly this good deed had something to do with the karma surrounding Mark’s golf game. More than likely, it was a combination of the stars being in line, the skill Mark’s been accumulating for his whole 28 years 5 months and 22 days, the new driver called the Sasquatch and his impeccable form that contributed to the events at Hole #12 that fine morning. (It might have also had something to do with his fiancé’s love which he carries in his heart wherever he goes). Regardless, my brother and father stood witness as Mark stepped a few feet back from the tee-off and hit that ball, shielded his eyes as he watched it bounce….(“I think it’s short” he said)….and then disappear. It wasn’t until they approached the green that they realized the magnitude of what they had just witnessed…a Hole In One!

Mark gave Jay a high-five so hard that his hand stung (or so the Legend goes). He didn’t ride around on his golf club (he tells me he only does that in mini-golf). And the good people at Heron’s Landing celebrated this momentous occasion by giving him a gold bag tag that says, “Hole In One” and his name and the date. They are also going to send him a certificate. (It’s a protocol they are excited to use on the very, VERY rare occasion that they have opportunity.)

For those of you that aren’t golfers, a Hole in One is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. In fact, it’s more like a never-in-a-lifetime occurrence. It just doesn’t happen. Even the very best golfers can practice every day and never get a hole in one. Mark was ecstatic. He couldn’t wait to phone his dad. He couldn’t wait to phone his best friend, Jim. He was beaming with quiet pride.

We went home to see my mother that evening and had been there only a few minutes before I broke out the news, “Guess what?!? Mark got a hole in one today!”
“That’s nice,” she said.

Square One

I’m back to Square One. Today, on a beautiful spring afternoon, seven kilometres royally kicked the shit out of me.

Marathon Virgin

This coming Sunday was to be my first full marathon race. I have been suffering from knee pain since March that has kept me from training. But I wanted to believe that the dream of the full marathon could still come to fruition. Sadly, it was the day after my birthday, when I seized up completely during a 10k run with Jen, that I knew my body needed a rest.

So I’ve been resting. I’ve been healing. I’ve been getting massages. I’ve been stretching more frequently (I wish I could say, religiously) and I even did squats for a few days. I bought a skipping rope in hopes of beginning a different, but equally challenging cardiovascular regime. That lasted all of about 17 seconds.

Then, the other day, I ran 5k without pain. Then I ran 7k without pain.
The discouraging thing is that I was more winded during that 7k race than I was during my three hour long runs in March. THAT is how quickly all the hard work disappears.
Today I received the confirmation that my registration in the Mississauga Marathon has been deferred to 2008. So Sunday will come and go and I will still be a Marathon Virgin.

Jumping Eggs

You know the twinge you get deep down when you’re a twenty-something woman in her reproductive prime and you smell a baby’s head? Well, my friend, Vicky, used to say “My eggs are jumping” implying that that twinge came from the ovaries themselves instead of our psyches. Regardless, my jumping-egg twinges come and go in cycles. (Thank god! says Mark)

And it’s always astonished me that Mark didn’t seem to have the jumping-egg twinges. It shouldn’t, I guess. He doesn’t have eggs! But I figured there would be some type of equivalent. And I see it, on occasion, in other guys (generally who are married). At a breakfast party at my friend, Sue’s place, Chad (my friend Jen’s husband) was visibly enthralled with a few youngster who were at the party too (enthralled in the totally appropriate and healthy sense; not the Michael Jackson sense). He was right down on the floor with them playing in a very I’m-SO-ready-for-this kind of way. So I kept waiting for Mark to show some (hmmm, what should we call it?) my-seminiferous-tubules-are-jumping tendencies.
Nothing.

So Jen and I conspired (in a very nice way) to slowly expose Mark to her adorable daughter, Abby, only when she was charming and sweet and had had her nap. And Mark has begun to seem more and more relaxed around youngsters since then. The other day, at a bbq we held at our place, sweet Abby told Mark that she loved him. She was working her magic.

Today, though, I knew we had broken new ground at the jewelry store (see previous blog). I was engrossed in a conversation about custom making my wedding band with a saleswoman when I caught, out of the corner of my eye, Mark with his tongue stuck out. I turned to see that the recipient of the gesture was a toddler in a stroller at the other end of the store. She had her arms shyly hiding most of her face, but one eye peeked at him and she smiled amusedly. He IS irresistible. It’s hard for ME to look at him without smiling.
I don’t think we can say his seminiferous tubules jumped, but maybe they quivered a bit.

Update....

Okay, so given the comment that I'm sure SHAVER posted, I feel that maybe I gave the impression of teetering on the brink of the slitting-my-wrists stage of wedding anxiety. Quite the contrary; I am totally and utterly under control. The great thing about Melissa's mini panic-attacks, is as swiftly as they blow into town, just as easily they are gone.

Mark and I were astonishingly efficient today (my mother would be so proud of the efficiency). We bought his suit in about a half hour, and his dress shirt and tie and the groomsmen's ties too. We both looked at each other with knowing shrugs and wondered why the Wedding Planners insist you give yourself five months to do this. Then we went and bought our wedding bands. And they should be here before June. I exceeded my daily withdrawl limit on my bank account, but that's minor. (See how laissez-faire I am feeling right now!)

I came home and called up my on-line Planning Tools Checklist and checked off the remaining three items in the category "4-5 months".

We're back in the game, baby!

(and with 84 days to spare)

85 days

There are 85 more days until the wedding. Anyone you ask will you tell you that Melissa is a very organized person. In truth, she only gives off that impression. Melissa had great plans! She made a very detailed break-down of the tasks she needed to complete in order to have the kind of wedding she wants, and she chunked them by month. In March, she got a lot done over the spring break. Then she took a rest. A repose, if you will. Suddenly, there are 85 more days left until the BIG DAY! And she’s been abruptly and harshly awakened from her repose. People are now giving her concerned looks and eager glances when she says she’s getting married on July 28th. They say things like “OOoooooh, THAT soon?” and “That’s only a few weeks away….” and “You must be SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO busy….” In fact, she hasn’t been very busy – at least not with wedding things.

So Melissa had to kick it into high gear this week. Yesterday, she went to every spa and hair stylist in the Clarkson village with a clipboard and a pen. And someone informed her this week that her invitations should be sent out by now! Apparently all the websites and wedding planner books she’s been reading have deceived her. Where she thought she had a few weeks left to send the invitations, apparently people are getting antsy because there are different rules for SUMMER weddings. (Aren’t most weddings, summer weddings?) So last night she sealed about a dozen invitations before her wonderful, sweet, loving fiancé indicated that he thought they should include the Registry cards in the invitations. Melissa seemed to be under the impression they had HAD this conversation earlier and decided NOT to include the Registry cards because it’s not totally polite. However, she must be mistaken because her wonderful, sweet, loving fiancé was quite dedicated to this idea. So she ripped open the dozen invitations she’d already sealed, re-wrote the envelopes on a dozen fresh envelopes and put Registry cards in ALL the invitations (except the friend that her wonderful, sweet, loving fiancé is sure won’t be able to make it, so he thinks it WOULD be IMPOLITE to include a Registry card in THAT invitation). THEN, she sealed all the invitations. She did one last check to make sure all the people on the list had an invitation, then she sorted them into piles like “going to Hong Kong” and “NOT going to Hong Kong” etc.

She phoned her florist and discovered she had sold her shop to someone else. Melissa had a mild heart attack. Then her florist phoned her and gave her a new contact number and Melissa could breathe again.

She mailed invitations, she booked an engagement photo; she took Mark to buy rings and a suit.
Now she can almost cross off the list all the tasks she was supposed to do in March.

Big P is my Hero

We live, quite frankly, in an age where administrators in schools fear parents. I’m not saying they don’t have reason to fear them. Parents are very powerful. They often go directly to the superintendent with issues that range in importance from gum-chewing to appealing suspensions. This power, and subsequent administratorial fear, has bred, in my opinion, a lack of support for teachers with respect to disciplining students in schools.

In this age which is upon us (in education), there are few principals willing to stand up for what is right. To walk the road less traveled. That’s why this story really touched my heart. This story is about Mark’s principal. Here it is:

Mark’s students are doing a construction project this week. He gave all the students some wood to use. One student, let’s call him T., lost his wood. He claimed it was stolen from his locker. (In fact, he left it in the desk he uses in french class.) He got upset when Mark suggested it was possible he’d simply misplaced the wood and it had not necessarily been stolen. Then, at lunch, he asked to speak to Mark (who was eating his lunch and supervising study hall). Mark said, “Sure, come on in.” T said, “You have to come out into the hall.” Mark, who was very tired, said, “I think you can come in here if you want to talk to me. I’m eating my lunch.” To which T did not take kindly. He stormed off.

After lunch, Mark taught T’s class but T wasn’t there. Some kids discovered T’s wood in his desk from french class. Mark phoned the office to page T back to class. One girl said T had gone home at lunch. Mark let his principal know (Let’s call her Big P).

What would most principals do? Probably arrange to have a discussion with the student in question the next morning. Or, ask the teacher how THEY were going to deal with it.

What did Big P do? She phoned T’s house. She blocked her number from call display.
(Big P is a smart and cunning woman).
T answered.
(Stupid stupid boy! If you’re playing hookie, don’t EVER answer the phone)
Big P said, “You have two minutes to get yourself back to school.”
Big P hung up.
Two minutes passed.
Ten minutes passed.
Stupid T didn’t show up at school.
(And this is where I really start to cheer!)

Big P got on her fucking coat and her fucking shoes.
Big P got in her fucking car!
Big P drove to T’s fucking HOUSE and knocked on his fucking door.
Big P drove T back to the school!

The rest doesn’t matter. There was a meeting with a parent and consequences ensued. The normal boring kind of shit that most people imagine happens in schools, but happens surprisingly infrequently.

The bottom line: An inspirational story for many a current educator.
I wish there were more Big P’s in the world.

Safety Precautions

I have a pet peeve. And maybe I will be more sympathetic to this cause when I have children of my own, but I really disagree with the way "we" coddle our kids these days, giving them no responsibility for their own safety. For instance, if the playground has icy snow on it, we call a black-top recess (kids are only permitted to stay on the pavement; they are not allowed to go on the icy snow for fear they will fall). It seems that this kind of mentality breeds a society that will then go and blame everyone else if they slip and fall on a sidewalk or the like.

Well today I saw something that really took the cake in this department. My students were returning from the gymnasium where they had been in an assembly. They were returning to their classroom in a fairly organized flood of children, that is, they were walking casually on the right hand side of the hallway. A large TV on a trolley had been parked on the right hand side of the hall for some reason or another. And a teacher who has a reputation for being quite concerned with students not learning to be safe on their own but instead protecting them from any possibility of harm was planted firmly with arms crossed in front of the TV so as to properly divert the stream of children around it.

What are we saying if we have children who haven't learned, when they see an obstacle in front of them, that they must go around it?

Advice about rings

Dach is an accountant.
Dach's wife tells me that Dach says there's no shame in choosing a woman's ring instead of a man's ring. You can save $300 that way!
Dach is full of excellent advice. I think of him sometimes when I can't get my shirt ironed properly.