This morning was my last at Lynnwood Lodge. We were busy this morning getting packed up to leave. I was all packed up and was heading up to my grandma's on the 6th floor when I became involved in a bit of a dust-up in the elevator. Two people got on with me on the ground floor. They went on ahead of me and I don't think the gentleman knew I was standing behind him trying to get in. The woman snapped at him "Paul! Move out of the way so she can get in!" He apologized and stepped aside. She was getting out on the 2nd floor, he needed the 3rd and I needed the 6th. When we stopped at the second floor they both got out. Well, she was not going to let him get off on the wrong floor...so she barked "get back in! You don't get off here" and she pushed on his arm. Well he was having none of that. "Dont push me around, lady! Who the hell do you think you are!?" And then he smacked her with his church bulletin, which I immediately saw the irony in. I stood helpless with my finger on the open button. Would he stay on the 2nd floor just to spite her? Or would he get back in the elevator with me? In order to break the tension and avoid further assault by the word of the lord, I quietly asked if he would like to go to the third floor. He said "I'll come with you (meaning me) but I won't forget this (meaning her.) Once the doors were closed he told me that she was a trouble maker. No kidding!
A retirement home is much more like a school yard than you might think. There were the mean girls that were bitching behind our backs that we were playing cards at a table in the lounge instead of the games room...speaking loudly enough that we could hear them...and not being very nice about it. There's the single guy that everyone thinks is good looking. The new "kids" have to sit at a table by themselves until a spot opens up at a cooler table. But mostly it's like school because there is a large group of people brought together based on their age alone. They are all so different from one another in how they dress, how they think. They all have their own traditions around meal time and social etiquette. And yet for the most part they all live peacefully together, making friendships and keeping each other company while they are asked to spend this time together. It is really very sweet to see...and I am really glad to have had this time to experience it first hand. I feel good knowing my grandma now calls this place home.
I am now at the Ottawa airport. I have over 2 hours until my flight leaves and those who know me could probably figure out that very soon I will be very bored. I think I will go grab a coffee and spend some time out in the sunshine before I go through security. I better go freshen up in case there's a cavity search.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Pancakes and strudels and steak knives, oh my!
Today I had the opportunity to experience the dining room at Lynnwood.
Today's lunch menu had two options...old fashioned pancakes and sausages or egg salad sandwich, with chocolate pudding and a shortbread cookie for dessert. I hadn't had breakfast so I opted for the pancakes. The rest of my party had the sandwiches. The food at lunch was really quite nice. What really got me about the whole experience was everyone else who was there.
We arrived at the dining room a few minutes before lunch was served. There were loads of folks loitering outside the doors sitting on their walker/stools. Let me tell you, once those doors opened it was mayhem. Mayhem in super-slo-mo. It looked like that part in the Thriller video when all of the zombies slowly come out into the street to dance with MJ. Once we had all gotten ourselves seated it wasn't long before people started dozing off. Extreme cuteness. The staff were so great with the residents. Finding other flavors for the people who couldn't abide the chocolate pudding. Waking people up before they landed face first into their pancakes. I thought one woman had actually done a face-plant on her table but then realized that she was just operating one if those monster magnifying glasses to fill out the dinner form. You see, at lunch we all have to fill out a card with what we would like for dinner. A tough choice. Would you have picked chicken cordon bleu, or trout almandine. Remembering, of course, that your dinner will be massed produced and be catered to a senior's taste buds.
I went chicken. I'm not sure that was the best move, looking back. If only I had talked to Shirley sooner. Shirley is my new smoking buddy here. She is almost completely blind and so smoking is even more hazardous to her health than most. No word of a lie, this afternoon I stopped her from lighting her pants on fire from a stray ash. She couldn't see it...it was about 3/4 of an inch long. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I don't know Shirley well, obviously, so I wasn't sure if she didn't know it was so big or if she was maybe just one of those crazy people who seem to save them up for one big satisfying tap off. Anyway, it eventually fell off onto her pants so I leapt up and brushed it off her lap. She didn't seem to mind that I'd rubbed her thigh...she only said "oh...I guess that's why my leg felt so hot there." The other thing Shirley told me was that the chicken was awful. She went to the first dinner sitting and had the chicken. Well now she tells me. My card was already filled out...I was committed to it.
Let me tell you something I have learned about Shirley...she may not be able to see very well but there's nothing wrong with her palate. That chicken was not good. And they don't really give much heed to the concept of visual presentation being part of a well thought out entree. I had ordered a salad with dinner which was served as a starter so the only thing they had to worry about plating was the chicken and some mashed potatoes. This chicken was a breaded, brown lump approximately two inches by three inches sitting beside the smallest mound of potatoes I have ever been served. I believe they used a melon-baller to portion them out.
The chicken gets its own paragraph. It was an impenetrable fortress of poultry. It was seriously built to last. Luckily it was served with a steak knife or I would still be down there chipping away at it I think. Once I had infiltrated the outer crust a viscous white filling slowly started leaking out onto my plate. It looked like elmers glue but didn't taste quite as good. I abandoned the main dish and moved on to my potatoes for a bit of a break from all the sawing. The potatoes were good...so good that I could have eaten them all in one bite. No wait, I did eat them in one bite. So it was back to the chicken for me. The dish culminated in one final bite that was different from all the rest. This time, when I lifted the forkful of chicken up to my mouth, a tiny hard piece of dry ham fell out. This was exciting. I had forgotten all about the ham that should have been in my cordon bleu.
Dessert was Apple strudel with ice cream. It was delish. But you know I probably wouldn't have mentioned it if there wasn't something funny or bizarre about it. Again it was the presentation. They served it in the tiniest bowl you could imagine. It was all crammed in there so that if you went in with your fork to get a piece, everything shifted in such a way that made you feel like you were about to launch the scoop of ice cream up over the side of your bowl and into your neighbor's lap. My grandma had the right idea and put the whole works onto her coffee saucer. At least everything was on an even plain and there was no longer a launching ramp to propel the food upwards. Anyone who has ever had strudel knows it is not the most pliable of desserts. I was getting quite the workout using my fork to cut into this sucker and I have a lot more upper body strength than the majority of tonight's diners. So I got the giggles when I looked around the room and saw nothing but pensioners battling strudels, armed only with their forks. It was quite a sight to behold.
I found the whole experience of the dining room extremely amazing. If you are a people watcher, even if you only dabble in it, this is where it's all at. The collection of people is totally wicked. I really loved every minute of it. But I will admit, I'm still a little hungry.
Today's lunch menu had two options...old fashioned pancakes and sausages or egg salad sandwich, with chocolate pudding and a shortbread cookie for dessert. I hadn't had breakfast so I opted for the pancakes. The rest of my party had the sandwiches. The food at lunch was really quite nice. What really got me about the whole experience was everyone else who was there.
We arrived at the dining room a few minutes before lunch was served. There were loads of folks loitering outside the doors sitting on their walker/stools. Let me tell you, once those doors opened it was mayhem. Mayhem in super-slo-mo. It looked like that part in the Thriller video when all of the zombies slowly come out into the street to dance with MJ. Once we had all gotten ourselves seated it wasn't long before people started dozing off. Extreme cuteness. The staff were so great with the residents. Finding other flavors for the people who couldn't abide the chocolate pudding. Waking people up before they landed face first into their pancakes. I thought one woman had actually done a face-plant on her table but then realized that she was just operating one if those monster magnifying glasses to fill out the dinner form. You see, at lunch we all have to fill out a card with what we would like for dinner. A tough choice. Would you have picked chicken cordon bleu, or trout almandine. Remembering, of course, that your dinner will be massed produced and be catered to a senior's taste buds.
I went chicken. I'm not sure that was the best move, looking back. If only I had talked to Shirley sooner. Shirley is my new smoking buddy here. She is almost completely blind and so smoking is even more hazardous to her health than most. No word of a lie, this afternoon I stopped her from lighting her pants on fire from a stray ash. She couldn't see it...it was about 3/4 of an inch long. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I don't know Shirley well, obviously, so I wasn't sure if she didn't know it was so big or if she was maybe just one of those crazy people who seem to save them up for one big satisfying tap off. Anyway, it eventually fell off onto her pants so I leapt up and brushed it off her lap. She didn't seem to mind that I'd rubbed her thigh...she only said "oh...I guess that's why my leg felt so hot there." The other thing Shirley told me was that the chicken was awful. She went to the first dinner sitting and had the chicken. Well now she tells me. My card was already filled out...I was committed to it.
Let me tell you something I have learned about Shirley...she may not be able to see very well but there's nothing wrong with her palate. That chicken was not good. And they don't really give much heed to the concept of visual presentation being part of a well thought out entree. I had ordered a salad with dinner which was served as a starter so the only thing they had to worry about plating was the chicken and some mashed potatoes. This chicken was a breaded, brown lump approximately two inches by three inches sitting beside the smallest mound of potatoes I have ever been served. I believe they used a melon-baller to portion them out.
The chicken gets its own paragraph. It was an impenetrable fortress of poultry. It was seriously built to last. Luckily it was served with a steak knife or I would still be down there chipping away at it I think. Once I had infiltrated the outer crust a viscous white filling slowly started leaking out onto my plate. It looked like elmers glue but didn't taste quite as good. I abandoned the main dish and moved on to my potatoes for a bit of a break from all the sawing. The potatoes were good...so good that I could have eaten them all in one bite. No wait, I did eat them in one bite. So it was back to the chicken for me. The dish culminated in one final bite that was different from all the rest. This time, when I lifted the forkful of chicken up to my mouth, a tiny hard piece of dry ham fell out. This was exciting. I had forgotten all about the ham that should have been in my cordon bleu.
Dessert was Apple strudel with ice cream. It was delish. But you know I probably wouldn't have mentioned it if there wasn't something funny or bizarre about it. Again it was the presentation. They served it in the tiniest bowl you could imagine. It was all crammed in there so that if you went in with your fork to get a piece, everything shifted in such a way that made you feel like you were about to launch the scoop of ice cream up over the side of your bowl and into your neighbor's lap. My grandma had the right idea and put the whole works onto her coffee saucer. At least everything was on an even plain and there was no longer a launching ramp to propel the food upwards. Anyone who has ever had strudel knows it is not the most pliable of desserts. I was getting quite the workout using my fork to cut into this sucker and I have a lot more upper body strength than the majority of tonight's diners. So I got the giggles when I looked around the room and saw nothing but pensioners battling strudels, armed only with their forks. It was quite a sight to behold.
I found the whole experience of the dining room extremely amazing. If you are a people watcher, even if you only dabble in it, this is where it's all at. The collection of people is totally wicked. I really loved every minute of it. But I will admit, I'm still a little hungry.
Like all good New Years Eve resolutions...
this one was sort of forgotten about...just like everybody else's.
But my current situation is begging to be blogged about so it's time to get back on the horse.
I am now living in a retirement home.
You may be thinking to yourself "gee I know it's been awhile since Sara blogged...but I didn't realize it had been THAT Long!". To clarify, I am merely a guest in a retirement home...but believe me it's just as rad as being a permanent resident.
Let me back up a bit and explain. Today I flew out to Ottawa with my parents to celebrate my grandma's 95th birthday. She lives in Lynnwood Park Lodge. It is wicked cool here. We "checked in" at the front desk. They have guest rooms they rent out so that he resident's families can stay with them which is way better than staying at a hotel. You'll soon see why. Anyway, there were the usual questions you have to answer when you check.in anywhere. But then came the retirement-home-specific questions. Did we want to take our lunch at 11:30 or 1:00...dinner at 4:30 or 6:00. Classic, right?
Anyway, by the time we were ready to head to our rooms the second seating of dinner was over. We looked in horror as a slow moving battalion of 15-20 well fed seniors armed with the latest in walker technology stormed the elevators. They were everywhere...they were full...they were sleepy and they were hell-bent to recapture their recliners by force. Any hope of getting to our rooms in a timely fashion were quickly dashed, because nothing else was dashing quickly, believe me.
When I walked into my room I couldn't quite comprehend what I was seeing. My room has a twin bed and a lamp. That's it. It smells a bit like poo. My closet is quite cramped due to the various pieces of medical equipment including a commode. I really love my room. It is like I'm living in a monestary. My possessions are few...which allows for q rich inner life. Or at least q lot of time to play angry birds. I will post a picture.
After an awesome visit with my grandma I spent the rest of the night in my cell. My grandma loaned me her radio so I didn't feel so lonely. I think I will like my time here a lot. I feel like I may be ready for "the home."
But my current situation is begging to be blogged about so it's time to get back on the horse.
I am now living in a retirement home.
You may be thinking to yourself "gee I know it's been awhile since Sara blogged...but I didn't realize it had been THAT Long!". To clarify, I am merely a guest in a retirement home...but believe me it's just as rad as being a permanent resident.
Let me back up a bit and explain. Today I flew out to Ottawa with my parents to celebrate my grandma's 95th birthday. She lives in Lynnwood Park Lodge. It is wicked cool here. We "checked in" at the front desk. They have guest rooms they rent out so that he resident's families can stay with them which is way better than staying at a hotel. You'll soon see why. Anyway, there were the usual questions you have to answer when you check.in anywhere. But then came the retirement-home-specific questions. Did we want to take our lunch at 11:30 or 1:00...dinner at 4:30 or 6:00. Classic, right?
Anyway, by the time we were ready to head to our rooms the second seating of dinner was over. We looked in horror as a slow moving battalion of 15-20 well fed seniors armed with the latest in walker technology stormed the elevators. They were everywhere...they were full...they were sleepy and they were hell-bent to recapture their recliners by force. Any hope of getting to our rooms in a timely fashion were quickly dashed, because nothing else was dashing quickly, believe me.
When I walked into my room I couldn't quite comprehend what I was seeing. My room has a twin bed and a lamp. That's it. It smells a bit like poo. My closet is quite cramped due to the various pieces of medical equipment including a commode. I really love my room. It is like I'm living in a monestary. My possessions are few...which allows for q rich inner life. Or at least q lot of time to play angry birds. I will post a picture.
After an awesome visit with my grandma I spent the rest of the night in my cell. My grandma loaned me her radio so I didn't feel so lonely. I think I will like my time here a lot. I feel like I may be ready for "the home."
Monday, February 14, 2011
There should be a word for this
What is it that happens to you when your whole family is sick....why isn't there a word for this phenomenon? The experience of widely vacillating feelings toward them from one extreme to the other. Nurturing feelings of knowing your place in the world is right beside them, comforting them and helping them any way you can. And the feeling of wanting them to just stop making those horrible coughing sounds and start cleaning up after themselves. Yin/Yang Empathy/Irritation Cheek on forehead comforting/ Fingers in ears running to escape the hell.
When my son plunged headlong into a flu last week all of those maternal feelings came out. I was feeling his forehead with my cheek, tucking him under blankets on the couch, bringing him juice, making all of those comforting mother sounds that we make. The poor thing had a fever and he was coughing...typical flu. Ick.
The next day I went to work, and my son languished on the couch under my husband's capable watch. He texted me updates as to whether he was feeling way too hot...or way too cold. He survived the day.
My daughter came home that evening from a play at a friends' house. It quickly became apparent that she, too, was succumbing to the flu. She plunged head first onto the couch and didn't move until we picked her up and took her to bed a few hours later.
The next morning I went off to work, knowing full well that both of my kids would be home from school. Luckily my husband was at home and would take care of my poor little sickies.
When I called home later in the morning I got my son on the phone. He was feeling ok...his sister was being mean to him...and dad still wasn't up. What? Why wasn't he up? It was 11:00! He needed to touch their foreheads with his cheek. He needed to make comforting mom noises. Didn't he understand this? If I was going to be able to spend the day at work without any Mom-guilt he was going to have to start making those noises pretty fast.
I got him on the phone...he was feeling terrible. He told me he was going to struggle out of bed and lie on the couch so the kids would be fooled into thinking they were being parented, even though he was only semi-conscious. Good...I could live with this. This plan was going to have to do.
When I got home mid-afternoon I was shocked to learn that Dad was still not up. He felt so horrible that he just couldn't do it..he was in bed cooking himself with a fever. The kids seemed ok...but the pang of guilt that shot through me was intense. The fact that my kids were so sick and had managed all day by themselves almost made me cry. I quickly rushed over to them and put my cheek on their forehead. I did this a few times to make up for lost time. I made some mom noises and then got to work on getting them some food, drinks, cleaning up the piles of snotty kleenexes, and generally looking after things. I was completely dead on my feet...getting up consistently at 4:30am after a not great sleep because of my bed-mate's coughing or feverish-flailing makes for a fairly exhausted person. But I had a renewed sense of purpose at this moment...I was getting things back under control.
When I put the kids to bed that night I told them "call me if dad can't get up tomorrow and I'll come home." I couldn't have a repeat of today. The guilt could cause permanent damage to my body.
All was well until I climbed into bed beside my daughter and felt how hot she was. I checked the sheets for singe marks because she was so hot I thought the bed must be on fire. She was hallucinating...shivering. Her temperature was 103! Yikes! Out came the tylenol...advil...cold cloths. An hour later she was back to a temperature that could sustain human life. I finally closed my eyes, now with only a few hours left for some sleep before I had to get up and go back to work.
Around 830 the next morning, after I had been a work for a few hours, I got the phone call from my son. He said that dad was still in bed, but that he and his sister were feeling fine. I asked them to take her temperature and text me with the results. The text came in... 103.5. I called back..."get dad up NOW!" He was now well enough to look after her, and throughout the day I got the temperature updates as it slowly went down to normal. Sigh....the world is back on its proper axis.
So, crisis over, I now moved into the next phase of dealing with a sick family: Irritation.
Now they are all just lying around...kleenex piles mounting...tv blaring...surrounded by 500 glasses with 1 inch of juice left in them...coughing. Coughing every 3 seconds. Coughing so loudly that they turn the TV up louder. Coughing so much that I cannot bear to be around them. I scurry in and clear away the glasses and kleenexes and get the hell out before I pick up a pillow and smother them. It's at this point that a vague memory appears in my mind of soothing mom-noises and cheeks on foreheads. I cannot imagine how I did that. These people are so disgusting. How did I touch them? They are seething with germs, they are pale and wan with liquids dripping out of them. How did it come to this?!
So again I ask...why isn't there a word for this phenomenon. A phenomenon that has you willing to do anything to make their suffering go away one minute, and poised over them with the nearest pillow contemplating the worst in the next.
When my son plunged headlong into a flu last week all of those maternal feelings came out. I was feeling his forehead with my cheek, tucking him under blankets on the couch, bringing him juice, making all of those comforting mother sounds that we make. The poor thing had a fever and he was coughing...typical flu. Ick.
The next day I went to work, and my son languished on the couch under my husband's capable watch. He texted me updates as to whether he was feeling way too hot...or way too cold. He survived the day.
My daughter came home that evening from a play at a friends' house. It quickly became apparent that she, too, was succumbing to the flu. She plunged head first onto the couch and didn't move until we picked her up and took her to bed a few hours later.
The next morning I went off to work, knowing full well that both of my kids would be home from school. Luckily my husband was at home and would take care of my poor little sickies.
When I called home later in the morning I got my son on the phone. He was feeling ok...his sister was being mean to him...and dad still wasn't up. What? Why wasn't he up? It was 11:00! He needed to touch their foreheads with his cheek. He needed to make comforting mom noises. Didn't he understand this? If I was going to be able to spend the day at work without any Mom-guilt he was going to have to start making those noises pretty fast.
I got him on the phone...he was feeling terrible. He told me he was going to struggle out of bed and lie on the couch so the kids would be fooled into thinking they were being parented, even though he was only semi-conscious. Good...I could live with this. This plan was going to have to do.
When I got home mid-afternoon I was shocked to learn that Dad was still not up. He felt so horrible that he just couldn't do it..he was in bed cooking himself with a fever. The kids seemed ok...but the pang of guilt that shot through me was intense. The fact that my kids were so sick and had managed all day by themselves almost made me cry. I quickly rushed over to them and put my cheek on their forehead. I did this a few times to make up for lost time. I made some mom noises and then got to work on getting them some food, drinks, cleaning up the piles of snotty kleenexes, and generally looking after things. I was completely dead on my feet...getting up consistently at 4:30am after a not great sleep because of my bed-mate's coughing or feverish-flailing makes for a fairly exhausted person. But I had a renewed sense of purpose at this moment...I was getting things back under control.
When I put the kids to bed that night I told them "call me if dad can't get up tomorrow and I'll come home." I couldn't have a repeat of today. The guilt could cause permanent damage to my body.
All was well until I climbed into bed beside my daughter and felt how hot she was. I checked the sheets for singe marks because she was so hot I thought the bed must be on fire. She was hallucinating...shivering. Her temperature was 103! Yikes! Out came the tylenol...advil...cold cloths. An hour later she was back to a temperature that could sustain human life. I finally closed my eyes, now with only a few hours left for some sleep before I had to get up and go back to work.
Around 830 the next morning, after I had been a work for a few hours, I got the phone call from my son. He said that dad was still in bed, but that he and his sister were feeling fine. I asked them to take her temperature and text me with the results. The text came in... 103.5. I called back..."get dad up NOW!" He was now well enough to look after her, and throughout the day I got the temperature updates as it slowly went down to normal. Sigh....the world is back on its proper axis.
So, crisis over, I now moved into the next phase of dealing with a sick family: Irritation.
Now they are all just lying around...kleenex piles mounting...tv blaring...surrounded by 500 glasses with 1 inch of juice left in them...coughing. Coughing every 3 seconds. Coughing so loudly that they turn the TV up louder. Coughing so much that I cannot bear to be around them. I scurry in and clear away the glasses and kleenexes and get the hell out before I pick up a pillow and smother them. It's at this point that a vague memory appears in my mind of soothing mom-noises and cheeks on foreheads. I cannot imagine how I did that. These people are so disgusting. How did I touch them? They are seething with germs, they are pale and wan with liquids dripping out of them. How did it come to this?!
So again I ask...why isn't there a word for this phenomenon. A phenomenon that has you willing to do anything to make their suffering go away one minute, and poised over them with the nearest pillow contemplating the worst in the next.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Figure Sk-hating
I believe I mentioned in a previous post that my parents love figure skating.
So much so that they bought tickets to Skate Canada that was held in town recently. They bought the event package which meant that they could go to all the events. There was a gala performance on the final night that they weren't interested in seeing, so they offered the tickets to me so that I could take my daughter, who they thought might be interested. She was...so off we went.
I have to admit that going in I was quite jaded. I thought this was going to be a stupid night with a lot of stupid skating with a bunch of stupid skating fans. This is maybe not the kindest way of approaching a free night out...but I'm just being honest here.
My daughter was quite excited and so I was looking forward to spending some time with her but really I probably would have rather gouged my eyes out with a melon-baller than go to a skating show.
We got there early on the advice of my parents who are sometimes parking-phobic. We sat down in our seats and started to have a good look around.
The first thing that I noticed were the two women sitting in the row ahead of us. They had matching outfits. On top were red and white wind jackets. You know the ones...I bet your PE teacher wore one...they make a very special sound when you move around. "Swish swish. I volunteered at the Commonwealth Games in 1994!", they seem to say. These jackets had multiple autographs from skating stars, collected over the years. These jackets were set off by matching red swishy pants. These would be overwhelmingly awesome all by themselves, but in addition they were wearing great big huge red and white felt hats. Again, I really believe that the hat on it's own would have enough impact...but it wasn't enough for these two. They had crocheted ice skates dangling from various spots all over their hats. It was truly a sight to behold. And they certainly looked like they had lived in those seats for the entire week. They had bags and bags of paraphernalia. They had signs...they had special ear phones so that they could hear the "play by play"...they had the programs all organized in a plastic bag. They had this down to a science.
The ladies behind us also had matching outfits. Theirs were less 90's but just as eye catching. Pins for dozens of skating events were all over their sunshine yellow jackets. They also looked well-ensconced in their seats...and looked fairly pro at this type of thing. I was feeling like we stuck out like a sore thumb.
Eventually the lights dimmed and I thought "oh great...here we go" [with sarcasm] We sat as one after another, people came out and skated around...like they seem to do at these things.
To be honest, at the beginning I was sitting with my arms crossed...not going to enjoy this even if you paid me. I was there strictly in a chaperoning capacity...certainly not as a fan. But as the evening dragged on something happened deep within me. I found myself clapping a little more enthusiastically than before. I realized that I was holding my breath just a little bit as they sped up to do their next jump. I leapt to my feet with everyone else as they gave a standing ovation when the performance was done. I was turning into one of them. Somehow they had rubbed off on me. Somehow I felt like I should be wearing a wind suit. I even wondered where you might buy one...and if they would have matching adult and child sizes so that the whole family could have them. Dear God...what had happened to me!
Instead of fighting these sensations, I just let go and gave into them. "Did you see that triple lutz! That was an amazing double salchow! Oh look how pretty that dress is with all the ribbons! Hoorah for that lovely death spiral!"
As we sat in the living room once we were home, and recapped the event for my husband I knew that life could never be the same. I found myself going on and on about how sparkely the dresses were...and how amazing the young boy who was now the Canadian Junior Champion was...and just the sheer length of this conversation proved to me that even the most ardent doubter could somehow be swayed. There is something about figure skating that can not, and will not be denied.
So much so that they bought tickets to Skate Canada that was held in town recently. They bought the event package which meant that they could go to all the events. There was a gala performance on the final night that they weren't interested in seeing, so they offered the tickets to me so that I could take my daughter, who they thought might be interested. She was...so off we went.
I have to admit that going in I was quite jaded. I thought this was going to be a stupid night with a lot of stupid skating with a bunch of stupid skating fans. This is maybe not the kindest way of approaching a free night out...but I'm just being honest here.
My daughter was quite excited and so I was looking forward to spending some time with her but really I probably would have rather gouged my eyes out with a melon-baller than go to a skating show.
We got there early on the advice of my parents who are sometimes parking-phobic. We sat down in our seats and started to have a good look around.
The first thing that I noticed were the two women sitting in the row ahead of us. They had matching outfits. On top were red and white wind jackets. You know the ones...I bet your PE teacher wore one...they make a very special sound when you move around. "Swish swish. I volunteered at the Commonwealth Games in 1994!", they seem to say. These jackets had multiple autographs from skating stars, collected over the years. These jackets were set off by matching red swishy pants. These would be overwhelmingly awesome all by themselves, but in addition they were wearing great big huge red and white felt hats. Again, I really believe that the hat on it's own would have enough impact...but it wasn't enough for these two. They had crocheted ice skates dangling from various spots all over their hats. It was truly a sight to behold. And they certainly looked like they had lived in those seats for the entire week. They had bags and bags of paraphernalia. They had signs...they had special ear phones so that they could hear the "play by play"...they had the programs all organized in a plastic bag. They had this down to a science.
The ladies behind us also had matching outfits. Theirs were less 90's but just as eye catching. Pins for dozens of skating events were all over their sunshine yellow jackets. They also looked well-ensconced in their seats...and looked fairly pro at this type of thing. I was feeling like we stuck out like a sore thumb.
Eventually the lights dimmed and I thought "oh great...here we go" [with sarcasm] We sat as one after another, people came out and skated around...like they seem to do at these things.
To be honest, at the beginning I was sitting with my arms crossed...not going to enjoy this even if you paid me. I was there strictly in a chaperoning capacity...certainly not as a fan. But as the evening dragged on something happened deep within me. I found myself clapping a little more enthusiastically than before. I realized that I was holding my breath just a little bit as they sped up to do their next jump. I leapt to my feet with everyone else as they gave a standing ovation when the performance was done. I was turning into one of them. Somehow they had rubbed off on me. Somehow I felt like I should be wearing a wind suit. I even wondered where you might buy one...and if they would have matching adult and child sizes so that the whole family could have them. Dear God...what had happened to me!
Instead of fighting these sensations, I just let go and gave into them. "Did you see that triple lutz! That was an amazing double salchow! Oh look how pretty that dress is with all the ribbons! Hoorah for that lovely death spiral!"
As we sat in the living room once we were home, and recapped the event for my husband I knew that life could never be the same. I found myself going on and on about how sparkely the dresses were...and how amazing the young boy who was now the Canadian Junior Champion was...and just the sheer length of this conversation proved to me that even the most ardent doubter could somehow be swayed. There is something about figure skating that can not, and will not be denied.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
You can't teach a cold dog new tricks - Part II
Despite the trauma detailed in my last post, I really did have a great trip to the mountain. Everything that happened off the slopes was tons of fun. So this year we planned another ski trip.
This time I figured I would try skiing. Everyone said that it was much faster to learn...they were so right. This doesn't mean that there weren't moments of panic and scenes of complete chaos, despite the fact that I didn't have a snowboard strapped to my feet.
Because we are new to winter sports we rent our equipment. We were helped by the friendly staff at the rental place and I told her what shoe size I wore and out came my ski boots to try on.
I put them on and noticed that they felt uncomfortable. She told me to stand up in them and squat forward in a skiing position. My feet slid forward and they felt ok. So on they went and we headed outside with all of our equipment.
We had decided that instead of signing me up for a lesson, my husband who is a competent skier would just give me some tips...that mostly you just needed repetition to learn how to ski. He told me how to clip the skis into the bindings and told me the basics of what I should try to do.
At this point I could feel the circulation in my feet was diminishing. A slight tingling in my toes was a little bit alarming but everyone looked so ridiculous walking in ski boots I thought everyone must be feeling this way. I mentioned that my feet were starting to hurt and everyone told me that ski boots were uncomfortable...but that it shouldn't actually hurt. I took a moment to assess whether what I was feeling was discomfort or pain. I thought it pretty much felt like pain...but I really wanted to get to the skiing part of things so I thought I would just suck it up and continue.
The first few minutes of skiing were uneventful. I practiced the snow plow. I was feeling pretty steady. Then for no apparent reason I fell down. No big deal. It was a way nicer fall than the snowboard falls had been. People were giving me helpful hints as to how I could get back up but it wasn't really working. My heart sank as I thought about another day spent like a turtle on my back...unable to right myself without a lot of assistance from someone else. Out of frustration I just used my poles to un-clip my feet and got up. I could live with this. At least I could do this independently.
I made my way to the ski lift and got in line. Everyone said that getting on and off the ski lift was so much easier on skis than on a snowboard. Thank god for that because I wasn't sure I could take anymore humiliation in that department. I felt pretty good as I saw my husband and daughter board their chair and head up the mountain. Getting on the chair was a snap...I was feeling awesome...I was going to be an amazing skier...I could just feel it.
I enjoyed the assent up the hill, now trusting that the whole contraption wasn't going to collapse. I visualized my dismount...thinking 'how hard could this be...you stand up and glide down off the landing platform.' The fact that I had ski poles comforted me in that I could take my time and use them to propel myself forward if I stalled on the platform.
It was my turn...I stood up. I could not believe it when I found myself in a heap at the bottom of the off-ramp. What the hell?? Luckily there were several empty chairs behind me so no one was going to run over me. Once again, I used my poles to undo my bindings and rolled out of the way.
My husband and daughter waited patiently for me as I then had to put my skis back on...I could see a look of disgust pass briefly over their faces. They were trying to be supportive though and soon the three of us were on our way down the easiest green run.
It actually went very well. I never fell...I felt confident that I wasn't going to bowl anyone else over. Basically I could maintain some semblance of control as we skied down.
At one point I saw my family disappear ahead of me. They seemed to have dropped down a worm hole. As I got closer to where they vanished I realized that they had just skied down a very steep part of the run. I stopped and had a small panic attack as I stared down this slope. There was no way in god's green earth I would make it down alive. Not to mention that it was heavily populated at the bottom. I pictured myself in a gigantic Shaggy and Scooby-doo snowball with skis and poles sticking out of it barrelling down the mountain.
Although I enjoy making people laugh, I decided this wasn't how I wanted to do that. I unclipped and loped down the hill as my legs felt like they were being sawed off at the shins. These boots were just ridiculous.
After seeing how I was walking in them, my husband advised me that I looked like I was in pain. YES! I was, indeed, in pain.
I left my family to the slopes and headed back into the rental place. As soon as I got the right boots on my whole day turned around. THIS is why people can ski all day long...they can maintain circulation to their feet! Aha! It all made way more sense.
I met up with the family and my lesson continued. As we neared the bunny hill I put my skis back on. After a few pointers my coach/husband decided it was time to head down.
There were people everywhere. All of a sudden the hill looked very steep. I had a small tantrum there in front of the four year olds who seemed to be managing all of this much better than I was. My husband pointed out that this was, after all, a bunny hill. If I couldn't handle this then my hopes of making the 2014 Winter Olympics seemed very dim indeed.
Very patiently, he waited while I stopped whining and stomping my feet and actually focused on the task at hand. In the largest snow plow ever achieved, I slowly skidded down the hill until I reached a bit of a flat part. My daughter had zoomed ahead so I was left alone for a bit. I watched my family as they went down the hill and that was the motivation I needed...I wanted to catch up to them.
Once I was left on my own I was able to figure out this sport without the humiliation and self-consciousness that learning in front of other people always provides me. I actually was doing pretty good. I felt in control...that the small children in my midst would perhaps survive the day without the Indiana Jones experience of running for your life as a huge (snow covered) ball barrels towards you threatening to crush your bones to dust.
After a successful run down the bunny hill we ran into some friends at the bottom. As I stood still...chatting to my friend...I fell down. Just like that! One minute I was up...the next I wasn't up anymore. Another friend who was in the chair lift over head saw us and got quite a kick out of the fact that I didn't get back up. I continued the conversation lying spread eagle in the snow. I explained that I figured I would only fall down again if I stood up, so I felt it was somehow less embarrassing to just lie there...like I'd planned it that way all along. Just to cover my tracks I think I will try to lie down more often while people are talking to me. It was actually quite comfy down there. Unfortunately for my daughter, while I was still lying like I was about to make a snow-angel whilst carrying on a conversation, we ran into one of her friends from school. I'm sure she wasn't too impressed that we had more witnesses...I'm sure her friend wasn't either.
Eventually I did get up and we all got back in line for the chair lift.
Again, I enjoyed my ride up the hill. The thought of getting off the lift hadn't even entered my head. The first time was just a fluke...everyone says how easy it is to dismount in skis. As I stood up I really believed 100% that I was just going to ski off into the distance like everyone else.
My daughter was standing with her friend at the top by the time it was my turn to get off. They were going to be so impressed by me...oh ya...this would be the sexiest dismount ever.
As I fell, my eyes locked onto my daughter's friend's...the look on his face was one I had never seen before. It was like he had caught me being spoon fed as I sat in a great big high chair with a great big bib on. I am an adult...adults don't fall down on the top of the easiest chair on the mountain. Adults pick up the little kids that fall...at the very least, adults know how to stand up with skis on. Well...not this adult. Now I was mad. What was wrong with me! It is a 2 foot little ramp. It's not like I'm trying to ski down K2 or something.
At this point, it was decided that everyone except me was going to go down the harder baby run...I was happy to be going in the opposite direction. I couldn't stand to see that look on any more faces...that look of pity and disgust.
I am happy to report that I nailed my run...I didn't fall...I figured out how to do nice easy turns...I didn't really need to snow plow ever...I just skied. It was great. So great, in fact, that I skied right to the lift and headed up to do it all again.
I did some deep breathing...I decided that I had simply psyched myself out about getting off. I told myself "Self...it is nothing but a tiny little ramp. It isn't better than you...you are better than IT! This ramp has nothing on you. This ramp is what is standing between you and greatness...you shall overcome!"
Thank god it was a different person running the chair at the top...that made me feel better too. He assumed that I was just another skier...not the complete lunatic who can't get off the green chair.
I fell again. This really wasn't funny anymore. I was PISSED! He asked if I was ok. "YES!" I snapped at him as I jabbed at my stupid bindings with my stupid poles like a stupid idiot. I was so violently having a go at them that I'm sure I looked a little like Norman Bates in Psycho, plunging his knife into an innocent victim. At this point I felt like I was frustrated enough to give ol' Norman a run for his money.
I stood up and said, "why the hell can't I get off this chair??!!" Instead of leaving me to my misery, the lift operator had lots of good suggestions. I told him I would see him in 10 minutes and I fled down the hill, determined that I would figure this out before I turned in for the day.
Up I went again. I went over all of the tips he'd given me. Could I possibly fall again?
I did.
I hate skiing.
I don't really...but this is now becoming a bit of an Achilles heel. This ski weekend was 3 weeks ago and I still find myself going over and over this in my head. I even contemplated waiting at the top of the hill until the lifts close so I could just climb on the platform and try until I got it. But I didn't do that...I just went back to the condo...defeated
So all in all...I think I like skiing. But if I can't get off the chair what am I to do?
This time I figured I would try skiing. Everyone said that it was much faster to learn...they were so right. This doesn't mean that there weren't moments of panic and scenes of complete chaos, despite the fact that I didn't have a snowboard strapped to my feet.
Because we are new to winter sports we rent our equipment. We were helped by the friendly staff at the rental place and I told her what shoe size I wore and out came my ski boots to try on.
I put them on and noticed that they felt uncomfortable. She told me to stand up in them and squat forward in a skiing position. My feet slid forward and they felt ok. So on they went and we headed outside with all of our equipment.
We had decided that instead of signing me up for a lesson, my husband who is a competent skier would just give me some tips...that mostly you just needed repetition to learn how to ski. He told me how to clip the skis into the bindings and told me the basics of what I should try to do.
At this point I could feel the circulation in my feet was diminishing. A slight tingling in my toes was a little bit alarming but everyone looked so ridiculous walking in ski boots I thought everyone must be feeling this way. I mentioned that my feet were starting to hurt and everyone told me that ski boots were uncomfortable...but that it shouldn't actually hurt. I took a moment to assess whether what I was feeling was discomfort or pain. I thought it pretty much felt like pain...but I really wanted to get to the skiing part of things so I thought I would just suck it up and continue.
The first few minutes of skiing were uneventful. I practiced the snow plow. I was feeling pretty steady. Then for no apparent reason I fell down. No big deal. It was a way nicer fall than the snowboard falls had been. People were giving me helpful hints as to how I could get back up but it wasn't really working. My heart sank as I thought about another day spent like a turtle on my back...unable to right myself without a lot of assistance from someone else. Out of frustration I just used my poles to un-clip my feet and got up. I could live with this. At least I could do this independently.
I made my way to the ski lift and got in line. Everyone said that getting on and off the ski lift was so much easier on skis than on a snowboard. Thank god for that because I wasn't sure I could take anymore humiliation in that department. I felt pretty good as I saw my husband and daughter board their chair and head up the mountain. Getting on the chair was a snap...I was feeling awesome...I was going to be an amazing skier...I could just feel it.
I enjoyed the assent up the hill, now trusting that the whole contraption wasn't going to collapse. I visualized my dismount...thinking 'how hard could this be...you stand up and glide down off the landing platform.' The fact that I had ski poles comforted me in that I could take my time and use them to propel myself forward if I stalled on the platform.
It was my turn...I stood up. I could not believe it when I found myself in a heap at the bottom of the off-ramp. What the hell?? Luckily there were several empty chairs behind me so no one was going to run over me. Once again, I used my poles to undo my bindings and rolled out of the way.
My husband and daughter waited patiently for me as I then had to put my skis back on...I could see a look of disgust pass briefly over their faces. They were trying to be supportive though and soon the three of us were on our way down the easiest green run.
It actually went very well. I never fell...I felt confident that I wasn't going to bowl anyone else over. Basically I could maintain some semblance of control as we skied down.
At one point I saw my family disappear ahead of me. They seemed to have dropped down a worm hole. As I got closer to where they vanished I realized that they had just skied down a very steep part of the run. I stopped and had a small panic attack as I stared down this slope. There was no way in god's green earth I would make it down alive. Not to mention that it was heavily populated at the bottom. I pictured myself in a gigantic Shaggy and Scooby-doo snowball with skis and poles sticking out of it barrelling down the mountain.
Although I enjoy making people laugh, I decided this wasn't how I wanted to do that. I unclipped and loped down the hill as my legs felt like they were being sawed off at the shins. These boots were just ridiculous.
After seeing how I was walking in them, my husband advised me that I looked like I was in pain. YES! I was, indeed, in pain.
I left my family to the slopes and headed back into the rental place. As soon as I got the right boots on my whole day turned around. THIS is why people can ski all day long...they can maintain circulation to their feet! Aha! It all made way more sense.
I met up with the family and my lesson continued. As we neared the bunny hill I put my skis back on. After a few pointers my coach/husband decided it was time to head down.
There were people everywhere. All of a sudden the hill looked very steep. I had a small tantrum there in front of the four year olds who seemed to be managing all of this much better than I was. My husband pointed out that this was, after all, a bunny hill. If I couldn't handle this then my hopes of making the 2014 Winter Olympics seemed very dim indeed.
Very patiently, he waited while I stopped whining and stomping my feet and actually focused on the task at hand. In the largest snow plow ever achieved, I slowly skidded down the hill until I reached a bit of a flat part. My daughter had zoomed ahead so I was left alone for a bit. I watched my family as they went down the hill and that was the motivation I needed...I wanted to catch up to them.
Once I was left on my own I was able to figure out this sport without the humiliation and self-consciousness that learning in front of other people always provides me. I actually was doing pretty good. I felt in control...that the small children in my midst would perhaps survive the day without the Indiana Jones experience of running for your life as a huge (snow covered) ball barrels towards you threatening to crush your bones to dust.
After a successful run down the bunny hill we ran into some friends at the bottom. As I stood still...chatting to my friend...I fell down. Just like that! One minute I was up...the next I wasn't up anymore. Another friend who was in the chair lift over head saw us and got quite a kick out of the fact that I didn't get back up. I continued the conversation lying spread eagle in the snow. I explained that I figured I would only fall down again if I stood up, so I felt it was somehow less embarrassing to just lie there...like I'd planned it that way all along. Just to cover my tracks I think I will try to lie down more often while people are talking to me. It was actually quite comfy down there. Unfortunately for my daughter, while I was still lying like I was about to make a snow-angel whilst carrying on a conversation, we ran into one of her friends from school. I'm sure she wasn't too impressed that we had more witnesses...I'm sure her friend wasn't either.
Eventually I did get up and we all got back in line for the chair lift.
Again, I enjoyed my ride up the hill. The thought of getting off the lift hadn't even entered my head. The first time was just a fluke...everyone says how easy it is to dismount in skis. As I stood up I really believed 100% that I was just going to ski off into the distance like everyone else.
My daughter was standing with her friend at the top by the time it was my turn to get off. They were going to be so impressed by me...oh ya...this would be the sexiest dismount ever.
As I fell, my eyes locked onto my daughter's friend's...the look on his face was one I had never seen before. It was like he had caught me being spoon fed as I sat in a great big high chair with a great big bib on. I am an adult...adults don't fall down on the top of the easiest chair on the mountain. Adults pick up the little kids that fall...at the very least, adults know how to stand up with skis on. Well...not this adult. Now I was mad. What was wrong with me! It is a 2 foot little ramp. It's not like I'm trying to ski down K2 or something.
At this point, it was decided that everyone except me was going to go down the harder baby run...I was happy to be going in the opposite direction. I couldn't stand to see that look on any more faces...that look of pity and disgust.
I am happy to report that I nailed my run...I didn't fall...I figured out how to do nice easy turns...I didn't really need to snow plow ever...I just skied. It was great. So great, in fact, that I skied right to the lift and headed up to do it all again.
I did some deep breathing...I decided that I had simply psyched myself out about getting off. I told myself "Self...it is nothing but a tiny little ramp. It isn't better than you...you are better than IT! This ramp has nothing on you. This ramp is what is standing between you and greatness...you shall overcome!"
Thank god it was a different person running the chair at the top...that made me feel better too. He assumed that I was just another skier...not the complete lunatic who can't get off the green chair.
I fell again. This really wasn't funny anymore. I was PISSED! He asked if I was ok. "YES!" I snapped at him as I jabbed at my stupid bindings with my stupid poles like a stupid idiot. I was so violently having a go at them that I'm sure I looked a little like Norman Bates in Psycho, plunging his knife into an innocent victim. At this point I felt like I was frustrated enough to give ol' Norman a run for his money.
I stood up and said, "why the hell can't I get off this chair??!!" Instead of leaving me to my misery, the lift operator had lots of good suggestions. I told him I would see him in 10 minutes and I fled down the hill, determined that I would figure this out before I turned in for the day.
Up I went again. I went over all of the tips he'd given me. Could I possibly fall again?
I did.
I hate skiing.
I don't really...but this is now becoming a bit of an Achilles heel. This ski weekend was 3 weeks ago and I still find myself going over and over this in my head. I even contemplated waiting at the top of the hill until the lifts close so I could just climb on the platform and try until I got it. But I didn't do that...I just went back to the condo...defeated
So all in all...I think I like skiing. But if I can't get off the chair what am I to do?
Monday, January 17, 2011
You can't teach a cold dog new tricks - Part I
My parents aren't sporty people. Growing up, our equivalent of "the big game" was a weekend of Skate Canada. Our calendar was cleared if it was the World Figure Skating Championships...and the Winter Olympics were mostly spent watching...you guessed it...skating.
So it isn't really surprising that they never took me skiing. This has never been an issue. I'm sure there are people the world over who don't ski. However, my friends are not these people. They all ski. Their kids all ski. In fact, every winter there is a huge excursion to Mt. Washington where they rent a chalet and 50 of them squish in there for the weekend and they ski...all weekend.
I have never joined them, which is unusual for me because I don't like missing a party. However, there are several things that have never appealed to me about skiing:
I should have listened to the advice.
The first morning we were there we got our equipment and headed out to the hill. Our instructor had us strap one foot to the board and start to get a feel for things. This went ok. A couple of us landed on our butts...but it was easy enough to pop back up and try again. Then we strapped in our second foot. This is where things started to go badly. I watched as my husband and kids set off down the hill...looking shaky but doing it, none the less. I remained on my bum. I seemed unable to stand up. How did everyone else get on their feet? The instructor came and helped me up. Once standing, I did ok. I was making my way down the hill...following my family who were now distant specks. I fell again. Again I was powerless to move. Again I was helped up by my instructor.
Finally we were reunited with my family and we sat in the snow to receive our next instruction. To be honest...it was all an auditory blur...because I watched in awe as all three members of my family stood up; ready to tackle the next challenge. I remained seated.
After being helped up by our instructor once again, I struggled along as we made our way down the bunny hill. Once we reached the bottom I felt pride...I had done it! I had successfully descended the bunny hill. But this feeling soon waned as the instructor informed us that we would then be getting on the chairlift and going even FURTHER up the mountain. Really? Really! I mean...really? We had JUST made it down! We have to go back up?!
The whole chair-lift thing seems pretty dodgy to me. They don't seem very sturdy. They look like something that carnies have slapped together over night...and yet you sit on them for 10 minutes while you hang 50 feet in the air. I don't know...it doesn't seem right to me.
I didn't let on that I was anything less than excited by this new activity. We stood in line as he explained how we would be getting on and off the lift. It involved taking one foot out of the bindings and using it to propel you along...sort of like a skateboard. Unlike a skateboard, the foot that remains strapped to the board is at a terrible angle for forward momentum. We all shuffled along until it was our turn to board the 'death-ride.' The instructor went on the first chair alone...probably so he could point and laugh as we tried to disembark at the top. Next was my husband and daughter. They seemed to do ok. My son and I were up next. My palms were sweating and all I could hear was white noise in my head. We shuffled up to the line...and then WHOMP the chair hit the backs of our legs and we were on. I couldn't let go of my son. This all seemed so crazy...it felt like if I let go he would fall out. "Mom! I'm fine! Let go! We're not going to fall!" Why was it that my 10 year old was the voice of reason as I tried to huddle in the fetal position beside him.
As we slowly made our way up the mountain I gradually relaxed. I was fine for the middle stretch. But as we passed the halfway point I started to panic about how we were supposed to get off this stupid contraption. I strained to see up ahead so that perhaps I could just imitate the people before us. Mountains are slopey...I couldn't see anyone further ahead than my husband and daughter who presumably wouldn't be experts at this. They proved me wrong. Off they went and disappeared down the little decline just on the other side of the exit point. We were next. We whipped up the safety bar as my pulse increased...I could feel the ground getting closer to my snowboard. I could see our instructor and he was saying encouraging things, no doubt. I could only hear the white noise...I was really concentrating hard. I calmed my breathing and visualized a perfect dismount. People would clap and cheer and my son and I would pump our arms in triumph. This was it...our big moment. As soon as we were over the platform we both stood up...and jumped. We literally took a flying leap forward and landed in a heap at the bottom of the decline. We both felt that being bumped by the chair lift was WAY worse than taking a face first dive off of the platform into the snow in front of dozens of people.
We didn't pump our arms in triumph.
We were now on the top (okay okay...it wasn't the top...but it FELT like the top) of a mountain and I was well and truly done. Ready to stop. Ready to go back to the condo and have a stiff drink. Ready to be warm. Ready to not have a stupid board strapped to my feet. Ready to stop looking like a moron. There was one itty bitty problem. I had to get back down this stupid hill.
My family carved their way happily down the slopes...when they fell they got up and continued on. It looked like tons of fun. I, on the other hand, still required my instructor to heave my sorry ass off the ground every time I fell. I could sense the frustration of my family as they waited for me for the umpteenth time to join them so we could continue on. Sorry guys...Mom sucks.
Eventually I did make it down to the bottom again. I thought for sure we must be finished now. It felt like we'd been out there for days. It felt like parts of my body were bruised to the point of degrading into a pulpy mess.
Let me take a moment to tell you a little bit about falling on a snow board. There is zero notice. One minute you are upright...the next you are face first in the snow with your legs at 45 degree angles to your body. After a few hours of this...I had had enough.
However, much to my chagrin, he made us go up the ski lift again. And guess what? I fell as I got off again. However, I now had it down to a three step dismount...stand up...fall down...roll out of the way making a beautiful arc as the snow board sails through the air above my head. Back down the mountain I came. Hoisted up...falling down...hoisted up...falling down. While I was up I really wasn't too bad...I was starting to get the feel of things. But really...I think I spent just as much time lying supine in the snow waiting to be re-hoisted
Eventually, by the mercy of the God in the heavens, the lesson was finally over. However...back to one of my original complaints about ski hills....they are on an angle. With my jello legs trembling from the epic workout, I then had to trudge back up the hill to our condo.
After a nice relaxing lunch, the kids were raring to get back to it.
I poured a glass of wine and spent the rest of the trip on the couch where I didn't need the instructor to help me get up.
So it isn't really surprising that they never took me skiing. This has never been an issue. I'm sure there are people the world over who don't ski. However, my friends are not these people. They all ski. Their kids all ski. In fact, every winter there is a huge excursion to Mt. Washington where they rent a chalet and 50 of them squish in there for the weekend and they ski...all weekend.
I have never joined them, which is unusual for me because I don't like missing a party. However, there are several things that have never appealed to me about skiing:
- This activity generally takes place in the snow
- Snow is very cold
- It is expensive
- People are always breaking bones when they ski
- Everything is at an angle
I should have listened to the advice.
The first morning we were there we got our equipment and headed out to the hill. Our instructor had us strap one foot to the board and start to get a feel for things. This went ok. A couple of us landed on our butts...but it was easy enough to pop back up and try again. Then we strapped in our second foot. This is where things started to go badly. I watched as my husband and kids set off down the hill...looking shaky but doing it, none the less. I remained on my bum. I seemed unable to stand up. How did everyone else get on their feet? The instructor came and helped me up. Once standing, I did ok. I was making my way down the hill...following my family who were now distant specks. I fell again. Again I was powerless to move. Again I was helped up by my instructor.
Finally we were reunited with my family and we sat in the snow to receive our next instruction. To be honest...it was all an auditory blur...because I watched in awe as all three members of my family stood up; ready to tackle the next challenge. I remained seated.
After being helped up by our instructor once again, I struggled along as we made our way down the bunny hill. Once we reached the bottom I felt pride...I had done it! I had successfully descended the bunny hill. But this feeling soon waned as the instructor informed us that we would then be getting on the chairlift and going even FURTHER up the mountain. Really? Really! I mean...really? We had JUST made it down! We have to go back up?!
The whole chair-lift thing seems pretty dodgy to me. They don't seem very sturdy. They look like something that carnies have slapped together over night...and yet you sit on them for 10 minutes while you hang 50 feet in the air. I don't know...it doesn't seem right to me.
I didn't let on that I was anything less than excited by this new activity. We stood in line as he explained how we would be getting on and off the lift. It involved taking one foot out of the bindings and using it to propel you along...sort of like a skateboard. Unlike a skateboard, the foot that remains strapped to the board is at a terrible angle for forward momentum. We all shuffled along until it was our turn to board the 'death-ride.' The instructor went on the first chair alone...probably so he could point and laugh as we tried to disembark at the top. Next was my husband and daughter. They seemed to do ok. My son and I were up next. My palms were sweating and all I could hear was white noise in my head. We shuffled up to the line...and then WHOMP the chair hit the backs of our legs and we were on. I couldn't let go of my son. This all seemed so crazy...it felt like if I let go he would fall out. "Mom! I'm fine! Let go! We're not going to fall!" Why was it that my 10 year old was the voice of reason as I tried to huddle in the fetal position beside him.
As we slowly made our way up the mountain I gradually relaxed. I was fine for the middle stretch. But as we passed the halfway point I started to panic about how we were supposed to get off this stupid contraption. I strained to see up ahead so that perhaps I could just imitate the people before us. Mountains are slopey...I couldn't see anyone further ahead than my husband and daughter who presumably wouldn't be experts at this. They proved me wrong. Off they went and disappeared down the little decline just on the other side of the exit point. We were next. We whipped up the safety bar as my pulse increased...I could feel the ground getting closer to my snowboard. I could see our instructor and he was saying encouraging things, no doubt. I could only hear the white noise...I was really concentrating hard. I calmed my breathing and visualized a perfect dismount. People would clap and cheer and my son and I would pump our arms in triumph. This was it...our big moment. As soon as we were over the platform we both stood up...and jumped. We literally took a flying leap forward and landed in a heap at the bottom of the decline. We both felt that being bumped by the chair lift was WAY worse than taking a face first dive off of the platform into the snow in front of dozens of people.
We didn't pump our arms in triumph.
We were now on the top (okay okay...it wasn't the top...but it FELT like the top) of a mountain and I was well and truly done. Ready to stop. Ready to go back to the condo and have a stiff drink. Ready to be warm. Ready to not have a stupid board strapped to my feet. Ready to stop looking like a moron. There was one itty bitty problem. I had to get back down this stupid hill.
My family carved their way happily down the slopes...when they fell they got up and continued on. It looked like tons of fun. I, on the other hand, still required my instructor to heave my sorry ass off the ground every time I fell. I could sense the frustration of my family as they waited for me for the umpteenth time to join them so we could continue on. Sorry guys...Mom sucks.
Eventually I did make it down to the bottom again. I thought for sure we must be finished now. It felt like we'd been out there for days. It felt like parts of my body were bruised to the point of degrading into a pulpy mess.
Let me take a moment to tell you a little bit about falling on a snow board. There is zero notice. One minute you are upright...the next you are face first in the snow with your legs at 45 degree angles to your body. After a few hours of this...I had had enough.
However, much to my chagrin, he made us go up the ski lift again. And guess what? I fell as I got off again. However, I now had it down to a three step dismount...stand up...fall down...roll out of the way making a beautiful arc as the snow board sails through the air above my head. Back down the mountain I came. Hoisted up...falling down...hoisted up...falling down. While I was up I really wasn't too bad...I was starting to get the feel of things. But really...I think I spent just as much time lying supine in the snow waiting to be re-hoisted
Eventually, by the mercy of the God in the heavens, the lesson was finally over. However...back to one of my original complaints about ski hills....they are on an angle. With my jello legs trembling from the epic workout, I then had to trudge back up the hill to our condo.
After a nice relaxing lunch, the kids were raring to get back to it.
I poured a glass of wine and spent the rest of the trip on the couch where I didn't need the instructor to help me get up.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
My Laundry Womb
Well...Christmas is officially over at our house. It took 3 weeks but we did it...we've celebrated it until we could celebrate it no more. Decorations are down...pine needles are gone...leftovers persist.
After having spent the past few weeks on holidays with the kids home, entertaining many people, and having house guests, our laundry room was understandably feeling the pressure. There were piles of dirty clothes, sheets, and table cloths strewn about this tiny room. Yesterday we decided to roll our sleeves up and begin to tackle Laundry Mountain.
Let me start off by saying that I actually quite like this chore. It makes me feel like I'm taking good care of my family without having to actually be with them. I can lock myself into that small, windowless space, and launder and fold the clothes of the family that only resides inside my imagination. The family that promptly takes their neatly arranged laundry baskets up into their room, and puts them away in their closets that look like store displays; everything facing the same way...grouped by categories. Underwear and socks all in little rows ready to be taken out the next day and not only be worn, but be appreciated by my family. This family in my imagination smiles inwardly each morning, taking a moment to give thanks for such soft, wonderful smelling laundry that their generous and talented mother provides them with love.
The reality is that once the clothes leave my little laundry-womb where everything is clean and warm and safe, it is plunged into a dangerous arena where nothing is as it should be...where it is every shirt for itself.
I usually put the laundry baskets at the bottom of the stairs for the kids to take with them the next time they go up to their rooms. "There's laundry ready to go up", I bellow helpfully. "Kay" is usually the reply I hear.
Perhaps I am not up on the current lingo. Perhaps "kay" means "I'm never going to do this...I'm going to just pretend it's not there...in fact I'm going to step over it several times a day until it magically disappears." That is, in fact, what they mean by "kay."
The poor little shirts and socks in there are pawed through...tossed back in if they don't match the pants of the day...the cat sleeps on them...other things are piled on top of them. I am sure they are now dreaming of the life they used to have inside the laundry room where they were treated with love and respect.
I have become used to this routine...I have tried to get over it and not place so much symbolism on clean clothes. However, today I reached my limit. My kids are now of an age that some of their clothes require ironing. Not a lot...but some. There are usually 3 or 4 things each week that if I don't iron them, they make my children look like we've made them sleep their clothes in the bathtub and then just dried them off and sent them to school.
Today as I was ironing my son's black dress shirt...after having sorted this black dress shirt, washed this black dress shirt, and then dried this black dress shirt...I realized that he hasn't worn this black dress shirt...not in a good long while. And then I recall that I also did this black dress shirt last week. Then it hits me. He is SO Lazy that it is easier for him to just put this shirt back into the laundry basket upstairs, than to pull out a hanger and place it nicely in his closet. I hit the roof. I am flashing back to how many times I have touched this shirt as I moved it along through the laundry process...to my ironing this stupid shirt TWICE now for no reason. I am tempted to shred this shirt and feed it to him piece by piece. Or make him go to school wearing only this shirt, since it's looking so sharp and clean. Visions of him being forced to wear this very shirt to his graduation ceremony then fill my head....his hairy, adult arms sticking way out of this tiny black shirt...his adult-sized midriff showing below where his well ironed shirt ends.
Instead I decide to charge a fee for any articles of clothes that I have had to launder unnecessarily. This will also apply to my daughter who is just as guilty of this particular activity. Hers is not often the result of laziness...but of her need to wear 16 different outfits a day. These outfits go into the laundry, even if they've only been worn for a fraction of a minute, then tossed aside. So I need to log the outfit they are wearing each morning because these are the clothes I am willing to wash at no charge...everything else they will pay for.
In order to carry this out effectively, I will need some additional equipment. Some way to capture an image of them, catalogue it, and then cross-reference that with what I find in their laundry hamper. Perhaps some sort of bar-coding and a scanner?
Now I'm feeling like this is all getting a little complicated. Maybe to break my kids' bad laundry habits I should go back to using some good, old fashioned shouting.
After having spent the past few weeks on holidays with the kids home, entertaining many people, and having house guests, our laundry room was understandably feeling the pressure. There were piles of dirty clothes, sheets, and table cloths strewn about this tiny room. Yesterday we decided to roll our sleeves up and begin to tackle Laundry Mountain.
Let me start off by saying that I actually quite like this chore. It makes me feel like I'm taking good care of my family without having to actually be with them. I can lock myself into that small, windowless space, and launder and fold the clothes of the family that only resides inside my imagination. The family that promptly takes their neatly arranged laundry baskets up into their room, and puts them away in their closets that look like store displays; everything facing the same way...grouped by categories. Underwear and socks all in little rows ready to be taken out the next day and not only be worn, but be appreciated by my family. This family in my imagination smiles inwardly each morning, taking a moment to give thanks for such soft, wonderful smelling laundry that their generous and talented mother provides them with love.
The reality is that once the clothes leave my little laundry-womb where everything is clean and warm and safe, it is plunged into a dangerous arena where nothing is as it should be...where it is every shirt for itself.
I usually put the laundry baskets at the bottom of the stairs for the kids to take with them the next time they go up to their rooms. "There's laundry ready to go up", I bellow helpfully. "Kay" is usually the reply I hear.
Perhaps I am not up on the current lingo. Perhaps "kay" means "I'm never going to do this...I'm going to just pretend it's not there...in fact I'm going to step over it several times a day until it magically disappears." That is, in fact, what they mean by "kay."
The poor little shirts and socks in there are pawed through...tossed back in if they don't match the pants of the day...the cat sleeps on them...other things are piled on top of them. I am sure they are now dreaming of the life they used to have inside the laundry room where they were treated with love and respect.
I have become used to this routine...I have tried to get over it and not place so much symbolism on clean clothes. However, today I reached my limit. My kids are now of an age that some of their clothes require ironing. Not a lot...but some. There are usually 3 or 4 things each week that if I don't iron them, they make my children look like we've made them sleep their clothes in the bathtub and then just dried them off and sent them to school.
Today as I was ironing my son's black dress shirt...after having sorted this black dress shirt, washed this black dress shirt, and then dried this black dress shirt...I realized that he hasn't worn this black dress shirt...not in a good long while. And then I recall that I also did this black dress shirt last week. Then it hits me. He is SO Lazy that it is easier for him to just put this shirt back into the laundry basket upstairs, than to pull out a hanger and place it nicely in his closet. I hit the roof. I am flashing back to how many times I have touched this shirt as I moved it along through the laundry process...to my ironing this stupid shirt TWICE now for no reason. I am tempted to shred this shirt and feed it to him piece by piece. Or make him go to school wearing only this shirt, since it's looking so sharp and clean. Visions of him being forced to wear this very shirt to his graduation ceremony then fill my head....his hairy, adult arms sticking way out of this tiny black shirt...his adult-sized midriff showing below where his well ironed shirt ends.
Instead I decide to charge a fee for any articles of clothes that I have had to launder unnecessarily. This will also apply to my daughter who is just as guilty of this particular activity. Hers is not often the result of laziness...but of her need to wear 16 different outfits a day. These outfits go into the laundry, even if they've only been worn for a fraction of a minute, then tossed aside. So I need to log the outfit they are wearing each morning because these are the clothes I am willing to wash at no charge...everything else they will pay for.
In order to carry this out effectively, I will need some additional equipment. Some way to capture an image of them, catalogue it, and then cross-reference that with what I find in their laundry hamper. Perhaps some sort of bar-coding and a scanner?
Now I'm feeling like this is all getting a little complicated. Maybe to break my kids' bad laundry habits I should go back to using some good, old fashioned shouting.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Day 1
Well here it is!!! The first day of a whole new year!!! The first day of my journey toward gluttony and bad parenting!!! I am giddy with excitement!!! LOL LMAO Lungs - you've been warned. Waistline - you've been warned. Kids, liver and brain - you've been warned!!!
You also may have noticed that it's the weekend!!! Two days of over-punctuation??!!! And predictable, over used outbursts!!! OMG!!!
The day began perfectly to help me to start how I mean to go on! It started with a huge brunch that my parents treated us to...ringing in the new year with carbs and obscene amounts of fat!!! We sat together around the table as maple syrup and grease ran down our chins...reminiscing about the past year! The only time we came close to balancing off our overindulgence was when we sprinted back to the tables that held the feast to pile our plate high again with foods you only eat when a special occaision gives you the ok to do so. I enjoyed watching my son, face shiny from his nose to his chin, telling me how good the eggs benedict was. Or my daughter who looked like she was wearing reverse black face after enjoying several pieces of chocolate mousse cake!!! LOL When everyone's buttons had popped, and the ensuing groans of contentment and gastric complaints were heard around the table, we headed for home...our arms straining to achieve the thank you hugs that were now made more challenging by our distended bellies.
Once home, I started right in on another one of my resolutions. Because my kids thought it was a great idea to stay up until midnight last night, they were understandably rangy today. OMG!! This provided many opportunities to work on my shouting. I am sure they meant it when they told me "okay...I'm on it" after the third time I asked them to move their shoes and jackets from the hall where they dropped them as they walked through the door. Their bleary-eyed faces seemed to convey their honest intention to put their belongings away where they belonged. The same applies to their granola bar wrappers, wet towels from their morning showers, markers and paper, empty juice glasses, blankets, pillows, dolls, doll clothes, doll carriage, doll bottles, yoyo, deck of cards, another granola bar wrapper and the hamster. However well intentioned they were...they did not follow through, probably due to lack of sleep and too many cake-enduced endorphins. Every time I turned around they were in front of one screen or another...eyes glazed...hand clutching their bellies...far away look in their eyes.
I did lots of shouting today!!! It felt good!!! It felt productive...like I was on a roll after getting such a jump on the day's eating regime. I tried "frustrated" shouting. Then went for a "oh-you-kids-will-be-the-death-of-me" style of shouting. The eye-rolling "teenager" shouting. One highlight for me was my "you don't appreciate everything your dad and I do for you" shouting. That one is my favorite.
Clearly I am out of shape though...I could only keep it up for a few hours!!! Eventually I reverted back to my old, unhealthy routine of quietly muttering under my breath as I cleared their things away myself. And I felt myself having unhelpful thoughts...thoughts like "they're exhausted...they need some down time" Such thoughts are counter productive to my new lifestyle and therefore I tried very hard to push them out of my head. This just goes to show how diligent you have to be in order to break old habits and stick to your new way of living!
Having the eating and shouting well under way I then turned my attention on my smoking. Oh how I smoked. I smoked and smoked today. I think if I had occasion to sing the national anthem today I would need to sing it 2 octaves down!!! LOL!!! And speaking of laughing out loud...I'm fairly certain that if there is any chance that I laugh this evening, it will end in fits of choking gasping seizures as my lungs are almost completely gummed up with tar. God I'm doing great at this!!! I feel certain that I could compete at the international level of smoking if my training regime can maintain this pace!!! Emphezema...eat your heart out. Your ass is MINE!
In an effort not to burn out too soon, I am saving the drinking for tomorrow. As I have mentioned, my husband's family is coming to our place for a late Christmas tomorrow...all 25 of them. This seems like the perfect time to begin work on my drinking. OMG!!! There is a LOT of things to do tomorrow to get ready. I think that being slightly akilter starting bright and early should really up my productivity. I am sure that everyone will understand that surely I can't be expected to do my share. Not with such lofty goals to acheive and it being only the second day of my journey.
I'm sure no one will be dismayed by the 3 inches of dog hair that is currently covering all of our hardwood floors. That when they hear that I needed to start my drinking at first light and was therefore unable to vacuum, that they will certainly just make a helpful comment about how it's just like having new wall-to-wall carpeting. Or that if we have nothing left to drink for them, that I have only done them a favor considering the new drunk-driving laws that have recently come in. And I think that if everyone who is coming just washes up one dirty pot apiece, the kitchen will be clear in no time at all. So I feel confident that everything will work out just fine, even if I am unable to stand vertically by the time our guests arrive!
So there it is!!! As they say...every great journey begins with one step. I think that todays was one big, greasy, frosted, shouty, carcinogenic step in the right direction. OMG!!!
You also may have noticed that it's the weekend!!! Two days of over-punctuation??!!! And predictable, over used outbursts!!! OMG!!!
The day began perfectly to help me to start how I mean to go on! It started with a huge brunch that my parents treated us to...ringing in the new year with carbs and obscene amounts of fat!!! We sat together around the table as maple syrup and grease ran down our chins...reminiscing about the past year! The only time we came close to balancing off our overindulgence was when we sprinted back to the tables that held the feast to pile our plate high again with foods you only eat when a special occaision gives you the ok to do so. I enjoyed watching my son, face shiny from his nose to his chin, telling me how good the eggs benedict was. Or my daughter who looked like she was wearing reverse black face after enjoying several pieces of chocolate mousse cake!!! LOL When everyone's buttons had popped, and the ensuing groans of contentment and gastric complaints were heard around the table, we headed for home...our arms straining to achieve the thank you hugs that were now made more challenging by our distended bellies.
Once home, I started right in on another one of my resolutions. Because my kids thought it was a great idea to stay up until midnight last night, they were understandably rangy today. OMG!! This provided many opportunities to work on my shouting. I am sure they meant it when they told me "okay...I'm on it" after the third time I asked them to move their shoes and jackets from the hall where they dropped them as they walked through the door. Their bleary-eyed faces seemed to convey their honest intention to put their belongings away where they belonged. The same applies to their granola bar wrappers, wet towels from their morning showers, markers and paper, empty juice glasses, blankets, pillows, dolls, doll clothes, doll carriage, doll bottles, yoyo, deck of cards, another granola bar wrapper and the hamster. However well intentioned they were...they did not follow through, probably due to lack of sleep and too many cake-enduced endorphins. Every time I turned around they were in front of one screen or another...eyes glazed...hand clutching their bellies...far away look in their eyes.
I did lots of shouting today!!! It felt good!!! It felt productive...like I was on a roll after getting such a jump on the day's eating regime. I tried "frustrated" shouting. Then went for a "oh-you-kids-will-be-the-death-of-me" style of shouting. The eye-rolling "teenager" shouting. One highlight for me was my "you don't appreciate everything your dad and I do for you" shouting. That one is my favorite.
Clearly I am out of shape though...I could only keep it up for a few hours!!! Eventually I reverted back to my old, unhealthy routine of quietly muttering under my breath as I cleared their things away myself. And I felt myself having unhelpful thoughts...thoughts like "they're exhausted...they need some down time" Such thoughts are counter productive to my new lifestyle and therefore I tried very hard to push them out of my head. This just goes to show how diligent you have to be in order to break old habits and stick to your new way of living!
Having the eating and shouting well under way I then turned my attention on my smoking. Oh how I smoked. I smoked and smoked today. I think if I had occasion to sing the national anthem today I would need to sing it 2 octaves down!!! LOL!!! And speaking of laughing out loud...I'm fairly certain that if there is any chance that I laugh this evening, it will end in fits of choking gasping seizures as my lungs are almost completely gummed up with tar. God I'm doing great at this!!! I feel certain that I could compete at the international level of smoking if my training regime can maintain this pace!!! Emphezema...eat your heart out. Your ass is MINE!
In an effort not to burn out too soon, I am saving the drinking for tomorrow. As I have mentioned, my husband's family is coming to our place for a late Christmas tomorrow...all 25 of them. This seems like the perfect time to begin work on my drinking. OMG!!! There is a LOT of things to do tomorrow to get ready. I think that being slightly akilter starting bright and early should really up my productivity. I am sure that everyone will understand that surely I can't be expected to do my share. Not with such lofty goals to acheive and it being only the second day of my journey.
I'm sure no one will be dismayed by the 3 inches of dog hair that is currently covering all of our hardwood floors. That when they hear that I needed to start my drinking at first light and was therefore unable to vacuum, that they will certainly just make a helpful comment about how it's just like having new wall-to-wall carpeting. Or that if we have nothing left to drink for them, that I have only done them a favor considering the new drunk-driving laws that have recently come in. And I think that if everyone who is coming just washes up one dirty pot apiece, the kitchen will be clear in no time at all. So I feel confident that everything will work out just fine, even if I am unable to stand vertically by the time our guests arrive!
So there it is!!! As they say...every great journey begins with one step. I think that todays was one big, greasy, frosted, shouty, carcinogenic step in the right direction. OMG!!!
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