Dummy up – close only counts in horse shoes and shit fights

I swear to God it was just July - like last week- maybe two weeks ago at the most. This last six months has been the fastest in my life. 

In September the kids started kindergarten. They were so excited that first day – everything was new. They were excited to ride the bus, excited to fill their backpack, excited to meet all the kids and excited to actually go to school. That first week, they would get themselves up, get themselves dressed, and happily wait patiently for the bus. Now, four months in, Anders and I have a running daily fight about who the unlucky bastard is who has to get them up, dressed, fed, wiped, brushed, tucked and finally onto the bus. The winner (lucky bastard) gets to get up, shower, dress, eat and drink coffee in peace before slipping ever so quietly out the door before the kids wake up.

Since the first glorious week of school when they had joy and enthusiasm, weekday mornings at our house have officially become a full-on nightmare.

I picked the short straw today and was on wake-up patrol. Although any day during the week is bad – Monday’s are especially horrible since the twins are usually overtired and not thrilled to hop back into the weekday routine. Here are some highlights from this morning’s shit show:
 

·         Physically shoving their little arms and legs into clothes. They are four and a half – and I still dress them. If there was a font for shame - this would be typed in “shame bold”. I find the fight of standing there and yelling at them to get dressed to be more than my sanity can take – so I cave and just dress them like they are four months-old rather than four years-old.

·         Threatening to give their breakfast to the dogs if they didn’t move their asses PRONTO to the table.

·         Threatening to tell Tomte (our elf on the shelf) what maniacs they were being and that maybe Santa should just send some dart guns and animal tranquilizer for Christmas.

·         Then – when Max argued one too many times about whether he needs to wear his snow pants (we got 10 cm of snow last night and it was minus five degrees Celsius) I threatened to leave him with the dogs all day and a list of chores.

My neighbors must love to overhear this daily shit show, as I have confirmed with Anders that his mornings do not go any more smoothly.

I was talking to a co-worker about school and kids and the whole mess in the mornings, when I mentioned that I found myself telling Max to “dummy up!” When Maxey looked up at me with a confused little face, I couldn’t clarify since I don’t really know what the hell it means.

My dad used to say it to me - it was usually preceded by a “Jesus Christ!” and was always after I had done something pretty dumb. What I don’t get is why he couldn’t just say “smarten up” like the other dads? Why dummy up? And what the hell does that even mean? Get dumber? Stop being dumb? I was always too scared to ask him though as a.) he was always really pissed at me when he said it, and b.) in this situation, I had always done something which proved that I was just shy of village idiot status, so should I really be pointing out that I don’t fully understand what he just said?

My co-worker didn’t get it either and thought it was probably best to just not ask him – but to for sure carry on the tradition and leave my kids just as confused as I had been. He then told me that when his dad was pissed that he hadn’t quite made the grade - his dad used to say that “close only counts in horse shoes and shit fights.” He was left to wonder what the hell kind of childhood his dad had. He said his dad grew up on a farm in Saskatchewan, but are shit fights really a thing? And how does close count in one? You either hit someone with shit or you don’t – there are no “close- esies” in a shit fight in my book. And –how mad do you have to be at someone to actually throw shit at them? You would have to touch it with your hands…so really you are also being getting hit with shit, and this ends with a shower and strong soap all the way around the table.

Anyway, the twins really do love school though – and everyday they amaze me with what they have learned and how they are growing. 

At our first parent/teacher interview in October we were a bit shocked at the teacher’s feedback. To preface this a bit, back on the twin's first day of school, we had to fill in a sheet with particular information on each kid. Things like what did they like, what are their interests, are they shy or outgoing, etc. So naturally we put that Molly will probably grow up to be a fascist dictator or possibly a CEO of some sort, and that Max is just the happiest, nicest guy you can meet – and will probably be Molly’s second in command. She will use him as a good PR front to try and convince people she is a nice benevolent leader before cutting pensions and taking away casual Fridays.

The teacher told us that she was shocked by information sheet as the twins are the exact opposite of what we claimed. Max was actually the outgoing one and she felt that he was the clear leader of the twosome. She said that Molly was extremely introverted and seemed to prefer watching the kids rather than joining in. We looked at each other – looked over at the kids playing in the corner and were both like…"Bitch - you must be crazy! You mean to tell me that Molly – the one who is currently riding Max like a rental mule and telling the grade two kid what to do – is introverted?”

But then, I figured it out. She isn’t introverted, but she sure as shit is watching the crowd. Watching the crowd to look for weaknesses and analyzing the social hierarchy. She isn’t being quiet - she is strategizing and God help you all when she launches her plan.

We went back for our second interview in late November and it was all starting to come together. The teacher let us know that Max was still good – he is well-liked and he plays really well with all the kids. And big surprise – our little Molly seems to have done a total 180 and is now the leader of girls and always sets the games and the play. No shit. She does the same at home, so really we weren’t surprised and knew it was inevitable. I would have explained all of this to Miss S, but Molly was watching us so I was scared to say too much.

Some other enjoyable highlights from school…

The first day of school. Anders just told the kids that the school bus that was driving by as I snapped this was their school bus, and since they missed it, they would have to stay home. They didn't think it was funny.

   

This is how Anders dresses them for school. When I am lucky enough to be on pick-up, I just have to look for the children who look the most like rumpled hobos and yup, those are my kids.

Note - the pants are on backwards. I can only assume he had them like that all day.



"Hi - Abi is it? I am not sure what kind of unicorns you have seen, but I am pretty sure that isn't a horn on your unicorn's head." This little gem was on the wall outside of kindergarten while we were waiting for our parent teacher interview. I got really inappropriate and was laughing so hard I may have peed myself just a smidge. Anders moved down a few seats and pretended he didn't know me.

Summer 2013 Synopsis - Family, Friends, Fireball and Why Skinny Bitches Run

We have had one hell of a busy summer this year – the reason blogs posts have been few and far between – and also the reason I may need to look into an AA meeting.

It all kicked off on the July long-weekend with a Collier Cousin reunion in Cranbrook. It was great to see everyone and the kids had a blast. As much as things change – it always amazes me at how much they stay the same. Within hours I was shooting Fireball and sneaking cigarettes with my cousins. My dad was planted between his identical twin cousins – looking the like the long lost triplet - and laughing like crazy. And all of the poor spouses were just walking aimlessly around trying to figure out how their spouse fit into the whole mess and wondering if it was too late for an annulment.

drinking...

 

 

Max cutting a rug with Grandma and Grandpa...I was out back smoking and drinking
beer out of (what I hope) was my cousin's truck. All class, all the time.

Then, a few weeks later we took off to spend some time in Sweden with Anders’ family. And it was pretty much the same. I shot Fireball with my brother-in-law, and although there don’t seem to be any cigarettes over there – there is snuff. And – by-the-by – the Swede’s know their shit. They sell snuff in these little teeny tiny tea bag looking things so you don’t get gnarly snuff teeth. And yes – I am talking to you Cranbrook boys.

Anders - happy to be back on home turf

Anywhooo…I was all set to give snuff a try until my sister-in-law told me "you can try it – but make sure you are outside because you are probably going to puke." Awesome sales job eh?! So – I stuck to the Fireball and Swedish beer and made a note to pack some cigarettes for the next trip.

So really – it was pretty much the same with both families and reaffirmed for me that (luckily) everyone’s family has crap. Someone hates this person and that person has a questionable definition of what "not being an alcoholic" means. You always have your standard assholes in the crowd and usually there is that one guy who may or may not be on several "watch lists" and if they aren’t – they probably should be.

About the only difference between the two families that I could see is that one set (the Swedish side) has all of their fingers intact. My dad’s side of the family comes from a long line of farmers and loggers – and God love ‘em - we are a bit spastic. So when you put us around power equipment with sharp edges – you just know that eventually it is going to end with a call to 911. My grandma (who was four feet nothing tall of pure awesome) lost her finger in an out of control spin cycle accident, while my dad lost one in a fight with a logging truck. I remember meeting a few great-uncles and thinking they were giving me the "rock on" sign until upon further inspection it turned out they were just down a few finger tops. I am still intact – but am still in my 30s and work in an office. Give me a few years and I am sure I will be missing something.

Anyway…while we were over in Scandinavia, a couple of cool things happened. The first was that we got to connect with some friends from Canada which we hadn’t seen in years. Kind of weird right? We met up with Sheila and Owen in Copenhagen (and we didn't get any pics). We haven’t seen them in at least four years. They both just finished their MBAs in France and now touring Europe in a crazy small car loaded to the nuts. And then we met up with Cecilia and Torsten (Anders and Torsten both worked for the same company building the dam in Castlegar) who were home in Sweden for a visit from where they currently live in Africa.

My gorgeous little Peruvian friend - Miss Cecilia

Torsten is actually from Husqvarna. Yup, one and the same with the chainsaw brand. I got totally schooled on how we say Husqvarna wrong and it drives Swedes crazy. Fun fact - and kind of weird for a loggers daughter who grew up surrounded by Husqvarna chainsaws - it turns out that Husqvarna makes a ton of household appliances. They make everything from washing machines, to vacuums to dishwashers.

"Hey baby – dinner was awesome – fire up the Husqvarna will you?"

"What the fuck? Are you going all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on me? Are we getting wood? It is dark out – how is that going to go down? What in the holy hell are you talking about? Ohhhh – you mean the dishwasher. Got it."

And the second cool thing was that I got to visit the place in Norway where my mom and her family come from – a small town called Klofta.

I actually signed up to do a half-marathon in a town called Kongsvinger – which is about 50 kilometres or so east of Klofta - hoping to just drive by the area on the way to the race. My 85 year-old grandma did me one better though and drew a map (from memory) to help us find some landmarks.

In front of the house which my great-grandfather built
and in which my grandma was born and raised.

We actually managed to find the house where my grandma was born and raised and the church where my great-grandparents and several great-aunts and great-uncles are buried. It was pretty amazing to be standing where I knew that generations of people I come from were born, lived and died. It was also pretty awesome to be in a foreign country, but at the same time have a real sense of connection and belonging to this place. It felt a little bit like coming home.

                                                Church where my great-grandparents and

several great-aunts and great-uncles are buried.

Speaking of the race…

So, I think I gave you some background on this thing but to recap – the half marathon course was all goat trails and logging roads and it basically went straight up a mountain. To help matters out – it was like 30 degrees Celsius with about 99 per cent humidity that day. So on the humidex scale - it was just slightly cooler than Hell’s armpit. Blinking was making me sweat but Anders’ helpful dehydration tips from his Swedish army days were freaking the shit out of me so I was actually glad to start the race. (You know what baby - if it gets to the point where I am honestly contemplating drinking my own pee- I am probably going to pull the plug on the race and just get some medical help. But thanks!)

Right out of the gate it was bad. The trail was rough – like hoping from root to mud pit to sketchy old wood plank in the mud - rough. Then the vertical climb started. I was only about two kilometres in at that point and really doubting whether I could actually run this thing when a funny thing happened. And not funny haha – but funny as in what in the shit balls….

I was running along – minding my own business and I went from …. running…running… running…running… to SWEETBABYJESUSWHATINTHEHELLISGOINGON…WOW!! SAYMYNAMEBITCH!

I had a runner’s high in my nether regions if you are picking up what I am putting down. I was thinking maybe I was having some ‘chaffing’ issues so once I pulled myself up off my knees I did some rearranging (as best as I could) and headed out again.

Then, on the second big climb at about eight kilometres – WAM – number two hit me. I tried to keep my shit a bit more together this time as I was actually having a conversation with a nice elderly Norwegian man. He was telling me about how he had been to Canada and that he and his wife really loved the koalas. I started to explain the difference between Canada and Australia, but I think it came out more like, "Australia is also a COLONNNnnnRRAAAAAAAFFFAAARRGGGHHHHHHHHHH….WOW…huh? What?"

I am not really sure if he thought I had just had a stroke or started speaking in tongues. Whatever he thought – I can confirm that he no longer gave a shit about koalas or the difference between Australia and Canada. He took off at a pretty spry pace for someone on the other side of 70.

By the time number three hit at about the 12 kilometre mark – I had worked out a strategy. I would avoid conversations at all cost (which by that stage was really a moot point – you couldn’t have paid any of the runners to talk to me after my little "episodes") and at the first sign of trouble my plan was to hit the deck and do a fake out shoe tie/water break. Which – aside from some probably pretty weird vocals - I think I pulled off pretty well.

The rest of the run was uneventful - except for a HUGE thunderstorm that started at about 17 km and kept up until the finish which was actually really fantastic after running in Hell’s armpit for like two hours.

When I finally came across the finish line, Anders was like, "Wow! You look great! You look really refreshed and not tired at all!" Yeah, no shit. I did however feel like I needed a cuddle and a cigarette. "Did you want to stay and hang out for a while?"

Coming across the finish line. Hey - who wants a hug?

"Ahhh - don’t ask too many questions in front of the kids because I will explain later – but I can’t really make eye contact with any of these people – especially that old dude over there – so can we get just get in the car and haul ass out of here please?"

Later that week I actually Googled it – and it turns out it is kind of common. It can happen during yoga, running uphill (I can vouch for that one), core workouts and even swimming. Who knew? And more importantly – why is this not Health Canada’s new slogan? I can guarantee you that I would see every chubby-ass mom out here in suburbia hell running the big-ass hill behind the local Home Depot DAILY.

I was telling a friend the story of my discovery and she was like, "Meeehhh. Let me know when you manage to have one while eating cake. THAT is the one I want to hear about. If you could teach people how to do that shit – you could buy an island and retire. No one is going to give a shit that you orgasmed a few times while running. There are MUCH easier ways to do that than running a God damned half marathon."

Well played. Plus I did another half marathon in Canmore two weekends ago – and nothing…bupkiss. All I got was really tired and a mean case of shin splints. I will keep you posted on the whole cake eating thing though.

　

　

Team DB

A couple months ago I participated in my first triathlon. A friend from work had signed up to do a full sprint distance triathlon herself, but decided to turn her entry into a relay. She was going to swim and her brother-in-law was going to do the cycling leg but they needed a runner so I agreed and we had a team.    

First up -  we needed to come up with a team name. I am the worst at that kind of thing - especially under pressure - so told her I was good with whatever name her and her brother-in-law picked. Her brother-in-law told her the same thing, so my friend registered us as "Team DB." Yup. That is right. Team DB. It turns out that DB is her mom's initials - who happens to be a cancer survivor (the triathlon was a cancer fund raiser). Unfortunately it also stands for quite a few other things....Douche Bag....Dumb Blondes (all three of us are blonde)...Dingle Balls...

I volunteered to pick up our race kit as it was at a place on my way home from work. I realized while standing in line that there was no way around this...I had to tell the two nice 65 year-old ladies sitting at the registration table that I was there to pick up the race kits for Team DB.

When I got to the front I sheepishly muttered our name and then really quickly - and loudly - explained that it was my friends mother's initials and she just won her battle with colon cancer. I totally felt like a douche bag - but I thought what the hell, it isn't like we are making t-shirts or anything so it isn't like we will have to explain the name again. I grabbed our shit and high-tailed it out of there.

Race day arrived and I was pretty nervous. I actually hadn’t been that worried beforehand, but about a week before the race my friend shared a couple little gems. She used to be a competitive swimmer in university and her brother-in-law is in fantastic shape and is REALLY competitive. GREAT! No pressure. You can join our team but you better be able to run fast enough to make your sneakers smoke. Just kidding. But no seriously, not really, You better pull some four minute kilometres out off your ass.

As I pulled up to my friends house, I saw her brother-in-law loading his super duper, made of air and titanium wrapped in carbon, three ounce bike into her truck. He looked like he spends roughly five or six hours a day in the gym. I am pretty sure he could crack shit between his quads. I just about shit and started having stress sweats. I was clearly going to be the dead weight on this team and would probably blow the whole thing on my five kilometre run. My friend admitted she hadn’t done as much training as she wanted to and was nervous as well. That almost made me feel better - until the cyclist busted out the Lycra and aerodynamic helmet. 

The swim was up first and they did a staggered start with the men starting five minutes ahead of the women. My friend hit the water and started swimming like there was a small outboard motor attached to her ass. I swear to god she actually had a wake. She was on fire - catching up to the men and leaving the women in her dust. She got tired and started to breaststroke – and she was STILL passing some of the men! She was breaststroking the shit out of that race! The stress sweats escalated to nervous burping and shaking hands.

As she came running out of the water, her brother-in-law was poised, focused and tense like a fucking cheetah about to take down a limping baby antelope. As soon as she tagged him off - he grabbed his bike and started sprinting for the bike start line. The guy was moving so quick he actually looked kind of blurry. Like the Road Runner. No shit.  

The bike portion was two 20 kilometre loops, which passed right by the transition area. On his first loop he had gained so much time he getting close to the front of the pack and by his second he was pretty close to, if not actually leading the whole thing. FUCK! Now I had to run my chubby ass around the hilly five km route with the super elite looking triathletes

The brother-in-law came flying back into the transition area screaming at me to go, so I took off in what I hoped was a decent looking run. I was actually feeling like I had a pretty good stride – but those other fuckers were passing me like I was running the other direction. The brother-in-law was yelling at me so loud that I could still hear him when I was getting close to the kilometre mark, and let’s just say he wasn’t commenting on my super fast speed and long stride.

When I came across the finish – I was sure the timing board was screwed up. I ran the five kilometres in 26 minutes. Not a world record or even remotely impressive when compared to the other folks running it – but definitely my personal best.

The cyclist and I were both ready to head out when my friend said that she was pretty sure we won the relay and we should wait. Looking around at the zero body fat crowd, the cyclist and I were pretty sure we didn't - but they had free beer and Greek food so we grabbed a couple beer and some food and sat down to wait for the announcements. 

When the results came in, the organizers took to the stage and started reading the results. We were standing at the back of the crowd, and I knew we won when the guy announced the relay category and then there was a HUGE pause before he read the winner. He started really loud "AND THE WINNER OF THE RELAY CATEGORY IS........(huge delay)...team db...(muttered and sheepish) whatever that stands for...."

Everyone in the crowd kind of went quiet and was doing that sucking air through their teeth thing. We didn’t know whether to go up front to get our prize or run for the car. So the brother-in-law shouts, "It is totally okay – it is her mom’s initials and she survived cancer!" so then everyone started to clap and there was an audible sigh of relief across the crowd. It turns out that my friend was right - we actually won the relay category. Trust me – no one was more shocked than us.

Then it got all weird and quiet again when we showed up at the front to get our prize. All these super toned and tight athletes were like "What the fuck? You guys won? Clearly something in the timing process is broken because you all did NOT beat my team!"

That night - Team DB reunited at my friends for a post-race BBQ with our families in tow and my friend introduced me to gin and tonics. Things went pretty quickly downhill from there. We got totally shit-faced. I mean the kind of drunk that rarely happens past the age of 23. The kind of drunk where the night before comes back to you in flashes that usually make you cringe.

I have vague memories of laughing at her super cute one and a half year-old son after he did a face plant in the sandbox because some of the sand stuck to some snot under his nose making him look like a teeny tiny Hitler (so not appropriate), the brother in-law getting into it with Molly and instead of me being like what the fuck are you doing fighting with a four year old – I started to goad Molly on, and lastly, having totally inappropriate conversations with my friend on her deck within earshot of kids and neighbors with little to no volume control.

My swansong was wiping out in gravel on the road in front of her house (again, in front of a bunch of neighbors) as we were trying to leave. It was one of those wipe outs where you instantly know you just fucked yourself up pretty good, but at that point your ego is more hurt than your body, so you just jump up and move on with a big smile and a "I am totally good! I am fine - all good!" I hopped in the car and with a final wave, we peeled out.

Anders looked at my mangled leg and I remember him yelling at me to stop bleeding all over the new car and to hang my leg out the window or something. Since we had only had the car for like two days at that point we hadn’t accumulated the normal stockpile of McDonald’s napkins and packets of wet wipes, so all I could find were some grocery receipts and to-do lists from the bottom of my purse to stick on my gashed up knee.

It is now about two months later - and my knee is still a total mess. I am pretty sure there is still gravel in it and the scars are those ugly purple bumpy ones. Anders likes to point out that from the knees down the kids and I are like triplets.

My friend and I just signed up for another triathlon in September. This time we are each doing the whole relay ourselves. I have what would best be described as a "cruiser bike" – the kind that has a huge seat with springs, a bell and a basket (preferably with a small dog and baguette in it). We are TOTALLY going to rock the shit out of that race!

Four Blogs for the Price of One...

So, I did start to write the blogs, and then quickly realized why I never finished them...they are all totally random, weird and short bits that don't really justify a whole post on their own and sometimes don't even really make sense. So here they are for what it is worth. I promise I will write some better ones soon. I have a Collier cousin family reunion and a two-week trip to Sweden to visit Anders' family in the next six weeks - so really, the blogs are pretty much going to write themselves.  

Retirement Planning for Idiots

I have very few marketable skills. Knowing this, I was banking on my Rain Man-like ability to remember song lyrics to see me through retirement. I don’t remember important shit like names, birthdays, anniversaries or anything else of value really - but you can turn on any radio station and the odds are pretty high I can sing along to whatever is playing. All I need to do is hear the song once or twice, and that shit is locked in for life.

 

Growing up, I had an aunt and uncle who played hits from the 50s and 60s and super shitty country music (sorry!). To this day – if Kenny Rogers comes on, I am singing right along. And because I am from Cranbrook, anything in the glam rock or metal department is also saved. Ditto for hip hop/rap (we fancy ourselves to be pretty gangster in the ‘Brook) and most top 40 stuff from about 1970 on.

Knowing this, I had all of my retirement planning hung on that game show that was all about finishing the next line in random songs (ironically – I can’t remember what it was called). Then they went and cancelled the god-damned show and I realized that at this rate – I will be able to retire in about 2073.

My new retirement plan consists of working at my current job until they forcibly wheel my decrepit ass out and then possibly looking into Wal-Mart greeting. Or maybe dog-grooming (assuming I can still see by then).

 

Norwegians are Kind of Assholes

We are going to Sweden this summer to visit Anders’ family. In preparation for the trip, I started looking into fun stuff we could do while we are there and I stumbled across this run in Norway.

From what I could piece together (the website is mostly in Norwegian with a tiny part in English) the race is one of the only forest runs in Europe, and it happens to be going while we are there. It is also located about 25 kilometres from the town my mom was born and raised in. I thought that was all pretty cool so I went ahead and signed up for the half-marathon distance in this “scenic and undulating run through the forest” and started training.

A couple weeks ago I thought I should probably know a bit more about the course, so I started digging around. I maaaayybbee should have done this part first – or got Anders involved in translating the site before I got all excited and signed up AND emailed the organizer with a question about the race and explaining – in detail – my back story and why I am so excited to come. He emailed back just as excited and said he would be telling everyone so if there are any relatives in the area they will know we are coming. GREAT! Now I am totally committed with no way out of this without looking like a total asshole.   

Okay - back to the race and the information I found out about it…

So, if you would call a trek up the fucking Alps undulating – then yes, this course is absolutely undulating. According the elevation map I managed to find there is one hill that goes on and on – at a roughly eight per cent grade - for TWO KILOMETRES at the 16 km mark! What the hell kind of sadomasochistic asshole picked this course?

And now I am starting to have my fears about just what the hell “forest marathon” really means. Why are there only two in Europe? It sounds really charming right? A run though enchanted Norwegian forests – maybe seeing some wildlife or running along a picturesque fjord or something…so why only two? And – with the race only six weeks away - why have only like 100 people signed up?

Because I am guessing forest marathon is much like their version of undulating. I have a hunch that “forest run” probably means something a lot closer to “you will be doing this run with 10 pounds of raw hamburger shoved in your pants and we will be letting rabid timber wolves loose about 10 minutes after the race start.”

I emailed this question to the one-time super-chipper and helpful organizer, and guess what – no answer this time around which is basically just cementing my fears. I have already been vaccinated against rabies (that is another story that involves me, a huge black squirrel and a misguided Snow White recreation) but am thinking I should be looking into body armour and bear spray just to be safe.  

(*Disclaimer - I am a half-'Weege so hold the hate mail - so I am really just making fun of myself. I dont really think 'Weeges are assholes. Well - some are, but not the group as a whole. Crazy and weirdly outdoorsy - yes, assholes - no.)

 

Start Preparing – the End of the World is Near

I am pretty sure that hell has frozen over and the apocalypse has started. Do you know how I know? Anders traded-in the van.

Honest to God – he traded it in on a wagon (baby steps people – baby steps) and we pick it up on Thursday. I have seriously never been more excited about anything in my life.

If Anders hadn’t used the van as a trade in, I would be taking the week off and spending it driving the shit out of that thing. I would be spending my days hauling ass across vacant field, through river beds and up logging roads. I would be setting up shit just so I could hit it and taking jumps Duke of Hazards style – seeing just how much damage I could do to that bitch before it died.  

If I thought it was even a tiny bit appropriate (and wouldn’t be horrifyingly bad and mess up my kids for life) I would be looking at getting racy pictures taken with the wagon kind of like a shitty reality-version pinup calendar for suburban dads.

Salty – a few random and awesome overheard sentences...

“What the hell Molly?” – Max Jonsson

“Nina – if you keep acting like an asshole, Rusty won’t like you anymore.”-  Molly Jonsson

“You know – one day I am just going to let shit go completely natural and show up here totally feral.” – Female Co-worker

“Nina….NINA…NEEEEENNNNNAAAAAA!” -  Anders yelling at our totally deaf dog as she escaped from our house for the 100^th time.

“I don’t know why Nina doesn’t listen!” – Anders angry that our totally deaf dog doesn’t understand when he yells at her.  

“Hey baby – what does this look like?” – Anders gesturing to some art made out of his lunch fruit - a banana and two peaches.

“Molly – go get help – I got stuck in the vacuum…again.” – Max Jonsson

Hey honey…do you remember when we talked about…HOLY SHIT IS THAT A RAINBOW?

I am really bad at follow through. I am great at starting things – not so great at keeping them going. I was the girl in school who would have a big exam or project due the next day, but instead of getting it done, I would catch myself at like 3:00 a.m. cleaning my oven or detailing my car. Or I am the girl who started a blog and was all committed to writing on it weekly….and the realized I hadn’t updated this thing in like three months.

I was complaining to Anders yesterday that we never seem to make a decision or move forward with anything when he pointed out a pretty big insight for me.
“When was the last time we actually finished a conversation? You always get distracted and then you head off in like four different directions and we don’t decide on anything other than the fact that you and Rusty have roughly the same attention span. You do it all – the – time (extra- long pauses and over enunciation was used here – which for the record, I did not appreciate). I am lucky to have your full attention for more than 30 seconds.” 

What the hell? At first I was all pissy and indignant, but then I started to notice it. I really am a totally spun-out ADD freak. I don’t think I have finished a conversation with anyone in the last 20 years. I have half-started projects everywhere in my house. I have one foot which has been filed, buffed, creamed and polished to perfection - the other one looks like an alligator claw (hoof? paddle? fin?) on the end of my leg. I started to learn Swedish – but once I mastered a few funny pick-up lines I figured I have what I need to survive if Anders ditches my ass in a back-alley on our next trip to Sweden. 

I also have like five blog posts started – but not finished. 

So I am finishing them all (in abbreviated form) and will post them momentarily. 

In the meantime, for my Swedish friends…Vill du ha något att dricka på mitt hus? Wink wink…grrroooowwwl.

 

 

Awesomely Awkward

My friend was telling me about a friend of hers who is a self-proclaimed “student of awkward.” Apparently this guy loves to do things that make people go a bit outside of their comfort zone and he tries to create that awkward feeling. He was looking for ideas and was asking her about her most awkward situations.

This guy should just follow me around for a few days. My life is a series of completely awkward and fucked up encounters. I have got a million ideas for this guy!

My most recent moment was just this morning. I was fixing my twisted nylons in the (what I thought was an empty) bathroom. My dress was hiked up around my hips and I was having a full-on conversation with myself about the guy smoking pot that I passed on the way into work. (To explain this whole situation - I hate paying for parking, so to save money I park in the sketchy end of downtown. I am paying a cheap monthly rate – but may get stabbed and regularly walk by some pretty weird shit to and from work.  And I actually talk out loud to myself a lot – like I should probably be worried and get that checked – a lot.) So anyway - right about this time is when a woman – a woman I actually have to interact with pretty regularly – walked out of one of the stalls and got a full view of me talking about some guy smoking pot with my dress hiked up and my hands in my nether regions.

And a good Tuesday morning to you as well. There is just no way to recover from that so I started to laugh and was like “I swear – I didn’t inhale!” I may be fired by the end of the week depending on how far that story goes or whether she was in a good mood.

I don’t think there has been a day in my life where something weird or awkward has not happened – and it is usually my fault. Lots are related to me talking to myself (or singing in the van at the top of my lungs) or sending emails that were meant in humor but ended up backfiring (you would think I would have learned by now to stop using email) but there are a few stand outs. And oddly enough two involve the bathroom – so if you are offended by potty humour – stop reading now.

Below is a quick list of the top five awkward moments in my life. 

5. I am an animal lover and have lots of empathy for people who are dealing with the loss of a pet. When I was about 25, I had a coworker whose dog had been sick for months. She finally made the tough decision to put the dog down and I knew she was taking the day off to have it done. When she came into work the following day she was telling me the story and we both got pretty teary. I leaned in to hug her – and here is where shit got weird – I kissed her on her neck. And there was no mistaking it – I full on kissed this woman’s neck. We sort of just parted and both stood there all uncomfortable and then I basically ran back to my office and she hauled ass out of the break room.  I have no idea what I was thinking or how it happened – but we never spoke about it.    

4. I was headed out for lunch with a coworker about two months ago and we were walking and talking. The main entrance/exit doors in the office building where I work are those big glass big revolving doors. So – as we walked up to the door - she got into one compartment of the revolving door - and then I just walked right into the same compartment. We started to spin around and it was pretty tight in there – our feet were hitting each other’s and I was right up on her back. She gives me a look over her shoulder like what the fuck woman? I again tried to laugh it off like “ohhh – this is weird right? Next time I guess I should get my own section of the revolving door. That would definitely be less weird…” To this day if we are leaving together she will be like “and you know to get your own compartment right?”

3. I was getting frisky with a guy in a bathroom during a party. To try and class this story up – I will say that this is way back when I was in university, I was pretty drunk, and we were at an actual house party and we were in an actual bathroom with a locking door. We were not in a stall or some dirty gross public bathroom. I know – not much to help the cause. Anywhooo - people kept pounding on the door so we knew we had to get out. But since both of us were dating other people at the party (and there goes what little class this story had) we couldn’t be seen leaving the bathroom together after the door had been locked for like 15 minutes. So we made the decision I would hide in the tub with the curtain pulled until the line was finished and then I would sneak out. My partner in crime left and made a big deal about a bad burrito or something and I hunkered down in the tub to wait it out. I made the wrong call. I sat through about five people going “number two” before I finally snapped, flung back the curtain and jumped out of the tub – surprising a male friend mid-shit. I looked at him – he was looking back at me with a pretty worried look on his face and I panicked. I totally just bolted out of the bathroom. I didn’t say a word – I just ran. After that I pretty actively avoided him and for his part – he went out of his way to avoid me too. What do you say to each other after something like that?

2. I also seem to have a problem with escalators. There is an escalator in my office which goes to the food court area so I take it pretty much daily. I am not good with escalators to start with as my depth perception is bad so I am always really leery stepping onto one – scared I will either step on the split where the stairs bend and then fall or have my shoe and foot eaten by the machine (not possible I know – but still a fear). Anyway – because I am usually so freaked out about getting on the thing I am not looking at where people are and more often than not I lunge for a stair and end up standing on a step right behind someone. There is kind of an unwritten one step buffer on an escalator – but I totally mess that up pretty much every time. Then I am in the dilemma of do I step back down and make it even weirder or do I just ride up the whole escalator with my face in between the person’s shoulder blades. I generally go with the shoulder blades.

1. My curse in this life is that I always seem to go into a bathroom immediately after someone has done something pretty horrific. That in itself sucks – but then there is the weird and awkward moment that happens if someone else happens to come in while I am at the sink and they think that I have caused the smell. My problem is - do you acknowledge it and say – “listen – that wasn’t me and based on the smell – I am worried that the person who did do it may have died because they are pretty clearly rotting from the inside out” – OR – do you just not say anything and let them think it was you. I usually make a case by case decision on which way to go – and based on the reactions I have gotten – I have learned that you can’t win in this situation. If you try and explain - based on the childhood truth of “whoever smelled it – dealt it” – then you are just proving that it WAS you. But if you don’t say anything then it is like you are admitting to being the pooper and are in silent shame of your rotting guts.

Then a couple years ago - the problem moved outside the bathroom. I was grocery shopping in Safeway and needed something from the bulk section which is tucked in a back corner of the store. I headed back and promptly got bitch smacked across the face by the most disgusting, thick, cloying and dense fart I have ever smelled. I waded through it to get what I needed, but it was so bad I was actually gagging. If the sewer exploded in your face while you standing in the guts of a port-a-potty I think it would smell better. As I was trying to leave the area – this really sweet-looking and super old couple waded into the mess. I was like “listen – something really bad happened in there – you should just turn around and come back later when it is aired out.”  The old woman looked at me, shook her head and said “you should be ashamed of yourself young lady. And you should go to the doctor because something is not right with you. Not right at all.”  

Random Acts of Kindness

I just got a gift from a friend and it is one of the most thoughtful, kind and special gifts I have ever received.

She painted portraits of Max and Molly from some of my favorite pictures of them and it was totally unexpected. She did it as a thank you for an act that she didn’t need to say thank you for.

The portraits themselves are wonderful and I will be framing them. But along with the portraits – I am a bit overwhelmed by the act of her painting the portraits.

She didn’t have to take the time to paint them, but she did, and it is such an amazing gift – and it is one that will make me think of her and how special she is every time I look at them.

The kindness and generosity of spirit that she showed by taking the time to find the photos and then interpreting them into paintings makes me grateful not only for her friendship, but for the life we are building and the people we are including in it. 

Thank you Rida. You are a very talented artist and a good friend and these portraits will be special to us for a lot of reasons, including the memory of you that they will always carry.

Happy birthday to my two little munchkins

Max and Molly are turning four tomorrow and I am a total wreck.

I have no idea what is wrong with me. If you were to ask my friends and family to describe me - emotional or “easy-crier” would come right after introverted and sensitive. It just isn’t me.

But, somehow, I found myself sitting at my desk today welling up and starting to cry every time I thought about their birthday. I blamed my red eyes and sniffly nose on a cold – but in truth I am an emotional wreck.

It all started in Wal-Mart on Sunday. Max and I were standing in line getting some birthday party supplies and he was happily talking away. One thing I absolutely love about Max is that he never stops talking. And it is never a continuous stream of thought. It is all over the map and sounds more like, “Hey Momma, look at that gum – there is a strawberry on it. I wonder what it tastes like. Where is Pappa? My pants are the same color as that lady so that means we match. Hey do you see that magazine? There is a cake on it. Hey Momma, I had a good idea, maybe we can have that cake for our birthday? Are we in Wal-Mart Momma? Are we going home next? Maybe for my birthday I can get the big dinosaur with the mask on? I don’t have that one yet. I bet Nina would like to chew gum and she has stinky breath so maybe she should.”

I noticed that the woman ahead of us in line kept stealing glances at Max and smiling. She caught my eye and leaned over and whispered, “You should enjoy this. It goes way too quickly. Mine are 18 and 22 and I miss this every day.”

Right then it hit me full force like a punch to the gut. My babies are about to turn four and nothing remains of the babies they were. Before I know it, they are going to be off to school and will start building an entire life that doesn’t involve me.

1459 days ago today Max and Molly came into the world. They were born at 8:29 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. respectively and every minute since has been filled with them in some wonderful way. They have rocked our world and shifted my thinking and priorities in ways I would have never imagined. 

Max and Molly - one day old

Max is almost 120 cm tall (just shy of four feet for my imperial friends) and comes up to the middle of my rib cage. He is on-course to become a giant at this rate.  He can name about 20 different dinosaurs, every type of heavy equipment imaginable and has one of the best imaginations in the world. Molly is already writing words and can spell her name, Max’s name and mine. She knows that an elephant is a pachyderm, that sloths can give birth while upside down and that tigers are carnivores.  

Max and my dad

I just keep remembering how Max used to pat his little chest with a closed fist and say “I Mack” because he couldn’t say the “x” sound on Max, and how Molly used to kick frantically like a little frog in the tub and then giggle and giggle at herself.

Molly - seven months old

Having twins is hard - and I will admit that during those first overwhelming months I spent a lot of the time wishing the days away. “I can’t wait until you guys can crawl – life will be so much easier!” “I can’t wait until you guys can feed yourselves.” “I can’t wait until you guys can talk.”

They can do all of those things now and more and instead of relishing it – I find myself wishing the days backwards. “I wish you were small enough again for me to cuddle you in my arms until you fall asleep.” “I wish you still had that baby smell.” “I wish you still did that funny walk were you looked like a little a drunk wobbling down the hall on bowed legs.”

Being a parent is a funny thing. I have never loved anything harder than these two little munchkins and being a parent to them has filled me with more pride and joy than I could have ever imagined. But part of your job as a parent is also ensuring that they have the skills and abilities to leave you and flourish on their own. What a weird concept. You pour your heart and soul into these beings so they can eventually leave you.

Max and Mo - 18 months old

All I can hope is that we don’t mess up too much and interfere with the path already set in motion for them. I hope that we prepare them with the knowledge and strength that they will need to develop into fantastic and amazing adults I know they will become. I also hope we give them the confidence required so that they never feel the need to conform or hide the distinctive and quirky personality traits that make them so special.    

My biggest wish for Molly is that she never stops being so outspoken and strong. I hope she has the confidence and courage to keep to doing her “move” and continue to be the white butterfly with rainbow sparkles amid a sea of pink and purple. She is such a powerhouse and force to be reckoned with that I think the biggest gift we can give her is the strength to remain true to herself and see just where life leads her. The saddest thing I could imagine for Molly is seeing that inner spark and fire go out or dim.

Max is my gentle giant. That kid is all heart and is so sensitive and attuned to the feelings of others around him. He has such a soft and kind soul that we worry about him constantly. I worry that the world may turn and bend him - and harden his natural empathy, curiosity and openness. I hope he can learn by the examples in his life – Anders and my dad, two of the strongest, kindest and gentlest men I have ever known – that men do show compassion, love and tenderness. That real strength is not about being the toughest, or loudest, or meanest – but about being strong enough to stand up and remain true to yourself and what you believe in.

I am staying home from work tomorrow and Ruby and I are taking the kids out for a special birthday outing. I am apologizing to you now Ruby as I am pretty sure I will have some totally inappropriate crying outbursts. For Christ’s sake I am crying right now! On second thought – you may want to bail on us altogether. I am going to be a mess!

Happy fourth birthday to my Maxey–Doodle and Molly-Mo. You both are truly the best of everything in your dad and I, and I couldn’t be prouder or happier to be your Momma. 

Max and Molly - three years, 11 months

The name game

In retrospect, we probably should have done a bit more homework on the kid's names before signing off on the birth certificates.

During the first few months of the twin’s life, we didn’t venture out too far or too often. When we did, there was always lots of interest in them and questions about them…Are they identical? What did we name them? How old were they? Are they good sleepers? Glad it is you and not me! (People would seriously – and more often than not – actually say that. What the hell people?) 

This one particular day – we had the twins out for a grocery run at the local Safeway. They were probably only about a month old, and let me tell you, if you think one newborn gets a lot of attention, picture the frenzy around two newborns.  

When we finally got to the checkout, a woman ahead of us in line started asking about the babies. When I mentioned that we named them Max and Molly - she shrieked, “Oh my God! Growing up I had a dog and cat named Max and Molly! Molly was the cat! Isn’t that funny?”

The woman behind me piped in with, “That is super cute – I am totally going to tell my daughter to name the hamsters she just got Max and Molly.”

Yeah – isn’t that just super cute. Hope your hamsters enjoy my children’s names!

This was sort of just the cherry on top of our name troubles – which started way back when we first found out we were having twins. When we thought we were only having one baby it was hard enough - we couldn’t agree on one name, let alone two.  The only thing we could agree on is that we weren’t going to do the whole matchy-matchy cutesy twin name thing. Nope, there would be no Michael and Michaela, or Patrick and Patricia’s here.

I was convinced we were having twin girls (in BC, there is an actual law that the ultrasound techs can’t tell you what you are having, so it was left to maternal hunch – which I clearly suck at) and I had decided they were going to be called Ava Louise and Grace Elizabeth.

Anders wasn’t a fan of either name and was pulling for Linnea or Molly. I used to know a Linnea in school (and to be honest – I wasn’t a super fan as, just for an example, she would get into fist fights at parties - JUST FOR FUN) so that name was clearly out, and I wasn’t sure about Molly.

Then, at about seven months pregnant, I had some complications and was airlifted to a larger hospital in Vancouver. During one of my dozen or so ultrasounds over the few weeks I was there, a doctor who happened to be attending the ultrasound, casually dropped that I was having a BOY and a girl. That fucked everything up! I was seven and a half months pregnant and we hadn’t picked any boy names (due to my previously mentioned super awesome maternal hunch skills). We hadn’t been able to agree on even one girl name in 30 or so weeks, so there was a very real chance this poor little boy would be going home with a name like “Baby A” Jonsson.

We started to brainstorm names, and I was getting pretty nervous as all the boy names Anders was suggesting were total crap. I was not going to be the mother calling across a playground for a Bjorn, or a Maximus or a Steele. Really? Steele?  Do you want him to grow up to be a gigolo or male dancer? Because that is what you are condemning him to with a name like that!

I was pulling for boy names like Finn, Oskar (which in hindsight – good call on the veto Anders!) and Erik. I was still pretty solid on the girl name – it was going to be Ava Elizabeth Grace (just combine them into one) or a new name I had heard and really liked - Mette.

Anders vetoed them all and was insistent on the name Molly for a girl, and a shortened version of Maximus – just Max – for a boy.  

Then the day finally came and Baby A and Baby B entered the world. And that made it even harder. They were now little people, with little faces and the start of little personalities. How could I give this little seven and half pound ball of easy-going chub a huge name like Oskar? And how can you name this watchful and alert little baby girl a name like Mette when she already seemed too old and wise for it on her first day of life?

To be honest - the day they were born was a blur. I was higher than a kite (jacked up on some really good meds) and crazy with hormones. Long story short (and to be honest I am not really sure of the details or how it happened so I couldn’t expand even if I wanted to!) the babies were officially named Max and Molly.

So much for our first and only rule of not having matchey matching cutesy twin names!

I wanted to do the middle names though and Anders agreed. I was looking for some family names, and I wanted them to have three names like me, so I started working on names that flowed together.

First up was Molly and that was easy as I had been thinking of girl names for nine months. We picked Anne (my grandma was Anna, my sister’s middle name is Ann) and Catherine (both Anders mom’s and sister’s middle name is Katrina – Hungarian for Catherine). So Molly Anne Catherine was officially named.   

But for Max’s middle names, I was totally stumped. Nothing really rolls with Max. I wanted something from my family, and my dad’s middle name – Wilfred (which was also his father’s middle name) seemed like a good pick and Anders middle name, Mikael, kind of works with that, so we had ourselves a Max Wilfred Mikael.

We filled in the paperwork and handed it in. We had finally picked some names and I was more relieved than anything that we had finished this huge job. Who knew that naming your babies was such a stressful thing?

Then a nurse pointed out that my doctor’s name was Anne and the doctor who assisted the delivery was Catherine and wasn’t that sweet of us to name Molly after them. Uummm – yeah – wasn’t that super nice and not at all like a weird homage to them from us….super nice and not creepy at all!   

First weird name thing.

Then, my friend had these wonderful keepsake blankets (with their names embroderied on them)made for the twins. Shortly after the blankets arrived - my parents came over for a visit. As I was showing them the new soft and cuddly blankets, my Dad did a double take and was like “Who is Wilfred? My middle name, and my dad’s middle, name is WilFORD.”

Son of a BITCH! Second problem with the names.

In the last (almost) four years of their life, I have had a shockingly high number of people tell me they have had pets named Max and Molly. Everything from goldfish to cats and dogs.

And then I had a friend send me an email letting me know that when she searches for this blog, she gets all kinds of blogs about animals. I was not surprised after the Safeway line-up incident, but I was curious, so I Googled “Max and Molly”.

Apparently there are thousands of cat/dog combos out there named Max and Molly. And dozens of owners who love these pets enough to write blogs about them.

There is a Max and Molly animal photography, there are Max and Molly films (scared to click that link. I have no idea what kind of movies they are but you can’t un-see porn made in your children’s names) and there is also apparently a Max and Molly app for the iPhone which turns your words into meows and barks. It has also been rated as one of the most annoying apps.

Come on! Really?

Well, I guess thousands of golden retriever/tabby cat combos can’t be wrong. The two names do sound cute together, and eventually they will start their own lives and not be known as “MaxandMolly.” Molly can even start to use Anne as her first name if she wants.

And, when the kids get older and ask me why they are named after a popular dog/cat name combo - I will let them know to ask their father since I was pretty high when that happened and don’t recall all the details.