Stank towel, and other very real problems.

Hi there. There has been a bit of a gap in the blog here – over two years to be exact. To bring you up to speed, the twins are now seven. Rusty and Nina are still kicking. I turned 40 this year and Anders got older too. And I am not any better at spelling, and my language is just as bad.


I guess the big news is that we now live in Campbell River, BC. Anders is working on a large hydro-dam rebuild project here and has been since the summer of 2014. We tried commuting (he would come home to Calgary every weekend, but between Monday and Friday it was just me and the kids holding down the fort) but that got really old pretty quickly.

When my employer offered the opportunity for employees to take an extended leave – it was the final kick in the ass I needed to take the plunge into unemployment and put the family back together on the island. And here we are.


I have only been here a week, and it still mainly feels like I am on vacation. When I start to think about how this is my new reality and there is no going back now, I usually end up in a full-on panic attack. I have never done this before and this shit is terrifying!


You mean this is it? Endless days of entertaining the kids, cleaning, groceries and errands? Just as I was on the verge of a seriously fantastic freak out yesterday – I had an Oprah god damn Winfrey "light bulb" breakthrough. I have to think of this as my new job. Presentations and meetings are now vacuuming and time with the kids. Okay – I can roll with this Oprah. It is all about perspective right? I am helping to develop humans rather than projects. Jesus Christ that sounds super noble! The reality of it though is that the development of these humans has looked a lot like me telling the kids to get back on the trampoline and stop sneaking junk food while I sit on the deck and drink beer and Clamato and work on my tan. 


Which brings me to stank towel. My new J.O.B.


Anders and I have been secretly whispering in shame about this problem for months. How come all of our towels smell fantastic in Calgary, but as soon as they make the journey to Vancouver Island, they turn into a gross pile of moldy, body odour reeking, disgusting rags? I have tried everything – scented Tide, Tide with febreeze, in-wash scent boosters, fabric softener, bleach, dryer sheets – and all of the above at the same time. No matter what we do – our secret shame continues to be our reeking towels. 


Earlier this year, the kids and came to the Island for a visit. While we were here, a friend had a large group of us over for dinner. At the party I heard another friend mutter something in a low and ashamed voice about her ‘stank towel' problem. I was like, “What now? You guys have this gross problem too? Don’t mutter – be proud woman! We also have this affliction - and together we will conquer stank towel!”


So yeah, that was like two months ago now, and stank towel has not been conquered, but as my new J.O.B., I feel like I can now dedicate the resources to figure this shit out.


Plus – I have some ideas brewing. I like to think that I am crafty as hell. I know I am not, but feel like if I could apply myself, I would be the next home crafty design shit mogul. So stand by for plenty of crafty shit type updates. Some of my craft ideas require power tools, like chainsaws and band saws. When I shared this with Anders he was like. ”Yeah, as full disclosure here…I feel like this is going to end with you having weird fingerless stump hands, and me and the kids will probably have to leave at that point…so yeah…” (voice trailing off at the end….)  


Also – I think I would be an awesome bee keeper. I could keep a hive or two and SELL THE HONEY! Win win! Help the global bee crisis and sell some delish honey goodness and make some money on the side. When I shared this plan with Anders he was like “Have you met yourself? Are you aware of the level of your spaziness? Do you really feel like you – and thousands of annoyed bees – in a shared space is a good idea in any way?” 


Well played Jonsson. The bee dream is on hold, but I got a few more little chestnuts rolling around in this beer and Clamato soaked brain.


I also need to train for a marathon in September so stand by for that because I know how much everyone loves hearing a person talk about their workouts. Riveting right? It would normally be all pretty okay, but I broke my foot in April by falling off a sidewalk curb (see above spaz reference) ironically enough while yelling at the kids to watch their step. I bought these crazy looking cushion shoes which are supposed to help runners come back from injury (my friend said it looked like I was running with tiny mattresses strapped to my feet) and guess what – they don’t help. I just look like an asshole with giant mattress shoes on.

I left in the coffee cup for size comparison - normal size mug, giant foot with
even bigger giant mattress shoes. What an asshole.

Okay – so here we go – boldly into unemployment, or as Oprah would call it - "the department of human development and skill exploration".

Milestones

The twins turned five on February 12 and I always get a bit reflective around their birthday. I use it as an opportunity to look back on how far we have come as a family (which is very reaffirming since the popular belief way back when they were two-weeks old was that neither Anders or I were going to make it out of this alive) but also a chance to measure our lives against theirs – and compare how much better and easier our life has become with each new milestone.

For instance – they started kindergarten in September – and although that milestone came with certain logistical nightmares (buses, after-care, school closure days, etc.), we also have the joy of watching their minds grow and expand to the possibilities, excitement and vastness of the world that lies outside of our four walls.

For every victory of independence for the twins, Anders and I feel like we have gotten small pieces of our former lives back.

We can leave them with babysitters now, we can finally sleep through the night (most of the time), we can use booster seats instead of those giant five-point car seats and we can leave them alone for the odd weekend at my parent’s house.

It feels a bit like finally coming up for air, or coming out of a long coma. We are getting small tastes of freedom and glimpses of what our lives will soon be returning to. The problem is, we don’t have the same energy we used to. When we are making plans - it all looks great on paper - but when we get down to brass tacks, both of us always bail.  

Tuesday at 6pm

Me: “Mom and dad have the kids this weekend – want to go out for dinner and maybe to the movie this weekend?”
Anders: “Sure! Sounds great – let’s make a reservation downtown, ask some friends and plan for a taxi.”

Friday at 6pm

Me: “Shit – how do we get out the plans for tomorrow night? Why the fuck did I go and invite people? I am exhausted and the thought of going downtown again makes me want to shove forks in my eyes.”
Anders: “I told you not to make plans! I say we cancel, order take-out and watch a movie.”

Saturday at 6 pm

Me: “I am too tired to dial the phone. Can we just eat whatever we can find in the couch while we watch Netflix??”
Anders: “ZZzzzz…Hurch...What? Huh? Yeah whatever…Zzzzzzz”

It has also made me realize that I have aged a good 10 years since they were born. My hands are now “crepe-y” and are covered in small (for now) liver-spots. I have the starts of crowfeet and my abdomen can best be described as the scarred earth of a past battleground – streaked by stretchmarks and surgical scars. My legs have the starts of varicose veins, and even if the kids aren’t waking me up in the night, my bladder is.

The only bad side so far of the kids starting school is that now we can compare our kids to the other kids in their class.

I have no idea why women (and maybe men too – but for me it has always been the women) have to always turn things into a competition. Right after the twins were born, I learned that you could count on four questions from every other mom you met:

1.    How much weight did you gain? Trick question - if you lie and say a small number you will get the lecture on starving your baby. If you tell the truth you will get told how you should have had some self-control and they are shocked you didn’t get gestational diabetes.

2.    Did you nurse? If you didn’t – you will get the “look” followed by a lecture on the many reasons you are a horrible, selfish person and that you are probably going straight to hell. If you did nurse - for how long did you nurse? Another trick question – no matter what you answer – it will be wrong. You didn’t nurse enough and the baby is lacking that bond and immunity, or the reply will be that you nursed too long and the baby will have messed up mommy issues for life.  

3.    How long before you went back to work? Another lose-lose question. If you went back before mat leave was up – you are a horrible human. If you waited the full mat leave before you returned, are are also super horrible, maybe even the anti-Christ, as how could you leave that poor baby at the daycare and watch that tiny baby face as you drive away. Only correct answer in this situation: “Why I haven’t gone back to work and have chosen to be a stay-at-home mom.”

4.    Vaginal or cesarean birth? Again – trick question – and trust me – don’t answer as you be locked in a horrific game of one-upmanship like you have never known. You will get ALL the gory details of how their vag actually turned inside out, they shit themselves on the table, they ripped from sternum to tailbone and the room looked like a scene from a war movie with all the blood and gore. Their story will ALWAYS be worse that your story and will be filled with such graphic and horrible details that you will be haunted and will drink to forget. To avoid this question – I have come up with my own strategy. I tell them that the twins ate their way out in a death battle for food – that they erupted alien-style out of the side of my belly. If they laugh – I know we will be friends. If they give me the “face” – I know I am good and we can go our separate ways.

But now that they are in school – this game has gone to whole new level. Anders and I are constantly worrying that Max isn’t writing as well as some of the other kids, and Molly seems to be a bit more immature then some of the girls. But – luckily the Mom-brigade is one step ahead of me and has a whole new series of questions designed to make me feel like I am clearly a shitty parent - and that my kids are suffering becasue if my sheer shittiness. 

The new round of questions we have been receiving:

1.    Home many sports is your child involved in? Haha! Don’t be fooled! This is simply an intro for them to talk about how AMAZING their kids are and to highlight the fact that will definitely be in the Olympics. Probably both the summer and winter since their kids are so super-dee-dupertity awesome. And then they will let you know your kid is a spaz since he/she isn’t in any sports, or not the right sport. 

2.    What level is your child reading at? Again – trick question. If your kid is reading above the level of the questioner’s kid - it is because you are a slave driver pushing the kid too hard, and you are probably fucking them up for life. If they are reading below their kid’s level – then hahaha! You suck again! Your kid is the town idiot and you will get the pity face and all kinds of half-ass reassurances of “oh you don’t worry yourself, I am sure it isn’t because of anything YOU did…they will catch up…probably…”

3.    How tall is your kid? This is the one and only area where I can say we kick all the competitions ass since our kids are just shy of being giants. I would never have guessed that height would become something parents use as a competition. Growing up, I was always made to feel like a freak because I was so tall. Where were all these assholes when I was 5’9” in grade four and trying to slump down as much as possible to fit in with all my 5’ tall friends?  

4.    How old was your kid when they (INSERT ANYTHING)? You are always going to feel like an asshole at the end of this conversation as the question is engineered to make you feel bad as a parent. They are asking this because they can reply that their kid did whatever it was at a freaky early age. Timmy potty trained himself at two-weeks old! Jennie rode a bike with no training wheel at six-months! Braxton has failed kindergarten three times but has been downhill skiing for four seasons already! 

I don’t know why we are so hard on ourselves and why we as women have to be so competitive amongst each other - especially when it comes to working moms versus stay-at-home moms.

I get that it is a choice to work (for some women it isn’t – I also understand that) versus staying at home. Why do these differences make us so hateful towards each other? My theory is guilt and jealousy. Each group wants what the other group has. From my perspective, I wish I had more time at home with the kids, but also so that I could stay on top of the house related stuff. I am not sure why stay-at-home moms are so hateful towards working moms, but can guess it may be tied to perceptions that we have freedom from the house all day and spend our time interacting with other grown-ups.

The other week I was at the bus stop when this particular mom (who to be honest I am not a big fan of - she is loud, rude, opinionated and tries to parent my kids while I am standing right there) starts in with how tired and stressed she is since she has to drive her daughter to playschool AND get groceries AND clean the house that day.

I gave her a look. Took a deep breath and replied with, “That is a busy day. I got up at 4am this morning to clean our four bathrooms and then after working all day, I get to throw something that resembles dinner onto the table and try and spend time with these maniacs before wrestling them into bed at around 8 p.m. After that, I will be going to get groceries. When I get back from that I will be vacuuming. I should be in bed by like 10 or 10:30.”  

I actually felt bad about saying that and apologized to her the next day. She said a rude reply and hasn’t spoken to me since. I don’t know what will make us all stop judging each other and our choices and I know I am not innocent.

So, for my part, I am not going to participate in the one-upmanship game anymore. So here it is – all the shame inducing replies to the questions:

-      My kids still cannot ride their bikes
-      My kids still need help showering and drying off
-      My kids have trouble writing words and some numbers
-      My kids aren’t reading yet
-      My kids can’t tie their own shoes
-      My kids haven’t tried skiing yet

And do you know what? I don’t give a shit. They are smart, funny, loving and outgoing kids who have a ton to offer and the next 70 or 80 years to figure that shit out. And they are pretty bright so I know they will.

If they dont, then I guess the mom from the bus stop will have the last laugh and they really will end up living in my basement until I croak.

What has two thumbs and is stupid enough to break its own legs?

This guy.

Well – they are not totally broken, but I did manage to create stress fractures in both my shins from over-training. My friend and I signed up for the half-marathon in Phoenix on March 1^st and apparently I have gone a little too far, a little too often.

I thought I just had a bad case of shin splints which I couldn’t shake. I also didn’t want to be that lame-ass who goes in to the doctor for every little ache. Plus, I was raised by a dad who had the firm belief that any injury could be “walked off”. If it still hurt – you hadn’t walked far enough.  

After a few weeks of alternating between rest days and icing, with my shins continuing to get worse, my friend suggested I get them checked as she thought they might be more serious.

Two doctor appointments, one bone scan and three x-rays later, yup, she was right. Stress fractures in both tibias (shin bones). Damn. The prescription was two weeks of no running followed by a gradual reintroduction. My doctor said I could do things like swim, bike and cross country ski in the meantime to keep my cardio up, but I preferred to play it safe. I spent the last two weeks basically drinking beer every night and eating a metric shit-tonne of food. My running partner - in a move of solidarity – also took the last two weeks off and helped me drink and eat my way back into my fat pants.

I went for a run for the first time yesterday and although it felt better – things still hurt. It is not looking good for Phoenix.

New plan for Phoenix: plenty of drinking, shopping, eating and lounging by the pool, while Calgary is still on the wrong side of zero degrees Celsius.  

New plan for running: if it hurts – stop doing it dummy.

This getting old shit is fantastic. I am currently 38 and I thought I had a few more years before this kind of shit set in. What comes next? Peeing my pants when I sneeze? Growing whiskers?

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