Woozy Wednesday: Jericho

I picked my favourite red wine for its artsy label. I don't know a thing about wine. I've never been to a winery, I've never read up about it and I've never once cared to. I know that I don't like white wine because it tastes like chilled crotch rot. But red? Divine. It tastes like creation, like sex and poetry. It blows my trumpet and brings down my walls.

Bear Flag Red Wine Blend from California

A few years ago, my dreads and I paraded into the liquor store and gravitated to this bottle for its colourful design. Most likely I brought it home and shared it with Jane cross-legged on the polka dot rug of the room with the orange walls and the prayer flags. What do I say about it? How do I describe it? It pairs well with chocolate and wet faces from laughter and heartache. It chases down dreams and settles into the crevices of earth not yet discovered. We tip toe around it with our first glass cradled with ladylike fingertips and then back-flip into it all with our second. Shy eyes, break bread, hold hands, nod heads.


 

Woozy Wednesday: Puzzle Pieces

I was never into bars or clubs and 90% of my pub appearances have been at Andrew's side. I attribute it to my wardrobe; jeans and tee shirts with cats wearing sunglasses on the front just aren't conducive to the bar scene.

Also, I'm old. And also, I get overstimulated with all the people and music and drinks and conversation. There is so much chaos in my day-to-day life that in my free time nothing sounds more blissful to me than sitting in a corner, drooling and starting at a white wall.

I love being alone. I grew up in a big house, my two sisters 8 and 10 years older than me and so a lot of the time I was left to my own devices.

Quite like an only child, I learned how to entertain myself. I would read books for hours on end until I couldn't physically keep my eyes open. I started running when I was 13, not in a track club or running group but by myself. I played solitaire card games on our camping trips. I'm not complaining because I loved it!

Long-distance running does it for me. It gives me that solitude that my soul craves, that respite from the people, the music, the drinks and conversation. But I have to say that I am learning something about myself, that while it's okay to be alone for a time, it doesn't need to be as much as possible. Rather than escaping to Costco by myself, I turn the van around and pick Andrew and Callum for company. Is it more work? Yep. But it's worth it because I'm better when they're with me, when I'm with them.

I guess that's what happens when you find your partner for life. They get called "the other half" for that reason right there, that we feel severed without them, the open-ended part of our beings left shivering and exposed. I hate it. I was SO FINE without that man. It's frustrating. Ha.

Anyway, so on Friday night Lora and I went for a run and then to the pub for some dinner and drinks and I sat there across from her and felt that pull, that shivery and exposed feeling and finally at some point my eyes filled up with tears and I told her, "I just want to go home. I need Andrew." And that was the end of our night.

I'm not saying it's not okay and healthy and right to be on my own with girlfriends from time to time. No! Not at all! But for me, just for me personally, I don't like being at a pub without my husband. There is just something about that scene that beckons me to be completed with locked eyes, fingers intertwined and stolen little knowing glances with my man. He drives me crazy sometimes, but he's my missing puzzle piece. And I don't want to walk into the bar or pub scene without him.

Held Back

Freddy got diagnosed with a blood disorder when he was just over one year old. He got a cold, which turned into a cough which turned into pneumonia and his little body was working too hard making red blood cells to even remotely fight the pneumonia. It's a rare hereditary blood disorder, and I'm so thankful that it hasn't affected his life too much. Once in a while when his body can't keep up with the rapid rate of red blood cell destruction, we bring him to the hospital for blood work and if need be, transfusions.

There's this image in my mind. No, it's in not just in my mind, it's in the gap between my skin and memory, my senses and instincts. That space that juts out into our lives whether we want it to or not like a sharp rock between here and there, a space where we can either stand upon or lose ourselves on. And it's of Freddy's tiny toddler body, bound in a hospital bed sheet in a way that kept him still enough to give blood for tests. He was too young to understand that we bound him to help him. He fought hard against us, against the binding force, his iron will flexing and pushing, the angst inside his body practically bursting through his skin and all I could do was stand there and helplessly watch him fight.

I've seen this scene manifest in different ways with each child. It's not a hospital sheet, in an emergency room. It's on a couch. It's in the backseat of the van. It's in a restaurant, it's at home. It's here and there and everywhere in between but to me, it looks the same, that my child's angst is practically bursting through their skin and all I can do is stand there and helplessly watch them fight.

I want to unzip the gap, gather my babies in my arms and duck us all down beneath the great divide between here and there, stand upon that rock, and know peace. And know peace. To close up the unknown and lie still in the safety of love where there is no pain, there is no fight, there is no angst.

But then we wouldn't move forward.

Woozy Wednesday: Shades of Green

I was pregnant with Freddy when we decided to get another kitten. There was a sweet little blue point Himalayan available in Vancouver, so we drove out there to meet our new family member. She lived with her people in this eclectic, super funky house and they had the coolest interior decor. But in the corner, surrounded by shelves of books and a humble side table was this shiny lime green chair, and I fell in love. The people promised me that if they ever moved and had to get rid of it, they'd phone me first. They didn't. And it's been what, twelve years? And I'll never get it out of my head. But I'll find it one day, ohhhhh I'll find it.

When I am 80 years old and sitting gnarled up in my green pleather armchair, I will look back at my life and think three things: 1) what the fuckitty fuck was THAT, 2) thank you Jesus Santa God for underwire bras and 3) even at the cost of my pride, there are just some things I will never regret. Like for instance, the time my kids' principal picked up my lacy underwear, or when I started the Seattle marathon at the half marathon time and ended up getting passed by all the Olympians like a fat kid on sports day. And the best of the best, the night that Melody and I knitted mustaches and dressed up like Dave Babych and went to one of his games.

The night started out innocently enough. I knitted up a couple of brown mustaches and brought some plain white tee shirts over to Melody's house where we cracked open some lime green coolers (MISTAKE OF THE CENTURY) and proceeded to draw images of Dave on our shirts. I grew up watching the Canucks with my dad, and Babych was one of my favourites because he wasn't everyone else's favourite. He was a tough guy with a mustache. He was original. I liked him.

I love the masking tape peeking out behind my mustache

We showed up at the game in our garb and Babych was incredulous that we'd be his superfans that night. He skated over and got his picture taken with us which was later publicized in the paper. It was a fun night. But when we got home, I couldn't stomach that sugary neon lime green drink anymore. It was so disgusting.

I guess I'm a purist. If I'm going to have a drink, I'll drink wine or beer, but vodka sugar bombs make my knees buckle. The only funky lime green element that belongs in my life is that coveted pleather chair.

Mileage Monday

I hit 60 again this week but it was a lot harder this week than last. I'm guessing it's the sinus infection and the accompanying antibiotics.

Monday: I squeaked in a four miler on the treadmill while Callum napped and then later on in the day, when Andrew got home from his long-ish run of 14 miles, I parked the van at Katie's school and ran a hilly six around there before pick-up.

Tuesday: I did five on the treadmill in the morning, and then we went Christmas shopping where Callum had his first picture taken with Santa. Then I took off for another five outside in the dark while Andrew had Callum. I felt incredibly strong that night, for some reason! I love running at night.

Wednesday: A boring seven miles on the therapymill while Callum napped. I really need to find a new movie or show on Netflix to help pass the time. Suggestions?

Thursday: I ran eight miles on the treadmill again during naptime, but I had ZERO entertainment as Andrew was using my phone to record his vlog.

Friday:  Well, THIS was an interesting run. Lora and I went into Fort Langley where we used to run all the time years ago, but we started at around 4 o'clock right when it was getting dark. We parked by the pub and as we were getting our stuff together in the van, these two teenage boys came up to the Lora's side and knocked on the window. I thought they were in trouble so I un-did the window a bit. One of the punkasses reached into the van and asked for some money to which I replied, "NO!" and promptly put the window back up...on his finger. So his buddy starts yelling, and I undo the window and free his finger. But the pinched finger guy starts opening up my van door so I ABSOLUTELY LOST MY MIND on them. I whipped open my van door and started after them and they took off. I'm not exactly sure what I was going to do if I caught them, but I can use my imagination. My teenagers are much, MUCH better people. Anyway, Lora and I did seven miles in the pitch blackness with our hearts pounding with fear, and with the trail sprinkled with deer. Nice. It rhymed.

Saturday: I did twelve miles outside and I really struggled through them.

Sunday: I punctuated the week with an outside six miler to make it an even sixty for the week.

Woozy Wednesday: The Darker Side of Winter

I believe that we are all born with a disposition toward something whether it be depression or anxiety, OCD, or some other underlying burbling of "here it comes if you don't watch out." This disposition gently nudges us against gravity and then something comes along like a divorce or a miscarriage or something else tragic and WHAM we fall backward into its abyss. It doesn't have to be a disease or a disorder, no. That's not what I'm saying. It could be something as harmless as a passion for shopping or applying makeup. But when acute stress tips the scale, all of a sudden we've spent thirty thousand dollars on welcome mats and blush.

I have an underlying anxiety disorder. I was medicated for a while, and I'm open to meds if I ever need them again, but for now I'm able to manage my anxiety levels with the knowledge gained from counseling and therapy, and the catharsis of distance running. And of course, hugs from my husband, who smells like home and holds me and heals the dry cracked parts of my heart.

The winter months tend to have an adverse affect on me; I'm not a fan. I like Christmas and stuff, like, when all the kids are in bed and Andrew and I are a bit tipsy on Spanish coffees, making out on the couch in front of the lit tree. I appreciate those nights. But the cold, dreary, dark rainy winters of the West Coast have a way of hacking into my brain, clearing out all of my rationality and then setting up insanity camp. Kill me now, and then raise me up in Spring with a Corona and a bottle of coconut-scented SPF 4.

However, about two years ago I had my first taste of Granville Island Winter Ale and I've been obsessed with it ever since. Beer is not necessarily my "thing." It makes me feel all bloaty, and I have a hard time eating food when I'm drinking beer because of all the fizz. So I'll often drink it after a run with Lora or on a super hot summer day, so that the heat can metabolize the liquid a bit faster and then I'm able to stuff some nachos and wings down the hatch just that much easier.

But I puffy heart Winter Ale. It's a darker chocolately beer that goes really well with being alive. Some people wait with baited breath for pumpkin spice lattes but me? I'd way rather overpay for a beer than a coffee.

Woozy Wednesday: Strength in Numbers (of drinks)

Self-regulate. Have you ever heard that term? I'm not sure where I picked it up but I say it often. It refers to the process of moving from the feeling of being totally exposed, suspended in mid-air and freaked right out toward the feeling of having our feet planted firmly into the ground, chin up, chest open and strong. We self-regulate several times a day without even realizing it.

Being naked tends to demand self-regulation. Think back to how you last felt at the beach or at the pool when you had to peel your clothes off down to your bathing suit and parade yourself down to the water's edge. How did you get there? You self-regulated. You told yourself that your body is just fine, that nobody is looking, or that the size of your ass is exciting and your husband is enjoying the wobble. You gave yourself grace, you let yourself be, and you made it to the water.

Anyway.

What does this have to do with Woozy Wednesday? Have you heard of the term, "liquid confidence?" It's self-regulation in disguise. It's an imposter. However, it comes in handy when we need to cross over into uncharted territory like our first nude beach experience, or when we're asked to MC at a wedding. Sometimes we need to be under the influence of a boozy drink to take all our clothes off and march our fat white asses to the ocean just to get a notch on our (imaginary) belt so that next time it will be that much easier.

But I'll tell you that my favourite night ever was when Tracey and I sang karaoke at a bar on Davie Street and I had not one drink before I got up to sing "Waking Up in Vegas" because I wanted to develop that mental muscle that helps me self-regulate.

For the majority of the population, the self-regulation muscle is a lot weaker than our beer-pouring muscles. But hey. I don't judge.

Andrew started this project where he's going to post video blogs on Facebook every Friday for the next three months. He's terrified, and so with much encouragement and tequila shots, he successfully completed his first post. It will be up on Friday.

May your liquid confidence be rapidly replaced by the strength of self-regulation, and when it is, send us your leftovers.

Tequila!

Woozy Wednesday: Split Wiener

It was a chilly night in January, snowflakes dancing slowly through obstacles, making their way down to the ground. Andrew was over and we were keeping warm inside, drinking wine and planning out our night. We were going to be taking a cab to the Fort Pub to meet his colleague and his wife for supper.

The taxi dropped us off at the curb and, after spotting the couple seated at the window with the pub filled to the brim with people behind them, Andrew proceeded to press his bare bum against the cold, snowy glass.

We made our way to their table and ended up having a great time eating and drinking and comparing outrageous life stories containing all sorts of incriminating evidence that will never leave those pub doors. We experimented with shots, hydrated with beer and sipped on wine. At one point Andrew and I both got up to visit the loo and when we tried to reenact a previous romantic moment outside of the bathroom doors, we opted out as we both felt like we might be sick. Not exactly romantic.

Once our fun night came to a close, Steve offered to give us a lift home as he hadn't been drinking. He has a vintage Porche 911 (I really hope I'm getting this right, Steve!). It's a fantastic car, but not meant for carting around a bunch of adults. His wife and I smashed our bodies into the backseat and Andrew tucked himself into the front passenger side. It took us a while to get sorted out, and Steve pulled away from the curb just as Andrew started to panic: "Pull over! Pull over!"

Steve pulled over and Andrew unfolded his body like an accordion just in time to get out and throw up his dinner: a double bacon cheeseburger topped off with a split wiener. Once we got dropped off at my place, Andrew stayed outside and kept throwing up. I guess he hadn't been sick in a long time because he was convinced that he was dying. At one point he begged me to phone an ambulance. Trying not to laugh, I coaxed him inside, got him some water and tucked him into bed.

I do realize that by my telling stories like this I am opening up the vault, which I'm totally okay with, just as long as nobody remembers in the morning.

BFF: Gonch

See, I have this post all set up for auto publishing for Blended Family Friday but it's boring as hell. All of my posts lately have been so serious and sentimental, and it's time that I just really tell it how it is.

You know what it's like over here? Here's a perfect example of a typical blended family. I got a text from Jason (ex-husband, father of Jake, Freddy and Katie) telling me that he found a pair of women's underwear stuck in Jake's shorts that he packed in his bag. And because I had Callum balancing on one hip and a pot of pasta boiling on the stove in the kitchen, I couldn't totally freak out and instead could only stare at the texts on my phone while my blood pressure rose to a deafening roar. It's those moments where I visualize the years of my life dropping off the edge of a cliff: there goes year 73, now 72, 71 just took a nosedive, and so on and so forth.

Because Jason knows all of this, he gleefully sends me a picture of the underwear and they look hauntingly familiar. They're mine. It's a Victoria's Secret aqua-blue lacy thong and I want to die right there at age 36 because a) my underwear is in the pocket of my 14 year-old son's shorts and b) my ex-husband just took a picture of it and it's at his house. Jason's grossed out, Jake is mortified, and I want to die. And then of course Andrew is like, why is Jason texting pictures of your blue lacy underwear? And why are they in Jake's shorts? And the ripe old age of 71 just isn't coming soon enough.

But then? But then. I exhale with relief because they're my underwear and not some random woman's blue lacy thong in my 14 year-old son's shorts. It's a simple laundry mix-up, and really the only thing that I need to worry about is that the pot of spaghetti on the stove not boil over.

And everything else in the whole wide world.

Woozy Wednesday

Like I was saying last week on Tuesday, when I published my first edition of "Woozy Wednesday" (ironically, I had been knee deep into the red wine and had mixed up the days), I didn't grow up with alcohol. When I was just over nineteen, I recall going out for drinks with the punks who I worked with at a sports store after work one night and I fidgeted nervously while the waitress went around our table taking drink orders. So far the only experiences I had with alcohol were taking haphazard swigs out of vodka bottles and then throwing it all up in the bushes. The girls I worked with ordered some sort of complicated fruity drinks, but the guys all ordered beer. And because I lived for going against the norm, I also ordered a beer. I had no idea what kind to get, so I copied the dude next to me and ordered a Heineken. I gulped down the first bit and thought it tasted fine until one other guy screwed up his face at it and said he'd never order those; they're too "skunky." And I swear the next sip tasted exactly like skunk, and I haven't been able to drink it since.

In the summer of 2010 I drove down to Tacoma to visit my friend Renata and together we took off for Portland, Oregon. I wanted to get my dreads tuned up at a funky little shop and after that we stopped in at one of the local breweries for lunch. I had no clue what to drink so I just ordered an IPA, and Renata ordered an oatmeal stout. When I screwed up my face at my first sip of bitter citrus, Renata kindly offered a sip of hers. It. Was. It. The waitress switched up my drinks and we sipped our beers and dug into our burgers in total bliss.

It's nice to finally like something because I really like it, not because the guy next to me likes it or because I'm not allowed to like it. It feels right and good like my favourite bright green sweater with the worn-out elbows. I don't chug it to get buzzed; I drink it to share with those around me. It's like the difference between selfishly eating all the M&Ms out of the bag of trail mix while standing in the kitchen, and sitting around the table with my friends and family to break bread and savor a meal.

Have I shoveled M&Ms down my throat while standing alone in a dark pantry, carelessly dropping bits of peanuts and cashews all over the floor? Youbetcha. Just like I've come back from a run and thrown back a couple of light beers for the sole purpose of numbing the stress in my chest. Are both of those going to kill me? No. But they make me feel pretty shitty.

So here's to my green sweater, to warm bread, to dark beer and the warm skin of the man I love, and the kids we raise together. And if that's not a total buzz, then I don't know what is.

Hold Strong

Anyone who knows me knows about my eating habits; they are not pretty. I was a vegetarian in high school; I stayed away from meat and stuck with ketchup chips and chocolate bars. Not much has changed, except with the necessary addition of chicken wings and cheeseburgers.

However, from time to time when circumstances would force me to change my habits, I would collapse at the mercy of my nutritionist, Brenda, and she would save me. When my dad got diagnosed with colo-rectal cancer, Brenda set me up with a colon cleanse. When heavy doses of antibiotics threw my body into yeast-overload, she armed me with everything I needed to get my body back into balance.

Brenda has the most amazing skin. I stand there in her office, my armpits sweating, feeling pathetic and hopeless and she puts me at ease with her soothing voice, her radiant smile and most importantly, her knowledge of the human body. One of the tests she uses on me is what I call the "hold strong" test. If she wants to see if I'm lacking in say, vitamin C, she will put a bottle of it in my hand while my arm is flexed and she tells me to "hold strong" while she pushes down on my forearm. The theory is if I am needing the vitamin C, I won't be able to hold strong; my arm will give easily to her pressure. And if my body is all stocked up then my arm will not give. It will hold strong.

During the toughest time of my life I would have that phrase put into my mind and heart several times a day. Like, Suzy? Take this. Yes. Now hold strong.

Okay, I'm getting all choked up.

I will take whatever life chooses to put in my hands. And I'll hold it, I'll take it, I'll let it move through me and for me and against me like a cancer and a cure and then I will grow from it. I will survive it.

And the next time I am handed something hard to hold, I will be able to hold on that much stronger. 

Crackerjacks

When I was a little girl my mom and dad would take me to the Vancouver Canadiens baseball games and there, during particularly tense moments I'd hunch over, my tailbone digging into the plastic chair and I'd focus on my thumbnail, of all things. I'd lose myself inside of it, envisioning the pitcher whipping one right down the chute and then the batter whacking it out of the park. Weird, eh? Ya.

I have a strong will. I've always figured that if I wanted something bad enough that I would just get it. If I could only draw up every last drop of internal energy and squeeeeeeze it out as magic potion into whatever situation that needed it then I would be able to save it all, steering the wheel of the ship away from its demise. From time to time it would work as I envisioned it inside of my thumbnail; the good guys would hit a home run and win the game. But most of the time I have to face reality: I'm not God. And that sucks.

I'd like to say that if I was God, I'd run a perfectly painless world. But we all know that beauty comes out of ashes, flowers grow where dirt once was, and grace grows in the cracks. Right? A lot of the treasures in our lives exist because of the mistakes we first made. Our present situations, although at times uncomfortable, can be redeemed with Love. So maybe, just maybe, I could stop looking down at my own strong will and instead look up and just enjoy the game. Plus, I'm sure the people sitting closest to me would appreciate it if I stopped focusing on my thumbnail and passed the popcorn already.

Break Out

When I was a teenager, I dealt with zits. But they weren't the nice polite little red dots, easily squeezed and then dried up with special cream promoted by cute models on TV. No. I had something called cystic acne, otherwise known as "under-the-skin zits."

Under-the-skin zits are these hot and infected mounds of ouch that grow beneath the surface of the skin. They cannot be squeezed and if a squeeze is attempted, all that comes out is this clear liquid leaving behind a lump 100 times the original size. I once had one between my eyebrows and ended up walking out of the bathroom looking like one of the characters from Star Trek.

My mom was one of those parents that let me stay home from school when The Zits were really really bad. I recall one day in grade eleven, I had six under-the-skin zits on my face at once. My friends were heading up to Seymour to go snowboarding and I stayed at home reapplying antibacterial cream to my war wounds.

Eventually my mom got sick of me whining about my appearance and one day when I was begging her to stay at home, she told me something I'll never forget. A bit cross with me, she said, "Suzy, you're thinking much too highly of yourself to think that everyone is looking at you and your zits." She was annoyed. She was harsh. But she was right.

I often remember her words when I get my feet stuck in my own ego. We can't really engage in life when we're worried about what everyone else will think of us. The land of worry has high electric fences around the perimeter.

But I say we break out of our prison of worry to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before. Even if we do look like a Vulcan.

SSBB

I took the kids to the pool last night and while we were piling our sweaty bodies out of the van, Katie and I said something at the exact same time, so she shouts out in a panic, "JINX ROOF!" and I'm all, "what?" and she's like, "if we say something at the same time and someone says 'jinx' first, I can reply with 'jinx roof' and then I win, and they can't speak until I say their name."

That is just way too much control for an nine year-old to possess. But it reminded me of when I was her age and the games we used to play. Not 'doctor' you sickos. We played Super Sonic Bounce Back.

When we were tucked into our tiny metal desks, being fed some bullshit about long division, one of us predictably got bored and stirred up some chaos. Notes were passed, a couple kids farted, and we could always count on some bully to call someone a name of some sort: "You're such a LOOOOO-ZERRRRR, Bobby!" or "How did you ever fit that McFat ass in that desk, Betty!"

Apparently I'm so old that my classmates names were Bobby and Betty. Awesome.

If Bobby and Betty were on their game, they would have anticipated the verbal assault and had written in permanent ink on their palms: "SSBB" so that when someone calls them an idiot, they could simply throw their hand in their opponent's face and point to the letters, proclaiming their own innocence: "Super Sonic Bounce Back! HA HA HA! Looks like your insult bounces off me and goes back to YOU! YOU'RE the idiot NOW!"

It's brilliant.

And it's totally how the real world works, but without the dirty hair and sticky fingers. Well, most of us anyway.

We treat people like shit and it always comes back around. It just does. Call it Karma, call it SSBB, call it John 3:16 but whatever you want to call it, it's always the same: the way we treat others will leave a mark on our own hearts whether we want it to or not. Our own poor choices will hurt others, for sure. But they will disable us. They don't just bounce back; they Super Sonic Bounce Back.

And there's not a single long division lesson on this earth that is more painful than that. 

Fack Fear

When my almost 14 year-old son Jake was a chubby-cheeked first grader, he came home from (Christian private) school one day with watery eyes and a trembling lower lip. Apparently, Jake told me, his friend Ryan introduced him to the "F" word.

Hoping that my sweet little innocent boy might be spared a few more years from the vulgar language that I save for after bedtime and speeding tickets, I crossed my fingers and prayed a silent prayer that the "F" stood for "Fart." I asked Jake what exactly the "F" word was and he whispered shamefully, "It stands for 'fack'."

"Oh!" I exhaled with relief. "And what does 'fack' mean?"

Jake was terrified, but managed to squeak out, "It means when the man puts his penis in the lady's bum."

Growing up in the church, my days baptized with skin-coloured pantyhose and potluck dinners, I remember going to youth group functions where the speaker would preach about our sexuality. Our cheeks would burn with guilt as we'd hope against hope that he'd pull a "Jesus and the fishes"* and miraculously spare us from the hellfire that will most certainly consume us if we ever lost our virginity.

The most popular question at these things was always, "where is the line?" as in, "what can we get away with without technically sinning?" The guys would wonder what they could do with their penis without losing their virginity. Was masturbating okay? Maybe put it in a pie? And the girls with acceptance issues would hope that they could, I don't know, do super slutty things without letting the vajayjay out.

It's a brutal way to live, really, because it's fear-based living. We were all focused on what not to do, not because we were mature and cared about our bodies, mind and spirits but because we were scared of sinning. I've always said that the opposite of love isn't hate--it's fear. And since God is (supposed to be) Love, why is fear so prevalent in the church?

I wish the preachers had sent the whole lot of us to the water slides for the day and instead collected our parents into a room and preached at them. God knows they could have used a break from us and a free casserole dinner.  Love starts at home. At the dinner table. While we fight, while we play catch, while we pick lice out of our kids' heads. It's in the mind-bending exhaustion of staying up all night with a puker, or taking our teen to the doctor for anti-bacterial cream for a zit that got out of control.

If love drives out fear in our homes, then our kids won't need to find love somewhere else. They won't need to fack.

*Jesus and the fishes refers to the Bible story where Jesus had to feed a gazillion starving people with like, hardly any fish, but somehow, everyone had something to eat.

Magic Trick

On Victoria Day in May, our family of eight, along with Andrew's parents and friends went to the May Day parade in Fort Langley, an annual tradition for the Slane family. As usual, nothing went smoothly for us. Jeebuz turned up the rain dial to a '10' so that we all had to stand out in the torrential downpour for a solid two hours, with a baby. Soaked with cold rain and bad attitudes, we hung around and counted down the seconds until we could jump back into the heated van and fuck off out of there.

Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.

I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.

The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.

Penises Are Like People

Okay, just a sec. I need to take a swig of wine before I start writing this one. Nnggkaahh. There. So a few years ago during my self work phase (letting go of control, insecurities, showing myself grace, gaining confidence in who I am, blah blah blah) I gave myself the assignment of walking around a nude beach. But actually naked, with no bathing suit on. I had assumed that I was going to be the only one there with National Geographicesque boobies but upon arrival I quickly realized that I was not the only one. Indeed, there were a whole tribe of us.

My friends and I fluffed out our blankets, and right after I whipped my bathing suit off, I laid down, buried my face in my towel and squeezed my bum cheeks together. It took some time and a couple of Coronas but I was finally ready to self-regulate and saunter down to the water. The walk to the edge felt like a trip to the electric chair but sinking into the ocean with the velvety water against my skin made it all worth it. I was free.

Shoot, okay, I got side-tracked. This post wasn't supposed to be about that, it was supposed to be about this. So my friends and I opened up a discussion about bodies and how different we all are, thank goodness. Because wouldn't it just be so boring if we all looked like supermodels? Mmmhmm. Right. But anyway, we got to talking about penises.

Nnggkaahh. More wine.

And they informed me that there are typically two kinds of penises: The Growers, and The Show-ers.

Apparently Growers are the ones that start out regular-sized when they're all flaccid but then when erect, they show up to the game in full gear, ready to go. The Show-ers are the ones that when flaccid are already swinging the bat and when erect, the bat just gets hard. Same size, just hard.

Makes sense.

Some people are all show. There's a local guy here that drives a big ol' jacked up truck with giant tires with a custom license plate that says "HUGE." Penis size? I'm sure it's not huge. There are churchy people that puff their chests out and judge The Sinners and tell them (us? Nnggkaahh...) to go to church, to read the Bible, to fast and pray. Meanwhile they're, what, who knows? Probably stealing lipstick from Safeway and taking the first licks off their kids' ice cream cones. The Show-ers look all righteous and shiny and fantastical. But when the pressure builds, well, they just get harder to deal with.

Some people actually grow. They start out humble and unassuming, living their lives in the dark messy corners where life matters most. Jesus was like that. He was born in a barn, grew up to be a carpenter by trade, wore sandals and walked giant distances to reach the town rejects so he could love them quietly, without pretense. There are all sorts of growers around us. They're often tattooed, their eyes shadowed with a mark of some sort. But when they laugh, it's from their guts. When they love, it's from their hearts. When the pressure builds, they show up to play ball. And when they're up to bat, they always hit a home run.

Nnggkaahh...

And there of course are some penises that are huge and just get huger. And some that are shrinky-dink and don't grow much at all, either. Home runs are hit all over the world with all different sizes of penises and the size, ability, etc etc DOES NOT MATTER. Which is what this post is about, that love is what matters. That's my point. Did I blow it?

Baggage Claim

I recently read a blog about how people exposed their innermost issues by writing them with pen on their bodies. One girl wrote "daddy issues" across her knuckles. Another woman wrote "molested age 5" and "mother age 16" and "prisoner age 27" on various parts of her body. One guy wrote "fat" on his hand. Another man wrote "accept me" across his forehead.

First of all, my heart goes out to overweight people because they don't get any sort of buffer between when people first meet them and when they really get to know them and the issues they carry. The man who wrote "fat" across his hand? Well, we already knew that. Right? Because he's fat right there in front of us. But the girl who was raped, or the one who cuts her torso, or the man who had testicular cancer or whose dad beat him or whose mom abandoned him, we don't see those issues right away the way we see fat on a person.

Let me take a side road here for a second. When the kids were little, our family went to Mexico and Katie did this thing in the airport where she'd ride on either my or Jason's suitcase because she was too little to keep up with the rush of it all. Since our divorce, I have told the kids that we all have our own suitcases of issues where we carry our pain, our sadness, our anger, our stress. That Andrew, dad and I all carry our own suitcases and that never, under any circumstance are any of our children allowed to carry our suitcases. Ever. But that they, as our children, have their own suitcases and that we are to help them carry theirs. It's a metaphor that works for us, and I've used it many times to help illustrate my point. It's a tendency for kids to see a hurting parent and want to help them out or protect them from their pain, but it's NOT OKAY. All I have to say to them is "this is not your suitcase."

So back to the fat person. Their suitcase happens to be wide open, spilling out all over the place. The girl who was raped or the guy with the mama drama? They can keep their suitcase all secretive and looking tidy. Would that be frustrating for the fat guy? I bet. But I also bet that they feel relieved, knowing that they don't have to keep anything hidden, wondering when someone is going to find out their big insecurity because it's right there in the open.

Big suitcases or small, exposed or not, we all have them. And I choose to surround myself with people who accept that fact because if we don't, we'll get stuck where we are and never get the opportunity to travel to new places.

Drive

It doesn't take much to get a driver's license in British Columbia because I managed to get one when I turned sixteen. My Uncle Phil taught me how to drive in his Chevrolet Chevette. My knuckles white (my uncle's whiter), I managed to pull whatever courage I had from the recesses of my insecure adolescent body and pour it out onto the roads. With the promise of freedom ahead of me, I left my fears behind.

Until I passed a semi truck on the freeway. It was scarier than playing Bloody Mary at a slumber party. The little car shaking, it felt like we were being sucked in under the truck's trailer.

Uncle Phil taught me something that day. He told me that wherever I look, that is where I will go. If I stare at the semi trucks in fear, then I will steer into them. If I fix my gaze at the road ahead then my car will drive straight and strong.

I remember a few years back when I was afraid of dogs. I would carry bear spray with me on all of my runs until I realized one day that because the spray was always in my hands, the fear of dogs was always on my mind. I decided that I would rather live the rest of my life in peace than in fear, so I got rid of it.

When I find myself stuck in debilitating fear, I ask myself what I have been focusing on to get myself stuck. Then I turn my gaze back onto the road ahead and drive my heart straight and strong.

100 Proof Gives Me Diarrhea

You all know what I'm talking about. We've heard it being preached a million times: "Everything in moderation." My dad's famous for saying that he's "addicted to anything they make more than one of." Whether or not we'd like to admit it, there really can be too much of a good thing.

But I try. Oh, I try.

And before too much time passes, I find myself nauseous from overdoing Easter chocolate, keeled over with stomach cramps from overeating broccoli in failed attempts at redemption, bleeding gums from flossing, sore knees from running, a huge Visa bill, noodle soup running down my chin and no eyebrows.

It all happens so quickly.

I need to realize much more often that it's okay to aim low. That I can always build on what I have but once it's out there, it becomes much more difficult to rein in. One of my favourite quotes is by a Roman authour from the 1st century B.C.: "I have often regretted my speech but never my silence." And isn't THAT the truth.

Andrew's parents brought us back some 100-proof vodka from the States, and, giddy with its power, we mixed ourselves some Ceasars, clinked our glasses and drank them down. However, much to our dismay, the vodka's power seemed to have more of an intestinal hold. Our romantic date nights rapidly went south, and we began to sip our potent vodka-drinks slowly, with a bit more respect.

Too much of a good thing is just that: too much. My hope is to chew slowly, floss gently, run healthfully, spend intentionally, and drink my Ceasars near a toilet.