Andrew talked about this a couple of weeks ago on his vlog, that no matter how many square feet of living space we have, our kids always seem to follow us around the house and cram into whatever room we're in.
We picked this home for the reasons that it had enough bedrooms to accommodate our blended family of eight as well as the advantage of having a rec room in the basement for where the kids could all hang out together (read: GIVE US FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD). Yeah, sure, they hang out downstairs in the rec room from time to time to play gruesome murder video games or to have the occasional standoff at air hockey, but for the most part they're well, wherever we are. And yes, that includes the toilet.
Andrew and I were cooing at Callum while he was splashing in the bathtub (Callum, not Andrew) and then Freddy sauntered in to ask me to look over his math worksheets. Shortly after that Katie waltzed in to get me to sign her planner for school and then Ethan followed them both in to see what the fuss was about. So at one time we had six people all crammed into our bathroom, happily, which was nice, as nobody was fighting at that particular moment so we can't really complain. But STILL.
I just think it's so ironic that people search high and low for that perfect home with an added rec room or space to accommodate a play area for the kids but then once we're settled, that play area becomes cold and drenched in the cobwebs of un-use.
I guess it just proves that humans are created for communion, for connection. That as we grow older, through years of experience and pain and hurt we start to put up emotional barriers and isolate ourselves further into independence. Being alone is not how we are wired but instead how we are misfired. It's not right. It's off. And so we constantly yearn for that connection but with our arms protectively outstretched in a manner of stay away, not too close, and then before too long we are alone in our mancave or alone in our living room and we wonder why our children, our own primal beings follow us into the bathroom where they can just breathe in the air we breathe out.
And we wonder why. But we know. Because at the core of who we are, we want that too.
Showing posts with label useless banter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label useless banter. Show all posts
Friday, December 5, 2014
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
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.
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.
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.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Mileage Monday
It was Seattle Marathon week for Andrew so while he tapered, I gobbled up the leftover miles like Pac-Man. Ideally I would like to do one 20-mile run per month. Twenty is the magic number as far as optimizing fitness, preparing the body and mind for a marathon, but also keeping it at a level where quick recovery is possible. Anything over 20 miles and I'm wiped out for a couple of days. I was able to squeeze in a 20 miler on Monday, topping out at 70 miles for the week while fitting in a rest day on Saturday!
Monday: My life isn't conducive to planning out runs so when the opportunity presents itself, I jump on it. I left Andrew in charge of Callum's naptime, and after I dropped Katie off at school I headed out for 20 miles. I did one loop of 14 miles, had a water break (and kept my watch running) and then finished it off with 6 miles. I was able to do it in a respectable 2:36. Then it was home, shower, and life goes on.
Tuesday: A recovery 7 miles on the therapymill followed by some stretching.
Wednesday: What a gross morning. Callum woke up at 5am. UGH! So when I put him down for his nap, I knew he'd sleep for a long time so I watched Netflix and ran 13 miles on the treadmill. But then later on, we had a free night to ourselves so after Andrew went for a run, I took off outside in the dark (my favourite time to run) for 5 miles. Then we went to El Nopal!
Thursday: I met Lora for a 10 miler along the dyke out here. We went slow and talked and solved the world's problems. They all grew back like chia by the time we got to our cars but hey. At least we had an hour of peace.
Friday: I was at home with a million kids and their friends all day so I was extremely ready to go for a run the second Andrew came home. Except Callum decided to go poo while he was playing in the bathtub so I spent some time scrubbing the tub out with lavender-scented Lysol. I guess I got it on my finger (not poo, the Lysol) because while I ran, I'd blow my nose into my glove and smell chemicals. Typical Friday night, I suppose.
Saturday: Rest Day! Drove down to Seattle for the marathon.
Sunday: Andrew powered through his second marathon in 4:32, taking 22 minutes off his previous time from only 3 months ago! Race re-cap next week.
Monday: My life isn't conducive to planning out runs so when the opportunity presents itself, I jump on it. I left Andrew in charge of Callum's naptime, and after I dropped Katie off at school I headed out for 20 miles. I did one loop of 14 miles, had a water break (and kept my watch running) and then finished it off with 6 miles. I was able to do it in a respectable 2:36. Then it was home, shower, and life goes on.
Tuesday: A recovery 7 miles on the therapymill followed by some stretching.
Wednesday: What a gross morning. Callum woke up at 5am. UGH! So when I put him down for his nap, I knew he'd sleep for a long time so I watched Netflix and ran 13 miles on the treadmill. But then later on, we had a free night to ourselves so after Andrew went for a run, I took off outside in the dark (my favourite time to run) for 5 miles. Then we went to El Nopal!
Thursday: I met Lora for a 10 miler along the dyke out here. We went slow and talked and solved the world's problems. They all grew back like chia by the time we got to our cars but hey. At least we had an hour of peace.
Friday: I was at home with a million kids and their friends all day so I was extremely ready to go for a run the second Andrew came home. Except Callum decided to go poo while he was playing in the bathtub so I spent some time scrubbing the tub out with lavender-scented Lysol. I guess I got it on my finger (not poo, the Lysol) because while I ran, I'd blow my nose into my glove and smell chemicals. Typical Friday night, I suppose.
Saturday: Rest Day! Drove down to Seattle for the marathon.
Sunday: Andrew powered through his second marathon in 4:32, taking 22 minutes off his previous time from only 3 months ago! Race re-cap next week.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Communion
Tonight's journal entry, bravely copied and pasted here for the world to see. I hope my writing helps you more than it hinders me. I hope my transparency inspires vulnerability and therefore love. That's my hope.
This is my safe zone, a place where I don't have to edit who I am and so tonight, with the candle's flames licking my eyes, glazed over from too little sleep and too much emotional drama, I put down my running shoes and instead, I write. Pearl Jam's "Garden" and a small cup of scotch keeps me warm, but my toes still tattle on the chill of adrenalin in my body.
Marriage is hard. Blended family life is harder. I am a strong woman, and even my own knees sway from time to time after a gust of whatthefuck passes through. I actually don't even know where to start except to say that if I learn anything from this season of my life, besides all the practical knowledge I'm stocking up on in regards to blended families, divorces, second marriages, stepkids, etc etc, it's that everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort burbling below the surface. It's either old pain or new, scabbed over or fresh, but it's there.
And we have two choices: either go it alone, or go it with other(s). And although being alone certainly has its place in my life, I do know that I want love. I need connection. And that being closed off and pretending everything is perfect is not the way to get it.
This is. Being vulnerable and open and receptive. And no, I don't need a bunch of head-petting and casseroles, no. I just need to be heard. And then I want to hear you back, and then I want to run.
This is my safe zone, a place where I don't have to edit who I am and so tonight, with the candle's flames licking my eyes, glazed over from too little sleep and too much emotional drama, I put down my running shoes and instead, I write. Pearl Jam's "Garden" and a small cup of scotch keeps me warm, but my toes still tattle on the chill of adrenalin in my body.
Marriage is hard. Blended family life is harder. I am a strong woman, and even my own knees sway from time to time after a gust of whatthefuck passes through. I actually don't even know where to start except to say that if I learn anything from this season of my life, besides all the practical knowledge I'm stocking up on in regards to blended families, divorces, second marriages, stepkids, etc etc, it's that everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort burbling below the surface. It's either old pain or new, scabbed over or fresh, but it's there.
And we have two choices: either go it alone, or go it with other(s). And although being alone certainly has its place in my life, I do know that I want love. I need connection. And that being closed off and pretending everything is perfect is not the way to get it.
This is. Being vulnerable and open and receptive. And no, I don't need a bunch of head-petting and casseroles, no. I just need to be heard. And then I want to hear you back, and then I want to run.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Mileage Monday
I never know how many miles I'm going to get in during any average week. It all depends on how each day unfolds. I've been spending a lot of time on my treadmill in the garage which is fine with me, I guess. I call it my "therapymill." There's something about sweating so much that I could wring my shirt out that just kills all of the cortisol in my bloodstream. It's like an ounce of FML exits my body with each drop of sweat.
I think most long-distance runners have at least a touch of OCD. I have to run on the left side of whoever I'm running with. I have to top out at a number of weekly miles that end in zero (ie. 50 miles, 60, etc). And I typically need to run every day or I feel like something bad will happen to me; I don't "feel right" if I don't get a run in.
This is what the past week looked like:
Monday: 5 mile recovery run after racing on the weekend
Tuesday: 8 miles on the therapymill
Wednesday: 10 miles: I did 3 on the treadmill and then mapped out a 7 mile run for Andrew
Thursday: 7 miles on the therapymill while the chubby kid slept
Friday: 10 super slow miles. I took walk breaks, checked Facebook, texted people, made notes.
Saturday: 5 miles on the sweatmill. Our one year anniversary!
Sunday: Andrew did his long run of 14 miles (he's training for Seattle at the end of November) and when he got back, I took off with Lora for 10 miles.
So, 55 total miles for the week. I'm not thrilled that my total didn't end in "0" but at least "5" is a divisor of 10. NERD.
I'm itching to race again but not as much as I'm looking forward to seeing Andrew run his second marathon. It's going to be a very different experience for him with Seattle being a big city with much cooler weather. I'm happy to pass the racing baton on to my sexier half.
I think most long-distance runners have at least a touch of OCD. I have to run on the left side of whoever I'm running with. I have to top out at a number of weekly miles that end in zero (ie. 50 miles, 60, etc). And I typically need to run every day or I feel like something bad will happen to me; I don't "feel right" if I don't get a run in.
This is what the past week looked like:
Monday: 5 mile recovery run after racing on the weekend
Tuesday: 8 miles on the therapymill
Wednesday: 10 miles: I did 3 on the treadmill and then mapped out a 7 mile run for Andrew
Thursday: 7 miles on the therapymill while the chubby kid slept
Friday: 10 super slow miles. I took walk breaks, checked Facebook, texted people, made notes.
Saturday: 5 miles on the sweatmill. Our one year anniversary!
Sunday: Andrew did his long run of 14 miles (he's training for Seattle at the end of November) and when he got back, I took off with Lora for 10 miles.
So, 55 total miles for the week. I'm not thrilled that my total didn't end in "0" but at least "5" is a divisor of 10. NERD.
I'm itching to race again but not as much as I'm looking forward to seeing Andrew run his second marathon. It's going to be a very different experience for him with Seattle being a big city with much cooler weather. I'm happy to pass the racing baton on to my sexier half.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Woozy Wednesdays
A lot of normal, well-adjusted-to-society bloggers have weekday themes such as "Wordless Wednesdays" where they post photographs of trees or their kid's Lego creations. Or they publish "What They Ate Wednesdays" where they list what they ate for each meal alongside photos of perfectly broiled whitefish and collard greens sauteed in tree bark juice. It's like a car wreck; I simply have to stare. But, I'm Suzy, and because I take shitty photos and have a crappier diet than the average 16 year-old male, I decided to come up with my own weekday themes.
Wednesdays, on The Runs, are now known as "Woozy Wednesdays." On Woozy Wednesdays I write about alcohol. Maybe it's a review of a new red wine we tasted, or it could be a memory we had from high school (remind me to tell you about the Sambuca story at Gary's house). Or it could be a recommendation of a good pub, or a certain beer that goes with a favourite meal. Anything and everything to do with alcohol will be written about on Wednesdays.
Excited? Me too.
I didn't grow up with alcohol and so I was never educated about it. At all. I didn't know how much to drink (or not drink) or why dark beer is dark or why white wine needs to be cold or that Vodka isn't supposed to be chugged straight from the bottle like a Corona. I learned about it all much later in life and, with a few bumps and bruises (and pregnancies), I've grown a healthy respect for the drink. Just like everything, it needs to be enjoyed in moderation. And when it isn't, then I will write about it, right here.
Anyone have any input for Thursdays? So far, all I have are "Thoughtful" and "Throbbing."
Wednesdays, on The Runs, are now known as "Woozy Wednesdays." On Woozy Wednesdays I write about alcohol. Maybe it's a review of a new red wine we tasted, or it could be a memory we had from high school (remind me to tell you about the Sambuca story at Gary's house). Or it could be a recommendation of a good pub, or a certain beer that goes with a favourite meal. Anything and everything to do with alcohol will be written about on Wednesdays.
Excited? Me too.
I didn't grow up with alcohol and so I was never educated about it. At all. I didn't know how much to drink (or not drink) or why dark beer is dark or why white wine needs to be cold or that Vodka isn't supposed to be chugged straight from the bottle like a Corona. I learned about it all much later in life and, with a few bumps and bruises (and pregnancies), I've grown a healthy respect for the drink. Just like everything, it needs to be enjoyed in moderation. And when it isn't, then I will write about it, right here.
Anyone have any input for Thursdays? So far, all I have are "Thoughtful" and "Throbbing."
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Chicken Wings
A few ladies in my general circle happen to be in their dirty thirties--a decade, for some reason or another, filled with pheromones, vibrators and crotchless underwear.
Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."
But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.
But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.
When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.
Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.
But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.
The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.
Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.
Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."
But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.
But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.
When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.
Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.
But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.
The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.
Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Aid Stations
Andrew is running his first marathon this weekend. He's panicking about it, navigating around the land of "what if?" to the point where he knows all the landmarks and on a dime, could give a tour of its every fear and apprehension.
I assured him that any of his worries not only can materialize, but probably will and that a lot of the pain and discomfort of running a marathon cannot be avoided but they can be managed. And that managing the obstacles that pop up in his path is the key to crossing the finish line.
He's going to get tired, he's going to hurt. He may even throw up and get diarrhea. But that's what gels, ibuprofen, Imodium and port-a-potties are for.
It's like life. Some of us struggle with eating too much. Others hate being around people. Some can't sleep, some are scared of commitment, and some have enough dandruff to totally kill their shot at a social life. That's just the way it is, because we are human and we are alive.
Nobody is guaranteed a smooth sail through the finish line. The more people I meet, the more I realize that everyone has a story. And in each story is a struggle. An obstacle. A bout of diarrhea, some pain, some nausea, some exhaustion. These are the things we are called to manage, if we intend to finish this race. They're unavoidable, and so we face them head-on, right? With our names on our bibs, with our loves at our sides, and with drinks at the finish.
I assured him that any of his worries not only can materialize, but probably will and that a lot of the pain and discomfort of running a marathon cannot be avoided but they can be managed. And that managing the obstacles that pop up in his path is the key to crossing the finish line.
He's going to get tired, he's going to hurt. He may even throw up and get diarrhea. But that's what gels, ibuprofen, Imodium and port-a-potties are for.
It's like life. Some of us struggle with eating too much. Others hate being around people. Some can't sleep, some are scared of commitment, and some have enough dandruff to totally kill their shot at a social life. That's just the way it is, because we are human and we are alive.
Nobody is guaranteed a smooth sail through the finish line. The more people I meet, the more I realize that everyone has a story. And in each story is a struggle. An obstacle. A bout of diarrhea, some pain, some nausea, some exhaustion. These are the things we are called to manage, if we intend to finish this race. They're unavoidable, and so we face them head-on, right? With our names on our bibs, with our loves at our sides, and with drinks at the finish.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Restraining Order
I'm sitting here watching an episode of Jail and there was this scene where the guy gets out of control and starts banging his head against the glass. So the officers had to go into his cell and pretty much seatbelt him into this restraining chair where he can't move. They did this to protect the man from himself.
The officer explained how in most cases the individual, once restrained in the chair, becomes more calm, less of a threat to himself because he (or she, of course) is forced to think about why they got to that point. If they're left to wander around their cell then they'll do whatever they can do to distract themselves from reality. Their emotions run wild and reality disappears. In the chair, however, their emotions are held down, and reality starts to pop through the clouds.
I get it. I have my own kind of jail cell--we all do. Sometimes we need to force ourselves to be still so that we can face reality, no matter how painful it may be, and then deal with it.
The officers unbuckled the man from his restraining chair because they could see his physical demeanor settle. His eyes went soft, his shoulders dropped. He faced reality, and he was sober from it. Once he was free, he stretched out on the bench, his arms behind his head, and he stared at the ceiling imagining the freedom beyond the florescent lights.
That's the only way we will find freedom, if we can only be still enough to catch a glimpse of it first.
The officer explained how in most cases the individual, once restrained in the chair, becomes more calm, less of a threat to himself because he (or she, of course) is forced to think about why they got to that point. If they're left to wander around their cell then they'll do whatever they can do to distract themselves from reality. Their emotions run wild and reality disappears. In the chair, however, their emotions are held down, and reality starts to pop through the clouds.
I get it. I have my own kind of jail cell--we all do. Sometimes we need to force ourselves to be still so that we can face reality, no matter how painful it may be, and then deal with it.
The officers unbuckled the man from his restraining chair because they could see his physical demeanor settle. His eyes went soft, his shoulders dropped. He faced reality, and he was sober from it. Once he was free, he stretched out on the bench, his arms behind his head, and he stared at the ceiling imagining the freedom beyond the florescent lights.
That's the only way we will find freedom, if we can only be still enough to catch a glimpse of it first.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, July 14, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
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?
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?
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Airing My Dirty Laundry
We've had a new washer and dryer since we moved into this house in January and it took me until today to realize that there's a "Normal" button on each unit. You see, every day we do at least one load of wash. At least. And each time I've mashed the stinky masses into the wash I've either been forced to choose "Quick Wash" or "Heavy Duty." Quick Wash is a 26 minute cycle while Heavy Duty sucks up an enormous amount of time: 1 hour, 18 minutes. So because I care more about being cheap than I do about being stinky and dirty, I have always chosen the "Quick Wash" button.
This is all not entirely unlike my life. Each time I've come to a fork in the road where the path to the left is "Normal" and the path to the right is "Complicated as Fuck, " I tend to not only swerve to the right but do it at lightening-speed, naked on a rope swing.
However, there are perks to not choosing "Normal." Quick Wash saves water and money despite leaving a few marks. Heavy Duty cleans up the stinkiest of laundry despite sucking up time and energy. Both are rewarding options yet both are not "Normal."
So today, for the first time ever, I noticed that right at the top of each dial in the twelve o'clock noon position is a "Normal" cycle button. I put the laundry through the normal wash cycle and then took it out and put it through the normal dry cycle.
And as predictable as ever, the clothes all got clean in the end.
This is all not entirely unlike my life. Each time I've come to a fork in the road where the path to the left is "Normal" and the path to the right is "Complicated as Fuck, " I tend to not only swerve to the right but do it at lightening-speed, naked on a rope swing.
However, there are perks to not choosing "Normal." Quick Wash saves water and money despite leaving a few marks. Heavy Duty cleans up the stinkiest of laundry despite sucking up time and energy. Both are rewarding options yet both are not "Normal."
So today, for the first time ever, I noticed that right at the top of each dial in the twelve o'clock noon position is a "Normal" cycle button. I put the laundry through the normal wash cycle and then took it out and put it through the normal dry cycle.
And as predictable as ever, the clothes all got clean in the end.
Friday, May 9, 2014
The Three-Legged Race
I spent a lot of my childhood alone. Not in a bad way, no, not at all. It was just the way my sisters and I were spaced out and how they left home early that gave me a lot of time to myself. I often joke about how I'm the youngest child, and a bit of an only child as well and so a product of extreme self-absorption. In fact, most of my writing begins with the word "I." It's all about Suzy. I admit it. I'm self absorbed. I.
But life doesn't work that way. If all I did was talk about myself then I guarantee that most of my friends and family would fuck right off and I'd be forever alone eating whole boxes of Eggo waffles in front of the TV watching Days of Our Lives. But we're created for communion with each other, for community. God must have a sense of humour to give humanity a hefty dose of narcissism with a starving hunger for relationship. It's like we walk around with billboards on our necks proclaiming, "I need you, but piss off!"
We try to do it on our own all the time, don't we? Even as toddlers we'd look up with a scowl at whoever might be helping us and we'd shriek, "I DO MYSELF!" And then we'd cut our finger or tie our shoelaces into 18 different knots.
My conclusion? Don't be alone so much. True, there are a bunch of us who are wired to be alone a little more than the average person but don't play that card so often that you lose out on community. In a three-legged race, two people move forward a lot slower than they would separately but they cross the finish line together. We fumble, we fall, and if we're lucky we might even wind up on top of each other in a heap of sweat and rope. There are grass stains and rope burns and sweat marks, but we all have them. Together. And that's all that matters.
But life doesn't work that way. If all I did was talk about myself then I guarantee that most of my friends and family would fuck right off and I'd be forever alone eating whole boxes of Eggo waffles in front of the TV watching Days of Our Lives. But we're created for communion with each other, for community. God must have a sense of humour to give humanity a hefty dose of narcissism with a starving hunger for relationship. It's like we walk around with billboards on our necks proclaiming, "I need you, but piss off!"
We try to do it on our own all the time, don't we? Even as toddlers we'd look up with a scowl at whoever might be helping us and we'd shriek, "I DO MYSELF!" And then we'd cut our finger or tie our shoelaces into 18 different knots.
My conclusion? Don't be alone so much. True, there are a bunch of us who are wired to be alone a little more than the average person but don't play that card so often that you lose out on community. In a three-legged race, two people move forward a lot slower than they would separately but they cross the finish line together. We fumble, we fall, and if we're lucky we might even wind up on top of each other in a heap of sweat and rope. There are grass stains and rope burns and sweat marks, but we all have them. Together. And that's all that matters.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Redemption
Running marries two people that would never normally be brought together the way too many beers in a dimly lit pub tend to merge an unlikely match.
Lora and I both ran the Vancouver Marathon in 2009 and somehow, the photography company mixed up our photos and Lora received a picture of Mark and I at the finish line. Lora had heard about me through the land of running and when we finally met in person, she recognized me from the photo in her email inbox! What are the chances of that?!? As we fell into step with each other, it seemed as if every other aspect of our lives also lined up; we practically finished each others sentences.
Since that fateful day, Lora and I have logged thousands of miles together and as we weave through the trails like two fish in a school following the bend of a river, whether through silence or crying or laughing, we've shared it all. She's the only person that I can be inside out for, who I know won't balk at my ugliness but just hold it for a bit and then let it go.
Maybe runners just know how to leave shit on the road. Maybe we know that it's catharsis out there, you know? So when Lora and I run together, we get ugly together. We've even stop mid-run to cry together. But it's the silent runs that move me every time, the runs where we're clocking 7-minute miles side-by-side, breath in sync, like animals on a hunt. A hunt for satiety, for peace. And wherever we end up, we know we're not alone. And we know that we left it all on the road, that each moment is a fresh start, a second chance. That neither of us will ever be too sore, too far gone, too exhausted, to keep going. Because there's always tomorrow.
Lora and I both ran the Vancouver Marathon in 2009 and somehow, the photography company mixed up our photos and Lora received a picture of Mark and I at the finish line. Lora had heard about me through the land of running and when we finally met in person, she recognized me from the photo in her email inbox! What are the chances of that?!? As we fell into step with each other, it seemed as if every other aspect of our lives also lined up; we practically finished each others sentences.
Since that fateful day, Lora and I have logged thousands of miles together and as we weave through the trails like two fish in a school following the bend of a river, whether through silence or crying or laughing, we've shared it all. She's the only person that I can be inside out for, who I know won't balk at my ugliness but just hold it for a bit and then let it go.
Maybe runners just know how to leave shit on the road. Maybe we know that it's catharsis out there, you know? So when Lora and I run together, we get ugly together. We've even stop mid-run to cry together. But it's the silent runs that move me every time, the runs where we're clocking 7-minute miles side-by-side, breath in sync, like animals on a hunt. A hunt for satiety, for peace. And wherever we end up, we know we're not alone. And we know that we left it all on the road, that each moment is a fresh start, a second chance. That neither of us will ever be too sore, too far gone, too exhausted, to keep going. Because there's always tomorrow.
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