start: 2013Feb07

It’s presently, godforsaken, 4:34 in the morning and I’m on the sofa in the living room writing this post from my iPhone. I’ve basically been up since 12:01 AM and things unraveled as such: I fell asleep thereafter for seven minutes then woke up at 12:08 unable to believe only seven minutes had passed. I then tossed left, right, sat up, lay back down, then fell asleep again. 28 minutes passed during this second nap and I woke up again. My mouth felt like what I imagine an old camel’s would after a 10-hour shift of hauling tourists all day around the Sahara Desert. There was no way I was going to fall into slumber under such conditions and turned to study Nick’s face instead.

He lay beside me in a heavy sleep, breathing deeply and rhythmically through his clear, breezy nostrils. His peace almost brought tears to my eyes until I realised they were probably watering because the fluid in my face had nowhere else to go.

i.was.fucking.disgusting! It’s better that Nick was sleeping so as to not be a witness to the haggard monster that I turned into since we hugged and kissed each other good night only hours earlier. “You’re so beautiful,” he said to me with heavy, lusty eyes while brushing my hair off my face and kissing my forehead, “I’m so lucky to have such an angelic, dainty girl friend.”

I’m just kidding, he didn’t really say that – but, he was so obviously thinking it. I really just included that for dramatic effect so you can better visualise just how ghastly things had become since we said good night.

I tried desperately to absorb some of his slumber via osmosis, telepathy, vicariously, anything. I tried breathing in sync with him and only ended up basically hyperventilating because my sinuses weren’t allowing me to draw a nice lungful of air and his slow, deep-sleep breathing left me gasping for it and I was downright defiant over being forced to breathe through my mouth so I settled for all that my only available (although barely) nostril would afford me. Okay, okay, I admit that in my defiance things did become desperate as I really couldn’t breathe properly, so then, like a fish out of water, I would gasp quickly through my mouth without knowing it was coming and then shut my mouth again.

Vicarious breathing techniques were a fail.

I swear, under the slices of streetlight sneaking past our curtains, Nick actually looked like he was smiling. Or, maybe a shadow was just in perfect position. Or, maybe I was just looking for something to be angry about.

Nick was oblivious to the torment that was going on beside him only a foot extension away – thank god. I was in tumult as I started to make matters worse by psyching myself out as I anticipated what was obviously going to become a complete blockage of both nostrillular (I made that word up) airways at some point. When I get sick, my sinuses do not mess around, as noted in a past post: TMI in the kitchen with Andrea. It’s like they fight over which one is going to be the most congested then, when they cannot agree, they both just slam the door on each other thereby closing off all chances of me breathing through my nose.

Let me tell you, it’s very hard trying to contain the need to thrash around, blow your nose, sneeze, and cough in an effort to respectfully not disturb the person beside you who has to be up in five hours for an early morning shift. When a cold manifests in such a way, I really am better off on my own island.

To make matters even more ridiculous, we are flying to Puerto Vallarta in four days. I’m banking on getting my shit together before then, otherwise I dread, with every cell in my body, having to fly with a congested face. I’m hoping, though, that it’ll clear up by the time I get there and am in the warmth and sunshine.

At 2:47, I eventually got up and visited the medicine cabinet. In a total fog and complete inability to understand time, I wracked my brain trying to count the hours since my last administration of decongestant and anti-inflammatory drugs. My mistake was to separate my Advils from my decongestants so I couldn’t remember when I had last taken which. “Was it two o’clock that I took that decongestant? Or, was it two hours ago? Or wait, maybe I took the Advil two hours ago and was supposed to take the decongestant two hours later?” I popped them both anyway.

You know what’s really stupid of me? When I’m taking over-the-counter medication like this and it seems like I might be taking way more than the directions are advising, I actually take the time to tell myself, ”If you were in a hospital they’d give you quadruple the strength of medicine than those silly little pills you’re holding in your hand right now.” and, that’s how I feel better about exceeding the recommended dose.*

For fuck sakes, Nick’s alarm is going to be going off in an hour. He’ll open his eyes, expecting me to be there, but instead he’ll find me on the sofa buried by Kleenexes, smelling like Vicks and a camel.

It’s getting hard to type this on my phone so I think I’m going to try to close my eyes sitting up and hope for the best. I will write more when I am less upset with my circumstances.

2013Feb13 - Greetings from Hotel Catedral Vallarta.

I AM in the hell of all hells right now.

First of all, remember when I was terrified of flying congested? Well, my nightmare came true during our descent into Puerto Vallarta. My popping ears were nothing compared to the immense, shocking, severe pain that was radiating across my entire forehead. Your forehead? you ask. Yes, my forehead! I compare the feeling to how, I imagine, it would feel if someone slowly began ripping the skin off my forehead to reveal the fresh, raw flesh underneath. Then, after doing that, they would take some sand paper (coarse grade) and rub it side to side, but, not before spraying the area with rubbing alcohol first. It was almost so unbearable I contemplated calling the flight attendant but then figured there really wasn’t anything she could do for me. To make matters worse, Nick was two rows behind me. I didn’t even have his hand to crush, or his shoulder to snot on, or his expressions of sympathy and complete and utter pity. Instead, I was against the window beside a couple that brought their own freshly washed veggies in individual Zip-loc bags. I had basically been blowing my nose and/or sneezing and/or coughing the entire flight and I’m sure they were making plans to disinfect themselves upon landing. I tried so hard to keep it away from them and did all the courteous things like coughing and sneezing inside my sweater and using hand-sanitizer practically every 10 minutes. I knew they really hated me, though, when I asked the lady beside me if I could borrow her pen (which was sticking out of the pocket in front of her) so I could fill out our declaration forms. Her tray was down at this point but the pen was most definitely jutting out beyond the level of the tray. She told me that she “couldn’t reach it” because her “tray was down.” At that moment I felt so sorry for myself I just curled into a ball, threw my hoodie over my head, closed my eyes and wished death would hurry up.

Since landing, I have gotten worse if that was at all possible. I’m typing this from our bed while Nick’s on the veranda of our boutique hotel reading contently under the warmth of the sun; where I should be. Instead, I can’t fight the urge to rest and sleep. This, whatever it is, has completely overcome me while I am on vacation and I can’t even begin to describe how frustrated I am. It’s our second night here and I can just feel the sickness setting in. This is way beyond the little cold I thought I was going to have to contend with. My poor body, it’s like, stop moving right now! But my conscience is like, but I’m in Old Town Puerto Vallarta, leave me alone! I can feel it moving downward, too. As if staying in my face was too boring. I can tell by the cough I just developed this morning that it’s unfriendly and likely very vicious. It BETTER not become bronchitis while I’m in Mexico.

We had a wonderful and romantic supper last night on the beach at the ocean. Candles on all the tables, waves crashing on the shore. It’s so fun walking up to a dinner table with your toes in the sand. I had a couple delicious-looking Pina Coladas and some margaritas and a delectable-looking, serious, Fajita, however, I have no idea what they tasted like. I had to use my imagination and also made Nick taste everything then describe the flavour in great detail. It felt like such a waste.

But nooooo, I’m on vacation in Mexico. My body and I are in a big argument because I refuse to feel shitty while lying down. Instead, I’ve been feeling shitty while doing all the things that people who are not feeling shitty would be doing. I’m sure it’s quite counter-productive but I’m stubborn plus would feel guilty if Nick was stuck playing night nurse this entire time.

Anyway, have you heard of “rebound congestion?” I took Afrin yesterday because the pressure building up in my face was making my eyeballs feel like they were about to pop out of my face and run away only to never return. It’s a very annoying feeling. That, coupled with sinuses that are so inflamed that I can’t get any air in or out of them (probably the worst part for me), has made me so tense which is thereby making me even more tense at being tense in the first place. So, I lapsed and took some snorts in desperation. For four whole hours I could breathe through my nose. We swam in the ocean, rode the crashing waves, slept on the beach, walked the streets of Old Vallarta, and hiked up to where the money homes are – you know, the ones owned by rich foreigners.

Come the fifth hour I could actually feel my tissues closing up again with each inhalation. I felt like Cinderella at midnight. It was so deflating and it happened so fast, too. I spent last night feeling even more congested than I ever had thus far – if that was even possible. The only way I can properly illustrate the condition is exactly like this (those are corks):

(don’t you love how my hairstyle keeps changing? I think I look like a backup singer for Bon Jovi here)

Anyway, tomorrow is v-day. The day when I’m supposed to feel pretty, romantic and smell nice as Nick and I celebrate our romance. I wish I could feel a little more fancy, and Valentine-y, but I think I’ll be feeling more Frankenstein-y than anything. Oh well, thankfully Nick’s in it for the long haul, eh?!

Alright, I don’t want to be the vacationing blogger, especially when I don’t have many lifelines left while my condition seems to worsen with every character I enter.

I’ll leave you on this sick note. Olé!

*This is honestly in the most extreme of cases and the only time I’ll classify anything as extreme is when it has to do with my sinuses. Like, I could lose an arm in a shark attack and reject the painkillers; THAT’S how resilient I am.

(I’m angry and it will be obvious.)
(I’m sorry if you’re a big fan of this book.)
(Maybe don’t read any further.)

I gave in to the hype of Fifty Shades of Grey in June. It is abominable.

Poor Nick was around me more often than he may have liked while I was reading and had to suffer through my agitated and fanatical grievances over, what seemed like an endless and alarming amount of, bullshit erotica crap. This book certainly did not champion, nor bring new meaning to, our sex life. If anything, Nick was looking for a complaints department. It’s like I’d be reading in bed gripped by the wrath of rage that it was conjuring in me and Nick would be all “Mmmm, let’s make out.” And I’d be all, “Mmm, no, wait, don’t touch me. Ana’s inner goddess just pole-vaulted over the fifteen foot bar, I think I’m going to be sick.” So he’d roll over defeated and grumble something like, “What does that even mean? Fucking book.”

I never read Twilight or watched any of the movies. Apparently the author, a big fan of the Twilight series, thought the only thing the main characters were lacking between each other was sex, so she took it upon herself to satisfy her need for dark, Twilight sex between her favouriteist characters and wrote the Fifty Shades trilogy. I honestly bought this book because I was expecting to be seduced by it. I wanted something juicy that was going to make me wanna just a little more than I already wanna. But noooooo. It made me wanna barf up pancakes at every page turn.

First of all, this book is written in such a puerile and shoddy way, it actually alarmed me. No, actually, at first it made me laugh, then as it wore on it actually made me furious. I started to question the motivations of every single, damn person involved in this book. From writer (I use that term very loosely) to publisher to promoter to whoever the braniac is who decided it should be a Hollywood movie. Second of all, I nearly screamed my tonsils back into my throat when I read that her research for this book came from none other than the internet. Or wait, sorry, not only that but she also contacted various “experts” whom she also found on the internet. Wai.. wai.. wait.. what?? The internet? Not from reading Anaïs Nin or Anne Desclos? Maybe Clan of the Cave Bear? Or from watching 9 1/2 Weeks, at least? Not even a nebulous, lust-filled past? A memoir? A roll in the hay with nipple clamps? Not even that? The internet? This bugs me even more because I think, if the stupid internet didn’t exist then Fifty Shades of Grey wouldn’t either.

I know by this point, some of you are not feeling sorry for me and thinking, “Then why the hell did you keep reading it?” Okay, well it’d be like this: Think back to the last time you had a glorious moment of shameless gluttony. Pick your poison-maybe a 43 g bag of sour cream and onion chips? Maybe a tub of ice cream? A huge Toblerone bar? A bag of Oreo cookies? You’ve started eating away and five mouthfulls in you know it’s going to be ugly, you know that damage will be done to your organs if you continue at that pace, and yet, there is no way you’ll be able to stop. So, you go through these transitions:

optimism and hope
apprehension
retreat! retreat!
defeat
unglued
retreat?
…defeat
recoil
weaken
re…
……treee
defeat
resign.

It was similar to that.

Okay, we’ve got 22-year old Anastasia Steele (first of all…). She’s portrayed as a virginous, naïve, doe-eyed, clumsy, stunned, sassy whippersnapper; who is also described as intelligent and academic, otherwise known as a complete mess of an oxymoron.  She’s like Barbie: fun to play with but, turn her into a real-life woman and you’d be terrified.

At least, I HOPE you’d be terrified.

I guess part of her problem is that she’s almost too cliché. Like, of course she’s a virgin, of course she’s beautiful, of course she’s naïve, of course she wears Converse, of course she wears her hair in pigtails (Christian Grey thinks these are cute? What?!?! Pfft, they’re just pig tails), of course she drives a classic VW Beetle, of course finds herself so unimpressive even though the rest of her social network thinks she’s Eva Peron. Of course she has never owned a laptop or had an email address. Of course this is all meant to be unassuming but reeks to the high heavens of manipulative predictable banalities.  Oh and, of course she’s able to abate a devastatingly gorgeous, mysterious, grossly rich, aristocratic, elusive, stoic, troubled, control freak who is, {of course} into kinky, dominating sex. There really is zero depth to her and she’s about as flat as a paper doll. Betsy here is probably more interesting…

McCall’s July, 1905

For most of the book Ana is obtuse, clenching the muscles deep in her belly, biting her lower lip, rolling her eyes, talking/arguing/discussing with her inner goddess and subconscious, flushing, moaning, whispering, orienting her vagina “down there,” watching Christian remove “foil packets” from his jeans pocket/jacket pocket/night table (gag); either fawning over Christian, cowering from him, or dancing around his kitchen listening to her iPod (Oops, he caught me. OMG I’m like, so embarrassed!), orgasaming, and crying.

-snore-

Christian is of course astonishingly rich and gorgeous to the point of it almost being illegal. He wears jogging pants just off his hips and plays piano like a melancholic Rachmaninov. He’s aloof, arrogant, elusive, “fifty shades of fucked up” (yawn), a control freak and a stalker who gets turned on by virgins. He doesn’t make love, he “fucks…. hard.” He’s threatening, impatient, aggressive, jackhammers through Ana’s virginity and pulls out her tampons.

But, “he’s sooooo freaking hot!”
“Wow, just… wow.”

Christian spends a lot of time growling, scolding, lecturing, despondent, moping around, moody, and stroking his index finger against his lower lip.

The writing reads like something I would have put together when I was fourteen and I didn’t yet have the maturity and vocabulary to write a story with metaphors and alliteration. Actually, even at fourteen I might have written better than this. Of alllllll the ways, is this really the way it had to be?

“…and my very small inner goddess sways in a gentle victorious samba.”
What the fuck does a ”gentle victorious samba” look like anyway?!!

“My inner goddess has her pom poms in hand – she’s in cheerleading mode.”
I want to punch her inner goddess for this.

“My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm.”
Come on.

“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”
“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”
Noooooooooooo.

“Laters baby.”
I don’t care how hot he is…

“So you’ve just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn’t love you. In fact, he has odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave.”
Yep, now just take it one step further and FUCKING RUN, dumb bitch!
(Sorry that might have been out of line).

“I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes, I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can fly.”
Wendy, clearly, you’re not listening.

I really could go on, and on, but don’t want to give this book any more of my time and attention. E.L. should be thankful that I devoted 1271 words to writing about her precious book.

So, long story probably very long, I went to my family doctor a couple of weeks ago with two issues. I try to visit him with more than one because his practice is so far away but I think he’s amazing and refuse to see anyone else out of convenience. He also allows me to go to him with more than one issue and doesn’t limit me to one in less than 5 minutes, “okayherearesomeantibioticstakethemuntilthey’refinished,takecare,bye.” like the walk-in clinics do.

I like sharing so here are the reasons why I saw my doctor:

1) I’ve pretty well lost my sense of taste and smell. It comes and goes but never regains fully, which is incredibly annoying. It’s also confusing from a sensory perspective because I’ve got the appetite, but when I’m eating, I don’t get that satisfaction from salivating over what I’m smelling and tasting. The only satisfaction comes from knowing that I was hungry, and now I’ve eaten, and now I’m not hungry. Believe me, losing my sense of smell does have its benefits living in a house with three males, but other than that, I want to be able to smell the body cream I’m taking the time to slather myself in. I want to smell my potted Jasmine plant when it’s in bloom.

This all started about six months ago when I had a gross cold that was entirely in my face. Normally, this is where most of my colds set up shop, but this time around my face was actually throbbing from the congestion. It was almost like I had grown a second heart in my cheek. Needless to say I was either not sleeping at all, or I was sleeping hopped up on a multitude of drugs, including, but not limited to: Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen, decongestant pills, nasal spray (which I use as backup in the event the decongestant pills don’t work). Each time I feel a cold approaching I quickly devise a plan over whether or not I’m going to just let it run its course while I remain sleepless at night and tired during the day or if I’m going to drug myself so I can at least sleep at night and increase the chances of fighting it sooner.

What was I talking about again?
Oh ya, the cold I had six months ago.

So, I got the cold. Then it went away more or less in a relatively expedient fashion, however, about a week into returning to normalcy I had this horrible pain somewhere in my top left molar. I am thirty-five and have never had a cavity so this was deeply upsetting to me on various disappointing levels. It hurt like a mother and boy was I mad! < potential for TMI> The next night I had this urgency to blow my nose (the minimal symptoms were still there on and off). I like to make my nose blowing as productive as possible so I hung my body over the bed and just practiced my nose-blowing-technique-for-optimal-results procedure that my gp in Ottawa once taught me. You can even ask Nick this because he almost got the timer out, but I actually blew my nose, hanging over my bed, for about forty-five minutes straight, taking breaks only to breathe. I felt like I was draining the fluid from my spine after a while. Not only did it feel like I was blowing my nose on behalf of past, present, and future colds but I actually became very fascinated over where it was all coming from. It didn’t look like an infection either because it was clear as water and I was not tired and/or feverish, so that didn’t explain it. </ potential for TMI>

Sure enough, where I had become used to the throbbing cavity I was sure I had, by morning that pain was gone. I know from looking at anatomy books when I was probably too young to be looking at them, that there are things called maxillary sinuses which are behind our cheeks. I put two and two together and figured that the pain I felt in my molar was actually due to a problem with my maxillary sinuses! I rejoiced in not having a cavity, but wondered whether or not I actually had a problem with my sinuses now given last night’s episode and that my senses of smell and taste had waned.

About a month later yours truly got sick… again. This time, like a weather vane, I had that familiar pain in my molar and knew that my face was going to be attacked again within days. I prepared myself this time by steaming broccoli and my face simultaneously (I can be efficient when I put my mind to it) which probably looked something like this if I had crazy highlights:

(author’s illustration of self)

You’re probably like, Uh, remind me to never have dinner at Andrea’s house.

I chased breakfast, lunch, snupper™ (Nick and his son, Tom, made up that word. It’s a portmanteau for snack + supper. I think they’d be really happy to see it used here) and supper with drops of oil of oregano. Then, I draped a hot facecloth infused with a couple drops of eucalyptus oil over my face right before bed. Oh and ate no cheese as cheese can contribute to nasal congestion. I made it through the ordeal like a real champion but still came out of it with a decreased sense of smell and taste which, I was pretty sure, was actually getting worse. Every shower I’d do a smell test where I would see how far away my body wash could be from my nose before I could smell it. It’s pretty fragrant stuff, citrussy deliciousness. I’d start with it at my chest and squeeze the bottle a bit to get bursts of citrus smell out. Nothing. I’d bring it up six inches and repeat. Again, nothing. It wasn’t until my nostril was actually resting on the opening that I could smell any hint of it. Very frustrating.

I explained most of this to my doctor who ordered me an x-ray of my head just to be on the safe side.

Off I went…

Now, I know x-ray technicians see people all day long and I know they’re trained to just x-ray. We’re not supposed to have relationships with our x-ray technicians like we do with our physicians but still, this lady was like Gumby’s mother where I play the part of Gumby.

She was small, her demeanor abrupt, but her voice gentle. She made no sense. She guided me to a white board that had what looked like electrical tape formed into a pattern that resembled an easy maze. She tapped the top of a stool and told me to sit, facing the white board. It was a tight squeeze so I pushed the stool back a little bit so I could sit properly. The next thing I knew her knee was resting on the seat but also against my tail bone, her hands on my shoulders, and she pushed my face against the white board in the kind of position I remember doing when I was a kid on a school bus to passing cars. It would have been nice if she told me that my face and the white board were going to have a brief, almost intimate, encounter with each other. There were three more positions after that, none of which felt respectful or natural, but whatever, it’s all in the name of my sinuses.

Exactly a week later I got a call from my doctor’s office asking me to come in that afternoon. This told me they found something and must deal with it like, yesterday.

When he entered the room, the first thing he said was, “Oh my you’re a mess.” I was like, “I am?” He was like, “Yes, it’s bad. Your face is a mess.” He read the diagnosis to me: Complete, bilateral opacification of the maxillary sinus. Um, ew. Opacification… opacity… opaque… “See, normally in an x-ray, healthy sinuses are indicated as a dark grey, yours showed up completely opaque which tells me you’re not using your maxillary sinuses at all and are completely relying on your frontal sinus (which are the ones behind our eyebrows).”

It looked something similar to this:

You know, although brutal and tremendously unsexy, I felt vindicated in a way because I knew something was wrong.

He ordered a CT scan for me, which I had this past Saturday at 8:AM. Not exactly the way I wanted to launch into my extra-long, long weekend but okay. The CT scan guy was nice and very approachable. Not like Gumby’s mum up there. He also placed a puppy pee mat on the head rest which I called him on right away. It was good though, because it was blue bordered with a white absorbent pad which is perfectly matched for medical colours.

Or, maybe the puppy pee mats are actually medical padssss…

The results of this will be in in seven to ten days. I’m also on the waiting list for a referral to an ENT. How precious. Something about a camera in my sinuses. Oh, and I was also prescribed 15-days-worth of antibiotics which have caused my stomach nothing but grief in addition to making my mouth taste like I’m sucking on a handful of pennies from the 1970s. I can taste! Party.

Do I paint a pretty picture, or what?

2) A few months ago, one evening my arms felt flabby so I decided to do the triceps exercises that my Kettlebell’s information sheet recommended. I worked so hard at those exercises and kept telling myself no pain no gain… it’s allll for the bikini arms. Well, the next morning I went to reach for the glass of water on my night table and couldn’t lift it for the life of me. Actually, come to think of it, I could barely even grip it. I figured I probably over did it a bit the day before, popped an Advil (druggie) and went on with my day which was spent lifting everything with my left arm because my right arm was useless. “This sucks major,” I thought to myself. “stupid Kettlebell!” Fast forward three months and I’m discussing this very topic with my doctor which immediately followed my sinus discussion. “Is it tender here?” “Gah!” “What about here?” “Fffffu.” “You’ve got lateral epicondylitis which is otherwise known as tennis elbow.” “Otherwise known as stupid, frigging Kettlebell elbow…” I thought to myself. “Take extra-strength Ibuprofen every four hours even if you’re not in pain. Ice it. Massage it. You can also buy a tennis elbow strap. This will last a while.”

I don’t even play tennis!

You’re thinking, didn’t her post title say something about kitchens?

Here’s where the kitchen part comes in!

Women reading this will know that antibiotics can cause a YI. Those fun little adventures all in the name of killing infections, thereby also causing one, but in a different area. Please. This is not funny. So anyway, once was enough for me when I was a little girl and thank goats I have a mother who was on the up and up about naturopathy. Dr. Weil was our resident guru. The trick, she’d say, is you need to load up your guts with probiotics because the antibiotics kill all the bacteria, even the good stuff. I was put on a strict regime of nothing but yogurt, Kefir and acidophilus.

Yogurt, Balkan-style straight up, has forever been a part of my regular diet. I don’t buy the flavoured stuff, or the stuff that needs commercials to market their benefit. If prepared Kefir weren’t so frigging expensive (between $5 and $6 for a measly 454 ml container) I’d be eating it regularly, too.

Until…

I got the idea that I’m going to make the damn stuff myself. I’ve been seeing the Kefir kits at Choices Marketplace so I knew it was possible to make it but was so hard and fast with my Balkan that I never thought to take it on. This time, though, since I’m on a long, 15-day course of antibiotics it entered my head to hunker down and figure out how to make it. I did some research and found that the kits don’t make endless batches; they’re more or less a temporary gimmick you spend money for. You basically make one or two batches and that’s it. What you really need are the live, milk Kefir grains. And, they really are live bacteria – more on this in a moment. The thing is, none of the grocery stores sell it for some reason. Just as well though, they’d probably mark it up exorbitantly. Instead, the live milk grains are available via a type of underground market thing, only they’re legal. Most of the DIY forums advised of Googling “distributors” although by “distributors” I mean they are just ordinary people who give away their colonies. The reason they can do this is because the live bacteria will continue to multiply. So, the mass actually grows. All they need is milk fat to feed off. Within a month your colony could very well double in size. And, as long as you keep it well fed, you can make Kefir from it until the end of time.

I Craigslisted for my distributor and found a nice lady nearby who sold me 2-tbsp for $20. She admitted it was a bit of a hefty starter price but, I guess if you can sell it, might as well sell it. I knew that in the long run, this $20 investment would save me major on the cost for the already processed, grocery store Kefir. Only four of those and my $20 is paid off.

The fantastic thing about it is it’s ready in less than 24-hours where the longer it ferments, the more tangy it is. So, every evening I prepare my Kefir and, by the next evening, it’s ready to be added to the big jar I have going in the fridge. I swear, I don’t know why every Kefir drinker doesn’t do this! Not only that, but it feels like an elementary school science project entry without a hypothesis, which is entirely fun. Well, at least for me it is.

Tania wanted me to document my first batch in photos so I will post them here for all to see. If you’re close by, and you’d like some of my Kefir grains to try your own then leave a comment and we’ll discuss business. My readers get a special deal though because I won’t charge you a penny. Just have to wait a few more weeks though while my colony develops into an entire family tree.

Here’s my precious first batch in photos:

So, that’s my colony in the jar to which I will add milk. That special lump of live bacteria is what will cause the milk to ferment, thereby creating trillions of live probiotics in about 24 hours. The rule of thumb is 2 cups of milk for 2 tablespoons of Kefir grains. I have a bit more than 2 tablespoons of Kefir so I’ve readied 2 1/2 cups of milk.

Once the milk’s combined with the Kefir the job is done. The thing is it needs to be covered with something that will let it breathe as gasses will produce during the fermentation process. I just use paper towel secured with an elastic band.

The warmer the temperature, the better, and the faster the fermentation process. Cooler temperatures will also result in a thicker Kefir. Keep the mix in a dark, dry place and check on it in 24 hours.

Same time, next day and the fermentation process is complete. Place a sieve over a bowl and strain the liquid through gently pushing the colony around until all the liquid is through. A sieve is better than cheesecloth, I’ve found, because the liquid is viscous from the live bacteria and you don’t want to leave any of that behind. What ends up in the bowl is your Kefir! I take that and pour it into a big, canning jar which I keep in my fridge.

Way to leave things on a depressing note, eh?

Just so this will make a bit of sense, I’ve been in Hawaii. I’ll be posting backward for the next few.

Okay so, of the final playoff round between the Canucks and the Bruins I missed one game of the seven. I happened to be in an airplane, 36,000 feet above earth and watched up to 2nd period before we lost the satellite feed. The first thing the pilot said as he came on the speaker to announce our descent was that he had terrible news regarding the Canucks score: 8 – 1 Bruins. The whole plane felt like it heaved in horror as its passengers were made up of mostly Vancouverites. People looked at each other, some put their hands to their mouths. How the hell can we win the first two games and lose so badly during the third? 1 – 0 Canucks, 3 – 2 Canucks, then 8 – 1 Bruins? 8 – 1 is not 2 – 1. Games 4, 5, and 6 we caught in Hawaii, then, I was home for Game 7.

At the start of Game 7 day I had no idea where I was going to catch the game. I started out with a few options and for about half an hour in the late afternoon one plan was confirmed with Nick to go down town to catch the game on the outdoor screens amidst the fandemonium. This plan was subsequently un-confirmed and I was left sitting on my sofa watching the first period by myself hoping to come to some kind of conclusion soon over what I was going to do. I decided I was going to go down town by myself. By that time time was of the essence and I knew there were people I knew down town so I texted them all in the hopes that they’d somehow be able to feel or hear my calls and texts and give me their coordinates for a meet-up. I left knowing that the chances of me finding someone were slim but I kept telling myself that if the Canucks win the Stanley Cup on that very day then down town Vancouver, the centre of it all, would become something unforgettable to me.

I was still living in Ottawa when the Senators made it to the finals against the Mighty Ducks in 2007. It was the first time the Sens had made it to the finals in 80 years. The last time being in 1927. This was a big deal for Ottawa. The Sens were defeated in Game 5 and much like Vancouver, Ottawa’s down town streets had been completely shut down to traffic for the entire final round. Elgin Street was coined ‘Sens Mile’ and received its “official” street sign.

© breakfastblogger.com

I was down town for that last game – we all knew that it could very well be the Sens’ last. And, it was. We lost that game and subsequently the Stanley Cup. People cried, some hugged, then the streets cheered regardless, and in solidarity, then eventually emptied out by late night and life carried on without incident.

When the Canucks lost it was the complete opposite and boy, was it ever unforgettable…

I took the SkyTrain to the Stadium stop which was a few blocks away from the Georgia and Hamilton intersection otherwise known as the “Fan Zone.” Facing me as I came down Georgia was the back of a huge screen TV mounted on a bus. The intersection was blocked off with blue fencing so I had to go around it to enter the area where all the fans were smooshed together. Somehow, I managed to squeeze and coil all 5’4″ of me through a deep crowd of hot people. I had no idea where I was going, all I knew was that I wanted to see the screen. I was guilty of rubbing up against people in ways that would have otherwise been extremely inappropriate in a grocery store aisle for example, but I was on a mission without destination. Eventually, I found myself on the steps of the Canada Post building on the northwest side of Georgia, kitty-corner to the CBC building. About eight steps up and I was then on the platform and could see the screen. I was also under a ledge which was nice because the sun was high and hot and being showered with its rays would have been horrible given how much body heat was being given off.

I remember stopping there once I found my spot just to look around. I remember the smell of beer and sweaty body but there was enough of a breeze every so often so it didn’t stagnate too badly. I saw goal two scored by the Bruins, and by goal three I remember the crowd’s energy had noticeably changed. One young man at the bottom of the steps began spit-screaming in the direction of the screen and punching the railing. Plastic bottles started soaring through the air and landing on various heads in the crowd at my feet. I remember texting a couple of my friends right then and there and telling them that I would not be surprised if there was a riot – I could feel it.

Come the 4th, empty-net goal more bottles and other objects were flying around. The crowd was getting restless having to dodge these flying objects. Before I knew it, the young girl beside me yelled “Oh my god they’re flipping that SUV!” I looked over and there was a silver SUV being rocked back and forth by a group of men, it was eventually flipped right onto its side then, right onto its back. I started taking photos and videos around then. It was starting. Admittedly, at that moment, I did question whether or not I should stick around. Part of me wanted to mainly out of honest interest also because I’m a shameless voyeur. I also wanted to see just how crazy these young people were actually going to get; you know, being my first riot and all. I was up off the street too and more or less “sheltered” from what was going on below me so had a good view. Little did I know that eventually I would not be able to leave even if I wanted to and that the activity would become dangerously worse.

The flipped SUV was a ways away from me but still close enough to see the faces of the people jumping on it and screaming like gorillas in the mist. I felt terrible for the owner of the SUV (who, as I later found out on the news, actually instigated the flipping of his own car) but also found the crowd’s subsequent reactions quite interesting and highly peculiar. They were starting to roar in unison. Fists started being pumped into the air as if at front row of a Megadeath concert. People began to climb up onto the under carriage of the SUV (which was now facing the sky) and jumped up and down on it with as much glee as children on a backyard trampoline. The front bumper was stomped off and was then tossed through the air from person-to-person just like a beach volleyball. The crowd roared and heaved. With every new, destructive assault inflicted upon the vehicle, the cheers and roars would elevate in decibels. I remember stopping to think about all this around that time. I had witnessed this crowd go from togetherness and anticipation for a Stanley Cup win, to the start of total anarchy and complete disregard for personal property. Not to mention how fast the destructive crowd grew in numbers. By this point it was easy to differentiate between those who had actually anticipated, if not instigated, the riot as they were donning bandannas over their faces and those who had actually started their day as bonafide fans. They wore Canucks jerseys, and had logo tattoos on their cheeks, aluminum foil-made Stanley Cups, blow horns. But, eventually the aluminum foil Stanley Cups became projectiles and the butts of the blow horns would be used to help smash any glass that was around.

The entire scene unravelled into something that reminded me of Lord of the Flies. This analogy was also adopted in the media and in daily conversation and I think it’s because that’s exactly what it looked like. It was pretty well the only comparison that immediately came to mind. I don’t want to use the words “mob mentality” in this post because I feel like it’s already received its maximum use in any one-week period but it is what is is. I looked around and was pretty sure over three-quarters of those eventually involved in the full-blown riot would have never, in their wildest dreams, imagined themselves in a riot in their lifetime. But, it was hard to ignore the energy and sensory overload that evening once the rioters’ impulsively swelled to hundreds within minutes and the two vehicles in my immediate sight (one being the SUV, the other being some poor man’s utility truck) were shooting flames to the sky. I saw young men taking turns standing in front of the burning vehicles facing the sky with arms up and fists clenched roaring until they had no air left in their lungs. In addition to Lord of the Flies that part reminded me of some sort of satanic worship with the fire and all.

For a while I was pretty well stuck where I was because the ground below was not safe. There were brawls occurring at the bottom of the steps to my side and fiery bedlam on the ground at my feet. So, I stayed up on my perch for about an hour. I watched the cops come in and attempt to control the situation. I saw the fire truck come in to douse the flames of the SUV. Not too soon after this the utility truck would be next. I saw the cops retreat to the very outskirts of the chaos and figured they were planning something. They later returned with shields, batons, and helmets. The S.W.A.T came out in full gear at the same time and were manning the street while a handful of cops covered the Canada Post building and cleaned house. They wanted no one standing on the raised landing where I was “safe” and whacked everybody off into the streets as if we were all dangerous. Luckily I didn’t get hit by a baton but a photographer was nearly pushed down the stairs and one young woman received a hard whack on her forearm – which made her cry. This part reminded me of Children of the Corn only the sickles were batons, and the children were police officers, and the corn stalks were humans. Luckily, they gave me a chance to jump down onto the steps as the last spectator remaining. Eye-contact and a “Don’t hurt me, I’m fragile” smile works well I find.

Noted for the next riot.

I was now on the street in the middle of it all. This part reminded me of an apocalypse. In a very cliché way, all hell had broken loose. The street fighting had been going on for a while so I was passing people with ripped t-shirts and bloody faces. Some guys were bouncing around like orangutans; almost as though they were in Jolly Jumpers but without the apparatus. The cops had formed a solid line right through the Georgia/Hamilton intersection and the smoke from the empty frames of the simmering vehicles billowed behind them. It was quite a scene. The reinforcement cops in the second row were holding cameras and video cameras to the crowd. They stood motionless and straight-faced. One “rioter” actually had the nerve to walk right up to their line, drop his pants, whip out his peen and actually send a hot stream down at their feet. Still, they stood motionless. I tell you, one quick swoop of a baton would have likely taken care of that man’s arrogant anatomy for the rest of his life.

The Canada Post building was under attack now and people were taking turns running at the glass with a karate kick to shatter it. Eventually a pane broke and again the roars surged.

Backyard firework explosions now competed with the sounds of tear gas booms and the air started to tickle my throat. Unfortunately, I did not bring my trusty riot bandanna to filter out the gas and my mucous membranes were being attacked. I was no longer in my safe place and was traipsing the streets among the fury. It had become hard to breathe and the chaos was as upsetting as it was frightening and I had experienced more than enough. The shock of watching a crowd regress into something out of the stone age had dissipated and upset was taking over. By this point, those who remained were ready to take on the cops and the S.W.A.T. They seemed to have lost all dignity and composure and were pretty well feeding off the chaotic energy like fiends. They looked inhuman. Like zombies almost - especially when the sun had nearly set and everything took on this kind of grey, ominous hue and the smoke from the vehicles, fireworks, and tear gas looked that much more mean and growly.

I heard someone suggest hoisting up the fencing and rushing the S.W.A.T… I walked to the SkyTrain station after that.

The rest of the riot I caught from the cozy confines of my living room. I see the rioters had become more ballsy as night time set in. Looting was in full force, police vehicles were being set on fire, someone fell from the viaduct to the ground below, there were injuries. Poor Vancouver, I kept thinking to myself, I’m so sorry this is happening to you. And, why was it happening? Well I figure it was some kind of psychological trigger that happened. I believe that a handful of people went down town that day with the sole purpose of instigating a riot. I don’t believe they were from Vancouver, especially down town. I believe once it began, the feeling perpetuated – just like how reckless driving can perpetuate on the highways. All you need is one asshole driver tailgating and weaving and it takes another driver with a short fuse to get him back by doing the same. Before you know it, three more drivers are all getting each other back. You ask one of them over dinner at a nice restaurant if tailgating on the highway at high speeds is dangerous and they’ll most likely say yes.

Anyway I could theorize for hours gleefully but, I’ll leave the rest of the psychoanalysis up to the pros…

* this post started on Tuesday, December 28th.

I’m 37,000 feet above ground right now in an Airbus 333. As per the interior specifications card, there are 51 rows of seating on this plane; 37 seats in first class, 228 in economy – where I sit in the 42nd row; the seating arrangement is 2-4-2 in econ. I am part of the four grouping, but at the aisle, and the person in front of me doesn’t seem to want to recline which I am thoroughly enjoying because my tray table is down. My seat isn’t reclined either. The sky is dark because it’s about 7:30 PM EST. I never thought this until now, but it’s odd writing “the sky” while I’m actually flying up in it. If I refer to the sky, it’s usually as something I look up at, not out at. You know? Anyway… I’m on my way back to Vancouver from spending Christmas in Ottawa. This jaunt was a big deal for me because the last time I saw my family and friends at Christmas was 2006. I spent Christmas with them for 30 years before I moved, so to lose that makes holidays in Vancouver a little bittersweet. Curse all airlines for making Christmas-season flights upwards of $900. This year though, I must have been a really good girl because Santas (uncle Mark, Mum, Dad, Nana) got me a flight home collectively.

Shanny, my same-sex soul mate:

Is my nana a beauty, or what?

Shan’s little Noah

Averyyy

Self-timed family photo:

Chelsy and Riley-girl

Katie and Dylan baybee

Nom nom nom

Heeee

Miss this spot:

Check out Oscar at the NAC:

Miss the Parkway a lot:

Shoppingtimes with Kokomo:

I call this a ‘Yuck.’ It’s a Yam Duck!

Chez my brother and wife:

An aunt sandwiched between a niece and a nephew:

Sister and brother with cousin in order by height:

Mama:

It’s my Harley-inspired dad:

So, about this flight I’m on: Right now I am in an ideal position considering I’m 42 rows away from the front exit which means that disembarking is going to take a while but, I’ve got leg and laptop room and my crossword puzzles. It’s almost the best of all possible economy situations (where first class would mean fully reclining and having a nice, soft blankie, and my own little pod to sleep in) … except for the woman at the opposite end of my quad row. Between us is a young couple. I’ve got the girlfriend beside me and I’m pretty sure she drugged herself because she was literally asleep before the plane even left the ground. She’s got her boyfriend’s jacket draped over her and he tucks it in on the sides for her every time she shifts. They’re really sweet. Now, as for this woman at the end, she might also have drugged herself but I’m wondering if maybe hers were amphetamines? She’s watching something funny because every few minutes or so her shrill cackle breaks the silence and she rushes her body forward a bit, then bounces back and her gold bracelets collide with each other.

The problem with it being every few minutes is that I have just enough time to come down from being startled out of my pants only to have it re-occur. Cackle. Lunge. Crash. Clink clink clink. It feels like torture actually. It’s worse that the plane is dark because darkness makes people quieter, darkness is usually associated with rest, sleeping, whispers, nighttime.

With each obnoxious assault on my peace, I look over at her. But, she is not giving me the satisfaction of returning my eye contact so I can’t suggest she quiet down with my glare and hope that she snaps out of it. I’m not getting that satisfaction! It’s so startling that the young woman beside me actually jolts a bit in her sleep each time; like a cat.

It just happened again, this time I looked at the woman beside me, who looked at her boyfriend, who looked at me, then back at his girlfriend, then we all turned to the laughing woman who never looked at us. We all had a silent, telepathic, group commiseration and I do feel a bit better. Yes, we are being very passive aggressive in our approach right now and we have her on our hyper-radars. The girl friend is totally awake and she’s tense; I can feel it coming off her. The problem is none of us want to be the one to tell the woman. How do you tell someone who’s in the throes of laughter to clam it?

So now my mind wanders … Does she know we’re looking over at her and couldn’t care less? Maybe she’s developed a waking unconsciousness toward anything that goes on around her. Maybe she’s the type of person when even if someone did point it out to her, she’d just cackle it off and put her headphones back on. She’s failing on many levels and is a bad, bad, terrible person.

But look at her … laughing away so carefree. It is likely that no one will say anything. Maybe we’ll turn the volume up on our own headsets now. Or we’ll all just daydream her away. She’ll get off the plane, reminisce over the hilarious show she just watched, and how nice the flight was. Then she’ll board a plane again in the future, do the same thing, no one will tell her, and she’ll have wonderful happy airplane memories. The End.

I am admitedly very choked to the point of downright internal bitchiness which I am not proud of. The problem is I am a creature who functions best when my environment is set to levels Harmony and Tranquility. Shrill, spontaneous, loud noises actually rattle me both mentally and physically. It’s like I have shell shock only I don’t ever recall being surrounded by gunfire or any kind of cacophonies of the sort.

The thing is, this is just one of her isms. I mean, she can’t be purposefully scraping a rusty ice pick along the sensitive auditory canals of my ears. Her cackle just doesn’t work well with my own loud, spontaneous noise disorder.

Okay wait, it is also that if I do say something, she may respond less than agreeably to my suggestion then over-exaggerate her laughter because who the hell is this bitch telling me to laugh quieter? So, because I’m 37,000 feet in the air, trapped in a steel tube with no where else to go and I have no idea what kind of personality this woman has I’m going to have to ultimately let it be.

But man, do I ever wish her show would hurry up and end.

I’m going to go for a plane aisle walk. brb.

…

…

I just had a really interesting conversation with an 8″ tall man. Okay, maybe he was more like 6’4″ but when you’re 5’4″ it’s easy to misgauge. We met in the aisle toward the back where the flight attendants hang. It’s also where the bathroom is and what he was waiting for. I asked him what it’s like sitting in a plane being so long. Yes, I said long, yes I thought about it after it left my lips, but he handled it well and told me the key is the emergency exit row. Of course! Then he told me I was probably small enough to stretch out in the overhead compartments.

Phew, that walk really did me in. The Gravol and decongestant I took have kicked in now and I think I need to close my laptop and try to have a little snoozy-poo. I have no idea when I’ll go back to this post again because it will be around 9:30 PM PST by the time I get home which will feel like 12:30 AM EST so I certainly won’t be returning to this today in either PST or EST. So, I’m going to say good bye for now.

It’s the early evening of Saturday, January 15th. I went skiing with Mandy today. My skis were recently waxed and sharpened and were just incredible. The weather itself wasn’t very nice as dark clouds did loom over head and it eventually started to rain but the snow on the trails was so fluffy and fast. We found a couple treed runs that ran along the main drag, and had not been touched, so it felt like our own little side of the mountain.

Speaking of tree trails, I learned a new term today: Tree wells. Falling into a deep one means you have a mere 10% survival rate, on average.

© stevenspass.com

Basically, if you’re in an area where the trees are tall and the boughs rest upon the snow, then chances are there is a void of loose snow that surrounds the section of the tree trunk that is beneath the boughs. So, if you ski too close to the trees, or you lose control and hit one, you can fall into a tree well. Often it is the depth of the fall that will result in limbs being injured which contributes to the decrease in survival and  it can apparently be as quick as drowning to suffocate to death. There were two experiments conducted in the US and Canada where volunteers were placed in a tree well and 90% could not rescue themselves. This death is called Non-Avalanche Related Snow Immersion Death, or NARSID.

© dodgeridge.com

So ya, watch out for those whether snowmobiling, snowshoeing, skiing, walking, etc. Stay away from the boughs of the trees. Don’t let me catch you stuck in one or I’ll be really upset!

Okay, taking a T.O. right now, need to stretch my body before it seizes from skiing.

It’s Monday. I’m at work. My morning has been spent forcing emails upon someone who I’m fighting tooth and nail with over purchasing the skis he’s been saying he wants to purchase for the last three years. EBay link after EBay link, screaming deal after screaming deal, and nothing. I had to draw this release the frustration:

My blogging consistency has been anything but. And I’m sorry because I can see my regular readers checking in every so often and there’s just been nothing exciting here in a while.

Although, I suppose if I consider it, nothing too exciting has actually gone on as of late which is good for me because I often like my eggs over easy. In addition, my life’s definition of  ”exciting” doesn’t always mean winning the lottery or sitting across from James Franco in a dimly lit, steamy-windowed coffee shop.

So anyway, I do have an interesting and exciting true story to report. This one’s a goodie and hopefully it will entertain you long enough until the next catastrophe rushes into my life without warning. I am going to graduate cum laude in resiliency and patience training by the time this frigging life is through with me!

Between Thursday and Sunday I experienced: Concern, worry, extreme elation, consternation, fury, diabolical rage, frustration, bewilderment, happiness and the wind in my hair.

In a very long-winded and verbose fashion (albeit we are covering four days here), the story goes like this:

I met my friends for lunch this past Thursday at The Plant on Railway about a ten minute walk from my work. We had a nummy lunch, parted ways, and I made my way back. It was snowing that day - heavy, watery snowflakes which dissolved into droplets millimeters before landing on warm bodies below. It was easy to get soaked walking for too long but this walk was short and I welcomed the fresh, wintry air.

I arrived at work and walked up the stairs to my office reaching into my jacket pocket to check the time on my cell phone which was no longer in my pocket. My heart sank. I rushed into work to advise my colleagues of the sitch and headed right back out the door, trudging all the way back to The Plant following my own boot tracks right through the door. No one had turned in my phone. I left and walked back to work following the same path I had made three trips before and frantically scanned the sidewalks and roads. Nothing.

I arrived back at work to stay for good and called my phone. My answering machine picked up right away. Please let it have been run over, I thought to myself as I would have been much more comfortable with that outcome versus my phone being in someone’s hands with all my personal text messages, contacts, calendar, and photos available for perusal for as long as my battery was alive. I called Telus to report my phone missing and forced myself to push the situation out of my mind so I could focus on working.

Later that afternoon I called Telus again to enquire about the phone upgrade options I had seen on my account last time I logged in. To my surprise the guy (his name was Carlos) told me that someone had found my phone and called it in to report it. She left her name and contact number. Carlos put me on hold while he called the number. He promptly came back to tell me that the number connected to one of the Triage Shelters in my area and that the woman wasn’t there. In all candid and humble honesty, when I found out this information, two things went through my head: 1) Please let it be someone who works there 2) Please don’t let it be a client.

Carlos gave me her name and the telephone number and we said goodbye.

I made the announcement to the office right after this and immediately the name was recognised. “Oh… she has your phone?” And it was not in an uplifting or reassuring way. My elation dissipated quickly as they told me personal accounts of their experiences dealing with her. I began to visualise the hands and fingernails of the person who my phone was now in the company of. I have a tendency to take note of noteworthy fingernails. I don’t know why I do this but it’s just one of the many odd things I do. As a result, the visualisation I had of her appendages made me shiver but clearly I had no confirmation on whether or not I was overreacting. I thought about the track ball on my Blackberry. I thought about the photos of Mandy’s kitten. I thought about my James Franco (don’t be alarmed) wallpaper that everyone laughs at. I thought about my recent text messages and the vet and dentist appointments I recently scheduled. I thought about important birthdays and the addresses of my friends and family.

Still, I thought to myself, I’m going to get her a really nice thank-you card and put a bit of Christmas money inside. I thought about what I would write in it and that maybe I’d also get her a gift card at Starbucks, too. Despite her not-so-good reputation in my office I still appreciate and understand the struggles the people in this area face and since I’m all for paying-it-forward in life I was almost excited to get my phone back and to see the look on her face when I gave her my gift in return.

At 4:30, when my shift ended, I walked over to the shelter to see if she had dropped off my phone. She hadn’t. They were familiar with her there and recalled her showing them my phone earlier in the day but she didn’t want to leave it with them even though the phone number she left me is for the shelter – which she only visits but does not live at. They mentioned she enjoys wandering the streets with her compadre and will often do this for hours on end. My phone was right at my fingertips! I left my home number with them in case she went back and rushed to catch my bus…

…which never came. The weather turned from heavy, fluffy snowflakes to sleet and then to rain. The sun was down and it was damp and cold. Cars driving by the bus stop seemed to go in time lapse. Every so often one would drift over the white line a little bit and send a wave of sludge toward us waiting commuters. These commuters came and went as their buses arrived on schedule. Four bus routes pass by this stop and I spotted all but mine every two to three minutes. As time elapsed I started to mumble in my head how much I hated my life at that very moment in time. If I had my cell phone I could call the transit line and find out if and when my bus was coming and what alternative ones were available. I could maybe call someone to pick me up. My jacket suddenly wasn’t as warm as it felt before I lost my phone. I hated my stupid jacket for not having proper pockets. If it had proper pockets, my phone would have never fallen out. I thought about how I decided to bus to work that day because the weather the night before had predicted heavy snowfall for the next day. I looked at the rainy roads and realised driving wouldn’t have been so bad. If I had my car I would have been home by now, on my sofa, under a heavy blanket beside my cozy Christmas tree with its multi coloured lights mesmerized by the flames in my fireplace.

If I were to write an illustrated storybook of the time I spent at the bus stop, the cover of the storybook would look like this:

Forty-five minutes and 15 buses later I got onto the next one and asked the driver how close he got to my stop. His route was much longer but it worked for me and I got on out of desperation for warmth and dryness.

On a normal day, the bus gets me home in about 25 minutes. On Thursday, I was home an hour and a half after leaving work. Unnn-acceptable!

I stomped toward home, down the dark path that everyone tells me I should stop stomping down at night time but I think my body language, hunched shoulders, and heavy, plodding legs would have scared anyone lurking in the bushes. I’m pretty sure I was probably grunting too. It was like that demon in Jeepers Creepers I:

Meets Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick at the early stages of his devilish transformation:

That was like me coming down the path.

I finally got into my sanctuary and turned on the lights on my Christmas tree which became the only source of light in my apartment. I fed my boys in the darkness and went to my bedroom where I noticed my digital answering machine had a little message flashing. So I listened and it was her. The gatekeeper. She had found my “Home” entry in my contacts. She said she found my phone at 2:30, it’s safe and… let me bring out the quotes for this: “And yes I want a reward because I’m doing the right thing, believe it or not.”

Oh I believe it.

She called me again that evening, we talked this time and I told her she didn’t have to ask for a reward because I planned on offering her a little something anyway as a token of my thanks. In knowing that the shelter was open 24 hours, and close to her apartment, I asked her if she could drop my phone off at the front desk for me to pick up the next day and I would leave her a little card and my gift to pick up when she was there next. She told me no, that she “wanted to meet the lady whose phone I have” and that “I want to shake your hand and hand it over to you.” AKA, “I want to make sure you give me money.” Although it severely irritated me, I understood her mentality and instead she offered to meet me at the shelter at noon the next day.

We disconnected and I finally relaxed. I was going to be reunited with my phone! Around 8:15 PM I decided to head out to the bank machine to take out some cash for her just in case the following day was another bus one for safety. I bundled up, got to the garage and noticed that my interior light was on because I hadn’t shut my door entirely since I was last in my car a full day earlier. I might have sworn several times while getting into my car and saying something directly to God in between, who I very rarely discuss things with. I look back on it now and the two probably shouldn’t have been combined. That’s likely why my engine wouldn’t turn over. Oh how it tried though, it really did. As I mustered the last bit of wrist energy to turn the key a few more times I flashed forward to the next series of events that would take place. #1. With a dead battery I can’t drive to the bank machine right now, the bank is about a 45 minute walk away and I’m not sure my body will survive another bout in the elements under unfortunate circumstances. Ex. Walking outside on a cold, rainy night should really be something I choose to do, not actually have to do. #2. The dead battery also means I have to bus to work the next morning no matter what (again removing the choice from me). This means that 2a) there is no bank on my bus route. #3. If I don’t have the cash to give her as her “reward” she’s not going to hand over my phone without a fight and 3a) I don’t want to fight anyone so close to Christmas!

I surrendered and head back inside. I think I might have popped recreational Gravol that night just to make sure I would actually sleep through the slow and steady rage (not rush) that was starting to line the underside of my epidermis.

The next morning I woke up a little early and tried to charge my car battery with my little trickle battery charger I have for my motorcycle. It wasn’t enough juice. Luckily I got a call from a friend who just so happens to pass by my hood on his way to work. “Get the cables ready,” he requested “we’re going to do a drive-by charging.” And I did as requested. My battery was alive again! I left immediately and got some cash from the bank machine on the way, I even was able to get my free McDonald’s coffee. It was a good morning – until the afternoon at approximately 12:40 when I left the shelter as per our meeting place and time the evening before. I was there from 11:55 AM to 12:40 PM. I spent my lunch loitering in the lobby of the shelter. I heard people tooting, burping, and discussing heated issues quietly to themselves. Someone dropped his chocolate chip cookie at my feet and in rising from picking it up he hit his head on my right bum cheek. “Oh sorry,” he said. “Do you think my cookie is still okay?” I told him he must have picked it up in under five seconds and he seemed to agree at the same time he started chomping down on it.

I talked to Maureen for about 13 minutes. She was explicitly telling me to stay out of relationships for the rest of my life and just get a lot of cats. I told her I was already two in and she high-fived me. She also relayed several stories of renting woes, and cell phones, and televisions, and bunions, and ankle cramps in winter boots that were a little too big.

Come 12:40 PM I knew that I wasn’t going to get my phone and left. I crossed the street and had to relay the disappointment to the office and watch their smiles turn to scowls. I sat at my desk and asked for silence as I deep breathed the fury out of my bones. How dare she control this situation I kept thinking. I was completely helpless to getting my phone back now and I realised that the chances were very slim that I ever would.

I worked the rest of the day trying so hard to not project my rage onto my poor clients. I selfishly and self-pityingly associated them with her and I had to shake the thought a few times to keep neutral. I called the VPD non-emerg line on my break and reported my phone as officially stolen. I wasn’t really expecting anything to come of it but at least I could take back some of the helplessness I was feeling over the situation.

Friday afternoon I got home without incident and head to the mall to the Telus booth to see what upgrade options were available to me. Luckily it wasn’t busy so I was able to pour my heart out to the poor Telus rep who probably did not wake up that morning thinking some crazy customer was going to come in that evening to entertain him with the last 24 hours of her life. We eventually got down to business and I checked out the phones. At the end of the rundown I was looking at spending at least $240 no matter which option I went with. I remember hanging my head and exhaling deeply. The rep (Ben) put his hand on my arm and said “I have an idea, meet me back at my desk.” He rushed off into the back and I made my way as instructed.

He emerged out of the back with his knapsack and pulled out a Blackberry Tour 9630. “This is my phone,” he said, “and I’m going to give it to you for free.” I looked up at him and he didn’t give me a chance to say anything. “I just upgraded to a new one, this one’s going on Craigslist anyway, so I’m just going to give it to you instead. I believe in good karma and you need it right now. This phone is only 10 months old, I’ll switch everything over to this one so it’ll be just like before you left for lunch on Thursday only you have a different phone.” I think all I mustered was, “Holy shit, what? Wow, thank you.” (I’m very classy during moments of extreme appreciation). Before leaving I purchased a $70 Bluetooth so he could get some commission off of me. It was the least I could do for forcing my story upon him for the last hour.

I got home and my little voice mail light was flashing again it was that voice. This message was a stark contrast from the coherent one she left me on Thursday as well as the conversation we had that night. This one was complete gobbledygook.

An hour passed.

She called again and told me she wasn’t able to make it. I was not about to get into a lecturing session with her because she had property of mine and I couldn’t risk having her do something with it. So I placated her and maintained the false appreciation in my voice. She enjoyed the control and tersly asked me, “Well, what do you want to do?” Almost as if I was inconveniencing her fancy plans on a Friday night. Seeing as how it was after dark, I wasn’t about to head into the down town east side alone so we planned to meet at noon on Monday (yesterday), same place.

I played with my new Bb for most of the night and had a better, drug-free sleep knowing that my phone was still alive and she was still in contact with me. Still though I went in and out of almost laughing at the situation thinking about how I’ve handled other people’s lost property I found. The process is usually to get a hold of them right away and immediately make a plan and likely meet at both our next available opportunity. It’d involve meeting half way, or dropping it off at work – all the things that would accompany handling a situation with urgency. Here I was dealing with someone who was basking in self-gratification for having done something good… “believe it or not.” For this woman, I’m sure it was enough to compensate for her otherwise lackadaisical regard for the fact that she had a piece of property that was very important and private to me.  The situation was entirely on her schedule and priority determination and I was at her full mercy if I was to continue to pursue getting my phone back.

Saturday morning my phone rang around 8:00 AM. It was the officer assigned to my case. He told me he was in her area and he could go retrieve my phone if I wanted him to. For a moment this excited me but then I felt bad all of the sudden that I had made this plan with her for Monday and an officer showing up prior to this would be quite alarming for her. Not to mention the fact that she can be volatile – which I warned him of. His alternative was that he’d assign a plain-clothed officer to my office at noon and we’d walk to the shelter together to get my phone. If she escalated or started asking me for more money, they officer would take over from that point. It felt like a sting operation. We confirmed that plan and that was that.

As my mind started to wake up more I began to feel less guilty and more clear-headed. Come Monday she would have had my phone for four days. If she didn’t show up at noon on Friday, what’s to say that the same thing wouldn’t happen again on Monday? As long as my battery was charged all of my personal information, my contacts’ addresses, telephone numbers, my appointments, text messages … they were at her complete disposal. So I called him back and told him to go get my phone.

He called me back forty minutes later to let me know he had it.

I nearly laughed through my words of thanks and in a way almost felt emotional. This ordeal was finally over and my business was safe now – back in my hands. It’s hard to explain. I was heading out to do groceries and we met outside the store. He handed my phone and we exchanged a few words. He remarked how she had denied ever having asked me for reward money and that he told her it was considered extortion. ha. I told him all the evidence was on my answering machine and he reassured me that he “knew.” We parted ways after that and I went about my day. I wondered when I got home if there was going to be a message from her on my phone. She did, after all, call my home several times over the last three days.

And sure enough… She sarcastically wished me an “Uh ya, Merry Christmas” and told me that I didn’t have to send the police. She made sure to tell me that at least she had a clear conscience because she found my cell in the snow. I’m not sure how that works exactly but at that point I really didn’t give a poo.

The frigging end.

Close your eyes, mum.

Me thinks this is too close for little Andrea’s comfort. Without pasting a Google Maps link to just how close and run the risk of my biggest fans bringing me lots of Smarties, trust me when I say I know the colour of their curtains.

http://www.cbc.ca/canada/british-columbia/story/2009/07/17/bc-east-vancouver-woman-shot.html

This one’s for you, Nicole; for next Friday reading.

I believe in one of my past lives I was the love child of Murphy of Murphy’s Law notoriety.

Earlier this week I decided I wanted to get rid of my bathroom mirror. I’d been staring into it for the last year and a half and although a gradual dislike, I finally replaced it with a big, round mirror from IKEA. This previous one was gaudy in a slightly baroque-y way. It would look good in the basement powder room of grandma’s house, basically.

This new mirror is heavy, which means it needs hardware to hold it up. I’ve never been one to shy away from hard anything, and kind of welcomed this long-weekend project. I bought a shiny new aluminum level, too. I read the cryptic IKEA directions … mark an “x” every 22″ to form a square. I mean how hard can that be? My level doesn’t have measurements on it so I had to improvise by placing a measuring tape along the edge and marking 22″. So far sooooo good. I was so excited to hang it and admire it. Xs were made, it was time to drill. IKEA didn’t provide me with anchors but it was okay because I just happened to have a bulk container of them! So far sooooo good. My cordless drill was full of juice and I was so ready. I drilled four holes (22″ apart) pushed the anchors in, screwed in the brackets and hoisted my big, round mirror toward the wall to place it.

I could see my reflection in the mirror I was carrying. I went from delighted, to dazed, to desperate, to demented in roughly 15 seconds. By the 16th second I had smoke pouring out of my ears and my hair was standing straight up on the top of my head. To make matters worse I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, why it was so wrong, and at what point I frigged things up that badly. I had a level for godsake! I measured every thing twice so I would only have to cut once! So there I was gripping this roughly 12 pound circular mirror delirious over the situation at hand (get it?). In effect, the bottom of the mirror slid into the brackets perfectly, but for the top brackets .. well they were about 2″ too far away from securing the top of the mirror. I looked at the directions again, over and over again. I felt like such a moron trying to figure out if I missed a key step in a two-step drawing. I even, out of complete bewilderment tried to rotate the mirror in case it was actually oval and I couldn’t tell because it was so big. It wasn’t. I lay it down on my bath mat and slid down my bathroom door staring at the stick men, the four Xs, the 22″ space between them … the 22″ space between them … the 22″ space between them … 

Wait a minute, this says 20 inches apart.

This says 20 inches!

Oh @#$% this says @#$%ing 20 @#$%ing inches!!

Yes, I installed the brackets two inches too wide apart. Any calm person would have been able to figure it out right away. My problem is I think I’m calm. I had a level!! I have a fancy cordless drill!! I fix things all by myself! I build things! They always work! I was beside myself for having made such a rookie mistake. Not only was I looking at anchors that I’d would now need to pull out, but I was then going to be looking at four deep holes in an off-white, faded yellow-y wall. 

I dropped everything and marched to Canadian Tire – picked up some Polyfix, sandpaper, a putty knife and … Oooh this is a pretty purple … Okay, I had every intention of buying some medium-base, satin white paint to keep it simple, but fell in love with this shade of purple I found. I knew it was for me when I saw its name: Andrea Lauren. It relaxed me, as I often find purple does, and figured this would be the perfect band-aid to my mistake of embarrassing inaccuracy. 

Sylvia’s out in Alaska for a week touring around, so she’s not exactly here to ask. But, she did let me paint one of my bedroom walls a deep, sky blue – which she happened to really like. So I went with this notion and decided that if she really hated it, I would paint it back white, worst case scenario. So I took the chance because my sanity was too important.

So I went from an easy $29.99 mirror purchase … to spending an additional $34 on supplies to fix my mess which should hopefully result in an updated, tranquil bathroom. 

After recovering, I filled the holes and would wait for them to dry. I figured the worst of this day was over and sit down on my couch to do some ‘waxing’ while watching TV. I overestimate my ‘pro’ status when it comes to this sometimes and do get lazy and multi task by either watching TV, scrutinzing over a crossword puzzle beside me, or talking on the phone. I should have known better. I should have known that given the way my evening was going so far, something else was going to go wrong. I figured out what it was when I looked to my right and saw my overturned hot, sugaring wax dripping off my crossword puzzle and collecting in a puddle on my sofa. Meanwhile I’m ready for the next rrrrrip and am completely helpless to remedying the situation as it worsens right beside me. Thankfully sugaring wax = sugar base, which means hot water and a rag melts wax nicely. I still didn’t appreciate the wet spot though.

Sometimes, I tell ya …

Hard to believe my mom’s been here for two weeks already as of tomorrow. I think the fact that I’ve been working this entire time has made it feel shorter than it really is. In some ways it’s good that we’re not together 24/7 because I’m not sure we’d still be sharing my apartment right now.

See I’ve been living entirely on my own since late August 2007. Before that I was in two, long term relationships at 5 years each – which took up my entire 20s (except for an 8 month break). This brings me back to 18 when I had my very first long-term relationship. I’ve always shared my life with someone … boyfriends, roommates, my mom. Now I’ve been here alone; just me, Marshall, and Otis. I settled quite nicely into being on my own. Sometimes I love it too much because I go in and out of total hermitude where my friends start to ask if I’m neglecting them.

I’m independent to begin with, or at least really crave my independence and to settle into that life becomes comfortable. Even with the feeling that sometimes it’d be nice to fall asleep cuddled next to a warm body at night, I am still enjoying my solo life at this time in my life. It’s very interesting being single in your 30s. I control when I come home, if I come home, who I come home with, how many people are over. If I don’t do my dishes for two days, I don’t care. It’s my mess.

I’ve been existing this way over the last year and a half, so having my mom work her way into my little bubble feels a little foreign at times. My place can feel crowded now every once and a while, my things are pushed out of the way, there is another toothbrush in my holder. The toilet paper goes faster, so does the toothpaste, and the dish soap. I have to answer to someone now. I’m asked why I buy salted butter and am expected to answer, I’m reminded to soak my pots after cooking, I’m told my shampoo smells too strong.

At the same time though, it’s comforting having my mom here to take care of me. I feel like life, since moving here, has sometimes called for my mom’s warmth and understanding, her words of support – something to cheer me on and tell me everything’s going to be okay. To not have her here in physical form during times of crisis or agony can be difficult. So I’m cherishing these moments we’re spending together. I come home from work and dinner is simmering on the stove top. It’s a real dinner too. Not canned salmon on toast with a slice or two of celery. Brewing coffee fills my senses every morning before I leave for work. She seems to be able to remember to do that, where usually my mind would be in such a state of chaos because I’m running behind, my cream for coffee can go bad before even opening the carton.

We’ve argued at least once an evening though, sometimes twice 10 minutes later. Our arguments are very frustrating for me a) because I’m not used to having to argue with anyone and b) she thinks she has me all figured out and she couldn’t be more misdirected. When I tell her she’s wrong, she disagrees with me which then propels me to prove to her that she’s mistaken, and she will just throw her hand up in the air – usually when I’ve made a valid point – then say “I don’t want to talk to you anymore right now.”

I’ve done so much self-reflection since I’ve moved here, and learned about exactly who I am, why I think and feel the things I do – where they come from, what the triggers are; I’ve observed my friendships, what they give me, and what I give to them; I’ve looked at my moods – when they start, why they start. Every hurdle I’ve cleared, and even the ones I hit on the way over, I know why they were there. So to have my mom come in and tell me otherwise can be frustrating, but she’s still my mom and it is her natural role to be that way so I let her get away with it. Not all battles are worth fighting on the field.

It’s funny, even now, she’s lying on her little bed in the middle of the living room absorbed in cable TV because she doesn’t have cable at home. She’s talking to CBC news, then switching channels and laughing at the sitcoms, then asking me if I heard the joke. Then she starts talking to me about a thought – just like she is right now – I’m not really paying attention, because I’m absorbed in what I’m writing, and yet she’s still talking. She knows I’m not listening, but we’re communicating nevertheless just by being in the same room together, and it works. She just told me I remind her of Erica in Being Erica and she wants me to pay attention. I forgot to answer her and now she told me that I am not listening. I told her “I know.”

She drives me nuts sometimes, but she’s been my saving grace in so many profound ways throughout my life. I feel lucky to have her.