Becoming Something

My new diet of sludge and steak and lots of crying

My adrenal glands are nearly shot so I've been taking cow adrenal and spleen in a pill form with some vitamins and some herbs.  It's made a significant, shocking difference in my energy level... but I'm still not up to par.

Just as I've been going to the gym regularly and beginning to feel better, my allergies have kicked in.  And I don't mean just a little sneezing and watery eyes. It's like having the flu. I feel like I can barely move. My head just might explode and if it does, you'll find that my brain has been replaced with nasal fluid. At my friend Jen's house today (@Jaejay), she had to help me with figuring out how to print a page from Google Docs as well as many other simple tasks. When filling out some papers for my naturopathic doctor, I made about seven mistakes. You know, like filling the date out as being 2007... my birthdate year being 2009... and my handwriting looked like it came from a muppet. A really fuzzy muppet.

I'd be tempted to think that I'm just experiencing the same flu/sinus infection as JQ, down the street, except that every Spring for the past nine years I've had the same confusion: is this allergies or a bad cold? And I remember feeling this horrible nearly all last Spring and Summer with the odd good week here and there. So, I'm pretty sure that it's a severe case of hay fever.

To top it all off, I'm anemic. I had to ask for the results of my blood test from the doctor's office. They did not want to give me the results but, because they're required to, I picked them up and brought them to my naturopath. Not that it takes anyone smarter or older than... I don't know... someone not very smart or old, to figure out by looking at the lab results that my iron count was really low. Why didn't the MD phone me?! Isn't that his job? I suddenly have all these unexplained bruises and I'm fighting to be healthy and no one phoned me in the past six weeks to tell me to get some supplements.

The naturopath wants me to eat more red meat, which I don't like. I have finally worked my way up to liking steak but only if marinaded, not overcooked, and only if grilled. And while I make the best burgers ever, I can't bring myself to eat leftovers the next day. I've just never liked meat.

If you know me at all, you know that I'm kind of depressed if I don't have something utterly delicious to eat. I need a lot of variety. I like to make salmon, risotto, fried goat cheese patties.... And the naturopath wants me to drink a vegetable, protein, flax, probiotic, psyllium, water, blueberry smoothie for breakfast and lunch, FIVE DAYS A WEEK, FOR SIX WEEKS. Steak and sludge. That's my new diet.

And she couldn't understand the horror that registered upon my face.

I would not want to eat chocolate cake for breakfast and lunch every day for five days for six weeks.  I would not want to eat lobster that often.  I feel like I'm a part of a Super Size Me experiment.

She wants me to do this for the sake of my stressed out adrenal glands which are affecting my allergies. The problem is, she told me I may not feel better for six months or so. She said that it takes a while to feel a difference from increased iron intake.

So, I'm anemic, with maxed out adrenal glands that are looking to cash out their pension, with a head pressed full of allergies, with sore muscles from my gym attempts at improved strength and health, I have my period a bit early, my clothes don't fit and on top of it all, no one is commenting on my blog.

I'd say, Well, at least I'm alive, but actually, that doesn't feel like the bright side I'm looking for.

Daily Gratitudes

1. We can afford to buy the bazillion supplements I need to take every day.
2. We HAVE to buy a barbeque now. You know, for the sake of my anemia.

I'm too tired to think of anything else.

A touch of pathetic if we have to redefine the word "hero"?

(Just have to point out that TWO people unsubscribed after my last post and I can only assume that it's because the disclaimer I later added to the top of the post didn't make it onto the email mailout.  They probably got the email of my blog post and ACTUALLY THOUGHT I WAS BEING SERIOUS.  Hard to believe but I see no other explanation because it's rare that someone unsubscribes.  Anyway.  It's a lot harder to communicate that kind of Stephen Colbert fake arrogance on print than in person.  If you could hear my grandiose voice.... )

I have another tv-inspired comment here.  Which makes me look just a touch of sad.  [grin]

On Grey's Anatomy last night, the cute, blond, lesbian character told Dr. Bailey that she was a hero because she spent her day holding a dying child whose dad was sort of AWOL.  

In that moment I reached my threshold of tolerance for the way the word "hero" gets tossed about in the media.  

Dr. Bailey did not reach hero status by holding a child who asked not to be let go.  She's a doctor, so she was already there. And what kind of person would have done ANYTHING differently?  If some little girl was dying, maybe within minutes, and was all alone, WHO WOULDN'T HOLD THE POOR THING?  If Dr. Bailey was a hero for holding the girl, then anyone who would not have made the same choice would be average and I fail to believe that most people would have left a kid dying who needed someone. 

Heroes run into burning buildings.  Heroes go off to war.  Heroes wear bullet-proof vests as a part of their regular job uniforms. 

Good people hold dying kids.  Good people come to the aid of a crying lost child alone in a mall.  Good people give your vehicle a boost when you need it, even if they don't know you.

I'd like to think that most of us are that kind of good people. Because if those kinds of acts make us "heroes", then the rest of society must be pretty selfish and hateful and that doesn't seem very reasonable, does it?

Daily Gratitudes

1. I started a fitness regime today with a personal trainer at a new gym.
2. Working on a fun, kind of exciting project with @JaeJay 
3. I may have found a friend a cool job that will make him happy. 
4. It's the weekend. 
5. I have basic sewing skills. 

The Universe thinks I'm fabulous

(It pains me to even have to explain this but it pains me more to be misunderstood, so let it be known at the outset that this is a tongue-in-cheek post with just a touch of self-mockery.)

I have this sneaking suspicion that you don't listen to my sparkling, brilliant advice and act upon it enough.  My stunning essence flies over your head.  The light in my eyes goes unnoticed and everyday that you don't rise up to meet me in Terrific Land is a day you failed to heed my call. Today you're going to make it up to yourself.

If I sound a little full of myself it's only because I have a secret admirer who thinks I'm utterly perfect and it's really getting to my head. My flaws melt away into an understanding that there's always tomorrow and every year I am just a little bit more awesome and that's so "good enough" that it's perfect the way it is.

You know the Saturday Night Live skit from the 90's with Guy Smiley Stuart Smalley (lol)? He would look into a mirror, smile at his sweater-vested reflection and would affirm, 

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and dog-gone-it... people like me.

Self-affirmations are legitimate tools recommended by psychologists.  They replace the negative self-talk in which we all engage.  Here's the problem:  The nature of a self-affirmation is to be something you don't believe yet but want to believe and because you don't believe in it, you don't let it dwell with you.  You fail to become onnnne with the affirmation. Plus, you feel foolish. 

I bring you the solution. Wait-- that needs a more booming voice:

I BRINNNG YOU THEEE SOLUUUUTIONNN.

Ahem.

Theee soluuuutionnn will help you think you are fabulous and admit it unapologetically. What do I mean by "admit it unapologetically"?  Well, you've probably read or heard this quote, often wrongly credited to someone other than the lovely Marianne Williamson, in A Return to Love:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure... We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? ...Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you...  We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us... And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

That's what I mean.

Everydayish, I get emails from The Universe telling me how incredible I am.  Sure, I know that it's an automated free newsletter-type thing into which I put my name and that the people who write these emails don't actually know me but over time I started to forget that and just think of the emails as coming from my mentor who truly understands me. I like to view the emails as reminders that God thinks of me pretty much the same way. Rarely have I received a message that was untrue or that conflicted with my spiritual beliefs and the psychic nature of the messages, often coming just when I need them, just when they're relevant, makes me grin and marvel.

I find it more effective to let The Universe do the affirmations for me. This is the type of stuff I get in my inbox:

You're freakin' me out, Natasha. I can't remember when you last looked so radiant. When your inner beauty shone so bright. When your step was so light and your smile so heavenly. And it's Monday! What's gotten into you?!

Does this have anything to do with recalling your divinity? Have you realized that time truly is on your side, and that more than enough of it remains for us to do your greatest work? Is it that you now see how much you already have, how many you've already helped, and how much you've already done?

Ahhhh! Your eyes just did that sparkly thing! Moonbeams just shot from your fingertips! The aroma, all around you, is like lavender! And your angels are locked wing to wing singing, "Weeeeeeeeee are the champions..."

...Okay, okay. So I'm pulling your leg a little bit. Truth be told, I can't remember when you didn't look like this.

All together now... 
The Universe

Isn't that sweet?! I love the part "Truth be told, I can't remember when you didn't look like this". I'm also rather fond of these emails:

No one ever regrets raising the bar, Natasha, ever, ever, ever.

Scare yourself, 
    The Universe

Should you ever hear your name being called, Natasha, only to spin around and see absolutely no one... it's most likely one of us, in the unseen, who misses you so much we've begun following you around, talking as if you can hear us, waving our arms around excitedly as we speak, and getting so carried away that we've ended up volunteering you for "Dancing with the Angels" by blurting your name out so loud, it broke the time-space barrier. Oh my!

"Natasha!!!!!!"
    The Universe

How will you answer those, Natasha, who will one day look at your utterly amazing life, complete with beauty, strength and cool friends, and say, "Yeah, but for you it was easy"?

Huh, huh, huh? 
    The Universe

Natasha, today, be the person of your dreams.

See life through HER eyes. 

Make decisions with HER mind. 

Let every thought, word, and action come from HER perspective, as if you had already arrived, and just watch how 2009 warps into the kind of year you talk and laugh about forever and ever and ever...

Peace, love, and green M&Ms - 
    The Universe

For those who don't yet understand themselves, Natasha, it's impossible that they might understand you.
Impossible.

I understand you,
    The Universe

(And this one came on a day when I felt very misunderstood. It was eerie.)

I love the following pieces of advice:

Anything you could ever hope that I might one day do for you, Natasha, is something you can begin doing for yourself today, making the whole thing happen about 7,000 times faster.

But that's just if you're in a hurry, 
    The Universe

When you begin to find love, Natasha, in people and places where you haven't found it before, it's always because you've grown.

You so rock, 
    The Universe

You, too, can star in your own Pantene commercial. (You know-- "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful"?) Just sign up for emails from The Universe from Tut (Totally Unique Thoughts).  No, I don't get paid to plug this. But I should. Because, of course, I deserve it like I deserve everything good in the world. ;-D

Be a touch of terrific whole lotta terrific,

     Natasha ♥

* * *

By the way, speaking of secret admirers, I wanted to say thank you to the unknown blog reader who purchased the You Are So Loved print from my Etsy Favourites list (shown on the right hand side of my blog) and sent it to me.  I was a kind of freaked out when the Etsy seller emailed me out-of-the-blue and asked for my address because she worded it in such a way that it sounded like she was giving it to the stranger who wanted to send me the item.  After I sent my paranoia to bed for the day, I gave my aunt Patty's address, just to be safe, and she re-sent the item to me.  I wanted to buy it for my family, particularly my son, to look at everyday. Now it has even more meaning.  And it came on a day when I was feeling terribly misunderstood and unloved. Thank you, Mystery Gifter. Something tells me that you are so loved, too;  you're probably just that kind of person.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Jude walking the dog at 6am everyday.
2. The internet.  
3. Blackberries instead of candy. 
4. Jude being at home yesterday at lunch time.  
5. My camera.  It's not amazing but it does a pretty good job.  

Dr. Berman and Oprah: Ahem.

I just finished watching an Oprah episode from a few days ago that featured Dr. Laura Berman.  On the show were two 14-year-olds who wanted to have sex with each other and thought they were ready.  The boy's mom had told her son repeatedly that she didn't want him to have sex. But in case he did, she purchased some condoms and put them in his dresser drawer.  (SHE DIDNT' EVEN GIVE THEM TO HIM DIRECTLY. Wouldn't want to embarrass him now.)

Gayle King, Oprah's best friend who gets talked down to regularly by Oprah, did not approve of this. She felt it was giving the boy permission.  Oprah didn't give her much time to explain her point of view before interrupting and everyone applauded Oprah and it was the end of that point.

I think I can better explain what Gayle was trying to say:

If you can't be man enough to go to the store yourself, face your embarrassment and fear of judgment head on, and buy your own big boy condoms, then you aren't man enough to have sex.

It's that simple.

And if you can't even GET to the store because maybe you live in the country and you don't have a driver's license because YOU'RE ONLY FOURTEEN YEARS OLD, then you aren't old enough to have sex.

I think what Gayle may have meant was that this boy's mom was making it easier for him.  She was protecting him. She was MOTHERING HIS SEXUALITY. She was doing what mothers do.  But big boys don't need their mommies to have sex.

I fully believe in arming kids with information at a young age.  I've already done it with my kids. We have had a few sex talks and they are only 7 and 9.  They ask a lot of questions and I answer openly without embarrassment, and YES, Dr. Berman, I have talked to my daughter about WHY people have sex:  because it feels really good. (She asked.)

But if my kids want to have sex when they are teenagers, they won't be getting any assistance from me. My firm stance is that sex is an adult act and that if you want to be an adult, there's no going back. You can't be half adult, half child. You either are an independent adult who makes his own decisions and deals with the repercussions or you're not. 

AND AN ADULT BUYS HIS OWN FREAKIN' CONDOMS.  

Some date nights are better than others

Last night, Jude and I went to a Mexican restaurant for supper.  I wasn't all that excited to go again, until some friends said that they renovated the place and it no longer looked like a cold airport lounge. I wasn't excited because I've had really delicious and authentic Mexican food in Peace River, Alberta and my last meal at this local restaurant didn't compare. Somehow I thought this time would be different. I thought the renos would mean it would look... Mexican or something. The bathroom was the nicest part of the restaurant. I forgot that the menu barely offered more variety than Taco Time.I knew it was sad, but not quite that sad.  In fact, it took me a while to go through the menu because I was convinced that I was missing something, like an entire page.

Basically, the choices were:

• nachos
• fajitas without cheese (come on!) 
• burritos 
• enchiladas 
• shrimp 
• salmon 
• ALFREDO PASTA  
• blackened chicken 
• tostadas 
• chicken fingers   

The dessert menu was typical for any restaurant except for deep-fried ice cream.

Okay, so tostadas are lettuce with feta and salsa on crunchy corn tortillas. Whoop dee doo. We ordered the shrimp variety and got us some nice canned shrimp.  But boy, that lettuce was nice and... lettucey.

And let's be real, fajitas, buritos and enchiladas are pretty darn similar-- not so much different ingredients as they are a rearrangement of the same ingredients.  It's like offering thin crust pizza, deep dish pizza or a panzarotti pizza.  Guess what?  They all taste like pizza.

I got a fajita with cheese and Jude got the chicken which came with a side of rice and refried beans.

WHO is going to eat refried beans just like that? Gross. Jude mixed his up with his rice. "The beans taste burnt. Try yours," he said.

I did.  They looked deceivingly fine and I was surprised that Jude, who is the type of person who would eat a painted Easter egg that's been sitting in a basket on the counter for a week (and then spit it out while I watch, while I'm talking on the phone), would complain about a slight burntness to the beans. 

"UGH! They're horrible. I'm glad I didn't spread them on my fajita yet."

The waitress came by.

"Um, these beans taste burnt. Like, really burnt. Like there's ashes from a campfire mixed in."

"Really? Hmmm," she replies.

Another customer piped up, "Mine tasted burnt too. We couldn't eat any of it."

"Oh no.  And you've already eaten most of your meal..." the waitress mused casually as if to say, Had you told me about it earlier, I could have done something but you didn't. That's unfortunate for you. Darn, eh?

So, the waitress went to inform the kitchen that they don't even know how to make refried beans and then came back.

"I tasted the beans and they did taste really burnt. But I guess it would take them a really long time to make more and you wouldn't want to wait."

We do wait-- we wait for her to say more. Like, So what can we give you for free to make up for you paying $16 for the tiniest chicken breast known to restaurants?  But she says nothing.

"Okay, well, he's really hungry," I say. "And he mixed his beans in with all his rice.  Can't you offer him something else to eat to make up for it? And what about me?"

"Oh, well, I can ask if we could give you a ceasar salad or french fries or mushroom soup?"

Oh, did I forget to mention that the Soup of the Day was MUSHROOM SOUP? At a MEXICAN restuarant? You'd think maybe tortilla soup or bean soup or avacado soup, right? Ha.

Jude is all, "Uhhhh..."  He's trying to be polite.  I'm not so shy, although I am polite and I nicely say, "Well, those aren't very healthy like the rice and beans. He doesn't usually eat french fries."  I didn't say that most restaurants make terrible ceasar salad with dry crutons and bacon bits and Kraft ceasar dressing.

"And mushrooms are one of the few things I really don't like."

The waitress stares at us blankly. "I'll go see what we can do."

She leaves and talks to the people we assume are in charge and comes back to offer us a shared fried ice cream.  Ya. That's the same thing. 

"You probably can't fit in dessert," Jude asks me. 

"No, I can. That's fine I guess."  I don't want to fight for sensible service. Besides, I have enough food to fill ME up.

Clearly, the restaurant doesn't know the unwritten rule that if you screw up two thirds of someone's meal (the beans mixed with the rice made up 2/3 of Jude's plate) that you should be generous in apology.  You know, so he'll come back. Or so she won't write about it on her blog. 

I carry on eating my fajita and I have to ask for two more servings of salsa, guacamole and sour cream. The gave me a shell containing the three staples that was as big as my palm and it took care of one fajita.  I had three more to go. 

I wasn't so surprised to find a charge for the supplementary guac and salsa but if you think about it, they gave us one dessert to share between the two of us and they didn't do anything for our neighbor who "already ate most of the meal".  So, that's kinda cheap.

And the ice cream was gross and bitter. It sort of tasted like it was rolled in crushed almonds and then overcooked.  No Mexican cookies like in Peace River.  Who knew you could overcook ice cream?

I was too tired to go to a movie. My cow adrenal pills are running low and so my energy follows. 

Still, I had to drive the babysitter home as I always do because Jude has made it a rule to never find himself alone with any woman besides me.  It's a Mormon thing.  Appearances and all.  I'm getting tired of paying for babysitters and driving them home so I think we might be laying close to home for a while. A restaurant meal combined with a babysitter is a very expensive date night. 

I'm not so sure that Rachel will mind because Izzy the Wonder Dog snarfed back a piece of pizza from someone's plate and then had a diarrhea poop all over the wood floor.  She couldn't bear to clean it up so the kids did and she sprayed the floor after.  So, at least the night ended in laughter for Jude and I. 

And then it was 9:30pm and old lady Natasha went to bed.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Jude and I had some enjoyable conversation.
2. I enjoyed talking to some artists at the art show. One man who makes gorgeous ceramics that defy description, invited us to his studio this summer to see how it's done.  Jude said he just invited me. Haha. He said he has horses the kids could ride. 
3. Izzy has been loose in the house in the daytime for six days and has been very well behaved when she hasn't been snarfing back pizza or toilet paper.
4. It's sunny today and while windy, we haven't lost roof shingles yet which means we don't have to sue our unethical home builder yet.  Other people a street away have lost shingles and they're supposed to be warrantied to 125 kph, I think. I'm guessing that today's wind was 70 kph at the very most.  Probably more like 50-60.
5. My hair is getting long enough that my hairstylist who touched up my ghastly roots yesterday was able to put some wavy curls in it.  And I woke up with them still in, even without any hairspray. And it looks purty.   

Instead of some whoop-butt

My daughter came home with a note from the teacher. She placed it on the kitchen counter between the cucumber and cheese I was cutting for sandwiches, after I had stepped away for a minute. Once I returned to my post I read the teacher's message that Josie had passed a note to a child in her class. I asked Josie what was on the note.

"'T. is weird'," she choked out, shame written all over her face.

"Why would you do that?" I was shocked.

"Because [friend] and [friend] were doing it. They sent notes to him saying he was stupid."

"So, why did YOU give him a mean note?"

"I don't know."

"Did you think it was funny or cool or something?"

"No! Well, I did think it was a little bit funny but not cool. I didn't mean it. I don't know why I did it."

I couldn't say anything. I pictured this little boy getting notes from four different people in his class, each saying mean things. Never mind the words themselves, why would they gang up on him like that?

I started to cry.

"Can you imagine how that made him FEEL? How that made his parents feel? They must be so hurt and sad, Josie. I would be so upset if someone did that to you." Tears streamed down my face and my chin wavered.

Josie burst into tears.  I let her cry for about ten seconds then called her to me and held her. I considered various punishments. I weighed out her lack of self-control lately and all the other reasons I've almost punished her but opted for patience and lectures instead.  Perhaps she should have her Baby-sitter's Club books taken away. Should she have to do some hard labour as punishment? She's already had computer privileges removed for a month. Maybe she's not fit for that Brownie trip to the Calgary zoo.

I thought about what would be appropriate if I had similarly hurt someone's feelings on purpose.

"You have to write an apology letter. You have to tell him why you did that and that you didn't mean it. You have to tell him some nice things about him."

"Okay."  She continued crying.

I got some of my pretty stationery and lightly penciled some lines onto it so she could write legibly.  She added some of her own thoughts which impressed me like, "I think I'm more sad that I hurt you than if someone had done this to me."

But still, something didn't sit right.  I thought of T.'s parents and wondered if he would bring that letter home to them or not.  Would they know that Josie tried to make things right?  Would they feel better?

"You're going to have to write another letter to T.'s parents," I said.

"No! I don't want to! Please!" Josie cried loudly.

"Yes. And for a couple of reasons. You want them to not feel so sad but also you don't want them to hold it against you.  Maybe one day they will be in charge of a program in our town like Girl Guides or something else and they might think you're not a nice girl and make things difficult for you because they're still a little bit hurt."

"You have to say sorry," interjected Jude, having returned home from work by now and been informed. "It's a part of repentance. It's called "making restitution".  You need to do whatever you can to reverse what you did."

"Can you write some more lines on my paper?" she asked while still not reassured about her task.  She was mortified. She didn't want her siblings to know. She had asked me earlier not to tell her dad. She didn't want to have to admit what she did to any more people than necessary and to have to face his parents? It was just too hard.

Such adventures in parenting aren't glamorous or fun.  Jude and I didn't lay in bed ten years ago saying, "I can't wait until one of our kids becomes one of those kids-- the ones who picked on us when we were little-- and then we have to figure out how to handle it! Yay!"

But I am excited to know that today we made Josie into a better person. I know her. I know that she will never forget the day she made me cry for a child who was not mine. When faced with a choice of whose emotions to care for, hers were not as important to me as some kid I don't know. As far as a consequence goes, what could be worse than that?  I'm excited to have made an impression upon her that will hopefully last a lifetime. This is absolutely why I became a mom.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Izzy didn't dig up the yard today.
2. Jen B. on Twitter sent me a kind message I really needed.
3. Izzy did not jump all over the lady from church I hired to clean a few things. SHE DID NOT JUMP ON HER. They were in the same room. My local friends are aghast and impressed, right, Local Friends? That's the washing machine repairman and Vicky. Two days in a row. Cry for me, Argentina.
4. Jude won his weak case today.
5. Food.

For Canada Moms Blog: Mr. Frankl brings enlightenment to April winter

A beautiful, sunny Easter weekend became a winter hellscape yesterday morning.  I wasn't surprised. My birthday is Sunday, April 19, and in 28 years past I can only remember one or two birthdays that weren't winterized.  My lack of surprise does not intone approval or acceptance, however.  Like any Canadian who illogically hopes for Florida weather while living on the edge of the frozen tundra-- like any Canadian who experiences each Spring like a revelation that stirs her soul to repentance and Oprah-like edification--  my 6:30 a.m. response was, "Find someone who has a whole bottle of sleeping pills I can borrow, quick. Or a gun. A gun would be faster." I didn't say it, but I thought it.

To experience inches of snow after days of 20 degree weather is to re-experience the horror of getting your first period ten days after your tenth birthday. It's waiting all week to watch some brain-deadening, soap opera-ish Grey's Anatomy on Thursday night only to be smacked in the face with a re-run.  

To finish reading this original Canada Moms Blog post, please click here.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Izzy is a new dog.  She's pretty awesome and loveable.  I don't really know what happened but she's no longer biting at the kids or jumping all over. In fact, the washing machine repairman came today and she did not jump on him.  That sound of angels singing you heard this afternoon?  That was from Alberta. 
2. Our washing machine is fixed!!!! After TWO MONTHS. No one is happier than Jude who's been taking loads of laundry to the laundromat every weekend.  He hated it, saying it reminded him of lonely university days.  Ya, I used to hate going to the laundromat, too.  Those guys who'd hang out in the bathroom drinking hairspray and Aqua Velva made me... uneasy.  
3. There are at least three or four people who understand me very well and love me to bits.  I'm grateful enough that there's at least one person that I'm not even going to dwell upon the fact that I mostly had to go find them myself.   
4. The snow is all gone. Well, almost.  
5. Our tax return money finally came after more than two months. Very funny, Revenue Canada. Ha ha. 

Um...

...that last post you may have seen? Not a post. I SWEAR I chose to save it as a draft. And not even a draft that I'd eventually publish. It was an exercise in helping to eliminate writer's block. I have such bad writer's block, after more than 200 posts (some I've deleted and some for Canada Moms Blog).

Blaaaahhh.

I've been reading funny non-fiction but still-- zonked. I have nothing.

Any ideas?

My favourite Favourite Thing (200th blog post!)

This weekend I had the privilege of watching and listening, via internet from the comfort of my sofa and bed, inspired words of some very goodly men and women: leaders of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

As I listened to what they had to say, I felt very much chastised and reprimanded and I loved every minute of it. I was given the motivation I need to shape up in areas I sensed were getting spiritually flabby. These leaders of God spent hours preparing messages for the world, their only motivation being love, concern, and a desire to inspire and comfort.

I'm going to share with you some of the words that touched me most-- swelling my heart with hope, peace, joy and love.  Then I will share with you pieces of heart from some friends and Twitter users.

Over 300 LDS people were Twittering their thoughts, feelings and favourite quotes from the semi-annual General Conference of the LDS church.  And to read what they had to say, in real time, while listening to Conference was to experience the meeting in a deeper way, like simultaneously attending a testimony meeting and Conference.  It was enriching to hear their joyous expressions.  Corny, but true. Some people said, "Very, very humbled right now." and "I am not always the most religious person. However, I am feeling such love, hope, and joy today. The testimony shared today is beautiful." I appreciated these comments that made me feel like I was in good, imperfect company. 

Have you ever wanted to get your Tom Cruise on and jump on a yellow couch and shout out to the world your joyous feelings about something?  THAT WAS TWITTER THIS WEEKEND, although, sadly, without Oprah.  Every time someone shared their feelings of gratitude or excitement, I felt my own feelings multiply.  Good things really are made better when shared with others.

So, here are some quotes that kicked me in the spiritual guts and made me want to change my ways:

Frozen babies and children framed and pinned to my heavenly wall

Life is a series of small tragedies, big tragedies, small joys, and big joys, interspersed by a lot of travel time, vacuuming, and potatoes.  I'm sure I was made aware of this up in Heaven before I chose to come to Earth, but of course, there's no way to know what any of that actually means without coming here and being born with straight hair when you want curly hair while your curly-haired sister would love nothing more from life than straight hair.  There's no way to know how excruciating even the small tragedies can be.

I sometimes feel gypped. As a friend once said in a comment on my blog, when I get back to the place I've come from, I'm going to punch pre-existent me.  She was an idiot who didn't know what she was talking about.

One of the small tragedies that breaks my heart, or maybe it's a big tragedy, is the memories that slip away.  I say, "is the memories", which sounds grammatically incorrect, because I'm lumping the slipperiness of memories into one big (or small) tragedy.

Specifically, the lost memory that will haunt me until that day in Heaven when I hope I can take my memories out of a picture frame and replay them before myself, is that of my 3-year-old right now.

Not even Lulu, actually. Any of my 3-year-olds will do.  I'm quite confident that the love I feel for Lulu is the same love I felt for each of my children at this stage.  Except... hmm.  Maybe not. Because I was really depressed when Josie was three.  And when Montana was three he was reading the Magic Treehouse series by himself and researching spina bifida on Google because he wanted to know what it was, so he just didn't have that same innocence.  And Daisy?  I hate to say this but I don't even remember. We were relocating our family when she was three.

Is it okay to say that at some point in each of their development, I felt the same fatty, sweet, salty, glistening love for them as I feel for Lulu right now?  As long as I felt it at some point, that's all that matters, right?

I've always LOVED them, of course, even when I wanted to shake them like Etch-a-Sketches.  But I'm not talking about affection or biological attachment.

I'm worried about missing her laugh as I tickle her neck. Crazy kid. Why does she like being tickled so much? My laughter when tickled is really tortured angst with a personality disorder. She asks for it again and again, so she must genuinely like it.

I'm worried that her hair won't be so fine and yellow when I twirl it around my finger. I'm worried that I'll forget what it felt like to cradle her in my arms. I'm afraid that I'll forget what her voice sounds like when she says, "Mommy, your breaf is gooood. I want it. I want to eat your breaf." ("Breaf"=breath, not breast. But she's still obsessed with those too, always asking to pat them when they're nude.)

I'll forget the creamy new-jar-of peanut-butter softness of her skin and the perfect curve of her cheek and the way her perfect movie star lips join up with her cheek as she's in nighttime repose, unaware that I'm there staring, trying to burn her picture into my brain.

And it's so funny how her full lips turn into this cute, thin smile and her big blue eyes become squinty friendliness.  She gets that from her dad. The rest of the children have my eyes that stay big when we smile.

And the tiny dimple in her chin! Ahh! I always thought I didn't care for chin dimples, especially in girls, until LULU had one. And now it's the prettiest dimple Biology ever crafted.

I'm terrified.

What will happen when I can't remember anymore? When it seems like her nowness is all there ever was,  will I lose this feeling?  Of course I will. It's the loss of innocence. Kittens grow into cats, puppies grow into devils, and 3-year-olds grow into pimples with teenagers on them.

The kicking of our heads at night as we [try to] sleep, the fake-out pee breaks at the mall while we're trying to eat our poutine, the potted plants in the bathtub, the crayon all over the walls, the pink glitter glue stuck to my dining room table, the crying, the calling her sister "stupid" everyday because she heard me say that word once, the cutting of her curly blond hair... all a gift from a wise Father in Heaven to make it easier to cope with the devastating loss of innocence and baby breath and flawless creamy bodies and squeaky small voices.

I have a hope, that gets me through the sadness, that there will be a hallway in my heavenly mansion, the walls decorated with large, gaudy gold frames, and in the frames will be frozen babies and toddlers and 9-year-olds, pinned to the wall.  I will be able to take them down, these memories so real and life-like that they can be framed, and play with them and hold them to my breast (the babies, not the 9-year-olds) and comfort their cries and tickle their necks.

I have to believe that some day, all that I've lost will be mine again. I'm a selfish, needy girl.

Daily Gratitudes

1. I have so much of what cannot be purchased.  So much of what friends and strangers would give their legs or arms for.  I know it.  I thank God everyday in prayer.  I wouldn't trade any amount of worldliness for my children.
2. I have clean, running water.
3. I have the ability to fix almost any problem that really bothers me.  At some point, after enough effort, most things can be fixed, if only by reframing my thinking.
4. Even when my two laptops die, a regular occurrence, I have this old beast of a desktop downstairs that I can write on when I NEED to, HAVE to, lest I have to break out a pen and paper, something I hate to do because Perfectionist Me hates how messy her handwriting gets when writing quickly and she can't write quickly enough to keep up with the thoughts.
5. I'm going to arrange a date with my husband tonight.  I miss him.
6. BONUS: I know basic html to fix formatting problems when Typepad goes screwy for no reason.

The rollercoaster of dog ownership OR The one where I planned my dog's assassination

Have you ever asked yourself, Self, what's the worst decision I've ever made?

If you are a dog owner you don't even have to ask, right? Am I right? Ya, I'm right.

I was reading Heather Armstrong's new book It Sucked and Then I Cried and I perked up at page 16.

Heather writes,

During the first six weeks of Chuck's life we were unsure whether or not we'd actually adopted a dog and not some sort of abandoned scientific experiment... He was four weeks old when we brought him home, and so all those little life lessons he should have learned from his brothers and sisters during the first eight weeks of his life, like not biting, and understanding that when someone else yelps they're saying, stop it, you're hurting me, all those nasty feral dog habits were left up to us to cure... And since Chuck was the first dog I had ever owned, I had no idea what to do with him, starting with how to get him to stop biting me, something that was happening almost every second he was awake... I read tons of books and websites... All of them claimed that their method was the best method...

Reading this I realized that I'm not alone.  I thought, Maybe my dog is not the unholy spawn of Satan and Joan Rivers. Maybe this is just how dogs are AND NO ONE TELLS YOU. Oh, sure they tell you you're "crazy to get a puppy". They say that labs are "hyper" as if that's even remotely specific enough to be useful.  But they say, "It's worth it." They lie through their teeth to give themselves a ready excuse for why they didn't transport their dogs to the jungles of Vietnam where they belong, so that you don't figure out that it's really just Pride keeping that dog fed and housed.  No one wants to admit that they couldn't handle dog ownership. "A PET IS FOR LIFE." You wouldn't give away your kid, would you, just for biting your breasts at every feeding?  Noooo. You endure that for five or so months until a new obnoxious phase starts because "Breast is best". "A pet is for life." "A dog is worth it." HA.

I realized that all these people I see walking their dogs only seem happy and at peace with themselves and the world.  Really, they're scoping out new owners to take their mangy, poop-eating dogs from them. THAT is why they look so happy. They're hoping today will be their last day as dog owners. These people tricked me.

I'll confess that I've had thoughts of killing the dog just so I don't have to admit public defeat. I won't have to tell all my Facebook friends that they were totally right and the dog breeder and ebook writer DECEIVED ME, the cocky monsters.  But how do you kill your dog in a believable way?  A few nights ago I lay awake in bed thinking about taking Izzy to PetSmart for a friendly face cage thing (I'll get to that in a minute).  I thought, WHAT IF... as we were driving down the highway, Izzy in the back part of our Honda Odyssey, the broken latch gave way as Izzy jumped up on the window... and she tumbled out onto the highway and got run over by a transport truck?  THAT is a totally believable story. It's unique enough to be believable.  And so, Jude could take her into the woods and shoot her and we'd just tell people that she fell out of our van on the highway.

So, I shared this idea with Jude on the phone on this horrible day which I'm about to share with you, and he said that would be bad because, 1) we'd have to kill the dog. And didn't I used to be a vegan because I believed in animal rights, among other reasons? And he could not bring himself to shoot a perfectly healthy puppy, and 2) we'd have to lie. And that goes against my honesty code.

"I don't care," I said. And for a good three seconds, I meant it.

My dog does sit when we say sit. She lies down. She doesn't know how to STAY, though. She is a puppy, after all. It would be like asking a toddler to... be a well-adjusted human being.  Izzy leaves her treats alone when we place them in front of her and say "leave it". She fetches and she's even starting to learn that if she wants to fetch it again, she needs to bring the item within close proximity to our hands. (She hasn't yet learned to "drop it".) I really don't care to teach her to roll over or shake a paw. I know she's just a dog, probably a tasty one, and she loves cat poop more than oxygen, but she deserves to keep some of her dignity.

She will go down after jumping up on us but how do I get her to not jump up in the first place?! Think about it. It's trying to teach a dog something that doesn't yet exist in her mind. "Izzy, don't ever play with matches, okay? Matches can start fires and I will rescue my photo collection and laptop before I'll rescue you. Got it? And don't ever watch Dr. Phil. He's lost his integrity. It's like White Trashathon on The Dr. Phil Show now. Oh, and don't ever jump up on people or the counter or the table."

How is Izzy supposed to even know what jumping IS unless she does it? And so we say "down" and while she goes back down, all she's learned is that once she DOES jump up she has to go down again. That doesn't work very well for my little Lulu who is two thirds the size of Izzy when Izzy stands up.  Izzy missed Lulu's eye by 3 millimetres when she jumped up on her, excitedly, two days ago, leaving a scratch on her cheek.

And let's revisit that day, shall we?

I slept in until 8:30. Jude had left for work and the kids were home for Spring Break.  Izzy was insane.  The kids told me that Jude hadn't had time to take Izzy for a walk, which confused me because he also didn't feed the children or do the dishes and why is my world spinning off its axis like this? 

So, Izzy was barking and jumping around like she needed a good beating. I would put her in the backyard to run around but she'd get tangled on the tether (can't WAIT to get a fence built) or be barking rabidly at the kids because she wanted to play with them. Of course, "play" in her mind equals jumping on them to lick and hump them.

Then I'd bring her inside and she would climb the walls and eat the ceilings. Then she'd go back out again. Repeat above scenario. So, I'd bring her in again.

I was angry because I didn't know we had a stash of crystal meth in the house. Who left it here? Was it you, JQ? Was it you, Shelley P? The dog was CLEARLY high on meth.  As I looked at her with horror and hatred in my pretty little heart, my eyes couldn't stop playing tricks on me-- I kept seeing her head spinning around à la The Exorcist.  You think I'm saying that to make a lame attempt at a joke but that part was actually serious.  It seemed like her head was spinning.  It was fear projected onto my dog and my eyes playing tricks on me. It would only last for a split second, long enough for a couple of rotations.  Did I mention that in this doggy variety show that I didn't have a chance to eat any breakfast and I was really hungry?

I had to take the dog for a walk. I considered phoning someone to walk her but I didn't think they'd be able to handle her.  I considered trying to find a babysitter but THE DOG WAS BARKING AT ME AND WOULD NOT SHUT UP.  I couldn't think.  I had to walk her NOW.  I had to walk her until she started begging me in Russian to stop, please stop. But how was I going to do that with all the kids at home? Lulu can't walk very fast and I can't carry her the whole time.

Then I remembered the stroller that I thought I had given away but had discovered in the garage, in a cabinet, a week ago.  Still-- how could I push a stroller straight while the dog was pulling on me?  I had no choice but to try. I was about to bruise the dog's kidneys.  I didn't want to do that.  I think there are fines for that-- fines which we can't afford.

I left the three older kids at home with 9-year-old (but very mature and brilliant) Montana/Benjamin in charge. (Benjamin is the new name he picked for himself on his own blog.) They were allowed to play in the basement or watch tv and they were not allowed to answer the door or the phone.  Stressed out to the point of shallow breathing, I loaded Lulu, in her pajama pants with food on her face into the stroller and Izzy, Lulu and I, and some biodegradable plastic bags, set off for an hour-long walk.

One minute in, I had to tie the leash around my waist. Izzy was pulling too much for me to control the stroller, just as I had suspected. 

And then... we walked beautifully in sync for an hour!

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and boy, didn't I have the most beautiful dog in town? I didn't even mind scraping up her mushy poop with my hand, protected only by a thin yellow bag. I didn't mind carrying those two yellow bags of poop to the garbage bin near the "lake". 

Then, who did we just happen to run into? The vet! The vet who saved Izzy's life when she got parvo. THANK YOU, Lord Jesus who made all things bright and beautiful. You don't want me to kick Izzy's kidneys, do you? You sent me the vet to help me and help Izzy. THANK YOU.  It was a sign that I could DO this-- be a dog owner. 

As the four of us walked I told the vet that a former dog trainer from church told me I should just get rid of Izzy. She was too big and strong for a family with little, dainty, girly children.  The vet scoffed at that and told me she'd lend me a dog training book that she favoured. She'd LEND it to me. I love this woman.

I told her all the things I've read and tried. I said that we try to dominate her the way Cesar Milan, the dog whisperer, says but it just makes her want to dominate more. She's happiest and most obedient when we give her lots of love and let her run around wild in the woods, not right beside us on a sidewalk with her head up.  Cesar Milan says to not even let your dog walk into the house before you. There are just sooo many RULES for being a doggy dominatrix and believe it or not, I'm not practiced at S & M for any species.

The vet said that she and so many vets HATE Cesar Milan. She said his methods are old school, that unlike what he says, even wild wolves and dogs don't behave the way he says they do, and he's been bit many times and other people have been seriously bit following the training he gave them for their dogs. She said there's one woman in particular who has made it her life work at the moment to discredit Cesar Milan because she thinks he does such a disservice to dog owners. 

Sigh. Remind you of that paragraph above, from Heather Armstrong's book?

It reminded me of this man I met in Vancouver. I was walking along the seawall and he was walking his big beautiful golden lab. I asked him about his experience with training his dog. He shared that he had actually been training dogs since he was 14 (he was in his 50s) and he would enter them in competitions and he would always win against other trainers who used their hard-edged methods while he only used "love". He said that I shouldn't demand that my dog walk beside me. He said I shouldn't try to keep her from sniffing the ground. "Let her have fun. A walk is supposed to be fun." 

The vet told me I should get Izzy fitted for a halti (I think that's what it's called) so she can't bite the kids and won't jump up so much. And that will make the children more comfortable so that Izzy can be with them more. 

We walked home, Izzy trotting nicely beside me, head up, Lulu maxin' and relaxin' in her stroller and I was satisfied to know that I can now walk Izzy in the mornings with Lulu, while the kids are at school. It's not Winter anymore.  I'm not very tired anymore thanks to my beloved Naturopath. And I do still own a stroller.  I would invest MORE money in this dog by getting a halti.  Soon we'd have a fence in our backyard. I would not give up until I had exhausted every solution. I felt hopeful.

Once at home I made lunch and waited for Izzy to settle into a nice long nap.

And waited.

And yelled.

Waited some more.  But she was being wild.

I phoned Jude to bemoan my stay-at-home-dog-owner lot. "She had a LONG walk. I had to take her because she was so wired today. She was hideous. And we walked for an hour at a quick pace.  WHY WON'T SHE SLEEP?!"

"I don't know. I walked her this morning too."

"WHAT?"

"Um, I walked her. This morning. For almost an hour. That's why I didn't have time to get the kids breakfast or do the dishes."

"The kids told me you didn't walk her. She's been walked for TWO hours in the morning alone?! Jude, it's 3 in the afternoon and this dog has not slept ALL DAY. She hasn't even reclined. I can't handle this! What is the matter with her? It's like she's on speed!"

"I don't know, sweetie. I'm really sorry."

And the hate was back on. It was so on.

I will win this war, I tell you.  The bitch doesn't know what kind of chick she's messing with. 

What? You do know that's the proper name for a female dog, right? Particularly one who scratches all the paint off my front door.

Daily Gratitudes

1. I took the kids to the mall yesterday for poutine (to make Montana happy) and to look for new shoes for me. I stopped by the jewelry store where I bought my engagement ring 10.5 years ago.  Jude wasn't with me when I picked it out.  It doesn't have a lot of sentimental value and I don't like it anymore.  I'd really like to get a ring that actually costs less than this one did but looks so much prettier and way more expensive.  This would be completely ridiculous if the jewelry store didn't have a trade in policy for the life of my ring. The catch is that I have to spend 50% more on the new purchase than what my ring cost at the time of purchase.  Still, I'd be getting full reimbursement for my ring. We can't afford to do this, I'm just explaining why I was in the jewelry store.
   
   So, while there I recognized the lady who sold me my ring. How anyone could enjoy working at the same retail job for 10 years boggles my mind. As I was leaving, one of the kids told the lady our last name.  She said, "Your first name is Natasha, isn't it? And you used to have much darker hair?"  SHE REMEMBERED ME. After ten and a half years. There was nothing remarkable about the purchase. Maybe we seemed to be a remarkable couple, because of the age difference? Still, she remembered me. And it made me feel pretty darn special.
2. Izzy's withdrawal from the mystery crystal meth has been smooth sailing. I might love her again.
3. My house is pretty clean. Except for the wild animal bones in the front yard. And the plant dumped into the master bath. (Thanks, Lulu.)
4. Our tax return cheque should be arriving next week. Whereupon I will weep tears of relief.
5. The stupid snow from last night is melting already.