Imagine the Horror

Corporately, we are putting in a bid to manage and run a convention centre which will be built in our town over the next three years. Today, General Manager says to Mario, " I need to know exactly what you would want in the new facility -- quantities of tables and chairs, what technology, how much public space, how many forks and their cost, likewise how many butter knives, teaspoons, fish knifes, etc, how many gravy boats and bread baskets and their cost, how many flipcharts, how many garbage cans, EVERYTHING we need to set this place up. And I need it in the morning."

None of this is the General Manager's fault. But guess who gets to stay up all night, surfing the internet, to see how much 4,700 banquet chairs cost.

Perspective

I have one client in particular who I always address as "Sir", and he hates it. I suspect he believes I call him "Sir" because he is a judge. Or, he thinks I call him "Sir" because he was my father's friend. More than anything else, when he hears me say "Sir", my heart tells me he feels this somehow makes him unapproachable, not a "normal" person in my eyes.

About eight months ago, he finally said, "Will you stop that shit and call me by my name, for Christ's sake?"

And I, panicky, wailed, "Oh but, sir, I can't. I just CAN'T."

I pray he has gotten used to this and he understands what a term of affection and respect this is to me. I call you Sir, not because you are some distant stranger, but because I admire you personally and you deserve this small token of respect.


This past Friday night, we had a disaster on the banquet floor. It's a long, long story, but it boils down to this: our reception area was double booked. On one hand we had the most prestigious social gala of the season booked to have a reception on the mezzanine. On the other hand, and at the exact same time, that same space was being occupied by thirty eight tradeshow booths. Ummm, doesn't work.

The hotel proposed the physically impossible: WE would tear down and store all thirty eight of these elaborate booths, we would set up for the gala reception, we would do both of those things in a one hour time frame, and during the night we would put every single booth back exactly the way it had been before.

As a hotel professional, let me tell you that this simply Can Not Be Done. It can't, call any hotel in the world, propose this situation to them, and they will tell you it's impossible.

Yeah. Well, call MY hotel. We did it in twenty five minutes. It was poetry. It was a miracle, It brought me to tears.

And during the worst of it, Mario -- my man, my love, my life partner -- called across the Mezzanine, "Jennifer!"

"Yes, Sir?'

"Go get me three black table cloths, please."

"Yes, Sir!"

I have never called him "Sir" in my life. I have admired him, I have respected him, I have watched him weave his magic, but I never before got out the S-word, perhaps because while I have seen him pull off some amazing shit, I never once before REALLY experienced his mastery of this art. And to be even more honest, I have never heard even a single member of his staff call him Sir, under any circumstances. I instinctively called him Sir with no hesitation, because this is the way I was raised. And even if he didn't notice, I did.

And so, to my good friend Irwin, I say, "NOW do you understand??"

Sleep Deprived

Last night I had to attend a gala at the hotel. I got home at midnight, and then stayed up until 3:30 am because, frankly, I am an idiot. I needed to be back at the hotel at 8 am for an hour this morning, and I knew this, but at the time spenging half the night watching CNN seemed more reasonable.

Got home around 9:30 am, and about an hour ago I decided that my blurred vision and inability to form sentences would probably both benefit from a nap. As soon as I was horizontal, I realized I could actually feel my brain vibrating in my skull, thanks to te two gallons of coffee I poured down my gullet this morning.

No sleep for Jenn. And a Jenn without sleep is a cranky Jenn. Here are the things that have occurred to me in the past hour:

1. My front lawn is a blinding sea of dandelions. I hate those farking things and I can't think of a damn thing to do except to nuke our yard with dangerous chemicals and kill EVERYTHING, grass included, so we can start over. I mean, we have a serious, serious problem out there.

2. I happened to look out my bedroom window at our backyard. One half of the "lawn" is nothing but dirt, I have no idea why or what happened. The other half is covered in burns from where the dog has pissed all over it. We have cheap patio furniture out back for reasons I will never understand because we have never ONCE used it. Because it is cheap, it is light, and it frequently tips over when it's windy. And because we never go in the backyard, it can stay tipped over for weeks at a time.

And did I mention that Mario hasn't mown the lawn yet this spring, at the remaining grass is damn near up my to knees? And our Victory Garden neighbours, who DO use their backyard extensively, get to look at all this glory?

It turns out I am white trash. Who knew.

3. I have never used a lawnmower in my life and would not have the slightest idea how. Not proud, just stating. So now you know my secret shame: I can't do anything. I can't use a lawnmower, I can't throw a football, I can't make pie crust, I can't organize my photos on the computer. I don't deserve love.

4. If I have to pick up one more pile of cat puke today, I will leave Mario. I am so not kidding. Goddamn cat puked FOUR separate times this morning. To say this is not an isolated incident is putting it mildly; I pick up vomit at least three times a day, EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE.

5. I went to the grocery store half an hour ago, and I realized that (in addition to being white trash), I am The Oldest 37 Year Old On The Planet, because I am NEVER going to understand this fashion of having your bra straps on display under your tank top. I'm not talking about a little strap poking out when you move, I'm talking about both straps on display as if to say, "Look! Just a public reminder that I have knockers!" I KNOW already, okay? Put some clothes on. And while I'm at it, why don't girls / women look in mirrors anymore? Because, baby, there's no way you'd be flaunting that muffin top if you knew how hideous it is. I myself an not a size six, but the difference seems to be that I KNOW that.

6. It is hot and humid outside. I don't do humid. I will therefore spend the rest of the day inside with the drapes closed. At least that way I won't have to look at the dandelions.

7. Did I mention that lack of sleep makes me cranky?

8. This next thing happened yesterday, but I'm still mad about it, so I'm going to include it here. Yesterday morning, I got in to the shower, let the delicious water pour over me with its life-giving goodness, and reached for the shampoo.

I'm sorry, the what? The what? The full bottle of MY shampoo which my 22 year old stepson decided to remove from MY bathroom because he ran out? Yes, that shampoo. Okay, well let me just run my wet, naked, freezing ass downstairs to HIS bathroom so I can get MY toiletry.

I was livid. Absolutely blind with rage. This is not the first time he has taken something that belongs to me and I do not react well. I am terrific at sharing, but I am terrible at people TAKING. It may be my single biggest hot button, now that I think about it.

But,hmm, now that I think about it, I just throught of a really neat place I could dispose of all that cat puke....


Don't mess with me when I'm tired.

Bridges

I just came across "The Bridges of Madison County" on TV.

I hated the book so much that is is easy for me to forget how much I loved the movie. My man Clint, directing and writing the bloody soundtrack which haunts my soul. That moment when Meryl Streep lies in the bath and experiences her awakening eroticism, because she is lying where the water so recently trickled off his body. That moment she is on the phone with a friend and he is quietly behind her, opening a beer for her. That later moment when she hides behind her own emotional fragility, and spits, "Why don't we just fuck in the bathtub for old time's sake?" Such hatred and frustration caught up in her love. The moment she grips the door handle to the truck and you hold your breath, not knowing what she's going to do, even though you actually already know she didn't get out of the car. Pure, pure genius.

There is no one like Clint Eastwood. Throughout his career, his acting, to me, has been irregular. Sometimes he's good, more rarely he's great, but most of the time he's mediocre.

But as a director? No one can touch him.

And so I will now stay up waaaay past my bedtime, simply so I can gorge myself on his genius.

"This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime."

The Further Adventures of Daddy

My brother Carleton, scattering Daddy's ashes in the Pacific Ocean when he and his wife Ai were on their honeymoon to Japan.

On a related note, my sister Louise is in Italy studying right now, and also took some of Daddy's ashes withh her. Will post those pictures when I get them. And if you think all of this is creepy and weird, then you are reading the wrong blog. My father would love this.

Thank you

Mario and I have spent the last 90 minutes in a heated discussion about work. Because we work together, both meshed within the same system, sometimes it gets a little hairy when we get home, turn to each other, and say, "So how was your day, dear?" Chances are, we both already know how the other's day was. And chances are, if it was a bad day, we clashed at some point along the way.

I actually say that somewhat smugly, because we have never ONCE allowed our work day to interfere with our life at home. I remember a day about two years ago when Mario laid in to me in the banquet kitchen. Laid in to me HARD for something I had done. I deserved the come-up-ance, but CHRIST he rode me. Hours later we ended up at home in our dining room, and Mario commented, "Babe, why are you so quiet?"

I burst in to tears and said, "The Banquet Manager made me cry today."

The Banquet Manager. Not Mario, the love of my life who happens to BE the Banquet Manager. Just "the Banquet Manager", he was a jerk to me, please kiss me on the forehead and tell me I'm wonderful.

Which he did.

And the next day, at work, he rode my ass even harder. And it was all good, because if you think for ONE second I was going to eat his shit, then you are wrong. Work is work, and home is home, but while we are at work, I will rip your spleen out, you bastard.

Thank you, Mario, for keeping these two worlds completely separate. On more than one occasion, we have argued spectacularly in front of co-workers. And I will never forget the day we clashed so severely that there should have been people in the aisles selling popcorn and crappy watered down beer. The executive sous chef said, "Man, I'd hate to go to YOUR house tonight!"

You were sincerely puzzled. "Why??""

"Well, God, the way you and Jenn lit in to each other..."

And you were so perplexed. "But that's work, that's not US."

Thank you, my angel, my love, my saviour, for keeping our two worlds separate. Thank you for all those days when we fight to the death, but come home and reach for each other. Thank you for never forgetting that nothing can touch US.

Lost

Greatest. Show. Ever.

I am a proud, self proclaimed Lostie. I should be devastated that I won't have another new episode til February -- and, well, I am devastated -- but at least I have the comforting knowledge that Mario wants to get on board, which means I will be watching all the DVD's this summer.

Did I MENTION best show ever??

And, PS, Charlie ain't dead. I guarantee it.

Twenty Five Years

Here's a dare: think about anything in your life. Seriously, anything.

Now think about Having or Studying or Following or Doing that thing for twenty five years.

Pretty trippy, huh?

Twenty five years is such a ridiculous, incomprehensible number. I mean, it's twenty five YEARS.


My Mum has been a widow for 13 months. And tonight is her 25th wedding anniversary. The fact that my father died a month before their 24th really has no bearing on anything.

My Mum is, unquestionably, married to Daddy. She has always been, and continues to be, in love with him. And, oh, I know that Daddy is Somewhere Else, looking at her, just wishing he could hold her hand. And maybe, in the night, he will.

Trust Dilbert

Among the many blogs I enjoy daily is one Mr. Scott Adams, creator of Dilbert. The dude cracks me up. The dude also makes me think.

Today he posted a theory that people's moods are influenced by their footwear. It's a bit of a long theory, but it deals with conditioning your responses to your shoes. For example, he says that in the months leading up to his wedding, he took ballroom dancing lessons with his bride, and always made a point of wearing the tuxedo shoes he would ultimately wear at the wedding. Now, whenever he dons these shoes, he feels like dancing.

This makes sense to me; I remember getting an awesome hint on how to clean your house a few years ago: put on shoes. Don't do it barefoot, don't do it in slippers. Put on shoes, by God, because shoes mean Business.

Never one to shy away from the grossly personal, let me tell you that I reeeeeeeeeally miss the physical side of my relationship with Mario. You know, the guy who literally has to get out of bed in order to turn over at night. Sex is so not in our near future, but a girl can dream. And in the mean time, maybe I can start wearing stilettos around the house.

Date Night

Last Saturday night, in honour of Mother's Day, I was treated to a night at the movies. Mario, Mum, Brian and I decided to splurge on an evening out and we had a great time. Of course, what with the fact that Brian IS ten, we had to choose our movie carefully. We ended up going to see Spiderman 3.

This morning, I turned to the man I love and said, "Hey baby, I want a date. Take me out tonight, okay? Take me to a movie where we can see what WE want and not worry about language or sexual content. Let's go wild."

We consulted the newspaper.

We made some phone calls.

Our super steamy, adult date? We are going to see Shrek 3.

With my mother.

At 5:30 pm.



Kill me.

Big blow

I picked up my jewellery from the goldsmith's tonight.

As mentioned, we had Daddy's ammolite ring made in to a pendant for me. I love love love how it turned out, with that slight bit of the original ring shank poking out from behind the stone. To my sentimental soul, it makes it all the more meaningful that it still looks very much like his ring. Couldn't be happier.

But, oh, my sentimental soul.

The lovely jeweller then took a deep breath, looked me deep in the eye, and told me that, while resizing Mummy's ring, the opal shattered. Tears sprang to my eyes, and welled in hers. You see, I had told her the significance of that ring to me, how much it meant to me. She went on to say that my beautiful opal had just been so brittle that it literally came apart in her hands, and she knew it wouldn't made anything better, but they had replaced my opal with another one, no charge.

Oh, sweet little jeweller lady whose name I never even asked, thank you for your caring and concern. Thank you for trying to set things somewhat right, I hope you believed me when I said I don't blame you in any way, it was just the unexpectedness of the emotional blow. My mother wore that opal, in one ring or another, for more than forty years, and you can never replace it, and you know that.... I am touched beyond words that you cared so deeply for a stranger.

She gave me back what is left of my Mummy's opal. It is ragged and clearly broken, but still very large, more than large enough for me to see its fire. And even though it makes no logical sense, it is going to be tucked away in the bottom of my jewellery box, the drawer where I keep my treasures.

Things I Would Like Explained to Me

How come I can use my hand to hold my hair up in a gorgeous, sexy ponytail, but if I use an elastic it comes out as a stringy mess?

How come I have what amounts to a PUBE growing out of my jaw near my ear? Where did this one mutant hair come from?

How come I can get compliments on my appearance from the man who loves me -- and sometimes from my guy friends -- but I never catch a stranger looking at me inappropriately anymore?

How come I can look in the mirror, and be very happy with what I see, but have my picture taken four seconds later and I inexplicably look like an old hag with nine chins?

How come ads in magazines think up NEW reasons for women to feel bad about themselves? I saw an ad recently warning women about crow's feet on their knees, and I was genuinely concerned, no matter how briefly. Why is that?

How come, if I have the type of little boobs I was promised would never sag, they're not where I left them?

How come these things matter?

Monday

Had a good but stressful day. Sigh, there is just never enough time to get caught up at work. It seems like the harder I work, the behinder I get. Still, at 5:15pm I balked and came home. Believe me, I could easily have stayed until 10pm, but I didn't feel like it and I think that, every once in a while, I should have the right to leave at the same time I stop getting paid.

Good, solid day of not smoking. I had a menu tasting at noon and ended up having to (of course) try some red wine. I had two dainty little sips, just enough to be able to judge the wine pairing, and then when it was all over, me and my Nicorette were as One. It was all good, at least today I knew not to actually drink the stuff. The Monster had kind of rolled over in his sleep and opened one eye, but the Nicorette tucked his blanket up around his shoulders, and he left me alone. THANK GOD.

I have a few things around the house that I want to get done tonight, and then I'm going to sit down with my June CK and write Kelly my commentary. I'm not sure when we started doing this, but every month we send each other our observations and impressions of the current CK issue, stuff like, "Page 88, bottom layout...Loving this, may be greatest layout ever" or "Page 151, what the hell was she thinking? This layout is shite." Or I will go all postal about some spelling mistake. I hardly ever criticize the spelling in layouts themselves because if you habitually spell a word incorrectly (or, in my case, type incorrectly), that''s part of who you are; scrapbooking isn't a spelling bee, alright? But I DO ger upset when there are blatant errors in ads. Two issues ago, I almost sought psychological help for my rage when I saw a full page ad which said part of their profits go to the Heart ACCOCIATION. Accociation, people. In a National Ad Campaign. It boggles the mind.

See? If I can rant and rave about spelling, you KNOW I feel like myself!

REJOICE

Another Daddy story for you. I don't know what this one means, but maybe I will know once I write it down.

About 25 years ago, my father's radio station was at the absolute pinnacle of its success. Nobody could touch them in ratings. To mark this era, the station's owner presented each of the department managers with huge, ostentatious gold rings which bore the company's logo. My father was the News Director, the wildly popular host of "TalkBack", and an overall celebrity in our corner of the world. He wore that ring with pride for many, many years.

Then the station was sold. Then there were management changes. Then there were content changes. And somewhere along the same time my father became completely disillusioned with the new company, the "old company's" logo spontaneously fell off the ring. He put the remaining empty signet ring in to Mum's jewelry box, and forgot about it, this once formidable symbol of his pride.

The summer that Brian was two, Daddy and Carleton came to visit my little family in Alberta. During that time, Daddy saw ammolite for the first time in his life. Ammolite is a precious stone which is actually a fossil, and in all the world it is only found in Alberta. It resembles a dark opal, always shifting colour in the light, and he was in love.

The following year, he returned to Alberta to visit me once more, this time with the naked signet ring in tow. And this is where the story really starts.

Together we consulted a jeweler, selecting the HUGE slab of ammolite to top off his ring. I spent a great deal of time turning that ring over in my hands during the design process. Daddy returned to New Brunswick before it was ready, so I was the one to pick it up and examine closely the resulting work, which I absolutely approved. I sent it to him by mail, and undoubtedly he and my Mum also spent a great deal of time examining the new ring when it arrived at their end.

Ammolite is also, unfortunately, quite brittle and fragile, and probably not the best material for a man's ring. Less than a year later, he mailed it back to me so that I could have the stone repolished to correct a significant chip. When it was ready, I once more examined it closely, but I'm sure that when in arrived in NB, my parents looked at it even more closely.

In the years that followed, my father wore that ring constantly; the only time, to my knowledge, that he ever took it off was when he had to stuff his hand up a turkey. He didn't value his ammolite ring as much as he did his wedding ring, but it was close.

And just like his wedding ring, he was wearing his ammolite ring the night he died. I remember the doctors pouring his jewelry and the few little things that had been in his pockets, in to my mother's hands as we tried to understand that Daddy was gone. I remember being back at the house, and Mum and I starting at this tiny pile of his possessions.

I remember several times over the last year when myself, my brother, my sister or my Mum would get out Dady's little things, including his ring, and simply hold it in our hands.

Two weeks ago, Mum and I took Daddy's ring to the jeweller. Because the ammolite was a memory only Daddy and I shared, she wanted to have it made in to a pendant for me. We turned it this way and that as the jeweler explained what he would do to it.

This past weekend, we received a message that the jeweler was going out of business, and asking us to pick up our pieces. He actually had FOUR family rings in his shop at that time, pieces which combined value more that $15,000 , so Mum and I HAULED ASS to pick them up. We immediately drove to another jeweler, explained our sad story, and started the design process AGAIN. As mentioned, there were four pieces: Mum wanted to have her 20th anniversary diamond ring and Daddy's wedding ring merged in to one piece. I wanted to have my Mummy's diamand and opal ring resized so that I could wear it year round, and not just during cold weather.

And then we turned to the ammolite ring, and explained we wanted it made in to a pendant for me. Because ammolite is so delicate, they couldn't use heat to remove it from the ring, they would have to use a saw to cut part of the ring base, but still leave some of the ring.

And while I was turning the ring over in my hands, trying to understand what the lady was saying, my heart stopped. I peered inside the ring and said, "Mum, when did Daddy have the ring engraved?"

"He didn't."

"Well, Mum, SOMEBODY did."

Inside the ring, in bold letter as big as Billy-be-frigged, was one word. REJOICE

Rejoice. Where did this come from? What does it mean? Was it really there, all those years, and neither Mum nor I SAW it? Is that possible? It's written all in caps, the entire width of this formidable ring. REJOICE

I really don't want to be the Crazy Cat Lady, but the reason I told you this long story was simply to illustrate that you'd think that either my Mum or I would have noticed this before. And we never did.

REJOICE

Didn't see THAT coming

It is 7:30 pm on Day Two of NoSmoking.

Last two days have been wonky, but not too awful. I know the really awful part is yet to come, mind you, so believe me when I say I wasn't getting cocky in a "Woohoo, I'm cured!" kind of way. I have been moving slowly these last two days, kind of tiptoeing around The Monster, just quietly sipping my water and "Bite!Bite!Park!"ing my Nicorette Gum. So far, The Monster is vaguely uncomfortable, but still half asleep.

Shhh.

Tonight with dinner, Mario opened a bottle of red wine. Yummy, wonderful red wine.

And The Monster went wild. He screamed, he kicked, he began tearing his way out of my body with his sharp teeth. Okay, okay, I GET it. I asked Mario for a cigarette, went outside, and Calmed The Monster Down.

Please try to understand my logic behind having a cigarette. I have had coffee these last two days with no issue. I have eaten, and experienced that satiated lovely feeling after my meal, with no problem. Then tonight I had a drink and it was every man for himself. So I placated The Monster just to make him STOP ripping my spleen out. And now I know that, at least for the next few weeks, I can't have any alcohol. It's no big deal, I just won't do it again. But because I aroused The Monster so violently with an activity I can easily avoid, I figured the easiest way to put him back to sleep was a cigarette.

If you are a non-smoker, you think I am creating excuses and giving myself permission to smoke. If you are a smoker, you see the logic of my reasoning; a recreational drink woke Him up, I put Him back to sleep, and no more wine for me. Ta-da, pretty bloody simple.

I AM going to do this.

More than 6,000 days

of being a smoker. How's THAT for a number to scare the shit out of you.

Tomorrow is Day One of something else. Something better. Something painful and scary, but definitely something better.

To inspire myself, I keep thinking back to the day I found out I was pregnant. My husband and I got pregnant literally the very first time we tried, so although our Long Term Pregnancy Plan involved both of us quitting, we hadn't gotten around to that part yet, because we figured we had at least a month before The Pill worked its way out of my system: more than enough time to do The Quitting Thing, too.

Less than two weeks later, I felt so bizarre that I went to the doctor, smoking in the car all the way in to the office in Banff. Hey, we were trying to get pregnant, I couldn't afford to get sick now. And, oh, the smoking? Yeah, I'm working on that.

So when, twenty five minutes later, I was told I was in the Family Way, the first words out of my mouth were, "Holy Shit."

The nurse was quite taken aback by my colourful language, and gently asked, "Is this not good news, dear?" while she not-so-furtively glanced down to see if I had a wedding ring.

Well, I had a wedding ring, and I wanted to be pregnant, and it was the best news I had ever received in my life, but there was that smoking thing. Had I hurt the baby?

She didn't quite laugh at me, but it was close, and she assured me that it was absolutely impossible at this staggeringly early phase for me to have hurt the baby, but now I needed to quit.

I walked out of the office, and was a non-smoker. There were no withdrawal symptoms, not one moment of longing, nothing. I simply was a non-smoker, because, DUH,of COURSE I'm a nonsmoker, I'm PREGNANT. Quitting smoking was literally the easiest thing I have ever done.

Not going to get in to long, boring story of why I started again (mainly because this post is already way too long and way too far away from the point I was trying to make). The point is I did start up again after Brian was born. And I have made several attempts to quit in the years since, and they were excrutiating in ways I had never dreamed. I tried cold-turkey, I tried weaning, I tried the Patch, I tried the Gum. Nothing but endless, screaming pain.


This time feels different. And while there is absolutely NO chance I am pregnant, my heart and soul keep going back to that painless day when I simply decided to stop because Something More Important was happening. I feel like I did on the morning I was told Brian was coming.

Well, DUH, of COURSE I'm a nonsmoker.

Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart

Just got off the phone to Toronto. Carleton and Ai leave for Japan in three days, and they are both wound so tight with excitement it's hysterical. I spoke to both of them, and they are each speaking twice as fast as they normally do.... with Carleton, that's okay because I've (obviously) known him his whole life, but with Ai we have the Japanese accent to contend with and, as you know, I've only recently got my head around Portuguese accents, so I had to ask her to repeat herself a lot!

The part that frigging slays me is that everything Ai said was about Carleton, and everything he said was about her. I love newlyweds.

Come home

It is 1:00 am, Mario should be home soon, I need to go to bed, but I NEED to wait for him more. Hopefully he comes soon.

The Biggest Quitter

Last Friday was the initial sign-up meeting for The Biggest Loser at work. Once again, there are ten teams, and as I mentioned, this year it's open to people who want to lose weight, and people who want to lose smoking.

Turns out that My Team is the only one to sign up for the smoking challenge. Which, I guess, means no matter what happens, we have already won our Division. Hmmm .

My two team mates are totally committed to this, but here's where my life gets more ironic: my team mates are Mario (so things could get reeeeeeeally interesting around our house), and my good friend Cindy, who will attend The Actual Official First Meeting with us next Friday.... on her last day of work, she is moving to a completely different city the very next day! At first they kind of hesitated to "allow" Cindy to join, but we pointed out that we could encourage each other over the phone and email, so she's in.

At the end of the day, this means I won't have the fellowship and community those 27 souls trying to lose weight have, and I am a little disappointed in that, but it's not going to stop me.

So, at the prelim meeting, the one thing they told the Smokers to do was keep a diary for a week of what time we smoke so that we can see our own patterns. (Well, let me save everybody some time, because I KNOW my pattern, that's why it's called A Pattern.) The reason they want to see our pattern is so we can slowly wean ourselves off smoking. I have a cigarette at 9:30am every day so, the program logic goes, I can still HAVE that cigarette, but I can't have it til 10:00am, and this way I will gradually decrease the amount I smoke until I stop.

ARE YOU BLOODY KIDDING ME???

This program is clearly being administered by people who have Never Smoked and therefore (sorry) have no idea what they're talking about, because every Smoker knows that weaning doesn't work, it just makes The Monster ANGRY.

And I would rather go cold turkey, and piss The Monster off for four days, then "wean" slowly and have Him screaming in my ear every day for the next ten weeks.

Maybe it's good there is only my team trying to quit, at least the people on my team know me and believe in me enough to try it my way instead of the Well-Meaning way dreamed up by people who have no idea what kind of hell we are about to experience.

I am sooooooo in love

Mario is in Detroit for our grand-daughter's First Communion. (Yes, I am thirty seven, and through Mario I have grand children, you got a problem with that?)

On the phone tonight, after the typical "I love you/ I love you more/ No, I love you more/ No, I do/ Okay seriously, honey, what's on your mind?" came the staggering, chilling evidence that this man may actually love me more than I love him.

"So if I manage to get to a scrapbok store, you want Basic Grey, right?"


Oh baby, come home, you have NO idea what sexual favours await you....

Catholic Hangover

When I was a small child, I was raised in no faith. Sure, my nominally Church of England parents made sure I knew the basics, but they made zero effort to expose me to any church. I remember that when I was young, the families of several of my friends took pity on me and invited me to join them in worship. My parents were nonchalant about the whole thing; at the time, I thought they didn't care whether or not or where or how I worshipped. Now that I am grown, I see clearly their hippie desire for me to find my own information.

Regardless, up until the age of ten, my only church experiences were attending Anglican services with Adrienne's family, or Baptist services with Carolyn's. And even at that young age, I was old enough to feel frustration and rage that my OWN parents weren't giving me direction.

Then came an event which, SERIOUSLY, should have had nothing to do with me. My divorced father wanted to marry Linda, the lady who later came to be known as My Mum. Linda was a Catholic and wanted to be married in the Catholic Church. Next thing you know, Daddy is being baptized as a Catholic, and my brother and I, at the ages of 14 and 13, are entering kindergarten catechism because, hell, we're going to BE CATHOLIC.

Very unsettling to me.

Now, to be fair, I had been in a Catholic girls' choir for years by this point (Linda pushed me in to it because it was simply the finest girls' chois in the area, and she knew I could bloody SING) and I had already attended countless ceremonies where I barely understood what was happening. Attending catechism gave me the background information I needed, a kind of crash course in "Why Do Catholics Do That?"... which is also the name of a best selling book, trying to explain to non-RC's what the hell is going on. This crash course put things in context for me, helped me to see, appreciate, and meditate on the mysteries of the Gospel.

I fell in love with the Catholic faith, and within the year I was giving the readings at Mass and serving as a lay member and giving communion. I had the honour of holding the sacred Host, and proclaiming to each adorer, "The Body Of Christ" as I marvelled in the miracle of The Risen Christ: the flat piece of bread in my hand truly WAS the Body of Christ, and how could you not be floored by THAT?

In the next few years, though, something funny started to happen. I still attended Mass regularly, I remember being 19 and attending Mass weekly with my boyfriend. Pay attention to that, please: I went with my boyfriend, NOT either of our families. We went because we wanted to share in God's Glory together. But let's not kid ourselves, folks, we were also doing the Nasty, and we were doing it with (wait for it...) birth control.

This was the first splinter in my relationship with the Catholic Church, the first time I actually questioned what a bunch of men in a foreign country were dictating for my life. I didn't question the fact that they frowned on premarital sex, EVERY religion does that and I accepted that I was a sinner. I just couldn't get past the "no birth control" thing. Around that time, we had the huge famines in Africa. I would watch the horrifying footage on the news of emaciated women holding starving babies who would never be nourished from their breasts, immediately followed by well fed men in Rome telling these desperate mothers that suffering is Christ's Way, saying "no" to your husband's carnal desires was wrong, but for the sake of your SOUL, don't practice birth control!

Yeah. You're right. The CONDOM which prevents HIV and pregnancies that can only end in death, THAT'S the problem.

Hi, my name is Jennifer and I'm outta here.

Fast forward to the present day. For several years now, I have yearned in my soul to join a church. I want the community, I want to spend time with people like me, who are ordinary sinners but are trying to lead a holy life. I want fellowship.

This year, I tried the United Church. I adore the congregation, I truly enjoy Rev. Aaron and everything I have seen so far. I have read several books about the philosophy of the United Church. And I want to belong.

But I can't.

Even as a lapsed Catholic, I can't give up the sanctity of my Church for the community of his. I miss the ceremony, I miss the smell of incense, I miss the familiar cadence of the Apostle's Creed, I miss that holy, holy moment when the Body of Christ is materialized. My Catholic Hangover is too strong for me to leave the beauty of the Church I decry.

Tell me, where is a nice, confused Catholic girl to go?

Biggest Loser

Last fall, my hotel launched its own internal version of "The Biggest Loser", a television program I understand but have never seen.

There were 10 teams of three, all striving to change their pant size and their lives. There were weekly physical challenges, weekly nutritionchallenges, and weekly confidential weigh-ins. At the end of ten weeks, the "Results" were anounced in a very discreet way at our Christmas Party. I remember very distinctly the Team Who Won, all men, the results based on the PERCENTAGE of starting weight lost, not the actual pounds.

Let me explain the percentage thing, in case it seems weird. Let's say Bob is 5"10 and weighs 300 bls. Let's say Jane is 5"5 and weighs 150 lbs. At the end of the competion, should Bob "win" because he lost 70lbs & she only lost 10? Of course not, because for Jane to lose 70 lbs, she would frankly have to DIE. And she didn't NEED to lose 70 lbs, while Bob, frankly, could deal with a Diet Coke.

Getting back to the Christmas party, while the "Results" of each team was announced discreetly and without making anyone feel bad, the success of Everyone Who Participated was shared all around. Thirty people, ten weeks, 570 lbs lost SAFELY through Canada's Food Guide and the support of our Health Club Manager. Great night.

I didn't participate because while I may be carrying an extra ten pounds, I am ONLY carrying an extra ten pounds, and space on the program was limited.

Today the sign-up flyers for the Second Edition came out. And here's the kicker: this time, they want people who want to lose weight. And people who want to quit smoking. And those who want to do both. And the first meeting is Friday.

And I am going.

Screw my weight, I have been 140 lbs and I have been 95 lbs and I have been everything in between, and the weight isn't the issue. I AM A SMOKER and I am ready to stop.

I just want to stop.

So maybe I can stop without gaining twnety pounds; listen, I am WILLING to gain weight to stop this behaviour, but maybe I will be shown a way to get through this without buying new clothes.


And even if I HAVE to buy new clothes? I don't care. I don't want to smoke anymore.

Update

Today wasn't a great day, but it wasn't awful, either. Still feel like Something Is Coming, though.

Kelz finally got herself a copy of "Outlander". Based on her (understandably) short email to me today, she is hooked.

I'm telling you, if you haven't read this fifteen-year-old book, GO NOW.