"The human body is ... in perpetual inner self-construction and self-destruction; we destroy in order to make it new."
Norman O. Brown
1913-2002
There's this great line in Garson Kanin's play, Born Yesterday, about how democracy is this beautiful machine and someone is always tampering with it. That theme, how we're always ruining a good thing, kind of echoes some recent thoughts that have been floating through my brain attic, basically that humans are astonishing, beautiful, magical accidents that are hardwired to destroy themselves.
If you really think about it, no matter whether you ascribe to a creationist or evolutionary viewpoint, our very existence is amazing and our abilities to think and reason and make art and build civilizations and all the other things we do even MORE amazing. Unfortunately, part and parcel of that is our ability (or perverse need?) to destroy ourselves. We do this, obviously, through war and murder and misunderstanding and fear and all that. But we also seem to do it based on an innate preferences for that which will destroy us. We seem to naturally prefer tastes, smells and textures that need to be synthetically augmented, or wholly unhealthy, in order to truly satisfy. And it's those synthetic additions that so often are responsible for throwing the environment out of balance.
For example, deodorants and anti-perspirants. Beyond the ridiculous packaging (there's GOT to be some sort of container that uses less plastic than the dial-up stick...10 percent product, 90 percent non-recyclable packaging, so annoying), our societal dislike of basic human odors has prompted the need for anti-pit smell products that require synthetic ingredients to make them strong enough to satisfy us and to ensure a really long shelf-life, or the desirable texture. These ingredients, including parabens, aluminum and propylene glycol, are toxins that are absorbed into the skin with daily application and also wash off of us in the show and end up in our water supply. Some of them mimic hormones and contribute, I'm quite sure, to all sorts of reproductive ills throughout the food chain. But, despite evidence of links between deodorants and breast cancer and other health issues, you don't see the deodorant/antiperspirant section at the drugstore getting any smaller. Nor do you see an increase in the number of natural scent-maskers that don't usel parabens, aluminum salts or petroleum by-products. Why? Because we've gotten so used to the convenient effectiveness of these little sticks of toxins that we can't imagine just living with a little B.O., so we'll continue to poison ourselves directly and indirectly by using them. Which kind of means that we prefer slow self-destruction over self-preservation.
Or food. We know that it would be better for our health and possibly the natural world if we'd follow Michael Pollan's directive to "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." But do we do this? Not so much, at least not here in North America. I know that my own excessive fondness for fats is a matter of both taste (fat IS the vector for flavour, people!) and texture. The mouthfeel of whipping cream or butter, the richness of egg yolks, the nectar that is good olive oil, the fulsomeness of cheese -- these are all things I used to over-indulge in regularly (daily!) because maintaining a more spartan diet of steamed vegetables and plain, broiled fish or meats just seemed so...dull. Again, sensible self-preservation goes out the window in the face of a dinner of raclette, or vegetables eaten with liberal amounts of aioli, or sunnyside-up eggs cooked in an inch of bacon fat, or...well, you get the picture.
A girl I used to work with would often talk about the earth as a "self-regulating organism" that would somehow (weather? seismic activity?) systematically dispose of its biggest threat in a manner that would keep the planet in some sort of balance. [Cheerful lunchtime talk, I know -- we were a deep bunch at Opera Ontario]. So, is humankind also some sort of self-regulating organism, too? Intent on systematic disposal in order to keep some sort of balance, or to ensure there's always room for the new?
I have no idea.
I do know, however, that it might be wise for me to avoid reading any sort of apocalyptic newspaper stories (Saturday's Globe and Mail was a doozy for that) when I'm pre-menstrual because this blog entry is exactly what happens when I go to the dark place.
Kara
Monday, June 8, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Fat Girl Speaks...
EXERCISE CHANGED MY LIFE.
Unbelievable that I, a committed all-around potato of the couch variety, would think, much less say, that exercise changed my life, but it's true.
All my life, I've been the big girl. When I was in grade school, I shot up to my current height of 5 foot 7 by about age 11, so I was always placed dead in the middle of the class picture and usually looked like I was about 30 years old. High school was essentially the real life version of Shermer High (The Breakfast Club, anyone?) and my classmates were all tiny little things who looked cute and ironic in their peg legged garbage man pants, whereas I just looked like a garbage man. In retrospect, looking at old pictures, I was anything but overweight in my teens, but when you're surrounded by diminutive, clear-skinned, glossy haired perfect girls who can all wear the knee high riding boots that were de rigeur at OTHS in the 80s, well, it's pretty natural to assume you've got the physique of a piano-mover.
God knows, though, I had the build to handle obesity. My first semester at university (Go you Gryphons!), away from the level-headed meal planning of my parents' house, and with a whole world of fried foods at my fingertips, I gained 30 lbs in the first semester alone. And it was...okay. I was big, but I'd always been big, so it was doable. And the undergraduate uniform of faded mens jeans, voluminous Peruvian wool sweaters and desert boots certainly didn't require a good figure to pull off. I think I got away with it for so long because, like I said, I've got a big build and no one would ever believe me if I told them my actual weight. So you get to fooling yourself that as long as people express disbelief at the number of pounds, you're not that fat.
I continued to get more robust over the years after graduation, eating my way through an emotionally trying mid-20s relationship, until somewhere in my late 20s I decided I needed to lose some of that avoirdupois. My friend Shona and I decided to give Weightwatchers a try and, despite the fact that we'd recover from each wretchedly cheerful weekly meeting with natchos and beer at the pub, it worked! Well, it worked because I was living at home at the time and my mother is a fabulous cook who could make rubber tires taste good, so with her help I was actually eating truly delicious food and lots of it. I managed to lose about 30 lbs and went off to a new job in a different city suddenly single and looking a hell of a lot better.
And then I met my husband. And the weight started to come back on. Which is not to say that the man's been forcefeeding me like a goose meant to give up its fois since 2002, but I suddenly had a willing audience for my culinary skills. And vice versa (our third date, Christopher made polenta from scratch with a mushroom and tomato sauce that was to die for), AND the man writes about wine for a living so suddenly a whole new world of flavours and textures opened up for me. And I was happy. So I ate, and he ate, and I think it wasn't more than 7 months before we got the first serious talk from both his mother and mine about the possiblities of adult-onset diabetes and heart disease and the like. And yet we continued to eat, and drink, and laze about in each other's delicious company for the next 7 years.
(It doesn't help that about 3 years ago I was diagnosed with P.C.O.S., an endocrinological disorder that not only makes me infertile BUT also means that I've got the metabolism of a sloth and gain weight easily, especially around the middle. As an added bonus, obesity exacerbates the symptoms of P.C.O.S. so it's best controlled by watching your weight. Which, as I've said, you tend to put on more easily and keep on more easily than non-P.C.O.S. women. Bit of a fatch-22, if you see what I mean.)
But all that ended for me in January of this year. I don't know what it was, whether I'd just become uncomfortable in my own skin, or was dismayed at all the clothing that wasn't fitting anymore, or I was sick and bloody tired of the P.C.O.S. thing and the insulin-resistance that comes with it, but whatever it was, I'd officially had it with being the Big Girl. So, I decided to do something about it.
Bringing us back to my earlier, outlandish statement of EXERCISE CHANGED MY LIFE.
Mesmerized by a local gym's t.v. commercials promising that I could lose up to 40 lbs in 10 weeks, I joined up in mid-January. The program, called Lean & Fit, involves three circuit-training classes a week, no more, no less, plus a strict and sensible diet. This is gonna be a snap, I thought. The prospect of eating 5 to 6 times a day (or every 3 to 4 hours) sounded heavenly to me, and how hard could these 30-minute circuit training classes really be?
(insert loud, derisive snorting sound here)
It was hell. HELL. At least for the first three weeks. First of all, it seemed like I was always eating and my co-workers got tired of the clink of my spoon against the glass container of cottage cheese, frozen berries and almonds that became my staple daytime meal. Secondly, the classes themselves were HARD. I lasted all of 10 minutes at the first class and had to spend the balance of the session marching in place in the corner (they warn you not to stop moving, or you might vom. Seriously.), alternately gulping water and breathing like a carp out of water. It took me two weeks to figure out that I had to start the session at a strength station rather than a cardio station, or I'd not make it through the whole half-hour. And it took me three weeks to stop being terrified of the trainers.
But it was working. I lost close to 15 lbs in the first three weeks and was watching my body change shape right before my eyes. My legs, always my worst feature, were changing from tree stumps to tree trunks -- not slender by any means, but definitely recognizable as legs and not Doric pillars. My neck was thinning out -- again, far from swan-like but no longer a thick column of extra chins. And, most satisfactorily, my hourglass shape was returning. Lo and behold, Kara had a waist again!
But more importantly, I felt GREAT. Not only was I sleeping like a baby, but my longtime nocturnal bouts with crippling heartburn had ceased to exist. And mentally, I was on top of the world. I was more even-tempered, I had energy, I was alert, it was amazing.
By the end of the initial 12 week Lean & Fit session (I'd had to take a hiatus about 2/3 of the way through to have my knees checked out, turns out I've got arthritis, yet another condition that will be markedly helped by losing weight), I not only could get through each 30-minute class without stopping, but also without collapsing when I got home. I'd come to absolutely love going to the gym, feeling a bit out of sorts when my schedule prevented me from making it to all three classes every week. AND I'd lost 34 lbs.
So, naturally, I celebrated by taking a 10 day vacation in Berlin and eating my face off. Okay, not quite true, the trip had been in the works for a month or two, and I did temper all that eating with a tremendous amount of walking, but you can't go to Germany of all places and not schwein-out on potatoes and sausages and cake and beer. It's impossible. Luckily, I only gained 5 lbs on vacation, which is an easy amount to work off and certainly doesn't represent the thin end of the wedge in any way.
Except...
Except for the fact that the vacation, spent in my favorite city on earth, was too short for my taste and I wasn't happy about coming home already. So I got a case of the blues and spent the first week home eating my face off and not walking, and just getting more and more morose as I ransacked the kitchen in search of the food that would make me happy again.
Only the thing is, there wasn't a food that was going to make me happy -- wait, let me rephrase that, because food IS happiness to me, I read cookbooks like they're novels for chrissakes, I write about food whenever I get the chance for hubby's magazine, I LIVE to cook for people! It's my happy place!
So, okay, the thing was, food wasn't the answer I was looking for last week. The answer, as I rediscovered last night at the gym, was exercise. I was scared to go back after a two week absence and was convinced that I'd be back at square one, unable to make it through more than 10 minutes of class. Happily, however, all my prior hard work had paid off and the class, while in no way easy, was not the pure hell I'd expected. I even managed to do 11 proper (read: on my toes, not my knees) push-ups without falling on my face at the end of it. But more importantly, I came home in a great mood and had a lovely evening at home before enjoying a deliciously full night of sleep. Not to wax too poetic or anything, but this morning dawned bright and hopeful and my day at work certainly went better than any last week, And the reason? Exercise.
It's clear that exercise will always have to be a part of my life, not only for physical health (I have another 66 lbs to lose to reach my goal weight) but also for my state of mind. Life is too short to be miserable and if something so simple can stave off the mean reds, then why not keep it up? Obviously, it's not the cure for all that can ail you, but it's one hell of a start.
Kara
Unbelievable that I, a committed all-around potato of the couch variety, would think, much less say, that exercise changed my life, but it's true.
All my life, I've been the big girl. When I was in grade school, I shot up to my current height of 5 foot 7 by about age 11, so I was always placed dead in the middle of the class picture and usually looked like I was about 30 years old. High school was essentially the real life version of Shermer High (The Breakfast Club, anyone?) and my classmates were all tiny little things who looked cute and ironic in their peg legged garbage man pants, whereas I just looked like a garbage man. In retrospect, looking at old pictures, I was anything but overweight in my teens, but when you're surrounded by diminutive, clear-skinned, glossy haired perfect girls who can all wear the knee high riding boots that were de rigeur at OTHS in the 80s, well, it's pretty natural to assume you've got the physique of a piano-mover.
God knows, though, I had the build to handle obesity. My first semester at university (Go you Gryphons!), away from the level-headed meal planning of my parents' house, and with a whole world of fried foods at my fingertips, I gained 30 lbs in the first semester alone. And it was...okay. I was big, but I'd always been big, so it was doable. And the undergraduate uniform of faded mens jeans, voluminous Peruvian wool sweaters and desert boots certainly didn't require a good figure to pull off. I think I got away with it for so long because, like I said, I've got a big build and no one would ever believe me if I told them my actual weight. So you get to fooling yourself that as long as people express disbelief at the number of pounds, you're not that fat.
I continued to get more robust over the years after graduation, eating my way through an emotionally trying mid-20s relationship, until somewhere in my late 20s I decided I needed to lose some of that avoirdupois. My friend Shona and I decided to give Weightwatchers a try and, despite the fact that we'd recover from each wretchedly cheerful weekly meeting with natchos and beer at the pub, it worked! Well, it worked because I was living at home at the time and my mother is a fabulous cook who could make rubber tires taste good, so with her help I was actually eating truly delicious food and lots of it. I managed to lose about 30 lbs and went off to a new job in a different city suddenly single and looking a hell of a lot better.
And then I met my husband. And the weight started to come back on. Which is not to say that the man's been forcefeeding me like a goose meant to give up its fois since 2002, but I suddenly had a willing audience for my culinary skills. And vice versa (our third date, Christopher made polenta from scratch with a mushroom and tomato sauce that was to die for), AND the man writes about wine for a living so suddenly a whole new world of flavours and textures opened up for me. And I was happy. So I ate, and he ate, and I think it wasn't more than 7 months before we got the first serious talk from both his mother and mine about the possiblities of adult-onset diabetes and heart disease and the like. And yet we continued to eat, and drink, and laze about in each other's delicious company for the next 7 years.
(It doesn't help that about 3 years ago I was diagnosed with P.C.O.S., an endocrinological disorder that not only makes me infertile BUT also means that I've got the metabolism of a sloth and gain weight easily, especially around the middle. As an added bonus, obesity exacerbates the symptoms of P.C.O.S. so it's best controlled by watching your weight. Which, as I've said, you tend to put on more easily and keep on more easily than non-P.C.O.S. women. Bit of a fatch-22, if you see what I mean.)
But all that ended for me in January of this year. I don't know what it was, whether I'd just become uncomfortable in my own skin, or was dismayed at all the clothing that wasn't fitting anymore, or I was sick and bloody tired of the P.C.O.S. thing and the insulin-resistance that comes with it, but whatever it was, I'd officially had it with being the Big Girl. So, I decided to do something about it.
Bringing us back to my earlier, outlandish statement of EXERCISE CHANGED MY LIFE.
Mesmerized by a local gym's t.v. commercials promising that I could lose up to 40 lbs in 10 weeks, I joined up in mid-January. The program, called Lean & Fit, involves three circuit-training classes a week, no more, no less, plus a strict and sensible diet. This is gonna be a snap, I thought. The prospect of eating 5 to 6 times a day (or every 3 to 4 hours) sounded heavenly to me, and how hard could these 30-minute circuit training classes really be?
(insert loud, derisive snorting sound here)
It was hell. HELL. At least for the first three weeks. First of all, it seemed like I was always eating and my co-workers got tired of the clink of my spoon against the glass container of cottage cheese, frozen berries and almonds that became my staple daytime meal. Secondly, the classes themselves were HARD. I lasted all of 10 minutes at the first class and had to spend the balance of the session marching in place in the corner (they warn you not to stop moving, or you might vom. Seriously.), alternately gulping water and breathing like a carp out of water. It took me two weeks to figure out that I had to start the session at a strength station rather than a cardio station, or I'd not make it through the whole half-hour. And it took me three weeks to stop being terrified of the trainers.
But it was working. I lost close to 15 lbs in the first three weeks and was watching my body change shape right before my eyes. My legs, always my worst feature, were changing from tree stumps to tree trunks -- not slender by any means, but definitely recognizable as legs and not Doric pillars. My neck was thinning out -- again, far from swan-like but no longer a thick column of extra chins. And, most satisfactorily, my hourglass shape was returning. Lo and behold, Kara had a waist again!
But more importantly, I felt GREAT. Not only was I sleeping like a baby, but my longtime nocturnal bouts with crippling heartburn had ceased to exist. And mentally, I was on top of the world. I was more even-tempered, I had energy, I was alert, it was amazing.
By the end of the initial 12 week Lean & Fit session (I'd had to take a hiatus about 2/3 of the way through to have my knees checked out, turns out I've got arthritis, yet another condition that will be markedly helped by losing weight), I not only could get through each 30-minute class without stopping, but also without collapsing when I got home. I'd come to absolutely love going to the gym, feeling a bit out of sorts when my schedule prevented me from making it to all three classes every week. AND I'd lost 34 lbs.
So, naturally, I celebrated by taking a 10 day vacation in Berlin and eating my face off. Okay, not quite true, the trip had been in the works for a month or two, and I did temper all that eating with a tremendous amount of walking, but you can't go to Germany of all places and not schwein-out on potatoes and sausages and cake and beer. It's impossible. Luckily, I only gained 5 lbs on vacation, which is an easy amount to work off and certainly doesn't represent the thin end of the wedge in any way.
Except...
Except for the fact that the vacation, spent in my favorite city on earth, was too short for my taste and I wasn't happy about coming home already. So I got a case of the blues and spent the first week home eating my face off and not walking, and just getting more and more morose as I ransacked the kitchen in search of the food that would make me happy again.
Only the thing is, there wasn't a food that was going to make me happy -- wait, let me rephrase that, because food IS happiness to me, I read cookbooks like they're novels for chrissakes, I write about food whenever I get the chance for hubby's magazine, I LIVE to cook for people! It's my happy place!
So, okay, the thing was, food wasn't the answer I was looking for last week. The answer, as I rediscovered last night at the gym, was exercise. I was scared to go back after a two week absence and was convinced that I'd be back at square one, unable to make it through more than 10 minutes of class. Happily, however, all my prior hard work had paid off and the class, while in no way easy, was not the pure hell I'd expected. I even managed to do 11 proper (read: on my toes, not my knees) push-ups without falling on my face at the end of it. But more importantly, I came home in a great mood and had a lovely evening at home before enjoying a deliciously full night of sleep. Not to wax too poetic or anything, but this morning dawned bright and hopeful and my day at work certainly went better than any last week, And the reason? Exercise.
It's clear that exercise will always have to be a part of my life, not only for physical health (I have another 66 lbs to lose to reach my goal weight) but also for my state of mind. Life is too short to be miserable and if something so simple can stave off the mean reds, then why not keep it up? Obviously, it's not the cure for all that can ail you, but it's one hell of a start.
Kara
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Subterranean Vacation Sick Blues
I've been home for a week now and haven't felt much like writing. No, scratch that, I've had the urge to write but my thoughts have been jumbled and jetlagged and startlingly un-cohesive. I thought I was having an early mid-life crisis, but my friend Shona correctly diagnosed that I've basically got the post-vacation blues. You know, that soul-sucking ennui that happens after you come home from a really great trip and discover that absolutely nothing of interest has happened while you were away. The sameness of everything hits you like a ton of bricks and you think the only thing you have to look forward to in life is the next time you can get back to Europe.
(Of course, everything about this version of the blues is entirely exaggerated and somewhat unfounded -- I've noted before that my vita is awfully, awfully dolce.)
I've basically been dealing with the whole thing by eating. I never thought I was an emotional eater but it would appear that I am. The appetite I've had this past week has been ridiculous. Granted, I am coming off a week of holiday eating, in Germany no less, and it's hard to go from having 24/7 access to delicious coffee and cake, wine and beer, sausage and zanderfilet, to a more regular diet. You get used to starting your day with a crusty roll spread so thick with sweet butter it might as well be cheese, accompanied by a perfectly cooked soft boiled egg with a rich, orangey-yellow yolk, and then a container of the most deliciously creamy yoghurt, drizzled with honey or apricot jam. And then stopping for a perfect cup of coffee an hour later (God Bless Tchibo!) and a piece of cake. Followed by a full lunch (perhaps a personal-sized terrine of thick potato soup. sharp with lovage and bits of garlicky sausage) a couple of hours after that, complete with delicious cold beer. And more coffee and cake around 4pm. And then, later, a snack of open faced sandwiches, or a yummy currywurst (grilled sausage, lavishly draped in sweet ketchup with lashings of curry powder over top -- try it before you disdain it) and more cold beer. Undsoweiter, undsoweiter.
So I guess it's no big surprise that all I thought about this week was food. Food and art*, but mainly food. And no matter what I ate, I was never satisfied because whatever I cooked or bought to eat wasn't the right thing. Like my brain was too jumbled to correctly identify the dish that would make me happy and so decided to find it through trial and error. Of course, it might just be that the dish that would make me happy either doesn't exist or only exists back in Berlin, and the only result of all this trial and error will be me rapidly regaining all that weight I worked so hard to take off between January and May.
Therefore, the week of wallowing is over. Time to rejoin real life and get over it. Tomorrow, I'll go back to my usual routine of circuit training 3 times a week, eating small balanced meals 5-6 times a day, getting RID of all this avoirdupois I've been lugging around since university. Saturday, I'll go back to the print studio and get back into the swing of things there. And in a couple of weeks, my night course in the Department of English and Cultural Studies will start and I'll get to see if I can still write an academic paper or not. The summer is full of promise and the blues will surely pass soon.
Kara
*And most of the thoughts about art have been about how much I don't like Joseph Beuys. But that's a whole other rant.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
I'm Throwing a Pity Party, Please Come!
“Wow! You must have been a mistake.” (Charming!)
“Really? Because I know everyone in that family and I’ve never heard of you.” (Delightful)
“I think your grandma is here to pick you up.” (On behalf of my mother, Thank-You)
These are some of the most memorable phrases from my childhood and youth. I am the youngest child in my family. I have sisters who are identical twins, a brother and another sister. They are 17, 14, and 11 years older than me respectively. My mother was just shy of 41 when I was born. Plus I grew up here in Melonville and well, I call my hometown Melonville because it’s citizens do things like ask a little girl if she was a mistake. Losers.
(Indulge me here for a moment. Never, never ever ask a child if they were a mistake, smirk at a pregnant woman and ask if the child was a mistake, or refer to your own perhaps unexpected pregnancy as a mistake. It is the single most insulting thing to say to or about another human being. )
I am also the youngest of all my cousins by approximately the same margin.
I came into my family after the death of my grandparents. My parents and aunts and uncles who spent so much time together when they were all young parents began to see less of each other. The time of the big family picnics had passed.
There is in fact a whole history shared by the rest of my family that does not include me.
When I was still in elementary school, my parents had a son and daughter-in-law. By the time I started middle school I was an Aunt and the child of grandparents. My siblings were no longer my big brother and sisters they were some else’s spouse. They were parents. There were newlyweds and new babies and I was neither.
I was involved in my brother and sisters wedding festivities and baby celebrations by default. I was their sister, I might have been a kid, but they had to have me at these things. My cousins were a different story they were free to pull the “adults only” line and leave me off the guest list.
My nieces and nephews range in age from 28 to 16. When the now 16 year old was a baby, I was a university student. That Christmas the 10 grandchildren where grouped together for a portrait. It hangs in my parent’s front hall and is still referred to as “the Christmas picture of all the kids”. When I requested that we have a new one taken that included my 4 children, I was told that “the older ones” would never go for it. Thanks for the effort guys.
My children have never been treated badly by their aunts and uncles and cousins. They love my little ones and my kids are crazy about their crazy relatives. They love a family party when they get to hang out with the “big kids”.
Sadly what they will never have with their cousins is true friendships. When the other grandchildren were small, everyone attended events like birthdays or Baptisms. My children have 18 cousins (including my husband’s side of the family) all in the age range mentioned above and when my son made his First Communion a few weeks ago 2 of his cousins came.
There is no blame to be laid here. It is just bad timing in a way, but still it saddens me. I wish my siblings could see things from this side. My children range in age from 9 years old to 18 months old. My parents are 80 and 81. My father has had 4 hip replacement surgeries, and a quintuple by-pass. He had a heart attack 6 weeks before my wedding. My last Christmas at home, he was in hospital in the ICU.
It is not likely my parents will see my children graduate from high school or university. They will not be there when they are married. I worry that they may be gone before my youngest has a chance to form any real memories of them.
There is a wedding this fall. My nephew is getting married, and the old pattern starts anew as his youngest cousins are left off the guest list. No children at the wedding. I suspect everyone will go. This is a big deal; the first of the grandchildren to marry. Part of me understands, weddings are expensive and 4 extra meals at $100 a pop is nothing to sneeze at, but on the other hand, I have slipped through the cracks again, and my children will be the only cousins not included.
Last fall my 3 sisters and my mom went to Key West together, in part to celebrate her 80th birthday. As they told me many times they didn’t ask me to go because they knew I couldn’t go. They were right. I couldn’t have gone. But it would have been nice to be asked. It would have been nice to be one of the girls.
Kate
“Really? Because I know everyone in that family and I’ve never heard of you.” (Delightful)
“I think your grandma is here to pick you up.” (On behalf of my mother, Thank-You)
These are some of the most memorable phrases from my childhood and youth. I am the youngest child in my family. I have sisters who are identical twins, a brother and another sister. They are 17, 14, and 11 years older than me respectively. My mother was just shy of 41 when I was born. Plus I grew up here in Melonville and well, I call my hometown Melonville because it’s citizens do things like ask a little girl if she was a mistake. Losers.
(Indulge me here for a moment. Never, never ever ask a child if they were a mistake, smirk at a pregnant woman and ask if the child was a mistake, or refer to your own perhaps unexpected pregnancy as a mistake. It is the single most insulting thing to say to or about another human being. )
I am also the youngest of all my cousins by approximately the same margin.
I came into my family after the death of my grandparents. My parents and aunts and uncles who spent so much time together when they were all young parents began to see less of each other. The time of the big family picnics had passed.
There is in fact a whole history shared by the rest of my family that does not include me.
When I was still in elementary school, my parents had a son and daughter-in-law. By the time I started middle school I was an Aunt and the child of grandparents. My siblings were no longer my big brother and sisters they were some else’s spouse. They were parents. There were newlyweds and new babies and I was neither.
I was involved in my brother and sisters wedding festivities and baby celebrations by default. I was their sister, I might have been a kid, but they had to have me at these things. My cousins were a different story they were free to pull the “adults only” line and leave me off the guest list.
My nieces and nephews range in age from 28 to 16. When the now 16 year old was a baby, I was a university student. That Christmas the 10 grandchildren where grouped together for a portrait. It hangs in my parent’s front hall and is still referred to as “the Christmas picture of all the kids”. When I requested that we have a new one taken that included my 4 children, I was told that “the older ones” would never go for it. Thanks for the effort guys.
My children have never been treated badly by their aunts and uncles and cousins. They love my little ones and my kids are crazy about their crazy relatives. They love a family party when they get to hang out with the “big kids”.
Sadly what they will never have with their cousins is true friendships. When the other grandchildren were small, everyone attended events like birthdays or Baptisms. My children have 18 cousins (including my husband’s side of the family) all in the age range mentioned above and when my son made his First Communion a few weeks ago 2 of his cousins came.
There is no blame to be laid here. It is just bad timing in a way, but still it saddens me. I wish my siblings could see things from this side. My children range in age from 9 years old to 18 months old. My parents are 80 and 81. My father has had 4 hip replacement surgeries, and a quintuple by-pass. He had a heart attack 6 weeks before my wedding. My last Christmas at home, he was in hospital in the ICU.
It is not likely my parents will see my children graduate from high school or university. They will not be there when they are married. I worry that they may be gone before my youngest has a chance to form any real memories of them.
There is a wedding this fall. My nephew is getting married, and the old pattern starts anew as his youngest cousins are left off the guest list. No children at the wedding. I suspect everyone will go. This is a big deal; the first of the grandchildren to marry. Part of me understands, weddings are expensive and 4 extra meals at $100 a pop is nothing to sneeze at, but on the other hand, I have slipped through the cracks again, and my children will be the only cousins not included.
Last fall my 3 sisters and my mom went to Key West together, in part to celebrate her 80th birthday. As they told me many times they didn’t ask me to go because they knew I couldn’t go. They were right. I couldn’t have gone. But it would have been nice to be asked. It would have been nice to be one of the girls.
Kate
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Just when I thought I'd cornered the market on home-made-porn-found-during-renovations stories...
Kate shared the tale of the tins of naughty snaps found in my basement ceiling during renovations with some friends last week. "I can top that," says one of the women, "We found naked pictures when we cleaned out my grandfather's house. Only they were of my grandma."
Oh. My. No.
Kara
Oh. My. No.
Kara
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Warning! Kara has left the building.
10:09 AM. I imagine that Kara is well on her way to the airport and flying machine that will whisk her away to Berlin for the next couple of weeks.
So this is it, Katie on her own. This could be interesting. I rely pretty heavily on Kara to keep me sane, and to keep me from saying or doing things that might damage my relationship with friends or family well beyond the point of repair.
But she is gone, so with no Kara contact in about 72 hours I could reach situation critical. I might start sounding off on everything from modern birthing practices to how I can't watch Paul Gross movies because he scares the pants off me.
Consider yourself warned. I will try and be on my best behaviour, but I have a lot going on during her absence, and sometimes a girl just needs to vent.
So this is it, Katie on her own. This could be interesting. I rely pretty heavily on Kara to keep me sane, and to keep me from saying or doing things that might damage my relationship with friends or family well beyond the point of repair.
But she is gone, so with no Kara contact in about 72 hours I could reach situation critical. I might start sounding off on everything from modern birthing practices to how I can't watch Paul Gross movies because he scares the pants off me.
Consider yourself warned. I will try and be on my best behaviour, but I have a lot going on during her absence, and sometimes a girl just needs to vent.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Getting Away With Nothing (Or, Kara Goes All Dr. Phil On Your Ass On A Saturday Night)
One of my huband's nieces has just finished the final exams of her freshman year at university. Last week she facebooked (that is an acceptable verb now, isn't it?) that she'd just survived her first all-nighter. I was completely nonplussed at this little update. How on earth had she made it through the entire school year without pulling an all-nighter? I couldn't help but comment on her status, expressing disbelief that she'd gone so long without one and crowing about how I was the queen of the all-nighter when I was her age.
Ahhh, the all-nighter. The spiritual home of the procrastinator. And I am the veritable Queen of the Procrastinators.
I'm doing it right now, as a matter of fact. I should be writing about the fine art of hamburger making. I should have been writing about the fine art of hamburger making all week. The deadline for the piece on the fine art of hamburger making is Monday. And yet, what I'm writing about is how I'm not writing about the fine art of hamburger making. Oh, and watching the NBA playoffs (oh LeBron, how I adore thee). And doing laundry. And checking my twitter page. And arranging for a haircut before we leave for Germany. And checking my e-mail. And wondering how Kate survived the first communion party for her son. Undsoweiter, undsoweiter.
I suppose if I even had the hamburger document open and had written anything other than the sad excuse of a working title ("A Beautiful Thing", with apologies to Harvey's), I could claim that I was multi-tasking instead of avoiding doing the actual work. Let us pause for a moment while I do that...Oh, who are we kidding, I'm not multi-tasking, I'm procrastinating. And it's something I've done all my life, possibly my one true skill and biggest failing.
When I was a kid, starting around age 7, I had a paper route of sorts (it was the 70s, when kids were allowed to roam the neighbourhood free and unfettered), delivering flyers every weekend. I hated the job. HATED IT. The flyers were heavy and awkward to hold, the ink rubbed off on me, dogs chased me (it was the 70s, when dogs were allowed to roam the neighbourhood free and unfettered), and there were two homes on the route that housed teasing, mean teenagers. Oh, how I hated every minute of that stupid paper route.
The flyers were delivered on Thursday evening and had to be delivered by Sunday. Logic would dictate that, much like homework, the smart thing to do would have been to deliver the darned things on Friday and free up the rest of the weekend for other, more fun pursuits. But you know that's not what I did. You know what's coming. Yup, almost every weekend, I'd let the flyer bundles fester on the front porch, driving my mother crazy and provoking arguments wherein she told me to just DO IT for God's sake while I sulkily countered with "what difference does it make WHEN I deliver them?"
The die was cast early. I was one of those people who would leave everything to the last minute. This was how I was going to manage my life.
In school, procrastination was a kind of twisted badge of honour. For Grade 13 English Lit. (yes, Virginia, there used to be a Grade 13, t'was a wonderful thing, a kind of finishing year, and it meant that by the time you started university you were likely 19 and thus of legal drinking age), I wrote my major paper, longhand, the night before it was due. And got an A. From the toughest, most discerning English teacher at the school. This trend continued through university, my projects always feverishly completed within hours of the deadline. My undergraduate thesis paper, for goodness sake, possibly the most important document I had to produce in that four year period, was almost entirely written in a marathon 72 hour session right before I had to hand it in. And I got an A. From a notably tough professor.
Which was kind of the problem. I kept getting away with it. I kept getting good marks*, despite the fact that everything was written with an undercurrent of pure white-hot panic. I began to believe that I needed that white-hot panic in order to do my best work, that the only way I could REALLY do anything was under an inordinate amount of pressure. When I graduated, right into the mini-recession of the early 90s, I ended up working for Wal*Mart for two years as the Fabrics & Crafts department manager (Oh, God, I was so very bad at that job, my apologies to all my former employees and customers) and regularly screwed up inventory day for the entire store by leaving the pre-counting tasks to the very last minute, pulling (you guessed it) all-nighters to try and measure 50 million bolts of printed cotton, or count 75 bajillion individual silk flowers. When I eventually got out of retail and into the not-for-profit arts world, I regularly gave myself and my boss hypertension by leaving major grant applications to the last minute, staying at the office all night (trend?) to write my pithy arguments on why various arts councils should give us several thousand, or several hundred thousand, dollars in support.
In short, my bad habits have continued to work for me. But, recently I've realized something that I think I've known for years but conveniently managed to ignore -- that while these last minute efforts did earn me the marks, and have earned the organizations I've worked for the necessary funding, by leaving things to the last minute, I haven't left enough time to do my best work. It might have been good work, good enough to get an A or whatever the goal was, but it wasn't my best work. If I'm being completely honest, for most of my life I haven't been working to full potential (wait...that sounds familiar...must dig up grade school report cards at parent's house) and essentially have been getting away with nothing.
My goal, therefore, having shared this cosmic A Ha! moment with you, is to change my errant ways. My 39th birthday looms large on the horizon and life is too damned short to waste it with half-assed efforts. Meeting deadlines is important, but meeting deadlines with the best possible work is more important and that means Not Leaving Everything To The Last Minute. That means stepping down off the Elite Level Procrastinator podium and handing that crown and sceptre over to someone else (note to husband's niece: Not You) who's content with half-measures.
Thus endeth the lesson for this Saturday night. Time to write about the fine art of hamburger making, BEFORE the very last minute. Truly, a beautiful thing.
Kara
*I kept getting good marks on written work, I should clarify, not on other types of work. I started out in a fine arts program, believing that I had some sort of future as a visual artist. I was woefully out of my league in the studio courses from the minute I arrived on campus and lacked the self-confidence to persevere. In the case of my studio courses, waiting 'til the last minute to complete the assignments wasn't procrastination so much as outright defeat. Hence my decision to switch to Art History and English Lit partway through second year.
Ahhh, the all-nighter. The spiritual home of the procrastinator. And I am the veritable Queen of the Procrastinators.
I'm doing it right now, as a matter of fact. I should be writing about the fine art of hamburger making. I should have been writing about the fine art of hamburger making all week. The deadline for the piece on the fine art of hamburger making is Monday. And yet, what I'm writing about is how I'm not writing about the fine art of hamburger making. Oh, and watching the NBA playoffs (oh LeBron, how I adore thee). And doing laundry. And checking my twitter page. And arranging for a haircut before we leave for Germany. And checking my e-mail. And wondering how Kate survived the first communion party for her son. Undsoweiter, undsoweiter.
I suppose if I even had the hamburger document open and had written anything other than the sad excuse of a working title ("A Beautiful Thing", with apologies to Harvey's), I could claim that I was multi-tasking instead of avoiding doing the actual work. Let us pause for a moment while I do that...Oh, who are we kidding, I'm not multi-tasking, I'm procrastinating. And it's something I've done all my life, possibly my one true skill and biggest failing.
When I was a kid, starting around age 7, I had a paper route of sorts (it was the 70s, when kids were allowed to roam the neighbourhood free and unfettered), delivering flyers every weekend. I hated the job. HATED IT. The flyers were heavy and awkward to hold, the ink rubbed off on me, dogs chased me (it was the 70s, when dogs were allowed to roam the neighbourhood free and unfettered), and there were two homes on the route that housed teasing, mean teenagers. Oh, how I hated every minute of that stupid paper route.
The flyers were delivered on Thursday evening and had to be delivered by Sunday. Logic would dictate that, much like homework, the smart thing to do would have been to deliver the darned things on Friday and free up the rest of the weekend for other, more fun pursuits. But you know that's not what I did. You know what's coming. Yup, almost every weekend, I'd let the flyer bundles fester on the front porch, driving my mother crazy and provoking arguments wherein she told me to just DO IT for God's sake while I sulkily countered with "what difference does it make WHEN I deliver them?"
The die was cast early. I was one of those people who would leave everything to the last minute. This was how I was going to manage my life.
In school, procrastination was a kind of twisted badge of honour. For Grade 13 English Lit. (yes, Virginia, there used to be a Grade 13, t'was a wonderful thing, a kind of finishing year, and it meant that by the time you started university you were likely 19 and thus of legal drinking age), I wrote my major paper, longhand, the night before it was due. And got an A. From the toughest, most discerning English teacher at the school. This trend continued through university, my projects always feverishly completed within hours of the deadline. My undergraduate thesis paper, for goodness sake, possibly the most important document I had to produce in that four year period, was almost entirely written in a marathon 72 hour session right before I had to hand it in. And I got an A. From a notably tough professor.
Which was kind of the problem. I kept getting away with it. I kept getting good marks*, despite the fact that everything was written with an undercurrent of pure white-hot panic. I began to believe that I needed that white-hot panic in order to do my best work, that the only way I could REALLY do anything was under an inordinate amount of pressure. When I graduated, right into the mini-recession of the early 90s, I ended up working for Wal*Mart for two years as the Fabrics & Crafts department manager (Oh, God, I was so very bad at that job, my apologies to all my former employees and customers) and regularly screwed up inventory day for the entire store by leaving the pre-counting tasks to the very last minute, pulling (you guessed it) all-nighters to try and measure 50 million bolts of printed cotton, or count 75 bajillion individual silk flowers. When I eventually got out of retail and into the not-for-profit arts world, I regularly gave myself and my boss hypertension by leaving major grant applications to the last minute, staying at the office all night (trend?) to write my pithy arguments on why various arts councils should give us several thousand, or several hundred thousand, dollars in support.
In short, my bad habits have continued to work for me. But, recently I've realized something that I think I've known for years but conveniently managed to ignore -- that while these last minute efforts did earn me the marks, and have earned the organizations I've worked for the necessary funding, by leaving things to the last minute, I haven't left enough time to do my best work. It might have been good work, good enough to get an A or whatever the goal was, but it wasn't my best work. If I'm being completely honest, for most of my life I haven't been working to full potential (wait...that sounds familiar...must dig up grade school report cards at parent's house) and essentially have been getting away with nothing.
My goal, therefore, having shared this cosmic A Ha! moment with you, is to change my errant ways. My 39th birthday looms large on the horizon and life is too damned short to waste it with half-assed efforts. Meeting deadlines is important, but meeting deadlines with the best possible work is more important and that means Not Leaving Everything To The Last Minute. That means stepping down off the Elite Level Procrastinator podium and handing that crown and sceptre over to someone else (note to husband's niece: Not You) who's content with half-measures.
Thus endeth the lesson for this Saturday night. Time to write about the fine art of hamburger making, BEFORE the very last minute. Truly, a beautiful thing.
Kara
*I kept getting good marks on written work, I should clarify, not on other types of work. I started out in a fine arts program, believing that I had some sort of future as a visual artist. I was woefully out of my league in the studio courses from the minute I arrived on campus and lacked the self-confidence to persevere. In the case of my studio courses, waiting 'til the last minute to complete the assignments wasn't procrastination so much as outright defeat. Hence my decision to switch to Art History and English Lit partway through second year.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Adventures in Mechanical Engineering (or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Foundation Garment)
Last week, I bought a somewhat slinky dress to wear to an event * and as I struggled to pull on that marvel of mechanical engineering known as A Foundation Garment, I had to stop and laugh about the first time I was introduced to the modern girdle.
It was January 1999 and Kate was getting married the following month. My bridesmaid dress was an empire-waisted, A-line-skirted number and though I was in no way as gigantic as I later became, the frock was close-fitting enough around the middle to warrant some smoothing assistance. So my mother and I made a trip to the local department stores to find something that would hold all my bits in place.
As I was 28 at the time, my knowledge of Ladies Fittings was limited to cheap bras and cotton underpants. So I was shocked to see that the kind of full length, breasts to knees girdling contraptions that you sniggered about when you were a kid leafing through the Consumers Distributing catalogues still existed. And that they all seemed to be this hideously ugly beige colour. My heart sank at the thought of having to wear something so unbearably ugly, but while I was staring into space trying to figure out if I could just suck in my gut for the whole wedding, my mother found some black, heavily lycra-ed, modern versions for me to try on. Blessed be the Nancy Ganz bodyshaper! And off to the fitting room I went with a selection of styles and sizes to try.
The first piece, a body suit that snapped at the crotch, was very nearly the last. I remember stripping down to my underwear (which, in January, means 10 minutes of clothing and boot removal) and staring at this shriveled yet high-tensile black thing on the hanger. How the hell was I supposed to get this on?
I started with the logic that it looked like a bathing suit, so therefore I’d approach it as a bathing suit, and basically attempted to step into it. All was well until about halfway up, when the thing just refused to stretch large enough to accommodate my hips and butt. Sweating profusely, I shrugged it off and began again, this time pulling it over my head. This was much better – not easy, mind you, but still a lot better than the other route. I managed to get the thing on perfectly from the waist up, and then began the task of once again stretching it over my hips and butt so that I could connect the hooks & eyes together at the crotch.
Another ten minutes passed as I tried and failed and tried and failed to snap that thing together. Which, of course, I was doing essentially sight unseen because I wasn’t flexible enough to bend over and keep a glad eye on the proceedings. In yoga terms, I believe they would call the posture I had to adopt The Humiliated Woman – imagine a deep plié-squat, with one hand stretched around the bum to the nether region, holding the back flap of the recalcitrant garment, while the other hand is also footling around in the ladybits area, holding the front flap of said recalcitrant garment, both hands swiping at each other as they attempt to catch the hooks & eyes together.
Eventually, with much perseverance and perspiration, I got the damn body suit hooked up. Still slightly crouched, I mentally celebrated my victory. It was on! I’d gotten this thing on! I Was Strong! I Was Invincible! I WAS WOMAN-IN-FOUNDATION-GARMENT! I exhaled deeply, turned toward the mirror to assess the suitability of the garment, stood straight and threw my shoulders back.
Which was precisely the moment that the hooks & eyes at the crotch unsnapped and with a force comparable only to a broken cable on the Golden Gate Bridge, my foundation garment flipped, no, unfurled upwards with frighteningly high speed, tearing off one of my beloved silver hoop earrings and sending it flying into the next world, AND nearly taking my eye out.
A year later I took a job with an opera company and so had to dress up all the time. I became a bit of an expert on the foundation garment and owned several of different styles and tensile strengths for all my opera outfits, including a number of bodysuits. But I never found that damn silver hoop earring.
Kara
*you know what sucks about being gigantic and going on a strict diet and exercise regime? You lose a significant amount of weight and you want to celebrate with a new dress and you STILL have to shop in the big girl stores. But that’s what you get when your starting weight was in the baby elephant range.
UPDATE: Went to event in slinky new dress this evening. Spanx and strapless bra not option as resulted in unsightly tummy roll so had to bust out the full on breast to knees lycra space-suit (remember the black bustier/capri pants outfit Madonna wore in the dance sequences of her Papa Don't Preach video? Yeah, like that only the fat suit version). Donning said lycra space suit did not result in loss of jewelry or vision, but DID require husband's assistance. And you thought romance was dead.
It was January 1999 and Kate was getting married the following month. My bridesmaid dress was an empire-waisted, A-line-skirted number and though I was in no way as gigantic as I later became, the frock was close-fitting enough around the middle to warrant some smoothing assistance. So my mother and I made a trip to the local department stores to find something that would hold all my bits in place.
As I was 28 at the time, my knowledge of Ladies Fittings was limited to cheap bras and cotton underpants. So I was shocked to see that the kind of full length, breasts to knees girdling contraptions that you sniggered about when you were a kid leafing through the Consumers Distributing catalogues still existed. And that they all seemed to be this hideously ugly beige colour. My heart sank at the thought of having to wear something so unbearably ugly, but while I was staring into space trying to figure out if I could just suck in my gut for the whole wedding, my mother found some black, heavily lycra-ed, modern versions for me to try on. Blessed be the Nancy Ganz bodyshaper! And off to the fitting room I went with a selection of styles and sizes to try.
The first piece, a body suit that snapped at the crotch, was very nearly the last. I remember stripping down to my underwear (which, in January, means 10 minutes of clothing and boot removal) and staring at this shriveled yet high-tensile black thing on the hanger. How the hell was I supposed to get this on?
I started with the logic that it looked like a bathing suit, so therefore I’d approach it as a bathing suit, and basically attempted to step into it. All was well until about halfway up, when the thing just refused to stretch large enough to accommodate my hips and butt. Sweating profusely, I shrugged it off and began again, this time pulling it over my head. This was much better – not easy, mind you, but still a lot better than the other route. I managed to get the thing on perfectly from the waist up, and then began the task of once again stretching it over my hips and butt so that I could connect the hooks & eyes together at the crotch.
Another ten minutes passed as I tried and failed and tried and failed to snap that thing together. Which, of course, I was doing essentially sight unseen because I wasn’t flexible enough to bend over and keep a glad eye on the proceedings. In yoga terms, I believe they would call the posture I had to adopt The Humiliated Woman – imagine a deep plié-squat, with one hand stretched around the bum to the nether region, holding the back flap of the recalcitrant garment, while the other hand is also footling around in the ladybits area, holding the front flap of said recalcitrant garment, both hands swiping at each other as they attempt to catch the hooks & eyes together.
Eventually, with much perseverance and perspiration, I got the damn body suit hooked up. Still slightly crouched, I mentally celebrated my victory. It was on! I’d gotten this thing on! I Was Strong! I Was Invincible! I WAS WOMAN-IN-FOUNDATION-GARMENT! I exhaled deeply, turned toward the mirror to assess the suitability of the garment, stood straight and threw my shoulders back.
Which was precisely the moment that the hooks & eyes at the crotch unsnapped and with a force comparable only to a broken cable on the Golden Gate Bridge, my foundation garment flipped, no, unfurled upwards with frighteningly high speed, tearing off one of my beloved silver hoop earrings and sending it flying into the next world, AND nearly taking my eye out.
A year later I took a job with an opera company and so had to dress up all the time. I became a bit of an expert on the foundation garment and owned several of different styles and tensile strengths for all my opera outfits, including a number of bodysuits. But I never found that damn silver hoop earring.
Kara
*you know what sucks about being gigantic and going on a strict diet and exercise regime? You lose a significant amount of weight and you want to celebrate with a new dress and you STILL have to shop in the big girl stores. But that’s what you get when your starting weight was in the baby elephant range.
UPDATE: Went to event in slinky new dress this evening. Spanx and strapless bra not option as resulted in unsightly tummy roll so had to bust out the full on breast to knees lycra space-suit (remember the black bustier/capri pants outfit Madonna wore in the dance sequences of her Papa Don't Preach video? Yeah, like that only the fat suit version). Donning said lycra space suit did not result in loss of jewelry or vision, but DID require husband's assistance. And you thought romance was dead.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The thing about blogging is
that as soon as you create a public forum to sound off about nothing, you realize you have nothing to sound off about. Life is sweet and that's a damned lucky thing, but it I think this may be the Curse of the Blogiverse...
Kara
Kara
Travels With My Mother
So, the husband and I are off to Germany in a few weeks for a quick visit to Berlin, my parents’ native city and, quite frankly, where I might as well have been born as I’ve inherited far more krautedness than my siblings. Just ask my hairdresser how square my head is…
Now, I love travelling with my husband. LOVE IT. We both like city vacations. We both like visiting grocery stores and food markets when travelling, especially in the States (we were gleefully dumbfounded by the entire aisle of pudding at a Wegman’s once…seriously, an entire aisle of pudding cups. Who needs that much choice in pre-made pudding?). We both like museums and we both like to shop. We’re in agreement about eating cheap while travelling to afford at least one splurgey dinner at a fine restaurant. And finally, we know when to call it a day. One of the nicest moments of many on our honeymoon in California was when, at about 1:30 on our last day in San Francisco, we turned to each other and said, “I’ve had it. I can’t look at anything else. I need to flake out at the hotel.” It was so wonderful to me that I’d found someone who travelled at the same pace as I did and was willing to forgo squeezing every last moment of sightseeing out of a trip in favor of a little flake out time.
My mother, however, is not of this camp. My mother is the energizer bunny made human. My mother, who (along with my father) we’re meeting in Berlin for a week of international togetherness, does not know the meaning of “flake out time” while on vacation. In fact, I'd argue that the woman doesn't know the meaning of "flake out time" at all, being of the you-can-sleep-when-you're-dead school of thought.
I fear for my husband’s feet. And nerves.
The first time I travelled with my mother (whom I adore, don’t get me wrong, I truly cannot find a pedestal high enough for her), I was 14 and she took me to Germany for 6 weeks. I have many wonderful memories of that trip which took us from the top (Hamburg) to the bottom (Mittenwald) of the country, with a one day foray into Italy to see Venice. It was an amazing experience; the food was fabulous, hanging out at the “disco” with my older cousin was beyond fabulous (though cringeworthy to think of now), the access to European music magazines and 12 inch singles (it was 1984, this was important stuff!) was amazing, the architecture was spectacular. What wasn’t so great, though, was my mother’s unflagging energy for sightseeing. There I was, 30 years her junior and there was NO WAY I could keep up.
Naturally, even though at 14 I thought the world revolved around me, not every sight we saw was geared towards my interest. I’ve childishly never really gotten over the entire day wasted (in my view) at the bird zoo, or the afternoon spent rattling around in a horse drawn hay wagon over the Luneberger Heide. “Why are we doing this?,” I peevishly asked over the surprisingly loud clopping noise of the gigantic horse’s hooves. “It’s a special place,” mum replied, “It’s the only place in mainland Europe where they have Scottish heather.” Which was all fine and dandy except no 14 year old finds botany that interesting and it wasn’t the right time of year for the heather to be in bloom, so it just looked like a big, old, dumb field to picky, adolescent, whingey me.
The hardest were the train journeys. I don’t know about you but the rhythmic sway of a train car is an instant ticket to the Land of Nod as far as I’m concerned. I’d just about manage to get out of the station and into the countryside and then, like a light, I was out. Until my mother started poking me with her sharp little finger and hissing, “Wake up! You’re missing it. You’re MISSING EUROPE!” and I’d have to make the effort to open an eye and peer out at the landscape before falling asleep again. And God forbid my head should fall over on her shoulder as I snoozed – out came that sharp pokey finger, right in the ribs as again I was told to wake up or I’d miss Europe. As though it was going somewhere, I thought.
But really, taking a 14 year old anywhere for 6 solid weeks is an act of motherly love and devotion and believe me I was grateful for the experience. We’ve travelled together countless times since then, and truly, until my husband came along, my mother was my first choice companion on any trip. Not only have I come to appreciate her energy, but I’m also smart enough to appreciate her incredible planning capabilities. Not willing to waste time dithering, my mother likes to have a plan for each trip so that she can maximize every moment. Since we share a brain, I can trust that (bird zoos and heather fields aside), my mother has chosen good things for me to see and experience. She’s also an incredible navigator, taking the weight of route planning completely off the driver’s hands, which is nice (and she’s more fun than a GPS system too!). And finally, she travels on her stomach – no, NOT like a snake – and will plan your trip and route around the best eats she’s had on the road, always eager to share the out-of-the-way breakfast place or forgotten diner experience with you.
So, as I said, I do fear for my husband’s feet and nerves. He’s never had the full-on Christel International experience and it might be a little overwhelming. Luckily, my mother adores her son-in-law and is quite intent on making this a good trip for him, so she’ll likely tone it down. Also, as the only fluent German speaker among us (though she does speak in the Berliner slang of 1959, the last time she lived there, which is apparently hilarious to our relatives over there), she’s going to be quite tired herself as the sole translator of the group.
But I still won’t use the term “flake out time” around her, that’s for sure.
Kara
Now, I love travelling with my husband. LOVE IT. We both like city vacations. We both like visiting grocery stores and food markets when travelling, especially in the States (we were gleefully dumbfounded by the entire aisle of pudding at a Wegman’s once…seriously, an entire aisle of pudding cups. Who needs that much choice in pre-made pudding?). We both like museums and we both like to shop. We’re in agreement about eating cheap while travelling to afford at least one splurgey dinner at a fine restaurant. And finally, we know when to call it a day. One of the nicest moments of many on our honeymoon in California was when, at about 1:30 on our last day in San Francisco, we turned to each other and said, “I’ve had it. I can’t look at anything else. I need to flake out at the hotel.” It was so wonderful to me that I’d found someone who travelled at the same pace as I did and was willing to forgo squeezing every last moment of sightseeing out of a trip in favor of a little flake out time.
My mother, however, is not of this camp. My mother is the energizer bunny made human. My mother, who (along with my father) we’re meeting in Berlin for a week of international togetherness, does not know the meaning of “flake out time” while on vacation. In fact, I'd argue that the woman doesn't know the meaning of "flake out time" at all, being of the you-can-sleep-when-you're-dead school of thought.
I fear for my husband’s feet. And nerves.
The first time I travelled with my mother (whom I adore, don’t get me wrong, I truly cannot find a pedestal high enough for her), I was 14 and she took me to Germany for 6 weeks. I have many wonderful memories of that trip which took us from the top (Hamburg) to the bottom (Mittenwald) of the country, with a one day foray into Italy to see Venice. It was an amazing experience; the food was fabulous, hanging out at the “disco” with my older cousin was beyond fabulous (though cringeworthy to think of now), the access to European music magazines and 12 inch singles (it was 1984, this was important stuff!) was amazing, the architecture was spectacular. What wasn’t so great, though, was my mother’s unflagging energy for sightseeing. There I was, 30 years her junior and there was NO WAY I could keep up.
Naturally, even though at 14 I thought the world revolved around me, not every sight we saw was geared towards my interest. I’ve childishly never really gotten over the entire day wasted (in my view) at the bird zoo, or the afternoon spent rattling around in a horse drawn hay wagon over the Luneberger Heide. “Why are we doing this?,” I peevishly asked over the surprisingly loud clopping noise of the gigantic horse’s hooves. “It’s a special place,” mum replied, “It’s the only place in mainland Europe where they have Scottish heather.” Which was all fine and dandy except no 14 year old finds botany that interesting and it wasn’t the right time of year for the heather to be in bloom, so it just looked like a big, old, dumb field to picky, adolescent, whingey me.
The hardest were the train journeys. I don’t know about you but the rhythmic sway of a train car is an instant ticket to the Land of Nod as far as I’m concerned. I’d just about manage to get out of the station and into the countryside and then, like a light, I was out. Until my mother started poking me with her sharp little finger and hissing, “Wake up! You’re missing it. You’re MISSING EUROPE!” and I’d have to make the effort to open an eye and peer out at the landscape before falling asleep again. And God forbid my head should fall over on her shoulder as I snoozed – out came that sharp pokey finger, right in the ribs as again I was told to wake up or I’d miss Europe. As though it was going somewhere, I thought.
But really, taking a 14 year old anywhere for 6 solid weeks is an act of motherly love and devotion and believe me I was grateful for the experience. We’ve travelled together countless times since then, and truly, until my husband came along, my mother was my first choice companion on any trip. Not only have I come to appreciate her energy, but I’m also smart enough to appreciate her incredible planning capabilities. Not willing to waste time dithering, my mother likes to have a plan for each trip so that she can maximize every moment. Since we share a brain, I can trust that (bird zoos and heather fields aside), my mother has chosen good things for me to see and experience. She’s also an incredible navigator, taking the weight of route planning completely off the driver’s hands, which is nice (and she’s more fun than a GPS system too!). And finally, she travels on her stomach – no, NOT like a snake – and will plan your trip and route around the best eats she’s had on the road, always eager to share the out-of-the-way breakfast place or forgotten diner experience with you.
So, as I said, I do fear for my husband’s feet and nerves. He’s never had the full-on Christel International experience and it might be a little overwhelming. Luckily, my mother adores her son-in-law and is quite intent on making this a good trip for him, so she’ll likely tone it down. Also, as the only fluent German speaker among us (though she does speak in the Berliner slang of 1959, the last time she lived there, which is apparently hilarious to our relatives over there), she’s going to be quite tired herself as the sole translator of the group.
But I still won’t use the term “flake out time” around her, that’s for sure.
Kara
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