I’ve had the same cell number for about 3 years now.

Sidebar: My hubby surprised me with a cell on Mother’s Day, years ago, by stashing the phone in my car and then calling me when I was driving home…. before the new laws of course… I was frustrated at first, because I could hear the ringing, and could not for the life of me figure what the hell was going on. When I finally did find the phone, I thought someone had randomly threw a found phone in my car that day. Yep. Sometimes, I am reeeeeaaaaaally slow on the uptake.

Well, anyway, I finally had a phone and immediately questioned my ability to live without it for the previous 36 years of my life…

However. Someone named Denise began to haunt me.

I got many, many calls for Denise. At first I was sweet and nice in my response. “Oh, no. Sorry, this isn’t Denise’s number anymore…”

Then, after a few months of extraordinarily annoying messages from Blockbuster regarding late fees for that bitch Denise, and other folks asking me if I knew what number she had now, I changed my voice mail message to explicitly reveal that I was not Denise, and NO I did NOT know how to get a hold of her….

I began to intensely dislike Denise. Return your goddamn movies Denise. Tell people you’ve changed your f*cking number, Denise. Jeebus, Denise, I swear, if I ever find you, I WILL KICK YOUR ASS!!!!

Then the calls stopped. Yay! I was released from the torture of saying “No, this isn’t Denise” to random people.

But then, on Thursday, I got another call from a restricted number, whom I thought was my Dad. My months, nay YEARS of Denise-free torture was gone, just like that.

Me: “Hey!”

Caller: “Hi, is this Denise”?

Me: (Fingers slowly clutching the phone in anger) “No. This hasn’t been Denise’s number for about three years now.”

Caller: “Oh. Well. Can you tell me how to get a hold of her, then?”

I slowly expelled a snort through my flared nostrils…… and realized that I was about to tell this kind and somewhat oblivious woman exactly how I felt about Denise….

Me: “Now how do you think I would EVER know that? This is a random number given to me by the phone company. I do NOT know Denise, I have NO idea where she lives, I don’t know who she is…”

Me, thinking in my brain: “Hey, wow! You didn’t even use a the old F-bomb. Good for you Kris!”

Silence.

Caller: “Well, I’m sorry to bother you.”

Me: “That’s what they all say.”

Click.

Seriously, Denise. If there is ever a time that we meet, I just might have to explain why I don’t like you very much.

The love of the original trilogy of Star Wars has descended upon both my kids, primarily my son.

So, we finally got to rent Return Of The Jedi last weekend, and had a fantastic time watching it.

At the end of the movie, everyone is celebrating the destruction of the Empire and the deaths of the Emporer and Darth Vader (whoops, SPOILER ALERT!!!!) and the scene comes on where the Ewoks and everyone else are partying it up on the forest moon of Endor. (Yeah, I AM a geek!!!)

So there’s all the characters dancing away and my daughter looks over at me and deadpans:

“Look Mom, C-3P0 is doing The Robot….”

I tell yah, I could NOT laugh hard enough……

My son just turned 11 last week. To celebrate, he invited a few of his buddies over for a sleepover extravaganza. Copious amounts of pizza and pop were consumed, to which the hilarious side-effect of rocketing belches and hysterical laughter issued forth, to every one’s delight.  Then they all headed upstairs to blast some music and, I suspect, to fart as much as they possibly could. Honestly, I was afraid someone was going to poop their pants in their efforts to squeeze out a stinky one.

I let them have their fun without any interference from me. After all, they’re boys…. And I wanted the kids to have a blast.

After the impromptu rave in Nick’s room, they all trooped downstairs to settle in to watch Star Trek. (Which was AWESOME!!)

In the middle of all this was my daughter. She was supposed to be at my sister’s place for a sleepover so she didn’t have to be around all the boys, but circumstances prevented this and she was stuck in the middle of a roiling pack of 10 and 11 year old Fart Champions. She stayed out of their way most of the time, but was included in the general festivities of supper and the movie.

She trucked into the living room after the boys settled in. And there she was, in shorty shorts and a black tank top.

I raised my eyebrow and asked her why she had changed.

She flipped her hair back and said “I was hot, Mommy.”

Her apparel (or lack thereof) was immediately noticed by one boy in particular. I never caught his opinion that he voiced about her clothing choice, but it was obviously heard by everyone else, since almost immediately, this boy and my daughter’s love for each other and upcoming nuptials were discussed with many a snicker and snort.

She pretended to get mad, and so did the boy, but I recall enough about my own childhood to recognize that indeed, somewhere deep down, this pleased both of them.

Now, on one hand I was mortified that my 8… 8!!!!!! year old daughter took it upon herself to flaunt her body in front of a pack of boys. (And don’t worry, we’ve had a little chat about that very thing…)

On the other hand, I realized she is more like me than just her blond hair and fiery temper. I was looking into a mirror.

And mirrors don’t lie.

Well, it was a year ago that I decided to put forth some of the random ideas and thoughts that swirl around my gray matter….

I covered a variety of topics, from kinky cross-dressing sexual habits , my love of yoga , killing wee fuzzy critters and waxing my lady-bits with disastrous, yet hilarious results.

Good times, gang… Good freakin’ times.

I have always enjoyed writing. Enough that, as a youngster, I had lofty dreams of best-selling novels and free-lanced articles with prestigious magazines. Dreams of life lived in exotic locales and no kids. *Sigh* Life though, well, life happened and much to my surprise it veered me in an entirely different direction. And truly, I have very little regret. I can’t lie and say no regrets, though. As humans we are blessed with hindsight and self-realization. I do NOT regret my children or the man I married. I do have a teeny bit of regret for the adventures I never had, the foreign lovers in a mysterious country whom I never kissed, the courage I would have needed in the face of chance and challenges in a different life.

Well, now, if I had gone down that alternate path, then I wouldn’t have been able to blog about my love affair with my lake, nor the wise-cracking of my children or the deep love that I have for my friends who surround me with strength and laughter in my life.

I do dream of one day being published. That dream is not in my hindsight. And I have a fantastic, wonderful and very blessed life that I never want to take for granted. I seek to live in the moment as much as I can, to live simply, to live truthfully.

And Goddess knows, my general idiocy and propensity for mishaps only gives me more reason to blog.

I love wine. I love love love wine. I am a white wine kind of girl. My favorites are Rieslings, Gewurztraminers, Pinot Gris, and Sauvignon Blancs. I don’t really like the oaky buttery chardonnays too much. I love the fact there is a vibrant and wonderful wine industry here in my home province of British Columbia. There are multitudes of fantastic wines ranging in price from $10 a bottle to extremely HOLY CRAP that’s a down-payment-on-a-car-expensive per bottle.

I have been in the habit of having a glass pretty much every day for the last several years. Sometimes two, I must admit. I cook with a glass of wine by me, it is a ritual and a habit and something I anticipate every day. I generally never have wine after dinner, unless I am going out with friends or it’s a Saturday night movie at home kind of thing.

But.

I started to consider the slippery slope of drinking. It sure can sneak up on you if you’re not paying attention. And there are so many factors in considering the idea of stopping drinking or at least cutting back on the drinking. First and foremost, the weight gain is a biggie with me. I am in fairly good shape, as I eat right, and run and do yoga, so it’s seems sort of ironic to be pouring needless calories down my throat when I am trying to stay fit. Secondly, the cost. I don’t work anymore, so we are a one-income family…. Spending 10-15 dollars on a bottle of wine every two or three days is a bit ridiculous, considering that we are on a tight budget these days. Another reason is that quite frankly, I am kind of an asshole when I drink too much.

Last, the idea that I may need it instead of merely wanting it. That frightened me deeply.

So I stopped drinking on January 1st. Partly due to the over-imbibing of the holidays, and also to see if I could without any serious issues.

I found out a few things.

I found out that yes, I can stop and it isn’t a big deal. Whew. No DT’s, no shakes, no sweats, no obvious signs of withdrawal. Sometimes, around 4 in the afternoon, I discovered that I kind of craved it, and then I would just carry on with my shiz and it would pass. YAY!! That craving I think is more to do with the ritual of it than anything else. A cup of green tea helps quite a bit.

And I also found out that my balance in my bank account hasn’t changed drastically in the last couple of weeks.

I’ve lost weight. Without trying. Just a couple pounds, maybe more like water retention. But still, a lovely and selfish reward for given up the nectar of the gods…..

My cleanse of no alcohol and no sugar (except for that yummy dessert my Mom made the other night, damn you Mom!!!) will end at the end of the month. I plan to take stock, see how I feel, and where I would like it to lead me.

I do intend on staying in the healthy track. I feel really good, physically and emotionally, right now. From now on,  I will only have wine on the weekends instead of every day. Unless of course, I have the raging PMS-itis and my kids are driving me and the cat barfed on the floor again and there’s 17 loads of laundry to do…. THEN we’ll see…..

Today is the last day of 2009. Back in my childhood, the thought of the year 2010 conjured up for me visions of cars that could fly and robots that did housework.  In retrospect, apparently The Jetsons had a lot of influence over me.

So. Like many people, as the new year dawns, I think about what I can change about myself. I deeply believe in becoming a better person in my own spirit and have gone through many mind-opening revelations about my own true self in the past several years. It is always an uphill climb. But so worth it. I think I have become more aware, more empathetic, more kind, more loving, more open.

However. I still curse like a motherf*cking, drunken-*ss, sh*t-kicking redneck.

It was easier to quit smoking than to quit cursing. Really.

See, when you smash your finger in a drawer, or drop a full plate of food on your clean floor, or discover you shrunk your new sweater in the wash, nothing… and I mean nothing sums that feeling up better than a good ol’ fashioned expletion of “MOTHERFUCK!!!!!!” Sometimes, I throw in a “Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ” or perhaps a PG 13 “Goddamnit”. Smatterings of “Shit” and “Cock knocker” are like a pressure release valves on my temper. I have even been known to use the dreaded C word.

For a while there, I tried using the phrase “For five cents” to alleviate any frustrations I had. Soon, like a junkie, that was no longer good enough for me, and I doctored it to be “For five fucking cents”. Much like the saying “Shut the front door!” to offset the overuse of swearing became “Shut the front fucking door!”, which, in my opinion has such an exquisite roll off the tongue.

I have sworn in front of my children. More than once.

I am making small baby-step gains in this though. Last week, I did something stupid that normally would merit an extravagant torrent of cussing. Instead I let forth a “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDGE” at the top of my lungs. My daughter later told me she was proud that I didn’t say the F word. Truthfully, saying fudge just doesn’t feel the same…. But as I look closely at my self, I know that this terrible and horrible habit of mine needs to be fixed.

So, 2010 is the year I try to not swear. Or not swear as much. And especially not swear in front of my kids anymore.

Wish me luck, for fuck’s sake.

Tuesday morning, I was in the midst of making gingerbread men (and women… Equal opportunity baker right here…) when I got a phone call.

It was a fellow that lives up and around the corner from my place.

Turns out this guy likes to collect all the stray cats in our neighborhood. And for the last 8 months, he has had a female tortoiseshell cat living in his shed. I guess he assumed that she didn’t belong to anyone, and was content to let her live there until his other cat decided she hated this new cat’s guts and they would fight constantly. So, he called in to the SPCA and got them to track the tattoo in her ear. They gave him our number.

This cat was my daughter’s kitty, which she got for her 6th birthday… Named Bamboo by the SPCA, we kept her name and brought her home to live with us. My daughter adored this cat. In April of this year, she went missing. After looking high and low for her, we came to the sad conclusion that she had probably died… There are many coyotes here, which, sadly, many cats have succumbed to….

(Humble confession: I wasn’t that sad…. I was, quite frankly, tired of cat turds in my garden and dead birdies on my porch…)

Months went by, and Elisabeth grieved for her baby and was recently starting to speak of her cat in affectionate terms, remembering her antics and sweetness in a healed sort of way.

But lo and behold, we were the subjects of a mini-miracle of sorts.

The neighbor brought Bamboo back to my place and she was instantly at home.

When the kids got home from school that afternoon, I made them sit on the couch and close their eyes. I had Bamboo in my arms when I told them to open their eyes to see the surprise.

Their reactions? Still making me cry…. They both shrieked and jumped up, hysterical, much to the cat’s dismay… And then, my daughter picked her kitty up, hugged her close and in a tear-filled voice said “Oh, Bamboo… I love you so much…” Her smile lit up her face as she snuggled that cat.

That right there? Well, that made me the happiest Mommy in the world.

I dumped the contents of my purse all over the counter the other day, to clean out the random crap that accumulates in it. Amongst said crap was my favorite purse item in the whole world.

Listerine Pocket Mist, in orange flavour.

Oh yeeeeaaaahhhh. I love how that nasty shit zings on my tongue and makes my nostrils tingly. It’s my secret addiction. It’s my fresh-breath crack if you will.

My daughter watched me take a hit of it and asked if she could have some too. I warned her it was pretty strong stuff, apt to make her mouth burn a little. But hey, I love to watch my kids torture themselves every once in a while, so I passed it to her, warning her explicitly to NOT SPRAY IT IN YOUR EYES…. BECAUSE THAT STUFF WILL REALLY STING.

She aimed it for her mouth and nothing happened. She tried a few times, pushing the button to no avail.

I wondered aloud if it was all gone, so I took it and shook it and then, staring directly at the nozzle, sprayed it right in my eyes.

Yep. That stuff really does sting the eyes.

I’m on the cusp of 39…. I have 4 more months to go before that last golden year of my thirties. You know, before I kick 40’s ass and show everyone how it’s done.

I’m truly not afraid of getting older. In fact, it’s a treat and a treasure to have the privilege of experiencing it. I do hope I get to hit at least 90…. And when I do, I’m letting my inner Crazy Old Lady out to play. Of which I mean saying hugely inappropriate things,  smacking hooligans with my cane and wearing the most outrageous clothes I can find. My kids will shudder but my grandkids will say Nana is such a HOOT!!!! Oh, and I think I will take up smoking again when I turn 90. Yep, a cussin’, wizened, wrinkly, wise-assed old bat with a smoke hanging out of my mouth. Yeah. That’s my goal.

But as I am still nestled in the 30’s, I am consistently horrified and amazed at the subtle things my body is doing while entering this stage of my life. I can no longer focus up close, therefore rendering the task of shaving my armpits a guessing game at best.  I have the beginnings of a wattle. (Really, I sort of gagged when I typed that.) My eyes have decided to become a bit crepey around the edges. And apparently my love of purses has been taken literally by my face, as I am starting to show bags under my eyes.

But the worst and most surprising of all isn’t the wrinkly bits on my face, nor the couple of “liver spots” I have on the backs of my hands. It isn’t even the grooves on either side of my nose that seem to deepen every time I look in the mirror.

No. It’s the wrinkles above my kneecaps.

I wonder why my kneecaps have wrinkles? Is there a knee cream I should buy? Oil of O’Knee? This is a cruel joke, I think. I do my best to stay in shape. I eat right (most of the time),  I practice yoga, I meditate, I run, I bike.

I totally get that my face will show my age. But I was completely blown out of the water when I realized that the rest of my body will too…. Yes, ladies. Wrinkles do not stop at the neckline. Like that stupid energizer bunny, they keep going and going and going….

The only thing that allows me some reassurance in this whole getting old business is one thing.

If I have to get old, then I’m taking all you bitchez with me. And we will be in this together.

So, last night, I managed to squeeze in a quick half hour practice. I have been home with a sick little girl the past 3 days, and haven’t been able to run or do much of anything really. Feeling stagnant and flabby, I took to  my mat and did a strong heated practice chock-full of 2 minute downward dogs and loads of sun salutations.

In the midst of blissing out in downward dog, my mind wandered. I had put my iPod on shuffle and an oldie but a goodie tune came on and took me back. Waaaay back. Twas Duran Duran’s Save a Prayer (Techno Re-Mix. Don’t judge me.)

Oh, how I loved Duran Duran when I was 14. About 60+ posters with their eyelined faces clogged my walls. (In retrospect, I do believe they were the first Emo band, but more about the blush and eyeshadow and less about the angst.)

I was a nerdy kid. Big glasses, braces, very few friends. So I devoted my energy to music. Mostly the aforementioned “band”, but with a dash of U2 (when they were actually good… ZING!), some Cure, a little bit of Madonna (ugh…) and a smattering of other pop sensations from the mid 80’s. I loooooved my music. My old gray ghetto blaster (snort) would blast out Duran Duran every day while I lounged on my bed pretending to study. Meanwhile, fantasies of me becoming Mrs. Nick Rhodes (gak!)whirled around my (obviously crazy) teenaged mind. How I mourned when he got married, yet I stayed true to my love, and had his wedding picture on my wall too.

As I morphed from that dorky 14/15 year old into a more darker 16/17 year old, my music tastes changed in a drastic way, and I discovered the power and rawness of heavy metal. Now, yes, Hair Bands played a huge part of my repertoire, but I also deeply enjoyed Metallica, AC/DC, and of course, my favorite of the late 80’s, Guns N’ Roses. To this day, I play them a lot on my iPod. It’s fun shit to run to, that’s for sure.

I recall that old “me” with tenderness and an affinity of tolerance, I suppose. She was a weird kid, but a sweet one too. Her sense of humour is still within me, her love of music too. But thankfully, those glasses are long gone…..

 

Of course, I need to prove it about the Duran Duran posters…. The only pic I could find is one of my dearest life-long friends. I love yah L!!!!!

There you have it. Proof that yes, indeed, I was a dork of epic proportions.