I’ve been on the Michael Phelps diet.  It was all anyone was talking about  during the Olympics… so I figured, “Hey, the old bod could use a boost, a jolt to the system and what the hey, I’m on holidays, after all.  Relaxed.  What better time to implement a new diet regimen?”  I mean, look at the guy… who wouldn’t want to have a body like Michael Phelps?  The female equivalent, of course.

And what better place to implement new diet plan than at the beach.  Rehoboth Beach, Delaware… home to Grotto’s Pizza.  And more Grotto’s Pizza.  Thrasher’s Fries.  Nicola’s nicobolis.  Wings To Go.  Chicken Ed’s.  And, well, more Grotto’s.  Oh, and The Fractured Prune… home-made, hand-dipped, fresh-to-order donuts!  Did I mention Rehoboth beach is home to Grotto’s Pizza?

Oh, yes.  I embraced this new diet with my heart and soul… all 12,000 calories a day of it.  Fast tracking to cut biceps, ripped abs and nothing but sinew for thighs.

And what do I have to show for two weeks of consumption a la Michael Phelps?  In short… Fattened.  Ass.

Upon further research, I see I overlooked the small fact that I must also simultaneously implement the 5-hour-a-day, six-day-a-week exercise regimen.  Shit…

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I just posted Wordless Wednesday…. But, of course, everyone knows, it is, in fact, decidedly NOT Wednesday.

I’ve been up since 4am when I bade mi Filipes goodbye and good luck on his, ‘A Mystery Weekend’. Certainly, his whereabouts are of relatively no mystery to me, but no one else- not mother, not brothers, not sister, not friends and neighbors- has been allowed any information regarding what he might be undertaking these next few days.

The mystery will undoubtedly confirm to those in our immediate neighborhood- none of whom really understand what this dude does all day, from his home, on the phone, in his underpants- that he is, indeed, employed by the either the CIA, MI6, or Al-Qaeda. Maybe even a fascinating combination thereof.

Anyhow, after dutifully linking to various Wordless Wednesday participants, it suddenly occurred to me….

It’s Thursday.

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Today is Canada Day. The Canadians July 4th equivalent, minus the monster fireworks, the apple pie, the jingo-ism and by and large, the historic significance.

But what we will have… is a Triathlon. Yes, a mere two weeks after the last, three events- swimming, cycling and running- in, today, an effort to earn our festive national celebration. Apparently trying to make up for our nation’s lack of any real defining historic moments such as, say, the signing of The Declaration of Independence. Ahhh…. proud to be Canadian.

Anyways, the difference between this event and the last, other than the festive national celebration to follow, is that this is The Inaugural. The Very First. And last but not least, after the swim. Entirely. Uphill.

After a lovely 650 metres in our lovely pool, we make our way, another 12 kms, by mountain bike and then by foot, up… up… up… to, and around, our local ski hill. Before we get the t-shirt. The burger. The beer.

The problem is this is the first time for this event in our area. Really, this should take the pressure off- reinforce the notion of just plain old wholesome, athletic FUN… but I find myself distracted, considering irrationally all of the possible worst case scenarios of this, a very first time event.

OK… so my fear is the biggest issue will be the lack of volunteers. After all, any event such as this is only as good as it’s team of generous and unpaid support! Which means, few, if any, water stations on the course. Also, too few playing a supporting role on the course to ensure all participants are alive and accounted for… and as I am fairly confident I will be one of the last out of the pool and most definitely will lag behind the pack on my shitty, old, kluged and bungee’d, mountain bike, therefore, assuming I have not taken the wrong turn at the fork in the pitifully unmarked trail, bringing me in last to start the run… where I will be parched- thanks to the lack of water stations on course… and I will, as the last participant on the trail, have the ironic misfortune of coming across an annoyed and hungry black bear and her cubs- bothered at having watched other meal opportunities sprint nimbly by- relieved to finally see an available, not to mention adequately fleshy, meal within easy swiping distance. Meanwhile, I have nothing left in the tank. Not to run. Not to climb. Not even to pee. And I will be dragged through the dense bush to my violent and bloody demise. While my family enjoys the music, hotdogs and beer garden.

As I lay here on my comfy couch despondent relaxing before the big event, the wiggly jiggly flesh butterflies are all I can feel of my stomach…. Despite telling myself repeatedly this is a FUN event, just finishing is the goal- times bedamned- I still have that nervous, nauseous tummy and I am wishing I had just never signed us up!

I just want to enjoy this holiday and the fun without the fucking strings! Bottom line at this point, committed and unable, no-unwilling- to back out… Yeah, I just want to finish, alright… ALIVE!

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I am so very exhaustedly pleased, as I lay here headachey and largely shattered on my comfy, cozy couch, to say yet another month is in the can. I know it’s a monthly. It’s all of six pages. But, by golly I swear it’s bloody well like giving birth every month. And, if you’ll indulge the birthing analogy just a little longer, this month was excruciating. I was prepared the day before ‘due date’. I had everything written, laid out, and all submissions in and placed… all but one. A blip on the heart rate monitor strapped around my heaving, bloated belly. So as I readied myself for the final push, the print to CutePDF…. I awaited eagerly, anxiously, the final contribution.

My last contributor, my one complication, in an otherwise uneventful, yet joyous, delivery. A fifty eight year old baby- I mean, man- with long, grey hair and a love for all things musical. He’s in a band. A percussionist- a genius on the maraccas; bloody brilliant on the tamborine. A middle aged master home builder who missed his calling in a for real rock ‘n roll band. He also has his finger on the pulse of all things musical in our area. With no wife and no kids, but for some young, groupie girlfriends, he is everywhere… and knows everybody. His life is one big ol’ party. He is my Music and Entertainment Reporter.

Granted, the job offers no compensation other than a case of beer and the honour and prestige of the title, Music and Entertainment Reporter. Understand that in our town, during the low season: quaint and charming, sort of Northern Exposure meets Deliverance. High season: Northern Exposure meets Deliverance meets Dallas- the Alberta oil money comes to town. So the title is one of great respect and admiration.

No, really.

I do appreciate that given there is limited compensation, expectations have to be managed. I must treat my talent with care, sensitivity and immense gratitude. Not to mention exuberant praise for the work they do… a case of beer only goes so far. Egos must be stroked, readily and consistently.

However…. when I say Wednesday. I. Mean. Wednesday. Even if your 58th birthday was Tuesday.

Thursday afternoon does not cut it. And “I’ll have it to you in 20 minutes” NEVER means four hours.

So, the music column for July has been replaced by a last minute sad-ass review of The Other Boleyn Girl. Music Man’s submission did finally arrive. Too late. I had pressed SEND an hour before. I haven’t been this angry at a man other than Husband in quite some time.

In this case, as with my children, I exercise consistency: You don’t play by the rules, you don’t play. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Take your commitments seriously and show your friends and colleagues respect. And please, we’re all busy adults here, if for whatever reason you can’t do somethin, let me know and then I can plan accordingly. Just don’t leave me hangin’!

Music man will not know he missed the boat until he picks up the issue at newsstand on the weekend to read it. He will call me. Angry. Dejected. Hard done by. Unappreciated.

And I will say, “Tough Tittie, Music Man. A woman in labour is not to be toyed with.”

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As of this day, I am a woman in my thirties for only six more months.  Or in a brief six months, I merely resign myself to being perpetually 39.

Nooooo….

So, in contemplating 40 relentlessly bearing down just around the corner, I ask myself, “How do I want to leave this decade?  And how do I want to enter the next?”

I’ve heard women in their forties exclaim enthusiastically, “40’s are theeeee BEST!”

Hmmmmm…. OK.  Groovy.  I can get behind that.  For sure.

But really, what do I want?

The short list:

• to be self-sufficient: in impending months as Filipes leaves present employment, I want to know- and actually prove that- I can support this family pursuing those things I find meaningful and fulfilling.
• to help to establish this family as geographically independent.
• to engage the world- my world- with confidence and self-assurance.
• to KNOW and EXPRESS gratitude… perpetually and profoundly.
• to just plain GO WITH IT!  SURRENDER!  It all works out as it should….

Short list, as I said.  I’ve got six months to make revisions…  I didn’t say anything about consistency.

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I am not an understanding wife.  I know this. I probably wouldn’t want to be married to me.

My capacity for compassion and empathy for a sick Filipes is pretty limited.  In fact, as I see him laying all day on my new, expensive, comfy couch… I get really frustrated.  I must leave the room.  Fold laundry.  Clean kitchen.  Whatever.  Just don’t look over at the couch.

If he’s not on the couch he’s slouching around the house.  Grumbly.  Largely useless to us. But, trying to remember the man isn’t feeling well, I tell myself “Ease up on the guy.  He’s sick for cryin’ out loud.  Be a good, understanding wife for a change.”

And then. He.  Goes.  Golfing.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

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To those of you in the northeast: Stop you’re friggin’ griping about the weather. So, it’s hot- a heat wave, even- what do you expect? It’s summer for crying out loud!!

Try a lovely June day that probably won’t crack 15 degrees celsius (or 60 degrees fahrenheit for those of you not familiar with centigrade)!!! It’s summer for crying out loud!!!

In honour of my new blog design, and all things light, bright and shiny, I shan’t rail, yet again, against the embittered old bag- yes, that would be you, Mother Nature- relentlessly nurturing this grudge with all you have….

Appeal to embittered old bag: the triathlon is this weekend. That means a 750metre swim in cold, mountain lake. 20km bike. Outdoors. 5km run. Outdoors.

Please find it in your heart to provide appropriate weather for such an event…. And unless you’re not sure: 20 degrees celcius or above.

Oh, and maybe take a break on the wind machine. You must need a break and certainly, we’ve about had enough.

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Oh, my word. The poo!

You know, it wasn’t too long ago, I was saying that several times a day, as I manoeuvred yet another nasty diaper from a child’s tender pink behind…. But, alas, those days are past (unless something interesting happens over these next few months, of course…. Ack! What am I saying?) Ahem- those days are past- and I welcome them given this most recent alternative.

No, this poo is of another species. Cow, to be exact. And it is covering my yard. Filipes requested of kindly neighbor farmer friend to bring us over a load of cow poop. Now, hubby and I, not being of the farming ilk, should have clarified the term load.

Well, anyhoo… now we have so much shit in our yard we’ll be digging out all week. Spreading it everywhere…. After attempting to roto-till the manure in with the original soil of our garden it didn’t take long to see that Filipes was merely roto-tilling poop in with… more poop.

So now we move poop.

Upon reflection: should have just picked up a half dozen bags (for about $1.99 each!!). Rather, it cost us $40 bucks in beer and more days than I care to count, calf deep in shit!

Not to mention the next five years spent trying to pluck my shit covered gardens of chick weed/pig weed/alfalfa/whatever-else-weed flourishes in bovine solid waste.

Next time I’m nagging, “When are ya gonna get Billy to bring over a load of manure?”, somebody just shoot me.

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June has come to the valley like a friggin’ dream! The weather is outstanding and any beefs I had with Dear Mother… well, March/April/May were a total bitch… but after these past several days, I’m willing to consider a truce.

The garden is getting done. We moved the last of the new load of soil yesterday. And, as a final step before planting our livelihood, we get a load of manure from neighbor farmer friend. The stuff makes the worst in weeds… weeds to scare young children and the elderly… runners like ropes extending to bloody well strangle the core of the earth… the stuff of nightmares. But the shit comes free. Kids and elderly will just have to suck it up and squeeze eyes shut as they yank.

After last weekends trip to The Island and Seattle and the pukiness that accompanied, it seems to have resurfaced with Zip. Mid-movie last night, complaining of feeling like he had to puke, Zip did just that. Little trooper had the uncharacteristic presence of mind of newly minted six year old and ran to the loo. Over and over. And it wasn’t until the last- and most dramatic- spew that he began to complain and cry a little.

Went to bed with big bowl… empty this morning. Thank God/Jehovah/Oprah/Rob Zombie….

I cannot handle the vomit. No way. It. Makes Me… Vomit. I could handle the baby puke. The spit up. White, clotted, sour smelling, sure. But not bile, chunky, of chicken bits and regurgitated Caesar salad. This is job of mi Filipes. He does puke well. He handles that of the bodily with cool aplomb.

So, mummy is very happy this morning not to be faced with bowl of bile, chicken bits and Caesar salad… revisited.

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Oh my…. Honestly, if it had been my choice I’d have kept my freshly run fanny right here on my cushy, cozy sofa. Watching Oprah and the lovely, inspiring Tina Turner and the caricature of her former self, the entirely manufactured, Cher.

In fact, I even called to make sure that, in fact, it was still going on, given the butt load of rain we endured, wrapped tightly most of the afternoon in down blanket on comfy, cozy sofa, peeking pathetically out the window welcomed today. Hoping secretly, the lazy, self-involved, wanting to stay very solidly put concerned, conscientious mother that I am, in fact, that it wasn’t. You know, catching cold and all…
“Oh, it’s not raining now. And, like, there’s no wind. So, we’re on.” She said in her perky, oh so very eager, aging valley girl sort of way.

“Hmmm-mmm. Grrrreee-aaat….”

So we arrived. Zip, was of course, excited. It wasn’t raining, after all.

For the first. five. fucking. minutes.

The kids didn’t care. The coaches: Oh so active. Oh so eager. Oh so friggin’ enthusiastic. And dressed for rain, of course. Parents: not so much. After all… there was no rain.
With the rest of the miserable lot… I sat. I saw. I got soaked. And cold. I looked up. Fresh snow in the mountains.

Oh how I miss the warm, Virginia spring rains. These bitter cold, sleet-slash-rains of Canadian Rockies spring time.

Truly. Suck.

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