Tasteless

Today, I was working with three docs whom I do not know very well. Two are older men, the third is a young (younger than me, I'd guess) woman. They are all gynecologists. The woman is very nice, has quite a considerate, concerned bedside manner. You can tell she works hard for her patients. Down-to-earth, approachable, reasonable (for a doctor). She speaks softly and with an earnest tone. She is also very pretty, tall, with a very nice figure. She dresses professionally, if maybe the slightest bit behind high fashion. Conservatively. She wears no wedding ring, but I know little else of her personal life. Except what kind of underwear she wears.

Today she came to clinic dressed quite respectably in tweedy pants and a short-sleeved shirt. Everything fit well, she looked nice. Then she sat down at a computer. She is the type who leans forward with her elbows on her knees when she is speaking to someone. It is probably a mannerism which contributes significantly to her likability. In any case, when she leaned forward, her shirt rode up and exposed a strip of skin at the small of her back, which was decorated with a lovely, lacy, black thong.

Now, I never pegged her for a thong type. She has spent her life living down a fluffy name, which may or may not have contributed to her choice of profession and the apparently young age at which she achieved her current status. But this was definitely thong - I could see the source of the lace. It was neither modest nor conservative. In fact, it was so skimpy (or maybe her pants were) that you could see skin below the panties.

Now, I don't know if she realized how exposed she was; as I said, she never seemed the exhibitionist type. And considering her taste in clothing is just a tiny bit off-fashion, I must say I would be surprised to find that she'd planned it that way. But how could you not know? And how could you take yourself seriously if you knew your underwear was out in the world for all to see? I mean, we're mortified when we discover our fly down; how is this different?

I'm all for having some fun with clothes, and I confess to owning some funky underwear. But there are few, if any, people in the world who get to see it. When I wear it, it's my little secret, and none of anyone's damn business. There is a reason that they are referred to as "unmentionables". Visible underwear is distracting, especially in the workplace, and, at least for me, not in a good way. Maybe if I was of a different gender or persuasion, I would think otherwise. But tell me, honestly, would you get anything productive done?

I offer a message to the perpetrators of the fashion crime now being called the Whale Tail. Come on, people. It's gross. I don't really want to know what you wear down there, and I certainly don't want the general public to see what I wear (mostly because the cute stuff is so uncomfortable that I wear the old-lady stuff - there, now you know). It's tacky. It's tasteless. I mean, what's the point? It's so trampy...Oh, wait... I just figured out the point... I'm so square.

Good night.

Winter

It has been a weekend of winter activities, in many of which I engaged for the first time, in, ironically, the first days of this winter's coldest spell. So far this winter, we had had unseasonably warm weather, often hovering around freezing, but this weekend the mercury started to dip and we hit -15C or so yesterday, with a nasty wind. This is more the norm for this time of year. Thank goodness for global warming.

Saturday was hockey for Jack, and to pass the time, Aimee and I skated. This is significant because my skates are brand new and the first I've had on in at least 15 years. She, literally, skated circles around me. I was fully prepared to spend the evening in Emergency with my subdural hematoma, but I managed to keep my feet and even got going a fast enough to overcome the -25C wind chill on the northward part of the track. Then, when our feet were sore and tingly with cold, we put our boots back on and hit the toboggan run. This community centre has a fabulous run, formed by a wooden structure down which the rider is launched, followed by a curve and a second hill, all iced and enclosed in a tunnel of black plastic, with a well-placed landing pad at the end to keep you from going miles and miles. The trouble is waiting in line at the top of the structure, in the wind, for your turn.

After hockey and a bowl of steaming hot homemade soup (thank you Trevor), a whole bunch of the family went to a pro hockey game at the big arena. Not NHL, but our consolation. It was fun. I did more people watching than hockey watching, but it meant I was able to answer Jack's incessant questions ("Mommy, what if every single number had '7' in it?") without begrudging him his curiosity. The home team won, so we got to do lots of cheering, and the kids behaved impeccably, especially considering we didn't get home until 10:30.

Today, we all slept in, on orders from the parents, until at least 8:00, in preparation for a new activity, downhill skiing. Neither Trevor nor I had been on skis in many years, and the kids never had. We had booked a Family Fun Day, with a group lesson and equipment rentals, but when we woke up, the temperature was -31C with a wind chill of -41C. I convinced Trevor to go anyway, and we bundled up and headed out. Downhill skiing is not much to speak of when you live on the prairies, but we found the bump and got our equipment. An instructor took us out and we started at the bottom of the bunny hill. Aimee did not enjoy herself much during the lesson, when the instructor kept telling her to snowplough. Her skis kept crossing and she kept falling. As soon as he left, she asked, "Can I just go fast now?" and started zipping down the hill like a tiny pink blur. Once she mastered the tow rope (long before I did), she was off and running. On one run down the steeper part of the bunny hill, I was going along nice and slow, all cautious and terrified, and she whizzed past me at full tilt. Hmmm... I thought, guess I could go faster.

Jack loved it too. He learned very quickly to curve and stop right at the back of the line for the tow rope. No fuss, no muss, no struggling along to the line-up. The goal is to get him going up the tow rope on his own next time; Trevor had to haul him along every time, because I was as likely to fall as to make it to the top (unlike Aimee).

So despite -17C with a horrid windchill, we stayed 3+ hours and are planning a return trip next week. The hill is small, and the runs short (like a few seconds long, less for Aimee-Kneivel), so Trevor started looking on the internet for family ski vacations close-ish to home at hills with minutes-long runs, that we could do on a vacation. The kids are up for it, for sure. I'm topping up my disability insurance.

I must say it's a little humbling to watch my children pick up a skill far faster than I can. I would say we started the day with the same skill level, and ended it with them, quite frankly, measurably ahead of me. I wonder if it is their fearlessness, borne of lack of experience, or my cautiousness, borne of too much experience. It may be too late for me to become an alpine master. I wonder about all the things that it's too late for me to do. I wonder how many things I will never experience because I closed doors with the choices I made. I hope I am giving my kids the opportunities that will allow them to have experiences that I never did or will. How else would they discover natural talent or aptitude? Hey, I could have been a world class ski jumper, but I never bothered to try it out. I want them to try everything so they know what they like. I will work pretty hard to provide that kind of environment for them to grow up in.

Overall, this was a great winter weekend. We had a lot of outdoor fun, some new experiences, and made some plans as a result. Winter is very, very long around here, so if you can't beat it, you've just got to join it. Of course for the cost of a very few lift tickets, at least one of us could spend a week at a resort in Mexico, but that would mean a high-stakes game of Rock-Paper-Scissors to choose who gets to go, and a whole lot of cabin fever saving up for it. I think I might just pick these home=grown pastimes, even though I am the world's only living icicle (just ask Trevor).

And now, I am vaccilating between another glass of wine, and a couple of pre-emptive Advils to ward off the ramifications of my weekend of new activities. Maybe I'd better have both.

Purchase

We bought a new bed. It was one of those things that we absolutely needed, but that neither of us actually wanted to cough up the cash for. It was all I could do to get Trevor to accompany me to a bed store, even though he was complaining loudest about a sore back.

The bed which so desperately needed to be replaced, I have had since I was about twenty years old. It has been through the wars, practically. Ten years ago we bought one of those idiosyncratic old houses that has had renovation upon renovation. The bed, even though it was only a queen size, was too big, by millimetres, to fit up the stairs. We had to saw the boxspring down the middle and fold it to make it fit. For a long time we slept with it flat on the floor for support, but when we moved into the current house, it seemed like it was time for proper, grown-up furniture, including a headboard. So we screwed a piece of plywood to the bottom of the boxspring so we could sleep without sinking into a giant void in the middle. It has served us well for a few more years, but lately, both of us have been waking up with inexplicable aches and pains, which I, for one, refuse to attribute to aging.

So we went bed shopping. We had an entertaining salesman, who gave us the facts and answered our questions and steadfastly refused to make lewd bed jokes, despite the plethora of obvious material at his fingertips. He was amused when Trevor continuallly deferred to me on the finer points of bed preference. The salesman, Randy I think his name was, kept saying, "You are a smart man - a happy wife is a happy life". I liked him. He was a wise man. I encouraged Trevor to take note.

So we eventually chose a space foam bed, guaranteed to solve all my sleep problems, which will, in due course, solve all my problems. They promised to deliver it Monday and take away the old one. They say they donate the old ones to charity. They also promise that we can exchange it within 60 days if we don't love it. Ewww, is all I can say. On both promises.

In the end, though, I tried out quite a few beds (well not tried tried, but laid down for a few seconds), and really, for the most part, beds is beds (sorry Randy). Of course, the one which was noticeably superior was actually twice the price. Superiority notwithstanding, it was tough to say it was twice as good as any other, so we chose the more cost-effective alternative. We weren't tempted by the king sized bed (which would entail new headboard, sheets, pillows, etc). We figure we're still newlywed enough to snuggle a bit. And now we're committed to snuggle at least as long as the warranty (ten years).

So the bed was delivered on the appointed day and I washed all the good sheets and made it up. I was prepared for a rough night, because the first night on a strange bed is never very restful (think of every hotel you have ever stayed in). But I was pleasantly surprised. It was no worse than the usual night on the old bed. It was firmer, for sure, and less bouncy, to the chagrin of the children. But it held my body heat, so it felt warmer and cozier, and this space foam stuff is easier on pressure-prone areas, so I haven't been waking up with a numb and tingly arm, as I used to do.

The second night was even better. I slept through until 5:22 am, which never happens. Since then, I have found myself fantasizing about my bed during the day (No lewd jokes here either, please. Those stories are for the other blog). I'll be at work and I'll start thinking how nice it would be to be in my bed with my big pillow and my eyes closed, not responsible for anything for a while. I think it's safe to say my new bed is my favourite place to be. I can't see needing to take advantage of the 60 day exchange policy. In just a few short nights, I have come to love this bed as much as I loved the old one. And that was a lot. Progress, I tell you. It was time to move on.

Anyway, it is almost time for me to head on up to that cozy bed. It has been a relatively leisurely day, compared to the rest of the week, and I think I would like to end it by snuggling under my covers with a book. Unfortunately for the blog, the bed may be more therapeutic than the the rambling. Maybe I shouldn't have sold my laptop... goodnight.

Humility

I had a very humbling experience today. I was in the exam room with a doctor and an elderly patient, a widower who was there alone, when the doctor had to tell him his cancer had spread and was now incurable. His first question was "How long have I got?". The doctor told him that most people in this situation live six to eight months. He said, "Well, I hope I make it to the spring so my family doesn't have to go to a funeral in the cold."

At that very moment, the least opportune moment in the history of the universe, there was a fire alarm and we all had to leave the building. I have never felt so badly for a person in my life. The patient was calm but obviously shaken. The doctor took him to a table in a nearby enclosed concourse, full of people milling about, and finished the talk, offering him some options for treatment, but the moment was definitely ruined. All that man will remember will be that there was a fire alarm during the appointment when he learned he was dying. Not one of those situations where you laugh later.

Thankfully, it was a real Code Red and not a drill, or I would have ripped the stomach out of whoever decided to pull the alarm. Lucky for them, there was, apparently, some real incident, which was cleared shortly and we all went about our business. And this poor man went on his way home to call his sons and tell them he is dying.

I wonder what dying people worry about? I wonder if he is at home right now thinking about his own death and what it will be like. I wonder if he told his sons.

I have a knot in my stomach thinking about him. I don't usually get emotional about patients (I think it's self preservation) but the situation was so cruel and unfortunate that I can't stop thinking of him. Being told you have an illness which is now considered terminal, is unimaginably awful in and of itself, but to have to make your decisions in a hall full of people while a siren blares? It makes me wonder Who could have orchestrated such circumstances. I hope that patient can sleep tonight. I hope he lives tonight in the belief he will see his wife again. I hope he has some comfort, because we certainly couldn't give him any.

Contingency

For about five minutes yesterday, I thought I might be pregnant. Even though I knew it to be physically impossible (we have done something permanent to prevent such eventualities, but we have also all heard the stories...), such things cross a girl's mind when she's running a little behind, shall we say.

I was surprised to find myself emotionally neutral about the prospect. No, it wouldn't be ideal, not what we'd planned, would make it difficult to stay in this little house and travel instead of moving up. But I rationalized it all instantly. The child would only be four when Aimee could babysit. We already have the minivan. There's full-year maternity leave now, an option I never had the last time (as an aside, I never wanted a full year - I have never wanted to be a stay-at-home parent; I took Aimee back to the bookstore when she was a month old and begged them for something to do. I would bring her in and she would sleep in a little playpen while I catalogued antiquarian books. It was a good fit for all - they got cheap labour, I got grown-ups to talk to). I had it all worked out - I would take the full year and write the Great Canadian Novel during baby's naptimes. I would do it all different, a little natural experiment. This would be the dream child, doted upon by big brother and sister, its parents more patient, if less energetic than the last time (of course there would be siblings to compensate with energy), pefectly behaved in all respects. Either that or it would be a rebellious little disappointment who ended up in jail, or working as a high-school dropout ski bum, and it would be my fault because it was unplanned.

I was a little excited at the prospect of Aimee and Jack having the experience of a baby in the house. Unlike when I was pregnant with Aimee, I had no particular desire for one gender versus the other (with Aimee, I wanted a girl so bad I could taste it; with Jack, I just knew he was a boy, it never crossed my mind that he might be otherwise). I even started thinking up names (I like Rachel for a girl, not sure about the boy). Not too thrilled about the prospect of labour, losing baby weight (never had a problem with that before, but time changes everything), potty training. Bummed about the prospect of giving up alcohol and coffee, and my marathon ambitions for this year. Interested in the challenge of raising a kid with the perspective of age on my side. Another pregnancy would give us the chance to do things we never did last time, like take belly pictures, and film the birth (just kidding). Maybe a home birth (maybe not).

It did occur to me that I might have some 'splaining to do, since my husband was the one who got "fixed" so to speak, but my argument was going to be that he never did go for the test, so we are not sure whether it actually worked perfectly (of course several years of cycles like clockwork pretty much proved it by default - I could get pregnant from a passing too close in the hall, prior). I would be willing to take a test, however, to prove my fidelity, were it genuinely called into question - but not without feeling genuinely insulted. This lead to thoughts of whether I would do any prenatal testing, now that I am approaching 35 and the risks go up. Interestingly, there was never any question but that I would keep it - no other option was even considered - regardless of the results of the tests.

Anyway, the whole exercise was for naught, and I was equally interested to note that I was not the least bit disappointed when it turned out to be nothing more than fantasy. I guess it's good to know that if it happened at this point in my life I would deal with it. I guess I shouldn't speak for my family, but for me it was like dreaming about what I'd do with a winning lottery ticket. It's fun to think about but if you really want it, you actually need to go out and do something to make it happen. I like my self and my family and my life right now, so the prospect of it changing in a life-altering way, although interesting in the abstract, was not something in which I was so invested that I was devastated when it did not come true. I confess to breathing a little sigh of relief and then pouring a glass of wine.

I know people who wait(ed) with bated breath every month to find out if they had conceived/dodged a bullet, and I feel lucky to have been able to do what I wanted, when I wanted to, with no resistance from my husband or my body. I almost feel a little guilty that it was as easy as it was, and that I am in the position of not needing to worry month to month if a sub-ideal situation has arisen which needs to be faced.

So I raise my glass to my empty uterus and the self-awareness it brought me. And confess I am actually fairly releived that it remains unoccupied. Wouldn't be a disaster, at least from my perspective (hey, I always said I'd do it again just for the nitrous oxide during labour), but at least our little family can continue on this path we have chosen, which is just fine with me. Just fine.

Omens

I'm not sure if I believe in omens, but if this was one, it can't have been a good one: Yesterday when we came home from a pleasant active morning at the Y, there were 8 or 10 big black crows on our driveway. No one else's, just ours (we share a driveway with the next-door neighbours. They were on our half). They flew off into the trees as we pulled in to park. Then they silently (thankfully) looked at us from their perches. We couldn't see any reason for them to be on our driveway, no juicy morsels to peck from the ice, and they didn't come back. I expected to come in and find a dead body or something, but so far it's been business as usual.

I wish I'd counted them - wouldn't it be even creepier if there were 13? And with a Friday the 13th coming up? I wonder when the statute of limitations is up on omens? Would I be able to link something bad that happens, say, next week, with this bizarre incident?

As it's never happened before, I am inclined to think it portends something, well, ominous. Told you I was superstitious.

Curious

Here are things I wonder:

How many times have I passed through my front door? Is it an even number or an odd number?
How many hairs do I have on my head?
How many times have I sneezed?
How many people are, at this very moment, in the world, sitting on the toilet?
How many hours have I slept in my life?
How many miles have I run?
How many calories have I ingested?
How many litres of water have I consumed? How many boxes of Kraft Dinner?
How long will I live?
What will my son choose as a career?
What will my daughter's first date be? And with whom?
Will I ever again own my own car?
Will I ever be famous for anything? Or even slightly renowned? (I'd settle for "respected in my field", whatever that is)
How many people in this world have cancer and don't know it?
How many people will not live to see the end of this year?
How many people know with certainty that they will not live to see the end of the year? How did they celebrate Christmas?
How clean are my arteries?
Have I utterly ruined my kids' lives by putting them in time out for their various infractions instead of spanking them?
What will Aimee's orthodontics cost?
Does acupuncture really work?
Where would we be without music?
Will my house ever be decorated exactly as I want it or will it always be a work in progress?
Does the Magic 8 Ball tell the truth?
Does gum really stay in your gut for 7 years if you swallow it?
Why is "shit" a bad word?
Why is it rude to fart in public?
Is prison really that bad?
Have I ever, directly or indirectly, done anything that resulted in the death of some person?
Exactly how many bracelets has the Lance Armstrong foundation sold?
Do I have what it takes to complete a triathlon? To learn to skate?
Can you teach an old dog new tricks?
Exactly when is it too late for a career change?
What do people with boring jobs think about at work?
What do other people wonder?
...among other things.