"The dew of little things"

Looking for Treasure...Found!

"And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and the sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." Kahlil Gibran

The Air Up There

This weekend, I wasn't answering the phone because I was flying a glider 5000 feet above Pemberton Valley. You know, the usual.

HOW COOL IS THAT?! I even got to say, "India Romeo Charlie - pick up slack". I realize that this is as normal for glider pilots as saying, "Do you want fries with that" but still, I loved it.

The adventure started, naturally, on the airstrip. At eleven hundred hours, I stood there, arms folded over my chest, mirroring the stance of Geoff, the tow pilot and Some Other Guy...who were all wordlessly staring at the sky. I stared too - to make it seem like I knew what we were looking at. Nobody said anything for about a minute, and my eyes darted from Dude to Dude, while I continued my stoic, "I know exactly why I'm staring at the clouds" look. After a few more minutes of looking intenty at nothing in particular, I proclaimed with authority that the clouds looked "good and fluffy", I was ready to go.

Up we went. The tow plane took us up to five thousand feet, and after some techie-sounding jargon, released the line and we were free! Wow....it's such an uncommon experience to be in the air and not hear an engine noise. Somewhat disconcerting too, when you think about the fact that you're in a giant paper airplane. Especially, a giant paper airplane that appears to be heading straight for a mountainside, and while I have implicit faith in Geoff - partly because I have absolutely no choice, I've always thought that mountains and planes don't mix particularly well.

Geoff says, "Yeah, that's where the lift is - if we want to climb higher, we'll need to lift."

Okay then.

Before you think I can actually fly a plane, lemee 'splain: I can't. My friend Geoff can. So he had the controls and he only let me actually fly for about thirty seconds. But, man. Those thirty seconds were pure exhilaration. I was considering the fine line between white-knuckled terror and breath-taking awe. Even if I had hurled, which, during the turbulance, was very likely, it would have been worth it to be nose to nose with a glacier! A glacier!

To quote the squirrels,

"OmigodIwaswayupintheairandIwaslike........Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Head Banger

It’s now official. I need to wear a helmet….daily.

Note to self: watch what you’re doing, for fuck’s sake! Last night I was playing on the swings and monkey bars like a swinging monkey and bashed my head so hard it felt like all my orthodontic work was for naught. I’m such an idiot.

At least I was having fun before I threw up.

I was supposed to see my amazing friend, Andrea last night and Andy had to call her to cancel on my behalf because I’d taken some meds that made me so spacey I couldn’t operate any heavy machinery, like a stapler, without accidents.

I’ve sustained three big head injuries so far so it’s amazing I still even know my name. The first one was totally whacked-out. I was in Quebec, wound up passing out in a hostel (from food poisoning of all things) and taken to the hospital where they kept me in observation all night next to a flatulent octogenarian. As if that wasn’t torture enough, they kept waking me up (how obnoxious) to ask me my name and the date and all the other things you do to a concussed person. Problem is, French is not my first language and whenever they asked me the date I had to take a little time to compose that it was “mille neuf cent quatre vingt douze..”. No wonder they thought I was more damaged than I actually was.

The next spectacularly embarrassing one was when I decided to take a flying leap onto my bed and overshot the actual bed, colliding with the headboard. That was way worse because I figured I was fine and went to sleep for ten hours straight, only to wake up the next day with blackouts and the shakes. Weird.

Except for the food poisoning, these have all been fairly stupid on my part. But then, eating food is always potentially hazardous, isn’t it? Especially if I made it.

EVERYTHING I EVER NEEDED TO KNOW ABOUT LIFE I LEARNED FROM SUDOKU

Everything I really need to know about life I’ve learned from Japanese number puzzles.

See, like Sudoku, life has an intrinsic simplicity to its’ rules and unexpectedly subtle logic. And no matter how straightforward the rules, we still get stymied by the teeth-gnashing frustration that comes before the critical breakthrough.

Like Sudoku, life can be maddening because you know there’s a solution, but you just aren’t seeing it. (Here’s that zen Buddhist thing again…)

We know that a breakthrough will come. It’s how we get there that’s the tricky part.

So here are the three things that Sudoku has taught me about life:

Try a new way of looking at it – it might show you things you hadn’t noticed.

Look for clues and patterns. They’re there.

Eliminate possibilities. If it doesn’t fit – fuggedaboudit!

When I fill in the squares, singing along, and then realize I created major fuckage, I am despondent. Well now the whole thing is ruined! I could erase everything, or, more likely, flip the page and start another one.

The key here is to allow yourself your fuckages. Say to youself, “Yep, I screwed that one up. Moving on.” Think about the absurdity of lying awake thinking about how we messed up that puzzle. “If only I hadn’t done it in pen!” we lament. Or in blood, as is my case.

When I fill in the squares, and they all seem to work, I get an exhilarating rush of achievement that tempts me to start another challenge.

Like Sudoku, in life you can always cheat (and flip to the answers) but it doesn’t feel as good as the rhythm of solving it yourself.

There is a satisfaction and addiction to success. Usually success can surprise you – wow – it’s suddenly done!

And we’re drawn to the challenge aren’t we?

Smirk du Soleil

This just in! Humans Not Like Dogs

Surprisingly, rewarding a behavior reduces people’s desire to do that behavior. We’re not like dogs after all. Why do I care? Because Nicola doesn’t eat anything that isn’t covered in melted cheese or chocolate.

I’ve often wondered if there was a better way to get her to eat healthfully. And now, I think that if we want to motivate her to want to eat vegetables, we mustn’t reward her for doing it or behave as though she can’t be expected to want to do it on her own.

How many times has this scenario played out in your home: the kid whines, “I don’t want any spinach,” and the parent says, “You can’t have a brownie unless you eat your spinach.”

So instead, I should say, ‘Great! All the more for me!”

This will likely have no effect for…um…a while.

But fingers and carrot sticks crossed here…

Update

She bit my toe!

Ah…Diaper Sensei teach me the ways…

My friend Kelly is amazing. Not only does she make the kind of iced mochas that make me sheepishly ask for more….but she’s taught me something that revolutionizes the way I approach diaper-changing.

It ain’t pretty, but man does it work!

This move is surely a result of her regular presence at a karate dojo. The sensei has her doing two fingered push-ups in her jammies, which can only lead to profound enlightenment and the inspired idea of which I write.

The woman is a diaper-changing virtuoso. (Maybe other people have thought of this too, but for me – it was breathtaking in a sort of – “That is SO SMART kind of way,”.) She gently pins her son down on his back with her feet at his shoulders. I think she might actually be a Jedi master because he doesn’t squirm at all. (You do want your diaper changed…) She said, “He learned that I was always going to win this one, so he just relaxes as soon as he feels my feet there, and let’s me do the job.”

Given that Rachael and I often emerge from a diaper-change-flipporama in such a state of exhaustion and disarray, this brilliant display has changed my approach completely.

I just put it into practice a few minutes ago. Roo was singularly unimpressed…because IT WORKS! I feel somewhat bad that she cried through the whole thing, but not bad enough that I could contain my glee. It took less than thirty seconds! I am the Nappy Master. Ah…Diaper Sensei teach me the ways…

See? It doesn’t take much to totally make my day.

Hubba Hubba Two

Here I am again. This time, as a blonde. The only problem was that my colleague had a sunscreen fetish and well, I had doused myself in Coppertone Waterproof Watermelon SPF 300 (since I was a fair blonde that day) and he just couldn't help himself. As you can see, I'm not entirely comfortable and I do have beard burn on my back now.

Well. It's all part of a day's work.

The Pirate's Jewel...Hubba Hubba!

Okay, THIS is what I really want to do for a living. SERIOUSLY! I want to be the wanton woman on the cover of shameless romance novels. Yes I do. No really. I do. Mind you – try getting yourself into that pose, then imagine holding it for a few hours. Ouch. But still.

Let's Get Physical

Why do I always feel euphorically fabulous when I’ve worked out? No really. Don’t you? Apart from wanting to collapse, that is? I’ve neglected it for months, until today when Nicola suggested we do a workout (she likes my DVDs for the fun music). Well, good for her! I did it with her and we both feel awesome now.

So I did some research. And here, as another public service, I share my sweeping findings: exercise is good for you. Yes. It’s actually true.

I know. I’ve just solved a gigantic mystery. You’re welcome.

I also discovered that people with chronic depression are sad. Yes. Another shocker. Okay. But depressives are sad because they have decreased brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF) which may lead to atrophy of the hippocampus. What that probably means is that depressives were exposed to too much Barry Manilow as children.

What I found amazing was that, apparently regular aerobic exercise for 3 months was enough to coax the hippocampus to form new cells. Until now, scientists thought this phenomenon was impossible and we’d be doomed to hum “Can’t Smile Without You” for the rest of our natural lives.

Bye bye, Barry! Hello, Turbo Jam!

Under Pressure

Queen’s uber hip “Under Pressure” has been on continuous synaptic loop all afternoon. Here’s why: I. Didn't. Get. The. Job.

Which is such a shame because it’s really quite a lovely old building….

I would normally keep despair at bay by purchasing new shoes....but because I didn’t get the job, I also didn’t get the salary to blow on shoes. Double despair. They were very nice about it. Even said they might need me in a few months. Pfft! If I’m still available. Which – come on, if this were a relationship type thing you just wouldn’t be. (Some guy tells you he likes you but is more interested in masturbating right now so could he give you a call later? Yeah. Right after I get back from my vacation on Mars.)

There's really only one thing for this: Pressure Washing.

Those things KICK ASS! Have you ever used one? Honestly! You've simply got to try this. The power! I felt armed and extremely dangerous. I can take paint off with that thing! Cool. If I could somehow use it inside my house I'd never clean again...

The fact that I find pressure washing to be a form of therapy is surely as disturbingly weird as the lint screen thing - but it's cheap! And not nearly as creepy as the guy who wants to call you when he’s finished beating his meat.

Oh, and of course, the instruction manual included a warning not to pressure wash your pets.

Oops.

So...what are YOU good at?

So last night, my friend Chris asked me, “Okay, so you can’t cook. What can you do?”

And I was stuck. Utterly mystified at coming up with an answer. Uh, buh dee uh buh dee uh….I stammer well. I am a magnificent worrier. I also excel at nagging. And although I try not to, I seem to have a natural talent for interrupting people and bringing conversations to a screeching halt followed by awkward silence. I do that exceptionally well.

But the question remains, what am I good at that’s actually a good thing to be good at?

Quick-wit that I am, I decided to ask the incisive Nicola who immediately answered with, “Tidying up.”

I’m good at tidying up. Gee. Why does this do absolutely nothing for my ego? So I probed further and she added, “Oh yeah and you do makeup.” As I sat there mulling over the phenomenal impact I seem to have had on my child’s life, she stopped jumping on the chairs momentarily and said, “You’re very good at having babies. And you’re very good at um…..um….you’re very good at um, cleaning windows, putting on earrings, and that’s all.”

I can hear my eulogy now….”Karryn was one of those people who thought she was making an actual contribution to the lives of others, but really – she just kind of tidied up and never left the house without lipstick on.”

I’ve developed a raging inferiority complex now! I mean – I can speak French! That’s got to count for something! I can do improv better than average! I clean the lint filter in my dryer with a toothbrush. I don’t load dishwashers efficiently because I simply don’t care. But lint screens – come on! Doesn’t everyone get that? Never mind.

I’m very good at justification. If you want to make an exorbitant purchase of some questionable value – I can justify it for you. You know about the formula don’t you? YOU DON’T?! If you want to buy shoes that are say $300 and you think that’s too expensive – you divide the price by how many times you’ll wear them, then divide that number by the number of things you own that will go with them, and you come to realize how downright irresponsible it would be to leave the store without them.

I am an inspired rambler. I go on tangents that most people wouldn’t ever consider. It’s sometimes quite a workout just keeping up with my thought process.

That’s good, right?

Great Grandpa Needs a Drink!

Happy belated Canada day tout le monde! We celebrated at my dad's place - and yes, of course heavy things were moved. Only this time, I was exempt because my job was to mix drinks for everyone - a job I suit much better than moving things.

The difference this time is that my grandpa is out here visiting. He's a rockin' ninety eight years old! I know! The greatest part of great-grandpa is not only his impressive longevity, but the fact that he proclaims his age like an excuse, a reason, a raison d'etre. I'M NINETY EIGHT! Which you just know, means, "I'm ninety eight, get the fuck out of my way!" He's awesome. We also have to yell at him in order to have what vaguely resembles a conversation. HEY! GRANDPA! CAN YOU PASS THE BUTTER?! THE BUTTER! PASS THE BUTTER! It's all kind of intense.

So back to the drinks. But of course.... Grandpa asked for a gin and tonic and I, snooty sommelier that I try to be (pfffft! everyone knows a sommelier doesn't mix drinks....that's ...who cares?!) ....I head into the kitchen to mix the drink and see the pharmacy that is on the counter. Grandpa has no less than nine different bottles of pills to take and a chart to keep track of what's gone in and what hasn't. And that, is the reality of being NINETY EIGHT! So I paused, and asked my step-mom if it's okay for him to have alcohol (you know, with all those drugs and stuff.)

She looked me straight in the eye and said, "He's ninety eight. Let him have whatever the hell he wants." And that's why she's so cool And that's what I'm going to be like if I make it to ninety eight. I'll be everyone's worst nightmare. It'll be like, "Oh no! Grandma's coming over. She's going to yell a lot. And get drunk and pass out."

Of course, some would say that's just what I do now...