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And just that like – it was over between us.

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Yesterday. 

All my troubles seemed so far away.
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay.
Oh, I believe in Yesterday.

Yesterday was not a good day for me. Yesterday was the day she broke up with me. Yesterday was the day she uttered a simple, “I think we’re done here …” and just like that, it was all over. I couldn’t believe it! What had I done wrong? Nothing; I had done nothing wrong. The truth was – and she even admitted it –I had done everything right.

My Achilles tendonosis is healed, and my physiotherapist discharged me from further treatments.

Obviously, our furtive lunch time meetings over the past three months meant much more to me than they did to her. I thought we had something. Apparently all we had was a case of tendonosis and now that was gone. I saw her as a saviour of my soul (and sole) but she saw me as just another Achilles – and not a very special Achilles at that.

Time with her passed so quickly and I shared so much more with her than with anyone else in my life. She’s the only one who seen my legs since last summer (well, my left leg for sure).

She was twenty years my junior, married to an elite Triathlete and they had a six-month old baby girl together. Despite these obstacles, it’s not surprising that I fell do hard for her – she made me feel young again. I worshipped her special brand of “love” (acupuncture, dry needling, deep tissue massage, joint adjustments) because they were just what I’d been aching for.

I should have known it would come to this. The signs were there. The most obvious sign being that my insurance only covers $500 of physiotherapy and I’ll already given her $460. Still, my Monday and Wednesday lunch hours are going to be just a little darker now, without me being able to see her and her bright yellow safe needle disposal box. She fixed the broken parts of me. She fixed the broken parts of me that I didn’t even know were broken.  But apparently now the broken parts are fixed and I now have to venture out in the world, and run!

All I have left of my time with her is a memory – and post-treatment exercises. She said, “Run!” (she actually said, “you should try some running now” but whatever, it cut me to the core – which is another body part altogether).

And “run” I will. Baby steps at first but I will get over this – and her. She said I would and I will. But the ‘what if’ still lingers. She left me with one ‘what if’ – a glimmer of hope that perhaps not all was over between us. She said, “I’ll leave your file open for three months – call me if your Achilles flairs up again”

So a rebound (or recurrence) was still possible!

Oh, I believe in Yesterday.

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The day Riberto came to yoga

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It is early morning and still dark in my makeshift yoga studio with only the dim light of a lone streetlamp streaming through my living room shutters. This sliver of light settles on my yoga mat stretched out and beckons my stiff and aching aging body. I’m a two-faced practitioner: there are mornings I love waking up early and allowing myself an hour of stillness, breathing and asana and there are other mornings where yoga and the fact that it’s 530AM just suck and I pull the covers over my head and hit the snooze for the tenth time.

This morning was of the “this sucks” variety, when I think all my yoga teachers are conspiring to convert me to kale smoothies with chia seeds. No amount of blissful shavasana will inspire me to give up pinot grigio and poutine.

I have managed to get myself onto my mat with open heart and mind even if neither of my eyes are. I do this because I know from experience that if I leave my yoga to the evening, that battle will be won by Facebook, laundry and my daughter’s Elizabethan-era food project (damn you, Grade 9 English curriculum).

I’m about halfway through this morning’s yoga routine and starting to finally feel my mind and body slowly cooperating. I open my eyes after one pose and notice a tiny fluff off to my left in the foyer. I close my eyes again and curse the shedding hairy dog mess, but when I open my eyes I notice that my “fluff” is no longer there. In fact, it’s moved an entire foot! Believe me, I am not generating enough kinetic energy here to make a feather move so I interrupt my practice and crawl on my hands and knees over to the foyer. I then realize that this is nothing close to a dust bunny dog hair fluff but is instead a frog!

A little frog the size of my thumb has somehow found its way into my home, more remarkably into my living room and even most astonishingly – uninvited – into my yoga practice! Not what I would call a Zen moment.

We stare at each other for a moment but I know I have to do something with this yoga intruder before my dogs find him and eat him – or my daughter finds him and decides to make a pet of him (which would actually be worse, I think).

I return Riberto to the wild outdoors using a soup ladle and kitchen towel. After which I think it was only fitting that I finished off my morning with bhekasana, or frog pose. I suppose Riberto was simply an emissary send to help me get it right!

The aspiring yogini and helpful frogini… Hand in hand – or hand in webbed appendage, as the case may be.

And that is my story about the day a frog came to yoga.

Namaste.

 

Chug big or chug home…

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An unsanctioned event organized by students at one of our local high schools has raised the ire of its principal. So much so that emails have been sent home warning parents of this event and its imminent danger.  Parents have been urged to ask their children NOT to participate in this wasteful and harmful event and have been cautioned that local police have been asked to provide additional officers to enforce safety, should the event take place.

What is this undesirable event that parents should be so anxious about?

Is it an illegal swim party at a local quarry? Is it an unchaperoned bush party at one of the many local farm fields? Is it the private post-prom party across the border at a local ski resort (where most of the students will be of legal drinking age)?

No. In fact, these events (which have taken place or are about to take place on my son’s social calendar) have not been deemed sufficiently objectionable by anyone such that parents should be alerted to potential unsafe and/or illegal activity. The low-down on the street is how we get savvy to these events.

The appalling event that I am being warned about is the annual senior student-organized milk chugging contest.

This will be one of the most uncomfortably awkward and sensitive discussions I will have with my teenagers yet.  There’s no way all those conversations about safe sex, drugs, alcohol, academic challenges, work and money chats will serve me for this one.

I’m not sure how to handle this one. Should I go the sour milk is bad for you-route? Or, that unpasteurized milk may make you sick-schtick? How about, milk that comes from cows who’ve been injected hormones have been fed is unacceptable-deal (oh, but that’s illegal in Canada, so will probably not be too effective).  Or the time-tested, waste-not-want-not talk? No, I think I better stick to the fear tactic that always works best:  “Do you have any idea how easy it is to get addicted to milk?”

This isn’t the first time we’ll be talking about milk-chugging contests, and I can assure you, it won’t be the last.

(Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I hope I don’t get my son suspended).

milk

 

“Anything to declare?”

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ErmaThat’s what he asked me.

“Anything to declare?” asked the Canada customs official.

Such a loaded question! They should really consider rephrasing that standard question asked by border services agents of all international travelers. You’re asking a woman if she has anything to declare?!

Oh, do I ever!  Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk about it! Indeed, I have something to declare!

I’ve taken a few days to reflect upon my experience and learning at a humour writers’ conference I recently attended. I now declare that I was deluged with new inspiration while at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop held bi-annually at the University of Dayton in Dayton, Ohio. By the way, you may not know this but the word deluge is a French term for being word-swarmed. But you know, there are advantages to being deluged, or word-swarmed – in addition to all the mind-blowing quotes I garnered from the speakers, I was able to pick up a few gems from the attendees too. For example:

Boom Boom Boys:
File this under “It’s Not What You Think …”. Please just know that I will be petitioning Drum Corps International to reschedule their 2016 competition not to coincide with the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop.

Beta reader:
This is not the video player predecessor to VHS, but instead an indispensable trusted confidant who will read your work and provide you with much needed feedback before publishing (but not a professional editor, qually indispensable).

The FuckItBucket:*
I-am-so-done-tormenting-myself-over– useless -crap…

The Dayton Dribbler :
Not to be confused with the University of Dayton basketball team’s March Madness success, but rather the highly over-rated Marriott shower pressure.

The Quiet Zone :
Can we not all just agree that sleep is for sissies, retirees, and that man in 14C on UA4461? Also, is probably not the best gathering place for the Boom Boom Boys.

Ermatologist, Bombeckian, Bombie, Ermite, Bombette :
One of a massive throng of several hundred women (and eighteen men) ravishingly beautiful, startling witty and extraordinarily talented writers.

 

“Ma’am, anything to declare?” the customs official repeated.

I have words to declare, sir. Enough words to sustain me through many writing projects. 

And with that, my passport is stamped – a most noteworthy and emphatic endorsement of my efforts –  and I am on my way.

This post was brought to you by a deluge of words and inspired by an amazing coffee cup.

20140415-133632.jpg

* Okay, look. I know I don’t usually swear on my blog, and actually rarely swear at all, but when I heard this phrase, I fell in love with it and can’t seem to stop thinking about it. And since I am now over the age of fifty, I can put ‘restraint’ in my FuckItBucket.

Bring it (getting ready to be Bombecked)!

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Very soon, I’ll be boarding a plane for the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop in Dayton Ohio.  My first experience with this workshop (and any writers workshop, really) was two years ago.  I would guess that eighty percent of the 350 attendees were woman like me, of a certain age like me.  Throw in a few punchlines and a little wine and you have a fermenting cocktail (which I will affectionately refer to as the Dayton Dazzler)! While in the company of so much comedic virtuosos (both the faculty and the attendees), not to mention the neighbouring drum corps competition, I was able to come away profoundly inspired but also a little intimated (and moderately deaf). I wrote about this anxiety in a post-workshop post about The Burdon of Bombeck (as in, “Hi my name is Astra and it’s been sixteen days since I last wrote something funny”).

There have been so many questions posted on the attendees’ Facebook site by newbies!  I feel I’d be doing my part as a veteran Ermatolgist (as coined by the ever wit-faced Amy Sherman) to address them so the freshman Ermatologists have as much fun as us upperclassmen!

Do people have wine in their hotel room?

You don’t get out much do you? People have wine in the hallways, in the bathrooms and occasionally even in the bar. Bring it.

Do I really need to bring business cards?

You must have some other mechanism by which to make yourself truly unforgettable.  Bring it on.

Is it okay to wear bathrobes and fuzzy slippers to the sessions?

Not many people can rock that look but if you can … I say bring it!.

Carry-on or checking a suitcase?

You can’t take liquids in a carry-on (unless three ounces is what you call a drink, in which case we likely won’t meet this weekend), so I say bring it (the suitcase that is)!

Will there be t-shirts?

There will be t-shirts, glowsticks and glow necklaces, Hang Ten foam fingers, sun-visors, ball caps, slotted sunglasses, and over-sized multi-coloured beach balls.

I’m actually not 100% sure about any of that but it will be an event worthy of such rockin’ stuff!

Do people change for dinner?

Absolutely; I’m a totally different person at dinner. Who isn’t?

What goes on Saturday night?

What happens in Dayton, stays in Dayton (that’s all I’m gonna say)!

What a difference two years makes!

Can’t wait to be Dayton Dazzled and Bombecked!

Erma

Reasons Mommy Drinks – A Book Review

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So, there needs to be a reason? Certainly not in my books, but in this hilarious book, Reasons Mommy Drinks, Lyranda Martin Evans and Fiona Stevenson (Three Rivers Press, 2013) give 100 reasons that Mommies drink, along with 100 cocktail recipes (seriously ladies, you couldn’t come up with 365?!) that are almost as funny as the motherhood anecdotes after which they were named. I highly recommend reading it (and copying down the recipes!).  It was a little tough reading a book about drinking during my annual month of detox, but then again, it was refreshing to recall all those ‘new mom’ experiences of new mothers – mostly because I’m well past that stage and can actually laugh at them now.

There is the cocktail aptly named “The Silver Scream” named after mommy’s first foray into humanity after childbirth at a Mommy and Me movie, or a yummy concoction called “A Mudslide” which follows a not so yummy experience with explosive poo.  Well, who hasn’t had an experience with explosive poo and who doesn’t need a drink after it? Of course nothing celebrates baby’s first steps like a drink called the “Walk ‘n’ Roll”, and nothing will restore your sanity after listening to children’s music all day, like the “Raffi-tini”, best served “with Baby Beluga caviar” – bwahahaha! (Oh, yes new mothers, you WILL have that song in your head for the rest of your lives).

The book chronicles the first 18 months of motherhood and though I am now 18 years into motherhood, I still remember all those crazy, sleep-deprived baby days – and how badly I wanted a drink!  Sadly, the book starts off with a series of mock-tails (buzzkill alert) until page 31, beyond the anecdotes of nursing.  And sadly that’s pretty much how motherhood started in real life too, wasn’t it? I wish this book had been around when my first born was 18 months old and my second was already 4 weeks old.  It would have given me great comfort – and great inspiration for cocktails – to know that, a) I wasn’t losing my mind, and b) I actually was losing my mind but I was in very good company!

The only negative I have about the book was the ridiculously small print size.  I don’t know my fonts – all I know is I needed my 1.50 reading glasses to read this book instead of my 1.25’s and that made me feel old. Feeling old sucks.  Feeling old makes me feel like making a cocktail…

The Old Fart Work of Art

Ingredients
Sparkling wine, Prosecco or champagne
Crème de Cassis

Instructions
Pour a small amount of the crème de cassis in a chilled champagne flute
Top with sparkling wine then sit back and wonder where your teenagers are…

reasons mommy drinks

My Weekend Warrior Recovery: Plan B

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I recently read a posting on the Hockey Mom in Canada Facebook fanpage asking her readership (all hockey moms) how they recuperate from a busy hockey tournament weekend. Perfect timing since my daughter and I just returned from a hockey tournament weekend. The responses varied somewhat but for the most part focused on selfless motherhood tasks: getting the laundry done, heading out for groceries, making sure they and their family members got caught up on personal hygiene and sleep and – the best one yet – immediately heading back out to an arena for a hockey game of one of their other children.

Holy sweet mothers of Jesus.

After 12 years as a hockey mom, I sure could stand to learn a few things from these candidates for sainthood who put their own exhaustion aside and continue to perform miracles.  I was about to add a few of my post-tournament weekend activities and they just did not seem to complement those that had been posted. In fact, my post-tournament “To-Do” list suggests that I’m on a fast track straight to Hell rather than the pearly gates Heaven.

Boston pizzaOkay, so maybe I don’t run right out and do the groceries. What’s wrong eating eating the leftovers from 4 consecutive Boston Pizza meals and leftover coffee? It’s tough to buy groceries when you know your entire next paycheque is going to the detox program at the Rideauwood Addiction Centre, not to mention paying for at least one speeding ticket on the 401.

Okay, so maybe the kids won’t have clean clothes for school on Monday, but I’ll get to it. First, I have got to talk to my lawyer about my chances for getting off on that Drunk and Disorderly charge from Saturday night’s team dinner. Not sure why the server took offense to my suggesting she was a big pain in my Jack Astor when she wouldn’t serve me my sixth glass of wine. Puhlease, like she’s never heard that before!

Yes, my daughter and I will catch up on some much needed sleep for this past weekend, but not until she helps craft my letter of apology letter to the housekeeping department of the Courtyard Marriott. It’s half her fault the room looked like that anyway, right? And we all know an apology letter from a minor scores more brownie points with head office (and The Jerry Springer Show).

wine bottle binAs for heading right out to another hockey game, well, that’s actually pretty believable, considering that on the way I can return all my empty wine bottles to the recycling centre before my husband counts them. Plus, it will give me just enough time to delete some photos from my camera. Bonus.

And this, People, is why I will never be on The Ellen DeGeneres Show (but for some reason, Jerry Springer won’t leave me alone).

I am seriously out of wine, now.jerry springer

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