Running without someone calling the paramedics

I really blow at running.  I mean, it's really disgraceful.

This summer I tried to run.  I think it lasted about one week.  I can remember dreading the hills so I would go very, very slow.   On more than one occasion people would hear me coming and move to the side.  I'd yell out to them that I wouldn't be there for a few minutes. "I'll let you know when I'm close!" I'd pant.

And then there was the groaning.  Without me even realizing, I would grunt like I was being attacked.  I turned the corner one evening and scared these kids so much with my growl that they screamed for their father.  That's one way to make me run.  I live in Sackville, so I wasn't about to be chased down the street by a middle aged man sporting a Snap-on-Tools jacket with a matching home depot hat.

So, here's a great question, what should a woman do who:

1. Doesn't have enough time to shave her legs
2. Can't even coordinate a haircut
3. Loses her breath while drawing a shower

Answer:  voluntarily agree to run a half marathon of course!

But, there's a story behind this.  I heard a radio ad that advertised training for a marathon while fundraising for a charity.  I must have overdosed on my anti-depressants that morning, because I thought, "Perfect!  I'm in!".  I looked into it and realized that the honoured patient that we would be running for was actually someone that I know.  Gregor's mother and I met a few years ago through mutual friends.  I don't claim to know her well, but let's just say we've had a few drinks together on a few occasions.  She is AMAZING.  So, I was sold and signed up.

Our first team training session was on Saturday at 8 a.m., which, of course, was at the same time I was busting my mother out of the hospital.  Since I missed the first run, I decided I would run on my own on Sunday morning.  

Of course, I'm no running expert, I only have experience in walk/hopping and grunting so I didn't realize that when it's -10 outside you should probably wear more than just cotton yoga pants.  My ass and legs were so frozen that I couldn't even feel them jiggling behind me, which was sort of nice in a disgusting way.  My nose was the first to freeze which I should have thought of as I nodded at the more experienced runners on my route.  I still shudder when I think of how I smiled at them confidently, not knowing I had frozen snot crusted from my nose to my chin.

I ended up at the rink sweating like a whore in heat and I couldn't even remove my toque, due to the flattened mullet underneath.  I ran into the arena hoping that the freezing air would cool me off.  Instead it froze to my sweaty cotton pants and I walked out of there like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.

Next run is tomorrow at some point.....so if you're in Sackville and see a pregnant woman running/limping/hopping down the street don't be concerned if she groans like a wild boar.  She's doing it for charity!!

XO

A

How to go for a haircut and end up in the Dartmouth General

I should have known it was going to happen.  If I was thinking straight I would have seen it coming.  Frankly, I blame the lack of attention on my cold feet and nicotine withdrawal.  It's sort of like a lunar eclipse, but one that happens every six weeks.  What is it you ask?  I made a hair appointment.

So, naturally my loving husband (let's just call him "J" for reasons of anonymity) is working for the third straight Saturday.  "J" knew this three Saturdays ago, but decided for safety reasons not to tell me until Thursday.  Maybe I should call him "Wussy" for reasons of anonymity.

Either way I needed a plan.  Initially I thought of my mother, but she was working too.  The logical thing would have been to cancel my appointment, but I already rescheduled and with my high maintenance hair I was starting to sport the good ol' Tennessee Waterfall.

So, my hoop jumping began.  It was this simple:

1.  Get up extra early - go to my 8:00 a.m. "other" appointment (more on this in later blogs)
2.  Come home, let Wussy go to work and wait for my mother-in-law
3.  Go to next appointment and come back to relieve mother-in-law

First roadblock:  my mother-in-law bails.  Solution:  sub in best friend and neighbour Kelly.

Second roadblock:  gather intel which points to the first appointment going too late.  Solution:  take children to loving home of Godparents with the risk that they will see the good life and never return.

Decisions, decisions.  Hair cut or risk losing children forever?  Sorry kids, there's no excuse for a mullet.

So rewind to last night.  Wussy and I take the kids to the hockey game and arrive home at about 9:30 p.m.

My mother calls as we walk in the door and she needs to go to the hospital.  I was more than happy to do so and I was extremely glad she called.  So, if anyone is reading this blog by the name of Marion Winifred Bartlett (yes, I said Winifred) please do not think I did not want to take you to the hospital.  I was happy you called.

ANYWAY we head to the Dartmouth General.  Due to our VIP status at hospitals we are taken in to a bed practically right away. They shout our names the way they used to for Norm on Cheers when the emergency doors open.

12 hours to my haircut, and it looks like it's going to happen.

1:30 a.m. and we are still waiting for the doc. He obviously didn't know who we were.  My mother was starting to get frustrated and she kept threatening to pull out the chords because "there was nothing wrong with her".  Finally I turned over in the bed, told her to sit in her chair and be quiet.

Doctor Intern comes in.  Asks the following questions:

How old are you?  57
Have you had any surgeries? Just a hysterectomy back in 1988
When was your last period?  I had a hysterectomy back in 1988
Are you pregnant?  I had a HYSTERECTOMY back in 1988

Okay then.

At 4:00 a.m. they take her for tests and I head home for a couple hours of shut eye.  Looks like my 8 a.m. is off, but I have 7 hours until my haircut and I think it's going to work.

I arrive back at the hospital at 9 a.m. sharp.  Mom said she's good to go so we rip off all of her stickers and leave.  We're back at Mom's by 10 a.m. and my haircut is ON LIKE DONKEY KONG.

The phone rings...

Turns out I literally "busted" mom out of there because she left before her cat scan.  Apparently the nurse told my Mom she could leave by accident.  So, we head back.

She has the scan and we are valet'd back to emerg.  No fucking rooms left.  They kick the people out of the family waiting room (I must have, at one point, asked someone in that group for a recipe because they looked at me as if I called their mother a whore) and we wait for the doctor.

We get out of there at exactly 11:51 a.m. - 6 minutes after my hair appointment was scheduled to begin.

Moral of the story:  my Mom is healthy, life is still good and I'm bringing the mullet back.

XO

A

PS - Staff at Dartmouth General is actually fantastic.  My lovely sister is also a nurse and I wouldn't be able to do it ever.  Here's some friendly advice for any future doctors out there....I may not be a med student, but please refrain from asking my 57 year old post menopausal mother, who doesn't have ovaries if she is pregnant.  Other than that, you guys rock.

Hairy Toes

Just the title of my blog makes you want to dry heave.  I get it, I'm dry heaving myself.  But, why?

So, not only am I terrible in the kitchen, look like I'm six months pregnant and usually smell of stale smoke and have red wine stains on my teeth, but my feet are hairy too.  I'm tired of being in the closet about this.  I've been keeping it in for too long.

Don't get me wrong, I do a whack of self maintenance to keep this hair problem in check.  But, from time to time, I get a little lazy and I forget about my hairy friends.  Sometimes I look down and they're blowing in the wind.  I end up tying them back until I can get home to wax those suckers off.

Recently, I was forced to tell my secret.  It had been months since my toes had seen an indoor pool and I had to confess to a good friend my warped truth.  Before she had a chance to look down, I blurted out "I HAVE HAIR ON MY TOES".  She just looked at me and said, "So do I."  WTF?  All of these years I've been fancying myself a freak and here she was telling me that she combs her toe hair too.  Jesus Murphy.

So, I opened up about my secret to more women and guess what???  We all have hairy toes. Yes you do. I've even squeezed it out of those who initially denied it.  No more shame ladies, let the hair flow wild and free.

But here's my question...why is it so terrible?  It's not my fault that I was blessed with hair follicles on my little buddies.  Let's face it, we don't ralph when we see men's hairy feet, and they are ALWAYS jacked up.  How can we possibly hate something that we can't control?

I confessed my hairy sin to an esthetician on Friday.  She told me that most women have hair on their toes because they are usually cold.  Not my fault it's minus 50 outside.  So, let it all loose ladies.  No more shame.  Braid it, spike it, shave it, wax it, but don't hate it.  After all, it's not your fault.  Life is too short (and hopefully your toe hair is too).

Love the hair you're with.

XO

A

Cooking

I fucking suck at cooking.

I mean, it's seriously terrible.  I often wonder if there's such a disorder that makes it impossible for someone to cook (like CADD).  If there's a disorder when it comes to cooking, I've got it.  I once burned my fingers and ruined a pot while baking muffins.  Not in the oven as you may expect.  Honestly, if I burned them in the oven, it would be no big thing, I would wear it like a badge of honour.  Nope, I burned my fingers and ruined a pot after I "boiled" the first four ingredients, just like the recipe said to do.  Turns out it was a misprint and, because I am such an incompetent baker, I did not realize that it should have said "mix" not boil.  Of all the recipes in the world.

I have since learned that cooking is a secret society.  There's little codes that you're somehow supposed to know.  For example, "folding".  How in God's name am I supposed to know what the hell "folding" is?  Folding like origami?  Fold it like the laundry? Folding it into an airplane?  Just tell me what the fuck to do and I'll do it.  I'll do anything.

But, moreover, the recipes are so competitive.  There's actually been more than one occasion when I've asked for a recipe only to feel that I have offended the recipe master in such a way it is unforgivable.  I might as well have called their mother a whore. They eye me up and down trying to determine if I'm worthy.  For all of those recipe hoarders out there:  I'll probably fuck it up anyway and it will end up tasting more like birch bark than skor bar cake.  If anyone asks, you didn't give me the recipe.  I pinkie promise.

Another sore note for me is that most good cooks only give partial details.  About five years ago a family member made the best macaroni and cheese I have EVER tasted.  I was so freaked out I HAD to have the recipe.  I received a sweet smile as I was told that it was simply the recipe on the back of the Catalli box.  I hit the macaroni and cheese lottery!  I practically flew home and started my own special batch.  I made sure to follow each line word for word.  When I was done it tasted like I picked it out of the garbage.  It was simply wet noodles with a hint of dull cheese.

That's cool though.  It's all about expectations.  I never, ever have to worry about hosting a dinner party at my house.  I can just get drunk, smoke and listen to Jay-Z.  POTLUCK much?

XO

A

Driving while Suppressing Middle Finger

My friend Jill used to let me drive her car when I didn't have my license.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that she didn't have her license either.  We were from Dartmouth...

ANYWAY...I remember the freedom of driving down the street.  I had this huge frantic smile from ear to ear.  Jill was screaming at me because, apparently, I drove a little bit too close to the parked cars.  She also wasn't very happy when I drove the whole way down Cranberry Crescent with her parking brake on.  No harm no foul my friends.

Then came the beloved day when I no longer drove illegally.  I was completely legit!  Which, it turns out, was not as much fun as being an illegitimate driver.

I hopped in my father's maroon 1994 Dodge Caravan and started cruising down Spring Avenue.  I turned the windows down and popped in my Jay-Z cassette tape.  The music was so loud you couldn't even make out the offensive language, but the volume was needed in order to drown out the high pitch squeal from the failing transmission.  I picked up anyone I knew or even recognized, smoked cigarettes, and dropped them off.  The long and the short of it, I was a fucking rock star.

Fast forward ** years later and I can't stand driving.  I don't seem to have it in me to want to drive around.  Plus, unless I have car seats in the back, I have no friends to pick up.  Moreover, if I did that, I wouldn't be able to smoke.  What would be the point of that?  People have told me that I no longer look cool listening to Jay-Z at bust and my post-baby belly doesn't allow me to comfortably low ride, or ride low, or whatever people call it these days.

The other day I was driving to work.  I had just dropped off my daughter at daycare and I was waiting to pull out onto the Bedford Highway.  I, unlike many others, am not in a rush because I realize that I can't control the traffic.  If I'm 5 minutes late for work, I'm sure I'll survive.  So, that said, I was wondering what the hell was going on with this man in his fancy Volvo wagon.  He seemed to be having some sort of spasm in his hand.  It flailed left to right, right to left, and back again.  His whole upper body shook and his eyes were angrily fixed on me.  I sort of stared at him with my mouth wide open.  What the fuck am I supposed to do about an epileptic attack??  It's not my condition for god's sake.  Then it hit me, he was waving me in.

Let me just say this.  If you are that upset about me easing onto a street that is already bumper to bumper, then just keep driving.  I'm sure the one car length lead will get you there so much faster Dipshit.  If I would have known he would have been that angry I wouldn't have even stopped.  I would have lit a cigarette, popped in the Jay-Z tape, put my seat back and gunned it into the traffic.  Listen, if I'm going to be treated like a piece of shit, at least let me deserve it.

Drive safe!

XO

A

I smoke...but don't worry, I'm not Pregnant

I am a smoker.

I smoke cigarettes.

So, due to extenuating circumstances (like my lungs) I promised my beautiful mother that I would quit smoking.  She gave me a time allotment. Twice now I have been granted an extension.  Now Mamma Bartlett means business.

So, when the dust began to settle and the new year was approaching, I opened up the conversation with her about quitting.  She was no longer granting me any interest free loans of time.  This was it.  Although I was smoking less than 10 cigarettes a day I was going to need help.  I asked my Mom if she had heard anything about the Patch.  She told me that it was great.  Fantastic! I thought.  Maybe this will be easier than I had anticipated.  She then says, "it worked for your Father".  Wait a second,"You mean my Father that died of Lung Cancer?". Fuck it, I popped the patch on anyway.

Most people don't understand why I would continue to smoke after my father died.  To put it into context, withholding nicotine from a smoker in crisis is sort of like telling a dehydrated person that they can't have a glass of water.  It just can't happen.

The good news is that I've been smoke free for 11 days now.  My lovely co-workers are the only ones who got the brunt of my nicotine withdrawal.  Although I'm quite sure they didn't notice when I tombstoned the Staples man for bringing me the wrong paper.  I'm also sure it wasn't apparent either when I plugged my ears and rocked back and forth in my chair while beat boxing "Under Pressure".

More useful information about me is that I have Newfoundland flowing through my blood and, moreover, my mother's maiden name is Brushett.  The Latin meaning of Brushett is:  Strength and pride while continuing to showcase a look of a 25 week offspring in the midsection post child-rearing.


Please remember this explanation as I reminisce about entering a room over the holidays and there stood an old friend that I hadn't seen in months.  She joyfully exclaimed "I didn't know!" and proceeded to touch my turkey jerky.  I advised that I also didn't know and began to stuff my face with Smartfood.  Unfortunately, I was not drunk and did not have a cigarette in my hand.  Had I been smoking, this whole situation could have been avoided.

The one and only time smoking would have proven beneficial and I was pretending to be healthy.

Ah well.  My stomach may be fully insulated, but at least my lungs will be clean in approximately 20 years.

Life is good : )

XO

A

Here I go...

Here I am, no longer a blogger virgin.  Well, at least I kept my virtue slightly longer in the blogging world. That's got to be worth something.  Yes?

So, here I am, kids lying awake in their rooms asleep.    Me sitting down with another herbal tea.  This is apparently supposed to squash my appetite.  I'm not so positive that's happening.  However, if I wake up tomorrow with potpourri growing out of my ears, I'll know why.

I have to tell everyone a huge secret.  I am being stalked.  This is scary shit and I'm in need of some serious help.  The most horrendous part is that it's the government.

So, I received something in the mail three months ago talking about toddlers.  Apparently Statistics Canada wants to learn more about behavioural traits in toddlers, and how, coincidently, I have a toddler...blah blah blah.  I do nothing about it.  Absolutely nothing.  So two months later, my phone rings.  Instead of screening, I pick up.  Stats Can is on the other end (....note to self, continue screening calls).  Turns out they want to do a "quick" survey about my kiddie.  I pretend that I'm being interviewed for parenting magazine in order to make it more enjoyable.  The problem is, the interview won't end. Every question is going back farther and farther..."When your daughter was approximately six hours, 32 minutes and 15 seconds old, what colour socks were you wearing"...that type of stuff.  Suddenly I am a misunderstood celebrity and I need to cut this interview off pronto.

Long story short, I shut it down before they could continue and I suggest they call me after Christmas.  I know what you're thinking, why didn't I tell them I would never finish the survey?  Here's the thing, I think, deep down, I truly enjoy it.

Look at it this way, they call twice a night (just for me!).  They will never give up until they talk to me (just me!!).  Suddenly I'm this crazy hot commodity.  Suddenly Stats Canada is that crazy hot Red Shirt that I used to see at the gym.  Suddenly I'm a size six with long flowing hair over my shoulders and just happen to be standing over an air vent which is forcing me to hold my dress down while seductively holding my knees together and at the same time screening my call.

Laugh all you want, but it's working.  And they keep calling.

XO

A