Live and learn . . .

Back in the late '90's, the family and I were in Montreal on a summer visit. The kids' dad had returned to Switzerland on his own a couple of weeks before the lil ones and I were scheduled to return, as he often did. Armed with kids, luggage, my permission letter to travel with my own children (don't even get me started!), I dropped in on my dad, who would ultimately drive us all to the airport. I whipped out the kids' passports, eager to show my dad how cute their pictures were. He agreed that they were indeed adorable (how could he not!) and my attention was diverted elsewhere. Later, we loaded the car with our bags and the kids and off we went. After parking, we headed into the airport where I took out our tickets and rooted around my purse for our passports. The passports I had handed to my dad! The passports he had never handed back to me!! The passports which were still sitting on his dresser top!!! ACK!!! My dad ran back to the car and drove like a bat out of hell all the way back to Otterburn Park. The ticket agent did her best to calm my nerves but eventually, she could hold the plane no longer and it took off, the kids and me still standing in the terminal. Shortly thereafter, my dad burst back into the terminal, the kids' passports in hand. And thus, the bargaining began. I was shuffled from one ticket agent to another, one airline to another. Solutions such as boarding the next day or boarding later that afternoon for the nominal extra fee of $800 were quickly discounted. Somehow, I managed to find an angel of a man, who clattered away for what seemed like forever on his keyboard, before informing me he could get us all back to l'Aéroport de Genève without any additional monetary penalty. He even apologized profusely for the fact that we would land a whole half hour later than if I would have made my scheduled flight. It took a great deal of restraint on my part not to catapult myself across the counter and smother him in kisses! (Instead, I wrote a lengthy letter to the airline, detailing his herculean efforts on my part and suggesting they make him president of the airline, complete with a gargantuan salary hike.) We made it back home later that day with an interesting story to boot.

I'd like to think that I'm older and wiser now. I'm taking no chances with my upcoming trip to California ... my passport is already in my purse! *grin*

This Old Heart of Mine . . .

I headed back to the hospital this morning to have the holter monitor removed and have an ECG performed. Coincidentally, I was matched up with the same Romanian tech as yesterday. After relieving me of my eight electrodes, he applied a new set for the ECG. Then, he adjusted them. And readjusted them. Checking the machine, he readjusted them again. I swear, I'm certain that after all that manhandling, he and I would be considered as married in most third world countries!

The lesson of the past two days is this: if you're going to need a test performed in a hospital, have it performed at the MGH's cardiology clinic. On both occasions, I barely had time to sit myself down before being called. The walk up the hill to the hospital took longer than the test itself! I have no idea how they manage to deal with their patients as quickly as they do, but I sure wish other departments took a lesson from this one. (That would be directed to Julia's back surgeon's clinic, where we spent 6 hours for her last appointment!)

So now I wait for my doctor's appointment to come along and give me (hopefully!) the good news. In the meantime, I have my trip to LA to keep my heart pitter pattering. I CAN'T WAIT!!!

*thumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthump*

My Telltale Heart

This morning, I added to my wardrobe. For the next 24 hours, I'll be wearing a holter monitor.

I had an extremely short wait (I know! I couldn't believe it either!) at the MGH before I heard my name being called, complete with Eastern European accent. The technician and I, a swarthy guy from Romania, quickly became acquainted. Of course, it helped that I was stripped down to my waist and that he was swabbing me with teeny patches alcohol swabs. It was a quick process; the only downside was having to be rubbed with sandpaper (apparently, it helps the electrodes to latch on to your skin), something the technician apologized profusely for having to do. Once the electrodes were all affixed and he had given me the required instructions, he graciously readjusted my boobs back into my bra. Needless to say, he and I are now officially dating. (ROFLMFAO!!!)

So here I sit, hoping I'll have another bout of arrhythmia. Of course, if Murphy's Law holds true to form, this will be the medical equivalent of bringing your car to the garage because it's making a weird noise, only to have it purr like a kitten while the mechanic's listening to it.

I return tomorrow morning, when the monitor will be removed and an ECG performed. And then, I wait ...

... thump thump ... thump thump ... thump thump ... thump thump ...

(thanks to my personal photog, Julia ٩(-̮̮̃-̃)۶ )

Fun Fact #1 . . .

. . . c'est TELLEMENT bien meilleur quand c'est réciproque!

ｷⓤ¢ズ you, zombies . . . I'm an Anteater!

All this freakin' talk of the 'Rapture' has pissed me off. Mightily so! 6pm California time, they say. 2% of the population will immediately ascend to heaven, they say. The remaining 98% will be consumed by zombie-roaming beings and then everyone goes to hell, they say. Well, CRAP! Now, I won't even pretend to think that I'm going to be part of the 2% headed skyward *pausing to snicker*. So, here I am, 48 years old. I've been scoping out the opposite sex since I was about 11. If you ask me, I've dealt with more than my share of scuzzy personalities. Finally (FINALLY!) after about 37 years of men who excelled at the age old game of 'bait and switch', men who by the leanest of standards didn't even come close to being worthy of my time, I finally (FINALLY!) begin to have my faith instilled in the male gender of the species (yeah, you know who you are!), I begin to have some semblance of happiness take up residence in my life and now I have to worry about all that (and more!) coming to an end AND having to worry about starring in my own version of the Thriller video on top of everything else?!? All I know for sure is if I'm going to be carried off by a zombie, he'd better look like Rick Genest or I'll kick and scream for all I'm worth.

So, to all the undead who may or may not show up at some point this evening, I wave my ticket to LA at you and say ｷⓤ¢ズ you, zombies ... I'm an Anteater

I'd be safe and warm if I was in L . A . . .

Ok, I'll admit it ... I was certain that my newly acquired passport would sit around collecting dust for a while before I would put it to use by either crossing the border at Lacolle or Phillipsburg to go shopping in either Plattsburg or Burlington. Mais non, les amis! Instead, my ticket's booked and I'm giddy with excitement to be headed to Califor - ni - a !!! Swimmin' pools, movie stars! Now I know why Elly May was so bubbly and giggly!

I headed out today to run some errands, my lovely co-pilot, Julia, by my side and my trusty pup in the backseat. Once in the store, I reminded Julia that I needed sunscreen for my upcoming trip, I picked up a tube of 70 SPF. 'Mom! 70???' Julia makes a grab for a tube of 60 SPF and exclaims it will be more than enough. I pause, wondering how I could have possibly slept through her graduation from dermatology school and instead recall my own dermie telling me that I should never even think of going out in the sun with anything less than 60 SPF slathered on myself. Now, I'm one of those people who believe that if one is good, two can only be better ... so, if 60's good, 70 can only be better. I get one of those disgusted, eyerolling, upper lip slightly curling, 'I can't believe you're my mom!' looks and she gives up trying to convince me of the error of my ways. She will never understand me - she who needs only to lie in the scorching sun for a couple of days to look as though she lives on some tropical island ... she who retains her tan lines well into the winter months ... she who I've dubbed 'Cinnamon Girl' since she was a teeny lil thing running around in a monokini. I, on the other hand, need only to think of the same scorching sun to have my freckles seemingly triple in volume and my shoulders burn. 70 it is. Suddenly, my eye is caught by another tube and I squint disbelievingly. 110 SPF! I had no idea such a thing even existed! I tap Julia on the shoulder and point to the tube, asking, 'Why bother even going out?' 'Seriously!', she replies and we giggle, walking away.

So yeah .. California. Me. If I'm dreaming, don't you dare pinch me! Mmmm ... California Dreamin' ...

PS Happy 81st, Daddy ... xoxoxo

Girl's got her groOOoOoOoOoove back!

I have a new found appreciation for Tee Oh. While I'd be hard pressed to say I love the city (I mean, c'mon ... does anyone actually love it there?), I found more to appreciate there this time around.

Besides the drive (and anyone who claims to know me knows how I can't refuse a good drive anywhere), I began by doing one of my most favorite TO things to do ... visiting my Robbie. It was a long overdue visit for me and one that went a long way to soothe my soul.

The following day is one I will definitely tuck away into the scrapbook of my mind. A day trip into cottage country, a stop for lunch outdoors on a sunny terrace (pigging out on the bestest sweet potato fries EVER!) and a drive-in movie (Thor bit the big one but Rango was a scream!).

On Monday, I was taken to lunch by my first high school boyfriend. Another sunny terrace and more nonstop conversation. A really good time for our 'first date' as Colin pointed out, since we'd never ventured out of the hallowed halls of RHS back when we were 'dating'.

Tuesday will go down in history as my longest lunch ever. JoAnne and I met up and talked and talked and talked and then talked and talked and talked s'more. Somewhere in the midst of all that talking, we managed to eat. And after five hours of seeing us take root in their restaurant and listening to us laugh uproariously at just about everything, we were asked to please vacate the table for their supper crowd. Frankly, I could have easily stayed another five hours! I'm SO looking forward to doing it again, JoAnne!

The eve of my departure found me scoffing pizza and shuffling cards, although not at the same time. While my competition and I were well matched and the game was close, I lost. Well, I lost the game that evening but I prefer to think it was only the first game in a looooooong chain of games, one or more of which I still hope to win one day.

At some point on Wednesday, I lost misplaced my groove. Its absence was noticeable and not immediately or easily remedied. It's back now though and as a friend pointed out, it was never really missing. I never actually lost my groove, I merely slipped out of the groove but still circled the lip. Maybe that's why it wasn't a long absence.

So this girl's got her groove back. And all is right with my world again.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .

1.  The bad guys don't always wear black and the good guys don't always wear white.
2.  You can't always get what you want.
3.  In the end, we always get what we all deserve.

An open letter to Louis

Stop. Just stop.

Stop with the emails, FB messages, the gifts, the calls. And then when you've stopped, repeat after me:  'too little, too late'.

It strikes me from your incessant emails that your recollection of our time together differs vastly from mine, so let me share some of my memories with you. I remember being a back burner girlfriend, a woman who sat around while her man chased women as though he was still single. I remember feeling like crap more often than not because you made me feel as though I was not enough. I used to think I didn't deserve you. Now I know how true that statement really was - I didn't deserve you. I deserved much better. You recently wrote that our good times far outnumbered our bad times. I disagree. Of course, that could be because you caused most of the bad times and inflicted them on me. And the illusion that you're habouring of us having remained friends after we broke up? Pfft! We weren't friends while we were dating; I considered us even less so post-breakup.

I find it ironic that you have shown me more attention in the past three months than I feel you showed me during our two years together. But then it struck me ... I have become to you exactly what those other women were - someone beyond your reach. You chased me until you had me and then turned your eyes to the next prey. And then the next. And then the next. Now, despite a three month long silence on my part, you continue to want me back in your life. You always said that with every action, there is a consequence. Well, your actions pushed me away. There's your consequence.

Despite it all, I am thankful for the lessons you taught me. I learned that when a guy comes out and tells you that he is selfish and that it is all about him, run for the nearest door. I learned that when he can get up, prepare himself a meal without even asking you if you want anything, it is time to burn rubber. I learned that concessions are not meant for only one person to make alone. I learned that three strikes applies to a ball game and not the amount of times I should forgive you for shit you had no business doing in the first place. I learned that it takes a lot more effort to pretend you're happy than it does to just find someone new who makes your happiness their priority.

So, the next time you're sick for another six months, find someone who will sit up with you at 4 am while you text gibberish in your hallucinatory state. Someone who will accompany you to your doctor appointments and advocate for your treatment. Someone who will stay with you for days upon end because the minute she leaves, you just sit and quiver on the couch until she returns. Someone who will lose sleep worrying whether you will actually try to off yourself after learning you had conceived a plan to do just that. Someone else who will help take care of your dad when you are too busy with work and your siblings cannot be bothered. Someone to run your errands. Someone as pathetic as I used to be.

So you're lonely now? Too bad, so sad. Call Ella. Maybe she'll care. Maybe she won't. But rest assured that I don't. Your happiness is no longer my priority, not even my concern. I do not wish you any ill; that would take consideration of you on my part. Instead, I don't think of you at all. I am too busy being happy again in a way I had forgotten people can be happy.

So stop. Just stop. Do did done.

Fly me to the moon . . .

Several days before I was expecting it, Canada Post showed up on my doorstep with a registered package containing ... *drumroll* ... TA DA DA DAAAAAAH! .. my new passport! And while I still have no idea when I will use it or where I might be headed, I am now ready, willing and able to jet off with the shortest of notice.

Now, if I could only learn not to over pack!