Quitting Smoking

I quit smoking 13 years ago. I was at a pack a day and was 30 years old, so I had been in-that-place for a long time.

I remember starting in December because my goal was to be 'clean' by January 2.

I moved to a lighter cigarette and started decreasing until I was down to my one in the morning and one in the night. January 1, just after midnight was my last one. I truly turned it into a good-bye-forever-my-love kind of thing. :D

It had to be that way though because I did really like it... but like a bad relationship, it was very one-sided and so Cig(arette) had to go.

That was the year we decided to start a family too and I couldn't expose a baby to that kind of bad relationship.

I missed Cig quite a bit for a while (a couple of weeks) but then I got pregnant and focused on that. There certainly were times that I was lonely for Cig. Every time I would start to think about how nice I felt when Cig was around I would have to remind myself that when he wasn't around, and I was desperately needing to be with him, that he couldn't really care less. He would only come around in exchange for money.

I had to stop my relationship with anyone who still had a relationship with Cig. Why? Because he has a way of really making you want him when he's around. He can be very sexy to some people, as I'm sure you are well aware. ;)

So, even my relationship with Coffee ended for while too, though now we have a nice casual relationship on the weekends and I look forward to long weekends when I get an extra day to spend with Coffee.

And now, at 43, I'm relieved that I did end my relationship with Cig. He really was everything to me at one time and now looking back, I realize that there were some great things that I missed out on because of his 'draw'.

Heck, I remember at the very beginning, sometimes all I could focus on was making it to the next minute without breaking down and going to Cig. Then I focused on the next minute... and the next minute... and the next. Then I focused on days, then weeks, then months.

Sometimes, I would go to a restaurant or party and Cig would be there. I would say to my partner, "We can't stay here. Cig. is here and I can't deal with that right now." It was worth it though because I stayed strong that way. Eventually, the 'draw' of Cig went away and now I don't like him at all, even though I still remember how much I used to like him...

In the end though, like with any past relationship gone bad, I learned a lot about myself through the process. Most importantly, I learned that I am strong and do not have to put up with one-sided relationships in my life. I can move on and though I will experience loss for a little while, I know that eventually those feelings will pass and my life will be better than it ever was before.

So keep it up. I know it can be a minute-by-minute struggle. When you finally decide to end your relationship for-once-and-for-all, you only have to make it to the next minute... and then the next... and then the next.

It will get easier as time passes.

A Gentleman's Passing

Czar has finally passed on.

We got Czar, a beautiful GSD (German Shepherd Dog) from the Sarnia Humane Society in October 2001. He was to be a partner for our big old Bouvier, who had lost her partner the week before.

He was 66 lbs, about 20 lbs too light for a Shepherd of his height and mostly blind due to the brown clouds floating over his pupils. He didn't really seem that interested in people... or me.

Anyway, a big German Shepherd was not my first choice. But one of the techs at the Humane Society urged me to have another look at him and give him a chance. Then he met my daughter and bent his head down to brush it on her 4 year old chest. We knew we couldn't leave without him. He was claimed to be 6-7 years old, already grey around his muzzle and had heartworm. Being the deal-maker I am, we got him for half price.

His first night home, he was outside while I was making dinner, when my husband came home from work. The car headlights spooked him. Not yet knowing this was his home, he jumped the four foot high fence and was gone. We called all the area Humane Societies and Dog Pounds, we searched and searched, and we took notices around to the neighbours letting them know that we had a GSD, still wearing a seatbelt harness, wandering around. What a mess!

We would put a dish of food out each night. Each morning it would be gone but we never knew if it was Czar eating it, or some other animal. Then the farmers around us began taking down the corn. We were in a panic but still could not find him anywhere and no one had seen him.

One day, I was holding my one year old son, looking out the front window and saw Czar crossing the neighbours driveway. I threw my son on my back, grabbed my daughter, grabbed a piece of leftover steak out of the fridge and ran out to get him.

As I approached him quickly, he began to hurry in the other direction. I panicked, knowing that if he disappeared into the corn field, I wouldn't be able to find him or track him, having the two children with me.

I quickly realized the problem was that he still didn't know me, didn't know his new name, didn't trust strange people and had no idea where he was. Top all of that with the heartworm infection that made it hard for him to breathe properly and of course he was afraid.

So I sat on my haunches, holding the steak out toward him, coaxing him gently to come get the steak, praying that he would get close enough for me to grab his seat belt harness. Well, it took a while but eventually he did. Then I was praying that he wouldn't bite me when I grabbed the harness. He didn't... thankfully.

And so this was where life really began with Czar.

Because of the heartworm infection, he did not run, he did not play. After about a week at our house, he realized this was home and no longer had any desire to wander off. So, we began the heartworm treatment which he just barely survived. Then his recovery really began... and boy did he recover.

After the heartworm was gone, if he knew he was in an open space, he would run like the wind. Over time, we managed to pack about another 20 lbs onto his lithe frame, bringing him to around the 85lb range, which was book-weight for his height. He still ran like the wind and with his back floating above the ground, you could barely see his feet touch the earth.

Finally, when our house went gluten free, the brown clouds in his eyes (pannus) receded to the outer rims, leaving his pupils clear for him to run anywhere, as he wished... And run he did.

Pannus

Most documentation of pannus notes that it is common in GSDs and no known cure exists. A lot of documents claim some relation to the sun. When his pannus cleared via diet, I posted his/our story on the internet at a place called "BrainTalk" where both medical and lay people talked science stuff about the brain, challenges and how it all related to every day living. Sad to say, this site is no longer in existence.

Eventually, a vet from the U.S. saw one of my postings about Czar and contacted me to compare notes. He had resolved a pannus issue in a much younger GSD and believed the removal of all corn to be the deciding factor.

In reality we had both put the dogs on diets where only minimal amounts of rice was allowed, so there is no way of knowing if it was actually gluten, corn or some other grain related item. For more information, contact Dogtor J, he's very good about responding and happy to tell great recovery stories. Though we have lost contact over the years, I know he is still working full force to help people understand food intolerance in animals: http://www.linkedin.com/in/dogtorj

Czar spent time on soccer fields watching his kids play and enjoyed sitting nicely while the other kids made a fuss of him. He enjoyed visits from various canine friends. He liked to wander out to the road to say hello to the lady around the corner who always stopped to pet him as she passed our house during her evening walks. He loved making visits to Granny's house to get special treats and hang out with his friend Molly. His last visit was just five days ago. When he knew we were going for a visit, he was pacing behind the van, waiting to be lifted in.

The last two years, he really began to show his age. At night, he would sometimes wander out into a field next door and seem to forget where he was. We would have to go out with a flashlight to search for him in the dark. We would find him just sitting quietly. It was like he was waiting for someone to come fetch him because once he saw us or the flashlight, he would come quickly and happily.

This was also around the time he developed a brain (myelin) disorder that began to render his back legs difficult to manipulate. This didn't seem to cause him any pain but created difficulties doing stairs and eventually, because of the loss of sensation creeping up his back, we knew it was only a matter of time.

For more info. about GSD and peripheral neuropathy: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/1452810

When he was 10 or 11 years, he had more time under his belt than many GSDs see, so of course we began to expect his passing.

Well, he continued on for another 4 years. Even though is back legs were not cooperating the way he would've liked, he could still go in and out but no longer slept upstairs in our bedroom. For several years, he didn't get better but he didn't get worse either. Then in the last week or two, I noticed his back end seemed to suddenly lose a drastic amount of control.

No matter, even a couple of days ago, he was very excited to see his friend Dakota from two doors over, who comes to visit our guys every once in a while. We all look forward to Dakota's visits because the three dogs (and any visiting canines we may have) are always so excited to see each other.

They all say hello in their doggie way, then George (our 9 year old rottieX) and Dakota run and play for a bit and then all three dogs sniff around together like they are in search of something crucial to the very continuance of our planet... until Dakota hears his Mom calling for him out their window.

Another dear friend who he always enjoyed seeing was Peter. Peter is a retired school teacher and one of the neighbours we met when my husband was delivering notes, all those years ago, about our lost GSD. Whenever we went away overnight, if Granny couldn't come to stay with our animals, it was Peter who would come to take care of everyone for us.

Just two days ago, Czar was lying in the yard when Peter came to visit. Peter went to where Czar was lying to stroke his head and talk to him and I wondered, at the time, how many more times I would see that familiar scene.

Last night, I took the kids out to the drive-in while my husband stayed in to do some work. My husband, this morning, told me that when it was time to go to bed, Czar wouldn't come in. He was pacing the yard slowly.

When I got home, I found him lying in the grass looking fairly comfortable but a little too close to a ladder. When I called him, he didn't get up. I figured his back legs needed some help getting into the standing position, which was becoming a common scenario. But as it turned out, his back legs could no longer stand even when I placed them in position under him.

I was able to carry him to his usual spot in the yard but the pressure on his chest from being carried took his breathe away. He has never, in the eight years he's been with us, spent the night outside. I was caught. It was a beautiful night... but would he feel like I'd left him? I was pretty sure he wouldn't make it until morning and to carry him all the way inside might be too hard on his breathing.

My daughter, almost 12 years old now, was still awake so I brought her down to say good-bye. As we went outside, we found his breathing had calmed. He tried to get up. So, I managed to get hold of him again, and carried him into the house, putting him in his favourite sleeping spot in the living room, near the bottom of the stairs. We made sure he had water nearby and that he was as comfortable as possible, lying on his side. Then I sent my daughter to bed.

He did struggle through part of the night with his breathing and getting comfortable. I kept bringing him water and rubbing his ears the way that always calmed him. Finally, his breathing calmed substantially and eventually, I couldn't stay awake any longer.

Before I slept, I prayed that he wouldn't make it through the night because it did now seem he was in pain or at the very least, very uncomfortable. In the morning I would have to make the difficult decision of taking him in to be put down. I really didn't want to do that because he would've hated going to the vet.

The vet terrified him to the point that we always joked around, even in his younger days, that after all he'd been through, he'd die from a heart attack just going to the vet. Through the years, home was always his favourite place.

Thankfully he passed sometime between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m right there in his favourite sleeping spot after eight wonderful years with us, at the generous age of 14 or 15 years old.

A special thanks to all who have acknowledged Czar to be the special gentleman that he was through all the years he spent with us.

Kim

Yes, that is a chicken riding on his back in the attached photo. Her name is Blackie. It was taken last year.

Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I've not proofed this yet and had some difficulty when to use the past tense and when to use the present tense.

Adopting senior animals can be a truly wonderful and rewarding experience.

Czar was a bird hunter when he came to us and still learned to live with chickens and ducks shortly after his arrival without the use of any corporal punishment.

Do Or Die

It's tax season. Yes, there is an element of "do or die" when it comes to taxes... Death and taxes, eh?

Need I say more? Well of course!

To say that trying to implement a new accounting program during tax season isn't bothering me would be a lie. I'm in an absolute panic to get it done on time so I don't get thrown in jail. And of course there is NOT enough time to get it done. There is never enough time to get taxes done in the day to dayness of running a business and raising children.

But it's not the reason I'm writing today. As always, I like to be a little 'gray' with my introductions and let the reader's mind wander a bit. ;)

***

I'm writing because last night something happened that is distracting me, on and off, to the point of tears. I can't focus properly on inputting my 400+ inventory items, which turns tax season into a do or die thing for me. But this 'do or die' by paper, is nothing compared to the images rolling around, heedlessly, in my brain.

So, perhaps if I get it all down, I will be able to let it go and get on with my paperwork in a more focused manner.

***

Now, it begins with me being pretty hard-nosed about my kids learning how to defend themselves. I guess it comes from a lifetime of being female... and a fairly small female at that. (I didn't break the 100lb mark until I was in my early twenties.)

And let's face it, just being female who reaches the age of 20, means that, at some point in your life, you've had a big, smelly, unpredictable man attempt to attach himself to you in ways that do more than make me shiver.

Fortunately, there are more gallant men out there than not who will come to your aid. But you can't always count on them being around... or being tougher than the guy with his big grubby paws on you.

Working in a couple of bars for a while in my late teens and twenties didn't do much to reduce these unpleasant occurrences. But you can't live your life being too afraid to do new things. And when a good paying job comes along... you take it, worms and all.

These experiences made me realize that I wanted to learn how to defend myself in a constructive way. I just never knew where to go to learn what I needed to know.

And I think, since so much of my life, I've depended upon my wits to get me out of uncomfortable situations, combined with a difficulty believing that I really would be able to effectively defend myself no matter what PHYSICAL skills I developed, I've never pursued self-defence classes.

Add to that being carjacked in 1998 in front of a courthouse and barely managing to get my 13 month old daughter out of the car before the very large, six foot (+) tall man could zoom away with her, and you've got a good recipe for a somewhat paranoid, 5'4", 120lb human-wandering-the-planet-till-death-do-us-part-thank-you-very-much.

It also creates a mother who is determined that her children not feel the same helplessness in their lives, that she has felt in hers.

I am pragmatic, if nothing else, and completely aware that most of these situations are simply a part of the life experience. The difference in the impact upon the psyche is more about YOU than about the person offending you.

***

So, it' s been really bothering me that the kids are still not learning how to defend themselves.

I've been contemplating calling up a man, locally, who I know teaches self-defence classes. I know he keeps the classes extremely affordable. It's not too far to drive. And after some socialization time with his family a few years back, I found them to be a wonderfully dedicated family unit.

So what stopped me from calling? Doubt.

There's a part of me that just doesn't believe that any amount of physical skill is going to help in a truly (or even somewhat) frightening situation.

Wits (and a good dollop of street smarts) work. That's what I've learned.

Besides, the kids have taken Aikido before and it didn't really seem all that effective. Eventually, it was so far away and so expensive that we stopped going.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I ran into this local-self-defence-instructor-man's wife at the library.

"What the heck?" I thought. "Maybe the universe is sending me a sign."

So I asked her about his classes, fully expecting her to give me their phone number, and tell me to call for details from her husband.

I knew that I would take the phone number politely and probably never get around to calling.

Guess again...

She knew ALL the details.

She said NOW would be the PERFECT time to join because there are other new people who just started. She told me we could JUST SHOW UP and try a class. She told me the next class was tomorrow night. And she told me more...

Now aside from being in awe that she knew all the details (as many spouces/spice have no idea what goes on in their mate's point of self-employment), I also considered it to be a slap in the face from the universe.

I was being spoonfed all the information I'd been wishing for.

When this kind of thing happens, I worry that if I don't sit up, pay attention, and take advantage of what end's up in my lap... the universe will punish me for being stupid, unaware and COMPLETELY unmotivated.

And I become especially motivated regarding messages from the universe when my children's future safety may be at risk.

So, it was time to get off my butt and focus on getting the task of self-defence in order.

"What the heck." I thought, "If nothing else, the children can at least become more familiar with how their own bodies work. And it's so affordable, it seems silly not to sign them up."

***

So the next night, I packed all the kids into the van so the older kids could try a class and I could watch. Ho hum. I really still wasn't thrilled about two evening classes a week. Life is so busy...

But I was resigned to it. After all, we mustn't ignore messages from the universe.

All I can say is... AMAZING!

I could not avoid signing up the children.

The "master", really is a "Master". That about sums it up.

***

Now, fortunately or unfortunately, my eldest child is going through a phase of not wanting to join in on anything. Even if I make her join and go, she will just stand in the middle of the floor, like a lump, bringing the whole class down about 500 notches.

She doesn't get that from me, those are her father's genes coming through. And you better believe he 'got it' that night when we arrived home after I had to pull her out of the class for being a lump.

Nevertheless, onward and upward, I decided if she wasn't going to take the class with her brother, then I would. For over ten years, if we had any extra money, it always went to something for the kids... no matter how much I wanted something for myself... as is the way with motherhood... as it should be.

But this time, the instruction of that class, moved me enough to not want to miss out on this rather rare opportunity for self-development... So, I have taken her place in the class.

And I am not just taking-her-place-la-dee-da.

I'm TAKING-HER-PLACE-HOORAY!

I feel like I'm doing something that I should've done a lifetime ago!... Two lifetimes ago!

I feel like another piece of my life puzzle has dropped into place.

Somehow... I feel the universe is at work again.

***

The "master" not only shows the moves in slow motion, he shows what will come next and explains all the physics behind why the moves work.

THIS is why I am moved enough to put the money out to take this class. He has won my faith. I now believe that, indeed, perhaps I CAN physically defend myself effectively! I GET it!

***

Which brings us to last night... my third class... and the reason for my focal undoing today...

We were doing wrist hold escapes. Of course, always the cynic, I wanted to really see if they worked. The Master saw my need to see 'proof' and came over to let me experience, first hand, the receiving hand of the defensive technique.

Granted, he is much taller than I, and it goes without saying, much stronger. But what he did, was go through the move in slow motion, with me as the attacker.

He showed me that I was doing a lot of things wrong as a defender.

He showed me that being far away from the attacker was not very effective. He couldn't get away from me.

Then he showed me that getting close to my attacker was more effective.

So again, I grabbed his wrist as tightly as I could.

And, as the defender, he swung around me (again, in slow motion) and his chest actually brushed past my shoulder. As he did that, I could smell him.

Don't get me wrong, he didn't smell bad. He smelled like soap, actually... but I'll get back to that.

Then, though I could not see it, he followed through with the next move, using his free arm, which was, at that point, behind me, to reach around and lock my head (giving him the ability to also snap my neck).

What was so unnerving was that I could not see his arm come around but I felt it.

The air moved... and I felt it.

It was astounding in a creepy kind of way.

The next thing I knew, I was completely under his control with no way out.

And this is why I cannot focus today. All I can think about is how helpless I truly am.

I'm in a sheer state of panic.

Why? After all, I'm learning the techniques. I'm obviously being taught by an effective teacher and master.

The Master is a kind and thoughtful man who cares enough about people to help them avoid getting hurt. He is an excellent instructor, a good husband (I see his happy, involved wife, so I know he is a good husband), a great father (I see him out and about with his happy kids) and a man who is predictable to the point of explaining the "where's and why's" of everything he does... and he does not smell bad.

Well, something clicked, being touched by a man who is not my husband... and feeling the air move... and knowing how much bigger and stronger than me he was...

I was slammed by the dichotomy of the Master in relation to a few old, previously forgotten, unpleasant memories of bigger, stronger men who were not so predictable and did not smell like soap (who all seem to be looming over me while I sit at my desk today)...

***

Of course, what happens from the point of view of a somewhat creative, somewhat paranoid person, such as myself?

I then lie in bed thinking about how helpless I am. How most (if not all) men are bigger and stronger than me. How many of them are unpredictable. How a lot of them smell like alcohol or worse. It's about remembering having to 'wit' myself out of situations and the smells of those situations like it was only yesterday...

And I think about how, if those old smells get behind me, I won't be able to see them coming either...

And I think about how I'd like a few less 'old memories' looming over my children when they are sitting at their desks doing taxes when they're all grown up.

I cannot get a blackbelt or learn these techniques fast enough.

I am committed.

And all my children WILL learn to defend themselves... like it or not.

For once, there's nothing gray about it... in what is usually
"The Gray Zone".

Nail Crucifiction

When I was in my early twenties I decided that climbing the corporate ladder entailed looking 'finished'. Being female, this meant having my nails done.

My favourite finish was a painted French manicure because, while looking fairly natural, it hid an assortment of imperfections.

Unfortunately, these French manicures would last only a week, sometimes less. And so I began to have my nails wrapped in acrylic or silk. This made the polish last for about a month. Time-wise and convenience-wise, I loved it!

But at the bottom of the corporate ladder, I didn't have the time or money to have my nails done by a professional every week. And I definitely didn't have $100 a month for the nail wraps, which is what it cost way back then.

So, I began to buy my own acrylic, silk and paints. This resolved all my problems with the exception of not being very good at doing nails.

But like everything, time, practise and experience were the perfect remedies.

Eventually, I got good enough at it that people started asking me to do their nails.

Making hands look beautiful was something I actually found quite enjoyable. I was happy to oblige anyone who was so inclined as to sit at my theoretical nail bench... And of course I'm being quite literal when I talk about my "theoretical" nail bench. Even back then, I was waxing rhetoric. And doing someone's nails just meant that I had a captive audience. I was in my glory!

Over the years, especially with impending pregnancies, I was persuaded to let go of my 'finished hands' because of the chemical exposure all this 'stuff' entailed. And so I have had a fifteen year hiatus from my own personal, beloved connection with art (if you can call it that) and theory.

Now, with my baby-making years behind me, our worst family toxin identified as gluten (not nail polish) and an eleven-year-old daughter (that didn't come out the way I meant it); not to mention her bzillion girlfriends who all love pretty things; not to mention their mothers, who are now my bzillion girlfriends who all love pretty things; and another impending Christmas that begs for 'special things', I find myself yearning to paint nails once again.

Colour me surprised at this! I had convinced myself so well that I would never paint again, I had given away my brushes.

And so my daughter and I went out to an art store this weekend to pick up the brushes I would need to reinstate nail art back into our lives.

Well, honestly, $70 later, I'm thinking that there had better be a lot more Christmas Nail Joy to spread around to more than just two people! And so I began e-mailing everyone we know...

Lucky for me, there is no shortage of volunteers and at least three out of the five days before Christmas have been allocated just for Nail Painting Tea Parties.

My daughter and I (and our nails) spent the morning revelling in practising up on our painting techniques.

And though we've had, and will have, a wonderful time with nails this Christmas, I have issues.

Anyone surprised?!?

***************

The first of my concerns, having a young daughter, entails sending a message that what she is, without fake toppings, is not good enough. I worry, immensely, about the slippery slope of false perfection. Am I opening the door to silicon breast implants?!!

Let's face it, plastic nails are only a hop, skip and $5000 from plastic breasts. And with the Bratz having taken over from where Barbie left off, I think we all need to be a little afraid. Let's face it, Barbie looks pretty tame in comparison to a Bratz doll and Milee Sirius!

And so one of the ways I hope to tame it all down, is to show people that two (or nine) inch nails are not required in order to do something special for Christmas (or whatever).

Another problem I have is that, over the years, I've become a bit of an Earth Nut. So, all these chemicals are getting me down a bit. I've reconciled this a couple of ways: I've purchased only crystal stones (not plastic) and am refusing to do acrylic or silk overlays, thereby reducing our contribution to plastic particles roaming around the planet.

And the beads I use are all glass. Again, I'm refusing to use plastic.

Alas, if only I could find an answer for chemical free nail polish!

Ah well, at least there is some improvement. But I remain unconvinced that we have done enough, considering the way we crucify our planet all year long with chemicals and plastics.

Can I convince myself that this chemical and plastics binge, succumbed to only at Christmas, is acceptable?

We'll see how I feel, after I finish waxing nostalgic about the plight of our planet to every nail bearing visitor, the week before Christmas.

I use the excuse that I am filling people's lives with Christmas joy and cheer; wonderful colours and sparkling visions.

But, I know what words are also coming to you, dear reader... "hypocrisy" and "illusion".




As usual, nothing is black and white, here in The Gray Zone.

Here are a few more of the end results of my first attempt after a 15 year sabbatical:

The Beauty of New Mothers

After having my first beautiful baby... and viewing the after-birth photos where I sporting that after-birth-hit-by-a-truck-look, I decided that for my second, I wanted to look *nice* right after...

Not perfect, not model-like, not Renoir-painting-like... just *nice*.

So, at 11:00 p.m., after my water broke, I went and had a shower and put on a full face of makeup.

The whole time I was 'getting ready', my mother and husband were pacing the kitchen saying "We think you should get to the hospital... NOW dear!"

It was supposed to be a homebirth but the midwife was delivering her 3rd baby of the night at the hospital. So, we had to go to her. Honestly, I was probably delaying a little, in hopes that the baby would come before we left... so that I wouldn't have to go to the hospital at all.

Nevertheless, I could delay no longer and we eventually got to the hospital, an hour away (well, not the way my husband was driving that night).

After an entire night of labour (with no sleep to speak of), at about 6:30 a.m., it was deemed that the baby was in distress.

An immediate emergency c-section was scheduled. I was lucky that the o.b. was kind enough to let me keep my contact lenses in so my first vision of the baby wouldn't be all fuzzy and vague...Thank goodness for her!... But the makeup all had to come off.

Needless to say, no makeup, no colour, an entire night of labour... The hit-by-a-truck-look was once again mine to claim. :D

I claimed it with honour though!

Since the baby was in distress, we were quite worried about his welfare. Our worries were completely unfounded. He was long, skinny, robust with attitude! (The o.b.'s first words about him, before she could even pull him out were, "Hey, this kid's fighting me!" It turned out that the cord was making a figure-8-loop around his neck and under his arm).

I happily sported my hit-by-a-truck-look in exchange for his health and safety... but still looked, with amazement, at the post-birth photos of other women who do appear rather Renoir-like.

For the third baby, I had given up the idea of ever looking good after giving birth... And so I simply became completely self-righteous about the whole hit-by-a-truck-look that I was sporting! ;)

What brought this up now, at this late date? Yet another after-birth photo of an everyday woman... a photo that is beautiful enough that it took my breathe away... sigh...

Pppphththt!

You Can Smile...

On the way home from Aikido, as he sipped from his juicebox straw, my seven-year-old Samuel said to me,

"You know Mom, when you lose a tooth... you can smile while you drink from your juicebox." :)

***********

So, though he can't whistle, he can smile.

It always works out... in The Gray Zone...



This actually happened September 28, 2007. I had posted it on my Facebook Wall... but decided to delete The Wall today and didn't want to lose the note. :)

Holiday Video Games

My son loves looking around the net for free games.

This one is a free holiday game that I have found to be both completely frustrating and addictive.

Thin Ice Cut holes in the ice to trap the monsters in the water!

Play this free game now!!

Have fun everyone! :)

I'll DO It MYSELF!!

Now you might think that I'm speaking of one of my children... particularly my two year old.

I'm not. I'm talking about myself.

So, here I am, a forty-one year old.... wanting to do *everything* myself. And if I don't know how to do something... give some time... I'll figure it out.

Well, I haven't had a real hairstyle for about ten years. I did actually schedule a few hair appointments after my eldest child was born but it got cancelled for some need of hers... and then got cancelled because of the house... and then some other reason... and now I forget why.

So, I guess I haven't had a hair cut for ten years mostly because I was busy with other stuff; a little bit because I'm too cheap to pay for a hair cut; and then once it got long enough... because I wouldn't trust any hair dresser with a pair of scissors in their hand near me.

Anyone with waist length hair knows that hair dressers get really freaked out by any hair that's too long and have the insatiable desire to cut it. And over the years I had become quite attached to my fairly long braid.

Until... a little girl asked me if I was my one-year-old son's Granny.---!

Then, my ten-year-old daughter started telling me that my hair that was beginning to go salt and pepper, really wasn't doing me any favours.

I wasn't insulted. Kids think stuff and say stuff. They don't mean to hurt your feelings... and so my feelings weren't hurt. But it got me to thinking back when my Mom was about 40 and didn't colour her hair... and I thought the same thing about her. I was making an accurate account of my mother's 'appearance status' back then, and I'm pretty sure my daughter was giving an accurate account of my own appearance status also.

So, I went out and matched some hair colour to my dark-underneath hairs.

Big mistake. There was nothing wrong with the colour. It was beautiful. But it looked awful with my skin colour. It was almost too rich. So, I called the hair colour company and asked them what to do. They told me that because some of my original hair was blonde, I needed to see a professional or I might just end up burning the hair off if I tried to fix it myself.

Well, I've had more hair-tastrophes in a salon chair than I ever had at home. So, I picked up a 'streaking kit' put on the cap and had my darling husband pull the hairs out the back holes that I couldn't reach.

I kept a close eye on it and said a lot of prayers. It came out a lot less dark, a little more red but closer to the natural colour of my 'top' hair. So, I called it a day and considered myself successful.

Nevertheless, I was still plagued with feeling like I wasn't quite where I should be. My braid, that I was now so attached to, always seemed to get really messy around the nape of my neck.

I feel too old to walk around looking so 'unfinished'... and too young to have earned the messy, fly-away, waist-length hair that I'll be able to sport as an eccentric sixty year old, whose mind is just filled with too many thoughts and too much wisdom to be bothered with the inannities of hair.

I continued thinking about the 'why's of my looking older. I finally decided that having no bangs just meant that people could see the 'surprise lines' on my forehead... and with three children, two big dogs, fourteen chickens, two ducks, a husband and a solar gate, there are a lot of surprises around here!

Also, several weeks ago, my daughter got a burr caught in her hair. Her hair reached below her bum at the time. The burr was up, just above her waist. And so we cut her hair all the way up to armpit level. I just cut it straight across. Now, her really long hair always looked good and healthy and had nice edges. But this shorter, long hair has edges that are just, comparatively speaking, *much* nicer. And I've been thinking about that every time I catch a glimpse of her from the back.

I've also been thinking about how easy my 'layered' hair was when I was in my teens... and it always seemed to manage to just fall-in-place. I need that again. I want that again!

And so through this last week I began collecting my tools, and my thoughts, in the upstairs bathroom. One day, I put the hair straightener up there. Another day I brought up the hair scissors... another, the haircutting comb.

I didn't actually know I was going to do it *today*... but it turned out that today would be "The Day".

And though I'm sure to a practised eye, it looks awful... I have to tell you, I'm every bit as satisfied with it as I would be from a salon cut. And I *really* like the colour now too! This strikes me as being quite interesting because the hair colour was not changed at all today. It is exactly the same... but the cut really changed my whole perception of exactly how nice this 'new' (month old) colour is. (Consequently, my bio. Dad's wife, who is the *only* hairdresser I've ever trusted to give me my once-a-year trim, has been urging me for years to go a bit red. Now, that I've done it, I'm glad to admit that I think she was absolutely right! Thanks Fran!!)

Actually, truth be told, I'm probably more satisfied because I've still got two hundred dollars in my pocket.

Honestly, there are things I don't like about it. The bangs are a little too short... especially near my temples... but I've had plenty of hairdressers do to that to me anyway... So, no biggie. Besides, by Christmas they'll have grown enough for me to give them a trim back to where I want them.

All in all... not too bad, if I do say so myself. :)

But like everything in The Gray Zone, mixed feelings abound. Because though I like my updated look, I'm still looking forward to being that eccentric Granny with my somewhat dishevelled, salt and pepper, waist-length braid.

It's not all good and it's not all bad... here in... The Gray Zone.

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How I Did It

Now remember, this story could have easily come out with a horrifying ending. So, if anyone decides to give themselves a makeover the way I did... understand that you are taking your own risks and it's probably a 50/50 shot of really liking the outcome... or less...!

I certainly wouldn't have had anyone else to blame if I had really messed up my hair and I absolutely do not want to be blamed for anyone else's fiasco... So, as always, I must put in my usual disclaimer not to try this yourself at home.

I'm only listing the events for sake of the interest of the interested.

****************************************
I did the whole hair cut dry. One thing I did do before cutting it though was straighten my hair quite well.

So I cut my bangs first thinking that it might be all I needed to do. Still unsatisfied with my look, I moved to the next step of cutting about ten inches off the back length using the ponytail method. Still.... Bor-r-r-ring...

I still wasn't satisfied with the result and had to really think about how I could go about giving myself a 'long-layered' look which is something I've been thinking about for quite a long time.

Once I realized my direction, I figured this was probably going to be a pretty drastic change and so it became a family event.

Everyone took their share of photos so that I could post what I did step-by-step. So mind, the photos were all taken by a ten year old, a seven year old and a forty-one year old who enjoys cutting off the tops of people's heads.

Third, I used the comb to draw up the circle of hair, just above my ears, and put it into a pony tail on my forehead. I made sure, especially with the front hairs, that they were pulled quite tightly into the ponytail so that they would cut fairly evenly. This was when I realized that it might be worth a few photographs because it wasn't something I'd be able to go back and 're-stage' later. As you can see, it takes off almost another ten inches from some of the 'top' hair.

My husband says that the photo above is my 'Flock of Seagulls' look....
Or my "I Killed The Seagulls" look.

Consequently, the third photo above was taken by my seven-year-old son. He had to get up on the toilet to take it because the photo from his normal point of view was so scary!

Boy, I didn't realize how old, tired and scary(!) I look to him... even when I'm in a good mood!

BOO! MwaaaHaaaaHaaaa!!!

He has since reassurred me that I don't look like this to him all the time... "only sometimes, Mom"... Thank you, my darling boy. :D :/

And here are the two sections of hair that I'll send in to a cancer clinic for wig making:

Note: Even though you can see that the cuts the scissors made were fairly crooked, I did not do any touch-up cutting after the fact. I shook the hair out, finger combed it and it looked like this:

And finally: Front and back shots after shooting a bit of hairspray at the roots on the top of my head and applying my contacts and some makeup.

I must admit, it feels a lot the same as when, years ago, I went from shoulder-length hair to a brush cut. Which I also loved... but brush cuts have to be tidied up every week... and who's got the time for that with all the surprises going on around here. :)

Maybe I'll try something with henna, around Christmas time...

Getting Chicks to Get Along

Chicks can make life difficult, that's for sure.

Now don't get your nose all out of joint. :D

I'm talking about poultry.

The first batch really is quite easy... but the subsequent, newer flocks are more difficult. Why?

In real chicken life this is not such an issue because the little chicks usually have a Mother around to defend them all the time. However, bringing home a bunch of chicks from a breeder, breeds a whole new set of problems because the bigger chicks will peck the tiny chicks to death if they're allowed access.

Then, you've got to deal with 'gentle introductions as the newer chicks become teenagers, so that the older chickens don't assault them continually.

Here's a method that worked well for us:

At first, we just put the little day old chicks in a kiddie swimming pool during the day. And we kept them in a rubbermaid bin at night in our back entryway to keep them warm enough.

As they got older, they needed more room, so we built a covered pen to protect them during the day from rats, hawks and the other chickens. The older chickens free-ranged around the little chicks though, which I believe, is part of the process. It's just a bunch of 2x2s covered with chicken wire and a tarp on one end for sun/wind/rain protection. The bin that's located on its side in the pen, gives really good wind protection for the chicks that feel they want more coverage. We keep a towel on the 'floor' of it.Once the chicks became teens, we simply let them free-range in the yard with the older chickens. No one seemed to really notice that the barrier was gone. However, we still kept the younger ones in our back entryway at night.

Now, the teens have graduated to the large chicken pen where we keep the chickens when we leave the house. It gives them a fair bit of room to roam while covered with wire, while still being protected from the neighbourhood cats and hawks (they're too big for rats now).

Don't get me wrong, someone still gets pecked every once in a while... but they're not so small that one good peck will kill them. They're big enough to run away... and the older chickens just couldn't be bothered to chase them.

You can see that Cutie, our old girl who is more than 5 years old now, couldn't really be bothered with the teens that are right beside her.

Right now we've got a third batch of Barred Rock chicks, so the pen is still being put to good use because the 'teens' are really on a bit of a power trip and cannot be allowed any access to the very tiny chicks at all.

Later on, we'll disassemble the 'chick pen' and use the panels to keep the rabbits out of the vegetable garden. :/

Here Am I
Under the blue sky
Crisp and clean
Slight and mean.

I leave a trail
Of wispy fog
In a hair of night
On a small green frog.

I planted seeds
Some years ago
A few grow fast
Most grow slow.

So here I sit
To learn a bit
Under the blue sky
Here Am I.

Kim
Tuesday March 20, 2007

Hello all. Greetings to everyone.

I must admit that many times in my life, I've felt like my name should be different considering the phase I was in... or to help me belong where I am at the time... I am still tempted...

But now at 40, I'm just me... and all I've sat and learned over the years has culminated and resonated in my life and made me... me... and I am Kim. So I suppose I shall keep it as it has done well enough by me up to now... as I sit and learn some more.

I came to love the earth as a small child. My favourite place was my Grandparents homes where strawberries grew and lightening bugs hovered. With no running water or electricity, everyone was busy every day and fulfilled in the evenings.

Then I forgot about them and became 'driven' in my twenties. I forgot about the earth and focussed on humans, their rights and plights in the working world.

Then I had my first child and came back to the earth. The longer I am a mother, the stronger the pull to be closer and closer to her and the more I feel part of her. It seems that she is rewarding me for my return... as life is only get better as time passes. She whispers secrets to me now.

My question for her this year is: Why won't she let me grow my food on her?

Kim

Rottweiller? Rottweiller! Rottweiller.

Our Bouvier-cross, Sonja, adopted full-grown and with us 10 years, had just passed. It was horribly sad for us. I, in particular, still miss her as she was with me before I was either married or had children. It seemed, she was with me for my entire adult life. I guess she kind of was...




We wanted a mature dog because Czar, our GSD was 8 years old and a rescue who had recovered from heartworm. And honestly, I prefer the ease of training an older dog. They 'get it' so much quicker than a pup ever does. So, I did my searching on the net using the animal love foundation.


This 5 year old guy looked like a big couch potato in the photo. Perfect for us, I thought.

The previous owners drove almost two hours to bring him to us. It was important to them that he have a good home... that was obvious.

They had said that if they couldn't find him a home, they would put him to sleep, rather than risk him being adopted by the 'wrong person'. I appreciated their passion about his being safe and having a good quality of life. I empathized with their desire to ensure their dog's well-being, and sympathized with their position of being unable to keep their dog because of having to move to the city with a small lot and no fences.

Then when this big bag of muscle jumped out of the vehicle in our driveway, I felt my face do a twitch. :rolleyes:

This was a big rottie. Nothing I would ever think of wishing for in a dog.

He had mostly lived in a garage for three years. (Turns out he was two years younger than they remembered.) He had no manners. He fell up the stairs. He fell down the stairs. He chased my 18 year old, cancer-filled cat. :(

His name was Rush. (For Mount Rushmore - they said.) He didn't answer to it. They didn't take him off the leash for fear that he wouldn't come when called. Uggh! What had I gotten myself into? :eek:

I leashed him to me both inside and out, granted him privileges with appropriate behaviour, and he went from sleeping in the sunroom to sleeping in our bedroom within the first two weeks. He was soon following me from room to room without the leash. He still does, even though he's been with us for three years and doesn't have to so much anymore.

He didn't seem to know his name anyway and I didn't want a dog that looked tough to have to tough name too... So we sat around the table and made a long list of names. We got down to the last two... Fred and George. Between two 37 year olds, a 6 year old and a 4 year old, we couldn't decide. The dog just lay there, enjoying his bone near the kitchen table.

So, I told everyone to be very quiet and said 'Fred'... nothing. Then I said, 'George'... and he looked up at me. We all laughed and figured he had chosen. He has answered well to that name ever since he chose it. (My Grandfather's name - could he be a reincarnation? :D) And it didn't take long for him to come easily when called, even when he's got half an acre on me chasing the birds or a rabbit... or the neighbour's cat. :eek:
















The previous owners said that he wouldn't like it inside but I leave our kitchen door open and he only wants to go out when nature calls or if I'm outside. He really doesn't go outside just to sit by himself or even with Czar.

When he is lying down and being petted, he makes a growling sound. This made me very nervous. Soon, we realized that it was really his, very loud, version of a 'purr'. Later, I found out that this is common in rotties. It is referred to as 'the rottie rumble'. (Though I warn people that it must be assumed to be a warning growl until you are very sure it's a rumble... to be on the safe side. Even living with him, it took several weeks... a couple of months even, to establish that this dog is not a big 'growler' but is indeed a big 'rumbler'.)

He's not allowed on the furniture but does have a very big, thick cushion in the living room, a blanket in the kitchen and several blankets in the bedroom. He sleeps right next to my bed so that I can just reach out and give him a stroke through the night.

He also MUST do a sit/stay every time he gets food and he MUST go into a 'down' position if a visiting child goes near him (a 'sit' for adults). He doesn't mind doing this because he loves children and knows that if he goes into the 'down' position, the child will be allowed to pet him. We have 3 children from 9 yrs to 1 yr in the house and he gets loads of regular strokes from them... But there's just never enough love for George!

We've had him for three years and every person who comes to our house is, at first, taken aback by his size, and then reassured by his well controlled behaviour.

George, we found, also had hidden talents. He duck sits the chicks and ducklings, staying ever vigilant.  It seems that he takes extra special care of the babies with extra challenges.

After some training so that he knew not to kill our yard chickens, I found that he would help me 'round them up' at night when it was time to put them back in their coop. Chicken rassling for rotties 101 was, apparently, not a required course for him... it just came naturally.

We've got one nasty chicken. Blooie-the-wicked-chicken will wait until your back is turned and then sneak up behind you to peck you hard. Well, when George is on watch, he will chase that Blooie right back to the coop if he notices her taking her 'attack' stance.

And though the chickens will run from him, if he is in between them and a bucket of tasty kitchen scraps I've brought out, they will not think twice about using George-The-Great-Launching-Pad to get to the food post-haste.

This is the same dog who (with us only a year at the time), when my 5 year old upset a wasp nest, knew immediately that my son was in danger and went to the rescue.

George was snapping at all of those wasps, flying in the air, all around my curled up boy, until I finally clicked onto what was going on, raced over to them and pulled my son out. Then we all ran away together.

That dog took at least 20 stings in his mouth and around his face that day... on purpose. I just shake my head when I think of how George knew my son was in danger long before I did... and that he knew just what to do without being told. - You don't hear THOSE stories in the news too often. :frown: George will always be our hero!

We've also found out that rotties are the kind of dog whose world will stop when their person is away.  George waits for me by the door, by the gate or at the end of the driveway.  He never tires of waiting for me and he really has turned into the biggest baby I have.

I believe it is important to show people that this is a breed that is well worth saving.

I never would've wished for a rottie because I never knew one. Now, I'm glad they got his age wrong, because that means I get two extra years with him :)... and I just can't imagine my life without my George. :wink:

Please contact the Animal Love Foundation or Humane Society and ask about adopting a 'senior' in your area! We've had three and loved them all!

The Blooming Period

What an artsy/philosophical title. That was my first thought. People will want to know what it is. They will be intrigued. It sounds wonderful. It sounds 'zen'ish.

And it is... kinda...

The other titles that came to me were 'Buddha and The Banshee' and 'On Being Buddha'. Any guesses? Anyone?...

It's my bloomin' period. It's finally started up again now that the baby is about 14 months old.

I can sense the readers groaning... Oh, just give me a minute! I'm sure I can twist this subject into something thoughtful, a little funny, somewhat educational and hopefully a bit different than anything you've read on the subject before. Just give me a chance!

*******

Blooming is hard work for a brain. Waves of patience and impatience sometimes drift and sometimes crash back and forth.

On one hand, I have the patience of Buddha, which is highly unusual for me as I'm almost constantly stressed about how much I can get done in a day. The patience of Buddha, for a person like me is absolutely wonderful but also a sign of things to come.

...the pendulum swings...

On the other hand, I have to practically put myself in a straight-jacket and muzzle to stop from flying (on my broomstick) to the nearest mountain-top and sending out a deafening SHRIEK to the entire world (and a few space aliens who are in close enough proximity) to "BEHAVE!" and "LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"

Prestigious universities are doing many studies about brains and meditation and exercise and vitamins. These studies make me wonder what is going on in my brain during a bloom.

They make me wonder if my Anti-Banshee-Potion results are all in my head. Perhaps, later on when I can think straight, I will look and see if another doctor has done any studies of the female brain in bloom.

Nevertheless, in one respect, my family benefits because on the surface I mostly look like Buddha. Why is this? Because I have become painfully conscious that I could blow my top at any moment and I would feel awful if I turned the children into 'victims of the bloom'. And of course there's the Anti-Banshee-Magic-Potion...

It's helpful to have, not only a good potion but a good husband at this time too. He makes it possible for me to manage the Buddha facade even through the Banshee period(pun intended - as always).

It all started a couple of weeks ago. My body chemistry changed... again...

When I get pregnant (as I have been seven times now - so it's definitely a pattern), I don't need deoderant. Other bodily fluids also cease to be produced (but not spit and tears)... I'll let you mull that one over...

Then blam, almost like a lightswitch being flicked on and off, it all comes back in a way that my body is making up for all the 'non-smelly' days I've had for the last two years. I told my partner that I suspected my vacation from blooming would shortly be over. I think it's important to warn people in my immediate vicinity of this... especially him as he becomes a prime target.

Then, last week I started waking in the middle of the night and craving chocolate badly enough to get up and come all the way downstairs to sneak some. The second night this happened, I quickly ingested some Anti-Banshee-Potion (B50 vitamin, a good dose of zinc and a fairly big dose of Evening Primrose Oil) and tried to get some more good sleep. Two more nights of the same schedule and then... Voila! The Blooming Period.

And I could not follow through on anything! I frustrated myself beyond all comprehension! Time becomes irresolute. I cannot keep track of anything. And so I have two choices...

One, become an army sergeant, bellowing orders to everyone around, of the tasks that need to be performed.

Two, let everything go and let everyone do whatever they want to do. As long as they demand nothing of me, I can focus on Being Buddha.

The Anti-Banshee Potion allows me to make this choice. With it, I have learned that my tides lull back and forth, gently, the way petals open in the morning and close up at night, so that I can hang on to the Buddha surf even as the Banshee wave drifts toward me. Without my magical potion, enormous waves of Buddha and the Banshee come crashing down upon me with such speed and force that it is unnerving and I cannot brace myself... and the damage done spreads to all things near.

Okay, it's a little over-the-top, poetically... but it gives a good picture. The other thing the Anti-Banshee Magic Potion lets me do, is call my loving partner at work and let him know what he's coming home to so that he has plenty of time to get into his "Yes dear. Why don't I take care of the children and let you have some quiet time."-mode.

Now, I know that I'll probably publish this today and so it will look like I do nothing but worship my Love. This is truly not the case. I have, at least, 5 other essays in my drafts, that are not yet ready for public consumption. Not one of them has anything to do with him but they're just not finished yet. And so, dear readers, you get to read, once again, about my wonderful Darling.

On Friday, I called him at work to let him know that...

"The other day I was right... I'm in the midst of Blooming and my petals are feeling a touch bruised... And the children are not dressed... And the living room is a mess... And all I've fed everyone all day long is taco meat because I just can't seem to muster up enough emotional strength to do anything but heat up stuff-to-consume-that's-already-made.... And the only thing I've managed to do, somehow, is make sure that the things-that-eat-stuff got to eat stuff... And the things-that-need-to-do-math-and-music got their mathwork and music done for the day... And I'm disappointed in myself to the point of wanting to have a good cry, not just because I can't get anything done today (except sitting and reading) but because I'm refering to all the cat, chickens, dogs and children as 'things', which I'm sure makes me the worst mother on the planet. Waaaaaah."

He came home with 3 sunflowers (we have 3 children), did not say a word about having a bowl of taco meat for dinner and took the children out to their Friday night social, thereby letting me have some quiet time - alone - with me, myself and I, all in attendance.

And when he got home, he made me a lovely gin and tonic (which we only treat ourselves to on Friday nights) because half an hour alone was no where near long enough for me to get such a task done.

Finally, when I suggested that we had not seen our lovely neighbours (adopted local grandparents for our children) in a while and should have them over for breakfast on Sunday, He did not invite them. (I can hear the huge sigh of relief from all the way over at their house. And they also are thinking of Him in capitals now.)

Can you imagine a blooming brain on gluten?!

And though I may be a bit more smelly, my nursing babe and I have lovely, creamy, flawless, glowing skin to show for it.

Life is good and messy and crazy and calm and flaw/less... here in The Gray Zone.