Death by tracksuit

Christmas 2011 has come and gone and, overall, I would have say that it was quite successful. Ev and I "hosted" xmas day at our new house for my mom's side of the family (including the fabulous Grandma Ivy). Basically, I wore a cute little apron and ensured that my guests' drinks (as well as my own, of course) were topped up while my fantastic mom prepared the turkey, stuffing, potatoes, salad, etc. My mom is awesome. Although I'm slowly entering the world of domesticated bliss with the crochet, I'm no where near capable of preparing xmas dinner for 15 people (perhaps a goal for the upcoming months??? hmmm....)

Can I get a whoot whoot!

Boxing day; however, was my favorite. Ev and I lazed in bed with Biloxi, the cat, and Dundee, the dog, until noon-ish, watching big white fluffy snowflakes fall to the ground. Never changing out of our PJ's, we watched crappy TV, consumed excessive amounts of carbs, and discussed the past and our future plans (involving House Hunters International, of course). I even threw in the crochet for good measure. I'm getting good. Wicked good. Like I can sorta kinda watch TV out of the corner of one eye whilst crocheting kinda good. I'm currently on a crochet roll, completing my 7th square last evening (only 5 more to go!) I will actually conquer the crochet. Anyway, back to our boxing day bliss. The holidays weren't always so blissful for us. In fact, the end of xmas holidays typically marked one of my and Ev's miserable, pathetic, emotionally-draining goodbyes. Man we were "good" at goodbyes.

Our 8 years of premarital dating consisted of 6 years of long-distance. 6 years! While Ev battled his way through the Montreal Canadiens system with hockey (and boy, was it a battle!), I was in Edmonton with my BFF, Janna, partying studying my ass off at the U of A. Each and every break of 3+ days, I would hop on a plane and reunite with the love of my life. This is how it worked. For 6 years!!! Gawd. I still can't believe we did it. Because Ev was under contract with the Canadiens, they owned his rights and could basically send him anywhere within their system at the drop of a hat (Montreal, Quebec City, Biloxi, or Asheville). The Canadiens did not give a shit if Evan Lindsay's sweetheart of 7 years had a flight booked to Quebec City the following day. If Biloxi, Mississippi, needed a goalie, that's where he went. It was a nightmare of altering, cancelling, and/or re-booking flights. Of course, once we were in each other's arms, nothing could stop us. Nothing...except for the looming goodbye.

Our "goodbyes" were epic. They could (and did) bring even the most stoic of characters to tears. Ev and I would cling desperately to each other at the security entrance, sobbing, embracing, and whimpering. Ev would wait until the airline beckoned him overhead, shuffle dismally through security, turn towards me, painfully mouth, "I love you," while I would drop to my knees, alone on the cold airport floor, wracked with tears. I remember one affected observer who handed me a cigarette after Ev's departure.

"Thanks, but I don't smoke," I sniffled.

"Now's a good time to start," she said.

(O dear, a tear just fell on my keyboard. must(sob)...move(sob)...on(sob)...this(sniff)...actually(sniff)...gets(sniff)...funny).

Yes, our "goodbyes" were very dramatic; however, the "Edmonton goodbye" of 2002 takes the cake. It's the winner. Hands down.

It was September 2002 and Ev was set to depart to Roanoke, Virginia for an upcoming season with the Roanoke Express of the East Coast Hockey League. I was entering my 4th year at the University of Alberta, with the goal of achieving the marks required to gain acceptance into the Speech-Language Pathology Masters Program. Ev, clad in his newly acquired Roanoke Express tracksuit, reluctantly dragged me towards security at Edmonton International Airport. We were saying goodbye after a perfectly wonderful summer together, knowing that we would not be reunited for 4 long months. As per usual, we staked our location for the dramatic goodbye, directly in front of security and began the pathetic process. Face wet with tears, I buried my head in Ev's chest as he stroked my hair, repeating, "it's ok, Kirst." Sobbing uncontrollably, I inhaled sharply and suddenly found myself choking on Ev's tracksuit. The wet nylon shot straight up my nostrils, causing me to suffocate. I desperately pushed Ev away, attempting to get oxygen into my lungs. Ev, mistaking my panic for sadness, held me tighter to his chest, repeating those soothing words, "It's ok kirst. It's going to be ok." Shit. It's not Ok. I'm suffocating. On the Roanoke Express tracksuit. Death by tracksuit was imminent. AAAAAGGGGGGHHHH. When Ev finally realized what was happening, he released his loving grip while I sputtered and coughed, relishing the ability to breathe again. What a show.

Don't let the 'friendliness' of the tracksuit fool you. Can you say attempted murder?

To be perfectly honest, that was one of the most pleasant goodbyes in my memory. The fear of being smothered to death by the tracksuit totally overrode the misery of the goodbye. Perhaps my reunion with oxygen made me momentarily high but I was suddenly exuberant. Get on the plane! Go! Go! See ya, see ya, wouldn't want to be ya! Don't forget to stop the puck! haha!

Oh wow. Good times. I can't believe that was us. To this day, my heart fills with sadness at the departure gate of any airport. Sadness, and that undeniable urge to take a deep breath.

A "bad" day

I'm going to preempt this post with a warning: if you're looking for a shits and giggles today, abandon this post immediately. Go watch the flute vids from October or check out the Bloggess.com.

It blows me away how many times I hear people (including myself) say that they've had a "bad" day. What exactly does that mean? It's totally subjective. Perhaps my "bad" day would be a "pretty decent" day for some. I even requested bonus retirement points post "worst day ever" ( see blog post) which, reading back now, looks like a pretty fricken hilarious day, resulting in a fabulous tale! I think everyone has the right to proclaim that they've had "the worst day ever!" We all do it. However; occasionally, I think we all need a little perspective on what, exactly, a "bad" day means for some, and spend our time focusing on the positive things in our lives (Gawd, I sound like Dr. Phil or something).

I quickly realized into my 3rd month of working on the hospital wards that I couldn't cry each and every time I lost a patient. You just can't do that to yourself. So something happened to me, something that must happen to everyone who works in emotionally charged situations - you slowly become hardened. It's like a little suit of armor that slides on to protect you from sad as soon as you enter the workplace. I guess it's a technique that many professions (police, fire, social workers, etc) must engage in order to survive. I fear that I'm losing that compassionate side that families desperately need when I enter the patient's room. It's become another item on my to-do list: "discuss end-of-life feeding with Smith family followed by lunch out with the girls."

Not to worry, with the holidays in high gear, once again I've completely lost my little suit of armor, and have spent the week sobbing with patients, families, and alone in my car on my way home from work.

I cried with my patient when she uttered her first 3 words since her stroke 6 weeks ago: "Take a bath?" :) I cried with a lonely man who hasn't had a visitor since his admission 2 months ago. I cried with a family as they gathered around their dying father. I cried alone in my car, thinking of Ryan. It will be his family's first Christmas without him. I can't imagine what that would feel like. Thank goodness I work with a fabulous team of people, who I'm sure quietly share these feelings. We all "get" what it's like and bond together in our own little way in order to cope (Christmas caroling followed by a little wine and 'Love Acutally' does the body good!)

This post is not intended to throw you into a deep dark depression or cause you to react defensively, taking back every day you've proclaimed "the worst day ever." But sometimes it's important to focus on all the good things happening in your life (even the small, seemingly insignificant things) instead of dwelling on the bad. I constantly need to remind myself of that. I walked out of the hospital at 4:30 (ok, 4:21 - I snuck out early) and didn't look back. I filed away the sadness, cranked Mariah Carey's, "All I want for xmas is you" (how can that NOT make you happy?),  and celebrated all the wonderful things for which I am grateful.  I get to drive home. I get to spend time with my Grandma crocheting. I get to create a gift for my best friend's first baby (and meet him in just over a month!) I get to share the holidays with my friends and family - all of whom are healthy. I get to endure Ev's "budget" talks. I get to watch my niece and nephew excitedly tear into their xmas presents. I get to taste Baba's homemade perogies. I get to, I get to, I get to. There's so many things that I get to do! And for that, I am incredibly grateful.

Merry Christmas!
PS: 4 crochet squares completed. The tears slowed me down this week. Next week, I will be better!

Do Not Crochet with a Hangover.

You can't just crochet whenever you have a spare minute. Trust me, you really have to "feel" the crochet before you sit down and make that time commitment. Yesterday, for example, I attempted the crochet the day after hosting our gym's xmas party. This is not just any party, people. It's a Saskpro CrossFit xmas party. Our members are some of the most competitive people I've ever met - which is fantastic when you're trying to push yourself during a workout - not so fantastic when you're consuming alcohol. But, extremely entertaining! I awoke Sunday morning afternoon with a horrendous headache. I did not have time to wallow in my self-inflicted pain. This baby is coming in just over a month's time and I currently have enough crochet squares to possibly cover the baby's left foot. I popped a Tylenol and got to work. Bad idea. The swooping, hooking, and pulling made my stomach turn. I actually had to restart one stitch 3 times, muttering threats under my breath, "if you do that again, yarn, I will seriously kick your ass." Now that is NOT the energy you want to put into a baby blanket. I threw in the towel and admitted defeat. Vodka:1, Kirstie: 0. There are just some circumstances in which the crochet should not happen. Grandma failed to warn me that crocheting with a hang-over is a big no-no.

You mean most people don't chug wine upside down at their xmas parties?

I have; however, found optimal conditions for the crochet. I'd like to share my top 2:

1) During an Evan Lindsay "budget" talk. I just threw up in my mouth. The Evan Lindsay budget talk is like my least favorite thing in the world. Evan tries to pretend it's not a "budget" talk, he even attempts to disguise it by renaming it clever things like, "profit planning." I'm on to you, Evan Lindsay. On cue, as soon as I hear words like, "RRSP's" "mortgage payments," "tax-free savings account," etc, I completely shut down. I see Evan's mouth move, but I cannot make out the words. My little head fogs over and I desperately try to find my happy place (diving with whale sharks, a nice glass of wine, wakesurfing on a summer's day). I nod and smile, having NO clue what Evan is saying. I've found that the crochet fits quite nicely into this scenario. As poor Ev attempts to plan our financial future, thinking he has my undivided attention, I happily focus on the swoop, dive, hook, and pull, producing some of my finest stitches!

2) During a "top 3" movie. I've never met a person who doesn't have at least one favorite movie that they obsess over, watching repeatedly, whilst continuing to be entertained. I have 3: "Romancing The Stone," "Dirty Dancing," and "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation."Each of these movies would be optimal to watch whilst crocheting.

While most 6 year olds were practicing their "care bear stare" or prancing around like, "My Little Pony," I was repeating my favorite line from "Romancing The Stone."  "How would you like to die, Joan Wilder. Slow, like a snail? Or fast, like a shooting star?" Pretty messed up, right? I have no idea why my parents condoned my obsessive fascination with that movie, but, whatever...I turned out OK. Mostly. I loved that movie. Apparently, most 6 year olds were not as in to Michael Douglas as I was?

Dirty Dancing is epic. How could you NOT love that movie? Janna and I shared a deep love for Patrick Swayze. Sharing a little house off of Whyte Ave in Edmonton, Janna and I watched that movie repeatedly during our University years. We did; however, run into one problem. Our VCR was salvaged from the dump. It didn't quite work properly. One of us was required to sit on the floor and hold the cable that connected the VCR to the TV at all times. A little inconvenient, but it never prevented us from acting out every single scene in that movie (Man, how annoying would it be to watch that movie with us?). Janna took it one step further and actually performed the "time of my life" finale dance at her wedding. Wow. It was impressive. Aren't they going to be cool parents? Check it out:

Finally, I'm finding that the crochet works very well with National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I don't even have to look up. I hear Clark W. Griswold proclaim, "I give you the Griswold Family Christmas Tree!" and I can immediately picture that massive tree crashing through their living room window. That movie evokes so much festive cheer within me. As I chuckle happily with each swoop, I imagine that baby giggling under my happy little squares, thinking, "My aunty Kirstie is frickin' hilarious!"

36 days until baby! 9 squares to go!

Biloxi the cat.

Wait a minute...are we having a baby?

Biloxi, the cat, loves the crochet. He cuddles up next to me on the couch, lays his little fuzzy orange head on my leg and purrs away as I swoop, hook, dive, and pull (it's getting much better, by the way). Ev arrived home from work to find Biloxi and I in this serene position, xmas tree lit up, fire blazing the fireplace, house hunters blasting on the big screen. It was a like a Norman Rockwell xmas card or something.
"Wow, this is different," he commented.
Which caused me to become slightly annoyed. Like he typically returns from work to find me guzzling Pilsner and rolling joints or something? I can play the domesticated role. I just choose not to.

Nice house. Never get too attached - we could move tomorrow

I digress. Back to Biloxi, the cat. Every now and then, he loses it and attacks the crochet - completely destroying the serene Norman Rockwell xmas card moment, biting at the yarn, causing me to curse and toss his fuzzy, 20 pound (for serious) body off the couch. He leaves the room, regroups, and returns a few minutes later to calmly observe the process again. I think it's a great stress reliever for him. And, trust me, he could really use a good stress reliever.

Biloxi, the cat, has just completed his 32nd move in his 10 years of life. Biloxi "chose" Ev and I 10 years ago at a little pet store in Biloxi, Mississippi (hence the name, "Biloxi.") We had intended to purchase a female cat so we held and cuddled Biloxi's sisters, attempting to determine which one was the right kitten for us. Ev was drawn to the little orange male kitten (probably because Ev's orange...and male too). He held the little guy in the palm of his hands. They immediately bonded, but I was quite set on a female cat.

Man I hope Ev doesn't get traded today.

"Gross. What's that smell?" Ev held out his hand to reveal a tiny piece of kitten poo. His new orange buddy shit in his hand! That was the deciding factor. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is. The little orange kitten became ours. He instantly became "Biloxi, the traveling cat." Since that day, Biloxi has faithfully followed Evan and his hockey career to 8 different states in the US as well as England and Scotland. Biloxi, the cat, was in possession of a European Union passport (for serious), quarantined at London Heathrow airport (24 hours for possession of catnip), smuggled into "no pets allowed" condos and hotels, and endured a few 14-hour flights overseas (in a huge pet carrier with a sign that read, "My name is Biloxi. I am scared. Please be nice to me.") He's a trooper. Like being the cat of a professional hockey player wasn't shitty enough, he's now the cat of a couple of 30-somethings with a fear of commitment to location. That's what I call it. Like clockwork, Ev and I get this overwhelming urge to move (somewhere...anywhere) approximately every 2 years. We get bored, I guess. Biloxi, the faithful friend, reluctantly gets shoved in his little carry-on box and follows along. With each move, Biloxi takes a few days to settle in, slinking with his belly to the ground, eyes darting quickly from side-to-side like he's dodging snipers. Poor little dude.

Me and Evs won the cup in Scotland. No biggie.

Christmas with Ev in Texas. I love dressing up for xmas.

I love England. Cheerio!

What? We're moving again? Can't you rejects hold down a job?

So, you know what? If watching the crochet calms his furry little nerves, then by all means, watch away. Perhaps I can teach him how to crochet (there's that whole "no thumbs" issue though). Janna: the baby blanket may have a little bit of cat spit on it, but I hear that will help your baby to build resistance, ensuring that he doesn't develop allergies to cats. So realistically, I'm helping keep your child warm whilst preventing pesky cat allergies. You're welcome. :)

Check out my first 2 squares. Grandma says I need 12 squares. I'm hoping the baby is very small and only requires 6.

Note: right square was my first attempt. I am improving.
Which means that right square is no longer good enough. Damn.

My first crochet injury...

You heard right. A crochet injury. Actually, let's pluralize that. Injuries. Can you believe it? Some might say that I'm an "aggressive" crocheter. I sat down with Grandma on Monday for my first lesson. I'm sure poor Grandma wondered how the h I made it through grade 2 after my inability to grasp the concept of making a "loop." Poor Grandma sat down next to me on the couch and patiently demonstrated the basics of crochet, "Swoop, loop, dive, pull it through." I attempted to follow the movement of her fingers, the string, and the hook, but it was all happening much too quickly - it was a blur of swooping, looping, diving, and pulling. Sweating nervously, I pretended to understand, but as Grandma placed the hook in my hands, I began diving, looping, twisting, turning, and diving. It was awful. And embarrassing. Up until this point, I was pretty sure that Grandma thought I was one smart cookie. She remained patient, providing encouraging words, "Oh look, you swooped when you should have looped." "Oh, you hooked from the wrong side."  "Oh look you hooked from the wrong side again." (voice getting louder and shriller) "Oh, look, you've hooked from the wrong side again."AAAAAACCCCCKKKK! Why is this so difficult? When I finally managed to successfully create one chain (like the easiest "move" in crochet), Grandma fussed over me like I had just won a Nobel Prize, "Oh good! Look at how nice that chain is! What a smart girl!" At that point, I was crunched down on the couch with my head practically on Grandma's shoulder - hoping that if our shoulders touched, her talent would seep into me. How could this possibly be relaxing? Grandma crochets, holds conversations with her visitors, scolds Dr. Phil's reject guests, sips her tea, all whilst crocheting? I held my breath for fear that it would interrupt my damn chain.

After about an hour, I finally began to get the hang of it. Sorta. Grandma was over the moon, praising me, telling me that I had the crochet "gene." Trust Grandma to focus on the positives. If I ended up in the Pen for armed robbery (would I end up in the pen for armed robbery? Perhaps jail?). Anyways, If I was locked up for armed robbery, Grandma would brag to everyone what a great shot I was. Ivy MacDonald's grandchildren can do no wrong in her eyes.

I accepted my praise, my cookies (this crocheting is going to be hard on the waistline!) and headed out the door with the intention of completing a row independently at home. In the privacy of my home, I unleashed my anger on that crochet hook. I told it how I really felt. Recalling Janna's response to my project, "Our baby will know how much love went into this blanket," I couldn't help but feel slightly guilty for snarling, "You stupid piece of s$%t, motherf&^%$#$!"as that damn hook split perfectly good loops of wool and dove into places it wasn't supposed to dive into. I remembered one of Grandma's tips, "make a larger swoop." So that's what i did. Unfortunately, my nose got in the way. I actually swiped off a piece of nose skin on the tip of my nose. I knew it was time to throw in the towel as the blood began to drip to on the wool (don't worry, Janna - there is no blood or nose skin on the blanket; however, if your baby fails to have restful sleeps under this thing, I completely understand).

I awoke the next day with a hideous scab on the tip of my nose and a rib out. that's right, a rib. I didn't sustain that many injuries after a month of flying down hills on a longboard! Yikes. There was no waiver. No precautions were provided. I was never made aware of the risks of crocheting. I learned the hard way. The good news is that it can only get better...and I'm thoroughly enjoying my daily tea and cookies with Grandma.

Extreme close-up doesn't do it justice. 

December Goal: causing me to sweat uncomfortably

I found myself in uncharted waters this morning. Lost and confused, I wandered aimlessly down the aisles. I felt the other shoppers glaring - judging me - knowing that I was not one of "them." I'm quite certain that the entire store snickered as I stopped to ask for directions. With my awkward thumbs and complete absence of artistic talent, it was apparent that I did not belong. I was in Michaels. Specifically, I was searching for the wool aisle in Michaels...which leads me to my December goal.

I am super excited about this month's challenge for 3 main reasons:
1) It involves 2 of my most favoritest people in the whole world (I'm well aware that this is grammatically inaccurate; however, I feel the need to emphasize this point with excessive superlatives). These 2 fantastic people are my best friend, Janna and my Grandma, Ivy.
2) This is something I would NEVER have chosen to do on my own. This is not my "thing." This is completely outside of my skill set.
3) Ryan would definitely dig this.

with our moms at Janna's wedding: "OMG, your hubby is totally into you!"

First, let me introduce you to my best friend, Janna. I met Janna for the first time in kindergarten. We hit it off and I took her home with me. Literally. There was a misunderstanding and some bad 5 year old lying, but to make a long story short, Janna's parents did not know where she was, freaked out,  and her face just about made the milk carton. It's all good now. Janna and I have basically grown up together. We've shared every monumental life experience together. From my awkward "chubby" stage to my first phone call to Evan (Janna dialed, squealed, "Tell him you like him!", threw the phone at me as I dropped it on the floor, screaming. Needless to say, Evan hung up) to University life (we lived together in a great party pad) to our wedding days, we have been with each other through it all. Janna "knows" me. I don't know what I'd do without her. Here's the kicker: Janna's about to enter a completely new and exciting phase in her life - she's about to become a mom! I still can't believe it. Like everything else in Janna's life, I just know that she's going to rise to the occasion and be a spectacular (but very cool) parent.

Now let me introduce you to my Grandma (don't worry, Baba, you're in my April goal - love ya!). Grandma and I also go waaaay back. I lunched daily with Grandma and Grandpa in my elementary school days. I would arrive at their house, chow down on grilled cheese, whole milk, and pudding with cream and sprinkles on top, whilst watching the "Flinstones," then roll my tubby little self back to school (that was the awkward chubby phase to which I alluded to). Grandma is the perfect mix of "traditional" Grandma and modern "golden girl." Grandma will whip up a batch of cookies, check her facebook page, crochet an afghan, and invite her aesthetician over for her eyebrow waxing. She's awesome. We lost Grandpa to cancer in 2006. Grandma and Grandpa were such a fantastic couple. They had so much fun together. Grandpa loved to tease Grandma (and all of us kids). When Grandma would veer off-topic during one of her elaborate stories, Grandpa would grab the channel changer, point it at Grandma and say, "Fast forward Ivy!" causing Grandma to giggle flirtatiously and eventually complete the story :). I know that not a day goes by that Grandma doesn't miss Grandpa. But Grandma doesn't dwell on it, she has remained positive, embracing life, keeping busy by spoiling and loving her friends and family. I admire her. And...Grandma is the baby expert.

I'll just whip up some biscuits before I change my facebook status

So, let me put this all together for you. I want to make something special for Janna and her new baby. I want Grandma to help me. So for the month of December, with the help/guidance of my Grandma, I will be crocheting an afghan for Janna's baby!

I know I know. I can hear you all laughing. Kirstie? Make a baby blanket? I've never been the "crafty" one, avoiding scrapbook-making (hello? can you say photo album?), cake decorating (that's what the Safeway bakery is for), and scarf knitting (booooring). It just doesn't turn my crank. But that's what this year's all about - stepping outside of my comfort zone and trying new things. The Michael's experience was daunting. I mean, send me to the liquor store to select a fabulous South African wine, but do not expect to navigate the wool aisle at a craft store. But...I did it. "Baby" steps (lame :)  I selected some fantastic spools clumps balls of wool for this fabulous baby blanket which I am about to create.

Finally, I know Ryan would totally dig this. Not because he was super into afghans or babies (although, he definitely expressed an interest in having kids someday - little "buddies"). Ryan would be stoked that I'm sharing the experience with my Grandma. Ryan's Grandpa Holowaty lived a few doors down from us at the lake. Ryan was always over at his Grandpa's helping and hanging out. His Grandpa was a war veteran and every year Ryan made an effort to be with his Grandpa (in uniform) during the Remembrance Day Service. Ryan loved and respected both of his Grandpas and it was apparent in his conversations that he really enjoyed the time that he was able to spend with them. I realize at age 32 how lucky I am to have a healthy, happy Grandma who's willing to share her area of expertise with me!

"Wait a minute. I'm confused. Am I involved in any way?"

So away I go. Sweating nervously, with my balls of wool and crochet sticks needles hooks in hand, I am ready to enter the uncharted territory of baby-blanket making. READ: NOT baby-making...baby BLANKET making. There's a big difference there.

My life as a psycho hockey wife

First off, I have 1 more letter en espanol that I am keen to write; however, it is moving week for the Lindsays and life is a little chaotic. So, given that I will require knowledge of past tense verbs (ACK!) in order to confess to Ricky Martin that I was ready and willing to jump his bones at his concert 6 years ago (prior to his "announcement") and the fact that I'm presently preoccupied with wiping the cold, hardened jam off the inside of the fridge in our rental house (How the h did that happen?), I am making a public promise to complete the letter...next week. Fair? I will also be announcing my fabulous goal for the month of December. This one is mucho outside of my current skill set! But that doesn't mean that I'm unable to post something moderately interesting this week, right?

I received an interesting question from one of my numerous (26 to be exact) "followers" this week, "Does it embarrass your husband when you write about him on your blog?" Fair question. I'm the one with "only child (look at me!) syndrome." Not Ev. Unfortunately, when I draw attention to myself, he's often caught in the spotlight as well - whether he likes it or not. Prime example: this blog. Does Ev really want all 26 of you to know that he's hoping for a pair of Salma's panties? Maybe. Maybe not. But Ev knew what he was signing up for when he married me 6 years ago. So to answer your question, I don't think so. It takes a lot to embarrass Ev. I did embarrass him once. Well, actually, I embarrassed myself. It was bad. Really bad. You're curious, right? Ok, Ok. You've twisted my rubber arm.

This would be so much more fun if that
 pesky hockey wasn't in the way!

Recently acquired  friends have mentioned that they can't picture me in my former role as "hockey wife." For those of you who actually knew me as a "hockey wife," I would like to take this time to apologize. For everything. With my Master's Degree in hand, I dutifully followed Ev around for a few years, sunning myself on beaches, drinking cocktails by the pool, and dragging my sunburned ass to hockey games. Pretty rough, huh? The "life" was fantastic. I mean, you know you're chill when you have to set your alarm for 11am to ensure that you are awake before your husband returns from practice. Wow. The hockey; on the other hand, was tortuous. I HATED watching the hockey. Not for the reasons you probably think. I wasn't that bored oblivious blonde, twirling my hair, sipping my wine whilst exclaiming, "Did they just score or something?" (Trust me, these wives exist). I was the frazzled, sweaty, jumpy, swearing, pepto-bismol chugging goalie's wife whom no one wanted to sit with. I was a nervous wreck. Obsessed with the shot clock, I constantly re-calculated Evan's save percentage, snapped on shitty defensemen ("Where was our crap defense on that goal?") and heckled the opposing goaltender ("Nice goal, sieve."). I was a psycho. Ev occasionally found me in the crowd during whistles and provided funny faces in an effort to calm ME down. I was a mess. To be fair, a "bad" game could and did occasionally result in a trade. Imagine returning from a crappy day at work only to receive a call from your boss, "Yeah, your speech therapy was sub par today and we've moved you to the Kelsey Trail Health Region. Yeah, you have 24 hours to report to Melfort." Brutal, right?

What's that crazy biatch yelling now?

One particular game was especially unnerving. Ev was still under NHL contract, which meant...well, I don't exactly know what that meant. But it was important. He was playing in Roanoke, Virginia, and I was there as a "visiting girlfriend" (not to be confused with "official hockey wife.") There is a very systematic food chain in the hockey wife world. "Hockey Wife" commands much more respect than "Hockey Girlfriend" who commands much more respect than "Visiting Hockey Girlfriend." And, of course, "Hockey Wife with Child" (preferably if child is donning father's hockey jersey) trumps all. Complicated, right? I intend to write a book about it someday.

The score was 2-1 for Evan's team and there were 3 minutes left in the game. Evan's backup goaltender was sick that night, so an emergency back-up (definition: some old dude who occasionally drives the zamboni and owns goalie equipment) was sitting on the bench. It was imperative that Ev stood his ground in the net tonight. I, as usual, was a disaster. Flailing my arms in the air, shouting obscenities, attempting to stop the puck from my seat, I was desperately willing this game to end. Plus...I was a little drunk. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off. Like this much (gesture of 3-5mm with thumb and pointer finger).

A fight broke out between 2 defensemen, sparking more fights between the players on the ice...a line brawl. The crowd was going nuts! As the fight dissipated and the refs began clearing the shrapnel from the ice, I noticed the opposing goaltender inch a little closer to Ev, gesture "let's go" with his hands and proceed to remove his gloves. Ev noticed and responded by skating a little closer to center whilst (I'm on a roll) verbally abusing the opposing goaltender. The crowd could see what was developing. They began chanting, "Goalies Goalies."

I lost it. I completely and totally lost my mind. Evan couldn't fight! There were still 3 minutes left in the game and they were only up by 1 goal. He had NO legitimate back-up. This could not happen! Who better to tell him than...his loving, buzzed girlfriend. So, I stood up, cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed (in my best "mom" voice),

"EVAN LINDSAY! DON'T YOU DARE!"

I have no idea who that crazy blonde is.

I'm not sure exactly what happened next. But I picture the rink falling into sudden silence, with the exception of the chirping crickets, of course. I do know that Evan skated back to his net. I do know that Evan did not fight. I do know that Ev's team won 2-1. I do know that the other wives/girlfriends began inching further away from me. I do know that I felt shame. On the bright side, in my insanity, I had inhibited myself from inserting his middle name. No. This was bad.

After the game, I waited sheepishly outside the dressing room for Ev to appear. He did. He was the last player out of the dressing room that night. "Great game, buddy!" I smiled and gave him a hug.

Ev quickly pulled away, "I heard you. Actually, ALL the players heard you. EVERYONE heard you."

Hmmm..yep, he was a little pissed (and not the good kind of pissed that I was rockin' that night)

Right. I really wanted to ask Ev if he actually intended to fight because you know, if he was intending to fight then I was like his conscience and essentially I pretty much "saved" the game. Best to keep that thought to myself.

We never spoke of it again.

If I could write a book on "Making Your Way Up The Hockey Wife Food Chain," I would highly dissuade others from behaving as I did during hockey games; On the other hand, Ev and I were married 4 years after the "incident"... so perhaps he felt sorry for me admired my boldness?

So to answer your question, I don't think I've ever embarrassed Ev on my blog; however, I think I may have just embarrassed Ev on my blog.

Moving day tomorrow! Here we Go!
Ole Ole Ole! ;)

Dear Salma Hayek...my husband thinks you're caliente.

I finished the letter! Colleen, (Spanish instructor extraordinaire) supplied the wine and feedback whilst Jason provided some little known facts about our girl, Salma. Apparently, she was kicked out of boarding school for playing practical jokes and enjoys breastfeeding starving babies of the world? She's also anti-plastic surgery - which is surprising, given her awkward physique. Ya right. Did anyone else find themselves staring for hours at her pic in my last post, getting absolutely lost in her....eyes? wow.

You may notice that I've incorporated my key vocabulary for the week: weather, women's clothing, body parts, positive traits, and negative traits. If you don't notice, don't worry, I have pointed it out to you throughout the letter. In addition, I've graduated to some simple negation so I do not have to constantly "like" everything. It's awesome. I'm finally finding my Spanish voice! I'm still stuck with present tense verbs, but you know what? There's no time like the present! In keeping with my theme of "Seize the day" "Live for the now," etc. I do believe it's quite appropriate that I only use present tense verbs. So there (past and future is so fricken complicated, especially post 3 glasses of wine).

Eat your heart out, Salma Hayek!

Again, English translation in bold. Witty side comments in italics.

Ola Sra Salma Hayek
Hello Mrs. Salma Hayek 


Que hay? Como estas? Estoy mas a menos. Me llamo Kirstie. Tengo 32 anos. Soy de Saskatchewan, Canada. Cual es el origen de tu familia? Estoy estudio espanol porque tengo in blog: Miralo! www.kirstie-seizetheday.blogspot.com. Esta gracioso!
What's up? How are you? I am not too bad. My name is Kirstie. I am 32 years old. I am from Saskatchewan, Canada. Where is your family from? I am studying Spanish because I have a blog. Check it out! www.kirstie-seizetheday.blogspot.com It is witty!  (I know, I know. It's the same opening as my letter to Mario. Except now my blog is "witty"- that's right, steppin' up the vocab...keep reading. It's about to get good).


Escribo tu porque mi esposo piense que ustede es muy caliente. El gusta sus curvas.
I am writing to you because my husband thinks you are very hot. He likes your curves.  (see, told you it was about to get interesting. She's probably quite intrigued at this point in the letter)


Usted tienes bonita ojos y bonita cara y amplio senos. .

You have a beautiful...beard??

You have beautiful eyes and a beautiful face and an ample bosom (ok, I cheated. I only knew how to say "big chest" which didn't seem appropriate. I totally spanishdicted "ample bosom.")


Tu tienes curvas pero yo no los tengo. Esta bien. Yo no soy agresivo. Soy sympatico. Tengo una abogada y ella es mi amiga. Si yo ofendo tu, hablas con ella
(This is where Salma and I make up, essentially - check out my negation) You have curves but I do not have them. It's ok. I am not hostile. I am nice. (please note appropriate use of "positive" and "negative" traits). I have a lawyer and she is my friend. If I offend you, please talk to her. (my lawyer recommended that I frequently insert this clause within my letters)


Me gusta mucho "Puss in Boots." Me siento triste por "Kitty Softpaws" porque ella no tiene garras.
I really like "Puss in Boots." I feel sad for "Kitty Softpaws" because she has no claws. (whoa, my negation is out of control, people!)


Mi gato no tiene garras tambien. Siento triste por mi gato, Biloxi. "Puss in Botts" es gracioso!
My cat has no claws also. I feel sad for my cat, Biloxi. "Puss in Boots" is witty. (Ok, not one of my finer sentences, but I'm attempting to find common ground with Salma, other than the fact that my husband finds both of us attractive)


Como es su bambina? Ella es bonita!
How is your child? She is beautiful! (now I'm kissing ass with hopes that Salma will acknowledge my blog)


Te gusta la nieve? No me gusta la nieve. Hay mucho nieve en Canada ahora. Es la mierda.
Do you  like snow? I don't like snow. There is lots of snow in Canada right now. It is shitty.
(I had to get my weather vocab in here somewhere. I also learned Spanish slang from Colleen - es la mierda = it is shitty. I think this will come in handy).


Mucho Gusto! Por favor enviar mi esposo su pantaleta. Jeje! Estoy bromiander. Tengo una abogada y ella es mi amiga. Si yo ofendo tu, hablas con ella!
Nice to meet you! Please send my husband your panties (women's clothing). haha. I am joking. I have a lawyer and she is my friend. If I offend you, please speak to her. (Ok, this is where: a) she throws back that beautiful raven hair of hers and laughs uncontrollably at the sheer wit of my letter or b) contacts security immediately - by the way, Evan is quite hopeful that she will, in fact, send him her panties. GAWD!)

jejejeje! I have curves and you do not. This is good mierda. 

Su amiga,
Kirstie Lindsay

P.D. Yo no soy loca. Solamente se los verbos en conjugacion presente. jeje. Yo no se mucho vocabulario en espanol ahora. Entences necessito estudiar y practicar mas.

P.S: I am not crazy. I only know present tense verbs. haha. I do not know much Spanish vocabulary right now. Therefore, it is necessary to study and practice more. (Colleen highly recommended that this be inserted; as did my lawyer). 

Celebrity Cheat

There are a few key questions that you should never ask your spouse because you may not like the answer. For example, "Do these jeans make me look fat?" "Do you think insert name of hot friend here is good looking?" and "If you had 1 celebrity cheat, who would it be?" Does anyone remember that episode of "Friends" where Monica and Chandler comprise a list of celebrities that they would be "allowed" to cheat with, if the opportunity should arise? Well one night over a bottle of wine, I asked Evan which one celebrity he would choose to sleep with, given the opportunity. I don't really know what I was expecting or how the conversation could possibly end on a positive note, but I do know that I was not at all happy with Evan's response. He didn't even have to contemplate an answer. It just popped right out (like he'd thought long and hard about this before???) He chose...Salma Hayek.

I'm sure Salma Hayek has a wonderful personality. I'm sure Salma Hayek is a real hoot at parties. I'm sure Salma Hayek is intelligent. However, Salma Hayek looks NOTHING like me. Evan chose to hypothetically cheat with a celebrity that does not look/act ANYTHING like me. No resemblance whatsoever. Not that I actually resemble any particular celebrity in Hollywood; however, there are certain celebrities that share a similar hairstyle (blonde), similar body-type (flat-chested athletic), similar personality (goofy), etc. But, nope. If there was a spectrum of "types," I'm at one end, and Salma Hayek is waaaaay at the other. I'm not gonna lie to you, I was slightly hurt/agitated with Evan's choice. But I had absolutely no right to be upset. He was honest. So my husband wants to sleep with Salma Hayek. Can't blame him. For the record, I chose Tommy Lee (I know I know. He's kinda icky, but in a bad-boy dangerous with herpes kinda way). Yep. Nothing like Evan Lindsay. I am a hypocrite.

Look Ev! I'm double fisting!

Look at the size of those drinks!

Hmm...I have NO idea what he sees in her.

Look at the size of those....eyes!

About 13 years have passed since this ridiculous fight conversation and I am ready to move on. I am ready to embrace Salma Hayek. Therefore, I will be writing my next fan letter Espanol to Sra. Salma Hayek. I'm extending the olive branch (although I'm not quite sure if Salma is aware that she and I have NOT been on good terms for over 10 years now).

This letter will be one of my greatest challenges yet. There is a lot pent-up emotion that I need to express with limited vocabulary. Given that this week's online Spanish lesson consists of the following categories: weather, parts of the body (la mamila = nipple - this may come in handy?), women's clothing, positive feelings, and negative feelings (uh oh), I will definitely need to be creative in composing a thoughtful, articulate letter to the woman my husband desires. Colleen, get out the wine! Jason "Cliffy Clavin," get out your best Salma fun facts - um...she does speak espanol, right?

It's All right...Cuz I'm Saved By the Bell

A.C Slater. The Legend. 

I finally got off of studyspanish.com (like a bad episode of "Intervention") and enticed 3 friends (including the lawyer) to study along. They are hooked as well. I'm like the dealer of beginner Spanish. I had to get off and harness all that excelente energy into the composition of my first fan letter to my favorite Latino star. Well, have I got a Latino star for you! Saturday mornings as a pre-teen would not have been the same without A.C Slater and the crew from "Saved by the Bell." That's right, I'm writing my first fan letter en espanol to Mario Lopez! This guy's hot. Not only physically, but professionally. While Kelly Kapowski (Tiffany Amber Thiesen) has been noticeably absent since her stint on 90210 and Screech (Dustin Diamond) is furthering his career with starring roles in raunchy sex tapes, Mario's career is exploding, with a consistent hosting gig on "America's Best Dance Crew," voiceovers for "The Dog Who Saved Xmas Vacation," (who hasn't seen that one?) and a starring role in his new reality TV show, "Saved by the Baby." In addition, he found the time to produce a female "mini-me" - a new daughter named Gia! To be honest, I always preferred A.C Slater to Zac. It's obvious when you look at Ev. I married a man who is the splitting image of Mario Lopez. If I got a penny for every time someone commented on the resemblance, I would be a rich rich woman. Maybe not.

Mario, is that you?

Like Evan with a tan

I sat down to write my letter to Mario Lopez and created some rules for myself: Rule 1: Must not use online English to Spanish translation. Anyone could do that. That would be cheating. I must compose this letter strictly with the vocabulary and verbs that I am currently studying. Rule 2: I must write from el corizon (the heart, of course).

A little known fact about Mario...No Espanol!

I met with my fabuloso instructor espanol, Colleen, and she began proof-reading my letter. She didn't actually comment, but it was obvious that she was mucho impressed with the depth of my writing. As she proof-read the letter, making suggestions along the way, her boyfriend, Jason, wandered in and out of the room. Each time he entered the room, he had a new and interesting fact about Mario Lopez, "Don't forget to mention his role in Honey 2, " "He was totally sleeping with his dance partner when he was on 'Dancing with the Stars," "His first marriage was annulled after a few weeks, you know." Holy shit. How does Jason have so much useless Mario Lopez knowledge? He's like the Cliff Clavin of Mario Lopez. Amazing. Finally, after several hours of working on this letter, Colleen urged me to practice reading it out loud. Jason entered the room again to listen to my heartfelt letter. Once I eloquently read the letter, Colleen asked Jason, "What do you think?" to which Jason replied, "You do know that Mario Lopez doesn't actually speak Spanish, don't you?"

No Way. Serious? As if. Shit. You mean, I totally stereotyped this dude based on his Spanish-sounding name and the fact that he did speak a little Spanish on an episode of "Saved by the Bell"??? Oh dear. You know what, this is fine. He can learn along with me or use the English-Spanish online translation to understand this letter. Jason informed me that Mario's new Spanish-speaking wife would be more than capable of reading the letter to him. So there. Next letter; however, I will do a little more research first. Sorry Mario!

Here it is folks (English translation in Bold) PS: settle down Spanish geeks: I'm fully aware the punctuation is not accurate; however, I can't figure out how to access spanish punctuation on blogger.com.

Hola Sr. Lopez  Hi Mr. Lopez (very respectful)

Que hay? Como estas? Estoy muy bien! me llamo Kirstie y tengo 32 ans. Soy de Saskatchewan, Canada
What's up? How are you? I am very well! My name is Kirstie and I am 32 years old. I am from Saskatchewan, Canada (so far, very informative, don't you think? At this point, he's questioning whether I am "special")


Cual es el origin de tu familia?
Where is your family from? (people love when you ask about them)


Estudio espanol porque tengo un blog. Miralo! www.kirstie-seizetheday.blogspot.com. Es fabuloso!
I am studying Spanish because I have a blog. Take a look! www.kirstie-seizetheday.blogspot.com. It is fabulous! (if I do say so myself! haha, I had to use Fabuloso - love it. I can just picture Mario shouting, (shirtless, of course) "where's a computer? I need to see this fabulous blog!")


Escribo a tu porque me gusta tu! Me gusta "Saved by the Bell." Me gusta Slater porque Slater es guapo!
I am writing to you because I like you. I like "Saved by the Bell." I like Slater because Slater is good looking (super deep, I know - one whole chapter of the text was on "I like." What can I say?)


Slater tiene un fanny pack, y tu? Que esta adente el fanny pack - un docena cervaza? jeje. Me gusta cerveza, y tu?

Best lunchbox ever. Ever.

Slater has a fanny pack. Do you? What is in your fanny pack - a dozen beer?  hehe (laughing in Spanish is jeje) I like beer, do you? (I feel like this is the part where my true personality really shines through, you know?)
   
Yo solomente se los verbos en conjugacion presente! jeje
I only know how to use present tense verbs. haha. 


Tengo un esposa. Me esposa es un bombero. Me gusta digo, "donde esta el carro de bomberos, Evan!" jeje!
I have a husband (he needs to know that I'm not trying to pick him up, given the sexiness of my letter thus far). My husband is a firefighter. I like to say, "Where is the firetruck, Evan?" haha (I just had to fit this in the letter somewhere. It's just so good). 


Mi amiga es una abogada. Si yo ofendo usted, hablas con ella.
My friend is a lawyer. If I offend you, you can talk to her. (covering all my bases here)

Quiene son tus amigos?

Quiene son tus amigos? Zac? Kelly? Screech? You se. Tu gusta Jessie!
Who are your friends? Zac? Kelly? Screech? I know. You like Jessie (demonstrating my in-depth knowledge of "Saved by the Bell.")


Felicitaciones! tu tienes una nueva programma de televisiones - "Saved by the Baby!" y une familia bonita.
Congratulations! you have a new TV show called "Saved by the Baby" and a beautiful family!
(thanks for the tip, Cliff - er, I mean Jason)


Siempre en me corizon,
Kirstie
Always in my heart,
Kirstie
P.S: Hablas Espanol?
P.S: do you speak Spanish?


Running to slip this in the mailbox ASAP. I can't wait to hear back from him!!


 This is when Slater captured me corizon:

Hombre!

Me llamo Kirstie. Soy adicto a studyspanish.com (My name is Kirstie. I am addicted to studyspanish.com). I'm not exaggerating. I am totally addicted. I think about this website when I roll over at night, at level 6 rounds (yep, guilty), and as soon as my lunch break begins. You all know my "Only Child Sydrome" issue with my irrational need for constant attention: "look at me!" "look at me!" Well studyspanish.com gives me all the attention I require - positive attention. It's fantastico!

Colleen es excelente!

Let's begin with my Spanish lesson of the month. My new Spanish instructor is my friend and co-worker, Colleen. She is an Occupational Therapist at the hospital. Colleen is one of the most positive people I've ever met. We co-treated a patient once who had suffered a stroke. This patient was quite adamant that she could return home and Colleen's job was to determine if she was able to perform typical daily activities (cooking, cleaning, making the bed, etc) prior to being discharged from the hospital. This particular patient was having severe word-finding difficulties, so I tagged along to the therapies kitchen to provide some speech and language therapy while the patient was attempting to bake a cake with Colleen. Let me tell ya, this patient was having mucho difficulties with the cake. She had such severe perceptual deficits that she was cracking the egg about a foot to the left of the bowl. She was pouring the batter about a foot to the left of the pan, she was applying the icing on the table a foot to the left of the cake....you get the point. I was freaking out. She was ruining the cake! Someone stop her! Can't we just make this cake ourselves? Colleen stood calmly by, providing cues as needed, "Stop and place your hand on the edge of the bowl. Now see how you've poured the batter on the table. Line it up. That's good. Try again." Wow. Now that's patience!

Colleen studied Spanish in University and then bravely accepted a practicum 5 years later in a tiny Mexican town near Mazatlan. She was tutored in Spanish intensely for 2 months prior to her departure, then practiced as an Occupational Therapist for a non-profit organization (100% in Spanish!) for 2 months. That's bold. Imagine the brain highways she developed during that stint!

So Colleen has agreed to help me with my Spanish. To be fair to Colleen, she hasn't looked at Spanish for quite some time, so she agreed to learn again along with me. We met to discuss Spanish verbs (it's vaguely familiar from my beginner class a year ago) and then she recommended my new obsession: studyspanish.com.

estoy borracho - but just at this moment

First of all, Spanish verbs are a tad complicated. For example, the verb "estar" and "ser" both mean "to be" (like, I am happy. I am a girl, etc). However, "estar" is a temporary form, whereas "ser" is a permanent form. This is important. If I said, "Estoy Borracho," (I am drunk), you would throw your head back and laugh, "haha, I love it when Kirstie's drunk!". On the other hand, If I said, "Soy borracho," (I am A drunk). You would feel pity and contact AA immediately. Got it? Mucho Importante!    

So once I got the verbs sorted, I went on studyspanish.com to "Take the exam." Not gonna lie, kinda miss taking exams....but only when I know my shit. Initially, I was receiving 80-90% and you know what, that's just not fricken good enough. So I persevered. After three consecutive 100%'s, I moved on to discover the most entertaining activity ever. Matching. The goal is to accurately match the Spanish word to the English equivalent. The vocabulary is sorted into categories: kitchen, large animals (as opposed to little animals?), bathroom, and my two favorites: Crime and Emergency Services. Who doesn't want to shout, "Las esposas, el policia!" (the handcuffs, policeman!) or my new favorite question for Ev, "Donde esta el carro de bomberos, el bomero?" (Where is the firetruck, fireman?") It just makes me so happy. The icing on the cake; however, arrives once you've completed the matching activity to  sexy spanish man at studyspanish.com's liking.  A large glittery star appears on your screen and sexy Spanish man shouts praise at you...in Spanish. It's pretty awesome and you can't help but grin proudly when sexy spanish man shouts, "Excelente!", "Fantastico!" or my favorite, "Hombre!" (I'm pretty sure that means "man" but whatever. I'll take it and like it).

Last night, I spent 2 1/2 hours on this site. I just can't get enough of sexy Spanish man's praise (I know, I probably require counseling or something, right?) And I love shouting back at the computer in Spanish. It's a passionate, angry language that needs to be shouted from the rooftops. Try it, "El OSO!" (the bear). "El gorro de bano!" (the shower cap!). See? Told you.

Now that I have like 30 verbs and 5 categories of Spanish vocabulary, I am ready to begin my first celebrity fan letter. I'm super pumped about this one. I will be writing a Latino star who has been in my dreams since I was a teenager. El es Guapo!
Stay tuned...

Check out sexy Spanish man's positive praise:

Earning my retirement one humiliating experience at a time...

Don't be fooled: they are not lined up for execution.
They are living the "good life"

Evan's parents have it all figured out. Jer and Peg are living the good life in a magical place called "Viewpoint RV Retirement Resort" (doesn't that just roll off your tongue?) Viewpoint is a "retirement resort" in Mesa, Arizona for 55+ active RV'ers seeking the good life. Ev and I slid right in under the radar, pulled up our pants and joined in the 55+ action. It was good. So good. Typical Day: You wake up whenever you want because you don't work. That's right - no one cares when you wake up. You don't call in "sick" or "late."They will not take away your pension check if you consistently wake up past 11am. Brilliant. Your phone rings off the hook with friends asking you to "play." Hmmm...shall I join Sharon for tennis? A golf game with Rob? Perhaps baseball with the guys? Shuffleboard with Steve and Mary? It's like a Saturday in July when you're 10 years old. The possibilities are endless. Brilliant. You engage in some R&R by the pool (which of the 5 pools? The 80 degree pool, the 90 degree pool? Perhaps you want to check out the cold crappy pool where they allow (gasp!) children?) Around 3pm you decide where you would like to attend happy hour ("Gladys makes those fantastic riblets!" "Mario brought back some wine from California.") You drink, eat, visit - then head to bed for 9pm so you can get a good sleep and start all over again. Brilliant. The whole thing is fricken brilliant. Sign me up! I spent the whole visit repeating those 3 words. Surprisingly, I was met with some resistance. "Oh no! You need to EARN your retirement." What the h? Is there like some points reward card I need to sign up for?

So, like, if I do 1 more lap, will I EARN my retirement?

Points Reward Card for Retirement:
Bearing a child = 1000 points
Bearing more than 2 children = 6000 points (add 2300 points if they are all within 2 years of each other)
Working a job you hate for more than 20 years consecutively = 5500 points (add 1000 points if your boss is total dickhead)
10+ years of rush hour driving = 1500 points
Being a "Hockey parent" = 2000 points (add 1000 if your child  is a goalie)
Babysitting your grandchildren while your selfish children vacation in the Bahamas = 800 points
Enduring a Saskatchewan winter for 20+ consecutive years without slitting your wrists = 7500 points (subtract 50 points for every hot holiday you took)

Is there any way to expedite the process? Like, if I have a particularly shitty day, can I write the points reward people, describe my experience and gain extra points? If so, I have a doozy. Here it goes,

Dear Points Reward for Retirement Committee,

I am writing you this letter in the hopes of receiving additional points toward my retirement. I feel my recent experience should accelerate the retirement process, earning at least 1000 points or more.

Best. Walk. Ever.

Upon returning from "practice retirement" in Arizona, I was awakened at 5am by the sound of a glass falling into the sink. The cat, frightened, ran across my face, leaving a large scratch on my cheek and bruise under my eye. After I wiped the blood off the pillowcase, I got up to take the dog for his morning walk. A slave to the clock, I checked the time repeatedly to ensure that I would re-enter the house at exactly 7:24 so that the coffee would be on by 7:26. With 3 minutes to spare, the dog followed me as I grabbed the garbage and headed out the back alley. Upon returning at 7:26, I was shocked to find that the dog and I were locked out of the house (the basement dweller determined that I had left for work and locked the door behind me). I was stuck in the backyard, clothed in dress pants and high heels with no coat, no phone, and no key (with my little white dog). Please note that it was -7 degrees Celsius (perhaps worth an additional 200 points?) Without my cellphone, I do not actually know anyone's phone number (who does anymore?), so my only option was to run to the fire hall (approximately 12 blocks downhill) where my husband was working. So that's what I did. I ran 12 blocks downhill with a scratched face, bruised eye, and my dog in high heels (let me clarify, I was wearing high heels, not the dog - that would be goofy).  

Once I received the key and a ride back to the house, dropped off the dog, and made it to work, I was 16 minutes late. I immediately opened my email to find a message from a buddy with whom I hadn't spoken in years. Here is what it said:

"Hey Kirstie! I think I saw you running down the Central Ave bridge this morning in high heels. You were running with a little white dog. It was funny. You looked like you were being pulled down the hill. If it wasn't you, I wish you would have seen it. It was hysterical."

Anyone seen this crazy lady at Canadian Tire?

The following day, I let my fabulous 5 year old niece paint my face. There were butterflies, swirls and circles all over my forehead, cheeks, and neck. Completely oblivious, I then proceeded to run errands around town for an hour and half, in addition to meeting with some gentlemen who are helping with our new build. No one said a word.  I can only imagine that anyone who has seen me in the last few days thinks that I am losing my mind. And perhaps I am, in fact, losing my mind.

So, as you can see, it was a particularly shitty/embarrassing week and I may be losing my mind. Please consider this when calculating my points toward retirement.

Sincerely,
Kirstie Lindsay
PS: next post will be in Spanish. I promise. ;)

Seize the Day! (Unless it involves a trip on an airplane)

Fax Machine: I have no idea.

Bernoulli's Principle: Duh.

Ok. I've flown a lot. Growing up as an only child, I was the spoiled brat that hot holidayed with my parents every winter. When I began to stalk date Evan Lindsay, I regularly flew across North America alone to get some action watch him play hockey. When Ev and I moved to the UK, we flew around Europe every chance that we had. Now that we're "settled," we try to jet off to 2 hot destinations per year. You could say that I'm a seasoned flyer. Airplanes do not frighten me. Flying does not frighten me. My science fair project in grade 9 involved "Bernoulli's Principle" (the principle that explains the pressure that keeps airplanes midair). Unlike fax machines, airplanes are not a mystery to me. I "get" airplanes. Airplanes are the safest way to travel. There. I said it. So why, on our flight to Phoenix, did Evan have to pry my sweaty clenched hands off his knee as I rocked back and forth ala "Rainman" chanting, "I don't want to die. I don't want to die."??? Brutal. Seize the day, my ass.

I believe this began 2 years ago on a flight back from Cozumel. The pilot warned us on departure that this would be a "bumpy ride" due to strong headwinds. Whatevs. I was cool. Well into hour 2 of the plane dropping and shaking violently from side to side, I was beginning to panic. Once the lights and TV's blinked and faded off, I was quite certain we were crashing. Passengers began crying, throwing up - it was quite horrible, actually. Unfortunately, I was not sitting beside Ev. He was 2 rows back in a drug-induced coma post bad Mexican guts. All I could think of was, "we won't even die together." Of course we landed safely in Toronto and I chalked it up to one shitty ass flight with bad headwinds. Everyone has that story about that one horrible flight, right? As you sip your wine at the staff xmas party, you chime in, "Well, this one flight was sooo bad...." Everyone loves a good "near crash experience" tale.

Now would be an appropriate time to panic

This time, we were descending into Phoenix amidst a thunderstorm. Lightening lit up the night sky, illuminating the trembling wings. The turbulence was disturbing enough to cause passengers to lift their heads curiously from their books, buckle their seatbelts, and grip their armrests. No one was throwing up, no one was sobbing, no one appeared to be panicking....except for me. I don't quite know when it started, all I remember is turning and looking at Evan. His eyes were as big as saucers and his eyebrows were halfway up his forehead. He was giving me his, "What the hell is wrong with you?" look. I've seen that look before. Once, as we were driving in from the lake, I witnessed a fox running alongside the road with a dead baby fawn in it's mouth and I ugly sobbed (you know - contorted face, loud gulping noises?) for 50 kilometers. 50 kilometers of ugly sobbing!  Finally, Ev gave me the "What the hell is wrong with you look?" and said, "So, you're really going to do this, huh?" It was that exact same look. I knew I was overreacting, but I could not help myself. I was quite convinced the plane was going down. The air was much too thin to fill my lungs. My body shook. Tears streamed down my face. "Get me off this f'n plane, " I hissed. Ev calmly held my hand, "Just breathe. You're fine." As the plane finally touched down safely, initially, I felt relief. Then I felt...like a complete and total idiot. Um..I think I just had a panic attack. On a plane. The pilot did not die from foodpoisoning, leaving a blow-up doll at the controls, we did not crash into the andes, forced to survive on (gulp) each other, there were no mother f'n snakes on the mother f'n plane. It was a complete overreaction to some turbulence in a thunderstorm. Brutal.  

And stop calling me Shirley!

Sipping my paralyzer by the pool the next day (retirement is sooo good people), I began to analyze my reaction to the flight. Was it the fear of actually crashing? The fear of having no control? The fear of what waited for me on "the other side?" No. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was afraid of missing out. You know when you're a kid and your parents make you go to bed early. You lie in bed wondering what fantastic events could be taking place without you? The thought actually occurred to me, "Man, I have such an awesome year ahead,  full of amazing goals, fantastic people, and now I'm going to die. Bummer." But, the purpose of my year long experiment is to seize the day! Live my life to the fullest! How can I do that if I'm scared? I was brave enough to attempt a trick on a longboard. I was brave enough to play the flute (horribly) in front of an audience. I'm brave enough to tackle a new language. There's no room for fear in my year! The purpose of this year is to channel Ryan's "no fear" attitude and zest for life. Ryan would roll his eyes at me and say, "F Kirst! get over it!" I mean, how am I going to sign our realtor papers in insert name of tropical country here  if I can't frickin' get on a plane??? So end of story. Fear of flying officially over. Done.
Sin Miedo! (my first Spanish phrase. I think it means, "no fear" but I can't be certain just yet).