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.