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).

November Goal: Write to my favorite Latino Stars...In Spanish

Ola Antonio. Let's speak sexy talk.

I've always wanted to learn how to speak Spanish. I did take beginner lessons briefly last fall; however, I didn't apply myself. I learned enough to head to Mexico and slur, "no mas! no mas! Estamos Barrachas!" (no more. No more. We are drunk.) It was certainly helpful - Ev, Lawyer, and Lawyer's husband appreciated my limited knowledge of the Spanish language the next morning when our dive boat pulled up at 8am to haul our hungover bodies to the bottom of the sea. But I kinda lost interest after our vacation. Looking back, I now realize that I didn't consider my optimal learning style while I was attempting to learn the language. You know how they say that everyone learns differently? Good listeners retain information if it's presented auditorily,  kinesthetic learners do best when they can share in an experience, and visual learners have to be able to see the information to recall it. I am a visual learner. I know that I must write information down in order for my brain to process it. In university, I had like 600 sets of speech definitions on cue cards in my purse at all times (along with ativan and mini bar vodka bottles). So this time, I will give it my best shot, write it down (and why not in a fan mail to my favorite Latino stars?) and speak the language of love (wait, that's Italian) sexy talk. Yes, the language of sexy talk. Look out!  

I also have an ulterior motive for wanting to learn Spanish. I'll let you in on a little secret. I have a fantasy that I'd love to fulfill. And I will. One day, I shall be on..."House Hunters International." Ev doesn't watch TV very often; however, when he does decide that he'd like to watch a little telly, we can't seem to find a program that we can enjoy together. I have no idea why he dislikes the "Real Housewives of New York" (Go have another Pinot Grigio, Ramona) or loathes "The Bachelor" (like, hello, did ABC really think that Brad Womack could sustain a semi-normal relationship with any woman?), but Ev and I certainly can agree on "House Hunters International." It's a reality TV show on HGTV that follows a couple/family as they look to purchase a home in a foreign country - often in a beautiful tropical location with sweeping views of the Caribbean. Ev and I sip our wine and totally mock discuss the couple's search for the entire 30 minute program, "No, don't pick the 1 bedroom villa. Where the h will your guests stay? GAWD." "That's like a 20 minute walk to the beach. Who wants to spend that much time walking to the beach. GAWD." "You notice how he always has to have his arm around his wife's shoulder like he owns her? - GAWD." In the majority of the episodes, Ev and I totally agree that would have made a much better decision than the couple on TV. Ev and I aren't even close to starring in our own episode just yet. But it's good to be prepared. What does "House Hunters International" have to do with Spanish, you ask? Well, we intend to purchase our home in a tropical climate, and I figure that the majority of tropical climates are Spanish speaking countries, and I'll need to speak Spanish when I'm signing the real estate document. Right? No brainer. Done. Bring it on. Ola! Cerveza! Bano! Por Favor! Arriba!

Pool Rules - last rule: a sure sign that you're in a retirement community :( 

Warning: the following video is super cheeze. Ev and I are currently practicing retirement in Arizona and we've been participating in too many happy hours (Retirement is so flippin awesome! Only 20 plus years away!) Also, I totally forced Ev to participate in the making of this video - he wanted no part of it and I have no idea why.

I did it. And then we broke up.

Phew. What a relief. That was stressful. Since my last post, I practiced flute like my life depended on it. I took flute to work and practiced on my lunch breaks. I set my alarm 10 minutes early and practiced in the mornings. I was not going to let flute own me. The plan for the concert was that Heidi (flute coach extraordinaire) was to accompany me on the piano. On Friday afternoon, I took one look at Heidi and knew it was not to be. Red, stuffy nose and hoarse scratchy voice - she did not look good. Heidi left work early, assuring me that she just needed some rest and she'd be back in action for the Saturday concert. I wasn't convinced. So I went home, reached Eddie Vedder via youtube and requested his accompaniment at my concert (I pressed "play" on the youtube video). We worked well together but whoa, Eddie! It was fast. Really fast. But, if worst came to worst, we would figure this out. My fears were realized when Heidi texted me Saturday morning, "flu is worse. I'm so sorry, buddy." (isn't that super unfair when you get sick on the weekend?) Ok. Don't panic. The concert will go on.

Chardonnay: building confidence since 1997

I quickly ran to the liquor store and stocked up on wine, beer, vodka - anything and everything to get my audience as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible...and then I practiced. I practiced until my lips bled and my shoulder seized (well, not really, but I'm building suspense here people). As I practiced, something miraculous began to happen...I began sounding kinda, well...good. As 7:00 neared, I figured, what the hell. A little chardonnay would loosen me up. I poured myself a glass of wine and waited...and waited. 3 large glasses of wine later, my full audience was in attendance...and I was kind of sort of drunk. Well, pleasantly buzzed. Which was good. Hey, you can't tell me Pearl Jam never went on stage three sheets to the wind. So, plans changed. Performer drunk. Audience sober. Confidence was high (or perhaps the wine had numbed my frontal lobe - the part of your brain that prevents you from making a mockery of yourself). My audience consisted of Ev, my Lawyer, Lawyer's husband, and Colleen. You'll be getting to know Colleen in the next month, as she is leading me in my November challenge. She's a very positive person - someone you'd want in your audience when you're about to make a total ass of yourself. Surprisingly, Shaw Cable was nowhere to be found :) I could sense a nervous energy from my audience. I sat down and played. Eddie and I were slightly out of a sync a few times and there were a few notes that were misplayed; yet, all-in-all, it wasn't half bad. It was kinda almost good. Once the performance had been completed and wine glass was comfortably in hand, I broke up with Flute.

Me: Flute, we had a great run together. I think you're fabulous and you'll make someone really happy. But...I just don't think there's a future for us. It's not you, it's me.

Flute: Well that's 1 month of my life I'll never get back, biatch.

Well, who said breaking up is ever easy. It had to be done.

So - I did it! Here's what I learned:
1) It was fantastic hanging out with Heidi outside of our little speech office. We had a fabulous trip to Winnipeg together and I feel like although I've known Heidi, Speech -Language Pathologist, for the past 2 years, I really got to know Heidi as a person. It blows me away how self-sufficient and independent she is. She moved to Prince Albert without knowing a soul, bought a house on her own, and fixes pipes and doors with hack saws and various tools which I know nothing about. And she can sexy dance. That's cool and inspiring. Thanks, Heidi, for being patient with me. You were a fabulous instructor.
2) Playing the flute did not come easily to me. It was challenging. It's hard to be sucky at something. It would be much easier to just say, "It's not for me" and move on. I persevered only because the experience was being broadcasted on this blog. I am so happy that I didn't quit. I watch the video of my performance now and I feel proud. I learned how to play the flute in 1 month! That's kind of awesome. There is no doubt in my mind that areas of my brain that lay dormant for years are now buzzing with the construction of various new and intricate highways.
3) One of the most exciting, unexpected consequences of this experiment is the connections that I'm making with people. A LOT of people played the flute in their younger years. I received tons of tips, advice, and experiences from colleagues, friends, and family who played the flute at one time in their lives. Thanks for all the positive comments and support fellow flautists! Whether it's an encouraging email from one of Ryan's friends or a random nurse on level 4 inquiring about my flute lessons, people with whom I've never even spoken to are now approaching me. I'm meeting a ton of new, interesting people through this blog. So cool. And it's only going to get better.

Great month! Bring on November!

Here it is folks...

My Face is Melting

Ok. No time to blog - practicing flute like a maniac right now. Public flogging  concert is set for Saturday. Currently, I'm selectively choosing an audience (only friends/family who have humiliated themselves in front me in the past) and strong alcohol to feed my audience pre-performance (perhaps they will forget). I have the Pearl Jam song before me. It's a great song. One of my favorites. Although I presently know each and every note, I'm faced with some serious challenges here with d-3 days to showtime:

1) Why can't Eddie Vedder pick a regular rhythm and stick with it? This is no Jingle Bells, people. Heidi, flute coach extraordinaire, (it is of no fault of her own that I'm not excelling) attempted to count out the beats for me. I consistently played on the wrong beat...and Oh Heidi was so patient, "No, not quite." "just a little too early," and my favorite, "No, but that certainly sounded artistic." Shiiiit! Then Heidi had a fantastic solution: listen to the song and repeat a few bars at a time - brilliant! that I can do. That's why Heidi gets paid the big bucks...er, wait. She is not being paid. Why the h did  she agree to do this?

Pick up your lips and carry on

2) After a few bars, my face begins to melt. F#, G, A...oh wait, there goes my lips. G, B, C - nose falling to the floor, C, A, A - left eye dripping down neck. I literally lose all control of oral/facial muscles and an odd whistling sound begins to emerge out of the corner of my left lip. It's embarrassing. I may have to consider that when selecting my audience. "You've been appointed the official retriever of the lips. Just pick them off the floor and place them back on my face. Thanks, that's great."

3) By page 4 (there are 6 pages of music), I'm so out of breath that I consider calling in Respiratory Therapy for a tank of O2 and a non-rebreather (I love RT's - they are so calm and cool. That's who you call in an emergency such as this). Seriously, I work out like 3-4 days per week (we own a gym for God's sake!) Where the h is my "fluting" endurance and how do I build it up in 3 days?

Ok, starting to panic. Must go practice. I hate butchering Pearl Jam whilst fluting!

Speech Geeks Unite!

I was in Winnipeg! Guess why I went...
No, I didn't go to the Jets game. Better. Guess again.
No, not the Bluebombers. Way better. Guess again.
Yes, Selena Gomez was in town, but, nope. Not Selena. Much better.

I went to Winnipeg to see...
wait for it...
Dr. Joseph Duffy!!!....(crickets chirping...except for the 5 speech pathologists that read my blog - they are flailing their arms around madly, squealing with delight).

NOT this Joe Duffy (but he is quite cute, isn't he?)

Dr. Joe Duffy - the real deal

Dr. Joseph Duffy is the guru of motor speech disorders. He wrote THE textbook. He is a big fricken deal in the speech world. Huge. Try to suppress your jealousy - I listened to him lecture for 2 days. In a room full of Speech-Language Pathologists. From across the world (well Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Minot).

This speech geek (love you, Anroup) thinks I'm taking a picture of her. but I'm not. Look waaaay left - that's him, folks! That's Joe Duffy's left arm!

You have NO idea. Let me sort this out for you:

Think way back to your elementary school days. Do you remember that one annoying little girl? That little girl who chose the desk front and center so that every teacher had a clear view of her springy little hand, which was constantly raised eagerly in the air. That teacher-pleasing, overachieving little girl had the answer to every question and a lengthy (almost always correct) explanation for each and every answer. While you played normal games at recess with the other children, that little girl was "chosen" by the teacher to remain indoors to mark exams. As "book smart" as that little girl was, she was oblivious to the fact that she was been used as child labor while the teacher slammed beers in the staff room. You remember that little girl? Odds are, she is now a Speech-Language Pathologist (that description is me, by the way - I know, you kinda hate me right now. I'm cringing).

So now picture 50 of those little girls, all grown up, Duffy textbook in hand, attending a 2 day conference, buzzing with the prospect of discussions of hypokinetic dysarthria, upper motor neurons, and (gasp!) maybe even palatopharyngolaryngeal Myoclonus (big impressive-sounding words make speech pathologists giddy). These ladies are eager to impress their "leader" of motor speech disorders with any remotely relevant anecdote or brain-busting question. These poor women haven't been officially "graded" in years. They are yearning for academic reinforcement. Lucky for me, my flute instructor, Heidi, was also in attendance and Ev, although not attending the Duffy Conference, had some business to attend to in Winnipeg as well.

On the way to the conference, Ev stopped at a Tim Horton's a few blocks from the hospital where the conference was being held. As we walked out of Timmy's, Ev pointed out 2 nicely dressed, eager looking women,
Ev: "I bet they are in your conference."
Me: "What? No way, Winnipeg is a big city. I bet they aren't,"
Ev: "Yep. All you speech geeks have a special "look" (he refers to us as speech geeks with the utmost respect and love) "Plus, you all walk the same."
Me: "What does that mean?"
Ev: "You speech geeks have a special strut. Probably from years of rushing to be the first to hand in your exam."
What the f? A look? A walk? No way.

I enter the conference room. The smell of Type A is overpowering. I glance around only to see that the 2 Tim Horton's ladies ARE in attendance!!! How can that be? I scan the room for signs of "a look." Shit. We DO have a look! Out of 50 attendees, approximately 35 of them are wearing a cardigan and/or scarf, "dressy" jeans, and leather boots. What's up with that? I look down. Double shit. I am wearing a cardigan, a scarf, "dressy" jeans, and leather boots. I glance over at Heidi. Ditto. Bahahaha - funny? Whilst ;) the speech geeks rush Dr. Duffy for signings of their textbooks (definitely a peppy strut), I struggle with the realization that I somehow unconsciously became a full-fledged member of this club cult  tight professional organization. Is this what Scientology is like? I am distracted by the speech geek to the left of me. She is wearing a beautiful pink scarf over her cardigan. I wonder where she purchased such a scarf. Pretty pinks and grays - such a lovely match to her cardigan. And then Dr. Duffy begins his presentation with a question. Hell, I know the answer to that! I eagerly raise my hand, with hopes that he will pick me. Positively reinforce me! Take me to the mothership.

Cardigans and Scarves: Did he just say spasmodic dysphonia? Whoo hoo!

Is that bear a speech pathologist? No, silly, he's not wearing a cardigan.

You probably assume that I've completely forgotten about Flute. Nope. Flute made the trip to Winnipeg. Flute quite enjoyed the trip and did receive some playing time. I'm not a quitter. I'm starting to see some improvement. Well, not really.

Oh I'll show you "Spirited Energy!"

Can you guess the 3 songs? Evan was super helpful in the taping of my performances.

When iphones attack

Holowaty's self-portraits: cropped to perfection

On the day that we lost Ryan, I remember thinking, "I will never laugh again." How will ANYTHING possibly be funny EVER again? I recall my sensitivity to laughter that week - wondering what the h anyone could remotely think was funny while the lives of Ryan's friends and family were falling apart. At Ryan's service, we embraced, cried, and occasionally laughed - laughed while reminiscing about Ryan's unicycle; laughed about discovering the thousands of self-portraits on Ryan's computer - cropped to perfection (The dude was confident!) The laughter stung. I wanted no part of it.

On Sunday evening, after Ryan's service and the releasing of paper lanterns into the starry sky over Candle Lake (Ryan would have dug that), Jamie Chester (rockstar extraordinaire and one of Ryan's best buddies) put on a show at Rick's Lounge. It was a chance to celebrate Ryan. Friends, drinks, and Pearl Jam. The perfect tribute to our little buddy. I was sour. Miserable. I didn't want to be there. I would have preferred to sit in a dark house alone, wallowing in my sorrow. Ev, sensing my misery, handed me a glass of wine, threw his arm around me and said, "Let's take tomorrow off. I will text Whit and see if she can cover the class for me." It is important, at this point in the story, to introduce Whitney. Whit (as we lovingly refer to her) is awesome. Whit is a beautiful 20-something year old girl who's full of life and can't sit still. She's the epitome of fitness. She runs, walks, swims, and/or bikes everywhere - whilst lifting kettlebells overhead (well, pretty much). Lucky for us, she's a CrossFit coach at our gym. She's super dependable as well, so it didn't surprise me when she immediately responded to Ev's text, "Sure, no problem. I can cover tomorrow's class."

Ev quickly replied back on his iphone, struggling to see the keypad under the night sky.

Ev: "Oh No!"

Me: "What's wrong?"

Ev: "Can I get a text back? How do I get this text back? Oh my god, is there any way to stop the text from sending??" Ev was frantically shaking his phone, removing the battery, etc.

Me: "What did you write? No, you can't get a text back. It's like a fax machine. It transports things with no explanation. It's a fricken mystery."

Ev: staring blankly at iphone

Me: "What did you send her?"

Ev sighed and handed me the phone. I could see the speech bubbles, outlining the conversation between Whit and Ev. The last bubble from Evan read:

Thanks Whor.

Far right - Whit. NOT Whor. Obviously,  she's awesome.

Me: "What? Did you seriously just call our 23 year old employee a whor? a misspelled whor? How did that happen?"

Ev showed me the tiny keypad on the iphone. Yep, "i" is right next to the"o". "t" is right next to  the "r". It was an honest mistake. "Whit" can easily turn into "Whor" on the tiny iphone keypad - especially with man hands (Whoa, that didn't sound good). Well, once Ev explained to Whitney how such a message was mistakingly sent, she laughed it off, and it was determined that sexual harassment charges would not be laid, I couldn't help myself. I laughed. And laughed. And snorted. And laughed. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I laughed until my sides hurt and my velopharyngeal valve (valve between nasal and oral cavity) burned from snorting so hard. It was funny. Funny things were STILL funny. I could totally hear Holowaty's high-pitched girlie laugh. He had the BEST laugh! His laugh was an over-the-top, bending at the knees whilst slapping your thigh kind of laugh. He was right there with us laughing away. It felt so good to laugh.

PS: There has been little laughter and flute playing in my house over the past few days. I have been suffering from the "sweat-puke-shake" flu since Sunday. It sucks. And contrary to what you might be thinking, it is not an extended hangover from my 90's flute session on Friday night. This is the real deal. But, the Shaw news story from my longboarding days is now available online. Check it out:

http://shaw.ca/ShawTV/Saskatoon/

(bottom left - seize the day)

Music is like cocaine...without the nasty side-effects

Have you ever driven along in your vehicle when suddenly a familiar tune on the radio transports you back in time, eliciting memories of your grade 2 teacher, a house you lived in as a child, or that first make-out session with a boy (Sidenote -  Mom: "Making out" does not mean "going all the way." "Making out" is the equivalent to your 1960's definition of "necking." Clear? Love you!)

Music has a powerful effect on the brain. Although research is constant and ever evolving, there seems to be a common theme. First, studies of the brain have shown that listening to "pleasant" music (this, of course, is subjective. A love of Tiffany is not shared by all. Shocking), causes an elevation in serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain (the same 'feel good' neurotransmitters that are released when you are on cocaine). Essentially, music makes you feel good. It makes you "high." Oh dear. Someone in a small hick town will read my post and ban music and school dances forever, causing the teen community to host "underground" dances in barns and such...wait...wait...that's "Footloose." I digress. My point is that music is way cheaper (like 99 cents on itunes) with way less and horrific side effects than cocaine (I've watched "Intervention"on A&E. Never seen a music addict). The answer is music, not cocaine, my friends (duh). PS: contrary to what you may believe whilst ;) watching some of my incredibly whacked out videos, I am not "on" cocaine. I am "on" music. Just wanted to clear that up.

According to Davis, a researcher at the University of California,  there also appears to be a "hub" in our brain, located in the prefrontal cortex (right behind our forehead), where familiar music, memories, and emotions are linked. Interestingly, in Alzheimer's Disease, this area of the brain is one of the last to atrophy, which explains why someone with Alzheimer's may not recognize or be soothed by his wife; yet, can remember the words to his favorite song, which in turn, improves his mood. I have witnessed this firsthand with many of the patients in the hospital. Music is powerful. You hear a familiar song, it evokes an emotional reaction (good or bad) and the memories (good or bad) come flooding back to you. Awesome, right?

So, Heidi and I decided to really throw ourselves into character - relive the early 90's when she was a flute sensation and I was...not a flute sensation. We fluffed up the bangs (hers were quite incredible, really), threw on some frosty pink lipstick (LOVED wet 'n wild), and along with Evan, my lawyer (she's back!), and laywer's husband, we watched some old music videos from our past to test the theory of music = emotion= memory.

Disclaimer: the following pictures were taken after an emotionally draining week of work. Wine, hot rollers, and hairspray were involved. You may want to remove young children from the room.

Heidi's bangs are legit. She's the true flutist.

The flute causes us to stare dreamily into the distance

Did someone fart? No, we're just gazing dreamily off into the distance

Can someone please stop serving us wine?

Here are the results (I've conveniently linked each to the youtube music video for your viewing pleasure)

"Whoomp there it is" Tag Team, 1992 = Triumph = Yes, I just spiked the ball and it was unreturned. My volleyball team demonstrate their approval by forming a circle in the middle of the court, pointing to the opposing court (hence, totally humiliating the poor player who failed to return my spike), while cheering, "Whoomp, there it is!" Lame in retrospect. Incredibly triumphant at the time.

"Get Ready for This" 2 Unlimited, 1993 = Exhilaration = Picture my lawyer, donned in her fabulous figure skating costume, bearing the Canadian flag during the National Anthem at the Raider game. As she skates off, she hears that familiar and powerful synthesizer intro, "Y'all ready for this?"  Like, I don't know about you, but I'm pumped right now.

"Joyride" Roxette, 1991 = Hope = Picture a 12 year old curly haired, freckle-faced Evan, chillin' in his bedroom in Red Deer, blasting his favorite cassettes on his ghetto blaster. He dreams of someday owning a Mazda 626, picking up an unsuspecting blonde Saskatchewan girl, and takin' her on a joyride through the streets of PA. "She says hello, you fool, I love you. C'mon join the joyride...."

"More Than Words," Extreme, 1990 = Confusion = Picture my first boy/girl party. It's my first slow dance with a boy. Whoa. I am dancing with a boy! Whoa. He's touching my back! Boy is touching my back! Wait a minute...what is boy doing? Why is boy licking my neck? Ew, there's boy slobber on my neck! Is this supposed to happen when you slow dance with a boy?" Aaaaargh! What do I do? Do I wipe it off? Do I lick boy's neck now? I am so confused! "More than words...is all you have to do to make it real."

"Move This" Technotronic, 1993 = Sexy? = We don't know exactly what memory this evokes in Heidi's brain; however, the dance moves that erupt are reminiscent of Cindy Crawford's 1993 Revlon Commercial. Evan and Laywer's husband are transfixed on Heidi as she swings her hair back and forth...back and forth...back and forth...what? Oh uh sorry, lost myself there for a minute. Anyways, I'm pretty sure it's a sexy memory. I kinda want to know, but maybe not. "Shake that body for me."

Cindy:

Heidi (Yes, you will have to turn your head - trust me, it's worth it)

We ask Lawyer's husband to contribute a few of his song memories. He's oblivious to our request, staring off into the distance, reliving the memory of Heidi's hair tossing performance. You can bet that particular memory is safely being stored in his prefrontal cortex along with Technotronic's "Move This," and um...well, positive thoughts.  As the night comes to a close, we've proven, without a doubt, that music evokes emotion and memories. We can also conclude that we are all very happy -  music, does indeed, elevate the level of "happy" chemicals in the brain (as does the consumption of 3 bottles of wine). We are super happy, "high" on life,  and we did not snort cocaine.