Thank Goodness I'm Not a Race Horse

So the surgery did not go as expected. The theory of the simple meniscal tear repair followed by 2 weeks of rehab did not, unfortunately, pan out. I was; however, quite entertaining (if I do say so myself) during the procedure.

First of all, it’s strange to have surgery in the place where you work. As I entered the building at 10 am donning glasses, a ponytail, and not a hint of makeup, I silently begged, “please don’t run into anyone I know today.” Ya right. I ran in to at least half a dozen peops who glanced my way, did a double take (wow, she’s hideous without makeup) and exclaimed, “Oh! I didn’t recognize you. Good luck in surgery.” Again, nice to know so many people care, but difficult to remain anonymous during a private situation. For example, as I hobbled down the day surgery hall in my gown, carrying my urine sample, I was horrified to pass the cast and brace dude whom I see on a daily basis. “Um. Hi. Yep, I peed. Check it out.”  On the other hand, I was so thankful to see my buddy Lisa, my fantastic physio who popped in a few times to help calm my nerves.

I opted for the spinal route so that I could watch my surgery via screen as it was occurring. As I was discussing this with my Anesthesiologist (great guy!) I noticed his eyes dart downward towards my chest and widen in surprise. Nope, no booby situation here. It was….THE RASH. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned THE RASH in my blog before. Mostly because I feel as though talking about it strengthens its power, causing it to spread faster and angrier. THE RASH is basically hives that begin to form on my chest when I am nervous, angry, or sad (basically any extreme emotion). I’ve been dealing with THE RASH ever since University when professors would call 911 in the middle of my presentations for fear that THE RASH would eat my face. It sucks. I actually specifically chose a high-necked wedding dress, knowing THE RASH would make an appearance at our wedding. It kind of runs my life, damnit.

So as each medical professional came in to my pre-op “stall” (kind of like a cow preparing for slaughter), they gasped at the site of THE RASH and I had to ensure each and every one of them that, as horrid as it appeared, it would NOT attack them during surgery.

As I hopped onto the operating table, my Orthopedic Surgeon , Dr. M, and his assistant, Dr. K, (a Physician that I know well) strutted into the OR ready to take on my simple knee scope.

“What is that?” asked Dr. M, pointing alarmingly at THE RASH.

“Don’t look directly at it,” I replied, “and it won’t harm you.”

I took my spinal, mixed with some fabulous “calming” concoction and instantly became relaxed. And funny. It was like the Kirstie show. All these people were my audience and I had their full and undivided attention. “Look at my knee! Look at my knee!” It was an only child’s dream come true.

“Did you just roofie me?” I asked the Anesthesiologist, “because I like it!”

It soon became apparent as they positioned the camera under my kneecap that this was not a simple tear of the meniscus.

“Look at this,” instructed Dr. M, “Your hard cartilage is all ripped and torn.”

I glanced up at the screen to see cartilage that appeared to have been through the paper shredder.

“But your meniscus is fine.” He probed a piece of smooth round soft cartilage.

“We’re going to have to drill holes in your bone to create a blood clot. This will promote new cartilage growth because yours is not good. The new cartilage will not be the right kind of cartilage but it's better than what you have now...which is essentially nothing, “ he explained.

“Whatever. Sounds fabulous!” I replied happily, not realizing the extent of what he was telling me.

Dr K hoisted up my leg to a 90 degree angle and Dr. M began forcefully pounding holes in my knee.

“Hey, Dr. K – how about a pedicure while you’re down there!” bahaha. I was fricken hilarious – even with 3^rd degree cartilage tears.

Little did I know that the pounding would come back to haunt me 24 hours later when the sound of our neighbor building a fence would cause me to puke.

Cast and brace dude (Hey, remember when you saw my pee?) delivered a giant awkward knee brace and my surgery was completed with the fitting of this horrid brace. Suddenly the magnitude of my situation began to sink in. I would not be wakesurfing Candle Lake this summer, would I? I would have to scratch "running the Boston marathon" off my list of things to do. Damnit. It's a good thing I hate running.

“No weight bearing for 6-8 weeks. Your knee has to remain straight out in front of you. No driving, “ instructed Dr. M. “We will meet on Thursday to discuss the rehab that will follow. There will be some lifestyle changes.”

Shit. That’s quite a change from the anticipated 2 week recovery period. Shit. At least I can still play the flute and crochet. I was so good at those things, you know.

“Dr. M, If I were a horse, would they shoot me?” I inquired.

“I don’t want to answer that. You’re not a horse.”

“Just be honest,” I probed.

“A race horse?” He asked.

“Sure.”

“Yes, they would shoot you.”

“But if you were a pony or a pet horse, “ he continued, “they would keep you because you are very good company.”

Hmmmmm…..

Boobies are distracting...even for doctors

As I've mentioned, I have a torn meniscus. Apparently, it needs to be surgically corrected. Thankfully, I was scheduled for surgery quite quickly because I slept with the orthopedic surgeon it is a priority. My surgery is tomorrow. A torn meniscus is annoying and frequently "locks,"causing me to contort my face in such an awful way that my office mate and flute teacher, Heidi, simultaneously laughs hysterically and yells, "Oh no! Oh no!"

I'm no stranger to the surgery. I've had a few in my past. Typically, my surgeries entail the investigation of the "lady parts." Surgery of the knee sounds much more preferable to surgery of the lady parts. In fact, this could be quite an exciting opportunity. I will be given a spinal and will be able to actually watch my scope on a television situated in front of me as it's occurring! I'm trying to be positive here. Also, I just recently purchased a GoPro camera for Ev - it's a sports camera that you mount to your head while you are surfing, climbing mountains, wrestling alligators, etc. Ev's trying to convince me to mount this to my head to document my knee surgery. Hmmm...."Hey friends, want to come over for a beer and a viewing of my knee surgery?" I'm thinking....NO.

The moment when Lawyer's husband deviated his septum. Bahahaha. 

My last surgery was NOT a positive experience. I mean, NO surgery could ever really be a positive experience. In fact, Lawyer's husband recently went under for a repair of his deviated septum. He awoke to experience a very sore nose and an unusual and surprising pain in his...um...butt. Yep. His butt. As it turns out, during general anesthetic, a suppository will be inserted for pain relief. Say Wha?UGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!! But I digress...as I was saying, NO surgery could ever really be a positive experience, but out of the 5 surgeries I've endured, my last one was most certainly my least favorite.

First, my Gynecologist was incredibly good looking. He was Dr. McDreamy for the lady parts. Now seeing a hot doctor should be a pleasant experience; however, when your discussion revolves around your uterus and ovaries (I apologize if those words make you cringe - I feel uncomfortable even typing them), it definitely takes the flirtation out of the experience.

"Hi! My name is booby....er Doogie."

Second, a young resident doctor was participating in my surgery. He was 16. Well, perhaps I'm exaggerating - but there's NO WAY he was of legal drinking age. He was very Doogie Howser-ish. You all remember Doogie, right? Neil Patrick Harris. Brilliant prodigy child? My Doogie Howser's first job was to insert my IV. Apparently I have "difficult" veins, so this is no easy task.

As one nurse held down my arm to take my blood pressure, Doogie attempted to insert my IV in the other arm. As I lay naked under a sheet in the cold, sterile OR, and Doogie struggled repeatedly with IV insertion, I began to become slightly anxious. Suddenly, I felt a rush of cold air in a very private place. As I looked down, I realized that my booby had popped out of the sheet and was exposed to everyone in the OR.

Well I'm the first to admit that my booby isn't overly spectacular to look at. At all. However, this was probably the first booby that my 16 year old resident had ever seen!! No wonder he was having difficulties with my IV, he was obviously distracted by the booby pointed directly at him.

How humiliating. This is the last thought that ran through my brain as I fell asleep. Well that, and, gosh my booby is cold. Traumatic.

Waking from my surgery, I was immediately greeted by my very attractive Gynecologist.

"The good news is - you have a very nicely shaped uterus." (For Real. He said that).

I blushed, stomach whirling with butterflies. Or nausea. Not sure. In my mind, I heard, "You are the most exquisite woman I have ever performed surgery on."

My stomach fell. Or maybe it was nausea. Not sure. Wait a minute, did Dr. McDreamy just compliment the shape of uterus? Gross. So gross.

"The bad news is, we accidentally perforated it during surgery."

Seriously? I bet that damn Doogie Howser let his scalpel slip, still preoccupied with my exposed booby.

So that's how my last surgery went down.

I anticipate a much better experience this time around. I will tell you all about it (promising to never use the words uterus and/or ovaries in a blog post again). And my stories tend to be much more entertaining whilst on pain meds...and I will take those pain meds by mouth, thank you very much.

Cabbage Rolls and Baby Bumps

Warning: Do not write an angry letter to the Control Room Operator of the Universe. I posted that angry letter at approximately 10:30 pm on Tuesday and awoke at 6:45 am on Wednesday with a torn meniscus (that's in my knee. It's not good). Yep. I was, to be honest, a little flattered that the Control Room Operator of the Universe actually reads my blog (and so promptly, nevermind); however, I learned a valuable lesson. Keep angry thoughts bottled up. For years. And years. Push those angry thoughts down. Ok. Done! In what could not possibly be a "coincidence," my good friend, Stacey (remember "thathey" with the frontal lisp?) also suffered a torn meniscus this week. He read my angry letter and reportedly "enjoyed it." That'll show him.

Anyways, it's all fine. I'm slated for surgery next week and I'm still surrounded by awesome people who care - so let's just keep on keepin' on. And....I'm fricken hilarious on painkillers so you are all in for a real treat!

I'm still striving for domestic goddessness which is slightly more difficult on crutches (ever see those lovely 50's housewives remove a roast from the oven whilst shouting, "F'n crutches!") I headed out to Baba and Gido's farm last week for a very important cabbage roll making lesson. I shared my month end goal with Baba: To prepare a Ukrainian dinner for my bestie Janna's birthday! She nodded her head and very seriously replied, "Oh that's nice. Well, you can try." Hmmmm...confidence is NOT high.

The little farm kitchen was bustling with chaos excitement, as the farm is in the midst of seeding season. Baba heads up grand central station, shouting orders as men enter and exit the house.

"For Gawd's sake, Mike! What are you doing? Eat this sandwich!"

"Les. Drink water. Look at you. You're thirsty!"

"Hired man! You like borscht? Eat my borscht!"

As the noon hour wound down and the dust settled (on Baba's clean floors), we took a deep breath and she proceeded to teach me the rules of cabbage.

The quality of your cabbage rolls depends on two things: the texture of your cabbage and the flavor of your rice (which totally makes sense since that's all cabbage rolls consist of).

First, you must "blanch" your cabbage leaves. Blanching is simply dipping your cabbage into boiling water to soften the leaves. Baba has a freezer full of previously blanched cabbage - because "you never know when company will stop by unexpectedly." Baba and I have more in common than I thought! I hold that same philosophy with my "company" beer fridge!

Baba is blanching cabbage leaves to perfection

smallest cabbage roll ever = FAIL

As we removed the hard veins from the cabbage and seasoned our rice, Baba expressed her disgust with the modern day woman's display of the baby bump.

"I see these young girls wearing tight, short tops - and their pregnant belly is hanging right out! Why would they do that? Like they're showing it off! Ridiculous!"

Baba then went on to explain that in "her day," women strived to conceal the expanding baby bump. Baba had 3 "smocks" that she wore faithfully to conceal her pregnancy with all 5 children. Wow, how things have changed! Although I've never been pregnant, from what I understand via facebook and photography blogs, the pregnancy is to be celebrated and documented with photos. Side view! Front view! Husband's hands creating lovely heart around protruding belly button! How often do you see comments on a pregnant woman's facebook page, "Show us your baby bump!" It appears though society yearns to witness that expanding belly.

I asked Baba, "Why did women want to hide it?" I mean, I understand that pregnancy before marriage was, at one time, frowned upon, but why would a married woman choose to conceal her pregnancy?

"Well, people know how you got to be pregnant and then they talk about it!"

Really? Perhaps it was because they didn't have reality TV? Or TV at all, for that matter? I can honestly say that as a friend announces her pregnancy, I have NEVER immediately visualized how that pregnancy occurred. Ewwwww. That being said, I also have "The Bachelorlette" on Monday nights which perhaps fulfills that sick and twisted part of my brain.

This interests me. How did we go from one extreme to another? I didn't dare show Baba these pictures from www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com. This site makes me howl. Wow. Who the h thought these photos were a good idea?

Someday, this child will show this photo to the court and he will be exonerated of all his horrible crimes.

"Yes, Suzy. It IS hard to believe that mommy will push that baby out of THERE."

"hehe...a little wine...a little chloroform. Look what happened."

Dear Control Room Operator of the Universe...

Warning: I'm pissed. Not drunk pissed. Angry pissed. I WANT to be positive and inspiring right now, but I can't. Not today. Tomorrow, but not today. I debated whether or not I should post these thoughts and feelings and then I recalled that the purposes of this blog is to share my journey with you - it's been about amazing experiences and people, but it's also about coping with Ryan's death. I suppose this is another step in that journey, so here it goes. My intent is not to offend anyone. I'm guessing that I'm not the only one who has experienced these thoughts.

This is a letter to the man in the control room - the person who is controlling the universe right now. I'm quite unsatisfied with his work performance.

Dear Control Room Operator of the Universe,

Everyone is allowed to make mistakes. You made a huge one when you took our friend Ryan last year. Not even Ryan's Minister could make sense of your actions. Why would you choose to take such a vibrant young man with such a bright future ahead of him? But for some unknown reason you chose him. And we did everything that you could ask of us. We banded together. We sorrowfully sang, "Jesus Loves Me." We remembered. We celebrated Ryan's life. We continue to celebrate his life. We use his life to inspire our own. But you know what? You made a mistake.

Control Room Operator of the Universe, you've had a very bad week. You've made some terrible, irreversible mistakes. You've struck a family with a very difficult diagnosis  - a family that has already endured tragedy. You chose the wrong family. This person has the BEST posse and we will join forces to help him fight this battle. Fine. You want to see how strong this family can be? We will show you. But you made a mistake.

And then you went and really screwed up. How could you sit back and watch a drunk driver take a fabulous, charismatic husband and father away from his young family? A family that represents everything that is good in this world. What were you thinking? How are we supposed to make sense of that? You made a huge mistake.

As I'm watching the people I love and care about endure this horrific pain, I ask that you please stop making these mistakes. They have to be mistakes because I can't imagine that any decent control room operator of the universe would knowingly instill this unbelievable sadness on some of the best people you have.

Buck up.

Sincerely,
Kirstie.

Entering Domestic Goddessdom...exhilarating, yet exhausting

Since my day with Baba, I've been trying to be more domesticated by cooking, cleaning, and building my hubby's ego. The proof is in the pictures. Obviously, none of these are staged. Notice the domestic goddessness of what I'm doing. Notice the Saskpro CrossFit T-shirt (building Ev's confidence with advertising). I think I almost have this down...

Did someone say...cookies?

Nothing inspires me more than a shiny floor!

Garbage day: What a rush! 

Puppy chow! Come and get it! Buy a membership at Saskpro CrossFit

Stir-fry! mmmmmm....note the reflection in the clean and shiny countertops!

oooohh, chicken delight for the man of the house

scrub 'em 'til they sparkle. That's what I always say.

Why no, Dundee, we can't take a sunset walk...who will windex the glass?

Hubby's undies must smell fresh!

barefoot and pregnant? Oh dear. FYI: that's a pillow. Don't go spreadin' rumours

Happy Mother's Day: Special shout out to mothers' of goalies!

We took the big trip to Red Deer this weekend to visit Ev's parents and we're extremely busy eating all of the treats that Peg has prepared for us. Therefore, I will make this post short and sweet. I thought I would start by celebrating Mother's Day by sharing some pictures of Braden Holtby's mom. Braden is the netminder for the Washington Capitals and his mother is becoming something of a celebrity for the facial expressions she's been making during playoff games. I can totally relate to this poor woman. This experience looks unbelievably painful for her. I'm sure that each and every goal that sneaks past her son causes her to die, just a little, inside (this is how I always dramatically articulated my feelings about watching hockey). Happy Mother's Day, Mrs. Holtby. I'm sorry that your son is a goalie. That sucks. Braden, buy her something nice with that playoff bonus. (Mother's Day tip: steer your son away from goaltending and/or pitching positions).
(pics courtesy of Washington Post)

"I'm having so much fun watching my son play hockey!"

"Quick! pour me something stronger"

"We should have pushed him into figure skating."

"Get back in your net! Get back in your net!"

It does remind me of a little "mom" story. Peggy and I were watching Ev play against the Red Deer Rebels in Red Deer. We were always quite the pair when we watched the hockey together. Our overreactions and spastic body movements increased exponentially as a pair. Clinging desperately to each other we cheered, covered our eyes, and yelled obscenities at the ref, we were 2 of only a few Prince Albert Raiders fans at that game. We were appalled as the the Red Deer crowd began heckling Evan after a soft goal (although I'm sure he was screened... or the defenseman tipped it in because there's just NO way it could have been his fault).

Two sauced Rebels fans seated 2 rows ahead of us began chanting, "Lindsay....Lindsay." When Ev failed to acknowledge their blubbering heckles, the one red-nosed man yelled, "Lindsay, your mom takes it up the ....." (You know how that ends, right. I don't really want to type that. It just feels wrong).
Evan's mom turned towards me slowly and repeated, "Ev's mom takes it up the .....?"
Oh dear.
"Excuse me! I hollered at the men sitting ahead of us, "This is Evan Lindsay's mom."
Eyes bulging out of their heads, face turning a bright shade of crimson, the man replied, "Oh. Sorry about that. Your son is very talented."
Enough said. We didn't speak about it again.

Have a great weekend! Thank your moms for all the anguish you caused them over the years.

perogie dough, condoms, and the male ego

I was fortunate enough to spend the day with my Baba and Gido on their 66th wedding anniversary! Can you imagine being married for 66 years? Baba's response, "What else were we supposed to do? We had not choice but to stay married for 66 years." So romantic, Baba. As the rain pounded on the windowpanes, Baba reminisced, "Our wedding day was just like this 66 years ago. Cold, dreary, and raining. "
"But when we came out of the church, the sun was shining!" Gido recalled.

Surprisingly, Baba and Gido's 66th wedding anniversary was just like any other day the farm. Baba was taking out the garbage and Gido was coffee-ing (yes, it's a verb in Meath Park) with the farmers at the cafe. I walked in the little farm house and asked, "So Baba, are you going to make me into a domestic goddess?" She looked up at me (she's barely 5') and very seriously replied, "I don't know. You've already been married for 7 years. It might be too late. But we will try." At least she's honest.

We began our session with perogie making 101. Baba put the recipe for perogie dough in front of me. She very carefully explained how many cups of flour and water to add and then left me to my own devices. What she didn't explain was how to add the water all at once to the flour. I slowly added the water, stirring the entire time. This was a fatal error, my friends. A fatal error that resulted in tough, stringy perogie dough - one of the most common rookie errors, frowned upon by Ukrainian women throughout the world.

Dough is NOT meeting Baba's standards. Fail. 

I then spent the next hour watching Baba try to "fix" my tough perogie dough, kneading, adding water, kneading, adding water. It was exhausting. Thankfully, during that time, Baba shared her extensive knowledge about "being a good wife" with me. I learned a lot.

tough perogies for a tough man.

Baba sat down to reveal her number one piece of advice. As she wiped the crumbs off the table, she looked me in the eye and very seriously instructed, "You must stroke your husband's.....(Oh Gawd Oh Gawd)....ego." If that sentence ended with anything other than "ego," I was out of there.

She went on to explain that in the early years of your marriage (her definition of "early years" could constitute as anything less than 40 years of marriage), you must build your husband's ego by agreeing with him, supporting him, and standing by every decision he makes. Even if you disagree. Yikes! She then went on to explain that once your husband is confident and his ego has been built up, you, as a wife, have free reign to bring his inflated ego back down to Earth. "That's why Gido thinks I'm getting "mouthy," she explained, "I just stopped agreeing with everything he says." Interesting.

We then talked about what marriage and family was like 66 years ago. Baba told me that there was no such thing as sex education or "sex talks" with parents in her day. You found out the hard way, on your wedding night (Oh dear). Gido explained how his sex education was limited to observing animal breeding on the farm. I began to silently thank my Grade 6 sex ed teacher, Miss Booker, for the "question box." Baba then broke into a hilarious anecdote about "safes" (condoms), which I managed to get on video. I love Baba's stories. I could spend hours listening to Baba talk.

Once we ate our slightly chewy perogies, "tough perogies for a tough man," said baba as she scooped them onto Gido's plate, Baba guided me to the closet where Baba E's cross stitching is kept. Baba E. was my Baba's mother who lived to be 99 years old. She died just short of her 100th birthday. She was an amazing woman, coming over from the Ukraine to marry a man that she had only corresponded with via letters. I recall visiting Baba E. at the care home she resided in during her last years of life. She would always say to me, "I've lived a long, happy life. I'm ready to die. I think I might die tonight so we better say goodbye." I would nod and give Baba E a hug. A week later I would go back to visit, "Baba, you didn't die," I would say. "No. but I think tonight is the night." She always made me smile.

Baba E. spent years of her life creating elaborate cross-stitched works of art. These pictures are now in Baba's care and she's passed on several to us grandchildren as we graduate, get married, have babies, etc. Baba showed me the closet where several of these pictures are kept. "What am I going to do with these?" she asked. "Each and every stitch was made by my mother. Every single stitch. This is where we all came from. What if these pictures end up in a yard sale some day?" she said sadly. It occurred to me just how much family and "our roots" mean to my Baba. My Baba defines herself by where she's come from and the family that she's created....and she's incredibly proud.

Driving home after a wonderful day with my Grandparents and a tupperware filled with tough perogies, I made a plan. As Ev walked in the door from a day at the firehall I said, "Let's go to Red Deer and see your parent's next weekend." He agreed immediately and then recalling Baba's advice, I placed my hand on Ev's bicep and commented, "You're so strong, Ev."
He flung my hand off his arm and asked, "What's wrong with you?"
That didn't go well. Maybe it is too late.

Watch and Learn. Best. Video. Ever.

May Goal: To Become a Domestic Goddess

Why are you laughing? Stop laughing at me. Yes, you read that correctly. I, Kirstie Lindsay, shall become a domestic goddess. I know, it's hilarious, right?

What does it mean to be a domestic goddess anyway? I picture a smiling, trim woman with neatly pulled back hair, donned in a flowery apron, the aroma of baked goods wafting through her kitchen as she simultaneously prepares the children for bed, vacuums the floor, and awaits the arrival of her hard-working husband with a roast in the oven and a brandy on the table. Oh dear. Sounds lovely but a wee bit exhausting really.

This is our reality: Ev arrives home from work at 9pm. I've taken out chicken breasts so they are thawed when he returns - that way he can cook them to his liking. I'm at the table drinking wine, working on my blog and watching "The Real Housewives of Vancouver" (so bad, yet so good). The animals are yelling because I've forgotten to feed them and the dishwasher needs to be emptied. No pies. No roasts. No vacuuming (unless the house is for sale and there's a showing). No brandy. Your underwear is dirty, Ev? Just turn them inside out! I do; however, take out the garbage weekly and always ensure that my husband's beer fridge is stocked with his favorite beer. Beer is important. With each sip of beer, Ev becomes convinced that I am actually an A-1 wife.

It's not as though I haven't tried. Following our wedding in 2005 and a move to Texas for hockey, I was left without a working visa and subsequently without a job. My day consisted of aspiring to wake up before 11am (otherwise, it's just so embarrassing to still be in bed when Ev returns from practice), working out, and waiting for Evan to come home. I decided to become domesticated. I cooked, I cleaned, I did laundry, I was determined to take care of my man. It just didn't go well. One night during a dinner of overcooked something with a side of mushy boiled something, Ev asked me, "Do you enjoy doing this?"
"What?" I asked.
"cooking?"
"No, Not really."
"Me neither. You should stop."

Thank Gawd. Although he was asking me to quit cooking, I took that as a signal to end all domestic chores FOREVER and happily drank wine and told Ev hilarious stories while he cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Yippee!!! I'm free!

I'm now 33 years old and am quite happy with my role in our relationship. It works for both of us. I contribute a significant amount of money to our finances with a fantastic, secure career. I arrange our social calendar, booking dinners and drinks with friends. I was in charge of designing the last 2 houses we've built, singlehandedly choosing each and every piece of flooring, granite, and trim, and I plan all of our vacations down to renting the car. Yes, I know that I'm very lucky and grateful to have found a husband who is accepting of this non-traditional role. He lets me be "me." If it were the 1940's, I imagine that no man in his right mind would touch me with a 10 foot pole. No cooking? No cleaning? No baby birthing? Failure. Thank goodness it's the 21st century and our roles aren't as defined.

But in the spirit of "seizing the day," I am ready to experiment and see if I'm capable of "trying on" a new role. For a month. Just 1 month. I want to be a domestic goddess and I know the perfect person to adopt as a mentor.

Baba.

Baba is my Ukrainian Grandma. Baba is the epitome of domestic goddess. Baba pinches perogies while mopping the floor and picking berries. Baba dusts the combine while patching work pants, and rolling out dough for cinnamon buns. Baba even birthed her babies in the wheat field to ensure the men received their lunches in a timely manner (Ok, I made that last one up, but I bet she would've if she could've). Baba is fabulous. Baba is 84 years old and she has not slowed down a bit since I was introduced to her 33 years ago. Baba also possesses a competitive spirit. She innocently asks about other grandmas habits, sizing them up against her own abilities, "Does SHE make cinnamon buns? What does SHE put in HER perogies?" To top it all off, Baba is hilarious. You know that filter in your frontal lobe that prevents you from sharing your "inside" thoughts? Baba doesn't have one. She never has. She says whatever is on her mind...which makes for some very interesting family events.

One of our favorite traditions at Christmas is when Baba hands each Grandchild his/her Christmas Card (with a money treat inside). Baba writes a special message to each and every one of us (12 grandchildren!) She writes whatever comes to mind when that pen is in her hand. When Baba reads each message out loud on Christmas Eve, you can bet that the family is roaring with laughter.

Example:

"Mark! Merry Christmas! We are proud of you. When are you going to get yourself a nice girlfriend?"

"Kayla - Congratulations on your high marks. You should spend more time with teaspoons and tablespoons than wrenches and bolts."

"Michael! You work hard. Keep at it and don't drink so much beer."

Awesome! Yet as Baba "tells it like it is," we all are very much aware that she loves us more than anything in this world. Family is her number one priority in life. She is an extremely hard-working, driven, interesting, fabulous lady and I'm excited to spend more time and learn from her over the next month.

Baba and her undomesticated granddaughters. At least we inherited the blonde hair!

The hangover that almost destroyed my marriage

April is almost over and I have to admit that I've had my "weakest" month since I began this project in August. My ambitions to learn how to change a tire and spoil my car for the month with a detail, oil change, and windshield wiper replacement fell a wee bit short. I have a few solid excuses: 1) The inflammation under my kneecap has not subsided and I'm now dependent on a crutch, making it most difficult to change tires and oil. 2) The weather has been crap. It's difficult to motivate yourself to work outside on the car when it's snowing/raining with 60km/hr winds. 3) I honestly just didn't really want to.  I'm quite happy to let Canadian Tire change my oil. I've become a CAA member and they can change my tire in a pinch. Yep, I'm currently sucking at life...just a little. But...I did CLEAN my car. It looks way better and now I don't have to worry about social services removing it from my garage.

To punish myself for sucking at life this month, I am going to share one of the most unflattering hockey tales about moi. You thought shouting, "Evan Lindsay, Don't you dare!" from the stands was humiliating? Well this story takes the cake.

As you may recall from my post about the moment we knew it was over, our last year in the hockey world was a complete and utter mess. You may recall that Ev was fired from his job in Nottingham, England, resulting in a period of time in which we sat in Saskatchewan waiting for his agent to find us a suitable team to finish off the hockey season. You then heard how Ev signed a contract with the Pensacola Ice Pilots. What you didn’t hear was what happened in between those two events. What you didn’t hear was the story of how my own mother and husband completely (temporarily) lost respect for me as a human being. What you didn’t hear was the story of New Year’s 2006.

The plan was made. We would be departing for Pensacola on New Year’s Day. It would take us approximately 4 days to drive there, so we needed to get up at a decent hour and get a good start on our next adventure. We decided to ring in the new year at Rick’s Lounge, Candle Lake. If you haven’t heard of or been to Rick’s Lounge, you have missed out on an epic experience. I waitressed at Rick’s Lounge throughout University. I don’t recall a whole lot about the experience, given that Rick’s motto is: “Nobody Likes you Sober.” I took his motto literally and ran with it throughout University. Which is fine…when you’re 21 years old and have the ability to bounce back. Not so fine if you’re nearing 30 and have a 4 day drive ahead of you.

To be completely fair, I had suffered from mega stress and had dropped 10 pounds. I had spent days crying in my room. I was depressed. I was poised for a nasty drunk. Once that first vodka-soda touched my lips, there was no turning back. Suddenly, I was fun again! I was confident! I was hilarious! Everyone looooved me! I was doomed. I don’t recall much of New Years Eve 2006, but I have seen photos. Photos of Christmas tree balls tied around my waste. Photos of suspect headstands on the pool table. Photos of my red drunken eyes googly and unfocused whilst fist-pumping enthusiastically on the dance floor. Apparently, it was an entertaining evening for anyone who had the opportunity to party with me.

Festive Balls

You love me now...wait until morning

Pool Table Headstand. You will regret this tomorrow when your brain matter starts spilling out of your head.

I awoke the next morning to Ev gently pushing on my shoulder. My head was throbbing. The room was spinning. My mouth was furry. My stomach churned. Where was I? How did I get to this state? Who is this strange man pushing on my shoulder?

“Wake up, Kirst. We have to get moving”

Wha?

It suddenly occurred to me that we were moving to Florida. Today. Now. As I attempted to get out of bed, I became acutely aware that it was imperative that all 4 limbs be touching the floor in order to safely transport myself to the washroom. I recovered bits of green felt out of my hair as I held my head in agony (and to prevent brain matter from spilling to the floor). Damn, I was doing headstands on the pool table last night, wasn’t I?

Quickly losing patience with the speed of my movement, Ev irritatingly asked, “Can I get you anything?”

My eyeballs ached as I attempted to look up at him from all fours.

I hoarsely whispered, “Water.” My vocal cords were in agony.

Upon guzzling 2 glasses of water (Best. Water. Ever), I painfully climbed back into bed. I was physically unable to do this. I just needed 10 more minutes.

2 hours later, I awoke to my mom’s stern voice, “Kirst, you have to get up. Evan’s packing the jeep. You need to help him.”

“Moooooooooommmmmm,” I whailed, “I can’t. It hurts.” It physically hurt to breathe.

“What do you need?” she replied sharply.

“Pizza.”

“Good gawd, girl. “

Half an hour later I awoke to the smell of pizza sauce and my obviously irritated mom shaking me awake.

“Eat this and then get up! You need to help. Poor Evan is packing the jeep all by himself. Get yourself together!”

I could see her lips moving but all I could hear was this rhythmic pounding in head.  I opened my mouth to request that she please stop yelling, but nothing would come out. Pizza. Pizza would make things better. As I took the package from her, I realized that she had brought me a pizza sub. Oh dear.

“No sub. I said pizza, mom.”

The thought of that pre-packaged sub and that giant white bun made my stomach churn. I considered running to the bathroom to throw up; however, aware that I was currently mobilizing on all fours, I knew that I would never make it. I swallowed my thick saliva effortfully.

I was well aware that my behavior would certainly win me the worst wife and daughter of the year award. I was well aware that Evan and my own mother were incredibly annoyed and disappointed with me...and contemplating strangling me. I was well aware that this horrific pain was self-induced. Yet, there was nothing I could do. I was physically unable to get out of bed.

Finally around noon, after my mom helped Evan pack the Jeep (I could hear her apologizing for my horrible behavior the whole time – poor mom must have felt personally responsible for having any part in creating me). My mom stormed up the stairs to my bedroom, threw the covers off of me, and began putting my pants on.

The horror. I began to actually fear my mother as she forcefully shoved a t-shirt over my head and handed me my toothbrush. As I brushed my teeth (ouch, my teeth hurt too), I silently pleaded to the alcohol gods, “I promise if you help me get out of bed and into the jeep, I will never ever drink again.”

With the help of my mom, I somehow transferred from the bed to the jeep. Evan wouldn’t even look at me. He was angry. In fact, this story STILL makes him angry (I can't say that I blame him). I’m quite certain I heard him chanting, “I love her. I love her. I love her. I just don’t like her very much right now.”

Mom buckled me in, kissed me on the cheek, handed me the horrible sub, wiped the sweat off her brow and hollered, “I love you. Have a good trip! See you in 4 months.” As she slammed the door shut, she muttered under her breath, “What a train wreck.”

I was such an asshole. Evan and Mom: please accept this as my public apology for my deplorable behavior on that day. Love you!

Happy Birthday To Me!

I turned 33 this weekend! I like birthdays. It's your very own special day (although I was shocked to find that a co-worker shared my April 21 birthday - I thought I had dibs on that date).  I honestly don't understand those people who claim to hate their birthdays or develop anxiety when they turn another year older. It's definitely hard for me to believe that I'm 33. I feel about 25 (other than the bum knee); however, I'm embracing it. It's a nice double digit. The sum of digits equals 6 which must mean something fabulous? The alternative to NOT turning 33 is death. I choose the birthday,thank you very much.   

My niece did my b'day hair and makeup for me. Inspiration: "Jem and the Rockers"

33 years of life means 33 years of experience. I'm sure that I still have LOTS to learn, but if I was able to go back in time and slip myself a dozen recommendations to follow for the next 33 years, here is the advice that I would provide for myself:


1) You will be an angry toddler. That's ok. Get that anger out. But when you select a surface to bang your head on, try to choose carpet or something on the the softer side. You need those brain cells and there's a possibility that their loss may have contributed to lower math scores in high school.


2)You don't need to eat Grandma's pudding with sprinkles every day. Take a few days off. Throw in a salad. You will thank me in Grade 2 when your crush isn't following you home from school taunting, "Booombubba, Booombubba!"


3) Don't participate in bullying the "odd" girl in grade 4. This poor girl will find out later in life that she's suffering from a mental illness. She has a tough road ahead of her. Be kind. 


4) Around age 14-16, you will think that you are WAY smarter than your parents. You're not. You're an idiot with teenage frontal lobe brain damage who steals their vodka. Shame on you. Show them the respect that they deserve (and choose the rum instead of the vodka - they're less likely to notice missing rum. Just kidding!). 


5) Don't ever be the "drunk girl," "crying girl," or "fighting girl" at parties. Strive to always be the "fun girl" that people want to be around. 

6) Always surround yourself with people who make you feel good about yourself. Make friends with as many different people as you can, regardless of their social status. The "skaters" and "punks" will end up being your most loyal friends later in life.


7) You will question your relationship with Evan time and time again (especially in 2001 when he forgets your b'day. So jerky, but he will make it up to you). Stick with him. He's the best thing that ever happens to you.


8) Keep practicing those headstands. It's "your" thing. People will request them at social events. They make people happy.


9) Sometimes life sucks. Never question who you are. Remember #6, stay as positive as you can, and change whatever it is that is sucking. Don't be the victim.


10) You will think that the "Shania Twain" denim vest worn over a belly top looks super sexy. It doesn't. Take it off right now. You are NOT Shania Twain. If you do wear it, ensure no one gets photographic evidence.


11) For God's sakes, don't make a "life plan timeline." (i.e I will be married by age 28 with 2 children and a fabulous career). Worst idea ever. If you don't achieve those goals, you will be disappointed. If you do achieve those goals, you will be disappointed (This is it?). Your goals will change frequently throughout your life and that's OK. Be flexible to those changes. 


12) Do it now. Don't wait. Tell people how much they mean to you NOW. Go diving with sharks NOW. Stalk a world champion athlete on facebook NOW. For all we know, we might not get tomorrow - let's do it tonight. Take those words, turn them into song lyrics, call up a dude named "Pitbull" and make millions. BOOM.


Bonus Tip: Keep your car clean. You don't want to be known as "The girl with the disgusting car who applies hairy lipgloss" 


Happy Sunday everyone! I'm off to clean the Grand Am - for real this time!

Sinking into the depths of despair - just like the Titanic

Motivation is at an all-time low. I've considered tossing "car maintenance" month in favor of "self destruction" month. In fact, I'm tempted to just book my car in for a detail and oil change and lie to all of you. You bet. After wakesurfing with the world champ, April was always going to be a bit of let-down, but I've managed to take it to a whole new level. This morning, I hit an all-time low.

You'd think that participating in zero activity and taking 2 weeks off from the gym (still suffering from old man bursitis of the knee) would motivate one to eat somewhat healthy, but I've completely gone in the opposite direction - devouring anything and everything in sight. And not caring. At all. I don't care. The month of March was the most dedicated I have ever been to my fitness and food regime. I looked and felt awesome. It was truly the best shape that I have ever been in. I've now managed to completely reverse all of that hard work with inactivity, chocolate, wine, and carbs. Lots and lots of refined carbs. My body reacts consistently each and every time I ingest these "bad" carbs. First I'm happy. MMMMMMM. This tastes sooo good.  I love carbs! Then I become angry. I hate the weather. I hate Prince Albert. I hate my 2002 Grand Am. Wanna fight? Let's go. Finally, I feel hopeless with despair. Where's my life headed? What's the point of my life, anyways? Gawd my feet are big and ugly. Ugh!

Realizing the destructive "bad" carb cycle, I've avoided them since my last fitness/nutrition breakdown which occurred in December. To the dismay of my Grandma (crochet Grandma), I've faithfully attended our weekly teatimes without touching a cookie, biscuit, or piece of cake. I think this pissed Grandma off. Just a little. "Kirstie, why wouldn't you have a biscuit? It's homemade and we'll just put a little butter on it. It's good for you!"

Well no one was more eager to contribute to my carb relapse than my Grandma. As I walked into her house on Thursday, I dared her to "Bring it! Whatcha got, Grandma? Bring on the beige!" Smiling happily, she presented me with her finest biscuits, cookies, and Russel Stover chocolates. With a fat kid grin on my face, I devoured everything in sight. That night, my stomach hurt, my head ached, and I channel-surfed lethargically and miserably on the couch. "This is my rock bottom," I thought, "tomorrow, this bullshit ends and I start eating healthy again."

Oh, but it wasn't my rock bottom. On Friday night, I found myself double fisting a giant bowl of popcorn and a glass of red wine whilst watching "Say Yes to the dress."As my greasy fingers slipped and slided all over the wine glass, I shouted at the southern bride on TV, "That dress looks retarded!" (Angry phase) Continuing to shove the buttery popcorn in my mouth, my eyes became heavy and I slipped into a insulin-spike coma. Waking at 3am, upright on my couch, head bobbing, hand in popcorn bowl, I recalled a dream I had just had. In my dream, I was walking around eating out of a litter box. You know why I dreamt that? Because I'm eating shit! Obviously. "This has to be my rock bottom. Tomorrow, this bullshit ends and I start eating healthy again."

Not quite. Our gym hosted an event on Saturday to raise money for the SPCA. While eager, excited, and motivated participants sweated and gasped for air while running and rowing (raising $4500!!) I sat on the sidelines and sneakily ate Timbits. I don't even like Timbits. Stupid Timbits. One lap for you, 1 Timbit for me. This timbit tastes like crap. I'll try this one, maybe it's better. Nope, it sucks too. Give me one of those chocolate ones. Why can't Tim Horton's make decent donuts???? (PS: thank you Tim Horton's for sponsoring our event.) Give me another. Ugh. Rock bottom? No way.

 I awoke Sunday morning to 50km/hr winds and a fresh dusting of snow. Snow? Are you frickin kidding me? I had officially entered the "depths of despair" phase. Searching facebook to prove to myself that everyones' lives were obviously much better than mine (that's dangerous, my friends. People only display pictures of themselves being awesome on facebook- no one shares the picture of the fight they had with their spouse whilst waiting in line for "It's a Small World" at Disneyland!), I came across a picture on Drew's page. Entitled, "Just another Saturday on the boat," I gazed at a picture of a dolphin smiling happily as Drew's family patted the slippery little dolphin head. Seriously? Why do we live here? I want dolphins and warm weather! I gazed out the frosty window as I inhaled a stack of pancakes (extra butter and syrup please!) and wallowed in my self pity.

Just another Saturday on Drew's boat

Must Move. NOW.

Pitifully shuffling around the house in a baby blue velour leisure suit (Ev calls it my "smurf suit" and knows that the probability of making out are slim to none when it is worn), I convinced Ev to order Chinese and settled down on the couch for an uplifting showing of "Titanic." As I munched on my chicken balls, I was cautiously optimistic that the iceberg would be spotted in time, preventing the horrible ending that I knew was imminent. Nope. That damn ship sank again. In between bites of chicken chow mein, I bawled. And bawled. I ugly cried for Rose. I snotted for Jack. How sad. How horrible...Damn this chicken fried rice tastes good....how cold that water must have been...and I was bitching about a little April snow? Gawd I'm a horrible, selfish human being.

Waking to my alarm at 6:45 this morning, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and waddled to the bathroom. Lifting my toothbrush to my lips, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.
AAAAAACCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!!!! WTF? Who is this wretched 90 year old woman? Dark, deep bags circled my red, puffy eyes. It was horrid. The combination of MSG, food with no nutritional value, and ugly sobbing for 2 hours had completely turned me into a monster. I contemplated calling into work "ugly," but resorted to caking foundation and dusting "shimmery beige" eyeshadow under my eyes (doesn't work, by the way). Rock bottom? Man, I hope so. That was approximately 13 hours ago. In the last 13 hours, I have not touched a refined carb. I went back to the gym after work today. I don't want to fight. I'm not wearing the "smurf suit."I'm feeling much more positive and motivated....but not quite motivated enough to clean that damn car.

Binge drinking, financial planning, and worshipping aliens: All fantastic suggestions!

My buddy, Thtathey Weber. Thank gawd that frontal lisp has resolved. 

As I discussed my blog with my buddy, Stacey Weber yesterday (this guy turned out pretty good considering his parents named him "Stacey" and he had a frontal lisp as a child), he commented, "Kirstie, it sounds like you actually think that you're on your own reality show?" haha. Yep. I explained to him that it was my version of starring in my own reality show. I mean, I now have 31 followers! 31! That means that at least 31 people are "watching" me. "Watch this! Look at this!" Typically, the only people who watch me are my parents (as parents, they are obligated) and Ev (it was in our wedding vows). I'd say that I'm doing pretty well. :)

I am aware; however, that the format of blogger does not make it easy for people to "follow" me or to comment on my posts. I'm working on changing this. Although few comments actually appear on my blog, I do receive quite a few facebook comments and personal emails about my blog. It's awesome! I love it! It's like fan mail! whoot whoot!

A few of those comments have been suggestions regarding possible goals for upcoming months. I've decided to share my favorite suggestions provided to me by my "fans." :) Thanks guys!

1) Booze Binge for 1 month straight - How exciting! Drink each and every day and see if I can continue functioning as a speech therapist, wife, and pet parent. Monitor my liver function throughout the experience and report back. Hmmm....could be fun for a few days, but...isn't that called "alcoholism?"


2) Participate in risky behavior month - risky behaviors may include: "dappling" in crystal meth, participating in unprotected sex with my husband, running with scissors, and entering "patient on precautions" rooms without gloving, gowning or even isogeling my hands afterward. Wow...thrilling...but...gross.


3) Being responsible for our finances month: duties include creating a monthly budget, paying bills, and filling out our tax return. I just puked in my mouth. I would rather participate in Risky Behavior month for multiple months and work in the hospital barefoot than do this. Seriously.  


4) Having a baby - Well, why not?!  Document the conception, the pregnancy, and the birth. Wow, great suggestion; however, I feel as though providing exciting reading entertainment for others is not a good enough reason to have a baby. Thanks though!


5) Sell it all and travel the world in an RV - Write about all the exciting places and people along the way. You know what? I LOVE this idea. I fantasize about his one. I actually saw it on House Hunters International. I want to be friends with these people. Perhaps Ev can facestalk them (just as he did with Drew) and next year we will be holidaying with the Wynns?


6) Become a Scientologist...but just for a month - hover near the "Hall of Scientologists," patiently wait for the mothership to arrive, hop on a plane with Travolta - find out all the scientology secrets and report back. Write a book about it. Interesting. I'm sure it's NEVER been done before. In fact, someone once threw this dare out to Katie Holmes and look where it got her. 


Stellar suggestions! Keep 'em coming! I'm not, by the way, avoiding cleaning my car. Tomorrow is the day. I'm going to Canadian Tire to buy the cleaning supplies. The Grand Am can barely contain itself!

I am an unfit car owner. Help me.

How the heck do you top diving with sharks in Honduras and wakesurfing with the 6 time world champion in Florida? You don't. Hence, I've decided to choose a very practical, yet valuable goal for the month of April. To be honest, I had intended to sign up for gymnastics this month. I had visions of an unreal floor routine synchronized with "2 Unlimited - Get Ready for this." Unfortunately, as I explained earlier, I run like a fat kid and have since suffered the consequences with bursitis of the knee. It's brutal. I went from pulling shuv-its on my indo board in the WTF to literally crawling up the stairs. Luckily, I work in the Therapies Department at the hospital and have access to the city's finest Physiotherapists. My "athletic trainer," Lisa Wallin, ultrasounds my knee on a daily basis (she must be so tired of me asking whether it's a boy or a girl - it's a boy, by the way) and instructed me to rest it. Damn it. No back handsprings for me (I'm quite certain that if I was able to do gymnastics, I would definitely be pulling out back handsprings. Now we'll never know).

So I've declared April the official "Vehicle Maintenance" month. Those of you who know me and my 2002 grand am are presently laughing your asses off. For those of you who are confused, let me explain.

My 2002 Grand Am is turning 10 this month. If it were a child, social services would have removed it from my home about 6 months after it was purchased due to neglect. My idea of "vehicle maintenance" is limited to filling it with gas when the "Low Fuel" light is on (never prior to). The "change oil" light has been on for at least the last 8 months. In addition to lack of service, this poor vehicle has not been washed or detailed in years. In fact, there are items in the trunk and backseat that I'm certain date back to 2002. But, like a champ, other than a broken CD player ("Summer Mix 2009" is still stuck  in the CD player), this vehicle has been, for the most part, a reliable, loyal friend to me. Who mistreats a friend like that? Boo, Kirstie, Boo.

It's quite embarrassing, actually, and I've often wondered why I do not take more pride in my vehicle. I've reasoned that if I owned a newer, shinier vehicle, more care would be taken, but who am I kidding? In fact, during my "dark" days in Calgary, one particular asshole commented that given my salary, I should be driving a much nicer vehicle. I totally took offense and determined immediately that I needed a "Calgary car" (BMW, Acura, and/or LandRover) in order to fit it. Desperate to pull me out of my "darkness," poor Ev took me to test drive a Beemer. As I sat in the soft leather seat and stared at the shiny BMW logo, I did not feel a rush of excitement or power. I couldn't help but think: this isn't going to make me happy. It'll get me from point A to point B - 2 places I don't even want to get to in this city. I'd rather save the money and buy a kickass boat, which will be guaranteed to provide a summer of happiness. I can't wakesurf behind this car. Besides, this BMW will be dirty and full of crap within a month because I am and always will be neglectful of my vehicle (I told you, I was in a dark place). So I rebelled by continuing to drive the 2002 Grand Am in protest of those douchebag Calgarians who believed that the vehicle made the man. I refused to succumb to the masses! (disclaimer: I am NOT stereotyping all Calgarians as douchebags - there are many very lovely people who live in Calgary - like I said, I was in a "dark" place).

But you know what? Those dark days are over. I'm living in small town Prince Albert where, although a few jackasses may pass judgement, most really don't give a care  what I drive. In fact, there are several fabulous Prince Albertans who also drive the 2002 Grand Am. There's nothing to protest. This has now become an issue of basic vehicle hygiene. My home is not a disaster. I don't eat a granola bar and throw the wrapper on the floor. I wouldn't leave a tupperware container of salmon in my closet. Why the hell do I do that to my car?

For the month of April, to celebrate the 10th birthday of the 2002 Grand Am, I will:
1) Clean and detail the car (my very first job was as a car detailer, ironically, it lasted 1 month)
2) Learn how to change a tire (embarrassing, but I currently have NO idea)
3) Learn how to change the oil (I am aware that places do this for you in less than 15 minutes; however, I want to prove my loyalty to the Grand Am)
4) Change the windshield wiper  - the rubber is currently is peeling off like cheese strings.

I am including a tour of my car in it's current state. After watching this video, I totally understand if you've lost total respect for me, causing you to question why you would want to be friends with or follow the blog of a person who is capable of being so utterly disgusting. This car is in a horrific state and it's due to my neglect. First step is admitting you have a problem. I have a problem. I want to change. This is my cry for help. Help me.

Drew, Gators, Wakesurfing, and the A1A

We're back from our whirlwind Florida sampler (3 Florida coastlines in 7 days!) It was an incredible experience, I'm absolutely exhausted,  and I'm struggling to put it all down into words. So I've decided to break the trip down into 4 categories to better organize my thoughts:

1) Drew
2) Alligators
3) My training
3) A1A

hoping awesomeness is contagious

1) Drew
Drew is a super cool, chill, regular (yet spectacularly talented) guy. There was no paparrazi following him. He did not have a bodyguard or a bevy of bikini-clad super fans following him around. He was easy-going, friendly, interested, and extremely patient with us (seriously, how many times can this guy watch me attempt a 360, making the same errors 50 times in a row and remain positive and calm?)

The highlight was watching Drew ride. It's cool to watch someone excel at their sport, but it's truly amazing to watch a world class athlete. Drew grew up riding skateboards (with an initial goal of becoming a pro skateboarder) and then moved on to join the pro wakeskating tour. In 2003, he was invited to the world wakesurfing championship to try out this new sport. he had never wakesurfed before, but managed to place in that competition (no big deal). The rest is history. Now that he's the 6 time world champion, responsibility lies heavily on him to progress the sport with new tricks and maneuvers.

His riding was effortless, smooth, and confident. In contrast to our rides, which included a lot of concentration, angry self-talk ("c'mon, Kirst!"), and wipeouts, Drew smiled and rode with ease. He could do no wrong. If a trick wasn't working out the way it was supposed to, he simply altered it and turned it into something else. It was really inspiring to watch. I immediately jumped on his Phase Five Drew Danielo Diamond (how cool would it be to have a board created by you with your name on it???) and attempted to reproduce his ride (secretly hoping that his board wouldn't know it was me and magically perform), alas, he truly has raw talent and unbelievable awareness of his board - I'm not there...yet. Drew's board knew I was an imposter and immediately kicked me off. Damn you board!

We really enjoyed our time learning from, getting to know, and just hanging out with such a great guy. Centurion Boats and Phase Five boards should be extremely proud to have Drew as their ambassador. Thank you, Drew for an extremely valuable 2 days! We really hope to improve over the summer and come back again next year to awe you with our progress (or continue to attempt 78 unsuccessful 360's haha).

How many times is this chick going to fail at the 360?

2) Alligators:
So you all know that I suddenly became fearful of wakesurfing with gators prior to our trip down south. Although Drew reassured me that I would not become gator meat, he did admit that he had spotted the odd gator in his lake from time to time. Drew's lake is a man-made 16 foot deep lake near Venice, Florida. A short channel connects it to a smaller, shallower lake. When I asked Drew if he ever hung out in shallow lake, he admitted that there had been quite a few gator sightings in that lake. Um...ok, so what's actually preventing the gators from swimming down the channel to our lake? Drew assured me that he and the gators had an understanding: big lake was Drew's, little lake was gators. "Kinda like the understanding you had with the sharks when you dove with them," he said. First thought: OMG, Drew's reading my blog. Second thought: Ok, that makes total sense.

To be honest, during the first day of lessons, I was so focused on the surfing that I didn't really think about the gators. That night, I had time to process the location and, naturally, worry about what was actually residing in that lake. By day 2, there was no doubt in my mind that alligators were swimming beneath me. I relied on Drew's extensive gator knowledge that gators surface before they attack and as I waited for the boat to pick me up each and every time that I wiped out (approximately 157 times), I frantically scanned the surface for gator eyes, and strategically placed my feet on the board so as not to dangle my "beef jerky" legs for the gators to munch on. I did envision the gator taking a chunk out of my ass (which was now dangling beneath the board), but I figured that the arse would be easier to surgically reconstruct if chewed on by gator teeth. It's all about compromise.

At one point early in my lessons, I wiped out, slamming the side of my face into the water so hard that my newly acquired diamond nose ring (can you say midlife crisis?) was sucked out of my nose. As the empty hole in my nose bled into the water, further attracting the gators, I imagined a lucky alligator finding my diamond stud, placing it in his huge nostril and dancing along the shoreline laughing, "Look at me, I'm a tourist! I'm a tourist!" Damn alligators. All-in-all, the gators did not ruin my experience. They just made it more exciting...and dangerous. I laugh in the face of danger. haha.

I just need to rest...for 5 days

3) Training
So...did the training make me awesome? No. Did the training prevent me from melting into a puddle of mush after the first hour of riding? Most definitely. My secret internal goal of my experience was to ride out a 360. Unfortunately, it did not happen. Close, but no dice. But, not for lack of trying. I could write a book on how to ride out a 360 with all the tips that Drew provided; however, easier said than done. I have never rode that much consecutively in my life. Typically, I might ride for half an hour twice a day. We were riding for 4 hours each day. It was exhausting. When day 2 was complete, I passed out on Venice beach, mouth open, drool dripping from the corners of my lips. Although I did not miraculously perform 360's, shuv-its, and front side air (as I had accomplished mentally so many times in my shower), I had the stamina to keep going, get myself back up after each and every wipe, and file away hundreds of solid tips to improve my ride. I feel like I have specific goals for this upcoming summer. I'm excited. I now know what I need to do. I fear what I would have looked and felt like if I hadn't trained this month. Yikes.

Check out a video montage of our experience...

could have been epic.

4) A1A
On our way back up the east coast, I convinced Ev to drive through Miami. Easy, right? Um..worst idea ever. It was Saturday evening and Miami was insane! I had envisioned a "Glee-like" scene in which Ev and I would be driving down the A1A, ragtop down so our hair could blow. I would turn and wittingly say to Ev, "This block is dead yo" to which he would reply, "So let's continue down the A1A..." (then, in unison) "Beachfront Avenue!" We would then break out in our rendition of "Ice Ice Baby." Wouldn't that have been cool? By the time we actually made it to the A1A (2 hours of driving through Miami), Ev was cranky and my visions of rockin' out to Vanilla Ice were depleting rapidly with our moods. Finally reaching the A1A, crawling at a top speed of 5 miles/hour in our red Ford Fiesta (um...not cool in Miami beach), it was apparent that we did NOT belong. It was seriously like a rap video. I've never been in a rap video and I'm quite certain that I would never be selected to appear in one. I have never seen so many "grills," pimped out chargers, and lovely latino ladies in cut-out "dresses." (can you say strategically placed tea towel?) Insane.
Check out my attempt to lure Ev into my Vanilla Ice scene: