a "jackass" baby story

midgets jumping into ceiling fans, colonic irrigation with blenders and a geriatric's supermarket trolley derby around parking garages are just a few of my favourite things.

so when an unmarried, childless, slowly re-forming comittment averse (i have managed to keep a labrador alive for over a year) female is responsible for co-facilitating a gathering dedicated solely to the recently knocked up, the experience quickly becomes an exercise in anxiety regulation.

in order to fully establish an atmosphere conducive to celebrating 'soon-to-be-screaming-and-incontinent-100%-dependent-upon-you' life, one must first set the mood. so, rather than resorting to the ever popular pink/blue/"we don't want to know yellow" colour palette, a simple black and orange provides a natural backdrop for decorating with both dremel and craftsman products (and can be re-used later at halloween).

now traditionally, showers require organized group "fun" for both 'soon-to-be...' and guests to enjoy-- which means playing with safety pins, toilet paper, and other random paraphernalia from the storage closet and kitchen junk drawer. however, in keeping with the current theme, friends and family are able to mark the occasion with a few rounds of spin the breast milk bottle, pin the cracked nipple on the engorged boob, and a rollicking game of old fashioned fetus pinata. energy levels are thus sustained by an ongoing buffet; placenta pie, mucous plug milkshakes, and the crowd pleaser, afterbirth bruschetta.

finally; presents. it should be noted that this registry is sponsored by johnny knoxville and beatrix potter.

an in-flight manicure

forget the dry, recycled cabin air wreaking havoc on your skin; turbulence is the silent killer-- of cuticles. it creeps up suddenly, like jaws, taking you down a helpless hundred feet.



clearly i need medicating, or mittens.

on not being qualified

whoever said that getting a dog before you have children is "good practice" was obviously a little more out of touch than my babcia when she asked if i was a lesbian because i was 24 and unwed.

after seven exceptionally long months that have traversed labrador toddlerhood through adolescence, i am starting to think parenting something that both talks and will eventually demand an ipod, over simpler requests for idle back scratches and peanut butter may result in a poorer return after the many years of co-payments to a behavioral family therapist.



in the midst of a rather animated "teaching moment" with young axel, i occasionally step outside of myself and hear the- my -interaction. and then i wonder what on earth the neighbours must think when they (surely) hear me during one of these multi-daily exchanges.

jet puffed

i suppose when the cashier no longer asks for ID while ringing up a bottle of yellow tail shiraz, it is time to acknowledge that mid-life is more of an "epic", than a "phase", and that "proper" grown-ups really shouldn't be swigging down the $9.99 McCabernet anyway. rather like acquiring pubic hair, the long queue for god's inevitable waiting room, creeps up unnoticed, until one day admission is granted, and you look down thinking; "shit, when did THAT happen- and why are there moths flying out of my underpants, surely it hasn't been THAT long?".

while there are many boca burger eating folks with a passion for patchouli, advocating for equal rights of displaced, cross dressing koala bears, no one is without some form of "ism"-- whether it relates to the shade of blush/foundation palette at the clinique counter, a preference for women in plaid rather than playboy, or sunglasses that are larger than the dog you choose to carry around when running out to buy a gallon of milk.

despite a chronic compulsion towards carbohydrates, my biggest fear is not that i will tip the scales at "obese", or even just run-of-the-mill "fat"- this would take far more committment than even my malted milk ball dependency can compete against. rather, the concern is that the next dress size up will be discreetly tapped on the shoulder, and asked if there is room for one more, because the current one is leaving red marks accross the stomach/upper arm/up and down the thighs.

i do not want to become "puffy". for a more complete definition of this term, please log into your facebook account and view your friends list (the ones you knew from taekwondo, ballet, and swimming lessons when you were 10 years old). this is the category of individual who knows they need to lose "the little extra", but does not feel the sense of urgency to pull on their 'kiwanis 2003 charity 5k' cotton t-shirt and head to the gym, because they don't meet "contestant on the biggest loser" criteria (yet).

middle age and marriage, according to recent sightings at weddings/the park/local supermarket, would indicate that the puffy probability is set to: "all signs point to yes". the down ward spiral of sporting muffin tops over a pair of nike workout capris, ends with a singular and seamless bundt cake hanging over soft pink, velour sweat pants with "diva" stitched onto the backside.

the ripple effect

some people body slam into your life, and rapidly pile drive on out, leaving you with bold new habits, little mcnuggets of wisdom, and a deep impression of their left elbow in your ribcage; the evidence, testimony, and future PTSD of your shared encounter. then there are some, more diminutive folks, who's impact is noticeable only by their absence (like a successfully treated UTI). in the absence, a ripple is felt.

the revolving door of mental health, the military, or fathers-who-are-dentists-that-keep-choosing-to-work-in-countries-with-unstable-political-climates, can expedite the resolution (or exacerbation) of any residual attachment issues-- with a side order of grief to go (always: "to go"). ultimately, it is the fundamental need to be remembered, to know that you were "noticed" that accompanies each departure. my office mate left our sanctuary of bodily function humour (for the air force) over a month ago. prior to his exit we talked about his "ripple" (the non-flatulent, non-underpant staining sort). however, asking someone to identify their own ripple is rather like trying to be objective about your "silhouette" in a string bikini.

occasionally i catch a glimpse of what i (like to) imagine my ripples might be. during my tenure, i have become associated with bodily functions, how this supercedes "the accent", i do not know. and while, i don't aspire to the legacy of a nobel peace prize, or memorialized, itallicized and evangelized park bench atop a brick engraved with my name, it is egotistically gratifying to see the tangible remnants across the zip codes; a second hand couch twice removed from "pottery barn girl" in grad school, placed in a permanent adoptive home with "liberal-but-conservative-co-worker-from-seattle", forged friendships based on shared addictions to high cocoa content dessert and higher drama content relationships, a renewed interest in bodily functions (especially the smelly/leaky/dribbly ones), the ability to use british swear words in the appropriate context and accent (an american attempting a british accent sounds like an australian with a mouth full of marbles), or contact dermatitis of the lower phalanges. as a child, i had the chronic habit (diagnosable childhood onset trichotillomania) of picking at my blanket until there was a big ball of fluff to roll around in my fingers. when this was no longer soft and fluffy, it was discarded around the immediate house/car/aeroplane. a friend of my mother commented that she always knew when i had visted because of the little fluff turds she found in the sofa cushions and shag carpeting.

rather than directing the question to self- "what's my ripple"- actualization becomes expeditious when identifying "other"; those who have the propelled the journey, irrespective of whether it's the "pebble people" or the "belly flop people".

ultimately, it's about the memento of relationship, connection and community.

all signs point to "yes"

sometimes it would be nice to have a very obvious "stop", "one way", or "dead end" at the seemingly never-bloody-ending estuaries of (my) life. perhaps more urgent because the map reading and navigation areas of my brain appear to be in a perpetual state of atrophy. however, even when asking for signs to launch into explosive fireworks along my well manicured yellow brick road, i tend to get a little greedy. when exactly are there enough signs (to stop procrastinating)?

an anxious "before the alarm goes off" dream of my desired outcome; a voicemail from a friend i hadn't spoken to in a while assuming i was engaging in the very thing i was waiting for signs/procrastinating from; the theme of the commemorative stamp collection stapled to the display board at the local post office; a co-worker i rarely talk to (and know very little about), throwing out the very noun i'd just seen at the post office/in my dream/cited in the voicemail.

once i stopped procrastinating, validation quickly followed.

outlook is good.