Cruising for a Bruising

Happy New Year, Devoted Readers!  I hope you all had a festive holiday season.  On this, the 11th day of Christmas, I am giving you a glimpse of my family's recent vacation to the Caribbean.  (I know; I shouldn't have.)  What I should do is disclaim this post by saying that we really did have a lovely time overall, but this post must serve to demonstrate the moments in which I did not think Herr Travel Planner Extraordinaire, Mr. Christopher Lund, should be allowed to plan shore excursions unsupervised.

On the first day of Christmas, my parents, my in-laws, and the three of us all convened in Orlando, Florida to celebrate the birth of Christ by eating prime steaks, medium-rare, before driving in a comically large transport van to Port Canaveral to meet our cruise ship.  This process resulted in the first bruise of the trip, as my derriere slammed into a seat belt buckle when Christopher's foot slid off the brake as I attempted to close the sliding side door in the Ruth's Chris parking lot.  Luckily, the restaurant provided me some USDA Prime ice in a plastic bag for my Grade A rump roast, and I was merely tenderized for the next day or so.

We had a lovely first two days at sea in the Taurus Suite of the Norwegian Spirit, whereupon my husband attempted to both eat and drink his way through the unlimited dining and beverage packages that were included as incentives.  Eliana learned about rubbish, as all of the trash receptacles were labeled "rubbish bin," and I learned to dry my hair with a reverse vacuum wand that lost most of its heat through its connection hose and was branded the "WANDHAARTROCKNER." 

This, plus the lack of conditioner on board made for some classic hairstyles.

Our first port was Costa Maya, Mexico.  Upon disembarking, I was told that we would get a cab into the town, which was about two or three miles away.  Having been to this port before, and knowing that we would be in and out of shops, I did not slather myself in sunscreen-- FOLLY.  My adventurous spouse decided that it would be "fun" to ride a street legal golf cart (read: no UV protection for this fair child) those two or three miles to town over the course of three hours.  We did have fun.  We did fear for our lives when going over make-shift rope speed bumps at speeds in excess of what is reasonable (guess who was driving).  We did see amusing road signs.  We did get Eliana a tropical smoothie served in a pineapple. 

We did make my left arm medium-rare, but just below the sleeve line.  I am now an exotic striped creature of unknown origin.

Our Chariot

On the day when some might receive five golden rings, I received "Turtles and Stingrays Land and Sea Adventure" in Grand Cayman.  Things started off well, with a knowledgeable tour guide who literally drove us to Hell, which if you are wondering, is a burnt-looking rock formation and a general store.  Turns out Hell was better than what awaited me in the middle of the sea. 

Hell, Part One

After we tasted rum cake and played with sea turtles at a turtle refuge,

A happier time...although these turtles do slap

I soon realized that the whole day had been a ploy to desensitize me to what was to come-- swimming on a sand bar in the middle of the sea with deadly stingrays.  Now, if you have known me for any length of time, or are married to me, you would know that this is pretty much my worst-case scenario.  This activity promised no fewer than eight of my peeves/anxieties:  1) Public appearance in a swimsuit,  2) Photography of self in a swimsuit, 3) Close proximity to deadly creatures, 4) Being barefoot on unknown surfaces, 5) Tourists who don't listen to safety warnings, 6) Swimming in unknown water depths while unpredictable things also swim around, 7) Limited access to reliable public restroom facilities, 8) A large cooler of artificially-flavored fruit punch that is irresistible to a seven-year old.

This drink really extends her gums.

 It took a while for our boat to find a spot on the sandbar that was adequate for us to sit and allow us to climb down (anxiety 9) rickety metal ladders) into the water.  We had been told that the rays would come to us when the calamari was put out for them.  (Rays are like Mario Batali in this way.) I soon learned that my primal fear smells like Italy's favorite appetizer.  I had rays swimming near my legs, stroking like barbed kitty cats of watery death, try as I might to swim away from them.  All I needed to do was get to my family.  They were tens of yards away, and those rays just kept circling. 


Once I reached my group, the guide thrust the enormous ray into my outstretched arms.  No one else seemed to hear him when he asked for someone to take the beast.  I have always been too obedient for my own good.  The photographer took some truly unflattering shots of us, but I am never ever doing this again, so we, of course, bought them to document the horror.

The sheer terror is evident behind my sunglasses.

Still smiling; thanks, Stanislavski

Once the pictures were finished, I swam back to the boat, giving a tiny share of concern for my child, who was swimming for her life because the three cups of Red #40 were catching up with her bladder.  It was then that we learned that the restrooms were out of service, as the British children on deck were writhing in pain.  I sent Eliana back to the water to give the rays something to remember her by, but despite my mother-in-law's best efforts, she would not find relief in the water.  Ah, memories to last a lifetime.

We made it back to town in time to catch the last tender back to the ship.  The friendly staff loaded the ficus trees, tables, and people's rum purchases before allowing us to board the tender.  That, my friends, is the power of inclusive gratuity.

Yes, this day was one I won't soon forget.  In that way, Travel Planner Man has done his job well.  Without his grand scheme, I would never know that the Caymanian sand feels like plush carpet underfoot as you scramble away from certain death.  I still wanted to bruise his backside with a seat belt, though.  Little did I know that the next day, in Jamaica, we were set to climb rock faces to a waterfall, another Kelley-friendly activity to be sure...

Aesop's Table

It's the day before my birthday, so I decided to take lunch into E's school and dine with my favorite second graders.  I am fortunate enough to be able to volunteer as a spelling helper with them on some Mondays, and they are an entertaining and friendly bunch.  Today, I had the pleasure of sitting beside a little boy who was really working the charm.  I'll call him "Aesop," because that is how Eliana originally introduced him to me when he joined the class just after the start of the school year.  She explained that his name was like the guy who wrote the fables but that "he wasn't from Africa, just Florida."  She may have inherited my hearing problem.

Aesop immediately staked his claim to my right and took great pride in showing off his lunch tray to me.  He had pepperoni pizza, Cheez-its, and snack mix on his plate.  I asked him where his fruit was, and he instantly vanished, explaining to the room monitor that he "had forgotten his fruit!"  E looked at me quizzically, wondering where her classmate had gone, and I explained that he was off making a healthy choice.  He returned moments later with a fruit cup and yet another bag of snack mix, which he offered to me.  I politely declined. 

He then confided that a girl he has a crush on likes him back.  I agreed that this was exciting news, indeed, and when he pointed out the girl to me from across the room, I paid her a compliment, which delighted him.  We returned to our meal, and then he told me that he actually likes three girls who like him back, and he noted that there were "girls all over him."  I told him that he sounded like a real Romeo, which only confused him, as there is a child in the class named Romeo.  Once he indicated Romeo, and I waved to our mutual friend, seated down the table, I explained that there is a famous play with a romantic character of that name.  He nodded, but I think I lost him.  He told me the names of the girls who reciprocated his appreciation, and I knew none of them.  I said that that was really something, and joked that he should stay away from E, as she needs to focus on her spelling and is not ready for a relationship.  Aesop looked concerned for a moment and then said, "Yes, and I would RELATE." I tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a cackle.  E then gestured to me to mutter from the side of her mouth, "I think it's too late; he already likes me."  Her face was contorted with disgust, just as a mother would hope.  Aesop didn't hear her, luckily, so we changed the subject to how pizza should be eaten.  Aesop says pepperoni first.

Aesop disappeared from the table again after telling me a joke about a frog with car trouble (he had to be "toad"), this time to purchase a bottle of water.   I imagine his three bags of salty snacks and cured meat were catching up with him.  He was having difficulty opening the bottle, so I offered my assistance.  He accepted my help but asked me "not to tell anyone" I had helped him, which struck me as odd.  I hoped it wasn't budding chauvinism-- his wanting to hide that a woman had bested him at a task requiring strength.  Admittedly, he also could have been asking me not to notice the fourth bag of chips that had suddenly materialized; who knows?  I hope his mother checks his lunch money account every once in a while; this kid is on the road to Lipitor.

All in all, I had an amusing repast with the children, and I know now to look out for Aesop, the ladies' man.  He never did eat that fruit cup.  He just knew how to play.  ...And so it begins...

One year

Hello good and faithful blog followers,

As is the trend, I am writing entries when you least expect them or have given up hope of ever seeing anything from me again.  (If you ever had that hope in the first place.)  I have been thinking of writing to you on this page, but I will spare you the excuses this time around.  Suffice it to say, I have been remiss, and lots of stuff has happened that did not get recorded and will likely be forgotten.  In fact, yesterday, I was going to write to you an amusing/heartwarming account of our first lost pet fish, Blueberry Muffin, who was sadly found crumpled beside the coral in our tank.  Maybe another day...


Some of you may recall that upon moving back to Virginia, I gave up my career in real estate to work with my friends in a variety of capacities at their production company.  This has been a fairly intelligent move on my part.  Well done, me.  One of the reasons that it has been such a good move is that the quality of the people I have befriended who now employ me, is of the highest caliber.  They are really quite generous of spirit.  They are some of the most hospitable people I have ever known.

Currently, I am sitting in a theater space on the campus of West Virginia University, listening to my friend and colleague lead a student orchestra and a gorgeous cello soloist in rehearsal for a memorial concert honoring his piano professor and friend, who was lost to cancer a year ago.  I am on the verge of tears, and not just because the first violins cannot seem to master measure 31.  ...And so, I write, to focus my thoughts and to avoid losing my composure, here in the auditorium, surrounded by young strangers.

I did not know this woman, who so profoundly impacted my friend's musical life; I do not intimately understand the circumstances of her illness and passing; I am simply moved by the gesture of students and colleagues gathering, one year later, to mark her life and contributions to the musical vibrancy of this place.  It is a beautiful thing.  I also know that she must have been some teacher, to have cultivated in her one special student, whom I do happen to know, such discipline and love in his musical career.  I know that, in that way, I have, in fact, been touched by her legacy.  What a gift: to teach and to impact so many, even those on the ripple fringes of your life's work.  This weekend, I will meet more people who did know her well, and that will likely dissolve me into an emotional puddle.

Of course, it is not lost on me that I was raised by educators, and they are advancing in years with their own health challenges.  One day, I will be drying tears over far harder losses than a pet fish that we'd only owned for four days.  I hope that, well before that dreaded day comes, I can honor their legacy and celebrate their gifts to the world.  I hope that I can do that while they are still around to share stories and join the party.  So, to that end, I am resolving to get one of those celebrations on the calendar.  Mom and Dad both have "significant" birthdays next year-- one in May and the other in July.  In the meantime, I'm going to seek memories and stories from those who have been touched, however briefly, by their lives.  And, I am for sure going to tell them every day that I love them so very much.  Then, we will have a party.  There will be music.  There will be happiness. There will be cheese.  I so decree it.

11:30 PM Insomniatic Observations, Christmas Edition

Hello, fair readers,

I know it is becoming cliche to remark about the infrequency of these posts, but yowser, I haven't written since July?  What is wrong with me?  I do think longingly of taking to the keyboard to dump out my thoughts and musings in long-form, but I rarely do.  You all don't want to read the mundane stuff, right?  But, tonight, I have a lot on my mind, the least of which is that my daughter keeps leaving on all the lights. 

As the myriad anxieties that have plagued my mind of late were stewing in my brain tonight, I decided to come down to the kitchen and get away from the charming snoring (love you, honey) for a bit and write about nothing in particular, just to see if writing could work out some of the restlessness.  Actually, I was really coming for a snack and to lie on the couch, but I digress.  Then, as soon as I reached the stairs, I noticed that the Christmas tree was still aglow.  We usually put it on a timer, but we've been busy, even neglectful.  Or even, flying by the seat of our proverbial Christmas pantaloons (which are red plaid, naturally).

The tree is roughly the eleventh source of electrical light that Eliana turned on, of her own volition, today, that she did not turn off.  She left on her bathroom light (every time), her bedroom lights, my car's backseat light, two other auxiliary Christmas trees (we've got spirit; yes, we do!), and lights downstairs in the rec room, hall, and playroom.  The kid must be getting a kick-back from Dominion Virginia Power.  But, as I crossed the living room to tap the switch on the big tree, I paused.  She is just dispelling darkness, all day long.  As soon as she gets up in the morning, she plugs in a tree, even when she is supposed to be eating her breakfast and putting on her shoes. When she gets home from school, she'll hit the other ones.  She lights the garland; she hums carols; she is enjoying the season.  She is preparing her little heart for Christmas, kilowatt by kilowatt.  I need to get on that train.  For the love, if you are going to be stressed out and distracted this time of year, at least light the blessed tree.

You haven't heard from me; it's true.  I have returned to Virginia in a bit of a funk.  Gone is the excitement of experiencing a new place; gone is the novelty of being the quirky American in the room with a whole bunch of friends to make; gone is the freedom that comes with knowing you are in a temporary situation.  Gone is the traffic.  Just kidding.  That's totally still here. 

We're back! But, what now?  We've been changed, but we're in the place where we started.  It's overwhelming, the familiarity.  It's haunting, the stuff that didn't resolve while we were gone.  It's bizarre, the stuff that did.  It's comical, the neighbors you finally meet, who didn't realize you were ever here in the first place.  It's disorienting, trying to find your place when you're not sure what you should have left behind for good and what you should welcome afresh. 

What have I worked out from all of that?  Well, I think that I want to pretend I am here temporarily; really, aren't we all?  There are so many museums, events, PEOPLE to see here that I haven't fully appreciated.  Uh oh, this is getting to sound like a New Year's Resolution post.  Ick.  No, really.  Just light the tree. 

Merry Christmas.

And get some sleep.  It's important.

Show Me the Money!

Is it time for my quarterly blog post again?  Say it ain't so!?  Summer has come to the beautiful province of Alberta, and things are sunny and pleasant.  Our time in the True North is sadly coming to an end, as Christopher's job here ends in late August.  It's so hard to say goodbye to this place, especially when it is so nice outside. 

While we have truly enjoyed our time here in Wild Rose Country, it's no secret that we initially came to Canada for the money.  Namely, we came here so that Christopher could take a great opportunity and stay gainfully employed.  What we did not anticipate that the money we would receive would be so much fun.  Yes, I know that money is fun to have and fun to spend, even fun to hold on to for a rainy day.  I mean that Canada's money, its physical currency, is like a party in your wallet. 

 

See what I mean?  It's color-coded and just plain happy. 

 

When we first arrived, not all of the bills had plastic holograms running through them.  The five dollar note (blue) actually had children playing hockey on the back.  That image has now been replaced with an astronaut and a cool space arm thingy that Canada is super-proud of developing.  It's like they decided to tell kids, "Hey, we have the hockey thing locked down.  Let's get back to space."

 

The holograms are a little spooky, I must admit.  Having the Queen pop out of the ATM on your twenties is sometimes a little intense.  It's like she knows I am going to spend it on something unwise.  She would prefer that I be a little less frivolous, or maybe she would like me to stop dressing so casually and put a proper hat on once in a while. 

 

"Do you really need that bag of crisps?"





 

It also took a while for the money to feel real.  At first, it just felt like we were in the game of "Life," minus the other three child pegs and without Art Linkletter's signature on everything.  Now, months later, it actually feels right.  U.S. currency actually looks odd when I see it on TV.  I think the solution is for me to sit quietly among a lot of U.S. currency until it starts to look right again. 

 

Canada has some really nice coins, too.  There is no paper dollar here; we use the Loonie, a golden coin with a loon on one side and the Queen on the other.  (You won't hear any Queen/loon jokes here, move along, people.)  As a special bonus, there is a two-toned two-dollar coin known as the Toonie.  Brilliant.  Both are lighter-weight than U.S. dollar coins, so your change purse stays manageable.  Sometimes, you go a little while without spending them, and then you realize that you have $18 in coins in your bag.  Then, you experience the euphoria commonly felt when you find money in last year's coat pocket.  They had to have some way to create this effect, as your coat doesn't get tucked away long enough for you to forget about money in it here.  I would take a picture of a Toonie and post it, but I just gave all of mine to the whipper-snapper with the whipper-snipper, who just mowed our lawn. 

 

Canadians have also done away with the penny.  The phase-out happened just as we moved here.  There was an adjustment to that, as well, but I can now say that I do not miss the little guy.  I think it is silly to mint a coin that costs more to produce than it is worth.  There, I said it.  You still use exact amounts in electronic transactions, but cash deals use rounding.  Sometimes it goes in your favor, and you get to feel like you made a little extra money.  Whoo!  Other times, it doesn't go your way, but you realize that right now a Canadian penny is worth even less than a U.S. penny, and you move on with your life.

 

I hope you have all enjoyed my tribute to the wonderful world of Canadian currency.  Remember, if you want to help me readjust to the U.S. dollars, feel free to send some to me for my tactile therapy.  It will really help.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Feel the Burn

I am not, nor have I ever been, an athlete.  I do recognize, however, the many health benefits that come from regular exercise, and one of my goals while living here in Canada has been to increase my activity level for general health and well-being.  I am not getting any younger, and the butter here is delicious.  I need to offset the butter intake, people.

I have tried to find activities that I enjoy so that I can overcome the gravitational pull of "Let's Make a Deal."  This winter term, I decided to enroll in a barre class for the first time.  The course description billed this as a class that incorporated elements of Pilates and dance with the aid of a ballet barre.  The term "low-impact," a favorite of mine, also appeared, along with the promise that I would leave "feeling incredible."  I used to enjoy dance classes way back when, and I like Pilates.  How bad could it be?

The description of the class is accurate.  I do feel incredible after each session.  Incredible here means, "amazed at the fact that my limbs did not shake off my torso and that I did not collapse from over-exertion as the techno music pulsated along to the oxidation of my dying cells."  Did I mention this class is called, "Barre Burn?"  No?  I should have known that anything with the word "burn" in the title is not designed for me.

The instructor of this course, I am convinced, is not human.  She is a machine.  She teaches an hour of a higher-level barre class immediately preceding my hour-plus-long class, and her energy never flags.  In fact, she always goes about ten minutes over on our time, which I know because after about the first 15-20 minutes of class, I look desperately at the clock willing myself to go on.  She was not present for the very first class session, which I have decided was a shrewd marketing technique.  Her substitute on Week One made me believe I could have a shot at making it through an entire class without praying for sweet, sweet death.  The first week that she did teach, I was unable to climb stairs without agony for four days.  I overheard her say today that she was going to take a trip for a full two weeks "down there" and was going to steal ideas for more barre exercises.  I am convinced her trip is not to Mexico or Arizona, but rather to Hades, and she is going to the Devil himself to find even more ridiculously painful and sadistic routines.

This powerhouse instructor has a charming habit of counting reps down from eight, after you have already done about 2,000 motions.  Just when you think you have survived, she says, "and hold!"  She then counts even longer and then commands you to pulse the motion in a new and horrifying direction.  I did not know that so many muscle groups could simultaneously submit their resignation to me.  Then, of course, you have to do everything again on the other side, for the sake of having both hemispheres of your body despise you.

The "aid" of the barre is debatable.  By the time we get to the barre, I stagger toward it after having been worked to near-death in the middle of the floor for a good 25 minutes.  The exercises at the barre feel easier than what has just transpired, but my legs are still shaking in protest of every bend, stretch, and yes, even standing still seems impossible.  I try to save my miniature collapses for moments when the machine is looking away.  I jump back in just as she is saying something like, "Just when you want to give up, keep pushing and breathe through it!  This is when the body feels the change!"  Her programming is apparently also suited to work as a doula.  Why I am doing this?  Lady Gaga sings overhead, telling me that I am holding my leg in a hydrant-ready pose "for the applause, applause, applause..."  I don't hear anyone clapping, but somehow, I manage to hang on during this portion and am rewarded by...FLOOR WORK!

I can usually see the light at the end of the tunnel by the time we get to the floor.  Even if the exercises there are difficult, at least my legs no longer have to support my body weight, and the pesky hand-weights that cannot just be 2.5 lbs each because they feel like the weight of the western world are cast aside.  Plus, we will soon be stretching, thank goodness, and the techno remixes will give way to a slower-tempo ballad of hope and inspiration.

I know that the stretches feel so much better because of all of the abuse my body has just endured.  But what feels the absolute best to me is the last cadence of music and the "Thank you ladies; you all were great!" that means I can profess to my classmates that I, once again, surprisingly, did not require medical attention, waddle to my car, and drive home.

The machine personally told me I did well today (our last session of the term) and asked me if I would be enrolling in the next session.  I may have told her that I was moving out of the country soon, which is kind of true, if soon is "within the next four months." If you can't use your lack of Canadian citizenship to avoid pain and suffering, then when can you use it?  There is some small part of me that would re-enroll, but that part is probably not any of the muscle groups below my waist.

News Flash: It is STILL Winter

Hello, friends.  I realize that I have not posted anything on this blog in a long while.  I have had many thoughts and good intentions about writing a post.  I wanted, for instance, to tell you all about the indoor Christmas parade I attended in Edmonton, wherein a woman from a local dentist's office dressed as a tube of toothpaste and some greyhound rescues were dressed as reindeer.  Vixen, in particular, was not amused.  There were mascot performers and some people from an organization known as the Knights of the Northern Realm.  It was quite a display.  It was the best (read: only) indoor parade I have ever attended.

But that was December.  Several long months ago.

And it is STILL winter.  But, take heart.  The sun returned at the bus stop a few weeks ago after a long absence!  There are also still festivals in this fair city.  A few weeks ago we went to the Silver Skate Festival.  Outdoors.  It was a high of zero degrees Fahrenheit.  We were undeterred, but I think I almost lost a toe, or two.  My toes aren't that great, anyway, but I would like to keep the full set for resale value.

Almost everyone up here who knows I am from Virginia asks me how I am handling winter.  I tell them that even Virginia has had a rough season this year.  They are impressed by your snow totals, I must say, Mid-Atlantic folk.  I have managed quite well, I think, to survive this long winter without losing my minds or my happy spirit, but I have to say that one thing, above all else has bothered me about winter here:  One basically has to guess where the lanes to the roads are located, especially when it is actively snowing at night.

They manage to mark where stop lines would theoretically be at intersections.  They put up signs to show where hypothetical medians go.  There is no such aid for tracking the lanes themselves.  You are on your own.

Last night, I was driving home from the concert hall downtown, the Winspear Centre for Music.  It's a lovely place, and I had a great rehearsal with the Alberta Baroque Ensemble.  It was such a great evening of music-making, in fact, that I had forgotten all about the weather outside.  As I stepped through the doors with my fellow choristers out into the night air, one man gasped and said, "Not again?! It is supposed to be too cold to snow."  That right there is a phrase I never adequately understood until I moved to Alberta:  "Too cold to snow."

I got into my car and started down the road.  The snow was light, glittery, and wispy-- beautiful, but it was blowing like white desert sand across my windshield and the road.  One cruel joke of highway safety is that lane markers are also white.  There are also no reflectors on the roads here; they would just be broken under the wheels of a plow.  So, Kelley, just pick a spot that looks like a lane and pray you make it home.  That is what I did.  Tractor trailers, oil rigs, pokey little Hondas, and I just made our own highway configuration.  It was terrifying: a snow globe of terror, brought to you by the Government of Alberta.

I feel lucky to be able to write this entry today.  It is an entry of great gratitude that I paved my own path and survived.

Oh, and Saturday will be a downright spring-like 39 degrees.  Cue the robins.