Author Archives: Susan

May 26, 2012

Freestyle Training, baby. Yeah.

By Susan

I figure that 21 days before competing in a triathlon is a good time to actually get on a real bike.

I’ve been feeling pretty relaxed about my race on June 9th.  There’s been no particular “triathlon” training.

You see, I’ve been training constantly for the last couple of years.  For things specific and things not.  You know, for life.  There’s been a lot of jumping around in my basement.  A lot of lifting, pulling and pushing of heavy things.  There’s been a lot of running, sometimes fast and sometimes long.  There’s been spinning on a fake bike that doesn’t move.

Somewhere in me I just feel ready. Like I can do this.

I figure I’ve been Freestyle Training.  I capitalize that because it sounds like a thing.  I’ve been doing a whole bunch of moving and sweating in various forms.  Along the way, I’ve improved the capacity of my lungs, my muscles, and my belief in myself.

Freestyle Training.  Yeah, I like that.  Just move…a lot.  Enough that you sweat and breathe heavily.  Don’t over think it.  Then at some point, sign up for a race and see how it all translates.

Does it work?  No clue.  But I’ll let you know.

In this highly scientific approach, though, at some point it’s good to practice the actual movements the race will require.  Like get on real bike.  Or maybe go for a swim.

So for the first time in ages, last week that’s what I did.  I got my bike down from the roof of the garage (meaning my husband did).  I checked the tires “and stuff” (meaning my husband did).  I dug up my bike shoes and helmet (I figured that part out myself). Then at 6:00 a.m. last Sunday, I planted my butt on my beautiful, yellow, almost-10-year-old, road bike and took it for a spin.

It all came back to me.  My toes automatically clipped in and out of the pedals.  I didn’t fall down sideways into a heap at road-crossings.  I flipped up and down my gears, by instinct, as the road rose and fell.  My breathing and cadence quickly found a pattern.  I’d forgotten, though, how cold it is at 6:00 a.m. in May in Calgary, when whipping along a rural road on your bike into the wind.  My head and fingers froze.  My feet too.  You don’t get that when sitting on a fake bike in your basement.  Oh well, these are the things that happen when you’re going at the speed of light.

The ride was good.  So was the one this morning, which I followed with jello-legged run.  And, hey, I’ve gone for two swims (two!).  They felt pretty good as well.

I figure I’ll doing this sort of thing for a few more weeks. Then I’ll arrive at the lake shore in my wetsuit on race day, poised for glory.   Or something like that.

Freestyle Training, baby.  Yeah.

3 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

May 15, 2012

Bend it like Beckham

By Susan

Isabelle, our six-year-old, started soccer last week.

This is her first foray into team sports.  Until now, her athletic activities have been largely solo affairs.  You know, dancing, swimming, gymnastics, and such.

I say what I’m about to say with huge buckets of motherly love, but our Isabelle has not shown the greatest inclination toward athletic endeavors.  No hints of prodigy.  Despite the focused work of my husband – and his mountain biking fetish - we’re still on training wheels.  We’re not quite swimming on our own.  And I’ve sat in on her dancing classes, folks.  We’re not exactly talking Black Swan.  I see that the best part of the dance recital – for her - is the bit at the end where they all jump around wildly on the stage.  Freestyle baby.  Freestyle.

But we felt it was time to branch out.  Let’s sweat.  Let’s get dirty.  It’s spring.  Soccer season was starting.  So soccer it was.

Taking her to the field for her first soccer practice, I could feel her trepidation.  She knew no-one.  She’d never played the game before.  I’m not sure she even understood the concept. The concept of getting those shin pads on was hard enough.

I watched her listening to her coach in that first huddle.  It’s an Under-8 team, and I’ll bet most of the girls have been playing for a few years.  Many seemed to know each other already.  As I watched, I felt something in my chest.  I could feel a big surge of life experience coming.  I got a whisper of that feeling that we’ve all had.  When you start a new job.  When you stand nervously at the start line of a race.  You’re on the edge of something unfamiliar and you’re wondering what’s in store.

Then the girls started their practice.  They did warm up sprints and stretches.  Then they got into drills.  Within minutes, Isabelle was tentatively kicking a ball around pylons.  Her eyes were darting between the ball, her feet, her coach, and the other girls.

Within another few minutes, she stopped and burst into tears.

That feeling in my chest surged.  I watched the assistant coach kneel down beside her.  I don’t know what he said – this kind man who we’d just met - but they had a moment.  Then he spent the next 10 or 15 minutes walking beside her, talking her through the drills.  She seemed to listen intently.  She nodded.  She kept going.  Every now and then she’d look over at me.  I would smile and give her the thumbs up.  I have never – ever - been more proud.

How cool is this girl?

Fast forward a week to her first game.   She was cheering and singing from the sidelines with the other girls. She threw her arms in the air and high-fived her team-mates with every goal they scored.  On her shifts, she diligently ran in the general direction of the ball.  She didn’t score a goal.  But she ran hard.  She got a few kicks in.  Some of them in the right direction.  She smiled the whole time.

During the game, I felt something else: the nostalgia of lessons learned from the team sports of my childhood.  Tube socks and Adidas bum hugger shorts aside, I remembered the sense of accomplishment and fun.  The pride of being part of something.  The satisfaction of running hard with purpose and meaning with a bunch of other people doing the same thing.  The discovery of finding you can do it.  There is joy in those moments.  Pure joy.

Her team won 11-1 that day.  In her breathless recap as we walked back to the car, I could see she felt the thrill of victory in a way she wouldn’t have felt before.  It’s good to know that feeling as a kid - victory.  I know more lessons will come soon enough about the crushing disappointment of defeat.  We’ll worry about that another day.

So will Isabelle be a life-long soccer player?  Will she develop mad skills and bend it like Beckham? Will she rip her shirt off in a World Cup moment in front of thousands of adoring fans?

I can see it now.

Who knows.  But if she catches a glimpse of the joy of sports and the beauty of the team, then it’s all good.  We’ll see where it goes from there.

4 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures, Things I Tell My Kids

April 1, 2012

Quarterly Report

By Susan

Do you ever get so busy with your life you sort of forget…well…your life?

That was my first quarter of 2012.

(I love applying business terms like “first quarter” when I really mean “from January through March”.  It’s way more efficient.  Except when I write three follow-up sentences to explain why I used the term. But I digress.  It’s been a while since I’ve posted.  Thus my writing is a little rusty.  Which now explains those last three sentences. And these last two sentence fragments.)

Since January, I have  been a chin-deep in work trips and deadlines.  For me, it was an unprecedented perfect storm: three big projects with major deliverables due at all around the same time.  This meant a lot of working late in the evening, early in the morning, and all through the weekends. For weeks and weeks… and weeks…on end.

For example, we had a special family gathering on my husband’s side up in Grande Prairie in early March.  It was the kind you don’t miss.  So I pulled along my enormous brief case on wheels, the one that makes me look like a pharmaceutical sales rep from Pfizer.  I took the Saturday off, the day of travel and the big event.  But on the Sunday – which also happened to be my birthday - I spent the entire day at a table in the deserted cafeteria at Grande Prairie Regional College with my lap top, brief case and files furiously trying to get a draft report out (cue your cries of sympathy).  I got it done.  However, I can think of better things to do on my birthday.

I lost track of some details during these months.  Like my kids and husband.  My friends.  My writing.  I’d see my kids in the morning and think “wow, you’ve grown like three inches and your face is changing”. I found myself saying “I gotta work today, kiddo” far too much. It was all I could do most nights to collapse into bed and high-five my husband.

But now, one by one, the reports are getting done.  The horizon beginning to clear.   I’ve stopped waking at 4:30 in the morning in flop-sweats of panic and dread.  I come home in the evening and feel all confused because I don’t have six more hours of work to do. Then – lo and behold –  I found I had time to take my daughter swimming on a Saturday.  Then – gasp – last weekend my husband took me away for a belated-birthday night in Banff.  We cross-country skied. I wallowed in the gleaming snow, crisp air, and azure blue sky.  That shocked a few more brain cells awake.

Yes there’s still work.  But now it’s reasonable.  There is time to breathe and be present in the rest of my life. I can see colour and detail again.

So now I’m reveling in the lost details.  This week I’m volunteering in Isabelle’s class.  I’m going to the dentist appointment that I had to cancel…twice.  The following week, I may get crazy and get a hair cut.  And I’m going to finally pull out the new recipe book I got for Christmas.

I know, it’s riveting stuff.  It’s a little weird how happy these small things are making me. But that’s life, right?  What you lose sight of for a while, you end up treasuring that much more.

1 comment | posted in Life As It Happens

February 19, 2012

My Love Affair with Executive Class

By Susan

A few weeks ago I got a rare treat.  I got to fly Executive Class.

(Or is it First Class? Business Class?  Are those even different things?)   

I think I’ve done it before…flown non-economy.  I have a vague memory of a business trip to Asia in the late-90s involving marginally more leg-room and a special pillow.  Clearly I didn’t appreciate it in my youth. But after a decade-and-a-half more life experience, a long-haul business trip in Executive Class felt like a big deal.  There were many things to love.

Let’s start with the refreshments.  Typically I fly with food and beverages on-my-person.  I hate getting caught starving, shaky, and having to pay $7.00 for a soggy ham sandwich.  But when I arrived on the first leg of my flight and the service began, I saw I may not need my enormous bottle of water, huge Ziploc of nuts and beef jerky, and several protein bars.  You don’t need these things when there’s a nice lady offering you a glass of ice water every 15 minutes.  And champagne.  And delicate ceramic bowls of almonds and cashews.  Followed by a three-course meal at 3:00 in the afternoon.  At least there was a special little table-arm-rest-thing for my enormous bottle of water.  And all my champagne glasses.

Hot towels.  I’d forgotten the glory of hot towels.  Remember those guys?

Uh, that's not me.

Before the three course meal, the nice lady came around with a tray of rolled up hot towels that she handed out with tongs.  I don’t know what it is about those towels, but I felt like I was at the spa.  I wanted to ask her if I could get like seven more, so I could cover my whole head with them.  Then I could just lie there for a while and have a steam.  I also wanted to ask if she could scoot back later and give me a Swedish hot stone back massage. 

The bathroom. Sure, the bathroom was still a tiny little box.  But I swear something was subtly different about the lighting and the mirror.  I suddenly had a tan and looked skinny.  Somewhere between Calgary and Toronto, in a little toilet at 30,000 feet, I momentarily resembled Elle MacPherson.  It must have been all those hot towels.

The coat check.  I didn’t know there was a coat check.  At the end of the first leg of the flight, the nice lady who’d given me all the water and hot towels started handing out coats from a secret closet at the front of the airplane.  When everyone else had their coat, she stopped at me, puzzled.

“Did we get your coat, Ma’am?”

“Uh, mine’s rolled up in a ball in the overhead compartment.” 

Like I said, I didn’t know there was a secret coat check. 

The Star Trek Pod.  The next phase of the journey – the overnight part - was a whole other thing.  I got a pod.  My own little compartment with a fully reclining seat/bed and a fold away TV.  With the hum of the engine and the blue-ish mood-lighting and panel of buttons, I felt like I was strapping into the Starship Enterprise.  It took me a while to figure out all the buttons to actually fully recline the seat and find the REAL comforter and FULL-SIZED pillow.  No worries though.  There was lots of time.  After all, I still had a four-course meal to consume at 1:30 in the morning before settling in for some sleep.    

I eventually figured it all out.  And as I later lay totally horizontal in my little pod - wearing my complimentary Air Canada socks, fruity lip balm, and silky sleep mask - hurtling down the coast of South America amongst the stars, I thought I could get used to this.  I do believe this is how I was born to travel. 

Also not me.

Executive Class, it was a great couple of nights.  Thank you for everything and all you taught me.  I know we may not see each other again.  But I love you.  

Call me.

2 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens

January 24, 2012

We are all Athletes

By Susan

An article of mine is published in the current edition (January/February 2012) of IMPACT Magazine.  Check it out on newstands now!!

It looks like this:  Get On Board the Athlete Train – Impact Magazine. 

It goes like this…

**************************

Every January — after the holiday season chocolate-induced haze clears — I find myself thinking about fitness resolutions. I hold an impromptu AGM with myself, usually over teeth brushing, to ponder my options. Eventually a series of fitness-related goals emerge.

This year, it’s doing a leg of an ultra-marathon, completing the home workout program P90X-2, three days a week of weightlifting.  Oh, and eat more fish. Then there’s my recurring goal. The one where I hope, against all odds and precedent, that this will be the year of the unassisted pull-up. Goals like these keep me focused. They set a course for another year of breathtaking, sweeping — and completely imaginary — personal sports glory.

Having personal fitness goals releases the inner athlete, the competitor. They put the sport back in our, well, sports. We regular Joes need that. What we lack in performance clauses and the lure of the Wheaties’ box endorsement we make up for in the list of promises we make to ourselves.  That list of promises is like cranking up Eye of the Tiger and announcing Game On!      

Do we get to call ourselves athletes, us coachless everyday hacks? I vote for a resounding yes.

With Olympians and champions inspiring us from the headlines, sometimes it’s easier to see what we are not. We are not elite. We don’t have a stadium of adoring fans (unless you count our partners and kids, and even they sometimes think we’re a little nuts). We don’t win races. But here’s the thing. We keep showing up and getting in the way.    

You do an Ironman. You win an Olympic medal. You compete for the Stanley Cup. It’s clear you are an athlete. But you run a personal best 10K? Let’s declare you an athlete, too. Actually, you run your worst 10K. You run 1K. You fall down. It doesn’t matter.

You do burpees and squats in your basement every morning. You are an athlete.

 You play basketball in a rec league.   Athlete. 

You play darts with your buddies at the pub every Friday.  Uh, let’s not push it. 

You decide – inspired by the upcoming summer Olympics – to finally take up trampolining.  You, my friend, are in.  I checked with the judges; bum wars count.

Bum war. Crack the egg. Whatever.

Without going all Webster, the key to being an athlete is the regular practice some form of physical activity and the constant strive to improve.  Sticking your triple-flip dismount from the tramp is not required. You simply pick your activity, and then you self-declare.    

Ask around what drives the everyday athlete, and the answers are many. “Endorphins.  I want to look good on the beach. If the apocalypse hit, I want to know I could run all night through the forest to save my family. I am done with sloth and the nagging sense of regret. Wow, look, my pants fit.”   Frankly, it doesn’t matter where it comes from.  It just matters that it’s there.

I met a woman years ago at a triathlon. She was 74. I knew this from the number painted on her calf. She side-stroked the open water swim wearing a flower-patterned rubber swim cap.  She rode a fat-tired mountain bike along the highway. She ran/walked the 10K wearing a sun bonnet with a chin strap. She came in last. But I’ve rarely seen such adoring fans as when she crossed the finished line. She was like Paul McCartney trying to get through Heathrow airport. After the race, I approached her and told her what an inspiration she was. When I asked how long she’d being doing triathlons, she said, “A few years now. It started when I learned how to swim when I was 67.” Tell me this woman is not an athlete. 

In the end, being an athlete is a personal mindset that’s up for the choosing. Your goal doesn’t have to be a triathlon or making the local Scottish Log Tossing Finals.  But you have to commit to something. Then comes the fun part: you get to follow through.

So choose a sport, an activity, or a bunch of them. Grab your bike. Your running shoes. Some dumb bells. Whatever. Then set some goals. Get wild with them.  Challenge yourself to improve, even just a little, every day. Once you do that, your own personal sports competition has begun. Order a team track suit.  Prepare for random drug testing.  Then limber up and settle into the starter blocks.  

Competitors, on your marks . . .

 

3 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

December 13, 2011

10,252 Cookies

By Susan

The Christmas season is extra busy in our household.  Between all the regular madness, both our daughters have late-December birthdays.  So I look for every opportunity to maximize efficiency.  

Enter: the Cookie Walk.

The Cookie Walk is a new concept for me.  Think cookie exchange.  Except you don’t do or bring any baking.  You just show up at a local church where other people have done a mountain-load of Christmas baking.  You bring $20 and get a plastic box with a lid like you see in the grocery store.  Then you proceed to stuff as many cookies as possible into the box, while several hundred other people are trying to do the same.   The only rule is that the lid has to be able to snap shut when you’re done.  They seal it with packing tape as you leave so you can’t sneak back in and get more. 

It’s the perfect blend of my penchant for competitive sports and my love of Christmas baking. 

My mom told me we should get there early.  The Cookie Walk – held at my parents’ church – is apparently very popular.  Last year all the cookies were gone in 45 minutes.  I couldn’t quite imagine an early morning line up at a church fund-raiser.  But Isabelle and I took the advice to heart and got there at 9:30 a.m. (doors opened at 10:00).  Boy, am I glad we did.    

These are serious competitors

My competitive instincts immediately set in.  I envisioned a stampede of plastic glove-wearing senior citizens running wildly to the tables of cookies the second the door to the church hall opened.  Rookies like us may be in trouble. I needed a plan.           

We began to chat with the lady in line behind us.  Let’s call her Paula.  Paula, it turned out, had been coming to the event for years.  I probed for details.  How many cookies are in there?  Do people throw elbows? Should I fear for the safety of my five-year old?

“It’s about strategy,” Paula told us seriously.  “If there’s a particular kind of cookie you like, find them first.  Don’t oooh and ahhh at the selection.  Hone in on what you want.  Then take lots.”

Good, I nodded.  This is good. 

Paula went on to tell us that she comes to the Cookie Walk every year.   She gets a tonne of cookies and squares, which she then packs up into care packages and sends to her grown children who live in various provinces.  They think it’s her own baking.

“Like they’d ever know,”  said Paula, with a laugh.     

As we waited, one of the organizers – let’s call her Marge - stopped by to say hello to Paula.   

“We have a lot of cookies this year,” Marge said proudly.  ”10,252 of them to be exact.” 

That fact that she knew the exact number of cookies impressed me.  These were my people.   Paula inquired to Marge about the location of the iced gingerbread men.  Marge went into the main hall to check.  When she came out, she spoke in a whisper.

“There’s not many.  I can only see one tray.  They’re on the back table, toward the left.”  

Marge was Paula’s mole - her gingerbread man mole.     

At 9:57, I warned Isabelle that it was almost time.  I got down on my knees and took my daughter by the shoulders. 

“We’re going to move quickly,” I said.  “So stick together.”  Isabelle looked at me wide-eyed.  

“If you see cookies you like, just take some,” I continued.  ”Don’t dilly-dally.”  Isabelle nodded. 

“And not too much shortbread.  Go for ones with icing and sprinkles.  And chocolate chips.  DO YOU HEAR ME, CHILD? THE ONES WITH CHOCOLATE CHIPS!” 

Isabelle and I did some trunk rotations and lunges to get the blood pumping.  The last thing we needed was a pulled hamstring.  We had senior citizens to outwit and out run.   At 10:00 a.m. precisely the line started moving.  As we entered the hall, we got our boxes and plastic gloves.  The crowd scattered.  It was game on. 

We went to work.  We blocked and pivoted around aggressive old people.  I sent Isabelle in first at times, seeing that people were taken by her cute charm.  With laser focus and nimble footwork we filled those containers. 

"FILL IT TO THE CORNERS! DO YOU HEAR ME?" someone may have hollered to her child.

At 10:24 a.m. we emerged from the church hall.  I was sweating lightly but feeling good.  Our two boxes were sealed with very few air pockets.  We got a nod of approval from the elderly packing-tape-cookie-box sealer at the exit. 

Not bad for a couple of rookies.

As for Paula, we didn’t see her again to inquire how she fared.  She was last seen standing her ground at the gingerbread men. 

But something tells me she did just fine.

10 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens, What Goes in the Pie-Hole

November 20, 2011

Not all who run in circles are lost

By Susan

A few weeks ago on a mini-vacation with my husband in Arizona, I did some early morning running.

They say running is a great way to get a feel for a new place.  However, with my terrible sense of direction, I don’t do it often.  When I’m out-of-town for business I usually opt for the hotel gym (which means – with most of the places I’ve travelled for work in the last few years - a crappy old treadmill in a closet).      

But this was Arizona, and so for my morning workouts I ventured outside. 

I have run in worse places

I typically run out and back when in an unfamiliar neighbourhood.  They say this is smart.  It means, in theory, I can get myself back to my starting point no problem.  It minimizes the chances of ending up lost in a back alley face-to-face with a street gang.  And having to employ self-defensive Ninja moves.  Or break into a dance sequence from Thriller, which is likely to wow my potential assailants with a different kind of fear.

This particular Sunday in the outskirts of Phoenix, however, I employed an alternate strategy. I decided to run in a loop. 

This was a loop we had driven several times the day before going to and from my husband’s mountain bike race.  It started from the hotel.  It went out along the highway for a bit.  It then turned up a hill into a suburban area heading toward the nearby mountains.  At Saguaro Boulevard, a left turn would bring me back down the hill to the highway.  Its map image was firmly entrenched in my mind.  It felt like about an 8 km circle.  I figured I’d be back in about 45 minutes.   

Let me put it this way.  At 45 minutes into the run, I was not back. 

At 45 minutes, I was ready to be filling my coffee mug and loading the waffle-maker at the Comfort Inn breakfast bar.  However, I was not even at the second turn-off, which – according to the laser precision of my mental geographic planning – would bring me to the down-hill home stretch.  At 45 minutes, I was still chugging up hill.  I was wishing I’d eaten something before leaving the hotel.  I was starting to fantasize about water.          

I had two options.  I could turn around and run back.  A guaranteed 45 more minutes.  Or I could plug on, in hopes that Saguaro Boulevard was just around the next bend. 

I went for plug on.  This was not the greatest decision I’ve ever made. 

I was not technically lost.  I knew the turn was there.  I had just grossly misjudged the distance.  It was simply a much bigger circle than I figured. 

As I ran on, the agony chorus of my hip flexors kicked in.  I found my inner-monologue ranging between two camps.  The first camp was the one of ”What was I thinking?  I can’t do this.”  The second camp…”Relax. You’ve got this.  Just run.” 

On I plugged.

Eventually the turn came.  As did the down-hill stretch.  I found my way back to the Comfort Inn on the highway and the blessed end of the loop.  There were no street gangs.  No attempts at smoke screening to assist an FBI-led search party.  I just kept running – thirsty, hungry and sore - for like an hour longer than I’d expected.     

There’s a lot of basic running lessons in this tale.  Always double-check your route.  Tell someone where you’re going.  Bring water.  Bring a cell phone.  Uh, run out and back when in an unfamiliar place.  

I think there’s some life lessons too.    Like sometimes you end up in tough situations that you weren’t anticipating.  Sometimes you’re on your own and you’ve gotta figure your own way home.  Sometimes it’s your fault you got yourself in a situation in the first place.  Sometimes the circle is plain-old bigger than you thought. 

And sometimes when you think you can’t, it turns out you can.  You just keep moving forward. Because you can’t just stop in the middle of nowhere and give up.  Because people are expecting you.  And because – perhaps most importantly - the breakfast bar closes at 9:00.

9 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

October 31, 2011

Sometimes I Eat Dinner at Zellers

By Susan

There are two emotional states that can assist one greatly in the epic journey of parenting.  

Patience.  And its quiet second cousin, surrender.  

I’m not particularly good at either.

Patience is required those times you want to scream to the hills when your children won’t do what you want.  But you don’t.  Instead you steep in your sky-rocketing blood pressure.   You sigh heavily.  You curse silently (or at least very quietly).    

Surrender follows.  Surrender is when you find yourself doing things that shatter all you know to be true about yourself. 

Take last Friday night.

My husband was away for the weekend.  I was geared up for a weekend of single-parenting.  After a busy few weeks of work, I was looking forward to some uninterrupted time with my daughters.   

I picked the girls up after work.  We did a quick run to Zellers to get a few essentials, as we often do.  What followed was the usual series of events when we go shopping.  You know, me insisting that we ‘stick together’ and the kids ignoring me. The kids running around like banshees with those seemed-like-a-fun-idea-at-first little shopping baskets on wheels.  Me saying ”we’re not buying that” every 35 seconds. 

This particular day also involved the newly (and questionably) potty-trained two-year old announcing every three minutes  “I need to go poo.”

With every announcement, we abandoned our baskets and made the approximately one-kilometre dash to the washroom on the other side of the store – at the back of the cafeteria.  The two-year old then wandered in and out of every bathroom stall  – pants down – trying to decide which one to use.  Every attempt to help or hurry her resulted in screams of ”I CAN DO DIS ON MYSELF!!!!”   So I just stood, tight-lipped, and observed.  For like seven minutes. 

Patience. 

Other people came in and out of the bathroom.  They instinctively furrowed their proverbial brows at my bare-assed daughter.  I fake-smiled and nodded.  This is my child. 

Surrender. 

It didn’t stop there.  On the third trip out of the cafeteria washroom (and still no poo), the five-year old made an inquiry.  

“Can we eat dinner at this restaurant?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s 4:30.  And you don’t eat dinner at Zellers.”

“Why?”

“You just don’t”

“But why not?”

“Just because.”

“But it’s a restaurant.  I’m hungry.  Pleeeeaaaaase.”

My blood pressure began to rise.  Deep breathing started.  We’d been in the store for 20 minutes and all we’d done is go the washroom 47 times.  Can we not, I begged to any higher being on duty, just buy our paper towels and milk and leave?  

Apparently not.

I stood in silence for a second.  Thinking.  What tone did I want to set for the weekend ahead? 

Patience.   

By the time I navigate through this war zone - I found myself thinking – including three more poo-attempts, and get home, it will be dinner time. Why not eat dinner at Zellers?  Why not again? 

Surrender.

“Excuse me,” I said to the waiter.  “Could we get a table for three?”

My understanding of myself shattered again. 

My name is Susan.  

I let my daughter run around in public restrooms with her pants down. 

And sometimes I eat dinner at Zellers.

5 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Things I Tell My Kids

October 14, 2011

Emilio Estevez Counts

By Susan

There are a lot of things to love about New York City.  Every day is a glorious assault to the senses.  Everyone’s stories of that city, I imagine, go deep and wide.

The possibilities are endless

So when I met my old university friends Martha* and Marianne* there last weekend in honour of Martha’s recent 40th birthday, things could have gone in many directions.  I hadn’t seen these girls in years.  In between our collective list of must-do’s in the Big Apple, there was a lot of catching up to do. 

Two of my New York must-dos came together nicely on the Friday night: 1) eating a fabulous meal at a fabulous restaurant; and b) spotting a real, live famous person. 

We had just finished the chef’s menu five-course dinner at Maze by Gordon Ramsay.  It was almost midnight.  I may or may not have been tipsy.  Because I may or may not have had a cocktail and two glasses of wine over dinner.  That’s three drinks, people.  I am that wild.  

I was heading back to our table from the ladies’ room.  I walked right passed him.  He was standing at the entrance waiting to be seated.  Just like a normal person would.   

“Emilio Esteves is in the house,” I whispered, as I slid back into our booth.

“Shut up.  Where?” said either Martha or Marianne.  I can’t remember exactly who said what. 

“Right behind me,” I whispered.  “Behind the post. Short guy with the hockey hair.” 

This is the point in the story where details become fuzzy. 

But what  followed was a discussion of where exactly behind the post he was located.  Then a discreet walk by Martha to the ladies room in order to confirm.  Then there was some hysterical laughter about a range of things I can’t remember.  Ultimately, a plan was hatched to send Mr. Estevez and his male companion a drink along with an unignorable and witty message. 

How does the story end?  I present you some options.  

Possible Ending 1:

We sent over two Scotches with the message “Thank you for ’Bobby’.  You deserved the Oscar“.  Within moments, a message came back via the waitress.  The message was ‘Thank you.  Would you care to join us?”  We joined them.  He was dining with his agent.  Eventually Martin Sheen and Charlie Sheen arrived.  Charlie was totally wasted, but quite charming.   He told rude stories about Ashton Kutcher.  Emilio dished about what really went down with Demi Moore on the set of St. Elmo’s Fire.  After the third round of Scotch, Gordon Ramsay joined us.  We all did the dance scene from The Breakfast Club with the waiters.  Martin Sheen is  a good dancer.  And he seemed to appreciate me constantly impersonating him from Apocalypse Now.  At 3:00 a.m. we convinced Emilio to prank call Molly Ringwald.  He totally woke her up.  Later, we left hilarious messages on C. Thomas Howell’s answering machine.  The night ended on a high, as we were promised small roles in  “The Outsiders 2“.  It starts filming in February.   We also got an invite to the Sheen’s for Christmas dinner. 

Possible Ending 2: 

We did a few more double checks to confirm Mr. Estevez’s identity.  We ignored the waiters hanging around who were clearly waiting for us to leave.  One young  waitress told us the about the time she met George Clooney (I think) in the restaurant.  She’d never heard of Emilio Estevez.  We laughed hysterically about more things I can’t recall and got side-tracked talking about other things.  We could not come up with a witty message that would make sending over drinks worthwhile or remotely cool.  We left.  Outside the restaurant, we attempted to snap a picture of Mr. Esteves through the window.

Can you see Mr. Estevez? Keep trying.

More hysterical laughter.  We hailed a cab.  We fell asleep in the taxi on the way back to the hotel.  At about quarter past midnight.  

Care to hazard a guess which was the actual ending? 

Tough one, I know.

*names may or may not have been changed.

10 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens

September 21, 2011

Maybe I Could Do That Too

By Susan

I love sports movies.  I love stories of the underdog. Of people finding strength and power they never knew they had.  I love watching the transformation of people from thinking that they can’t, to seeing that they can.   

I saw this video clip on Juliet’s blog a while back.  I wrote about it elsewhere previously, but for some reason this morning I can’t help writing about it again.  I love this clip.  If you love sports inspiration, this is one to watch.

There’s something about sport that is elemental to the human experience.  It moves us in ways few other things can.  It moves us as individuals, as communities, and as nations.  There is a drama in the game, and a joy (or sorrow) in the outcome, that gets us at our core. 

This is why we stand on our couches screaming at the TV during the championship game.  

This is why grown men and women jump on each other with sheer joy and rip their shirts off when a teammate scores the winning goal. 

This is why we cry during the national anthem at the Olympics. 

We cannot tear ourselves away.

When we watch great sports, or feats of athletic performance, there is a moment of clarity.  We feel something down deep.  We stand transfixed.  Our mind clears, and a voice within us rises. 

That voice whispers: maybe I could do that too. 

My favourite part of this clip is when the other boys realize what they are watching.  They get quiet.  They stand up so they can see better.  They then start following their teammate as he completes his deathcrawl.  They cannot help themselves.  They sense they are witnessing a moment of personal greatness – a moment of transformation.  They are drawn to their feet from a deeper place.  It’s the same pull as the watching the championship goal.  They are inspired and amazed.  

Maybe I could be great, they are thinking. Maybe I could do that too.

Here’s the thing.  If they feel that feeling, it means they can. 

So can you. So can I.  All of us can. 

We can all do our version of whatever we’ve seen that inspires us and draws us to our feet to watch. 

That feeling, when you’re standing there transfixed by the greatness? 

It’s your life calling to you. 

Go and get it.

6 comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

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