I Need to Learn to Pee Standing Up

I think that I have been a good daughter. I am involved, attentive and interested. I call on a daily basis and I never miss a birthday or anniversary. I am supportive of their globe-trotting ways and I have said on many occasions that I would like to be just like them when I grow up. I don't just love my parents, I am one of those increasingly rare individuals who actually likes them. I enjoy spending time with them and involving myself in their lives and vice versa. My relationship with my parents has evolved from the traditional adult/child model, to one of mutual friendship and admiration. So, it is with great trepidation and more than a little bit of consternation that I need to ask "Why are they trying to kill me?"

For my most recent birthday, my mother and father bestowed upon me a very unusual gift. They decided that I would really love to have 6 pre-paid sessions with a personal trainer with whom they had recently become involved. My first inclination was to sputter with righteous indignation,"So you think I'm fat?" Holding my caustic tongue, instead I smiled and thanked them profusely. The truth was that I really needed a jump-start to get me back into a regular workout routine, and I knew that forced involvement with a trainer was probably just the ticket. I have been feeling really well physically since the start of the great vegetarian experiment, but I have been extraordinarily lax in my exercise habits since my tumble down the garage stairs in November. So, I sucked back my cynicism that my parents were trying to make a point about my body image, and when I returned to the southern home I contacted Oscar.

Oscar seems to have jumped right out of those commercials for bullshit fitness equipment. He is a seemingly soft-spoken Venezuelan with a perfectly toned and tanned body and a beautiful smile of perfect white teeth. He is the type that makes sweatpants look good, baldness sexy, and earrings still masculine. I love how he struggles to say my name without an accent and how he has no compunction about relaying his philosophies of health and fitness. Oscar is 40 but looks 25, is oozing with charm, and it would stun me if women didn't fall all over him. All of this was my first impression. Then our first session began. When he is working, Oscar becomes a Nazi. He has no patience for slacking, cheating or pain. I think that he sees it as his personal mission to attack every part of my physical ineptness, and to wage war on my not-so-hidden desire to spend the remainder of my days slothing. I squatted and lunged. I pushed-up and I pulled down. I lifted and crunched, and I found myself moving parts of my body that I didn't know still worked. I spent that first hour with Oscar sweating harder than I ever had on the treadmill, and when it was over I had a sense of satisfaction that was rarely experienced in exercise. I was swaggering and smug when I booked my next session for two days hence. STUPID STUPID STUPID!!!!!

By the evening of that first workout day, I could hardly move. My legs and butt felt as though they were being poked continuously with tiny little fire-hot pitchforks. I was in spasm from my abdomen on down to my ankles. There wasn't a position on any chair that made me comfortable, so I spent many hours wandering around the house and halls of the building simply to avoid the agony of bending my legs into a sitting position. Getting up was even worse, so I finally decided that bed was the answer. NOT! Sleep was not an option. I couldn't turn over without screaming like a banshee and every breath, cough or sneeze was a new experience in pain. I tried to take a jacuzzi, but the jets seemed to be inactive. (An aside. Why is it that every single time that I am down here by myself, something in the house breaks? Could it be that The Husband is sending messages through telekinesis about how much I really do need him? Hmmmm!) I decided that a hot bath would still be a great help to relax the muscles, but climbing into the tub was kind of like trying to get out of a back-zippered dress without help.

The next day was worse. Stairs? Forget that. Elevators were invented for a reason. Oscar had made me promise to do a moderate walk on the treadmill, but that was obviously overly ambitious. But, in spite of all of the problems confronting me and all of the new muscles that my body had discovered, the absolute worst experience of all was sitting on the toilet. Think about it. What is physically involved with this seemingly benign activity? (Don't get gross or anatomical!) I am simply describing the simple act of sitting or squatting. Toilets are not generally designed as really high seats, unless they are being utilized in accessible facilities. Squatting that low down for somebody coming off of as many sets of lunges and squats as was I was a new type of pain. Rising was worse. I decided as I was getting up from one such experience in full-throated scream, that it would have been really great if God had decided to give women the option of standing while urinating. I think that we would have been way better at then men. Women would know how to concentrate effectively so that the pee ends up in the bowl and not on, under or beside it. Women would never neglect to lower the seat, because we all know the feeling of cold water on our asses at 2 in the morning. Women would love the idea of a urinal if it meant never again having to line up for a stall at the theatre. Finally, women are already half-way there in our quest to stand and pee. Ask any woman if she fully sits on a public toilet, or if she does a mid-legged squat.

Oscar continued his torture yesterday, and as such yesterday was another day when I avoided the loo to the best of my ability. I figure that one of two things will come out of this wonderful birthday gift. Either I will become incredibly ripped and toned, or I will develop a killer bladder infection because of my inability to sit on the can. Thanks Mom and Dad. Next year remember that I really like chocolate.

Life:Bottlenose dolphins mud-ring feeding

Yet another reason that I am absolutely infatuated with dolphins. Thanks Mom for passing this on.

Up Close and Personal

I owe Rashminda a bouquet of flowers, or at the very least breakfast. Isn't that the usual procedure when somebody is accorded the privilege of feeling you up? Who is Rashminda, you ask? Well, she is the sweet, petite, slightly overworked and somewhat overwrought employee of Transport Canada who has been put into the extraordinarily awkward position of having to check the intimate crevices of every woman passenger travelling out of Toronto Pearson Airport's Terminal 3 bound for American destinations. As a result of some asshole attempting to celebrate Jesus' birthday by blowing up his own asshole, we Canadians have been subjected to airport security more intensive and certainly more invasive than we have ever before known.

For reasons that only the truly reactionary can comprehend, any Canadian flight inbound for the good old US of A must now undergo a screening process that would make prison matrons blush. We are no longer allowed to bring carry-on baggage onto an aircraft. Our personal effects have been reduced to small purses and computer bags. No backpacks, wheeled luggage, briefcases or suit bags allowed. At least the ridiculous pretense of customer service or civility within the airline industry is finally gone, and we can all finally moo out loud like the cattle we have truly become. The humiliation begins with a thorough grilling by US customs agents. It continues with the requisite shoe removal, strip down at the metal detectors, and an emptying of all personal contents at security, (including a swabbing for explosive residue on every single piece of electronics) reddening with embarrassment while some underpaid civil servant passes judgement on my choices in literature and music, and creepily checks out the pictures of my kids that I keep in my computer case. That used to be the end of the line, but since the jackass who tried to wage jihad from his Jockeys, the fun stuff just keeps on coming.

From security we moooooove as a pack to what is now being called secondary security. We are separated into XX and XY lines (a wee bit too WWII for this Jew's liking) so that we can get up close and personal with Rashminda. Poor Rashminda! What a job! She squeezed so many boobs today that I thought that she should have been issued mammography equipment. The woman touched me in places that I thought were mine and mine alone. Apparently not according to Transport Canada. Since Christmas Day the world of air travel has once again changed and we poor bastards are all along for the ride.

The remarkable thing about all of this increased security at the airports and on the planes, is that it seems to be very one-sided. I flew home to Toronto from Fort Lauderdale last Thursday and not one thing was different on the American side. Passengers were invited to bring along all of their carry-on baggage as per usual. The level of inspection at security was very much the same as it was before Christmas. Sure, we had to remove our shoes and display our gels and liquids in a small Ziploc, but there was no pat down, strip search, ripping or shredding of personal belongings and no verbal grilling. We didn't have to arrive at the airport at some ungodly hour, and the process moved along without cattle prods or branding irons. As far as I can recall, the underpants incident was carried out by a Nigerian national flying from Yemen through Amsterdam en route to Detroit. The only thing Canadian in this equation is the airspace that our government graciously afforded to the Northwest flight and over where, (God forbid) the thwarted attempt would have occurred. (Chatham Ontario was a possible casualty!) I am definitely having a "why us" moment. Why is Canada the only country, outside of the 14 terrorist supporting nations that the Obama administration has identified as problematic, forcing her citizenry into these draconian measures when the Americans aren't doing likewise? The holes in this strategy are big enough to drive a 737 through.

I am not one of these people who is standing up and screaming about civil liberties when it comes to flying, even though the idea of these new x-ray machines that will probably get some pervert off viewing my stretch marks, are wracked with problematic issues and questions. I am a fearful flier and I would prefer that the industry does what it can to keeps us all safe, but once again I believe that rather than envision and prepare, they are being reactionary. Chaos ensues from reactions rather than preparations. If the Americans are truly concerned about what is flying around in their airspace, then they should impose the same restrictions on their domestic flights that they are on international ones. And if it isn't the Americans dictating these rules, then the Canadians should stop with the bullshit and own up to their own systematic flaws. In the meantime, what do you all think? Should I send Rashminda roses or daisies? We've become quite close.

Blogus Interruptus! AGAIN!

I suppose that it is the nature of blogging that my thoughts cannot in any way, shape or form stay linear. I fully intend to complete my vegetarian/Jewish thoughts in an upcoming blog, but everyday life just seems to be constantly interfering and calling me towards a less academic, but possibly a more entertaining stream of consciousness. (Not that anything I write is in any manner academic. I certainly wouldn't want to insult those of you out there who truly make your living in that world!!) No, vegetarianism will have to wait a bit while I explore the much more relevant and much more important issue of the F@*# You! attitude that is pervasive down here in the what was once genteel southern home.

It should be noted that I have touched upon this phenomenon here and here, and I have made several pointed references at many other times to the general lack of manners and civility that seems to be a way of life down here, but it seems to have reached a boiling point. Every line, every traffic light, every crowded locale, and every eating experience has become a new adventure in F@#* You! At first I wondered if it was as basic a cultural problem as the difference between Americans and Canadians. (I will attempt to elucidate this point without stumbling into the mass generalizations that so many of my compatriots trend towards when describing our cousins from the south.) Many Americans tend to be strong, patriotic and individualistic. They are taught from an early age to stand up for their rights, never allow oneself or one's country to be victimized by a bully, and that the cream of society can rise to the top if one works hard enough and diligently enough. Canadians, by contrast tend to be apologetic, happy with second place, (unless it is hockey-then all bets are off as many Canucks would happily decapitate an opponent with a shinny stick!) and meeker. In short we are the before picture in the body building ads. The little guy on the beach who gets sand kicked in our faces. We are the people whose foot gets stepped on and we apologize to our offender by saying "No issues. I have another!" It would have been easy to wave off the lack of civility as simply American behaviour, but it isn't fair nor is it accurate. The fact is that Canadian snowbirds in South Florida are amongst the rudest souls in the area, so what is the problem? Is there something in the water?

Over the past few weeks I have been stepped on, shoved aside, bumped into more times then I can count, sworn at, rammed into with shopping carts, almost run over by old people on scooters, (OY! That truly is becoming an issue for 2010!) cut ahead of in line, almost burned by lit cigarettes and cigars, had smoke blown directly in my face, dealt with crying babies at R-rated movies, had telephones ringing in inappropriate places, and have been cut off or almost hit in a car on a hourly basis. Every time some asshole or lobotomized driver pulls some unbelievable maneuver, The Husband has taken to looking at me in stunned bemusement while we both smile and yell "F@#* YOU!" It has become the mantra for every person trying to survive in public down here.

Yesterday, we decided to take in a movie at the Aventura Mall. That was our first mistake. As we drove into the covered garage that The Husband has lovingly dubbed the Aventura Speedway due to its hairpin turns, lack of speed limit, and guardrails, we knew that parking was going to be an issue. We kept heading upwards with the thousands of other morons, searching in vain until we came to a dead stop. Imagine the scene. Car A is idling to the right of the lane hoping against hope that a shopper will relinquish his spot. Of course no shopper is forthcoming and Car A is simply tired of the quest and remains in neutral. Car B is in a spot on the right, and is attempting to unload all packages into the trunk, and put 3 kids and Grandma into the back seat. There is no guarantee that they are going anywhere quickly. Car C is directly in front of us and half-way parallel with Car A, thereby blocking the entire lane so that no car can squeeze around it. Car C spies Car B and stops dead hoping to score the spot before Car A. (Wait there's more!!) We are in Car D directly behind Car C so we are stuck. Why? Because Car E in a spot to our left is attempting to back out, but cannot because of all of us blocking her path. Car F is travelling in the other direction and is parallel with us, but facing the opposite way. He spies Car E trying to pull out and wants to back up to score Car E's spot ahead of us. Confused yet? Well, all of this was occurring through a cacophony of horns, cuss words and The Husband's "F@#* YOU!" Thank God nobody was injured or worse, and thank God no guns were drawn. That actually did happen in the same parking garage a week earlier.

I have started to wonder if South Florida is the way it is because nobody is actually from here. Everybody is from someplace else. We are a society of transplants. New Yorkers, French and English Canadians, New Englanders, Mid-Westerners, Cubans, Haitians, South and Central Americans have all found winter domesticity in the sunny south, and we all bring our cultural disparities. I have remarked on many occasions on how I would be if I made this place my permanent home. Would I need to adapt simply to survive? Today at the Las Olas Art Show, I purchased a $10.00 poster. I handed the young woman a $20 and she gave me back 2 fives. Without realizing it, there was a $10.00 bill stuck underneath the 2 fives. As I turned to leave, I noticed her error and I immediately returned the extra $10. It wasn't a big deal. It was what I hope most of us would do, but she was flabbergasted and actually felt the need to thank me for my honesty. Hopefully she pays it forward by waiting her turn in the next long traffic line or by giving up the next convenient parking spot to another. A little bit would go a long way to solving F@#* You!

A New Year's Update on the Veggies

I felt it only appropriate that on this the first day of 2010 that I provide any of you who still care, an update on the great vegetarian experiment of December 2009. The month has finally turned and technically we are no longer beholden to the promises that we made to ourselves in a previous era, place or lifetime. That said, I have truly enjoyed turning over a new lettuce leaf and food has taken on a whole new meaning for both The Husband and myself. While the final tallies are certainly not complete and the effects of a single month cannot be examined in a vacuum, I can only speak for how I feel and that is pretty damn good.

I am less bloated and less heavy after meals and I haven't gnawed on a Rolaids in a month. (For those of you who know me well, know that this is a stunning development.) I have lost about 7 pounds and this feat is truly remarkable since I have done absolutely nothing else different. I haven't forgone chocolate (perish the thought) and I even indulged in the occasional dessert while floating on the Caribbean. My exercise routine has been dormant for almost the entire month (something that WILL change as the new year dawns!!) so the loss of weight is really a nice surprise.

We have dramatically cut down on our portion size, probably because we are more full and require less. We have noticed this is the case especially when we eat out. We are less concerned with how much we get on our plates, and instead are much more concerned with various flavours and textures. We have enjoyed cooking together and sourcing new recipes and ingredients. We have always tried to do much of the shopping together in the past, but now we are making it an appointment and meal planning has become much more diligent and much more collaborative. I have become educated in great protein sources like Chia Seed, TVP, and quinoa, and I have become much more schooled in how to use all kinds of beans and legumes to better effect. Yes people! There is vegetarian life after tofu.

The Husband? Well, his manhood is still firmly intact and his sack hasn't shrunk an iota as a result of his foray into the feminine world of ethical eating. If I ask him to give me an honest appraisal of the month, he usually just grunts like a bear and says something like "Yeah, fine!" But, the other day I heard him lauding the new diet on the phone to his brother, and when my mother asked him yesterday if he would continue on, he answered "Absolutely!" I fully expect him to take it seriously. He has been doing copious amounts of reading on the subject of factory farming and healthy lifestyle choices, and he is ready to make the switch. That is not to say that he wouldn't eat a rack of ribs on occasion, but I think that he is proof positive that veggies are manly.

There have been some challenges. Our boys had to deal with some of the new nareshkeit while in the Southern home, and we had to discover new restaurants that would be palatable (pun intended!!) to all. It is definitely easier for The Husband and I to maintain vegetarianism without the distraction of having to prepare meals for the boys on a regular basis. We have also discovered that we prefer Thai or Indian vegetarian to Chinese vegetarian, but that is relatively minor in the grand scheme of things.

I have been questioned on many occasions by people who are trying to understand the rationale for our decisions. I have discovered that I don't owe anybody explanations, anymore than I did when I was eating meat, and I have discretely and not rudely dissuaded the conversations. Tomorrow I will address why this way of eating seems to be working for me as opposed to a Kashrut lifestyle and how and why I believe I have discovered a truly Jewish way of food consumption.

Every Single Day I am Reminded That I am OLD!

I figured that I couldn't allow my birthday to go by without some kind of recognition. We have been continually inundated over the last few weeks with lists of the best and worst of the decade of zero and of 2009 specifically, so I thought it only appropriate to offer up a quick hit list of my own that will bring into better focus how I know that I am closer to fifty than forty. Happy f@#$ing Birthday to me!

1. I know that I am old because I do not for the life of me understand the allure of American/Canadian Idol. When did it become okay to accept canned shit for music entertainment? From what I have been able to garner from the brief snippets that cross my screen as I am waiting for Bones or House to start, is that very few of these poor deluded souls can actually sing and that the image that they are trying to project is nothing short of hideous. Where is the real musical talent for the new millennium going to come from if we the viewing and listening public keep relying on Simon Cowell to spew it? I pine for real musicians-you all know who they are!
2. I know that I am old because body art is lost on me. I realize that I covered this in a previous post so I will not rant for too long, but honestly? I saw a guy the other day in Miami with sleeves tattooed on his arms! In glorious technicolour! My boys tell me it is the age of self-expression. I think it is the age of stupidity.
3. I know that I am closer to 50 than 40 because I have yet to recognize the obsolescence of the land-line telephone. Both of my boys have forgone the old telecommunications model, and rely solely on their cells. They are not unusual amongst their generation. I still cannot get past the idea that a blackout will one day soon re-affect the entire eastern seaboard and the only way of getting a message through to loved ones will be on the old analogue plug-in that The Husband and I keep locked away safely in the front hall closet. In the words of the Boy Scouts "Be Prepared"!
4. I realize that I am old because I spend most of my time at B'nai Mitzvah parties in the foyer or the hall avoiding the ear-splitting thump of the horrid dance music that emanates from the gadgets of the already hearing-impaired DJs, who seem to forget who pays the bills and blithely ignore our pleas for level decibels. To all of you who are coming up on parties for your new teens: I highly recommend a kid's-only bash. Us old farts can't handle the noise.
5. I know that I am old because I would rather see a good movie with great acting and a wonderful story than be wowed by special effects. I have been told by many people, including Older Son that Avatar is an unbelievable movie-going experience that will change film-making forever, but that the story is merely adequate. Call me crazy, but I would rather watch Meryl Streep act her ass off, than have her upstaged by computer generated effects.
6. I get it! I am old! I know this because Lady Gaga is a poor woman's Madonna to me, I am wholly uninterested in the Kardashians, (who the hell are these people?) and I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in the lives of any real housewives from any city in the lower 48.
7. I know that I am old because I have already come to the unmistakable conclusion that no matter how much I cut back on carbs, sugar, calories, taste, or food in general, and no matter how many hours I spend sweating and toning in the gym, I will NEVER EVER EVER look like any cover girl on any magazine on any stand in the Western Hemisphere. Why? Because I know (age will do this to you!) that all of these images are unattainable as a result of photo-shopping, plastic surgery and botox. Even the 60 year olds are touched and retouched, so I can't even look at the "mature" women's rags without puking. Love yourself is my motto, and f@*& what is unreachable.
8. I know that I am old because I hate the term "cougar" and any other such moniker that demeans women of my age. What is wrong with women enjoying and dating younger men? Old guys with young hotties on their arms have been the norm for decades. Nobody called these dirty old bastards something as offensive as cougar. I am open for suggestions. Anybody got an equally ugly moniker for an old fart who needs several Viagra in order to get it on with his cradle-snatched mate?
9. I know that I am closer to 50 than 40 because I still like to receive snail mail. Don't get me wrong, I am an avid user of e-mail and I like to text, but there is still something really special about receiving a letter, card or thank you note in the mailbox. And while I am on the subject, thank you notes should always be handwritten, personalized and sent out within weeks of the occasion. (YUP! I am old!!!) On the other hand, junk mail is worse when delivered because it is truly a colossal waste of paper.
10. Finally, I realize that I am old because every meal is an adventure in some new stomach issue. I used to have a cast-iron stomach, but that all changed as I entered middle-age. Dairy, heavy sauces, some raw vegetables, certain ethnic dishes and legumes will undoubtedly increase the likelihood that I will spend copious amounts of my time in the lavatory. What a wonderful way to approach my next decade.

It should be noted that my birthday is only my 47th and that I still have a few years to go before I hit the golden age, but I have noticed lately that 50 seems much closer in the windshield than 40 does in the rearview. While I hope to embrace tomorrow and every birthday which I am blessed with with verve and excitement, there is a strange sense of foreboding that comes over me when I realize that I am now in a new age range on the surveys, that I am close to being able to get into a movie in Miami as a senior, that I am fearful of driving at night because of the strange halos that I see around street lights, and that I am the same age tomorrow that my mother was when she first became a grandmother! (Not that I want to be a grandmother, gentlemen!!) 47 is starting to sound pretty good. Happy Birthday to me!!

A Gecko Named Gordon

There are many things about The Husband worthy of admiration. He is truly brilliant, yet he has a wonderful way of explaining a situation to you without making you feel stupid. He is a real out-of-the-box thinker that sees problems from angles that most us could never even imagine, yet he is perfectly happy to walk away from ownership of these solutions and allow others to assume credit. He is incredibly handy, especially considering he is a Jew, and he is usually willing to try new things, mostly because his intellect causes him to bore easily and the new and untried provide challenges. Yes, there is much about The Husband to admire. His interactive skills when it comes to the smallest of nature's creatures, however are not usually worthy of praise. My man has a genuine phobia of the creepy crawlies!

It usually is quite manageable. He screams "spider" or "wasp" and I come running with tissue, vacuum hose, or can of Raid at the ready. Squeamish I am not, so it has become understood in our relationship that I kill the bugs. (An aside to my dear friend Twin Son's Better Half-Yes, I kill them!! You are the only one with enough karmic energy to save the little buggers from a hellish and devious death!) We have a good division of marital labour that works. He does the banking and I annihilate the critters. It has served us fairly well over the years. Ok! There was that one time when he almost drove us into a tree because a large, green preying mantis found her way onto the inside of the driver's side window, but those incidents are rare. And then-there was our stop today in Costa Rica.

The six of us decided to charter a private tour to show us a good chunk of the country. We were all set for a wonderful day roaming through the local markets, a banana plantation and a river tour of the rain forest. Our friends at Okey Dokey Tours (swear to God! I couldn't have made that name up if I tried for a year!) provided is with a great driver, a sterling guide named Harrison, and most importantly, an air conditioned 8 seater van. As we piled into the vehicle, The Husband chose to park himself beside one of the windows. As I slid in next to him, I noticed a small gecko had made himself comfortable on the window ledge inches from The Husband's arm. The poor little guy was just taking in some sun. Keenly aware of his history, I quietly asked my man if his little seat companion was coming along for the tour. Well, that was clearly the wrong approach. The man jumped five feet and wedged me between himself and the door of the van. He kept pushing against me (not in a good way!) all while I kept attempting to calm him down so that I could corral the scared creature and free him from a car-full of panicked Canadians. Gordon (I named him for Michael Douglas' character in Wall Street) was not about to sit still for the commotion and made his way to the rear of the van, where my equally terrified friend was sitting. She was none to happy with Gordon's flight and she moved into a similar pattern as The Husband's. By the time that Gordon had fled and order had been restored, his legend had already grown to ridiculous proportions. According to The Husband, he had hair and long fangs. He had huge eyes and a longing to suck all of the life juices from his body. The bloody thing was the size of my thumb and wouldn't hurt an ant, but such was the terror in The Husband's mind.

Our friend the social butterfly was so amused by the events of the day, that he bought The Husband a t-shirt sporting Gordon's image for him to wear all around the ship as penance. Being the great sport that he is, The Husband complied gracefully. As they say in Costa Rica, "Pura Vida"-It's all good!