Author: thedonkeymademedoit

I love Lululemon, legislation and my family (not in that order). Aspiration: to write a book they sell in airports.

SAVED! By the Bell

I overheard part of their conversation, but not all of it. I was frantically picking up socks, stray goldfish crackers and broken crayons.

Our house is messy most of the time but today it was an unnatural disaster curated by a couple of toddlers who seemed to know, intuitively, we were expecting company.

The trajectory of their destruction was temporarily curbed when the doorbell rang — it was as if the bomb had been interrupted mid-detonation. I was thankful. You can only raise your voice so many times or issue the umpteenth time-out before you start to question your parenting abilities.

Declan ran over to join Heath at the door and Olivia reclaimed the toy that Declan had taken from her moments prior. Reprieve. Now was my chance to get ahead of the curve.

The man called Heath by name. When Declan, walked into his view he referred to him by name as well. I was suddenly curious. It was a bit early for visitors. We weren’t expecting my in-laws for a few hours.

“Well, I’d better get back to cleaning, but if you want to come back next Friday you can.” Heath politely told the man.

“That would be great,” he replied, “we want to talk to you about suffering.”

“That will be timely,” Heath said with a laugh, “We are doing a six hour race this weekend and I will have been married for almost five years at that point too.”

Heath closed the door and plugged in the vacuum.

“Suffering, eh?” I asked, “Who was at the door?”

“Some religious people.” He said, “They are pretty nice.”

“How many times have they been here? They know Declan’s name?” I asked.

“They know Olivia’s name too,” he said. “Three times. They are coming back next Friday. They are pretty committed to their religion.”

I don’t like it when people I don’t know know our kids’ names. Especially people who come to our door. There was a time when one of the few things Olivia would eat was pizza. It got to the point where the Dominos delivery man was at our house so often he would ask about Olivia by name when he’d come to the door. At first I was impressed by his customer service but that changed. The shift came one night when he delivered our pizza. Declan answered the door with me, so I introduced him. The man wasn’t interested in meeting Declan, in fact he didn’t acknowledge him, he simply said, “where’s Olivia?” It was weird. It also made me more cautious than I had previously been. Regardless of the man’s intentions, Olivia is four years old and fifty year old gentleman callers are not welcome.

***

I was getting ready for work as Heath was getting the kids ready to go somewhere. It was 7:30 in the morning. He was moving quickly.

“What’s the rush?” I asked.

“We need to get out of here before God’s soldiers arrive.” He said as he put Olivia’s shoes on.

“Didn’t you tell them to come by today?” I asked.

“Yes, but I changed my mind.” He said.

“Well, it might be time to let them down gently.” I said, giving Heath and the kids a round of hugs and kisses before they made their way out to the Jeep.

A few hours later Heath texted me.

Apparently when Heath pulled up to our house he noticed their car parked in front of our neighbor’s home. Once Heath had finished unloading the car they approached our door, “we were waiting for you!” The man said.

Heath had a pair of stage five clingers on his hands and while he already knew that, this was the final straw. They had tried way too hard to save us and in doing so they lost us.

We would never hear what they had to say about suffering and admittedly I’m a bit curious. But the reality is, given the amount of LEGO we step on on a weekly basis I reckon Heath and I could teach a Masterclass on the subject.

Stay great and please pray for us (from the comfort of your own home)!

New York Minute: The Pencil Thief

I happened upon this little shop while walking along Orchard St. one Saturday morning. I had just finished eating a bagel, in case you were wondering. I’m reminded of that bagel every week or so when I receive Davidovich Bakery’s newsletter. In a first attempt at going paperless I gave my email address to the cashier in lieu of a receipt and now I’m on their mailing list. Man, it was a good bagel.

The pencil on the storefront of CW Pencil Enterprise called on me to cross the street, walk up the steps and into the shop. Upon entering I was hit by a wave of joy and sensory overload. Not to the point of tears, that would be weird, but I recognized very quickly I was in a happy place. Who doesn’t love a high quality, colourfully quirky pencil every now and then? Notebooks. Japanese stickers. Erasers. Pencil sharpeners.

I could lose track of time in a place like this. I’d likely spend double the estimated time I told my husband I would take and when questioned about it I wouldn’t have an answer as to why, other than to say, well, it was an experience. He would shake his head, unable to relate. Luckily I was on my own that day.

I bought ten Eye Ball No Smoking Pencils. What a find!

I had initially come to Orchard St. for the art, but would return for the pencils.

***

A man stole my Japanese cigarette pencils as I was sitting on a bench at the World Trade Centre. One minute I was applying a bandaid to the back of my foot, a ‘stage 4’ blister, and the next my beautifully wrapped pencils were gone.

I assumed it was a man. A woman wouldn’t knowingly steal another woman’s pencils unless she desperately needed them. A mother who couldn’t otherwise afford to put pencils on the table — how could I fault her for that? These are hard times after all and the children, wait a second, do the children even use pencils these days?

I walked back to Orchard Street and replaced the pencils, notebooks and stickers I had bought. The folks at CW Pencil Enterprise gave me a generous discount for my troubles.

Months later, while sitting on a flight one of the flight attendants approached me and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Writing in my notebook.” I replied. The notebook I had purchased twice at CW Pencil Enterprise.

“You don’t see that very often. That’s cute.” She said with a smile and walked away.

Doesn’t anyone use stationery anymore? I guess everything is digital, or is going digital, these days. I’ve resisted full digitization successfully for years. I’m not living off the grid by any means, but I’m somewhat, albeit not very, selective when it comes to my digital footprint. Happening upon the little shop on Orchard Street confirmed for me that there are others out there like me. I will make a note of that so when technology, or the robots rather, rise against us I will have some fellow compatriots to join me in the resistance. I have said too much. I’m kidding, obviously. 

Stay great!

Kate

Let’s Ride, C’mon!

Last year I bought a package of fifteen sessions at a spin studio. I thought that adding a cycling class every week or two would help diversify my training. I used a few of the passes and despite the best of intentions I forgot about them until last night when I signed into my account. I had twelve of the fifteen classes left and unless I use them by March 1, 2020 they will expire. In other news, I went to a spin class this morning.

It felt good to be back in the saddle — that’s spin speak for on the bike. I chose bike number 36, adjusted the settings and put on my rental shoes. Surprisingly they clipped right into the pedals on my first attempt, this is an unheard of experience for me. I usually struggle with the clips, embarrassingly so.

The instructor adjusted his headset, turned the lights down and the music up. I could feel the beat pumping through my body like a second heart — the pace-maker for our ride. The lights changed from white to a variety of colours and then back to white — a light show that could be best described as both a rave-goer’s dream and an epileptic’s worst nightmare.

I did my best to keep up with the instructor and the women to my left and right. I was surrounded by inspirationally fit folks who had energy for days. I couldn’t seem to match it, but I guess I didn’t have to. It wasn’t a race, we would all arrive at the same place at the same time — the end of class, 45 minutes after we started. We would take from the workout what we gave to the workout.

It was my first fitness class since my surgery just before Christmas. I had to actively quiet that little voice inside of me, that limiting mindset that tried to use the surgery as an excuse to not exert what I was capable of in that moment. A few times I forced myself to get comfortable being uncomfortable. I entered the pain cave willingly and hung out for a while.

At one point in the workout the room went dark and the instructor asked us to close our eyes. He guided us through a visualization exercise — his voice was briefly calming and quiet when suddenly he shifted gears and shouted: “IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT!!!!”

‘It’s Friday night, ok, so I’ve got my Batman pajamas on and I’m watching Dateline, now what?’

My eyes shot open to a chorus of ‘WOOOOOs’ in response to the instructor’s declaration that it was Friday night and not Wednesday morning.

Ah, of course, we were in the club, not in my living room, fireplace on, figuring out whodunnit (the husband, with a life insurance policy on his wife, a mistress and a burner phone).

I can’t remember the last time I was in a club. Wait, have I ever been in a club? My mind-body disconnect was pronounced, although to someone watching the class I looked fully engaged, peddling fast and hard and mechanically moving between sitting to climbing to hovering. My brain however was working to sort through the past in search of evidence of club attendance, as if it mattered. I was suddenly snapped back to reality with the instructor’s booming voice echoing:  “LET’S RIDE, C’MON!

One down, eleven to go!

Stay great!

Kate

Shades of Brave

The first world problem of being terrified by the thought of wearing a jumpsuit was very real to me. Camel toes belong exclusively on the feet of camels, I’ve always said, not fixed 6.5 inches south of one’s belly button — this is a rough estimate based on a distant memory of the size of a foot long sub from Subway cut in half, as well as a text to my husband asking him to ballpark it for me.

The thought of the fabric not so subtly creeping inch by inch up my hind-quarters with every step and the inability to pull my shirt down strategically to hide those wee dimples that have taken up residence on my thighs was enough to keep me clothed in dresses or separates all of these years. But one day all of that changed. I was in Club Monaco when I happened upon what would become my conversion jumpsuit. It was black and it fit me good.

The first time I wore it I remember frantically patting down the inseam while standing in the bathroom stall searching for that convenient tear-away-pant technology that was a hallmark of my high school attire in the late 90s. Nothing! I was trapped. Having had two children I know a couple things to be true: one, when jumping rope I can safely jump 26 times after which I begin a solo game of  Russian roulette each rep bringing me closer to an accident. The other thing I know to be true is if I have to go, I have to go. I’ve got about 30-60 seconds before I’m in unfortunate incident territory. In those critical seconds, if one is wearing a jumpsuit, success depends on the seamless execution of the following: unzip the zipper – this needs no explanation, it isn’t easy; pull the top down by inching that fabric ever so carefully down your body so as to not get the arms in the toilet; be mindful of the puddling of the pants on the floor and the heightened risk of getting something on the fabric. You likely won’t get it right your first time so make sure you choose a clean stall. Your primary objective, like mine, will be successfully gaining access to the toilet and everything else will go by the wayside.

But success is possible with a little practice, folks. In fact, this is what success looks like with 5 seconds to spare (not to brag or anything).

I’m officially over my fear of jumpsuits! I own at least five now. If I can do it, anyone can.

In a society always looking at ‘what’s next’ you might be wondering what other fashion fears consume me. The obvious answer to that question is white garments — all of them.

Next level bravery: white pants!

Ultimate level of bravery: white booty shorts, but more specifically, working out in white booty shorts (so many things can go horribly wrong)!

To put things into perspective regarding where I sit on the ‘white garment bravery’ continuum, I can’t even wear a white shirt for fear of getting coffee, blue pen or my lunch on it. The headache of having to pre-acknowledge it each time I encounter a new person so they don’t feel the need to bring it to my attention does not appeal to me. Or worse, they notice it, they don’t tell me and then build their own narrative around how the brown stuff got on my shirt. Again, I have two kids, it could be anything.

At this point in time I choose to rest on my laurels. They say a little bit of fear is heathy but panic is deadly. In a bid stay alive I’ll leave the white bottoms to the professionals.

Stay great!

Kate

Clinical Confessions: The Gown

After spending the first thirty-three or so years of my life actively contributing to our publicly funded health care system without taking much in return, I’ve had a few trips to the Emergency Room lately to makeup for lost time.

Following a brief visit to a walk in clinic for what I thought might be a minor chest infection, the doctor sent me to the hospital because he was concerned that I may have a blood clot in my lungs. I walked out of his office and into Starbucks — priorities, right?

Cup in hand, I sat down in the triage room of the ER as the nurse assessed me. In a stern voice she told me to immediately dispose of the grande extra-hot, flat white made with Lactaid that I’d yet to take a sip of — $6.65 down the drain. Apparently coffee has a dehydration effect which makes veins narrower and blood thicker and more likely to get a clot. She finished checking my vitals and I was assigned to the fast-track section to wait to be treated.

It was a Breakfast Club of a room, full of people representing all walks of life, all of them waiting for someone or something: a loved one, a doctor, a nurse, answers, attention, compassion, drugs. I on the other hand sat there reflecting on the litres of coffee I drank earlier that day, or should I say, reminiscing.

The doctors and nurses were extremely thorough. After running a variety of tests and chest x-rays they determined I was ok. Five hours later I was discharged, no worse for wear.

The nurse asked me if I’d mind changing in the bathroom to free up a bed for another patient. I didn’t mind.

I walked over to the bathroom and effortlessly opened the door, as in, without any effort. A lady was in there. I walked in on her while she was sitting on the toilet. We briefly made eye contact, I saw some stuff but deemed it to be clinical given the setting. I wondered why she had taken all of her clothes off to go to the bathroom, in a hospital. Frazzled, she shouted, “the door is locked!” Saying it doesn’t make it true lady.

“Oh. Sorry”, I replied and shut the door. I stood outside waiting for her to finish doing whatever she was doing in there. That’s when another woman walked over with an empty urine cup in hand and asked me if she could go before me. No, you can’t I thought but said, “sure why not” and I left.

Here is a photo of me at Pita Pit taken shortly after I left the hospital.

I was so hungry. I couldn’t wait any longer. And as they say, “You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

That would be my defence if I was arrested for taking hospital property outside of hospital property limits.

I have since returned the gown to the hospital, as one would with a book borrowed from the library. The key word here is borrowed, ladies and gentlemen: to take and use something with the intention of returning it. Intent in nine tenths of the law, or is it possession is nine tenths of the law? I don’t know, but I rest my case.

Stay Great!

Kate