A Prince Among Men

When I was small, and my cousin Kirsten arrived into our family, being that I was an only child, I naturally assumed that they had her for me, and that she was mine.

It's no more complicated than that.

The shiniest black hair, big, bright, round eyes the exact color of brown smarties and delightfully chubby, you would have to be a special kind of broken not to fall in love with her.

Kirsten is married to Nicholas, the best and most compatible and perfect partner for her. Nicholas is an amazing dude - he's got this awesome quietude about him (which is in direct contrast to Kirsten, for whom quietude is a foreign and abstract concept...)

Kirsten and Nicholas are in the process of growing their first baby, and after three years and two catastrophic family losses - this baby, along with the baby Anthony, Julie and Madeleine are expecting, are the most anticipated and cherished little people who will ever be be brought into this world.

But back to our Nicholas. Nicholas is famous, FAMOUS, I say, for being the picture of gallantry, the epitome of chivalry, and the most suitable, perfectly matched person for our Kir. He is attentive and responsible, loyal and dedicated, and he loves math. Just like I was powerless against loving Kir, we are all powerless against admiring Nick.

One night very recently, Kirsten had a horrible leg cramp in her hamstring and glutes (also known as "ass"...). So she did what any other almost 9 months pregnant person would do...she used a wedge pillow to prop her back up at an angle to alleviate the pressure.

By doing so, however, she was also not sleeping on the recommended left side, which lessens the pressure on the internal vital organs and blood vessels by the growing fetus.

During the night Nick noticed she had assumed a potentially dangerous sleep position and nudged her gently to wake her up.

"Kir", he whispered, "You're sleeping on your back..."

Kirsten thought, "Oh, how sweet! He's worried that I am depriving oxygen to the baby by being on my back and squishing that all important vein."

So she responded, in a most loving and manner "Don't worry Nicholas. I have the wedge pillow propping me up to stay off the vein."

"No," Nick replied deadpan, "You were snoring".

A Prince Among Men...



This gorgeous photo of my gorgeous Kirsten is used with permission of the amazing talented photographer, Alisa Groves.

Alisa Groves
www.alisagrovesphotography.ca
phone: 780.932.2547

When What Should My Wandering Eyes Should Appear...

When J. came into the house today, straining under the weight of what he brought home from the post office, I was wondering just how long it had been since we had picked up our mail...

But when he dropped THIS on the island, I was so excited I did a little dance...




When Kirsten, Anthony and I were small, our grandparents, the incomparable Baba and Papa wintered in Hemet, California. We missed them terribly, but the parcels they sent to make up for leaving us three for the winter tried to make it up to us...

So to recap? Parcels? Are EXCITING. Especially parcels with stickers and 200 stamps. (You just KNOW the postman sees a parcel like this and cringes...) and parcels SPECIFICALLY ADDRESSED TO "AUNTIE FABULOUS" (me).

I open the package, and on top is a blue envelope which I rip open with wild enthusiasm.



Haha. Funny.

Kirsten's mom, my Auntie Anne Marie would send care packages often, and always included these little confetti things in the envelope. I didn't have confetti, so I used sugar baking sprinkles. So these hearts were payback.

I was so delighted by the next thing I saw that I had it out of the tissue paper and onto my body before I could get a photo.



Also included was an intensely special pendant (that I cannot post a picture of, for fear it's magical powers will be compromised), a 2010 Herstory Personal Calendar, and at the bottom, some other things that wouldn't mean much to you, but mean the world to me by virtue of the person who once held them...

Even when it's Kirsten's turn to receive, she's still the most giving, thoughtful person I know, and with her poise and grace continuously amazes me...

Now, see her wardrobe malfunction!

Ashleigh McIvor – Yay On YOU.

Undoubtedly you've heard that Ashleigh McIvor won the first ever gold medal in Women's Ski Cross.

And for that? She should be commended.

But do you want to know what else? Years and years ago, Ashleigh McIvor took it upon herself to write a letter to Jacques Rogge, arguably the most influential person in amateur sport (and also the Chair of the International Olympic Committee) to ask that Ski Cross be considered as an official Olympic Sport.

So you know what? I'm MORE proud of her for asking, for taking the chance, and for chasing the opportunity.

Because the Gold Medal is only the result of the chance she took in ASKING.

It's not a hard concept to grasp:
Ask for what you want.

And to quote another influential French sounding dude, "Everything is impossible…and then? It isn't."

One Word (and in very rare instances, two)

Cell phone? Touch

Hair? Greying

Mother? Angel

Father? Never.

Favorite Food? Healthy

Dream last night? Work.

Drink? Evian

Dream/Goal? Content

Room you are in? Kitchen

Hobby? Applique!

Fear? Regretting.

Where do you see yourself in 6 years? Here.

Something you are not? Honest.

Favorite Muffins? Muffins?

Wish list item? Triplets.

Where did you grow up? Pense

What is the last thing you did? Bathed.

What are you wearing? Comfies.

Favorite TV Show? Sitcom.

Pets? Lots.

Friends? Some.

Your life? Lovely.

Your mood? Retrospective.

Facebook? Rarely.

Favorite place to eat? Fritto Misto.

Missing Someone? EverysingledayImissher.

Your vehicle? Volkswagen.

What you aren't wearing? Socks.

Favorite Store? Whole Foods.

Favorite Color? Red.

Last time you laughed? Yesterday.

Last time you cried? Yesterday.

Best friend? J.

Place you go to over and over? Costco.

Singles Appreciation Day

Over lunch today with co-workers, after going around the table telling each other our plans for Valentine's Day, it occurred to us in a flash of genius that it's not fair that all of the "attached" people in the world get a day to celebrate their unabashed co-dependence! Why not a day to celebrate independence? To celebrate the fact that some people DON'T get married in their early twenties* – for the promise of a lavish wedding and boatload of gifts?

*These people inevitably are single again in their mid twenties, and married for the second time at around age 29.

Anyway. This is what we decided:

International Singles Appreciation Day will be an annual event, celebrated on February 15th, this allowing the Valentine-aholics their one stupid commercialized day to celebrate, which leaves all the singletons to celebrate their fabulous singleness the remaining 364. (take THAT!)

Singles Appreciation Day celebrants must commit to celebrating with like-minded individuals - the joy that singlehood is.

Nobody tell Hallmark. We need not have cards. What would they say? "You're fabulous, and that's all", and, "Yay you for not needing a man".

We will buy all of the leftover Valentine's Day candy on sale.

The official flower of Singles Appreciation Day will be the Dandelion. They're everywhere, they grow and prosper wherever they are, and, they're edible. Just like singles.

I bet we'll get a sponsorship from Kraft. You know, the makers of that individually wrapped cheese like substance? Kraft Singles?

Singles Appreciation Day can be celebrated by anyone, so far as they support the cause.

Singles Appreciation Day celebrants will be militant about not tolerating Late Valentine's Day Celebrations. We don't care if you couldn't get a babysitter last night. You had your day. And it was yesterday.

Seriously. Tell all your friends.

Happy Singles Appreciation Day, everyone!

(and Happy Valentine's Day to J. xoxo)

I've got Olympic Fever.

 

Aah, the Olympic Games are upon us.  A magical time, when millions of people the world over put aside their differences to celebrate the universal appeal of sport.  And, if you have a family like mine, turn into Olympic-induced insomniacs, who know every athlete by name including the ones made up entirely of consonants…

 

Poland?  I'm looking at you.

 

I come from a long and distinguished line of fervent Olympic followers.  Going back as far as one whole generation, my main direct descendant (read: my mom) would, and I swear I am not making this up, book her annual vacation time maybe even decades in advance to coincide with the Olympic Games – thus allowing her to enjoy the games in all of their pomp and pageantry, absolutely uninterrupted.  From the lighting of the torch like they did with an arrow at the 1992 Games in Barcelona ("An ARROW?  He could MISS!  Do they not have STAIRS in Barcelona?!?!") to the dramatic display of the closing ceremonies ("Athens did such a good job with all of those Leaping Greeks!") – my mother was, Queen of Hilarious Olympic Commentary, and Olympic Follower of Ridiculous Proportions. 

 
 

Growing up, she didn't raise me in the stereotypical sports-crazed Canadian way.  We didn't watch sports (Saskatchewan Roughrider Games notwithstanding), or partake in sporting activities that required any kind of commitment.  Virtually the only exposure I had to sport was what I saw during the Olympic Games.  One of my fondest Olympic memories was when the ridiculously-and-still-adorable Elizabeth Manley won Silver at the Calgary '88 games.  Seriously!  How could a 10-year-old-me, and the entire nation not fall in love with the human equivalent of a happy little chipmunk on skates?  We were powerless against her cuteness!  And have you seen her lately?  I have officially given her the title of Cutest Eyebrows In Canada.  And back in Calgary (her, not me) when she made her teary, giggling way off the ice, I distinctly recall thinking: "I need a hot pink figure skating outfit, pronto"; followed by, "The easiest way to do that would be to actually meet Elizabeth Manley who would undoubtedly be so nice and happy and chipmunk-y that she'll probably let me borrow hers".  Thus, Operation Elizabeth Manley began and still continues.  Ooh, I wonder if she's planning on being in Vancouver? 

 
 

Moving right along... Although I cherish my Olympic memories, having the Olympics as my sole source of sport information came with one major drawback.  You see, no one ever bothered to tell me that everything I was watching looked so easy BECAUSE I WAS WATCHING OLYMPIC ATHLETES.  And being that I was a child of decidedly little common sense, I didn't have mental capacity to figure out that pole vaulting on the front lawn using the closest possible substitution for a pole (read: a shovel) would only result in physical disaster and tearful apologies to a mean lookin' neighbor for breaking his perfectly good garden implement.  And I am not the only child that grew up lacking an innate sense of danger.  I personally know someone who, as a child, saw Alpine Skiing for the first time and proceeded to jump off the roof of a garage.  Can you imagine?  What my mom said to his mom was "We should thank our lucky stars he doesn't have any serious injuries" but what she said to me was "Lise, that kid was a quarter inch away from licking windows for the rest of his life."  It is a small wonder any of us reach adulthood given that all children (including yours) think that if they see it, they can do it.

 
 

This overconfidence was never better illustrated than when recently, when, in a moment of complete parental madness, I decided to show off my mad gymnastics skills to my 7 year-old-daughter.  We had just been mistakenly upgraded to a hotel room so opulent and spacious, that the entire Canadian Women's Hockey Team could have comfortably stayed with us.  (And in the interest of full disclosure, yes, I did consider notifying the front desk of the error, but almost immediately decided against it and instead ran a bath, ordered a bottle of champagne and giggled at the thought of an irate Arab Sheikh/Oil Barron/Movie Star slummin' it in the room we should have got.  HaHa!  Suckers!).

 
 

Getting back to the story…Like I said: the room?  Was huge.  And what does one do with all of that awesome upgraded hotel space?  All the potentially damaging activities that you yourself forbid in your own home, of course!  Effortlessly, I took off in a sprint across the heavily patterned and deliciously plush carpet and completed an elegant string of two or perhaps three whole cartwheels that I am telling you?  Would have made Mary-Lou (1984-All-Around-Gymnastics-Champion) Retton jealous.  In response, my daughter decided to follow suit.  I think it would be prudent for you to know that the very same daughter ended her gymnastics career in a snit at the age of 4 after the skill of skipping with both feet and in a straight line eluded her.  You can imagine my horror, when I spied my girl (whom you should also know has legs longer than a giraffe) beginning her tumbling run.  I swear:  In less time than I could say "minor concussion", her skinny little arms had collapsed – leaving her poor little blonde head to land, nay – plow – face-first into the carpet – followed instantly with odd angles of collapsing, flailing, giraffe legs.  Like any good (read: bad) parent, my horror immediately turned to unabashed hilarity when we confirmed that besides a goose egg on her forehead, she had no life altering injuries as a result.

 
 

Anyway, the Vancouver Olympics are just around the corner – and this time, they've taken on special meaning.  Not only is this an opportunity for Canada to shine like a brand new toonie on the world stage (Go Team Canada!), but also, because like Elizabeth Manley, I too, recently lost my mom to cancer.  The way I see it, I have a choice.  Either I can let the Olympics go by quietly, thus circumventing the inevitable sting of grief that comes with knowing that these Olympics will be yet another time that missing her will cause visceral sort of pain, or, I can pick up the torch my mom left me and run with it like Ben Johnson after mandatory drug testing – instilling that same sense of excitement and pride (read: abject humiliation) to my own son and daughter.  And... I think that as of this very moment, I'm choosing the latter.

 
 

So, starting tomorrow, after my children get inspired by the athletes they see on CTV to break land speed records travelling (knowing them, face-first) downhill in their custom cardboard-duct-taped-to a-toboggan-bobsled, I'll be right there watching them. 

 

From the window, I mean.  And only if they stay close to the house.  Because I?  Am claiming my birthright.  As The New Queen of Hilarious Olympic Commentary and Olympic Follower of Ridiculous Proportions. 

 

And if anything else, just remember this:  Poland?  I'm looking at you.

A Twitter Challenge

Me and one of the chicks I work with have agreed to a one week Twitter Challenge.

She is a Facebooker of Epic Proportions and I am Facebook negligent, only logging in on occasion.

So, together, we're going to take on Twitter, and after a week, see what happens.

It's no big secret that Social Media is currently the darling of the marketing world, and I want a piece of it.

I also happen to think that this particular chick would be brilliant in a Social Media Management role, but how to make it happen?

This is our start:

Lise on Twitter