Things I don’t love #564 Going through customs.

She turns to a sweet old Chinese couple,

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to declare? No weird litchis or funky prickly cucumbers or anything?”

I clung to my lunch bag, white knuckling my sprout salad.

“Anything to declare?”

Her fat, pasty, sourpuss face, pock-marked and blotched with glossy patches of Rosacea,

“Nope”

I don’t fully understand why or how we get claim whole countries, set up random stalls and then dictate who is allowed to pass them and what qualifies them to do so.

It feels like a childish game.

“You can only pass if you have 6 acorns and 2 hot wheels and a juice box”

“here”

“You may go”

“Thanks, oh and by the way, you’re an ugly doody-head”

“Okay, now you can’t pass AND I’m going to tie you up and put you in the tree-house until snack time!”

I find this especially bizarre in places like North America, where the people who rule these borders AREN’T ACTUALLY FROM HERE.

Seriously.

We travel across the world, crawl up on shore, beat the shit out of everyone who lives there already, and then make up these rules about who else is allowed to come hang out here, backed up with fear tactics and threats of terrorism and swaddled in promise of security and world peace and what-have-you.

Honestly, I’m thinking that terrorizing colonizing
the natives, holding them hostage, refusing to let them speak their language, inflicting religion on them, stealing their children, raping, pillaging, murdering etc… it’s a little terrorist-y in itself…

Am I wrong?

All right, so it is what it is, and now we have border crossings and I get that there is a strategy in place here but will we really psych people out enough to get them to admit their sneaking 4 litres of milk and pack of Marlboros into the country?

I mean, do you seriously think that by calling somebody names or accusing them of loving Bok Choy, you’re going to mind-fuck the terrorist out of them?

Really? REALLY?

Because if Homeland Security’s deeply thought-out interrogation tactics, meant to protect an entire nation from destruction and all that is evil, including terrorists, immigrants and gypsy moths, consists of asking if somebody is secretly harbouring any “funky prickly cucumbers” they might want to rethink things.

I’m just saying…

I gained 7 pounds in just a couple of weeks.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been so ridiculously busy that I haven’t found time to exercise.

Maybe it’s because one of my evil daughters went out and got herself a job at the Rockaberry Pie Shop.

Maybe it’s because I’m an emotional eater (There. I said that too).
I know it’s cliché, if you had accused me of it weeks ago I would have rolled my eyes and huffed and puffed, punched your lights, out AND kicked one of my kids to show how much I meant it when I said: As if! And also, that is so cliché!

But I caught myself in the act a few nights ago and it wasn’t pretty.

I had already eaten supper and kept grazing on left-overs while I cleaned up the dishes, in between handfuls of trail-mix and aking repeated trips to the freezer to sneak Coconut Bliss, ONE TABLESPOON at a time.

Not cool Jen. Not cool.

Everyone has days like that, and if it really was just one of those days, I would have thought nothing of it HOWEVER…

I heard the words leave my lips, loud and clear: “I don’t feel better. I need to eat more”. I said those words. I did.

And I stopped and reflected, realizing, that these days are happening more and more often lately.

I eat really well, I do. And I don’t mean – I eat a lot, like “Oh.. your baby eats so well!”

I mean I am a vegan who LOVES veggies and eats almost exclusively whole grains and organic and I limit my intake of processed foods, including tofu and soy milk. Seriously. I eat well.

But… my exercise obsessions routine is sporadic at best and my eating habits suck.

I often go all day without eating and then stuff myself at supper, or graze all night or do that going back to the freezer thing, one tablespoon at a time or whatever.

I’ve been thinking about it and talking to friends, and reading the blog of the ever inspiring Sheryl Yvette – A Neurotic Glamour Girl’s Weight Watchers Experience and Fitness Adventures.

-Side note: I totally did not want to share that link with you girls. I wanted to keep her to myself forever. I’m serious. I did not want to include her name or her blog address. Weird. This is extra stupid because I already interviewed her last year, for Sweet Vegan, and plastered her URL all over the internet.

I think I might have issues.

Must be all this sneaking around with secrets about ice cream and stuff. It’s getting to me.

So! here’s something else I’d rather not share.

Last Wednesday I opened up my laptop and searched Weight Watchers and clicked on Meeting Locator, and within and hour and a half, I was standing in a weigh-in line-up with a bunch of strangers.

I’m serious.

I went to a weight watchers meeting.

I’m not going to lie (anymore), I found it uncomfortable at first.

None of the people there looked like me. They drank flavoured water and wore slacks and sensible shoes (oh the horror) and they were munching on little bags of Weight Watchers snack bars and processed treats that I wouldn’t eat if you paid me.

Also, the meeting part seemed really silly to me at first. The topics (so far) don’t seem to apply to me. I don’t shop in supermarkets really and, being vegan, I’m pretty sure I don’t eat the same things as most of the people in my meetings. And, as many of you know, I don’t don’t do very well in those sorts of settings. I tend to feel patronized easily, so when some super smiley face asks me if I go grocery shopping on an empty stomach, I kind of want to leave, on account of having nursery school flash backs.

“Who here shops on an empty stomach? Raise your hands!”

But I realized part way through,, that it didn’t really matter what the topic was. It mattered that everyone in the room had a common goal, to get healthy, and were there to support themselves and each other. And there are occasional little tips that help.

Like, bring a bottle of water or tea with you when you shop, it will keep you from shopping with your stomach. For example.

And there is something really helpful about having to hold yourself accountable, by going to the weigh-ins every week and  something kind of cool about having a whole room full of strangers, men and women,  encouraging you and celebrating your (on and off-scale) victories.

Last night was my second meeting and guess what!

I lost 3.4 lbs! yessir. I did.

I ate all the foods I love, and drank wine, and only exercised a few days this week, on account of being bit by this nasty coughing bug, and I still lost a few pounds. And I even got a little sticker on my tracker that says Bravo. So, Yay me!

Sheryl Yvette On The Cover Of Weight Watchers Weekly!

I can’t stop coughing.

I can’t breathe without wheezing.

Every time I cough or sneeze I spit on myself and pee my pants a little bit.

I’ve run out of Kleenex.

Ooops, I mean. My body is *hack* my temple.
*cough* I am in perfect *sneeze and pee* physical, mental and emotional *wheeze* health…

I’d go to the clinic but half the people I know have this stupid bug and haven’t gotten any help from the doctor. Thing 3 went a few days ago and they told her they didn’t know what she has but prescribed her steroids and two asthma inhalers anyway.

No thanks.

And in other news, only 2 more sleeps until I leave for Boston, where I will perform (in only 4 more sleeps) in MF Daisy’s (aka Mom) Radioshow!

Speaking of which, for those of you who still want to pledge a donation to Dignity Productions, there are only 3 days left to do it. More info HERE.

In the meantime, I’m going to go strap on a diaper and do/ingest all of these things at the same time:

and take a pregnancy test. Which is probably all the doctor would do if I went to the clinic anyway…

And many wonderful people have lent a hand, gave compassion and support and encouragement and inspiration to keep me going along the way.

As a single parent I have been faced with hardships, poverty and tragedy that I was certain I would never overcome. And if it weren’t for the kindness of family, friends, and strangers, I am not sure I would have.

And more than anyone, the people who have, without hesitation, jumped in to help in any possible way they could were all the Mamas in my life, including my own. All 3 of them.

Be it an ear to vent into or a shoulder to cry on, somebody to force me to let them take me to get my haircut (for the first time in 4 years) after my husband left me, offering babysitting or a bed to sleep in, initiating fund-raising, sending an anonymous grocery delivery to the house, conspiring revenge, enabling me to run away from home from time to time, getting me in some well deserved trouble, bringing over a home cooked meal, diapers, 6 dozen condolence muffins, a bottle of wine or a roll of toilet paper or… a 76 Dodge Aspen…

All the Mamas united to, as one of my favourite Mama’s says, “get ‘er done”.

Seriously. Last time I moved, I threw out an S.O.S and who should show up at the door, ready to pack, lift and drive? Moms (and also Karine, who is not a mom but should be, which is why I have tried to give her my children on countless occasions, despite her resistance).

Mom’s who were between running errands and picking up their kids from daycare, moms who were sneaking off from work for a couple of hours. Even my boyfriend’s mom came in from out of town to help me.

I am eternally grateful to each and every one of you women who have been a part of my life, as each one of you has moved (emotionally and physically) me, inspired me and/or believed in me.

I’m thinking of all the strong brilliant, beautiful Mamas today. May your children and spouses/lovers treat you like the Queen that you are from the minute you wake up this morning to the second you lay your head down to sleep tonight. xx

Me & My Mama - 1974-ish

I don’t know what came over me but I did it. I stuffed my sausage legs into a pair of leggings, threw on a hoody, grabbed my iPod and hit the bike trail.

Yeah yeah, I know “The bike path is for cyclists blah blah blah” Look people (dad) I move when bikes are coming. I jump into the weeds and skunk cabbage and I jog on the spot until you pass so take it down a notch JEEZ!

Besides, the bikes get this pretty path, along the train tracks, lined with trees and wild flowers. The pedestrian side walk is lined with garbage and car-washes and greasy, stinky, whistling, winking, cat-calling, creeps.

Anywhoo!

I did it. I got all prepped up, threw on these sexy bitches:

<

… mustered up all the enthusiasm of a toddler jacked up on sugar sticks and cotton candy

and I ran. I ran so far away. Well, as far as it is to run there and back in just under 30 minutes. And by ran I mean jogged. And by jogged I mean herumphed, which is pretty much a mix of waddling and skipping.

I ran for 30 minutes yesterday! Awwwwwwwwwwwwww yeah!

When I got back I was lobster red and wheezing like the frothy nostril of a bull dog with seasonal allergies. Sadly, I was too weak to take an “after” photo (damn!) but trust me. I did it.

Yay Jen!!

First, a conference at Université de Montréal, By Michael Greger.

Who?

The physician, author, and internationally recognized professional speaker and an expert witness in defence of Oprah Winfrey at the infamous “meat defamation” trial. That’s who.

oooh!

I know!

I was so excited and have been counting down the days for over the month.

I may have overestimated to what extent François would share my enthusiasm.

And he may have been a little bored. And not very good at hiding it.

Me: Oooh! It’s Question and Answer period! Do have any questions?

Franky: Yea. Can we leave?

To which I retaliated by sweetly volunteering him for a 10 minute survey after the conference.

We went for lunch downtown afterwards but food didn’t seem to lift his spirits much. He bitched about societal breakdown and barked at the paper place-mate, under his Mediterranean tofu sauté, for advertising self-help gurus and self realization workshops.

I tried to make light and managed, for the most part, stay positive and cheerful. We had a walking tour of the Red Light District coming up in half an hour and was still excited enough not to let poopy-pants ruin it.

That is, until HE had to go ruin everything by having some kind of dramatic dental freak-out.

Oh sure, he was clearly in agonizing pain. Tears were creeping from the corners of his eyes, he winced and cringed and recoiled, then rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment. His face white and red with beads of sweat cascading from his brow line.

Most telling, he didn’t finish his food.

Franky: Seriouly, I’m not joking, It goes from my tooth, into my eye and down my neck and..

Me: Mmhmm. (If he didn’t want to go on the walk, he could have just said so. Honestly.)

Franky: Is the left side of my head swelling up?

Me: No more than usual…

Franky: I’m dizzy. I just almost fell down. Is this normal?

Me: Nope.

Franky: I need to go home…

At which point, I scooped François up in my arms, carried him home and nursed him ( Held a cold compress against his jaw, fed him hand-peeled codeine, regurgitated fruit purée, and organic cloves that I ground with my mortar and pestle only moments before massaging it tenderly into his gums), until the next morning when I drove him to the nearest Dental hospital.

Orrrrr….

I may have actually instead, pouted, grit my teeth, dramatically raised my eyebrows a few times while biting my lip. I may also have accidentally implied that it was all Franky’s fault that this was happening (because obviously he totally planned for this to go down THIS afternoon so he wouldn’t have to go on that walk with me). I may also have snapped at him 2 or 3 times and left him standing, dizzy, frightened and alone, on the corner of Crack and Ho, to find his own way home. Maybe.

*ahem*

Maybe.

And somewhere between dejectedly searching the streets for the Red Light Walking Tour and calling Franky to see if he got home without dying and also to say sorry for being a jerk but also by the way it totally is your fault because I’ve been nagging you to go tot the dentist for a year but I’m still sorry for being a bitch when you were in gut-wrenching pain –

I realized that I am starving for stimulation and inspiration and that I really need to take myself on more dates.

Alone.

So I’m asking, for the sake of my poor abused boyfriend, for suggestions of free activities I can do by myself. Dates with me, on a budget.

And also, I will photograph them and write about them and blog about them, so as to share them with you too. Also. As well.

• Unexplained holes and tears in my clothing.

• Strange noises at all hours of the night.

• Unidentified droppings from one end of the house to the other.

• Multi-coloured hairs littering all surfaces of the house.

• Unexplained rashes all over my body, written off as stress by various clinic physicians.

I’ve tried thinking of them mainly as a nuisance, but I hear they can be much more than that. If I continue to ignore them, next thing you know, they’ll be chewing through the electrical wires, creating fire hazards,etc,,,

One of them has already started building a nest in my sofa, and my clothing keeps disappearing. They’re clearly stealing it and then shredding it for bedding material.

I was thinking of taking care of it myself by setting traps and putting out baits, but chances are I will not be able to eradicate the entire colony.

It’s clear by the evidence that we have a serious infestation and I’m going to have to call in an experienced exterminator.

You know…

It was enough to get under my skin that in order for children in Montréal to go to school in English, both parents must provide proof that they were educated in the English school system since the date of their unholy conception.

I get the whole preserve our language thing. I really do. And I fully support the whole separation thing, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do. After all, I was born here. I’ll get to be the citizen of not 2 but 3 countries. How cool is that?

But we are one country for the moment and in this country , there are TWO official languages.

And in my awesome opinion, people should be able to school their children in the language of their choice.

Even.

Immigrants.

*GASP*

That’s right, I said it.

It was enough to annoy me that people are being fined for having their business signs read with the language of their choice written in the same size font as the French version of the name. Yes. The government found a way to fine people for not writing their names in French bigger than the other language. Seriously.

SERIOUSLY. What are we five years old people?

It was enough to send me into a blind rage (and call my poor french-speaking boyfriend, frothing at the mouth, ranting like a lunatic and perhaps even referring to the French-Language-Police as Nazis *oops* ) when I read about the proposed bill to

IDENTIFY ALL ANGLOPHONES IN QUÉBEC (only) on their medical cards so as to be sure to provide government/medical/emergency services, in English, ONLY to registered anglophones because immigrants should be “forced” to speak only in French while in this province.

But THIS…. this is where I draw the line:

HAVE YOU NO SHAME??? Don’t you EVEN think about charging me three dollars more for my salt and pepper tofu, people!! I will seriously throw down.

P.S. maybe somebody should tell them that in English, numerical symbols are the same as in French. I’m just saying…

First I’m visualizing community, now I’m manifesting French interior decorating. Honestly, does it get any better?

On my (vision) Please Universe-Cut-Me-A-Break-And-Let-Me-Live-Large-Board I posted my dream couch:

Dream Couch

I have no idea how much it costs because after stalking and finding it on the Chintz & Company website I noticed it is no longer available and also, that they don’t list the prices of their items. In my experience, if there is not price listed, I can’t afford it.

Also, I can’t afford organic grapes so I’m thinking a custom designer sofa is out of the question.

I was browsing craigslist, looking for a free upright piano when I stumbled upon an add for this:

*Note to self: Add photo of sexy, antique, upright, mint condition, piano to Vision Board.

My heart feels broken in a billion pieces.

For the last 20 years of my life, regardless of everything else I have done and accomplished, my whole and entire life has revolved around my girls. Our family.

I had dreams for us that I have yet to fulfill.

We never did go to Disneyland.

We never moved to California, or Europe…

We never had a family portrait done!

I never taught them how to bake pineapple upside-down cake!

They never taught me how to make wine!

My friends talk about their 5 year old children and it hurts me deep inside.

I used to be that mom!! I was the mom crying at the school concerts, packing juice boxes, telling bedtime stories, kissing bobos….

And now?

Now I watch them dress up like “grown-ups” and head out to fill out apartment applications and credit requests.

I’m proud of them. I really am. It warms my heart to see them pounding the pavement, job-hunting and persevering after seeing 12 unfit apartments and being rejected by the landlords of 12 others.

I try to be supportive, I really do.

“Wow, sweetie, the place looks perfect for you two. I really hope you get it because… What?? Gas? No. That’s just not an option. Gas stoves have fire. You’ll catch on fire! Sorry, you can’t take that one. You just can’t you’ll have to ask them to cancel your application. 5th floor? Not going to happen! What if the elevator gets stuck and… what? You can’t take the stairs! What if….”

Gone are my 3 little babies, replaced by 3 adolescents, weaning themselves off mom-dependence, spreading their little baby wings wide open and toppling dangerously close to the edge of the nest, exercising their independence, huffing and puffing, rolling their terrible eyes, roaring their terrible roars and gnashing their terribly expensive teeth.

Now they talk to me like I’m an underprivileged, illiterate door-stop (as opposed to the over-privileged, literate variety)

“Ugh.. Mom, No offence but A LOT has changed since you were my age…”

And I fight the urge to smack them upside the head hug them like an anaconda and infuse them with love, acceptance and self-worth.

Now they leave dirty clothes from one end of the house to the other, skip school and forget to come home at night.

They steal my make-up, my jewellery, and my clothes and drain every ounce of my energy with their incessant bickering and fighting and threats to get jobs at massage parlours and strip clubs and…

They could probably both fit in here if they pack light… right?