We’ve never been on a major vacation together, dan and I. I mean, we’ve been to california a few times but that’s not major. For a vacation to qualify as major it must be designed to escape the cold by way of going where there is only hot. The trips we’ve taken have never been the february escape variety.

Super Major: Europe.

So now, here we are, and we’re thinking we should take a trip. Florida? Mexico? Anywhere Not Winter? Yes, let’s, do.

But then you’re forced to consider the many elements to vacation taking. Even going to the US is now more complicated for Canadians because we the current climate requires us to have passports to cross the border. This because Canadians are scary and really tough. Like babies or kittens. And lo but we do not have passports, Dan, I and the children. We are sans passportification, if you will.

So today I finally went to the website about all things Canadian Passport and began familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of becoming international. There’s the passport photo which, it turns out, is damned serious business. Don’t you go mucking about with that bit or you’ll probably have to do pushups and they’ll never let you see the waterslides at DisneyWorld, not even on your birthday.

There’s also the proof of citizenship which used to be a matter of saying, I AM CANADIAN and then holding up a thirty proof can of beer. I’m from a part of Canada other than Toronto so I don’t even have saying aboot by way of proving myself so what? How? I don’t know? I’m nice? And more socially tolerant than people from most other countries, except Sweden? Does that convince you? No?

The thing I was least expecting in this application for international travel status was the bit where you are required to jot down the actual physical weight of your, you know, body. Yourself, pound-wise. Get on a scale, look at the lying asshole of a number and then write it down, forever documenting the demolition of a desperate delusion.

Alliterate that.

I am by no means a large person. I know that. I’m probably in the smaller than average but certainly not skinny category, as far as people of my gender and age classifications. Okay? I know that. But here’s the thing and the thing is: that’s got nothing to do with it. I just cannot know my weight. I cannot. I go from this perfectly normal person (using the term normal completely inaccurately) to a numbers obsessed lunatic. It doesn’t matter if the scale said you weigh 92 pounds. It’s not about the skinny or the small. It’s about making sure that whatever the number is, it never goes up.

EVER and not even for FIVE minutes or I will murder the scale in cold blood.

I’ve done it.

Now here I am with this admittedly silly highly neurotic but completely under control issue and wanting to go on a vacation which would require me to have ownership of a passport. And I tremble with fear! I tremble! With the fear!

Alright, I don’t tremble so much as I moan and I complain. Because what cruelty to ask a girl to weigh herself a few weeks before she gets on a plane with a suitcase full of nothing but bikinis? I mean, really. Are they really gonna weigh me if they think I’m a terrorist?

She looks shifty.

She does indeed. Get ‘er on the scale and we’ll find out for sure.

Probably better if we stay home. I’ll never fit into an airplane seat anyway.

so hi. been having trouble getting ducks in posting row. silly ducks. always going this way and that with their cute little bums. waddle waddle, no no ducks, not that way, get in the row!

they never do. i can’t help it.

today i have many fine goals. i goal to write my novel. i goal to photograph my items. i goal to shave my head and join a cult.

it’s okay, i’m not likely to achieve any of my goaling. the cult will have to wait for another day.

what i will do, and you can take this shit to the bank, is i will be back to post a proper post. you know, the kind with content. it’s gonna be killer, buhhhhddy.

so for now, blah and bugger, i will see you cats laterlike. right now i have to go get jake and research this thing they call ‘content’. i hear it’s easy. i can handle it.

buhbye.

i’m a breath holder. like, most of the time, i don’t breath out. so what i do, then, is i breath in and hold my breath, not letting it out. i breath in, you see, but then not so much with the out. it’s like living in a constant state of being on the edge of my seat. waiting for the next thing to happen. and then the next thing after that. and after that. until, oh, i’ve been holding my breath for fifteen years, duh!

the movie waiting to exhale describes my very existence.

about ten years ago i recognized this breath holding inclination and did away with it. i was all, hey, wait, breathing out is seems pretty essential, no? and yes, it turns out, was the answer i came up with. and once i had this epiphany i set about with the practice of complete breathing. both the in AND the out.

oh but ho! that’s not easy! after so much of the one way breathing the path going the other way was rock covered and virtually impassable. every breath i asked to vacate my lungs led to anxiety! and strife! and anxiety! and oh my god the anxiety! kick me in the shins! i long for the distraction!

the thing about breathing out is this: that’s when your body relaxes.  try it. breath in and then when you breath out notice how your muscles loosen up. if you let them. if you don’t exhale your muscles remain at the ready! fight or flight! mostly fight! grr! 

so finally i got the whole business sorted, those ten years ago or whatever and was going on rather nicely when BOMB! children. which meant sleep deprivation, the drive for perfection and a lot of fucking laundry!

breathing, you say? what’s that now?

because i forgot! all about it! i went from perfectly nice breathing both directions to holy crap , what’s all this, help! tension! EDGE OF MY SEAT!

i’d like to tell you that relearning that which i already relearned once would be easier the third time around. har har, no. it’s still hell on skates to let all of the air out of my lungs because my lungs just don’t understand what i’m doing. more to the point, the rest of me is stark raving clueless! the whole time i’m telling myself hey don’t you remember? last time? you were fine. it’ll be okay!

while my heart races and crazy tries to jump on my throat to make this stupid breathing stop!

sigh!

but the fact is, i do know it’ll be okay and that is the nice thing this time around. i don’t know why i hold my breath but a lot of people do it. it’s what i do when i’m concentrating. just a habit. no deep dark secret. it speaks of no childhood angst. my childhood was angst free. except for that i had two brothers but this isn’t their fault.

much as i like to blame them for things.

anyfreakingway, i’m breathing out and positively burbling but i’m getting there. in, OUT, in, OUT, in, OUT. you get the picture. once i do reacquire this essential habit i’ll be the picture of calm and wellness. in fact, there’ll probably be daisies actually flying out my butt, for reals this time. now won’t that be something to see? dang.

Jacob had pajama day at school. All three of the grade two classes dressed in pajamas and were allowed to bring a stuffed animal for the day. They could also wear robes and or slippers, as they saw fit.

I was worried this morning when Jacob said he was going to take Purple Puppy along for the day. Purple is Jacob’s favorite sleeping stuffie . His love for this dog is fierce and while I was concerned he might lose him, I was more concerned that some of the other boys might make fun of him.

Turns out I had no reason to worry. Out of three classes only two children did not bring stuffed animals. Safe to assume these were both boys but nonetheless, many many many boys did bring their favorite stuffies. There were no false displays of bravado. Little boys can still be little boys, thankfully. This lends hope for the future state of things, I think.

Jacob has got one friend who refused to wear his pajamas and most certainly did not bring a stuffed animal. Doesn’t even own one, in fact. He also refuses to dress up for halloween and experiences great anxiety over being asked to wear a nice shirt for the christmas concert. I’m not sure where he gets it. Maybe his far older sister made fun of him once and now he’s paranoid. Maybe his dad is really shy about stuff too. I don’t know. But last night I worried that this boy was the grade two standard and that my won would be the only one to show up with a toy he loves to cuddle. The very idea made me sad not only for my own child but also for the general condition of the world at large if little boys have given up hugging soft things by the time they are seven. Lucky for us all, this child is an anomaly – and I am sad only for him.