Fore!

For years I've had this tape running circuits in my head. You may have one of your own, but my tape is a total bitch, and for years, she has gotten away with saying things like: "You have no athletic abilities whatsoever. Remember tennis lessons when you were a kid? Oh sure, you say the racquet had a hole in the centre, which is why, when the ball was served to you, it seemed to fly effortlessly right through the centre of your racquet. Oh, and how about that Canada's Fitness Test your gym teachers used to make you take every year...you know, the one that involved running the circumferance of the Peanut Plaza? You remember that don't you? It landed you in the hospital for a week because the Phys Ed teacher didn't believe that you were a severe asthmatic? Or, how about all those classes where you sat on the sidelines watching everyone else run and jump and dribble and pass? That was you, wasn't it, sitting right on the bench in your Betsy-Bloomer gym togs watching? Always on the sidelines...never in the game? I thought so."

Well, people I am here to tell you that voice has now and forever more been SILENCED, for it seems, that at the tender age of too damn close to "mid-century" I have discovered that indeed I do have some athletic abilities. Abilities that involve eye-hand coordination. Me! A gal who always subscribed to the basic theory of golf: if you can't play well, you can at least look good. A person to whom the meaning of eye-hand coordination was some mystery of life to be contemplated, along with the meaning of Pi or the Big Bang Theory.

But. BUT! Long about the time I decided to shed the excess baggage that had become my derriere, I realized controlling what I eat was only part of my weight-loss solution. I was going to have to figure out a way to move it, move it and shake it like a polaroid picture if I wanted to really get in shape. So, I started on the treadmill. Walking. At a slow and leisurely pace. I did that for a while until I realized that that gentle stroll was literally taking me nowhere, and so I ramped it up. I upped the speed at which I walked. And then? Then, I started really shaking things up by jogging in intervals. One minute of running, two minutes of race walking. Guess what happened? My legs got stronger. My lung capacity expanded and hey you mean old battle-axe gym teacher from grade 7 - I'M TALKING TO YOU - I can NOW run! I'm a jogger.

This new found ability to outrun my fat cells does not an athlete make. I know this. I'm not for one second professing to actually think I am fit, or anything. I'm just saying that now that I can run, I actually like to run and hey, guess what? It makes me stronger and more agile and because of that I can now do other things that require some measure of athleticism.

Things like: whip Buzz's ass at Wii sports.

That's right ladies & gents. I am a virtual reality jock.

Santa, in a somewhat passive-aggressive way, hoping to release my husband from the shackles of our sofa after dinner brought Buzz a Wii system for Christmas. Santa wasn't sure how this would go over with Buzz, given how much he enjoys his post-dinner couch surfing, but Santa, being an optimist, went ahead and delivered the game on Christmas morning anyway. It sat unopened for a couple of days and I thought for sure Santa had got this one wrong. Buzz was going to have none of it.

But then, three days after unwrapping it, Buzz decided it was time and so we hooked it up and tried our hand at tennis. Fore-swing, back-hand, overhead lob - I mastered them all. Well, sort of. It seems eye-hand coordination against moving objects is still not my strongest suit, but hey, I could at least make contact, which is a lot more then I can do in the real world! After tennis it was on to boxing and let me just say - I LOVE it when I literally knocked the head off my opponent's body. My mii went all Mickey Rourke on the other guy and I'm here to tell you, three days later my arms still hurt from the pounding I gave.

Once I started, I couldn't give up. I made Buzz play every single game on the system. Up next: bowling; a game I mastered years ago when I bowled in a league in Georgia. I even had my own shoes. Let me tell you - my glutes are still sore from all the lunging I did when releasing my ball.

Next up: golf. When we lived in the mountains Buzz and I would golf on a fairly regular basis. I never won. I simply was incapable of outdriving him and my short game? Forget about it. But in the virtual reality of Wii Golf? Let's just say, Michelle Li doesn't have a thing on me. I kicked Buzz's mii from one end of the course to the other. Victory was mine!

And that's when it first hit me. Perhaps this whole getting fit thing can translate off the treadmill and into the real world some day. Maybe some day I will actually be able to hit a real tennis ball. Or, perhaps some day, on a real golf course I will out-drive the man I married.

Until then...I will be satisfied in knowing that I am now a jock. Albeit a virtual reality jock, but a jock nonetheless.

Ho!

Remember when I was unemployed? Remember? It wasn't that long ago. Life sure was different back then. Back then, I spent all my time complaining about not having a job, not having enough to do. Back then, all those weeks ago, I had all sorts of leisurely time on my hands to do artistic and creative things - like write this blog daily. Remember those days, people?

Well, those days are most definitely over. Between teaching, planning for lessons, correcting papers, trying to get to the gym 5 times a week, keeping a house clean, attending my weekly Weight Watchers meetings and, oh, ya, trying not to eat the entire fridge in one sitting the week the Snick-dude was flat off his feet with surgery looming...well, suffice it to say, "real" life has gotten in the way of my artistic life the last couple of months.

And so. And so some things got put on the back-burner...like writing this blog. It's not that I didn't want to write or that I didn't have anything to say. Far from it! I get lots of bloggy inspiration coming at me from every facet of my little world here on the island. It's just that now, as a full-time employee I am suffering the fates of everyone else out there that has a job...lack of lazing around time. Do not mistake this for complaining. I'm not. I love my job. I hope my job gets extended well into the future, on an indefinite basis. I love the pay-cheque and what it's doing to our savings account. I love being busy. I love interacting with other adults every day. I love it, love it, love it. I'm just saying, going back to a schedule that involves making choices of how I spend my time is something new to me. It's amazing how in only 2 years of unemployment you can forget how to multi-task!

Other things got moved so far off the burner they're off the stove entirely and I'm sorry to say won't make it back on any time before the holidays get here. And so.

And so, here we are. Five days before Christmas and I have sent narry a holiday greeting. I tried. I thought about it way back in July. I took one of my photographs from last winter and I spent hours and hours designing a card for the holidays. It was beautiful (if I do say so myself)...all red and Christmass-y, with a stunning winter island-scape of a babbling brook just around the corner from our house taken on a brilliant day last March. It had a classic silver holiday tree on the inside and a lovely inscription from Buzz and me. I was so far ahead of the game, I was a little bit smug in my "I so have this Christmas thing figured out this year!" kind of way. I even put it in my calendar for the beginning of November to send to the printers.

But. November came and my contract started. November came and my dog got injured. November came and my beastly boy had surgery. November came and I became a teacher and a nurse all at the same time. And then yesterday I woke up and it was December 19th.

So here we are. Christmas cards are pouring into our mailbox and I haven't so much as licked a stamp. If you've sent us a card this year, but haven't gotten one in return, please don't take it personally. We wanted to send cards. And for those of you who haven't sent us a card this year? Well, we understand. Life gets in the way.

I wanted to attach the digital image of the card I created, but those damn developers at Apple are wise to that trick and won't let me save the card in any format other then their "ready to print and no you can't have it to email or post electronically" file. The Grinch is alive and well and sitting at a MacIntosh somewhere in the Pacific NW.

So, this is the best I could do. It's the same image I took last March, but the card design is nowhere near as beautiful as the one you would have received if I had my act together last month. So, from our house to yours, happy holidays and here's to getting back on the ball next year!

One Third

Yesterday was a momentous day in the Cameron-Donnelly household.

Yesterday, after 14 weeks of minding my peas & carrots, I achieved my first milestone. I am now more than one-third of the way to my weight-loss goal.

You may think well, what's the big deal about that? I tell you what the big deal is! When you are closing in on the last few years of your fourth decade such as I am, deciding to lose weight is one thing. Actually being able to do it is quite another. After about 20 years of crash dieting, yo-yo dieting and just generally abusing my metabolism, well, my metabolism is fighting back. With a vengeance. Every single one of those little fat molecules that have taken up residence in my ass & thighs is waging all out war. "She's doing it again! She's limiting how much she feeds us! Alert, alert, alert! SLOOOOOOOWWWWWWW DOOOOWWWWWNNNNNN...do not burn food as fuel...resist! Resist! Resist!" They've fought long and hard and so well, I think even Rick Hillier might be proud.

But no more.

Their resistance is starting to falter. Their efforts at sabotage are starting to be all for naught. That's right. Naught. Like, I'm "not" going to let them get the better of me - naught.

Those little fat molecules can fight all they want, but last week I discovered that with a little weapon known as the Stair Master and it's side kick known as lunges & squats, well, I started to work my larger muscles and hey, guess what? Those muscles like to be fed. And, if you're watching how much fat you put in your body and how many calories you consume guess what? Yup, those big muscles start to eat away at those #@&*#%@ fat molecules that have been lounging about taking up space (far too much space) in my pants for far too long.

And so. So, for the past 14 weeks I work-out at least five days a week and perhaps most importantly, if I bite it, I write it. That's a cute way of saying I have to keep track of everything I stick in my pie hole. By the way, pie is no longer welcome in my pie hole. So, every day I think about what I want to eat...what will that add up to and more importantly, if I really want those 3 squares of chocolate for my after-dinner treat, then how much time am I going to have to spend on that G@!&*$$ treadmill to earn the extra special, but certainly most critical especially at certain times of the month after-dinner treat.

14 weeks.

One-third of the way there.

Even the most remedial mathematician (me) can figure out that if it took me 14 weeks to get this far, it'll be at least another 28 to go the other two-thirds of the way. So a total of 42 weeks. Just under a year. 9 months from when I started. 294 days.

But, I think I can do it. It's like running a marathon...some miles are easier than others. Some roads have hills. It's not easy and it most assuredly ain't quick, but I think to myself just how much of a sense of accomplishment I'll have when I cross that finish-line. How good will I feel when I go to Europe next summer sporting a size of clothing I haven't seen since I was in my early 30s. How amazing will it feel to finally say, I don't want to be that overweight person ever again.

It's what keeps me going...I didn't get here overnight and I know finishing this race will happen over time. For once, it's going to pay off to be the turtle in this race!

Remembering...

On this day of Remembrance when we pause at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month to remember and honour those men and women that serve in our Armed Forces today, tomorrow and yesterday, well, I was at the gym, honouring my two minutes of silence as I stretched out the massive pain in my back from sleeping on the blow up bed the past few nights.

I had three uncles that served in WWII, Bill, Art & Dick Ashby. They were my mother's brothers. Two served for the Canadian Forces and one was a sailor for the US Navy. All of them served overseas and none of them met my mom, their sister, until they were home from the war and she was 5 years old. It was a different time to be sure, but I always think of that on Remembrance Day.

Today is a statutory holiday here on the sandbar. School is out. Businesses are closed. And as much as I take issue with a lot of things that happen here, I like the fact that here, in this place, we stop for one day to respectfully honour the men and women that keep us safe and help make the world a better place...just like Canadians have for over two hundred years.

But while I was at the gym, preparing for my workout, I couldn't help but think about all the strange things I see & overhear there on any given day. Today it happened in the change room. I rounded the corner and as I pushed open the door to the ladies change room I knew it was full of little old ladies who had just finished their aqua-aerobics class. I knew this because one would have to be completely deaf not to hear the cacophony of the hens as they gossiped and giggled. As they were changing from swimsuits to street clothes I noticed two things:

1) One older lady (she is pushing 90 if she's a day) was standing at the mirror dressed only in her old-lady undies (no bra, so boobs hanging lll-ooo-www) with a hair-dryer in each hand blowing her hair dry from both sides. I guess it's more efficient?

2) Around the corner from the dueling dryers are the shower stalls. Both were occupied and while one lady was busily showering away in the far stall, her friend was cheerily standing outside the stall having a conversation with her. You think there's nothing weird about that? How about the fact that the lady outside the shower was standing with her nose about one millimeter away from the shower curtain YELLING her part of the conversation. Maybe you had to be there...but it was odd. And just a little bit funny. Trust me.

Anyway, the ladies were all in a rush to get to our Cenotaph for the 11am service. So, good for them for squeezing in a workout and still making it to the parade on time. Me, I made it out in time to drive right into the parade route and salute our soldiers at the Charlottetown Armoury as I made my way home, listening to the CBC and the tribute from Ottawa.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae

Good Things Come to Those that Wait

Under the heading "You just don't know what the day will bring" Thursday brought a day I had long been dreaming of ever since we arrived here on the sandbar. I've written lots and lots and lots about my search for meaningful work in a place that has little to no turn-over and where people admittedly die at their desks. I've spent almost two years wondering what the hell is a newcomer supposed to do here?

I've also spent the better part of the last two years checking the want ads daily. Two years of networking. Two years volunteering my time and talents to help organizations reach their goals. Two years of pinching every single penny to squeeze the most out of it. Two years of debating whether to continue using my Estee Lauder face cream that has kept me looking strikingly youthful, or whether to switch to a more economical version of Oil of Olay. Two years, people.

Last January in one of my outreach efforts I contacted the local college where I discovered much to my surprise you don't need a degree in order to teach. And since I didn't have a degree in anything but Life University, I thought, hey, maybe there's something I can do in education so I set about working my way into the college, taking any little opportunity I could to teach any subject they'd assign me.

Along the way I've met some great people. People that have encouraged me to apply for any and every posting that comes up that I'm remotely interested in. People that have suggested that one sure fire way to get hired on a more permanent basis was for me to enroll in their Certified Adult Educator program, because once I have a CAE designation there's little to no chance I'll be eliminated from consideration for a job. I've gotten lots of advice from lots of people. People that saw me interacting with my students who came to me afterward to compliment me on how I handled a specific situation. People who could overhear me in my classroom (because yes, people, even though I've been unemployed I'm still loud as ever) who took the time to stop by afterward to tell me how engaging they think I am as an instructor. People who gave me suggestions on how to deal with an entire class showing up either still drunk or so hungover they were wasting their time in school that day. People that for no other reason other than they are born educators and caring people took me on as someone they believe in and wanted to encourage.

So a few weeks ago I applied to the CAE program and that same day a new job was posted for a Core Business Instructor to cover a 6-month term from November to the end of April. I jumped on it and sent my resume to HR that very same day. As one of my informal mentors said "Kim, we've all read a page and taught a page at one point or another in our careers and there's no reason you can't do the same."

So I sent my resume in and I waited. And I waited some more. And still a little longer.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in fact was only a week after the posting came down I contacted the program manager responsible for hiring the position. We had a lovely conversation. One in which he told me I had lots of talent and experience, I was lacking in a key area and so therefore, I was not be considered for the job.

Okay, I thought. It was a bit of a long shot. I was disappointed but I wasn't surprised. And so I moved on...back to teaching B-Comm to my Pastry Arts students and thinking about ways I could fill up my days again now that I don't go to school every day, because according to Buzz, "Employed Kim" is a whole lot happier than "Unemployed Kim" (I suspect it's that 1) I thrive in a busy environment and 2) I really want to upgrade back to my Estee Lauder face cream but there's no way I can justify it on one salary, so yes...you can understand why Employed Kim with her own paycheque might be a tad bit more...um...fun to be around?).

On Monday I got my acceptance letter from the College. I was accepted into the CAE program and so starting in January I begin my journey towards my B-Ed degree. If I'm successful (and I have no doubt I will be) then I will be the first Cameron in my generation to have a college degree. Granted I'll be around 50 when I graduate, but hey, better late then never!

On Thursday I got a phone call from the HR department of the college. They offered me the very job I had been told a week before I wasn't being considered for. I asked the nice lady if she was sure she had the right applicant because I had already been told I wouldn't be considered. I could hear her smile on the other end of the line...."Yes, Kim, we want to hire you. We've reconsidered the qualifications and if you're willing to take it on, we'd like you to be the one to teach the Sports & Recreations students."

So, in a household where I frequently argue with my husband the accountant that "words are more important than numbers" this coming Thursday I will begin teaching Business Communications and Introduction to Accounting to first year Sports & Recreation students. I find the whole thing very ironic.

Santa Booby

Ah, the holiday season. We've nary finished with Hallowe'en and already the stores are decked out for Christmas. With such a rush to get to market, Christmas is now competing for shelf space with ghosts & goblins and this year's favourite monster costumes. But whatever, recession be damned consumerism is still alive and well, and as far as I can tell, living on PEI.

So back to Christmas. This year our family has decided to cut back on all the Christmas chaos by reducing the amount of presents we give and receive. We've decided the adults get to pull one name from a hat and that's the one person (besides the kids & spouse) that we'll buy for. Given the distance between us, this not only makes good economical sense, but logistically it works really well too because there's nothing worse than spending $120 to mail a $60 gift. You know what I mean? So, this week my niece put our assorted names into a hat and did a virtual draw and now the real work begins; which is figuring out what to get my lucky recipient!

Now, I've been making up Christmas lists for years - all the better to ensure I don't get a stocking full of coal, but mostly to ensure that hopefully, if people are careful readers I won't get duplicates of anything AND I'll be guaranteed to get at least one or two things that I'd really like to receive. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck people...I like to make giving me a present easy on the people doing the buying.

When I was 13 my Christmas list looked something like this: new figure skates, a polaroid camera, some books and even materials to make a craft or two. But the really big item on my Christmas list that year was a chest. Not a wooden chest. Not a jewelry chest. Not even a hope chest. Nope. The chest I was looking for would sit about 6 inches below my collar and 6 inches above my navel. That's right, I asked Santa Claus for some boobs.

It's true!

I come from a long line of let's just say, less then endowed women. I thought if there was a Santa Claus and if I asked really nice, I'd be gifted with something other than the 30AA training bra I had been sporting for a couple of years.

Well, let's just say Christmas 1975 was a bit of a disappointment. Oh, I got my shiny new, white figure skates and while I didn't get the polaroid camera, I got lots of other things I wanted. It was a white Christmas and everything was just perfect. Except. Well except for one thing. It was the year that it was confirmed for real. There was no such thing as the Man with the Jingle, 'cause, that's right - I woke up Christmas morning completely boobless...just like I was on Christmas Eve.

I would remain boobless until my mid-twenties.

But, better late then never, suddenly, long about the age of 25 or 26, I started to get some shape north of my navel and south of my neck. No padded bra for me anymore...suddenly, I had a rack! This is the part where we're not going to focus on the fact that along with my ample bosom, I also gained a significant real estate on my ass, but whatever, boobs are boobs and I don't care how you go about getting them. I had them, and I planned on keeping them.

So, stay with me here people, I will eventually get to the point.

About 9 weeks ago I embarked on a serious quest called No Crap for Kim - The Redux, Return of the Apocalypse or better known as "I really mean it this time I have to lose some freaking weight!" Campaign. Nine weeks ago I was 15 lbs heavier than I am today. Nine weeks ago I was several inches bigger than I am today. Nine weeks ago I still had a rack. Today? Not so much.

Aside from working out 6 days a week and measuring & counting everything I put in my mouth, the rest of the plan is to weigh-in once a week and then once a month I take my measurements. I took mine today and while I am ecstatic at the pounds and inches I've lost, I am less then happy about where I'm losing them. I've lost a total of 7 inches from various points around my body. THREE of those inches I've lost from my boobs.

The lesson here? Now we know that aside from there not being a Santa Claus? We also know that Mother Nature is also a total bitch!

Bud the Spud from the Bright Red Mud

It's potato season here on the sandbar! Yukon golds, bakers, russets, white and plain old "table" potatoes are being harvested from Tignish to Souris which means we've been on the lookout for the farmer that works the field behind us because, this year, instead of a field of rag weed, they planted potatoes.

We watched and we waited. And we waited and watched. It poured rain almost every day for three weeks which put a bit of a damper on the whole pull potatoes out of the field thing. I guess it's hard to move those big machines on a field of mud.

But this week it finally happened. I came home from the gym Saturday morning to the sight of a harvester, a big potato truck and what looks like an earth-mover roaming about our back field. Potatoes being root vegetables grow underground, so first they have to dig up the top of the plants. Despite standing at the window and watching for what seemed like hours, I still couldn't figure out how the potatoes got from the ground through the harvester and into the truck because at no point did the truck ever approach the harvester. And yet, when it finished up yesterday, there was a big truck full of spuds pulling out of the field. So, beats me.

The crew worked two whole days and long into the night on Saturday. It reminded me of the Carol Ship Parade at Christmas in Vancouver, this ginormous machines, lit up and beeping their way around the pitch-black field, pulling potatoes. If only we had music to accompany them, it might have looked like a ballet of sorts.

One of the weirdest things in this whole harvesting of potatoes though? The weirdest thing was the sight of seagulls and shore birds that were dogging the harvester like they do deep-sea fishing boats at sea. With every yard the harvester moved, the birds swooped and soared, landing on the freshly dug field, foraging for food. I don't know about you, but it kinda makes sense to me that a seagull would tail a deep-sea fishing boat hoping to catch some bait or even a fish...but to tail a potato harvester? Really? Is there not enough fish in the sea for you? Is the sea too far away? I mean, we can see it from the front porch, why can't you birds? Why scavenge in a newly harvested potato field?

I don't know. But in an effort to keep our grocery bill in line, I'm going to take a bag and make like a seagull and go forage a few potatoes my own self!