Better Than Gold

I had barely dragged my carry-on luggage up my deck stairs, thumping it behind me as I walked, and opened the front door when I was swarmed by eager teens.

"How was it? Did you have fun? Did you see your friends?"

"How was your panel? Did you kill it?"

"What did you bring back for us?"

"Ya Mom, what kind of swag did you bring us?" 

It took 12 hours, two planes and one mysterious Aussie band but I was finally home from spending five days in Chicago. I was exhausted and emotionally spent and in the five days I was gone from my home I had appeared to lose any ability I previously had to walk into my house and step into a parenting role before setting down my luggage. 

I stood there, exhausted, and just blinked at the rapid-fire questions being shot in my direction. As grateful as I was to be home I suddenly missed the silence the roar of an airplane affords one. 

My husband, bless his cotton socks, was sympathetic. "You guys, give your Mom some space and let her take her shoes off before harassing her."

My dog, bless his over-sized paws, was not as sympathetic. He eyed me warily; like I was a mirage his mind was tricking him into seeing and just waited. I sat down as the kids hovered around me and Abbott walked over to sniff me. With a great huffing sigh, he shook his body and then crawled onto my lap, staking ownership of me once more.

I'm pretty sure if he could have crawled into my womb, he'd be there right now.

He has not forgiven me for my absence and so I've a 180-pound hairy goiter attached to my arse. God bless the Mastiffs of the world.

"So Mom, what did you do while you were in Chicago?" my daughter asked as I was trying to move Abbott's pointy elbow from out of my bladder. 

"Well, I married you off to the conference co-founder's son in exchange for a goat." 

"You did that last year. I thought by now I'd be worth at least a few chickens as well."

"I settled for a lamb chop." Proof that I've mastered the art of haggling. (And that I was hungry at the time.)

My son, bored by my daughter's impending arranged marriage, asked, "Besides selling your offspring for livestock, what else did you do?" Little does he know I need the goat for his sister so that I can buy him a wife. It's all about planning for the future.

And so, at midnight, with a giant dog snoring on my lap, I regaled my teens with stories of what it is like to attend a giant blogging conference in a far away land.

"Well, I moderated and spoke on a panel with some fabulous women about the power of story telling."

Their eyes glazed over.

"No, it was really interesting. We talked about the importance of voice and connective tissue and there was a lot of talk about stew and how everyone needs a gay person."

They just blinked.

"Just trust me. It was awesome." It really was.

No really. It was.

"What else did you do Mom?"

Hmm. "Well, I ate bad food with my friends at what was possibly the worst Chinese restaurant in all of Chicago and corrupted the mind of a twelve year old in the back of a cab. That was fun."

*Picture snaked from Anissa Mayhew's instagram feed.*

"You eat bad Chinese here and are constantly corrupting the minds of young people all the time. Look at our team mates," Ken pointed out.

Good point.

"I chased some nuns all over a park, trying to get a photo of them. That was something I don't get to do often."

"Did you meet Queen Latifah?" My daughter asked, uninterested with my habit chasing. 

"Of course! Well, okay, no. But! I was on stage at the same time with her and at one point I was close enough to inappropriately sniff her hair."

Neither of my kids were impressed with my celebrity sniffing so I continued on, flicking through my camera roll on the iPhone.

"I played tourist and explored the city and took some really awesome photos of downtown Chicago."

Ya. TOTALLY AWESOME PHOTOS. I have dozens of these epic beauties. My eye is unparalleled. Good thing I went to all those photography sessions to learn how to be a better photographer. 

"Oh! And women kept coming up to me to ask if they could take pictures of my shoes because for once, I had cute kicks. At a women's blogging conference, this is important."

These are not those kicks. But this is yet another awesome photo I took, showcasing my epic photography skills. 

"That's it?" my son asked, while stifling a yawn? "Bad photos, lousy Chinese food and hair sniffing a celebrity? That's what you do when you go away?"

"Well when you put it like that, Nash, sure. But it's more than that. It's about the connections I make with people. Meeting new faces, celebrating old friendships, making new ones. Learning and relating and having new experiences. That's what makes these trips so wonderful. Well that, and I won't lie, Queen Latifah's hair is worth sniffing."

"You forgot the most important part Mom!" my daughter added.

"I did?"

"The SWAG. Everyone knows the swag is the best part of conferences," she explained, talking slowly as though I was stupid.

Right. The SWAG.

"How could I forget?! The SWAG! I brought back the best swag. In fact, this swag was so good I didn't bring anything back but this. Everything else paled in comparison," I proudly stated.

Ken and Nash looked at me, excitedly, their eyes lit from greedy excitement.

"What is it?" they asked simultaneously.

"It's in my suitcase. Right on the top. Go ahead. You can look." No sooner did I have the words out of my mouth were they scrambling to rip open my carry-on bag.

"This is it? The only stuff you brought back?" Disbelief and disappointment rolled off them.

I don't know why they were so disappointed. This stuff is better than gold when you have a 9 year old kid in medical diapers.

Everyone should have an unlimited supply of butt paste. 

*A big thanks to everyone who said hello to me while in Chicago. Thanks for making this trip so wonderful. 

*An even bigger thanks to the staff of BlogHer for putting on such a fabulous event. 

*The biggest thanks to the city of Chicago and all its residents for being damn awesome. Until we meet again. 

Living a Lie

Thursday, July 18. 4:17 pm.

That's the moment everything changed. By 'everything' I mean nothing, and by 'changed' I mean 'stayed the same' but I just paid the dues for my poetic license so I figure I may as well use it.

I was sitting in a parking lot, waiting for Nash to finish his basketball day camp and that's when it happened. A glint of something shiny caught my eye in my rear view mirror.

A grey hair. My first grey hair. 

At 37 years old, I sprung grey. I know, I know. Ridiculous. I'm writing about ONE single grey hair. Clearly I need a bigger life. But here's the thing. My mom? She wages a war with white. My brother at 38, has more salt than pepper and my younger sister? Has an enviable skunk streak that I always said I'd pay good money to imitate if I had her colouring.

I was the one without any grey. And now I'm not. My family bragging rights had been revoked.

It's as though my always wheat blonde hair suddenly started darkening on it's own so that's it's a shade of dirty dishwater, not really brown, not really blonde and I'd spend the rest of my adult days trying to find a hair colour that brings any spark of colour to my head.

Oh wait, that already happened.

A grey hair is just another insult my hairline likes to dish out. 

It's like I don't even know who I am anymore. My entire identity was a lie.

(I did say I needed a life, right? I stand by that statement.)

Grey hairz. I haz them.

When Nash hopped into the vehicle the first thing I did was point to my forehead.

"Do you see this? Do you? Do you?"

He blinked rapidly, confusion written all over his face. "Um, do I see what?" he asked cautiously.

"THIS!!" I screeched as I pointed like a mad woman to my lone silver hair.

"Er, I, um," he leaned forward, seemingly peering at the hair in question. "All I see is a crazy woman and a wrinkle." 

"A WRINKLE! Not that! It's not a WRINKLE. It's a parenting line. They hand those suckers out with every baby you get. No, I meant the grey hair! I found a grey hair! My first!"

"I don't see anything. Except the wrinkled crazy lady."

My cheeky son may be myopic but the mirror didn't lie. My first grey hair stood out like a neon sign advertising the tragic end of my follicle youth.

I spent the night telling everybody and each time I got the same response. Ya, so?

It would seem, no one cares about other people's grey hairs because they're too busy hiding their own, or you know, having a life. Whichever.

I consoled myself by telling my reflection that it was only ONE grey hair. I can handle the boob drop, the cellulite, the chin whiskers, the nipple wires, heck; I even accept the loose neck skin, the crows' feet and the wrinkled brow. But the grey hair? Grey hair tips the scales into a direction I may not be able to navigate back from. At least it was only one hair. I had time.

Or so I thought.

As I sat in my stylist's chair on Saturday, shooting the breeze, catching up on each other's lives, I suddenly remembered my new follicle friend as she painted my dishwater hair yellow. 

"I found a grey hair this week! I can't believe it! A grey hair!" Surely my friend, my stylist, would understand my pain like no one else seemed to.

I expected her to stop painting my head and tell me to "Hush up! No! That's horrible!" Or tell me, "No way! Where? I didn't see it!"

I didn't understand the sounds coming out of her mouth.

It sounded like ... laughter.

"Took you long enough. You've got at least ten percent grey. Maybe more, Tanis."

Ten percent?! 

My mouth dropped.

"Ya, I didn't want to say anything. You've an entire colony right about here," she said as she tapped my head.

It turns out I've been living a lie. 

I have to tell you, I am okay with that. The lie made me feel good. Made me feel young. Next thing I'll find out is my ass is flat.

NOBODY LOOK. I don't want to know.

Now excuse me, I'm going to be obsessing over newly sprouting grey weeds in my garden of luscious locks while I wait to get a life.

Mudder Lover

My yard has been a construction zone for over a year. Since the morning of April 27, 2012 when the first backhoe of many arrived in my yard to dig what seemed then, a giant gate to hell.

If only I knew. 

When the cement was poured, the doors hung and the snow starting to fly, I remember giving a great big sigh of thanks. 

"Thank GOD that's over and it's done," I thought as I watched our new garage doors close for the first time. My husband's dream, his Zeppelin Hangar was now in business.

It didn't take long for a blanket of snow to cover all evidence of construction, covering uneven ground, abandoned pieces of scaffolding, and remnants of six months of toil and trouble. 

I have to admit; Bruce's big beautiful barn sure does strike a pretty picture when surrounded by six feet of snow for half (or more) of our year. 

Eventually, however, snow melts and it didn't take long to realize what a complete disaster my yard was. 

That's wife code for "You broke my yard, now you better fix it." My husband took that as an invitation for fun and didn't look back. 

I should have realized I was in for a rough ride when I woke up to find this on my front lawn a few weeks ago and a husband with a grin so big his face threatened to split in two.

But I'm a big girl. I knew what had to be done. I could handle this. 

I handled it for approximately less time than it took for the first bucket of dirt to be dumped and then I fled the premises. Sometimes it's easier to deal with the carnage if you don't have to witness the proverbial killing.

I made Bruce swear he wouldn't tear my entire lawn up. "Don't dig up past the cherry tree! Leave me some grass! Promise you'll won't kill all the grass I worked so hard to grow!"

My husband always keeps his promises.

Sort of. 

I would have been mad about the entire destruction of my front lawn and my tiny patch of grass but I was too busy being horrified by the giant pit of doom I almost fell into when I walked out of the barn to get to the house.

I promise you all, it only looks like my husband was trying to kill me.

*Twitch.*

Everywhere I looked there was dirt. I couldn't get to my house, let alone SEE my house; there was so much dirt. 

Apparently, when you dig a big hole, you get a big dirt pile. 

I'm told it's basic science. Science sucks.

Once the hole was dug the fun began. And by fun I mean, full blown anxiety attack. We had to hire a crane to lift our cement water cistern and move it ten feet to the left.

That's right. TEN FEET. 

ALL OF THIS DESTRUCTION FOR TEN FREAKING FEET.

I would have killed my husband but I couldn't reach him.

Luckily for us (and our bank account,) the cistern moved with no problem and the hole was filled back in. 

And yet, I was still surrounded by mounds of dirt. 

And it was starting to rain.

I was not happy. 

Abbott, however, was THRILLED. Guess who just found out her dog loves to dig? 

*Raises hand.*

It rained for over two weeks. Northern Alberta flooded, then southern Alberta flooded and my yard turned into one big mud wrestler's delight. The dogs, the cats, the kids, my floors, everything was covered in mud. 

Mud everywhere. 

Which lead to this:

A very broken toe.

This is what happens when one is trying to prevent an itty-bitty dog with muddy paws from running across the living room floor and diving onto your furniture. You chase after the dirty mongrel only to smash your foot against the coffee table and the dog still gets the furniture filthy.

I've since learned mud makes the ugly leather couch look much better. 

Muddy paws are only slightly more acceptable than broken toes.

Slowly the yard started to dry out and the arduous process of trying to grade the yard began. 

Translation: My husband moved dirt from one location to the next. He swears he has a plan, but I'm pretty sure his plan is trying to drive me to madness.

It wasn't so bad. I only had to carry Knox up and down this hill several times a day, like a sure-footed mountain goat, because there was no way to access the house with his wheelchair. 

Not every plan is perfect. And I only almost dropped Knox once. Mostly because after I almost dropped him and fell on my face I refused to carry him over that hill of dirt without someone walking alongside me. You know. Someone I could pull down with us if I tripped.

Because if Knox and I go down, I'm taking as many people with me as I can. 

Thankfully, the rain stopped, the sun came out and my husband moved most of the dirt off to the side. That's a problem for another day. In the meantime, I almost have a front yard again.

Kind of. 

It doesn't look like much to the casual eye, but to me it's the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel and the bones of what will one day soon be a beautiful end to what has been a very long construction season.

I'll have my yard back.

Just in time for the snow to fly once again.

Argh.