Yes, I'm a Woman Driver. Get Over It.

Having spent the last couple of weeks cavorting with a hot blonde while heavily intoxicated and slightly naked, I am finding it a bit challenging slipping back into the routine of everyday life. (What do you mean there are no mimosas with breakfast? You mean, I actually have to cook? For other people????)

The weather isn't helping matters either. Apparently, we're in a deep freeze up here in the land of igloos and dog sleds. Enjoying a sixty degree drop in temperature hasn't exactly been a lot of fun. I'm walking around, trussed up in a plethora of sweaters trying to encourage my body to remember I'm a born and bred hoser; a gal, who before her foray into tropical oceans and sandy beaches, embraced mittens and scarves and loved playing in the white stuff.

Suddenly, my body has betrayed me and my heritage; screaming at me to toss another log on the fire while I sit and shiver and dream of sun, sand and humid temperatures. Pansy ass.

Acclimating to the frigid temperatures hasn't been the only adjustment I've had to make since my absence either. I've had to dust off my winter driving skills. Or rather, try and develop some.

Skills like learning how not to plow through an intersection, ram into a stop sign or back into the raised flower bed your husband spent a week busting his arse (and two fingers) building for you. Skills to keep your overpriced and still-paying-on vehicle out of a snow bank and safely on the icy road.

Skills like these can save your life, if not your marriage. When your dumb ass darling husband phones you and tells you he forgot his wallet on the dresser and needs you to meet him on the highway to give it to him, (all so he can buy food, pay his rent and have the ability to toss toonies at the local strippers), winter driving skills may come in handy.

But I had forgotten about such mundane necessities during my time in Mexico. It was as though I'd been tropically brainwashed. So when Boo phoned to beg me to bring him his wallet so he wouldn't have to tack on another hour to his already six hour long drive, I agreed. Because I'm a thoughtful wife like that, always ready to help out and lend a hand.

(It had nothing to do with the fact he spent the last two weeks romancing me or the fact he surprised me with a HUGE and fabulous piece of jewellery that likely cost more than my children's future university costs and I'm feeling slightly grateful. Just saying.)

I've been driving for over a decade now. On Canadian roads. In a variety of weather climates. I'm like the post man...I'll drive whether it's rain, sleet or shine. I've axle fever, baby. Mamma needs her car keys. (Did I really just refer to myself as mamma?)

Which is why it is freaking amazing that I over looked the fact I have yet to make it through an entire winter season without crashing, sliding or ditching my car in some snow bank. How it slipped my mind is beyond me. I must still be thinking of the yellow-finned tuna I snorkelled with last week.

My charming husband however, did not forget this fact. Which is why he didn't panic when I didn't meet him on the highway to pass along his wallet. Which is why he continued to drive towards home while scanning the ditches and looking for my ass stuck in the snow.

"I see you've run into some difficulties," he calmly remarked as he pulled up along side the ditch I was trying to shovel myself out of.

"It's wicked cold out here! You'd think with all this exertion I'd be warm," I casually replied as I bent to scoop more snow from behind the tires. I was hoping if I acted normal, he'd overlook the fact I had driven my car into the ditch. On my first day of winter driving.

"I see you didn't make it very far," he observed. I swear, my ears were red because they were frost bitten, not because I was humiliated and wishing the earth would swallow me whole.

"Damn tires. They have no tread on them." I kicked them.

"They're new. And they're snow tires. Good try though, blondie," he snickered as he skillfully drove my car onto the road.

"I loosened up the snow for you. Made it easier for you to get the damn thing out of the ditch." I shivered as I handed him his wallet.

"Thanks. Can I trust you to make it home safely without driving into anymore snowdrifts?" Funny, I detected a hint of sarcasm buried beneath his look of concern.

"I think so." I huffed indignantly.

"Good. Because that 500 meters from here to our driveway is a long way to walk. I wouldn't want you to get cold. Next time see if you can crash the sucker a little closer to the front door," he giggled as he drove away.

Asshat.

Good thing I didn't tell him about crashing into the stone flower bed on the way down the driveway. I would never hear the end of it.

A Redneck's Vacation

I'm back. Shovelling out from under the snow which fell while we were gone, spoiling my dog and hugging my children so often they've taken to hiding in their rooms to avoid my reaching tentacles.

We had an absolutely great time. I would do it all over again if I ever get the chance. I just wouldn't do it tomorrow. I missed my kids, my friends, and my country far more than I would have anticipated. I need a chance to sit back and get irritated by enjoy all three before I'm ready to dig out my passport and start globe trotting once more.







I laugh now at how I fretted over Boo and I being alone for fifteen days and not having anything to talk about. Those gaping silences mocked my imagination and I feared I would dream them into reality. In my pre-vacation worry marathon, I must have forgotten Boo and I got married for a reason in the first place. (Besides the fact I was knocked up with our second and my Daddy was holding a shot gun to our heads.) We do many things well together. Talking is one of them. If we ever ran out of topics to talk about we just turned to the old standby: Politics. Two people of vastly different ideologies and a bottle of tequila led to many interesting conversations (re: yelling matches overlooking the ocean).

"You are nothing but a radical, left wing socialist nut job! You're once step short of being a commie!" He'd yell argue.

"Ya? So?" I'd taunt. "You are a blowhard Christian fundamentalist conservative who would sell his own mother and all his personal freedoms just for lower tax rates and the chance to kiss Stephen Harper and Ann Coulter's ass," I'd jeer.

I mean, we really mastered the art of sweet talk. When we weren't arguing over politics, we were holding hands and trying to recapture the romance that led us together in the first place.

Snort.

If you believe that I have magic beans I could sell you too. While we did have one or two romantic moments, we weren't joined at the hip. In fact, you'd likely have found Boo on the beach playing soccer with all the kids or at the pool enjoying a rowdy game of water polo, while I was busy ogling all the naked breasts floating about and trying to relax and not think about my kids, the adoption or the fact I haven't started Christmas shopping yet.







It was hard to get romantic with one another when we were both lobster red and radiating enough heat to heat our home during a Canadian blizzard. There was a lot of "Don't touch me!" yelled and "Ouch! That hurts!" whenever we were in bed together. Imagine him on one side of a king sized bed, me on the other and never the two meeting. Rather hard to bump uglies that way. We stood in front of the air conditioner vent and held hands. Pure bliss.







Thankfully, there was a wide variety of activities to partake in when we couldn't get romantic with one another. Apparently, I impressed Boo with my sense of adventure. He seemed to have me confused for an eighty year old woman with bifocals and a penchant for knitting scarves instead of the healthy young lady I am. I was game for trying anything. Zip lines, cliff climbing, rappelling, and running topless down the beach. You only live once, right?

We ate food we had never before tasted, drank enough liquor to pickle our livers and enjoyed the tropical surroundings from part of a world we'd never before explored. There was laughter, romance and adventure. But something was missing and I couldn't place my finger on it until we stepped off the air plane, gasped as we felt the bitter bite of the cold northerly wind gusting in our faces and grew goose bumps bigger than the hemorrhoids I sported during pregnancy.







We may have lived on a tropical beach for two weeks and enjoyed the warm ocean waters, but it wasn't really paradise.

Paradise is, and always will be, where our hearts lay. Safely stored with our two beautiful kids who were left behind and all of our loved ones who kept the home fires warmly stoked for our arrival.

I found paradise amongst the snow drifts and blizzard like temperatures and I'm so glad to be back in it.

I've got to be out of my ever loving mind.

I´m a Little Pink.

After a scary flight where I spent most of my time vomiting in the cabin toilet and crossing my legs praying to the Porcelain God my stomach wouldn´t explode and stink out the whole plane we finally landed in Mexico.

It was probably not a moment too soon. The passengers on board who were stuck with me and my stinky bowels were ready to form a mob and lynch me. Apparently, flying across several countries while trapped in a small tin can with poor ventilation and some twit suffering with the stomach flu is not most passengers idea of a good time.

I´ll file that away as useful knowledge for the flight back home. And invest in some Bepto-Bismol at the airport.

Having never spent this much time trapped with my husband, I was a tad worried we would fight and squabble and this trip would ultimately be the end of our marriage.

I´ve been pleasantly surprised to learn we still like each other after all these years of marriage.

 Especially after one or two tequilas and a full body sunburn.

After watching Boo play soccer and volleyball yesterday while I sat on a chair and read a book  played referree, I was struck by just how much I love this man I´ve saddled myself to for the long haul.

Everywhere we go, he attracts children. They adore him, whether they are locals or tourists. If they are under the age of 12 and under six feet tall, they find my husband and adore him as though he is some little known rockstar.

I had forgot this about him. Or perhaps I never knew this at all and this is something new to him, to us.  But when I see the gentle smile on his face as he happily organises the throng of gathering children to play some game while other adults just walk by and are grateful it is him and not them, I´m reminded once again of just how lucky I really am.

He really does have the patience of a saint and a heart of gold.

All of this plus he hunts down toilet paper for me on an airplane.

Really. Could I get any luckier?