Donloree's thoughts and musings

Moving Day is TODAY

2009-05-06T01:41:00.004-06:00

Hello out there!

I have moved my blog to my very own website, which is just plain fun!

Check it out at www.donloree.com. All the ridiculousness will be happening over there from now on!

Hope to see you there shortly!

Donloree

In the Buff

2009-04-21T22:06:00.000-06:00

Over Easter weekend, Jon and I went to help out a very nice friend of ours that runs a one of a kind international natural body building show. We went to help out last year when it was in Edmonton at the U of A. We were more than happy to heft the weights up to the back of the stage, cover everything in sight with paper so the fake tan that the competitors wear doesn’t rub off on anything, and fold the 300 t-shirts that are for sale. This year the show was in Calgary, and since Jon and I were already going to be in Calgary to visit Heather and her very cute family, we volunteered again.

The competitors came from all across the country to take a blood test, complete a lie detector, and flex their muscles on stage. I was once again tasked to cover everything with paper. So my assistant and I went about covering doorknobs, chairs, the floor and the walls in paper to ensure the fake tan didn’t stain anything at SAIT. We were working along just fine, and then we ran out of tape. I ran back up to the room with all the supplies and where all the competitors were focusing in search of another roll of packing tape. They are so intense! All the men were lying on the floor with their legs in the air, listening to music, and staring at the ceiling like it may just disappear. While I was rummaging around to look for another roll of packing tape, I looked up to ask someone where it may be only to see a partially dressed man squeezing himself into the smallest speedo I have ever seen in my life. HELLO! I am a woman and the door is wide open – what the heck are you doing? Apparently no one else seemed to notice, so I fled the scene with bright red cheeks and no tape in hand. I made an executive decision that we had papered enough things, and that was that. Heck as if I was going to go back in there again!

I had completed my task, and the show had yet to start. Since I have a big mouth, I asked what else needed to be done. Apparently everything was done except the competitors needed some help with the application of their fake tan. I didn’t know what to say and I was there to help, so I gave myself a small pep talk, “I can spray paint a muscled man – no problem”, and then promptly agreed to help. I showed up to where all the men were getting ready to go on stage and asked who needed to be sprayed. They all looked at me like I had two heads. Apparently the spray tan is bad, and they all use ‘dream tan’ which is basically a lotion that stains your skin. So, there I was with a bunch of muscle men, just me, and jars of fake tan.

Do you have moments in your life where time pauses? Well, this was one of those times for me. I just paused, looked around for help and there was none to be found.

Since I had already agreed to help the men with their tans, I couldn’t really back out. Besides, some of them were quite pale, and looked rather desperate for some help. So I looked at the man closest to me, gathered my courage, and asked where his ‘dream tan’ was. Then I began one of the most awkward tasks of my life. I let him know every move that I was making, so as not to startle him.

DLH – Ummm…I guess I am just going to rub this all over your back.

Muscle Man – OK. Great. (Severe focus on his face)

DLH – Sorry, I am going to put this in your armpit now. I guess it’s good you’re not ticklish. Perhaps not being ticklish is a prerequisite of bodybuilding? (So nervous to be touching this strange man all over)

Muscle Man – Sure, uh huh (Not at all impressed with my high level of awkwardness)

DLH – Ok, um….I have to get the back of your legs here, and your…bum…uh…I’m just going to touch you here….ummm…!!

Those ‘shorts’ as one of the men called them are SO SMALL! My gosh! I was mortified. When I finally finished ‘dream tanning’ the non-talking, severely focused man, another short, muscle man needed help.

Luckily he was skilled enough to do most of his own ‘dream tanning’, all I had to do was his neck, face, and receding hairline. He was about 5’2”, so it was easy enough to see what needed to be done there. While I ‘dream tanned’ him, an alarm went off which meant it was time for him to eat his favorite snack - 1 tbsp of all natural almond butter. He was so excited, and couldn’t wait. It was somewhat complex to get his face to have a consistent color while he gulped down his almond butter.

I finally thought that I was home free, but a very tall man came running through backstage in an absolute panic. He was on in 15 minutes and he had no tan at all and needed to eat! Apparently they have to eat at very specific times, and there was no way he could wait 15 minutes to eat. So while he dipped rice cakes in natural peanut butter and dripped and crumbed all over the place, including me, I slathered him in dream tan. Let’s just say it wasn’t my best work! He also had rice cake crumbs that just became part of the tan on his chest. There wasn’t much I could do about that.

Finally everyone was tanned, and I was home free. I didn’t ask for a new way to help, just went out to watch the show at that point. I did have a very interesting tan line on my arms for the rest of the weekend, which served to remind me that being extra helpful may be extra awkward at times!

One day I went to the gym and my shoes were missing. Some woman took them home with her because she thought they were her shoes. Although, she wasn’t totally sure, so she left a long flowery note about how she took some shoes and if she took your shoes, you should email her. She ended the letter with her email address and a drawing of a smiling flower.

I found myself standing in the locker room in my workout clothes and socks without my shoes, so I emailed in a huff and demanded she return them ASAP. They were returned the next day with a very apologetic note. Apparently this woman’s sister decided that my shoes were her sister’s shoes because they had mud on them. Huh? How is mud a factor in deciding if a pair of random shoes in a cubby hole at the local YMCA are yours or not…?

So, I promptly put my name on the inside of my shoes and made all the women in the change room were aware of the situation. Bizarre, but apparently it happens.

THEN. I was at the gym a few weeks later. One moment my shoes were there, and then moments later they were not. While I was at the gym, a woman took them right from under my nose! How the heck is a woman supposed to work out if her shoes keep going missing? As of that moment, I was officially upset and unsure about the kind of women that work out at the YMCA. While I got ready for work after not working out because my shoes were MIA once again, I devised a plan. I decided to go out and look at all the women’s feet that were working out and make a scene when I found the perpetrator.

While applying my mascara, I notice one of the women that I run with covertly motioning to me. She quietly let me know that a somewhat confused looking woman just walked in with shoes that looked like mine.

So I staged a confrontation.

I found the woman standing next to the shoe cubby holes looking bewildered. I minced no words and asked her if she was wearing my shoes, and if so, why?

Apparently she was. She couldn’t find her shoes, so she opted to use mine. They looked similar to her shoes and since she didn’t know where hers were, she used mine. WITHOUT SOCKS. The shoes were still warm when she handed them back to me.

My favorite part was the fact that my shoes appeared to be about 3 sizes too large for her. She had to batten those suckers right down to get them to stay on, which resulted in a Ronald McDonald-esque look for her.

I have one question – who are these people and how do they not know what their runners look like??!?!!?

Apparently I have the most popular shoes at the YMCA. I’ve always wanted to be popular, but if this is popularity, I think I’ll pass.

Something Every Woman Needs

2009-01-28T21:55:00.002-07:00

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I run with several women out of the YMCA downtown at 6 am in the morning if it’s warmer than -20 degrees Celsius.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning my alarm goes off at 5:17 am.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I press snooze twice and am late for the ridiculously early morning run.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I get dressed in my work clothes, throw the cold weather running outfit in my gym bag, and run out the door with a granola bar in hand.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning the in shape running women are forced to wait 3 - 8 minutes for me to quickly change into my running outfit and grab a drink of water. They are very nice. They have never said anything about my propensity towards lateness, although it must be severely annoying. I know this because I annoy myself almost every Tuesday and Thursday morning, and if you annoy yourself it’s got to be pretty bad.

So I came up with a plan to stop annoying the running women. I laid out all my running clothes and put my work outfit, shoes and accessories in a very cute green tote bag. I was NOT going to make anyone wait for me this day. Nope. I was organized.

I got up at 5:27 after only one snooze, drank a tall glass of water, had a multi-vitamin, and took some time to make toast. I was able to have such a leisurely morning because I was just SO dang organized. Everyone was pleasantly surprised at the lack of a crazed clothes changing event that took place this morning.

After surviving the early morning run, I grabbed the cute green tote bag and pulled out my work outfit to get dressed for the huge day that loomed ahead. While getting dressed and chatting with the other women I suddenly had a small moment of panic. Did I remember everything I needed for the day? What if I forgot something??! Some days I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which meant I had to dump out all the contents and see what was missing. To my absolute horror, something was missing, something that every girl needs, something that is non-negotiable. I forgot my bra.

There are times in my life when I can’t keep the panic to myself, and I announce my latest fiasco to everyone. This was one of those events…suddenly all of the women in the change room knew of my current crisis.

DL – “Oh. My. Gosh. I decided to be prepared and very organized last night. But I was so organized that I didn’t put my bra in my bag. How is that even possible? A girl needs a bra in her day! My gracious.”

*Huge pause in the change room*

DL – “Well, I guess I’ll just have to go home and get my bra, nothing like being late for work. What am I going to I tell them, that I forgot my bra? All the men in the office would really like that one! Can you only imagine how that conversation would go? ‘Hey there….It’s Donloree here. Yup, I am just running late, need to go home to grab my bra…hope to be in around 8:45…’”

After many unhelpful suggestions, including to just go without a bra, there was an actual solution – even if it was unexpected and strange.

Cathleen – Do you want to borrow a bra? I have an extra in here.
DL – Uh…no, that’s ok. I mean, it’s kind of weird, don’t you think?
Cathleen – No, not at all. I have a ton of extra things in here for such an occasion. The worst thing to forget is your pants. Now there’s something you absolutely can’t go without!

I took a quick look at the clock and saw that it was 7:58. I had to be in work in 2 minutes and still didn’t even have a bra to wear. The situation was getting quite dire…what’s a woman to do?

DL – Ok…only if you are sure and it’s not totally weird.
Cathleen – Nope, here you go. Just give it back on Thursday. Remember, there was that one day I forgot pants, now that was quite the day!

All the women laughed as I announced that Cathleen is the most prepared running woman in all of history. Then despite my hesitation, I put the bra on, hardly filled the thing out, and called it a morning. I did what I had to do to be at work on time.

Now I know that pants and a bra are an absolute must! This is definitely something that everyone woman should know.

Combing It Over

2008-06-09T13:53:00.002-06:00

When I lived on the north side of Edmonton, I used to ride the same bus to and from work every single day. And every single day, the bus was filled with the exact same people that sat in the exact same seats in complete silence.

No one talks on the bus in the morning because most people haven't had coffee yet and are barely coherent. If I managed to actually do my hair and get a lunch thrown together before the bus arrived, it was a very good morning. The trip home from work was exactly the same at the trip to work. Everyone’s caffeine had long worn off and they were tired from dealing with difficult people and silence reigned over the bus...for the most part. Some people have spent years riding the bus with the same people and have formed 'bus friends'. So now and again some people talked, some people talked very loudly. Usually these people talked about things no one else ever wants to know about, but the whole bus ended up having to hear about it.

Bertha: Morning Gertrude. How are you?
Gertrude: Oh Bertha, my psoriasis is really acting up again!
Bertha: Don’t I know it?! My joints are positively aching and I barely made it to the washroom to put my teeth in this morning. If I wasn’t meeting my new boyfriend, Wally, this morning at the Southgate Seniors’ Drop in Centre I would have just stayed in bed!
Gertrude: Wally? My Wally?!??!
Bertha: Um, yeah. I thought you broke up after he moved out of your lodge…
Gertrude: Well, if we weren’t broken up before, we certainly are now!

On one particularly quiet afternoon, a man found one of his long lost bus friends and started an extremely loud conversation. His running commentary on the sad state of the public school system and 'what are they teaching those kids these days anyways?' was so loud that I couldn't get my cat nap in before I arrived home. So I came up with a plan of action. I decided to give him the no-bus-talking-glare. I've used this specific glare before and it works wonders. It's a mix of disgust and surprise at the audacity of the loud bus-talker.

As I turned abruptly in my seat to give the no-bus-talking-glare, I was unable to pull it off due to shock. I got a full, head on view of one of the biggest comb overs I have ever seen in my life. He had even dyed it a reddish blonde that only enhanced the ridiculousness of his hairdo. I was stunned. I couldn’t stop staring for quite some time. He caught my eye and smiled, mindless of the horror frozen on my face. I managed to curtly nod and look away before bursting into hilarious giggles and having to smother the laughter in my coat.

How and when do men start combing it over? At what age does the comb over start to be acceptable? Does it sneak up on men like crows feet and grey hair does for women? I mean, do men wake up one day and all of the sudden notice that they've got a comb over? Would this result in un-manly screaming?

Just for the record, there is something that is actually worse than the comb over. I am sure many people think the comb over is the worst possible hairdo for a man, but the comb forward is even worse! It lifts up like a garage door in a severe wind and has a daily requirement of half a bottle of hairspray. And how do they get level bangs? Do comb forward men have to trim their bangs every day after it gets plastered down?

If you are tempted to comb it over, STOP. Embrace your baldness and know that the comb over doesn’t fool anyone, it only shocks the general public.

I am Camerican.

2008-05-14T14:34:00.004-06:00

In a few months, I will have lived in Canada for 10 years. 10 YEARS. When I stop and think about this, I am shocked. I came here, only planning to stay for 1 year, and suddenly 10 years have passed by.

After 10 years of living in the Great White North, I think I can officially be considered a true Camerican. What is a Camerican, you ask?

Camerican – (Kah-mare-ick-en). Noun. A Camerican is a person that has duel citizenship in both America and Canada and has spent large amounts of time in both countries. This person can also be referred to as a ‘duly’.

I am very proud to be a ‘Camerican’. There aren’t many of us out there. We bridge the divide between Canadians and Americans. We are the ambassadors that help Americans and Canadians to respect and learn about each other’s country. I help Canadians understand that America doesn’t want to conquer and take over their country and I am living proof to Americans that people do live and survive in northern Canada, don’t live in igloos, have normal jobs and homes and we travel via car, not dogsleds.

An issue that most Camericans deal with is that they are always told they have an accent. In Canada, I am ‘SO American’ in the way I speak. When I go home to America, I am told, ‘You have such a Canadian accent!’ I just can’t win.

Having gleaned so much information about Canada in the past 10 years, I think it only prudent for me to share some tips for Americans that want to visit Canada.

Pronunciation Guide for All Americans Traveling up North

Asphalt – (Ash-fault) Apparently Canadians don’t want to appear to be swearing…even if it’s how the word is spelled…
Project – (Pah-roe-ject) Something to get done
Vase – (vah- zuh) At least you get to feel sophisticated while talking about your home décor items.
Pasta – (passed-uh) It is most important to say it correctly while ordering in a loud restaurant so as not to confuse your waiter.
Mario – (Mare-ee-oh) Just go with it.
Decal – (deck-uhl) rhymes with freckle…
Z – (zed) This is how Canadians pronounce the letter ‘Z’. If you have to spell something, make sure to do so correctly.
“How do you spell your last name Mrs. Maritzo?
“M-A-R-I-T-Zed-O”
Measure – (meh-zure) To be honest, this may be a Donloree issue, not an American/Canadian issue. I pronounce this ‘may-zure’…but then so does my family, so I have lumped it in here for your reference. If you do pronounce it the way I do, woe to you! You will be severely mocked while in Canada!!
Garage – (Gah-rah-juh) A place to park your car.

Words to use, so they don’t know you are American

States – You ARE NOT from America, you are from the ‘States’.
Eh – Put this at the end of some phrases here and there. It can be used to ask a question, agree with someone or just fill in dead conversation space.
Hey – To be used synonymously with ‘eh’.
Bum – This refers to your posterior, not a homeless person.
Chesterfield – A couch. Use this word sparingly, and only around people that are older than 70. Though, when used in the correct context, people will be amazed at your knowledge of the Canadian language.
Toque – Beanie or stocking hat

You are now fully prepared to travel up to the Great White North…and when it drops to -40 Celsius, don’t forget to wear a toque, hey?!

Whatever you do...don't ask!!

2008-01-25T15:51:00.000-07:00

Almost every male over the age of 15 knows better than to ask a woman if she’s pregnant. So why haven’t women learned not to ask?

Every non-pregnant woman that has ever been asked this question is emotionally scarred for…well, life really. Every woman knows what a horrible question this is; you would think they would never, ever ask it of another woman.

Women should only ask their friends after they drop hints like, “So after the baby comes” or only when they are obviously pregnant. The 8 month mark is a safe time to ask, and even then it is still only marginally safe.

A few years ago I was running some errands downtown after work and I happened to see Alice, one of my over 60 year old friends. I popped over to say hello to her and a woman whom I had never met. As Alice and I were chatting away, I felt an odd sensation on my stomach. I glanced down to find a hand that was not my own rubbing my stomach in wonder. I immediately stopped talking. The strange woman noticed the pause and burst into our conversation exclaiming, “You’re pregnant!”

I froze and stared at her with my mouth open.

Alice froze and stared at her with her mouth open…and then she hit her.

Once I got my mouth snapped back into place, I calmly removed her hand and told her that I wasn’t in fact pregnant but a bit chubby around the middle. I tried to put this obviously misinformed woman at ease despite her epic faux paus. After all, if I were to make such a glaring mistake, I would hope for some grace.

Do you know what she said next?

“Well, you sure look pregnant.”

There needed to be some back pedaling or severe remorse at this point! Even blank, uncomfortable silence would have been better than her snappy comment. Appropriate responses include:
"Of course you aren’t. I am severely delusional and off my meds.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. I am SO sorry.”
“No…no you are not…have I mentioned how much I like your outfit?”

In the code of womanhood, there should be a clause about never informing a non-pregnant woman that she looks pregnant.

I went home that night and had celery for supper.

Once a strange woman rubs your chubby tummy, you’ll even give up chocolate for a day or so in an effort to make yourself look less pregnant-esque.

Ridiculous Rules

2008-01-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

This Christmas my family decided to partake in a past time that we all grew up with and remember fondly – bowling.

In my opinion, bowling is a ridiculous sport. Fun, but ridiculous – and for several reasons.

Reason #1 You have to rent shoes! There is no other sport so stringent on attire while sporting. I could wear a down filled parka in +48 Celsius while golfing, there are no swimsuit specifications at the local swimming pool (unfortunately people can wear Speedos and bikinis despite what the mirror tells them), and I could run a marathon in flip flops if I so desired. When you go bowling you HAVE to wear shoes that 8,000 other people have worn and are still warm and a bit gooey from the disinfectant that was just sprayed in the shoe. Why? It’s not like I arrived in 4 inch stiletto heels! What are my non-marking tennis shoes going to do out there in bowling land??! Not only do you have to wear the horrible shoes, but you have to PAY the bowling alley to wear them! Somehow, it just doesn’t add up.

Reason #2 There are so many rules regarding the wooden floor area that makes up the bowling lanes. Above every lane a sign is posted that reads, “Do Not Cross White Line.” Why? If you step across the line, what’s going to happen? Is there a secret infrared light that detects even a toe that has broken the rule? Does a silent alarm go off and the bowling police come escort you out of the bowling alley? It seems a bit over the top. Nor can you have food in the bowling area. If you want a snack, you have to sit about 20 feet back from your friends. Eating people are segregated from the non-eaters. It’s not really fair. If you want to share a plate of nachos with someone you have to notify them when you’re leaving the snacking area to go bowling and that they better come supervise the snack. Usually this involves loud yelling that people 3 lanes over can hear. “Hey Frank, I am up next – do you want any of these nachos?” It’s important to notify your friends that you are leaving the snack post, lest the server come and take your nachos away!!

Reason #3 The whole point of the game is to huck a heavy rock straight down a very long strip of hard wood to knock down the 10 pins (or 5 pins, depending what country you’re in) all at once. I have a feeling that this sport was created about 300 years ago in a small village somewhere. Back then, I am sure it was quite the sport!

So, there we all were…the whole family with ridiculous clown shoes on and bowling balls in hand. We began hucking our bowling balls down the long lane with much hilarity.

When I was about 13 years old, I got over the fear of sticking my fingers in the dark, unknown bowling ball holes and began to throw the ball like most normal people. No longer was I relegated to walking up to the white line, bending over at the waist and rolling the ball down the lane with a good heave-ho! This particular day, I was bowling with confidence. I grabbed my 10 pound purple and green psychedelic colored ball, took a few confident strides and hucked the ball with flair down the lane.

My husband, sportsperson extraordinaire, is always telling me how important follow through is when playing sports. I could hear his patient voice in my head and continued my forward stride when I released the ball, after all, I wanted to get a strike! Then, unbeknownst to me, my right foot crossed that sacred white line of the bowling lane only to be followed by my left foot. Suddenly it was as though I was on ice skates! The bowling people had that lane waxed to a high sheen and my rented clown shoes were no match for it. My follow through was now pushing me forward down the bowling lane towards the pins. I was unable to get any footing and was tripping forward due to the immense amount of momentum my follow through created. I made a split second decision to lean backwards to counteract the forward motion in order to stop the crazed, head first careening down the bowling lane.

Sometimes these quick decisions you make in life, aren’t always the best ones. I was quite panicked, so I over compensated on the mid flight correction. I ended up going straight backwards onto my butt with my head cracking the bowling lane a split second later. It happened so fast that I didn’t even put out my arms! I don’t think many people noticed the deafening noise my head made on the lane, because it was so similar to the sound of the many bowling balls hitting the ground.

Once I stopped seeing stars, I opened my eyes to see my whole family peering down at me in complete horror and shock. I laid there for a moment, unable to move from pain and embarrassment. I am sure I was quite the sight all sprawled out on the bowling lane 8 feet from the white line. The craziness of the situation hit me and I laid there giggling, but unable to get up due to pain radiating from my head and the large amount of wax on the lane.

I was a quite shaky from the trauma of the whole situation, so the family decided to push me down the lane on my butt – they were able to do it with ease since the lane was so slick! As I was being delivered to my seat, I noticed that 10 lanes of people had stopped bowling to watch my latest fiasco. The lady at the front desk ran over in a tizzy to make sure I was ok while I was being slid down the lane. In between my giggles and embarrassment I assured her that I was ok. She seemed quite relieved, mostly because she realized that I wasn’t going to sue her. What would I sue for? Allowing ridiculous and clumsy people such as myself into the bowling alley?

The next day when I could barely move my neck due to the whiplash I gave myself while bowling, all could see in my mind’s eye was that sign mocking me:

“Do Not Cross White Line”

No kidding! Who knew that not following such a silly rule would cause a person to get whiplash while bowling?!

I think my new motto in life needs to be “Do what the sign says, no matter how ridiculous it seems!”

Tempting Fate

2007-12-12T23:22:00.000-07:00

I am a fate tempter. I tempt fate on a regular basis. How, you ask? Do I jump out of airplanes, climb mountains or participate in death defying activities? No, I do none of those things.

I wear clearance shoes from Winners.

I purchased a great pair of classic black high heels for work from Winners, Anne Klein nonetheless. I loved them and wore them about 3 times a week since they went with everything. One day I noticed that the heel of the shoe was a bit wobbly, but thought nothing of it and continued on my way. A week or so later as I was getting off the elevator at work my right leg seemed quite a bit shorter than my left leg all of the sudden. I thought my heel got stuck in the crack between the elevator and the floor and continued on. Unfortunately, my right leg remained shorter, and then I realized that my shoe broke and the heel was taking a joy ride up and down in the elevator without me.

Do you have any idea how many times you have to push the ‘up’ button before the right elevator comes back? It seemed odd to all the people riding the elevators as well. I kept pushing the ‘up’ button and waiting for an elevator. Then when one arrived, I didn’t want to take it. Many nice people work in my building and they kept holding the elevator doors open for me. After explaining my situation to one of the many nice people, I realized the explanation was weirder than my not riding the elevator, so I kept silent.

Finally, the elevator that was taking part of my shoe on a joy ride arrived. I hobbled in, grabbed my heel. While trying to make a quick retreat, I ran smack into someone trying to use the elevator. I didn’t look up, I just kept going. Looking back, I should have just rode the elevator back to my office, but I was in panic mode. What was I going to do??! Then I remembered…there is a shoe repair place across the street!! In order to keep people from noticing the missing heel, I tip toed on the foot that was missing a heel. If you looked at me, it was an optical illusion – one shoe with a heel, one without! So instead of looking lopsided, I looked like I had a severe limp….you win some and you lose some….

The shoe repair guy fixed them up so they were good as new…until I was running across a busy downtown intersection in the middle of winter to make a light. At first, I thought I stepped in a hole in the street, but then I realized that there probably aren’t 4 holes in a row exactly where I am running and only on my right side. I stopped, quickly looked at my shoe and noticed I was missing quite a bit of it! That heel had fallen off once again! I turned, ran back for the heel, nearly got smooshed by a large delivery truck turning left and ended up in the intersection holding part of my shoe just as the light turned red. Just so you know, there are better ways to stop traffic!

If I weren’t a fate tempter, I would have trashed the shoes the first time they broke, but I got them cobbled together and went on wearing them as though nothing were wrong.

Aren’t we all glad that I don’t participate in death defying activities? It would just be too epic for everyone involved!! But be warned, I have been known to stir my blender while it’s blending…

*Note: I still thoroughly enjoy Winners and hold no ill regard for them…Anne Klein on the other hand, she’s got a thing or two coming from me!

Triple Grande, Non-Fat, Extra Hot Latte

2007-08-20T12:11:00.000-06:00

If you are at work and you inadvertently spill you triple grande, non fat, extra hot latte all over your lap and chair, try not to scream. If you scream, the whole office full of men will come running over to see what is making you scream. Then you look silly while dripping with latte. If you are a more covert woman, you will stand up quickly, grab paper towels, wipe up the mess and then act as though nothing happened. After all, the dark grey skirt you were wearing won’t show much, and once it’s dry it will be like it never happened. BUT, if you are like me, you will scream because overreacting is something you do by nature and then everyone will know what happened.

After I cleaned up the latte mess, I sat in my very wet skirt shivering to death. The office is usually the temperature of a refrigerator, but when the latte isn’t extra hot any more and all over your skirt, it makes you cold...extra cold. Since I no longer had any dignity left, I opted to put on my walk to work pants rather than catch pneumonia. I am very fashionable with my red high heels, navy capri running pants and a black blouse.

Hopefully the skirt dries enough to put it back on before my meeting this afternoon!

Please Refrain...

2007-08-13T15:31:00.000-06:00

The other morning, I got Ma’am-ed.

The college aged man handing out the free Edmonton newspaper, The Metro, decided to Ma’am me on my walk into work.

Metro Man – Morning Ma’am. Would you like a Metro?
Donloree – Uh…no. Thanks though. (I was trying to be gracious, despite the obvious Ma’am-ing)
Metro Man – Have a great day Ma’am.

Not only did he Ma’am me, but he did it twice! That morning I started out feeling peppy, but after being Ma’am-ed twice within 3 seconds, I felt old and haggard.

I don’t appreciated being Ma’am-ed. I am currently 27 years old, which is no where near the Ma’am-ing zone.

I understand that it’s hard to know what to say sometimes, but call me something other than Ma’am! Here are some options:
Hey!
Hey you!
Lady
Miss
Or, better yet, perhaps don’t address me at all if the only thing you know how to do is Ma’am me!

I do have grey hair, but I dye it back to my natural color so I don’t look silly. You can Ma’am a woman when she has jet black hair and it’s obvious that she shouldn’t. When I am at that point in my life, I will appreciate being Ma’am-ed, because “Hey!”, “Hey you!”, “Lady” and “Miss” will all be demeaning and rude. But for now, please refrain from the Ma’am-ing…it’s actually quite disturbing.

I am a woman, but that doesn’t mean I am silly!

2007-07-20T14:13:00.000-06:00

The past few months have just been a whirlwind of chaos in my life. My husband and I purchased our very first home, a great condo in downtown Edmonton, and Jon has been in America for the past month attending the Global Village (it’s totally “The Apprentice” but no one gets fired and people are from all over the world). Needless to say, I have been a bit stressed out and ridiculously busy.

The woman that owned the condo previous to me had...interesting….taste. I had to rid myself of the pre-existing living room colors of navy, bright red, tangerine and lemon yellow. It kind of looked like the circus exploded, and that really wasn’t the look I was going for. She also thought the master bedroom would be good lime and navy and that the spare room would be lovely painted purple. It hurt my head. So I painted, and painted and then painted some more – thank goodness I have so many great friends that came to my rescue.

Once I could stand in the living room and not expect Bobo the Clown to come traipsing through, I started on other projects like replacing the plastic (yes, I said plastic) bathroom sinks. Who the heck has plastic sinks? My uncle came over and helped me replace two of the three sinks, the third sink had a huge bow in it, so back to Home Depot it went. While at Home Depot, I decided to pick up a pipe wrench and the other necessary tools so I could replace the third sink all by myself. So I went in search of a customer service person to help me pick out the best pipe wrench possible. I found a short man in the plumbing section and asked for help, it went something like this:

DL: “Hello, I am looking for a pipe wrench, can you tell me where they are?”
Short Home Depot Man: “Uh…you don’t need a pipe wrench.”
DL: “Yup, I sure do. I am replacing a sink.”
Short Home Depot Man: “You’re replacing a sink.”
DL: “YES. Where are the pipe wrenches?”
Short Home Depot Man: “What kind of a sink?”
DL: “A bathroom sink.”
Short Home Depot Man: “Oh, you need a basin wrench.”
DL: “Fine, basin wrench, pipe wrench, the tool for the job – just point me in the direction of the wrenches.”
Short Home Depot Man: “Uh…I will walk you there.”
DL: Upon arrival at the wrench section I exclaimed happily, “Yup! That’s the one I need,” pointing at a pipe wrench.
Short Home Depot Man: “Nope, you need this,” (pointing to crappy looking wrench).
DL: “Uh…no. I have to disconnect the pipe at the bottom of the sink, you can’t do that with that wrench.”
Short Home Depot Man: “I don’t know what the man that is putting this in for you told you, but you don’t need a pipe wrench.”
DL: “Well, first of all I am the one putting the sink in and I do know that I need a pipe wrench.”
Short Home Depot Man: “No, you need this.”

After arguing for quite a long time about the fact that I was indeed the person that was going to be replacing the sink, he insisted on having me draw a diagram of the sink. I then had to explain how to take out and replace the sink.

Short Home Depot Man: “So, show me what you are going to do.”
DL: “Well, after I turn off the water, I am going to remove this pipe and these clamps and take out the sink. I have to tighten the pipes, here, here and here. That ‘basin wrench’ looks like it will break if I use it for that.”
Short Home Depot Man: “So you’re taking the whole sink out?”
DL: “YES! How else the heck am I going to replace the sink? I have to take it out to replace it, don’t I?”
Short Home Depot Man: “So you aren’t just changing the taps?”
DL: “No, the whole thing – the whole kit and caboodle is coming out and everything is going in new.”
Short Home Depot Man: “Oh. So you need a pipe wrench then…”

I about had an aneurysm at this point! Just because I am a girl, it doesn’t mean that I am silly! Just let me purchase what I asked for and send me on my way! For goodness sake!

Another good reason to own your home…

2007-04-26T15:16:00.000-06:00

If you own your home, you will never receive this call:

Landlord – Hi. How are you? How’s the house?
DL – Oh hello, how are you doing? The house and I are just fine. (Meanwhile, all I can think is why in the world are you calling?? You never call!)
**Uncomfortable pause in conversation**
Landlord – That’s good to hear….so are you free on Friday afternoon?
DL – Umm…my in-laws are visiting and I work, so not really….why, what’s up?
Landlord – Oh...you know, just wanted to do a house inspection, my sister is here from Toronto and wants to see the house….so does Friday work for you?
DL – Not the best day for me….but I guess she’s only here for a few days, so it will have to work, right?
Landlord – Yeah…so we’ll just let ourselves in and I’ll leave a detailed checklist for you.
DL – Oh…OK…thanks?

Once I hung up, a mini panic attack started. HOUSE INSPECTION??! What’s that all about? And I’m not going to be there for the inspection – that’s horrible! I am being forced to allow some woman that I barely know and her sister to go through my home. They have free reign to look through things like my underwear drawer and medicine cabinet while I am at work. I won’t be able to hide the disorganized room that acts as our basement since we don’t have one, the cluttered storage closet, the missing paint from the molding in the master bedroom or the chip in the wall from my bike – everything is just out there in plain sight for her to view! And to top it all off, just this week my husband brought home scads and scads of paper – 6 FULL BOXES – from his office to sort and go through. I won’t be able to explain why it’s reasonable that we have 17 stacks of papers and laugh about how quirky those Hoffmans are!!

So last night I spent my evening cleaning weird things, things that people don’t clean on a regular basis. I cleaned under my kitchen sink, washed some base boards, swept under the stove, cleaned the tracks of my windows in the kitchen and dining room, rinsed out the crisper drawers in my fridge – you know the unimportant stuff that most people rarely care about, unless you’re a landlord! Then I proceeded to walk into every room and pretend that I was the landlord and her sister. I desperately tried to think like they would and have the same reaction they will have once they begin to ‘inspect’ my home. There is only one good thing in all of this; at least my tub is soap scum free. Thank you Scrubbing Bubbles! They really are as good at the bottle proclaims! I may be somewhat disorganized, but at least I am soap scum free – that’s got to be good for something! Right??!

Unimpressed

2007-04-19T09:27:00.001-06:00

This morning, it took a tow truck to get me out of bed. It just didn’t seem like it was time to get up when the alarm went off at 6:30 this morning. I was warm and cozy in my bed and there was no sun streaming through the windows. I decided that my clock must be out of sorts, turned off the alarm and went back to sleep. At 7:20, I finally dragged myself out of bed after giving myself, “just 5 more minutes” of sleep. Needless to say, when I finally got up, I was extremely groggy.

Sometimes first thing in the morning I don’t have the smartest thoughts. It must be because all of my synapses are not firing and only my body is awake. This morning, on my way to the shower, I looked out the window and wondered when my neighbors put a white roof on their house. I could have sworn that just yesterday it was black shingles, but I thought that they must have decided to do something crazy in the middle of the night. Once I started to brush my teeth and the fresh mint taste revived me, I realized that God decided to do something crazy in the middle of the night, not my neighbors! I abruptly pulled up the Venetian blinds in the bathroom and realized, to my dismay, that it was SNOWING outside. Yup, that’s right, snow on April 19. Oblivious to the date, the snow was happily coming down, making the world white and chilly once again up here in the arctic.

So far this year, spring has come about four times, each time tricking me in the believing that it is here to stay. Then it pulls some stunt like this! It’s so disheartening to go from riding your bike in the warm spring sun to frantically searching for your scarf and mittens so you don’t freeze while waiting for the bus! I think I have to keep an arctic-proof outfit handy at all times now. You just never know what’s going to happen up here!

Hilarious Comment of the Day

2007-04-10T10:02:00.000-06:00

This morning while I was downstairs at Starbucks for my caffeine fix, I heard the most hilarious comment I’ve heard in a long time. A stylish, well-dressed man had obviously been sent to pick up coffees for the office. He put lids on all five beverages and then asked for a drink tray. Now, if the drink trays got any closer to him, they would have bit his head off! The woman who made the drinks patiently pointed out that they were about two inches away from him while giving me a knowing look. He looked at the two of us and spouted, “Well, you put them in the Y chromosome blind spot! What do you expect?” It just struck me funny, and I laughed all the way back to my desk.

Perhaps Y chromosomes do have blind spots...it would explain so much…

Crazy Event no. 412 in the Life of Donloree

2007-03-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

One day I hope to be a decent runner. I want to pass people while racing instead of memorizing what all the people look like from behind. In order to help me on my quest to be a better runner, I joined a hardcore running club. We meet Tuesdays and Thursdays right after work just south of downtown. Our very in shape coach is great, but she has us do workouts that involve running up and down large hills – such as Connor’s hill and Grierson hill – and then we work on our speed while running up and down them. After we finish an hour of running all over the river valley, we go back to the community league to do core exercises, such as 'the plank’! If anyone is curious, I hate the plank…

Since I live in the arctic, there is ice everywhere which results in very dangerous running conditions at times – especially up and down hills! Due to the icy conditions of yesterday, our coach planned a workout that involved over 1,000 stairs, after all, the stairs weren’t icy…I managed all the stairs, and felt the very bottom of my lungs for the first time ever in my life. There was also an odd wheezing noise that came out whenever I would reach the top of the Hotel MacDonald stairs.

I usually hate doing the core exercises, but after that work out I was happy to do any exercise that involved lying on the floor! As we were finishing up with the plank, I saw Jon poke his beaming face into the room. He came to pick me up with tickets to go see Stephen and Avi Lewis at the Shaw Conference Centre – which started in 15 minutes! I quickly changed back into my work clothes and off we went to the Shaw. I was exhausted after running up and down the Hotel MacDonald stairs 3 times and the Crowne plaza stairs 5 times, but it isn’t very often that you get to see Stephen and Avi Lewis and ask them any question you want! So off we went in a hurry.

The event started at 7:00 and we didn’t leave the Riverdale Community league until 6:55, so we were obviously quite late. Once we got into the Shaw we started quickly down the escalators. The second set of escalators is ridiculously long and on my decent I somehow tripped and went flying forward and ended up sliding head first, face down on the supremely long escalator – my laptop bag leading the way. Jon noticed that I was no longer standing beside him and grabbed my ankle so I stopping sliding towards certain death. All I could think about was my hair getting sucked down the side of the escalator and ending up at the bottom of the Shaw Conference Centre with the stairs hitting me in the face. At that moment, I recalled a frightening story my grandma had told me about a little boy getting his foot sucked down the side of an escalator while she watched in horror. I sure didn’t want my whole body sucked down the side of the escalator, so I rolled awkwardly toward the middle, still going down head first. I was so tired and frightened that I all I could do was meekly say, “Help, help, help…”

Jon came to my rescue, he jumped over my body that was strewn over most of the escalator and hefted me right side up. He saved me riding the rest of the way down head first and arriving at the bottom like a beached whale in front of important people wearing nice suits. I ripped holes in my best pair of pants and have huge scrapes from the stairs up the whole right side of my body. I look like a red and cream zebra. The worst part is my shins – who knew an escalator could cause so much bruising and such deep cuts?

Once I could breathe normally and realized that I was going to live, I was just glad that we were late. If we had been on time, who knows what tragic thing would have happened? Are you familiar with the domino theory? After all of this, we continued on to the event, ripped pants and all. I am sure I looked quite disheveled. I managed to run up and down 1,000 stairs without tripping, apparently that 1,001st stair is a doozey.

Young, Poor and Stupid

2007-03-02T12:38:00.000-07:00

Young, poor and stupid is a bad combination. If all three characteristics are present at one time, it can lead to severe and epic things happening in a person’s life! One or two of these qualities can be overcome with fortitude and help from older, wiser people in your life, BUT if you are like my husband and I were when we were first married, something crazy needs to happen to snap you out of this dangerous frame of mind.

Jon and I had been married for about 9 months when our ‘retro’ apartment complete with shag carpet, galley kitchen, paper thin walls and one tiny bedroom went up in rent from a reasonable $495 a month to $700 a month due to supposed renovations that were taking place. We found ourselves being slowly forced from our home due to our semi-impoverished state. For months we looked for a place that we could afford – we found nothing. Finally, after scouring the city, we found a TWO BEDROOM basement suite of a duplex for only $450 a month. It was larger and cheaper!! It felt as though we were moving into a castle. Although, it did resemble a mobile home since it was long and narrow and all the rooms went off to the left when you walked down the hallway...but there was no 40 year old shag carpet. I would feel free to take off my shoes while in my own home, what a treat!!

We burrowed into our little underground castle like two groundhogs, happy as ever to be beneath the crust of the earth, patiently waiting until spring to see our shadows. The windows were one of the more hilarious features of our new home. The ‘front windows’ were 1 foot from the ceiling and only about 18 inches tall, but stretched all 10 feet of the front room. I happily put up window treatments as though they were a full sized windows and hoped no one would notice. The 1 year old boy that lived upstairs loved my windows – after all they were at eye level for him when he was playing in the yard. It never ceased to amuse me when I was doing my dishes to see a set of chubby legs wander by and then bend over to reveal a beaming face that begged me to play with him. I knew he wanted me to come play whenever he would start to bang on the window and say “Duh, Duh, Duh!!” (Donloree is a hard name for small children, I decided my nickname of ‘Duh’ was given to me with love and just embraced it.)

When the spring thaw came that year, it came with gusto right into our living room, kitchen and dining room. It was as though we had a waterfall coming from under our kitchen sink. Waterfalls are a lovely and beautiful thing in nature, but not in your living room! We sopped up as much water as possible and tried to ward off the mildew that wanted to settle in. Our landlord, Howard, gave us some helpful advice, “Open up the windows and let the air blow through.” As if I didn’t think of that on my own. His lack of help should have been a sign to us, but we were young, poor and stupid.

That same summer, I hosted my in-laws at our new underground castle. It was a tight squeeze, but we put Jon’s grandma in our room and the other 5 of us found places to sleep wherever there was room. Let’s just say it was cozy… The first morning of their visit, I woke up in my living room, now bedroom and walked the 4 feet to the kitchen only to realize that my socks were suddenly soaking wet. During the night we had a heavy rainfall and the waterfall decided to reappear under the kitchen sink. After waking up the whole house with my loud announcement about the waterfall, I immediately dialed Howard. I was going to deal with him this time. Jon was obviously way too nice the last time nature decided to enter our home uninvited. This time Howard sent over someone to clean the carpet and dry it up for us – thank goodness someone dealt with him firmly! The rest of the time visiting with my in-laws involved dining with huge floor fans blowing our supper about and everyone walking around with their pant legs rolled up, but we made due.

One day, Howard decided to take some action against the waterfall that had taken up residence in our home. Apparently there was an issue with the weeping tiles in the foundation and some sort of protective webbing needed to be put down to keep the waterfall from reappearing. He approached us about taking care of the problem. All we needed to do was dig down to the bottom of the foundation of the house for about 12 feet, put down some of this protective webbing and then put all the dirt back into the massive hole. If we did that he would give us a month’s free rent - $450! So being as young, poor and stupid as we were, we agreed. After all, how hard could it be?

The next day Jon and a friend set out to find the bottom of the house while I was at work. I came home to find they had only made a few feet of progress. I was shocked at the slow progress they were making through the clay. Wouldn’t this be a one day project?! As the days and then the weeks went by, the hole slowly grew. I rather enjoyed the hole because Jon was at eye level with me while he was in the hole and I was in the kitchen. We would chat through the open kitchen window while he dug and I baked. Finally I heard a triumphant yell, “Weeping Tile!!” To the rest of the neighborhood it sounded like he had struck gold. I was so excited at the prospect of seeing the weeping tile that I pulled on my digging clothes and hopped in the hole with him. At this point the top of the hole was at my eyebrows. Jon and I dug like crazy to reveal all the weeping tiles we could find. As we neared completion, a movement on my left caught my attention. When I glanced over, I saw to my horror that the hole was starting to cave in on us. I immediately started to scream and claw my way out of the hole, which caused it to cave in even faster. I made such a huge commotion that the upstairs neighbors came running out and pulled me and Jon out just as the last bit of the hole fell in. We stood there in shock, unable to form proper sentences. It looked like a small earthquake had happened. We were mere seconds away from becoming artifacts for future generations to dig up!!

This event resulted in another terse call from Donloree to Howard. He immediately hired a professional digging company to do the job and they were finished in an afternoon. Even though we didn’t put the special webbing on the weeping tiles, we still got a month of free rent…mostly because I pointed out that we nearly died while in the hole.

Well, we were still young and poor, but not stupid – and it only took this:

to rid us of our stupidity.

What really is...

2007-02-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

Earlier in the year, I worked for the U of A for about 6 weeks in the Faculty of Nursing. I know, I have great stamina when it comes to these new jobs. It was a decent job in many ways – I only had to work 7 hours a day, I got Christmas break off and I was close to Whyte Ave so I could fill my need to shop trendy, urban shops while on my lunch break. The biggest down side was I felt guilty for being really, really healthy…extremely healthy compared to everyone else in the hospital. I worked in a tower attached to the hospital so I had to walk past tons of sick people all day, every day. People were coughing, bleeding, sick and barely managing to push around IV poles while I jauntily went for coffee. It was enough to put a big damper on the morning Starbucks experience! Nor was I good at putting my conscience to rest. One day a woman in a wheel chair was coming back from a smoke and struggling with the front doors – so I offered to help. Well, I nearly killed her trying to push her through the doorways; it was a riotous adventure for her - she had to cling onto the wheel chair for dear life and barely managed to stay seated. Those things are really hard to push with a grande, non-fat, extra hot caramel machiatto in hand! Who knew? I think she would have rather I hadn’t helped in the end….but at least I tried, right?

During my first week there, another woman started with the Faculty of Nursing. She was about 55 years old and had moved here from Toronto with her son to help him pursue his dreams. They had previously come from the Ukraine and only had each other left for family. I met her because we both had to talk with the benefits people and sign 218 forms our first week there and ended up having the same appointment. She was lovely and genteel in so many ways. Her persona was warm and accepting, I could picture her sitting in an elegant garden sipping tea in England, but there she sat across from me while I tried not to go ADHD during the dullest 2 hour meeting of my life about all the employee benefits at the U of A. At one point during this meeting we had to choose who our benefactor would be if and when we die. These are always such uplifting moments in life. I put my husband down and she put down her son. Then the woman told us to check a box so that we could change who our benefactor may be down the road in case something in our relationship changes. I very obediently checked the box. I was half dead at that moment anyway - so who cares? She refused to check the box – why would she ever choose anyone besides her son? She was obviously shocked that someone would ever question her devotion to her son – it was given forever without condition.

She immediately latched onto me and made sure that we went for lunch together once a week and that I caught her up to date on everything that goes on in Edmonton. She asked me questions that I had no answers to – stuff about museums, cultural clubs, housing, grocery shopping, size of the city, kinds of people in the city, the many ways that Edmonton may be different than Toronto – you name it, she probably had a question about it. I found all of this to be very daunting and so I slowly found myself, “very busy” doing not that much on the days that we were supposed to go for lunch. I pulled away from her and eased my conscience by trying on $300 shoes on Whyte Ave that I would never purchase.

Then I got a new job and thought I would never see her again and that my guilt would seep away. In actuality, I’ve run into her several times and found her to be one of the most open, warm and loving people I have talked with in a long, long time. She always hugs me and kisses my cheek when she sees me. She gives her friendship freely and without restraint – just as she does her love for her son. I no longer feel guilt, just regret. I should love and be as she is, because she is as Jesus is.

Real Estate or Fake Estate?

2007-01-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

As I continue to look for a home to purchase, I have broadened my requirements. No longer do I only want a 3 bedroom home with 1.5 bathrooms, a dining room and a decent sized living room and kitchen. I want even more! I want a home that has an actual kitchen, not a sink and 3 cupboards with a refrigerator in the living room. The bathroom has to not clash; a tub that has a cream glaze peeling away to reveal the original candy apple red color with a non-matching mustard colored toilet is over the top.

The basement must have a cement floor – basement floors that are made of dirt and have a hole in the ground that could go all the way to China only hastily covered by a piece of plywood, are not acceptable. I draw the line there. They even had the laundry down there! What woman would go do laundry down there? As soon as I went down, I came right back up – it was a very, very scary place! I also need to be able to stand up straight in the ‘den’ found in the basement. I am not an extremely tall woman, and if I have to stoop over to change the channels on the TV down there, it doesn’t qualify as a room of any sort.

Railings for open staircases have to be taller than 2 feet. There’s nothing quite like climbing a set of rickety stairs and having to bend over to hold onto the railing. My one and half foot tall niece is that only one that would find this railing useful. If the master bedroom is a ‘loft’ there must be more than one small window in the ‘loft’, the staircase going up needs have less of an incline than Mount Everest and you shouldn’t arrive in the kitchen upon decent. Although, if you can make it down the stairs without falling it would be convenient for midnight snacking!

And no longer shall I be duped by realtor mumbo jumbo! For all of you looking for a home, here’s a translation of what they are really saying so you don’t waste your time looking at horrible homes:

Investor’s Special! – Dump your hard earned money here!
First time home buyer’s special – Cheap, poorly constructed and no one has ever taken care of it. Run while you can!
Cottage – Ridiculously small.
Quaint – Old and falling apart.
Handy man’s special – Everything on the inside is broken and needs replacing.
Lovely / Gorgeous – Has multi-colored mold growing behind the tub surround and in the basement.
Character home – This home will build your character…
Great rental property – We’ve been renting it out for years! Don’t fix it up and let some poor people that can’t afford to purchase their own home live here and deal with the chaos you may or may not choose to fix.
Newly painted on the inside – The outside of the house is rotting away and you have to replace the siding and roof the day after you move in.
Excellent Opportunity – For us, that is…ahem…not you the home buyer!
Fixer Upper – At least they are being honest. I almost want to go just to see how a fixer upper is different than a “Character home”. I appreciate that they aren’t being covert about how much the house is lacking.
Ready to move into – The previous homeowners were evicted and the house was condemned, but you could move in as soon as you dump 30k into updating it so that it can pass the health inspection.
Newer wiring and hot water tank – It was updated around 1940. It’s newer than the house, so I guess technically they’re not lying….
Look no further – This listing usually doesn’t have a photo available, and after you’ve looked you won’t look any further due to the depression about the state of the homes that you’ve looked at so far.

Tag - You're It!

2007-01-22T23:43:00.000-07:00

Why is it that clothes manufacturers are obsessive compulsive about putting at least 4 or more tags on each garment to tell you what size it is? They seem to think that you will somehow forget the size if only the tag on the inside of the shirt that is sewn in carries this crucial information. Apparently, you need a tag to tell you about the fabric of the item, two different tags that tell you the size placed in strategic locations e.g. the waist band and the pocket, a security tag usually in a most inconvenient location that you have to remove prior to wearing/washing and my most favorite – the large 6 inch by 1.5 inch clear sticker that repeatedly tells you the size in multiple languages.

One day I was happily wearing a new pair of pants and received glances from several men and women – mostly looking at my behind. I didn’t know if I should be flattered that the pants were causing such a stir, or be upset that people had become so brazen. I just shrugged and went back to work, attended meetings, went out for lunch, took the bus home and chatted happily to a fellow co-worker while waiting for the bus. All in all, it was a very good day.

When I got home, I hung up my new pants in the closet only to notice that my butt had been announcing its size in both Spanish and English all day long! Grande, Large, Grande, Large Grande, LARGE!! Oh my holy graciousness, no one told me about it all day long – no wonder I was getting so many glances! I was officially mortified! If they had at least had the decency to snicker, I might have picked up on what was happening before 5 pm that night! Unfortunately, in this context ‘Grande’ was not referring to a medium size, like at Starbucks, it was just referring to HUGE!

The sticker had actually been removed from the front of the pant leg, but it somehow affixed itself to the rear end of my new pants. Perhaps it happened when I sat down on my bed. I don’t know; it’s all unclear to me. The mental anguish of this situation has caused lapses in my memory. The one thing I do know is that no woman needs the size of her butt announced in multiple languages all day long!

I have one question for all of society: Why didn’t you tell me??!?!

If you ever, ever, ever see a woman running around with a clear sticker stuck to her butt loudly announcing its size – TELL HER ABOUT IT!! I don’t care if you don’t know her or you think she will react in a hostile manner to you pointing out her butt – just do it! Once the shock and embarrassment wears off, she will thank you profusely, even if you aren’t around to hear about it.

I'm Banking On It!

2007-01-18T14:44:00.000-07:00

As my husband nears the completion of school in April and the stress of being closer to 30 than 20 looms, I made a decision. I decided that we should be more grown up. We should purchase a home and stop living in other people’s basements and cast off homes. With this thought in my mind, I joyfully logged onto the MLS website to see what homes were currently available in a normal person’s price range. (Although I am not normal, I operate on a normal person’s budget.) My once joy-filled heart sank as the only normal-priced homes available were one bedroom ‘condos’. I don’t know if these homes can even be considered condos. They are apartment buildings that are being renovated into condos – which means that they are going to finally rip out the shag carpet from 1963, put in a plastic tub surround in the bathroom, replace the matching olive colored stove/fridge duo and perhaps tile the mini-galley kitchen. And they are selling these one bedroom ‘condos’ for $200,000!! Somehow living in a castoff home seems better than sharing all my walls, ceilings and floors with someone else and having to save all my quarters for the shared, yet oh so convenient laundry facilities just down the hall.

Finally, I found a house that I could love. It had 10 foot ceilings, a wrap around porch, a den, a breakfast room, 3 bedrooms, a stone fireplace, lovely bathrooms with marble counter tops and it was only a mere *cough* $267,000 . Although I knew there was no possible way the Hoffmans would be able to purchase the home, I grabbed my friend and off we went to view it. Within 30 seconds of walking in the front door, I fell madly in love with it. I made the poor real estate man stay there for two hours while I ranted and raved my ecstatic feelings for the old farm house built in 1917. The basement foundation was still in great shape, but it seemed to be at odds with the rest of the house. There seemed to be a falling out of some kind – the porch was desperately trying to leave the relationship by falling off the front of the house and the rest of the house had angrily shifted a few feet to the left. I left saddened that not only I could not afford the house in the first place, but that I would have to dump another $30,000 into it to save it from toppling over and stop the leaking in the roof.

I went home dejected, yet determined to be able to purchase a home one day. Suddenly, I got the brilliant idea to go to the bank to talk to them about how to purchase a home – after all, I would eventually need them to fork out the cash, right? I dislike banks and try to avoid them. I always feel ridiculous trying to sort out finances with people that know everything about anything financial. I never know the correct answer to their questions.

Banker – So with this RRSP do you plan on trading Options and Futures?
Donloree – Umm…uh…well, what would you do?
Banker – It’s up to you, it’s your choice.
Donloree – Well, I suppose so. I didn’t know that I had an option to trade futures with other people. Is Bill Gates’ future still up for grabs?
Banker – So, that’s a no then. Ok. Next question.
Donloree – Uh, yeah, next question…

Since I had to go talk to a banker, I decided to do my best to come across as put together, professional and very smart about all things financial. I put on my demure, “yes, I am a business woman and should not be trifled with due to my high level of sophistication” look, a nice outfit and high heels and went confidently into the bank. Everyone took notice – mostly because those danged heels are so loud with the tile floors and high ceilings!! I didn’t let it faze me though - I went in, got an appointment with a banker, walked over, shook her hand while looking her straight in the eye. I was prepared and ready to face her many questions while she opened up all of my personal financial information.

After all my preparation, she turned out to be the nicest possible banker in the whole wide world. She even laughed with me, not at me – nor was she demeaning in any way to our meager beginnings at trying to scrape together a down payment and pay off all our student loans. I didn’t have to start fasting and praying that she would be nice and help us out. I went home thankful and blessed that we are on the road towards getting our own home, not having to share laundry with anyone and perhaps having an actual yard to relax in during the summer and spring. Oh yeah, and most important – no more corner lot to shovel in the winter time!

Cold, oh so very cold...

2007-01-11T11:54:00.000-07:00

It’s ridiculously cold today. It’s a balmy -30 Celsius without a wind chill. The breath was wrenched out of my body when I stepped out of my front door this morning. I popped in a menthol cough drop on my way out this morning since I have a severe cold. On a normal day, it brings about a rush of fresh, cool air running through your lungs – on an arctic day your lungs seize and get a ‘brain freeze’ for about 30 seconds. Once my lungs thawed enough to gasp in some regular air, I ran to the bus shelter so that I didn’t end up a frozen lawn ornament. At this point in my morning I had two stunning revelations:

When it gets this cold outside people still go to work, kids go to school, stores are open and cars still work – society doesn’t cease to function.
Some people actually choose to live here – and I am one of them! What am I thinking?!??

When I first moved to Edmonton, it was summer time. It was nice, hot and the days were long and idyllic – that’s how people get sucked in! I don’t think anyone moves here in January. I recall walking through a parking lot my during my first week of living here and wondering why there were plug-ins all over the place. I merely shrugged and thought it was a Canadian oddity since I had never seen such a thing in America. Now I know it’s so that you can plug your car in because it gets so cold here that your car will turn into a block of ice if you don’t! I should have asked questions, and then turned tail and ran from the cold. This is my ninth winter here and I’m still shocked. I know, I’m a slow learner…

This morning as I walked towards my office building downtown, a well dressed man came up and asked me how well I knew Edmonton. I thought he was looking for an office building downtown or something like that. Apparently, he arrived this morning on the Grey Hound and needed to get to 149 Avenue and 97 Street. Unfortunately, his luggage got put on the wrong bus and he had to hike there without a toque (for all you Americans reading this, a toque is a stocking hat and it’s pronounced two-kuh) or scarf and only a medium weight coat. He was currently on 100 Avenue and 101 Street. It would take me about 2 hours on a summer day to make the trek; there was no way this man was going to survive. As I fished in my bag for some money to give him for a bus ride, my hand froze. I am not over stating this (as I am sometimes known to do), my hand actually had no feeling after being exposed to the elements for a mere 90 seconds! All I did was give this man $2.25, tell him to take the number 9 bus and ask the bus driver what bus to take after the number 9. Why didn’t I buy him coffee at the Starbucks we were standing in front of? Why didn’t I ask more questions and help him out more? Perhaps the cold froze my brain this morning – I wasn’t thinking straight. Now I can’t stop thinking about this man and his trek through the arctic without any of his belongings – I hope he makes it and that someone more coherent helped him out along the way.

New Things in the New Year

2007-01-02T22:05:00.000-07:00

A man came up with the idea of skiing – I am absolutely sure of it. I don’t know many women that would come up with the idea of strapping long boards to your feet, climbing thousands of feet up a sheer mountainside and then sliding down as fast as possible while trying to avoid trees, cliffs and other natural speed bumps and then doing it more than once in a lifetime with only two thin poles to assist you in not dying. I know many women that enjoy this sport – but I don’t think that I am one of them.

For New Years this year my husband and I went on a ski trip with his school to Kicking Horse Resort in Golden, BC. It was a last minute addition to our holidays, but it was FREE! I love free things, so I agreed after a few moments of contemplation. Then I promptly went out and purchased some snow pants, gloves, ski socks and a few other cold weather necessities since I start to freeze whenever the temperature drops below -8 Celsius. I realized that I would be spending some quality time face to face with immense amounts of snow, so I decided to be prepared! Any excuse to shop really.

Jon and I heard that snow blades are the way to go – so we each rented a pair on the mountain and strapped them on. Once we were all ready to start skiing I immediately had to go to the washroom. I started the hike across the lodge in my ski boots. When you rent your skis for the first time, you should have to participate in a class called, "Walking in You Boots Without Making a Fool of Yourself". You have absolutely no mobility from your big toe to your mid calf – it’s extremely difficult to not look ridiculous while walking. I clomped awkwardly and very loudly across the lodge and nearly tumbled down the stairs about three times before I reached the bottom.

Finally Jon and I started skiing…or I thought we did. We started down a hill of about a five degree incline close to the ski lift. I started to scream and panic. Jon started to sigh. We saw a ski class in action 30 feet up the small slope so I laboriously side stepped close enough to covertly eavesdrop until it became obvious that I was doing everything they were doing only 10 feet behind them. The ski instructor gave me a nasty glare, so I decided it was best to move on.

After a few more times down my ‘practice hill’, we started up the ski lift. Why don’t people explain things to you? Do I look like a woman that knows what she is doing? The ski lift has a safety bar that you are supposed to pull down so that you don’t fall off the lift. How are you supposed to know about this blessed safety feature if no one tells you? Jon and I traveled thousands of feet up the side of a mountain hanging hundreds of feet above the earth wearing slippery pants without the safety bar in place. I clung onto the side rail for dear life and tried not to lose my poles or blades. I even made a comment about how a safety bar would make the ride up the mountain way less stressful. The worst part was when the lift would stop and start to rock back and forth – it felt like we were a mere quick stop away from learning how to ‘heli-ski’ – I definitely didn’t want to learn that on my first real skiing adventure. The last time I ‘skied’ was when I was 14 years old with my youth group at Crystal Mountain. I stuck to the bunny hill and the rope tow. I eventually got up enough nerve to try a hill at the end of the day, but ended up using my skis like a sled and slid down the hill on my butt. Looking back, I realize that day can’t actually be classified as skiing. Everyone who I told this was my first day of skiing grimaced and shook their heads and told me that Kicking Horse is an expert mountain and wished me luck. Thanks. If there is one thing I am not, it’s an expert at skiing.

Once we managed not to slip off the lift and arrived at the top of the Catamount lift I had a small scale panic attack. I realized that I had to go down the hill on the boards I had happily strapped to my feet just an hour earlier. I desperately wanted Jon and I to have a happy couple experience, so I tried to smile and to ski across the hill. It took me about 15 minutes of skiing back and forth while trying to keep the panic down to make about 300 feet of progress. Jon, my husband from Saskatchewan (the flattest Province in Canada), patiently coached his stricken wife from Washington (a mountainous region in America) on the finer points of how to ski without sliding face first down the mountain. We continued our slow, very painful progress until we reached a part of the run that had a cliff off the left side and a rock wall on the right side with a steep incline. I started to slide quickly towards the cliff, so I desperately turned towards the rock face and went completely out of control – I bailed and went face first into the snow and nearly ran into the rock. Both of my ski blades flew off and I and started to shake uncontrollably from overwhelming fear and then broke down into hysterical sobbing. People we knew skied by and waved happily. Jon and I averted our faces.

My husband convinced me that it was best to keep skiing and that we couldn’t stay at that location indefinitely…no matter how warm my snow pants were. I think what really got me going was the snowboarders that kept jumping off the cliff above me and nearly landing on me. There was no safe place on the stupid mountain! After what felt like an eternity, we finally reached a point where we could see the lodge and only had a thousand or so feet to go. Earlier on the mountain I had thought this moment would be a happy one, but unfortunately for me it was a steep section of the mountain and there was nowhere to go but down. I completely lost it – tears of terror started to run down my face and I started to sob uncontrollably. I decided the best course of action was to take off my skis and slide down the last thousand feet on my butt right underneath the chair lift. After wrapping myself around one of the posts holding up the ski lift, I took off my skis and started to slide down the hill in my slippery pants. Skiers and snowboarders stopped to watch what the crazy, sobbing woman was doing. Fortunately, once again, Jon convinced me to put the skis back on for safety reasons. When I reached the bottom of the hill after 2 hours of painstaking work that would normally take about 30 minutes for an average skier, I just sat there and cried with relief. Jon just sat there bewildered.

We took a lunch break and worked on getting me to be able to breathe normally. Skiers are such friendly people! Normally I would have loved talking to the people that were there from all over the world. One woman asked how the skiing was and I couldn’t help it, I started to cry. She seemed to think that my boots were hurting my feet – I let her think that, it was less shameful than tell her that I was scared to death of the mountain. I decided it was best not to talk to anyone since I couldn't do it without crying. I just kept my eyes on the ground and tried to overcome my fear.

After another hour or so, I decided to try skiing down the mountain again. After all, I’m not a quitter! This time was better, I didn’t cry (even though I really wanted to) – but I still couldn’t stop without falling over. Once again, I guess I need the basics explained to me. Heck as if I know which ski is the downhill ski!! Apparently I had it mixed up and that was why I was unable to stop. If you put all your weight on the downhill ski – there is absolutely no way you can stop, you just keep sliding forward. How was I supposed to know which ski was the downhill ski? This sporting stuff just does not come naturally to me!!

I wanted Jon not to have a horrible ski experience with me, so I went up a third time – I even remembered to breathe and use the safety bar on the lift. We had an hour to get down the mountain. I thought that this was a reasonable amount of time since the previous time was done in less than 2 hours. Due to my mini panic attacks and falling over it took longer than expected and our departure time was looming. There was a distinct chance that we would miss our bus taking us the 15 kilometers down the mountain to our hotel. After such an epic day of skiing, the last thing I wanted to do was miss the bus ride to the hotel. We had to hurry – there was no choice but for me to go as fast as womanly possible down the steep part of the mountain. I nearly took out 3 small children and a snowboarder in my uncontrolled screaming descent down the hill. The screaming notified the more advanced skiers of my arrival and they promptly got out of the way. When I arrived at the bottom of the hill I enthusiastically ripped off my skis and happily gave them back to the rental shop. We caught the bus just as it was ready to leave. I sunk into my seat, glad that I hadn’t died during my first day of real skiing.

Let’s be honest, skiing just isn’t for me.

If these things happen to you, skiing may not the sport for you either:

You break out into a cold sweat when you start to slide down a miniscule incline that isn’t even part of the actual mountain.
You ask the ski lift operator at the bottom of the hill if you can take the lift back down if you are too afraid to ski down.
When someone asks you how your day of skiing is going, you break down sobbing and are unable to form proper sentences.
You skiing partner who is as inexperienced as you are starts to ski backwards, encouraging you to move towards him down the hill.
It takes you 5 times longer than the average skier to get down the mountain.
You find yourself sitting in a snow drift, praying for the end of the world to come so that you don’t have to finish going down the mountain.
And finally, the day after skiing the sorest parts of your body are your hands from your death grip on the ski poles.

What's in a name?

2006-12-05T10:49:00.000-07:00

My name is unique. Donloree. I used to be Donloree Dickau and I grew up in Puyallup – let’s all pause here and say a collective, “Wow!”.

I love my name and have never wanted a different name. Unfortunately, my name is complex. People seem to always think that ‘Loree’ is my last name, especially over the phone. I am constantly explaining that it’s all one big name, one big first name. My name also puts people into a stunned moment of shock when they first hear it. A look of confusion and a thought of, “What the heck did she just say?” runs across their face before they can cover it up. This continues to humor me, and it’s been happening for over 25 years!

My biggest frustration about my name is that everyone tells me how unique it is and then proceeds to ask me what the story is behind my name. If my name was something like, oh say - Sharon, no one would ever ask me that. This conversation would never happen to ‘Sharon’ on her first day of work:

New co-worker – Hi, it’s great to finally meet you, my name is Fred. We’re very excited to have you on board here at the office
Sharon – Thanks. I’m glad to be here.
New co-worker – I’ve been meaning to ask you, where did you get such a beautiful name? There has got to be some story behind it. Did a man named Ron share something with your family around the time of your birth and your parents created the name ‘Sharon” because what Ron shared was so meaningful? Or something even better? Do tell, I can’t wait to hear!
Sharon – Umm…no. My mom saw the name, really liked it and so they named me Sharon. That’s about it.
New co-worker – Oh…I see…

When I got married my last name changed to Hoffman, which I thought would be less problematic than Dickau because people have actually heard of it! In elementary school whenever there was a substitute teacher, I knew when they came to my name because there was a huge, pregnant pause in the D section of the roll call. I would usually pipe of with a “Here!” before they could muster up enough courage to slaughter my name. I thought that this new last name of “Hoffman” would lead to fewer questions about the origin of my name. But as per usual, I was wrong. Now everyone asks me if I know some Hoffman out in some small rural town. Unfortunately, I don't know anyone, I married into the family!!

Since my first name tends to be really confusing for people, I try to make life easier for everyone involved. At restaurants and other public places that require your name, I have been known to give a name that isn’t my own.

Penelope. This seemed like a reasonable name – known, yet not extremely common. Penelope seemed like a good compromise of normalcy and uniqueness all rolled into one. Unfortunately, the 15 year old girl that took my name down at Tony Roma’s apparently didn’t pass spelling. She seemed highly confused, and after my third explanation of how to spell it I gave up and let her spell it “Paneloppie”.
Cherise. I love this name, I think it’s an absolutely beautiful name. After the more normal name, Penelope, didn’t work out I decided to go with a different unique name. So the next time I had to call and make a reservation I gave ‘Cherise” as my name. Note: make sure to know how to spell your fake name when you give it. You come across as very flaky when you don’t know how to spell your own name.
Susan. This is a great name to give. It’s common, no one asks you how to spell it and there is no story to go along with it. Although if you are at a busy Starbucks it can lead to severe confusion. The woman that is actually named Susan may inadvertently steal your beverage and then be very upset because they made the wrong drink for her. So much customer dissatisfaction just because I didn’t want to spell my name loudly four times and then listen to the barista stumble over it 3 minutes later.
Matilda. At Lulu Lemon they require a name when you go try things on. They write your name on a white board that is attached to your door. I just didn’t feel comfortable having my name being displayed for the whole ‘luon’ wearing community to see, so I stated that my name was Matilda. I kept an extremely straight face and even acted appropriately offended that the change room woman was trying not to burst into giggles because my name was Matilda.

I used to work with a man named Roger that pronounced my name, “Dawn-Lori”. His quirky pronunciation was noted by many people, but no matter how many times people told him the correct pronunciation of my name is “Dawn-lah-ree” he continued with the “Dawn-Lori”. This annoyed me to no end, I thought the best way to combat this was to pronounce his name, “Row-Ger”, unfortunately I never got up enough nerve to say it to his face. Although many, many people came to refer to him as “Row-Ger” over the years I worked with him.

I have always wondered if my name has contributed to my quirkiness or if it had something to do with the fact that while my mom was pregnant with me, she tripped and ended up rolling down a somewhat large cliff at a beach on the West Coast. I guess we’ll never know. All I do know is that a girl with the name Donloree Dickau that grew up in Puyallup could never ever end up normal!

Twins

2006-11-05T16:07:00.000-07:00

One day in the middle of Spring, my husband asked me what I was wearing on Friday. This question stopped me dead in my tracks. Why would Jon ask me about what I was planning on wearing in two days time? He never, ever cares about what I wear or what he wears for that matter. This question alerted me to ask, “Why, what’s happening on Friday?” He responded with, “It’s the Celebrate NAIT banquet at the Hotel MacDonald.”

For those of you that don’t know what the Hotel MacDonald is in Edmonton, don’t be misled – there are no giant slides, hamburgers or Fry Guys. The Hotel MacDonald is one of the fanciest places in Edmonton…it slightly resembles a castle. When the Queen comes to visit, this is where she stays – she even has a suite reserved just for her at all times. Needless to say, I went into near cardiac shock. I finally managed to sputter out, “I have nothing to wear! Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?!” Jon didn’t understand my reaction because for a man, this was more than sufficient notice. Men only have to choose a shirt and tie to wear with their suit, which always fits even if they did eat a chocolate bar every afternoon last week at work to help them get through the day. Women, on the other hand, have to coordinate their dress with shoes, earrings, accessories and perhaps even the dreaded nylons all while squeezing into “foundational garments”. I only had two days to find something that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in if the Queen decided to show up, talk about stress!

I know that many women state that they have nothing to wear, but it was actually the truth – I had nothing to wear. I didn’t own a dress, well except for my wedding dress and it would just be weird to wear a large white satin dress with a crinoline to this event. So I did the only thing I knew to do – I declared a state of emergency at the Hoffman house. Then I called my girlfriend and explained the current crisis to her – she was at my house in 8 minutes flat to help me scourer Edmonton, and if necessary, Northern Alberta for an appropriate dress to wear. My husband is the President of the NAIT Student Association, so I knew that I would have to find something head table-worthy. We immediately headed out to Whyte Avenue to find something trendy, interesting and perhaps expensive. After all, it really would be Jon’s fault if I had to drop $400 on a dress – with only two days’ notice I had to do what I had to do.

We headed into Avenue Clothing with determination and focus and began to methodically search their one of kind clothes. I tried on 17 different dresses, some obviously not my style, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The very last dress that I tried on fit perfectly and was on sale! This never, ever happens – I think even God felt bad that I didn’t have a dress to wear. It was a beautiful chocolate brown color with large teal flowers splashed on it. It looked great on me and would work perfectly for the event. While in the change room with the dress still over my head, I yelled out in exuberance to my friend, “It’s just so great that I found a one of a kind dress that fits and is affordable! Knowing me, I would have to purchase a dress that every woman in the world has and show up to find some other woman wearing my dress, but not with this one!” I’m not sure if she could make out the muffled shouting, but she agreed wholeheartedly. Since the shopping trip was so successful, we went out for expensive coffee and chatted happily.

On the night of the event, I rushed home early from work to do my hair, fix my makeup and put on my one of a kind dress. By the time Jon arrived home, I was feeling sassy and all ready to go. He rushed to get ready as well and then we were off to Hotel MacDonald. I was feeling like we were on an expensive date, but we didn’t have to pay for anything! How great was that? Jon even dropped my off at the front door and some man in an expensive suit opened the door for me and took my coat. It was decadent. I felt like a movie star (note: the scene doesn’t include our old rusty sputtering Chevy Cavalier). I sat and chatted with two of Jon’s Vice Presidents while we waited for the third, Lars-Erik, to show up with his girlfriend.

Finally, Lars-Erik came through the revolving door with Sabrina. I stood to meet them, only to have the breath knocked out of me. My very trendy, one-of-a-kind dress was walking towards me with a splash of curly red hair arm in arm with Lars-Erik. My mouth flopped open in a very un-feminine way and I stuttered and stammered trying to get some words out. Everyone in the room stopped to see what would happen next, it was turning tense and not one word had been spoken.

Once I got my mouth snapped back into place, I introduced myself and stated that she had great fashion sense. She seemed extremely relieved that I didn’t freak out on the outside like we both were obviously doing on the inside. Suddenly, my husband popped back into the room and stated loudly, “Cool, you and Sabrina have the same dress. Awesome.” Yeah…it’s awesome if we were twins and 4 years old, but we were neither of those things. My plan to not do anything embarrassing if the Queen decided to drop by was no longer an option.

For the rest of the night, we both tried to make the best out wearing the exact same dress since there was no repairing the obvious damage. My only thought to fix the problem was to superglue our butts together and be conjoined twins for the rest of the evening. It had the possibility to make things a tad bit less weird or even weirder still. We both opted to pretend that it wasn’t actually happening and stood side by side with dignity.

I think what really happened was that I jinxed myself in the midst of my exuberance at finding a ‘one of a kind’ dress. Next time something great happens to me, I will keep my thoughts to myself and not announce them to a whole store filled with shoppers!

The Look of Busy

2006-10-05T16:45:00.000-06:00

Just the other day I was riding the train home from the University and noticed an ad up for Diana Krall's CD - "Look of Love". She was obviously displaying this look while posing for the picture. I don't have this look. When I rise out of bed like she was, I have the look of frumpled (that would be frumpy and crumpled working together). Since I don’t have this “Look of Love”, I pondered on the looks that I do have – and one popped into my mind right away. While working for the government these past few years, I have had to develop and hone the “Look of Busy”.

The “Look of Busy” is a necessary evil while working for the government. During my first few months at the government, I kept asking for more work, completing things way before they were due always let people know that I had more time to do more things. These actions were met with scorn and disdain. I quickly came to realize that the government enjoyed moving at the pace of a water buffalo and so I had to slow right down and meet the expectation of not getting much done. It’s so opposite from the real world of work! If you ask for more work or complete your projects on time or *GASP* before they are due, people start to think you are slightly dull and perhaps mentally challenged. After all, the work is just “so hard and complex”. Obviously, the only reason I was finishing on time or early was because I wasn’t doing it correctly and I am dumb. So, in an act of self preservation, I developed the “Look of Busy”.

What does the “Look of Busy” look like? It’s a complex look that takes years to perfect.

Stage 1 – Develop a furrowed brow while people talk to you and give you work.

Stage 2 – Bring 5 inch binders shoved full of useless documents printed from the internet to all meetings and shuffle through them constantly. Make sure to mutter intermittedly and take copious notes at the meeting. Some people have found that loud, mournful sighing helps.

Stage 3 – Create a disarray of papers, file folders and reports on your desk that have no use whatsoever. People will steer clear of your desk because you are already working so hard!

Stage 4 – When management gives you new things to do, give extended project deadlines: “Well, that would take a non-busy person about 3 weeks to complete…today’s February 12….taking my workload into consideration *SIGH*…I could probably get it to you by September 1. I hope that works, it’s the best I can do.”

Stage 5 – Create non meetings to fill up your calendar so that when people go to book a meeting with you your schedule is completely booked up. Put the most unimportant things you do in your calendar. Some people that have earned the equivalent of a PhD in the “Look of Busy” have calendars like this:
8:30 – 9:00 – Arrive at work (late)
9:00 – 10:00 - Fill water bottle from water cooler on opposite side of the floor and see how everyone is doing on the way back.
10:00 - 10:30 - Coffee break
10:30 – 12:00 – Check email, make personal phone calls to relatives in different countries and pay bills.
12:00 – 1:30 – Extended lunch
1:30 – 3:00 – Print off useless documents from the internet and shuffle papers
3:00 - 3:30 - Another coffee break
3:30 – 4:15 – Do a few moments of actual work and turn it in late due to the ‘hectic schedule” of all government employees.
4:15 – 4:30 – Leave work (early)

Now, I only made it to Stage 3 of the “Look of Busy” and I found it wore on my soul! Imagine how it would be to work there for 35 years! Apparently the pension really helps…or so they say. Most of them could tell me exactly how many minutes they had left before their blessed pension kicked in. Now, all I can do is feel sorry for them as they work diligently at not working.

Not For the Faint of Heart

2006-09-14T12:05:00.000-06:00

I went to a step aerobics class once...notice how I stated that I only went once. Step aerobics has become a once in a lifetime experience for me. Now, there are two different kinds of "once in a lifetime experiences", ones that you cherish and hold close for a lifetime - such as going to the Taj Mahal, seeing the pyramids or meeting someone famous and the other kind are anything but cherished. This second category of "once in a lifetime experiences" are events in your life that you desperately pray never happen again, in fact you go out of your way to make sure that they never, ever happen again. You commit whatever resources, time and energy it takes to ensure that they remain a "once in a lifetime experience".

My very brave friend invited me to go to the local YMCA with her to spend our evening in a step aerobics class. She promised that the class was beginner friendly and easy for everyone of all levels of fitness, it was a class that she really enjoyed going to. With her vow of a good time, I grabbed my Nikes and sweat pants and we were on our way. Looking back, I am unsure as to why I agreed to go with her…that part of my memory is fuzzy and remains a mystery to me. I followed her with a blind faith and abandonment - after all, she had no fear of taking me with her...what an naive woman!

Upon arrival, I noticed that I was severely out of place. Everyone else seemed to know each other and no one offered their gift of friendship to me. Perhaps it was because I was in oversized sweat pants and wearing Ronald McDonald t-shirt that I got years ago when I was a teenager working at McDonalds. I didn’t own any clothing with lycra, and even if I did I definitely wasn't about to wear it in public! I held back hoping the class would start soon.

Suddenly the gym fell silent as our lithe instructor fully clad in spandex walked in. She shouted in a very peppy voice to the class, "Good evening everyone! Please come and pick out your step and l..e..t..'s g...e...t STARTED!" While she bounced around at the front, I headed over to pick out a step - who knew there were choices? I was late getting to the step selection location and the only step left was very large and extremely purple. This step was the mother of all steps...I think that Andre the Giant is the only person that could use this step with ease. I had no other choice and so I took it hoping that God would somehow lengthen my legs for this class. By the time that I realized that the mammoth purple step was my only choice, the rest of the class was already in position, ready to follow the poster girl for spandex to better fitness. I started to hurry towards the back of the class with my step in tow. Apparently I was going too quickly for the gym floor, because it suddenly formed a speed bump of some kind to slow me down, which I promptly tripped over. My body started to hurl towards the earth and I promptly let go of my gianormous purple step and screamed for help. Do you know that a large purple step clattering across a YMCA gym floor is a deafening sound? I was unable to hear properly for days following.

After retrieving myself and the enormous purple step, I meekly walked towards the back of the class, hoping to become anonymous. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option, since the whole class had turned, wide eyed to watch my progress with the gym floor. I humbly took my position in the back row. Even the instructor seemed at a loss of what to do next. Apparently, it is quite uncouth to throw your step across the gym floor and fall over screaming prior to the start to class. I should have realized that this was only the start of class and that I should turn tail and run before I lost all of my dignity.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the instructor recovered from her shock and started the class. "Kick one two three, over the box, whee!!" she announced while leaping over her step, hands gracefully flying in the air. As I attempted the graceful leap over the step my hands flew into the air as well, mostly to keep me from falling over and starting a domino effect in the class. It seemed that no matter what I did in the class, I was never with the class. I was constantly running around the step trying to get on the right side of the step to do some sort of lunging event just to realize that the whole class had moved over the other side of the step. I felt like a dog chasing her tail – it’s a never ending process and you keep going in circles while people watch you make a fool out of yourself. Let’s just say that my circling the mammoth purple step resulted in less than a superb work out. At the end of class I was merely dizzy and embarrassed.

The next week when my friend wanted me to go to class with her again..I was somehow too busy to attend. It was just really too bad...I had such a great experience the week before. All I know is that there should be some sort of clumsiness assessment guide you take prior to enrolling in a step aerobics class. They could have to take the test before the start of class and if you score a 5 or more out of 6, you should not be able to take the class.

Clumsiness Assessment Guide

Please answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to the following questions – 1 point for ‘Yes’ answers and zero points for ‘No’ answers.

1. Have you ever tripped over something non-existent in public? (e.g. a crack in the sidewalk)

2. Is your purse a menace to all displays in department stores and needs to be checked at the door?

3. Do you have a history of tripping up escalators and riding up to the next floor on your face?

4. Have you ever lost your shoes and tripped over a curb while crossing the street at a busy intersection downtown and inadvertently stopped traffic?

5. Would be people you know well be concerned about your personal safety if you picked up a new hobby such as cycling due to your past clumsiness history?

6. Do you blurt out ridiculous comments that you wish you could cram back into your face once they’ve been stated at least once a day?

0 – 1 points – Step Freely! Book yourself in as many step aerobics classes as you want and flaunt your coordination to everyone else in the class.

2 – 3 points – Step Cautiously. Try one class and see what happens. It is unlikely that you will be cursed with a step aerobics mishap, but give special care and consideration while in class.

4 – 5 points – Step Fearfully….be afraid, be very afraid of what may possibly happen if you go to a step aerobics class. There is a 20% chance that nothing crazy will happen to you, but you do want to take that chance??!?!

6 points – Don’t Step!! We must be twins separated at birth! Whatever you do – avoid all group exercise classes, they are a threat to your health and the health of others!

Queen of the Typos

2006-09-13T09:07:00.000-06:00

I think that I deserve the title - Queen of the Typos. I make the most ridiculous typos and some days they are just completely hilarious!

Just yesterday I had a job interview and was really nervous about the whole event and feeling quite nauseated. I decided to email my husband about it so that he could commiserate with me. In the email I stated that I was so nervous that I that I want to "bark". I obviously meant to type, "barf", but "bark" just came out. Can you imagine if I actually barked when I was nervous?!

Frightened Stranger on the Street - "Um...excuse me sir, is...is that woman barking over there?"
My Husband - "Uh, yeah...appears so..."
Frightened Stranger on the Street - "Do you think she's ok? Perhaps we should call Alberta Hospital and see if anyone has escaped lately. That would be the responsible citizen thing to do, don't you think?"
My Husband - "Nah, she's just nervous - she always wants to bark when she gets nervous - it just happens sometimes."
Frightened Stranger on the Street (backing away slowly) - "I see...."

Another time I was telling my mom about all the things that I was doing and how I couldn't seem to keep up with the madness in my life. So I announced to her in email, "I am just so busty!!" Obviously, I meant to tell her that I was busy, not make a statement about my bustline. She just told me to get over myself!

Well at least they are humourous and keep people laughing....

Crossroads

2006-08-05T23:19:00.000-06:00

I found myself at a crossroads the other day - at a place that I have never been before. I found myself in the hair products aisle at the local grocery store, more specifically, I found myself in the hair dye section. This is a place I had passed many times before, but never dwelt in previously. I am only 26 years old, but find myself with an extreme amount of wizened, grey hair…so much so that my coworkers have commented on the amount of it. Apparently it is nothing to worry about - if only I was 49 years of age! So the other today with this comment rolling around in my head, I decided to peruse the selection of hair dyes that might lessen my semi-elderly appearance.

Do you know that there are a hundred and one different hair dyes you can purchase?! How do you subjugate your hair to a mere number and ridiculous name? I could have been No. 4, Sun kissed Melon or a No. 26 Cinnamon Twist, or No. 36, Smooth Ebony. How do you choose? Do you choose according to your personality? If you are a bit silly, do you choose the melon, or if you are spicy do you have to go with the cinnamon? I found this so confusing! Since they didn't have a color named "Donloree", which would have been preferential, I decided to go with no. 21, Burnt Almond. After all, I am a bit nutty and have been burnt a few times in my life, I thought this hair color was truly descriptive of who I am! Besides, the cover had a peppy-looking woman on it that appeared to be really enjoying the hair dye experience. How could I forgo such an exhilarating experience??!?

The little boxes promise so much, but how can I be sure that what they promise will really happen? One of the boxes was out right away - they promised to chase away all my grey hair! I mean, I don't really like them, but if they all get chased away I won't have any hair left! Having no hair left would be a bad choice for me, worse that keeping the grey hair I currently have. I also decided that the grey hair is giving me more volume since they are much thicker than my normal hair and have a tendancy to stick out past my normal hair. I suffer from limp, straight hair, so this is really changing the landscape of my hair - one positive in world of negatives. Many of the boxes promised thicker and healthier hair after dying it, which seems to be an extreme contradiction to me. You glop who knows what kinds of odd smelling chemicals on your head and at the end of this your hair is supposed to be healthier? Uh, huh...If my luck holds true, all of my hair will fall out and then grow back lime colored!

King Solomon tells us that "Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life". I don't know about this....when I look in the mirror, I don't seen any splendor, just gravity and stress hard at work on my body from living the busy life. Let's be honest here, King Solomon was a man. All men look good with some grey hair - also he was rich and the ruler of the land, he set the trends back then! Of course it was a crown of splendor....he was the king! I would like to know what he would say about it if he were a 26 year old woman just trying to appear only 26. Somehow, I think he would be singing a different tune...

After finally selecting a number and color, I still was unsure if I should purchase the hair dye. What does this mean about who I am? Does this officially make me old? Is this the next step before menopause...if so I don't want to take it!! What does this say about how I feel about my "crown of splendor"? Since I was feeling indecisive and old looking I plopped the little box into my cart and promptly hid it beneath my carrots and potatoes. Unfortunately it didn't stay hidden for long, the moment of truth looked me square in the face when I arrived at the cash register. I had to decide whether or not purchase the "No. 21, Burnt Almond" to help me look more my age and lessen my elderly appearance.

In a moment of sheer boldness, I purchased the hair dye. Then I proceeded to let it collect dust in my bathroom, constantly goading my conscience and reminding me about how I appear to be way older than I actually am. Some days I would take it out and muse on whether or not that was the day to cover up my very coveted "crown of splendor" or continue to pretend that it doesn't exist.

After much contemplation, I decided that I should go for it and commit my hair to a new color. So I took a deep breath, glopped on the No. 21, Burnt Almond and spent 20 nervous minutes desperately trying not to drip all over my cream bathroom floor. After putting myself through such mental anguish, no one really noticed! Can you imagine the nerve of these people not to notice - my husband included??!? And to top it all off, it gave my hair an odd orange-like quality.

Since I had already taken the plunge and gotten my feet wet, I jumped in all the way to my armpits! I decided to try it again and went to the next darkest color - this woman looked a bit more subdued, perhaps more like me. I put it in the other night...now my hair is super duper dark! Yikes! I looked a bit like Cher, and that's not a good thing...it would be good for Cher, just not for me. Also, it appears as though I have a bruise at my left temple, but it's just dye that I can't seem to remove from my head! I felt like a freak show at work, constantly trying to cover up my new "crown of non-splendor"! After all of this, I might just go back to letting the grey roam wild and free on my head. Perhaps "Au Naturale" is the best way to go... who really knows?

If you don't have grey hair yet, be relieved that you don't have to contemplate the deeper question of life, "To dye, or not to dye...that is the question."

Reaching Out

2006-06-15T15:20:00.000-06:00

Have you ever wondered if God is sitting up in heaven laughing his head off at you? Sometimes I think God watches me and must be wiping tears of laughter from his eyes and gasping for breath, unable to stop the hysterics.

In Edmonton there is a wonderful part of the city called Whyte Avenue. Whyte Ave is full of unique shops, interesting homes and great one-of-a-kind places to eat – it’s the epitome of urban living. One winter evening I met a bunch of girls at one of the coffee shops on Whyte to talk about life, marriage and why all women intrinsically need chocolate every day of their life…you know, the important things in life! My husband, Jon, was a student at that time and dropped me off at the coffee shop and went on to Chapters to do some studying while I contemplated the great mysteries of womanity* with my girlfriends. I felt inspired and uplifted as I walked through the snow towards Chapters to find my husband – I felt as though the world was at my fingertips and any problem was not too great for me to conquer! The urban setting, gentling falling snow and people out shopping were extremely picturesque and I just felt happy all over.

I arrived at Chapters and saw my husband in his red winter coat and trendy haircut through the large picture windows. He was leafing through the magazine section, and love for him filled my heart and overflowed onto the sidewalk – I was puddling everywhere. I decided that it would be romantic for me to sneak up and surprise him with a cute little ‘boo!’. So I stealthily snuck into the store, slipping behind magazine racks and other customers. I was so happy that small giggles were escaping from me and people were starting to look my way to see what was so funny. I resolved to control my giddiness and purposely snuck up close to Jon, turned to scare him, only to realize that it wasn’t my husband! Thank goodness I realized that before I scared some strange man to death! My giddiness quickly died and embarrassment known only to me, filled my cheeks and painted them a bright red. I quickly tried to appear as though there was some magazine right in front of my husband’s twin that I desperately needed to read. I think it was a Harley Davidson magazine…at that point, it was the most interesting thing I had ever seen in my whole life and I was officially a biker chick as of that moment!

After desperately trying to appear normal, I calmly replaced the magazine and walked to find my husband. The amount of relief that filled me after not making a fool out of myself was indescribable. I found Jon upstairs in the finance section reading some horrifically boring book about RRSPs or something equally as mind numbing to me. I decided to not mention the near deathly embarrassing event to my husband, there was no need for him to know how ridiculous I am. Some days, I enjoy keeping up the appearance of being normal and fitting into society.

I finally peeled him away from the very dry finance section after mumbling a few “uh huh…”, “sounds intriguing” and “mmm…” types of things to his ecstatic musings on the current financial book in hand. We walked hand in hand to the escalator and smiled...as romantic as this seems, I was only holding his hand so that there wouldn’t be a quick retreat back to the finance section!

Upon our arrival downstairs, we were immediately distracted by the discount books – Jon and I quickly went our separate ways. I browsed each book, got new ideas that I could do at home without purchasing another $4.97 book and felt inspired. I looked up and didn’t see my husband anywhere in sight. I sighed, realizing that the pull of the finance section must have gotten to him. I ran upstairs to peel him away once again, but he was nowhere in sight. I glanced over the railing and saw him in the magazine section. Sighing at my misunderstanding of my husband, I ran downstairs to see if he was ready to go home.

Seeing him reading the magazines, the earlier giddiness I felt in my heart overwhelmed me and I decided to do something completely silly. Jon is an athlete, and I have gone to many of his ball hockey games. When someone scores a goal or does something good they give each other a slap on the bum. All the men seem to really enjoy this…it must be some sort of male bonding ritual. Anyway, I personally had never given a slap on the bum to someone else and decided that today was the day. After all, he seemed to really like it in hockey, so why not at Chapters? I felt somewhat nervous to put my plan into action, but my giddiness overwhelmed me, so I went ahead full steam. I slid up beside Jon, looking straight ahead so not to burst into hysterical giggles, reached out, grabbed his bum and asked, “Want to go home?” I looked at him to see his answer, only to find that I had inadvertently grabbed the strange, looks-like-Jon-but-not-Jon, man’s bum. He was shocked and backed away quickly and answered fearfully, “Uh…not with you!” The poor man’s wife was looking at me with a shocked and somewhat angry expression. I turned away in complete humiliation to see my Jon bent over with hysteria, laughing on the other side of me. Not only did I grab some other man’s bum and proposition him – I did it in front of my husband!

Terror and shame overtook my person. I was so embarrassed that I was unable to talk in a normal voice. I started to scream my rationalization for physically assaulting some strange man in Chapters. “OH MY GRACIOUS!! I AM SO SORRY!!! YOU LOOK JUST LIKE MY HUSBAND! SEE??? HE’S RIGHT THERE, YOU HAVE THE SAME COAT AND HAIR – LOOK!! OH MY, OH MY!!” I frantically looked around for escape, only to notice that the whole store had become strangely silent and everyone was staring at me. Before I knew what was happening, I was sprinting out of the store and running as quickly as womanly possible into the harsh -20 degree winter, only to realize I had no idea where the car was! But I couldn’t stop running, the fear and shame of the situation was chasing me down the street…as was my husband! We were both gasping for breath – him due to the uncontrollable laughter and me due to being out of shape.

At this point, I think that God was laughing even harder than Jon. He must have known that a great part was coming up in my life, popped some popcorn and invited some friends over for the comedy viewing that Thursday evening. Life is meant to be enjoyed and to be lived with full gusto. How often do we fail to laugh at ourselves and enjoy the ridiculous chaos that happens to us? Sometimes it’s all I can do to thank God for my funniness and silliness, otherwise life would be too dull to keep going!

*Womanity – The complexities of the woman condition, which increases 10 fold by families, bad jobs and trying to communicate with men.

Summer Exercises

2005-02-24T10:33:00.000-07:00

Many women start exercising in the Summer to try and squeeze into that pair of shorts that fit last summer and chase away the extra warmth gained during the long winter months. I wish you could scare away the cottage cheese on your thighs, I mean, wouldn't that be just perfect? All I would have to do is put on a bathing suit and stand in front of a full length mirror - the cottage cheese would be so far gone, perhaps all the way to Bermuda. Unfortunately that just doesn't work!! Shoot!! How is it that every summer sneaks up on me? All of the sudden I realize that it's summer and I can't wear pants and turtlenecks all summer long, I will die of heat stroke. I will have to lessen the amount of clothes I wear, which results in parts of my body being exposed that I forgot about - such as arms and legs. But suddenly my thoughts and hopes of getting really skinny over the fall and winter months didn't happen. Now what?

One day I was musing about how there is this pressure to be fit and in shape during the summer months. Suddenly it is cool to be exercising and striving to be fit. While thinking about this I realized that people are more active in the summer time whether they want to be or not – beach volley ball games, walks and picnics abound all summer long. I realized that while at picnics some exercises may take you by surprise. One of these exercise programs I fondly refer to as the "my butt is stuck in a plastic lawn chair". This exercise program in versatile and easy to do. One of the great features of this program is that is can be done anywhere and at anytime - your child's soccer game, the company picnic and even in your own backyard! The "my butt is stuck in a plastic lawn chair" is usually not a voluntary exercise, but takes you by surprise. This exercise happens when you stand up from a leisurely sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair and it attaches itself to your butt. Suddenly, you are doing rapid squats, which is great for the thighs and downward pushups, which actively works the triceps. The other great aspect of this exercise is that it is over in 30 seconds and is done at a high level of intensity, normally referred to as interval training. Once you have extracted yourself out of the chair you will notice that your heart rate has risen from the exertion of trying to not look completely stupid.

2004-12-31T12:29:00.000-07:00

Men and women are different and see the world in diversely different ways. My husband and I were driving home from Saskatchewan to Edmonton after Christmas this past year and we had an experience that has two different interpretations - the man interpretation and the woman interpretation.

The drive home to Edmonton is a nine hour drive - we have a Chevy Cavalier that I am not friends with, but that is a whole different story. Anyways, we, er Jon, don't like to stop as we travel home, so we only stopped in Saskatoon to try out the new grilled sandwiches at McDonalds - after that it was home or bust! Usually my bladder busts and we have to stop about five hours later - we rarely make it home without busting. On this particular trip, I was doing quite well in the "busting" department and so we kept on going. Unfortunately, that meant we didn't stop for gas, licorice or chips! We were both quite dazed and did not think to stop for gas a we sped through Llyodminster, we just kept on going - Edmonton here we come! As we kept going we remembered that there is a stretch of highway that is about 100 km long without any gas stations. The reason we remember this stretch of highway so well is because we ran out of gas there a few years ago. My husband, whom I love, decided that we were good to go with our little blue car and that it would make it. Since I am a pessimist I began to fervently pray that I wouldn't be raped, pillaged and left to die on the side of the highway as Jon ran for gas. As we continued on through this deserted stretch of the prairies, we suddendly noticed a glowing red light coming from our dash - the check gagues light had decided to poke it's head out of the sand. Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate this light - it is a warning for all men that the car needs attention. Unfortunately, at this time the light was salt in our wound - we were for sure on the road to destruction as we had already passed the point of no return. As we drove along we reminicsed about the different farms we had stopped at to ask for a drop of gas the last time this happened and how no one would help us. We knew we shouldn't waste gas idling in someone's driveway as they weren't apt to help!

Every hill that we crested, we prayed that at the top of the hill would be the gas station just outside of Ardrossen. Not to mention at this point I was ready to bust as well! Finally we sputtered into the gas station with a large sigh of relief. Jon stated that this was a great performance testing of our car and that it passed with flying colors. According to my husband we also now know the farthest we can drive our car after the check gagues light comes on...apparently this is a fact that everyone should know about their car. I feverently disagreed and thought the whole experience was quite unavoidable and no woman needs to know how far she can drive before perishing in the middle of the night on a stretch of deserted prairie highway!! Men and women, they see the world in diversely different ways, performance testing verses a near death experience!