Storyteller by nature

I often wonder if I am the only one who after returning home from a visit with the parents, leaves with a headache and deep seated fear that I might just be their biological offspring.

The first few years after college weren’t too concerning. It was in my mid to late twenties that I started to notice. They might truly be mad. “Mad” as in “loco”, “coo koo”, “off their rocker”. You get the idea.

I suppose the first “incident” that made me question their sanity was the pigeon incident. The story has grown incredibly famous within our family and for my mother’s sake, I will say at the outset that it was all my father’s idea. There. Happy mom? It was not your idea and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

Ever since I can remember, my father has been a fan of farm animals. You name it, we had it. Horses, cows, chickens, pigs, sheep, rabbits, and foxes (that’s another story). Around the time I was 10 years old, he decided it would be nice to have pigeons flying around and shitting on everything in our yard. And so, he built a little house next to the chicken coup and called it the “pigeon coup”. I must say that the pigeon coup was much nicer than the chicken coup and I often suspected the chickens were quite put out by the whole housing situation. In any event, following the erection of the pigeon coup, my father trotted off to the auction to purchase some pigeons. As an aside, it should be noted that whenever possible, my father will purchase animals, cars, household appliances, and mechanical devices at auctions. He does not believe in paying full price for anything and I suspect he rather enjoys the social scene created by several hundred men standing around and dickering over crap.

The pigeons that were eventually purchased were “homing” pigeons. There was talk of “racing” the pigeons, but thank goodness that idea never really took off. And so the pigeons became a regular fixture of the Robinson yard. They would have babies in the spring (terribly ugly creatures) and as previously noted, fly around shitting on everything in our yard.

It took approximately eight years for my father to decide that he had had enough of the pigeons. They were expensive to feed, their “coup” was filthy and you couldn’t eat them (big draw back in my father’s world). Although the pigeons had never actually been “raced” and there was little evidence to suggest they were “homing”, my father crept into their house under the darkness of night, and put each and every one of them into a covered cage. For some reason, he was concerned that if the pigeons were able to see the route he was driving, they would be able to find their way home.

After two hours of driving, my father decided he had traveled far enough. He pulled into an auction yard (of course) and released the pigeons. Satisfied that he had rid himself of these messy, expensive and inedible creatures, he picked up a Big Mac and headed for home. You can imagine his surprise, when he arrived to see that the pigeons were still there. They had beat him home! Despite having zero professional training and being kidnapped under the cover of night, the pigeons had found their way home. To describe my father as ecstatic would be a massive understatement. Not only were his homing pigeons actually “home”, they were quick! For years afterwards, my father would relay this story to friends and family; touting the massive intellect (and geographical sense) of his auction purchased homing pigeons. Although they continued to cost a fortune to feed, their coup was filthy and they remained inedible, the pigeons were just too good a story to let go.

Tiny Dancer?

Let me just start by saying that I am not a fit person.  I do not enjoy excercise and have found numerous excuses/reasons to avoid it.  Namely:

1. I have a terribly busy and important job that leaves me too mentally exchausted to engage in any form of physical activity after work.  Truth:  Although busy, am not particularly integral to the success of the organization.  In fact, suspect organization would continue running just fine without my presence. 
   
2. Choosing a venue to perform the exercise is exceptionally complicated and after being very busy and important at my job, I simply do not have the mental energy to devote to such serious decision making.  I mean there are gyms, dance studios, pilates studios, yoga studios, recreation centres, acquatic centres, running clubs, spinning clubs, hiking clubs, biking clubs.  Need I say more?  How can one possibly narrow it down?
3.  I don't want to get too muscular.  I know this sounds silly, but I really believe that beneath my fleshy exterior, lies a physique that would qualify for entry in the Strong Man Competition.  Seriously - I have HUGE legs.  Lord knows how big they'll get if I start exercising them.  Best not to start.
4. I turn purple when I exercise and it lasts for at least an hour afterwards.  This means I cannot run to the grocery store or Walmart after the exercise, thereby severely limiting the amount of week-day evening errands I am able to perform.

As you can see, I have a number of solid reasons for not exercising.  Nevertheless, after a summer of indulgence upon indulgence, I was struck by my semi-annual desire to "get fit".  This desire usually occurs right before bathing suit season (June) and right before jeans season (September).  And so, it was with this new found dedication to exercise and fitness that I purchased shiny new runners, a 10 day membership to a "dance fitness studio" and promptly enrolled in a Cardio Dancercize class.

I must say that I was quite excited en route to my Dancercize class and had seriously contemplated wearing a Dirty Dancing inspired outfit (tights under panties, tank top, no bra and high heeled shoes), but thought this might be a bit too much for the first class.

All I can say is "thank goodness" something snapped me out of my dilluded Dancercize fantasy and I chose to wear black shorts, a ridiculously supportive sports bra, tank top and running shoes.  Although I didn't feel particulary sexy and Dancerizey, I was grateful not to have arrived in panties and high heels (as apparently I was the only one who had contemplated such an outfit).

Neither the Dancersize class, nor the participants, lived up to my expectations.  There was a larger woman who seemed intent upon maintaining physical contact with the back wall the entire class.  In addition to this odd behavior, she kept suggesting to the instructor that we dim the lights as it would prevent everyone from seeing how fat she was (after this, she laughed like crazy and began rubbing her face).  Next to enter the class was an albino woman of approximately 7 feet in height, accomopanied by her much smaller friend, who I think was deaf.  I must admit that at this point I was feeling pretty confident and began performing a series of complicated stretching exercises (so the others would appreciate that I was clearly not new to exercise).

The arrival of our instructor left me somewhat concerned.  She was a very tiny and fit little thing, who in addition to looking 1000% times better in spandex than myself, didn't require the mega supportive sports bra.  In fact, no bra AT ALL!  Nope.  Just a little tank top with spagetti straps.  I think instead of breasts, she might have just had little muscle plates.

The music begins and I am LOVING Dancercize class.  "Rythym is a Dancer" is blasting and I slide easily into my favorite fantasy of me as lead back up dancer for Madonna or Justin Timberlake.  Ahhhhhh . .  this is bliss.  I really should exercise more often.  By the end of "Rhythym is a Dancer", I feel amazing.  Heart rate is up and I have produced some sweat.  Little sip of water and I should be good for the next song.  Except . . . What? There is no break and no time for water?  Well, that seems a little strict. We are quickly moving into the next song and the instructor is bring out . . . exercise balls?  No, no, no.  What about about all the tap and slides, the jazz hands, the boot shakes?

Dancercize took a very serious nose dive from here on out.  Although I have only a spotty memory of the last 55 minutes of class, I know there was a step, an exercise ball, approximately 100 lunge kicks (during which I became completely disoriented and almost kicked the albino), and a variety of other painful exercises I was both unwilling and unable to perform.  I lost all feeling in my feet approximately 15 minutes into the class and I have not idea how long it took me to notice that my shorts had slid down, thus revealing the top portion my HUGE FAT WHITE ASS to the entire class (That's right.  All three of them).

I left Dancercize class crippled and discouraged.  As initially suspected, exercise is extremely difficult.  I was lured in by the fancy class name and visions of myself purchasing extra small panties at La Senza.  Sigh.  I am enrolled in bootcamp next week . . .

Vanity and the magic carpet

The best thing about close girlfriends is that they accept you for who you are and would never judge you based on your possessions or lack thereof. Assuming this is true, what would possess a sensible thirty something woman to rent a rug doctor two days before her girlfriends` arrival? I`ll tell you what - vanity!

Before I launch into a detailed description of what quickly became known as the ``carpet week-end``, let me just say - who puts white carpet in a dining room? Who?! What kind of madness is that? Don`t get me wrong - the carpet was not disgusting, but it had a small stain and looked a little greyish in areas.

And so, on a whim of self-reliance (and vanity), I rented my first rug doctor. After battling the 20 pound beast into my car and up the stairs, I was exhausted but motivated. Instructions are fairly straightforward. Add soap to hot water. Add hot soapy water to tank. Commence!

I realized I was in trouble when foam starting ejecting itself from the back of the doctor onto my shins. This can`t be right I thought. After several stops and starts, I realized that the compartment clearly labeled ``no foam in here`` was in fact FULL of foam. I must admit that things proceeded much more smoothly after I got that bit sorted out. So, off to bed I go - looking forward to waking up with a shiny clean white carpet.

Sadly, I did not wake up to the shiny white carpet of my dreams. Instead, I woke up to a musty smelling house with ENORMOUS brown sticky patches everywhere. Although I was concerned, I was in a hurry to get to work and thought that perhaps it just needed a little air. And so, I set up a fan and off I went - convinced things would look much better upon my return that afternoon. Not so.

Upon opening my front door, I knew things were not good. That smell. That awful, putrid, wet dog smell filled my house. And those brown sticky spots - still there. In a fit of panic, I phoned my most neat freak friend who owns a steam cleaner (who even knew these existed) and she graciously lent me the wonder machine. No biggy, I thought. The girls do not arrive for another day. Plenty of time to repair the damage.

Although easier to use, this home steam cleaning device did nothing to improve the situation and actually made the lone stain a little brighter! I was mortified. With no time to fix the situation, my friends were destined to witness the humiliation that was my carpet.

Fortunately, my lovely friends were very encouraging and said things like ``it`s not that bad`` and ``maybe you can get a rug``. And so, rugs were purchased and laid down, but I was bothered by what I knew lay beneath . . .

Saturday morning. 8:30 a.m. I place a call to a professional carpet cleaner. He says he can be in and out before we need to leave for the spa. Joy! Am strong independent woman who has solved my problem like any sensible person in my predicament would do - with money.

Although the arrival of the carpet cleaning van filled me with joy and relief, the emergence of the carpet cleaner man filled me with shock and concern. He was approximately 55 years old with the most thread bare white shirt I have ever seen. Thanks to the thread bare shirt, one was able to gain a glimpse at what lay beneath - a mat of black curly hair that appeared to match the mop on his head, which was kept in place by what I believe to be Richard Simmons` original sweat band. When I realized the man was also wearing short shorts and knee high sport socks, I actually threw up a little in my mouth.

Although his appearance was bad, his personality was even worse. In the first 10 minutes of meeting him, I learned he owned a complex in the north end of town, which he was hoping to sell for over $1 million. He had planned to retire last year, but due to market conditions this would have to wait. He is planning a $50,0000 year long vacation to Australia, New Zealand, Thailand and Dubai and ALL of his ex girlfriend want to come with him (wink, wink. Ewwwww). He sexually harassed my girlfriend - apparently spurned on by her freshly showered wet hair (again - ewwww) and then proceeded to embark on a massive question period concerning the state of nursing in this province. It was bad. Very bad.

I paid $168 to that vile carpet cleaning man, and left for the spa convinced that my carpet had been repaired and the girls' week-end could proceed without further interruption.

You must see where this is going. Shocking as it is - he made it worse! He actually made it worse. I paid $168 to an extremely hairy and socially retarded individual, only to have my carpet look worse! What is that fucking carpet made of??? I was astounded, defeated and humiliated. By this point, I had spent well over $200 towards absolutely destroying my carpet (and the odor of my home).

Fortunately, my story has a happy ending. You remember my neat freak friend with the steam cleaner? Ahhhh, yes. She assessed the damage done by carpet cleaning man and professed her machine could do the job! I was doubtful, but curious. And so it came to be that Shawna Bo Bawna's Costco purchased carpet cleaner saved the day. It would seem that both the doctor and the carpet cleaner man had applied WAY too much soap, and all that was needed was a hot water rinse to suck up all that nasty soap residue. Who knew!

Strange, but true - the carpet cleaning incident caused many a laugh and has resulted in four women now possessing the very strong conviction that their homes require hardwood flooring. Immediately.