My back story

The back is a key piece of the human anatomy.  So key, that when the back “goes out”, your life “goes to shit.”  I should warn you that I write from a place of deep despair and darkness.  Although you might think that spending your entire week-end on your back, packed in ice, and unable to perform any household tasks sounds like a nice idea, I can assure you it is not.

What I find most disturbing (and admittedly this is a bit messed up too), is the fact that I have no “back going out story”.  When anyone asks what I did, I feel the need to embark on a mantra of the things I did not do to bring about this injury:

1.    No, I did not injure my back while performing a triple sow cow on skiis;
2.    No, I did not injure my back while lifting a two ton pick-up truck off a pregnant woman, thereby saving her life and making me a HUGE hero;
3.    No, I did not injure my back while helping my elderly neighbor shovel snow;
4.    No, I did not injure my back performing the bump and grind (to mass applause I might add) at the cabaret;
5.    No, I did not injure my back while climbing Mount Kilimanjaro; (if you know me, you know how truly silly this is); and finally
6.    No, I did not injure my back having sex!!!  Seriously.  I didn’t.  It is NOT a sex injury.  Not.

Anyways.  If you must know.  I injured my back while trying to put my pants on.  See?  Not a good story.  I got out of the shower, erected a hair towel turban, proceeded to put on my pants, and collapsed in a lump on the floor.  I’ve often wondered if I would be a dramatic person if there was nobody around to witness my drama.  Kind of like the tree falling in the forest.  Question answered!  Yes, I am just as dramatic alone as with an audience.  Much screaming and milling about on the carpet in an effort to find a position that relieved the pain.  Sadly, this resulted in my getting a very bad rug burn on my torso and part of my bum.  In the end, I found a very comfortable position, beside the bedroom door, with my feet propped up on a suitcase and my head in the dirty laundry.  And here I proceeded to wait until my lovely husband returned from outside.

Although I’m sure it was only minutes, it seemed like FOREVER until I heard the front door.  While I initially planned to be calm and collected (I decided this after the rug burn situation), upon hearing my husband enter the house, I began screaming for assistance.  It was only as I heard him approaching the bedroom door that I realized the gravity of my situation.  I am wearing underwear and have one leg in my pants.  That’s it.  Oh, and my towel turban.  Oh God.  He’s going to think this is some type of twisted mating ritual.  That I’m trying to “spice it up”.  That I’m into kinky shit!  Oh God!  Sure enough, there was hope in his eyes upon entering the bedroom and finding me indisposed. But I quickly dashed his thoughts by screaming, “This is serious! I’m in a lot of fucking pain” and then bursting into tears. 

Over the next 20 minutes, I proceeded to crawl – still half naked – into the living room.  Now, I’m just putting this out there.  And while it may not be pertinent to the story, it is pertinent to my experience of the event.  I don’t have fake boobs.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I’ve not ruled out acquiring a pair.  But for now, I’ve got the real deal.  And the trouble with real deal is their (in my opinion) udder like appearance when in certain positions (ie. crawling around on the floor).  I felt like an absolute farm animal, hauling myself around on the carpet.  Self-esteem totally plummeted.  I will NEVER EVER put my pants on before my bra again.  Never.  Little tip from me to you. 

The remainder of my week-end was spent in various states of immobility and self-pity.  The drugs were a big plus.  As were the various stretching techniques my husband suggested I perform, after vigilently researching "back pain" and "pain in the ass".  By Sunday night,  I felt positively geriatric and was convinced that this was it.  Off to the glue factory for me.  Luckily, my sister phoned me to report that she was in much worse shape than I.

My poor sister.  By the time I spoke with her, she was in quite a state.  Earlier in the day, she had gone to the dentist for three crown preps.  Three!  At the same time!!  Unfortunately, the freezing wasn’t working.  They kept poking her and poking her and poking her, but no luck.  Finally they gave her laughing gas, which she described as AMAZING and highly recommended.  It sounded like they got her good and loaded, as she recalled saying to the dentist, “Is this shit legal?” at some point during the procedure.  When she left the office, she was frozen from her forehead right down to her collarbone.  She was teary on the phone when describing how she had to proceed with a pre-scheduled college telephone interview in this frozen state.  “I sounded like Jean-Chrétien!” she exclaimed.  Poor thing.  I assured her the college was well aware that she was not a 75 year old French Canadian man and things will be fine.  The freezing started coming out and things went downhill from there.  She phoned the dentist crying when the pain would not abate and he told her he was worried this would happen – she needs to have a root canal.  Tomorrow.  More crying.  Luckily, he has given her some Tylenol 3s in the meantime.  I was worried, but when I called to check on her, she told me her couch cushions were moving and all she can drink is Yop.  I think she’ll be okay.

Retreat = no meat

It has recently occurred to me that I may be in need of a retreat of sorts.  You know, a place to rest your mind and body.  To relax.  To find peace.  To reflect.  And maybe (if there’s time after all that relaxing and reflecting) to have a massage.  And perhaps a seaweed wrap, followed by a full body exfoliation and rehydration.  And one of those two hour pedicures where they don’t just paint your toes, but massage your feet and legs, while you lounge in a leather recliner chair, sipping coffee and reading trashy magazines.  Ahhh yes.  A retreat is definitely what I need.

And so, I was most intrigued to discover that a friend of mine had recently returned from just such a retreat.  “What a coincidence!” I exclaimed.  “I was just thinking how a retreat is soooooo what I need.  You know, lots of time to think and relax and just really focus on me!”  Feeling totally motivated, I demanded details!  My gosh!  Maybe I can do this for Christmas.  Yes.  I will come back after New Years – trouble free and ready to enjoy life. I bet they have AMAZING bedding.  And all sorts of little tiny soaps and shampoos that smell totally spa like and have really naturey names like “Sage Mint Shampoo” and “Birch Grass Conditioner.”  Yay me!  I’m going on a retreat!

So.  The retreat is in San Diego (fabulous!).  Some people go for weeks, but others have been known to go for up to three months.  Three whole months!  Can’t even imagine.  There are classes offered in the mornings, afternoons and evenings.  These classes vary from meditation to spiritual awareness to yoga.  There is even one class devoted strictly to breathing.  Just breathing in (ahhh) and breathing out (ahhh).  This is supposed to calm the mind and allow one to really reflect on themselves and their troubles.  What a brilliant idea!

The food sounds amazing.  Everything is organic and they don’t serve any animal byproducts.  Now, I do enjoy meat, but in the interests of my mental and physical health, I’m sure I can suffer through a meat free week.   I am eagerly telling my friend this, when she clarifies that no animal byproducts means no cheese.  Hold the bus!  No cheese?  WTF?  How are you supposed to relax?  Okay, okay.  Obviously, a bit tense (hence the need for the retreat).  I can handle this.  I’m sure there’s tons of lovely and exotic fruits and vegetables that will more than satisfy me.  And maybe the fancy dancy chefs can shape my veggies into the shape of a steak or something.  I've heard that's how Cameron Diaz stays so thin - eating meat shaped vegetables.  Anyways - I calmly encourage my friend to tell me more about this lovely place.  Don't want her thinking I'm some type of weirdo.


In the interests of health and wellness, they do not serve any caffeine or alcohol.  “Uh huh.” I hear myself saying.  “But there’s coffee and wine right?”  I can almost hear our friendship shredding itself to pieces.  “No” she says politely.  “No caffeine and no alcohol.  None.”  I am baffled.  No caffeine?  How the fuck I am gonna stay conscious for a two hour mediation class without any freaking coffee?!  And how am I supposed to relax without any wine?  They’ve already taken away the cheese.  Honestly.  Who designs these programs? I mean, they say the want to help people, but if you ask me . . .  I am busy contemplating the absurdy of this entire enterprise, when she continues by explaining that every week there are three juice only days (ie. NO food) and that you are required to take two wheat grass shots per day – one of which is an enema.  Gasp!  Oh my God.  My friend has been brainwashed by some granola vitamin health food cult!  WTF?  Grass in your ass?  It bears repeating.  Grass in your ass?  I can't even begin to imagine the consequences of such a procedure.  And no cheese?  No wine?  No coffee?  Days with no food at all???

Upon further reflection, it would seem that I will not be visiting a retreat any time soon.  Instead, I shall lay in my cosy bed, munching oreos, and blogging about my life.

Christmas Hater

I hate Christmas.  Gasp!  I know it’s a bit controversial, but I do.  I really, really do.  This feeling has been slowly building since I was about 18 years old.  And now that I am 31, it is a firm part of who I am – a grinch – a Christmas hater.  And the reason for this – simple – my family is crazy.  100%, certifiably NUTS.

The worst part about Christmas is that I often forget how much I hate it.  You see, I think that deep, deep down I really am a glass is half-full kind of person.  I spend the first three weeks of December watching Christmas movies and imagining my life as very similar to these fictional characters.  Top Christmas movies include: Love Actually, The Family Stone, The Holiday, Four Christmases and of course – Christmas Vacation (classic).  I drink heaps of Chai Tea in the red Starbucks Christmas cups (can’t get enough of those cups), and by the time I arrive at my parents’ house with a car full of presents, I am feeling warm and fuzzy and ready for my fill of quality family time.  Sure there are bound to be difficult and stressful moments, but we’ll just laugh our way through them – like in the movies.  This thought, I now know, marks the early stages of insanity. 

Since graduating from highschool, I have faithfully returned home for 14 Christmases.  And I can honestly say that each year has offered something a little more bizarre and unsettling than the first. 

There was the year we ran out of ketchup, resulting in my father having a massive meltdown at the prospect of no ketchup with his Christmas meat pie (breakfast special at the Robinsons!).  This involved a long and detailed interrogation of my mother as to exactly how such a thing had occurred.  Did she not realize they were running low on ketchup?  Was the ketchup not on sale that week?  Was she trying to covertly punish my father by failing to purchase his favorite condiment?  By lunchtime they were not talking and my mom’s response to everything was, “Well, whatever you do, don’t mention ketchup.”

My sister’s first year away from home was a nightmare!  Not only was I left to deal with the crazies on my own, but by Christmas Eve, my mom’s parcel had still not arrived at my sisters.  Mom spent the entire day at the kitchen table crying her face off about how my poor sister would not have any presents on Christmas Day and she’d be all alone.  First of all, she was not alone.  She was with her new boyfriend (now husband).  Second, I had spoken with my sister numerous times during the day and confirmed she was not at all concerned about the missing parcel.  Alas, there was no consoling my poor mother, whose despair reached new heights when she remembered that my sister’s stocking was in the parcel.  Fortunately, the boyfriend was working at Greyhound that year and located the illusive parcel.  My mom was overjoyed and declared my sister’s new beau (whom she had not yet met) a saint.  This quickly became known as the year Tim saved Christmas.

My sister has recently married this lovely man.  And as all couples do, you want your loved one to make a good impression on your parents and vice versa.  In my sister’s case, it was the vice versa she really needed to be concerned about.  The first year she brought him home for Christmas was very exciting.  Everytime I spoke to my mom on the phone, she was literally vibrating with enthusiasm.  She had filled two full-sized freezers with Christmas baking and was anxiously awaiting our arrival.  This was going to be great!  There had been tons of snow, and the trees were heavy with white.  I was feeling festive in the extreme – Christmas sweater and everything!  As we pulled up to the house, everything looked beautiful.  Christmas lights were up and . . . what the . . . is that a . . . he didn’t . . .  did he?  Oh, my God.  Although not visible from the road, once you pulled up the driveway and in front of my parent’s house, there was a larger skidder with an upside down gutted cow hanging from it.  To make matters worse, the carcass was dripping blood onto the beautiful white snow, which was being eagerly lapped up by the dog.  Oh my God.  Who does this? 

My mother, as expected, was eagerly awaiting our arrival on the front steps.  The look of shock and awe on my face must have been quite extreme, because before saying anything, she loudly declared, “It’s your father.  I told him not to shoot that damn cow!”  Honestly.  Who are these people?

That Christmas quickly dissolved, as both mine and my sister’s husbands were expected to butcher the cow during the holidays.  To make matters worse, the butchering was to take place in the open air carport on a slab of plywood laid across my mom’s two freezers – which were full of the aforementioned Christmas baking.  Filling up the Christmas goodie tray then became a major production – requiring my father to stop the incessant butchering and move the carcass to allow for access to the plethora of buttertarts and mini quiche that lay beneath.  Rock paper scissors was the only fair way of deciding who would fill up the tray next.

There have also been a number of incidents that are just plain bizarre.  For example, there was the year my dad went to bed at 8:00 p.m. and when he awoke three hours later to find us all still visiting in the living room, decided to make everyone Monte Cristo sandwiches (in just his bath robe).  I gained 5 pounds that Christmas.  And although sleeping in is a “must have” on the Christmas holiday wish list, this is made impossible by my father who rises at 6:00 a.m. and begins making a HUGE breakfast for everyone, while listening to CNN on the highest possible volume.  The bathroom situation is also made difficult by staying at a home with two bathrooms and upwards of 10 people (who have all consumed Monte Cristo sandwiches at 11:00 at night).  When times are desperate, we have been known to drive at extreme speeds to my in-laws house, with the hopes of finding an available bathroom.

Now, I know that Christmas is about giving; not receiving.  However, some of the gifts I have received over the years (from IMMEDIATE family members), have caused me to scratch my head and question my genetic link to these people.  I have received used gifts (admittedly purchased at garage sales), gifts that were purchased with HBC points (and, therefore, came with a note advising that they were not returnable), school supplies (a scientific calculator - when I was in Grade 7!!), and gifts that were purchased some 10 years prior (and the warranty had, therefore, expired 8 years prior).  But the all time winner of the “I don’t know a single thing about you gift” goes to my brother, who gave me a $7.99 Teen Pack when I was 23 years old.  I know it was $7.99 because he left the price tag on.  The pack contained shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, shave gel, a razor, and a pack of gum.     

And so, I am facing yet another year of Christmas with the crazies.  Wish me luck people.  Christmas with family is not for the faint of heart.

The Hangover

Stage 1:  Arrival into consciousness.  It usually starts the same way.  I carefully peel one eye open and glance about the room.  My mouth is dry and my head feels fuzzy.  Where am I?  What day is it?  As the events of the previous night slowly filter into my brain, I am faced with a horrible realization – if what I am vaguely recalling is even remotely true, I am on the brink of (yet another) MASSIVE hangover.   

Now, I am no rookie when it comes to hangovers.  I have been suffering from these “bouts” for a solid 15 years.  Sadly, despite mass amounts of internet research, urban folklore, and the advice my trusted nurse friend, I have yet to find the secret formula for avoiding the 8 to 12 hours of sheer hell and torture that I face the day after the party.

Stage 2:  Departing the bed.  This is an especially tricky and painful part of the hangover process.  I find the difficulty lies in adjusting one’s head from a vertical to a horizontal position.  A quick move can accelerate the hangover process rapidly.  Accordingly, I make every effort to keep my head tilted to the side as I rise from the bed in search of the bathroom. 

Stage 3:  The bathroom. There are a number of disturbing things that tend to occur here.  The first is usually the realization that I am still wearing the previous night’s outfit or portions thereof.  Occasionally, this outfit is decorated with bits of vomit, food and/or drink.  The alternative to this is much, much worse – I am naked.  Now this – this is a truly terrible sight to behold first thing in the morning, beneath florescent lighting.  I am naked, with squinty eyes and terrible posture (see Stage 2 – my head is still tilted to the side).  All in all, this is very bad scene.  Occasionally, I have awoke to find myself dressed in some bizarre contraption that my husband obviously mistook for pyjamas the night before.  Believe it or not, I once woke up in a stuffed bikini top and nothing else.  Concerning.  I know.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the light and my “morning outfit”, I risk a glance at my face.  Yup.  Make-up still on, but shifted slightly down and to the right.  I look like a two bit hooker whose head has been run over by a mac truck.  The hair doesn’t help.  It would seem the previous night’s hairspray is working overtime.  You don’t know the meaning of “extreme hold” until you’ve seen my morning after hair.

Once the necessary toilet items are dealt with (no need to go into any detail here), I turn to the teeth.  It feels as though I have been chewing on moth ball all night.  Two rounds of brushing minimum.  Three if brushing induces vomiting.

Stage 4:  The replay.  Although it is only 7:30 a.m., my unrelenting headache and waves of nausea make it impossible for me to return to bed.  Instead, I lay on the couch, willing myself to drink water, while trying to piece together the events of the previous evening.  With each realization, the pain gets worse.  Spit on boss (shit), grabbed strange man’s bum (fuck), threw up in cab (dear God), did sexual grindy type dance with co-worker (please kill me now). 

Stage 5:  Try and consume food.  Despite consuming mass amounts of food the night before, I am famished.  Unfortunately, my massive headache and waves of nausea make it difficult to prepare much more than toast.  After slowly gumming a piece of dry toast, I run to the bathroom, where I proceed to dry heave for several minutes and eventually dissolve into tears at the misery that is me.

Stage 6:  Back to bed.  The failed attempt at food consumption confirms that I am not fit to be conscious.  I return to bed, where I lay for the next two hours, writhing in pain and burping.

Stage 7:  Guilt.  It is now 2:00 in the afternoon and I am once again awake.  The headache has diminished somewhat, but I remain mentally foggy and on the verge of puking.  With the headache gone, there is now room in my brain for the guilt that inevitably follows making an ass of myself after consuming too much liquor while in the company of others. I vow to never drink again and am purchasing a gym membership tomorrow!  I will recycle more, eat less and intend to drink nothing but nature’s beverage – water.   Am feeling so good, I might even donate money to a local charitable organization like AA (but don’t actually feel it’s necessary to attend a meeting – it’s not like I have “drinking problem”).

Stage 8:  Dirty food.  The guilt has once again become overwhelming and I am now in search of comfort.  Ahhhhhh.  There is nothing so comforting as a dirty burger.  Top option - White Spot cheese burger with double triple O sauce, french fries and a coke.  Oh my, yes!  This is exactly what I need to make me feel physically and mentally better.  Although I appreciate the calorie consumption is somewhat high (ie. approximately 3 days worth), I am convinced the previous night’s dance moves burned a week’s worth of calories.  At least!

Stage 9:  More guilt.  Approximately 15 minutes after consuming the dirty burger, the guilt is actually crippling.  Not only have I gone and made an ass of myself (once again), but I am a pig too.  Who eats like this?!  I am gross.

Stage 10:  Recovery.  By 7:00 p.m., I have returned to my normal sense of self and the guilt is somewhat more manageable.  I politely decline wine with dinner and feel very keen to ensure a healthy, veggie laden dinner is consumed.  I vow to exercise the next day and promise myself I will not drink at the office Christmas party this year.  Sadly, the look on my husband’s face suggests I have made these vows more than once . . .