Tuesday 1 November 2016

Me vs The Sleepover

At 3 am, as I'm madly searching the internet for "ways to get blood out of carpet", I imagine Google has flagged me as a person of concern. I can also imagine that moving forward, my news feed will now feature frequent pop-up adds for serial killer bios,  psychopathy self-testing pages, and all things Dexter.

It was at this point that I became aware of the digestive rustling of the cat in the bathroom eating my current toilet paper roll. And then I lost my mind.

But lets go back in time.....

Sleepovers should be fun. They should be filled with the happy shrieks of playing children staying up hours past their bed time. They should not be filled with shrieks of children experiencing a scene from a date night slasher movie.

Unfortunately, my eldest daughter is prone to nose bleeds. Usually these are manageable, and frequently in the middle of the night she'll show up at my bedside to let me know, and then make her way to the bathroom to deal with it.

Not this night.

On this night, she was sharing the bed with her friend, having a sleepover. I'd offered them the bigger bed downstairs, but no, they wanted to cram themselves into hers. Fine. I don't care. Have fun. Don't keep me up.

And until 2:57 am, it was fun. However, at 2:58 am, my daughter was unceremoniously catapulted out of the bed,  and  into the dresser beside it, in what I picture as a very Three Stooges kind of montage. This resulted in a shit ton of blood running down her face, which she carefully tried to cup in her hands while casually walking to my room to let me know.

As a side note here, I don't watch The Walking Dead, despite the tireless efforts of my friends to reel me in. I don't watch it, because I don't like zombies. Well, what I woke up to is what I imagine a fucking zombie standing at the side of my bed would look like.

And so now we're back at 3 am. I'm trying to scrub a bloody version of a Hansel and Gretel bread crumb trail out of my carpet, while simultaneously trying to stem the flow of nightmares from my daughter's face, and deal with her friend in the other room who basically woke up to a murder scene, minus the body.

It's been a good night.

And to be fair, the last sleepover held here saw a sleepwalking child looking for the bathroom and instead finding our foyer.

I can't wait for her to have a slumber party  where I don't have to spend part of my sleep cycle cleaning up bodily fluids.

Wednesday 28 September 2016

Me vs Things in the Clouds

I had a great weekend with my sister. She came out to visit so we could go rock climbing for the day to celebrate our birthdays, which both happened in the summer.

With family in tow, we headed out to the nearest crags and were promptly buzzed by a couple of fighter jets that were wildly out of place flying low over the highway. Very cool, but really loud. 
This was followed by a beautiful day of climbing where both my kids climbed better than I've ever seen them climb, easily achieving personal bests.

Long story short, we headed back and once the kids were safely tucked into bed, the adults brought out the drinks and headed for the hot tub. 

Being that we're outside of town, and that the town is pretty tiny anyway, we generally get some pretty amazing star gazing opportunities. Not this night. We were cursed with both a full moon, which made it more like a perma-dusk than night, and it was cloudy. Boo.

Now I've never been one to see things in the clouds, so I was understandably surprised to glance up to the heavens and see what can only be described as a giant cloud cock. This big floating dick just hung there in all its twig and berried glory, flaccidly pointing to the north as if to say winter was coming. Which it is....it's getting fucking cold out, and I hate that.

This massive, and incidentally circumcised,  celestial penis drifted there for a minute or two, and it felt like in all the world, only the three of us had witnessed this cloudy miracle. And really, what more could one ask for than a giant airborne cloud dick to really tie together a weekend's worth of adventure.

Tuesday 23 August 2016

Me vs The Final Swim

This has been an interesting swim season for me. It’s had many ups and downs, new swim mates and coaches, and some definite challenges.

I may have finally learned to kick, albeit very slowly. It only took 4 coaches, two years, and many, many conflicting instructions for me to finally adapt a “special” style all my own.  It’s not a good style, but it works for me. More or less. Or less.

My Olympic career is probably over.

I realized this year that my stamina is poop. I could complete the first length reasonably well, but then I basically sunk after that.

I also realized that I’m getting old. The coach working with me was an astounding 17 years younger than me. Oh lord, even writing that is terrifying.  That said, she was an amazing swimmer, and was great to work with.  She was the first person to get my kicking with something resembling efficiency.

This year I also swam like a rock star. Not like a rock star in the sense that I was amazing and swam like a fucking boss, but more like I was a pretentious rock star who rented out the entire pool so I could swim alone without the unwashed masses bothering me. Fucking masses.

Or more accurately, I was often the only adult swimming during our time slot, so it was just me in the pool being watched by the coach, essentially getting a private lesson on how to suck less at kicking. It was very awkward.  

But now swimming is over and the final lap complete. My hair is straw-like and faintly green, my stamina is still pitiful, but marginally less so, and I actually miss the evening solo swim sessions.  

And unlike the kids in the swim club, the adults weren’t recognized for our swimming excellence at the awards night. This doesn’t bother me at all, but my daughter didn’t feel that this was fair, so she made me a medal for excellence in breast stroke, because it’s the stroke I’m the least worst at.

Here it is. It is possibly the best award I’ve ever received.
(I wonder if my other breast will be jealous?)

Until next year, swim fans. Just keep swimming...  :-) 

Saturday 13 August 2016

Me vs Shit Eyesight

Since my eyesight has been the subject of questions recently (Me vs Snakes and Being Blind), I thought I’d share the story of how my ivory tower of perfect vision was unceremoniously toppled by my loving husband.

Growing up I’d always had 20/20 vision. From a genetic standpoint this was lucky. My mom has more or less always required major vision correction, though my dad managed to make it much further in life before being required to hold things at arms length in order to read them.  I was doing pretty well.

I took pride in my ability to see things clearly. I could run, jump, and play without ever having to fuck with glasses or contacts. Friends would struggle with contact solutions, and fight the losing battle to keep sand and dirt out of their contacts while camping. I would just drink and go to bed. It was a time of happiness and blissful naiveté.

And then just like that, it was over.

I was in my mid-twenties, taking classes up at Simon Fraser University. As is the life of most students, much of my time was spent sleeping through lectures in giant halls, and desperately trying to catch up on reading while remembering sweet fuck all of what I had just read.

The last thing I needed was some dumb shit professor who couldn’t focus the damn overhead.

Every day that I sat in his class I silently berated him. I questioned how this man has received a PhD in anything, given the fact that he was bordering on incompetent. How could someone so smart, be so incomprehensibly unable to bring a simple overhead into focus? The stupidity was astounding.

For weeks I would rant to my husband about how this idiotic man was singlehandedly ruining my GPA by making it impossible to follow along with his power point presentation. He asked me if anyone else had mentioned this.  I didn’t think so, but then I certainly didn’t talk to everyone. Or, frankly, anyone.

He looked down the hall and asked me to read the sign at the end of it.
Me: I can’t, it’s too far away.  Normal people can’t see things that far away. What’s wrong with you?
Him: I can read that.
Me: Bullshit.
Him: *reads sign*
Me: Fuck off, you’re guessing
Him: You need glasses

Well, shit.

I lived in denial for a time, constantly playing the “can you read that” game with unsuspecting participants. Eventually I gave up and went to the optometrist, who confirmed once and for all that my beautiful 20/20 vision was no longer. 

Oddly, she said, I was having trouble with distance, but up close was fine. She said that wasn’t normally something that developed later in life and suggested I should read less to let my eyes rest. Ha, that wasn’t going to happen.

My kids love to try on my glasses
And so now I have glasses (and thanks to online shopping, many pairs). I hardly wear them, and my prescription is laughably small compared to everyone I know, but the sting of losing perfection is still there.

Just below the surface.

At least I think it’s just below the surface….it’s a bit blurry out there.

Wednesday 27 July 2016

Me vs Country

 If you had told me 3 years ago that I would be moving to a small town with where cows regularly impeded my driving, and my new worst enemy are deer, I would have questioned your sanity.

And yet here we are.

Similarly, telling me that I would pay good money to go see the Dixie Chicks in concert would have resulted in derisive laughter and tasteless jokes about country music….

You can see where this is going.

By some perverse stroke of fate, earlier this month I ended up back in Vancouver and kind of drunk, attending my very first country music concert.  I was talked into this by a group of country-loving friends, and basically went along because I like them, and because it seemed like a reasonable excuse for a get-away. The concert was merely something I had to endure to participate in the rest of the weekend.
Some of the gang

The whole thing ran pretty smoothly. Convoy to the coast, find the hotel, shopping, food, not being able to park the gigantic (and delightfully roomy!) truck in ANY FUCKING PARKADE IN VANCOUVER…..I mean, seriously, this truck didn’t fit anywhere. And while I realize Vancouver likes its tiny luxury sports cars, they should appreciate that us county folk come down from the hills from time to time, and we need a place to put our vehicle too. We didn’t even bring the pigs and goats this time!

Anyway, I digress. Eventually we parked.

In any case, by the time we finally got to Vancouver, I felt that my ride down had rendered the concert completely unnecessary, as the radio had played almost nothing but country music the entire trip. I tried to explain that to me, most country music fell into only a few categories: my girlfriend left me, my dog ran away/died, I have syphilis because my girlfriend is a tramp, and/or my guitar string broke so I had to improvise with this broom and a set of spoons.

The girls I was with thought this was hysterical, and turned up the radio, and for some reason were continually surprised that I didn’t know any of the songs. Like Earl. Why didn’t I know Earl? I mean, who doesn’t know Earl

Me. I didn’t know Earl. Except now I do.

After going out for dinner and getting happily toasted, we made it to the venue, found our seats, and I started live tweeting the event. This alone was a novelty, as I’ve never done this before.
The Dixie Chicks probably
singing Goodbye Earl

The concert opened, and I recognized the expected zero songs for the first half hour. My friends would glance over in my direction with a happy expectancy at the start of each new song, confidently believing that I would at least know THIS one, because EVERYONE knows THIS one. 

Except me.

I think by the end of the 2 hour set, I’d recognized at least the chorus of something like 5 songs. I dutifully belted out the few words that I knew, and found myself having a good time. 

My favourite part of the night, however, came from watching our seat section guard/escort guy. He had a perpetual case of resting bitch face, and glared uncompromisingly at everyone who came past him. He was particularly unimpressed by the shit-faced girls that hobbled by him on the way up to their seats. At least one of them couldn’t walk on her own, and I could just feel the reality show coming.  

For the better part of 15 minutes, I watched his disagreeable face glare at them. Eventually he gathered more of his bitch-faced cronies and they all stared at the offending girls as a group. For the final act, they called in the police and, as a unit, they approached the girls and asked them to leave.

The girls were mind-blowingly drunk and high as shit, and the ensuing confrontation was like watching a live version of a Real Housewives slap fight. Pure entertainment gold.

During this time I tried to act as sober as possible.

All in all, and despite not being a “country music” fan, I will say that the Dixie Chicks are incredibly talented, and I enjoyed myself much more than I expected. It helped that I had some great and very enthusiastic company to help teach me their ways. I’ll even admit to liking a few of their songs.

And finally, I'm confident that going forward I will even be able to recognize Earl, should it come on.  At least I should hope so, after hearing it something like 77 times throughout the weekend. 

Goodbye Earl!

Saturday 16 July 2016

Me vs Rattlesnakes and Being Blind

Once or twice a year our daycare shuts down, leaving me scrambling for a place to store my kids while I go make money to pay for daycare.  For the last two years, this has meant a week-long vacation for the kids with their grandparents, and equally a week-long stay-cation for Husband and I at home without the kids. 

This small window of having no children in the house allows me the precious joy of getting myself ready for work without simultaneously questioning how long it can possibly take a 6 year old to find socks, or how a 3 year old is able to disassemble an entire pantry in under 4 minutes.

This week also gives Husband and I a rare opportunity to take an evening and go rock climbing.

Last year, we made it up twice despite the rain, thunder and lightening, and most of all, the rattlesnake.

It’s safe to say that I may have been just a little bit apprehensive about reliving that encounter. And so I did what I should never be allowed to do, and I looked up information about rattlesnake bites.

Do not do this. Never do this. 

Snake bites are terrible things. Looking at pictures of snake bites is a terrible idea. Reading about what can happen when a snake bites you is a terrible idea. Me doing both of these things before heading out into snakeland was the worst fucking idea.

And so I got a big stick.

I figured that if I took a walking stick with me, I could sweep it around in front of me if there was tall grass, and bang it on rocks before stepping on them to scare away anything that may otherwise be inclined to lash out from it’s hiding place and impale me with it’s hate fangs.

My stick plan worked. I banged along as I walked and felt better as the day went on. No danger noodles dared show themselves while I had my stick. 

I even found having a solid walking stick was helpful in balancing as we navigated the small boulders that littered the pathways as we got closer to our climbs.

About 30 minutes into our trek we met someone clambering down the path towards us.  The man watched me approaching for a moment as I made my way slowly up the path. As he passed Husband, he nodded hi and asked him if I was blind.

Me and my stick
Blind? I’m climbing over waist high boulders, do I look fucking blind?  


Me and my anti-snake stick, along with banging every rock before I stepped on it, created what was evidently a very good imitation of someone who couldn’t see shit.

And while I know that I no longer have 20/20 vision, I can assure you if I was ever going to be blind, the last place in the fucking world I would be is somewhere that would require a snake stick in the first place.

Monday 11 July 2016

Me vs "Words"

Back in my university days, I took a number of archaeology and anthropology classes. The professors teaching them tended to have a lot of…um… character.

One prof I had was basically the Jane Goodall of orangutans. She’s worked with them for years, advocated for their protection, and was very good at making what should have been an otherwise interesting subject somewhat dry.  She also held all of her classes at 9 pm just to keep herself on Borneo time. I got very sleepy.

Another one had stories of fantastic South American dig sites. His adventures sounded exciting and beautiful. And then he ruined it with follow up stories about a Bot fly laying eggs in his skin and of snakes that fall out of trees and bite you for the sheer enjoyment of it. Snakes are assholes.
This thoroughly cemented my desire to pursue non-tropical archaeological subjects. 

I can also knap obsidian like a fucking boss.

And then there was the professor who liked maize.  All he talked about in class was maize. How it was grown, how it was harvested, how it was cooked, and how it wasn’t the same as corn….but for all intents and purposes, that shit looks pretty much like fucking corn.

And he used terrible words.

Over the course of a couple of lectures he used, in various contexts, words like classificatory and genetical.

Now from what I can see (thanks Google) classificatory is sort of a word depending on who you ask, but it’s more likely a terrible bastardization of the word classification.  Why the shit anyone would choose to use it is absolutely beyond me.  

But he did. In fact, it was even the answer to a test question.

My friend (and this still makes me laugh) wrote beside her answer that this wasn’t, in fact, a word. When she got her test back, he had marked her answer correct, but added to her comment that it was a word, and more specifically that it was an adverb.

No sir, it is not.

If you choose to use classificatory, and you should not, it would be an adjective, not an adverb. If you wanted to turn this shitty word into an adverb, you would need to say classificatorily. This is even worse. If you ever hear someone use it, you may want to reconsider knowing them.

Which brings me to genetical.  This is not a word. Even Google agrees that this is not a word. Using this in a sentence is a terrible idea, and you should feel bad for doing so.

But he did. Again and again. And it was painful. We could have made it into a drinking game.....And the genetical predisposition for brow ridges can be seen here....bottoms up!

More recently, I encountered the "word" dramatical. It was used in a place where I knew it shouldn’t be, but I had no power to change it, and so I didn't even have a chance to make proper fun of it. At least my friend was able to vent her frustration at the sloppy, half-baked classificatory, but in this case I couldn’t say anything.
To be fair, Urban Dictionary provides a definition for this word, making it technically an actual word, though if we accept this, we also need to accept bae as a word, which I'm not willing to do.
According to Urban Dictionary, dramatical means to be so dramatic that one even seems to be theatrical*
The example they give for this depressing bastardization of the English language is as follows: "Flavor Flav ousted the DRAMATICAL girls".

Oh sweet Lord. I think it’s reasonably safe to say that if your definition for a word contains any reference to Flavor Flav, you should seriously reconsider your life choices before using it in any grown-up setting. Or you should be buying stock in necklace clocks. Basically, friends don't let friends use dramatical.

And with that I'll remove my grammar nazi hat for the day. It's been fun. ;-)


Sunday 3 July 2016

Me vs More Ticks

Today we added Sally to the collection of ticks in the fridge. Our 6 year old bravely tolerated the removal of her very first female dog tick, and was granted the naming rights. This is the first tick that we've actually had attach to anyone. I let Husband handle the extradition.

Sally was added to the jar containing the desiccated remains of her male comrades, where she will live out the rest of her parasitic life. God speed Sally.

This is becoming a very dark tradition in our household.

Thursday 2 June 2016

Me vs Swimming...with an Accomplice

I'm still not a good swimmer. 

All of last season I spent trying to understand why my legs were about as useful as chopsticks in soup, and this year isn't looking much better.

A few things have changed. We have a new coach.  I'm convinced that she goes home at night and just cries at the prospect of trying to decipher my obvious aquatic failings, however I do enjoy the new and bizarre drills she has us do. 

The strangest one so far: imagine for a moment you are doing the chicken dance. Bend your arms up to make ineffectual little wings, and flap them around a bit. 
Good. Keep that image in your head. 
Now picture yourself jumping into the fucking water and try to swim using your ineffectual little wings. It looks a lot like you think it would. Basically you are a drowning chicken.

I have also convinced a friend to join me in the pool this year. I really have no idea why she agreed to do it. Climbing into a bathing suit and jumping into the water in early May when there is still some snow on the ground is not as fun as it sounds, but I'm assuming she joined mainly to enjoy the quality comedic performance I bring to the pool each evening. 

Together we've managed to bring a whole new level of grace to the water. 

For fun, and because we were otherwise completely done with the whole "lesson" part of the night, the two of us decided to pretend we were qualified to teach ourselves how to flip and turn underwater.
When done correctly, these turns allow you to seamlessly change direction and continue swimming when you reach the end of the pool, and if you're not us, look good doing it. 

But if you are us, as we were, then it probably appeared more like a case of the halt leading the blind, but where both parties were also drowning. 

Now, in theory, this move seemed simple enough. Somersault over, push off the wall, and swim in the other direction. Emerge victorious at the other end of the pool.

What actually happened was more like this:  somersault over sideways, push off something (wall, person, or thin fucking air), and then submarine down and skin your ass on the pool floor because you weren't even close to pointing in the right direction. Finally, emerge coughing and choking because you managed to suck a litre of water up your nose like someone desperate to prove they can use a neti pot.

Or, if you're my friend, you can attempt the somersault, not make it even close to a full rotation, abort the move underwater, and then for no definable reason, do a handstand. She even pointed her toes. A solid 7 out of 10.

Once she came back up from her underwater gymnastic routine, and I stopped laughing long enough to ask her why on earth she had done a handstand. She told me that once she realized that the somersault wasn't going to happen, she panicked and did a handstand. 

I can honestly say that I've never done a panic handstand before. 

Well done.

Tuesday 10 May 2016

Me vs The Tiny Trailer Reno - Part 1

As a person with no patience for fiddly shit (which includes removing doors to paint them, and measuring of any sort), I'm currently struggling with my recent decision buy and refinish a 1983 Bigfoot trailer.

To be fair, the trailer is in incredible condition for it's age, but it does need some love.

The fake wood panelling is, well, awful, and it has some water damage that needs attention. The cushions, while in reasonable condition, are better suited to a love shack from the 80's than a trailer I want to live in for any period of time. I'm pretty sure the dust coming off of them predates the dinosaurs. And the ivy decoupage wallpaper border is nothing short of a nightmare to get off the walls.

But it works, so that's great. I don't have to fix anything before it's usable, which is a good thing because I'm shitty at fixing things, I don't want to fix things, and if I do find myself in a position to fix a thing, it will probably be done very slowly.

So this will be an ongoing project, but I wanted to share the beginnings...

This is the trailer. It's cute and tiny. My poor 6'2 ft tall husband should probably invest in a tent.
Happily there are no holes, and the colour isn't visually offensive. I'm not painting the outside.

The walls with the water damage were wrinkled and came off in your hands. Given that I have a two year old that would definitely fuck around with anything that came off in his hands, that shit had to go. Luckily the guy who we got it from redid the floor and left me some of the vinyl stick on floor boards.
You can see at the top of the
fake wood walls where the
ivy used to be
They stick, so now they are stick on wall boards. The rest will get painted soon. You know, soon like eventually, and I'm probably going to try to paint around things because I'm pretty sure that if I take the screws out to get the cupboard doors off, they will never go back on again.

I've also done my best to get the terrible ivy wallpaper off. I've done a medium job at it, but I'm sick to death of pulling it off and inhaling old wallpaper dust. Hopefully the paint will cover what's left if it tolerably enough because some of that shit appears to have been welded to the walls and short of it being burned off, I'm pretty sure it's going to outlive me.

So much ugly fabric in
one place
The cushions are getting recovered, because so help me, they are ugly as fuck. The fabric is also splitting and probably contains enough source material to clone a colony of dust mites.

The new and better
The difficulty here is that recovering cushions requires time, patience, measuring skills, and a sewing machine. I have none of these. This should go terribly.

So that's where I am so far. I'll post more as I go along. It'll be interesting.

Thursday 5 May 2016

Me vs Ticks

It’s tick season in my neck of the woods, and over the last week I’ve pulled ticks from myself and from my youngest kid.

I brushed the first one off my shoulder while I was on the phone with a friend. I felt what I thought was s mosquito on my shoulder, and swept it off. When I brought my hand back, I had a tick stuck to my finger. 

Like any reasonable person, I shrieked like a giant, terrified, baby and shook it off. 

Onto my floor. 

Inside my house. 

Then my very tolerant friend got to listen to my panicked ranting about lyme disease as I hunted around my kitchen on my hands and knees trying to find it again. The only thing worse than a spider that disappears in your house is a tick that pulls a similar vanishing act.

But I found it, and he became my prisoner.

I call this one Bob.

The next one came out of my 2 year old’s hair a few days later. He handled it better than I would/did.
This is Paw Patrol Tick. Guess who named him.

After frantically scanning every known resource online and canvassing a few knowledgeable friends, I determined that we probably weren't going to die because Bob and Paw Patrol Tick are dog ticks, and not deer ticks. 

They also hadn’t had time to feed and blow up like some kind of nightmare-driven balloon animals, so we were good. 

They do, however carry Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, so if you notice either of us being sick or spotted, please drive us to a hospital.

And because I’m strange, I’ve kept them. 

They’re living in my fridge in little containers. I check every day to see if they are still moving. They’re surprisingly resilient.

Since we obviously live in a place with an appallingly active tick population I wanted to see what my options were. Most websites said to stay out of grassy, bushy areas. Well, currently I live on a desolate rocky wasteland, and that hasn’t seemed to curb the issue. I literally have no grass that they would hang out on. And the day I got my tick I was sitting on my upper deck reading a book. I don’t even have a potted plant up there.

So staying out of the grass wasn’t really cutting it for me.

Our other options were deet (which I’m allergic to) and coating all of our clothes with permethrin, which for those of you who don’t know is a synthetic insecticide that acts as a neurotoxin. While considered safe to humans, I’m not sure I want to wear clothing coated in it on a regular basis.
And then there are the natural repellants. I was fairly skeptical about their efficacy, however they were a much more attractive option.
So, like any reasonable person would, I decided to investigate and see if these natural repellants worked. My plan was to use Bob and Paw Patrol Tick as test subjects, because really, how often do you get to play with refrigerated ticks?

Me and my six year old set up a cookie tray and brought out our ‘participants’. Our repellants of choice were vinegar, tea tree oil, and lemongrass oil as suggested by the internet. 
The testing site

I did not obtain informed consent, and I can only imagine that Bob and PPT were not willing subjects, however as I wasn’t asked if I’d like my blood sucked from my body, so I had very little sympathy.

My daughter documented our experiment with photographs and was a wonderfully macabre lab assistant, handing me one q-tip after another coated in scents to make the ticks run.
Bob doesn't like vinegar

Vinegar was the clear winner, and neither Bob nor PPT liked it. You could draw little vinegar circles around them and it would take them a minute or so to break through. Lemongrass and tea tree were also somewhat effective, but not as good.

Overall I considered it a good opportunity to find if any of the suggested methods of tick repellant worked and to teach my daughter about the experimental process and the importance of testing internet theories.

Now to figure out what to do next with Bob and Paw Patrol Tick. They are still in my fridge.

Tuesday 12 April 2016

Me vs Swimming: Season 2

Coming this May!

If you enjoyed Me vs Swimming and it's sequel Me STILL vs Swimming, you can look forward to many more adventures coming up, as for no definable reason, I've rejoined the swim team. 

I expect highlights to include getting into the water in early May and freezing my ass off and realizing that not swimming for the winter does nothing for my skill level.


Jamie who can't kick 
Confounded coaches who can't understand why kicking is so hard for Jamie
Friends of Jamie who lap her constantly unless Jamie is given pity flippers

Swimming: Season 2 coming soon to a pool that is probably not near you.

Tuesday 29 March 2016

Me vs Equal Representation

For years I've been aware that I am not the obviously gifted one in our family.  I spent years trying to figure out what my awesome talent was, and short of being very punctual, I drew a pretty universal blank.

My sister, however, has this (irritating) ability to master almost everything she touches, while I'm still trying to figure out how to keep my house clean and get my toddler to eat more than crackers.
She's an amazing skier (I've blown my knee twice while trying). She rock climbs, and is also great at that (I can drag my way up a rock, but I don't make it look good). She picks up a guitar, and teaches herself to play (Yeah, I have zero coordination when it comes to playing an instrument). And of course she can cook. And bake. (See earlier reference to crackers)

Does it sound like I'm jealous? I totally am, but I love her, so that's ok. :-)

And then there is her artistic talent. Pick a medium, and she will be good at it. Very good at it.

Grab a pencil and boom:

Painting? We had the coolest nursery wall ever:

Clay had a bumpy start:

...and then apparently got over it:

Surprisingly, this really hasn't bothered me that much over the years, however every now and again I feel like I need to point out the disparity in appreciation as demonstrated by other family members.

My parents house holds no less than 5 pieces of my sister's art PROMINENTLY displayed on walls and in curio cabinets.

I specifically said prominently, because to be fair, I did find this:

A picture of whales that I took years ago. You will notice that I found it carefully tucked in a drawer. Maybe it's a display drawer?

When relating this story to my sister over Easter (and making sure she was aware I'd be putting her art up here), she recognized the photo as one she had used as a template for a whale picture she has painted. Ouch, though to be fair, my "art" pretty much consists of the adult colouring books available at my local grocery store, so I can see why that doesn't get a frame.  

But not even my parents obvious artistic favouritism (which is well deserved...I can't draw a straight line with a ruler) can touch the time when my grandmother introduced my sister and I to her friend. She began by telling this woman about how talented my sister was, how artistic, how brilliant, basically how the rainbows never ceased to shine when she was around, et cetera. Then I think she realized I was there too. She looked at me in a vaguely panicked way, and you could see the moment that she realized the hole that had been dug. She looked at her friend and gave me the most memorable introduction I have ever experienced: "This is Jamie. She can read."

Literacy Level: Expert
If you need something read, I'm your girl. I will read the shit out of it.

Except this month....I'm way behind on my book club reading.

Stop laughing.