The Ex-Ex-Nomad

I've Moved On To Bigger and Better Things

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 03:59:00 +0000

And you can join me, too!

Please update your links to my new blog:

http://www.zonapellucida.wordpress.com

See you all there!

But Of Course, Salt Spring Wasn't ALL Bad...

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 00:42:00 +0000

Lest y'all think my first trip to Salt Spring Island was all doom, gloom, and grumbling about the crappy hand drawn hiking maps, let me remind you what a wonderful and magical place it truly is...

Only on Salt Spring:

- Can you meet not one, but two people, who are members of the same chanting and meditation group as Marty and I (Siddha Yoga). In a span of 10 minutes!

- Can you search for mystical 'fairy doors' on a magical mountain hike. (Alas, Marty and I only found 5 of the 6 doors. But I did learn that one way to sound like a crazy lady is to ask an unsuspecting hiker, whilst huffing and puffing your way up the mountain, where the fairy doors are. Especially if they are completely and utterly unaware that there are 6 to be found on the hike...)

Me: (huffing, puffing, before we stumbled upon our first fairy door discovery) Excuse me, but do you know where any of the fairy doors on this hike are?
Unsuspecting Hiker: (genuinely perturbed) The what?!
Me: (more huffing, more puffing): You know, the F-A-I-R-Y D-O-O-R-S (saying it slow and all deliberate-like)
U.H.: (genuinely alarmed) The what??!
Me: (gaining a sudden awareness of what this interaction must seem like to Mr. U.H.) Oh, the woman at the Visitor Information Centre, at the Chamber of Commerce, told us that 6 small doors were built into the roots of the trees here. (trying to maintain a semblance of sanity and rationality. Tossing in big, professional-sounding words like "Chamber of Commerce".)
U.H.: (now genuinely afraid) I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you're talking about. (proceeds to give me an extremely wide berth while passing me. Disobeys numerous admonitions by B.C. Parks to "please stay on marked trails to prevent erosion and to protect delicate ecosystems". The bastard!)

Yes, the doors exist. I promise.

But only on Salt Spring can you look for fairy doors on one of your hikes!

Rejoicing on the top of Mount Erskine after discovering the 3rd of 6 doors!

Also, only on Salt Spring:

- Can you tour a beautiful lavender farm and dream of one day living on/owning such a sacred and serene piece of property

The orchard, with stunningly beautiful barn/log house in background. I want to live there:
Inside the yurt dedicated to yoga and meditation. I have a thing for yurts:

A close-up of the dream house:

And in the window of the dream house, a chakra light catcher:

This is how serene I would be if I lived at the lavender farm. And not just because of the lavender working its essential oil magic:

We came back from a mere two days on Salt Spring feeling like we had experienced a whole week's vacation... Simply put: it was amazing, and I can't wait to go back.

Note to people somewhere in the general Pacific Northwest area: July 6 is not only my dear mother's birthday-- it is also the day of the annual Lavender Festival at the Sacred Mountain Lavender Farm. Check it out!

Just a Thought

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 14:07:00 +0000

Dear Tourism B.C. and B.C. Parks,

There's something to be said about decent maps and trail markers. As a diverse and gorgeous province, you have a wealth of stunning hiking trails, most of which can be used as tasty bait to lure adventurous tourists inside the provincial boundaries. (And once they are in, they are sure to spend money.) However, the hikes themselves are not enough. You know what visitors really need? DECENT MAPS AND TRAIL MARKERS.

Not everyone who checks out the hiking trails in B.C. is navigationally savvy. And even those that are would still like to know a few critical details about a hike before embarking on it. For example:

1. How do I get myself to the trail head?

2. How long is the hike? (Better if this is measured in good old kilometres, rather than by time, because the last time I checked, not everybody hikes at the same speed)

3. Where will the hike take me? I.e. what is the route?

4. How do I get back to my car (or bicycle, or the road) when I am finished the hike? Is this a loop trail or an out-and-back?

Seems pretty simple, right? Then why, B.C., oh why, on one of your most beautiful Gulf Islands, can you not provide clear and consistent answers to these basic questions in any of your visitor information provided materials?

An example might help to illustrate this point. My dear husband and I ventured onto beautiful Salt Spring Island this past weekend. We were excited to take in the Saturday market in Ganges and to experience some of the hiking trails that Salt Spring had to offer. We were armed with a hiking trails guide book, and we also stopped by the Visitor Information Centre to retrieve maps of some popular hiking trails. We were prepared. Or so we thought.

One of the hikes we attempted was to Baynes Peak on Mount Maxwell. Our guide book provided the following instructions to drive to the trailhead:

"On Fulford-Ganges Road... turn southwest onto Cranberry Road to Hobbs Road. Swing left (south) at the T-Junction and take Mount Maxwell Road to the main parking lot. The pavement ends at the 4km mark. Parts of the 9km route may be rough. The road is not suited to trailers and RVs"
--- from Hiking Trails II: South-Central Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands

OK, so we were on Mount Maxwell Road in no time. As soon as we turned onto the road, the pavement ended. That must mean 5 km to the main parking lot, then? Sure.

Well, five or so kilometres later, we were indeed in the main parking lot, but said parking lot, unbeknownst to us, actually represented the end of the hike, not the trailhead. There were picnic tables full of families who had driven up for the day, and nary a hiking boot nor bead of sweat was evident on any one of them.

This is how we came to hike down a mountain, rather than up. If you are ever thinking of doing this one day, it's not really recommended. For one thing, nothing beats the exhilarated rush of scaling a mountain by foot and finally being rewarded with a spectacular view. Honestly, it's kind of anti-climactic going from majestic panoramics up above to dark moss down below tree level. Still nice, but anti-climactic. Secondly, going down a mountain from the get-go means you still have to go back up to return to your vehicle. So the pain and suffering of the whole ordeal gets moved to the end of the hike. Come on. You sweat on the way up (at the BEGINNING) and scamper all carefree-like on the way down (AT THE END). That's how it should go.

In any case, down the mountain we hiked, following our 'trusty' visitor information centre-provided map and also consulting our 'very concise and clear' hiking guide book instructions:

Instructions: "At Baynes Peak (4), you will find the best viewpoint... The main viewing area near the sheer bluffs is fenced. From here you can hike northwest to find more viewpoints. The walk back to (1) is clearly marked. You can pick a route through open forest (2) where there is limited roadside parking. If you follow the park road east about 300m you'll find a minor, sometimes indistinct, trail (3) which winds through salal mainly along the north boundary. There are no trail markers. You can estimate the boundary by the size of the trees within the park... Avoid the south side trails: some are extremely dangerous. Only the trails from (4) to (1) are maintained."

Um, yeah. "Surprisingly" (truly, I'm shocked), we got a little lost on the hike. We started off on what must have been the south side trails... not marked at all. Beautiful and well-trodden, but not at all marked.

Marty posing next to the "Extremely Precipitous Dangerous Drop-Off", which had so lovingly been written onto our hand-drawn map.

In 45 minutes or so, we came to a dead end and the road back up. We were so not going to "hike" the road back up (so rustic!), so we crossed the road and discovered another trail. This one was marked with neon orange reflective tape and sometimes with neon orange reflective tiles that had been nailed onto trees. We figured we must be somewhere back on the mysterious route from "(4) to (1)", but even when walking in a straight line on the same trail, we discovered that some of the tiles had the number 2 scrawled on them, whereas others had the number 1, the number 3, the number 5 (?), and even "Gary's Trail" etched in permanent marker on them. So where the hell were we?

Don't get me wrong: the trail was still beautiful, and we were pretty certain that we would get back to our van so long as we eventually hiked "up". But how long would it take? Did we have enough food and water? Would we make it to the lavender farm afterward in time to take a tour before it closed? How much longer was this trail? To all of these questions, we didn't have the foggiest idea of an answer.

More time passed in the confusing sea of randomly numbered tiles, and suddenly we came across this:

Some other hiker, it seemed, had clearly been frustrated in this forest before and had taken it upon himself to laminate a little card of directions and hammer it to a tree. How thoughtful. And then again, soon after heading in the direction that was so helpfully pointed out by Mr. Lamination, we saw another novel trail marker:

This just happens to be a lid from a yogurt container that has been scribbled on in permanent marker and tacked to another tree! Note to B.C.: when your hikers have to resort to guerrilla trail marking tactics, perhaps it is time to invest in some DECENT (and preferably topographical) MAPS AND TRAIL MARKERS. Come on now!

The laminated sign and the yogurt containers proved to be the most clear directions we had received all weekend. We instinctively trusted in these rudimentary signs, even though their directions led us through a jumbled sea of more tiles marked 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and now "Frosty Trail". Eventually, we ended up back at the top, taking in the majestic views (again-- and this time at least a little sweaty), but cursing our stupid, not to scale, hand-drawn map, and our convoluted guide book.

We arrived at the lavender farm exactly 4 minutes before they officially closed. Luckily, we were still able to tour the farm on our own time. But B.C, had we known exactly how long the trail was and exactly where it was going, we could have planned our hike accordingly and finished it up with oodles of time to spare. A novel concept, I know, but come on... all the other provinces are doing it.

Hopelessly Devoted To You

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 13:42:00 +0000

Back in Calgary, I used to work out at the U of C Fitness Centre. At the time, some of my friends bought memberships to other gyms, feeling that the Fitness Centre at school was much too elitist and meat market-y (many Olympic athletes train there, and yeah-- I can definitely see how it might be a wee intimidating). I was too cheap (and broke) to explore other options. I figured that since the cost of my Fitness Centre membership was included (and mandatory) in my school fees, I might as well take full advantage of it.

Truthfully, I didn't find the U of C gym to be too elitist or full of bar stars, but it could be because I used to work out at the ungodly hour of 6 am. At that time of the morning, all of the people looking to score their next date at the gym were usually still hungover and/or sleeping... bless their hungover hearts. No, during my time there, I was typically joined by a handful of elderly U of C alumni who would faithfully do their gentle walks around the track. That was that, and life was good.

When we first moved to Victoria, Marty and I bought memberships to the least expensive club around: the local Rec Centre. It had many things going for it-- it was cheap, it had recently been renovated, and it was within a few minutes' walk of our apartment. However, it was also crowded and small. And did I mention crowded? I hated it there and only managed to drag my grumbling ass over there for a few measly workouts. For being the least expensive gym in town, I sure ended up paying an exorbitant amount of money per workout, if you're a geek like me and divide the total costs of things by the number of times you use them. (You know who you are!)

After my membership expired at ye olde Rec Centre, I hurried over to the YMCA to give that a go. What a difference! It's large, well-equipped (with both equipment and a variety of fitness classes), diverse, and just a few blocks away from my work. Plus, I'm now able to see why my friends gave up the U of C to come to a Y: every size and shape of person works out at the Y, and it's way less intimidating than the U of C could be. At the Y, you still see people working out in the latest Lululemon attire, but you also see a wide array of people sweating it out in an oversized 80s T-shirt and a ratty old pair of shorts. And yes, there are the people who are carefully groomed and well-manicured at the Y, but then there are also those who are more disheveled and who don't give a rat's ass what they look like for their workout.

I love it there. I like not giving a passing thought to the fact that my own workout attire is now a full 10 years old (and a little droopy on the bottom half... bought back in the day when bigger/baggier meant better!). I like feeling like I am 'somewhere in the middle' of the crowd: not the shortest or tallest, not the thinnest or heaviest, not the coolest or most awkward, not the most athletic or coordinated but also not the least athletic and coordinated. Yes, yes-- the Y here takes away most of the pressure and distractions that can characterize the gym atmosphere and makes it possible to focus on the only thing that really matters there: my workout.

However...

I have developed a keen sense of self-consciousness in one area in particular. Despite the Y being home to a 'global village', mishmashed group of people working out, it still seems that mostly everyone has one thing in common: they all tend to sport an ipod or an mp3 player of sorts. Even the most disheveled looking old men in the faded neon t-shirts and shocking yellow short shorts have their ipod minis nestled discreetly in the armbands on their upper arms. I, on the other hand, still kick it old school. And by old school, I am not referring to the antiquities known as "discmans"; no, I'm talking about something a little bit more old school still.

I work out with one of those yellow Sony Sport walkmans affixed to the waistband of my pants. You know the ones... the ones like this (but more yellow, still) that were really cool in the 90s, when sweatbands and shimmery spandex leggings were the workout attire of choice. I still have one. It's big. And yellow. And instead of easily selecting which tracks to listen to while I'm sweating it out on the elliptical machine, I have to listen to the tracks on my mix tape (remember those?) in order. (Fastforwarding or rewinding is extremely slow on this machine and wastes the batteries big time). Plus, the 'auto flip' button on the walkman broke sometime... in the 90s, I'm sure... so when one side of the tape is finished, I have to suffer the awkwardness and embarrassment of opening the shell and manually flipping the tape. Oh, the shame!

I know that ipods and mp3 players have become so much more affordable than they used to be, and I also know that even the least technologically-adept of people can download music onto their ipods. So why don't I have one yet? I have no idea. I feel morbidly self-conscious flashing my giant cassette player around at the gym and yet... no ipod to make everything better at this point in time.

The truth is, I really like the mix tapes I made nearly a decade ago. I used to borrow random CDs from the library and record a song or two from each onto my tapes. Alas, I wasn't really clued into the whole 'demise of the cassette tape' trend until it was much, much too late. And now I have a bunch of really good (and random-- did I mention I didn't write down any of the artists or song titles? NON-REPLICABLE MIX TAPE MATERIAL. Very smart.) music on a bunch of tapes that need to be played in my hot yellow walkman.

Tell me how cool I am again?

Yeah, I know.

Wanted: A Czech Translator

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 14:21:00 +0000

Marty and I are hoping that you, or somebody you know, can speak both fluent English and fluent Czech (at an adult level).

You see, possibly the most generous and wonderful woman we know in all of Czech Republic-- Zdena-- has fallen very ill with colon cancer. The prognosis is not good. Already, she looks and feels sickly enough that she is refusing to have any visitors, lest they see her in her weakened state. Marty's parents, who only visit their home country once every three years, had to settle for a visit with her husband alone, because Zdena was too uncomfortable to visit with them, too.

During our visit (we stayed in a suite in their house for nearly 3 months), Zdena was always happy to indulge my sweet tooth (and her own!) Pictured here with our favourite: Geisha brand chocolate bar.

We cried when we heard this news. Now, we are hoping to send her a heartfelt letter. Alas, there are two complicating factors:

1. Zdena only speaks Czech. She and I had many moments of laughter, trying to communicate without Marty acting as a translator. I know only enough Czech to tell her "nerozumim"-- I don't understand. Her English is limited to words like "happy" and "rainbow".

2. Marty's Czech vocabulary is not sophisticated enough to tell Zdena everything we feel in Czech. He was brought to Canada from CZ when he was only 8 years old, so his Czech is rather elementary (literally).

Are you able to translate our English letter into Czech? Do you know of somebody who can translate our letter for us?

We are happy to compensate you for your efforts. If you are interested and capable, please e-mail Marty at:

marty AT martycultural DOT com (marty@martycultural.com)

Thank you so much!

My Name Is Dana, and I Am A First Aid Attendant. Can I Help You?

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Thu, 29 May 2008 13:48:00 +0000

Yesterday, I overcame a deep-seated dislike of blood and Little Anne dolls and managed to scrape by with my Level 1 First Aid training. It was only one day of learning, and yes, it's only Level 1, but I am proud to say I can now perform CPR, the Heimlich maneuver, artificial respiration, and the like. If I have to. But I hope I never will.

It all started when we realized at work that we were NOT AT ALL PREPARED in terms of safety. People seem to have a big fear of earthquakes here (I haven't yet been swayed to that mentality, but I guess I'll be the one who's sorry when the WHOLE OF VANCOUVER ISLAND sinks into the ocean by 15-20 metres because of some devastating earthquake. Or so I'm told.) We got to checking out our emergency earthquake kits in the office and discovered such delights as batteries that didn't work, dusty old blankets that gave me allergies, and a lack of things like shoes, whistles, and oh yeah- food supplies. So a safety committee was formed, and it was determined that, in addition to restocking the kits with fresh (and working!) supplies, a number of people on every floor should also be trained in first aid. Just in case. I volunteered.

Having first aid training is like donating blood, I figure: everybody urges you to do it, and everybody reminds you how many lives can be saved if and when you do it, and the nagging voice inside my head agrees with everything that is being argued in favour of doing it, but I never could bring myself to just go out and get first aid or to donate blood. Not donating blood was easy to rationalize: I have low iron, or I just had a piercing, or I was just in a foreign country, etc., etc. I could always find some reason to get out of donating blood. But first aid? The only reason why I secretly never learned before was because of those dreaded Annie dolls.

The last experience I had with an Annie doll was quite traumatic. Don't laugh-- it's true. I was participating in the P.A.R.T.Y. program with my Grade 9 class at the Foothills Hospital. For those of you not familiar with the program, it's basically designed to sway young people-- by any possible means-- not to drink and drive. You see graphic slide shows of car wrecks and detached feet or limbs, get heart wrenching presentations from people who have been affected personally by impaired driving or who have lost somebody to the same, see x-rays of broken bones and stab wounds from people who were injured by an impaired person, and even eat your lunch with a 'disability' caused by impaired driving (e.g. having to eat your lunch with oven mitts on to simulate the loss of fine motor skills). I was devastated by the PARTY program. I came home from it completely weeping, and a few years later, my sister had to leave the program early because she just couldn't tolerate the sadness and intensity of it all. Plus, there were those Annie dolls.

In the ER and ICU, they had Annie dolls hooked up to various machines to show us young people what might happen in the event of an impaired driving crash. I was fine looking at x-rays of actual injuries and real people's cracked skulls, but for some reason, I nearly fainted every time I came into contact with an Annie doll. Hearing the fake blood chorus through fake Annie's veins made me sick to my stomach, and upon seeing poor Annie hooked up to a respirator, I had to be escorted, fainting, out of the room by an alarmed nurse who kept shouting at me to "take my hands out of my pockets!" I positively could not handle those Annie dolls.

Long story short: volunteering to take First Aid training was kind of a big deal for me, because I KNEW we would be dealing with those Annie dolls and that I would have to face my nausea and feelings of faintness full-on. No wimping out here: 3 of my other coworkers would be training on the same day as well, and I didn't want them to have to report back to work that I failed the training because I fainted on sight of the Annie doll...

And? More than 15 years have passed since my first experience with Annie. I did okay yesterday. There were a few times when I feared I might throw up a little bit into Annie's mouth while I performed artificial respiration on her, but it never happened. I would just take a few seconds of rest, toughen up, and get back to saving her plastic life. On the flip side: I was really good at the whole communication part. I talked a mile a minute to Annie while trying to rescue her, and my instructor kept urging the rest of the students to be like me, "Keep talking to the casualty: let her know what you're doing!".

The funny thing is: I'm pretty sure I will be fine performing first aid on an actual, living person. (If I have to. But I hope I never will.) It's just those plastic creepy dolls that make me feel dizzy and sick. Curse you, Annie.

There's Something You Should Know

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Sun, 18 May 2008 14:39:00 +0000

After nearly 27 years of getting to know myself, I have come to the resounding conclusion that I am simply incapable of carrying on 'as usual' if I know I am being watched or observed. Positively, utterly incapable. Reams of data, yielded from informal studies conducted since 1981 reveal that I, in fact, am a prime example of what psychologists like to call the 'observer effect'.

As our dear Wikipedia points out, "the effect refers to how people change their behaviour when aware of being watched". Yes, my friends, if I know I am being watched, or more importantly if I suspect I am being monitored or evaluated, I will transform into the best possible version of myself, so as to score the most points, 'A' grades, kudos, or whatever it is that is being handed out. I can't help it. I fear failing at something like I fear being mauled by bears in the remote Alaskan wilderness. It's genetic.

The problem is that this observer-effect thing easily turns into a vicious circle, in which I-- by default and unfortunate human conditioning-- instantly change my behaviour but am simultaneously aware that I am changing my behaviour because of this thing called the observer effect. Then the academic side of me tells myself not to change my behaviour even though I am being observed, and then I become hypervigilant about my behaviour and change it anyway, and then whoever is observing me thinks 'wow, that Dana L. sure is neurotic and sketchy', and then I become even more neurotic and sketchy and wonder just how I used to behave before I knew I was being watched. It's exhausting.

On the flip side, though, the observer effect can also lead to great things in my life. If I know I'm going to be watched or evaluated, and I know I'm going to modify my behaviour because of it, I can use the opportunity to change for the better. So when my (wonderful) doctor told me to keep a diet and exercise diary for two weeks, and to 'not modify anything' just for the sake of looking good in my diary, I decided that since me not changing anything was about as likely as me going hiking in the remote Alaskan wilderness with an outfit made of raw meat and juicy berries, I was going to take full advantage of the observer effect and become Super Fabulous Dana L.

Before starting my diet diary, I was eating rather well during the week but letting everything fall apart on the weekends. Since I started writing things down, though, unnecessary sweets and treats (and other things like coffee and cheese) have simply been eliminated from my diet. Likewise, before making notes of the exercise I was doing, sure I was walking to and from work everyday, but I was also taking an unfortunate (and extended) break from the gym and felt my lungs burn every time I had to ride my bike. Lo and behold, since starting my diet and exercise diary, I have made it to the gym 3 times each week (and liked it!), plus I've also taken to the outdoors with Marty much more than usual. Just yesterday, we cycled 40 km on the Galloping Goose trail! (The sunshine helps. A lot.)

These images are both part of a mural that is found along the Galloping Goose trail. Incredible.

I don't omit things in my diary or lie about what I've eaten or the exercise I've done. So if I have to eat out or if I skip a workout, that will get noted in my diary. However, the odds of me eating something crappy or deciding I just don't feel like a workout now are much, much slimmer. This is a good thing, no?

I figure my doctor is an educated man who knows all about the observer effect and that I will change my behaviour even though he has told me not to. I also figure that even if I miraculously managed to keep everything exactly the same, my doctor would look at my diary and tell me to omit things like coffee and cheese and to exercise more, anyway. By modifying my behaviour, I figure, I'm actually jumping ahead a step and making it unnecessary for him to waste an appointment by pointing out the obvious. So it's like I'm doing us both a favour.

Scent of a Woman, Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Mon, 12 May 2008 14:00:00 +0000

A while back, I had wondered aloud how I must smell to other people. I'm pretty much a soap and water kind of girl, save for my Tom's of Maine deodorant, but how was I to know how that smell got translated in the nostrils of others-- others who were heavily laden with perfumes and colognes?

Well, the other day, I was given a clue.

It happened in a laundromat-- our laundry room is closed for renovations this week (sucks), so I was rockin' it, bachelor-suite style, at our nearest laundromat. I had our Borax all ready to go, and then another woman stepped up to the machine beside me.

Her: Oh, you smell so good! Like a vegetarian! Are you a vegetarian?
Me: (perturbed and a little taken aback) Um, yes?
Her: I knew it! I can always smell a vegetarian! (blathers on about her bionic nose and how she hates working out next to meat eaters)
Me: (still perturbed and taken aback, but also a little bit... relieved.) Mm-hmm.

So there you have it-- bionic nose woman says so: I smell like a vegetarian. And apparently, that smells good.

I Betcha Our New Doctor Can Levitate

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Fri, 09 May 2008 14:11:00 +0000

Well, you'll be pleased to know that Marty and I both 'passed' the compatibility test during our first appointments with our new doctor. With flying colours. That doctor is completely on the same page as us, health philosophy-wise, it just makes me want to sing and dance with sheer joy!

My first visit lasted nearly an hour (with a doctor!), and we covered everything from past health history, to current health issues, to health goals, relationships, spiritual beliefs and practices, exercise and diet. It was a thorough visit in all the right ways, and such a refreshing change from medical practice as I've known it for... my whole life. (Disclaimer: I did love my sweet doctor in Calgary, but there were definitely some times when his diagnoses or prescriptions would just make me cringe. Like the time I had spotting between periods, and my doctor recommended doing an intra-uterine scope to see if I had a dysfunctional uterus. My naturopath prescribed B-Complex vitamins instead, and that was the end of that. Le sigh.)

Anyway, for the first time:

- We've found a doctor who practices a vegan lifestyle and who therefore will be highly unlikely to tell us to eat meat. (I'd be a little shocked if he did. And by 'little', I mean my jaw would drop so low it would cause me to tip forward and collapse on the floor.)

- I've mentioned that I practice Fertility Awareness Methods of birth control and have not been scolded about its infamous (but mostly alleged) unreliability. (His response was "It sounds like you've found a method that works for you and that helps keep you aware about the goings-on in your body") I LOVE IT!!

- We've discovered a doctor who is willing to work on the foundations of health -- sleep, diet, exercise, and stress -- before he'll even consider moving on to any sort of pharmaceutical. (Actually, he'll help balance the foundations of health, and then move on to herbs/homeopathy/acupuncture if there's still imbalance. If imbalance remains after THAT, then he might reluctantly prescribe a drug. That's perfect for us!)

- I walked out of a doctor's appointment with a prescription that looked like this:

Yep- he recommended a book I should read to learn more about Ayurvedic Medicine, and he also wants me to take a diet diary for two weeks. What a wonderful world!

All in all, I'm completely impressed. Even though Dr. S. might not be right for everybody (i.e. some people just want the codeine, and that's it), he is completely perfect for Marty and I. Soon, we will be fully conversant in matters of doshas, yogic practices, and qi meridians, and oh yeah-- we'll be vibrant and healthy to boot!

The Return to Blogging: In Which I Say "Screw Physio" and Decide to Listen to My Own Body

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Mon, 05 May 2008 13:50:00 +0000

I used to work at a sexual health clinic back in Calgary. Every day, no matter what, we would inevitably remind one of our clients that 'she knew her own body best', and that 'she also knew what was best for her'. It was true. There was no way any of us could decide for another person what method of birth control should be used or what course of action should be taken in the face of an unplanned pregnancy. 'You know your body best': Sage advice from the mouths of babes.

Well, in the spirit of knowing my own body best, I've said NUTS to physiotherapy and gone back to see my wonder acupuncturist. Screw the splinting for 24 hours a day. Screw thinking I have nerve damage all of a sudden. Screw the idea of taking extra strength Advils 3 times a day for a whole week, when I only ever use regular strength Advil a few times a year, and even then it's only if I'm pretty convinced I'm going to die of pain unless I take a painkiller/anti-inflammatory. Screw not knitting or blogging but working on an effin' computer for 8 whole hours a day at work! Just screw it all (I know, so jaded).

After feeling extremely sorry for myself and dutifully following my physio's instructions for a few days, it suddenly hit me: "I know my own body best, and I also know what's best for me.' And seriously-- physio only seemed to be making things worse for my forearms, not better. So off came the splints and in went the needles.

It's not that I don't think my physiotherapist is skilled and knowledgeable or that physiotherapy in general is a bloody waste of time-- not at all. It's just that acupuncture seems to work in harmony with my body and mind, whereas physio seems to work against it. For me.

What this all means is that I'm tentatively taking up blogging again (after a whole week and some hiatus-- I know my absence was hard on all of us) and that in a few weeks' time (I have it all planned out), I'm even more tentatively going to resume knitting again. I'm certainly not throwing caution to the wind or working my arms so hard that they only get worse. I'm just starting to listen to my body again. And my body, in borderline masochistic fashion, seems to be saying 'no thanks' to massage, heat packs, and gentle ultrasound therapy; and 'yes, please' to needles in my forehead, forearms, shoulders, back, hands, knees, and feet (in between my toes, even!)

And Now, To The OTHER Extrem(ities)

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 02:23:00 +0000

I thought it was bad news when my forearms started getting sore after too much knitting and/or keyboarding.

'Oh no', I thought to myself-- 'I'll have to knit and blog less! How sad is that?!'

And so I started knitting and blogging less. Reluctantly. This goes without saying.

After cutting back a bit on my hobbies, it seemed like a good time to try some strengthening exercises for my arms and wrists-- you know, to get things all nice and strong so that my pain threshold would be much higher the next time I felt like knitting an afghan or two. I went back to the place I used to work for some physio and was told to do some reps using cans of beans as a weight.

One mighty pound of weight. 'Ha!', I laughed. 'What sort of wimp needs to start off with one pound weights?'

Needless to say, given my cocky attitude, after a week of the strengthening exercises, my forearms were such a mess. It hurt to lift that stupid one pound can of beans. At my next physio appointment, I was demoted to a can of tomato paste for my exercises. A half pound of resistance. I burned with shame.

I thought it was really bad news to get kicked back to a half pound of weight for strengthening exercises. I felt wholly below average in the forearm strength department, and plus-- the exercises were getting in the way of me knitting and blogging. I started to find that my arms would hurt after only 10 or so minutes of knitting or typing. No good. At all.

Things got even worse when the half pound of weight proved too much for my VERY IRRITATED tendons. I was shocked at my own weakness and felt a very pronounced dislike for that can of tomato paste. How could something so small and benign induce so much pain?

I was given night splints at my next physio appointment. I was told to stop doing my strengthening exercises altogether and to also stop things like knitting and... well... typing. BUT FOR THE SAKE OF THIS POST, let's pretend that I was only told to stop knitting. Which I did. Reluctantly so. I also started wearing my chic 1980s Madonna/early '90s rollerblading fashion splints to bed. (They're black with an 'athletic' mesh on the back. Very hot, I can assure you, in an early 90s kind of way.)

The funny thing was, after a week of wearing my splints to bed, my forearms felt WORSE, not better. I was then put into full-time splinting, save for showers and hand washing. That was last Monday.

At my appointment today, after a week and a half of breaking in my splints like a new pair of shoes, we determined that my forearms are, in fact, not any better at all. What does this mean, exactly? Well, it means that I've probably got a little bit more than bilateral tendonitis going on.

We've already eliminated pretty much everything that could have been aggravating my arms (save for typing. That's my job, even if I'm doing it a lot slower lately in these giant-- but sexy-- splints). So we've determined that I most likely have some scar tissue on my nerves and/or some nerve damage proper.

HOW BAD IS THAT NEWS??!

No knitting. As little typing as I can get away with (so brace yourself for a possible drought in the blogosphere). I can't even chop vegetables or do a SuDoku puzzle at lunch! (I love SuDoku.)

This blows.

The only upside to this (aside from being able to singlehandedly bring back some early '90s fashion... now where did I stash my fluorescents and ripped denim??) is knowing that this HOPEFULLY should not be permanent. After my nerves and tendons have calmed down a bit (OK, a lot), I should be able to do those pesky exercises and to work my strength up to the point where I'm able to do the things I enjoy in moderation. Plus, if the splinting, massage, ultrasound, arnica treatments, and/or anti-inflammatories don't work, I do happen to know from past experience what really helps with the tendonitis:

A 3 month holiday in Europe. Doctor's orders.

Going to Extrem(ities)

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 15:57:00 +0000

My aunt offered to give me a pedicure yesterday. I was hesitant to accept her offer, partly because I never know exactly where to draw the line between acceptable and unacceptable interactions with family (i.e. do I really want somebody related to me to rub my nasty feet??), but mostly I was hesitant because I think my feet are pretty... shall we say 'rustic'. Let's just say they're not exactly known for their delicate and feminine features.

I warned my aunt that my feet have never experienced anything even mildly resembling a pedicure and that furthermore, they have been subjected to repeated callous-building activities such as hiking and cycling over many years. I was trying to be professional but honest about their condition, without going into graphic detail about the rough patches, the long-standing blisters, and the thing that resembled a hole through my foot. I secretly hoped that the talk-about-callouses would be enough to throw her off and to rethink the generous offer.
It didn't work, though-- her offer still stood. As she put it: "Dana, you're going to love your beautiful feet when we are finished with you." I was skeptical-- nay, dubious. And inside, alarm bells were clanging and I wanted to blurt out to her 'NO! SAVE YOURSELF!! RUN AWAY-- RUN FAR, FAR AWAY!!"

She penciled me in for 11:30 on Saturday morning. Not sure exactly what pedicure protocol entailed, I planned to ride my bike to the appointment. She quickly shot this brilliant idea down and reminded me that I needed to wear open-toed shoes to enable my nail polish to dry. 'NAIL POLISH??!', I thought- 'what the hell am I getting myself into?!' True, I used to own close to 200 (!!) shades of nail polish when I was in junior high and early high school and true, my toes were never au naturel for a solid 5 years, but that was nearly 10 years ago. A lot had changed. Open toed shoes? Nail polish?! This would be.... different.

Of course, it snowed yesterday morning on the way to the appointment. Luckily, I wasn't riding my bike, but I still couldn't imagine not putting on my socks after the appointment was over. It was cold. And I was afraid. (And as an aside... note to Victoria: it's APRIL. And you're snowing?! What's going on?)

The appointment itself was entirely unexpected. There were soaks and scrubs and files and creams and pumice stones and even though everything felt fabulous and luxurious, I was still tentative. In my mind-- try as I might-- I could not bridge the giant gulf between the pampering and the everyday treatment of my feet. I kept looking at my feet all clean and soft and pretty... and then thinking of them slipping into my rugged hiking boots. It seemed like such a sad waste of my aunt's precious time and energy to get my feet all gussied up for what- My bike ride to work?

I emerged from my appointment, toenails glowing a "Night on the Town" red (but kind of freezing in my open toed shoes) and feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction, guilt, and thankfulness. Satisfied and thankful to have my feet made pretty, if only for a little while, but guilty because I knew I would not be able to maintain any level of prettiness on my own. Unless I suddenly became afflicted with the 'make yourself more feminine' sickness, but I'm pretty sure I'm immune. What can I say? My feet were made for trekking, and no amount of scrubbing or polish will ever hide that fact.

My Own Personal Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 14:21:00 +0000

Could the day get any better?

Not only did I just manage to sneak Depeche Mode into my post (still experiencing a little obsession of the teenage variety), but I also received a phone call from GOD'S MESSENGER herself just yesterday!

It looks like God-- or, more appropriately, Dr. God-- has accepted Marty and I into his select circle of chosen ones. In other words: we are that much closer to having a family doctor in Victoria! And not just any doctor, no-- the very same wonder doctor that we were hoping for, against all odds.

Now we just need to pass the 'first visit' compatibility test... Our appointments are booked for early May (because God has a pretty packed schedule, obviously), and you can bet we'll be on our most saintly behaviour. No "can you please perform a healing miracle on my disease-infested body" or "can you please teach me how to walk on water" here... no, siree. We'll just be plain, ordinary, everyday church mice: meek and with a touch of holy fear. Obviously.

Home of the Afraid of Everything

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 14:52:00 +0000

Before I begin: Yes, I completely ripped the blog post title off from the now-defunct The President's Blog. Just giving credit.

And now....

Back in 2004, Marty and I ventured up to Alaska.

We had been dating for 7 months by that time, and this trip, in many people's eyes (including our own), was the true test of our compatibility. Alaska had many things to offer: stunning scenery, challenging hikes, and both flora and fauna we had never even dreamed of in our tiny prairie-raised brains.

But it also had its fair share of things that might put strain on any budding relationship: limited opportunities to bathe or shower, giant mosquitoes that wouldn't hesitate to bite you on the most private of body parts, and ubiquitous backcountry dangers that made it impractical and unsafe to spend any time apart. The fact is, in Alaska, sometimes the choice comes down to "stick together and live" or "go it alone and potentially die in the remote wilderness". It's the truth, and for two people who both generally believed that they required extensive alone time in order to thrive, the idea of spending 6 solid weeks together was a wee bit daunting...

Anyway, after driving thousands and thousands of kilometres northwest, we finally crossed into Alaska and were immediately alerted to some of the many things we should fear in that great land:

1. Forest fires. Half of the Yukon on the drive up had been charred by a recent fire, and we were warned that sometimes fires prevented access to "the only road back to Canada". We prayed that the road would miraculously still be open when the time came for us to return home.

2. Subhuman temperatures.

Sure, on the ground it was sometimes in the 20s Celsius/70s Fahrenheit, but on the alpine ridges, there were glaciers and icy rivers that necessitated the use of toques and mitts. We were warned to not freeze to death, for heaven's sake. That would only inconvenience the already-busy (and for the most part, volunteer) rescue crews, having to fetch our frozen carcasses from the top of a mountain. 'Amateurs', they would mutter as they strapped our blue bodies onto a rescue sled-- 'We told you not to freeze to death. Geez.'

3. Tsunamis/Earthquakes!

Alaska has a sordid history of intense weather events, including tsunamis, earthquakes, and oh yeah, the Exxon oil spill (wait- does that count as a weather event? No?! Sorry.) And even though it's beautiful (and encouraged!) to camp on a spit that stretches into the middle of the sea, it's also important to be aware that, in the event of a tsunami, there will be no hope of running to safety like the little man on the sign. You will be the first to die. Nice!

4. Sasquatches. Of course. Who doesn't fear the mighty sasquatch?

5. Mosquitoes. They are jokingly referred to as Alaska's state bird, but the authorities there were adamant that we stave off the dreaded West Nile virus by dousing ourselves in safe, all-natural DEET. Right... BUT WE DID IT! And then hiked for hours every day. And then didn't shower for a week afterward because there were no showers to be found in all of Alaska. So we were caked full of dirt, DEET, stink, sweat, and sunscreen. So classy!

6. Bears.

And even for the people who were well prepared weather-wise, and who didn't need to get back to Canada on the only road out, and who put no stock in make-believe things like sasquatches, and who had a 'live-free and die-hard' attitude in the face of potential tsunamis, and who wore DEET like it was going out of style-- as a god-fearing being, they had better be afraid of bears. They were everywhere. And they petrified me.

Some of you might be aware that in my pre-Marty time, I had hiked a total of zero kilometres and zero metres. There were many reasons for this, but the fact remains that this Alaska trip was a super huge deal to me. a) I was excited to put my new and still-fledgling hiking skillz to the ultimate test (in Alaska!!) and b) I wanted nothing more than to impress the love of my life with my madd trekking skillz. I was more than head over heels for Marty at this point (perhaps I was heels over head over heels), and there was absolutely no way I would jeopardize his returning love for me by being any of the following: slow, unskilled, awkward, unprepared, or afraid. More than anything, I didn't want to be afraid, but did I mention the bears? THEY WERE EVERYWHERE!

I suffered through a great many things in Alaska: cuts, bruises, aching muscles, collapsed arches in my feet, mosquito bites in every place imaginable (including at least 20 ON MY ASS!), up to seven days in a row without a shower (the stench of it all!), and even a first-time (and scorching!) case of hemorrhoids (not that y'all need to know that... I'm just illustrating a point). The truth is, I had a giant smile on my face throughout all of those afflictions-- Alaska was great, and I was having an amazing time! But the bears... I had an extremely hard time working through my all-consuming anxiety about bears.

We were likely the only people in the entire state of Alaska who were not enjoying the scenery from the safety of a giant, fully-equipped RV. No. We were tenting it... every. single. night. And most of those nights, I would be worried about bears. Marty had an amazing knack for falling asleep the moment he closed his beautiful eyes, but I would stay awake most nights, gripped with fear until somehow I exhausted myself into a fitful sleep. Waking up to giant, fresh footsteps (like the ones pictured above) a mere 15 feet away from our tent did not help, nor did the ubiquitous pamphlets and posters that detailed in excruciating detail what you should do in the event of a confrontation with a bear (i.e. remember to cover the back of your neck when you're curled up in the fetal position so the bear's powerful jaws do not BITE YOUR HEAD OFF! BECAUSE THEY CAN!) In the end, I survived (and for the most part, LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF THE TRIP), but I must confess how deliriously happy I was to come home and sleep soundly, without fear of bears.

Moving to the island has been like a dream come true for this bear-fearing soul. Yes, I know that the island is still technically bear-country, but I like to think that it is bear-country in the same way that some chocolate bars could technically contain nuts or soy products. No big deal-- nothing to fear. Our hikes to date here have consisted of nothing but lush plants and stunning ocean views:

... and not once have I even been remotely afraid of a bear. Truthfully, they haven't even crossed my mind.

(cue foreshadowing scary music)

Yesterday, we jumped at the chance to soak in the first real sunshine of the year on the Coast Trail at East Sooke Regional Park. The weather was amazing, the views were delicious, and it was great to see Robertine again after giving her a mild anxiety attack when we finished our housesitting duties. (So sad!) We had a leisurely hike, choosing to sit on almost every sunbaked rock we came across (there were lots) and to simply stare at the ocean.

During one of the stretches we were actually hiking, we came across a HUGE pile of crap which was unlike any scat we'd ever encountered before. It was green, sludgy, and encapsulated in a jelly-like sac. (No photos to show, I'm afraid... who takes pictures of crap?) Upon closer inspection, we realized it wasn't scat at all-- it was a remnant organ (bladder? stomach?) of some sorry animal who had been taken down right on the trail. Tufts of fur and some (really pitiful) leg bones were off to one side, with most of the flesh eaten away. Surprisingly, me, the eternally-afraid-of-bears one, was not at all afraid at that point. Mildly disgusted, yes, but afraid? Not at all. I thought (rather naively, I might add) that some sick or old animal had simply crawled onto the trail to die and had then proceeded to be eaten by the crows and other non-threatening wild animals. We continued on the trail.

As we lounged on yet another rock a few dozen metres up, we gushed to each other about what a perfect day it was and how wonderful it was to be out on a hike. Then Robertine went completely silent and still. Barely breathing for a while, she stared intently into the thick forest and sniffed tentatively. A low and quiet growl came from her mouth.

Surprisingly, me, the eternally-afraid-of-bears one, was not at all afraid at that point. STILL. Who the hell knows what my mind was figuring then? That another dog-- a Yorkie, perhaps-- was hiding in the bushes, off the beaten path? That a chipmunk (the bane of Robertine's existence) was taunting her from a not-so-distant tree?! For some reason, it did not at all occur to me that something large and predatory, a cougar or even GOD FORBID A BEAR, was protecting what was left of its dead prey and stalking us for getting too close. Like I said, my mind has been completely wiped off all things bear or cougar-related since moving to the island. Blissfully wiped.

It wasn't until Marty, bless his heart, said something along the lines of us needing to keep moving so we could hopefully appease the jealous, hungry soul of whatever-it-was-that-killed-that-unidentified-animal-on-the-trail and let it know that we weren't at all interested in that leftover bladder that it hit me: THERE WAS A BEAR OR COUGAR ON THE TRAIL AND IT WAS POSSIBLY VERY UPSET WITH US!!!

Like a child who bears witness to a gruesome crime, my innocence was shattered. Suddenly I was afraid again. Very afraid. I did not want to die on that trail on such a beautiful day, or any day for that matter! I didn't want to curl up in any fetal position or to cover my neck with my hands! I didn't want to have anything bad happen to me, Marty, or especially Robertine! But most of all-- I didn't want to be afraid.

So I stopped. Consciously stopped being scared.

I was cautious for the rest of the hike, yes. But afraid? No. And sure, I felt more alert and more aware of any rustling sounds on the way back, yes. But I wasn't afraid-- not like I had been in Alaska. I figured: SCREW IT. Yes, I promise to be in awe of nature and to revel in the majestic and powerful creatures that roam in the forests. But no, I will not let fear of the unknown take control of me anymore if I can help it. It's simply too breathtaking out here to let the nagging 'what ifs' take hold of me. Screw it.

Wednesday Love List-- Are YOU Feeling the Love?

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 14:28:00 +0000

It's Wednesday, dear readers, and that means a couple of things for Marty and I:

1. The start of the Flames/Sharks hockey series. Yes, we'll be watching.
2. This year's edition of housesitting and looking after Robertine for a month is coming to a close. Her owner returns from Arizona tonight, and so we'll be packing up our things and moving on out.

We've loved taking care of Robertine, and it's been excellent living in a house so close to a beautiful beach. However, I've got a bit of a hankering to come home. I'm ready to be back in our tiny, one-bedroom apartment. Hence, my love list today is devoted to my home.

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT OUR ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT

1. HEAT! We had a total chill the entire time we were housesitting. Granted, the weather has been cold and wet lately, but still. Turning up the heat did not help. Having a bath did not help, either, mainly because the water only trickles from the tap there and pretty much cools off by the time it gets into the tub (i.e. immediately). Our apartment, on the other hand, has glorious UNLIMITED heat included in our rent-- screw global warming, dear-- let's crank it!!

2. A tub/shower faucet with decent water pressure. Remember that Seinfeld episode with the shower heads and Kramer's flat hair? Yep. No more of that, either.

3. Our computer! The computer there did crazy things and erased e-mails and blog posts at whim.

4. Our bed. Big enough that it's not like sleeping in a crib for adults and totally free of dog hair.

5. Getting to sleep in on weekends for however long we feel like it... no getting woken up by the tinkling of a dog collar at 6 am or by our very brave part-time dog barking at anything that moves. (What a protector!)

6. The mundane routines of ordinary life! It was always so sad leaving for errands or ANYTHING and having those puppy dog eyes staring sadly, straight into your SOUL. Come on, Robertine, I was raised Catholic-- I have enough guilt already!

7. Living in Oak Bay. I don't care if it's a little bit (read: a lot) upper-class and snobbish at times (read: almost always). I'll dive right in and say in my toity fake British accent. "Oh, us? We live in (pause for dramatic effect), OAK BAY." I love it here.

8. Living on the ground floor with our own little private garden. This way, Marty is able to indulge his midnight gardener tendencies.

9. Being close enough to walk to work, without taking hours and hours out of my day. Speaking of which... it's time to go.

Spread the love, dear readers, spread the love. Go!

A Friend, Indeed

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 13:57:00 +0000

One of my closest and dearest friends has the sweetest child named Dylan.

I can't explain why, but Dylan and I have been magically connected since before he was born. Even though kids are OK in my books overall, since his birth, Dylan has managed to wriggle his sweet little soul right under my skin (in a good way), and to fill me with such a warm and cosmic glow. (Not to sound like a Scientologist or anything...) He's simply amazing, and even though I don't live in Calgary anymore and I don't get to see him very often at all, he still holds a very special place in my heart. Seriously... it's hard to resist his cuteness or his charm.

I've asked permission of Dylan's mom, Carolyn, to pass this note along:

___________________________________________________________

Hey everyone…

It has been another year, and again I will be walking for the Stroll for Liver on June 8 to honor my son Dylan.

I actually dread writing this only because the reality of the facts depresses me and sometimes living in an alternate universe where I don’t need to think about this calms me.

As most of you know, Dylan was diagnosed with a rare liver disease called Biliary Atresia when he was only 2 months old. Our world as we knew it crashed. How could this happen? I remember when we were at the hospital for those 2 weeks that nothing else mattered except for the health of our little one. I honestly don’t remember if I took a shower, ate and sometimes who I even talked to. I just wanted someone to tell me and know for a fact that he would be ok….and no one could…not even the medical professionals. That is because this type of liver disease is full of unknowns. No one knows what causes the disease, or what to do to prevent it. They do know though that it is not hereditary or contagious and cannot be attributed to any aspect of prenatal care. However, you can’t help but blame yourself because you carried this little being in you for 9 months and took care of him when he was born. The worst unknown is that there is no cure…YET!

Biliary Atresia is a chronic, progressive disease. Even with a successful Kasai (the major surgery he had when he was 2 months old to help with bile flow), 50% of patients will end up needing a liver transplant before the age of 5 and 80% before the age of 20. It is the number one cause of pediatric liver transplant. We pray everyday and hope that Dylan’s liver can hold out for a long time, and although we are extremely grateful that Dylan is doing well currently, one day his liver may lose this fight. We don’t know when this day will be, the doctors can’t even give us an estimate…it is a day-by-day thing and TODAY Dylan is doing wonderful. I watch him everyday amazed that he shines and teaches me about life. Sure I get depressed at times when I think of the stats but I can’t let that ruin the positive energy I try to give Dylan. My world is Dylan. I think I may even be a little obsessed with him…just a bit. And nothing hurts me more than to feel helpless.

That is why I am trying my best to get off my bum right now and do something about it. Without the money that goes to this foundation, no or limited research can be done to find a cure. To give you a little insight, cancer and heart disease currently receive 10 to 15 times more money each year for research. What hope does this give us that a cure will be found for liver disease? I remember that last year’s stroll for liver, our team ended up being the top in CANADA and we raised $13,000. OUR team from Calgary…TOP! And the total amount raised in all of Canada didn’t even reach their goal….not even half. What does that mean? Well first it means that there were a lot of generous people that support Dylan and his cause and love him, and second that means not enough is being done elsewhere to fund for this research. I cannot be ignorant to this fact…I still have very strong faith that a cure will be found in our life time….I have to.

The last thing I want to mention which really disturbs me is that even though transplant could be in the future ( I always say “could” instead of “would”, even though the doctors say “It is not if he will need a transplant, it is when”), it is not a cure....the 15 year life expectancy after transplant is 48%. Of course the thought of this makes our world crumble piece by piece.

Well there it is…the dreaded facts that I hate mentioning, but I thought it is important because most often if you see or talk to me, I will not tell you that, because it always brings me to tears, and at the same time I feel the need to remain positive and not think about that and be grateful for this day.

I can’t stress how important this is to us. The Canadian Liver Foundation is our hope for a cure. Nothing can be done without your help. Please support us on this walk by making a donation. If you would like to join us on this walk and help raise funds, you can join our team called “Dylan’s Dinosaurs” . This year our team goal is to beat last year’s goal of $13,000.

This disease is serious. The Liver Foundation not getting nearly enough money to fund for research is also serious. I cannot sit back and wait for a cure to magically appear. I will walk on that day. I will do anything for my baby…cuz he is my baby and I want him to live the life that we all enjoy.

You can help support me by making a secure online donation using your credit card. Click on the link below:

http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=1748462

If you are having trouble viewing the above web address, copy & paste the entire URL into the address bar of your browser.

Thank you for your support and hope to see you there!

--Carolyn

___________________________________________________________________________

Now, I know most of you do not know Dylan or Carolyn personally. Some of you do not even know me personally (for shame!), but I'm hopeful that the spirit of giving and helping out is not limited to our own individual circles of friends.

Giving to charity is a very personal decision, of course, but if everybody who reads this blog found it in themselves to donate even a little bit, we could help raise at least 15 bucks (right? mom? dad?!! the one other reader who visits this blog??) KIDDING!! I'm sure we could do way better than that!

It's up to each of you in the end, dear readers, to help out in the way that makes you feel comfortable. I won't love you any less no matter what you decide, but maybe I'll love you just a little bit more if you help Carolyn meet and beat this year's goal... (Again kidding. Kind of.)

Thank you!

Doctor, Doctor-- Give Me the News

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 14:26:00 +0000

So it's been a year and a half-ish since Marty and I moved to Victoria. During that time, I think we've both needed to see a doctor twice. Nothing serious, of course, but both times we were forced to visit a dreaded walk-in clinic, seeing as we don't have a family doctor yet.

The other day I decided it was high time for us to look into getting a GP. But I didn't want us to have just any GP, no: I wanted us to have the most bestest GP in all of Victorialand. Ideally, this person would be an MD with a flair for integrative medicine; somebody who wouldn't necessarily push a prescription down our throats if ever we visited; somebody who would recommend things like yoga and tai chi as therapy. Yeah, I wanted us one of those GPs.

Luckily, Victoria has a list of "Wholistic Medical Doctors" that can be downloaded from the internet and direct one's search. Not so luckily, most of these doctors are flat out busy for the rest of their professional lives and have receptionists who merely laugh at you when you ask them if they are accepting new patients. One of the women I spoke with even went so far as to tell me that Dr. So-and-So would never be taking new patients, because everybody he has right now in his practice would be with him 'to the death'. (And presumably those patients will never die, either. Not even one of them. Under his magical care? NEVER!)

Anyway, after scratching off one wholistic GP after another, I finally found one who would be accepting applications for new patients the very next day! (This, I learned, was a once a year occurrence, too, so it felt very serendipitous to me that I happened to phone them that morning.) There were a few catches to this application process, however:

1. Only 40 applications would be handed out on a first come, first serve basis.
2. The clinic reserved the right to reject applications as they saw fit. (So getting an application didn't guarantee getting a doctor.)
3. Even applications that were accepted might not be accepted into Dr. Also-Magic's private practice... they might get stuck with a regular Dr. Joe Blow doctor from the same clinic. Ech.

Basically, there were no guarantees whatsoever. Did I care? Of course not. I was positively determined to land us our magical GP, and doing almost anything for the sake of the doctor who practices Ayurvedic medicine (!), nutrition (!), reiki (!!), and hosts meditation workshops every Saturday (!!!) seemed worth the chance.

I rode my bike to the clinic VERY EARLY the next morning to stand in line. I was not the first one there, or even the twentieth person there. I was still in the top 40 (thank god!), but man, were there ever a ton of people already waiting. Some had arrived at 6:30 for applications that would be handed out at 9 am. I felt so callous, seeing older-than-old women huddled over their walkers and mothers with young babies behind me in line. Ordinarily, I would be falling over myself to offer them seats, open doors, back massages-- WHATEVER THEY NEEDED, but that morning, all I could think was 'back off! I got here first!' Heaven forbid they get one of MY applications.

After an hour and some in line, they finally started handing out applications. I scored one each for Marty and I, but I noticed many people behind me weren't so lucky. After all that wait, they simply got told that there were no more applications to be given out. How insane!

We carefully filled out our applications, not wanting to sound too sick or too healthy. We wanted all of our concerns to sound like they were perfectly tailored to Dr. Also-Magic's skill set. I dropped them back off the next morning, and now all we do is wait. They say it takes up to one month to review all of the applications. Some will be rejected outright. Others will be offered a first visit to 'assess their compatibility' with the practitioners at the clinic. I am SO HOPING to be in the lucky few who not only make it pass the first round and the first visit, but who also make it into the LIFELONG PARTNERSHIP with Dr. Also Magic. After all, if we ever manage to get ourselves under his care, Marty and I are basically assured eternal life. See you all in the 30th century! (right.)

Only YOU Can Prevent Forest Fires and Other Such Accidents

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 14:24:00 +0000

Today I am sporting the biggest, most purple, most tender, and most preventable bruise EVER in my 26 year history. On Easter Sunday, as I was taking a garbage bag down to the bin, I slipped and fell down a set of stairs. Hard. Luckily I only have a nasty bruise and not some broken bones or dislocated elbows/shoulders/fingers to show for it. However... had I listened carefully to mascots like Smokey the Bear or that War Amps robot kid ("I can put my arm back on.... you can't"), I probably wouldn't have slipped and fell in the first place. Le sigh.

They say hindsight has 20/20 vision, yes? Well, in retrospect, there are at least 3 THINGS that I could have done differently to avoid taking such a tumble:

1. I could have moved the garbage to the bin at a later time. Did I mention there was a torrential downpour at the time when I took the garbage out? And that the stairs are painted wood stairs that practically turn into skating rinks when they are wet? No? I neglected to mention those details? Ahem..

Don't let the rays of (after-the-fact) sunshine fool you... these stairs are nothing short of DEADLY in the rain!

2. I could have dressed myself properly for the conditions. Yes, I did slap on my rain jacket, but no-- I opted not to go with the Shoes With Good Grips for the occasion. Instead, I kept my stellar Bosnian Slippers on, stuffed them into Marty's Birkenstocks (a full 2 or 3 or even 4 sizes too big for me) and headed outside. The shame.

The slippers. What can I say? I just hate to take them off. Ever.

The sandals. What can I say? They were at the back door, and my Shoes With Good Grips were all the way at the front door. And god knows, the GARBAGE COULD NOT WAIT to be taken outside. Even though the torrential downpour only ended up lasting about 20 minutes. And even though the garbage does not get picked up until April 1. So many things to look back on with regret...

3. I could have held onto the railing. But I didn't want to get wet.

(clears throat awkwardly). This is how I came to fall HARD on my sweatpants-clad ASS a mere two steps in to the 8-step journey. And yes, now I have a horrific, cringe-inducing bruise to show for it. Let this be a lesson for all of us, no? Chores can wait, but asses are irreplaceable.

Soul for Sale

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 14:10:00 +0000

I like to think of myself as somebody who isn't easily swayed by a cheap marketing gimmick-- you know, someone who is edgy, intelligent, media savvy, and even a little bit cynical. Of course, all of these intentions melt away when I am face to face with the tea section in any store. Call me weak: I am simply a sucker for tea bag/loose tea marketing.

I was recently sunk (as in hooked and lined) by Yogi brand tea. Yes, it's bagged, but it's much easier to do bagged than loose tea at work. Anyway, I love everything about this tea: the lotus designs on the outside (and inside!) of the boxes, the cheesy little yoga posture on the side of the box (e.g. 'a posture for relaxation', 'a posture for enhanced creativity'), and I especially love the little drops of wisdom printed on the tag of every tea bag. It's like getting a miniature horoscope or fortune with every single cup! (And you know me: I am nothing if not full of hearts for a good horoscope.) I like to think that the fortunes on the tea bags give me something to reflect on as I go about my busy day, but it's probably just another cheap and easy way for the Yogi company to bolster up my brand loyalty. Well, Yogi company: I'm sold. I sign my soul over to YOU.

A few days ago, I received this dose of particularly warm wisdom:

And let them come to me, I did. Guess who is now the proud owner of the softest and most gorgeous little scarflette ever?

Me!! I've always thought Kathy's work was incredibly beautiful, but I never imagined how SOFT and completely like WEARING YOUR OWN LITTLE SILVER-LINED CLOUD FROM HEAVEN these scarflettes would be! It is positively the most dreamy thing that has ever lovingly embellished my throat, and I swear to you all, I would sleep and shower in it every single day if I could. I love it so much.

Also included in my package from the Slocan valley? This:

Made with love by Kathy the Great as well. My mind spins with the possibility of what this gorgeous skein can become, but for now I'm happy just placing it on a mantle of sorts and bowing down every time I pass. (OK, OK, Kathy-- you can own a little bit of my soul, too. As long as you don't mind sharing with Yogi. And Mason... as in the jars.)

No, I Haven't Died

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:14:00 +0000

I know I've been a little stingy in the posting department as of late, but I can assure you I have decent reasons. Mostly? Hiking!

(OK, OK... this isn't so much 'hiking' as it is 'exploring the rustic setting of the Craigdarroch Castle'. Ahem. I stand corrected. But HEY, IT WAS SUNNY OUTSIDE!)

We've also been very much occupied taking care of our precious part-time-turned-full-time-for-a-little-while dog!

What can I say... as soon as the sunshine peeks through those clouds, I am SO OUT OF THE HOUSE! Hence... nothing much in that cursed posting dept. Meh. You'd be outside, too, if you were me.

Anyway, we completed the big move over to our home-away-from-home last night, and now we're all set to look after Robertine for a whole month while her owner is getting better in sunny Arizona. This means walks every day, evening walks to the beach every night, and extended walks/hikes every weekend. We sound like such a personals ad, 'enjoy[ing] long walks on the beach, watching sunsets, and taking in the gorgeous ocean scenery'. What a cushy life!

(Most) Pictures Are Worth A Thousand Words

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 20:30:00 +0000

... except for these photos.

If these photos were to speak a thousand words each about the progress I'm making on my Adult Sized Underwater-Turned-Autumn-Leaves Afghan (my made up name- can you tell?), those words would mostly be ums and ers:

Um.... yeah:

Er... yeah!:

Um, er, yeah-- what she said:

First of all, it's hard for me to do justice to the blanket-in-progress just by lying it on my apartment carpet and snapping some pictures. I accept this (sort of). The shadow from our patio door doesn't help, nor does the fact that the carpet tugs on the wool a bit and makes the afghan edges look weirdly uneven and slovenly. I promise you I am not that sloppy a knitter. Ah, well-- these pictures are all I've got for the time being, so let's use our imaginations and fantasize about what a perfect blanket this will eventually be.

These are the first four strips out of 12 or 15 that will comprise the finished afghan. Once all of the strips have been made and sewn together, a border will also be knit and will of course look fabulous (can I get a witness?). Right now, if I were to lie down beside this blanket, it would be a foot and a half taller than me, and I'm 5'8". I think it will make a decent queen-sized afghan when it's all said and done, but first of all, I've got to get me through another 8 or 11 strips of nothing but garter stitch! Huzzah for mindless knitting!

Update: Math is Hard!

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 01:42:00 +0000

Just kidding-- I haven't had to do any math in my new job yet. I did, however, come home from my first day at the new desk with a killer headache and a decided incapacity to keep my eyes open/focused on anything for any length of time. I'm still trying to determine if this was because of the (very bright) lights in my VERY OWN NEW OFFICE (did I mention the window? And my very own patio??), the staring-at-the-computer-all-day-long thing, the INTENSELY NASTY Febreze (Febreeze?) that somebody decided to drench our office hallway in, or the fact that I've been trying to wean myself off of the horrible Marty-is-away "diet" (which consists mostly of takeout sushi and loads of espresso flavoured chocolate) and have been experiencing intense caffeine withdrawal symptoms because of it. And I thought I was going to be so good and disciplined while he was away...

In related news, I positively cannot wait for Marty's return (tonight!!). I hate to sound like a suck, but this was the longest we've ever been apart since we met each other 4 and some years ago, and I found it rather rough. I got lots of cleaning and silly errands done, but I also managed to prove with empirical evidence that I have a wee bit of an emotional eating issue. And by issue, I mean that I ate nothing but CRAP the entire time Marty was away! (OK, OK-- I could have done much worse than takeout sushi, but I also could have done much better than German Cappuccino chocolate bars...) So much for that cleanse I did, and so long to fitting in my special pants. Le sigh.

Something.... Unexpected

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 20:47:00 +0000

I never thought I would see the day when Salt 'n' Pepa's song Whatta Man would be used to refer to Jesus. But it was! Explicitly! By the girls themselves! In a church! And I saw it! (Just don't ask me how or why. I don't want to talk about it.)

Yes, a number of key lyrics were edited/omitted to make the whole performance seem less dirty and to get around the whole 'this is the VERY DEFINITION of sacrilege' thing. But still, Jesus?! Something just doesn't feel right about it. But I'll let you be your own judge...

The lyrics: (graciously just copied, pasted, and left here in their original early 90s glory, without the added benefit of my social commentary written in brackets. For the record, that commentary would be mostly "???????????????"s, "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"s, and various permutations and combinations of the two. But anyway...)

-------------------------------
Whatta Man

Yeah, yeah (Oooo)
Uh, hey hey
All right, yeah
Oooo

CHORUS
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man

I wanna take a minute or two, and give much respect due
To the man that's made a difference in my world
And although most men are ho's he flows on the down low
Cuz I never heard about him with another girl
But I don't sweat it because it's just pathetic
To let it get me involved in that he said/she said crowd
I know that ain't nobody perfect, I give props to those who deserve it
And believe me y'all, he's worth it
So here's to the future cuz we got through the past
I finally found somebody that can make me laugh(Ha ha ha)
You so crazyI think I wanna have your baby

CHORUS

My man is smooth like Barry, and his voice got bass
A body like Arnold with a Denzel face
He's smart like a doctor with a real good rep
And when he comes home he's relaxed with Pep
He always got a gift for me everytime I see him
A lot of snot-nosed ex-flames couldn't be him
He never ran a corny line once to me yet
So I give him stuff that he'll never forget
He keeps me on Cloud Nine just like the Temps
He's not a fake wannabe tryin' to be a pimp
He dresses like a dapper don, but even in jeans
He's a God-sent original, the man of my dreams

Yes, my man says he loves me, never says he loves me not
Tryin' to rush me good and touch me in the right spot
See other guys that I've had, they tried to play all that mac shit
But every time they tried I said, "That's not it"
But not this man, he's got the right potion
Baby, rub it down and make it smooth like lotion
Yeah, the ritual, highway to heaven
From seven to seven he's got me open like Seven Eleven
And yes, it's me that he's always choosin'
With him I'm never losin', and he knows that my name is not Susan
He always has heavy conversation for the mind
Which means a lot to me cuz good men are hard to find

CHORUS

My man gives real loving that's why I call him Killer
He's not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, he's a thriller
He takes his time and does everything right
Knocks me out with one shot for the rest of the night
He's a real smooth brother, never in a rush
And he gives me goose pimples with every single touch
Spends quality time with his kids when he can
Secure in his manhood cuz he's a real man
A lover and a fighter and he'll knock a knucker out
Don't take him for a sucker cuz that's not what he's about
Every time I need him, he always got my back
Never disrespectful cuz his mama taught him that

CHORUS (Fade out)
----------------------------------

Truly... could I even make this shit up?? I don't think so.

Scent of A Woman

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 18:52:00 +0000

At the risk of sounding a tad preoccupied and more-than-a-tad strange, I have been thinking quite a bit about smells lately. I have been paying more attention than usual to the smells that linger after people brush by, and it has left me wondering what my own scent is-- do I leave a tell-tale odor behind? Something that people can recognize instantly as my own? And pray tell, is it a good smell or a bad one??

Mostly I've been noticing how suffocated and allergic I feel to all varieties of synthetic perfumes, from Ex'cla.ma'tion fragrance ("Make a Statement Without Saying a Word" is right!! Yuck!) all the way up to Coco Chanel. I'm not sure if there's a common denominator ingredient in all perfumes that sets me off, but seriously-- I just can't handle them. Neither can Marty (thank goodness for that. We can be soulmates in our immuno-fragility.)

It never used to be like this. I started off trying to rip off my best friend's 'signature fragrance' (it was Ex'cla.ma'tion) in Grade 6 or 7 but then quickly progressed to a marginally more expensive drugstore perfume called "Longing". (It was classy with a 'k'.) There were the years (or maybe just months) when I wore CK One along with every single person in my Grade 8 class (so unisex!) and then I capped my illustrious perfume career off with Gap Dream... or maybe it was Gap Sun or something else like it. Something Gap. Something early 90s.

And then one day, within the span of a few hours it seems, I became allergic. I secretly blame the woman who sat in front of my sister and I at the movie theatre. We were watching Titanic. We were probably swooning at the time, though we would vehemently deny it years later. We possibly even denied seeing Titanic at all. At least in the theatre. 2 or 3 separate times. In any case, you didn't hear this from me.

The woman sitting in front of us at the theatre must have had a full-blown phobia of smelling badly. I infer this because as part of her coping mechanisms, she proceeded to douse herself (and I do mean douse) with a nasty lilac-ish smelling concoction at least every 20-30 minutes during the movie. Might I remind you that Titanic is nearly 3 hours long?? (At least from what I've read... couldn't tell you from personal or repeated experiences or anything...) By the end of the movie, the scent of synthetic flowers had been burned through our nostrils and stuffed like cotton into our skulls. We tried blowing our noses to get the lilac out. It didn't help. (By this time, the smell had crusted on to every one of our nostril hairs, and they weren't letting go.) We tried changing our clothes and washing our hair. This did help, but unfortunately, that essence of fake lilac has been chemically imprinted into my soul forever. In a very bad way.

Today, I'm OK with the scent of essential oils and if I had to go with an artificially scented anything (like if somebody was forcing me to buy a Glade Plug-In at gunpoint or something), I'm best off with smells like citrus, lavender, or vanilla. Everything else-- flowers, 'spicy undertones', mountainy springy breezes, rainshowers, etc. are no good for me. This makes it pretty difficult to shop for things ranging from dish detergents (I use Ecover) to shampoos (Aveda) to air fresheners (um, Nag Champa, if needed?), but I manage.

I still wonder, though, what kind of scent I leave lingering when I pass by people in the halls? Is it an unscented scent? A 'natural' scent (whatever that means)? Hopefully I smell like my DoBeClean soap or even my Tom's Of Maine deodorant and not anything displeasing or nasty. Or perhaps my non-scent scent makes the people wearing Coco Chanel feel suffocated and allergic. There's a thought.

Something to Brighten Your Day

noreply@blogger.com (dana) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 02:16:00 +0000

I know that when you think of things that might brighten an otherwise drab or nondescript day, a terribly sad and disturbed baby face doesn't immediately come to mind. Unicorns and puppies MAYBE, but babies with obviously sad and/or angry eyebrows? Not usually. Conventional wisdom aside, though... is Lily cute or WHAT??!

Wednesday has affectionately dubbed this photo the "You're Not My Parents!" look. I love it. And lest you think she was one giant cranky pants on her first birthday, check out the raw, unfiltered, and unadulterated delight she exudes when discovering that the pyramid of rainbow-coloured plastic donuts is, indeed, being gifted to her:

(chin disappears into back-up chin and neck) We should all have something in this world that causes this much excitement/chins! Something to reflect upon... You may resume your regular activities now.