Turning XL

I know I’m turning 40 because:

1. My bedtime is now around 9:30 – 10:00. That used to be the time I left the house to go out.
2. I can wake up at 6am. Without help. Sometimes.
3. I no longer could work a graveyard shift, stay up all day, and function.
4. I take naps with increasing frequency. Didn’t use to do that. Nope.
5. A few lines are starting to appear on my face. Yikes!
6. Dying my hair is no longer a personal choice.
7. I start my day off with a morning coffee. (Actually, I thought mornings were a figment of people’s imagination.)
8. I get hangovers if I have 3 drinks or more. (Okay, that’s a good one, because it’s an incentive to stop after two.)
9. When I look at my naked self, I notice things starting to hang that didn’t before
10. I consider leg hair to be an extra layer of warmth in the winter

But on the more serious side of things, I feel pretty satisfied with what I’ve accomplished so far. Although I was a late starter, I can turn 40 and honestly feel contented. I say late starter because most of the things I’ve done in the last ten years are things people usually do before they turn 30. I guess it’s never too late. For example, in the last ten years I:

• Moved to another part of the country
• Finally got my post-secondary education
• Followed my dream of becoming a classroom teacher
• Found and married my soul mate

Actually, except for the moving bit, everything else was within the last few years.

I thought of waiting until my birthday in August to post this, but I decided to do it now. Why? So that all of this thinking and worrying could be done and over with by the time my birthday rolls around. Then I can sit on the beach at Sauble, wear my swimsuit, and not give a rat’s a$$ what anyone thinks. This is who I am, and I’m proud!

Newfoundland, that is. That will be after I lose 30 lbs and brown myself up a little on Sauble Beach.

For the past two months, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do to mark my 40th birthday as it’s coming up this summer. I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland, and I’ve always wanted to visit Newfoundland.

One of my good friends, Darlene, lives in St. John’s Paradise, Newfoundland. Imagine telling people you’re from Paradise. I love it! Anyway, after spending more time than what is healthy on the Aeroplan site, I ended up finding a great deal to travel across the country with a stop at another friend’s place (Sauble Beach).

I’ll be missing the George Street Festival, but I have no doubt that my trip will be a memorable one.

Hhhmmm…I wonder if I could turn 40 again next year.

It’s funny how kids really make you appreciate the simple but most meaningful things. At this time of year, people run around in a frenzy to get their shopping done. Stores get crowded, people get pissy, and tempers flare.

Meanwhile, kids are busy making their own Christmas cards and wrapping their own gifts. I know, because I received many last week.

In addition to these beautiful cards, I also received homemade cookies, bath bombs, and earrings (made by the kids themselves). Mind you, I still very much enjoyed biting into Purdy’s Sweet Georgia Brown chocolates (and others).

Earlier in the year, I thought of how nice it would be to give nothing but handmade gifts for Christmas. Of course, time flew right by, and before I knew it, my pre-Christmas me-days were numbered. However, I did find the time to go to a couple of craft fairs and picked up a few little things. Of course I can’t say just yet what they are. So, not all my gifts are handmade, but I’m making progress, I’m proud to say.

At this time of year, kids are extremely excited about Christmas. Of course, it’s next to impossible to to anything academically in the last week before the holidays. So, we played word games, sang songs, and read stories.
My challenge, since I teach almost all students in the school, is to have a little something for them on the last day. I’m not a fan of giving sugar to kids, but the only thing I could come up with (and afford) were candy canes. Of course, they all loved having them, but I’d like to plan something for next year or the end of this year. What though?

Something hand-made would be ideal, but it would have to be extremely simple, since I’d have almost 100 to do. I’m thinking painted bookmarks with their name on it.

Any suggestions are welcome.

I’ve been looking everywhere for the aforementioned black & white movie to show some of my students, and I can’t find it in any local library. Strange. I don’t have time to order it from Amazon, so if anyone in Whitehorse can lend me their copy, I would be forever grateful.

Coming out of a local electronics shop, I spot three old ladies making their way between the back of my truck and the front of a car in the parking lot. One bends down and picks pieces of something off the ground. The three of them keep shuffling forward toward the dollar store.

A funny thought strikes me: what if they hit the back of my truck when parking their car?

I quickly make my way over to where my Ranger is parked, and carefully inspect the ground where the grey-haired lady picked something up. I notice shards of dark plastic. My eyes wander over to the broken and cracked front grille of the car, then to my rear bumper, where more little pieces of the dark stuff sit.

Okay, now to find out if the ladies are the culprits.

I half run to the dollar store, fearful I might lose sight of them. I glance back to check out the colour of the car, whose top looks silver under the snow but whose body is hidden by other parked vehicles.

The bells on the door jingle as I open the door leading into the store. The three ladies are looking at some bric-à-brac items on a shelf. I approach them to ask if one of them are driving a silver car.

“No,” says one woman, probably the youngest. “We don’t own a silver car. Why?”

“Well, I’m not sure if the car is silver to be honest, but is it possible that one of you accidentally hit a truck while parking?”

“No, we didn’t hit nothing; what truck?” asks the same dyed-haired lady.

“It’s a red truck. Would you mind showing me where you’re parked? Because I think there might have been a little accident.”

“We don’t own no silver car,” she answers again.

Reluctantly, two of them decide to follow me to the parking spot only a few metres from the entrance. One says in a very low voice, “I didn’t mean to hit it; it was an accident.”

Ha ha! Gotcha!

In the end, all was okay, but I was miffed that they simply walked away. There was no damage to my rear bumper thanks to the hitch for my bike rack, but I was so afraid of losing sight of them, that I didn’t check before running in their direction.

The old woman felt really bad about the whole thing and was worried about her insurance. I told her not to worry about that as there was no damage to my truck but that she should find out how much her grille costs, as it might be to her advantage to simply have it replaced.

Lesson learned? Never trust little old ladies, at least the ones who drive Chrysler LeBarons.

Heading down a snowy knoll, I can hear the ski instructor call out, “Wider, Carole, wider!” Yes, I know what I have to do, but I just can’t do it. So, my legs start getting farther and farther apart, and I can see the snow being “ploughed” by my skis. Finally, I fall face first in the snow after having done the splits for the first time in thirty years.

I don’t feel any pain, though I make my way back up the knoll avoiding eye-contact with anyone that might have seen the spectacle. Right out of a comic strip.

Then last Thursday, I head down a steeper hill to practice the snowplough. I made it to the bottom of the hill, screaming on my way down but proud to have made it in a vertical position, until I got near the bottom that is.

Since my four cross-country ski lessons started, I’ve been to the chiropractor a couple of times now. My knee, my hip, and my neck simultaneously scream for attention.

No, skiing is NOT like riding a bicycle. I have cross-country skiied in the past (a long time ago), but I don’t remember falling as much. I feel like I’m starting at square one.

I guess it’s one of those things: no pain, no gain. I’ll take a rest and try it again. Hopefully, I’ll have a few pictures for you.

Last week, our school hosted a book fair (salon du livre), which was hugely successful. There is only one place where one can buy French books in Whitehorse, and the selection is very, very, limited. I love books, and I love (Mum-in-law, close your eyes) to buy ‘em .

It’s been a while since I’ve read French novels, so this past summer I picked up Suzanne Martel’s Jeanne, fille du Roy and thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s set in the period when New France was being settled by pioneers living in the boonies and making do with what they had and what they knew.

Jeanne, fille du Roy par Suzanne Martel

The book fair gave me an opportunity to buy a few more books. The funny thing is, in my head, I kept thinking that the above book was written by Gabrielle Roy, so I ended buying one of her books, which apparently is a good read anyway. And along with it, a book by Marie Laberge whose trilogy was recommended by a few (though I decided on this one for now), and another book by an author I’ve never heard of. Christmas, here I come! Oh, (and Mum-in-law, you can open your eyes now) and did I tell you I’m now reading A Christmas Carol for the first time?

Bonheur d'occasion par Gabrielle Roy

Sans rien ni personne par Marie Laberge

Louve des mers par Claudine Douville

The Yukon attracts many athletic types, in addition to artsy-fartsy, hippy, and, well, you name it-types. So Yukon cyclists (the REAL ones that travel the shoulders of the Alaska Highway with 120 km/hr vehicles throwing rocks when passing and that do the KCIBR) will probably snicker, giggle, or simply fall off their bikes rolling over laughing just from reading the title of this post.

So you cyclists, keep in mind that I haven’t put my tush on a bike seat in, uh, about nine years. Holy smokes! I thought it had been six years, but I just figured out that I’ve been here for 6, lived in Mississauga, ON for 2, and was in Toronto before that, which is where I last rode one of those things. Why so long?

The last bike I had wasn’t the right fit. I think the frame was too small, and every time I rode it, I felt scrunched up and uncomfortable. So instead of buying a bike rack for my car, I was so turned off that I ended up just giving it to a friend when I moved from Toronto. Good riddance!

Anyway, to make a long story short, I was warned that my first time cycling up “The Hill,” I’d probably have to stop about three times: just below Range Rd.; next to the Games Centre; and somewhere near the traffic circle on Hamilton Blvd. Imagine how pleased I was to be able to make it up the first time with only one stop near the pool. Mind you, I was panting like a dog locked up in a car on a hot day, but I made it! The second time up The Hill I made it without stopping even once and never looked back. It just keeps getting easier.

I still get cyclists who pass me so fast that my head spins, and I have to get my bearings straight in order to double-check that I’m still going uphill and not down, but I’m pretty proud of myself when my butt bike finally gets passed that pool. But it gets better.

Yesterday, there was a woman on a little electric scooter who ended up in front of me in the bike lane on Fourth Ave. She was all dressed up in a business suit with fancy pink high-heeled shoes. She looked damned good, even if she was a little scrunched up on her scooter. I couldn’t help but to yell out, “Sure, rub it in and stay there right in front of me while I pedal my butt off!” We both laughed before she turned onto a side street.

Those REAL cyclists would’ve made her head spin too.

PS: I replaced “arse” with “butt” to avoid the risk of being impolite. “Besides,” my hubby said, “it’s a British word.”

ME: It’s very popular on the East Coast; everybody uses it there.

HUBBY: Uh, where do you think they came from?

TOUCHÉ

When I asked my husband to name three things he knows about me in response to Don’t Bug Me’s tag, his answer was: “You’re so small.” The problem? I’m not small, I don’t try to pretend like I am, but I guess when you’re 6’6″, just about everyone else is “small.” It’s not a problem, really.

It’s become a joke between us where he’ll say it when it’s totally irrelevant:

Me: I’m feeling so blah today. I don’t know why.

Him [in a whisper]: It’s because you’re so small.

Or when his arms are wrapped around me in a great big hug:

Him: MMmm, you’re so small and cuddly.

So, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Now I’ve taken to telling him, “You’re so tall.”

DBM: Here are the three things my husband knows about me:

1. I’m small (NOT)
2. I’m an itchy person (you don’t want to know what look I gave him on that one)
3. I read many English words incorrectly

Number one has already been dealt with, so let’s move on to #2: “You’re an itchy person.” Huh? Okay, it is mosquito season in the Yukon, and some people attract them more than others. At least that’s my theory. We’ll both be sitting or working out in the yard, and an hour later I look like I have the chicken pox, while Dave has a couple of little red specks that disappear within an hour. Life’s just not fair. Maybe I should correct #2 to read: “I attract mosquitoes”

As for the English, let me explain. French is my first language. I grew up speaking French at home and going to French school, but the community (and province) is predominantly English-speaking. So I don’t have an accent either way, but when I read out loud, sometimes I mispronounce words.

Several years back, I was talking with a friend and somehow the word “horizon” came up (pronounced HOR-rah-zon – emphasized syllable in large caps). She started to giggle, which turned into one of those belly laughs. You know the ones. To this day, every time I use that word, I have to mentally work it out.

A more recent one that came up:

melancholy – mel-ANN-kulee – my hubby didn’t even know what the heck I was saying.

Now, keep in mind that I know exactly what the words mean and how to use them, but because I don’t have an accent, I sound like a moron when I mispronounce words. At least if I had a French accent, people would attribute it to that.

And I’ve been hired to teach kids starting this fall. Ssshhhh…. I have to admit it doesn’t happen very often, but it’s embarrassing when it does.

So, DBM, I rarely respond to tags, but because you’re new in my blogosphere, and I like you because you like bugs, my work here is done. Now, don’t bug me (just teasing)! I can pass it on to:

Laurie the Librarian currently studying in Newfoundland, but will hopefully find the time

Kara in Faro, even further north

and Michael & Fawn (you two count as one, and I can’t wait to read your posts)

According to DBM’s tag, here’s what you do:

You have to ask your significant other to tell you three things that they know about you and then publish this information on your blog. You also have to pick more victims and then go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged. The comment must end with the word ‘pthththth’. I don’t know why, I am just repeating what I was told.