Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 1

Five o'clock came way too early this morning.

Four women have rather a lot of luggage, especially when you add in four laptops, four smart phones/ipods, a mifi unit (which I choose to call "mofo" since it's a bit unreliable, connection-wise), cameras, cables, and coolers, oh my. The car, fortunately, has adequate cargo space.

Barely.

After sufficient ingestion of caffeine, we got underway, crossed the border without causing an international incident, and have made our way to our first stopping point, a town with the most romantic and imaginative name of Central Point, Oregon. This is how I summed up our first day on twitter:

But since I have more than 140 characters to play with here on my blog, I'll fill you in on the Rules of the Road, arrived at by general consensus.

1. Requests for pee stops shall be promptly attended to.
2. Requests for Starbucks stops shall be promptly attended to.
3. Requests for chocolate shall be promptly attended to. Fortunately Karen brought home made chocolate chocolate chunk cookies and enough Purdy's to choke a horse, so this one can be accomplished while hurtling down the highway at a hundred kilometres an hour, no stops required.
4. No unflattering photos of Traverse Trip team members shall be posted on these here internets without consent. No bikini shots. (Or in my case, tankini shots - the bikini shots for the over 40 set.)
5. Cheese is to be consumed at every opportunity. As someone who sneaks cheese in the dead of night after The Imp's gone to sleep (he has a dairy allergy) I heartily approve.
6. Potty mouth actively encouraged - nay, expected. Three out of four of us are parents of small children - the freedom to speak like a trucker at will gives us all a heady sense of recklessness.
7. Innuendo: see #6 above.
8. Friends don't let friends tweet tipsy.
9. No Pink Floyd.
10. No, we are not there yet.

So far no one has had to threaten to stop the car. No one has lost any articles of clothing or other personal possessions.

And most importantly, not one chuck was given this day. (Meaning: my motion sickness did not make an appearance.)


If you'd like, you can follow our adventures on twitter, and read posts by my fabulous travelling companions.


Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during conference myself. And I'm paying for my own cheese.

Things I'm Doing - Packing

I'm packed. Karen is sleeping in the living room as I finish up last minute things before we leave for eight days on our big! adventure! road trip to BlogHer. In more than three years, I've never been away from The Imp for more than 48 hours, and he is not pleased that I am going.

I am very pleased that I am going, for what that's worth.

We have the car, and we have named it George.

We have discussed what to wear.

And we have unlocked the Sparkletoes Achievement.

I'm really not sure what to expect from BlogHer, but I tend to go about my day inclined to have a good time, so I have no doubt that fun will be had. There's no other agenda for me for this trip. If I can meet some like-minded people, learn a little, and hit a party or two, I'll consider it a roaring success.

One thing I am very much looking forward to is hosting the Serenity Suite for a couple of hours during the conference. I saw tweets about it last year, and thought then that if I ever made it to BlogHer myself, I'd volunteer as a host.

So here I am, going to BlogHer, and I'll be hosting at the Serenity Suite on Friday morning between 10:00 and 11:00 am, and Saturday afternoon from 1:00 to 2:00 pm.

Wanna know something cool? The Saturday shift marks, to the hour, the eighteenth anniversary of me waking up one day and deciding not to drink anymore. I can't imagine a place I'd rather spend it.

So if you're at the conference, and you need a quiet moment and a friendly face, please come by and say hello. I give good hugs!

Of course you don't have to hug me. I'm not creepy about it.



Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during conference myself. And I paid for my own pedicure. Grin. (Just making sure you were still reading!)

Things That Are Awesome - I'm Going to BlogHer!

Last January, in an impulsive fit of whimsy, I bought myself a ticket to BlogHer '11. I didn't actually think I'd be able to go, but better to have a ticket and have to sell it, I reasoned, than find a way to go, and not be able to lay hands on a pass.

I had no money, no way of getting to San Diego, nowhere to stay. No clue, really. I just bought a ticket. I don't think I actually believed I would be able to go.

For two years, I'd read blog posts about BlogHer, seen my friends attend, and been regaled with tales and photos of legendary parties. I followed the fun in my twitter stream: Chicago in 2009, New York last year. Seething with envy, I added it to the "maybe someday" list.

Three days after I bought the ticket I knew I wouldn't be able to use, my friend Karen asked me if I wanted to do a road trip with her to San Diego for BlogHer '11. Just like that.

Uh, yeah. Yes. YES! Absolutely! Yes, please?

She'd been having conversations with GM Canada about getting a loaner car to do a blogger road trip, and they said, "Yeah, sure!"

Seventeen kinds of awesome right there.

So that made two of us.

Soon after, Nicole climbed aboard the fun machine. Itineraries were vaguely discussed, but it was still so many months away, I don't think I actually believed it was going to happen.

And then Tracey joined our band of merry pranksters, GM told us what kind of car we'd be driving, and Traverse Trip was born.

And now, it's a week away. A week from now we'll be on the road to San Diego. Hotels are booked, forms filled out, passports renewed. We leave next Tuesday!

Four bloggers, a car, a boatload of tech, and 2247 kilometres. Give or take.

To say that I am looking forward to this is to be very restrained in expressing my over the moon giddy happy-dancing excitement.

We checked out a Traverse one sunny day a couple of weeks ago. The verdict: cup holders, check. Power outlets: check. Good times? You know it!

And I could not ask for better traveling companions. In my head, it goes like this:

Karen at Chasing Tomatoes is our Director of Noms. She will save us from the indigestion and hardened arteries of freeway fast food, making delicious cooler-friendly meals to bring along, and she's already scoped out all the Starbucks and Trader Joe's locations between here and our final destination. Also, there are rumours she will be bringing cookies, and people, you have not lived until you've eaten her cookies. I even like the ones she makes with oatmeal, and I hate oatmeal.

Tracey from Fashion Forward 40 and TJR Ramblings is our Mistress of Fabulous Fashion Finds. She's plotted out our stops for outlet malls, vintage shops, and specialty boutiques along the way. I know I can trust her to tell me what looks good and what doesn't and to say, bluntly if necessary, "Honey, no. On you that is not a deal, even if it's discounted 90%." And although we're all working to live greener lives, Tracey's gone and done the math about driving vs flying emissions and how to minimize the garbage we create on our trip.

Nicole is our All Things Tech Goddess, bringing adapters and cables and external hard drives, oh my. Pretty sure if I locked her in a hotel room for a couple of hours, she could show me how to code my own website. And, she's giving away some very cool tech right now over at Resolving Timeline Issues. Go leave a comment by July 31st to enter to win.

And then there's me. I'm, um. I'm bringing the cooler. And, uh, an inflatable mattress. And the motion sickness. No trip is complete until someone's ready to hurl. I've also appointed myself Curator of Musical Experience. I'm putting together playlists and burning a couple of CDs (old school!) in case we're stuck somewhere without satellite access and we're sucked into a vortex of doom where all of our iPods stop working all at once.

There will, friends and neighbours, be seat-dancing. Eighties music for the win!

I also plan on doing a largish chunk of the driving. An old boyfriend of mine used to call me the Road Warrior based on how long I could drive without needing to stop. What he didn't know was that I insisted on keeping my hands on the wheel because I'm a control freak I get carsick as a passenger. So yeah. Road Warrior/Curator of Music. Either of those sound better than Princess Pukes-A-Lot.

I have so much to do before we leave.


Full disclosure: General Motors Canada is providing us with the use of a Chevrolet Traverse, gas, insurance and accommodations for our road trip to BlogHer and back. I've paid for my own ticket to the conference, and will be responsible for my own accommodations while in San Diego.

Wordless Wednesday - Grand Day Out

The Imp: How do I get into that space ship, Mommy?


(Print on canvas from Cici Art Factory, who I adore. Full disclosure: paid for the print myself.)

Thursday Confession - Shampoo (Or Lack Thereof)

I outed myself on twitter yesterday in front of the whole internet. I saw a conversation about haircare go by in my twitter stream, so I jumped in.

That's not strictly true. Every 6-8 weeks I visit my stylist for a cut and colour, and she uses shampoo. And last September I stayed in a hotel and used the posh shampoo in the room. But at home, none at all since late May of 2010.

And this from someone who used to spend about $200 on professional colouring, and $80 on fancy shampoo and conditioner, every month. I was drawn in by the promises of the latest botanical extracts and bought a lot of different products in search of perfect tv commercial hair.

And still, most of the time I looked like this:

Dark roots, frizzy, and unmanageable. That's about $3500/year. Not very good value for money.

A bunch of different factors led me to change my hair regimen.

When I was pregnant, my sense of smell, mostly absent or defective my entire life prior to that, went crazy. I became really sensitive to chemical smells - the scent of our regular bathroom cleaner sent me running, gagging, out of the apartment as I begged HWSNBN to stop using it. I figured my newfound sense of smell would fade away once the baby was born, but it didn't, so we switched to unscented products, and even they were too strong. Eventually we started using baking soda and vinegar to clean almost everything in the house.

Including my hair.

My new hair regimen: apple cider vinegar, $8. Baking soda $1.

Inspired by the likes of my friend Amber, I'd planned to go "no poo" for a while, but it was seeing my then almost-two-year-old manage to open a shampoo bottle and try to eat its toxic contents that really convinced me to give it a try. (Here's how.) And I haven't looked back.

It was weird, at first, to wash my hair with no suds. It felt like it couldn't possibly be getting clean, but it was - almost too clean. I used to wash my hair every day with shampoo, and adjusting to the baking soda/apple cider vinegar routine took a while to figure out. I fiddled with the amount of baking soda to find what worked for me. At first I was still washing my hair every day, then as my scalp adjusted, every couple of days. A year later, I wash it about once a week, more if I've been swimming in a chlorinated pool or had an evening out where I used lots of product.

I've been asked, "Doesn't it hurt to get it in your eyes?" I imagine it would sting, but after 30+ years of washing my hair with chemical-laden shampoos, I've managed to get pretty good at not getting stuff in my eyes. If I ever do get to experience baking soda in the peepers, I'll update this post. But I can't imagine that it would be any more uncomfortable that getting an eye-full of shampoo.

I've also been asked about odour. To be honest, I haven't noticed any. Neither has my husband, and he would tell me. He thought I was crazy when I started this, but he's begrudgingly come around. It's true, the apple cider vinegar rinse does leave me smelling vaguely like a salad until my hair dries, but after that, no scent to speak of, and certainly not the unpleasant "dirty scalp" smell that I feared would be the result. Just clean. What I do notice, though, is the overpowering smell of regular hair products. The time I used hotel shampoo, I didn't like how I could smell it for hours afterward - well into the next day.

About a week into the baking soda treatment - smelling good enough for Rachael to get close for a photo at a Vancouver Yummy Mummy Club tweetup. (photo credit tjrossignol on flickr)

Sue from Raspberry Kids, unfazed by my hair smell, at the Vancouver Mom Top 30 Mom Bloggers party in May (photo credit Elayne Wandler at Bopomo Pictures)

What does my hair look like now? Well, aside from the grey that insists on sprouting from my scalp despite my best attempts to hide it, I think it looks great.

Here it is a few moments ago, air dried out of the shower, no product, no styling. (I'd usually do something with it, but wanted to give you a "naked" look, direct from my webcam, at my hair as it is right now.)

Straight up

I have a lot of hair, thick and wavy.

My best "Cousin It"

The box of baking soda lasts about 3 months. The 1 litre size apple cider vinegar, about 8 months. Which means my new hair care regimen costs me a grand total of $25/year.*

So what do you think? Are you going to try and smell my hair the next time you see me? And would you give up shampoo?




*Not including professional colouring to hide the grey, which costs about $800/year.

Wordless Wednesday - Skinned Knees Edition

skinned knees, a photo by alexishinde on Flickr.

Looks like we've officially entered the "bruises, abrasions, and skinned knees" years. Ah, childhood.

Things That Are True - Stargazing

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

I cannot read this poem (and I read it often; I adore Whitman) without thinking of my dad.

My father is a gentle man. Thoughtful in his approach to everything, he lives his beliefs and treats everyone he meets, even when he disagrees with them, with respect and dignity. He has taught me much - even though when I was 18 I thought he was kind of an idiot. It's amazing how wise he has grown in the last twenty-odd years.

Grin.

My dad is both an auto-didact and a raconteur. With no formal education beyond high school, he was the source of all information as I was growing up. There was nothing he couldn't explain, and he treated all my questions - and there were a lot of them; I was the quintessential "but why, Daddy?" child - very seriously, and did his best to answer in a way I could understand. Now that The Imp has reached the "but why, Mommy?" stage, I'm learning first hand how hard this is to do consistently, and my admiration for my dad grows daily.

Dad loves astronomy. In the family library of my childhood, I remember a well-thumbed book of star maps. As a small-town prairie kid, the skies must have been vast indeed for him as he learned the names in the heavens. But for me, as a young child in the Yukon, when it was warm enough to stargaze, there was 24 hour daylight and the stars didn't come out to play. When it was dark enough to ponder the universe, it was mind-numbingly cold.

Me, my Dad, and my sister with the family car parked under the avocado tree, 1979

But then, when I was eight years old, we went on an epic family adventure, and were lucky enough to live on a tropical island for a few years. The switch from day to night at that latitude is instant, there's no twilight. We lived in a tiny village (link in French), so light pollution wasn't a huge concern. And it was warm, gloriously warm. Warm enough for my dad and I to head up the hill behind our house and out into the sugar cane field, and for him to teach me the names of the stars and constellations. It was the southern hemisphere, so everything was different from what he knew. In that pre-internet era, Dad must've had to buy a whole new star maps book for this unknown celestial territory.

We tracked the progress of the Southern Cross together, caught glimpses of Orion's belt (the only constellation in the southern hemisphere that followed us from the north) on the horizon, and learned the names of unfamiliar groupings of twinkling lights. And together we sat, in that "mystical moist night-air", and "look'd up in perfect silence at the stars."

Those evenings are my favourite childhood memories. I only hope I can give The Imp the same appreciation of vastness and wonder that my dad shared with me.

I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Things That Make Me Angry

I live in downtown Vancouver. Every day, I cycle the bike paths, walk the streets, and shop in the stores that made headlines and breaking news all over the world last night, as hooligans destroyed my city.

They were mostly young. They were mostly male. They were mostly white.

I don't know what that means, but it means something.

I am devastated. I was in the CBC Fan Zone yesterday afternoon, with The Imp. We've been there for the beginning of every game since they started screening them for the public. "We go to the hockey party!" exclaimed The Imp, every time the Canucks played. Without fail, it was a great experience. Face painting, "Go Canucks Go" signs; fans gathered peacefully to cheer on their team, celebrate their victories, and commiserate when they lost. Beach balls were batted around by the crowds. One afternoon, three separate groups of people noticed that The Imp was desperate to have a turn with the ball, and in front of my eyes, they conspired to make it happen, getting the ball to him so he could bat it back into the crowd. There were countless families there. Canucks fandom seemed to know no age, race, or ethnicity. The enthusiastic singing of O Canada before every game was deafeningly awesome - my voice and The Imp's added lustily into the mix.

The CBC Fan Zone in happier times

We'd watch the opening face-off, the first few minutes of the game, and then make our way, through happy crowds, home for dinner.

Yesterday started out the same. I picked him up early at daycare, we made our way to the fan zone at Robson and Hamilton, and found a patch of pavement to call our own.

But the energy was different yesterday. The makeup of the crowd skewed to young, male, and drunk. I posted on twitter:

"In the #fanzone. Most packed I've ever seen it. The Imp insisted he wanted to be here; I'll be surprised if he makes it to game time. #loud"

I saw an almost-fistfight when a security guard made a simple request of fans to sit down before the game even started. People were on edge.

I wanted to leave right then and there. The Imp wanted to stay. I convinced myself it was a one-off, that people would settle in as the game began and there was a focus for all the pent-up nervous energy. After all, it had been fun every other time.

The anthems were sung. It was loud, but somehow it wasn't the same.

The puck dropped. The game began. The energy in the crowd was intense.

My gut told me it was time to leave. The Imp insisted he wanted to stay. I fought an internal battle. "This could be one of The Imp's earliest memories; watching his beloved Canucks win the Cup!" vs "This crowd makes me anxious. This could get ugly."

I followed my gut; we left halfway through the first period, after the Bruins had drawn first blood. Once home, I tweeted:  

"Home. Fan zone vibe: sketchy. Everyone's wearing a jersey, but spider senses tell me the Ed Hardy factor approaches critical mass."

You know the rest. The Canucks lost. The city erupted in violence.

I am heartbroken. And I am angry.

I love living downtown. I've enjoyed the variety and diversity of urban life. I've loved raising The Imp so that he doesn't blink when he sees a same-sex couple, he's not thrown by different languages being spoken around him, and he's accustomed to lots of different skin colours in his world.

And I've felt safe here. The tremendous success and happy shiny feelings about the Olympics showed, I thought, that Vancouver had grown up. A cosmopolitan city, it could handle huge crowds and public celebrations.

Not so.

I'm absolutely heartsick at how wrong I was, how wrong everyone I know was, and how wrong, it seems, the authorities were about what would happen if and when the Canucks lost.

I hate the fear I feel now. I'm angry because I will now never quite feel safe in a Vancouver crowd again. The Celebration of Light takes place right on my doorstep every summer. A few hundred thousand people crowd into my neighbourhood to watch the fireworks, and I will never feel comfortable taking The Imp out into that crowd again. The veneer of civility is too thin. I'm angry that I can't unsee that now.

And I'm angry that I can't unsee the images of people wantonly destroying my neighbourhood. Setting cars on fire, breaking windows, and looting? Who does that?

I don't understand the people who do that. I just don't. And I don't believe it had anything to do with hockey. I saw footage of a person using a hammer to break the windows of a bank. Who brings a hammer to watch a hockey game? Who comes to a hockey party with gasoline to set things on fire? Who brings a baseball bat to a hockey game, just in case they feel like breaking the windows of an SUV parked blocks away from the arena? People were throwing bricks through store windows. Where are they getting bricks in a city built of concrete? Who brings bricks to a hockey game?

There was premeditation involved here. The loss of the game was just a pretext; the spark that lit a fire long set and stoked.

It's no secret that I am warm and fuzzy about social media. I blog, I'm on flickr, I'm on youtube, I'm on facebook, linkedin, listgeeks, pinterest, and twitter. I've met people I adore through social media. I've learned a tremendous amount, and I've benefited hugely, both personally and professionally, from the connections I've made online. I've been a huge cheerleader in my social circle for the benefits of social media. I love that everyone has a voice, everyone has the opportunity for community, and we become our own content generators and media channels.

Maybe I've been naive, but last night I saw a side of social media I hadn't even known existed.

The violence, the destruction, those were the acts of relatively few people. Out of 100,000, there were maybe a few hundred actively involved in creating the mayhem. But there were thousands of people standing by, watching. Taking pictures to post on facebook. Chanting, clapping, and posing in front of burning cars only feet away, high fiving each other. Jeering and leering gleefully at the damage being done, at the taunting of riot police. Thousands of people who chose not to go home, but to stand by and watch, and laugh at the spectacle. And tweet about it.

For these people, the (in this case mostly young, predominantly male) milling about observers and inciters, is nothing real until it's been on a screen? And being on a screen, is it then not real, but spectacle? Have they been so desensitized to violence that when they see it right in front of them, it's entertainment?

Over and over again, news cameras caught thousands of people taking pictures, getting in the way of emergency responders, making it harder to defuse the madness. There was a self-consciousness to it: I saw people running from looted stores, one hand full of stolen merchandise, the other with a camera phone on, recording the whole thing to relive later on youtube.

Is this online space, where I have found education, community, and solidarity, the same space inhabited by people who actually tag themselves on facebook committing criminal acts?

My son is a digital native, growing up in a post-facebook world. The mere act of me writing this blog is creating a digital footprint for him before he even has a say in what gets shared. His generation will never experience our antiquated concepts of privacy.

How do I raise him, in this oversharey, tweet-happy environment? How do I make sure this lovely little boy, who loves the Canucks as only a three year old can, doesn't become one of these young men, completely unconcerned, gleeful even, about being caught on camera in this appalling behaviour?

The Imp went to sleep last night as the madness was descending. He missed it all - saw no footage, no photos. I've kept it that way this morning. He's staying home from daycare today because I am not prepared to answer his questions. His daycare is in the immediate vicinity of where the violence started last night. The Imp's uncannily observant; he sees everything. He asks questions about everything. And I don't know what to tell a three year old about broken glass on the sidewalk, boarded up windows, and burn marks on the pavement. So I'm postponing the discussion; opting out for 24 hours to sort out my own conflicted feelings and to try and figure out what a three year old needs to know.

But I do know this: "We have met the enemy and he is us."

Friday Confession - Impostor

I spend a lot of time avoiding doing the very thing that I love most.

I know. It makes no sense.

But it's true. I alphabetize things that don't need it, I cook, I clean, I sleep, I watch tv, I surf the web. I spend too much time on twitter. I do anything but write.

It's ridiculous. I've been writing in journals and notebooks, scribbling on the backs of envelopes and bar napkins, and composing letters in my head for as long as I can remember. (Okay, maybe not the bar napkins. That was a later development.) I started this blog as a place to organize my thoughts, share my ideas, and have a living record of my experiences as a parent. I love the sense of community it gives me, the power inherent in having a voice (whether anyone listens or not) and the thrill of learning from others who've trodden the path before me or are walking by my side.

And yet, I don't write. I avoid it like... I dunno. Laundry? I hate laundry. Avoiding that makes sense.

Fear, friends. Fear is the dream killer.

It's not interested in what makes sense. It doesn't care what's rational, or even what's true. Its only focus is to prevent risk. Any risk, real or perceived. And imaginary risk is its specialty.

Fact: All my life I have longed to be a real writer.

Jebus. Just typing that out loud has made my hands shake.

So yes, I've longed to be a real writer, whatever that is. (Is blogging writing?)

I even managed in second year university to enroll in Creative Writing 100, with the intention of majoring in that or journalism. I went to the first class; it was all about poetry. We were assigned to write an autobiographical poem. The night before the class, drunk in the student pub, I dashed off a few lines of suckage and handed it in at the second class.

The third class, the prof gave a prize (one of her own books of poetry, she probably had a basement full of them) for the best poem. To me. She thought my poem was the best of what had been handed in.

I knew it was a piece of crap.

I never went back to that class again.

I haven't really ever told that story.

----------

The tyranny of the blank page

People I respect and admire have told me they enjoy my blog. Out loud I thank them; inside my head I'm immediately discounting what they say. Based on my twitter stream, I've been told by someone who writes! professionally! that I should write a book. I joke that she's crazy. "From your mouth to a publisher's ear," I grin.

Recently at a party, I was introduced to someone as "Alexis, a very talented writer" and I almost fell out of my shoes. The Fear That Rules Me screamed, "No, no, no. Don't be ridiculous!" I managed to keep my game face on and shake hands like a normal person, but inside I was ramping up all the old arguments for why the person was so wrong.

But that moment made me pause. It's always interesting to catch a glimpse of yourself as others see you, like a reflection in a shop window as you hurry by. And in a heartbeat, I decided to stop discounting what I do and say in this space.

It's not easy.

I feel like a fool most of the time.

But the other day, as I met a friend, a writer friend, for coffee and encountered another friend, another writer friend at the same time, I introduced the two, saying "David, this is Heather. She's a writer too!"

And for a split second, I allowed the "too" to include me.

Then I did a crazy, crazy thing. A few days ago, I submitted one of my own posts for BlogHer's Voices of the Year. This one.

This is progress, yes?

Wordless Wednesday - Fortune Cookie

Standing by to receive.

Wednesday of Few Words - Shoes

Yesterday HWSNBN and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary. (A year ago, I wrote this, and it's all still true. Just sub in eight for seven.)

It was a quiet, lazy evening at home - after my Spanish class, of course, and after The Imp was asleep. It's a rare thing, but occasionally HWSNBN and I actually get a chance to hang out together. To talk, grownup to grownup. For just a second last night, it almost felt like it did before we became parents.

Then, we walked around the corner and found this:

Yup. We're a family.

Things That Are True - Kid + Grownup Clothes = Cute

We have a very happy little Canucks fan, here wearing HWSNBN's retro hockey sweater.

The only time I ever think twice about living downtown is during the NHL playoffs when the Canucks are having a successful run.

Longer spring days mean The Imp insists, "It's morning time!" as the prolonged sunset creeps in past his dark curtains at bedtime.

And loud cheers from balconies and open apartment windows all around us put the lie to my, "Okay buddy, the game's over, time for bed!" when it's really only the end of the second period.

I can usually explain the "they just scored" cheers away just by saying that people are happy the Canucks won the game. He accepts that. "I'm happy too!" he says. "Go, Canucks, go!" he shouts before I get him calmed down enough to drift off.

The day The Imp figures out there are three periods in a hockey game? I'm hooped.

Things I've Learned - When in Doubt, Post the Cute

Three day headache + HWSNBN is away + super clingy Imp = not as much fun as you'd think.

Math is hard, yo.


But hey, look! In-happier-times random photo fun! Action shot, even!

Street hockey in the downtown core. I am Canadian.

Wednesday of Few Words - Home Again

We landed at YVR this morning at five.

AM.

In the morning.

So this is about all I can manage today, through the fog of flying all night and entertaining a routine-disrupted Imp all day.

I just spent five minutes looking through all my vacation photos - only five minutes because there are hardly any photos to look at.

That is seriously unlike me - I'm the person who takes 17 million photos on a walk through my own neighbourhood. I took my camera with me on holiday. I even took more than one lens. Normally I love to take pictures of every significant moment. I love seeing things through the filter of what gets caught through my viewfinder, but somehow this trip wasn't about observing and documenting. It was about doing and being.

So for the most part, I put the camera down.

But one of my favourite moments of our doing and being was a stop at Matsumoto's Store in Hale'iwa for shave ice.

The last full day of our holiday. We look so relaxed and happy!

Things I've Learned - Joy Defined

It's our last evening in Hawaii. Oahu's skies are raining down on us right now, as if to ease our transition back to Vancouver's April weather.

We're going from this...

...to this.

Sigh. Big, heavy sigh.


I don't want to go home. This has been one of the best holidays of my life; joy defined. The Imp, a pretty happy little chap under normal conditions, has handled all the changes we've thrown at him with his customary good nature and curiosity. We've been able to spend a huge amount of time together as a family, and it's been good for all of us.

The Imp has proven, on this trip, that he can live on prawns, pineapple, and sunshine. HWSNBN and I have learned that we can slow down, stop scheduling, stop fretting, and just enjoy ourselves - and enjoy The Imp enjoying himself.

I've learned that when everyone on the beach is wearing a bikini, how I look in one ceases to matter.

I've learned that toddler + rashie + board shorts = minimum sunburn exposure + the cute, I die. I've learned that before I go on my next warm weather holiday, I should tell my friends to buy stock in Coppertone. We went through a lot of it. A lot. But hey, no sunburns!

And I've learned that I cannot wait until we can come back. My favourite words have become, "We go to the beach today! Hurray!" and "We go in the ocean now, Mommy?"

All the fretting I did about how we were going to keep The Imp busy and happy was totally unnecessary. This fifteen second clip is a pretty good summation of our entire 12 days here:





May he (and we) always be so easy to please.

Things I've Learned - Holiday Flotsam and Jetsam

Bits and pieces I've picked up along the way:

1) All that fretting about what to do with an almost three year old in Hawaii? For naught.

Our day goes something like this:
7am: wake up. Imp starts demanding we go to the beach.
8am: breakfast
9-10:30am: into the pool, out of the pool, back into the pool, out of the pool
10:30am: snack
10:45-noon: into the ocean, out of the ocean, back into the ocean
12pm: lunch
12:30-3:30pm: into the ocean, out of the ocean, back into the ocean, out of the ocean
3:30pm: ice cream for us/sorbet for The Imp
3:45-5pm: into the pool, out of the pool, back into the pool, out of the pool
5pm: clean up for 5:30pm: dinner
6:30pm: into the ocean, out of the ocean
7:30pm: bath, story
8pm: bed

Weather permitting, all other variables indicate that today, and every day that follows, will be a case of lather, rinse, repeat.

The Imp getting his surf on at Waikiki beach

2) When I was first in Oahu without my parents, over twenty years ago, I had the carefully crafted attitude only a 19 year old can carry off. I didn't want to go to any of the "touristy" spots, like Waikiki Beach. My aunt, who's now lived here over 40 years, told me, "Don't be an idiot. The reason the tourists all go to Waikiki Beach is because it's one of the best beaches on the island." She's totally right. We've had perfect weather every single day. The waves are gentle enough for The Imp to run through, high enough for it to be exciting when they wash over him. There are other spots on Oahu I love too, but we could do a lot worse than to spend every day here.


3) Before we booked our trip, we debated getting a condo vs a hotel room. In the end, we opted for the hotel - and I'm glad we did. The reasons for getting a condo made sense: with The Imp's dairy allergy we could be sure of what he was eating, we'd save some money compared to restaurant meals, we'd have laundry facilities handy. But when I think about all the pros, the big con is this: shopping for groceries, cooking, and doing laundry don't sound much like a holiday. It sounds like being home, but with palm trees and air conditioning. Staying in a hotel makes it a true vacation. Plus they bring you slushy drinks as you lay around the pool. How awesome is that?


4) The problem with shopping after you've been here a few days is that big bold floral prints start to seem like a good idea. See also: ukuleles, surfboards, and Wyland. (Except I'm just kidding about the Wyland thing. That never seems like a good idea.)

New sandals, in dire need of a pedicure

5) Being a non-drinker, I feel totally justified in spending money on shoes. What I've spent on our holiday to date is only about half of what HWSNBN has consumed in mai tais at $11 a pop.

6) If you bring more than one bathing suit, one top, one skirt, and one pair of flip-flops, you've totally overpacked.

7) My favourite lip gloss is $5 cheaper at Macy's in Waikiki than it is at home.

8) Despite the proliferation of Australian, Canadian, and various European accents I hear around me every day on the beach, Hawaiian tourism seems to still have a lot of eggs in the Japanese basket. I wonder what effect the whole radiation/earthquake/tsunami hit to the Japanese economy will have on that.

My boys, kickin' it poolside

9) Seeing The Imp and HWSNBN play together in the pool and on the beach makes my heart sing out loud.

And most importantly:

Robot voice: "It is a biohazard."

10) The cost of a slightly used, slightly peed upon king size hotel duvet is $127 and change.

Things That Are Surprising - Biohazard

Alternate Title: My Parents Went All the Way to Hawaii and All I Got Was This Lousy Duvet

Yesterday late afternoon, The Imp was so busy playing in the adjoining room that he neglected to go to the bathroom before he, uh, went to the bathroom. "I pee! I pee!" he shouted in consternation, from the newly wet spot atop the giant king sized bed he'd been sleeping on, without incident, the previous two nights.

"Oh no!" We ran into his room, yanked him off the bed and ran to the toilet. Alas, we were too late.

We immediately stripped the duvet cover off, and yes, he'd wet the corner of the duvet. Damn.

Knowing that the duvets aren't usually laundered between guests, we called housekeeping right away. We wanted to let them know the duvet needed to be cleaned, and we were hoping to get a clean replacement before The Imp's bedtime.

Housekeeping came promptly to address the situation. It should be noted that they were at all times calm, polite, professional, and as accommodating as they could be. What we didn't realize was that our simple attempt to do the right thing had unleashed a no-doubt OSHA mandated triumph of policy over common sense.

HWSNBN: Will we have to pay to have the duvet cleaned?
Housekeeping: We cannot clean the duvet.
HWSNBN: What? Why not? It says on the tag, "Dryclean Only."
Housekeeping: It is a biohazard. It cannot be cleaned.
HWSNBN: Biohazard? A quarter-cup of toddler pee is a biohazard?
Housekeeping: Yes. The duvet must be thrown away.
HWSNBN: You're telling me that this perfectly good duvet has to be thrown away because The Imp peed on the corner of it?
Housekeeping: Yes. It is a biohazard.
HWSNBN: So people can have sex on the duvet, and have AIDS or hepatitis, and the duvet can still be used, but a little bit of little boy pee, and it has to be thrown in an incinerator?
Housekeeping: Yes.
HWSNBN: Are you kidding me?
Housekeeping: No, sir. It is a biohazard.
HWSNBN: But urine's sterile!
Housekeeping: It is a biohazard.

It went on like that for a while.

Biohazard? Who, me?

Housekeeping asked us why The Imp wasn't in a crib. Um, because he's almost three? Because he hasn't slept in a crib in a year and a half? They asked us why he wasn't in diapers. Because he hasn't had an accident in six weeks!

Eventually, housekeeping agreed that they did not have to dispose of the duvet right that minute. They would leave the duvet with us. They would cover the mattress in plastic to prevent any issues in the five remaining days of our stay.

And we would have to pay for the duvet. Had he managed to pee on the mattress itself, we would have had to pay for an entire new bed. (!!!)


Listen, I'm not the mom that thinks her little darling can do no wrong. I don't think it's cute that he peed on someone else's property. Nor do I think that it's funny, or even appropriate, that someone else should have to deal with the results of his potty-training misadventures. I take full responsibility for my child's behaviour wherever we go.

And obviously, we were concerned that he'd peed on the duvet. We didn't want the next guest to unwittingly be sleeping under a blanket with little boy pee on it. That's why we called housekeeping in the first place - because honestly, an hour later, the duvet was totally dry and even knowing he'd peed on it, we couldn't find the spot. Had we not told them, they would never have known.

And I'm not writing here to try and unleash the collective rage of twitter parents. I'm not looking to get anything for free - I don't even need or want an apology. I'm not interested in a backlash against the hotel or its employees. They are merely following the procedures and policies set in place by a corporate entity, in an environment so litigious that common sense simply isn't a factor.

But... but... The robotic "It is a biohazard" response seemed a little ridiculous to me. When I tweeted about it, other parents overwhelmingly agreed. We are, admittedly, a subset of humanity enured to the bodily fluids of small children. But as Alexandria at Clippo pointed out in response to my incredulous tweets:

Exactly.

Little boy pee isn't cool, but I'm pretty sure it's not the most biohazardy thing ever to be found in one of their hotel rooms.

We don't know yet what the duvet is going to cost us. Or how we're going to get it home. But I am not throwing away a perfectly good duvet just because The Imp peed on it. If that was a thing, we'd have to get rid of almost everything we own.

What do you think? Is the hotel's reaction appropriate? Should we have just rinsed out the pee spot in the sink and kept our mouths shut?

And does anyone need a king sized duvet, recently peed upon just a little bit?

Things That Are True - Best Husband Ever

One of the many reasons I married HWSNBN is because of his friendly, outgoing, and curious personality. He can, and will, have a conversation with anybody. And this is a friendly place; HWSNBN and Hawaii are ideally suited to each other. It sometimes takes us a little longer to get things done (as we learn that the guard at the exit to the rental car place lived in Kelowna for six months working as a roofer), but we're on holiday. Time is merely a construct.

Last night we ate at the beachside Mai Tai Bar at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. It was surprisingly child-friendly - they instantly provided crayons and a colouring page/keiki menu for The Imp. The kids' menu was, like most, full of stuff I'd not likely feed him even if he wasn't allergic to dairy (hot dogs and the like), but the crayons kept him happily busy until our poke, prawns, and chicken skewers arrived.*

Aside: restaurant portions are huge here. Ordering a couple of starters to split between the three of us is all we need to feel full. Having said that, the more posh the hotel/restaurant, the smaller the portions. Implying that rich people care about the quality of their food and that middle class people care about the quantity of their food, I guess.

Back to last night: we'd finished our meal and HWSNBN had to visit the men's room. The Imp was happily sitting on my lap, totally engrossed in the Hawaiian musicians playing on stage, so I sat back to enjoy the music and the warm breeze, belly comfortably full of yummy food, happy that my child was happy. As relaxed as I could get with a squirmy two year old in my lap. Bliss.

The musicians played one song after another. It was lovely. A hula dancer joined them for a couple of songs, and The Imp was enchanted. So was I - she was grace personified.

Then it occurred to me that HWSNBN was taking quite a long time in the bathroom. "Oh well," I thought. "We have been eating a lot of fruit."

I sat back in my chair, looked out over the ocean at the setting sun. Ten more minutes went by. "Who did he get to talking to in the hotel lobby?" I wondered.

The Imp was getting restless. I checked my watch. A full half an hour had elapsed. Where on earth was HWSNBN? And how much longer was he going to be?

Just as I was starting to be more irritated than charmed by the situation, there was HWSNBN, striding across the hotel grounds to our table, one hand hidden behind his back.

This was in his hand.

He'd been plotting basically since we landed to find a way to sneak off and buy me a present. "I've had a good year, work-wise," he said. "And there are a lot of things you've been doing without."

As if this trip wasn't enough. Seriously, y'all. Best Husband Ever.






*Full disclosure: these opinions are entirely my own. We are paying for everything ourselves, selecting our own restaurants, hotel, car rental, and activities. I am in no way compensated by anyone for anything I may or may not write. This trip is entirely on our own dime. Just in case you were wondering.

Things That Are True - Life Moments

I am so very lucky - I've had the opportunity to visit Oahu many times. Having family who live here has made it a default warm weather destination all my life. So I have my favourite burger place in Hale'iwa, my favourite hole in the wall noodle joint in Chinatown, the best places to pick up a bathing suit and flip flops without paying Waikiki tourist prices. I know that if you want to snorkel Hanauma Bay you're better to get there early and leave by lunch. I know that it's a good idea to have a small flashlight with you to hike Diamond Head. I know Long's has the best prices for macadamia nuts to bring home, and that one of the best places to get leis is actually Safeway.

And I know about chocolate haupia pie from Ted's Bakery. Mmmm. Chocolate haupia pie.


But I've never visited with a child before.

Our first day here we hit the beach at Waikiki. The Imp was running all over the place, taking it all in. He was desperate to go surfing, trying to convince us that he needed a surfboard. He spent most of his time running from one surf rental spot to another, sure that we'd give in. And we might've except for one small thing: he refused to go into the water.

Problematic, that.

As he put it himself, "The waves freak me out, Mommy."

And fair enough. Waves - even the small ones at Waikiki - are surprisingly loud when they crash onshore. And when you're only three feet tall, they must look pretty big. I can see how that could be intimidating. After the first time the water washed over his toes, he wouldn't go anywhere near it. So I held him in my arms, and I went and stood at the high water mark, and let him watch as the waves washed over my feet. We got to the point where he could stand it if the waves occasionally came up to my thighs and nipped at his toes, but that was it. He so desperately wanted to be surfing, yet wouldn't go near the one thing you need to surf.

HWSNBN and I decided that if we could get him to go into the water by the end of our holiday, we'd call it a win.

Yesterday we went to one of my favourite spots on Oahu: Kailua Beach Park. It's small, less crowded, not really on the way to anywhere else so not as high on tourist lists of Things To See. The park has lots of old ironwood trees, plenty of grassy areas to play and picnic, and it's a lovely little sheltered bay. The water is that mythical colour of blue you only ever see in vacation brochures. And on a calm day, the waves are very gentle.

We dropped our stuff, spread out our towels, and HWSNBN took The Imp down to the water's edge while I slathered sunscreen all over myself. By the time I looked up, they were waist deep in the water. By the time I joined them, I had to run and get the camera because they were in all the way.

The smile pretty much says everything you need to know.

And then, and then... We were playing in the water, splashing and jumping and doing all the silly things parents do to make their children laugh, and The Imp spotted a local man with a surfboard, floating lazily nearby. The man noticed The Imp's interest, and was kind enough to offer, "You wanna try it?"

The Imp couldn't get there fast enough. He clambered onto the board as if he'd been doing it all his life, got up on his knees, and sprang to his feet. The look of triumph and unbridled joy on his face as he stood on the board, wind in his hair - it brings tears to my eyes just to write here about it.

I haven't thought too much about a Top Ten Moments of My Life list. Off the top of my head, I can think of a few: seeing the ballet in Paris, the sun rise from the top of Haleakala, the look on HWSNBN's face as I walked down the aisle on our wedding day.

The Imp on a surfboard in Kailua Bay has easily muscled its way into my top three.

On day one we couldn't get The Imp into the water. On day two, we couldn't get him out of it. Today's day three - I suspect at least part of it will involve shopping for The Imp's new boogie board.

Things That Are True - Holiday Update

In case you were wondering what puakenikeni look like - a tree in my aunt's garden

Yesterday we hit the beach. It was rainy on the Windward side of Oahu - where we've been staying with my aunt and uncle, so we hopped in the car and drove thirty minutes into Waikiki.

Some things I've learned in the last 24 hours.

1) Drop any hint of the word (or even the concept) "relaxing" in connection with "holiday" when said holiday involves a two year old who will. not. stop. moving. Ever. Relaxation, like sleep and reading the Sunday Times, is for the childless.

2) Decide in the first ten minutes that you are okay with the fact that every part of your body, everything you own, and everything you touch for the next two weeks will be sticky with sunscreen and gritty with sand. It is what it is, and fighting it will only make you crazy.

3) Related to (2) above: I bet if the rental car companies could somehow save all the sand they vacuum out of rental returns daily, Hawaii could have one hell of a land reclamation project going on.

4) The fruit smoothies they sell at Starbucks here are bigger than the ones in Vancouver. Same brand, same ingredients, but about 1/3 larger. Also, the soymilk they use is way, way sweeter than the stuff we're used to.

5) I needn't have brought any clothes for The Imp. He has, and will, wear nothing but his bathing suit 95% of the time.

6) I managed to avoid the whole, "Do these shorts make my ass look fat?" thing by not bringing any. Skirts. Skirts are the answer. They're more flattering, they allow me to change into my bathing suit bottom right there on the beach with no one noticing, and they're cooler. It's good to let the breezes at your nethers, my friends.

Remember that time I was so worried about what I'd look like on the beach? Yeah - didn't happen. Got there, dropped towels, dropped trou, and had fun chasing The Imp around. Didn't give my jiggly-saggy concerns a single thought. Liberating! Because you know what? When I stopped giving a damn, stopped mentally comparing myself to every thinner/tanner/younger body on the beach? I started to see the beauty in everything around me instead. The joy in people's faces, the shrieks of laughter of boogie-boarding kids, the cliche of the sun sparkling on the waves. And the breezes, of course.

So there it is, folks. I'm Alexis, and I'm a sap. And I don't care!


We're trying to show The Imp some Hawaiian culture while we're here - we believe it's important to learn about the people who live in a place when you're visiting. So yesterday we taught The Imp, when he sees a Honolulu Police Department car, to point and shout, "Five-oh! Five-oh!"

Today's lesson: "Book'em Danno."