Will you rub my feet?

The first foot rub I can remember came not so much out of pampering but rather necessity. You see, as a small child growing up in rural Canada, the popular winter thing to do is play hockey. In a rink or on frozen pond, if there is a patch of ice bigger than 5 feet across, you break out your skates and sticks. I will be the first to admit I wasn't really very good at hockey. I was a boy in the community and thus expected to play. But I do remember having fun. I think I particularly liked the piece of chocolate we would get between periods in the locker room or the hamburgers that the rinks had; a special after game treat. I can remember my dad coming into the locker room with all of the other dads between periods to basically rub our feet. You see most rural ice rinks of the my childhood used real ice. Thus the rink itself was freezing cold and all they did was flood a flat covered surface with water. When it got warmer outside, the ice melted, as simple as that. And if you've ever worn skates, hockey or figure, your feet freeze really fast. Leather and canvas do not good insulators make! So my dad would take off my skates and rub my feet vigorously to get the blood circulating and feeling back into my poor childhood toes. There was something very comforting about the whole thing. When we got sick my mom or dad would rub our backs and chests with Vicks Vapo Rub or whatever generic brand we seemed to have at the time. I can also remember getting back rubs when I was upset or just had a hard time sleeping. There is some real power to healing hands. I think each member of our family has been spoiled in some way and I know that we all just love to get a good foot of back rub and all of our trials and stresses just seem to melt away. :)

I recently made a trek to a spa in downtown New York. I had a gift certificate which I had not used in quite some time and finally made the call to book my day of relaxation. The spa allowed you to come up to 2 hours before your treatments to enjoy an array of luxuries. Steam room, sauna, hot tub, cold plunge pool, waterfalls, sunlit seating areas, all the tea and lemon water you could drink; all the while wrapped in your comfy robe feeling like a million dollars. It was wonderful. I had booked a massage, a facial, a manicure and pedicure. (thank you Rob for the treat) I was going to be at said spa for about 5 hours. I could not wait. So I changed into my swim trunks and robe and descended the stairs of luxury to begin my spa extravaganza. There were a select few enjoying the amenities along with me. I created stories in my mind about the 2 upper east side women on their weekly spa and gossip trek. The couple on a last effort retreat to patch up an obviously shaky marriage. Then there was the 3 young girls with a lot of money, and judging from their suits, not a lot of taste. I pretended I was someone important, it made me feel like I belonged. After all, didn't they know who some people think I might be??? The time came for my massage and I presented myself at the appointed room. My masseuse was a lovely young lady who was kind not to apply too much pressure and bruise my delicate skin. I almost fell asleep, the combination of eucalyptus and back rub was heaven. I could really get used to this! Then it was upstairs for my facial. Now I have never had one, and had no idea what to expect. Like a typical man, when the woman asked if I had any questions I said, "No." I was stretched out upon a bed in a very dimly lit room. She began by ever so gently massaging my face with two fingers, then a series of hot towels and spritzes of some lemony concoction. It smelled like TheraFlu. Then she gently washed my face, more hot towels, then some kind of steam thing with a muddy guck on my face. Delicate warm pillows on my eyes, more lotions and creams, I mean seriously like at least 20. Hot stone massage under my neck and shoulder, more hot towels. I was thinking, I could really get used to this. Then she said she noticed I had some blackheads on my nose and forehead and was going to do some extracting. (I would like to take this moment to interject that up until this point I was already booking facials every other month in my mind and trying to figure out why everyone in the world doesn't do this. The pampering was so relaxing and glorifying. I totally got it) So, miss thing is going to do some extracting!!! "Do you have some fancy high powered suction vacuum," I joked. "No" she said, "I am going to use my finger wrapped in cotton." SAY WHAT?!?! And for the next 10 minutes she proceeded to squeeze the crap (literally) out of my nose. At one point she had one finger up my nostril while digging in with her Wolverine claws to get every single black head out of my nose. A few tears streamed down my face. Have you ever tried to pop a blackhead from your nose, especially the side part?? Forget it, its impossible!! Not for lobster hands there. She got every single one!!! Then she clawed the heck out of my forehead too. I'd have rather met a rabid bobcat in the bush. So about now I'm thinking how pretentious. People pay to have someone squeeze their blackheads? What would she have done had I had a pimple? I shudder to think what kind of knitting needle she would have taken to my face! The painful part over, she wrapped my face in hot towel once more, spread a thin layer of what felt like battery acid on my face, and gently continued on with her task. A series of cool creams and masks followed, along with the warm eye pillows and hand massage and the experience was over. I did feel very rejuvenated. I glanced in the mirror after, I was glowing and every nose pore was clear! I had half an hour to kill before my manicure, so I stepped into the juice bar to enjoy a freshly squeezed treat and a quick bite before getting my nails done. I opted for a vegetarian wrap, seemed like the healthy thing to do and a mixture of freshly juiced oranges, apples and pears. Yummy!!! Until my tongue started to itch and my throat started to close up!!! CRAP!!! If you do not know I have a sever allergy to nuts and fish. Veggie sandwich, hmm, they must have snuck some nuts in there somewhere. I ran to the locker room to get my trusty pills to combat this deathly attack. (10 minutes until my pedicure) I didn't have my trusty Chlorotripolan with me, and there was no way I was giving myself my needle, this reaction wasn't that sever, so I took my other pills that are mostly for seasonal allergies. (do not take with citrus, printed clearly on the bottle I might add) So because I'm a man and a Ukrainian, I'm thick headed and stubborn, so I present myself to the pedicurist. After all, I paid for this darn thing, and the fact that my veggie sandwich is churning like fresh butter in my stomach is irrelevant. Sure, turn on the massage chair while I get my feet clipped, greased, scrubbed and rubbed! I'm willing to bet under normal circumstances this is quite refreshing. Me, just trying not to barf into the water my feet are soaking in! Then my hands. Can't you go any faster I think to myself? Yes, yes this is my first time. Oh yes this is nice. No thank you, no polish is necessary. STOP WITH THE SMALL TALK OLD GREEK WOMAN, JUST CLIP MY NAILS AND LET ME GET OUT OF HERE!!! I had downed about 3 glasses of lemon water too, usually water helps dilute the tingling in my throat. So I am finished at last, nails look great by the way, so I run to the locker room, itchy tongue, tingly throat, churny stomach and spent the next 10 minutes ruining my newly blackhead free face by puking my guts out!! I think I actually threw up a shoe, that's how bad it was. I wiped the vomit from my cheek, got dressed, checked out my glowing face in the mirror one last time, quickly signed the check and hailed a taxi to take me to the nearest hospital; which was across town. And not an emergency room at all. So, I got into another taxi and had him take me to the nearest emergency room, which was across town the other way. I presented myself to the ER, told them I was experiencing an allergic reaction, was quickly whisked into a small cubicle, ironically the size of my facial room, and hooked up to 4 IV bags filled with various medications to subside my stomach, throat and probably nerves. One nurse commented that my face looked a little red. I told him I had just had a facial. He laughed. I died a little inside. Only hours ago I was sitting across from high society. Now I lay next to a homeless man with a bed pan. 3 hours later I was sent home with a belly full of cold pasta and peas, a very groggy disposition, and the softest hands I've ever had.

Dear Diary, where are those hockey rink hamburgers when you need them?

If you can't take the heat

Temperature is a relative thing really. I jest with my friends that summer in Canada is a blustery 40 degrees with rain. Some of them believe me. But when your winter is minus 65, then plus 10 is shorts wearing weather. I remember once, wearing a pair of ninja turtles clam diggers (what is now known as a sensible capri pant) to school in the 8th grade when it was minus 5 or so. Yes, I did just skip over the fact that I owned Ninja Turtle Capri pants and wore them in public! That is another posting, I'm sure. I remember thinking that Canadian summers were extremely hot and unbearable. Again, all relative to the fact that we froze our buns off half the year, with little to no sunshine I might add. (I cannot get a tan to save my life to this very day) Summer would come and we would play outside, go to the lake and swim (in what must have been only barely fridgid waters). We would go to North Battleford to go to the water slides and slather on the sunsceen. I remeber getting a sun burn once and the peeling skin and searing red hot pain that insued. We didn't have air conditioning on the farm so we would open every window in the house and turn on every fan. Most of the rooms have ceiling fans. Just a bit of trivia. When we got our house in North Battleford it had that coveted freon box. AIR CONDITIONING, what a luxury!!! (I might add that it was not central air, and we probably had to run that thing for 6 days straight to cool off the house). We also had a swamp cooler. If you don't know what that is, its kind of like this huge obtrusive fan, that has a compartment for water inside of it, and when you turn on the fan it blows across the water, creating cooler air. More like a source for spreading must and disease, plus a fantastic place for mosquitos to nest should they ever get into the house!! But it was the early 90's and we did a lot of things that weren't the best for our health. Neon prints for example..........I'm just saying!! We'd breakout our thongs (what Canadians call flip flops, not g-string underwear), shorts, tshirts, sunglasses and live like Californians for a couple of months. If you've never experienced a summer on the Canadian praries, you must know that the sun rises at about 5 am and it doesn't really get dark until about 11pm. Plus there are usually a million thunder storms cause its so hot (or our version of hot) and humid (again, all relative). The weather changes almost every 10 minutes on the prairies. I can remember dancing in the rain to cool off. Oh what fun. We had family in Arizona and sometimes would go there in the summers. Phoenix in the summer, now that's hot. Oddly though, we didn't die. Ours was a wet heat and completely different to the scorching of the American desert. We were tough, we were Canadian!!!

Then I moved to New York City. Well, let me say that before I moved here I was in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Also extremely hot and humid. New York is the same. It's currently 93 degrees outside, but with the humidex, its more like 100. Yes that's right, they tell us here how much hotter it is because of the humidity. At home you get the temp and wind chill factor. So its only minus 45, but with the wind, feels like minus 60. I live in a 6 story building built in the late 20's. So it would seem that central air wasn't much of a priority during the depression. Can't understand why not??!! I have a small air conditioning unit in my room, one of those kind you put into the window. It runs all night, poor little engine that could. I have a fan that blows constantly. The rest of the apt is a large furnace of terror. I kid you not when I say that I can't walk down the hall without shoes on, simply for the fact that I might burn my feet from the heat rising up from the 5 floors below. This morning I took a shower, cold I might add, and my shampoo was hot! :( Not warm, but hot. Fresh shampoo out of bottle, as if it had been in the microwave for a minute. The toilet seat is hot. You can't sit anywhere without getting a huge case of swamp crack. All I want to eat is Popsicles and ice cream. Maybe a yogurt. I ran some cold water (relative) from the tap into a glass to drink. I added ice cubes, like 5 of them. They had melted completely in about a minute. All 5 of them. Now, why am I typing this??? I just returned home from a week long visit to my parents in Canada. Everyone there was complaining about how hot and humid it was. Didn't get past 80 the entire visit. I was in heaven. I think I even whore jeans and a long sleeved shirt one day, and wasn't melting. I would give my left arm for that kind of weather. Warm, but not hideous. Humid, but not swimmingly so. The wide open spaces and breezes are heaven compared to the concrete furnace that is Manhattan.

Dear Diary, I didn't know you could sweat between your toes?

There's no place like home

I can't tell you the exact location of our house, but I can tell you that if you see the small graveyard and little white church you've gone too far. Our address is RR#1, which is code for, mailbox about 8 miles away at a junction where the highway (and I use that term loosely) will either take you to Rabbit Lake or Mayfair. Where? Exactly! My dad built our house. He and my Uncle Henry. They drew it on the back of an envelope and then built it. Pretty amazing if you ask me. 33 years later its still standing. There are many old houses on our property. The one my grandfather lived in; the one that my great grandparents first built when they moved here from the Ukraine. There are houses that neighbors lived in, Plaxton, Haggas and other strange names. Once they were someones home, where memories were made and times shared. Now, they serve as a landmark for where to turn to get to the next field. We used to have this old blue house in our yard. I don't know who lived there. It was whoever my dad bought the land from. The floor had pretty much sunk and we were not allowed to go upstairs. My dad used it as a place to store wood for the furnace. (we still snuck in and explored whatever we dared) I'm not sure how old I was when it was torn down. Probably with good reason, the wood was rotting and probably the next strong wind would have taken the house and all its contents somewhere over the rainbow. We have an old chicken coop in our yard too. Its still standing, something to be said for a house built with sticks and mud. At one time, someone actually lived there, in that tiny house, not more than 10 feet by 10 feet. A lot of these places are almost a hundred years old. None of them are in move in condition, but they are still standing. By all terms of logic, these houses should have fallen down years if not decades ago. The winds here on the prairies can be relentless. Add that to the harsh winters and these things should have crumbled like a house of cards. But they stand proud, almost defiant. Sentinels that act as a reminder that there is something more important than just sticks and beams.

My parents celebrated their 34 anniversary last weekend. They are tough people to shop for. My sister and I decided that we should surprise them with a visit. Heather has 2 little girls now and travel isn't the easiest. Plus her and Greg live in Green River, Utah. Where? Exactly. (their white church is quite a bit larger) She decided to come up to the farm for a visit and since I have no job at the moment, and by moment I mean since November and it is now July (Happy Canada Day to you too) so I decided that I would come up to the farm as well. My brother Daniel and his wife Jenny have identical twin boys that were born in December and I have never seen them, so it was great incentive for me to come. So Heather and I schemed together. They drove up, not telling my parents at all. I mean, they literally drove into the yard and walked in the door asking what was for dinner. Oh, Hi Mom and Dad. It was a great surprise. My niece Allie is a beacon of happiness and hope for my mom. First grandchild. Whenever she is feeling down she just looks at pictures of Allie and she feels better. I flew in a couple days later, landing at 10pm. My sister took my mom to Saskatoon, (where the airport is, almost 2 hours away BTW) under the guise that they were having a girls night out. Shopping, dinner, and oh yeah, must swing by the airport to pick up the brother. Surprise!! The next morning my dad walked into the kitchen, declaring that he couldn't believe it was 8 in the morning already. Me neither I said as I turned the corner. It was quite the cinematic moment. Well he was certainly surprised. This was the first time our entire family had been together since Daniel and Jenny's wedding, almost 2 years ago. Of course now there were 3 new additions to the family. We had a photographer come out to the farm to take family pictures. Sam, Jessie, Steven, Heather and Greg with daughters Allie and Brailie, and Daniel and Jenny with sons Andrew and Jakob. We all went to the lake together for Canada Day. We had a picnic lunch of hotdogs and macaroni salad. Then we played in the lake and watched the people. We played games as a family around the dinner table. It would have been nicer to have had more time together and to have done more elaborate things, but that isn't as important. We were together. New memories were made however great or small. I look around this house and feel all the memories that live within. Some good, some bad, some just plain silly and strange. But they are here. They keep this house alive. It doesn't matter that the walls are a different color or that the linoleum in the kitchen has been replaced. The floors may creak, or perhaps moan, when you walk and I have more water pressure than the upstairs shower. The kitchen counters don't feel that tall anymore and the ugly brown couch was hauled to the dump years ago. My parents don't move as quickly as they used to. There is more clutter than there once was. All of my things fit neatly into a trunk in the spare room or in a few boxes in the basement. But this home is alive and kicking. The memories within and the love blossomed and grown here will live on forever. Sure we may yell at each other and get frustrated from time to time. We may feel unappreciated and even left out. But at the end of the day, we all love each other. We don't say it enough and we have strange ways of showing it but we do love each other. This home stands as a constant reminder of that fact. A family was built within; a family that will be forever.

Dear Diary, a house is not a home!

A Spark, A Flame

I don't remember what grade I was in, though if I did the math I could easily figure it out, but I fondly remember the Calgary Winter Olympics of 1988. I remember Heidi and Howdy, the polar bear brother and sister mascots of the games. They were very cute and I remember getting coloring pages with them, all in various winter sports. If memory serves I spent extra close detail coloring the figure skating ones. I remember the Closing Ceremonies with all its pageantry. There was a sort of play on ice if you will, with lots of skaters dressed as Mounties on horses. A whole Cowboys and Indians kind of thing. It was Calgary after all and they love a good rodeo. I remember Kd Lang singing some crazy foot stomping song at the end of the evening. (Her version of Hallelujah at the Vancouver opening ceremonies was amazing though she looked more like Elton John) Oddly enough I don't remember the Opening Ceremonies of Calgary but I remember Terry Fox bringing in the Olympic Flame. I do remember watching skiing on TV and figure skating of course. Watching Brian Orser skate. I did a speech on him; our topic was our hero's. Pat Price did his on his dad. He won the competition. Pandering!!! But what I also remember was the Rabbit Lake Central School Grades 4,5 & 6 Olympics. I remember our torch relay. We had some sort of golden candle stick with a paper flame on the top and we "ran" it from the school to the rink. A distance of about 1/2 a mile, if you went the long way. I was in the front of the relay on my cross-country skis and yelled the words "switch" about every 15 seconds so that everyone in the class could have a turn "carrying the flame" and participating in the Olympic spirit. I don't remember all of our events but I think we did some form or Luge or Bobsled with our toboggans racing down a hill. We had a Cross-Country race, which I won thank you very much. I think there may have been a Curling match. I do remember Pairs Skating. I think my partner was Leslie Beacott or Robyn Plumber. I know that Adelle, crap I can't remember her last name, was paired with Michael McKenzie and they won gold. So I'm thinking I got silver. (bronze would just not be acceptable) I remember making medals out of paper with my class mates. (thank goodness someone had that box of 64 crayons) I also remember Speed Skating. Not sure if I placed in that one, although with figure skates you can get some good push-off of your "toe pick!" I remember it being a really fun day of competition but more importantly the spirit of comradery was there. We all came together as a class and organized something really fun. We celebrated wins together, and really there were no losers. In our own middle-of-nowhere way we felt like we were really there in Calgary competing and celebrating with Olympic Champions new and old. We felt a sense of pride for our country and for ourselves. Our teacher was a smart lady. She instilled in us the idea that anything was possible. Even though we were from a small town we could go anywhere and do anything. Thank you Mrs. Freathy.

Currently my roommate has a girl over. He has been trying, with little success, to win the heart of said fair maiden. Personally I think he has a one way ticket to Friendsville where they will most likely welcome him with open arms and christen him Mayor. They are watching Curling. Now I myself am a huge fan of the curl. (I'm pretty sure I medaled in the '88 games at Rabbit Lake) Though it may look boring as all hell, it is actually quite a fun sport, combining both skill and strategy. It involves a little physics too, which is always a plus in sport. What is very comical to me is the fact I can overhear him explain to her the finer points of Curling. She is doing the typical girl thing, pretending to act both ignorant and interested. He, on the other hand, knows nothing about Curling. A fact I know as I explained the game to him only this morning. He is using, verbatim, the same words I told him. I don't know what is funnier to me, the fact that they are watching Curling in the first place or that they are pretending to be truly interested in it. Its not exactly the sort of thing date material is made of. I'm guessing that "watching the Olympics" was the theme of said would be date in the first place. A good excuse to get someone to come over for sure. Further more, its not even live Curling they are watching, its the stuff off the DVR from earlier in the day. Its as if this was cleverly orchestrated. I see the plan now. My roommate decides to invite girly over to "watch the Olympics." Unfortunately, due to the morons in Vancouver, tonight's line up is not that interesting. Ice Dance, yawn!!! Skiing looks the same no matter how big or small the hill. And lets face it, Skeleton just looks silly, all be it dangerous. Thus the trap has been baited. Ask the Canadian all he knows about Curling this morning. Then DVR said Tundra Shuffleboard, invite girly over, and impress her with your expertise in the game of the sliding rock. She brought cookies; they ordered Tacos. It has all the makings of a great date. Problem, I'm home. So is the other roommate. I hear her say she has to go. I would to if someone invited me over to watch Curling. For most people its the winter equivalent of chess. I hear the front door close and a single set of footsteps walks back down the hall. The living room and hall lights turn off. Tonight there will be no medal ceremony for the athlete from New Jersey.

Dear Diary, I wonder if there are any of those cookies left?

Eat your Veggies

A favorite childhood game of ours was Restaurant. Interestingly enough, we never had a name for our Restaurant, it was just playing Restaurant. When we were very little the game was played indoors, using different books as the meals being served. The entire upstairs of our house was turned into the dinning room, and we were waiters bringing various patrons their dinner of choice. I don't really remember having a kitchen in our restaurant and no one seemed to be the cook. Perhaps my brother Daniel was banished to the kitchen, but I really don't remember. I guess waitstaff life looked very glamorous to us. Ignorance really is bliss. I remember when McDonald's handed out play food as part of the happy meal. We then played McDonald's serving up our plastic fries, burgers, and McNuggets. Apart from that we never really had play food. We had real food. As we got a little older, I was maybe 8 or 9, Restaurant took on a whole new life. One of our childhood chores was cutting green beans. My mother canned a lot of green beans. She canned pretty much any vegetable that could go in a can. And fruit too. But they went in jars, not cans. Why do you call it canning when stuff is in jars? I digress. Green bean harvest was a big endeavour. First there was the picking of said beans, a feat unto itself. But the fun part, really, was cutting the beans. Each of us would get a little station set up, sometimes in front of the TV with the piano bench as your table, then you got one of the brown cutting boards, or the one shaped like a cat if you were lucky. With a large tub of beans on one side and two empty ice cream pails on the other you started off to work. Oh yeah, and we each had a knife. Yep, my knife wielding skills were honed at an early age. So you cut the ends off the beans, they went into one bucket, then cut the beans into about 1 inch pieces, and they went into the other bucket. And this continued for maybe 2 days. Such childhood fun. The point of this meandering side track; we were very handy with the knife at an early age. So back to Restaurant. We had a playhouse outside by the barn, filled with all kinds of toy dishes and such. We would get a pail or two of water from the well, (yes the well) maybe fill another with dirt or sand. Then pull up a bunch of grass, get some twigs and leaves from the bushes by our house and the take the wheelbarrow down to the garden to collect whatever vegetables my mother wasn't going to use. They had either gotten too big and tough, or were somewhat rotten. I remember carting back huge turnips, zucchinis, cabbages, beets, pumpkins and whatever green beans were left after the plants had been uprooted. We took our stash back to the playhouse and began carving up said veggies as if they were roast turkeys or huge sides of beef. I can remember mixing them with dirt and twigs and then plating our masterpieces to be served to our customers eagerly awaiting the delicacies our young chef minds had created. Of course in reality they looked like mud pies at best, but with a healthy imagination even the strangest plate of vegetables can become a feast fit for a king.

Yesterday I was running around midtown doing some errands and got hungry. I decided that I would go to Quiznos for lunch. They have really good salads there, particularly this one with warm steak and some kind of strong cheese, blue perhaps. They also have great sandwiches, but with my new diet, breads are really a treat, not an everyday item. So I had my mind set on my nice steak salad and I'd get some tomato basil soup, perfect lunch for a winter afternoon, and fit nicely within my diet. Well, they have since sent said steak salad to salad heaven. (say that 5 times fast) In fact the only salads on their "new" (code for crappy) menu all featured chicken or chili. I decided on the Chicken Taco Salad, since I can't have Ceasar dressing, the Chili Taco Salad did not look too appealing to me, and I wasn't sure if the Asian Chicken Salad had toasted almonds, a fate worse than death to me. What I got was a small bowl filled with cold chicken (one of my favorite parts of the Quiznos salad WAS the hot meat) shredded yellow cheddar cheese, a smear of some green pasty glob (containing very little if any avocado) a generous teaspoon, if that, of salsa and the devil himself, iceberg lettuce! I interject here that another favorite part of my Quiznos salad experiences in the past have been that the salad portion was actually mixed greens, a little romaine lettuce along with other lettuces, occasionally the purpley looking one. Sometimes if lucky you could find a piece of arugula. It would appear that part of their "new" salad menu now includes the one vegetable that should be stripped of its vegetable privileges altogether. Iceberg lettuce has absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever. It contains no fiber, no vitamins, nothing. It is basically water in crunchy form. I might as well have been served a bowl of chicken, salsa, cheese, green smear, and water. Now in a fast food place I suppose I can somewhat understand that we must use said "lettuce" as its beyond cheap. I have however been to many a restaurant where the cheapest item on the menu was $10 and ordered a house salad only to be served a plate of iceberg "lettuce," a wedge of tomato, and a slice of cucumber. I'm sorry but in what house does that constitute a salad. Even on our farm in the middle of nowhere we new better than to put Iceberg lettuce in a salad. Its only place is in the taco! I have actually embarrassed friends of mine while out for dinner, asking the waiter what kind of lettuce the salad comes on. If they reply it's Iceberg I gasp in disgust and kindly inform said waiter that it's not a vegetable at all and then order something else. Seriously, I'm all about eating healthy, but America we are being fooled!!! Revolt I tell you. Flee from it. Nothing good can come from the Iceberg. Did the Titanic teach us nothing!!!

Dear Diary, I cut my thumb the other day while slicing carrots. Perhaps I need that cat shaped cutting board for luck!

An Early Start

People always ask me how I got interested in dance, coming from a farm in the middle of no where. My first answer is that a girl from church, Tanya Willet, who was also our babysitter, took dance at the local studio and invited us to see her recital. I must have been about 7 or 8. After the recital I was hooked, my sister too, and we asked if we could take dance lessons the following year. It was my idea, I wasn't forced into it by my mother! That is my answer. However, the official answer goes back a lot further. My dad played in a polka band as a young man. (I wonder if Polka Bands had roadies?) So from as early as I can remember, my dad would get out his accordion and play music and we'd skip and dance around. The Ukrainians are a very dancy people! Probably how they stayed warm in "the old country." Also, my mother had a big love of Rock and Roll. 50's Rock and Roll. Usually during our Saturday morning chores she would put on one of her records and we would dance around and sing and play while dusting and cleaning up the house. I guess it made it more fun. Other Saturday mornings, we would listen to Mickey's Mousercise! We must have worn that tape right out. (yes tapes and records, I am that old) The Mickey Mousercise tape was about an hour long, filled with such hits as Step in Time, Bug-a-Boo, Zipity Do Dah, and Get the Money! It also had various Disney characters calling out different exercise moves and things that you could do. I remember sitting down, pretending to pull yourself across the floor while pulling on an invisible rope, scooting you butt along. There were jumping jacks, skipping, hops, flap your arms like a bird; all kinds of silly things designed to make you forget you were exercising at all. It really was a lot of fun. Of course I don't know if exercise and lemon pledge fumes are a good mix, but regardless we got the chores done and more importantly, I was hooked on the dance and set on the path that would lead me thru all kinds of adventures to the state of unemployed New York bliss in which I currently reside. I am reminded of a line from the musical Into the Woods. "careful the things you do, children will see, and learn."

About a week ago I was at the mall, just as it had opened. I had a few hours to kill and decided to meander thru the stores in shoppers paradise, taking my time to look in each one and putting up my had at the desperate kiosk people trying to peddle their hand creams and eyebrow threading. The mall walkers were just finishing up. A little creepy in their matching track suits but good for you Mr. 85 year old man for getting some exercise. I then heard what can only be described as the most annoying blood curdling sound I can ever imagine. Some young lady, mid 30's I'd guess, yelling at the top of her lungs. "The ants go marching 5 by 5, tight abs, tight abs. The ants go marching 5 by 5, tight abs, tight abs....." I turned to see a herd of young mothers with strollers all circled around their pack leader. The mothers were marching in place, the Drill Sargent checking on each one to make sure their "marching" form was spot on, and an assortment of crying, screaming, giggling kids strapped down in their strollers. Some fast asleep! There must have been about 30 of them. Mothers I mean. A few with those 2 child strollers and one poor mother had a stroller with infant, and toddler in harness in tow. About this time their leader couldn't think of anything to rhyme with 9, so I guess those ants weren't "doing fine." I thought, good for you young mothers of New York. I also felt sorry for whoever worked the mall that morning, as that ants song was a little long. I walked into Old Navy, as one often does when in the mall, and the sounds of mothers cootchie-cooing was drowned out by some Talyor Swift song. About 15 minutes passed and I emerged from the Navy of Old with my 2 tshirts, $5 each thank you very much, only to avoid a sideswipe by the NASCAR event of strollers now circling the mall. These ladies were no joke. Sweat beading down their faces. Some short of breath as they struggled to keep up with the pace of their fearless leader. Of course it was easier for her to jog, she wasn't pushing a child in a stroller, with a 40 lb diaper bag, toys, yoga mat, coat, purse, water bottle, snacks for later, change of clothes, and dishes to return at Target. I was pretty impressed with these ladies. As the last of them circled past I saw in the distance this poor mother, frazzled hair, screaming child. She was panting like the little engine that could. "You can do it," I thought to myself. I should have handed her some Gatorade. Then, as if someone lit a fire under her, she began to pick up speed and started to sprint, for the pretzel stand!!!

Dear diary, I wonder if that marching ant lady knows Bug-a-Boo?

Audition 101

My first real audition was when I was about 12 I guess. We went to Saskatoon to audition for The Nutcracker. The Alberta Ballet was doing it, and used local kids for lots of the parts. We were separated into groups by age and height. I was the only boy there. Now if you're familiar with Nutcracker there is a little girl named Clara and in most productions she has an obnoxious brother named Fritz. I figured I'd have a good shot since I was a boy. We went through a couple of little dance combinations and they would eliminate people (cut them) and narrow the field down. Our ballet mistress for the day was Juliette Perie-Perez. She was a very thin woman, dark hair tucked under a newsboy cap of some kind wearing a very tight black vest, black riding pants and boots, carrying a small cane and wearing far too much makeup. I seriously wish I was making this up, but you can't write this. Her studio was every shade of pastel you could think of. By the end of the day 2 kids had been narrowed down for Fritz, myself and a very tall thin girl. I thought I had it for sure. Nope, I was made the understudy to the GIRL. For a boys part. First day of rehearsal said girl had been removed from the part as she was too tall and in her place was an Asian GIRL. So we spent the day learning the dance, and this GIRL kept on getting notes that she wasn't falling like a boy and could I show her how it was done. Well, duh she couldn't fall like a boy! Later on that day we were measured for costumes and I was unceremoniously cut from the part as I was too fat for the costume!!! I was made a bonbon, who's costumes consequently were large pajama jumper type things, and another GIRL was made the understudy to the Asian GIRL. I should have learned at that moment that the business of show was cruel and relentless, but I continued on my path of abuse. Now of course I've had some great auditions. I've gotten the part and beat out other kids. I have also been strung along for quite some time, only to be trodden upon like 3 day old road kill on some prairie back road. (That's right Billy Elliot, I'm talking to you) Along the way there have been some very memorable auditions and some hateful ones. I will never forget auditioning for a production of Chicago where the choreographer handed us each a paper towel and asked us to work some kind of magic trick into the very simple dance combination she was so proud of. I think my magic trick was not laughing hysterically at the sight of 25 grown men hiding paper towel bits in their shoes and pants. I've never left the room crying but once when auditioning for Tarzan I wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

On Sunday I went to yet another audition. This time it was for a Reality TV show that Fox is doing called Master Chef. The premise is that Chef Gordon Ramsay, of Hell's Kitchen, will mentor some budding home chefs. No one with professional training was to attend. You had to bring a dish you made for the judges to taste plus, and I quote, "your personality." So I presented myself at the location, Sur la Table, a kitchen store, with my White Mac and Cheese in hand. Well actually in a keep-things-hot bag, along with a pizza stone I had in the oven for almost an hour. The line was around the block. So I stood for a total of 3 hours waiting to get in front of said judges. I was not naive, knowing full well that the judges were probably some pee-on from the casting department, an intern maybe and some foodie wannabee. PS, have you ever tried to keep mac and cheese warm when standing outside for 2 hours when its 32 degrees out? Then another hour inside, where it was maybe 20 degrees colder cause they didn't want to turn on the lights. The people in line were from all walks of life. Miss thing in front of me smoking every 5 minutes. Seriously, who still smokes? That is so 80's. Some lady behind me with no concept of personal space, chewing gum like a horse. And behind her the most talkative man on the planet. If I heard one more thing about him slicing fish at the bagel store.......I don't think I'll eat bagels again. He ruined them for me. No wonder your wife left you, Mr. Bagel Ruiner!!! I'm hearing people talk about all their fancy dishes they prepared. About this time I'm thinking, why didn't I bake a cake? Heck I could have made ice cream, it would have kept. Finally, after making it thru a line that would rival DisneyWorld, it was time to meet the judges. We were ushed into a kitchen with 2 long thin tables. Each person was given a space of about 1.5 feet squared and 5 minutes to plate their dish before being judged. People are pulling out knives and herbs and little bottles of oils and sauces to decorate their plates. It felt like the last few minutes of Iron Chef Alaska. I finished plating my mac and cheese (took the little ramekin out of the heating bag, now stone cold, plated my small salad out of tupperware and drizzled it with oil and lemon juice from another tupperware with a spoon) I raise my hand for the judges. Some old guy that said 5 words and a girl who's nose was buried in her clipboard. Hi! They take a tiny bite of my dish, ask what it is. Its chocolate cake! I tell them about my white mac and cheese, what kinds of cheese I used. They then ask what else I like to make. I say I love baking and joke that had I known how long the line was I would have baked something instead. A tumble weed passed by. Or was that someones Parmesan crisp bowl shaped thing?! I wait for them to ask me some questions... an opportunity to use my killer personality. The guys says "its good" they take my 12 page application with 3 pictures attached and go to the next guy. THAT'S IT I thought? PS, no TV cameras anywhere. No "please go this way when you are done." No "thank you for waiting in the cold and bringing us your dish." No "please get the hell out you talentless goon." NOTHING. So I pack up my sad tupperware and 1 bite taken mac and cheese, grab my coat, wish the blonde lady with taco's good luck and start to walk out. I stop some woman with a name tag to ask how to get out of the place. She points me to the stairs that lead thru the store and hands me a 15% off coupon for Sur la Table. I browsed for a minute but couldn't seem to find my dignity anywhere. Not even on the sale rack!

Dear Diary, I wonder what that Asian girl is up to?