Stacked Heels

So I recently found an ex-boyfriend on Facebook. And not just any ex-boyfriend, but the one I can definitely say broke my heart. The one I’ve thought about off-and-on for the past five years out of pure habit; a habit I formed when we first got together, although back then it was more like a-pack-a-day. And for anyone out there who's heart I broke, bruised or treated with less care than I should have, it may give you some satisfaction to know that payback was a bitch. 

I was never one for the bad boys or the jocks; all the ‘bad boys’ I’d known growing up were into drugs which just weren’t my scene, and the only jocks in my little town were hockey players (and if you know anything about hockey ina small town, you could infer that the ‘bad boys’ and the ‘jocks’ were some of the same people). I tended to end up with the sweet, nice, geeky boys who I knew liked me more than I liked them.

So he wasn’t a bad boy and he wasn’t the dorky-type that I usually dated – he was a really cool guy. And no matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t believe he’d picked me!

And he was subtle – apparently he was trying to get with me for a few weeks before I even noticed! I met him while playing beach volleyball during one of the hottest summers I ever spent in Toronto and he even bought me a drink without letting on (okay, yes, you can infer that I was somewhat naïve at this point. It was probably my undoing in this story, too). When I finally did notice, though, hooo-boy, was I in trouble. I fell hard and fast for him for sure.

The night we got together is such an embarrassing story for me, I hesitate to publish it, but it’s part of the reason I ended up in such a twist over him. We worked for the same company and were at a work function. We were talking and having a fantastic conversation and I was in the middle of trying to figure out how to get him to ask for my phone number when another girl came up to him and demanded to know if a rumour she had heard was true – that he was quitting the agency in a few weeks and going back to school in the fall. He confirmed that it was and he was going to a school very far away. My heart just sank. We kept talking throughout the night (and I kept drinking, too…) and by the time we hit the dance floor, we were all over each other. For the first time in my life (so far, ha ha), I was kicked out of a bar: the bouncer kicked us off the dance floor and told us to get a room! So we stumbled out of the bar, into a cab and back to his place. It’s not one of my proudest moments because I think we had a really amazing night that night, but I barely remember it. To my utter shame and disgust with myself, I do remember having to get from his room to his bathroom to be sick in nothing but a towel ‘cuz we’d already torn each other’s clothes off. And his roommate was home. God.

The next morning I opened one eye and I realized I had three immediate problems: 1) I had to be at work in an hour and a half for a meeting, 2) I had no idea where I was, and 3) I was hungover as all hell. Nevermind that I’d just spent the night with a guy I barely knew. He was pretty great about it, though – as I got dressed, he told me where I was and gave me directions on how to get to the subway station, laughing at me all the while because I was so flustered. He kissed me goodbye and wished me a good day. He did not, however, ask for my phone number, which mortified me even more. I did the clichéd walk of shame to the bus stop and kept my sunglasses on the entire ride back to my house.

And then I spent the whole day in total agony from my hangover and shame over what had happened. I knew I really liked him already, but I thought for sure he’d never want to see me again. He wasn’t working that day so I didn’t hear from him. I had look up his name in the company directory to find out his last name.

Three days later, he gave me one of the most romantic moments of my life. The agency put on an annual formal, black-tie Ball that Saturday. I had seminars to go to beforehand and had very little time to race home, get dressed and get back to the Ball. Of course, I was late. I managed to find my table with the rest of the people from my shop, but the room was huge and the ceremonies had started already so it was dark and I didn’t know how I’d find his table. I barely listened to the speeches; I was busy trying to find where he was sitting. Toward the end of the presentations, someone told a joke and I swear I heard him laugh nearby. I turned around and discovered he was at the table right next to ours. I felt just awful – I thought for sure he’d seen me come in since I was late, and then I appeared to have ignored him all night!

Finally the speeches ended and before I could even catch his eye to smile at him or say hi or anything, I saw him get up from his table – and come sit right next to me! I think I knew I was in love with him right that second. We chatted the rest of the night and he barely left my side. We ended up back at a hotel to continue the party with his friends from his shop and once we got the room to ourselves, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other again…

The rest of that summer was just dreamy. We spent every moment we could together. We spent a day at a big amusement park just riding roller coasters, we went dancing at a club one night and they played this really cool song and he whispered in my ear that we should play that song at our wedding…and there was me, swooning. Once he went away to school, I was distraught thinking that all we’d had was a summer fling, but we stayed together and it worked for a while – hell, I was ready to marry him, so a little temporary long-distance was no big deal for me. We saw each other for a few days over the holidays and we were just as good as ever. I thought.

In the spring, we took a few days off and went on a road trip for his break, but it was clear something had changed for him. He was distant and uncommunicative. We didn’t fight, but there was just no passion from him; he seemed completely uninterested in me all of a sudden and I had no idea why. The worst part was that I didn’t want to even bring it up since we already had so little time together and the last thing I wanted to do was fight. So I became a total wreck and a dishrag who couldn’t even make a decision for fear he wouldn’t like my opinion. I don’t even blame him for that – I should have just started a damn fight to make him talk. I hated that I was such a doormat around him. In hindsight, however, I suspect he may have already found another girlfriend up at school and was trying to figure out how to get me freaked out enough to break up with him so he wouldn’t have to do it. I have no proof of it, but I suspect that’s what was happening.

We did break up shortly thereafter. First he sent me an e-mail saying he wanted to ‘take a break’ and we broke up later that week over the phone. He e-mailed me a few times after that, claiming he still wanted to be friends, but that just made it hurt more. I didn’t want to be his friend; I wanted to be his girlfriend. I recognized that I needed time to heal and couldn’t do that if we were ‘friends’.

There was much I still wanted to say to him, but I forced myself to not go there, at least for a while. Curiosity got the better of me eventually, though, and I broke down and e-mailed him. He was surprised to hear from me he said, but not unpleasantly. We corresponded for a few weeks before I indirectly found out that he had a new girlfriend. That was a big realization for me – obviously I still cared about him too much to ‘just be friends’ and obviously he didn’t care about me at all anymore, so I told him as much. He was surprised at how upset I was, but instead of letting him have it and telling him everything I wanted to say, I just let it go. It was too humiliating to go back into and none of it seemed to matter anymore anyway. I never contacted him again and I haven’t heard from him since.

Of course, it did all happen for the best – I already had someone new in my life. I’d met Homer by then and although I still felt broken and unsure if I was ready to jump back into another relationship, I also knew that hurting Homer would be even more painful for me. Besides, I couldn’t help but compare them at first, and Homer was just more attractive. Sure, he was more the ‘sweet, geeky guy’ than the ‘cool, jock guy’, but he was infinitely more mature and responsible, which was something I never realized I was missing before. I tell Homer often and myself every day how lucky I am to have found him, because I know that I am. I’m terrified of what would have happened to me if he hadn’t come into my life and been so perfect for me.

But now thanks to the Facebook phenomenon, I find myself trying to decide whether or not to contact him again. Surely enough time has passed that it wouldn’t matter who contacted whom, but still it kind of matters to me. And I just can’t bring myself to do it.

1. I believe in past lives, reincarnation, old souls and all that stuff. More specifically, I believe that in my most recent past life, I was a war widow. I’m almost positive that I lost a husband, someone that would have been the love of my life because any time I come across something that suggests someone’s died in battle and left behind wives/fiancées/children, ooooh, the waterworks just start. It’s almost like I feel the loss acutely again and again, like there’s a wound in my heart that’s not healed. It’s also the only explanation I have for the reaction I have to movies about war, or newscasts about fallen soldiers or commercials for Remembrance Day – I become nearly inconsolable. I’ve tried to control this a bit more since I met and married Homer because I think I’ve been a lot happier since I met him and they don’t have quite the same affect on me, plus it freaks him right the fuck out when I burst into tears over a commercial. But, still…
2. I am an enormous Bruce Springsteen fan. And I almost have to list this one under protest because I find that COMPLETELY NORMAL about myself. But just about everyone I know thinks I’m completely weird about it; even obsessed, some say. Of course, when they say that, I point out that I could be a lot worse – there ARE Springsteen fans out there MORE obsessive than me for sure. I’ve met some of them, okay? I am NOT that bad. Granted, the fact that I’ve been to 13 Springsteen concerts in the last 15 years may sound like a lot – I’ll give you that (BTW, Concert #14 is scheduled for March 30 in Vancouver. Wheee!). And really, my only response is that no two of those concerts were the same, not even two of the 7 I saw on the same tour, swear to God. And part of the appeal of going to numerous concerts of his is that DAMN he has a lot of fun up there! It’s infectious – I leave every concert with no voice and a feeling of complete euphoria, having laughed and cried and sang along all night. So maybe that’s where the weirdness comes in – I do get emotional over Bruce. It’s hard to explain but I know other fans are the same way. Bruce is part of our families; he’s the soundtrack to our lives and loves and hopes and dreams and fears. So recently, when I heard that Danny Federici, one of the original 5 band members, was taking a leave of absence due to illness and the rumor was cancer, well, it brought me to tears. Like it’s happening to a close friend.
3. I think I can cook/bake anything. Which probably doesn’t sound weird, but I frequently have grandiose plans that don’t quite come to fruition (I am a good cook, tho, don’t get me wrong – which is why this blog will one day be part food blog just as soon as I remember to take pictures of what I’m baking/cooking before shoving it down my gullet.). For instance, I recently attempted my first Julia Child dish, Coq au Vin, which actually requires ¼ cup of brandy to be lit on fire in your pot on the stove. Yeah, I’m sure that took a few years off my life, but I didn’t even balk at that when I read the recipe – it was more like, “Flambe??? COOL!” Homer was a little more concerned, but my Coq au Vin was well worth all the work in the end. And I’m sure it had nothing to do with Homer getting the stomach flu later that evening…

Also, my Christmas dilemma has been resolved! Unfortunately my parents won’t be joining us, but they are planning to fly back shortly after Christmas, and once we’ve gotten a few days of snowboarding in, we’ll be heading up to celebrate New Years with them. FUN! I will be hosting Christmas dinner for my husband, my two sisters, one of their boyfriends and the total dog count for about 36 hours over Christmas/Boxing Days will be 3. Sweet! I’m planning a spectacular menu, too, although I’m trying to think of at least one vegetable side dish that’s not gross vegetables cooked beyond recognition into mush. I refuse to have leftovers in my fridge that I won’t eat this year. I think I’m most excited about trying David Leibovitz’s recipe for Salted Butter Caramel ice cream for dessert. I bought his book, The Perfect Scoop, this summer and the ice cream attachment for my KitchenAid and Oh! My! Word! It’s quite possibly the best combination of kitchen supplies in the history of the world! (Unfortunately, his recipe for Salted Butter Caramel ice cream is not in the book, but he posted it on his website here. I’m also wondering if I should serve it with the chocolate truffles mixed in as he suggests or with something else (chocolate cake – not Christmas-y enough? Apple pie or tarte tatin, as suggested at the end of the recipe? Hmm…) or maybe just a big ol’ scoop on its own is just fine.) Anyway, I’m tres excited about the menu, especially now that Homer bought me my birthday present early – voila! My very own cast iron, enamel coated Dutch oven! In bright red! Isn’t it pretty?

And my dad came through his double knee replacement beautifully – it’s been just over two weeks and he’s been using his cane instead of a walker for over a week already. I think he’s sleeping a bit better, as well, although he thought he’d be in less pain by now. Nutbar! He just had TWO knees replaced! That shit’s gotta hurt for a while, don’t you think?? My mom sent pictures of his scars the other day but I just can’t bring myself to post that for all those who are a little squeamish about that stuff. Yeesh!

I’ve got so many plans for this weekend, I’m not sure I’ll get everything done. I started an ambitious Christmas baking plan last weekend, shown above, and have 3 more recipes to plow through this weekend to keep on top of it, plus I want to get the tree and outside decorations up and Tucker has a vet appointment for some vaccinations and a consult on when he’s going to get The Big Snip, poor little guy. I also had lunch with my photographer-friend yesterday and she lit a fire under my ass to improve my photography website with iWeb on my iMac at home, so now I’m all anxious to start that, too!!! SHEESH!

Au revoir, Novembre! Seeya next year!

Love,

Diamond Jackie

I was reading all the archives from Smitten Kitchen from before she was in the Kitchen, and something she did really hit home for me: she learned to ski a few years back.

Now, I’m an Alberta girl and there are very few people I grew up with who had never skied before. My first ski trip was when I was just 8, although that is pretty old by the standards these days. My parents packed up my two sisters and me and went to visit my aunt in Canmore. We skied Sunshine Village and I remember being so proud of myself that I managed to ski down from the Strawberry chair 3 times! I also remember snow getting into my mittens and I started to cry because my hands got so cold they hurt. Other interesting tidbits about that trip: my older sister, D, was skiing with my dad (the first and last time I’ve even known him to ski) and he took off through the trees, cackling like a madman the whole time. There was some talk later about the difficult run he ended up on and my sister digging him out of a snow bank or something, but it’s possible that’s just urban legend. D also took my mom up the Standish chairlift to do a run, and ever since that day my mom has declared that mountain was so high, God could hear her, so they made a deal: if he got her off that mountain, she’d never ski again. And she never has.

Some of my favourite ski trips were with friends during school. Since my parents weren’t about to take me skiing all the time, luckily I had some friends whose parents would. I remember skiing with my friend, jeci, and her dad once. We were playing word games on the chairlifts – we’d start counting round-robin style and every 3 or multiple of 3 or number with 3 in it we had to replace with ‘Pouf!’ For example: 1, 2, Pouf!, 4, 5, Pouf!, 7, 8, Pouf!, 10, 11, Pouf!, Pouf!, 14, Pouf!...you get the idea – jeci’s dad was a teacher. Of course, once we were on the hill, if we wiped out at some point, we’d declared we’d had either ‘un grand pouf’ or ‘un petit pouf’ (‘big wipeout’, ‘small wipeout’, right?). Now, jeci is a fantastic skier and would take off like a rocket off the chairlift. I was much more of a scaredy-cat, so I’d follow along behind her and her dad would follow me to make sure I didn’t fall off a cliff or something. We got into the habit of meeting up somewhere in the middle of the run so we could make sure everyone was still together. At one of these stopovers, I caught up the jeci and we stood there chatting for a few minutes waiting for her dad to arrive. Five, then ten minutes passed and he didn’t show, while we were like, “Jeez, where is he?” Finally, we spotted him slowly zigzagging across the hill. He was over 6 feet tall, with a bright orange toque, glasses, and bushy, black beard, but coming toward us at that moment, every inch of him was covered with sticky snow. We stood there in awe by the time he reached us and all he said was, “Un grand pouf. Un grand, grand pouf.” Naturally, jeci and I nearly ‘pouf’ed ourselves laughing so hard (after we asked if he was alright, of course…).

I lost some of my scaredy-cat tendencies after a few more years of skiing, but I was never a really great or fearless skier. I got to the point where, if I used my head (and not the part of me I liked to call ‘the reckless abandon’), I could go a whole day without wiping out at all, so that was definitely progress. However, about 5 years ago in my late 20s, I finally took up snowboarding. And boy did THAT kick my ass.

It’s actually very humbling to have felt so at home doing something for so many years and then trying something similar and having to start over on the bunny hill. Both my sisters and I decided to go snowboarding for the first time together, so at least I wasn’t alone in my humiliation. D and P are both pretty natural athletes, although I had had the most ski experience in recent years, so I thought we’d be on pretty even footing.

You also have to understand that being on a ski hill, ANY ski hill, is a bit of a fashion show. At least it certainly was when I was skiing in the 80s and 90s. So, when we were gearing up for snowboarding and were offered helmets? Uh, hell no.

1^ST TIME SNOWBOARDER LESSON #1: Wear a helmet. You’ll actually be far more inclined to go snowboarding again if your first memory of it is not cracking your head 2 minutes into the day. Just about everyone wears them now, anyway, so the fashion thing is not so important. Of course, my helmet has a flower design on it, but it’s just the shape of the ventilation holes. It CAME that way.

I think what I love most about snowboarding is that it is so different from skiing. It is a far better workout, for one thing. Back in the day, when my friends and I would get off the hill, we’d usually be ready to hit a pub for some drinks and dancing all night. After snowboarding however, my entire body aches because I seem to use a lot more and a lot different muscles than skiing (or anything else, come to think of it!). I think even the muscles in my eyelids are sore. And don’t even get me started on my abs – I feel that for at least 3 days. Of course, it could just be that I’m 31 and not 18 anymore and don’t ‘bounce’ like I used to. But that’s kind of also my point – and Smitten’s as well, actually – that I chose to learn something new and physically demanding at my age, when most of the kids on that hill have been doing it longer and better at half my age. I constantly defy my chiropractor – I told him we were planning to go snowboarding in Whistler for our honeymoon 2 years ago and he just shook his head and said, “All these 30-year-olds, learning how to snowboard!” like it was something bad! He also had the nerve to suggest I wear hockey pants to protect my tailbone. Yeah, remember that fashion thing I was telling you about and how it doesn’t really matter? Well, it totally WOULD if I had to wear hockey pants! I can NOT be a cute snowboarder in hockey pants, no sir.

Of course, I’m by no means a very good snowboarder - in fact, a friend of Homer’s who usually comes with us, J, likes to tell me I have ‘sand in my vagina’ when I'm being such a chicken. Very eloquent, no? I finally got my own gear last year and made it out 2 or 3 times, with small successes gained every time. We’re planning to go out at least 2 or 3 times this year to a different hill, so we’ll see how many ‘grand poufs’ I end up in and if I can get the 'sand out of my vagina'. I can’t wait!

Here's my gear:

(I thought it was too bad my boots have pink on them. I remember back when I was in the 9th grade and my parents were buying me my first (actually, my only) set of skis - I wanted black skis, but the sales guy was like, "Weellll, all the girls ski boots are white, so they won't match..." And since I was in the 9th grade, everything had to match so I got the damn white boots and skis...and then coordinated all my skiwear to match too.)

Love DJ

So I’m pretty sure my family is as crazy as anyone's. In fact, I have to tell you this little thing so anyone out there can give me advice on how to go about this. Or, OR! Do it for me!! Please?

So my parents are generous. They are incredibly giving people and I know their heart is in the right place most of the time. At this moment, my dad is T -6 days to getting double knee surgery in California. All prognoses declare that he should be up and around by Christmas, but Mom and Dad are planning to stay in California for Christmas anyway. And guess what? They want me, Homer, Tucker, my sister P, her boyfriend K, and both of their dogs to come down for the holiday. Nice, right? California instead of Canada for Christmas, ARE YOU KIDDING?

Now, before you go thinking that I am a total ingrate, let me explain the accommodations. Mom and Dad own a ‘casita’ – a small house with a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a garage and a small laundry. But no bedroom. Outside the casita is a huge driveway on which they park their big-ass motorhome and that becomes the bedroom. The only time I’ve ever been there was on a 7-day trip with M&D, P, Homer and two of my parents’ friends. I’m not sure if you’re doing the math, but that’s a LOT of people for such small quarters. The friends got the motorhome to sleep in, M&D got the pullout couch which left me, my HUSBAND and my SISTER to sleep…in the garage. Yes, yes, the garage. We had air mattresses to sleep on (Homer’s and mine even had a lovely leak in it, so within a few hours of blowing it up, it deflated again, along with our hopes for any sleep). So ask me if I’m looking forward to going back there. To be fair, though, they’ve put a futon and an air conditioner in the garage so it’s more of a room than a garage now with no chance of leaky air mattresses, and there will be 6 people not 7 like last time (although there could be 3 dogs instead), so it may be marginally better. I’m still not too keen, though.

The other thing is, Homer and I just bought a house and are going on a rather expensive vacation to Cuba in February so we can't really afford it. I mean, we COULD afford it - it would just have to go on a credit card and get paid off later - but frankly, who wants to spend $1500 on a vacation with your parents when you're over 30 years old?? Not me, that's who. I learned that last time, too. Of course, M&D have offered to pay for our airfare and everything, but they're already paying for 2 knee surgeries, so I feel (and Homer REALLY feels) uncomfortable letting them do that. Not to mention they've not offered to pay for my sister's airfare because they figure she's got lots of money and can afford it herself so that hardly seems fair either!

But how badly do I feel about not being there, nor really WANTING to be there, while my dad recovers from surgery?? The guilt is getting to me for sure.

I guess P tried to tell Mom the other day that she didn’t think she K would be able to make it and P said didn’t go over very well with Mom. But I talked to Dad yesterday and he was under the impression that P and K and both their dogs WERE going (which meant that Homer and I should, too, of course). So, did Mom not tell Dad? Or did P say, “No, I don’t think we’re coming,” but Mom heard, “Yes, we’ll look into bringing the dogs on the plane”? It’s been obvious before that my parents only hear what they want to hear, so maybe this is just more proof. Anyway, I told P about my conversation with Dad and she basically threw up her hands and decided that they’d spend Christmas Eve with K’s family, then travel to our place on Christmas Day and Boxing Day and then go home. That seems like a great idea to me, too, so I’ve already begun planning decorations and menus and activities…

But how do we break it to our parents? Because at this point, I don’t know how we’ll be able to bow out gracefully since we’ve already tried that and failed. Are we going to actually have to tell them that we don’t WANT to go? Are they forcing us to hurt their feelings more than what’s necessary? Or are we just horrible daughters for not wanting to spend Christmas with our parents?

So, why don't you tell them for me? That would be great, thanks.

Love Diamond Jackie