Pox On You!

Tucking Middle Child in on Saturday night, I noticed that he was still wearing his dirty socks.

I pried them off his feet and noticed he had some blemishes. I lifted his pajama pant leg to see a few more. Lifted his top to check out his belly. Blisters. Yup. He has the chicken pox.

He went to bed happy, knowing that he'll be missing school for a bit. What I didn't dwell on is that it's going to get worse before it gets better.

Sure enough, he woke up with marks all over his face, clusters in crevices like his underarms. I may have been better off just pouring the bottle of calamine lotion on his back like I was marinating a flank steak. Today, he has pox on his eyelids, inside his nose and ears. He must have one in his mouth because he screamed when he drank his orange juice this morning.

This didn't deter Daughter from begging Middle Child to cough on her.

What To Do?

I keep getting emails for another woman. I assume our email addresses are very close which makes me wonder how much of my stuff are getting to her.

What is the protocol when you receive someone else's email? I end up opening it, which maybe I wouldn't do if I was worried about viruses and stuff. However, even if I don't know the sender, it could be a business thing. The subjects are never anything untoward but are almost always chain mail or a bunch of jokes. And on more than two dozen times, I get this woman's very personal emails.

I know that she has a son who is a complete hellion in his preschool. Another son has auditory problems. She's a realtor with a lot of investments across the country. She also has a very ill aunt.

I know waaay too much about this woman.

One freaky time was when my cousin's husband invited her to be his Facebook friend but sent it to my address. I asked him to tell her about this email situation with her but he said, "I'm a Facebook friend whore. I'm not even sure I know her." So I send him a photo of her. Yes, I even get photos of her.

Again, I don't know if it's socially acceptable to write back to the people who mistakenly send me email but I do. Usually one email explaining that they sent a message (or three) to the wrong recipient and that ends that.

But there's one person who keeps sending me crap. The first time, I sent her my standard letter. The next time, I sent the standard but added that perhaps she hadn't received the first one. The third time, I was a little more curt. The emails kept coming. I just deleted without opening. I figured that maybe if she didn't receive a response for a while, she'd phone or something.

Nope. I'm still getting "You've been tagged" or "Send this to fifteen amazing women" stuff. Worse are the ones that are so content-heavy that they take forever to load into the inbox.

Just last Friday, I sent a cease-and-desist in the most demanding tone I could emit from my keyboard. I guess I'm not a talented writer. I received eight messages in seven days.

So, being the bitch that I am, I'm thinking of sending this one person stupid emails back. Perhaps I should start with this video my auntie sent me.

Update

Middle Child came home today with a package of papers for me. In it was a recommendation that he sees a public health nurse to discuss his emotional needs. By signing the consent form also would mean that any of her findings would end up in Middle Child's file (OSR).

Husband and I are trying to be very upfront about everything with him. And Middle Child is great about asking questions if things aren't altogether clear to him.

"What would it mean if the nurse writes stuff I say and it ends up in my OSR?"

"Well, pretend that after talking with you, she thought you were on drugs. Then she could recommend you see a special counsellor for that and it ends up in your records for years and years. Any teacher can take a look and see, that in 2009, that nurse thought you were on drugs."

"Then no. I don't want to do it. And I'm not on drugs, Mom. But that was just a crazy example you used, right?"

Finally Finding My Sea Legs

I tend to be a bit of a pessimist but when something good and fortuitous happens, I'll call it.

I get to meet a LOT of people as a fitness instructor. People from all walks of life come to the classes. If I ate pork, I could so get a great deal on a half pig or something. I had a lively discussion about double negatives with a retired writer. I probably know more than I want to about incontinence from two palliative care nurses.

Thankfully, I met up with a psychologist and mother of a gifted child in one of my classes. I shared with her some frustrations with Middle Child (barely scratched the surface, really, because one instructor's advice to stay as private as possible resonated). Anyway, over the last couple of days, she's helped me get some serious balls rolling to get Middle Child attended to.

And the timing couldn't have been better. He got picked on again yesterday. And, again, he took all the blame because he didn't want to fink on his "friends".

I got the phone call from his teacher the minute I walked in the door from the gym, still on an endorphin high. "I found in his possession a piece of paper that read, "(Middle Child) is better than (Joe Blow)', and '(Joe Blow) sucks.' I called him out on his inappropriate language as it followed me walking in on him telling another boy, holding a tennis ball in his hand, 'I'm aiming for your balls.'"

I hope I came across as a little calmer than I really was. I asked what happened before these experiences. "Well, as you know, he's pretty tight-lipped." So I made her aware, actually reminding her, that Middle Child is being picked on and has been since kindergarten. He is a square peg trying desperately to fit into a round hole. Perhaps if she got to know him, gave him the benefit of the doubt, she could assess that in him and use her education and teaching experience to make his school days less like a fricking gulag.

Mind you, Middle Child has lost much respect for her as a representative of fairness and peace after she publicly accused him of stealing from the school's third world charity project.

What hurts the most is seeing him so unhappy. Coming in second is that he's accused me of not fighting hard enough for him. Why does that kill me? Because maybe he's right.

At Least He Didn't Swear

Husband is so cute.

He has some ads on the local radio station these days and was asked if he'd like to be on a segment of the morning show to discuss sport mouthguards.

He spent the next week reading and rereading stuff about mouthguards and sport injuries. I told him that the interviewer will lead the discussion and it would be over before he knew it. Don't overprepare, in other words.

But like any other time in our marriage, he didn't take my advice.

He was fairly nervous. He's not much of a talker to start with and his answers were really short. I asked him about that later and he said, "He asked a question. I answered it. There really wasn't much to embellish on. I mean, 'What are mouthguards made of?' I told him. Next question."

But then Husband mentioned that he makes anti-snoring devices and all that reading about mouthguards went out the window. That's all the interviewer wanted to talk about from then on.

The kids turned off the Smurfs when I told them Daddy was on the radio. Daughter stood by the speaker the whole time. Baby Boy lasted as long as the novelty of hearing his father's disembodied voice wore off. Middle Child shrugged, "Yup. That's Dad. Like I haven't heard him before." And went upstairs to get dressed.

Husband will be getting no celebrity love from those kids.

So, Like, Um, Yeah

I heard on the radio about a 13-year-old girl in the US who amassed a $3000+ cellphone bill. How did she rack up those charges, you wonder? ALL TEXT MESSAGES.

What has me laughing on the outside but crying in the inside is that almost all of them were sent to and from her best friend. How much do you want to bet that this said best friend was sitting beside her most of the time?

I retold this story to a 20-something and she just shrugged. "I can see that happening. I myself never talk to anyone anymore."

!!!

Seriously?! You never talk with anyone anymore? Sweet mother of John A. Macdonald! Are we going to have a generation of people who don't know how to converse? In all honesty, this person was in a job interview situation with Husband and he said it was like talking with a robot.

Granted, I love to write. Arguably, I probably come off as a cooler, better person in type than I do in real life. But there are certain nuances that can't be translated in to text, or if you try, they can be convoluted or misread. And, I'm sorry but emoticons don't count. Let's not go there unless you want me to open up a can of literary whoop-ass on you.

Jesus Wept

I can't sleep. I feel like I've let Middle Child down. I should have protected him better.

The back story is that he was beat up again. This would be the third time in a year. The first time was more or less understandable. It was a tussle from a soccer game. It got a little physical and Middle Child pushed the boy away to get at the ball. The boy and Middle Child fell over with my kid on the bottom. The other child was steaming and he bit Middle Child's arm, leaving a lovely bruise. What does my kid do? He doesn't fight back. One of my mommy mantras is, "Use your words; not your hands." So, he yelled at the kid, "You fucking bitch!" Boys are bastards, honey, but then was not the time to get into the nuances of language. The swearing startled the kid and he began to cry. Finally, the yard duty adult figured something was amiss. Duh. Result: both boys got a talking to and a detention for their aggression.

Time #2 was when a kid in senior kindergarten decided out of freakin' nowhere to give Middle Child a beating. He thought it would give him credibility if he picked on an older kid. Hey, there's a boy who is spending recess reading. And I was told that he threw about 25 punches. Middle Child did nothing. "I'm not going to fight a little kid." Result: other boy was suspended. Middle Child was humiliated but the girls in his class had a new respect for him.

This time, again out of nowhere, one boy pushed Middle Child on the ground while another pinned him. Middle Child would consider these two as friends. He's been trying for years to impress them. They're very athletic and popular. Middle Child is decidedly not. He has taken to acting like the class clown and to dumb things down so he'd fit in better. Okay, I'm getting sidetracked. So Middle Child was pinned into a puddle of water and slush while the bigger boy scooped gravel-encrusted slush down Middle Child's splash pants, in his hair, in his mouth. What does my kid do? He yells at them, lobbing the f-bomb like grenades. Result: all three kids get moved in the classroom next to quiet, obedient girls and all three get detention. Yes, even Middle Child because "the school has a no-swearing policy."

Now, when the teacher phoned me to say he was going to miss his recess, I thought it was because of a prior incident when the three boys were throwing an empty chocolate milk carton at each other in class. It was only last night, two days after the fact, that I learned it was because of Middle Child swearing.

In my books, I think his retaliation was in line; a natural reaction and a relatively peaceful one. I mean, he's getting crap shoved in his mouth. What do they expect him to do – just lie there and take it?

I've apologized to Middle Child for not sticking up for him and that I was proud that he stood his ground (and that maybe he should consider the criteria of what makes for a good friend). I mentioned that I will talk with the principal today and tell him that I thought he was faultless and that his parents condone his swearing in this incident. But Middle Child just rolled his eyes.

"Just forget about it, Mum. I have. Please, just move on. I'm happy. Really."

But he's not. He's been so disorganized since then. He's dogging it more than usual when it's time to go to school. His homework is all over the place. And he purposely flubbed a math quiz (did ten questions out of 50 and the answers he did give were outrageous). He's totally rotten to everyone at home; just being plain mean. He's been unreasonably demanding. And, what's really telling, his appetite has waned.

Thankfully, we're gearing up to Easter so he'll have some time off from school. Maybe staying at home where he's accepted and cherished for the interesting person that he is will bring his self-esteem back to normal. Until some other mother's son kicks the shit out of him.

Did I mention that he asked when he'd be old enough to lift weights with me? I bought a couple of one-pound hand weights for him (in slime green, of course).

Apparently, Pigs Can Fly

I was named Instructor of the Month at the gym. Go figure.

It was at the seasonal meeting for instructors when our regional manager said, "We don't usually do this at these sort of things but this person is so much fun, I thought I'd make a game out of it. Okay, March's instructor has a great sense of humour."

Lots of names were batted around. The friend who initially approached me to instruct was the only one to say my name.

"She fills in last minute."

Fewer names. Two people said my name now.

"She's a tiny ball of energy!"

So now only the short instructors were named.

"Oh, come on! This will be the give away. She made a Facebook group for the club and she held a St. Patrick's Day party class where she had snacks and prizes for everyone, and even drank her water out of a can of Guinness."

"JENNIFER!!!"

And my mouth gaped open. Seriously?

The Marketing Department Read Twilight As Well

Middle Sister, also a bit of a "Twerd", sent me this. As someone who used to work in advertising, I applaud those responsible for this. I mean, there's just so many creative ways to promote feminine hygiene products. A little, um, unorthodox but creative as all get out. And trendy too!

Still by far, my favourite ad for these types of products was one done in the early '90s for Playtex Tampons (I think) in Europe. Two little girls are in a field of daisies, lying on their tummies.

Girl A: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Girl B: I think I want to be a teacher or a doctor. What do you want to be?

Girl A: Well, I don't know what kind of job I want but I know I want to use Playtex because then I can ride horses, go swimming, wear the nicest white pants...

March? Yes. Break? No.

I'm trying to study for this fitness instructor test that I'm to take in about 10 days. How sad is it that I'd rather take a Pap test?

I'm also furiously trying to make stuff for the next craft show which is in 9 days. Guess what I'll be doing at my booth while waiting for a sale? This isn't coming easy to me. I'm so out of practice.

March Break is here. I could tell right away because the numbers were down in my Monday morning class. Yesterday's class was the fullest I've ever had but I was running a St. Patrick's Day thingie. I had prizes (a green juice bag tote, Irish Spring, green gum, green tea, pencils), brought in snacks (honeydew, cucumbers, iced green tea). People like free, it seems. I had my water in an empty can of Guinness. When I brought it to my lips the first time, I swear, people gasped. "It's water. I swear!" I got more guffaws from my "Irish for a day" sash and green hair extensions. Any bozo can go to the dollar store and get that. The water-in-the-Guinness thing was imaginative! Sheesh.

Middle Sister came to my class. She said I really motivated her ("I think that was the first time I ever broke a sweat in a Pump class") but, apparently, I don't lead the way she's used to by the instructors in her club. "Don't get upset," she begun. Hey, if I was afraid of criticism, I wouldn't be up on stage making a total ass of myself twice a week.

Daughter is spending the next few days with her and I have Eldest Nephew in return. Middle Sister has actual plans to keep her busy. She doesn't need it because when Daughter and Niece are together, they need no one. I, on the other hand, just hope to keep Eldest Nephew and my boys away from the screens for part of the day.

And when Daughter comes back, the first order of business, she tells me, is to go to the store and buy the DVD of Twilight. Say what you want about my parenting (and Middle Sister did), but I'm letting her read the book series. I'm reading ahead, just so I know, and it's a good idea. The girl has been gulping it down like other kids did with Harry Potter, a series she never could get into. She's just not interested in fantasy, I explained to a friend. "But Twilight is about vampires! That's fantasy." Er, not entirely. It's more of a romance than anything else. Kinda reminds me of Brideshead Revisited, you know?

Daughter has always been a good reader but this series has her coming home, doing her homework and chores, and then curling up on the chesterfield to get lost in Forks, WA. She's soooo impressed that I've been to Port Angeles. No joke. And, get this, she helps with the cooking. She's keeping her room tidy. She's washing the dishes after dinner. Why? Because that's what Bella does. I'm telling you, I'm okay with her reading the books.

Is the romance bits over her head? I don't think so. My tween is still a kid, don't get me wrong, but she has moments of maturity beyond her years. Maybe it's an oldest child thing. Maybe it's an estrogen thing. I don't know, but I'd like to think I understand my kid. I believe she can handle this and I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. I want to give her some independence. I've guided you from here; now I'm going to let go of your hand for a little while and be right beside to catch you if you fall. Baby steps.

Hopefully, she'll heed my opinion that, chances are, she'll never meet a guy quite like Edward Cullen. Further, if she gave up her whole life for a guy, she can expect a slap upside the head from her mother. And I'll get a slap upside MY head from Middle Sister with a smattering of "I told you so!"

Me and My Big Mouth

There's a governing body for fitness instructors in Canada, and I took their course last weekend so I could be certified as a specialist.

The other instructors I work with all told me to skip the classes and just take the exam. But since I didn't have a science background like they did, I signed up for the classes anyway. I took another staff member with me, R, a high schooler but an old soul. She's studying to teach Zumba, a Latin dancercise class.

We were quite happy to be going, taking it all very seriously, and really hoping to learn tons. We got in to the university with seconds to spare and took our seats just as the pro trainer was introducing herself and wanted introductions from the 21 of us in the class.

Maybe because it was in a university, but half of them were kinesiology students. Two older women wanted to open up their own gym in their small town. One guy with a brain injury and could barely put two coherent words together wants to teach Body Combat (good luck and God speed). One woman wanted to teach Step at her local GoodLife.

At this point, the trainer said that teaching the Les Mills programs at GoodLife is horrible. "There's no personality to them. The music is the same. The moves are the same. They're even given cues that they have to say."

And then they got to me. "Hi. My name is Jen and unlike most of you, it's been about 20 years since I've stepped foot inside a university. And unlike many of you, I don't work in healthcare or nutrition or athletics per se. But I am a Body Pump instructor, certified by Les Mills International.

"And I take issue with your comment about GoodLife and Les Mills.

"Yes, the music is the same. You can go to any of the 72 countries in the world that have Les Mills programs and the music will be the same, regardless of the language spoken. They spend millions on great music. It keeps people coming in.

"Yes, the moves are the same. They are choreographed and approved by a team of fitness professionals and medical personnel to ensure they are fun and safe and reachable for all levels of fitness.

"Yes, we have compulsory cues. They're always there so we're mentioning the technique needed to perfect and perform the moves in a safe but effective way.

"But boring? I take offence to that. My Pump class would be different from yours or hers or his because we're all individuals with a unique style and unique focus. And there's even a difference in classes because of the participants. I have young and middle-aged members on Monday and retired folk on Tuesday.

"And I know I'm not alone. There's a reason why GoodLife is the number one gym in Canada."

I'm pretty sure the trainer had some spin experience because there was some serious backpedalling.

Of course, there were other things that got my heart rate up, and it wasn't the endless fricking grapevines I had to do. Oh, yes, we spent 90 minutes on musicality: how to find the beat in a song. Seriously, everyone had White Man's Overbite. I wanted to cry, it was so frustrating. I ended up trying to wrap up the discussion by saying, "If I could impart my experience here, may I say that musicality comes with practice. You'll learn to identify the downbeat, learn to talk in cadence with practice. You're not going to come out of this class being as good as our trainer here."

"Or Jen," R added. Sweet kid.

This came after spending scant amount of time on anatomical issues, which was what I came for. But in a room of kinesiology students, I suppose my needs were trumped.

We had to choreograph two warm-ups on the first day. The first one was a high/low one to be done alone. I had to go first because I had instructing experience. I've never done anything like that before in my life, but I whipped something together, faking it completely. I even worked in some jokes about how I wished I had a bar and 50 pounds instead. So what I lacked in aerobic knowledge, I made up for it in personality.

Knowing I wasn't a bouncy-bouncy girl, I was then matched up with the two guys in the class to do a cardio-kickboxing thingie. I have no experience with that so I let the boys show me the moves and I led the class from there. "That was the best kickboxing demonstration I've seen," the trainer said.

"Great, because I didn't know what I was doing there either!" I told her.

So when it came to choreographing a muscle portion (I had to demonstrate interval training), I incorporated lots of creative but effective moves. Frankly, I rocked the house. I mean, I better! But then the trainer had the cojones to CORRECT MY FORM! On DEADLIFTS! That's probably the easiest thing in the world to do. I coached the proper Les Mills way: tip from the hip, bar held with hands just outside your hips, tummy in, toes out at 11 and 1, knees slightly bent, taking the bar to the top of the kneecaps while having it just skim the thighs. The trainer told everyone that a deadlift goes away from the legs and as close to the floor as possible.

"That may be true if one were to work with a personal trainer or on their own," I interjected, "but that is entirely unsafe form to be teaching in a group exercise setting. If someone in my class couldn't reach that far and hurt themselves, then I'd be up the creek."

"Oh, you and your big corporation. You're so wrapped up in legal issues." And she moved on.

The weekend was a complete Gong Show. R and I debriefed our team leader on the next day. Our stories made her visibly shake with anger.

"It's just too bad we need the certification," she said. "And maybe too bad for you because guess who will be marking your exam, Jen."

Why It Sucks Being a Body Pump Instructor In a Small Town

I was at the grocery store today with Baby Boy. He was pleading, wearing me down, like only he can, begging for a bag of Oreos.

If you're a regular mom, you'll understand. I pick my battles. This wasn't one of them. I put the Oreos in the cart.

And then I saw one of the participants in my early Monday morning class. "Cookies, eh? But you won't have any, right, Jen?"

Of course not. If it were Chunks Ahoy, however, I'd be home in a minute with a glass of milk. Still, I felt a little stung. Even now, I don't know if I'm embarrassed to have bought cookies or because my parenting may have been put into question.

And then we went to check out. The cashier recognized me.

"Aren't you the new Body Pump instructor? I was in a Flow class with you and the instructor there introduced you to us."

And then she started ringing in my Kotex, my Jolen, the aforementioned cookies, Kraft Dinner Crackers, psyllium fibre cookies (for Middle Child's wonky digestive system, I swear), etc.

Struck By Lightening v2.0

I went to an RPM spin class taught by my boss. After class, she pulled me aside.

"Who is that blonde woman, really yoked, in the back corner?"

"The one with the distinguished grey-haired guy, J? The total flirt? That's A," I said.

"Are they together?"

"No! They're just friends. That's what they told me a year ago. Besides, I talked with J at the Farmer's Market in December. He was holding hands with another woman and they were telling me about their basement, so I assume that was his wife."

"Well, then these two are having an affair because I've been seeing them going like rabbits in his truck in the far back parking lot where staff parks."

Ewww. Now I can't look at them.

I came home a little shaken. I don't like hearing crap like that, you know?

And then, that afternoon, I found out that my friend's husband is having an affair. He used her cell phone to forward a text message to his married "qahba".

So if I was shaken before, now I'm crushed.

What are the chances?

Quick recap of what happened while I obviously haven't been writing...

Christmas was great. Got to spend another one with my grandmother, which is always a joy because, well, you never know.

Submitted my video for Body Pump certification. I had to film myself on stage presenting a whole class and then ship it off to headquarters for someone to assess my skills. I'm thrilled to say that I passed with flying colours. It was a glowing report. I'm teaching two classes now and even have groupies! Two people follow every class I teach.

We went back to Daughter's Mecca over the weekend. Husband's grandmother was having a birthday party nearby so we made our way. Before the party, though, I ran into the Home Hardware to buy a t-shirt. Any Avril Lavigne fan worth their mettle knows about the Napanee Home Hardware shirt she wore on Saturday Night Live. Anyway, I walked in, took a cursory look around and then just went to the counter.

"I'm looking for 'the t-shirt.'"

"Ah, yes," said the clerk. "And how old is the recipient?"

Daughter was absolutely chuffed. "It's totally the exact same!"

It's great to see that girl smile again. We had lightning strike twice earlier this month. Daughter's friend's mother suddenly died of a cerebral aneurysm. She was only 34; the mother of three. My friend was fit and quite possibly the nicest person around. I've never seen her in a foul mood. I've never heard her raise her voice. She was so calm and friendly. She lied down to sleep. Her husband turned off the lights and not long after came the aneurysm. Quick.

I see people that look like her all the time. I still can't believe she's dead.

I signed Daughter out of school so she could go to the funeral home with her friends. When we got home, I was bracing myself to answer those tough questions when Daughter said, "Someone left us a message on the phone." So I had her answer it. It was from her violin teacher's husband. It turned out not 12 hours after the one mom died, the violin teacher had a brain aneurysm too.

Thankfully, she was very lucky. They took her to Buffalo of all places (they looked locally, even to closer big American hospitals, but no beds were available) where she's had a few surgeries and is expected to make a very good recovery. They're unsure if she will be able to play music, though. I call her every once in a while and she's very scared to pick up the violin.

Anyway, Daughter has learned a hard lesson about the fragility of life. She has been absolutely golden these days, albeit a little clingy. She makes a point of kissing me goodbye or goodnight. She hasn't been nasty to her brothers. She has little tolerance for people who are in the Happy Life Night Club and they're complaining about the noise. She knows life is short. It's a big pill to swallow at her age.

So Busy

I only have time to ask:

Am I just being nostalgic or does "Chinese Democracy" start off the same way as the theme from "Beverly Hills 90210"? Seriously, all Axl needed to do was add the hand claps.

Guns 'n Roses fans are suckers for having to wait for that tripe. Not my cup of tea.

I Fall To Pieces

And now the furnace is busted.

All That I've Left is a Band of Mould

What I didn't include in that last post was why, when I finally and happily arrived home from my weekend of sadistic fun, my high was cut down like a sucker punch in the solar plexus.

"Congratulations, but I have bad news," Husband said immediately. "The second-floor bathroom ceiling fell in."

Thankfully, no one was hurt. But I suspect our bank account will have a scar for a while.

We had noticed a few drips a couple of weeks back. We cleaned out the eavestrough, thinking that was the problem and, sure enough, the drips stopped. But we had a hard rain on Saturday which brought the ceiling down, displaying a colourful array of mould. Nice.

It turned out that we had a bare spot on our roof, not that we could see it. A roofer came by early this week and patched that up but told us that there's nothing under our shingles. I know the people we bought the house from and learned they did the roof a year before we bought it. Of course, my next question was, "And who did the work?" I want to make sure we avoid the company at all costs.

So the short of the story is that we need to tear down the entire bathroom ceiling, air out the mould and remove it. Then we'll do a bit of renovating.

The funny thing is that we were discussing short- and long-term goals at my training weekend. I mentioned that I want to earn more money so I can start on renovating that bathroom, which was supposed to be a project I was going to tackle with my dad. Looks like there's no time like the present.

My BodyPump Instructor Training Experience

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I'm sore, yes, but I can still climb stairs and sit.

So - hooray - I passed the Pump training weekend. It was crazy but so very cool. I wasn't the oldest (there were two other women in their mid 40s). I wasn't the fattest, either (two others were heavier than me, I reckon). Still, I went in there, looked at the group of 19 and thought, er, should I even be in their midst? There was a natural body building champion (and she was absolutely gorgeous to boot - no, I loved her), more than half the class were already certified Les Mills instructors (tons in Combat), and fricking everyone was wearing Lululemon and makeup. My middle sister warned me...

Should I have been there? Well, my worries were quelled right off the bat when we ripped right into a masterclass. My friend and instructor, SVN, was so right. I had more weight than anyone (even equalled one of the three guys). The skinnies around me saw me slapping on the 10s during squats. "Seriously? You can do those weights? Do you need a spotter to get it over your head?" I giggled and told them I'm a mom and I live in the country and swung that baby over my head like it was a scarf. Respect from other participants? Check!

There was lots of mental work on the first day. Discussing choreography and technique took up most of the afternoon. We did some more physical challenges, broke for dinner (I went with the bodybuilder and another woman who trains in a big city south of me. Why? We were the alternative girls. How alternative? The nearby woman is named Morticia. True story). Because I signed in but went to the bathroom before getting my stuff and signing up for a track, I was left with two choices: lunges or shoulders. So because of my crappy ankle and the ear infection that's screwing up my balance, I chose lunges. Makes total sense, right?

Went back to my sister's, with a bundle of nerves. Opened up Jools's portable DVD player to rehearse, rehearse, rehearse, and found the card she made me. And I cried. Hard. Had a crappy sleep (I could hear the lunge track in my dreams). Woke up waaay too early. Drove to North York, not being able to listen to music at all and feeling like I wanted to barf. We presented in groups of three - so three people are simultaneously teaching the same track in another part of the studio. I was presenting with a superstar step instructor and possibly east Toronto's most popular Combat instructor (another Combat instructor was pretty much laying prostrate before her all weekend). But I dug in, nailed the choreography and was highly complimented on my technique after everyone watched the video that was taken of me. The trainer said my coaching was good for a first timer, but that I needed to vary my voice and use sharper arm movements. He asked how I felt. I said that it was not unlike giving birth: much nervous anticipation, hurt like hell, felt very vulnerable, and then complete relief when it was over with a real sense of accomplishment.

The rest of Saturday was very physical. There was one challenge that was going to be saved for the afternoon but we worked through what was supposed to be our lunch break because, seriously, if you did this on a full stomach, you'd hurl. So, get this: there's five stations positioned around the studio. Each station has a set of six barbells, starting with 7.5 kg on each end and the other five bars are in increments of 2.5 kg. The stations had two different moves each (eg. squats and clean-and-press) which we had to do 20 reps with a weight 50 to 75 per cent more than what you regularly use. Yeah, I entered the hurt box. We broke for lunch and seven of us all decided we wanted hot protein. I swear, it was the best chicken souvlaki I have ever tasted. A little more blah, blah, blah on coaching and connecting which was very cool to have the instructors with us sharing what works for them in their Attack class or whatever.

Then, with the morning's critique and armed with what we learned so far, we presented our tracks again. I did even better. The trainer said my group was the most advanced threesome he's seen in a long time (maybe he was just being nice, but I took it). We were "master technicians" and I was singled out for being so far advanced for someone who has never done this before. Of course, a lot of what I did up there, I stole from classes I've taken back home. After we watched this second video, I was told that I'm a natural at connecting with the participants but I need to keep them hooked in because I varied my range of voice to the extremes. I was too quiet during the transitions and too animated in other parts. Balance has never been my forte.

Before we broke for the day, I was told I would be teaching the shoulder track. Now, I am the weakest in my shoulders but I was feeling strangely confident. Was it because I was actually learning? Was it because the trainer would take me aside at every break and tell me that I was hitting it out of the park? Was it because I was having fun? Or was it because I could see the light at the end of the tunnel?

Went back to Baby Sister's. Home Chef made delicious fresh pasta with veal-wrapped asparagus. Daughter was spending the weekend with them and, wow, I was amazed to see how much she and The World's Easiest Baby (TM) had bonded. He was reaching for her, just lighting up when she even so much as looked his way. They had a big day, too. Baby Sister had a medical appointment downtown and then they went to St. Lawrence Market and to Home Chef's place of work, a media powerhouse. Daughter got to sit at the news desk table thingie of a breakfast morning show we watch. Got to stand in an entertainment news show's set. Toured a music station. Big day for her. Very exciting and new.

Drove back up to the gym in the morning with a good night's sleep behind me and the ability to have eaten a filling breakfast. I was mentally able to listen to the shoulder track in the car, going over my cues. I did that twice. I was that confident.

We did our tracks. Shoulders being the last teaching track, I was tired but was "on". Nailed the choreography (save one part near the end), the technique, connected wonderfully with a nice contrast in voice range, but the trainer thought I was too funny for the song. I need to mind the humour and be more gritty and serious through the song, saving the humour for transitions. The guy told me the day before to have more fun and I guess I took it too far.

More technique drills, getting and keeping new participants, and on what is called "fitness magic" which is what happens when everything clicks, and then we presented one last time. And I was PERFECT! The body building champion bowed in front of me and an Attack instructor asked me to write down some of my funny cues for her. I was so honoured. "There's nothing more that I can tell you to do. Just keep physically pushing yourself," the trainer told me. "You were born to be a fitness rock star, Jay-Z."

Yes, that was the nickname I was given the minute I first walked into the studio on Friday. It was only because there was another Jen and not because, when you look at me, you think of a millionaire rapper married to Beyonce.

So I left there feeling awesome but sore. I made a great friend in Morticia. When she gets certified, I'm SO going to one of her classes. Maybe we can team teach. That would be a riot!

It's funny. When I was told who the master trainer was going to be for my weekend, about four other instructors at my gym pretty much grimaced. But maybe he was having a great day because I found him warm and helpful and encouraging. And I made him cry at the end when I thanked him for such a profound personal experience. "I'm a big bloke, Jay-Z, and you reduced me to rubble. You really do have the gift of connection. Kia Kaha."

Kitschy Coo!

A little over a week ago, my friend and I had a table at a craft show in a relatively big city nearby. We had to apply to get in as "guest artists"; it was all so above-the-board.

We've had a table at our local farmer's market for a couple of months now, run by myself and my friend's husband. His t-shirts sold pretty well, often selling three or so every week. My stuff, on the other hand, ran hot and cold. Some days, I would sell a couple of album bags and other times I would be lucky to sell a little $5 wallet. It's not the place for us to sell our funky stuff. People are there to buy meat. But the cost of the table was cheap.

Participating in this craft show, however, was like coming home. The DJ was already set up, cranking out Stevie Wonder's Superstition as we walked in with our boxes. A good start. After we set up and walked around a little, my friend made the astute observation that all the sellers looked like us. We all dressed the same. We all had bobbed hair with the severe bangs. Oh yes. We fit in quite nicely.

And our handiwork? Well, not only were the other crafters like-minded, but the customers were too. Finally, our stuff was appreciated. My friend's retro hanger plaques, the ones that never ever sold before, were all lapped up within a few hours. Many people were buying two at a time, as they were with her coil-bound journals. My album bags were well-received, along with my purses made from books and way more Kool-Aid Jammer accessories than I thought would sell. Profit? Well, let's just say that I earned enough for that bathroom sink, cabinet and faucet I've had my eye on.

The other crafters came around to see us through the day and they were very welcoming. "You guys put the 'kitsch' in our name." We were even invited back to participate in the Christmas show (which we are SO doing).

We were also asked if we'd be interested in joining their roller derby team. I considered it for a nanosecond, but then remembered I like my teeth.

Visiting the Queen

We went to Daughter's version of Graceland over the weekend: Napanee.

Daughter is a huuuuuge fan of Avril Lavigne and has always wondered when we'd go visit Husband's aunt and uncle who live there. However, we'd see them when they'd visit Husband's grandmother in Toronto – kind of like meeting half-way, you know?

But now that Gramma moved to Napanee, we made plans to go visit. And Daughter promptly mapped out all the places she wanted to go while we were there: Avril's favourite pizzaria, the church she sang at, the Home Hardware to get a shirt like she wore on Saturday Night Live, her school, etc.

We stopped to visit friends along the way (they took me to this thrift store where you buy records by the pound) and despite that Husband's friend had made a cannon that shot potatoes, Daughter couldn't wait to get moving.

It was such a long drive that Husband needed to pull off the road and rest his eyes a bit. I couldn't take over because I was just as tired. Of course, neither of us could really rest with the nagging in the back seat. "We're so clooooose! Daaaaaad!"

As we were finding Gramma's new home, we passed La Pizzeria, home of the Avril Lavigne pizza (which, Daughter informed us, wouldn't be what she'd eat now because Avril is a vegetarian). The "Oh my gaaawwwds" started there, pretty much. We ate there after a quick visit with Gramma (who rushed us out a bit - in a polite way - because she had a euchre game) and Husband's aunt and youngest cousin met us there.

And it really was excellent pizza. Everyone had one pizza but Daughter had to have the Avril Special (green olives, mushrooms and pepperoni, despite that Daughter hasn't acquired the taste for olives yet).

Auntie J told Daughter that she should ask the owner for a tour. "He's a really nice man. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." And he didn't. Daughter was allowed behind the scenes, got lots of photos taken (Avril memorabilia everywhere) and was given a notebook to write her favourite rock star a personal message. Apparently, when Avril is back in town (or was it when her parents go to visit her?) the notebook is presented.

Daughter had to do two things more. The first was when we first came in to the restaurant and no other customers were there: Daughter sat in every chair so she could say she sat where Avril sat. The second thing had to do with sitting too. She went to the bathroom. "I know I got the same bathroom she used," Daughter exclaimed. "There's only one toilet in the girl's room!"

Anyway, we had a great time and ended up sleeping in a retirement home. It wasn't bad at all. For $50 a room (we took two), we were given nice beds with full bathrooms, satellite TV and even a walk-out to the Napanee River. The rooms were on the activities floor so no one else was there. If we weren't such a big family, Husband's aunt could have taken us in but there's so much up at their farm that trigger my allergies, I would be better off sleeping on the main road.

Gramma is doing very well. I swear, the woman has so much courage. She's a born and bred Torontonian but moved to an assisted living place out in Eastern Ontario because she wanted to look out to nature rather than, oh, Bathurst Street or a brick wall. And her new home is really, really nice. I've seen lots of these places, tagging along with Husband when he makes house calls (yes, he still does). Gramma's home is one of the best, if not the creme de la creme. Even their food smelled great. AND they plated it!

The boys had the best time ever at Auntie J's farm. Auntie J's whole family was there, including her 4-year-old granddaughter who led my kids everywhere. I'm still picking hay out of everything. They caught all sorts of insects, played with the animals, dug in the dirt (I got a hazelnut tree!) and slept divinely on the way home.

It was such a great trip, by everyone's account. My only downside was when I almost drank a housefly. I made tea in the farmhouse (a swell abode built in the mid-1800s). I don't know if the fly was already dead in the cup or if I smothered it with the teabag and drowned it with hot water. I was drinking the very last bit (I'm dry-heaving as I type this, mmmlleck) when I got a small clump rolling around my tongue. Initially, I thought it was a sugar lump that didn't disintegrate but, rolling it on my upper palate now, I realized that wasn't it. Maybe a bit of twig? I discretely pushed it out past my lips when I saw it was a fucking housefly. I spat out the tea in my mouth back into the cup, dumped everything in the sink and went outside toward the barn wanting to barf but couldn't.

I still want to barf just thinking about it. And I may never drink tea again. On the way home, we stopped at an apple orchard. While Husband and the kids went to get 20 lbs. of royal galas, I fished through the overnight bag and gargled with mouthwash for as long as I could. Something like that would drive Baby Sister and The Artist Formerly Known As Sunshine to boil their tongues or get a colonic or something. Am I right?