So it turns out I'm not dead after all. I'm in the wilds of Ottawa visiting DoppelSis and the charming entourage that is her family. I've been MIA on the blog front because one of the myriad things my doctor also warned me about was spending any time sitting in front of a computer. Which, if you ever saw how my posture goes totally Monty Burns (it's doing it now!) within 30 seconds of me getting online, you'd figure is solid advice.
So following the most excellent tip meted out by a few kind souls (shout out to Tuckova and Laura and Stacy!) in the comments section of my last whinge-saturated post, I managed to get in to see a massage therapist for 45 gloriously masochistic minutes last Friday, and seriously, I can't believe what a difference it made (shout out to Gabriella at Grandview Massage Therapy!). I had been considering cancelling my trip to Ontario, a trip I've been looking forward to for two months, but I couldn't fathom how I was going to wrangle squirrelly Sam by myself throughout the two flights needed to get from Vancouver to here. But when I woke up on Saturday morning, my departure mere hours away, my neck felt -- if not fully restored -- markedly better.
And Sam was perfect -- PERFECT -- on the plane. Busy, yes. Interested in everything, also yes. But that's his way, and frankly I'd respect him less if he weren't. But he was happy to while away the time reading all the library books I'd checked out but hidden from him till we boarded the plane. He was equally interested in the small television screen placed conveniently inches away from our faces in the seat ahead of us. Oh, glory be. All you naysayers who are down on TV for toddlers: I don't want to hear about it. And did I tell you about the two-hour nap? I didn't even have to drug him, which was a total waste of the baby roofies I brought along, but oh well. (Er, P.S. That was a joke.)
And. AND. The scales of whateverness balanced out. Remember my bitching about the sour cow in my doctor's office who let me struggle out a spring-loaded door with a babe-in-arms, a heavy bag, and a stroller? Well, Zod above heard my pitiful screed (because whiners are Zod's chosen people) and sent me this woman's counterpart on the plane. The only other occupant of our row was an absolutely lovely middle-aged man who made it seem like not only was he not chagrined at having to share a row with us, but quite the opposite: being seatmates with a slightly frazzled mom and her wiggly toddler was his idea of the perfect flight. Somebody nominate this man for an Oscar, or at least a nighttime Emmy.
At any rate, here am I, safe and, if not sound, not entirely unsound. I probably won't be posting much between now and Labour Day, though. There's the neck thing, of course, but more importantly, I'm trying to maximize my time with this happy crew. I'll just share a couple of the highs and lows of the tip so far:
High: Eating the best fucking tomatoes I can remember eating. Like, tomatoes so red and juicy and firm and flavourful that all you need is a knife, a fork, and some salt, and you've got yourself a meal.
Low: Seeing the biggest fucking spider I've ever seen outside a wildlife exhibit, just hanging out -- hanging out! Like it owned the place! -- under the trampoline. I'm talking big. But I'm not even going to try to convey how big this goddamned thing was, because you'd just assume I'm exaggerating, and I kind of couldn't blame you, but I wouldn't be. It was that big. I didn't like trampolines to begin with, and this has done nothing to improve my opinion of them.
So I'll see you all back here on the first day of school. I hope you have your "What I Did Over the Summer Holidays" essays ready. And yes. Spelling counts.