Weights and Treadmills and Trainers, Oh My!

When I was in my twenties, the gym was a place to see and be seen. Sure, we went to work out, but at the time, it was more about how cute the boys looked in their muscle shirts, and how colour coordinated we were in our gym attire. It was less about getting in shape, or being good to ourselves than it was something to do to look cool, and - well, just something to do until it was time to go out and party again.

Now, my metabolism is on permanent vacation, and my body is telling me that it’s quite happy to lead the sedentary lifestyle. My mind is slightly mutinous and tends to side with my body, telling me that laying around isn’t such a bad thing, that it helps with cell regeneration and stuff.

However tempting that may sound, if I don’t fight the laziness, the ease of sinking into that perfect corner of the comfy couch, I’ll soon become another part of the furniture and Peter will never find me again, until I give him clues with general demands to bring me an iced cap from Timmy’s before Paradise Falls comes on (a Canadian soap that is my daytime guilty pleasure).

So, to combat this overwhelming need for laziness, I decided to up my dopamine levels and join the gym. The day I signed away a year of my life I went in all proud and strong and a little too loud “I want to join the gym!” I think I was loud enough to squelch the inner screaming of my muscles, cringing in fear. I think I startled the girl behind the desk. But hey - I couldn't take a chance - I didn't want my mind to win over my vocal chords at this point.

After getting my card, I asked for a training session and was told that I could meet with a trainer the following Thursday. I decided to use the treadmill until then, because all of the other machines look like bionic octopi or something. At the end of my 45 minutes, I thought “I can do this, it’s not so bad.” I kept visiting the treadmill until my appointment, thinking I was going to show that trainer, after I’d built up a week’s worth of cardio.

And that’s where it all went horribly, scarily wrong.

She is way too cute and perky. Her smile lights up the room, and she is as bouncy and energetic as a 6-month-old pup. I loved her and hated her on sight, and kind of wanted to rub her belly. But mostly, I hoped I could catch some of her vibe, so I could build up some excitement for the hell she was about to put me through.

And she did her best, smiling the whole time. Hell started with the legs, then went to the arms, the back, the abs, and, Lord help me, there’s a machine that helped me do my very first pull up. She ADDED it to my routine because she was so proud of me. That brat.

I felt like I kept up pretty well. I only sat the wrong direction on two machines, because her way just didn’t make sense. When I fight a bionic octopus, I want to be able to face it. The trainer won. I did it her way. And the octopus won.

It's two weeks later and I'm still going. What a good girl, right? Ha! I still look for excuses, but then I know that my 34.50 is going to be theirs, and dangit, they are gonna earn that dough from me.

I’ve got to go change now. I’ve got a harpoon and some chum, and a bionic octopus to conquer.

Facebook: My Life on a Wall

There probably aren’t many of you that haven’t heard of Facebook by now, especially if you are between the ages of 14-25. However, there are a startling number of us adult ‘tweeners hooked up on Facebook.

By the way, adult ‘tweeners are those of us that are okay with saying goodbye to the prime of our youth, because we are happy in what we know to be the prime of our lives. The time that is rich with ‘if I knew then what I know now’, usually followed by an all-knowing, wisdom filled chuckle.

But it’s also a time when some of us reflect on those relationships that meant so much to us when we were younger, when we thought we had responsibilities. Yes, if I knew then, what I know now.

Anyway – these friendships were the ones that know all your little kid secrets. Some of these friends were the pals that you smoked your first and only cigarette with, or even the ones that helped you home the first time you got drunk at their house. In any case, they were close, forever kind of friends that I’ll bet you’re thinking of right now, because you have no idea where they are.

Enter Facebook. This creation by Harvard students has now taken 6 Degrees of Hey I Know You to new, frenzied, obsessive heights. But it’s also helped me find a couple of those really great pals I had when I was growing up. One of the great things – unlimited photo storage is allowing me to scan old pictures. I mean really old pictures with us in our hair-feathering 15-year-old glory.

It started out innocently enough. Roxie told me about a cool place to find old friends. I only keep a blog, so I thought I’d check it out. I signed up and immediately added Roxie as my first ‘friend’. I had one friend. I was so excited. But Roxie already had about twelve friends. I was envious, and immediately wanted more friends.

I started typing in names of people I knew in the area. Then my search expanded to my home town, my high school and college. It’s less than six months later and I now have more than 50 friends listed. My husband is on Facebook and I can send him little flirty gifts. Mom is on Facebook now, so I can jot quick notes or put pictures on her ‘wall’. It’s almost like I’m there to mess up her house in person.

The number of friends keeps climbing, and a steady ‘Mini Feed’ tells me what every one of them is doing, through their wall posts and photos. It’s like my own personal reality show, starring people I actually care about.

But now it’s getting bad. I’ve added Chip to “Dogbook”, and Wick has her own profile on “Catbook”. And I think it’s cute. Seriously, somebody help? You can reach me at www.facebook.com, under Joyce Russell-Menyasz.

Wick, the Determined Squirrel Hunter

Sunday afternoon, I decided to have a few relaxing, lazy hours with a book I just can’t keep my nose out of. Because I work at home, I make myself leave my office, and go to our bedroom to read, adjusting the pillows just so, and turning on my side so I can look outside the patio doors to the woods outside.

I am soon engrossed in the latest chapter and forget about the world around me. That is, until some bizarre screeching noise interrupts my Manhattan adventure and pulls me back to Carleton Place.

Living in the wilds of Lanark County, most noises go unnoticed; as they are part of the landscape and every day experience of living out here. However, something outside was really angry. I give an exasperated sigh and put my book down, rolling on my stomach to gaze out the door.

And there she is. Our brave little cat, more than a year old now, swishing her tail in the tall grass at the edge of the lawn, looking up into a sparse oak tree. But she isn’t the one making the noise.
Our sweet little hunter has a giant mutant black squirrel screaming at her from half way up the tree. The squirrel isn’t scared, it’s mad, and it’s giving Wick a stern talking to.

Wick isn’t interested. To show her impatience with lectures, she runs half way up the same tree as the scary squirrel, sending the monstrous black thing twenty feet higher in the tree, shrieking the whole time.

I’m sure my chorus of ‘good kitty, you GO Wick!’ didn’t help matters, but I have a thing against these bizarre Canadian squirrels. They are like climbing black Chihuahuas with furry tails. They are bigger than squirrels I’m used to, and not nearly as cute. So if our cat wants to run one off our property or make it a play thing, I’m okay with that.

My book is forgotten. I have to see how this turns out.

Wick climbs a few more feet and decides to sit and wait on the roof of a bird feeder nailed to the tree. This sends the squirrel into a frenzy, jumping from tree to tree, hanging from branches, screaming the whole time.

Eventually Wick grows tired of the game, and leaves her perch. She follows the squirrel’s progress from tree to tree for a few moments, and gives one loud meow up into the tree before moving on, twitching her tail again in a disdainful dismissal.

I’m hoping the squirrel is moving to another part of the forest, because I’m sure that Wick told that rat-looking thing that it is not welcome in her yard. And, if it decided to stay, its squirrel days would be numbered, and will soon become nothing more than a squirrel flavoured snack.

After all, Wick’s count is up to seven moles and five mice. By the way she stalks that squirrel, it’s only a matter of time and determination.

Girl Cult Summer Opener, Cutie Style

A fellow member of the Girl Cult just bought a house on the Mississippi. She’s not even forty yet, and she was able to do this. I will forever be in awe of Cutie’s determination to obtain this awesome spot. And I will forever be glad that I am part of her inner circle so I can share this with her occasionally

Last week, when the days were scorching, Cutie invited us all over to take in her new digs. We all showed up with icy drinks and swim suits. We congratulated her on her new home and immediately went to dive off the end of her dock into the cool, weed-free, refreshing water.

Once our skin stopped sizzling from the heat, we chatted on the deck of the next door neighbour. Cutie doesn’t have any deck chairs yet, but happens to be close friends with her next door neighbours, as well as two neighbours beyond.

As we laughed and stuff (remember, I can’t tell you everything, or I’d be ousted from the cult forever), I found myself looking over the lake to the West, watching as the sun began its descent into the horizon.

The clouds were sparse but fluffy, dotting the sky with dusty pink punctuation marks, casting shadows on the ground and the water as the sun started its final show. Whether it’s saying goodbye to us for the night, or hello to the other side of the globe, we’ll never know, but I wanted to watch the performance, just the same.

Conversation faded for me (a rarity, I know) as I positioned myself in front of a plate glass window in Cutie’s house, facing the Western sky. Framed by two mighty oak trees, the sun’s bright, blinding rays softened and reached out to touch the water’s surface, sending a message to tell us to pay attention we wouldn’t want to miss what was coming.

I knew at that moment that sunsets from this spot were going to be spectacular.
The slight ripple on the surface of the Mississippi added a glittery sparkle as bright, blinding day rays fizzled to make way for the lullaby song of the sun. It started with fiery pink fingers that stretched its magnificence into orange tendrils, touched the surface of the lake with its reflection and crawled all the way to Cutie’s shore as it tickled us with a good night story.

The oaks swayed slightly in appreciation, proud to be a part of this glory. I could almost hear the hiss of the sun as it hit the surface of the Mississippi, could almost see the steam rise from the water’s face. The sky glowed to a peaceful lavender and blue, sending the last ripple through the water’s reflection once more on a swan song of departure before the sun kissed us all with a bright red goodnight.

And now I am more certain than ever that I must make sure to bring Cutie an expensive, thoughtful gift any time I visit her shore, because I never want her to ask me to leave.

It’s Crispy Critter Time in Lanark County

It seems you can’t drive for more than ten minutes without running in to a body of water here in Lanark County. And since I just went outside and saw my cat panting in the shade, all this water around us is a really great thing.

Because I am so freaked out from seeing a panting cat, I thought it might be a good idea to discuss heat and sun survival in our part of the world.

First, we know you must drink copious amounts of water. Yes w-a-t-e-r. I know that there is water content in beer, wine, coolers or cocktails. However, ice does not count as your daily water consumption. Your water should be cool, clear, refreshing, and free of any alcoholic content, no matter how much the rising blood alcohol level might make you forget how sweaty you are.

Next, make sure you’re well covered with sun-screen. Self-tanner does not count, nor does anything with less than an SPF 15. And if you do think self-tanner counts as protection from the sun, I dare you to slather yourself with tan in a bottle and see how many pretty shades of red you turn at the end of the day. Oh, and water that rests in the burn blisters doesn’t count as hydration either, just in case you were wondering.

The easiest and most environmentally friendly way to enjoy the summer sun is to make friends with people that own water-front abodes. Bring cookies, offer to clean, barbecue up a side of beef, do anything you can to get them ingratiated to you. So much so that they have no choice but to let you become another child, an in-law or a homeless relative that has plopped themselves on their cool sofa to enjoy the cool breeze off the lake. And because of the side of beef, they won’t be able to ask you to leave. That would just be rude.

Now, if your unsuspecting hosts have a boat, well then you’ve just hit the jackpot. Take it out for a spin, pretending that you hear some funky noise that you just know you can fix. Even if the owner doesn’t hear the noise, keep driving the boat and cocking your head just so. If you have to stop the boat at some sandy shore to ‘let her cool down’, well, nobody can blame you for erring on the side of caution, can they?

Of course, not knowing anyone with these fabulous toys could pose a problem. But then again, go back to your childhood. Staying cool meant a hose, some water balloons, a sprinkler in the yard and maybe a Slip-n-Slide.

But let’s not embarrass ourselves, okay? Nobody wants to see you in your bathing suit from grade 4. Be respectable, and maybe some poor fool driving by will take pity on you and invite you to their lake house.

In any case, stay cool, stay hydrated and stay protected from the evil rays of the sun. This heat just isn’t worth dying for.

Enrique Eight-Legs-He-Is

We’ve had to give up one of the guest bedrooms to a new house guest. Folks, meet Enrique Eight-Legs-He-Is, the biggest wolf spider I have ever seen, and our newest house-guest.

I’m sure many of you are ‘eeeking’ your way through that first sentence. A wolf spider does not belong in the house; in fact, a wolf spider belongs anywhere BUT in the house. And generally, I agree.

The day Enrique moved in, he showed up with a loud knock at the front door. When we didn’t answer fast enough, the door flew open and banged against the wall. Enrique took the Cuban cigar out of his mouth and told us he was moving in. Since six out of eight of his hairy legs were carrying designer luggage, we believed him. And guess what? When a spider shows up with luggage, the shock alone will stupefy you enough to let him in.

After looking around our humble home, Enrique first chose Peter’s office trash can as his home. He moved out on garbage day, with much grumbling as he jumped three feet from the rim of the can to the floor below. Enrique demanded that his luggage be moved to the laundry room and the wood pile, where he might be able to eat and sleep in peace. Enrique also informed us that he was telling his travel agent that we’d cleaned up his first room without his permission.

So we let Enrique have the laundry room and small wood pile. We left chocolate on a log every night for him, hoping he wouldn’t report to his travel agent and ruin our reputation for spider vacation accommodations.

Enrique forgot his place in our home. He stayed in the laundry room for a while, but I guess his room service wasn’t up to snuff, because he decided to move back in to Peter’s office garbage can. The problem was, this time, his luggage, cigar and legs were holding on for dear life. And I don’t know what Enrique was eating in the laundry room, but he was fat, hairy, happy, and strong. And he looked like he wanted this arrangement to be permanent, if the sneer on his fangy face was telling the truth. Enrique winked at me with a couple of dozen eyes as if daring me to make him move.

That kind of insolence just doesn’t work with me. So I told him it was time to go. He ran under a book shelf. I’m not positive, but I think one of his legs flipped me off in the process.
But the next morning, when I got up and found him making a fly omelette in my good pan, I’d had enough. I tried to reason with Enrique, even gave him a high eight to show him our appreciation for eating so many house insects. As I ushered Enrique out the front door. He moseyed to the forest and disappeared, but his luggage is still here, so he’ll probably be back when we least expect him.

And he’ll probably be right between us on our bed, smoking one of his Cubans.

Well Light My Bum and Call me a Firefly!

Most of you here in Lanark County are used to the cool night critters in and around your lives, whether it’s your cat bringing back a mouse at midnight, or your neighbourhood racoons singing love songs to each other, hoping for a hot date.

But when is the last time you were able to just stand outside, ignore everything else and be delightfully surprised when you see one firefly?

The first time I saw one was when I noticed something blinking neon green in a corner of our bedroom one night. Peter is a fanatic about total blackness when he sleeps, so whatever that alien light revealed itself to be was about to be no more. Peter grabbed a tissue and went towards the light (and survived!). He grabbed the light smooshed it and brought it over to my curious eyes. I really wanted to know what that was.

“Oh, it’s a firefly.” Peter said

“A what!? How cool!” I was immediately a four year old, so excited to see my very first firefly that wasn’t engineered by Disney and The Pirates of the Caribbean ride. My excitement was short-lived as I watched the little glowing critter’s bootie fade and bleed onto the tissue. “Nice.” I muttered. Peter felt bad. I think it’s safe to say that another firefly will not meet its demise by Peter’s hands.

And now here we are in Lanark, and every night at this time of year is a blinking light show.
When you walk outside from the lights of the house into a moonless night that is as black as bottom of a deep, wet well, it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. The porch light isn’t on because it draws too many bugs.

Suddenly, a neon green glow sparkles in front of your face, maybe making you jump back just a bit before you realize it’s one of those fireflies. As your eyes slowly adjust to the inky darkness around you, you notice another glow to the right, followed by a spot on the left, and another. You smile when your eyes have completely adjusted and you see the light show surrounding you.

All you can see in the darkness are the sporadic blinks of the dancing lights, and it’s pretty cool.
Pretending it’s a mosquito-free world, what will your imagination allow you think as you watch their neon booties disappear and reappear in a teasing blink? Do you want to chase after them with a jar, trying to bottle your own lightning, like my mom did when she was a child?

Do you watch your cat jumping like a freak as she desperately tries to capture one for herself?
It doesn’t matter what a neon green light symphony does for you, as long as it makes you stop, appreciate, and be incredibly thankful for these cool critter gifts we have on Earth. Fireflies almost make up for the alien mosquito race. Almost.

Swarm of Blood Thirsty Beasts Attacks Lanark County

No matter how much I swat, run, cover, spray, duck, close or scream, those blood-sucking freaks won’t go away. Dang mosquitoes.

I know we all deal with these pests every day, no matter where we live in Lanark County. Maybe that could be our county slogan,”Lanark County, There’s No Place Better to Lose Your Blood and Itch.”

Okay, maybe not.

If every window and door is closed, every screen sealed, every hole taped, how do those vampires get in? And do they wear watches? Because they certainly know that a sneak attack at three in the morning is much more effective than bombing during daylight hours when we can actually see them.

I think that we don’t give mosquitoes enough credit. I think that they may be an alien race sent here to destroy us. Granted, they aren’t an incredibly advanced alien species, but still. You can’t tell me the Lord had any purpose for them when He created them, can you? And if God didn’t create them, they must be here for other reasons.

Picture this: Pre dawn hours. Squadrons of mosquitoes meet over pools of water, dropping their eggs, making plans for a day of blood sucking. The mosquito general’s orders are simple for his troops: Keep sucking until all the blood is gone. Until they’ve dehydrated the lot of us on earth and can have it for themselves. So battle plans are drawn up as follows:

Wait by the front door for humans to exit. Fly inside the house as fast as possible and lay low until dark. Hover by the car doors so you can buzz them as they buckle themselves in. Being trapped in small spaces greatly increases your chance of bloody success. Keep at it, never give up. You are all martyrs for the kingdom of Mosquito, and it is an honour to be smashed with a curse by human hands. Confuse them as they go on walks. Keep circling their heads and landing on their arms until they give up on their walk and return to the sanctuary of their homes.

Don’t worry, my mosquito brothers. That’s where the humans have false hope. When we get inside their domiciles, we will wait in quiet starvation until we hear the gentle sounds of human slumber. Then our secret forces will buzz their ears, wake them up, and giggle as they swat at nothing, turn on the lights and yell at each other because we can’t be found. Soldiers, keep at it! When the lights are off again, keep biting, sucking and drinking until there is nothing left but a sleepless, itching blob of human flesh!

Soldiers, be glad when their blood splats on the wall with your death. That’s one for us mosquitoes. Be brave, brothers, and never give up the battle!

Mosquitoes may never give up the battle, but neither will we. Just know that whenever we smack, spray or citronella one of those blood sucking aliens, we’re giving the human race one more chance.