The Esteemed Art of Synchronized Falling

(missing trapeze video would go here--we're having technical difficulties).

Our trapeze show was fantastic--due largely perhaps to the fact that I was not in it. Allyson says that I was excluded because she doesn't think I could pass for a Bedford Road student (it was the Bedford Road Talent show, not actually The Liz's Trapeze Show), but I figure it's because she's mad at me for dropping her so much. Allyson has a glass-half-empty attitude about being dropped--she fails to even acknowledge the fact that I hold on to her successfully way more often than I drop her.

The four trapezers in the video are:

Izzy: Izzy babysits my kids, and got recruited to trapeze on the grounds that she's really small and really light. Turns out that she's very good at it--very graceful, which is surprising because she can't walk ten feet without tripping on something and falling over. If there's nothing to trip on, she just falls over anyways. In the performance, however, as you can see, she doesn't have any accidents. Allyson points out that this is because SAM (Izzy's trapeze partner) doesn't drop people.

Allyson: Allyson is a perfectionist.

Mamoru: Mamoru came to Canada to learn English and has instead learned guitar, trapeze, and how to make a fantastic lemon pie. I figure this is okay--he can pick up English any time (hey, my three year old and five year old can do it--how hard can it be?). He has been doing trapeze for only eight months, and deserves a medal for being able to decipher all four of us yelling conflicting instructions in a foreign language.

Sam: Sam is Allyson's brother. He is brutishly strong and can do anything on the trapeze, which causes us to resent him. Or maybe we resent him because he sits in the pit and throws foam blocks at us while we are practicing.

Now trapeze is not something you should try at home. It is best attempted under the careful eye of a trained instructor, with regular practice on professional equipment. Unfortunately for these four, instead they have had only me, one night a week, using a bar that I made out of scrap metal and hockey tape, holding up my laptop featuring videos I found on youtube and yelling "Do this, do this" (or in the case of Mamoru, attempting to meet him halfway by declaring in Japanese "Corewa ee desu. Kudasai. Mecha Kowai. Hidori Migi" and gesturing wildly). On the bright side, we have a foam pit to practice over, which is way safer than when we were working off a tree in the park and the only padding we had was that inflatable mat with "not suitable for use as safety equipment" written on the side. Also, when we were in the park, the only think Sam could find to throw at us was sticks, and Izzy kept getting distracted by wondering whether the boys biking by were "cute old" (as in 17 or so) or "old old" (as in 18 or over).

A disadvantage of relying on YouTube is that we have no idea what any of the tricks are called. This results in us referring to them by whatever names seem logical to us, such as "super painful move", "move Izzy was right about", "canning Sam move", "lap dance trick" (really, when you see it, you'll recognize it), and "move Sam can't do". In the case of Move Sam Can't Do, Sam has been arguing that since I've dropped Allyson twice now, the name should be changed to "move that neither Sam nor Liz can do".

As those of you who know me will already be aware, when I tell a story it is usually filled with "exaggeration". Move Sam Can't Do isn't really "Move Sam Can't Do" so much as it is "Move Izzy Won't Let Sam Try Because Liz Keeps Dropping Allyson Whenever They Try It". Actually, all this talk about making Allyson mad by dropping her is exaggerated as well--Allyson is actually very understanding about being dropped. And I don't so much let go of her, exactly... I more let go of the trapeze. Which results in a similar feeling of, um, weightlessness, but it's not quite the same. I like to think that Allyson is comforted by a pleasant feeling of solidarity, knowing that I am falling with her. Or, more accurately, on her. Also, my claim to sympathy is even more valid than hers, because she is way bonier than the "not suitable for use as safety equipment" mat. So, really, my landing is way less comfortable than hers.

I am exaggerating the risks, of course. In fact, the closest we've ever come to real injury wasn't while practicing "Move Nobody Seems to Be Able To Do" at all (a move we deemed too risky to put in the show because we might fall. We saved it for the encore. And we fell). The only moment I was truly afraid that we'd end up with serious injury was when, during the show, Allyson's dad (think strong like Sam but about nine feet tall and very protective) realized exactly what we do at trapeze. He was particularly impressed not only with "Kamikaze Move Nobody Seems to Be Able to Do" but also with "Lap Dance Trick" and "Butt in Face Move". I tried calm him down by pointing out that for the show we used a mat that is intended for use as safety equipment, but he still seemed a little, um, grouchy. It didn't help that Allyson's teacher (a woman who is clearly high on creativity and bravery but not so much with the discretion) chose that evening to invent "Flip That Ends in Faceplant Inches From Edge of Mat"...

They say running is great cross training.

Inducted Into the Ways of Sin By the Regina Unitarian Fellowship

This last weekend saw Laura and I head to the Regina Unitarian Fellowship, to guest speak at the congregation and help plan the Unitarian Western Regional Fall Gathering. For those of you who aren't familiar it, the WRFG is basically a time for Unitarians from all across Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and part of Ontario to gather together to do some religious stuff but mostly to watch the Saskatoon youth and I perform trapeze at the talent show. If you are familiar with the gathering, disregard the previous sentence. To make a long story short, we toured the museum, taking in world class displays on the entire history of mankind as we know it, viewing many rooms and discussing all the events of the weekend--and we concluded that yes, the metal rafters did indeed reach high enough to hang a trapeze off of for the talent show on Saturday night.

Unfortunately for the folks from RUF, sorting all that out took only until around six or seven, and then they had to find some way of entertaining us for the entire evening. They appointed Trevor to do this. For those of you who don't know Trevor, you can look him up on my friends' list on facebook--he's the one who has altered his picture to have horns and creepy eyes. We decided to go to the Casino, to see a Christmas Concert by a country western singer. I don't normally go to country concerts--but this is not so much that I'm against country music. It's more that I don't normally do things in the evening that require brushing my hair and using sentences that don't feature "Horton the Elephant". And I'd never been to a Casino in my entire life.

Entering a Casino--in case you've never done so--is like walking into a James Bond movie. Everything is all glittery and big-city looking. I kept expecting bullets to start flying and Angelina Jolie to come swinging off of a chandelier. This didn't happen because there weren't any chandeliers. They did have slot machines, though. I have never gambled, and so I saw this as a chance to expand my boundaries and try new things. Quarter in hand, I approached a terminal.

You know, on the commercials, they make it sound like developing a gambling problem is pretty easy. I expected to stick in the quarter and pull a lever, and voila--instant psychopathology. Turns out it's more complicated. There's no slot for a quarter, for one thing. Fortunately, they have a guy in a suit whose job it is to wander around, say helpful things, and stifle his own laughter until he looks like you could pop him with a pin. Apparently the machine only takes bills, which was a problem since the smallest bill I had was a five. I felt this was a bit much to spend on a gambling habit, but I wanted to appear smooth and metropolitan. I pulled out a five, slid it into the machine, and nearly caught my sleeve and slid my arm in as well. Then the real trouble began.

Important Looking Guy In Suit hovered over us offering helpful explanations and watching our every move with that look of intensity people get when they're watching a car accident. Apparently, the exact timing of how you press the button controls which combinations pop up. And there are nine different lines of betting that you can do, and nine different amounts you can bet, and it only took me a minute and a brief recollection of my University statistics classes to calculate in my head that I wish David hadn't gone to Japan and left me to navigate all this glittery math stuff by myself. Important Looking Guy was explaining a bunch of stuff about techniques and probabilities, rather than offering useful information such as where the button was to press to see the whirley parts do their whirley thing. I eventually did figure it out, and once you get the hang of it, it's pretty simple. You keep pressing the button over and over, and you watch the whirling, and in the corner a little counter counts down the money from five dollars, one nickel at a time. This takes a while. It would be very entertaining to my five year old, who is learning to count money. To me, it did not take long to realize that either of my preschoolers could play this game--I have no idea why they insist you wait until you're nineteen. I also wish to point out that the Dress the Bunny game for game boy was more entertaining, and only cost $3.99.

After that, we went to country singer's Rock Concert and Surprise Religious Conversion Experience--which was all in all quite entertaining, and stayed up just late enough for me to be very sleepy preaching the next day which is too bad because if you fall asleep while you're talking it's hard to convince everyone else that they should be interested. If I did fall asleep, nobody said anything (they're very polite in Regina). I was quickly awakened for the rest of the day when Hilary surprised me by insisting that I spontaneously help lead the congregation in a round of "Come, Come, Whoever You Are... wanderer worshipper, lover of leaving..." I swear those are the original words and they did not add in the part about "lover of leaving" once they heard me start singing. Anyways, the terror of that experience had me on such a buzz that the entire drive home I couldn't sleep (as I'd planned to). Instead, I kept chattering away at full speed about how neat the Regina Unitarians are, and how we could have province wide get togethers, and how they'd been growing their membership lately and why did she think that was and did she believe what Trevor said about it being all him? Laura offered to drive so that I could nap, and then helpfully reminded me several times of my plan to sleep. She didn't try to get me to drink the warm lemoney traveling-by-car medicine that Gary likes me to take, though... ...perhaps she wanted me alert in case of a roadside gambling emergency.

A Post Not Actually About Oranges

In a creative writing class, I once heard a story that wasn't about oranges at all. I have no idea what it was about--it was written by a woman who'd lived through the great depression, and wartime, and who remembered the "simple life" (that mythical land that is much more alluring to those of us who've never been there). Those "ancient" times when there was only one (usually handmade) gift under the tree--and the children were delighted with it.

In the (autobiographical) story, the little girl gets an orange. She didn't know what it was--she describes it's bright colour and smooth skin, and the weight of it in her hand. She runs her fingers along it, then holds it close to her face and smells it--examining it's tiny pores. When her aunt shows her how to peel it, she describes the mist that shoots into the air, covering her hands with an intoxicating scent. She saves the peel, then lines up all of the sections and counts them, before eating even one--and describes the sweet, exotic flavour in detail.

I imagine giving one of my own kids such a gift--and having them hold it up, frown at me, and declare "they make these out of chocolate, you know". My teenagers and I, like heroin addicts, have created bigger and bigger Christmases each year, in an effort to capture that magical high described in the story that wasn't actually about oranges.

This year, I'm going cold turkey. I've always read longingly about "Consumption Free Christmas" and thought how deeply in line it would be with my values. Around December 2oth or so--when I'm up to my ears in lists and wrapping paper and piles of boxes and wishing more than anything to have time to sit by the fire with the kids... That's when I think longingly of how a Consumption Free Christmas would be perfect and bemoan the fact that my now teenage stepkids were "spoiled" for the idea before I ever met them. If I'd parented them from day one, of course, they'd spend all their time holding hands, singing, and offering to help empty the dishwasher. In a sudden rush, I realized that there really isn't anything in the way--the teens are old enough to be "paid off", I haven't yet had time to spoil the youngest ones. No time like the present.

This year, we've warned friends and family that we're doing "Consumption Free Christmas". We're not buying gifts for anyone. We'll make some simple things to put in baskets--we've always loved making miniature gingerbread houses, truffles, and a Christmas Newsletter--but everyone's getting the same thing. No lists, no mall, no big budget. The few people who need to be "bought off" (the teenagers, employees) will get bonuses and a couple of the same handmade gifts everyone else gets. December 1st, we'll put up family stockings, and all month we'll make and wrap stuff to put in them. I have no idea how this will work out.

So far, it's been remarkably smooth--extended families on both sides have responded mostly with relief and support. Everyone feels Christmas has gone crazy. Even the little boys have been enthusiastic. We've done a lot of talking, and they're particularly excited about delivering the truffles. The littlest one (three years old) declared proudly one day"I get to be Santa!". For now, at least, they're very excited about giving--the "less presents" part hasn't occurred to either of them. I even have "buy in" from the hyper-organized super-systematic five year old with the memory of an elephant (who remembers Christmas past--and has been counting down to that special day since he found a Calendar in January's junk mail).

He came across me crocheting a little soap bag. A soap bag is where you put all the little bits of soap that are "leftover" if you happen to have a husband who feels that anything less than half a bar is just "bits" and inherently unusable . You put the bits in the bag and then it lathers up and you use it to wash with. I explain all this to Eric, who is a passionate devotee of Not Wasting and also of Putting Things Into Their Proper Bags Where They Belong.

"Can I have it?" he asks, with the direct approach common to five year olds.
"I'm making it as a Christmas present." I answer, hamming it up a little. "It's taking me a very long time as you can see, so I'm going to give it to someone who is very, very special to me."
"Mom!" Eric grins excitedly, "That's me! I'm very very special to you. Can I have the bag?"
"We'll have to see--and I don't tell people what their Christmas presents are going to be." I answer. Eric watches me crochet for a long time. He asks about all the details of how I make the bag, we talk about how long it takes, and we talk about the lucky person who gets it. After a while, he leans in, puts his head on my lap, and grins up at me.
"Mom," he says happily, in a hushed, excited whisper "I think I know what I'm getting for Christmas."

Me too.