I am frightfully hungover today. So random sentences will have to suffice.

Oxford is old and beautiful. Our hotel has a tiny, crazy lift and when we took it, the desk man said “it looks old, but it’s very reliable - best you can get for a 14th century building!” Being from the City of Glass, where everything old is just… old and gets torn down, I’m still having trouble processing the fact that things that old not only exist, but are the norm.

Best daytime stop so far? Blackwell’s books. Incredible. Amazing. I would like to live there please.

Best nighttime stop? The Zodiac. Holds the well-deserved title of Best live music venue in Oxfordshire. Saw The New York Fund (awesome), The Checks (not-at-all-awesome), and The Hold Steady (loud, drunk, energetic and quite good!).

Danger Will Robinson: I ducked into a pub yesterday to escape from the rain for a few minutes at about 3:30pm… and just…. didn’t leave. I made friends with some locals (pictures forthcoming), had a wonderful Sunday Roast, drank LOTS of Strongbow and realized this morning that my training efforts completely failed me.

Newsworthy things here today: A huge train derailment that killed an 86-year-old woman and injured many others, and a bomb attempt at one of the Oxford colleges by the Animal Liberation Front, protesting the use of animals in research. Neither of those affected me a whit (I’ve not taken the train yet, and most of the colleges aren’t open to the public) - but they’ve been on the beeb all damn day, so I figured I’d mention them.

We arrived safe and sound after a typical but still traumatizing plane ride. I still hate flying for more than 3 hours.

Also, people from the plane I’d like to offer a giant middle finger to:

But we’re here, and it’s lovely, and I’m about to go on a self-guided walking tour while Neil’s stuck on a bus to go do some “team building” (sucker!).

While I don’t have too much to say about Oxford at this point, a picture is of course worth 1000 words - so keep an eye on my flickr stream as the trip progresses.

While I’m furiously trying to get all those “last minute” things onto a list so I don’t forget to throw them in my suitcase tonight before heading to Jolly Old England tomorrow, there’s one thing I’m going to seriously try NOT to leave room for on my way back: extra weight on my person.

I’m as guilty as anyone else when it comes to putting on some extra pounds when on vacation. Lack of sleep (from both partying and jet lag) contribute to feelings of hunger and sloth combined with the vacation mindset that says one should indulge whenever possible in food, drink and luxuries like just standing on the damn people mover instead of actually walking between airport gates all contribute to a fatter middle by the time the return flight home is leaving.

I must say though, I’ve been feeling really good about my fitness and diet regimen lately (beer consumption training notwithstanding), and would hate to see a month of hard work ruined by a week of reckless indulgence.

So I’m pretty pleased I stumbled across this great article on ForbesTraveler.com by Peter Greenberg about how to travel and stay thin.

His tips include navigating the airport cafeteria, being mindful of preparation and portion size when eating away from home, and exercising at the hotel, even if (and especially when) you don’t feel like it.

So here are my plans for this week away:

Any other ideas from the peanut gallery?

Normally I pride myself on being a person who can unquestionably hold it together and perform, nay exceed under pressure. When the going gets tough, the tough call Jen!

Until today.

Today, I completely lost my shit (figuratively), because the dog lost hers (literally).

I left work a smidge early today to go home and put together some final notes on a bit of market research I was going through for a client (reading and summarizing research is always best done on a comfy couch as far as I’m concerned), and was feeling pretty pleased with myself, and already half-writing the notes in my head as I walked up to the building.
When I opened the apartment door, I noticed instantly that something was Not. Right.

The Smell.

I looked in and didn’t see anything straight away, so I ventured in a bit further to see what exactly had gone on in my 8 hour absence. I made it to the kitchen.

Three full quarters of the surface of the 20 square feet of laminate that occupies the centre of the horseshoe that is our kitchen was COVERED in liquids of various colours and consistencies. The orifice they came out of was still up in the air.

Cursing the mess, but secretly smiling about the fact that, hey, at least it’s not on the carpet(!), I glanced over at the sliding door to the patio. Uh oh. Danger Will Robinson… There are some brownish drops and smears by the door. More dog mess? I wandered over to check it out.

Then

Out of the corner of my eye

I saw it.

THE GIGANTIC PILES OF SHIT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE (FULLY CARPETED) OFFICE FLOOR!!!

Ok, in all fairness, there was one gigantic pile of shit, and three lesser piles surrounding it.

And this was no ordinary shit. This dog had clearly gone for the extra grease, extra cheese, extra beans, extra extra hot sauce superdeluxe chalupah, and my carpet paid the price.

I was stunned. Dazed, I turned back to look at the door from whence I’d entered this, the 4th circle of hell that had replaced my home, and saw it. The other puddle of shit on the tile at the front door, that I’d stepped in on my way inside.

And then I lost it.

I picked up my phone and called Neil; as soon as he answered I just yelled “OH MY GOD THE DOG DIAHRREA’D ALL OVER THE APARTMENT!” To which he replied “So I guess I should come home?” To which I replied “OH MY GOD I CAN’T HANDLE THIS!” And promptly hung up.

I grabbed my purse, and the dog, and my keys, and just left.

I managed to make it down to the coffee place at the end of the block, tied the dog to a table outside, ordered a cappucino, and just waited for Neil to make it home (I did think to call at some point and let him know that I was in a place other than the befouled apartment).

To make an already long story a little shorter and spare you the grosest details, it took three hours, three kitchen catchers, one roll of paper towel, two dishclothes, a can of Spot Shot, a Rug Doctor rental, a method air pill and scented candle, Chinese food dinner OUT, three beer and two larger-than-is-decent-in-polite-company glasses of scotch, and we’re finally feeling better (if not ok) about the experience.

And now that I’ve made it to the other side, I can say that maybe, perhaps, there is a tiny inkling of indication that there is hope for me yet to be a parent of small children and actually enjoy it.

Because even with the experience she put me through, I can say with conviction that even if she were to do this again, I would still prefer that the dastardly hound spend her time at the end of my bed, rather than the end of my fork.

No, not the fitness blitz that Neil and I started. This is an entirely different regimen.

I realized last Friday night that I am completely and utterly ill prepared for a trip to the UK.

I have completely and utterly lost any and all ability to hold my liquor.

I thought the Cinco de Mayo tequila bender was an isolated affair.

But then this past New Year’s Eve, half a bottle of wine and 2 glasses of champagne had me tossing my caviar mere moments into 2007.

And then on Friday night, 3 pints of beer (which would be nothing less than a year ago: witness - the amount of soju and beer consumed in Korea without repercussion) knocked me so flat on my arse that despite the 3 attempts it took to expunge the ale-soaked poutine from my body, I still had to “sleep” sitting-up on the couch, because the damn room refused to stop spinning. And I didn’t start feeling any sort of normal until well after noon the next day.

Considering I’m about to be let loose in a country with nearly as many pubs as people, this most certainly Will. Not. Do.

So I have put myself on a strict training regimen.

Starting tonight, I will drink beer, EVERY NIGHT, in increasing amounts until we leave. I have 8 days to get myself back into respectable drinking shape and avoid completely embarrassing myself on one of the UK’s omnipresent public cameras.

Combined with this, I’ll actually attempt to continue to get up and exercise each morning; the better to get used to hauling my sorry arse out of bed and doing something, even (and especially!) when I feel like doing anything but, and also to ensure that I still fit into my jeans (beer has serious calories!) when we leave.

And now, considering what very well may be the biological implications of such an endeavor, I am finally glad we have the awful rental apartment carpets that we do. I’d hate to do that kind of damage to our new hardwood.

So through the hectic haze that is the holidays in December, and then that long, slow January, I was feeling a little… off. My blog posting slowed, work slowed, I wasn’t out and about on the town much and really just wanted to hang out in my wee cocoon of home and man and dog and hibernate for a bit.

I’ve finally decided that’s enough of that, and it’s time to get back into the swing of things.

Between the hibernation and some small humps in my personal life, I feel as if I’ve lost a little something.

I am trying to reclaim that something, and part of the process is trying to be more authentic, which is something I’m struggling with lately.

I know that since I abandoned a life of continuously hitting the town, and firefighters puking over my balcony this blog has gotten boring. I try, I really do - but now I need some help. Anyone can go on bad dates and tell stories about them - but there were readers here long before that, and long after, so something must remain.

I am not playing in a delurking game, or whoring for comments and/or attention. I’m asking you, gentle reader, to help make this a better blog. This is for you! All I want you to do is answer this one question:

What do you think is my Unique Ability?

Apply this however you see fit - if you only know me through my blog, apply it that way. If you know me in person, consider that too. Heck, consider that alone and leave the blog out of it entirely if you think that it’s just gone too far down the tank to be relevant. Interpret unique ability in the way that strikes you as most correct for your world (there is no right or wrong answer) and tell me, either via email or in the comments.

But I’d like you to answer. Pretty please!

I was about to leave the house this morning, when my home phone rang. It rarely does this (since the only folks who have it are telemarketers), and even more rare is it ringing in the morning.

So I answered.

On the other end of the line was a gentelman from my bank, Coast Capital Savings, letting me know that my debit card has been cancelled, since it was used at a confirmed card skimming location. I got the number for my new card over the phone so I can continue to use online banking, and it was suggested that I take a look at my bank records for the past 30 days to ensure nothing out of the ordinary had gone on.

I wasn’t terribly worried about the situation - I’d just downloaded my January transactions and reviewed them at the end of the month anyway, so I knew they were fine.

But Lo! In the last two days, someone’s certainly been taking some far-reaching liberties with my account. The last transaction I made was to deposit a cheque on Saturday afternoon. Two hours later, a $500 withdrawl was made (my daily cash limit), followed immediately by a $2000 “deposit” (likely an empty envelope). Sunday another $500 was withdrawn, and this morning my card was cancelled.

At first I thought maybe my card number was skimmed at some shady corner store I’d stopped in at some point on my travels. But looking at the transaction pattern, I’m significantly more creeped out.

Because my financial institution is a Credit Union (instead of a bank), I’m able to use the services of any BC Credit Union ATM. The closest ATM to my home isn’t a Coast Capital machine, but it is a credit union nonetheless, so I use it most often - and Saturday afternoon was no exception.

Looking at my transaction records, the fraud was committed at the EXACT SAME BRANCH I’d just deposited that cheque at a mere 2 hours earlier. Coincidence? I’m not so sure. I’m thinking back to that night - I used my card in the outdoor card-reader to open the door. I put my card in the machine. I entered my pin. I don’t remember if there was anyone else in the bank, but I don’t think there was.

Because the investigation is ongoing, the fraud protection people weren’t able to tell me which location my card was skimmed at - but I’ve used my card MULTIPLE times at all of the places I’ve got in my bank statement in the past 30 days, and that bank machine is no exception.

So there’s your lesson kids. Cover your PIN, no matter where you are or how safe things seem. The bank people tell me that compared to the amount of cardholders and transactions that take place each day, card scams are generally pretty rare, but clearly they do happen!

It all started when I was about 19 years old, and outgrew the teenaged ability to sleep and wake without much consideration for the body’s actual needs. Since then, I’ve rarely been successful at sleeping through the night.

I’m sure most of this is because of my type-A personality, and tendency toward anxiety. While I’ve done the lion’s share of the personal work needed to be, for all intents and purposes, a mentally healthy individual, the one thing that never quite stuck for very long was the ability to sleep for more than 5 or 6 hours without waking up worrying about something.

Has the dog been fed?
Did I blow out that candle?
Did I email that client?
What will my contingency plan be if the car breaks down again?
Did I lose an earring at some point?
Where is my cell phone charger?

Even if I can answer those questions, I’ll sometimes doubt the rational (and correct) answer my brain has pulled out, in favour of worrying enough that I’ll finally have to get out of bed to check on that thing I’m worrying about, just to ease my mind.

At my worst, I used to have an answering machine (instead of adopting voicemail like the rest of the 20th century) because I liked being able to call it when I thought my house had been burnt down or burglarized (rationale: if my apartment had burnt, the answering machine would be broken, or if I’d been burglarized, it would’ve been stolen and therefore wouldn’t pick up when I called it). And believe me, nothing feels like Crazy quite like getting out of a boyfriend’s bed at 3:00am and taking his keys to drive across town, because I couldn’t be convinced that I’d blown out a candle at home, and calling the answering machine wasn’t providing enough peace of mind.

I no longer do those things, but my brain is still very good at pulling something out of the grey matter and dredging it up for me to obsess about during the wee hours. I’m currently stuck in a cycle of “Sleep for 3 hours, wake up and worry for 2 hours, sleep for another hour until I have to get up and face the day again.” The prolonged lack of sleep is making me very cranky and unproductive.

So off I trundled to my neighbourhood clinic for some medical intervention. The doctor was wonderful and helpful, and presented my options :
1. Regular sleep-aids, which will leave me with a regular sleeping pill hangover and are habit-forming.
2. A revolutionary sleep-aid that would have me sleeping through the night, waking refreshed and alert, and gaining approximately 2 kilograms (about 4.5lbs) per WEEK.
3. Sleep Hygiene. Ding Ding Ding! We have a winner!

Sleep Hygiene doesn’t have anything to do with showering before bed, instead it’s a systematic way of approaching bed and sleep in order to train my body to know that the bed is for “sleep and sex and nothing else.”

(Aside: why is it that whenever I go to the clinic, and something about my sex life comes up - whether I went in to discuss a pap smear, contraception issues, or even this sleep thing (which included talking about sex, at least a little) - I get the hotty doctor, around whom I lose my words and act like a slack-jawed yokel? And when I go in for something like muscle pain or a flu shot, I get the four-million year old doctor that smells like mothballs? The universe is cruel.)

So I now have a set of rules governing my relationship with my bed:

1. I must adhere to a strict sleep/wake time schedule - EVEN ON WEEKENDS! This means that since I need to get up at 6:30am from Monday to Friday, I get to do the same thing on Saturdays and Sundays. I am also officially no fun at parties, because I’m supposed to go to bed at 10:30pm.

2. Bed is for sleeping or sex only. No TV. No Eating. No Reading. No Worrying. No “hanging out on top of the mattress” for reasons other than the two mentioned. This completely obliterates my and Neil’s rituals of watching TV or reading in bed before sleep, and having coffee (and sometimes breakfast) in bed while watching the morning news on TV. Also, Neil similarly injured his coccyx in a snowboarding mishap of his own last weekend, and sometimes laying down is the only comfortable thing for us to do. And the couch is only big enough for one of us.

3. The bedroom should be dark, and no looking at the clock when waking up in the middle of the night. I must cover the LCD display of my clock radio before going to sleep so that I can’t see that it’s 4:00am when I wake up in a fit of anxiety and further freak out about that. This has already screwed me over once: the alarm didn’t go off, and I laid in bed (in the dark room, of course) for a good 20 minutes trying to get back to sleep before getting up and seeing that HOLY SHIT I’M REALLY LATE.

Of course, there have been a few good bits:

If I can’t sleep, I’m supposed to try my best to get back to sleep - and if I can’t, I must get up and go somewhere else in the house and do something quiet - read or watch TV - until I feel sleepy and go back to bed. Usually the knowledge that getting up involves putting on sweats and finding a blanket (it’s pretty cold in our apartment at night - on purpose) and certainly does not involve having another body to spoon with, is enough to convince me to get over my damn self and fall back asleep.

I’ve noticed that when I do wake-up in the middle of the night, it’s far easier to fall asleep without the pressure of knowing what time it is, and therefore how little time I have left to get a “good night’s sleep” I have.

And I’ve certainly noticed that as inconvenient as it is sometimes to have a “bedtime” on weekends, adhering to it makes a world of difference on how well I sleep during the week.

I haven’t been all that good at adhering to the rules as strictly as I should, but when I do manage to follow them for 5 or 6 days in a row, I start to notice a marked improvement. Enough for me to be convinced that there really is something to it all, and it’s not just a scheme cooked up to make me miserable.

It still sucks that now need a very good reason to stay up later than 10:30, and that I have to take my morning coffee on the couch or at the table, instead of still mostly snuggled underneath the covers.

But I have started making some KILLER weekend brunches, and it no longer bothers me that Belgian waffles need to rise for an hour before baking. It’s not like I’m not already up.

So while I’m not all that fun at parties these days, if anyone’s interested in some sort of weekend afternoon activity, I’m SO there. Or give me a call and come by for Sunday brunch. And while you’re over, could I interest you in purchasing an answering machine?