Visiting Uncle Machu

At the moment, I am sitting in a hotel in Cusco, Peru, with a line of people who might (or might not) be waiting to use this computer. Who knows? My Spanish is appalling! I haven´t a clue what´s going on half of the time.

For those who find themselves in a similar predicament, I would recommend the Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish: it provides phrases applicable to every conceivable situation. For example, terms are provided to use should you choose to engage a member of the local population in carnal relations (e.g. getting to really "know" another culture, in the biblical sense). You can even coach your Peruvian lover and evaluate his/her performance.

Of course, that page of the guide did not pertain to me. More applicable was the page on getting rid of Peruvians who wish to engage foreigners in carnal relations. I was at a restaurant with my husband and a Russian girl when a repugnant young man made eyes at me--incessantly. Rod´s back was to him, and I was forced to stare at the table. Every time I forgot, we made eye contact, and his eyes were passionate, sensual--full of longing and male bravado. Sigh.

Another highlight of the trip thus far was eating a Guinea Pig! The waiter serves the entire pig to prove that it´s not a cat; thus, the animal comes almost intact--eyes, gaping mouth, upper and lower teeth, tongue, feet replete with tiny claws, and a tough outer skin covered in a few remnants of hair. Delicious! It tastes like salty chicken.

Well, I must be off . . . to give my stomach ample time to digest the chunks of rodent weighing it down.

Why One Should Not Pee In One's Bathwater, and Other Life Lessons

Our house is like the movie Signs: like little Bo Hess, I leave half-consumed glasses of water everywhere. Upon discovering my peculiar quirk, my better (and thirstier) half made it a house rule that only "safe" drinks could be left, unfinished, around the house. He then began finishing what I had started. Marital harmony prevailed.

I also have a habit of leaving the bathtub half full. Now, one cannot leave numerous bathtubs lying around the house, nor is my husband willing to bathe in lukewarm, used water, especially after I've shaved my legs. One day, after staring at a half-filled bathtub and longing to fill it yet again, I realized how environmentally catastrophic my great pleasure was.

I thus vowed to leave no bathtub half full, nor to allow this precious resource to go down the drain. The household plants were the first recipients of the recycled bathwater. The parched lawn was to be the next.

Unfortunately, I have a third habit worth mentioning: I tend to get distracted in the middle of a task. So it was that three bottles of recycled bathwater were left on the floor of our computer room. And that's where my husband's love of bottled water comes in . . .

Inside Rod's digestive system is my bathwater. Rod's kidneys know me in a personal and intimate way. That said, my life partner was less than happy when I declared (while laughing) that he had inadvertently found a way to become even 'closer' as husband and wife.

The Woman Who Bore Me

If I were more organized, I would have written the following words this Mother's Day:

How to describe my mother? The first thing that stands out is her peculiar name: Jutta. I recall being hopelessly confused in grade three when our Social Studies class discussed "Utah."

"But that's my mother!" I protested. Even now, the ripple of laughter among my classmates still echoes in my mind.

I gradually learned that it is healthier to mock one's mother than to defend her, and I have since called the Pregnancy Care Centre where she works asking for "Jud-uh" or "Joo-ta." There's always a pregnant pause (no pun intended), and then the tired voice on the other line says, "You must mean Jutta."

My mother is a whirling dervish of sorts--though she's neither Muslim nor a proponent of dancing. In my early years her energy was directed into domestic projects (e.g. constructing gingerbread houses or icing the names of my classmates onto Valentine's cookies). Later, she became obsessed with aerobics. Now her passions include diagnosing people with borderline personality disorder, placing stacks of books on every surface of the house, and behaving like a stalker at Starbucks in her endless quest for on-sale merchandise.

Though half-crazy like every other Wittmeier (we're an eccentric lot), my mother has some amazing attributes. She is opinionated (a maddening quality when you're her 15-year-old daughter, mind you!), a humanitarian, and exceedingly generous. She is there whenever I have the itch to convince someone to sponsor a World Vision child (she has over seven). Best of all, she despises those dull social gatherings where people are forced to endure idle chatter--showers and teas and the like. What grief I have been spared!

Like all good mothers, mine can be trained. My brother Brent and I, both Pavlovians, grew weary of her peculiar habit of breathing loudly through her nose to express irritation. So, naturally, we perfected our own nasal exhalations to accompany hers. She couldn't help but laugh--and be forever cured.

We always enjoyed shopping with her as well. As young children we would set "traps" in department stores by placing articles of clothing on the edge of the clothes racks. Jutta (or some hapless stranger) would walk absentmindedly amongst the racks--and blammo!--hangers and clothing were strewn all over the floor. Equally entertaining was our practice of sneaking up behind to nudge poor mother repeatedly with a grocery cart.

I owe a lot of happy memories to my mother. I'm still amused when I think of how she apologized to the fire hydrant she rudely walked into. I get nostalgic when I think of her donning "Santa boppers"--blinking headgear she would wear when distributing Christmas gifts. And even now, I get just a little choked up and homesick when I see a Starbuck's mug on sale.

Happy belated Mother's Day.

You Know You're Old When . . .

. . . your Little Sister, who once wanted to be just like you, is now horrified by what you've become.

Let me explain. On Michelle's 15th birthday, Rod and I took her to see Spiderman at the Imax. Now, when the word "Spiderman" is mentioned, endorphins are released into my husband's brain, and he starts kicking and punching unseen villains. The release of the third instalment was no small event: Rod's brain was drenched in chemicals and the air surrounding him was reeling from the impact of his blows.

After the movie (when Rod had finally stopped twitching), Michelle lapsed into a dreary adolescent silence. Naturally, Rod and I started discussing the movie's plot.

At last Michelle spoke up from the backseat. "Do you guys always do all of this . . . this . . . analyzing?" she asked, allowing the most corrosive word conceivable to drip from her tongue. "Do people really become this boring when they get old?"

Worried that the preposterous nature of this moment might be lost on us, Michelle said, "We do this sort of thing in English class. We talk about theme. We talk about setting. We talk about verisimilitude. Have you guys lost your minds? I feel like I'm in English class."

She began writhing in the backseat. Our analysis had clearly unleashed a torrent of bad chemicals in her brain.

Rod immediately launched into a discussion about make-up and hair, while I pondered Michelle's words.

I remember viewing the elderly first with awe, and then with scorn. At the tender age of seven, I had thought the nine-year-old Orphan Annie was it--sophisticated beyond her years, the pinnacle of womanhood. At age ten I was astounded that I would be THIRTEEN when the Olympics came to town. By age 20, my friend Kathy and I had begun a tradition of lamenting our mortality on our birthdays. I thought that life would be over by my early thirties.

Now, at 32--THIRTY-TWO!--I realized that aging isn't as bad as a brand new 15-year-old might think. Yes, Rod and I analyze everything to death, but we're fine with that. We're in this "aging thing" together, after all. Furthermore, I now get paid to analyze--and to be in English class. And the things that once struck me as unspeakably dull--conversing with adults, staying home for the evening, and cooking a meal--are now satisfying.

Perhaps I've aged, but things could be much worse. I could be Michelle's age.

Our Son Holden

Now, Rod would reject the label "son" -- in reference to a pet rabbit -- but he's simply a distant father. Or perhaps Rod is still grappling with the issues surrounding adoption -- the fact that his son is not genetically his (though friends swear they'd never know the difference!).

We don't know much about Holden's early months: unwanted, he was abandoned in Olds at the onset of winter. I don't know what to tell him when he's old enough to ask questions; the best we can do now is to assure him that we're his "forever family" (provided Rod's allergies don't act up).

I happened to be visiting the Calgary Humane Society with Julie and her sons Benton and Joe. Our hearts went out to "Kermit" -- a busy, unsuspecting ball of chinchilla fur with ears that trailed on the floor like Dumbo's. (I think "dork" was the word Julie used.) Kermit's charms were evident: he climbed all over us in the handling room, even though Ben (only 8), was making the sort of spastic motions that ordinarily make animals scatter.

While Benton dissolved into tears (upon suddenly recognizing how many cats didn't have parents), I went to the front desk to casually "inquire" about Kermit. (You see, Rod and I had only "talked" about adoption in passing.)

The adoption counselor/social worker, upon discovering that I lived in Fort McMurray and would need to bring the rabbit home a.s.a.p., went to the back. The vet came out minutes later. She mournfully explained that although Kermit had, in fact, noticed some peculiar changes in his body (i.e. the growth of fur in private places), neutering was done for that day. I had arrived too late; my face fell and I could only hope for a miracle.

Before I knew it, the vet disappeared and reappeared with the statement, "Okay, he's in surgery."

"In surgery?" I exclaimed.

"At this very moment."

My heart went out to Kermit, whose testicles had obviously descended and was now facing the horrors of emasculation. If he was man enough to get neutered on the spot, I realized, I had to be man enough to adopt him on the spot. So I did.

According to his documents, Kermit almost "fully grown." "He won't grow much more," his teary caregivers said as they bid him farewell for the last time. "He's done growing."

As it turns out, Holden (as he's now called) had no intentions of stopping. His head was its adult size, certainly, but his body has since expanded like a balloon, as has his appetite. His dominion is our entire basement, where he manages a multi-layered apartment complex made of cardboard boxes. When hungry, he makes his needs known by flinging his metal dish across the cement floor.

He's a remarkable rabbit. He uses the litterbox, accepts his degrading pink leash without complaint (thanks Desiree!), and comes when called, his floppy ears forever flapping. Kermit . . . Holden . . . welcome home.

Lisa Needs a Man (or, a Belated Birthday Wish)

This, my friends, is Lisa--Lisa Wind.* Lisa's birthday was on Saturday, and like a dutiful friend, I completely forgot. Perhaps a public apology will repair the damage done.

Just to be sure, though, I would like to find Lisa a very special birthday gift: a man. As unbelievable as it might sound, Lisa is currently single.

I know of at least one man who would find the news staggering (readers: this is your cue to gather around, as I am about to tell a story).

Once upon a time, when we were in Romania working in an orphanage, Lisa was the cat's meow amongst the humanoid population. While I was attracting little stray kittens (which should technically make me the cat's meow), Lisa was attracting psychotic stray men.

"Ion" (a.k.a. "cool cat") made his moves in an Internet cafe. He liked Lisa's hair, and he would not take "no" for an answer. In fact, after being shot down (in Lisa's kindly way), he ended up peering over her shoulder to get a glimpse of her email address (and other potential delights).

Imagine Lisa's pleasure when Ion began emailing her! As luck would have it, I have a copy of the email on hand:

"please," he writes, "if i make you mad with my e-mails write me back and i will stop . . . i'm boring right now so i was thinking to write you an e-mail with my description and some pics to make you know me better and let you evaluate if it's worthed to lose time with me."

Ion's unintentionally self-deprecating approach did not win Lisa's heart, I'm sorry to say (from a purely selfish perspective, it would have been fascinating to watch such an unlikely couple in action). In fact, upon her return to the Internet cafe where Ion lurked, Lisa was forced to pretend that she was dating my brother. (What lengths a person will go to to avoid a stalker!)

Ion did not follow Lisa back to Canada. So here she is, stalkerless and single.** Can you help?

Your birthday gift will soon be on its way, Lisa!


*Please note: I once had a friend named Lisa Weathers, a most peculiar coincidence.
**Candidates must pass the Wittmeier screening (i.e. an afternoon with me and my brothers). Potential dates must be single, Christian, athletic, and eager to help produce multiple children once the ring is upon the finger. Blonde, tall, stocky (not stalky) candidates will receive special consideration.