Double or Nothing…the conclusion

My sister and I had lost the second Euchre game to the Brothers Lowry. Now we were on our second round of dirty martinis and starting to feel desperate. There was entirely too much Feick losing and Lowry winning going on for our liking. I think of myself as a liberated woman who doesn't need to prove herself in the company of men, but there's something about playing against my husband that makes my blood boil with a seething desire to win. Unfortunately, I suck at Euchre.

It was Carman's deal. The boys made smarmy remarks about expensive bottles of wine as I poured another round of drinks and shook the last of the Goldfish Pretzels into a bowl (emergency snacks - we were out of chips). Apropos of nothing, D held up Tanzi's new bikini, which she'd left out on the counter for my inspection. "What the hell is this?" he asked, holding it arm's length like it was a dead rat. When informed it was Tanzi's new bathing suit, he snorted and told her it had way too much material. Having bought seven of them for me over the years, D considers himself something of an expert on bikinis, and is of the "less is more" school of thought.

While my sister and D debated appropriate bikini sizes, I sucked on an olive and tried to think of the Euchre cheating signals my sister and I used when we were kids. That's when Tanzi proposed the most outrageous bet in the history of Someday.

"Okay boys. How about double or nothing?"

Everyone rolled their eyes.

If we win," she continued over the rim of her martini glass, "you guys have to put on my new bikini and get your picture taken in front of the Christmas tree."

A hush fell over the card table. The Lowry brothers eyed one another. I grinned; my sister was suddenly a genius. At least, three martinis made it seem like she was.

"D'you mean the outside tree?" asked Carman, looking dubious. It was -20 with the wind chill.

"Yup," said Tanzi.

"You're on," D said immediately. Clearly, he feared no loss. Carman did a kind of half-nod, half-shrug to signal his reluctant assent, then held up a finger. "Wait. What do we get if you guys lose?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said. "It's double or nothing. Get it?" I wasn't really sure that's what double or nothing meant, and I could tell Carman wasn't sure either, but for reasons best attributed to cider, he went along with it.

By now I'm sure you've guessed the outcome: the Feick girls smoked the Lowry boys and won the fateful bet. I'm proud to say that my husband and his brother said not one word of complaint, although they wore a look similar to the one they have when the Leafs fail to get into the playoffs.

I've been forbidden from posting any incriminating photos here ("Kim, I have a JOB.") but suffice it to say the boys followed through. Carman took the bottom half of the bikini, D took the top half and out they went in the frigid weather to pose with our wooden Santa in front of the Christmas tree. They were excellent sports and gracious, if humiliated, losers. Best of all, Tanzi and I have the proof to hold over their heads in all Lowry/Feick tourneys to come. Double or nothing has never been so sweet!

Double or Nothing?

Every Christmas, my sister Tanzi comes up to Someday for a visit. This year, she was on vacation from her teaching stint in Bali, so it was extra special to have her stay over on Christmas Eve and wake up with us to witness the kids'Christmas morning frenzy.

Whenever she visits during the holidays, invite D's brother Carman over for a night of junk food, booze and euchre. Carm and Tanzi get along well, and D and I don't get many opportunities to indulge our competitive natures, so it's something I look forward to: a little brotherly/sisterly fellowship, a little marital one-upmanship. It's also a perfect opportunity to make bets, win bragging rights and generally be obnoxious to whomever loses. This year, double or nothing took on a new meaning.

Carman dutifully arrived after chores on the chosen night, freshly showered and wearing a nice sweater, which I took as a discreet compliment to Tanzi and a possible indication that my usually reticent bro-in-law actually enjoyed getting together for our social evening. Then he slumped onto the couch and asked D what the score of the Leafs game was.

"Guys!" I protested. "We're supposed to be playing cards!"

"Yeah!" Tanzi chimed in. "You're supposed to be visiting with me! Hello - I'm going back to BALI, you know."

The brothers Lowry didn't even look at us when they answered in eerie unison, "After the game."

Nonplussed, my sister and I cracked open a bottle of champagne (one of our Christmas holiday traditions) and broke out the Yahtzee dice to bide our time until the hockey was over. The Leafs were ahead by a couple of goals, then by one goal, then tied, and the boys winced and groaned as their favourite team's chances of winning diminished.

"Wanna bet on the game?" Tanzi asked D during a commercial break. The score was 3/3. D swivelled in his chair and stared at her while Carm looked skeptical. "What?" Tanzi asked, all wide-eyed innocence. "Whoever wins has to buy the other person a really expensive bottle of wine."

"Hardly a fair bet" I mumbled as I rolled the Yahtzee dice. "Leafs suck."

"I heard that," said D. "Okay, you're on." He set his mouth in a grim line, and turned back to the TV where the Leafs proceeded to win the game in a shootout.

"Whoo hoo, did I just win?" yelled my sister. She had maybe drunk a little too much champagne.

After correcting Tanzi's perception, D strutted over to the kitchen table to begin our euchre tourney with more swagger than usual. Oh great, I thought. Now they'll be extra cocky if we lose. I tried to telegraph a "let's kick their asses!" message to my sister as Carman divided the deck but she wasn't paying attention. As the cards were dealt, D uncorked a bottle of the boys' famous apple cider. The sisters Feick would need liquid courage of our own to face the smug brothers Lowry at euchre, so I made dirty martinis.

Martinis are not a common occurrence at Someday, as D loathes olives and gin with equal fervour and I'm not much for hard liquor. I seem to only drink martinis when my sisters are around, probably a throwback to watching our mom and her friends drink them by the gallon. Mom, ever the good Russkie, would take a bottle of Stolichnaya out of the freezer, pour a slow glug into one of her antique glasses, toss in a curl of lemon peel and Nastrovia! The Martini of champions was born.

I'm more of a gin-based, dirty martini kinda girl, which means pouring equal parts gin and olive juice into a martini glass and chucking a handful of olives in at the end. My sister oohed appreciatively as I set our martinis on the table, while Carman and D recoiled in disgust. They couldn't understand why anyone would refuse a glass of their beautiful cider, much less drink a glass of alcohol mixed with salty brine. At any rate, our poisons of choice only served to fuel the flames of competition as the euchre tourney of 2014 got underway.

Tanzi and I quickly and unceremoniously lost the first game in a devastating 10-3 score.

"Gimme another martini," commanded my sister before turning to Carman and D. "Okay, boys. We let you have that one."

"That's two bottles of wine," said D with a smirk as he shuffled the cards.

Tanzi waved her hand as though D was an annoying fly instead of an annoying brother-in-law. "Whatever. Quit stalling and start dealing." D obliged and we proceeded to lose the next game, which called for more cider, another round of martinis and an even more daring bet by my reckless sister.

Stay tuned for the conclusion to this startling tale of pride and debauchery...

The skinny on dipping

Every year, around this time of summer, I like to try and coerce my husband to take off all his clothes and do something outrageous.

Way back when, on a trip to California, I shamed him into wiggling out of his clothes and jumping into the crashing surf on Venice Beach, clad only in his trusty tighty whities. He still has nightmares about it today: "What if LAPD flew over us in a helicopter and arrested me for public indecency?" "What if those people down the beach from us could, you know, see it?"

When we first moved to Someday, I convinced him to go skinny dipping at Emmerton beach on a muggy July night. I had to use all my powers of persuasion and eye-rolling to get him to strip it all off and dash into the water. We were newlyweds, we didn't have kids, and I could still get him to do things that were a bit edgy. And I always stripped down first.

Several summers ago, we got caught outside in a beautiful warm rain in the back meadow. He was on the tractor and I was gathering flowers. I noticed that the barn downspout had turned into a waterfall; I stripped off my clothes and stood underneath it, laughing. "Come on!!!" I yelled at him. He just shook his head, grinning like a sheepish kid, and stayed on the tractor, despite my coaxing, cajoling and harrassment. I could tell he wanted to; he just lacked a little nerve. That winter, he confided that he would always regret not having jumped down and joined me. Humph.

He made up for his reticence the year I was pregnant with Dylan; we were in the thick of a big summer rainstorm, complete with thunder and lightning. My sister and I were hiding in the house. D had come in just before the storm hit, all sweaty from mowing the lawn.

"I gotta take a shower." he said.
"A shower? Just run outside," I suggested.
"What? In a storm? You're nuts. Plus your sister will see me."
"Oh, don't be such a baby," I said. "Just go and do it. It'll be fun! I dare ya."

After a moment's hesitation, he actually started taking off his clothes. He solemnly handed me his glasses, said, "If I get hit by lightning, it's your fault," and dashed out into the storm, wearing only his orange crocs. It was quite a sight. I felt a surge of pride...and terror, as the thunder crashed and my beloved husband's shapely behind disappeared out of sight of the house.

He eventually made it back in one soggy piece, dripping and exhilarated. I dutifully waited in the shanty with a towel and congratulations. There's just something about being naked outside that makes you feel alive, and I was glad he was finally getting on board.

I'm afraid my children have inherited my penchant for nudity, as their favourite time of day is that fifteen minute interval between tooth brushing and bedtime where they are allowed to shed their clothes and run around shrieking "Naked naked NUDIE!!!" Or maybe it's just the natural tendency of a toddler to want to be unencumbered by the annoying contraints of diapers, underwear, and other assorted bits of bodily confinement. I can't say I blame them.

We shared a moment of naked solidarity the other day when it was so hot I wanted to lock myself in the freezer. I don't do well in the heat, and neither does my son. We both end up red-faced and sweaty with the temper of a rabid pitbull when the thermometer goes anywhere above 75 degrees, so inheriting our cousins' kiddie pool last summer was a godsend. After a gruelling bike ride to the cottage and back, we stripped Jade and Dyl down and let them soak in the nice, cool water. After enduring sensitive comments from my husband ("Gee Kimmmy, are ya hot? Look kids, it's sweaty Kim!"), I proceeded to tear off my clothes and wade into the pool with the kids, much to their squealing delight. I think D was somewhere between horrified and turned on, but I was in the zone: naked, cool, and surrounded by happy kidlets.

It may be a long hot summer, but at least some of us will be naked enough to enjoy it.

In praise of...the bath

I keep forgetting to contribute to my "In praise of" blog series. It was supposed to be a monthly homage to the good stuff in life, but I think I missed November entirely. Oopsie. It certainly isn't because I don't have enough good stuff in my life, either. Nope, life is rife with the good stuff; just not rife with writing/blogging time it seems.

Anyway, today I will wax poetic about THE BATH. Last week D and I stayed at the London Armories hotel, and there was a glorious, deep, marble tub in our room that we promptly made use of. I'd almost forgotten how amazing it is to float shoulder-deep in hot water for an hour. We've been having some water issues at Someday, so I've avoided the bath because I don't want my skin to turn a brilliant rusty orange the way our toilets have from the iron in the water. But spending some time in the bath has inspired me to sing its praises...

- A bath is the ultimate mood enhancer. Anxious about the presentation you have to give tomorrow? Upset about a romance gone sour? Screaming baby making your hair fall out? The bath is the answer, my friend. As soon as you start running the water, your shoulders will release themselves from their hiding place beside your ears. Drop your clothing on the floor and you'll feel your breath start to deepen. Sink into the luxurious warmth of a full tub and all the nastiness of life seems to disappear, if only for an hour or two. Add a few candles and a glass of wine, and you've got yourself a few hours of pure, simple bliss. Ahhhhh....

- Food tastes better in the bath. Eat in the bath, you say? Oh yes. And somehow, eating and drinking in the bathtub makes everything taste better. Red wine becomes silkier, popcorn is crispier, apple slices are tangier, chocolate is...um...chocolate-y-er. I think it's because eating in the tub is a bit taboo, kind of like eating in bed. And we all know that doing something slightly naughty is just plain fun. Don't believe me? Try floating a plastic bowl of buttered popcorn beside you in the tub next time you climb in and see if you don't agree. The only downside is fishing out the mushy bits that don't make it to your mouth.

- You get to be naked. There just aren't enough acceptable times and places a person can be naked and feel completely relaxed; the bath is an exception. Not only are you supposed to be naked, it would be weird if you weren't. So look down, appreciate your wonderful naked self - wrinkles, hairy bits, freckles and saggies and all! Our bodies are pretty cool things and treating them to a nice, warm bath is a good way to show yourself you care.

- Your voice becomes magically enhanced. Singing in the bath is even better than singing in the shower, because your voice carries up from the depths of the tub and bounces off the water. I can easily become Beyonce when I'm in the tub. Or at least one of those nerdy kids from Glee.

- You can be alone. Perfectly, wonderfully alone. You can close the door. You can even lock it if you have such a luxury. Baths are times for solitude and reflection. Unless, of course, you have a big ol' tub with room for a friend. But that's a whole different blog entry.

Soggy Bottom Girl

Every now and then, God peers down on Someday and says, "Hmm. Looks a little dry down there." He then proceeds to send a deluge of biblical proportions. This happened yesterday at the exact moment I was unbuckling Jady Lady from her carseat to take her into the house. Ahhh, nature.

I plugged her back in, flopped the top over her seat and ran for the back porch door. This is no easy feat when your hands are slippery with rainwater, you are blinded by said rainwater and the carseat weighs approximately three thousand pounds. At least that's what it feels like to stick-armed, outta shape me.

It took me all of 15 seconds to run from the car to the house, but by the time I pried the screen door open and heaved Jade inside, I was sopping wet. I'm talking wet to the skin, from dripping hair to waterlogged sneakers. Even my underwear was soaked. Bleah.

When I lifted the carseat cover to check on Jade, she was completely dry and stared up at me, perplexed. I guess she'd never seen Mummy look like a drowned rat before. As I leaned over, a drop of rainwater ran off my forehead, plopped onto her nose and dribbled down to her lip. She tasted it and grinned a big toothless smile.

It was at that moment that I felt the urge to take off my clothes and run outside in the pouring rain. There's just something about being in the country during a warm summer rain that causes one to entertain thoughts of running outside in one's altogethers. However, having a three month old baby waiting patiently for you to take her out of her carseat and feed her lunch puts a damper on these crazy tendencies. So instead, I stepped outside, fully clothed, and enjoyed a bit more of the rain before peeling off my wet things to put on dry clothes and return to my motherly duties.

I'm sure it will rain again this summer. Hopefully next time Jade will be fast asleep!