Tippity Tap

Hello dear friend.  It's been awhile.  I've all but forgotten the feel of fingers dancing on a keyboard.  I've lost the tingle of delight of creating and then sharing.  Lately, my poor keyboard sees routine clicking of "make payment now?" and repeated entries into You Tube for Monster High.  Don't even get me started.  A far cry from inspired writing.


But here I am.  Consider this a short stretch, a mere warm up of unpractised fingers and a muddled brain that needs to re-awken and create.  I've got plenty to tell.  Loads to share.  


Let me start by saying  the Big Scary List has been ticked, checked and neatly folded away  for safekeeping and reflection when I'm old and senile.  There's no list now, which doesn't necessarily make my OCD Type A personality particularly comfortable, but I'm compensating with cleaning and absentmindedly purchasing erroneous groceries in multiples.  I'm happy to share one of my three bags of frozen edamame with you.


No list, but a new chapter to unveil.  I can't wait to tell you all about our latest adventures here at the Manor.  Dull?  Never.  Predictable?  Unlikely.  Fun?  Absolutely.  

The Suitcase

I’m packing my new suitcase. It’s pretty cool.  It’s black and orange and has lots of zippers and compartments to stick stuff in. It’s even got an extended handle and wheels. It’s perfect for cramming last minute trinkets and trash that I will find and bring home to The Monkey.  I’m pretty happy with my new suitcase.

My suitcase sits empty on my bed. As always, it’s a formidable task to decide what exactly to take.  For the organizing, folding, sorting mayhem, I unleash my type A-OCD; She loves this stuff.  She springs joyfully around the bedroom, yelling:  “OKAY!  Here’s the plan!  First!  We lay out all the outfits, with shoes and shirts and pants and belts and underwear and socks.  Once we’ve done that, then, OH THEN!  We get to organize and pack all the clothes by type!  Underwear together, then pants, and shirts... OH my goodness, don’t forget power cords!  Must not forget those.  This. Is. So. Much. Fun.  

I sit starting at my now packed suitcase.  I wait.  There is no sense in gnashing the steel teeth together just yet.  There is still more to find it’s way inside.  It always does.  I never go anywhere without it.

‘When the student is ready’ I whisper to myself.

Then, it arrives.  Silently, it glides inches above the floor. A black shadow. Cold, putrid, rancid.  It smells like stale cigarettes and 3 day unwashed hair. This faceless shadow furtively crosses the floor, ascends my bed and hovers above the suitcase. I look at it, watch it, again trying to figure out where it begins and where it ends.  I can’t see through it and the one time I tried to touch it, it enveloped my wrist so tightly my hand went cold and numb.  

‘When the student is ready...’ I whisper to myself.  

The shadow pours into the suitcase, spilling itself over all my neatly folded and sorted clothes.  It oozes onto every fibre, every nook of both content and container.  It makes itself comfortable and nestles in for yet another journey.

‘When the student is ready...’ I sigh, close the suitcase and methodically guide the zipper slowly around the parameter of my rectangular baggage.  

There are 192 hours in my journey.  3864.82 kilometres travelled.  An ascension of 4540 feet from sea level.  I take this journey to marry pen to paper.  

‘When the student is ready,‘  I announce to myself.  

The Pen moves effortlessly across the paper, spilling out words like blood splatter at a crime scene.  Painful words, words never spoken, written, considered.  They don’t make sense.  They are ugly, raw, imperfect words.  I don’t want to read them again.  Obviously, these words don’t belong to me...they cannot be mine.  

Can they?  

Let the pen go. Write the story.

As I run, I hear a faint whispering in the trees; ‘the Teacher appears.’

The Pen continues to glide, day and night.  I can hear the words now. I feel them. They weave a story.  My story.  

Questions are swept away silently with the fog.   

I sit starting at my now packed suitcase.  

I wait. 

I close my eyes.  

I breathe in. 

I wait.

I smile.

A hundred and twenty hours

I’m about to admit something...it may come as a huge shock to you, so it’s probably a good idea you sit down for this. Alright, here goes (deep breath): 

I...I am a negligent blogger. 

There.  It’s out in the open.  I think we should talk about it.  I know you been thinking it.  So no more skirting around the issue. I’m ready, let’s have at it.  

I’ve been struggling with my blog.  I’ve been struggling with my voice and more troublesome, my story.  Based on my recent:  ‘lather, rinse, repeat’ course of life, I haven’t been compelled to my keyboard.  There’s the obvious reason: the damn sun hasn’t shone in Halifax in about 3 weeks and a strange looking bearded man has taken up residence next to the church on my street. He was keeping me up with all those damn animals on his ridiculously large boat.  And, just in case he’s reading this, for the last time, NO, I haven’t seen a unicorn, you pothead.  

I’ve started several blogs on topics, meaty topics.  I've been tossing them into the air, see if anything sticks. Dating? Motherhood? Supercool tube socks?  But no fingers danced on the keyboard.  No magic, no spark.  It became painfully obvious to me I just have not been aptly inspired. 

This 40 list is tough, let alone Big and Scary.  Anything worth doing should be.  I’ve grappled with items on The List fairly well for the past 5 months, making strides and generating some wonderful insight.  But, I’ve hit a plateau in my current state, a blockage.  My ‘Immovable Beast’ has bested me.  When I began blogging, I committed to not posting for the mere sake of posting.  I’m not that kind of blogger.  

So, the facts became insurmountable; the routine of my day/week/month had me feeling limited and my ability to create, disabled.  It was obvious; I needed new stimuli, I needed to rest; I needed to shake things up.  It was time to get out of dodge.  Escape, just for a little while.  A change of scenery was required and some time to recharge and reset.  Time to imagine for awhile.  

And by God, that is precisely what has happened. I have been reminded of my favourite Buddhist teaching:  ‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears’.  

Five days.  Five overwhelmingly rich days in my life have just occurred.  In 120 hours, the teacher has placed before me unbelievable gifts.  Previously dormant emotions have begun to awaken. I have been immersed in jaw-dropping majesty, heart expanding connections, conversation so dense, rich, complex and pure that I could literally feel my brain tingling and my soul expanding. I have been living a series of experiences devoid of judgment, heaping with acceptance, bathed in love.

I want to cry and laugh all at the same time.  I want to hug everyone I see. I want to jump up and down and wave my arms and yell:  “Hey, C’mere! Look. At. THIS!  No seriously, it will completely blow your mind!” I’ve deduced something marvellous has happened. It is scary as hell; overwhelmingly surreal.  I’ve cleared my brambles, cobwebs and prickly thorns and revealed my spirit.  I’ve delicately extracted it from way within its dark little hiding place and gently laid it in the sun, giving it nourishment; whispered words of love, tenderness and an abundance of encouragement. 

I hope when I come down from these mountains, packed up, security cleared and plane boarded, this won’t have been an apparition, merely a spectacular dream.  I think I’m going to hang out way up here, 4,540ft above sea level, for another 120 hours, just to make sure.  

To Paraphrase

I had a really hard time with Perspective last week.  A really, really tough time.  Despite my effort to retain a healthy positive outlook, I fell victim to other’s perspectives and the collective weight of their significance took it’s toll on my spirit.  To paraphrase; Peeps talkin’ smack totally bummed me out.  

I’m once again discovering that some things in life are not about effort, hard work, will or intention. Surprise surprise, life isn’t fair.  It’s sad to say that my chosen method of sustained learning such novel concepts is by repeating ineffective methodologies and actions until the point of pure exhaustion and self-imposed misery.  To paraphrase;  I like to beat my head against the wall.  

Perspective is a compendium of personal learnings that grows with years of experience, a collection of trial and error, the literal sum of our parts.  Every action and interaction in our lives help develop how we react, internalize, emote and respond to situations.  Cognitive psychology 101.  To paraphrase:  I learned some stuff in 4 decades on the planet.  

Last week was a barrage of many external perspectives pecking away at my psyche.  Rejection, criticism, resentment, spite. Ick. Normally I deal with this in a moderately mature way so that it doesn’t affect me so deeply.  Normally I soak in the information, process, analyze, hypothesize, clean, organize and draw one of two conclusions:  #1;  ‘Huh. Wow.  Okay, that was useful, I’ll learn from that’ or #2;  ‘Pfft, bullshit!’ and move on.  Normally.  But last week, I was convinced I was somehow responsible for all those individual perspectives and I should do everything in my power to bring them more in-line with my own Perspective.  To paraphrase:  I was right and they needed to know they were wrong.  

Ever try to change someone’s perspective?  I’m not talking an over-a-beer-Mac-vs-PC kinda discussion, I mean someone’s hard-wired, entrenched belief; their ‘core’; the pure essence of how they function.  Well, let me save you some time: It can never be changed.  Ever. The pure irony is we humans are conditioned to repeatedly try to convince another to see the world through our own lens.  We all do it!  All the time!   The best you can do with another’s perspective is challenge it, shake it, throw a scrap or two of new information at it’s feet and hope it will nibble and ponder.  To paraphrase:  Even if you’re right, they don’t care.  

So after all my worry, analysis, lost sleep, teeth grinding, frustration, writing, rewriting, reflection and general wasted energy, I came right back to the start, my own brow-beaten, sad lookin’ Perspective.  What my lonely Perspective needed was her buddy Empowerment to point out a new view.  Ah, Empowerment is such an awesome friend; the first to tell you how able you are to take on the world, to succeed, to never take ‘NO’ for an answer!  But Wow! Does Empowerment ever scare easily.  At the first sign of trouble, good ol’ Empowerment started to sweat, and panic and next thing you know it, poor Perspective was thrown right under the bus while Empowerment fled the scene and hid.  

For days Empowerment stayed hidden; not a peep, not a sound, wide-eyed and pensive in the dark I suspect.  It’s most likely she was scared to be found and didn’t want to face the hard work required to back up all the smack she was talking.  But eventually, tired of hiding, hungry and missing companionship, Empowerment was enticed out of hiding with chocolate, a sappy chick flick and copious amounts of wine.  Before I knew it, Empowerment was back on the job, standing right next to Perspective.  To paraphrase:  Feck ‘em.  You can’t keep a good woman down.  

Splish Splash

I recently decided that in order to tackle the stubborn squishy bits that have acquired more real estate on my body, I needed do something about my workout ‘routine’.  I use the “ “ because I’m pretty sure an effective workout routine doesn’t include a cardio portion, a ‘final spin’ portion a ‘sort-the-toys-so-I-can-locate-my-mat’ portion and a ‘Now-I’m-too-damn-tired-to-lift-these-stupid-weights’ portion.  Since The Monkey was born, I’ve been clawing out workout time late at night in a cobbled home gym and, for the most part, winning the battle against the squishy bits.  Then I turned 40.  

So The Monkey and I have a trial membership at the-fresh-out-of-the-wrapper Canada Games Centre (CGC to the cool kids).  The CGC is, Halifax’s newest community facility and our version of the Vancouver Olympic Stadium.  Okay, it’s nothing like that.  But still, a really cool spot.  An AWESOME running track, well appointed fitness room, and the big attraction, two huge pools, complete with scary swirly and steep water slides.  That’s right, wet, splashy fun.

It’s a thrill to be out of my teeny tiny little Mom gym.  For all it’s convenience, I really was treating it like a correspondence course; always distracted with something that needed to be done IMMEDIATELY (like organizing my closet in order of colour or snaking a drain).  I’ve discovered thinking about working out doesn’t give you the desired results as actually working out.  

But one of the greatest perks about Mom’s gym was the dress code, or lack thereof.  I could wear a hat, bandana, old painting shirts, mismatched socks, yoga pants covered in dog slobber, or just a sports bra if I wanted to, damn it. (obviously, there are no mirrors at Mom’s gym). 

You ever have one of those moments where you think you’re so cool and hip, only to be faced with the cold, naked truth?  That’s me at the CGC.  I am not cool. I’m a middle-aged chick who huffs and puffs around the track in unflattering, mis-matched non-Lululemon clothes, with a plume of dog hair trailing behind her.  My face goes fourteen shades of purple from the extreme exertion of dragging my ‘independently flowing’ ass around the track.  But, 'So what!' I say.  I have an iPod, which essentially means I tune out the real world, plug in and instantaneously transform into a tall slender drop dead sexy 25 year old singing sensation performing a duet with John, or David or Ray.  So meh.  I can get over being non-hip.  

But there’s a pool, remember?  A pool. Good god, There.Is.A.Pool.

Let me just state that squishy bits and bikinis don’t belong together.  Ever.  I’m convinced the Oxford Dictionary added ‘Muffin Top‘ after a trip to the CGC pool. But it’s not us  middle-aged women, it’s the tweens and teens!  The next generation really is in a serious health crisis, particularly when very petite young girls have zero muscle tone and an excessive waistband.  Too little material stretched waaaay too far.

After witnessing the parade of eensy-weensies on the pool deck I decided; a) any amount of money spent to join the CGC is money invested in The Monkey’s physical education and b) my ‘mom’ bathing suit was overkill; pretty much the burka of bathing suits.  

So, no more sad tankini; after all, it did have enough room to house my boobs around my waist and shorts about as appealing as two garbage bags strapped to my thighs. So, tenuously, I dug out the slightly more risque bikini top and bottom with cute matching covering surf shorts.  Surely this look would say; “Hey!  I’m 40, a mom and yes, I’m not perfect, but look! I still got a lil’ sumpin going on!”  Age appropriate, but still flirty enough to show I was still cool, still hip.  

I should’ve explained my plan to The Monkey.

A plan is only great if executed well, an ensemble only as good as its collective parts.  Imagine me today sashaying into the pool with the sad ol’ saggy tankini top, NO bikini bottoms and the low rise surf shorts with warn out underwear waistband peeking over the top. Note to self: Don’t let The Monkey pack the gymbag.  

Now if you’ll excuse me, Mom’s gym is calling. 

  

Calibrating...

Today, I bought a Wii Fit Thingie (itsa board, itsa game, thus dubbed ‘Thingie’).  This purchase was done in typical ‘Mii’ fashion.  Do I technically own a Wii?  No.  I’m borrowing a Wii console from the residents of The Lane since they have every known video playing device since and including Atari hooked up to a monster flatscreen TV in the Man-Cave.  In fact, the extraction of the wee little Wii from the cable collective required meticulous precision and the steady hand of a neurosurgeon cutting tie wraps and detangling chords and wires and stuff.  Anyway, Girly Girl Manor has the use of a Wii and now ownership of a Wii Fit Thingie.  I got me a huge ‘bar-gann’ on Thingie because I bought it for a fraction of the price on Kijiji (cyber buying/selling-site extraordinaire).  The man I purchased it from was so nice. He happily delivered it directly to me AND complimented me on my outfit.  Better service than most retailers.  I am such a smart consumer.

I would soon understand why he was happily selling Thingie barely used and fresh out of the box only once.  I would realize quickly why he showered me with compliments of my attire; he knew what Thingie was going to do to my ego.  But for me, I ignorantly trotted off with my bargain and unveiled my grand purchase to The Monkey declaring Thursday to be Pizza and Wii night!  Woo Hoo!

So The Monkey, who is very knowledgeable about all things Wii, informs me how to navigate through and assign our cute little Mii’s (which we had earlier created and made sickeningly adorable and mother-daughter matchy matchy).  So there we are, perched big-grinned on the couch, anticipating our maiden voyage of Thingie.  I am feeling moderately smug, such a good deal.  AND this Wii-fun extravaganza is right up my alley; fun with goals, objectives, timelines, healthy activity...it is perfect.  I even get to go first.  This. Truly. Is. Exciting.

First of all, I step on the board and it sighs. SIGHS.  Apparently I’m too heavy for the board and it needs to tell me this.  After a short calibration (it’s that bad you need to calibrate?), it asks me my age and my height.  Okaaay, how bad can that be?  Then it asks me how heavy are the clothes I’m wearing.  Thingie must assume I’m going to account for clothing weight?  Sure.  I choose ‘snowsuit and cement boots’ as the option.  Calibrating again (not good).  Thingie then declares my BMI number (Bullshit Mathematical Insult) in big bright letters next to a colourful bar scale ranging from “oh look how cute and fit you are” to “you obviously have given up on yourself”.  Adding insult to injury, my cute perky, happy little cute fit Mii is simultaneously transformed into the pathetic bulbous character who looks, old, tired and completely defeated.  A perfect likeness to me.  

Oh.  It gets better.  

Next Thingie assesses my balance.  Apparently Thingie doesn’t read my blog.  Balance? Really?  “Oooopsie!  You are slightly off balance.  Perhaps you’re not using your abdominals enough and it’s affecting your posture and ability to stand upright.  You probably spend too much time sitting at your desk at work and not enough time with your family being active.  More core work will help you not waste these precious years with your daughter and also so you don’t continue to slouch, deteriorate your spine and shrink from your already below average height.”   

I hate Thingie.

Now we move onto testing more balancing ability.  I’m accused again, of not only being unbalanced, but questioned;  “Do you fall down while trying to walk?”  So Thingie knows about my affection for wine too.  This isn’t software, it’s black magic.

“I will now calculate your Wii age. Calibrating....” You’ve got to be shitting me.  My ‘Wii age?’  I’ve own this piece of shit equipment for what? three hours and it’s going to tell me how old I am based on my ability to stand upright and my poor choice in clothing attire?  

You’re Wii age is:  45.  

Kijiji Posting:

“Free to good home; gently used Wii Fit with original box.  Possible calibration issues.  Will not be delivered, but you can pick it up on my curb.  First come, gets this judgmental piece of crap.”

Pick One

Well, after a short hiatus, I’m back.  Whew.  The last few weeks have felt like someone put a brick on the gas pedal and I’ve been going 130 in an 80 zone (not that I’ve EVER done that, it’s simply a metaphor).  Life got extraordinarily busy, AND interesting, AND challenging AND fun all at the same time  Speeding is not a good thing for a type 'A' over-analytical control-freak perfectionist who is trying to find Qi, and serenity and balance.  

Livin' in the fast lane.  That's the life of a Superwoman.

Now, I’m not claiming to be a superwoman, but for some insane reason, I really really REALLY want to be one.  I’m probably drawn to the way-cool costume with great accessories. But c'mon?!  Who can resist knee length patent leather red boots and a cape to match?  I’m seeing a tiara and maybe a funky locket that houses a secret crystal from a mystical planet that is the source for my superhuman powers...yet I digress.  Whatever the reason, I am taking great masochistic pleasure in turning myself inside out trying to over-achieve in all four quadrants of my life: family, work, home and health.  Want to know how I’m doing?  As I type, I’m doing kegels, baking muffins, filling out permission slips and reviewing work for tomorrow....   

I know I’m not alone.  There are many who aspire to super-human status.  Think that might be you?  Answer these six questions:

1. Do you run a ‘things I have to do today’ list while showering? Has the drafting of said list caused you to forget to shave an entire leg upon exiting the shower? (This is worse if you’re a guy).
2. Have you ever decided that stale crackers and a packet of mayonnaise at your desk represents a balanced lunch?
3. Can you locate dog treats, work receipts, vitamins and silly bands in your suit pocket?
4. Do you consider crafting sandwich buddies for lunches your creative outlet?
5. Do you catch yourself wondering how the ‘Mystery of the Fairyland Secret’ will end?
6. Is meditation ever interrupted by the sound of your own snoring?

If you answered ‘yes’ to these questions, I’m not sure I should congratulate you...

Was it simpler in the good ol’ days?  I just recently finished ingesting four seasons of MadMen.  According to my reliable source (cable television), in the early 60’s women were summarily categorized; vixen, wife, mother, working woman, or bohemian.  It appears women were relegated to a single category, but not two at once.  At the end of each episode one question kept swirling itself around in my mind; I wonder if it was easier with the rigid iron clad gender roles or more difficult?  I’m not talking morally correct, ethical or just, I’m talking just plain easier.   

I wonder where I would’ve fit in in the early 60‘s?  What category would I have fallen into?  Hard to say really.  Could I see myself in a steno pool?  Would I be meeting my husband at the door with a kiss and a cocktail?  Would I be the doting mother hosting a luncheon of the PTA?  Would I be meeting a lover in a hotel after hours?  Would I hang out in a club listening to disjointed artistic mumblings and raging against the system? 

I bet I would have tried all of them at some point.  I’m sure my family and friends would become concerned with my rebelliousness and indecisiveness.  They would expect me to make up my mind, to pick something, to settle down.  I’m sure someone would recommended me to a psychiatrists couch.  The Dr. would nod and scratch notes and I’m certain prescribe a hefty bottle of pills for my nerves and another bottle to help me sleep.   I would have drifted in a blissful state of sedation and delusion.   

In my medicated haze, I bet I would’ve have dreamt I was superwoman.  

Be Mine, Be Mine

I hate Valentine’s Day.  There, I said it.  I don’t just moderately dislike it, I hate it with the power of a 1000 suns.  I recommend if you are all goo goo eyed in love and have a ‘betrothed’ that you’re planning to spill your love, affection and pink and red wrapped sweetness onto, stop reading.  This is sure to suck the colour out of your rainbow.  

Most of you will agree that Valentine’s Day is just another hopped up, over-commercialized, tacky, expensive contrived day on the calendar that forces us to spend money on crap in an effort to demonstrate the love and affection one feels about their special someone.  There are those who choose not participate in the day at all.  But I warn you, it’s a carefully placed trap.  If you recognize the day with a Valentine-y type sentiment, what are you doing the other 364 days to show your affection?  If you don’t, someone is bound to be disappointed that you didn’t offer up some gesture.  If you don’t have a ‘Valentine’, you’re really not invited to participate.  What a great holiday.

Here’s a brief history about the days origins:  Bishop Valentine was arrested for conducting secret marriage ceremonies for soldiers in Rome under the rule of Claudius II (270 AD) who believed marriage would make his men weak and unable to defend his Empire. Valentine was said to have also tried to convert Claudius to Christianity and renounce his own Roman Gods.  For these injustices, Valentine was incarcerated.  While in the klink, he became close (and allegedly healed) the jailor’s daughter.  He penned a farewell note to her, signed ‘from your Valentine.‘ He was then beheaded, unceremoniously, on February 14th.  He was later sainted by the Catholic church for devotion to his faith.  Over the centuries, young lovers celebrate the 14th in recognition of love, devotion and the sanctity of marriage.  

Coles notes version:  Love leads to Marriage. Marriage leads to Death.  This is bad.

Okay, so I might be slightly cynical.  I’m not poo-poo on love, just Valentine’s Day.   I don’t have good memories of it.  My grandfather died on Valentine’s Day.  I was heartbroken and disappointed the boy I had a huge crush on in high school never sent me a ‘secret rose’ I had hoped for weeks to receive (I had even practiced my look of utter surprise when the rose was to be passed to me in front of ALL my friends).  I never exchanged a card or gift on Valentine’s Day during my entire marriage.  A boyfriend broke up with me on the eve of the day of Love.  Good times.

Now, according to the experts (my friends who are sickly happy in stable relationships), they’re not huge fans of the day either.  “It’s competitive, all the women at work brag about what their husbands and boyfriends bought them.  When you say you didn’t get anything, they look at you with pity.”  “Exactly.  I don’t like all the hype and expectation around it.”  “Valentine’s Day?  Guys don’t think about it.”  So if single people feel like it’s a big flashing neon sign reminding of their un-coupled status and couples don’t really enjoy it either, why recognize it all?  

I’ll tell you who loves Valentine’s Day:  Retailers.  Retailers begin Valentine’s education on their most captive audience: kids.  They prey on their innocence and exuberance.  Oh the excitement and anticipation kids feel making their Valentine mailboxes at school and buying (okay, mom buying) over-priced heart-laden pieces of paper that proclaim; “Scooby Doobie Do Be My Valentine!” and “Valentine, I Choo Choo Choose You!”  They carefully fill out the ‘to’ and ‘from’ and add stickers and suckers and heartfelt goodness to stuff into classmate’s mailboxes.  All this is superfun! Until one poor little kid doesn’t get the same amount of cards as their BFF.  And that’s exactly what retailers anticipate. Why else do they package those cards in groups of 17 when the average class-size is 24?  The kid who has the least amount of Valentines evolves into an insecure and unimaginative young lover who will gobble up sappy Hallmark cards, elaborately boxed bon bons, hydroponically grown roses and over-priced heart shaped jewelry.  They do this to compensate for that one missed Valentine card in Grade 3.

The only merit I see in Valentine’s Day is chocolate is affiliated with it.  If you walk into any store after January 15th you get stoned on the aroma of chocolatey goodness, but you have to avert your eyes for fear of being blinded by the rows of red wrappers.  It’s ironic chocolate is a mainstay of Valentine’s Day though.  Cadbury  conducted a study in the UK in 2007 asked a sample of 1,524 adults their favourite way of treating themselves.  About 52 per cent of the women stated they would choose chocolate over sex.  Good for Cadbury but it makes you wonder how the men are ‘treating’ themselves....

Okay.  Whew.  I’m glad I got that off my chest. I feel better.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to ponder why I’m single over a very large box of chocolates.  To: Me. From: Me. (with Love).

...and Fun is Good.

Okay, it’s February.  According to the ‘Big Scary List’, it ‘highly encourages’ I maintain forward momentum and add another item to keep focus.  I would say that so far, I’m doing pretty good; with the exception of maintaining diligence to get the Temple as orderly as the Manor. I won’t lie, it has not been an easy task.  Committing an hour to working out and a half hour to meditate daily usually gets trumped by such silly (and allegedly ‘required’) responsibilities as caring for the Monkey or working for a living.  I have however, ignored wrangling the riot of dog fur that barricades the second floor in search of some serenity, but remarkably, the taunting mass doesn’t self clean.  Neither does the fridge, just sayin.  I'm going to have to really concentrate on developing my gift of mind control to get the residences of the Manor to do my bidding and housekeeping.  I'd start with the newts but they'd be useless making lunches.  Perhpas I'll work on the Pancake dog; she seems less astute than the other fur-kid and she might be good with a vacuum....

According to the Big Scary list, February = Love.  pfft.  

Now, let’s clarify something right up front; the List doesn’t say I have to find Love this month; I’m big on lists, not acts of self-humiliation.  I was apparently lucid enough not to write anything more than just ‘Love’ on the List.  I believe I may have been under the influence of the warm-fuzzy-happy glow of wine when I wrote ‘Love’ on the list anyway, which explains why it is scrawled in serial killer handwriting with a sinister smiley face beside it.  (*note to self; don’t drink and list).  

But you know what?  I’m not ready to talk about ‘Love’, or more specifically, romantic Love.  As much as I heart lists and intend to adhere to the Big Scary List, I’ve also committed myself to write what inspires here in my blog.  I’m not yet inspired to write about Love; which is alright by me, I’m too busy having fun.  That’s right, fun.  Oh and by the way, having fun is on the Big Scary list too.  I know.  It really is a pretty awesome list.    

A long time ago, one of my oldest and dearest friends accurately (and not so delicately) observed that unless my activities had an end goal, objective and/or purpose, I really wasn’t very good at just being whimsical and playful.  In short, I wasn’t good at havin’ the fun.  And she was right, damn it.  So, like any self-respecting type A, I immediately set my focus on being more playful and spontaneous.  I, was going to make myself have fun. 

See, I grew up in a house with a ‘Once-you’ve’.   ‘Once-You’ve’ finished your homework, you can go play.  ‘Once-You’ve’ finished the dishes, you can ride your bike.  A Once-You’ve is the creature who steals fun from everything and hoards it for itself.  You need to feed the Once-you’ve in order for it to relinquish an opportunity for fun.  Therefore, in my house, fun was mutually exclusive of regular day-to-day things.  I learned fun was potentially a reward for doing something arduous, tedious and/or necessary.

I thought for sure once I had a child I would automatically know how to have fun based on maternal osmosis and well, kids come with a whole bunch of brightly coloured fun-invoking accruements.  I even bought a 12 pack of Play Doh and all the fixin’s in preparation of becoming FUN.  One Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop later and still, no instant fun-ness.   For the record, sleep-deprivation, vomit and an endless supply of poop is so not fun.  Infants are fun-suckers.  But, infants turn into to toddlers and then turn into preschoolers and eventually control their own bodily functions and require regular sleep.  Then the fun starts to appear. 

The Monkey has truly become my OB1 of fun.  She’s taught her not-so-young Paduin quite a bit about the necessity of this unforeseen Force and hence, it keeps the ‘Once-You’ve’s’ from taking up residence at the Manor.  It’s amazing what happens when you recognize the value of fun into your daily routine actually.  You can learn to skate and swim faster than taking lessons, or you can enjoy shoveling snow.  You wear silly hats and dance when you clean, you are more creative in your work and remarkably, you may actually look forward to wearing tube socks in public. 

Fun needs momentum to live so  infuse fun into all that you do, and be sure not to take something purely fun and impose so much rigor around that it suffocates the fun.  Say like, oh, I dunno, imposing a topic, or issuing deadlines or a minimal number of weekly posts to a blog, just as a random example... I'm sure that would kill any sort of enjoyment out of  a highly enjoyable and cherished activity.  (Mental note: Be sure not to become a sucker of the fun).

So, as a Type A, I still need to validate my effort with a hard line measurable.  I need to answer the question of whether or not I’m now officially fun, but how will I empirically mea….

‘Mommy, why are you always so silly?’

Nuff said.

Winter of Discontent

After a week like we’ve had on the Right Coast, many grumble about their precise lat. and long. coordinates here on good ol’ Mother Earth.  Those with the financial means and good sense make plans to change their coordinates, temporarily, to a more hospitable climate than that of the Hinterland.  They’ll migrate to a destination with palm trees, white sands, crystal clear waters and fruity drinks with colourful umbrellas offered unlimitedly poolside.  They’ll bathe in the heat and vitamin D of the great glowing orb in the sky, wear flip flops, slather SPF 60 everywhere and their troubles will melt away in the serenity of warm breezes and rhythm of the waves gently caressing the shoreline.  

Yeah, I hate them too.

It’s crazy how much our weather fluctuates in the winter.  Blizzard conditions, rain, freezing rain, plus temperatures, sun, fog.  And that’s just a typical Tuesday.  Nova Scotia is a veritable cornucopia of ‘seasonal diversity’.  It’s due to our neighbour, the Great North Atlantic and what’s plaguing our dear Mother Earth.  'Seasonal diversity’ is a fancy way of saying “Climate Change”; another polite way of saying ‘Global Warming’.  It makes people feel more comfortable about what’s truly happening to our environment.  Go immediately and watch “Inconvenient Truth” or Google the ‘Gaia Hypothesis’ if you don’t believe me.  Cataclysmic weather systems make the top story on local, national and international newscasts daily.  The facts don’t lie.  

But we’ve learned to adapt.  Hearty are the people of the Right Coast, especially those who live the whole winter here without a respite on southern shores.  But really, who’s the wiser of the two?  Those who take a break from the conditions or those who tough it out until spring finally arrives?  Hard to say really.  Perhaps it's wiser to recognize your limits and tolerance for unpleasantries than slogging through, wishing for a brighter day to come.  

Personal change is the same way.  There are times in our lives that life is like spring; full of new life, regeneration, hope, energy.  Other times are like winter; stark, dark and cold.  After all, winter can be pretty damn bleak.  But here’s an interesting observation that I’ve made recently;  these personal seasons may be within our control, unlike the inevitability of weather.   

Back in November, I hit a personal ‘winter’.  I found myself in a mental mind-set that wasn’t productive, enthusiastic or optimistic.  This mind-set was NOT me; I’ve never subscribed to self-pity nor have I ever defined myself as a victim caught in my own life.  Rationally, I knew I had created a wonderful life that I should have been celebrating and appreciating, but instead, I felt just plain sad; helpless to my circumstances.  So I employed my well-known highly unsuccessful strategy to situations like this; seek BIG irrational ineffective change.  

The plan ‘de jour’ was my orientation; my lat. and long. needed changing, I was convinced the mere change of coordinates would certainly make me feel better.  For a whole half hour, I searched the internet trying to find a remarkable over-paid job on the other side of Mother Earth: Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Katmandu, anywhere but here.  It didn’t take very long to realize it wasn’t the change I required, or really, wanted.  It didn’t help that I needed to google all the destinations where I was apparently going to up-root Girly Girl Manor and relocate it into this fantastic new life.  Obviously, I found myself back at square one, with the exception that I was now frustrated, though more geographically educated.  My friend, (‘Triple T’) and I have this great mantra that we throw at each other in times like this;  ‘You can’t force the universe.’ So I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to embrace my winter season; I would have to pursue my ‘great life changing plan’ in the spring.   So with a heavy sigh, I shut down my computer, closed up GGM and hibernated for the night.  

Sleep is such a magical thing, perspective being the fabulous by-product.  That morning, the day seemed a little brighter, the temperature rose a few degrees and promise of sunnier days peaked around the corner.  The winter bite didn’t seem so harsh;  in fact, the snowflakes started to look pretty falling and collecting in a sparkly blanket in the yard.  Perhaps, this winter would have it’s moments of beauty and peace.

I had no idea spring would come so quickly.  I wish I could state precisely what transpired which brought me from there to here.  I don’t really know;  perhaps it was because I embraced the my circumstances; or that I was truthful with myself or that I realized that my determination wasn't based in fixing something broken, but rather recognizing my capability to adapt to inevitable change.  

One of my very favourite Buddhist Proverbs promises; “When the student is ready, the teacher appears” to which I’m thankful.  I wouldn’t want to travel too far from my current co-ordinates to enjoy this new season.

Un-Phased

It was a very busy weekend at the Manor.  For unknown and suspicious reasons, The Monkey has been extraordinarily well behaved.  I mean really well behaved.  In fact, the behaviour has been so good it’s caused me to start talking to myself.  I’ve started muttering rhetorical questions aloud when she agrees to do what’s asked of her;  ‘What is she up to?‘  ‘What does she want?‘  ‘Has she broken something and I just haven’t found it yet?‘ ‘She knows Christmas is over, right?’  I'm convinced it's a plot against my sanity.  

There is a group of mothers who would say;  “Oh! Hee Hee. You’re so silly.  Just enjoy it while it lasts.” These mother’s would also subscribe to the ‘Phase’ philosophy of childrearing, where every torturous and sinister behaviour kids develop is ‘Just a Phase’ they grow out of.  They’ve obviously never met a diabolical mastermind like ‘The Monkey’ whose cunning knows no limits.  I also believe these moms are heavily medicated.

The weekend of Monkey goodness had indeed been earned. That’s right; we’re currently learning about ‘value’ here at the Manor.  We’ll be moving to astrophysics next.  Wow. How does one teach the lesson of value?  I decided to start with actual currency, as it provides built in cheats (if you can read the microscopic numbers on the coins) and is irrefutable.   Therefore I can evoke the very intelligent 'because that's the way it is' argument if she debates.  So, The Monkey gathered up the ‘spend’ portion of her money and off to the mall we went, to kid Mecca;  The Dollar Store.  

I loathe the Dollar Store almost as much as despise WalMart.  I can feel my shoulders creep up to my earlobes as I cross the threshold of either store.  I immediately get angry.  I counter it by moving quickly through the store, which gets me lost, which in turn, makes me more angry. It's a vicious cycle.  But, the Dollar Store was the Monkey’s choice, AND since I’m a such a good mother, I venture to where the aroma of polypropylene and polystyrene off-gassing is just part of the ambiance so my daughter could learn the value money (ignore the irony and just focus on the actual lesson).  

Once her treasures are carefully selected, we head to the cash.  The Monkey is told her purchase comes to $4.37.  She is responsible for counting out the amount and giving it to the cashier.  Another charm of the Dollar Store is their extraordinary ability to consistently hire the surliest and most unprofessional staff.  The cashier sighed, strummed her fingers and snapped her gum as my sweet, innocent, doe-eyed 6 year old reached her wee little hand into her flower shaped change purse for the correct change (confirming each amount) and dutifully placing it on the counter until all four dollars and thirty-seven cents were snatched up in a huff by the Employee of the Month. I silently fired her three times during this evolution.

The Monkey happily trotted home with her treasure.  But the question was, ‘Did she learn the value of money on our trip?’ Maybe a little bit, but I suspect that lesson will take many repeat occurrences before the true value of money starts to dawn on her.  I hope she learns it around the same time as she gets a job and wants things that cost more that $4.37.  But I’ll keep plugging away at it and hopefully, through persistence, she’ll get it.  

Another fun Monkey adventure this weekend was bundling up, acting all Canadian and going for a good old fashioned outdoor skate; at our high tech, well groomed man-made state-of-the-art Oval.  I was apprehensive.  The Monkey is like her mom and not necessarily fond of things that she can’t immediately do exceptionally well.  Last year’s skating lessons ended with several dramatic episodes involving failing and crying on the ice and all visions I had of me and my offspring enjoying a winter pastime together were dashed.  I love to skate and I wanted so badly for us to enjoy the sport together.  So I was quite excited when The Monkey listed ‘skating‘ as one of her New Year’s Resolutions.  (She also listed ‘write a book‘ and ‘act‘ - I say no more).  So off to the Oval we went.   

We arrived and began with my family’s time honoured tradition of ‘peppering’ your skates.  That’s right, you put black ground pepper in your skates.  It’s ingenious.  It keeps your feet warm while you skate.  Does it work?  Hell no.  Do your kids say things like:  “I think the pepper’s working, my feet aren’t cold”.  Uh huh. It’s yours.  A gift from me to you.  Lap One:  Cautiously skating, slowly, clinging to mom.  Lap Two: Let go of mom, skating on our own.  Lap Three:  Laughing and skating faster.  And on we went, for an hour and half in minus 14 degree weather, until limbs were numb, cheeks were red and noses running.  And, my favourite part, smiles from ear to ear.  We celebrated with a new Girly Girl Manor tradition of lattes, hot chocolates and cinnamon buns.  

Now if you ask The Monkey her favourite part about the weekend, you won’t hear tell about money and trips to Plastic-heaven.  However, she will tell you every single little detail she loved about skating at the Oval with her mom.  

So this whole value lesson;  I’ll keep plugging away at it and with persistence, I might actually get it.