Can't Sew. Drooling......well.... Google-ing.

Having recently PURCHASED A PINK SEWING MACHINE!! ... I think I may be ready to call it a life. This proud new owner has been Wasting ... Investing an impressive amount of time on the internet, and have yet to find that anyone else in the human world has a pink sewing machine by the name of "American Home". Never mind a PINK sewing machine that is also DELUXE, and has PRECISION!

Here's how it all went down. Our humble town has become somewhat of a suburb of late. We've got all these swanky new uptown developments with cul de sacs and fancy bay names and goose dropping lakes behind walk-out basements. Keeping up with the Joneses, so to speak, our humble little thrift shop started to feel a bit cramped and inferior. So it did what any good money scrimping Mennonite organization would do. It bought the old chicken murdering spot and covered the blood splatters and wet feathers with new carpet and lead paint. Then the volunteers and cast-off distributers hoarded stuff for a few months and carefully arranged it tidily in the killing-field-turned-mission-field thrift shop.

Much to my dismay, I couldn't make it to the grand opening on March 11. I did a great deal of deep breathing (and even considered deep knee bends but thought better of it), to ward off the stress- imagining all those less deserving people scooping up all the good stuff. As soon as possible, I did make my way downtown to check out the new digs. There, way up on a self above the fortrel fabric scraps was the most beautiful piece of machinery in the whole world. I almost had to walk away. The visual stimulation was too much, and I was already clutching the mother load of old carded buttons. "Self", I said. "This is a machine. This machine is much bigger than a button, or a bedspread that you could at least justify by turning into a Darfur bag or a summer tent, or a parasail or something. One does not simply wander into a store one day and pick up a sewing machine. It is not done. It is not sensible. It is not necessary".

And so I listened. I took my buttons home, played with them, lined them up, put them in a pretty coloured dish and feasted my eyes on them.

And then I thought about the pink sewing machine.

The following week, I went back into the store. I wandered around, chatted with the townspeople, kissed the babies, and pretended to be casual about the machine high up on the shelf. "Probably really heavy", I told myself. "You already have two sewing machines, you know. You've got your bernina- undeniably the least stupid thing you've ever invested in. You've also got your old black singer that came in the great old treddle cupboard. Now you're just being ridiculous. Go home, make some borscht or something".

So, once again I listened. All the way to the following Saturday- when some mysterious gravitational force propelled me back down main street, entirely against my will. I pretended to look at the dishes, the bedspreads, the toys, all the while knowing that I was being controlled by a force much greater than my own. A force so powerful, that I soon found myself not only standing beside the pink beauty once again, but reaching upwards to lay hands upon it. "Wouldn't hurt to look at it. I'll see that it's much too heavy to be sensible, that the price is inflated, and that the bobbin winder is hopelessly broken. Then I'll go home and do something sensible like sew nappies for the poor or something. On the two machines that I already have".

I got it down from the high shelf. I laid it on the floor. I chewed my cuticles. My heart began to sing and pound and I felt I could have danced all night. (but then I reoriented to time and place.... BAD idea.) There was a piece of fabric underneath the presser foot that indicated perfect tension. There was a lovely metal banner splashed across its bosom boasting "American Home". There was no price tag, so I thought it best to approach the manager. Surely she would see that I was interested in the thing and she would automatically inflate the price, being mindful of those far, far away mission places that needed my money more than I do.

She didn't.
She whispered "twenty-five dollars" into my hungry little ear.

I remembered that I had four children to feed, Easter lillies to buy, and soccer, basketball, flute, and youth retreat fees to pony up. I remembered whining about those very things only a few short lifetimes earlier. They rang emptily in my head at I gazed at that little vixen.
I simply had to have it. Sure, I had a white one, and a black one, but a PINK one? Never even seen such a thing. I remembered that $35.00 I had won in December for the local paper's writing contest. I remembered saying that I would use that money for something monumental, since I would always think of it as the first money I made piecing words together.

Surely this was providence.

Surely, this machine could not belong in any home other than this one. Not only is it precise, and deluxe, and pink.... it operates like a dream. I kid you not.

There are a few quirks. The foot pedal is not a foot pedal at all, but a knee pedal. In its original form, it came in a sewing case or cupboard and the pedal was mounted to the side for the right knee to operate. Because the cupboard is no longer in existance, but my determination is in season, and abundant... I spent some time learning how to hold the fabric with my left hand, and operate the pedal and the reverse button simultaneously with my right hand.

Might have to look into the feasability of grafting a third arm onto self.

people. PEOPLE! What Scurvey Luck!

(Bedknobs and Broomsticks)
This line from my childhood story on record has been bouncing around unrelentingly in my head over the past number of days. It's what the bear says after fishing in the beautiful briney sea and pulling up a bed filled with people. It was so not what he'd hoped to haul in.

And it fits.
It's great to theorize about people and how to get along with them, and how to be the sort of person that gives life to others. It's quite another thing to try and live the thing out. There are so many holes in my heart and in my perceptions. There is so much hunger and neediness and fear.
I love watching our dog Shadow when people come to the door, and especially when Brian comes home from work. She is unabashedly needy and enthusiastic. She launches herself at people, turns herself in circles, tries to grow wings and fly so she can cover mouths and noses with sloppy dog kisses. She never grows self-conscious or embarrassed of her neediness and enthusiasm. She doesn't appear to indulge self-doubt or construct alter-egos to hide her flawed self behind.

But I'm afraid my own neediness embarrasses me. My own vulnerabilites make me indulge in speculations and put thoughts in other people's heads. And worse than that, sometimes people just annoy me. It becomes a tricky balance to recognize my own frailties and acknowledge them, but not to the exclusion of all the simultaneous holes and neediness of the people I am interacting with. It's tempting to begin the compare my relational style with those of others. That's potentially dangerous because we all have our own strengths and weaknesses and the way to celebrate a strength is not by comparing it to anothers' weakness. It's cheap strokes to feel self-righteous by pouncing on someone else's apparent failures.

It's just sad to have a lightbulb moment and see that even when you are being "yourself" , you land up hurting and disappointing, ignoring and disregarding, or just generally annoying people. And you know that this phenomenon will never stop.

I don't know how anyone can stand to be a pastor or a counsellor. I imagine that people have some pretty massive expectations of their relational skills. I imagine that they are expected to be selfless at all times. To do this well and not land up drooling into a bib wrapped in a straight jacket must require a really intense knowledge of your place in God's set up. To do it well and maintain joy and peace must require a constant dependence on the Holy Spirit- a really effective running conversation with the Designer. And a pretty fine tuned knowledge of yourself- your strengths, weaknesses, temptations, typical pitfalls. I see these type of skills a great deal in the pastor of my church. I am hugely encouraged by this example. (I still don't want to be a pastor though....)

Ironically, I've also seen a lot of churched people fall into quite a trap of gossip and finger pointing. Alternately, a lot of nonreligious people have taught me respect for others, the guidelines of love and goodness, and the freedom in loving others without fear. That's not to suggest that church people got it wrong and yellow brand people have it all together relationally. That would be stupid and judgemental as well. It is evident that people who call themselves followers of Jesus don't hold all the relational cards (duh). Which leads me to think that it's more a matter of the heart? Do we get "points" for meaning well? Is it more important to remain supple and willing to learn, willing to humble self and ask questions? Sometimes Christians are so acclimatized to looking for categories of "right" and "wrong", that they forget that people's perceptions should probably trump all of that. And a lot of the time, relationships are just plain muddy. They require dialogue. Redefinition. Active listening.

People. What scurvey luck! A fish I could just fry and eat...

Writers Club

With the calendar indicating that my fortieth birthday was imminent, I wanted to do something stick-neck-out-ish to challenge myself not to get fat and complacent. So, I joined the Steinbach Arts Council writers club. I felt sort of shy about pretending to think of myself as a writer, and wondered if I'd feel stupid and naked there, much like I did in science, geography, and history (oh, and math...) throughout my school life. But the point was to challenge myself. Stick my neck out. Take some risks.

The first challenge was the Carillon News annual Christmas writing contest. I couldn't think of a thing to write. But I got very stern with myself and had myself a bit of a talking to.

"Self.

You MUST submit something. It does not have to be brilliant. It only has to be written, and submitted."

In the back of my mind, I knew that if I sent something in and didn't get so much as a nod, I would know for sure what a boneheadlosernogoodgoodfornothingwannabe I was. So, it was pretty easy to beat my own personal best. So far, my personal best had involved staying small so that there was no question about it- I could not succeed.

The other, much larger, much scarier, much more tear-inducing concern was that two Decembers ago, my brother Ken had won first place in that very same writing contest. He wrote an incredibly brilliant, layered piece that was so loaded in symbolism that much of it embarrassingly sailed right over my head.

I felt really intimidated to swim in the same pool as my really smart, really talented brother who I'd never see again on this side.

The day before the deadline, I still had no epiphany of brilliance.

So, I tricked myself. I logged into my blogspot, and just did what I do: Open the gates of neural pathology and semantics, and let my fingers do the talking.

I couldn't get the dang laptop to connect to the internet. But, determined to beat my pathetic personal best, I phoned the editer and asked for an extension until the following morning, so that my less electronically crippled husband could help me out with the internet issue.

A few days later, I received an e-mail from the fearless leader of the writers club, congratulating the media winners. I anxiously scanned the names in the e-mail and found that my name was not in the mix. Now I was really starting to feel like I was back in grade 11 geography. Plus, I was ashamed at my selfishness. Here I was part of a secret club- kind of like a writers cult or something, and I ought to be thrilled for all the cult members who had gotten their names in print. Instead I resented and envied them.

But then.
On the first Wednesday of the month of December, I got a phone call from my mother.

"Well.... You made it!" she chirped.
"Made it through what, mom?"
"You made it in the paper!"

Here's where it gets all layered and weird and holy and Anne-Lammott-ish.
All the layers started floating and intersecting and a whole bunch of them got bunched up in my tear ducts and clogged up my throat and my ability to breathe. I couldn't speak. I began to fear that my mother was victem to the dreaded dementia and she was hallucinating.

I made her read the name out loud. Tell me the page number. Tell me she was sure. And I wept. For my brother, for me, for life.

But what about writers club? Well, it turns out that they had done an internal review on each other's work and voted in the best pieces to be sent to the editer of the paper. I hadn't been able to make it to that month's session, and just assumed that I ought to send my work directly to the editer himself.

Which meant that I was the only member of the cult to get paid for the honour of seeing my name in print. I was like some kind of writer snob now, who could write off huge portions of her house, due to being a writer and all. I would have to claim the thirty-five big ones on my income tax receipt, look for tax cuts, try not to let it all go to my head- remember the small town from whence I came...

What I really learned was this: Time will continue to pass in 24 hour segments. You can live small, offend no one, not even dare to take any risks. Or you can celebrate. Embrace. Live out loud. You may or may not get your strokes, but at least you know you challenged your own status quo.
At least you get to know your own heart.

Who's In Your Audience?

*its been done before, but the audience has shifted somewhat. Allow me to introduce the new gang. Why? you ask? I find myself doing extensive mental reviews of my audience these days when I sit down to express my thoughts. It's somewhat debilitating, and needs to be defined so some meaning can be attached to it all. Then I can decide if shunnings need to occur.

God.
And I want to take that one seriously, and I already know I won't want an eviction for that box seat.

"Grow up. You're kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously towards others, the way God lives toward you. Be especially careful when you are trying to be good so that you don't make a performance out of it. It might be good theater, but the God who made you won't be applauding. When you help someone out, don't think about how it looks. Just do it- quietly and unobtrusively. That is the way your God, who conceived you in love, working behind the scenes, helps you out." (Matthew)

Family.
We share parents, history, current events, genetics. But that doesn't mean we share perceptions. That doesn't mean we live in the same reality. And when you come from family, there are certain things that constantly require redefinition.

Somehow I have to know how to express my reality without disrespecting others, or disregarding their need for privacy. I have to figure out where my role in the family is appropriate and acceptable to me, and alternately where I can hand myself a pink slip.

The legalist.
The legalist regularly hangs over my shoulder and notes my wrongful thinking. My sins. My soft spots, my vulnerabilities. Then the legalist tiptoes away softly and goes to someone else to review all the areas in which I am failing. What really bothers me is that this bothers me. I still want the legalist's approval.

The lurker/supporter.
Maybe at some point I said something useful. The lurker/supporter comes back hoping for more. Then it turns out that that was the bottom of the well. Turns out that instead of remaining silent and benign and leaving the possible illusion of brilliance, I've opened my big snout and removed all doubt of my ignorance and stupidity.

The reader/writer.
This is where I want to apologize endlessly. I keep writing, but I can't keep up with all the reading. So, even though there are many blogs out there that I love to read, I just can't do it all regularly any more.

The openly hateful.
Scarey. And the very fact that this audience wants me to shut down, live small, be quiet; brings out a more mature thing in me. I say No. But I'm really sad about it. The old me still wants to keep asking for permission to live out loud, to learn, to grow, to disagree. And so there is this constant struggle.

The big thinker.
Smart, you are. And responsible, integral, even intimidating. You think and live in ways that inspire me, sometimes frighten me. I don't want to bore you, annoy you, but I'm afraid it's just a matter of time.

Blasts from the Past.
Some of us were kids together, some of us were young adults together. For all I know, I dated some of you. Creepy. I'm sure there is bushels of stuff on this blog that's news to you. It's definately news to me that you would choose to come back. Yet, I'm glad you do. It's incredibly validating. It has meant reconciliation and new relationships, and new constructs in which to mentally file things from the past.

And then there are the seats who are occupied by goodness-knows-who-or-why.
Some of those spots have become clear to me since the last time I wrote about my audience. Some of them were just waiting for me to slip up. Some others graciously came out of lurking. I guess the fear is that I just don't know why the heck you are taking seats. I'm afraid of attack, I suppose. But I wish I had the backbone to not be afraid and not desire your approval.

So, those are the nails currently hanging around my coffin.
How about you? Who is in your audience?

who knew banking could be this (un)comfortable?

I'm an artist; not an accountant. And although I was taught that speaking of money is as shameful as mentioning sex or menstruation, I've got to come clean on the fact that I'm not much good with balancing stuff that involves numbers. So when I went to the gas station the other day and my debit card wouldn't cooperate with their fancy uptown machine, I went to that "la-la-la" place in my head and assumed it was due to some mistake I had made online. It was during a busy time, we were on our way to celebrating Christmas with Brian's family, and the days following that adventure were similarly packed to capacity. So, it was only this morning that I had a few hours to check into the whole banking thing.

Well, actually, I was back to work today, so I got Brian to give the bank a call. Only to learn that their phone lines were jammed due to a storm in Fredrickton and the waiting time was 30 to 45 minutes. Ouch. Brian kept laying the receiver on the counter, baking a couple of layer cakes, then returning to check for a human voice. Unfortunately, the voice didn't wait for him, and eventally Brian returned to a dead phone line....

So, I waited until toddler rest time, and I got on the phone myself. By this point, I had made myself nauseous with ridiculous scenarios of how I'd likely missed so many payments that three men in business suits were very nearly at my back door with large scissors, wielding a copy of our mortgage agreement and slowly shaking their heads back and forth. I humbly waited on the line, praying that the representative wouldn't by this time be enraged by the whole snowstorm in Fredrickton deal. I hoped she had time for a smoke break, with a big old mug of hot coffee to boot.

And the columns were lining up for me. I got a cheery, helpful gal and I even remembered my security password without too many attempts or patient reminders from the representative. I explained to her that something had gone awry on the 28th, resulting in blocked access to my account. I stifled the urge to apologize and offer to bake her an apple pie for her trouble.

Being more an accountant than an artist, she quickly identified the problem. Two cheques that I had depositied had not been cleared due to an error that she could not immediately identify.

I felt immediately relieved, almost shamefully grateful that it had been someone else, and not I who had made an embarrassing clerical error.

But as the woman on the line read aloud the name on the cheque that was in question, my feelings of relief were quickly replaced by nausea that rivalled its counterpart. This time my stomach turned and my tears involuntarily joined the dance.

The cheques were from my dad. My dad, the meticulous bookkeeper. My dad the chequebook-balancer extraordinair. My smart, capable, scrupulous dad.

It is possible that I am over reacting. It is possible that dad had an "artist" day and just didn't quite get all the cheque details right.

But regardless of that possibility, I'm going to cry a little anyway. My dad is 86 and he's finally acting his age. It took him an awfully long time to get to that point, and not that long ago, it was him the "old people" phoned in the dead of the night for a ride to the emerg. But in 2007, dad lost his drivers licence. His ability to walk continues to decline. The stroke has affected his ability to make decisions and process information. Tests show that he has had several heart attacks, in addition to the infamous stroke. His arteries vital to his head and heart are significantly blocked.

And so, 2008 is adding up to be another year to process loss.
(and practice my accounting skills..... seeing as the black suited guys didn't snip my mortgage to smitherines.)

Friday Fifty: Possibly Using the Word "I" Fifty times

I may post fifty times today.
I may have fifty things on my mind.
I may feel fifty today.

I had one of those nights that lasted fifty years. Training for a new job, I had to go to the bathroom, I had brought six kids with me, I packed a broken stroller and a backpack and a wheelbarrow full of stuff to take with me. I had chili slow-cooking in the microwave in the conference room. There was a very boring church seminar going on in that room, and the boys were being embarrassingly loud, there were piles of lego and game pieces spread across the room, between chairs, and occasionally I'd look up from under someone's chair, smelling of chili, picking up lego, and recognize a boyfriend from my youth. How dorky did I turn out?!

I blame it on my back. It hurts. Brian won't massage it because of his stupid splinted finger. (handy, faking that whole ligament/snappy/splint thing..... LIKELY STORY).

Today is Sam's fifth birthday. Maybe around the forty-nineth post of the day I'll write something sentimental and poetic but not now. My back hurts. Did I mention that the backache makes my head ache? And that it would be easy to resolve- take some tylenol for the head and do my pilates DVD for the back? But I don't want to . I'm tired, and my back hurts. And I'd rather whine about my back and my fat thighs than do an exercise DVD. That's how crazy I am.

BUT.

Do rush out and buy the wpg free press tomorrow morning. Then look up the DETOUR section. You'll see a much more joyful version of joyce over there. All decked out in her red ugly sweater, surrounded by her ugly friends.

I've got a housefull of kids today, for which I'm grateful, since Christmas is coming up and I'll be taking a week and a half off. Without pay. (duh). But did I mention that my back hurts and I was running all night pushing a broken stroller with six kids needing to go pee and training for a new job?! And that I slept in, waking up exactly one minute before I heard a car pull up on the driveway to drop off the first little cherub of the day? Oh, how I hate it when I sleep in. Its a "DOOFUS of the DAY" award in the making.

And who of you has the courage to admit that you've ever watched or even listened to a Barbie DVD? I've got a kid who brings it every single day. And since she's here at an undecent hour, I'm utterly spineless and I put it on. But I hate it. It even dummer than any lame Barbie thing that you could come up with in your most depraved imaginations.

Have I whined about fifty things yet?

Some Party Thoughts

The abundance of hilarity poses as the baseline of all these wonky parties. But there is another thing that goes on, that a person could miss if they chose not to tune in. There's something a lot deeper than the acrylic nails, cheap nylons, and under-elastized snakeskin minis.

Somehow in shedding our typical wrappings, we lose something else - our safety in whatever packaging we've grown accustomed to. We're given the gift of making new friends without the distraction of superficial judgements based on what "life grouping" we may assume that people belong to. As "cougars", we shared an imaginary identity that opened gateways for exploration that we may not have uncovered at an epicure party in our Sunday best. (not that I have any issue with eating dips for hours on end, dripping mayo on my Sunday School blouse and rayon skirt...)

And one of my favourite things was the joy and beauty we found in each others bared midriffs, lycra-ed thighs, rounded bellies, and plungeing necklines. It was a bold embracing of our femininity. A recognition of our God-given beauty as women without the shame and confusion of inappropriate or unwanted sexual attentiveness. Women too often react in fear to their own bodies, and the bodies of their fellow women. We envy. We covet. We criticize, torture ourselves, condescend to one another.

But on November the tenth, we celebrated. And it reminds me of one of my favourite passages in Geneen Roth's beautiful book: Feeding The Hungry Heart.

"...I have a fantasy that I repeat to myself, instead of turning to food, when I need comfort and nurturing. I am at a celebration with hundreds of other women. It is a summer evening, about dusk, when fireflies begin to play. It is warm and the smell of honeysuckle is strong. We build a fire and set tables around it covered with lovely embroidered cloths. We bring out a glorious array of foods: roast chicken, turkey, potatoes, yams, large colorful salads, nuts, hot wheat breads, platters filled with fruit- pineapple, papaya, mangoes, apples, bananas, figs, dates- whipped dream, cakes and pies, wine and rich coffee. A feast for women, not one where the food is prepared for men to enjoy- or one of those horrible parties where the women gather guiltily around the food table and pick furtively. We eat and enjoy every bite. I add various pleasures, depending on my mood; sometimes we pile all the Cosmopolitans, Vogues, Seventeens, and Playboys on the fire and sing as they crackle and spew. Always we dance and sing, and finally I lie back on the cool fragrant grass. (on a great vintage quilt, I would add) The fire warms the night air. Staring at the stars, I know that this world is mine. I feel the food in my belly, feel it nourishing my body, feel the laughter and strength in my bones; and I am completely and overwhelmingly satisfied." (Rachel Lawrence)

~

Thank you, my friends. Thank you who came, and you who I thought of. You have enriched my life. You have taught me so much. You have expanded the table that is my life, and piled it high with sumptuous, guilt-free indulgences. Not the sort that leave you feeling light-headed, full, and hungry. But the sort with substance, subtleties, bold spices, and life-giving nourishments.

Life Here is Short. Make it Happy.

Jane made this plate of cookies for her grade six party tomorrow. She first made one ENTIRE batch thinking that baking soda was the same as baking powder. (Woops, I think we've all tried THAT one). Those went in the garbage. Even Sammy wouldn't eat those....) Then, whilst baby-sitting her brothers so her father and I could go buy more groceries to stuff into them.... She mixed, shaped, and baked her second batch. And my, oh, my. Were we impressed to see what lengths she went to to have fun making these treats. (The spider took eleven minutes to bake, she tells me.) And in case you are a bit slow, the letters read "Happy Halloween". There. Shove that in your pipe and smoke it. Happy.
Gosh. Its hard to say who's handsome-er.
And I wasn't talking about Jane and Eve's pumpkins, either. (A little too much candy indulgence, perhaps?)
Cast your cares aside for one day. Eat some candy with your kids. Or your neighbors kids. Or your cat. Or, even all by yourself.

But if you want to share with a spider..... wait eleven minutes, and come to Niverville.
Spider Capital of the World.

Language Barriers

Brian and I did not go to work today. It was Sam's appointment with the pediatric neurologist, and coincidently, Brian damaged his finger on the weekend and needed to tend to that as well. So we headed off to the city first thing in the morning, just the three of us. After navigating the children's hospital and getting Sam through another appointment with no "pokes", we were off to the Pan Am Sports Injury Clinic. In two and a half hours of moving from waiting area to waiting area, Sam made a lot of new friends. By our third waiting room (the one after x-ray, but before splints) we came around the corner to a chuckle and a "Hi Sam!" from a cheery man with a heavy accent who we'd been periodically sharing spaces with for a few hours. He reminisced about his three sons, grown up now, and how he imagined that Sam was a bright and happy boy, since he was actively asking question after question throughout the morning waits. We smiled and easily understood one another.

The long awaited reward for all that doctoring was a midday meal at McDonald's. We noted pessimistically that it was precisely lunch time, and we were located directly across from a high school. Should be reminiscient of field trips, we speculated. Brian graciously gave me the best "people-watching" position at the table, and I noticed all the unspoken languages amongst the teenaged patrons. The ones with skateboards wore their hoods, slouched, and let their pants drag behind them. Certain girls seemed to understand that language. A lone boy sat behind us, avoiding eye contact and concentrating on his soft drink. I wondered whether he didn't understand the language? or didn't want to? Was he new to the school? How did kids manage life some days, I wondered.

An energetic and friendly McDonald's employee, way beyond the age of "earning a couple of extra bucks" scooted around graciously picking up garbage that the kids literally crunched up and threw onto the floor around them. Not only was he quick, he was genuinely friendly. I tried to imagine having such a good attitude after bussing tables at a fast food store, serving snotty nosed teens, and not earning a whole lot for the effort. I knew for sure that I'd want to throw myself off of Abe's hill if I had to trade places with him.

Then, as we licked the last of our hot fudge off our fingers, it happened.
Surly-mc-surls'a'lot beside us got up to get a refill. Simultaneously, energetic clean-up boy- turned-man came around the corner and scooped up the paper wrappers and ketchups and deposited them into the trash. Surly I-hate-my-life guy came back from the counter and began the language. "HEY! Did you just F*%#@'in take away my F*%#@'n Food?!"

And here's the thing. Clean up guy stayed nice. Even though he could have been the brat's dad. Maybe even Grandfather.

But Surly wasn't done.
Nope, he stormed to the counter to complain to the manager, to demand a replacement meal, to snatch a comment card and make great show of filling it in in view of all the staff.

I was mad at him, and felt sorry for clean up guy. I noticed that clean up guy was looking more worried than annoyed, and that annoyed me even more because of the man's age, and the position he was in, having to take F&%*'s from some snotty nosed overgrown kid.

But then I started wondering about surly-McQ's language. Did he get taught at home that the only way to get what you need is by being aggressive? Mean? F%#@$-ish?

And that's the thing. Most of us only know our own language very well and so we interpret everyone around us through that filter.

There's no feel-good conclusion here. I still think it stinks that decent people have to (microwave) burgers and push brooms after stink-faced customers. But maybe it stinks just as bad that this kid never learned better conflict management.

One More Shot at Making an Ugly Mark

Back in the eighties I shared the second floor of an amazing old house just off of Corydon and my roomies and I had a party that would be henceforth be remembered as the "cop stopper". As it turned out, the guys who lived below us, (and repaired harleys on the living room hardwood in their spare (sober) time) were also throwing a party, so we just threw all the doors and stairways open and had one great big, cop stopper. It felt to me like one of those life events that I could wear as a feather in my kercheif. Like maybe I had finally moved off the farm...

Well, I'm not twenty-something any more and I'm not afraid to tell you that I've been thirty-nine for some ten months now. You gals all know about the up and coming cougar party, and I trust that your shopping and hair-teasing is well under way. I'm putting quite a bit of energy into plumping myself with that extra twenty to thirty pounds that was mentioned in the comments. I'd forgotten about that cougar special, but I think I can pull that one off. (she says, taking a sip of her wine, and a big bite of baguette with boursin cheese...the sambucca resting in the folds of her thigh).

Last year I hosted my first ever I'm-thirty-nine-and-not-afraid-to-tell-you-what-to-do-about-it-Ugly-Sweater-Party. I'm not joking whatsoever when I tell you that I believed this to be my very own, original idea. I came up with it at the elevater thrift shop when I was enjoying all the ghastly holiday sweaters and wishing I had some reason to purchase them. Turns out that there are other brilliant minds out there. That this has been thought of before. And I'll tell you how I know.

After the Ugly Sweater Party, I received an e-mail from a Michigan reader who was contacted by a columnist at the Winnipeg Free Press. He had googled "ugly sweater party" and landed up at her site. She had been sent a lovely honourary bad-ass sweater corsage since she had been otherwise committed on the day of the party and could not attend in person. Mr columnist guy wanted to write an article about this trendy Christmas party theme and asked her some questions about the event. She in turn directed me to him; and he to me. We exchanged e-mails, and since we were already well into December, he decided to defer until the following winter to write the piece about the ugly sweaters.

TRENDY?! Like I said, I thought that this was my original idea. I thought it was just possible that this idea of mine would be my ticket to finally making something memorable of myself- some legacy for my children, for my future generations.......

Hard to believe its been a year already. Another year off my life, and I'm still not a published author, a tae kwon doe instructer, a famous lecturer, or a coveted artist. But just this week, I received an e-mail from Dave Sanderson of the Winnipeg Free Press. He requested an invitation for himself and his photographer in anticipation of what he probably believes is an annual event for me. Rapidly approaching forty, and fearing that I may never make my mark on this world, I lept at the oppurtunity. So, maybe my works would never get published, but at least I'd get my name and maybe even a photo in the paper?!

So, here's your formal invitation:

on November 24, 2007, 7:00 pm

We request the honour of your attendance

at Joyce's second annual

Ugly Sweater Party

this year featuring

your choice of male escort or attendent.

(not necessarily paid)

No shoes, shirt, or black tie required.

Sweater mandatory.

Bring food and drink to share.

(BYOB&F&S)

(bring your own drink and food and sweater... heck, just bring your own party!)

Care to join me in becoming famous?

Check out last year's event here and here.

This time, if you want to, you can bring your husband or significant other. (just please not both). Leave your kids and pets at home though. They remind me too much of work.

If I Were Made of Time and Infinite Resources

... I would lose myself for hours in my beautiful, inspired sewing room. I would piece and patch and form into beauty the multitude of intentions and ideas that live in my head. (and quite a few pieces from ideas that I've stolen from other talented artists out there.)

I would hire a life coach for myself. I would learn how to have goals and a plan that would move me from a whole bunch of loose ended theories and wonderings to an intentioned way of concluding a thing or two before I turn to dust.

I would sign up for a neat thing I saw in a pamphlet at my sisters annual procrastinators birthday party this weekend. It was a weekly meeting about intentional journalling. That sounds so incredibly wonderful. To journal in the company of others who love to do so, and to have a facilitator to help us write and explore new ideas.

I would join the gym, not to beat my body into what I wish it would become, but instead to feel it work, to celebrate that all the joints and ligaments and muscles can team up and work in unision. To embrace my aging self and dance with it.

I would install a self-cleaning floor.

I would hire someone to put baseboards in my kitchen.

I would volunteer in a gritty downtown soup kitchen.

I would travel to Alberta and spend a week organizing my sister Laura. On the way there, I would stop at my friend Nancy's and drink some wine and talk about God with her.

I would set aside one night of the week for a stitch 'n bitch at my house. Except I would never call it that. I'm much too upright to say such a crass and inappropriate word. I would never suggest that my friends would fit such descriptions, or that they would accept me for another minute if they heard such foul mouthedness emerge from my lips. But. I would like to spend an evening a week with my beloved fabrics and buttons and friends. Stitching, creating, sipping, laughing, connecting.

I would go for a walk every night after supper while the children rip each other to shreds washing the dishes.

but as it stands, this post was begun first thing this morning, and I've had no time to complete it until late afternoon. I have nearly paid my bills for August now.

So, time and money do have their constraints. Lets just see what I manage to squeeze in, because if my life were entirely manageable, I'd likely die from boredom.

A Gal Like Me Has Got No Right To Struggle With Depression

... or alternately, The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music.

(It just depends on how comfortable you are with pretending that life is a romantic adventure, or whether it relieves you to know that everybody's got shit and small potatoes to deal with.)

How well I remember that house on the hill where all was alive with the sounds of children, and kittens, the dog Daisy, the pretty hens, and the refreshing melodies of cascading gin.

Its time for a refresher course in all things rural, so I thought I'd unschool the children for a few days and haul them off, kicking and screaming, to spend a few days in paradise. Well, screaming with joy as they ride the moterless lawnmower down the hill is more accurate....

So, as if that's not enough to pull my chin out of my navel, tonight Brian and I are taking our daughters to Rainbow Stage to sit in the outdoor concert hall and experience the production of The Sound of Music. I've not been to the stage since I was a teenager so it goes without saying that the girls have never been. Julia Andrews is like an old family friend. I grew up adoring the story and although we never had a television, the Von Trapps felt like family from all the hours I'd spend lying on the living room floor listening to their sounds of music and studying the faces on the record album, pretending I was the youngest in that family instead of my own.

So, a few more hours to get on the old timecard, and then a chance to indulge in the last glorious days of summer.

My heart shall be blessed.... by the sounds of music.

Summer

"Hi. I'm Sam. Remember?"

I guess its true what those blue-haired ladies in Safeway used to say.... "They grow up so fast..." At the time I wanted to shove my screaming, mangey crew at blue-grandma and say; "Oh, yeah?! Well how about you take them for an hour so I can shop? Or a week, if it goes as fast as you say, you romantic old biddy." But I'd twist my features into an imitation of a grateful smile and pat them on the arm instead. (Dementia. Odd what memories it melts away...)

Well, its been thirteen short years of parenting now, and we just realized yesterday that we've done a week of activities with practically no tension. No meltdowns. No peeing of the pants. No packing the stroller. None of it.

And we even had fun!

The summer list of good intentions has a few tick marks on it now. Zoo? check. Folk Fest? check. Beach? check. Fishing? check. Picking strawberries and raspberries? check. Tinkertown? check.

Maybe I'm growing over-confident here, but with this successful unfolding of events so far this summer, it seems a good weekend to take the girls and their friends on a camping trip to Birds Hill. With temperatures in the mid-thirties. In a tent. With precious few shade trees.

Where's that blue-haired lady when you need her?

oh, Those Darn Kids

Far be it from me to offer any advice on parenting because then you'd probably start watching my kids for all their weaknesses and flaws and then you might be tempted to come around and criticize me and I don't want that. (Did I sound defensive? I'm sorry; I meant to sound threatening....)

There's a funny thing that happens when you make your kids do jobs. A few months ago I had a rant about how insane I was going, how tired I was of wiping and washing and picking up after everyone, how annoying I found it to see people so relaxed in my presence. I insisted that I no longer do any supper clean-up and that I would not even involve myself in delegating duties. This was to be a war fought by the army of dad and the legions of offspring. The first few days or weeks, I had to physically remove myself from the room or the house because of the significant resistance that was met with this non-negotiable proposal.

Its still ugly a lot of the time. But there's a new dynamic emerging. There's a weird bonding that happens when these wild ones have to band together to complete a task. (and their dad is a task master. He won't accept a sloppy job. He won't do a "mommy" and do it for them.) Amidst the screaming, sometimes crying, sometimes racing around the table, there is the presence of an almost hysterical giggle. Annoying, but invaluable. Often, the craziness that envelopes dish-washing time (and I make them use the sink and not the dishwasher. I think its a good life skill.) spills over into after-dish-washing time. I'll hear them rumble down into the basement for a life-in-the-eighties costume game. Or we'll get a fashion shoot of bubble beards. Or Micah will give himself vacuum hickeys after getting the floors clean.

Its like after hating each other through the process of figuring out how to work together, they lose some of their selfishness and actually begin to like one another.

Besides, I usually forget to bath them. At least this way I know that their kinda clean. -ish.

Why Sensible People Don't Throw Costume Parties

Canada Day holiday and I'm not "working" today. I mean to say that I'm not going to get paid to work today.

*

Some time to venture into my "work space" and contemplate doing something about the endless clutter squatting there.

*

This is what my sewing room looks like for about 14 seconds after I've spent half a day cleaning it up.

*

All the vintage fabrics and trims I've collected over the past 15 years or so are properly stored away in old suitcases or cleverly stacked on my big old wooden work table.

*

Then I have a space to work in, so I open up the suitcases and begin to rummage through them.

*

Then I plan a party and have to go about de-cluttering the living room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen.

*

I deposit large piles of strange things under my wooden work table.

*

The things I simply don't have time to identify, I shove into a grocery bag and huck under that same table.

*

If I were sensible and i didn't collect stuff to begin with, I wouldn't have to figure out how to keep it all tidy.

*

If I were sensible, I wouldn't plan fun, fun parties where we laugh our guts out and play

dres

s-up. I couldn't plan them, because I wouldn't have collected all the props for that particular theme.

*

If I were sensible, I'd likely live in a conservative bungalow, a nice tidy one without old fabric spilling out of bags and boxes.

*

I'm awfully glad I'm not sensible.

Avoiding Writing About What I'm Really Thinking About

Right now I am wrestling with some big gigantic things and even I in all my non-privateness am not yet willing to write about it. Its so unprocessed that I may spew forth half thoughts that will later produce regrets. I hate regrets. I hate trying to regather feathers once I've ripped open a big old german pillow and shaken it out of a two storey window whilst screaming obscenties from the top of my voice.

So, paradoxically, I will reproduce what Danielle lied ever so kindly over at the Bipolar Diaries.

Sometimes when life bogs you down so completely that you find yourself taking your son through the McDonald's drive-through for fries and all you order yourself is a black coffee..... you just need to indulge yourself in someone else's graces. So, here's what Danielle said today to get me to lift my head off the pillow and give another kick at the can today.

5. Joyce at Chronicles of Blunderview. Joyce is amazing. There are many times when I feel as though we share the same brain...although she is much more prolific than I. She often takes my perspective of looking at life through a kaleidescope....there is no one correct interpretation of any event....and the view changes with every turn.

I love msn encarta dictionary, so I had to take this word prolific over there just to make sure that I fully understood its meaning.

pro·lif·ic [ prə líffik ]
adjective
Definition:

1. highly productive: producing ideas or works frequently and in large quantities

2. fruitful: producing a lot of fruit or many offspring

3. abundant or abounding: present in large numbers, or containing large numbers of quantities of something, especially animal life

*a period prolific of creative achievement

Gosh, what a great word! Let's just review...
producing ideas or works frequently and in large quantities........ Well, YAH! That would be accurage. I used to produce large quantities of hand sewn garments to the point at which my mother ( a workhorse) would shake her head and say... "How does she do it..."

producing lots of fruit or many offspring... HELLO! four kids and a daycare and lots of fruit in the fridge. I've got that one covered.

abundant or abounding.....large quantities of something..... animal life... OH YES! We abound! Large quantities of STUFF, and let's see about animal life... two cats, one hamster, and a dog on the way. And that's not counting what lives in the couch.

Lets Put on a Happy Face

Okay, enough with the depressing stuff already. YEEEESH! So people die and kids have to go for medical tests and needle pokes, but its not all grey and rainy and awful.

Take Ruth for example. You might read her blog and think that she's faking it because no one can be that lovely and that all-about-God and be real. Well, I'm here to say that she's the real thing. And its neat, because if I had to put my faith in my own faithfulness, my own commitment to "spending time with God" and "looking for His promises" then we'd all see in short order that I've acquired precious few points in the God club. But judging from Ruth, God apparently doesn't work that way.

Poor Ruthie has been dreaming dreams of the Hildebrands. Ruth has sung songs for the Hildebrands, and prayed prayers for the Hildebrands. Bold and fearless Ruth has even been willing to sub for Joyce the baby juggler. Sweet, senseless thing.

People are terrific. They charge me up and make me happy and give me hope. They make me laugh, and make me cry, and teach me stuff you can't get from most books. But when I have the oppurtunity to see God in people, I just feel warm and optimistic and I just wanna get me somma dat.

So, although I'm hesitant to spend time telling God how he should make sure that my boy is in good health and will remain there.... I'm more intrigued with wanting to get to know a God who speaks to people in still small ways. That's the kind of God I want to spend more time hanging out with. The kind of God who basically has decided to trust people to carry out His good ideas to some degree or another. Maybe if we spent less time fussing and fretting over what prayers to pray, or what programs to introduce or eliminate, or whether we should have a church vote on coloured or white toilet paper...... And instead we kind of chilled out with our God head-sets on and dreamed more dreams; then maybe God's goodness would take less of our own pathetic attempts to prove and program.

Huh?

Sometimes life just isn't what you thought it would be. When I had my first daughter five years prematurely, my husband was just finished his first year of a four year university degree. The timing of having a baby seemed unwise indeed, but come along she did. When she was a little baby, my family lived two and a half hours away and we often made the trip with our precious little package in the back seat of our Honda hatchback, the wind whipping her hair and threatening to steal her breath. It struck me then that I'd always assumed that when I became a mother, I would have air conditioning. And a house. And I'd know what I was doing.

I did have a very good sense to know what to do with babies. I naturally was attracted to them, felt comfortable with the breast-feeding, the diapering, the cuddling and the cooing. It was exhausting, but fairly black and white. Then they turned into children, and all the books and classes suggested that good parents would not parent by gut feeling or conviction, but through advise and education. Lest we screw them up for good. I sensed my gpa slipping fast. But by the time I had my fourth, I felt like I had a pretty good handle on the whole "preschooler" thing. I knew what I felt was important. I knew what worked, and what didn't work. Too late for the first three guinea pigs who were now dragging me through bigger kid boot camp.

But that's how life is. When we were kids, we knew our parents were mean and horrible at times, but we always assumed that they knew what they were doing. We assumed that they didn't torture themselves at night, wondering if they were "enough". If we were naughty, it was because we were rebellious, fleshly little brats who should obey their parents if we wanted our lives to go on at all.

I'm at the mid-point of my life now, if I live to be reasonably old. I know some stuff now. I know that parents are actually made up of two separate people with two separate brains. I know that parents are actually people. I know that most of us bumble along to some degree, mixing what we've learned with what we hope is true.

There are other parts to my adulthood that have come at me by surprise. All was not as it appeared. And I'm left with the sense that surely there had been a lecture on this stuff, and I must have daydreamed through it because I'm just not sure of the right way to navigate. It smacks of my grade 11 geography teacher who used to teach material from notes he had compiled years back, but then tended to hand out a test on materials from an entirely different stack. The kids who were smart and remembered all the geography they had ever taken in their eleven years tended to do fine. I tended to fail.

And we're not in grade eleven geography any more.