Blogging

It all started out as a bit of a game. Splash some words on a screen and see what stranger in what country would add some colour to it. It was a nameless, faceless crowd and probably not a crowd at all. Then those names from the west coast and from the U.K. began to look familiar and friendly and a face or two in my imaginary crowd began to take some shape. Then some family members logged on, entirely out of pity and compassion and in my mind's eye the audience changed again. In time, we added a row or two of chairs to the blog auditorium as we like-minded bloggers discovered one another, checked out each others links, and lobbed opinions and encouragements back and forth.

Now I'm not entirely sure who is is my auditorium. I know of a number of faces though, and more important than that, my annonymous, mostly imaginary crowd has now taken on an entirely different dimension. Sometimes now when I think of squatting for a thought catharsis of a colonic proportion I have to contend with the rows of faces crowding into my locked stall. I prefer to bear down in privacy. Come on in after the sound of the flush and put up with the stink, but please give me a moment to myself.

Now that's where this analogy makes no sense. All this blogstipation and blogahrea is voluntary. I've got no stern lab-coated clinician pulling on a sterile glove to get things moving. (tired of the word pictures yet? I'm almost done....) I may be grossly overstating things here, but is this how a published author feels? I imagine that the first book is written when nobody cares, and author person is living on bruised bananas, all alone at home, typing away in long underwear. Then somebody wants to read it! Then they want more! But they are looking for something specific, something that got touched within them with the first, nearly accidental writing. Does the author go back to the bananas and sweaty undershirt and lose him/herself in the writing, or has the sanctuary of writing become a spectator sport of sorts? Is it possible to go back? Is it possible to not speak to the audience that one has become aware of? And if that is true, then is something of its uniqueness and usefulness lost to a sort of virtual self-consciousness?

Well, come on then. If you are in the audience, here's your chance. If you write, I want to know if you feel like your writing has changed since you've become more aware of your readers. If you read, I want to know why, and whether you've once read something and hoped that the conversation would eventually continue on, or whether it a daily ritual like peeing, or reading the funnies.

Then again, maybe none of you are real.

Assume The Stance

*Alternate Title: How to be True to your Heritage, But Look After Yourself At the Same Time.

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*Alternate Title #2: How To Be Stingey So That According To Your Income Tax File, You Are considered one of The Most Generous People ever.

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When you go to a parade, bring grocery bags. Even better, pack a pillow case.

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Stand in an area of town that few other people will have the foresight to think of.

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Encourage your children to RUN into the street, FASTER than any other children, then RUN back to yourself to make the deposit into said pillowcase.

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Wear running shoes.

Wear really short shorts. Change into heels later. (What the -fneep- is with people wearing HEELS to a town fair?!)

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Never, ever, consider small children toward the back of the crowd who might not be able to run as fast as your children.

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Remember that if you accumulate a lot of candy, you may have enough to tide you over to Halloween, at which time you can hand out your leftover parade candy.

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(If you are worldly enough to keep your lights on near the end of October)

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Then, before the end of the calendar year, you will have the money (that you might have spent supporting your local gas station for your kids' candy), plus the money that you might have spent on halloween treats.

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Then you can pack up that money, (along with any leftover hamburger casserole or kumst borscht that didn't get eaten by your ungrateful children) and send it to the other side of the world.

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You'll might even be more than 10% a good Mennonite.

Why It Would Be Silly To Work Weekends

I was like a late-blooming groupy down at our own corner gas on that bright, bright Saturday morn. Here he was, a true Canadian celebrity.... in my town, talking to my kids, and looking human and everything. I gushed about family entertainment, great Canadian humour and his gift of hilarity. I didn't blush though. And I never threw myself at him. I have my reputation to withhold.
And for a moment (or considerably longer) it was the 80's again. With the backdrop of Michael Jackson stuttering and panting, and a few of my own unsolicited screams I survived the pirate ship with my dear old Red River Ex sidekick.
Then of course, it was high time to spend five or six hours on the two bestest rides ever, ever.

From ladybug #4 to the choo choo train bound for....
well...
ladybug #4.

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.

Dying of a Thousand Cuts from June to June

Its not any one thing that has brought me to my hypothetical knees, fantasizing of repeatedly uttering (a choice word) without any regard for my "oughtas".

Its not any one thing that makes me wonder again if I misplaced some crucial bulletin about a "life preparedness course" that would make me well educated and well equipped to be an infallable spinner of plates, or perpetual changer of hats.

Its not gone unmentioned that absorbing the concept of cancer in the family, never mind Death by Cancer has been a steady theme. The simultaneous, but unrelated truth of my husband erecting huge "Under Re-Construction" signs along what was once our shared faith roadway also dances in the periphery of my stage, waiting for a paradigm to nest in. Then along came the death-by-mental-illness of our young cousin. Then papa had a stroke. Cousin dropped of a sudden heart attack. Somewhere in there was death-of-an-auntie. Oh, and let's not forget Brian's uncle who has just died of liver cancer.

Then there were the horrer tales of the three year old girl, mistakenly run over by her own mother. The bike-riding fifth grader who was run over by an elderly lady in a car just up the road from my house. The three moms who miscarried their babies.

But then, June came again. And we wondered how it would feel.

But this June, I am busy spinning new plates, and nursing new wounds.
There will be more trips to that big hospital in the bright summer sun.
Some for my dad, some for my baby boy.

A thousand cuts.

Utterly Useless Drivel. Remnants, Really. Its My Blog And I'll Be Lame If I Want To.

Its very trendy these days to get dead. So much so, in fact, that its getting tough to fit in the people who insist on living. Do I:
(a) go to daughter #2's soccer game?
(b) go to daughter #1's band recital? or
(c) go to cousin's husband very first viewing?

And how do I plan for
(c) husband's uncle's funeral , the date and time of which is yet unannounced?

Like most trends, it can get wearisome at times.

I've got nothing inspiring to say at all. Every now and again, the beginning of a thought will very nearly come to me, but right about that time, someone generally pees on the floor. Or they need a drink of water because they are having a difficult time with consistently peeing on the floor. Or some sweet baby is crawling through the pee on the floor.

Sometimes for variety, the cat pukes on the floor.

Perhaps its time to give away the floor.
Then I'd have more time to figure out how to schedule in all the dead and living stuff.

*yes, this is a disturbingly twisted post. The truth is that I have developed this disorder (yet undiagnosed) and one of the symptoms is to tell dry jokes that aren't remotely funny, but they have something to do with people dying left, right, and centre. Or flirting with dying. Or talking about someone else dying. Meanwhile, the urgency of living is eating ME alive.
(Clean toilet. Clean sink. Get toddler's hands out of toilet. Wash toddler's hands. Clean sink. Count heads. Count sinks. Slip in puddle of urine. Listen to ridiculous lies about how its not pee at all, but the drippings of an extremely large watermelon. MAKE CHILD CLEAN FLOOR. Wash child's hands. Clean sink. Count heads.......

Dead, Dead, very very Dead

There's a line from the Thumbelina movie stuck in my head for the past year or so. Its a song with the line of this post's title in it. I prefer "dead" to "passed away"; "gone to a better place"; and "no longer with us". It is what it is. Death. Not pretty. Not politically correct or tidy or kind.

just dead.

Like my cousin's husband who died earlier today of a heart attack. Dead.

I mean no disrespect to his wife and children and grandchildren. There's just no better word to describe the craziness of being alive one minute, making plans to spend the summer camping at Bird's Hill and the next moment, simply not existing.

We're supposed to know what to do with the insides of our own dying bodies when people we love go ahead and DIE. But we go on, breathing in and out, our crushing chests aching with life.

Does this Ass Make my Bow Look Big? Reflections of a Party Well Spent

The people who showed up were entirely out of my control, aside from the fact that they read about it on the blog. The misconception that I hand-picked young beauties who still fit bridesmaids gowns from yesteryear is simply that: a misconception. Some of the well-bowed guests did offer their rsvp's, and so I anticipated their attendence. Especially the eager returnees of last November's ugly sweater party. A certain teacher stole the show with her immaculately put together fuscia princess dress, matching corsage, flower halo, white gloves, and matching dyed pumps. Not to mention the shimmering blue eye shadow. What a picture. She was accompanied by a woman so convincing in her back-combed bangs that others were unsure of whether to mock them or assume that she was indeed stuck in a theme from high school.

And the hot red bridal party! I swear that I did not set this up. There were a few people in that bunch that I really did not know, much less know that they would come to the party. AND THAT WOULD BE THE POINT!! I am hoping to quell any misperceptions so that next parties, all you wall flowers will have the courage to don your own masks and come out to celebrate with us. There is nothing that makes me happier than strangers coming to my house for a party. Especially a byop type. Well, except for perhaps the guests who are no longer strangers because they came to the last one!

I had a certain wedding planner roll in here with luggage on wheels! It was filled to the brim, and overflowing with helpful products for any and all wedding mishaps. Who knew that ky made an excellent facial product? Who knew that maxi pads are a convenient stand-in for shoulder pads? The planner, along with her fuscia and royal blue entourage were responsibly ferried here by some very frightened, and mildly amused looking men-folk, who knew to scurry off to the city once their deliveries were safely made. (but not without an enthusiastic nuptual hug and kiss....)

There were a few needy, hungry aunties sniffing around the place for some action. One even managed to influence some more ethical , moral guests to take a midnight romp to the local gas station to check around for "batteries". (uh, HUH.) Ironically, it was the wedding planner who got lucky with a very tolerant daisy-spinning guest's beau. Wow. Seems like that wedding planner has really gotten around... no wonder she prepared for such a wide variety of relationship scenarios....

Who knew that one of the most conservative, respectable faces around town actually sports a slutty tattoe on her backside. Some things will never cease to amaze me. She probably hangs out at the carwash on weekends, getting her glittery, lycra gown all damp.... Probably with that gal who hides a whole lotta red underneath all that flowing white. Then there was that lot who wore the red all on the outside! Some of the backs were a little more scooping than others. Some soooo scooping that they never made it to the party at all!

The three brides provided some unique challenges. One keep trying to pull a Julia Roberts on us, so we keep a stern outlook for any white steeds wandering about the darp. The other swished about conspicuously in her tight-fitting pearls shamelessly flaunting her sixteen year old figure. Her and that fallen-off-ed little thing from the big city. Imagine. Showing up in a baptismal dress that fit her in the early seventies. And she was only four then. Hummmmph.

What a relief that a relative showed up in an appropriate, respectful, flattering green ensemble with a wedding hat that would make the queen mother proud. And she hasn't forgotten wedding etiquette either! Nope, that thoughtful, svelt young thing brought proper fruit cake cut in tiny rectangles and wrapped in aluminum foil. Gives me hope for the next generation.

Although, I suppose its entirely too late for that gregarious hussy who insisted on lopping seven inches off the bottom of her pleated floral skirt midway through the toast to the bride...

Re Run

(originally featured in the Chronicles on Friday, May 26, 2006)

Having spent the evening enjoying soccer with my daughter in a civil-looking town (with its own interesting twists and turns, I'm sure), I remembered a more memorable soccer experience from the season before. Maybe Blunderview has been "on the air" for long enough to warrant a re-run?

Soccer Culture
Having two girls in soccer in a league that encompasses most small towns east of the Pacific Ocean and slightly west of the Atlantic has forced me to drive to some unlikely destinations. On a recent road trip, I knew that we'd be in for a real cultural treat when, just past the green sign that heralded our destination I spotted the local drinking hole: The Cat Sass Tavern.

The host town had sprouted up out of the scrubby bush like a bad weed gone wild. The individual in charge of zoning must not have seen the outside of his trailer since 1971, judging from the haphazard layout of yards, swamps, the odd ball diamond, a school set way too close to the main street, and a boarded up church with the plastic off the windows flapping into the Holy Mother's face.We drove around the windy gravel streets for some time, hoping to locate some soccer fields. There were plenty of mobile homes, windows opaque with dog snot and bug smears, set back towards the bush, to leave plenty of running space for two or three large dogs, a camper laying on its side, and large quantities of trucks and cars in varying stages of disassembly. Auto wrecking and dog breeding appeared to be the main industries of the town.

After several dead end "streets" that ended in either bush, or another abandoned camper, we found what must be the Mayor's home. A large, brick bungalow sprawled across grassy prairie. A large, manicured lawn flanked the front and west side of the dwelling.But wait- are these soccer nets I see? Ah ha!! The mayor must love watching children run and play- these are not manicured grounds I see, but soccer fields! (could the town planner possibly live in the bungalow, and not the trailer down the dirt road? Imagine his shock, when he emerges from his basement one summer to find it invaded by ten year old girls chasing a soccer ball!) A cluster of lawn chairs stood on each side of the lawn turned soccer field, with parents nervously chewing and spitting sunflower seeds and bellowing encouragements to their jersey clad youngsters.

The coach had a face the colour of month old pea soup, and stumbled up and down the sidelines in his rumpled jeans and dress shoes mumbling things like: "blimey", and taking swigs from a two litre of 7-Up whose contents I had to question. I feared he'd spent too much time inhaling some bad smoke in his basement, while tending to some mysterious leafy plant under a heat lamp. Most of the young players suffered from smoke-induced asthma, but nervously raced up and down the field, sneaking glances at a big, burley fellow on the sidelines waving his arms and flapping his lips (cigarette intact) with "helpful advice" for the athletes.

When our girls won five to one, I felt it prudent to walk quickly and confidently back to the van before the coyote hunting parent pack chased us down and beat us to a bloody pulp in their jealous rage. Walk quickly past the rusty cargo vans and the trucks weighted down with fridges and ranges who had seen better days. Wind back down the road past the windows that held foaming insulation where glass once had been, youth in black hoodies hunched over their nicotine candy sticks, and staight(-ish) north back to the highway -and home.

Next week we will be the host team and have a chance to welcome this town to our fields.

If they find their way.

I Should Expect Days Like This

But then again, what good would it do?
Sammy gets to play captain Up-chuck this time. He doesn't look very powerful though, and he doesn't much want to play.

I guess when you look after kids, and you leave some of your favourite things out, like lets say..... some miniature lustre ware plates.... you should expect to find things broken from time to time. Poo.
Especially in light of the fact that its done nothing but rain or threaten to rain for about fifty-seven straight days and nights now. (Not that I'm counting or anything, because I love being stuck inside with seven pre-schoolers. I mean, I just did it all winter, so its not like I need a break or a change of scenery or anything).

And I suppose that one can't expect all children to be adjusted as quickly as one might like. Especially not speaking children who want to talk about their mother, cry about their mother, and stare out the windows for their mother for eight consecutive hours.

Not that I'm counting or anything.

Going Incognito

Something wonderful happens when people hide behind masks. Or bridal wear. Or large, furry suits.

On the night before the now infamous wedding party, I volunteered my services for a celebrity scavenger night planned by my daughter's youth group. For nearly two hours, I perused the hallways of a well-populated mall in a pink panther suit designed for a person roughly one hundred and seven pounds heavier than I. I scanned the crowds through coin sized spaces that richoted randomly between my lips and eyebrows. I waved and nodded. I crouched and cuddled. I swished my big pink tail. I hugged beautiful children. And I learned a thing or two.

We all hide behind masks. Now that's not a big headline shocker, but what was interesting to me was that an obvious mask actually seemed to lift more subtle disguises on others. A Holdemon man, whisking his gowned and head-covered wife and baby through the wide and sinful hallways of the mall towards the more godly diapers and dishcloths of Walmart let go of his fear of worldliness for just a moment, and as they passed by me, he let out a loud "MEOW!" Children, sensibly told by their parents to avoid strangers, were now being photographed in my arms. Teenagers ran up for free hugs. A young boy who started off with a hug, ended off punching in pinky's nose and reaching round for a spiteful tail yank. Three skateboarders peppered me with questions about my identity, just before adding; "I'd really like to hit you, but I want to know what I'm hitting."
I found it easy to engage the kids from the youth group as not-my-self. I noticed that my daughter completely avoided eye contact, until her more observant friend noticed pinky's shoes and suggested that quite possibly the kitty in pink was actually Arianna's mother. As she gave chase and lifted a corner of my mask we suddenly went from zero eye contact to mommy and baby in a nano second. The awkwardly confident young men who tried desparately to guess my identity quickly looked away when I made my great reveal. (GASP! Somebody's MOTHER! How uncomfortable!)

"I have feelings too!", I shouted, three quarters pink, one part mother.

But that's how it is. I too preferred the mask. We speak different languages, live in different worlds. Without the mask, social norms would have guarded against interacting with the angry, the religious, the young, the playful. I'd like to relearn the language of my daughter's world, but the role of mommy always takes over. But for two hours as the pink panther, I was no one's wallet, kleenex, band-aid, or old has-been. Through my pin-hole vantage point the openness and potential in all those half kids/half adults was completely obvious to me.

And maybe my potential was more obvious to them too.

Oh What a Night

dun-dum-tee-dum, dun, dum, tee dum....

Dear Diary:

Today is the day! Its going to be so special! I just know that I was made for a time such as this. Will the pumps match perfectly? Will the hairspray hold? Oh, and I just know that its gonna rain. I had the car all pretty with kleenex flowers and all and I soooooooo wanted to throw my garter and bouquet outdoors. And all the china! They were hand-picked with the outdoors in mind! But I mustn't dwell on things I cannot control. How could I be happily married if I fuss and fret? I must practise being led by a MAN. For I am about to become a WIFE. I'm sure its going to be JUST like all the storybooks. I just can't wait!

Oh, I feel like I could just burst into tears, I'm sooooooooooooooooooooooooo HAPPY!

You'll always be my bestest friend forever, dear diary. I'll tell you all about it but I've got some carnations to go arrange. And I want to steam every ruffle on that dashing baby blue tuxedo so that it'll be perfect. Just perfect. The day of my dreams. My special day. Yup, I'm really, really happy. Really. Really I am. I never really wanted to go to college anyway. I feel really good about living in my darling's parents grainery. And the baby? Well, who wouldn't want a soft cuddly baby to hold while my man is out training the rotweiler pups?

Happy. very, very happy.

May Narcisism Reign On

(1) Have you ever cried during a movie? If so what was the name of the movie.

I can cry to "Littlest Hobo" if you give me a chance. "Little Bear" could make me cry because when the kids were little, I wished I could just be as patient and pleasant as her....

(2) What's your favourite childhood memory?

Favourite? I'm not sure, but I'll mention a few.
Finding the kittens in the walls of the old barn every spring.
Bike riding to the bridge to watch the spring flow.
Harvest, seeing my dad pumped full of joy and energy on the grain fields.
Mom saying "schlope schein" every single night.

(3) Do you have a collection of anything?

Oh, dear Louise. If you thought of these questions yourself, how could you know?
Okay, there's a fabulous set of teacups that we take out from time to time. (all different)
Old linens.
Vintage fabric. Toys, toys, toys.
Old plates.
Old buttons.
Retro aprons.
Old quilts, chenille.
All right, this is getting tiresome, isn't it? There's a basic theme, which even the faintest of brains amongst you should be able to pick up on.

(4) What's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you?
Again, I couldn't possibly pick one. I've had an awful lot of really good people in my life. The memories that come to me are when people came to me when I wasn't at my prettiest.

(5) What do you want your friends to think about you?
Oooh, another tough one.
I would want them to feel the freedom to be fully themselves around me. I would want them to feel that they could ((GENTLY)) correct me. (Now, don't all come at once!)

There's other stuff, but really its kind of embarrassing, and shows me to be the insecure child that I really am. I'm going to try to sound impressive, instead.
Oh, and I want them to think that I have the form of my prior sixteen year old self. That my breasts are plump and that the right side is the same size as the left. I want them to think that my legs are long and muscular. That cellulite doesn't run in the family. I want them to think that I shower every day, never forget to bath my children. I would want them to know that I have my PhD, but out of humility and love for the future generation of our crumbling world, I have decided to sacrifice my intelligence for the greater good of the children in our community.

Wanna play? Go see Louise.

Report on Business

It was a full day at the local home daycare centre. The first artistic expression was spear-headed by a bright young German artist who expressed herself creatively using the elements of strawberry yogurt, on a backdrop of black linoleum. Brilliant. And aromatic.

If that wasn't entertaining enough, our young artist then transformed herself into a puppy, silently and diligently cleaning up scraps of pasta sauce and cheerio remnants from an otherwise spotless floor

Not to be outdone, our second baby in command, (recently elevated to Kid Status), boarded a Rescue Hero spaceship, took over full command of the controls, and navigated spaces previously unknown to childkind.

Our most senior in command, suddenly feeling the crush of responsibility settling upon her narrow shoulders, set determinedly to work in our hair and make-up department. With her shrewd sense of business and no-nonsense attitude, our young apprentice soon rose to presidential status.

And on this day, the senior ceo could be found standing a little taller, observing the unprecedented success of her young proteges.

Wedding Plans

I had the place all decorated, right down to the white chairs and centrepieces. I was hoping to use the rest of the week to work on the cake and some last minute details.

How was I to know that the giant party tent wasn't waterproof?!

The rare Italian lace? Ruined. The punch? Full of tree floaties and earth worms. The giant canopy? Reduced to compost. And we shan't speak of the feather pen!

Does anyone have a tent?

Actually, maybe something a touch larger would be better.



Mean, selfish, vindictive Sylvia K.. Doesn't she know that all she had to do to be invited was to simply read about the party on the blog?



But Nooooooooooooooooooooo. She had to go and order rain.
Hmmmmmmph.

*its time to start posting details on a daily basis, just to be sure that I haven't left out vital information about the special celebration on May 26. Come around 7:00 pm, although before that or after that is fine too. Come in character. Remember that this is not one of those sentimental reminicient events where you squish into your wedding gown and talk about how if you had it to do again, you'd choose the same prince because you're happier than in your wildest dreams. Some of you have already taken razors to your first wedding gown. You can come in that, if you so choose. But, feel free to improvise. The local thrift shop has some lovely overpriced mother of the bride outfits, as well as wedding gowns for a mere $35.00. Don't let me get started!! We all know that there are many lesser thought of roles in a wedding. There is the wedding planner, the flowergirl, the weeping auntie.... Well, you get the shtick.

And don't forget to BYOP. That's bring your own party. A chair might be wise. Something consumable in liquid and solid form will make things feel more festive. Bring a friend if you like, as long as she's female.

presentation preferred..... JUST KIDDING!

Fragile But Strong

Bad stuff happens to everyone. People lose children, siblings, health, the sanctity of their marriage. Finances crumble, friendships end, hopes die. And so there is nothing unique about pondering the likelihood of caring for my aging parents. There is nothing unique about feeling hollow and frightened that my brother died before I was quite used to his diagnosis. Still, a wise friend pointed out, its the first time its happened to me, and that makes it unique.

I, and my world, are forever changed. I want to navigate all this "properly", deal with stress appropriately, remember and rely on the one word that God impressed upon me some two years ago: REST. And so in ways I feel strong and determined.

But in other ways, I'm a stupid little kid in water wings, trying to swim upstream.

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.

Righting Wrongs.

If I want to make an impact on my world, I'd better get on it cuz time's a wastin'. If I had one of those trendy life lists, one of my goals would be to fix up this whole "food pyramid" misconception that the devious Canada Food Guide pumps out year after year with some modifications when it turns out that we can't be expected to change at a kyoto rate.

Allow me to introduce the Food Rectangle.

So simple that even the most unteachable amongst of it shouldn't have any trouble understanding how to implement its practicalities. The more straightforward, rectangular shape is designed to debunk any mysteries that the previous, more complex pyramid shape brought about.

Allow me to pontificate.

The entire rectangular form represents the central and crucial food group: Carbohydrates. Carbs come in many edible shapes and sizes. Cookies, cakes, biscuits, bread products, noodles, cereal, and brownies are just a few of the available choices.

The letters "A", "B", and "O" represent all other food forms. The basic premise is that all other foods were created to complement the carbohydrate. I'll provide some examples, just to make sure I'm being absolutely clear.

ice cream+ peanuts+ chunks of cookie dough= Complete Food Rectangle.
wine(carb)+ cheese+ grapes= Complete Food Rectangle.

Now, because I don't anticipate living forever, I'll need your cooperation in spreading this truth around the world in the shortest possible time. This blog is being tracked. If you read it and delete it, you are a heartless, selfish, unhealthy, unattractive excuse for a human being. If you want to be a part of something bigger, you will make the time to spread this new, TRUE publication of the Food Rectangle. Send it to everyone on your e-mail list. You will become happier, healthier, and more fulfilled.

Its time to make a change, people! Let's unite, and right some wrongs in this deceitful, wicked, vegetable-obsessed world! Balance! Simple, simple balance.
Start with the rectangle, and add the spread of your choice.
Lets change our lifestyles, one rectangle at a time.