Gift of the Day

People disregarded the "no gift policy". And since they came up with incredible, thoughtful, creative, awe-inspiring tidbits; I'm so glad they chose not to listen to me.

This piece is from my dear friend Rosa. I was not expecting her, or her vanful of Brandon-area accompanyists. Their arrival surprised me to the point of jumping up and down repeatedly, wearing blue plastic high heels, and screaming: I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!

Rose has an amazing gift of putting things together with buttons. This little piece showcases bathing suits made of coloured buttons. I say its an excellent momento of the kind of night we enjoyed together, baring all. Literally and figuratively.

And all the figures owned their beauty and mystique.

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.

Yeah, About Those Nails

Nancy wasn't able to come out to the grand fortieth, but she very thoughtfully sent out six packets of plastic fingernails covered in leopard print. Last night during the party, Alice (with her servant heart) graciously applied nails to any finger or toenail that came within her grasp. I quite enjoyed the roleplay of claw-lady, even though my fingers audibly and literally moaned and begged for an oppurtunity to breathe and move.

~

In the morning, I awoke to find myself picking at those nails. My fingers were really gasping for breath by now. Remembering some less tolerant guests with zero etiquette who began soaking their high quality nail jobs in nail polish remover just minutes after their application, I sensed that the removal of this accessory may pose quite a challenge.

~

By mid-afternoon I received an e-mail from a guest whose alter-ego in the "RW" is that of elementary school teacher... and it was clear that the tenacity of our nails was a common bond. She had given up on authentic removal and had settled for trimming them down with hedge clippers and hoof trimmers, and applying several hundred coats of a more subtle tone of polish to cover the leopard print. The following day was, incidentally, parent and teacher school interviews. It seemed prudent that some manner of professionalism be applied, lest the parents have evidence of their son's downward spiral since being placed under the classroom tutelege of Ms. So-and-So.

~

By faspa time at ma and pa's, the conviction of the nails burned with shameful urgency. The nails had to come off. Mother refused to make eye contact with those little round leopardy bits on the ends of my hands. Her nose and lips curled in visible disdain and disgust at her daughter's obvious indiscretions and lack of proper training. I don't think she could have been less pleased if I'd shown up in an animal print thong and thrown a bottle of rye into the summa borscht.

So, I came up with a perfectly sensible solution. I gently worked the butter knife under the edge of the nail, grimaced a little, felt the dna in my fingers stretch and cry audibly and literally, then I popped those babies off.

~

Hopefully none of them landed in the schmondt faht.

Sorry You Missed It

wow.
Is is hard to type wearing really long plastic fingernails.....


These legs are all connected to human faces. Their true identities will never be revealed.
I don't think it was any bored, self-pitying has-been who coined the phrase "Life begins at forty"!

Passing Through Winkler?

My sister-in-law lives in Winkler, and has set up two rooms in her house as a Christmas store. If you live in the area, know someone who does, or are passing through, please check it out.

Everyone is Welcome to shop, browse, or just satisify your courisity at:

Under the Tree Gift Boutique

This boutique has crafts from 16 different people. Such things as:
-dip, cheeseball, coffee & cookie mixes
-frames (barnboard and painted wood)
-candles
-baby blankets
-hot and cold bags
-handbags (very unique and proceeds go to women in Darfur)
-pet beds and pet neckties
-eye spy bottles
-towels
-afgans
-kids knitted sweaters
-wheat weaving
-advent calenders
-christmas art
-gift tins
-christmas ornaments
-magnets
-table runners
-jewellery
-cheeseball trays
-denim blankets (proceeds go to MCC)
and more

I am located at 178 8th Street (north of Pembina Ave.) Winkler, Manitoba
Don't be shy about just walking in - it may be my home but it is also a store and I want you all to feel welcome here.
My hours are Wednesday 10-5, Thursday and Friday 1-8 and Saturday 10-3

Come and check us out we have some great Christmas ideas and Christmas decor.

Thursday... that's Two Days Before Saturday, Right?!

I blinked once or twice, spit out a cuticle or nine, and
SHA-ZAM! suddenly its The Thursday Before The Saturday That We've All Been Planning For. The pumpkins have gone the way of the compost, the nails have been counted, a snappin' pair of shoes have been purchased, and a fresh bouquet of flowers plucked. The seams in my lycra pants have been let out. aaaaaahh. But that only increases their appeal.

So what remains, you ask? Well, for you, my guests, I really wanted to get the curtains up in the front window just in case you have some reservations about local voyeurs parading past. Your comfort level may not include showing off your prowess to all those gossipy old farmers and spectis employees on their way serve up some dish at "The Chef".

Then there's the details, such as finding out what culinary delight Brian will stir up for us to enjoy. I may find the time to mop up the splotches of macaroni and curdled milk as well. Maybe hang up the mirrors that have been precariously leaned up against the entry wall for many days now.

OH! and I better not forget to touch up my roots!
I just have to decide whether I was blonde, and then went red, or whether I was mousey brown and then decided to go ash blonde. This whole colouring to let the roots look really bad might get complicated....

See you Saturday!

Why Its Probably Best That I Never Finished My Degree

.... because then I'd likely expect myself to keep track of all the stuff that comes with running a home daycare.

Take for example; "Debbie". Typically known as a given name for a child of the female persuasion, this is a word, which when expressed by one particular two year old means some-word-which-I-don't-know-how-to-say. Hence, he calls it "debbie" and its up to me to figure out what the item in question may be. But. When its uttered by a particular three year old, and its enunciation is varied to that of "Debra"; it means: "Quick! I'm feeling emotional or tired or homesick and I need that tiny fabric doll that goes everywhere with me. If you don't find it NOW, you WILL have a full blown situation on your hands."

Then there's the child who says; "Me home" in response to most things. This can mean: I have that very same thing at my home ; or I'm planning to take this toy home; or I really wish I were at home right now. All other children interpret "me home" as: I'm going to take away your toy right now, and I will bring it home with me, and you will never see it again. Without appropriate interpretation, total chaos ensues.

No, if I had finished my degree, I'd probably be off doing some really important, world event type stuff. I would expect more from myself than getting through the workday retaining a cool head, and refraining from bashing said head against the kitchen center repeatedly.

on Turning Forty

Many people come to the "mid-section" of their lives and experience some sort of crisis. They bemoan their lost dreams and ambitions. They fear that their life will leave no impact on this world. They view other forty-somethings with their career empires, or their svelt figures in an empire style tunic with grief and envy. They fear that they have lost their edge, or even the potential of every acquiring an edge. Or possibly that their edge has been well buried under pounds and pounds of Costco truffles, hint of lime chips and McDonalds hot fudge sundaes with nuts. They recognize that while they were off living young and reckless lives on extravagant cross country used-clothing and furniture shopping sprees that they forgot entirely to plan for their future. The not-so-distant future when they can no longer be gainfully employed, due to the fact that the middle-aged-spread has conquered and they can no longer tie their own shoes to get to work on time. This becomes so overwhelming that they find themselves sitting down in their polyester mumu for a nice warm snack of toast and almond butter and a box of halva to wash it down.

Then they do something crazy. Buy an expensive car. Get one of those fridges that dispense ice cubes. Have an affair. Buy something retail. Grow a curly moustache. (it becomes easier for women to acquire this goal right around this time.) Begin to dress in ways less becoming to a forty-something. (Hey! I hear there's a party for just that sort of woman on NOVEMBER TENTH! GEE, that would be in just six short days!!)

And for women, there's another twist. She may be entering that less-than-glamourous period of her existance known as the change of life. (A man must have thought up that watered down version of waking up sweating, feeling your head explode, and throwing yourself into a snowdrift to resume some semblance of normal temperature.) She begins to assume that her childbearing years are behind her. Another age of oppurtunity slamming her in the face, thank you very much. She stumbles through her grief of never again waking up to the demands of a ruddy faced squalling little bundle of selfishness. Never again will that splashy sound of vomit erupt from the back seat on the way to anal retentive Aunt Bertha's house for faspa. No, the days of pablum crusted high chairs, perma-snot on the right shoulder, the garbage can being pushed (scratched) across the hardwood (now distressed) floors and nights of awakening to that sweet baby smell plus mustard diaper and puckered expectant lips every fifteen minutes are sadly behind her.

And in her grief, she just might do something crazy.

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So it IS true what they say....

That good things come in small packages! (thank you lettuce. When I first met you, it was your words about the agony of loss by cancer that gave me the shivers. Now we meet in more pleasant places, but will never forget the place from whence we've come.)
Have you ever received a gift that was so perfect, so delicious, so rare, so interesting, and so inspiring that you could hardly stand to look at it? Its November now. And far be it from me to remind you that in nine short days, I will no longer be in my thirties. And what better way to usher in a time of womanly blossoming than a sweet box full of incredible buttons?!
These rare bits of history and creativity travelled all the way from London, England. Thoughtful Lettuce was so selfless as to part with some of her babies and entrust them into my care. (I'm so sorry. I could never so good and generous a friend.) There are many in this box that I have never, ever laid eyes on before. There are a few glass ones. Some painted ones. Swirly ones. Flower-shaped and sparkly ones. Flashy ones, modest ones. They couldn't be more delicious if they really were coated in chocolate.

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.

Don't Say I Never Told You

(Scroll down for more posts)

Just in case I'm not being entirely clear, and the dates draweth near, here are the details:

November 10, 2007

Women's Night

Cougar party to celebrate Joyce's fortieth birthday

7:00 pm

BYO... drink, appetizer to share, and cougar outfit

The basics will be provided. Toilet. Glass. Possibly a plate.

Soft drinks, coffee, H2O, and box'0'wine will be flowing.

If I'm feeling particularily generous, I may throw in a bag of generic potato chips.

This blogspot is your invitation.

oh, and. Your presents is your presence.

I mean, your presence is all my heart desires. Well, that, and a laptop.....

Thereafter...

November 24, 2007

Second Annual Ugly Sweater Party

Co-ed!!

Come celebrate ugliness, friendship, and the ridiculous side of life.

7:00 pm, at our house

Please bring stuff to share. Maybe an addition, we may run short on room...

This blogspot is your invitation.

I Am Woman Hear Me Roar... no. I Am hypocrite. Hear me Whine.

I don't buy fashion magazines. I avoid full-length mirrors when I can. I work hard at not engaging in guilty whispers with other women about how fat we are and how we should be exercising more and we should be eating less. I eat anything and everything. I avoid food rules. I abhor the culture that glorifies skinny while ignoring actual skinny people who are that way because they can't afford food. I work at not judging my value by the numbers on the scale, or by the number of indents in my thigh. Inner and outer. I put (Brian's) scale up high so I won't be tempted to climb onto it and so that my daughters won't fall into the trap that I did at their age.

But I have times when I am fat. Embarrassingly fat. Encumbered by fat. Obsessed with fat. And I search my mind for ways to lose weight. To return to that weight where things fit better. Felt better. I dream about it. Conscious and asleep.

And this is a trap, decorated in numerous red flags. I've learned too much to diet. I know its unwise, and a seemingly innocent "first step" to falling down the rest of the stairs, broken and bruised, down into the hell of obsession and possession.

But I hate my weight. And then because I am frustrated, and "too evolved" to diet it off, I just turn it inward and hate myself. Which I hate. And when I hate myself, I want to improve, and to improve, I want to lose weight. But I can't because I won't diet.

Couple that with the fact that my disorder is closely enmeshed with my emotional health. Stress me out, embarrass or frighten me, or throw life into overdrive, and my brain goes straight to default: must control. Must manipulate body.

Sometimes if the stress level gets high enough, it all sort of works itself out in a dysfunctional way. I get upset enough to feel nauseated and I can't eat. I feel myself begin to lose weight. I rejoice in my stress. But here's where things get weird. (er)

I feel frightened.

The looser feeling in the rear of my jeans scares me. As much as I've been craving it and dreaming it and desiring it, I'm scared. And my appetite returns. My ass returns. And I hate it.

(Anyone still with me?)
What I really need is peace in my head and in my heart. The irony is that when I have that peace, the fat falls off without me becoming obsessed with it. My recovery was largely thanks to Geneen Roth, author and speaker whose sensible, rule-free approach to making peace with food and body resonated with me like nothing else. So, many times over the past nine years, I have picked up her books, determined that I will once again find my way. But her words fall on rocky ground. I continue to eat mindlessly. I continue to abhor my body. I go back to considering desparate measures like the cabbage soup diet or something equally revolting.

I need a gifted surgeon to separate all the entangled stuff in my brain so that I can think/behave straight again.

Or maybe a lobotomy.

With All These Planks and Splinters Piling Up, Brian Just May Get That Addition Yet

Recently, any spare brain space has been dominated by thoughts of hidden forms of judgementalism and how unnatural the practise of grace can be. Lessons learned at the thrift shop, coupled with an amazing series on total forgiveness at church right now has brought about a desire for greater freedom in this whole area of grace.

What I really want is for people who bug me to change, but the other thing the preacher-guy said that stuck long and fast in my head is that the common denominator in all our problems is the "me" factor. I'm in all of my problems, every single one. So it seemed sensible to try and redirect my telepathic messages from the thrift shop legalists back to "me" and see what I could do to contribute in a more positive way. Enter: Pumpkin loaf. I thought I'd bake an extra loaf, slice it up and put it on a plate left over from my bridal party (a plate I really don't need back, and I'm tired of seeing kids eat toast off of: "Happy 25th Anniversary!"...). I wrote a little note for the thrift shop volunteers and tucked it in with the loaf. With two kids filling the double stroller, I balanced the plate of loaf and my handbag up top of the sun shade that we clearly wouldn't be needing that day. We strolled through 80 mile an hour winds past the church, over the crooked sidewalk, past the other church, through the parking lot, over the footbridge, and into the parking lot of the thrift shop.

That's when the plate fell.

Pumpkin loaf with shards. Didn't seem all that gracious. I considered stealing a 25 cent plate and transferring the loaf over... but there was still the risk of razory bits of "Happy 25th Anniversary!" clinging to the underside of the bread so I thought better of it. It also struck me as pretty ironic to go snitching things in the thrift store when what I wished they would do is stop treating their customers with such suspicion. Well, I'd have to try to behave graciously instead and in this case, that appeared to include keeping the pumpkin loaf to myself.

I did a quick scour of the place for vintage bits of this and that for my sewing projects. Then the kids and I went to pay. As I approached the cash out, the woman made a comment about my bag; something to the tune of, "Oh! She's got a bag like that too!"

"Bag like what?" , I had to know.

That's when it came out about the volunteer who had come in, toting one of my roomy bags-for-Darfur and was asked to leave her "backpack" at the front, lest she should go about stealing their precious, dented donations. Well, it seemed like an oppurtunity to me. So I launched into how disappointed I had been to hear this tale, how sure I was that neither of the two of them would ever treat a customer so suspiciously, how this was a place all about God and his love, and that if people chose to sin by stealing, wasn't that between them and God? Wasn't it wonderful that they donated their time, and could spend the day making people feel welcome and happy to be in such a place of good service?

The women half-nodded in sort-of-confused, token agreement. Then with a toss of the head, pointed out a customer from a different religious perspective, and leaned closer to me. "You have to watch those people"; she shared with me conspiritively, "I once saw a woman leave the store with things in her hand that she never paid for. Why would people come into a place like this, that's for missions, and steal things when the prices are already so low?"

Her partner nodded vigorously.
"Yes, you sure have to watch those kind of people."

And with that, I gathered up my planks and splinters, my shards, crumbs and the kids.
With my addiction to thrift shopping, I imagine that God will have many more oppurtunities to try and help me work my way through this whole grace thing.
So far, I mostly have stuff to haul around.

Splinters Hurt, but Planks Can Really Get In The Way

Yes, I'm well aware of the irony.

I'm judging people for being judgemental. And legalistic. I'd prefer if they followed my "rules for life". But that's the pickle. If grace were so easy and natural, people who walk in suspicion and fear wouldn't make me angry. They would make compassion rise in me, and I'd want to contribute to their lives in such a way to show how much easier JOY is to walk in. Instead, my base nature wants to turn their very tools against them and throw defiance and rebellion at them. But isn't that what they are afraid of? Isn't that fulfilling their prophesies that people are not to be trusted and that stringent guidelines and avoidance of punishment is our only hope? How comfortable am I to give respect to people who I don't believe deserve it?

Its trendier now for people of faith to be gracious to people on the "fringe". Maybe those with a different sexual orientation. Maybe with a shadey past; a recovering drug addict; or a prostitute. But its waaaay harder to be kind and gracious to people who think they have all the answers for me, and view my parenting, my lifestyle, and my faith with squinted eyes. Who want to correct me. Who want to condemn me.

Its ironic to recognize how badly I want to correct them.

I may be wrong, but it seems that Jesus had some of the same struggles. It was the religious leaders who really got his goat and seemed to make him crazy. I never heard Jesus call a prostitute or a robber a "brood of vipers", but he reserved that for the religious men, the money changers in the temple, and the self-righteous who seem to surface in every time, in every culture. Not that it would be wise to use that as justification for my disdain for that small number of cross volunteers who parol our local thrift shop. And its important to clarify that there are at least as many sunny, helpful, joyful volunteers in the very same facility.

But if I've learned anything in my first forty years, its that you can change no one.
Well, except for yourself. And that only by the power of the Maker. So, I guess I'll sign up for some changes. The angry judgementalism in me is what annoys me in others, so back to the workshop to learn more of planks and splinters.

Care to join me?

Sorry, but its Hard to See With This Plank In My Eye

How deeply lines rivet the faces of those whose role in life is that of keeping other people from sinning. How precious and valuable used, unwanted, chipped, sweat-stained, and skin follicle speckled junk is. What great responsibility to protect it, to ensure it is securely and diligently locked up so that only the keeper of the key can unlock the bounty of those one dollar and fifty cent broaches and belly rings. How critical to maintain the integrety of these objects so that good may be done. This good which will be bestowed upon the great and blessed field far, far away. Visited by few, the field is vaguely known by the glossy pictures carefully fastened to white walls- gleaming pictures of cleansed field dwellers whose lives have been eternally changed from dusty monotony to ceaseless gratitude.

How tremendously rewarding and exciting it must be to deliver this good news to that land far far away. Surely it would not be as complex as being the keeper of the keys here in the Land of the Plank. It takes a great deal of commitment to confiscate backpacks and large handbags at the door, lest untrustworthy locals should be found allowing merchandise to fall into their greedy folds. Its no small task to sleuth about the place, scowling down at children and sticky-fingered mothers who are surely in this place to take and take and take, never once thinking of the good that could be done to those in the field far, far away. Or what of the responsibility to ensure that no one should fondle an item yet unpriced!! Or slip an item with a pink tag into their satchel on bag sale day when the signs clearly read blue tags; priced $5.00 and under! (no fabric, no tea towels, no pretty things, no vintage things, no laughing, no smiling, and certainly, no dancing, drinking, or loitering). No, nor shall we support the hedonistic pleasures of campers, seeking to purchase a cooling receptable whose exterior clearly depicts bottles of Coors, or Labatts, or Kokanee. Woe to the fingers of the fallen pricer who brought such an abominable thing of shame onto the floor.

These are the thankless, unrecognized duties of those who were left behind. Their pictures will never smile from a brochure that promises tax deductable receipts to support the efforts of those lucky messengers of good in that land far away. In that place, surely the good is always well received and its recipients never fall into traps of greed and carelessness like the lowly, base thrift shoppers from the land of plenty. Surely their men marry women without question. Surely their mothers teach children to be seen and not heard. Surely all its people have learned the value of not asking questions; not challenging the status quo.

But someone must stay behind to ensure that the cracked and faded donated things don't get all dirtied up by some local before the proceeds can be used for some good. Somebody must ensure that some local doesn't carry off the merchandise improperly priced, or taken from behind a staff only sign, or that backpacks and large handbags don't get stuffed with eight tracks and cd games from the cheerio boxes seven years ago. Somebody has got to stay behind to make sure there are no toys in the area that the kids are allowed to play in. They might carelessly damage one, and what good would that do?

Its a diry job, but someone's got to make sure that nobody is doing anything wrong. No good could come of it.

All That Glitters Befits a Cougar

Cougars, prepare the way for the alpha Cougar, the Great Alluring One. Her time in the chambers is nearly complete, for her ladies in waiting have bestowed upon her many gifts from afar.

Thus far, her fingers are well adorned, but her cheeks are found lacking.

The request has been made that any prospective apprentices might at this time present their case before council. Alpha Cougar is ready to receive considerations for three women who would henceforth be formally invited to the third party of November: The Party Before The Party.

This is an exclusive event, closed to the public. Only the three chosen ones will join our Lady of Forty to share in the great ceremony of the Glueing-On-Of-The-Nails about which generations of cougars before us have woven their legends.

Ceremony is to commence on November 10, an hour before the previously announced event: The Great Cougar Party to celebrate the first forty years of our esteemed one.


State your case in the comments, and they will be presented for consideration.

Words to study before November 10, 7:00 pm.

*muffin top
* fishnet
*stiletto heel
*skanky

Stuff That Makes Me Crazy

when I'm kissing toddlers, listening to Hillsongs, and furtively ripping strips of plaid flannel out of my husband's shirts to use in table runners, I don't like to hear the phone ring. If its my friend Cheri offering to come over and bring me chocolate, or take me to some distant village thrift shop, I soon get over my sense of intrusion and loss of privacy. But when I run to the phone and hear that tell-tale click and pause, I begin to brace myself. If I'm feeling particularily brash and crusty, I will generally tell the telemarketer that Mrs Hildebrand has just thrown herself off a Manitoba hill and is unable to come to the phone. Or that she's lost in the corn maze is won't be found until spring. Or that our phone is for pleasure only, and does not cover the extra privelege of her/him wasting my time with dull surveys or pleas for money.

Unfortunately, my moral barometer has been rising, plus there are people who actually, mistakenly name me "Mrs Hildebrand". I always glance over my shoulder, expecting to see my mother in law approaching, as I am known only as "Joyce" or "Kehler", or a variety of endearing nicknames that I won't burden you with. So now when someone on the phone asks for my mother in law, I fear it may be someone at the church or school asking me to bake brownies or to chide me for my naughty child, or beg explanation for why some agendas rarely get signed. So, today I was stuck in that no-man's land as the gentle voice on the phone started in on me. She launched into a spiel about predators hunting down our children as they ride their bikes, meander to school, or play in their yards. She tried to convince me that its the school's responsibility to educate children about dangers and that for $100.00, I could rest assured that four Manitoba children would find their safety and redemption in a new educational supplement.

I say for a hundred dollars, we could go to the pool for a swim, have a treat at McDonalds, buy a new nest for the budgie, and tell our kids how precious they are to us. We could tell them what we want for them, how much they are valued, and how glad we are they picked us. We could spend a few hours enjoying the good in life and revelling in the knowledge that so far, we are unbelievably fortunate. We are a whole family. We love one another.

And if I have my way, none of my children will grow up to be a telemarketer.

Glad this, Glad that....

After the previous post, it seemed prudent to write about something responsible, dull, deep and ordinary. One would hate to give the impression that life is good, that there were no large bills in the mail, or that we're doing the PollyAnna dance twenty-four-seven over here. Still..... Sunday was really good! (I'll say it quietly so that its not too annoying) Just about as good as that glowing Friday and Saturday report that got spillt over here.

After a darned good cup of Sunday morning coffee, I wandered across the street, through the Mennonite parking lot, over main street, and into my church. Its a church even though it looks like a barn connected to a box connected to an office. And, hey, I'd go to church in a barn if it meant that getting there was as easy as this is. Long gone are the days of stuffing three or four miserable, cranky little brats (Godly brats, I'm sure) into the car, screaming all the way to Sunday School for the love of the Lord. Now they pretty much wander through parking lots in their own good time, and go home when they've had enough. I can stay behind and talk the ear off every croney and baby in the place to my heart's content.

But I digress. The sermon was deadly good. One of those messages where you think; "Hey! don't stop now... carry on for another hour so we can get to the punchline. I've got a squashed banana in my purse, and a wrinkled up sandwhich baggie full of crushed triscuits.... please don't stop at noon! I'm sure those vomit-stained volunteers in the baby room would feel blessed to spend an extra hour with those little gifts of creation!" (I warned you that this post was sickeningly PollyAnna-ish...)

When I got home, the husband had cooked up a little lunch feast! Yum, yum. Too bad about the squashed banana. Tummy happy, I whirred and stitched the afternoon away in my fabric nest while Brian worked his way through the Moosewood Cookbook in the kitchen. At four oclock I emerged to vacuum up the threads and invite some friends to enjoy our dinner with us.

WHAT A TIME WE HAD! Enough hilarity to fill another post, I'm sure. But I'll nauseate you with that tomorrow, or another time. After I've thought of something melancholy and depressing to bring you down with in the mean time...

But there's MORE! I've recently received three gifts. THREE, I tell thee! Two in the mail, and one via Brian. And I was going to have a great time sharing them here tonight but the camera is not available, and what good is a tale of gifts without some photos?

So, for now.... Thank you Lettuce and Nancy and Alice! You wonderful silly geese!

Pinch me. Or not- Its the Weekend.

The smell of portabello mushrooms with red pesto and feta cheese steaming on the barbeque and wine waiting in my favourite cobalt blue goblet is the sweetest way to kiss good-bye to my last two daycare babes on the cusp of a glorious weekend. Excellent company, impassioned conversation, and the promise of hours with my textiles yet to come send me to bed early with a smile clung to the corners of my lips.

Saturday morning dawned with no dreaded alarm or glommy eyes begging for more rest. No sweet smelling babies to crawl across my favourite drafting table- the wide expanse of floor covered in colours, swirls, checks, and strips of delicious piecing potential. There is an hour or two of cutting and sewing before Jane lures me away to our favorite haunt- the local thrift shop whose windows boast promise of half price. We come away grinning- a perfect pair of skates for a dollar. Two large housecoats perfect for repurposing; one in swirls of old fashioned colour and the other a soft pink chennille. A bag of fabric scraps apparently hoarded since the 1970's, complete with vintage patterns of ladies underwear, bridal wear for dolls, and fashion clothes for those 21 inch fashion barbies we never had back in the day. No ugly sweaters or cougar accessories, but who can survive too much stimulation before noonday?

Time for a toasted tomatoe before loading the girls up for a day in the city. We begin at Value Village where new heights of joy are found in a pale purple chennille bedspread, a heavy green spread perfect for carpet bags, two vintage curtain panels, an old broach, and a packet of placemats perfect for Christmassy table runners. Then off to the real world- the mall for Arianna's skinny jeans, a soft sweatshirt for Jane, and even a little something new for mama.

We've spent much of the day, enjoyed each others company, and taken a break from the regular monotony of sibling rivalry, dishes, tidying, and homework. As though that were not already too much to hope for, peaceful ride home is followed by the surprise of an unsolicited meal of pork tenderloin, baby potatoes, and stuffed tomato whipped up by the sweet love of my life.

Sometimes life can have a storybook quality. Moments or hours that are too much to wish for, but are true and real. And now, off to church- where the music will fill me, beginning in my heart, radiating down my limbs, and ending in that happy lump in my throat.