I really must watch that nanny show more often and learn more gentle words to express myself. Like: Not Appropriate.
When a three year old is going home and telling her Disney loving household that "Joyce hates barbie", suddenly "hate" sounds like such a strong word. Yet, somewhere in the distant annals of my mind, I can re-hear myself uttering such incriminatingly vile and odius words to anyone resembling an adult who comes within earshot of my serene, child-lovin' abode. I can.
But how would a parent feel if her child came home saying that the movies she brings to daycare from her own home are "not appropriate"? I may as well carry around a branding iron and just sting parents as they come in the back door. Plant a big old tattoo on their forehead that says "You suck and I hate the movies you buy for your kid". hmmmm..... Nope. That seems kind of strong as well. A branding iron that says "totally unaccep-able"? hmmmm... things to market.
But I digress. Is it barbie that joyce hates? Well, mostly the way she behaves in her movies. Mean. And skinny. I hate her.
Oh, boy. Well, another reason I really can't go out and advertise myself too aggressively.
Joyce
Home Anyway.
Hates Barbie.
She probably slaps your kid too,
the second you are out the door.
Besides, if I went out and advertised, that would take all the fun out of our walk to the post office. The walk that we take to get away from that pink backpack stuffed full of barbie movies.
The post office where the little old ladies with blue-ish hair peer over at us with sentimentality and sigh;
"Are they all yours?"
How crushed they would be if they only knew that not only did I not have two babies every 5.5 months for years on end, I also torture their toys.
I'm sorry barbie. Its not that I hate you exactly.
Its just that in your movies, I find you to be really inappropriate, and totally inacceptable.
And I hate that.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Risk
(Author unknown)
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out to others is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to do nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live.
Chained by their attitudes, they are a slave, they forfeited their freedom.
Only the person who risks can be free
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out to others is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to do nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live.
Chained by their attitudes, they are a slave, they forfeited their freedom.
Only the person who risks can be free
Friday, November 21, 2008
Scooting Along, Then
All this melancholic navel gazing is going over like a fleet of leaden balloons.
A question for bloggers:
when you open up a brand new page for a brand, spankin' new post, do you find your eyes glazing over and staring at random parts of your computer screen, lost deep in the myriad of provocative thoughts that marinate your grey matter?
Do they ever lock on the bits at the bottom of this box where it says: Labels for this post:
e.g. scooters, vacation fall ?
Do you ever wonder how many bloggers out there are committed to eloquently expounding on the art of scootering?
Well, so do I.
A question for bloggers:
when you open up a brand new page for a brand, spankin' new post, do you find your eyes glazing over and staring at random parts of your computer screen, lost deep in the myriad of provocative thoughts that marinate your grey matter?
Do they ever lock on the bits at the bottom of this box where it says: Labels for this post:
e.g. scooters, vacation fall ?
Do you ever wonder how many bloggers out there are committed to eloquently expounding on the art of scootering?
Well, so do I.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
She Expounds On Her Review Of Her Own Post
The thing is; a diet plan is easier. Oh, its not easy. Just ask fifty million chocolate and scalloped potatoe craving premenstrual women whether sticking to a meal plan is effortless, and you'll probably land up with a fork in your eye.
Ah, but the apparent simplicity of being handed a Plan. A Plan is concise. It simplifies ones' restlessness. It walls it in, creates columns, tidy checkmark spaces, and a timeline for all your accomplishments. Within the formula lies the promise: when you reach your magical number, you will smell good, look good, have your hair done, have colour on your lips, and you'll finally be happy forevermore, skipping through life in your Calvin Kleins from high school.
Its not messy like the inside of your head. Or your heart.
It assumes that the cravings originate in your stomach, not your thinker, feeler, and wisher. It convinces you that you could sculpt your longings with a bowflex and some protien powder.
For anybody who has walked around with a nameless craving, the shiney advertisements of sleek, demure, peaceful looking thin women makes it pretty easy to believe that losing body bulk would have the same effect as losing mental clutter. Life would be... less cumbersome. Less lumpy. Less vulnerable?
But therein lies the rub. Its the vulnerability that needs to be fully explored. And if I knew how... if I was fairly sure that it wouldn't be a Gerry Springer "bring everyone out of the closet and have them splash their ugliness around, then send them back out into their life bruised and bleeding without offering anything helpful whatsoever" type of event..... then this is sort of what it would look like.
A safe place to go. A place of honesty where every person had an equal share of the floor. An oppurtunity to examine rather deep perceptions and fears, hopes and dreams. Sadnesses. Questions.
Its a big deal to ask someone to just rip their heart open, and then hope you've got a positive direction to go in from that new place of honesty. Its not tidy like a diet plan, all concise with numbers and charts and projections and indexes. But it is a way into the heart of the matter.
And sometimes its worth getting a little bruised along the way.
Ah, but the apparent simplicity of being handed a Plan. A Plan is concise. It simplifies ones' restlessness. It walls it in, creates columns, tidy checkmark spaces, and a timeline for all your accomplishments. Within the formula lies the promise: when you reach your magical number, you will smell good, look good, have your hair done, have colour on your lips, and you'll finally be happy forevermore, skipping through life in your Calvin Kleins from high school.
Its not messy like the inside of your head. Or your heart.
It assumes that the cravings originate in your stomach, not your thinker, feeler, and wisher. It convinces you that you could sculpt your longings with a bowflex and some protien powder.
For anybody who has walked around with a nameless craving, the shiney advertisements of sleek, demure, peaceful looking thin women makes it pretty easy to believe that losing body bulk would have the same effect as losing mental clutter. Life would be... less cumbersome. Less lumpy. Less vulnerable?
But therein lies the rub. Its the vulnerability that needs to be fully explored. And if I knew how... if I was fairly sure that it wouldn't be a Gerry Springer "bring everyone out of the closet and have them splash their ugliness around, then send them back out into their life bruised and bleeding without offering anything helpful whatsoever" type of event..... then this is sort of what it would look like.
A safe place to go. A place of honesty where every person had an equal share of the floor. An oppurtunity to examine rather deep perceptions and fears, hopes and dreams. Sadnesses. Questions.
Its a big deal to ask someone to just rip their heart open, and then hope you've got a positive direction to go in from that new place of honesty. Its not tidy like a diet plan, all concise with numbers and charts and projections and indexes. But it is a way into the heart of the matter.
And sometimes its worth getting a little bruised along the way.
Monday, November 17, 2008
She Reviews Her Own Post
Somewhere in fairly recent history, I decided that I would like to be a voice of a different sort when it comes to women and their relationships to their bodies and food. And quite frankly, I have hardly written anything on that topic for some time because it makes me so darned vulnerable. It was easier to write without fear of judgement when I had no idea who was here reading it. Some of that has changed now.... but I want to press on with authenticity and if I am to be any voice at all, it will have to be somewhat audible. It will require taking some chances, both with myself and with people around me.
Being a voice of a different sort means choosing not to reinforce the familiar female culture of berating oneself for not being thin, fit, well proportioned, primped, lean, blah, blah, blahdy-blah. So, one might wonder why a post like Constant Craving?
It is an attempt to describe the frustration of living with certain neural pathways. Certain ways of thinking that have been a part of me since the tender age of eleven. I don't begin to suggest that striving for thinness is an admirable or worthy cause; or that anyone might find happiness or an end to their neediness through that achievement.
Weight preoccupation is a side effect of a much deeper issue. It has to do with identity, anxiety, fear, security, insecurity, wants, needs, and control. The word "control" tends to get a bad wrap, but I'd like to try and explain a different perspective here. We all need to have a certain amount of control in our personal lives. One needs to feel empowered on some level to have influence on the direction of one's life, or you simply feel like you are being pulled along on some current that is going too strong or in entirely the wrong direction. Anyone who has gotten on the wrong ride at the fair will have some notion of what I'm trying to describe.
Now imagine events occuring in one's personal life that are outside of the person's arena of influence. A death. A virtual death- perhaps of a dream, a goal, or the way you always imagined and assumed that you might function in a family or marriage. Imagine your child, or children becoming ill. And not in the "flu" sense of the word, but with diagnoses that tend to sound lifelong and complex. Frightening even. Imagine illness in your wider family- the type that alters states of mind, and changes personality- redefines normality. Imagine interpersonal conflict and stress in one's core relationships.
The needs seem overwhelming.
I need to be someone's wife. And a darned good one, at that.
I need to be a mom. And think of ways to solve problems, big and small. Empower the children without pushing them out of the nest too soon.
I need from my husband.
I need from my children.
The laundry needs.
the floor.
the wallsshoesclosetspetsgaragebillsinsurancesidewalkdeckfridgecarpetbureauvanbicyclebarbeque...
I need relationships
that need to be maintained, honoured, reciprocated.
I need to make dinner that will not be disgusting.
I need to teach my children to be grateful. To not complain. But to speak their mind. Appropriately.
I need to clean this dump
wash
the sheetspillowcasescouchcushionsfloorsidingcarseatsundiesjacketsdogstairs...
I need to be a daughter. Available, calm, attentive, non-intrusive, respectful, wise.
An in-law; an outlaw.
sister.
need.....peace, quiet, and a chance to get loud. ridiculous. serene. introspective. outwardly directed. connected to my children. community minded. individual. affirmation. self-awareness. confidence.
I see my thighs spread, even as I see the needs spread around me and crush in. And sometimes.... I give in. I relax into its familiar discomfort. The familiar battle where the dangling carrot is inscribed: just be thin. Be thin and need not. Surely I can accomplish that one thing? Surely it would make a difference?*
Surely that is what is really behind this angst?
It couldn't be the unresolves losses, and tears, and fears, and arrow-tipped words. The deaths, the dying, the hurts that are yet to come? It couldn't be the fatherless, the absentee fathers, the arguing, nit-picking fathers, the fathers my children will become?
The craving for thin occurs as predictably as the fear of being thin. The thoughts and fantasies wave wildly red as flags. Tempting. Attractive. Frightening. Distracting.
The mind of the recovered still holds its trails and highways and biways of the disordered mind and body. When semi-trailers and dump trucks and large deer push one far, far off the highway and off course, the body and mind seem to navigate back to the older, more familiar trailways. Even when one "knows better". It is still an attempt to look after oneself, to soothe and reassure, and makes sense of the insensible.
One's body feels symbolic of the state of one's mind. If aspects of my life feel out of control AND I'm not thin, then it seems to me that the wild activity and frantic nature of my hidden mind has become physical and evident to any and all around me. if I were thin; then it would still be true that life was imperfect; but at least my clothes would be loose and comfortable and that would provide me some level of reduced stress.
There are many misperceptions of women's preoccupation with their bodies. What I am hoping to describe, even a little, is that it is more complex than what meets the eye. Patronizing a woman for crying about her belly or thighs will only deepen her sense of inadequacy and drive her deeper into the shame she feels about herself.
Perhaps if we learned more about what possible deep questions lie beneath the apparently superficial ones, we can begin to hear one anothers' hearts? Reach out and kiss the boo-boos that no one sees? Apply a balm to the scrapes instead of slapping one another for our wants? our needs? Its a scarey place to go, and one without a million plans like the weightloss campaigns. Could we start a lose fear support group? A get real campaign?
Could we hear one another?
Being a voice of a different sort means choosing not to reinforce the familiar female culture of berating oneself for not being thin, fit, well proportioned, primped, lean, blah, blah, blahdy-blah. So, one might wonder why a post like Constant Craving?
It is an attempt to describe the frustration of living with certain neural pathways. Certain ways of thinking that have been a part of me since the tender age of eleven. I don't begin to suggest that striving for thinness is an admirable or worthy cause; or that anyone might find happiness or an end to their neediness through that achievement.
Weight preoccupation is a side effect of a much deeper issue. It has to do with identity, anxiety, fear, security, insecurity, wants, needs, and control. The word "control" tends to get a bad wrap, but I'd like to try and explain a different perspective here. We all need to have a certain amount of control in our personal lives. One needs to feel empowered on some level to have influence on the direction of one's life, or you simply feel like you are being pulled along on some current that is going too strong or in entirely the wrong direction. Anyone who has gotten on the wrong ride at the fair will have some notion of what I'm trying to describe.
Now imagine events occuring in one's personal life that are outside of the person's arena of influence. A death. A virtual death- perhaps of a dream, a goal, or the way you always imagined and assumed that you might function in a family or marriage. Imagine your child, or children becoming ill. And not in the "flu" sense of the word, but with diagnoses that tend to sound lifelong and complex. Frightening even. Imagine illness in your wider family- the type that alters states of mind, and changes personality- redefines normality. Imagine interpersonal conflict and stress in one's core relationships.
The needs seem overwhelming.
I need to be someone's wife. And a darned good one, at that.
I need to be a mom. And think of ways to solve problems, big and small. Empower the children without pushing them out of the nest too soon.
I need from my husband.
I need from my children.
The laundry needs.
the floor.
the wallsshoesclosetspetsgaragebillsinsurancesidewalkdeckfridgecarpetbureauvanbicyclebarbeque...
I need relationships
that need to be maintained, honoured, reciprocated.
I need to make dinner that will not be disgusting.
I need to teach my children to be grateful. To not complain. But to speak their mind. Appropriately.
I need to clean this dump
wash
the sheetspillowcasescouchcushionsfloorsidingcarseatsundiesjacketsdogstairs...
I need to be a daughter. Available, calm, attentive, non-intrusive, respectful, wise.
An in-law; an outlaw.
sister.
need.....peace, quiet, and a chance to get loud. ridiculous. serene. introspective. outwardly directed. connected to my children. community minded. individual. affirmation. self-awareness. confidence.
I see my thighs spread, even as I see the needs spread around me and crush in. And sometimes.... I give in. I relax into its familiar discomfort. The familiar battle where the dangling carrot is inscribed: just be thin. Be thin and need not. Surely I can accomplish that one thing? Surely it would make a difference?*
Surely that is what is really behind this angst?
It couldn't be the unresolves losses, and tears, and fears, and arrow-tipped words. The deaths, the dying, the hurts that are yet to come? It couldn't be the fatherless, the absentee fathers, the arguing, nit-picking fathers, the fathers my children will become?
The craving for thin occurs as predictably as the fear of being thin. The thoughts and fantasies wave wildly red as flags. Tempting. Attractive. Frightening. Distracting.
The mind of the recovered still holds its trails and highways and biways of the disordered mind and body. When semi-trailers and dump trucks and large deer push one far, far off the highway and off course, the body and mind seem to navigate back to the older, more familiar trailways. Even when one "knows better". It is still an attempt to look after oneself, to soothe and reassure, and makes sense of the insensible.
One's body feels symbolic of the state of one's mind. If aspects of my life feel out of control AND I'm not thin, then it seems to me that the wild activity and frantic nature of my hidden mind has become physical and evident to any and all around me. if I were thin; then it would still be true that life was imperfect; but at least my clothes would be loose and comfortable and that would provide me some level of reduced stress.
There are many misperceptions of women's preoccupation with their bodies. What I am hoping to describe, even a little, is that it is more complex than what meets the eye. Patronizing a woman for crying about her belly or thighs will only deepen her sense of inadequacy and drive her deeper into the shame she feels about herself.
Perhaps if we learned more about what possible deep questions lie beneath the apparently superficial ones, we can begin to hear one anothers' hearts? Reach out and kiss the boo-boos that no one sees? Apply a balm to the scrapes instead of slapping one another for our wants? our needs? Its a scarey place to go, and one without a million plans like the weightloss campaigns. Could we start a lose fear support group? A get real campaign?
Could we hear one another?
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Constant Craving
It doesn't matter what I know is true...
and what I know is untrue...
I am Embarrassingly Morbidly Uncontainably Obese.
And I crave....
what?
Something.... satisfying.
filling, soothing, and validating.
Strenthening, nourishing.
I want.....
My heart to know what my stomach and brain already know.
That its not about the food.
But that somehow the appetite, the reactions, anxieties. longings and fears that come up within its context hold untapped secrets.
Secretly held sadnesses, unmet undeserved needs.
needy neediness. Grotesquely excessive needs.
Shouldn't carry such needs.
Such
excess.
Unattractive. Undesirable, embarrassing.
like a bloodsucking parasitic sponge. With teeth and a relentless appetite for more.
A forked tongue- hungry but dangerous, and quick to frighten away just what it needs to feed its endless cravings. Its ferociousness and bottomlessness sucking dry the very marrow of anything within its reach.
Ah, thinness. The skeletal, lean, sleek absence of need.
needinessless.
Needing less.
More. by less, more or less.
Its what I want. More less.
That would satisfy that fierce craving.
hungry
empty
cavernous
need.
and what I know is untrue...
I am Embarrassingly Morbidly Uncontainably Obese.
And I crave....
what?
Something.... satisfying.
filling, soothing, and validating.
Strenthening, nourishing.
I want.....
My heart to know what my stomach and brain already know.
That its not about the food.
But that somehow the appetite, the reactions, anxieties. longings and fears that come up within its context hold untapped secrets.
Secretly held sadnesses, unmet undeserved needs.
needy neediness. Grotesquely excessive needs.
Shouldn't carry such needs.
Such
excess.
Unattractive. Undesirable, embarrassing.
like a bloodsucking parasitic sponge. With teeth and a relentless appetite for more.
A forked tongue- hungry but dangerous, and quick to frighten away just what it needs to feed its endless cravings. Its ferociousness and bottomlessness sucking dry the very marrow of anything within its reach.
Ah, thinness. The skeletal, lean, sleek absence of need.
needinessless.
Needing less.
More. by less, more or less.
Its what I want. More less.
That would satisfy that fierce craving.
hungry
empty
cavernous
need.
Friday, November 14, 2008
That Sneaky Little Language of Love
She slides up beside me, her fingers tracing each of mine. She traces the outline of my thumb, then tickles the fine hairs on the back of my hand before returning again to the thumb.
I resist the growing urge to shake my hand free to shudder and scratch, or leap up from the couch with a yelp. This incessant ticklish touching is like torture to me, but I must try to empathize with this child who must feel love flowing into her little soul while she fills up her tank on touch, touch, touch.
We all have our own launguages through which we hear, feel, or see love. To us, they seem obvious. The tricky part is figuring out and then delivering on other peoples' languages. It's easier for me to DO something for someone than to go out and buy a gift, because of my own way of seeing love. And although I love a good hug, a backrub, foot rub, even a decent kiss.... I sooo don't get this torturous gently tickling thing that I try to endure.
What about you? What makes sense to the way you see love?
I resist the growing urge to shake my hand free to shudder and scratch, or leap up from the couch with a yelp. This incessant ticklish touching is like torture to me, but I must try to empathize with this child who must feel love flowing into her little soul while she fills up her tank on touch, touch, touch.
We all have our own launguages through which we hear, feel, or see love. To us, they seem obvious. The tricky part is figuring out and then delivering on other peoples' languages. It's easier for me to DO something for someone than to go out and buy a gift, because of my own way of seeing love. And although I love a good hug, a backrub, foot rub, even a decent kiss.... I sooo don't get this torturous gently tickling thing that I try to endure.
What about you? What makes sense to the way you see love?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Girl- You Ugly!
I feel compelled to ask all you lovely women to set aside December 13, 2008 for some seriously ugly partying. Yes, indeedy, the third annual ugly sweater party is upon us.
More details to follow, but for now, please run off to your calendars with an indelible marker.
Then off to your mother-in-law's closet for some shopping...
More details to follow, but for now, please run off to your calendars with an indelible marker.
Then off to your mother-in-law's closet for some shopping...
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me
Yes, its my birthday.
As I sit here, enjoying my delicious chocolate from Tanya, I can glance up and enjoy my newly hung politically incorrect kitchen curtains. Hung there, as a gift to myself, because I love how wrong, wrong, wrong, it is to hang curtains depicting ashtrays of cigarettes flanked by martinis, and olives in my happy little kitchen. (thanks again, Rose, for that fabulous fabric)
My gift from Brian nestles in with its coloured glass cousins. Lovely, isn't it?
I have received many, many gifts. Not one of them has been wrapped up in pretty paper, or used tape or ribbon of any kind. I don't believe a cent has been spent at any department stores. But I've gotten e-mails from more people than I deserve, and I'm not just saying that. It's true, because if there is one thing that I never deserve; its people remembering my birthday. That's because it is one of my greatest faults that I never, ever, remember anyone's birthday. Ever. And annually, I am reminded of how many other people are extraordinarily good at remembering. I so appreciate your kindnesses, and I'm sorry once again for how annually, predictably, I will let you down.
It's in every contract of every single friendship that I form.
Now, back to the wonderfulness of this day. Brian and I got one of those USB turntables that enables one to listen to old record albums, and digitally convert them so the music is stored on one's computer. RIGHT NOW, I am listening to an album of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton singing Christmas songs!! Like I explained to my baffled looking daughter: its supposed to be corny. That's the point. Nothing could make me happier than Kenny Rogers at Christmas. Well,
that, and Christmas trees and vintage bulbs....
But there is another gift that made me weep, and I mean weep on my keyboard. My friend Lory sent me a link to a YouTube that is just too wonderful.
And here it is, as a gift to you.
Now, go on and do something lovely.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Look For The Good.... Look For the Good... Look for...
The Boy In The Blue Pyjamas. A book that I found in my daughter's room, and read as an escape from the horrers of nit-picking. A children's book, and a great one. I recommend it.
Husbands. Even though they are often stupid, and would make great German soldiers in the '40's. They mean well, and they are helpful and well meaning and that counts for something. Humility goes a really long way too. And the ability to say "you're right" once in a while.
Dogs. I love to hate them, but my doggy makes me laugh, and that's good.
And thank God for small miracles. Shadow has decided that she LOVES snow. She now incessantly scratches at the door to get let out, and doesn't poo poo on the floor any more.
Temperatures below freezing. It kills the little bastards. (lice, not dog poo)
Daughters who nit-pick.
About the important stuff. Like nits.
My glasses from Zenni Optical (http://zennioptical.com/cart/home.php)
gin. Okay, so I'm grasping at straws. No, really. I am grasping at straws because I asked Brian for a straw so I could sip while the daughter picks the nits.
Husbands. Even though they are often stupid, and would make great German soldiers in the '40's. They mean well, and they are helpful and well meaning and that counts for something. Humility goes a really long way too. And the ability to say "you're right" once in a while.
Dogs. I love to hate them, but my doggy makes me laugh, and that's good.
And thank God for small miracles. Shadow has decided that she LOVES snow. She now incessantly scratches at the door to get let out, and doesn't poo poo on the floor any more.
Temperatures below freezing. It kills the little bastards. (lice, not dog poo)
Daughters who nit-pick.
About the important stuff. Like nits.
My glasses from Zenni Optical (http://zennioptical.com/cart/home.php)
gin. Okay, so I'm grasping at straws. No, really. I am grasping at straws because I asked Brian for a straw so I could sip while the daughter picks the nits.
Friday, November 07, 2008
A Day In The Lice
I was just feeling sorry for myself this morning, after sleeping on a crunchy, garbage bag enshrouded pillow, and mourning the heaviness of my favourite quilt which was freezing out on the deck. I walked past my olive oiled kids heads resting on their crunchy pillows and down the stairs to the bags and bags and bags of linens that I had laundred yesterday.
Straight to the coffee machine.
Stepped in animal by-product (stupid dog is a big suck. She doesn't like getting her poor princess feet cold on the snow and ice and prefers shitting in the house.) well, boo-frikkin'-hoo. I got enough problems of my own, thank you very much. Kitchen has been converted to a lice busting headquarters, thanks to the bright fluorescent light. (anybody e-mailing me and saying something cute about never eating at my house again- shut up. Invite me to your house for dinner then.)
It snowed overnight. Fifty million quiltsandjacketsandpillowsandstuffiesandsheetsandshirtsandpantsandragsandtowels are iced to the surface of the deck outside the back door. The porch is insulated with clear yard bags filled with de-contaminated product.
Better start the washing machine and dryer up for the day.
And run the vacuum.
And go strip the beds.
The kids will be up soon, and it will be time to go through their hair.
Again.
Better cancel Sam's carpool to kindergarten.
And Micah's haircut appointment.
And guitar lessons.
No tapas to look forward to tonight.
but then, you know what? My mommy phoned. And she was so sweet to me, and even offered to help me with laundry, which of course I said no to. The woman is 82, and she's not going to be driving through an ice storm to help her perfectly able bodied daughter to wash some stupid linens.
And then Cheri came. We had coffee and fudge. The very same Cheri who came to my house yesterday and picked nits out of my noggin.
And then a few hours later I got a delivery of Ruth's super special, top of the line cinnamon buns. These are not just any ordinary cinnamon buns. These are Ruthies- the kind of cinnamon buns that could have melted the cold war in five minutes flat if they had just sat down and given it a chance.
AND there was a deposit to our bank account that meant I could pay something, which always makes me feel happy.
And when Brian came home, he brought the mail. Which contained a package for me.
MY FIVE NEW PAIRS OF GLASSES THAT I BOUGHT ONLINE FOR A COOL $84.00!!!!!
And I love them all.
Want the website? Then get over here and do your fair share of delousing.
I may have lice. I may have four children with lice. But I have awesome, awesome glasses that look amazing with or without lice.
So much for feeling sorry for myself.... Now you're all going to wish that you were me!
Straight to the coffee machine.
Stepped in animal by-product (stupid dog is a big suck. She doesn't like getting her poor princess feet cold on the snow and ice and prefers shitting in the house.) well, boo-frikkin'-hoo. I got enough problems of my own, thank you very much. Kitchen has been converted to a lice busting headquarters, thanks to the bright fluorescent light. (anybody e-mailing me and saying something cute about never eating at my house again- shut up. Invite me to your house for dinner then.)
It snowed overnight. Fifty million quiltsandjacketsandpillowsandstuffiesandsheetsandshirtsandpantsandragsandtowels are iced to the surface of the deck outside the back door. The porch is insulated with clear yard bags filled with de-contaminated product.
Better start the washing machine and dryer up for the day.
And run the vacuum.
And go strip the beds.
The kids will be up soon, and it will be time to go through their hair.
Again.
Better cancel Sam's carpool to kindergarten.
And Micah's haircut appointment.
And guitar lessons.
No tapas to look forward to tonight.
but then, you know what? My mommy phoned. And she was so sweet to me, and even offered to help me with laundry, which of course I said no to. The woman is 82, and she's not going to be driving through an ice storm to help her perfectly able bodied daughter to wash some stupid linens.
And then Cheri came. We had coffee and fudge. The very same Cheri who came to my house yesterday and picked nits out of my noggin.
And then a few hours later I got a delivery of Ruth's super special, top of the line cinnamon buns. These are not just any ordinary cinnamon buns. These are Ruthies- the kind of cinnamon buns that could have melted the cold war in five minutes flat if they had just sat down and given it a chance.
AND there was a deposit to our bank account that meant I could pay something, which always makes me feel happy.
And when Brian came home, he brought the mail. Which contained a package for me.
MY FIVE NEW PAIRS OF GLASSES THAT I BOUGHT ONLINE FOR A COOL $84.00!!!!!
And I love them all.
Want the website? Then get over here and do your fair share of delousing.
I may have lice. I may have four children with lice. But I have awesome, awesome glasses that look amazing with or without lice.
So much for feeling sorry for myself.... Now you're all going to wish that you were me!
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
November 5
For the last number of weeks, I have felt like I don't have the space to let my mind go and just write. Partly because of a brief depression that I mentioned a few posts back, which I think was triggered by something of an intensely personal nature from my past. It seems as though I have developed a form of self-consciousness on this blog. Probably because I no longer feel anonymous; which isn't a bad thing- just an observation.
So, I'll just go ahead and be random.
My parents are celebrating their 58th wedding anniversary on this day. That's nothing to sneeze at. Of course, in their regular understated way, they did mention that they might go to Joey's Only for a fancy celebratory meal. They've always been ridiculously reasonable, which is only one of the things that I so love about them. They don't give one another silly gifts just to mark an occasion, but they certainly do give other types of gifts that are wondrous to behold. My mama is so committed to my dad. She treats him with dignity and respect, without adopting a "doormat" personality- she's not afraid to speak her mind, or to confide in others when she needs support. But she does so while retaining dad's dignity and standing by him through thick and thin, pre- and post-stroke. And my dad has always had a deep sort of wisdom. I often wished he had been more verbal, and directly taught me things as I was growing up, but at least I was able to observe some of his wisdom in his actions. He never made his daughters feel less intelligent than his sons. (although he sure should have taught us more about the farm and vehicles. We did grow up in the 60's and 70's, and the roles were pretty straight-laced). Still, as his girls turned into women, no one was more proud than my dad when his girls graduated from their career path of choice and landed respectable jobs.
In 58 years, dad and mom have learned about all sorts of things. They've watched their children pass through all sorts of wonderful and horrible things. They've sat through eight weddings, one funeral, several hundred Christmas concerts, and numerous graduations. They endured the agony of eight kids learning how to drive, and six of them totalling at least one of dad's cars.
They've shared a life for 58 years. I think that's going to be a rare occurance in my generation.
I'm incredibly fortunate to still have a mom and a dad. Who still live independently, love each other, insist on mowing their own lawn, tilling their own garden, keeping their own house, doing their own shopping, their own laundry, hosting Christmas and Thanksgiving and everything in between. Besides that, mom is continuing to drive them around even after an unfortunate accident last winter that found them hanging upside down in the ditch, dangling from their seatbelts.
They are not wimpy people, my parents. They have donated countless work hours to MCC. I'd like to see the line-up of people who have eaten or slept under blankets thanks to their volunteer hours. They learned and grew through their children's victories and challenges, instead of getting older and quieter and more set in their ways. They've witnessed many cultural shifts and historical shifts in their lifespans of 80+ years.
Many times my manic life busys up all my time with its urgency. Then I am stopped short with the realisation that I still have my parents. And I don't want to take that for granted, or wish that I had made the trip to their city more frequently. I won't make any resolutions, or make myself feel guilty, or tell you something inspired about some pretend effortlessness to our relationships.
But on November the fifth, I'll take some time to pencil a little of who my parents are, just as a small way to celebrate their first 58 years.
Besides, I'm not into fancy seafood restaurants like they are.
So, I'll just go ahead and be random.
My parents are celebrating their 58th wedding anniversary on this day. That's nothing to sneeze at. Of course, in their regular understated way, they did mention that they might go to Joey's Only for a fancy celebratory meal. They've always been ridiculously reasonable, which is only one of the things that I so love about them. They don't give one another silly gifts just to mark an occasion, but they certainly do give other types of gifts that are wondrous to behold. My mama is so committed to my dad. She treats him with dignity and respect, without adopting a "doormat" personality- she's not afraid to speak her mind, or to confide in others when she needs support. But she does so while retaining dad's dignity and standing by him through thick and thin, pre- and post-stroke. And my dad has always had a deep sort of wisdom. I often wished he had been more verbal, and directly taught me things as I was growing up, but at least I was able to observe some of his wisdom in his actions. He never made his daughters feel less intelligent than his sons. (although he sure should have taught us more about the farm and vehicles. We did grow up in the 60's and 70's, and the roles were pretty straight-laced). Still, as his girls turned into women, no one was more proud than my dad when his girls graduated from their career path of choice and landed respectable jobs.
In 58 years, dad and mom have learned about all sorts of things. They've watched their children pass through all sorts of wonderful and horrible things. They've sat through eight weddings, one funeral, several hundred Christmas concerts, and numerous graduations. They endured the agony of eight kids learning how to drive, and six of them totalling at least one of dad's cars.
They've shared a life for 58 years. I think that's going to be a rare occurance in my generation.
I'm incredibly fortunate to still have a mom and a dad. Who still live independently, love each other, insist on mowing their own lawn, tilling their own garden, keeping their own house, doing their own shopping, their own laundry, hosting Christmas and Thanksgiving and everything in between. Besides that, mom is continuing to drive them around even after an unfortunate accident last winter that found them hanging upside down in the ditch, dangling from their seatbelts.
They are not wimpy people, my parents. They have donated countless work hours to MCC. I'd like to see the line-up of people who have eaten or slept under blankets thanks to their volunteer hours. They learned and grew through their children's victories and challenges, instead of getting older and quieter and more set in their ways. They've witnessed many cultural shifts and historical shifts in their lifespans of 80+ years.
Many times my manic life busys up all my time with its urgency. Then I am stopped short with the realisation that I still have my parents. And I don't want to take that for granted, or wish that I had made the trip to their city more frequently. I won't make any resolutions, or make myself feel guilty, or tell you something inspired about some pretend effortlessness to our relationships.
But on November the fifth, I'll take some time to pencil a little of who my parents are, just as a small way to celebrate their first 58 years.
Besides, I'm not into fancy seafood restaurants like they are.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Dear Tidy Lady Whose Child Sleeps At My House
A debriefing is in order.
I understand that your need for childcare is dire. So desparate in fact, that it was necessary to employ that crazy lady down the street- the one with the periodic puppy, the three MIA, presumed dead hamsters lost in the ductwork of the house swaying dangerously over its legal weight limit due to her penchant for cast-off clutter.
That being said; there is a certain rhythmn to the mayhem that is her main floor. Its eclecticism holds a certain charm that causes deep cravings for dark roast and thick, warm slices of pumpkin loaf. Its surfaces are forgiving, bohemian, Comfortable.
But somehow, with the increased pressure of gravitational force, things slide steadily into disrepair. I find it prudent to explain this to you now, even though the information would have stood you in good stead prior to your unfortunate trip up the stairway into the quagmire that is my upper level.
First and foremost- the stairs are crooked by design. We paid a lot of good money to an architect to get those calculations done properly in order for those stairs to look the way they do.
And the railing? The one that I primed four years ago? Well, I happen to like that design that occured quite by accident- sort of a sponge-paint, art-deco, pseudo-designer type of look. White, with scratch marks. Uh- Huh. It offsets the wall beautifully- the wall that got patched with wall putty four years ago. Yup, four years ago it was practically ready to paint, and if you glance over to the door leading into my artist studio, you'll see lovely colour samples of potential colours that are by now entirely out of circulation. Lovely colours, those.
You'll likely be so charmed by the architectural wonder of the stairs and the bold paint designs of the bannister and wall that you'll miss the special effects when you arrive on the second level. A lovely carpet, repurposed from a friends' living room and cut to size for the boys room with the aid of a steak knife. A plush delight for tired feet is that carpet; but not so wondrous as the carpet yet to come in the adjoining bedroom. Utterly stained. Bits and strips of cast-off carpet grace the bedroom in which your cherub nappeth.
Well, that's what you might have mistakenly believed. But it is not so.
This is a special carpet, inlaid with special motifs not easily interpreted to the inexperienced eye. What to the novice appears to be stains from spills are really the costly work of a commissioned artist. What appear to be (steak knife shaped) seams are really not. They're something way fancier than that. Something so fancy and hoity toity that words just now escape me.
So, when you scoop up your beloved from where she naps, and you crinkle your nose at the disgrace that is our carpet and unpainted, but be-sampled walls, as yourself whether you have interpreted it all entirely correctly.
Is this the home of an unbalanced, shifty-staired, hamster losing au pair? Or has your child just been ushered into the local, under appreciated louvre? Perhaps it is time to reevaluate your prior conclusion that the need for childcare had reached drastic and reckless levels of desperation, and instead be awed by the oppurtunities that your loved one will surely enjoy in this wellspring of creativity and raw , partially painted beauty.
Yes, tidy lady. Perhaps there are lessons in home decor that are yet to be learned in this mastery that is your local daycare.
And with that, I thank you most sincerely for your time.
I understand that your need for childcare is dire. So desparate in fact, that it was necessary to employ that crazy lady down the street- the one with the periodic puppy, the three MIA, presumed dead hamsters lost in the ductwork of the house swaying dangerously over its legal weight limit due to her penchant for cast-off clutter.
That being said; there is a certain rhythmn to the mayhem that is her main floor. Its eclecticism holds a certain charm that causes deep cravings for dark roast and thick, warm slices of pumpkin loaf. Its surfaces are forgiving, bohemian, Comfortable.
But somehow, with the increased pressure of gravitational force, things slide steadily into disrepair. I find it prudent to explain this to you now, even though the information would have stood you in good stead prior to your unfortunate trip up the stairway into the quagmire that is my upper level.
First and foremost- the stairs are crooked by design. We paid a lot of good money to an architect to get those calculations done properly in order for those stairs to look the way they do.
And the railing? The one that I primed four years ago? Well, I happen to like that design that occured quite by accident- sort of a sponge-paint, art-deco, pseudo-designer type of look. White, with scratch marks. Uh- Huh. It offsets the wall beautifully- the wall that got patched with wall putty four years ago. Yup, four years ago it was practically ready to paint, and if you glance over to the door leading into my artist studio, you'll see lovely colour samples of potential colours that are by now entirely out of circulation. Lovely colours, those.
You'll likely be so charmed by the architectural wonder of the stairs and the bold paint designs of the bannister and wall that you'll miss the special effects when you arrive on the second level. A lovely carpet, repurposed from a friends' living room and cut to size for the boys room with the aid of a steak knife. A plush delight for tired feet is that carpet; but not so wondrous as the carpet yet to come in the adjoining bedroom. Utterly stained. Bits and strips of cast-off carpet grace the bedroom in which your cherub nappeth.
Well, that's what you might have mistakenly believed. But it is not so.
This is a special carpet, inlaid with special motifs not easily interpreted to the inexperienced eye. What to the novice appears to be stains from spills are really the costly work of a commissioned artist. What appear to be (steak knife shaped) seams are really not. They're something way fancier than that. Something so fancy and hoity toity that words just now escape me.
So, when you scoop up your beloved from where she naps, and you crinkle your nose at the disgrace that is our carpet and unpainted, but be-sampled walls, as yourself whether you have interpreted it all entirely correctly.
Is this the home of an unbalanced, shifty-staired, hamster losing au pair? Or has your child just been ushered into the local, under appreciated louvre? Perhaps it is time to reevaluate your prior conclusion that the need for childcare had reached drastic and reckless levels of desperation, and instead be awed by the oppurtunities that your loved one will surely enjoy in this wellspring of creativity and raw , partially painted beauty.
Yes, tidy lady. Perhaps there are lessons in home decor that are yet to be learned in this mastery that is your local daycare.
And with that, I thank you most sincerely for your time.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Sam gets Photos of His Brain
Our sweet Sam got his second EEG yesterday at Children's hospital. He needed to be sleep-deprived, and the neurologiest suggested that video games were a great way to keep a child awake and stimulated. Well, straight from the Doctor's mouth! Say no more.
So, lucky Sam got to stay up two hours past his bed time with his old pal, banjo tooie. Plus, get up at 5 am and enjoy a couple of hours of club penguin on the computer! believe me, he was not suffering. Nor was I, since Brian so graciously offered to do all the staying up with him and I got to go to bed.
Heading off to the city at 7 am, he got his third screen- his sister's gameboy. Ah, life is sweet.
An EEG is completely non-invasive. The child lays on an examination table, flat on his back, with a pillow underneath his head. Little blobs of jelly are applied to specific areas of his scalp, and then tiny cables (cameras) are placed there which then monitor the electrical activity of the brain. If the child seizes during the test, the increased activitiy will show on the print-out. (well, that's my limited understanding of an EEG. Any medical professionals reading this; don't hesitate to flesh that out) I hear that there is a joke amongst neurologists that goes like this:
*
"How do you get a child to stop seizing?"
"Give him an EEG".
I'm grateful for our medical system, as flawed as it may be. But I am a little bit doubtful of the usefulness of Sam's testing. (again, limited understanding) His seizure disorder is very mild, from what I understand. The seizures occur only in his sleep, and we have witnessed 5 in about two years. That's nothing like what some parents and children have to deal with, and these are not the type of seizures that will really affect his quality of life. He takes his pills without a fuss, we have a neurologist who has an amazing "bedside manner"; and what seizures Sam has had have been in his sleep. This is reassuring to me, because we don't (thus far) have to think of action plans for school, worry about his safety on a bike or walk, or be concerned that he won't get a driver licence at the typical time.
Sure, its sobering when your little one is diagnosed with something significant and you feel like his little world has lost its innocence. But in light of the scope of problems a kid could have, Sam's got it pretty good.
What other condition prescribes video games as a prerequisate for testing?!
Friday, October 24, 2008
I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends...
Writing about the dream, having a couple of really great conversations, and I betcha people talking to God on my behalf all resulted in a break in the clouds that occured on or about Thursday, I believe. And somehow it stimulated the pleasure center neurons in my grey matter causing them to beseech my friend Cheri to take me and a few kids on a treasure hunting road trip to Morris thrift.
It was so worth the effort. The kids entertained themselves on annoying battery operated musical toys and road trip snacks while I happily perused the aisles of discarded excess.
Recently inspired by Judy's blog committed entirely to treasure hunting, I decided to make myself entirely vulnerable by sharing my loot with y'all. (I think Candians should say "y'all" about once in six months, just because it sounds so awkward when we say it. Much like an American trying to say "eh")
Cheri thought that most of what I bought was hideous, but she has no taste. And I was merely using her since I have no vehicle during the work week. So, I think of it as a bit of a ministry- take the gal out, let her be useful, and maybe learn her a thing or two about eclectia.
Now, I'm sure all my true friend readers have stellar taste in castoffs. So, here's some of the inventory:
*awesome retro fabric bits, velvet trim (gorgeous porgeous), bright trim, loverly hanky, some odds and ends for future bags, and a t-shirt that I can't wait to play with in my sewing space. it's going to add some true funk to a bag one day.
*glassware. A pink platter, a white platter with pink bits along the edges, a cool retro candy dish, and a truely awesome find-- the pink pyrex bowl. I love that find. I have two blue ones, a green one, one in turqoise, and now a pale pink.
*books. A Herman book for my boy Micah. Some colouring books for the kiddies- I love paying 25 cents for stuff that's going to have a very short lifespan before hitting the recycle bin.
*for me boy: Two pairs of jeans and a spidey man towel! Need I say more?
And a little bit more.... That bee jar just called out to me. I had to give it a home. And that little wee bow tie and the gloves. Those aren't just any gloves- they are child sized. And one day when I have time, time, time, I am going to make amazing memory frames with bits and pieces of history in them. That's why I have old, old needle packets, some old photos, old quilts, old scissors, and some old women's leather gloves. You'll see. I'll so show you. One day.
And that scarf thingy on the back of my couch. That one just stopped my heart in its tracks, I love it so entirely.
So, that outing totally inspired me to take some pleasure in lovely-ify-ing my home for friday night tapas. See that great, retro pheasant dresser scarf thingy on my coffee table? Ruthie-roo gifted that to me. How unselfish is she?! I know she meant it to go into a bag. But she will never, never know how long it will take me to quite get to it....
Finding my quiet happy after a period of grey is particularly rewarding. Not unlike a shower after a day in the field. (not me so much as what I remember my dad looking like in spring before the days of covered tractor cabs....)
That's the way it goes. And comes. And goes..
And what does your break in the clouds look like?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Humanitarious Depressi-carious
Also known as homo-I-want-to-escape-ien.
It sucks, as many of my familial cohorts, neighbors, blogger buddies, and a bare minimum of 10% of the Canadian population can attest to.
I myself am navigating week three. Now, its certainly a mild case, because I do find my joy section, silly section, and creative section fairly regularly. But hopefully soon I'll come back to re-read this post and feel sorry for that poor sap who felt like she had an elephant napping on her chest. Hopefully soon, all those sections won't be buried beneath that elephant and requiring rigorous extraction to be brought out into the light of day.
But here are some of the symptoms of elephantitis.
I glance up to check the time on my wall clock and recognize for the fiftieth time that it is slow by at least ten minutes. This affects my ability to get the kids up on time for school. All it would take is for me to climb up on the counter top, take down the clock, and turn the dial on the back for about 2 seconds. Oh. Man. Does that sound like a ridiculous amount of effort. *sigh*
I get up and saunter over to the bathroom, past the kids sweaters tossed on the floor, the "IF You Give A Pig A Pancake" story that's been languishing on the bathroom floor for many hours, the damp quilt drying over top the door, and nearly trip over the preschooler's potty stepstool.
*sigh*
Can't quite imagine doing that stuff all over again. I just did it every four or five hours for the past 14 years or more...
So, I sit down. Raise my knuckle to my face and press the skin of my lip to my teeth for a mediational chew. My eyes lock on nothing and stare hypnotically. They kind of burn, even though I went to bed at 9:10 the night before. I do look forward to getting to bed again this evening. It will be my favourite thing to do, and if the kids call me from their bedrooms for additional tuck-ins, I may implore them to come and tuck me in instead. There is nothing more delicious than my pillow and blankie and my dark, warm room.
However. All night long I dream dreams. Anxious dreams of packing, moving, rearranging, squatting in abandoned cabins with refridgerators full of rotting food. Must vacate. Young children left at home alone and unattended. An attic, full to the eaves of boxes full of things. They must be moved, we don't live here anymore. I have no car, I have no time. A rear bedroom, tucked under the eaves. Forgotten. The roof has been leaking and the ceiling has fallen in on the bed. Antique bed, lovely dresser. How will I get them down the stairs? And what about the roof? I should have thought of that- shouldn't have forgotten about that bedroom, shouldn't have allowed it to get to this degree of disrepair.
Go down two levels. A lovely big room- perfect for daycare play. Slanting.... Could it be because of the large sections of attic that have fallen from rot? Long couches. Long, long couches. Are they mine? Should I move them? Is the floor safe? No time.... I've got all those boxes up in the attic. Must get there. There are some incredible tapestries. The colours and patterns are vivid- not at all dream-like. They rest in an amazing cupboard that must not be mine, because I don't live here?
Outdoors it is windswept, treed, lonely.
nothing in sight, yet I know that I am in an unfamiliar city, and that it is not safe here.
I must move. I must find the children, must get back under the eaves.
*sigh*
It sucks, as many of my familial cohorts, neighbors, blogger buddies, and a bare minimum of 10% of the Canadian population can attest to.
I myself am navigating week three. Now, its certainly a mild case, because I do find my joy section, silly section, and creative section fairly regularly. But hopefully soon I'll come back to re-read this post and feel sorry for that poor sap who felt like she had an elephant napping on her chest. Hopefully soon, all those sections won't be buried beneath that elephant and requiring rigorous extraction to be brought out into the light of day.
But here are some of the symptoms of elephantitis.
I glance up to check the time on my wall clock and recognize for the fiftieth time that it is slow by at least ten minutes. This affects my ability to get the kids up on time for school. All it would take is for me to climb up on the counter top, take down the clock, and turn the dial on the back for about 2 seconds. Oh. Man. Does that sound like a ridiculous amount of effort. *sigh*
I get up and saunter over to the bathroom, past the kids sweaters tossed on the floor, the "IF You Give A Pig A Pancake" story that's been languishing on the bathroom floor for many hours, the damp quilt drying over top the door, and nearly trip over the preschooler's potty stepstool.
*sigh*
Can't quite imagine doing that stuff all over again. I just did it every four or five hours for the past 14 years or more...
So, I sit down. Raise my knuckle to my face and press the skin of my lip to my teeth for a mediational chew. My eyes lock on nothing and stare hypnotically. They kind of burn, even though I went to bed at 9:10 the night before. I do look forward to getting to bed again this evening. It will be my favourite thing to do, and if the kids call me from their bedrooms for additional tuck-ins, I may implore them to come and tuck me in instead. There is nothing more delicious than my pillow and blankie and my dark, warm room.
However. All night long I dream dreams. Anxious dreams of packing, moving, rearranging, squatting in abandoned cabins with refridgerators full of rotting food. Must vacate. Young children left at home alone and unattended. An attic, full to the eaves of boxes full of things. They must be moved, we don't live here anymore. I have no car, I have no time. A rear bedroom, tucked under the eaves. Forgotten. The roof has been leaking and the ceiling has fallen in on the bed. Antique bed, lovely dresser. How will I get them down the stairs? And what about the roof? I should have thought of that- shouldn't have forgotten about that bedroom, shouldn't have allowed it to get to this degree of disrepair.
Go down two levels. A lovely big room- perfect for daycare play. Slanting.... Could it be because of the large sections of attic that have fallen from rot? Long couches. Long, long couches. Are they mine? Should I move them? Is the floor safe? No time.... I've got all those boxes up in the attic. Must get there. There are some incredible tapestries. The colours and patterns are vivid- not at all dream-like. They rest in an amazing cupboard that must not be mine, because I don't live here?
Outdoors it is windswept, treed, lonely.
nothing in sight, yet I know that I am in an unfamiliar city, and that it is not safe here.
I must move. I must find the children, must get back under the eaves.
*sigh*
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Machinery
Sometimes I wonder if I am run by machines.
In the morning, a clock awakes me.
The first thing I like to do is grind some coffee beans in the grinder; put the grounds into the coffee machine and set her on her first run of the day.
From there I'm off to either the sewing machine or the laptop. Either way, they are kissing cousins because no matter which one I begin on, I'll be headed to the other immediately following.
Then from my perspective, I will spend the next 12 plus hours repeating the same triangular formation. Oh, there will be some other machinery thrown in for sure. Most definately the Mighty Five: microwave, dishwasher, stove, washer, and dryer. Occasional dips downstairs for the deep freeze, or to empty the water resovior on the dehumidifier. Oh! Let's not forget those evils that I love to hate: the televisions- switching cords for this system or that player, this vhs and then maybe a dvd, just for the joy of figuring out where the red, yellow, and green bits go.
Sometimes, my body itself feels like a machine.
Is there a button on my upper right quadrant that says "refresh"?
Do I need softening salt or deionizer?
A flush and fill? Fine grind? Filter and lube? Seratonin Reuptake Inhibiter?
ah, well. There goes the buzzer on the dryer, and it's time to set the alarm for tomorrow morning. Maybe after a good, hot cup of java in the morning we'll be off and running like a well-oiled machine...
In the morning, a clock awakes me.
The first thing I like to do is grind some coffee beans in the grinder; put the grounds into the coffee machine and set her on her first run of the day.
From there I'm off to either the sewing machine or the laptop. Either way, they are kissing cousins because no matter which one I begin on, I'll be headed to the other immediately following.
Then from my perspective, I will spend the next 12 plus hours repeating the same triangular formation. Oh, there will be some other machinery thrown in for sure. Most definately the Mighty Five: microwave, dishwasher, stove, washer, and dryer. Occasional dips downstairs for the deep freeze, or to empty the water resovior on the dehumidifier. Oh! Let's not forget those evils that I love to hate: the televisions- switching cords for this system or that player, this vhs and then maybe a dvd, just for the joy of figuring out where the red, yellow, and green bits go.
Sometimes, my body itself feels like a machine.
Is there a button on my upper right quadrant that says "refresh"?
Do I need softening salt or deionizer?
A flush and fill? Fine grind? Filter and lube? Seratonin Reuptake Inhibiter?
ah, well. There goes the buzzer on the dryer, and it's time to set the alarm for tomorrow morning. Maybe after a good, hot cup of java in the morning we'll be off and running like a well-oiled machine...
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The "NIKE: Just Do It" Faith Mentality
Many years ago I sat in a church service in which the "minister" actually used the analogy of Nike's slogan "Just Do It" to refer to how to live out the christian faith. Just balls-to-the-walls, get up early, make yourself read your Bible, pray to God, volunteer at church, Be A Christian. I found it very offensive then, as I do now.
If faith is real, then it is spiritual, and originates waaaaay outside of what I will myself to do out of my human strength. My faith teaches that strength is born of weakness. That my "righteousness is as filthy rags". (read: self-righteousness). Naturally, when one loves Jesus, his radical love for dirty and diseased down and outers, his disdain for the religious leaders with all their correct answers and snobbery, and his upside-down example of loving through serving others; it does infinitely affect the way a person chooses to live their life. But the moment that this becomes requirement, and law, and some "proof" of your "commitment", something has gone horribly wrong in the presentation of Jesus and his message. Guilting people into volunteering in the church building because its all about Jesus is just limiting him in a ridiculous way. Do you read about Jesus spending exhorbitant amounts of energy raising funds for buildings and recruiting volunteers for programs? Or was it more about Love in Action? Did he not create everybody with entirely unique giftings and abilities, some of which function in the church building, and some of which the "ministerial" may never know that its people are involved in? What makes it "count"?
Not everybody ought to volunteer in kids church. There are some pretty crappy teachers who are trying to win jewels in their mythical heavenly crown by spending Sunday after dry Sunday cranking out legalisms to children in the rear rooms of our sanctuaries. I would prefer the people who are authentically drawn to that position than people who are guilted into spending their Sundays with our kids when they are actually worn out, dried out, and not getting any fruitier by legalistically doing their duty by the church.
I would prefer the illusion that people are "wasting space" in the church building by not volunteering if their commitment to volunteer has not been a God-driven incentive in the first place. Haven't we all met the self-righteous burn-out victems who raise their hand for every oppurtunity in the church, only to learn to whine about the people who don't do enough? Maybe we should just think "people"; not "programs". Maybe we should take the chance that there are zero programs. Just messy, tired people who slump into the chairs, get watered by the liberating words of God, then come to the place of giving to others through authentic revival. I think only God can revive. Guilt never worked in the olden days and its not likely to start being a great tool today.
My hairdresser years ago gave me one of the most liberating messages I have ever heard. She was talking about living out her love for God every day that she lived and breathed. She told me about *gasp* stepping away from a whole bunch of to-do lists at the church she attended. She told me how her minister probably didn't even know what she was doing in her off time, and that likely to the blind eye, she would have appeared to be a bench warmer.
And I say SO WHAT?!
Are we man pleasers, or God pleasers? Who is it that I want to be a servant to?
Suzanne's message set me free.
It began to turn the tide of what it meant for me to live for Christ.
Dear God-
Set us free from the prisons of religion.
You promised us freedom, and in freedom we live.
And give us grace to forgive.
Amen.
And I will still not Just Do It.
If faith is real, then it is spiritual, and originates waaaaay outside of what I will myself to do out of my human strength. My faith teaches that strength is born of weakness. That my "righteousness is as filthy rags". (read: self-righteousness). Naturally, when one loves Jesus, his radical love for dirty and diseased down and outers, his disdain for the religious leaders with all their correct answers and snobbery, and his upside-down example of loving through serving others; it does infinitely affect the way a person chooses to live their life. But the moment that this becomes requirement, and law, and some "proof" of your "commitment", something has gone horribly wrong in the presentation of Jesus and his message. Guilting people into volunteering in the church building because its all about Jesus is just limiting him in a ridiculous way. Do you read about Jesus spending exhorbitant amounts of energy raising funds for buildings and recruiting volunteers for programs? Or was it more about Love in Action? Did he not create everybody with entirely unique giftings and abilities, some of which function in the church building, and some of which the "ministerial" may never know that its people are involved in? What makes it "count"?
Not everybody ought to volunteer in kids church. There are some pretty crappy teachers who are trying to win jewels in their mythical heavenly crown by spending Sunday after dry Sunday cranking out legalisms to children in the rear rooms of our sanctuaries. I would prefer the people who are authentically drawn to that position than people who are guilted into spending their Sundays with our kids when they are actually worn out, dried out, and not getting any fruitier by legalistically doing their duty by the church.
I would prefer the illusion that people are "wasting space" in the church building by not volunteering if their commitment to volunteer has not been a God-driven incentive in the first place. Haven't we all met the self-righteous burn-out victems who raise their hand for every oppurtunity in the church, only to learn to whine about the people who don't do enough? Maybe we should just think "people"; not "programs". Maybe we should take the chance that there are zero programs. Just messy, tired people who slump into the chairs, get watered by the liberating words of God, then come to the place of giving to others through authentic revival. I think only God can revive. Guilt never worked in the olden days and its not likely to start being a great tool today.
My hairdresser years ago gave me one of the most liberating messages I have ever heard. She was talking about living out her love for God every day that she lived and breathed. She told me about *gasp* stepping away from a whole bunch of to-do lists at the church she attended. She told me how her minister probably didn't even know what she was doing in her off time, and that likely to the blind eye, she would have appeared to be a bench warmer.
And I say SO WHAT?!
Are we man pleasers, or God pleasers? Who is it that I want to be a servant to?
Suzanne's message set me free.
It began to turn the tide of what it meant for me to live for Christ.
Dear God-
Set us free from the prisons of religion.
You promised us freedom, and in freedom we live.
And give us grace to forgive.
Amen.
And I will still not Just Do It.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Pee-yoooooo.
This week was going to be refreshing. A week off from the bag blog.
I don't know what I was thinking, as what I've learned this week is that I don't have any time to do the bag blog. I didn't want to find that out, because I'm completely sure that I'll continue to do it anyway.
Take today for example. (tgif) My littlest boy has a bit of a problem with bed wetting. No big deal, its just the way it is. And besides, I have this fancy mattress protector with plastic on one side to prevent any accidents from going from inconvenient to plain nasty.
This morning something told me that if he had indeed had an incident in the bed, then his blanket should be a whole lot wetter than what it was. My clever spidey senses tingling, I looked very closely at the mattress cover. Right at waist level was a break or two in the oh-so-helpful vinyl cover.
(no. It wasn't as bad as it looks in the picture. It was this bad AFTER I put it through the washing machine.)
But the end result was that it was going to take more than a set of sheets going through the washer to get that room back to health codes. Coulda been worse. He could have an actual mattress, but he actually has a thick foamy. Just perfect for a steamy shower with a dash or seven of Mr Clean. I was just hauling that foam away from the stairs and over to the laundry/bathroom when my eyes fell on this abomination.
The darn dog didn't make it through the night any better than my little monkey-boy.
*sigh*
Off to the bathroom to give the mattress a shower.
Seemed like a good time to discover that after washing up Sam's quilt, the washing machine's drainage hose had slipped and the entire contents of the drum had just drained itself out onto the bathroom floor.
Good thing there were lots of sheets and things to sop of the first 47 litres.
What is it about fridays and pee?
It was a Friday that a certain young lady drained her bladder on my armchair.
A Friday that another find young lady relieved herself beside the slide at the playground, without the inconvenience of shedding any clothing.
It's friday again, and this time the washer, the dog, and the kid are all in on the fray.
Pee-yoo.
I don't know what I was thinking, as what I've learned this week is that I don't have any time to do the bag blog. I didn't want to find that out, because I'm completely sure that I'll continue to do it anyway.
Take today for example. (tgif) My littlest boy has a bit of a problem with bed wetting. No big deal, its just the way it is. And besides, I have this fancy mattress protector with plastic on one side to prevent any accidents from going from inconvenient to plain nasty.
This morning something told me that if he had indeed had an incident in the bed, then his blanket should be a whole lot wetter than what it was. My clever spidey senses tingling, I looked very closely at the mattress cover. Right at waist level was a break or two in the oh-so-helpful vinyl cover.
(no. It wasn't as bad as it looks in the picture. It was this bad AFTER I put it through the washing machine.)
But the end result was that it was going to take more than a set of sheets going through the washer to get that room back to health codes. Coulda been worse. He could have an actual mattress, but he actually has a thick foamy. Just perfect for a steamy shower with a dash or seven of Mr Clean. I was just hauling that foam away from the stairs and over to the laundry/bathroom when my eyes fell on this abomination.
The darn dog didn't make it through the night any better than my little monkey-boy.
*sigh*
Off to the bathroom to give the mattress a shower.
Seemed like a good time to discover that after washing up Sam's quilt, the washing machine's drainage hose had slipped and the entire contents of the drum had just drained itself out onto the bathroom floor.
Good thing there were lots of sheets and things to sop of the first 47 litres.
What is it about fridays and pee?
It was a Friday that a certain young lady drained her bladder on my armchair.
A Friday that another find young lady relieved herself beside the slide at the playground, without the inconvenience of shedding any clothing.
It's friday again, and this time the washer, the dog, and the kid are all in on the fray.
Pee-yoo.
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