What I Did on my Summer Vacation

It was going to be lonely, and tidy, and quiet, and there wouldn't be any gritty sand on the couch or the floor for three whole weeks. So moved was I by the thought of such sorrow that I rented a bouncy castle.

 

They came. They bounced, they splashed, they tracked bale-sized globs of wet grass cuttings into my kitchen. I smiled endlessly, knowing the sorrowful silence to come.

When it was over, and the children had gone, I swept the floor and comforted myself with a lovely chilled bottle of Lolailo Sangria, compliments of a daycare mama who clearly knows my needs. I hardly shed a tear.

I could have gone to a party the evening my holidays began, but I decided to only do what I felt like doing in that moment. It was a revolutionary, daring thought. So, I never had that shower, or changed out of my dirty shorts, or found my lipstick. I ate gourmet cheese on crackers, sipped on my sangria, and went to bed at eight. It was divine.

On Saturday, I woke up fully rested at seven AM. I sewed some things (have roughly 900 festivals that I signed up for this summer....). Then I engaged in my most favourite Saturday pleasure: Treasure hunting.

I didn't get the pig doll.

And my partner in crime got all the buttons.

 

But never you mind, because I got the jackpot of all jacks and pots.

An original chrome, TURQUOISE child's set table and two chairs.

Because I miss the kids so much.

Although, not really. At all, right now.

And that's what I did on my summer vacation. But.... Wait a minute! Technically it's the weekend, and I haven't even STARTED the actual vacation portion, which would technically commence on Monday!

Which reminds me- on Monday, I'm heading off to Clear Lake to meet up with some of my most favouritest in the world friends who I've loved for nineteen years now. We're bringing an assortment of children, wines, cheeses, and chocolates, and maybe a couple of bikes. Then we'll be laughing and playing and sipping. Remembering and looking forward. Celebrating.

I seriously cannot wait.

 

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More Shallow Thoughts

I hate emptying the dishwasher. I love that I have one and it gets plenty of use, but when it's full of clean dishes I avoid it like the plague. I'll frequently wash the dishes in the sink, just to avoid dealing with it.

I have a lot of recurring dreams. One is about being in University, taking three courses but constantly forgetting to show up for class. I don't know where my lecture hall is, I don't have any textbooks, I've forgotten the combination for my locker, and there is an exam. It's too late to withdraw from the courses, so I'll be getting an "F". Three of those F-ers, if you're counting.

Coincidence that I got pregnant with the magnificent Arianna when I was just three courses short of my BA? I think not. I remember wheeling her to the university the following fall to register for courses and then recognizing how badly I didn't want to miss one second of her life studying statistics. So, that's it. And don't ask me if I'll finish it now. The statute of limitations on that one is way expired by about 17 years.

Unfortunate, since I hear there are tremendously lucrative employment opportunities for people with a Bachelor of Arts degree.

Last night I didn't have to cook supper since half my family was gone for the evening, and the half that was left are old enough to prevent their own starvation. Faced with the prospect of a whole glorious evening (knowing that I should be sewing but deciding to cut myself a break), I settled down on the couch with the dog, a cat, and a book that promised to keep we reading well past bedtime.

I think it was seven o'clock when I fell asleep. I know that I woke up at 8:45, just in time to go to bed.

I still have an unredeemed Christmas gift. It's a gift card for Aldo that I'm very excited and pleased about. In ways its a gift that I've opened and reopened since December, thrilled each and every time. When I'm in the city, I'll wander through Aldo, imagining that I could get anything that I want. Sometimes I browse the website to see what my other options are. I'm waiting for the perfect pair of boots, and I'm filled to brimmiest top with patience. I thought I'd found them on Monday night, but I made the mistake of shopping with my cute daughter and she loved the same pair. They were way more beautiful on her, plus she actually has places to go, so it was the daughter who walked out wearing the dreamy boots. Good thing she's my size and she sleeps in- this means I can clomp to the park with fifty preschoolers in gorgeous boots, a ratty dress, and unwashed hair before she even rolls over. Win, win. And no- I did NOT spend my gift card on the kid. No way, no how. I'm going to keep that piece of gold in my wallet and keep up with my monthly forays through Aldo, because once the card is spent, the treasure hunt will be over. I live for treasure hunts.

Last night while I was pretending to read but I actually just went to sleep, I should have been altering a very fancy dress. Our one-time neighbours are celebrating their 15 year old's year with a quinceanera- a very fancy party marking a girl's fifteenth birthday. I don't actually sew formal wear, but I do have another recurring nightmare in which I dream that I've promised to sew formal wear for a wedding but I forgot all about it until the week of. This likely dates back to the two weddings I once did sew for that in my humble opinion were a complete failure. Maybe because there was an incident of chocolate sauce spilling on the bridesmaid dress fabric while it was spread out awaiting being cut into dress shapes. Now, I generally stick with vintage fabrics. More forgiving, I find.

I pride myself on my spelling, but maybe I shouldn't. There are a few words that I just can't seem to get right. I thought "Neighbour" was spelled "neighbor". And I thought "Colour" was spelled "color". It just makes me think that there's probably a whole big bunch of other stuff that I think I know when actually I'm off by a letter or degree or construct.

My favourite candy used to be black licorice. Now I'd have to say that its M&M peanuts.

Tomorrow it will be seven years since my brother's cancer diagnosis. I remember how much writing helped me through that terrible time, although I'm pretty sure I didn't come through with any kind of award winning flying colours. (Note the correct spelling here).

Tomorrow I am renting a bouncy castle for my day kids. I'm so excited about that, even though it has made everyone hyper all week so far, and tomorrow will be an adrenalin nightmare- kind of a nine hour long birthday party involving lunch and diapers. Regardless, I'm really as excited as a kid. When its over, I might bust into this gorgeous gift:

That I got from one of my departing families. Darned departing families. They come into my life, lend me their kids, become my friends, and then they're done with me. Crazy town.

After the dummest spring on record, it has gotten hot in Manitoba. Really hot.

Watch me not complain, as I love it.

So, there's a few shallow thoughts for you, my friends. I did promise that I wouldn't let a month slip by this time, and I didn't. I even have thoughts on further posts that I hope I have time to share. Meanwhile I'll be setting up a bouncy castle in my back yard with wild anticipation of tomorrow's most tigger-y day.

 

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Dear Janice

It's Tuesday, and I'm enjoying a Black Russian in the peace and quiet of my post- work house. I think I'm throwing myself this teensy Tuesday party to partially make up for a weekend that wasn't much fun. Its an invasion of privacy to write about it, darnitall, so I can't go into detail for you, my virtual friend. I know you told me that I haven't posted anything since May 27th, but I simply cannot absorb that as fact! If that's true, there's been a time warp, and I'm missing roughly three weeks. And, no. It's not the Black Russians. They are good and kind and don't come around often enough to be a nuisance.

I've actually had a lot of deep thoughts in the space of a lost month.

But strangely enough, I can't find fourteen seconds of uninterrupted time to spell any of it out or explore it, so they'll rumble around in my head a bit or a lot longer. Meanwhile, I've decided to feature some utterly useless and random thoughts. It seems I'm capable of doing that while spinning plates.

Giant Tiger, my guilty pleasure. Rye bread for $1.67? yes, please! Flip flops for $6 and summer tops in fun colors for $8? Sign me up. If you have to shop retail (which is recommended for grocery items...... yard sales don't often feature ground beef, yogurt, or milk. And when they do....... hmmmmm.) Giant Tiger is kind of a retail yard sale. You never know what you might find, and you'll generally walk away happy because you found something that no one who lives a normal life will. Normal is highly overrated. (except when it comes to sanity. I'd take normal in that category, but who's picking? not me, apparently.)

Bathroom scales are evil. This borders on "deep thoughts", but I don't have time to really go into it so it'll be random. I woke up one morning and noticed that a portion of my middle aged belly seemed to be missing and I had a wicked little thought: "Hey! I've lost Weight!" (evil thought #97865. it shouldn't matter. it doesn't define my identity, my value, my day.) Evil thoughts lead to evil actions = stepping on the scale. 'Nuf said. Seems gravity had pulled some of my belly down into my backside to make room for some up and coming fatty bits in the higher ups and lower downs. Oh well, there's always Giant Tiger. And mu muuuuuuuus.

Soccer is a lot like laundry. It takes a lot of effort to get the item in question from one side over to the other side, and just when you think you've done it, it lands up over at the original side and it appears that you've accomplished nothing. So you exert a collossal amount of energy to kick it over to the side you want it on. But it never lasts for longer than a second or two, although you remain in perpetual sweaty motion.

Perennial gardens and prairie canals make me very happy. In these spaces, I can feel peace washing over me, which is saying something.

There's nothing like the sound of wind in tall grass and songs of red winged blackbirds in the reeds. This is where I went for church on Sunday morning. I loved the music.

These purple flowers grew in the side yard of the house we lived in before this house. My friend laughed at me and told me that they were weeds. I always stuck up for them, and have them at my new (old) house too. But then again, I'm that girl who suspects that God made dandelions so that we couldn't tame beauty- it just springs up any old place, every year.

Lately I've been worried about how much of my life I've lost due to worrying. This is worrisome.

I currently have 201 pins on my "crazy cat lady" board on pinterest.

Nobody is entirely as they appear. This is true for loud, obnoxious people (who are not entirely loud or obnoxious, but wear it because it works). It is true for tall, slender, passionate, young activist types who are all those things but it doesn't excempt them from anxiety and disorder. That family with the mom and dad who love their kids unconditionally and are well respected for their wisdom and integrety? Their kids didn't get a golden ticket either, and suffer with all manner of shit-osis, even though they're the lucky ones with the decent family. I really wish it was true that love is enough. Love doesn't make bad things go away at all. I still believe in love, but not in a very simplistic way.

In two weeks I'll be on holidays. What am I really pleased about? That I don't feel at all burnt out. I'm not counting days or sleeps or hairs on my head. Its been a super pleasant year here in kid land, and there's kids heading off for kindergarten and grade one in the fall that I'm not at all pleased about seeing go. Having said that, I do look forward to having time for some other things, like sewing for two fairs I'm participating in this summer!

On my "not happy enough" weekend I gave myself a gift: a drive to nowhere. I found some marvellous prairie scenes and actually, throughly felt that I was "getting away from it all".

We had a mailbox like this. I remember walking to it in sunshine and snowstorms and marvelling that a little box could hold or deliver our letters.

 

I've been doing some exploring of the Bridges of Mennonite County.

It's pretty sexy.

How am I doing, Janice? I bet you feel a lot better now, having read this tale of my endlessly fascinating life. As a sort of benediction, I'm going to tell you my personal truth: a confession.

In paragraph two or so, I shared how I enjoy finding deals at Giant Tiger. It's true. I really do. It has now been a day since my GT indulgence. I've worn my six dollar flip flops all day and found them to be extremely comfortable. I've toasted and served rye bread. I've peeled bananas.

Not being terribly inspired to cook supper today, I happened to remember that I'd bought a lovely set of breasts that once belonged to a chicken. They were in my cart along with the sandals, the bananas, and the bread. I'd just stir fry that up with some veggies, cook some rice and call it a meal!

So I took out the chicken,

and it smelled like poop.

rotten, raunchy poop. With a side of kak.

So, by my math, my comfy sandals actually cost $16.00.

Still a good deal when you factor in how cushiony they are.

Or if you decided that you'd actually bought them in a for real shoe store at the mall, and you never wanted chicken anyway.

 

See you in less than a month. I promise.

XO, joycie

p.s. Write back!

 

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Observations of an Idle Mind And Other Pointless Trivia

The camping culture is really weird if you sit around and think about it for a while. Our homes are too complicated and cluttered to relax in, and too full of computers and dishwashers and laundry facilities to create an uncluttered space. So we buy expensive homes on wheels, hitches for our vehicles, portable barbecues, bike racks, pie irons, special chairs, tables, blankets and things to keep our food clean and cold.

Then we drive great distances and park these houses in lots with neighbours roughly four inches away on each side.

So that we can relax.

And get away from it all.

 

Elderly people tell the same stories and questions over and over again. That must be indicative of their biggest worries, regrets, and reliefs in life.

I'm already plagued with repetitive dreams, so I can't wait to be old and bore everyone with my worries and obsessions. Out loud.

 

Sometimes I judge people based on what kinds of breakfast foods they buy. Frozen, prepackaged french toast and pancakes? really? Cereal in unnatural colours with marshmallows? When I want to eat trash, I'll buy trash. Not trash disguised as food. My favourite trash food? That white cheddar popcorn. If I'd ever tried crack, I would tell you that it was like that. But I wouldn't know.

 

I like spring.

Really, really like. My hands get rough and dry from digging around in the dirt and clearing out the old leaves and dead branches as I replace it all with new, optimistic flowers and veggies. Nothing like it.

I bought a phone cover off ETSY. It's not possible to describe to you how many times and how inappropriately loudly I have laughed while I study my new phone case. Likely its indicative of my fragile mental health. I"m okay with that.

Did I mention that I love spring?

I love yard sales in spring, shopping with an awesome friend who laughs really loudly at all my jokes, and buying the ugliest ever kitschy poster-sized cat clock for my daughter for two bucks.

There seriously is nothing more fun than laughing my way through a Saturday with a pocket-full of loonies, and unearthing very affordable treasures in friendly people's garages. Did I mention drinking coffee, eating yard sale platz, and cinnamon almonds, and parking illegally? Its so grand.

In fact, sometimes you go into a garage, and suddenly you've been transported to an entirely different realm. The host may even invite you inside to look at her zebra rug.

I didn't want to see her rug. Not even at all.

You might find those scented shoe laces you've been looking for. Cuz who doesn't love doing deep knee bends to smell your friend's shoes? It's all the rage- all the cool kids are doing it.

 

"Dirt cheap" is an outdated saying. I know that because I just spent ten bucks on four measly bags of dirt. Dirt bags. Then again, manicures are expensive too, and I never get those because I prefer ten dollar dirt under my fingernails. It smells great and its organic.

Hostas prefer sunshine and warmth before they want to stick their leaves up from underneath the ground. Rhubarb, on the other hand, is very cheerful, and pops up at the very mention of spring. Rhubarb reminds me of my childhood on the farm, living barefoot in the dirt, pulling out a stalk of rhubarb to dip into a bowl of sugar and crunch on at the picnic table.

I don't get the big uproar over cupcakes. Cupcakes bug me. The buzz about cupcakes bugs me. Want a good treat? Try a quarter pounder Reese peanut butter cup. I saw one at the gas station while I was garage sale-ing. I didn't buy it because I made the human error of looking at the nutritional information, saw the calorie count, did the math, and then exited stage left. But I'm completely confident that one quarter of a pound of chocolate and peanut butter would blow the socks off a cupcake with artery clog icing.

Not everyone should wear yoga pants. Yoga pants are tight, and technically they were designed to do yoga in. I have a lot more to say about that, but I wouldn't like myself if I went on about it. Beside. Now you're picturing me in yoga pants, just because I said no to the peanut butter cup, and you have an entirely inaccurate mental picture going on. Suffice to say, I wear pj pants.

And, finally. You can never have enough turquoise coloured vintage dishes.

I know this because I have too many, and I still want more.

Happy Monday, friends. I remember a time when I had things to say. It's a good thing that I wrote them down at the time.

 

 

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Wondering Where You Are

Touching, Wendz.

Apparently I've dropped off the face of the earth, by my utter absence here at the Chronicles. Wendz commented earlier today. I was touched.

I am.

OKAY. Really okay. And I'm glad it matters to you.

Right now, I am here. With my bowl of cocaine/ white cheddar popcorn, and my glass of Brian-made gin and tonic (Happy Friday!!), with my scissors, my vintage McCall's sewing book, labels for 53 bags4darfur, and a glue stick. I'm trying to imagine my day tomorrow at Ten Thousand Villages, celebrating International Fair Trade Day with my fellow Winnipeggers.

 

I've been doing a whole lot of this, in preparation for tomorrow morning.

Making these.

While intermittently listening to my kid's radio pop station (I know all the songs from travelling in the car with them) and CBC radio (which I switch away from when the interviewer has such a nauseating voice that I'd rather listen to songs about early twenties angst sex than subject myself to irritating voice any more) Although I did hear a happy story today on CBC about a woman who actually survived for two weeks in the wreckage in Bangladesh. Crazy.

I've been worrying about my strange offspring.

Cuz that's what mom-types do.

Sometimes I've been pinning really inappropriate stuff on pinterest.

Which actually relates to worrying about the kids.

Sometimes, to change things up a little, I go visit my geriatric parents. Then I find myself in the middle of conversations like this:

Dad: "You know the Winnipeg Jets Football team?"

Sister: "Dad, I don't know that much about soccer".........

And yes, I remember that I already shared that on facebook. But really. This is what my life is comprised of.

In my spare time, I've been texting my kids pictures like this: the blender in the sink at six in the morning when I distinctly remember telling the kid THREE F-ING TIMES the night before to clean up after her or himself.

And texts to certain other kids (I had four. I was strangely optimistic at the time) about what I find in the sandbox after they've done target shooting off the deck and not cleaned up their targets, which are in the sandbox the very next day when I'm trying to be responsible with other people's children.

I also spent some time catering with the husband. In an awesome house made out of straw bales (and other stuff, silly), while drinking some wine and cooking up some amazingly delectible stuff.

I spent a little time with a friend who had a newborn. She wasn't thinking at the time. Her other kid is almost five and she forgot what silly people newborns can be, so sometimes she comes to my house for adult daycare. She thinks its a break for her, but I haven't confessed to her that its fun for me to have a grownup and a wee baby in my house. It makes me happy but I prefer that she thinks I'm doing charity. Besides, she brings me cinnamon buns.

I've been making puppets with preschoolers. That's not as easy as it sounds.

And photographing cats.

And adding cats to other pictures. (guess which one is me).

I even took down the Christmas tree.

Well, it was already down, in the sense that it was out of the living room. I have a very special, very religious ceremony that I celebrate most January's in which I chuck the Christmas tree out the front door of the house. I leave it there until the snow thaws, which this year took nearly until the following Christmas. Then I pull it into the backyard and throw it in the fire.

First I have to remove the twinkle lights that I evidently invested $2.00 in at the thrift shop.

Maybe that's why I don't take terribly good care of them.

Hmmmm.

Works for me.

I've also been selling random stuff from around the yard. Stuff that I can't be bothered to repaint or relocate this year. I'm lazy that way. Speaking of stuff that I don't want to be bothered to fix. Anyone interested in buying our roof or our deck?

Or the dog?

So.

I've been busy with my terribly important life. And besides otherthinking aboslutely everything, worrying about the most obscure things, and pondering the meaning of my life,

I"m ok.

And here. Still here.

 

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Running For Martin

I felt like what I imagine an atheist approaching church doors would feel.

A block before my destination, I seriously considered walking a different direction. It was like voluntarily time-shifting back to grade eight recess intramurals. That torturous twenty minutes, three times a day, in the school gym, "playing" volleyball while the boy I have a crush on sits on the sidelines watching my utter failure, my inability to understand how to change positions, volley, serve, set, or in any way coordinate my upper body to my lower body; my right side to my left.

Oh. The humiliation.

I thought about changing my mind to "I'm just going for a walk, I'm not going anywhere in particular". But sometimes walking through the anxiety, recognizing it, and then choosing to continue with the agenda, is the right thing to do. There's a fear that leads to stretching in positive ways, and its a different fear than the one that warns you that you have a choice to say "NO" and that you ought to.

So, I walked on. Through the door that I knew in my most fattiest parts was the very door that fit, athletic, gym type people walked through on their way to lifting 50 million pound barbells while they stood on their heads and leapt vertically over barriers strewn across that foreign floor.

The walls were lined with athletic wear with actual people inside of them, fully capable of doing athletic types of things. These were not the yoga pants of Wal-Mart that nary a Namaste would meet.

I felt as familiar and comfortable as I might at a country line dance.

Or at a weiner roast in the kill room of a meat packing plant.

Or a fun and friendly day of hunting possom in the hills of Kentucky.

Which is to say that it was a case of "One of these things is not like the other".

My body betrays me sometimes, and people accuse me of looking "Like an athletic type- a volleyball player, or a runner"-- neither of which could be further from the truth. I'm an arty farty seamstress/hippy wannabe. My left side has never been properly introduced to my right. If moccassins came in two left sizes, I'd be putting in special orders.

And here I was. In a gym. It was a post on Facebook that brought me here- a post that resonated with some of what had made my heart ache and rage.

"If anyone in the community would like to come cheer us on as we participate in a memorial workout to children affected by terrorism/conflict please swing by tonight."

The website provided more incentive: "Today we will be participating as a community in one group workout at 6:30 pm. We will be doing the workout "MARTIN" named after the 8 year old boy who was killed Monday in Boston. We will not only be doing this workout in his memory, but in memory of ALL the children around the world who have lost their lives due to terrorism, conflict, and war.

Please bring your families out to cheer along the run route. If you can't workout, just come to cheer and if you've never been to ShopGym, still come out and cheer. There will be community time after the workout where we can just hang out."

Well, I know how to cheer. (although I tend to do so silently, with arms at my sides straight and still as a soldier's) And I needed something to stand up for. So, I made my way to Shopgym, even though I felt hives creeping up my cellulite as I walked up the two block route.

The welcome I received was genuine, surprising, and completely outside of any gym construct I have stored in my extensive mental archives. (Of course, they've never seen me not play volleyball, so they may have less evidence by which to hate me). There were hugs, warm welcomes, kind affirmations. Then there was a short speech, honouring children and innocents who have been affected by violence around the world, regardless of race, nationality or religion.

It was like being in church, except shorter, and without the awkward methodical drums and rocker wanna-bes coiffed behind echoing microphones.

The workout began with an eighty meter run, outdoors in the frigid non-spring of Manitoba.

I stood out in the freezing wind, watching people run. I noted the different styles of running- the ones who looked like they'd been born running with gazelles on the Mount of Kilamonjero, and those who ran slow and methodical. I stood, thinking of this boy named Martin, and about goodness, and grace, and perserverence. The children in my peripheral vision were a tiny piece if the innocents around the world, bouncing around, doing regular kid things, sometimes remembering to cheer for the runners.

Tears went dripping off my face as some of my mad made way for the sad. I am moved when people celebrate their passions in the name of justice, equality, and compassion. I am further moved when we can come together regardless of our gifts and talents. When we come together not only for Martin, but for children in Congo, North Korea, Afghanistan, China, Iran and we stand collectively to say: "PEACE! Please, in the name of all things righteous and Holy, give Peace a chance!" Even knowing that none of these bombers and governments, people in camo gear, the gun advocates, and the weirdos googling "How to make a bomb out of a pressure cooker" will ever really hear our voices or see the run.

Somehow its grace and goodness to stand out in the freezing Manitoba wind and say- "NO"! Somehow its hopeful to meet with people who can stand on their arms, leap up onto platforms in a single bound, run like the wind, or deadlift pianos.

I don't belong with them, and yet we belong together. I don't share their skills but I share in their heart, their intention, their cries for mercy. I'm not comfortable in their environment but I celebrate it nonetheless.

So, let's use our voices, no matter how mute and ineffective they may be. Let's show grace to people utterly unlike ourselves. Lets encourage each other to move towards less fear, less intimidation, and less silent resignation.

And in that teeny tiny prototype, I can only wish for those reverberations around the world.

 

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Mad

I'm still not really over how weirded out I felt the day that Lady Diana and Mother Teresa both died.

I felt it again when Jack Layton died.

About a week ago, I learned that a close friend of our friends died of cancer after just a few weeks of hearing his diagnosis.

On Monday morning, a young woman died in a vehicle accident in the Steinbach area.

On Monday afternoon, my daughter Jane came down the stairs to tell me that two bombs had gone off at the Boston Marathon.

On Tuesday, my sister came over for lunch. She said; "You heard about Marge Friesen?"

No. I had not.

Cancer. Two weeks.

Then she told me about the young woman who had died on Monday. I serve on the board with that woman's grandfather. My kids go to school with her cousins. I grew up with her father.

Today, the radio told me that Rita McNeil has died.

 

I'm mad. And rattled.

I know what's coming, and its more of the same. My dad will be ninety-one if he makes it to July. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't. My mom will be eighty-seven. She's still doing fine, but who am I kidding. If Lady Di and Rita McNeil and a 20 year old are dead, mom might not make it through tonight. I might not either.

I know I"m not unique. I'm no original thinker, and certainly not the first forty-something year old to ponder the length and meaning of life. There's nothing new about noticing that life is short and death abrupt and unexpected. I have no lesson to teach, no quote to indent about the meaning of life and the importance of living each day to its fullest.

In fact, today I just wanted everyone to go lie down in a hole. I was mad about Rita McNeil and Old Man Winter and my head cold. I was tired of talking about indoor voices when by all things bright and beautiful we should have been playing loudly out in the back yard for weeks now. I certainly wasn't trying to live this day like it was my last, which, by the way- is one of the dumbest things anyone could say. Everyone should definitely stop saying that because if today was my last day, I certainly wouldn't be making sandwiches and taking out the garbage or vacuuming the porch for the nine-hundred-millionth time.

So I'm pretty much in a really bad mood, and sort of mad at everyone for not fixing everything for me. I'm mad that life can be boring, and people disappointing, and nights can be too short. I'm mad that people die and that other people live and that everyone is going to get on some immediate, reactive rant about Muslims after this nightmare event in Boston. I'm mad that we live in fear, don't listen to one another, and that no one cleans the bathroom floor except me. And that no one cleans any other part of the bathroom except for me. I'm mad that the dog peed on my furniture, and that kids jumped on my other furniture, relegating two more armchairs to the garage to await their demise on town wide clean-up day.

Sometimes its so deeply satisfying to just be mad and grumpy. To not agonize over trying to find a silver lining. If my eight year old kid was standing at the end of a marathon, cheering on the runners, and then dropped dead because his little body got pounded full of bits of metal, I wouldn't mind knowing that someone, somewhere was just going with the mad.

Just don't try to get me to hate someone. Cuz that will make me mad.

And don't tell me that Rita died because she was too fat. That'll make me really mad. Nobody ever says that a movie star died from being too skinny, even though its probably true.

See?

I'm mad. I'm mad at people with all their pat answers and little ditties and optimisms. I'm mad at all those other people for stewing around in their hatred, intolerance, judgements, and general pissiness. I'm mad at people for trying to say the right things, and I'm mad at the people who aren't even trying. I'm also mad that I don't have answers or constructs or boxes or cliches.

I'm mad that people are blowing each other up. I'm mad that we think its so unjust that it happens in the US when meanwhile, the US has also been perpetrating this same sad, inhumane, destructive, horrible death on civilians in other corners of the world. I'm super mad when people post pro-gun shit on facebook, mad enough to wonder how on earth I could have someone like that on my friend list. I'm mad about a fertilizer plant in Texas blew up, killing a bunch of people, and flattening out people's homes. I'm mad that love doesn't seem to be winning. We're raping the earth, raping each other. We're greedy, selfish, oppurtunist cattle. We work for a living so that we can go buy stuff at Wal-Mart, and then we're frustrated and mad that maintaining and paying for all our stuff takes up all our time.

I'm really mad about my own inadequacy, my own lack of tidy answers, my own greed.

I only hope that this is the kind of anger that burns off some chaff, and propels me in the direction of less compacency. I hope I can still be kind to the gun-lovers and the Muslim-haters.

Mad isn't necessarily Bad.

So for right now,

I'm mad.

 

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I'm So Right Brained That I Thought It was Called Left Brained

I think in shapes and colours; not cold, hard facts. I think that should be called "Left-brained" thinker because it sounds so much more arty than right-brained. "Right-brained" sounds like a brain that gets all its facts right. "Left" sounds more like there's room for perceptual differences and finger painting.

I'm so right brained, that when I pulled up this picture, I got so caught up in all the pretty pictures of flowers and explorers, kites flying, and people building bridges that I quite forgot what I was researching for.

I actually pulled up these google images because I'm wondering- Should a right-brained girl whose so right-brained that she thinks she should be called left-brained because it sounds prettier serve on a board of directors?

According to my research, boards are made up of people who don't have faces.

Who love spread sheets.

Columns, facts, floor plans.

Suits, terrible chairs, and pinchy necklines.

I don't like any of those things and I have an undeniable face.

Note the words on the above diagram indicating the sort of brain that would do well in a board meeting: "fact based, quantitative, organized, sequential, planned, and detailed". Then compare and contrast with the words describing whatever side of brain I am- that one that can't remember if its left or right. "Holistic.... Intuitive.... FEELING based.... kinesthetic, and emotional.

Now try to imagine these two distinct people types discussing something business-like at a meeting.

On the Agenda:

1. Proposal for renovations, new floor plan, rearrangement of store layout.
2. Discussion regarding new security system.
3. Planning of appreciation dinner.

The way I'd wrap it up: Let's just knock out some bricks and start by slamming a door in over there. I think it might look awesome. If we're wrong, we'll just knock out more bricks and make it an open floor plan. Instead of deciding where everything should go, shouldn't we just get started? I mean- how are you going to know where the best place to put a table until you actually start moving stuff?

 

What proper board members say:

So and So has drawn up a detailed floor plan, including where each stick of furniture is going to go. It's drawn to scale, and each chair, door jam, and dust bunny is drawn up on a seperate piece of paper so that we can spend months trying out different combinations. Not a brick nor stool shall be moved until this diagram reaches Biblical perfection.

 

Regarding the security system. Me: Really? Can't we all just be friends? If they steal all our silverware, how about we give them the candlesticks too?

 

Proper board members: Let's get together again and discuss this further. And after that, we'll talk about it again. Delegates A through seven can check out prices and warranties on security systems in the southeast quadrant of the four nearest cities. Delegates 11 to Eternity can phone all their relatives to find someone to install it for free. All remaining members prepare research papers on ideal placement of said security cameras. 10,000 words, double spaced, black ink.

 

Appreciation dinner: Me: well...... I hate hotdogs. What if somebody's mom were to throw together some veggies and dip, and we just kind of see what happens? We could always take a walk to the gas station if we need treats. And on the way there, who knows who we might run into? And that might take care of the need for entertaiment?

 

Proper boardmembers: At 12:00 noon sharp on the day after a full moon, four women are required to boil the potatoes of three major grocery store chains for exactly 15 minutes. Further instruction will be given at next month's board meeting.

 

And that's not even mentioning the financial report. Oh glory be, the financial report always makes me break into a cold sweat and hope there's no quiz.

 

I think that board meetings should always involve snacks and drinks, maybe some crayons so that we could all practise coloring outside of the lines. I think we should have some energetic music in the background, and maybe some throw pillows just for ambiance. But I guess that would be more like Friday night than a board meeting. Which again gives me pause, and makes me question:

 

Should a person without a linear thought in their head really agree to serve on a board??

 

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Day Trip to Otovalo, Leather Town, and Random Details

(yes.... still blogging about that trip that was a million years or a week ago. Might be boring and irrelevant to you, but if I don't record it, I fear how many memories will be lost! And such a precious thing must be protected).

One of the yummiest accidents I've ever enjoyed.

One of the many things I loved about Ecuador was the "random factor". You walk to the bus, parked three blocks from the hotel, since the streets around the hotel are waaaay to narrow for a bus for park on. Once you snake your way out of the city, you find yourself on a gorgeous three lane highway. (that switch-backs up and down and around and around to get you out of a massive valley). Along the way you'll see fifty million random roaming dogs, people sitting along the curb of the busy highways, random "guerilla kitchens" just about anywhere.

Like, say, in a gas station. I got off the bus to go use the banos (toilet is a word you learn pretty much right away because you can't live long without a toilet). In the gas station where you could buy the typical road snacks like chips, water, pop, candy, is a small table containing a bowl of beans and some trimmings. I watched some tiny mountain women in front of me get dished up an unfamiliar dish of white beans, roasted corn, plantain chips, and a sort of salsa made out of spanish onions, tomatoes, and maybe lime and vinegar.

I asked; "quantos?" which so far has meant that people tell me how much something is, even if I might be spelling and saying it mostly wrong. The lunch lady said "Un dollar". YES!!

I got back on the bus and enjoyed one of the yummiest of all time simple dishes of my life! So good.

At a gas station, you might also find Panama hats.

And random doggies.

If you want to, you can pick up an ice cold road beer for about a buck.

Or a beautiful mountain girl who sings indigenous songs into a microphone for us, tells us via our translator that she is nineteen and saving up money to further her education, and then weaves her way through the bus to sell us Ecuadorian scarves. I think she did really well on the whole scarf thing because she was so kind to share herself with us, and I just really admired her pluck.

There was much to see in Otovalo.

roughly a zillion kiosks selling much of the same things over and over again, sometimes with variations.

But no duplicates on the intricacy of the human faces.

 

 

 

 

Ponchos and sweaters.

Hard core artwork. (Brian plays guitar like that all the time. On weekends. In the summertime.)

Shirts, alpaca blankets, crazy hats, backpacks.

A gringo in a Panama hat carrying a giant camera.

Rocks.

Spools.

Papaya.

Shopkeepers chilling out to some board games.

I enjoyed the bustle, the colors, the smells.

 

 

Our younger travel companions came away not looking a bit like tourists.

We decided on alpaca blankets for the kids, some leather belts, a shirt for Brian, a baby dress for someone special at home, llama socks, and some art for Brian.

On the trip back to Quito, we also stopped in "leather town". I'm sure it has a proper name but I certainly don't know it. All I remember is that it sells a lot of leather.

 

I noticed the beggers here, as they were distinctively teeny tiny and barefoot. I felt sad and helpless so I gave them some change, but really wondered what their stories were.

 

When I say teeny and tiny, I'm not exaggerating.

I look like I could scale tall buildings in a single bound.

I did buy a small handbag in leather town. It was kind of creative.

Our trip to Otovalo wasn't exactly what I'd expected; if one can have expectations based on absolutely nothing but one's imagination. There was a lot of repetition in the market, and the merchandise was much the same as we'd seen in Quito and Banos. I enjoyed that the vendors weren't super high pressure and didn't harass us if we responded with a "no, gracious". I loved the colors and the people, the fresh fruit, hot sun, and the cold beer. I didn't see any of the textiles that I'd imagined, but that didn't mean that I was disappointed. The alpaca was luxurious, and any time wandering around in a market place is a pleasure for me.

I often enjoyed shopping in the grocery store that was right next door to our hotel in Old Quito. It was a "Tia Mart", and I found it relieving to know what the prices were without having to ask or barter. For .69 I could buy a tray of sliced pineapple when the fried food all around me got to looking like a super bad idea. We also took advantage of the .89 Pilsenner beer in the fridge- ice cold and such a delightful treat for a Canadian not at all used to finding beer in gas stations and convenience stores.

One night instead of going out for dinner, we went and bought some baguette, cheese and some weird meat (Brian's idea, not mine). It went perfectly with 89 cent beer.

I found Snob jam at the Tia Mart. Too bad we don't get that here, I know some people that would be perfect for.

Sangria in a tetra pack for $2.59. Also probably not a great idea.

Why waste perfectly good fridge space when you can stack eggs right on the shelf?

Or how about a little Pork in cellophane?

Whereas this stuff was like poor man's crack cocaine to the likes of me. Crunchy, salty, yummy.

Ecuador, you were good to me.

I stood on your equator.

Walked along your pathways.

Stared at your busy streets.

Ate your fascinating dishes.

I don't know if we'll meet again, but I do know that I don't regret a moment.

 

 

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