Vanity Project

Story-time

2011-11-30T10:03:00.001-05:00

"I loves me some books"

The kids and I have an evening ritual of story-time. Yes, even my Teen likes to settle in at the end of the day to listen; it helps us all calm down and connect after a busy day. For the past two and a half years, we've read through the Harry Potter series and last week, we reached the last page of the seventh book and I felt a little verklempt. I love story-time!

This was my second time reading through the series as I had begun reading them to the Boy when he was 4. We'd read them as a family when the Ex and I were still together and the Boy finished the last book on his own because we were going through the separation.

My own memories of storytime go back to when I was a little girl and I would visit my Grandma and Grandpa every weekend. My Grandma would drive up to the countryside from Ottawa and bring me to their downtown apartment on Friday night for a dinner of fish n' chips & peas and each night, I would snuggle up to my Grandpa and he would read a chapter from one of the books they'd bought for me. Simple books, some of which I still have like, "Would you Rather" and Professor Wormbog's Gloomy Kerploppus" (Seriously one of the most bizarre and awesome scratch and sniff books - Remember scratch and sniff books? My copy's smells are all gone except for the peppermint smell, that one is still faintly recognizable... But I digress).

As I got older, my Grandma bought "Anne of Green Gables" and so began a very long courtship with the awkward, redheaded orphan. Grandpa read each book in that series to me except for the last half of the last one because he went into the hospital with Leukemia and never made it out. It took me a couple of years to take the book up and finish it on my own, but I did. I can still remember the feeling of snuggling up with him and getting lost in each story he read, the different voices he gave each character and the smell of him, a faint perfume of cigarettes and gin.

I wonder what my kids will remember of story-time? I hope they remember it fondly of course, but what pieces will linger with them in their memories when they have children of their own? When I read to them, I feel very connected to my Grandpa. Of course, later on, when they read studies about how reading to your kids helps them develop in 101 ways, they can feel good about helping them build a better future, socialization skills etc., but the grass roots of the whole thing boils down to a time to settle down, de-stress and let your imagination build something visually from words on a page. Being read to is the way I learned to read.

Now I have to figure out what series we can get lost in next. We spent a very long time with Harry Potter, I confess to being just as into the books as the kids and completely let myself get carried away with the characters; I cried when some of them died and felt happy while reading their accomplishments out loud (Does that make me a Pot-Head?). How long will the Boy want to continue on with this ritual? What kind of book will capture his imagination as well as the Girl's?

Santa brought us the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, I think that will be a fun adventure for us. Tomorrow, I get to see the kids again and we can pack our Pj's for the next trip.

Blanca Juanita

2011-10-15T00:02:00.000-04:00

You don't know me...

Otherwise known as White Juanita. As mentioned in my last post, every once in a while I get the urge to bolt. It's during moments when I want to drop everything and disappear. Of course I wouldn't, not with The Boy and the Girl to keep me grounded to the life I've made for myself. But on the occasions when they're not with me, my imagination begins to wander.

It's in some of that imaginary wandering that I pack my car with my essentials and hit the road. I've disappeared before, though not entirely anonymously. I moved across the country with a 2-week warning to my family and friends when I was 20, when I woke up one day and knew I needed a change. But this is different. When I get this feeling now, I know that it has more to do with an internal change or shift that has to take place, but it just feels like it would be easier to disappear.

Where would I go? I would drive to Mexico, change my name to Juanita and make a simple little life for myself as a barmaid in some dingy little Mexican bar that served fresh tacos. I'd sling shots of tequila to the regulars every day and make terrible jokes in broken Spanish. They wouldn't just call me Juanita, they'd call me White Juanita, or rather, Blanca Juanita because of the obvious non-Latin features I've got.

I would make my life very simple there in the anonymous Mexican village, not getting to know anyone very well, keeping to myself and perhaps taking on the occasional lover, always making sure he left before sunrise to avoid any complications. My best friend would be a stray cat that comes to my window for scraps and the deepest conversations that I would have would be philosophical exchanges with the man I buy coffee from at the cantina down the street.

But it wouldn't last. One day, someone from this life, the life I have now, would go on vacation and walk unexpectedly into the dingy little bar and order a shot of tequila, some chips and salsa before even looking at the barmaid. Then, as I turn to pour the shots, I hear them say, "Jess?" and I pause for a split second before Augusto, one of my regulars at the end of the bar replies, "No, eso no es Jess, que es blanca Juanita. No la conozco." And at that moment, when I look into Augusto's eyes, I realize that there is nowhere I can really disappear to, nowhere I can really hide myself because someone will always see right through that facade, right into your soul where you can't lie to yourself anymore and you have to go back. And it's at that moment that I decide to not drive to Mexico and embrace my alter ego.

At least not this time.

Cars I've Driven - Little Pieces of Freedom

2011-10-09T13:53:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I drive topless ;)

I haven't driven a plethora of cars, but each one I've had have all afforded me a little piece of freedom.

I know that might sound a bit ridiculous and that freedom is a state of mind and all, but when I am without a vehicle, I get a bit wiggy. I really was able to identify it this summer after the breaks on my car broke and I spent 4 days without a car and had to rely on others for transport to a fro. Environmentally speaking, this post is not eco-friendly in the least. I prefer to guzzle gas on my own that be forced into a carpooling situation. There may be a touch of selfishness to it.

Growing up in the Gatineau Hills meant that everywhere we went, we drove. There was no public transportation. When you're a kid, this is mostly fine except on snow days when you want to go to Suzy's but the Chevette couldn't get out of the driveway until the plow went by and even then, it wasn't the safest day to drive, so you had to stay home and amuse yourself. When I was about 10 or 11, we moved further up into the bush, further up a hill that was a good 45 minutes outside of the city - a commute that my Mom didn't make twice a week when she worked late and stayed at my Grandma's place in the city. As a pending teenager, this was beginning to seriously cramp my style (you know, all the style a pre-teen in the late 80's had).

I remember a few times, resorting to (MOM, DON'T READ THIS) hitchhiking to a few parties or riding my bike to the village even though I wasn't supposed to, petrified I would be seen by one of my parents' friends and be squealed on. Fortunately I wasn't kidnapped or raped during the hitchhiking and when I was 16, like almost every other 16 year-old in my surrounding area, began the process of getting my driver's licence.

Because she was a good half year older that I, Stephanie was the first of us to get her driver's licence and then a car. Being able to pile into her car with our friends and go out was beyond thrilling. My first lesson in driving a standard was with her in the parking lot of a rock quarry in Wakefield (Strangely this didn't prepare me for the actual driver's ed). After one failed attempt on my practical exam (they frown on running red lights for some reason), I had a good friend give me some pivate parallel parking lessons and I was good to go the second time around.

Except I didn't have a car. Driver's Licence + No Car = Wrench in Plans. I wound up moving into the city for college and made use of public transportation (the "Spo" fr short) until my Grandma gifted me with her car. The Granny-Mobile was a light blue '84 Ford Escort, immaculate and washed every week (until I got it) with ultra-low mileage. I was finally a woman, I was finally free; I could get into that car and drive wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to. Profoundly awesome. Sometimes it's the little things you know.

I left that baby behind when I moved to Vancouver, where having no car wasn't as stifling; the Skytrains are very efficient and can bring you so many places in a reasonable amount of time. But when I returned to the Gatineau Hills, pregnant, back to my parents house, I was again without a vehicle and dependent on other people's schedules. I hated it as much as I appreciated the help. The Granny-Mobile still sat in the driveway, but she needed more work than I could afford. We moved back into the city after a few months, but life with a newborn and no car is no fantasy. Rides from my Grandma to bring me grocery shopping were appreciated, but spontaneity went the way of the wind.

We finally got a car when the Boy was 2 or so. A little Toyota Echo, a good city car to get to and fro. This is a car built for necessity, efficient and compact and it served its purpose. But when we moved back to the country, the Ex with a job in the city and me at home with the Boy and the brand new baby Girl, I was trapped yet again. I experienced a great deal of frustration that year before returning to work which required us getting a second vehicle.

When I left the Ex, I moved back into the city, knowing I wouldn't be able to afford a car and was prepared to rely on the "Spo" and my legs; I sold the Echo. Again, depending on my parents or my Grandma for rides to the grocery store, which wasn't as bad this time because my location was pretty central, but when the bus trike happened, I felt defeated. Then something very interesting happened. People started lending me cars. Not just my parents, but relative strangers! A woman I had worked with at a temp job knew my situation and in discovering that she lived a block away from me, she offered up her car whenever I needed it, then, a woman who's son took the bus with the Boy and Girl offered her Subaru whenever I wanted. They had 2 cars and almost never needed both of them. At that moment, when I could get into that car and drive wherever I needed to, I remembered that piece of freedom. That car was also a pretty sweet ride. I first drove it during the winter and as I was heading to the grocery store, I began to wonder if I was getting a fever, but finally discovered that it had heated seats! I had never experienced that luxury!

And so after almost a year of living in the city, I realized it was time to head back to the Hills, the kids needed to reconnect with their friends and have more stability in this environment. It was in chatting with a very dear friend and discussing what I would need in order to get myself back here that one of the most generous offers was made to me - my current, awesome, survivor of a car. A '98 VW Cabrio that is the toughest car I've ever been in.

The Toughest Car EVER!

It was when I first drove this car that I understood people talking about "enjoying" driving. I'd only ever driven out of necessity, but this car is fun to drive, it handles the road well, it powerful and hey, it's a convertible, so sometimes I get to drive topless. This car has a pretty rich history of getting people to important places at just the right time and I'm very grateful to have it.

There are days when I feel like getting in the car and driving off, away, to a different place where no one knows me, where I can start all over again, where I have no history. And while ~~I'm pretty sure~~ I won't ever do that, I like knowing that I could if I really wanted to. And so I will content myself with being able to up and go to the grocery store whenever I damn well please, or spontaneously go visit you if I so please! Because that's just how hardcore I really am.

My Warrior Princess

2011-09-26T21:58:00.000-04:00

Current work in progress

I love tattoos. I think they're fascinating, beautiful, can be extremely attractive on members of the opposite sex and are an interesting way of expressing oneself. I got my first tattoo when I was 16 years old. My girlfriend and I, rebellious and full of sass, made our way over to Rideau Street one afternoon that we both had off from our restaurant job during summer break. Pete's Tattoos was located above the still infamous Rock Junction in Ottawa and we walked in with pictures of the ink that we each wanted.

We entered purposefully because we had spent the whole morning psyching ourselves up and we walked in with a clear mission. Pete and the other guy looked us up and down, paused, then asked us "Are you two of the age of majority?" Being the leader in this venture, I responded with a well crafted, "What's that?". "Are you both 18??" After only a moments hesitation I nodded my head and said "Ohhh, yes, of course we are, right?" and turned to my friend who, despite looking like a deer caught in the headlights, nodded her assurance along with me. So we sat in the dingy chairs and went on to have our first permanent art needled into our skin.

I'd wanted a tattoo since a very young age. My parents had a close friend who we spent a lot of time around who had tattoos. He had a stamp that looked like one of the ones he had on his arm and he used to stamp it on his son's and my arm, much to my delight. But I couldn't understand why mine washed off and his didn't. I guess my Mom never thought the desire would stick, she never complained. But that's when I caught the body art bug.

So I left Pete's that afternoon feeling quite bold, mature and maybe just a little wicked. I was officially bad-ass with my little smiley moon face on my chest. I worked up the courage to show my Mom a few days later who seemed rather nonplussed except to say "Well that will look nice in a ball-gown." Reaction to it was not too extreme and my Grandma even seemed resigned when she finally saw it over the next few months. The only reservations I ever encountered was when I was about to meet the mother of this guy I'd been dating for a couple of months. Just before walking into the house, he turned to me and said "Just so you know, my Mother believes that the only people who have tattoos are prostitutes and criminals. Maybe some sailors." That made for one of many awkward meeting of the parents over the years.

I've since had new ink on momentous occasions or at times of major change in my life. One for my college graduation, one when I left the Ex and one this week that coincided with the finalization of my divorce - the one in the picture here. It's not finished, but when it is, it will have covered that first tattoo.

When I got my kids back the following weekend, they were pretty impressed, the Boy, only as impressed as his pre-teen self would allow himself to be, but the Girl was quite taken. She oohed and ahhed and touched it gingerly while being mildly grossed out by the healing skin.

"Mom."

"Yes?"

"When I grow up, I'm going to get tattoos too."

She was looking at me intently.

"Ok, what kind are you going to get?"

"I'm going to get an axe on this arm and a sword on this arm."

She gestured along the length of each arm. I was imagining that she might want a unicorn or a butterfly or... Not a sword and an axe!? She still wears a LOT of pink, plays with dolls and reads books about fairies.

"Oh? The whole arm?"

"Both arms!"

"Please tell me more about this."

"Well, axes are cool. And swords, well, swords are for stabbing people."

WHAT. The. fuck?

"Pardon? We don't stab people. You don't stab people!"

"Well no, but you would have to stab your enemies."

"Uh, do you have enemies?"

"No, but you never know Mom. Swords are perfect against your arch-enemies."

She held my gaze intently for a moment longer, then smiled, leaned in and kissed me.

"I love you Mom!"

And she skipped off to play with her dolls.

The 50's and 60's gave birth to feminists, I never really considered the whole movement much until I left my marriage and really began to ponder what kind of messages I wanted to give, not only my daughter, but my son, about strong women. I've never encouraged the use of swords against one's enemies (but I can't lie and say that it's never crossed my mind), but even though this was by far one of the stranger exchanges with the Girl, I'm not concerned. Maybe she's my little warrior princess. Maybe she will be able to balance her femininity with her strength. I can only hope.

When I was getting this latest tattoo, the artist commented that she liked the addition of the heart, which I'd requested at the last moment and which she added in freehand. She said that she much preferred to give someone a tattoo with positive messaging, because I'd explained to her that love was important to me, even if the heart could be construed as kitschy. She said that it makes her sad when people want to permanently etch negative quotes onto their bodies. "Our thoughts are powerful when they're only thoughts. When we speak them aloud they become even more powerful. When we write them down it's even more powerful. When you etch a message into your own skin in your own blood, that's pretty fucking powerful."

When Was The Last Time You Pissed Someone Off?

2011-09-25T10:28:00.000-04:00

"Shut up jerk-face"

I bet it was more recently that you even realize.

You can go about your life worrying that your upsetting people for minor offenses, most likely some of which only you are worrying about, but every once in a while, I guarantee that you will piss someone off so royally and you'll have no inclination of it unless someone brings it to light.

So, who cares right? Well lots of people do care. As I said, lots of people worry that the slightest off side remark may have offended someone, a by-product of religious guilt and extreme political correctness (we simply CAN'T call it Christmas!). On the other hand, some people make it a mission in their life to piss off as many people as possible, which I admit, can be fun sometimes.

I've spent a lot of my life being pissed off. It's really and truly an unpleasant feeling. I've also spent a considerable amount of time being blamed for someone else being pissed off for a variety of reasons. I didn't have dinner ready on time, I said no to something, I called someone out on their bullshit and lies, or took your parking spot. And I also used to wear someone else's feelings about me like a hair-shirt.

A pretty wise person I know said to me one day, "What you think of me is none of my business, and what I think of you is none of yours."

That realy made me stop and think.

You can't control what others think of you, you can only control your actions, your thoughts, your intention. You could go about being saintly and still piss people off simply because some people are in a different place and they will project their own filters onto you. If you spend your days in misery, you will project it onto others. If you spend your days looking for the good, most of the time, you will see the good in people. But I'm not saying that to make you ignore the truth that some people are toxic. On the contrary, I think it's important to trust your instincts in that respect, but when you focus more on the positive, more positive experiences and people gravitate into your reality. Like the complainers who always have terrible things happen to them, the opposite is also true. The better it gets, the better it gets.

Yeah, yeah, I sound like I beam rainbows out of my asshole, and there are days when I complain like a little bitch, but it's a whole lot nicer when I pause, take a breath and look at how lucky I really am.

Last month I had some car issues in which my brakes failed in a most spectacular way. There was billowing smoke, an averted concrete wall and a whole lot of adrenaline. If it had been in a movie, I'm pretty sure Bruce Willis would have shown up. Once the shock wore off, I realized how lucky this incident actually was. As I came off the highway at 120, I sped through an intersection that was completely empty, having a manual shifting car, I was able to downshift the car to a slow and finally coasted the beast into my very own driveway (Before turning to the Boy and yelling "RUN!!!" in case it blew up, but that part is more fun to ignore).

I could have spent the rest of the summer moaning about not being able to afford a new car and wondering why these things always happen to me, but instead, I realize that I still have a pretty awesome, hardy car. She's the Vee-Dub that won't quit and I'd rather be happy.

So with happiness being my prime directive, I will keep striving for it and if that bugs you, or her or him, to effn' bad. I'm not going to expend any energy in trying to make you feel good by trying to bend myself into an awkward position that pleases you and I have absolutely no problem with that. I send you off with a sincere smile or a joyfully flipped middle finger, that part is up to you. What you think of me is none of my business and what I think of you is none of yours.

“I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.”
Bill Cosby

Mix-Tapes I have Known and Loved

2011-09-22T23:14:00.001-04:00

I was thinking about the first ever gift of music I received from a boy the other day. I was 13, he was 17 and we met at the local ski hill, he thinking me much older-looking and more mature than my 13 years. (The fact that the Boy is about to turn 13 doesn't perturb me at all when I think about this ~~liesliesalllies~~)

I was wooed by his worldliness, his maturity, his dreamy eyes. And then he gave me a cassette-tape. It wasn't a mix, but it had a song on it that made him think of me, *swoon*! The cassette-tape in question was Skid Row's self-titled album and our song was I'll Remember You. I listened to that song so many times, rewinding for the memorized number of seconds to the start of the song to hear it again and again. I still remember the lyrics. I eventually broke up with him because I felt that at 13, I simply couldn't offer him what an older woman of say, 14 or 15 could offer him and didn't feel it was fair to him. It broke my young heart at the time and I wept for an eternity (or maybe a week, which is an eternity in teenaged time). I had let him go for noble reasons, but my heart ached, so I kept listening to the song as I wept, star-crossed lover that I was. Oh Skid Row, how your brilliant and poignant lyrics tore at my heart strings.

A few years later, a different kind of boy entered into my affections. His aloof nature, Bon Jovi hair and superawesomecool Monte Carlo made him irresistible. We would talk about philosophy, the universe and the Doors (all related). We had a deep connection. One day he gave me a mixed cassette-tape. It was such an earth shatteringly personal gift. The song that became worn out on that tape was She Talks to Angels by the Black Crows. It's still my go-to song when we hit the Karaoke bars. But what I remember about that mix, was not exactly all the songs on it, but rather the process of trying to read meaning into every song selection. Why did he chose this song, this. Specific. Song. What does it mean? What is he trying to tell me? MY GOD WHAT IS HE TELLING ME? Another eternity was spent trying to decipher his cool-boy code, wondering if maybe I just wasn't cool enough to know what exactly he was trying to tell me. I would have run away with him, but eventually he told me he was just too mixed up with life and didn't want to hurt me. So nothing ever came of our cosmic connection except a collection of songs that meant something in a foreign thought process and an eternity of pining from afar.

Fast forward a couple of years to college. Another cool dude I met and hung out with made me a mixed-tape with all the coolest songs that everyone loved in the mid 90's if you were into obscure alternative indie stuff that is. And I was. I had my green 8-hole Doc Martens, striped tights and plaid shirts. This was perhaps the most confusing mixed-tape because I never did figure out if he was interested in me or just really dug music and wanted to share. Regardless, I was still underaged in a college with a bunch of people who were of age and I felt so supremely cool to have been bestowed with such a collection. I knew that the music on my compilation was most certainly the same that was being played at Zaphod Beeblebrox every weekend. Oh how I yearned to get past those bouncers.

I made a couple of mixes in my later teen years that I would bestow upon oh-so lucky members of the opposite sex. I remember meticulously selecting each song for a specific meaning or message, but only as long as it wasn't *too* obvious. Each selection almost a test of whether they could find the hidden meaning. And people say women over think things. Pshht!

As time went on, a couple of girlfriends of mine and myself would make tapes for each other and it became much freer, sharing the top tunes being played over our respective college radio stations or from bands that had just played at this intimate college pub and for-sure they were on the cusp of making it big! One friend of mine had sent me a mix that included Massive Attack and Tricky, whom she had seen in two consecutive weekends and those two songs remain favourites to this day.

Nowadays, I get super mixes from my Gay and my Audiophile and fellow blonde trouble maker over at Life In Audio. It's not quite the same as the Mixed-tape of my youth, but the music keeps me going.

So I'm curious, have you ever made a mixed-tape? I guess now it's mixed CDs or MP3 Playlists, but as someone mentioned yesterday, you can' decorate a playlist. What factors do you use in selecting your music? Is there a hidden message or is it just, Hey, I'm digging these tunes right now and I think you will too!

So Your Marriage is Over, Now What

2011-09-20T22:06:00.001-04:00

There is light at the end of the road!

So many people I know seem to be going through breakups lately. Some are in the fresh, deep wounds of it and some are already fully down the path, but not knowing where the hell it will lead.

While I may not know where the path is going, I am further down said path. I know which shortcuts aren't worth taking and I know where the clearings are. Or at least sometimes I do. Actually a lot of the time I have no idea what's going on in my own life, but I have a good knack for being perceptive about other people's, so I thought I'd write a bit of an outside view of where my friends might be finding themselves... Maybe they won't feel quite as alone as they might be feeling after they read this. Or maybe they will, but I'm writing it anyway.

So your marriage is over, now what? Oh God it hurts. Maybe it's been hurting for a while. Actually I guarantee it has been, but you might not know how deeply it's been hurting, and now the band-aid has been ripped off and taken some hair and skin along with it. Well it's going to bleed for a while. For the first little while, you might believe the hurt will never stop. You might think that there is nothing that will ever feel like joy again, that everything is empty. You might wonder where you went wrong, how you could have been so stupid, how you could have ever loved someone who has hurt you so badly. You might wonder how you can get them to take you back, you might wonder how to set them on fire without anyone knowing it was you.

This ~~sucks so fucking bad~~ is normal. If this stage lasts longer than say, 4 to 6 months, you might want to consider some ~~drugs and heavy drinking~~ medical intervention. (For real though, if you encounter feelings of deep, dark hopelessness, talk to someone. I think a good gauge is to ask yourself if your reaction to your current situation is situationally appropriate or whether the darkness might be a little stronger than it should be. Talking to someone is not a sign of weakness.)

The second thing that is important in order to move forward is to actually let yourself feel. When I first left, I had the kids full time except for every other weekend. You would think that that one weekend every two weeks on my own would have been heaven, but I did my best to get myself out of my apartment and keep busy for as MUCH of that weekend as possible. I took on extra teaching jobs and would walk round the city for hours. Why? Because the moment I would settle into the quiet of my awesome little apartment, I would start to feel. EW! That wasn't something I wanted to do! Nonononono! When that would happen I would feel like I was back at stage one. At some point though, I realized that I had to stop. In those moments, I would sit and cry, sometimes for hours, about nothing specific. It was exhausting, but I realize now that it was an important part of the letting go. Even if it was a hellish relationship, you need to grieve it, it needs to be purged from your soul. You may not need to spend hours crying, it might be that spending a day stacking and splitting 20 cords of wood while yelling profanities, maybe it's taking up running, kickboxing or, heaven forbid, poetry. The point is that a physical release needs to take place.

That brings me to point number 3. A physical release is not the same as distracting yourself immediately with a new squeeze. That first exchange that happens outside of your old relationship can be intoxicating. I mean quite literally that it can be toxic to your system. It is your first foray into intimacy with someone you have NOT sworn to spend the rest of your life with. It's exciting, it can potentially mess with your self esteem because you think, Oh hey, he/she-Ex was WRONG! I AM desirable! Screw you, look I've got a boyfriend/girlfriend! And then it can become like a drug and there is a neediness that seeps in. Whether that neediness manifests in wanting that same person to be around, or looking for multiple people to, ahem, fill that hole, it's not a healthy headspace to be in. It's a way of looking for fulfillment outside of yourself and that is not fulfilling in the long term.

This is not to say that sewing some oats is bad, quite the contrary. Take this time to learn about the opposite sex (or same sex if that's what you're into). Really learn about them, go out on dates, pay attention to what the dates are like, pay attention to what people are saying beneath the words. My personal adventures taught me that (and this *is* a generalization, but one that has proven to be true for more than just myself) men have a tendency of telling you everything you need to know about them, in a macro fashion, within the first hour. Even when presenting their best possible face, look beyond the words; a lot of the time, what they spend a lot of time saying that they are not, turns out to be what they in fact are. It's the side they'd prefer to hide. One guy I went on a date with spent a great deal of time talking about how he was so pro-woman, he was a feminist and that this was so absolutely true because he even took women's studies in University and was part of a lesbian wedding. That should have made me believe him right? "Oh, you were in a lesbian wedding? Wow, you ARE a feminist!" But after a little more exposure to him, he wound up being one of the most misogynistic men I've ever gone out with, but in a very insidious, hidden way that gives me the willies to this day.

Anyway, all that to say, date, explore, learn. Do it in an expansive way rather than in a "trying to fill a void" way.

My last piece of advice is this, there will be a day when it doesn't hurt anymore, when you realize how awesome *you* are and in that realization, you become ready to share yourself, your whole self, in a very real and honest way, with another person. It might be a little scary, but not as scary as the prospect used to be. This process may be fast, it may be slow, but it takes place. For everyone. The more you allow yourself to move through it, the faster it will be. Therapy can speed things up, self awareness and self care is necessary. When you come out of a relationship that you believed that you would be in for the rest of your life, where the betrayal cut so deep, it's so important to realize that you are the most important piece to truly preserve. The cuts aren't as deep as you thought and you have the strength to be free of that useless burden.

I promise.

Let Love Rule

2011-08-21T17:12:00.000-04:00

Double Complete Rainbow!!

I had my last day of court with the Ex this week. I felt sadness wash over me, not because of the end of the marriage, but because of the ugliness of it. Watching him give testimonial, I wondered at how I could have cared for him so much at a different point in time, but I did. I don't understand it.

I've changed and evolved a great deal since then, I feel better than I ever have. I'm confident of who I am as a person, as a mother and as a friend. I think that those who know me well can be sure that I'll always be honest with them even if the truth is hard to hear at times. I try to do it as lovingly as possible... Unless I've been drinking.

I sat in the courtroom and reflected on the road I've been on since having left the marriage over three years ago. The fear I felt then was overwhelming. I didn't believe that I could accomplish anything, that I'd be able to provide for the children by myself or ever achieve any of the goals I'd dreamed of. I felt destroyed right down to my soul, that any illusion of safety I'd believed was shattered beyond repair.

I spent a lot of time in the dating world last year and it was my goal to learn as much about men as possible. I learned that most men will tell you what you need to know about them within the first half hour of conversation. Often they will tell you what they are most certainly not like, which I figured out meant that they are telling you what they are most like. I learned that in a casual dating world, it's very easy to be lied to. I learned that it was a world I wasn't interested in. Not the world of men, but the casual dating world. (Just wanted to be clear about that, no offense to the ladies, but I prefer my equipment to be serviced by the male persuasion, their tools meet my needs in a better way... Uh, yeah, I digress). So I left it, left the online dating sites and left it to chance.

Leaving these things to chance when you work a 9-5 job in an office dominated by women, don't go out much and have a limited income limits chance meetings with men. Whateves though, I took my time and focussed on myself, learning to get comfortable with meditation, practicing patience and turning my attention more fully to the kids and friendships. It has been a rewarding year. I haven't felt the loneliness I felt for so long in my marriage and then the profound feeling of "I am so ALONE" that I had felt in that first year of singlehood. I would occasionally wonder if I even should ever bother thinking about being in a relationship at all... And in those moments, I was OK with that prospect, but truthfully, I want something more.

A few months ago, I had a dream that was filled with chaos, but during one brief minute, I came across a man I knew (not in real life, but in the way you know things in dreams) and I looked into his eyes and mused at how I hadn't seen him in a very long time. He took my hand and said, "It doesn't matter how long it's been, you're my best friend." And as he said it, I felt my heart open up and I told him that I loved him. When I woke up from that dream, I thought to myself that I must be ready to love again.

After that much pain, it's hard to conceive that you would ever let your heart out from the protective bubble wrap ever again. But time heals and helps you understand things. Time allows you to let down your guard and let someone in, knowing that the outcome is in fact unknown, but that it's worth it. After the rain comes the sun, always the sun, the warmth and the light and in the words of Lenny Kravitz, you got to Let Love Rule.

New Leaf

2011-03-18T23:41:00.005-04:00

When I started this blog three years ago, I was in a very different place in my life and emotional head space. I had only recently left my home and marriage and was in a much darker place than I am now.

I was filled with a lot of sadness, a lot of insecurity and a lot of anger. I was also overwhelmed.

I named this blog after a comment the Ex frequently made whenver I undertook something that was my own, or wasn't part of the "collective"; he used to say that my vanity projects were detrimental to our success. I felt like I wasn't allowed to have my own identity.

Last fall we had our first encounter in court and following that initial encounter, I decided to review many aspects of my life.

At the time, I was teaching fitness classes multiple times a week to bring in extra income and keep myself in shape. The irony was that I was gaining more and more weight, no matter what new regime I tried. "Try Weight Watchers!" a friend said, so I did and gained more weight. I tried a program that had previously given me fantastic results and I gained more weight. I had no energy to run anymore and the energy I had was used up in the classes I was teaching.

One day, my car wouldn't start. Or rather, I made it to the coffee shop with the Boy and then could go no further. Amidst impending deadlines at work, finding someone to get the Boy to school and then at midday, discovering I had to pay for a new starter; I answered my cell phone at the end of the day while waiting for my car to be driven out of the mechanic's work bay.

"Hello?"
"Hi Jessica, it's Josee at the gym."
"Oh hey, what's up?"
"Uh. Where are you?"
"I'm at the garage. Why?"
"There are 30 members at the gym waiting for you to teach your class.:

I had completely forgotten that I had a class that night. I had arranged to the kids to be picked up, had made up for some of my missed work, but I had completely forgotten that I had a class to teach. That had never happened to me before. I don't forget appointments, I usually have a pretty accurate grasp of scheduling for myself and the kids, but I had completely forgotten that I had a class to teach despite teaching the same class, week after week for a year and a half. I sent in my letter of resigntation the following day; I had nothing left to give anyone else. I never set foot back in the gym. Instead of racing home at the end of a work day, on the weeks I had my kids, I was able to take quality time with them, sit down with them and calmly do homework, actually cook a meal (sometimes) and make time for stories without making bed time too late.

I knew something was seriously not working and it wasn't just the gym. A part of myself stepped in and began purging other unnecessary items from my life. Earlier in the year, I had purged some friendships, some willingly, some not so much, but it was definitely a purge I wound up being grateful for. Some of my close friends know that when it comes to my household, I am an excellent purger; I can assess with detachment, whether there truly is any point to keeping that family heirloom or whether I will actually make the craft I've been planning to use those ribbons for over the past 5 years. I even have a friend who has asked me to help her pack for the sole reason of encouraging her to purge items.

That was just the start. I had gotten so uncomfortable with my physique; summer was ending and I realized I didn't fit into any of my pants. I literally had no pants to wear. I also couldn't afford to just go and buy pants. I visited my Homeopath and pleaded with him to help me. I hadn't been in this kind of predicament in a decade. Sure my weight fluctuated, but it hadn't been this bad in a very long time. He steered me in the direction of a program that many of his clients had had massive and quick success with. up until that point, I had been reluctant to undertake anything that would drastically restrict any food groups of any kind because I refused to feel deprived, but it was time to take drastic measures. I would have drunk horse urine if I had been convinced that it would work.

So I began this new plan. I started it the week of the Boy's birthday. I can tell you that it takes a special kind of dedication to serve pizza, ice cream cake, pop corn, then pancakes and bacon in the morning when all you are eating is lean protein and vegetables, but I did it happily. And the weight begain to come off.

I also found a book that made such a difference to me in my approach to myself. Through all of November, I would take this gem of a book over to the local Starbucks during my lunch. It was just as the holiday bustle was begining and Christmas Carols were being played as fluffy snow gently fell to the ground and melted; that moment in time when the snow is pretty and festive. I would sit in the comfy red chair in the window and read about the Law of Attraction. No, it wasn't The Secret, nor was it a concept that was new to me, but this book that spoke to me on a very profound level. While reading this book, many things turned around for me, I decided to be more honest with myself and decided to monitor my thoughts and internal message in a much deeper way.

I started this blog from a place of hurt and anger. Last summer, the Ex threatened to sue me for one hundred thousand dollars because he claimed that I was defaming him with this blog. While this was a false allegation, I posted a last entry on September 18, 2010 and found myself unable to produce anything else. Blocked if you will.

I have spent the last 6 months refuelling my self. Rebuilding my life and pressing the re-set button for my future. I pay attention to what goes on inside myself and do my best to live on positive, feel-good stuff instead of negative input that fuels past pain. I know it might sound like hippy-new-age talk, but I don't care. Man I feel good! I am in a fantastic place with my kids; we have an amazing time together when I have them and I believe that my future is bright. I actually believe it! I no longer feel as though I'm trying to convince myself that it's the case. Things show up at the most magical moments.

I will continue to share humourous things that happen to me, but my intent now, in this blog, is to bring it forth from a positive space. I am fuelled by joy and love for my kids. I feel blessed.

That's what I'm sharing.

A Message to My Baby Brother on His Wedding Day

2010-09-18T13:31:00.012-04:00

My brother is getting married today.

He's in a completely different part of the country preparing for his nuptials with his waiting bride and my parents by his side. I truly wish I could be with them, but that is not what is in the cards this time around.

Perhaps this is more à propos, since my mind set is less than jovial when is comes to a life of the married couple. But despite the shattered image I experienced, I find myself remembering the hope and excitement that I felt on the eve of my marriage, and so with this in mind, this is my wish for my brother and his Latina lady.

Chef,

Today you will be committing yourself to another person, body, mind and soul. I'm so very glad you're not as young as I was when I got married, I'm so glad you've taken your time to get to know this woman you've decided to share yourself with.

When you look at her, see not only her absolute perfection, but also her flaws as these make her whole. See your reflection in her eyes, how she sees you as a wonderful person whom she has chosen to share her heart with as this is no small gift. Treat her heart with the utmost care as she has chosen you to care for it in all of its various states of being. Be honest with her, notice her, love her with abandon when you feel the most vulnerable.

When the waters get rough, take her by the hand and know that you can only float as long as you work together. Never keep your hurt under lock and key, speak of it without blame as it is yours and not hers, in turn she will do the same. Remember that she cannot read your mind and know your every thought even though it may seem that way at times.

Learn from her. You have come together to learn from each other, but not specifically to teach other other.

Laugh together.

You are not her master and she is not yours; the old connotations of marriage no longer have any place in this world. You are equals and I hope you always regard each other this way.

At the root of it all, remember your love for her, which should, at its very heart, be a profound friendship that can carry you through the rest of your lives.

My very best wishes to you on this very special day. My love to you both.

Memory Lane

2010-06-27T12:18:00.004-04:00

It seems this has been a weekend spent on memory lane; this morning, I received an e-mail from my Mom with this clip from the CBC archives. My Grandfather was a reporter for the CBC in the 60's and 70's. He died in 1986 and I'd never had the occasion to see any of his on-camera work. I still think of him frequently and wish he'd had a chance to me the Boy and the Girl.

This past week had me dreaming about the house I spent the most time growing up in. Every once in a while I will dream of that particular one and the one we lived in prior. The one we lived in prior always manifests itself as having far more hallways than it did in reality and doors lining the walls of the hallway in a fashion reminiscent of a ScoobyDoo show. And while the former house is generally a setting of safety when a wild bear, wolf or aliens are trying to hunt me down. This time though, I walked up the stairs wondering why the hell I was there. My parents were busy hustling around and there was clutter everywhere. "Why are we here?" I kept asking them. No answers were provided, but my Mom handed me a large houseplant and told me to re-pot it; however there was a distinct lack of pots or soil. I wandered around and discovered that there was actually an amusement park surrounding the house.

This was no ordinary amusement park. It was the kind of amusement park that should have been destroyed decades ago; rusty rails, carnies that had seen their best days in the 70's and hadn't changed their clothes since.

I figured I'd make the best of it and brought the kids out to take a look. A scattering of food stations all closing up for the day and an a rollercoaster on the roof. "Who the hell planned this out?" I yelled around. No answers from anyone.

I let it be and then by a scattering of circumstances, wound up taking my Grandmother for a drive yesterday evening. She'd been invited to an event she didn't want to drive to and I offered. Arriving early, I suggested I take her for a drive and as coincidence would have it, we were quite close to the house from my dream. We made our way along the winding road and turned up towards it. Strange to stare up at it from the bottom of a tree-filled driveway. On the way back home, I took the scenic route that took me past 2 more of the 4 houses I remember living in as a kid, listening to my Grandma recount stories from "back then".

I drove and mostly just listened. My uncle, her brother died quite recently and I suspect that because she was unable to go to the memorial, she still had a need to look back. She spoke about visiting my Granfather's grave. I wondered what she must be thinking about her brother's death. She will never really express anything about it, that's just the way she is.

So I took her with me along memory lane. Sometimes it doesn't hurt to take a look back to see how far you've come.

Beauty

2010-05-03T20:50:00.008-04:00

When darkness sets in I find it very difficult to turn towards the shaft of light that streams in the drawn curtain.

There are times when you can keep it at bay by keeping yourself busy with the day to day; the report that's due, the notes you need to memorize, the kids you need to bring from event to event, the cake you have to bake.

Then there are moments that you complete a major task that has been aggravating you for months and suddenly you are faced with yourself. Maybe it's something else that acts as the major catalyst, but they happen every so often.

I find myself there tonight. In that dark place I work so hard to avoid. The place that tells me the Universe is playing a gigantic joke on me and that it's time I see the punchline. The place where I feel totally out of control of my own destiny.

I woke up this morning with great difficulty; the sense that lead had been injected into my eyelids and limbs, but persisted through the day with... something tugging at my unconscious mind, waving in my peripheral vision to pay attention. I just knew that I felt... Off. I taught my class with great effort, giving my attendees their usual burst of energy, but feeling empty inside. A facade I used to employ on a regular basis.

Arriving home, I had no pressing tasks to undertake and I went through my usual routine, doing up my dishes from this morning's rush, pressing play on my "create" playlist, thinking I'd sit down and paint, or write... Not anticipating a post of this kind. Dishes completed, my bath taken in record time, I sat down on my sofa, drink in hand and proceeded to weep.

Why?

I have no idea. The tears just poured from me without stopping. I asked the Universe why about several aspects of my life and came up with no conclusive answers. My solution? Kraft Dinner spirals. THAT would definitely make things better considering that my self esteem was taking a beating, including my self-image in the process; if you feel fat, Kraft Dinner will NOT make things better. Obvious I know, but still worth mentioning.

Looking at my tear-stained face in the mirror, I got to thinking about events from the past month. The idea of beauty has been weighing on my mind quite a bit. I have been called beautiful, gorgeous and lovely a few times in the past few months, all to great flattery to my ego, I must admit. But as I sit here and observe myself tonight, I don't see any of it. All I see it a pathetic, frumpy, underachieving lumpy loser of a woman. I am feeling all the victimhood as I type. I'm even listening to music that underlines all of it!!!! No uplifting gospels for me; it's wallow ALL the way! I blame the chemical composition of the Spirals. Damn-you KD!

Beauty is an illusion we're fed from very early on in our infancy; we're force-fed these images of people tha have been digitally enhanced, illustrated in exxageration and single-handedly picked out to highlight specific features that don't always occur naturally in nature. I remember asking the nurse who was monitoring my labour in the delivery room when I was waiting for the Girl's arrival if parent's of ugly children knew their children were ugly. Yes, I actually asked that, and I don't even think I can truthfully blame the pain or the drugs or any of that, I just really wondered. What if I had an ugly baby? Would I know?

What is ugly? What is beauty?

I believe that we all know people who are theoretically not beautiful, but that become stunning as we get to know them more; their inner beauty shines though. I believe that it's the inner beauty that wins out in the long run. Now that Naomi Campbell's true nature seems to have come out in the press, how may covers has she had? Her physical attributes seem to be overshadowed by her personality.

But what is it to be told you're beautiful by another human being? I realized this past week that the only people I ever believed were my girlfriends. I think this is a symptom of being more of yourself with your girlfriends than you are with men you may be trying to impress. Your true friends know your true-you. They see you at your ugliest and if they can see that and still tell you you are beautiful, then it's far easier to digest and far more honest that the guy telling you how beautiful you are while trying to get in your pants afew hours after meeting you.

Does any of this make me feel remotely better? Not just now, but it's my evening's observation and something I have to contemplate when it comes time to give my children a little more information about the world. The cliche of inner beauty rings too true to ignore. It hasn't failed me yet when I think of those who strated off with a dazzling smile and ended with a shadowed sneer.

Feminist? Not quite, but maybe...

2010-04-30T17:18:00.018-04:00

I've been mulling over this blog post for a few weeks now and finally this week, after reading this article about my cousin, I was moved to action.

I come from strong strong female stock. My Mom (and dad) battled and overcame alcoholism, my Grandmother is one hell of a woman who worked after being married in a time when married women "just didn't work" and not just that, but also worked with Nellie McClung's granddaughter. Something about that has got to stick in one's genes.

Dixie has often told me that I missed something from the feminist bandwagon; growing up, what I really wanted was my own strong family unit, to be a mother and a good wife. I even remember making my Dad a sandwich one day when I was about 16 and my sandwich-making skills were so rockin' he said, "Oh, you'll make a good wife one day!" to which my Mom admonished him severely saying that there were far more important things I should be aspiring to. Deep down though, his comment made me so happy. I really wanted to be a good wife.

And so I entered my marriage, at age 21 (WAY too young to get married by the way - I tell both the Boy and the Girl that 30 is an acceptable age to *begin* thinking about marriage and children... BEGIN!!) convinced that this would be the key to my personal fulfillment. Not only was I too young to be married, but I was, by today's standards, too young to be pregnant. Yes, I did the very common "We're pregnant, let's get married!" routine that, unfortunately, for the most part, doesn't work. I truly believed it would! It worked for my parents! They've been together for 34 years and show no signs of stopping (except for the endless bickering). They have been my relationship role models. In times of severe marital difficulties, I would often talk to my Dad and seek his advice, which was usually that marriage is hard, you work at it and then it works out. The rough patches give way to greener pastures. I believed him because I witnessed it between him and my Mom. I watched them travel through addiction to recovery together and come out a really bonded unit. I could do that!

But I didn't do that. My marriage failed for more reasons that are necessary to list here. I've been accused of taking no responsibility in the dissolution of that naive dream, but regardless, my marriage ended along with my illusions of "happily ever after".

Why on earth did I carry this illusion in my heart? This is a discussion that Dixie and I have had on more that one occasion. It's not like I learned it from my Grandmother or my Mother, but it's possible that experiencing an alcoholic family situation early on in my life made me think that I could create my own perfect family unit as quickly as I could. Of course, none of this was carried on at a conscious level, but I think there is definitely some truth to it. Even in the most miserable moments of my marriage, I looked for ways to "fix" everything, ways to make everything perfect. It all failed. My vows went up in flames. The one thing that at one point in time, was the worst possible thing that could have ever happened to me.

Those feelings have passed now and revisiting them is both painful and embarrassing. I cannot believe that I placed so much of myself into another human being. I experienced nuances of it when I began dating again; I would feel extreme anxiety, not knowing what I was "supposed" to do, how I was "supposed" to behave as opposed to simply being myself! I have a tendency to pour my being into the person who grabs my fancy, but I now see a lot more clearly that this should not be a process of losing oneself, but rather an opportunity to reveal my true self.
This brings me to the Girl.

She longs to see me reunite with the Ex. This is normal, she craves the family unit she used to have and most of her friends still have an un-broken home. This isn't what concerns me so much as her reasoning that accompanies it.

"Mom, you should be back together with Dad. You should have been nicer to him and listened to him. When I get married, I'll be really nice and I'll listen to my husband."

These words made me cringe. My goal is to impart a sense of strong independence and sense of self into this teeny lady and her statement screamed of the opposite. We still have fairy tales that end with happily ever after and female characters in television and films most certainly don't portray too many strong women; they just don't market well unless you're Angelina Jolie playing Lara Croft with huge tits.

"Sweetheart," I replied, "Being married doesn't mean you have to make the other person happy or do your best so they don't get mad at you, it means finding someone you can be yourself with and will accept you while you do it. It doesn't mean you don't have arguments, but it means that you love the person enough to find solutions together. Your Dad and I weren't able to do that."

"But you need a husband Mom! If you don't have one, you'll be sad!"

Yikes! The truth is, I've been far happier without the Ex or even a boyfriend. Sure, there are moments that would be nice to share with someone, but the time I've had to reflect, readjust and reintegrate with myself has been invaluable.

"I was sad when I was married, Baby Girl. Having a husband doesn't fix sadness. It's actually better to be happy with you on the inside before you get married"

There was silence after this; of course it's difficult to impart this piece of wisdom to a 7 year old who hurting a great deal after her parents separation. All I can do is strive to be strong and succeed so that she can see that it's possible. It can be overwhelming to think of all the heartache she might experience and I believe most parents want to protect their children from the pain they themselves have experienced, but we've all had to make mistakes in order to learn. Some of those mistakes will be the ones our parents made and some will be all our own, but it's how we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off that measures what we're made of.

I recall falling into very stereotypical roles once I got married; I cooked and cleaned and did very "female" things around the home. I think it's very common for this to take place, I witness it all around me, but when you find yourself without a male counterpart, these "male" tasks still need to be done. Widows know this first-hand, their trial-by-fire and learning everything quickly because you have to. Why do we wait so long? Why aren't we taught any of this while we're growing up? Basic lifeskills that boys AND girls need to learn involve everything from being able to feed yourself to finances to running a household inside and out! While I can't fix my own car, I have to figure out when it needs servicing, I need to maintain my yard (with some much appreciated help from the Boy - BUT - he also helps me in the kitchen!). It seems basic, but so many women haven't got a clue about these things! AND IT'S 2010!!!

If I can somehow open up that pocket of wisdom (if it's even that)through example, then I believe she will come out of this as strong as her lineage has been and not only for her, but my beautiful Boy will also learn what real women are made of and will know how to take care of himself at that.

Feminism doesn't have to evoke images of man-hating women with a lot of body hair, but just strong, capable women - AND men.

Special thanks to Phillipa Maitland for her photograph; hire her! http://pmaitland.blogspot.com/

I Bet You Think This Blog Is About You, Don't You?

2010-03-26T21:41:00.012-04:00

Truth be told, happiness seems like a far away dream or legend you hear about during late night drunks around a campfire, but I'm told it's something that exists and that I will experience once again someday. I think I have glimpses of it on days when the Boy and the Girl crawl into my big squishy bed and we read Harry Potter for hours while snuggling. Other than this, the moments in which I'd thought myself to be happy were simply lies I told myself to keep myself complacent, ignorant of what really lay before me.

Most recently, I have been accused of trying to portray myself as a victim. I don't believe this to be true in the least. While I admit to many moments in which I feel quite sorry for myself, these moments are never very productive and contribute very little to the advancement of... Anything really. After my pity-parties and wallow-fests, I pretty much pick myself up, dust myself off and carry on with the task at hand. Granted it sometimes takes a pep-talk or two, but I always get up again. Always. That being said, I truly hate the term "victim". To me it is rife with images of a person not being able to help themselves, at the mercy of what life dumps upon them. I realize that this interpretation of the term takes away from true victims, victims of rape, disease, natural disasters, shark-attacks... But I don't like the unspoken "Weakness" associated with it.

I have experienced many things over a long period of time; many of these things beyond my control, some within, but never have I felt that I was too weak to forge ahead and deal with them. I've come pretty damn close, expecially lately, but I always get back up and face it. Always.

Most recently, I was tarred with the accusation that I am the type of person described in this blog about emotionally abusive women. (Gentlemen, any potential lovers, anyone who wants to know all about the real me; go read this blog. It will outline the true pain experienced by those who get to know the real me. Tragic. My heart truly weeps and I feel such remorse. Oh wait, if you read the blog, you'll see that I'm too twisted to feel remorse.)

nar·cis·sism –noun
1.inordinate fascination with oneself; excessive self-love; vanity.
2.Psychoanalysis. erotic gratification derived from admiration of one's own physical or mental attributes, being a normal condition at the infantile level of personality development.

Based on my blog title, definition 1 obviously applies to me! All I write about is myself and how introspectively fascinating I am!!! And I'm vain enough to think someone will read this! (though remember, none of this is true, it's all fiction and egotistical ponderings).

What is Narcissism? According to Sam Vaknin, it's a pattern of traits and behaviors which signify infatuation and obsession with one's self to the exclusion of all others and the egotistic and ruthless pursuit of one's gratification, dominance and ambition. Most narcissists (75%) are men. I found this to be rather interesting. Also, recently, the Ottawa Citizen published an article on Narcissistic Personality Disorder that was profoundly fascinating as they included a checklist of signs of NPD including my favourite,Obsesses with fantasies about unlimited success, fame, power or omnipotence. That's totally me!

A few weeks later, in a completely unrelated correspondence with an acquaintance, I was sent a link to this blog outlining ways of coping with NPD types, expecially in cases of divorce. A true ray of light!

The problem with all of this, be it arming oneself with knowledge or coming to an understanding about the rough road that's been travelled is that with this particular disorder, there is no validation. These definitions, essays and articles could be taken and twisted so as to be and explanation of why I really am the way I am. I noticed a particular tone in the blog about emotionally abusive women; it seems that whenever a woman becomes angry or fed up, she emotionally unbalanced, unhinged, hysterical etc. It is hardly ever perceived as a situationally appropriate response to an event, a discovery or a trauma. Women are generalized as "too emotional" instead of beings that acknowledge what is going on within and actually expressing rather than repressing. The older a woman gets, the less she wants to hold those emotions in and less she is as easily fooled by the man who tries to veil himself as she wants him to be, the trickster.

I like to think that I've gained at least some wisdom in the past decade; my naive 20's are over, I'm more self-aware and I can observe a man with more objective eyes. It can be a little depressing, but I'd rather see the person flaws and all that be blinded by my objectification of them. I feel my emotions fully and assess them as I do, being honest with myself about where they came from and what they are about. Radical Honesty is a tough, but rewarding practice to maintain. This truth can be uncomfortable to observe, but it's a discomfort that makes way for a much lighter soul in the end.

This post is not about you and is all about you.

Namaste.

I'm a Whore for Free Stuff

2010-03-15T22:10:00.005-04:00

I *just* found out about this contest from Mabel's Labels to write a blog with the hypothetical situation of what I would do if I found out that an electrical storm was going to wipe out the internet in the next 24 hours. I'm supposed to write about having only 24 hours to write about my passions, but all I can think about is my banking. If the internet was wiped out, I would be screwed for my internet banking! The following is a letter to Rogers, my iPhone service provider, whose bill I just received.

To whom it may concern in the great world at Rogers Telecommunications,

I just received my monthly Rogers Wireless statement; as always, thank you for your prompt and timely delivery! As you can see by my records, I pay my invoice online via online banking; however, the approaching electrical apocalypse is imminent and I understand that this will no longer be an acceptable method. That being said, the actual existence of my iPhone is also in peril. Without internet, I will be unable to obsessively check my e-mail, Facebook and Twitter accounts on my precious iPhone as the 3G network will cease to exist and as such, I write requesting a credit to my account.

You will note a significant rise in the lowering of my quality of life without knowing what @spambot is doing every 5 minutes and without knowing who the guy I kissed at that party in 10th grade is currently dating. The terms and conditions I signed up for are in violation and without knowing whether they will be restored, I cannot in good faith provide payment for this month's service.

If a credit is not available, please replace my 3-year contract with a 10-year subscription to Chatelaine magazine. It's not great, but in terms of Canadian women's magazines, it'll do.

Sincerely,
Jessica

Disclaimer

2010-03-10T14:33:00.001-05:00

It might be worthwhile for me to take a moment to reiterate what I stated in my very first blog entry; that this blog should not be construed as truth or fact. Most of this is an exploration for character and writing development for the eventual writing of a book. For the most part, everything I write is straight from my colourful imagination for your pondering, enjoyment or wasting of time.

In other words, "The entries are fictional and do not depict any actual person or event".

Twilight of March

2010-03-09T23:07:00.005-05:00

I truly feel as though I am in the twilight zone of my existence at this very point in time. Each waking moment I experience is spent not knowing what the next moment will bring. Having spent quite sometime in what felt like the brink of death, I discovered that my body had developed shingles. What was previously known as an elderly persons disease has manifested itself in my throat. The throat chakra is famous for blocks commonly known as anger and lack of expression and shingles is commonly found in people experiencing high levels of stress.

I discovered a few things during my bout with shingles, namely; shingles is incredibly painful, that if you spend several days unable to swallow your own saliva, you need to have fluids administered to you intravenously and that morphine is a very effective pain-killer. I also discovered that the human being is capable of sweating more than you want to know and that that amount of sweat will cause one to wash one's sheets repeatedly no matter how insane with illness one is.

Recovery is taking place and I have been fortunate to have a large amount of support from my family and friends. This is my first full week of work since the great illness of 2010 and the beginning of my preparation for a momentous occasion.

Things have been carrying on quite as usual; the expected attacks on my personality and now, my mental stability. i have been informed that there is a name for people such as myself as well as medication. This of course, is news to me and I find the prospect quite exciting. I was unaware that there was pharmaceutical assistance for the crap I have to deal with. I actually thought that my perception of everything was situationally appropriate to my experience and that I simply had to wade through the murky waters to get to the spring.

Clarity seems to have escaped me. I find that there is very little left in my life that I seem to understand. I understand parenting; I spent 5 very wonderful and relaxing days with my wonderful kids over March break where we read in bed for hours, played, baked and went on small excursions. There was nothing fancy except for time together. I understand most aspects of my job and if there are some I don't understand, I am more than comfortable seeking clarification from my boss. Besides this, my assurance in any aspect of my life is rather foggy.

I drove home tonight with my music cranked obscenely high; cars next to me giving me looks, I was dancing as freely as possible while maintaining safe vehicular practice and I arrived at the Napmaster's a little discombolulated. She wanted to know where the yellow rose in my purse had come from. Yet another one of life's little complications. One of my only Valentine's messages had come from an inappropriate source, yet one that still brought a smile to my face.

So many things in my life remain confusing. So many painful events keep occurring. At the same time, my circle of support remains strong and I am reminded of this quite literally on a daily basis. For this I am truly thankful. I have no idea what the next month will bring me. So far I feel broken and destroyed, but I am hopeful that this does not remain.

forgive this author her self-indulgence on a Tuesday night. I didn't use my weekend wisely enough and have let my mind wander astray on a clear, near-spring night in March. Hopefully the morning brings lightness to the spirit and spring to the step.

Original Choice

2010-02-07T21:41:00.004-05:00

I was speaking with Dixie this evening and amidst the colourful conversation, we came across the topic of Original Choice.

What is Original Choice? It's the point at which you, as an individual, choose the fork in the road which you want your life to move in. Seems simple enough; I want this so I will go in this direction. But what this really refers to is the choice regardless of circumstance.

Obviously we all make choices as to what direction we move in, but we are also given the opportunity to blame our current circumstance upon the factors of our upbringing. I did poorly in school because my parents made me feel inferior and that is why I didn't continue onto University and now work at McDonalds. Why is it that a set of identical twins that were raised in an abusive household where they were beaten daily, locked up and treated as subhuman creatures can each evolve in completely separate directions. One grows up to be a chronic drug user, going from homeless shelter to rehab and so on, whereas the other grows up to head a multimillion dolloar corporation and each attribute their lot in life to their upbringing.

We are each placed upon the planet with a blank slate and we move through a series of experiences as children that do in fact shape and mold us as individuals, but that doesn't mean that we are doomed to sit in failure if our upbringing was less than stellar. I grew up in a home with two alcoholic parents that each went through recovery. I learned as a young woman, that I was at a very high risk to repeat this behaviour or to acquire this disease, yet I did not. I cannot say whether this was a choice or rather a fortunate evolution of my DNA, but it remains that I do not retain this disease. Each day that goes by affords me the opportunity to choose what kind of person I am going to be; will I be a person that wanders through life unconscious of the possibilities available to me and sit in victimhood of what life throws at me or will I look to what I want to achieve and look for the infinite possibilities that can bring me nearer to them.

The past two years have allowed me to observe myself and grow in ways I hadn't realized were necessary to my own personal evolution, but I finally feel as though my head has emerged from the proverbial sand if you will allow me to wax self-indulgently. I finally feel as though I am able to observe the dish laid forth before me and decide whether this is a meal I wish to partake in. If I have no desire for it, I can decide upon another until I find something that suits my fancy. This isn't a case of "This is what I made for dinner and you will sit here until you damn well finish the entire serving!" because through this power to choose, we have the ability to take action upon our desire and make them into reality.

How fortunate are we to have the ability to observe ourselve and tweak as we go! I've been given a great deal to look at over the past little while that I haven't really taken a moment to appreciate what a wealth of choice I've got at my figertips. I finally see it and tonight, I find myself sorting through this mass; a triage of sorts to refine my outcome.

I am not responsible for your impression of me, I am merely responsible to myself for my impression of myself. Everything else is completely outside of my control.

'Twas The Night Before Christmas

2009-12-25T00:03:00.007-05:00

I have not posted in forever. I'd like to sight lack of time and an overload of "shit" on my proverbial plate, but as of 10AM this morning, I started my Christmas Holiday and as usual, the turn of events has left me rather inspired to say the least.

This is my first Christmas, since having children, without them. This is the year the Ex gets them and I am left on Christmas Eve bereft of the frantic preparations and hyper children that I have grown accustomed to.

At first, I assumed everything would be fine; I had actually planned on doing nothing on Christmas Eve or Christmas day, preferring to simply pretend that Boxing Day, the day I will get them, is Christmas and making the fuss then. I arranged with my Grandma, famous for never straying from tradition's path, to postpone Christmas feast to Boxing Day so the kids could have a piece of tradition. This was a feat of enormous proportion that I singlehandedly managed to make happen. I was prepared to charade my way past Christmas day.

And then my Mom asked me what time I was coming over on Christmas Day.

"Oh, I'm not coming over on Christmas Day; I'll just stay home."

"WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"

"Yeah, I won't have the kids and I don't really feel like doing anything, so I'll just stay home."

"By YOURSELF?!"

"Yeah, everyone else will be with their families."

I should add in here that my brother Chef has just recently moved across the country to be with his Lovely Fiancee; this should clarify the rest of the exchange.

"Oh. So. Just because you won't have your kids means I have to spend Christmas without MY kids? You're the only kid I have left here so you will be coming over on Christmas Day!"

"But I don't want to!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Um. ~~Sulk~~ Nothing. Maybe go to the Casino."

I should also add that she's an addictions counsellor who's had training in the field of problem gambling and I get the impression from her that no amount of gambling is classified as "OK" in her books.

"THE CASINO???!!!!?!??!?!?!?!"

"Um. Yeah..." (Imagine my voice being much smaller and not as convinced.)

"LISTEN! My SON is on the other side of the country and YOU will not be spending CHRISTMAS day at a CASINO! You will be spending it with your FAMILY!"

She made a valid argument and I had to admit that it was a better alternative. Honestly, it was nice to be wanted. nonetheless, I carried on, not feeling like the day itself was such a big deal since my real Christmas was going to be a day late.

Sure enough, this week has gone by without much holiday stress; I haven't had to rush as much as usual (sure, a huge reason for that is because I haven't really been able to rush out and shop, being a single parent and all. Last year's Christmas was brought to us by a very handy shopping spree won over the radio - Hells Yeah! But strangely, I wasn't able to replicated that for this year). Several friends checked in with me to make sure I had plans for this evening. "No one should be alone on Christmas Eve!" I had honestly never thought of it that way, only because I never had been. Of course, I would have made the offer to any friend in the same situation, but I somehow didn't think it important for me. I really didn't think it was a big deal.

I went about, running errands, got home mid afternoon, watched TV and did my nails; more than I could ever accomplish on a regular day without the kids and slowly got ready to go to my good friend's open house. I got into the car and hit the highway, wishing I had a better windshield fluid reservoir and then suddenly burst into tears.

What?

Oh. apparently it DOES matter that it's Christmas Eve and that my kids aren't with me. Oh. So I drove in slight shock, because I really thought that the day didn't matter, but I was flooded my years of memories of traditions of what "We" used to do on Christmas Eve, of the happy moments and many of the painful moments and I grieved for it. I arrived at my friends doorstep and had myself a small "moment" in her entranceway.

We decorated cookies, drank warm applecider and red wine, warmed tourtiere up and greeted everyone as they came in the door. I didn't know everyone, but everyone was together. It was the creation of a new tradition, a break from the norm. I stayed for a while and took my leave, still in a bit of a sad place. Once home, I got a message to go join another friend and her family.

This is a family I've known for years; I worked for them for what seemed like an eternity at the time, became great friends with their oldest son and have had a great deal of respect for them ever since. I learned a great work ethic from them and as I sat in their living room, surrounded by familiar people as more "employees" arrived, I was struck by the legacy these people have created. This is a couple who is known throughout the village as being hard workers (Hard-asses) and that they expect a great deal out of their staff. I worked my longest shift ever with them (18hours waitressing!) and yet here they are, joyfully surrounded by family and employees, past and current.

I realized then how lucky I am to be included in moments like these. Maybe it's just the eggnog talking, maybe I'm on a Christmas ~~crack~~ sugar high, but I'm so grateful to 1, have been thought of by so many different friends and 2, to have been included in these two different gatherings. I feel like my experience of the Christmas spirit has grown and my heart is most definitely warmed by it. I may have even duplicated the Grinch's heart growing two sizes too big.

In the morning, I will sleep in and then I will get ready to spend the rest of the day with my Mom, Grandma and my Dad. It will be a quiet day and I will be grateful because I am surrounded by people I love, just like today. The day after that, I will get my kids back and i will spoil them as best I can, extend the crap out of their Christmas, help make new memories for them and it will be good. Yes indeed, it will be good.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.

Crisis of Faith and Justice Served

2009-10-30T15:03:00.012-04:00

Vigilante [vij-uh-lan-tee] –noun
1. a member of a vigilance committee.
2. any person who takes the law into his or her own hands, as by avenging a crime.
-Adjective
3. done violently and summarily, without recourse to lawful procedures: vigilante justice.

“Lead us not into temptation…”

Let’s be honest here; how many times have you had just the perfect, most delicious piece of revenge you wanted to execute? The sheer fantasy of it could keep you going for quite some time, but in the end, many of us let go and pray that Karma takes her time to make a special delivery in your favour.

My brother Cooke shared with me, a perfect example earlier this week.

Over the summer, he worked as a kitchen manager and chef for a local Greek restaurant that, for the sake of avoiding libelous charges, I will not name save to say that it’s name does evoke a certain “smell” if you will.

He took this new responsibility to heart and enthusiastically undertook many of its various aspects in stride, even appearing on a local television channel to do a cooking demonstration as part of a promotion for Greek-Fest, a local celebration of Greek culture and food. Then something bad happened; paycheques started bouncing. How long would you work without being paid?

Cooke finally left after 4 weeks of broken “I’ll bring cash over tonight!” promises and when the owner returned, instead of apologizing for an accounting error, or any explanation of some sort, threatened Cooke with legal action! He ranted at him with threats of everything he could come up with and even threw in a “You’ll never work in this town again!”

As any enraged person would, Cooke imagined a number of things he could do, but chose to take the high road. The high road is a tricky one to navigate, but for the most part, we usually feel better about it in the long run and sometimes, Karma smiles upon you.

Karma smiled mightily upon Cooke; he arrived at his new place of employment one day to find a clipping from Anne Desbrisay’s restaurant review. (She reviews local restaurants and for the most part, her word can make or break an establishment). Cooke’s heart skipped a beat as he read a very unflattering review of Greece’s Aromatic Disgrace. He was quite content to leave it at that and made his silent offer of gratitude when one day, one of his colleagues had a little story to share.

It would seem that this acquaintance of his found the lack of compensation to be beyond reprehensible and decided to get a little vigilante on the situation. He took it upon himself to visit the establishment and ordered himself a bit of a feast. Midway through the meal, when the call of nature came upon him, he trotted off to the restrooms to relieve himself and did so all over. I mean, ALL OVER. We’re talking about a cleaning crew’s worst nightmare.

While this story is vile and I can’t imagine actually carrying out such an act, I guarantee we’re all had those thoughts, we’ve all imagined brandishing the sword of justice. Cooke was amazed at how he didn’t even have to lift a finger or even ask anyone to do his bidding – AND - this Karmic retribution was served up relatively quickly.

Most of our beloved movies are about honour and justice prevailing, where the good guy finally dishes it to the bad guy and everyone cheers. I like to believe that good triumphs over evil, but the truth of the matter is that most things are not as simple as black and white or good versus bad. A coin has two sides and not one is more valuable than the other (said the Queen who’s head sat opposite a beaver).

It’s this “grey zone” that has given me somewhat of a crisis of faith over the past few months. My divorce has gotten quite ugly and while I believe myself to be a good person, I just haven’t quite been able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. After countless e-mails from the Ex calling me a leech, a bitch, a bad mother and countless other venomous tirades, my resolve is getting weak. I have been doing my utmost to keep my head high and refrain from responding or engaging these accusations and yet they continue in their steady stream of anger and hate. I felt abandoned by the Universal “whatever” that I expect to keep the scales of justice balanced and my question as to why is this happening doesn’t even begin to formulate some semblance of a response.

I recounted this to one friend and she replied “God abandons us all”, but added “We keep our vibration high, even in tough times so that God can find us again.” Stick to the high road. (I just want to clarify that I am not here to preach any particular religion to anyone, but I refer to faith more as belief in anything, as a code of ethics, standards of merit, etc. “to be of the same faith with someone concerning honesty.” This may be naïve, but I still do my utmost to stick to its principles).

Yes indeed, stick to the high road, karma will take care of it and in the long run, the “evil-doer” will dig their own grave, hang themselves with their own rope or whatever other platitude you have to say essentially the same thing. The problem is, that we often have to exercise great restraint in this “allowing” of natural occurrences to occur. You cannot plant a seed and force the plant out of the earth, you can’t yell at it to make it grow faster and having a tantrum won’t make it bear fruit before its ready. It all requires patience. The valley that lies beyond the city of patience is one that I refer to as “Restraint”. I have been exercising great restraint throughout this entire process that the effort it requires is exhausting me.

While I wait for the Court’s Justice to be executed, I must hold back a veritable floodgate so that I can keep my foothold on the highroad. All of the factors, the constant badgering and abusive BS calls upon a very primitive force within me. I know the Ex has been counting on this very fact. My sincere dislike of injustice combined with this roiling force builds and the number of troops required to keep the walls fortified grows larger, this high road has gotten narrower and sure has a lot of pot holes in it.

The faithful person in me waits for Justice:

justice [juhs-tis] - noun
1-the moral principle determining just conduct.

The vigilante in me excercises restrain from delivering her own brand of justice:

justice [juhs-tis] - noun
1-the administering of deserved punishment or reward.

Simply because these are times when despite the darkness, I must believe the light *is* at the end of this tunnel. In this darkness, judgment can be clouded and who knows what sits on the other side of the coin other than my beaver.

(Many thanks to Mike Rooth for his rendition of me as a mercenary; check out my guns!)

Sometimes I'm a Giant Jerk

2009-07-22T22:35:00.003-04:00

First off, I'd like to say that my iPhone is awesome, but the problem is that when I come to use this old-girl of a laptop, I actually expect it to be as awesome as my touch screen iPhone and it's not. Sorry laptop, your random dropping of vowels despite my typing of them has gown old. Your days are numbered and I am working on manifesting a Mac. It's true.

Second, I find Ellen very funny.

Third, I can sometimes be a jerk. It's true. I've mentioned wanting to be an asshole before, but I can honestly say that I've never wanted to be a jerk. Events over the past week however, have shown me that I sometimes am. (Holy hell! I'm tempted to just leave my blog as is without correcting the missing letters that I *do* hit with my fingers, but it doesn't register. Every other vowel sometimes!!)

Last week, I made my way over to the bank; something I don't have to o very often, but this particular day, I did. I stood in line, waiting silently a one does when I felt someone step in lie behind me. But not only did this person step into line "behind" me, but I suddenly became aware that this person was standing within my person space. My personal zone was calling out a red alert when I actually had the "boobs in your back" happen.

Not wanting to freak out in public, I extended one foot and slowly pulled myself into a more comfortable distance from the offending space-infringer. It wasn't 15 seconds before she was back in my space. Very slowly and nonchalantly, I turned my head and came face to face with a woman's face stubble; never a good thing, but at that very moment, she began to holler at a teller that was clear across the premises.

"HI SUE! HOW ARE YOU TODAY? IS YOUR SON ON HOLIDAYS? DOES HE HAVE A SUMMER JOB?"

At this point, I realized that this person had a mental disability, which I can most certainly respect and did the mot PC thing I could and did the old one-foot-slow-scootch another time. Meanwhile, my new found shadow continued her very public conversation with Sue. That's when I made the mistake of looking at Sue.

Sue stood there, kindly keeping a straight face. I looked up at her hair that was this strange mass of what can only be described as a basket of hairnets shaped like a meringue. This, combined with the hollering behind me, was too much. I jammed my head downward to hide my silent giggle.

Once I had composed myself and felt it safe to look up,

"I'M GOING TO A BBQ ON SATURDAY... MY NEPHEW WANTS TO BE JUST LIKE MICK JAGGER..."

I made unfortunate eye contact with the teller immediately i front of me. The minute his eyes met mine, he cracked a giant grin, hunched his shoulders over and turned away to "go count bills". That was it. I started to giggle and I couldn't stop. I hid my face and pretended to yawn, but my God, this was funny. A woman invading my personal space, yelling at Sue with the basket of hairnets on her head, I couldn't hold back. I was that jerk.

I know we all have our moments, but it seemed my week was full of them; in the midst of trying to impart some great kernel of wisdom and advice to a friend who mentioned the "chicken and the egg" to which I replied all knowingly "No one knows which came first, but what we do know is that there are chickens and there are eggs; both of them are good to eat." After a silent pause in the conversation, I cleared my throat and acknowledged my analogy-fail. "I'm sorry, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about; I'll shut up now."

Now if I thought I was having an off week at that point, I had no idea what I was in for today. Having the week off with the kids, we headed off t the local Mini-Putt range for some late afternoon fun. I've never played real golf, let alone mini-putt, I have no clue how to properly grip a putter or anything of the sort, so I wanted to make sure the kids had low expectations. We set off and did a couple holes, people ahead of us and people behind us. On the third hole, I putted too hard and the ball rocketed out of the course. The young boy behind me piped up, "You hit the ball to hard Ma'am!" I smiled at him, nodded and turned back to the game. He turned to his mother, "It's true, she hit the ball too hard. She needed to hit it more gently so as to stay in bounds."

Awesome. I had my own peanut gallery.

We got to the next hole and as I positioned myself, the kid pipes up again, "Make sure you don't hit the ball too hard again! Keep your head down." I slowly turned around and gave him "a look" and said, "Wow! You're full of feedback aren't you?" My voice was dripping in sarcasm, my smile clearly false.

"He's autistic, he'll say everything that happens out loud."

If I could have fit myself into one of the golf holes, I would have. Right then and there, anything to disappear.

"I had no idea, I'm so sorry! I thought he was taking pleasure in how bad I was playing!"

Fortunately, this woman as not a jerk; she was a very understanding and kind person. She laughed, she softened. We all softened. We began to play together, lending commentary to each others game, high-fiving on good shots and even cheering the hole-in-ones each of us got.

I left our excursion richer from the experience, humbled in some ways. I couldn't help but wonder if the Girl's fall into one of the water displays was karmic punishment, but I suspect if that was the case, it would have been me to take the dive.

Sometimes I think we can all be giant jerks, it's when it becomes a habit that we need to put the kaibosh onto things. So I'm going to click the reset button and maybe go make an omelet. Or maybe have some chicken wings, because while we don't know whether the ch
icken o the egg came first... Oh forget it.

On The Dating Boat

2009-06-25T16:02:00.010-04:00

After finally dipping my toe back into the dating waters earlier this year, I’ve discovered the joys, or at least the laughs of the dating world.

The first thing about dating as a single Mom is timing. For those without children, it’s easy to have a spur of the moment rendezvous, but for me, I have to arrange for child care, which generally means asking my parents or Grandmother, which inevitably means I’ll have a curfew. This is rather embarrassing at 32. Especially if the date is going particularly well, say there’s some making out going on (yeah, I said making out. Making out in your 30’s is way more fun that in your teens; since I was married for my 20’s, there was very little of it, so I can’t comment on making out in your 20’s, but so far, both parties seem to know a bit more about anatomy in their 30’s, ahem, just saying). It goes a little something like this.

“Dinner was lovely, thank you very much!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, what scintillating conversation!”

“Indeed; I’m so glad we came up with the solution to world peace.”

“I feel a personal sense of accomplishment from it, it’s true.”

Grope, grope, grope.

“Oh, will you look at that! Its 10pm, I have to get home or my Dad’s gonna be pissed!”

It’s a bit of a buzz kill to say the least, but a buzz kill that’s part of my reality, so one I'm trying to become somewhat Zen with if not quite “comfortable” with.

The second thing about it is the type of guy that’s single in his 30’s or early 40’s or, I’ve discovered, the sneaky ones in their 50’s that pretend they’re in their 40’s. What’s this? How can someone in their 50’s pretend to be in their 40’s?

Enter artsy, blurry photography and Photoshop. Some people are really good at Photoshopping hair! And before I get accused of being ageist, I’d like to point out that my Dad is in his 50’s and I draw the line at dating someone who is a mere handful of years younger than my Dad than he is to my age.

Enter JollyRoger (let's call him JR for short), a rather interesting individual with whom I’d exchanged many witty online conversations with when the subject of actually meeting came up. I agreed and we decided to meet in a bar downtown. Based on JR’s conversations and photos, I had the distinct impression that he was in his early 40’s. I draw the line at early 40’s for reasons mentioned previously; too close to my parent’s age and it gets creepy. The first thing I noticed about JR was that he was mysteriously lacking hair, despite several pictures to the contrary (and I’ve nothing against a hairless scalp, if you’re bald, be bald and proud, don’t Photoshop a combover onto your dome because I'll clearly notice when I meet you in person), and the second was that he looked older than the assumed age. He also had the clammiest hands I’d ever shaken.

First impressions are important. We chatted politely and conversation somehow led us to name dropping. He dropped some names of people my parents know.

“Um, How old are you???”

Awkward pause.

“I’m 52.”

“Wow.” I replied, rather stunned, “You’re older than me...” I like to state the obvious, but JR apparently wanted to deny the obvious!

“But I’m not really, age is just a number, I don’t feel 52.”

At 52, he is a mere 4 years younger than my father and a mere 2 years younger than my mother and while age is a number, I wasn’t thinking that it was a number I was willing to ignore. The rest of the date deteriorated rather quickly after that. The great thing about this is though, that it prompted the best quote ever to come from my Dad. I told him the whole story, much to his horror, and even included the part about the clammy hands, to which he said, “You know what they say about clammy hands, don’t you? Clammy scrotum.”

I want that on a shirt. And then I can send it to JR.

Many years ago, my good friend Hans and his girlfriend at the time sent me out on a blind date with “This guy that would be just perfect” for me. I went on that date and then called Hans back to find out why the hell he though a gay guy would be perfect for me.

“He’s gay?”

“He doesn’t know it yet, but he sure as hell is.”

“That explains a lot.”

It didn’t explain why he thought he’d be perfect for me, but whatever, there were no second dates. Little did I know that I’m also the Closeted Homo Whisperer. Before I get any flack for being a HomoPhobe, let me tell you that I'm not, I just don't want to date a Gay Man. I also don't want to be the one to open the door to his closet and force him out.

Enter the HairyTuna (it's a long story, but we'll call him HT). HT took a shining to me, again online (hm, maybe this is the source of the issue) and after many chats and many requests to meet on his part, I finally agreed. Back to the downtown bar I headed, the Bartender smiled and nodded my way and asked me if I wanted my usual (maybe I'm embellishing the story, and maybe I need to pick a new bar to go to) and I sat in wait for the Tuna.

The thing with pictures is that you don't see someone's mannerisms in them. Mannerisms are important. HT arrived in a flustered state, looked at me hesitantly, then sat down in a flurry of arm gestures.

"Oh. My. GOD! The bus took forEVER! I hope you haven't been waiting long!"

Before me sat the most effeminate man I'd met in a very long time. His fingers splayed as though he'd had a fresh manicure, his eyes aflutter and lisp snaking off his tongue and slapping me upside the head.

You have got to be kidding me.

The bartender came over, looked at him, then looked at me, then back at him and gave me a look that said, "He's with... you?"

I have no idea what we talked about, I spent the whole time trying to assess how long was long enough to have been chatting to be considered polite before leaving . I had unfortunately not enabled my getmoo account and had foolishly forgotten to tell a friend where I was and to randomly phone, so I resorted to yawning. I yawned repeatedly 'till he asked me if I was ok.

"I dunno, I think I'm coming down with some sort of flu... Oh God! I hope it's not Swine Flu! I should maybe leave. You should go buy some hand sanitizer. NicetomeetyouBye!"

I'm pretty sure the bartender gave me a knowing look as I hastily paid my tab and practically ran out.

So it's back to the drawing board! A year ago, a friend had told me that I would actually find dating fun at some point, I didn't believe him at the time, but I now see that it's true. They're not all winners, but they definitely leave me with a story to tell the next day. Mwahahahahahaha. I mean... thank you.

Pot Luck Dinners

2009-05-15T12:07:00.006-04:00

My last post got me thinking about Pot Luck dinners (you will find out why later). I enjoy the pot luck, not as much as I enjoy the come-over-and-you-will-be-fed-without-having-to-cook dinner, but I find the experience is generally a positive one. You get to make one dish, go somewhere and feast on a bunch of other dishes that other people made.

I used to be waaayyy into cooking and baking, but seem to have lost my touch. I discovered this unfortunate reality this morning while trying to pry the chocolate cake I had baked out of the pan only to wind up with a bunch of mangled chunks of cake instead. Oh well, to quote Antoinette's father, "Icing fixes everything; it's the Spackle of the baking world." We proved this hypothesis rather efficiently whilst icing the 5 million tiny cupcakes she had baked for her wedding, many of them having baked misshappenly, unbeknownst to everyone because of the magic of icing.

I have to admit that my pride is a little wounded at my epic cake failure; I have created many a masterpiece from flour, eggs, butter and sugar but stopped trying so hard after I spent 8 hours of toil on my infamous Harry Potter cake only to have the birthday boy inform me that he "Didn't like it that much." My efforts have since experienced a slow decline, but every once in a while, I rise to the occasion.

But I find that I no longer know what my "specialty dish" is. You know that dish, the one that *you* make and no one else makes it quite like you do and everyone hopes you bring that one thing to the pot luck? My Grandmother is the Queen of this type of thing. She has several "famous" recipes that she has solely because she left Edmonton. To this day, she threatens to "snatch me bald-headed" if I share her famous Ginger Snap recipe, that was given to her by her friend Myrna when she left for Ottawa. Myrna reasoned that it was OK for her to have it since they would never show up to the same event with the same cookies, which is tantamount to wearing the same outfit. It was regular practice to pass along a recipe with a few altered ingredients so that no one else could quite duplicate your famous dish.

So what are good things to bring to Pot Lucks? Bread and cheese are always winners, squares of any kind, salads are pretty easy and BBQs are the simplest because you just BYOM (or T(ofu) for the vegetarians out there). And some people would say that in the winter time, a good stew is the perfect sharing meal. This is where I beg to differ.

When I was a teenager, my parents had an interesting group of friends and there were often pot lucks held at our place. These friends sometimes brought other friends that we didn't know as well, which is fine; its always good to meet new people no? This one particular evening, we gathered around the counter, filling our plates with various offerings and began to indulge. This one particular woman watched everyone quite carefully as they partook of the hearty stew she had brought. After most of the guests had sampled her dish, she piped up, "So, what do you think of my stew?" I looked over at my Dad who was about to shovel a forkful into his mouth and then paused. The crowd murmured positive feedback and the woman beamed with what I first thought was pride, but immediately realised was EVIL!

"It's not actually beef stew, it's raccoon!"

What. The. Fuck? WHO DOES THAT?

At 16, even I knew a good list of what NOT to bring to a pot luck:

Toe-cheese cake
lips and ears in blankets
Monkey brains
Pre-chewed cookies
RACCOON STEW!

The look of horror that spread over everyone's face was instantaneous, most had already swallowed the offending bite and proceeded to turn a lovely shade of green.

"Yes, raccoon! I found it on the side of the road and thought it would be a shame for it to go to waste! Many people don't realize that the highway can be a veritable Supermarket!"

At this point, my Dad had quietly disposed of his entire plate of food. You know how when dogs are quiet, but they observe every move you make, that's the time to be concerned? Well, my Dad is like that, when he gets very quiet, it's time to worry, or even run. I don't recall what he said to her specifically, but I do recall her never coming to our house again. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Some people are weirdos. But not the kind of weirdos that are good to have around. And if you want to stop hanging around with certain people, a good raccoon stew is the way to go.

The Purpose of Life

2009-05-15T09:17:00.012-04:00

My friend Sweetness got a sweet new set of wheels a couple of weeks ago; it's sexy and fast and everyone stops to stare when she zips by. I have wheel envy when I think of her wheels. The other day however, she had a little incident that got me thinking about the purpose of life.

It seems that during the course of the day, whilst parked in waiting for Ms. sweetness to return behind its wheel; her lovely vehicle was highjacked by what I refer to as the Gatineau Hills-Rat, otherwise known as the Ground Hog.

This particular Rodent-terrorist had made it's way into her engine, I believe, and when she returned to her new baby at the end of the day, the frightened rodent made a narrow escape before meeting an untimely demise.

Had this been my vehicle, its fate would have been much worse.

You see, while I am still searching for my life's purpose, I have come to discover what my secondary purpose is: I am the unwitting Grim Reaper of the WildLife Kingdom.

I believe that everyone has a life's purpose, big or small. My friend Dixie and I have discussed this many times and while Dixie's life purpose is, in my opinion, clearly defined, I have struggled to know what mine is. Interestingly though, in these conversations, Dixie revealed to me that on top of our primary life's purpose, we all have a secondary life's purpose. She's wise that way; she explained that hers was to give directions. What? It seems that wherever she goes, people stop her and ask her for directions, even if she is not from there, even if there is an information booth or person with a sandwich board that says "Directions Given Here" within a couple of feet of her. I know this may seem like a stretch, but think about your day to day and think about something that people continuously ask you to do or that perpetually happens to you and it's probably your secondary life's purpose. It's like the knick-knack of the life's purpose world.

My Mom's secondary life purpose is to find amazing clothes in second-hand stores. She can go into a second hand store and find high end designer outfits for as little as $2! I can go into the same store and all I will find is a Q-tip on the floor and the one outfit that looks like someone had been murdered in it, then I'll get really itchy and have to leave empty handed.

I've come to the recent conclusion that my Dad's secondary purpose is to narrowly avert death in the strangest of circumstances. He's had a couple mild heart attacks, been struck by lightning and this past weekend, did NOT die in a propane explosion. Pardon? It's true; he was at this cottage he goes to each spring that has no electricity, but has a propane stove, lights and fridge. On day two of his trip, he went out fishing and realized he had forgotten his lunch and headed back to camp. Upon arrival, he could hear this chirping and only realized that it was the smoke detector as he got closer and noticed smoke billowing out of the cottage. He entered to find it filled with smoke and went to the fireplace, one would normally assume that this is the logical place to look for a fire, but when that failed to be the location, he ran to the gas stove. Still no fire! He then looked over at the refrigerator to find 3 foot flames coming out the front! If you're wondering how he could have missed the flames, it's because the smoke, at this point, was incredibly thick.

Propane is highly explosive.

He exited the cottage and walked, hacking like a smoker, to the large propane tank at the back of the cottage, turned off the valve and then went back to extinguish the fire. No explosions, one alive Dad and a fridge full of fod that tasted like burned tire. Yum.

So back to my secondary life's purpose. What is this about me being the Grim Reaper of the WildLife Kingdom (GRWK)?

It all started when I first got my drivers licence. I was driving home after a particularly late night at the Alpengruss, winding my way along River Road when Peter Cottontail hippity-hopped in front the GrannyMobile (a fine 1984 Ford Escort in immaculate condition - until I took possession of it that is). Of course, I braked! I braked hard. I then turned off the ignition and ran out to make sure the bunny was ok. Only, I couldn't find the bunny; it must have hopped away... But then I noticed the long smear of bunny I had spread along the road. I'd made bunny butter. About 4 meters of it. I drove home crying the whole way.

Since then, I've evicerated raccoons, chipmunks, a porcupine (and that's a really terrible kind of thud FYI; the kind that makes your stomach flipflop really badly), countless frogs and the starcrossed lovers that were the spring-fling birds that playfully flew in front of my car, and never emerged, only to be permanently embeded into the grill of the little green Echo (or Kharon's Ferry to fauna's River Styx). I've narrowly avoided being killed by a deer that ricocheted off the GrannyMobile and successfully swerved to avoid a young Black Bear running out of the Gatineau Park last year, but what really confirmed my secondary purpose was the unfortunate, yet fateful termination of one of the afore-mentioned Rodent-Terrorists.

Cruising home after a long day of work, I wound along a back road and noticed a car parked along the shoulder a good ways ahead. There was a person standing behind the car, holding something and then I realized that there was a smaller something, bounding in my direction along the side of the road. I got closer and noticed that it was a ground hog, making a mad dash along the edge. As my path intersected with the rodent's, it suddenly beelined (of its own free will) under my car! A complete 90 degree course correction! My back tire made the familiar *squd* of extermination and I looked into my rearview mirror to see the creature pinwheeling down the yellow line. As I turned my gaze back to the front view, I saw that the person who was behind the car, was a woman. She was holding a cage. A cage that had just released the very ground hog I just ran over. Her eyes met mine, her shoulders slumped, she turned and placed the cage back into the trunk of her car, her animal-friendly catch-and-release rodent disposal program had been thwarted. She was defeated.

It was that day that I finally embraced my secondary life's purpose. That ground hog knew its time had come, it knew the reaper cometh and in its dash, turned and surrendered to sweet eternity.

Embrace your fate. Get out of my way if you see me behind the wheel of a car.

We Don't Need Another Hero

2009-05-06T10:33:00.015-04:00

he-ro [heer-oh] –noun, plural -roes;
1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities. 2.a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal: He was a local hero when he saved the drowning child.
3.the principal male character in a story, play, film, etc.
4.Classical Mythology.
a.a being of godlike prowess and beneficence who often came to be honored as a divinity.
b.(in the Homeric period) a warrior-chieftain of special strength, courage, or ability.
c.(in later antiquity) an immortal being; demigod.
5.hero sandwich.
6.the bread or roll used in making a hero sandwich.

While I can guarantee that my ass certainly doesn't need another Hero Sandwich; I started thinking about Heroes and the role of hero as it pertains to my own life and this isn't just because I found myself moping around on Monday night, the first Monday without a new Heroes episode 'till next season (but man I do enjoy that show!). I'm not going to regale everyone with regurgitated Joseph Campbell snippets or tales from Star Wars because that's already been done to death. I'm more interested in looking at our own pull to heroism of the daily and relationship variety.

From a female perspective, young girls learn roles of victimhood when they are told that they will be saved by the charming and handsome prince that will then live happily ever after with them. These princes save them from everything ranging from poisoned apples to fearsome dragons, while the princess, awash in helpless beauty and taffetta, waits patiently to be saved and doted upon by the strong man. While I know this storyline doesn't only affect women, my perspective has generally been that of said female in each tale and I observe the message seeping it's way into my young girl as well. She tells me that when she gets married, she will be a perfect wife so that her husband never leaves her! Ouch! It's hard to explain to a 6 year old that the sought after perfection is one of many things that can cause your crystal castle to shatter.

We all know people who get into relationships with people they can "rescue". I married such a person who claimed that he was so happy to be with me because I didn't need rescuing; he'd come from a long line of relationships with "broken" women (his words) that had true strength within and he simply wanted to nurture them so they could find their true potential. How refreshing it was to find a woman (supposedly me at the time) who was already aware of her own strength. In concept, this is valiant, but now I don't believe one word of it. In retrospect, what I now see is that his Hero Complex assisted in his demise. In not needing or wanting his rescuing, I rarely heeded his advice (which I am quite grateful for) and was outside his sphere of control. He once said to me, "If you had only listened to me, we would still be together." Now I am extra thankful I didn't listen to him.

I don't write this as a dig at him, but as an observation in this contemplation. I have come to see that in some ways, I harbour my own Hero Complex of sorts. I say "of sorts" because I am not sure I am quite willing to accept everything that comes along with a Hero Complex, but I am guilty of wanting to "fix" problems when they occur for my friends and family. The job of Hero is to rescue, fix and be admired by the masses and carry on with the adulation poured on by said masses. When you help others, it feels good, they think you are smart and it can provide some padding for one's ego. Guilty on all counts, it's true, my ego does enjoy the lovin' and gets a warm cushy groove. The other thing about the rescue is that it is most often done on the heroes terms; there can be a "My way or the highway" aspect to it. But what happens when the rescue has been completed? What's a Hero to do?

The problem that arises, in the event of a successful rescue, is that your heroic duties are complete. Do you recall the Maytag repairman commercials? Poor guy is longing for something to fix and resorts to chatting with that beagle. Was it a beagle? I think it was, but regardless, Arthur (Big Guy) Carlson from WKRP in Cincinnati was looking mighty forlorn waiting for the chance to fix something. In some instances, the person we sought to fix can become our object of resentment.

"Oh hey, I'm glad you're all better now, but I'm a little bored now and was wondering if you could go back to being broken?"

Yeah, that is as stupid as it sounds, but often, the hero begins to sabotage the rescuee in order to get the hero's high. The reason for this is that it can be a hell of a lot easier to rescue others than it is to take a moment and rescue yourself. The Hero is actually a procrastinator! The smoke and mirrors thrown up by everyone elses personal emergencies delfect from the toil within.

I can't say that I'm currently experiencing a lot of inner turmoil, in fact, it's quite the opposite, but sometimes I wonder if I actually get a bit of a rush from drama and maybe its unhealthy and dependency forming. Perhaps the amount of inner work I've been forced to do in the past year is wearing thin so I prefer to look outward, in procrastination. Perhaps it's that I actually do need to take a moment and ask for help in the next steps I'm about to undertake and that causes me some anguish. I hate asking for help. It's probably one of my biggest flaws. I will go as long as possible without asking for assistance because I see it as a sign of weakness. This doesn't apply to anyone but me however; I expect my friends to ask me for help when they need it, I offer my ear at any hour of the day because, when you need someone to talk to, you need someone to talk to! I find it almost impossible to have these expectations of myself, even though I know full well that this does not serve a person in the long run. No one is capable of managing everything on their own, no matter how much they would like to.

I'm reminded of this quite clearly as I prepare to make my next move and my friends are quick to offer support and assistance. My initial reaction is to turn the help away in order to appear capable and strong, but this honestly doesn't serve me. I am not able to accomplish everything on my own, no matter how much I would like to. I am only as strong as my support system. I am not required to complete the Herculean feats in order to reach my goals, which is a huge plus because I wouldn't know what to do with a Cerberus, nor how to skin a Nemean Lion. I also don't think I'd look terribly fetching in a loin cloth.

In the same breath, sometimes there is a part of me that really wants someone to come along and take the reigns. Indeed there is a part of me that would be willing to hand all responsibility over to my own personal Hero. As long as he did everything properly. To my specifications. My way.

Oh. Right. Heroes don't always take direction well, which is why they generally don't work in teams.

So we don't need another hero, we need friends who will be there for us, provide support in a healthy and real way. We need to be honest with ourselves and admit to weakness every once in a while. If you fall, I will extend my hand and help you rise.

Who Are You?

2009-05-03T20:15:00.010-04:00

"The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

"This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I—I hardly know, sir, just at present— at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’"

Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

Who are you?

We spend a geat deal of time monitoring the "self" we present to the world; we primp and decorate it, teach it to say nice and polite things and dazzle the spectators with our glossy exterior so ripe for public consumption. In a society obsessed with celebreity and instant gratification, selves can be created so easily and re-created with correct PR; just read Madonna's instruction manual on re-inventing yourself, she's done quite well. I always hope, for myself, that in the midst of re-invention, that it's not so much donning a new disguise, but taking the old disguise off and revealing what lies beneath. Sometimes, however, what is beneath are lies. Lies we tell others, tell ourselves and lies we don't even know are lies at all.

I am one who seeks honesty in those I fraternize with, I spent too much of my intimate reality with someone who cloaked my eyes in deceit, despite my inner instinct telling me otherwise. When I have a friendship with someone, I want it to be based in truth, and that includes the truths that can, at times be hard to hear. This is not to say that I insist on having heavy-duty conversations with my friends everytime I chat with them, that is not much of a friendship and I'm really not that serious, but I do expect that, when necessary, you, my friend, will give me the honest goods.

"Yes, Jessica, those pants make your ass look very fat. Oh and he's just not that into you."

Oh. Well, uh, thanks... Now let's go drinking.

Sometimes the truth is painful, but I have a fundamental belief that the truth will (I can't believe I'm going to dish out another cliche, but) set you free even if it's like being caught between a rock and a hard place. I spend a lot of time trying to instill this very thing into my kids. I can tell when they are lying, but they don't know why I have this awesome ability yet. Each time the Girl gets caught doing something she isn't supposed to be doing, she lies; what child doesn't? I do my best to explain that she will be in more trouble if she continues lying about it than she will if she just fesses up right away. This isn't always an easy concept for a 6 year old; sometimes the truth can be so terrifying that you believe you will self-combust if you look it in the eye.

One day, while listening to one of the Girl's tall tales, I asked her if she could please tell me the truth and she insisted that she was; then I told her about the Truth Stone.

"Uhm, what is the Truth Stone?"

"The Truth Stone is a special stone that knows when you are telling a lie. You have to hold onto it and tell me your story, then afterwards, I will hold it and know whether you told the truth or not."

I pulled out an impressive crystal given to me by Antoinette on the day I gave birth to the Girl. It was bound in silver wire and attached to a chain of glass beads; she had made it specifically for the birth as I had asked her to be there with me. She is an amazing artist and quite simply an amazing woman! Anyway, I pulled out the crystal and placed it in her hands, then asked her to repeat her story. She paused, then began to recount the events as she had previously, then paused again.

"Mommy, it's that, I would like to tell you the truth now."

She had permission to change her story and tell the truth. Magic has its place.

It's important in situations like these that one maintain their composure when being given the truth. A basic fear that people tend to have is that the truth is far less palatable than the glossy lie we had elaborately prepared. And while this may be the case, when the lie has been served up and you expect to taste a delicacy, betrayal sets in when that first bite tastes like shit. What's worse is that, as time goes on, the implications of a lie become harder to manage and more and more people become entangled in it's sticky path. No fun for anyone and always harder to smooth over when the inevitable occurs.

"Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

Sir Walter Scott

So I ask again, "Who are you?", and suggest that you consider giving yourself permission to pause and change your story. Tell the truth. Allow some magic and light to infiltrate; whether that means telling yourself the truth, or telling someone else; it will set you free and you can lay a fresh foundation.

Leap of Faith

2009-05-01T12:50:00.008-04:00

Leap v- leaped or leapt (lěpt, lēpt), leap·ing, leaps

1-To spring or bound upward from or as if from the ground; jump: leaped over the wall; salmon leaping upriver.

2-To move quickly or abruptly from one condition or subject to another: always leaping to conclusions.

3-To act impulsively: leaped at the opportunity to travel.

faith [feyth] –noun

1-Confidence or trust in a person or thing: faith in another's ability.

2-Belief that is not based on proof: He had faith that the hypothesis would be substantiated by fact.

leap of faith - Saying

1-A belief or trust in something intangible or incapable of being proved. For example, “It required a leap of faith to pursue this unusual step of transplanting an animals' heart into a human patient.”

My life has been filled with leaps such as the ones described above. Moving to Vancouver was one of them, and at the time, it was the perfect thing to do and once the decision was made, opportunities presented themselves left, right and center. Leaving the Ex presented much of the same circumstances; after spending 10 months looking for a job, the week after the end was clear, I had 3 different interviews and one of them turned into a job. Divine timing. While this job was clearly not the kind of work I was cut out to do, it was a job I learned a lot from and part of that learning was that I am not cut out for administrative work in an actuarial setting. “I don’t really think it’s that big of a deal that the period is italicized in this paragraph.” It served its purpose and carried me through to the next opportunity which was a much better fit.

All these things happened at the exact perfect time and I have noticed that when you indulge in the opportunities life places upon your plate, your plate stays full.

When it came time for me to find my apartment last year, I had 6 weeks in which to do so. I had written down my criteria including the area in which I wanted to be, and began my search. I found many apartments that were within my budget and catchment area and each time I applied, I got rejected. It seemed that many people were reluctant to rent to a single parent (Really? because I *know* there are many of us out there!). But I carried on and once I let go of the panic (which took many, many hours of walking, swimming and meditation and a brief consideration of a prescription for Valium), I stumbled across the perfect apartment. In fact, there were 3 in the same day and I only got a call back from one: my favourite one, the one that would be my haven for the next several months. It just all worked out perfectly.

I once recounted this story to my friend Wonton who was in a patch of “what the eff am I supposed to do now?” and he took things one step further; he took his own leap of faith and went to India. Since having left, he has been accepted into med school, familial relationships have been mended and the red carpet of his life has been rolled out in front of him. He tells us, “Come to India, India loves you.” Well, Wonton, life loves you and is letting you know it’s aaallll good. The picture at the beginning of this post is him at the Taj Mahal. His leaping inspires me!

And so I write this to remind myself that I am always taken care of. Even though I love my apartment dearly (I live in such a cool neighbourhood!), the truth is that it is too small for all three of us and it’s time to spread our wings. And so I wrote a letter to my landlord asking to be released from my lease two months early (September is a horrible time to hunt for an apartment, you have to compete with all the returning students). I did so, I now realize, actually expecting to have the request rejected, but I received a note saying, “Hey Jessica, no problem! How about you let your friends know that we’ve got this swank apartment for rent and we’ll put a sign up this weekend.” I may have paraphrased a little.

Hm. That was easy. I put Newton’s First Law of motion into play:

“An object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.”

It is the “leap” if you will, that created the motion. And now I am feeling a rather unbalanced force.

Oh. My. God! Now I have to find a place to live. Again! What was I thinking? I have to pack and find a new place and what if I don’t find a new place and what if the school my kids want to go to is full and what if I don’t find a place to live and I have to pack and what are my parents going to say?!

Pardon? What are my parents going to say? Excuse me Inner Panicking Banshee, but I am 32 years old, what do my parents have to do with this? I don’t need their permission! I could move to Goddamn Katmandu if I so please! But I don’t, so we’re good on that. Back to this parental thing; they don’t really think I should be looking in the area that I’m looking to move to. They prefer to have me a little closer, which in all fairness has been working extraordinarily well for me. They are very helpful with Boy and Girl and being closer to them means they can do an impromptu babysitting gig in the middle of the week. That’s a tough one to let go of, but in all honesty, my desired location is not far away. So I say to you, Inner Panicking Banshee, hush, it will all turn out fine. Won’t it?

“Indeed, it will.” I tell myself in my calming inner voice. Do you ever use this inner voice on yourself? The one you would use on a child or pet or to talk a crazy person out of wielding and flailing a sharp or blunt object around erratically? “Everything will be juuuuust fine, please put down the knife…” It’s my “Zen” voice, the voice I use when I’m trying really hard to convince myself that everything will end up for the better. I’ve really had to work hard to let this voice be heard in the past year; it was Dixie who taught me about it.

Like many women (and I’m sure many men do this too, it’s just that I don’t know of many who actually do, except for the gay men I know and we all know you’re just one of the girls who just happens to be way better at picking up on any given night of the week, but I digress), I can be the voice of calm for my children, friends and family and I can be lenient and forgiving when mistakes are made (well, to a point), and I can provide comfort to those close to me in times of need. But the truth is that I was rarely this compassionate with myself. I have mentioned this in previous posts and have since then, paid a great deal of attention to the words I say to myself, especially in times of extreme panic. Like now!

So I have taken another leap of faith and while part of me knows that all will end well, I always wonder what the journey holds (stupid journey). I am never good at not knowing, despite the fact that life is comprised entirely of not knowing. I look at where I was a year ago and see that I have climbed so far from the pit I dwelled within that I find myself on, not so much a mountaintop, but I definitely have a magnificent view! If I can do that in one year, I can definitely get to a mountain top in the next 60 days. Which is how long I have to find a new home.

Let the free-fall begin, I have 59 days for the chute to pop open.

Boys

2009-04-30T16:24:00.002-04:00

I had set out to write a post about how great my friends are; I really have the most amazing set of friends; however, when I sat down to type, everything that was previously in my head must have slooped out my ear. I really had a ton of stuff I wanted to say about my most cherished group of soul-diers that have helped me through this most trying year. But, no, sit and sloop is what happened instead.

I sat down and my mind wandered to boys. Boys? Excuse me, but I wanted to write about the powerful and inspirational women that have been instrumental to my mental health! Yes it’s true! These are the true test of your worth when the going gets tough and I wanted to honour them with a proper post! Why am I thinking about boys?

I possess a pretty good people radar when it comes to, well, people. I have a tendency to believe my initial “vibe” off a person because it has, for the most part, been accurate 99.9% of the time.

Except when it comes to boys who have direct interaction with my ticker.

When it comes to these creatures of the opposite sex, something happens to my amazing superpower; something in their force field interferes with my “Vibe Detector” and disrupts my frequency. Everyone has an Achilles heel and mine happens to be my heart (and occasionally some really dark chocolate and red wine, but those don’t cause the same aches as the latter).

In the past, when I have gotten swept up in romance, something happened within me that was completely reckless towards my sense of self; it was as though I took my heart, which housed my soul, hopes dreams and a whole lot of love, and handed it over to the boy-du-jour, basically saying “Here, please take this most precious and fragile gem that is housed within me. Oh and never, ever break it because if you do, I will be completely destroyed.” It’s as though I would dive in and let the current carry me away completely, drowning in infatuation. In reality, what I did was relinquish responsibility of myself within the connection with another person.

I have a tendency, if I like you, whether romantically or as a friend, to only see the good in you. In the beginning, this is a lovely thing as we all tend to be on our best behaviour when getting to know one another. But being put into this light has many drawbacks as we all have faults and no one is perfect. Perfection is one of my weaknesses, I am far from it, yet have spent a great deal of time seeking it. And no one possesses perfection, this is guaranteed and yet, with this lies the fact that in our imperfection, we are all perfect as we are. Anyway, back to my point that when you only see the good in people, it can be extraordinarily painful when their flaws begin to show.

After my split with the Ex, I became extra aware of this issue within myself and knew I needed to sequester myself from the land of boys until I could see them as a whole, flaws and all (and lets be honest, there are *many* flaws in these creatures, no matter how much the ladies love them).

The time came when I felt ready to dip my toe back into the dating pool and I signed up for the dreaded online dating site. Ladies, if you’ve done this, you know the veritable shark tank that is the online dating site. One drop of fresh blood brings the predators circling like nobody’s business. Despite indicating a specific age range in your profile, you still get messages from guys your Dad’s age or older and some even more explicit than the next.

“Dear Old Guy, You are older than my Dad. You’re a pervert who didn’t actually read my damn profile. No date and no dice.”

My friend from the gym, Spinny-C is Asian and she recounted similar horror stories with an Asian twist; all she got were replies from guys telling her that, a‑they’re looking for a wife, b‑they’re computer programmers and c‑“I really like Animé”. WTF? Nonetheless, there were a couple of interesting gents and I began planning a get together with one of them.

When one has kids, timing is not always easy, so I hadn’t quite nailed down a specific date with said guy., but was working on it. One Saturday night after a particularly challenging fitness training day, I stopped in at a local Vietnamese Restaurant looking for some Pho (Pho Sho!). I was seated at a little table, given my tea and my order was taken. I looked up and lo and behold was this guy, the same guy from the dating site, on a date. He was maybe 4 feet away from me and completely oblivious to my presence. When one dines alone, it’s hard not to eavesdrop on other peoples conversations.

I sat there and watched this guy’s entire date unfold right before me. Now, before I go on, I know that the point of dating sites is to get dates to go on and I had no illusions that once a guy set up a date with me, he would date me before dating anyone else, that is not what I expected at all. What I really didn’t expect was to be the fly on the wall for the whole thing. Needless to say, I just could go on that date with him. What if he regurgitated the same stories and I’d have to say, oh, I already hear that story when you were out with Alicia that night. And what if he took me to the same place?

I decided that I wasn’t ready for online dating.

I’ve had a couple of date since that were profoundly lovely experiences, I may be more reserved in my judgment, but I’m more able to see the whole person, flaws and all. There are no pedestals to fall from as I see them eye to eye (theoretically – I *am* kind of short). I have to say it wasn’t easy, it was totally nerve wracking and anxiety‑causing because I spent a lot of time second guessing myself. But see, I’m fortunate because I have these awesome friends who are there to pick me up and dust me off when I fall and they reassure me and make me laugh.

These ladies have helped me remember how much of a rockin’ lady I really am and that no man can add to my worth, he can only benefit from it if he is deserving.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

2009-04-26T21:58:00.006-04:00

Apparently that is a quote from Confucius, you can find it everywhere from Chapters to the bathroom stall in the mall. Clichés such as these have been floating around for eons and we all soak them in, nod and carry on without giving it too much thought because it seems obvious. At least that’s how I’ve approached it.

However, I have done a lot of thinking in the past week (I know, strange, and it did hurt a little, but small victories) about where home is, where one fits in and what it means to fit in and feel at home.

Over the past few months, I've been reconnecting with old friends, getting to know some new ones and from what I can tell, fostering awesome support for this little soul of mine. I'm a fairly social person, but it can take a great deal for me to truly open up to people and let them see who I really am. This is because I am so complex that it takes a very special person to be able to truly understand the finely tuned inner workings of this Vain Jessica. HA! I jess-t.

After finishing College, I spent a couple of years working, drifting around and trying to figure out what to do with myself. I was unhappy, lonely and lacking accomplishment of any kind. Theatre, though fantastic to study and satisfying when in production mode, was not any venue that was prolific here in Ottawa so I began searching for other possibilities. I decided to become a massage therapist. Back then (Oh my, I'm using a "Back Then"!) accredited massage schools were few and far between and the cost was rather prohibitive, but I got conditionally accepted to a program at the school in Newmarket, Ontario. The condition was that I complete a Prescience and Math program presented over a week, which I accepted and made my way to "beautiful" suburban Newmarket. Anyone who knows me knows how much I dig the burbs.

Upon arrival, I saw posters around the school warning of a scabies outbreak, my first class introduced me to the biggest douche of a massage teacher that bragged about how solid his hand crafted (by him) tables were that, "You can even jump on these babies and they'll never break!" and proceeded to demonstrate, taking a giant leap onto his massage table; then there was a large "Crack" sound, followed by him dropping to the floor, table and all. On the second day, I developed a high fever and was bed-ridden for the rest of the course, didn't pass my pre-requisite and spent the next 6 months adrift in "What the Hell am I supposed to do?” All Universal signs pointed me away from massage therapy, I was having no luck with any of the local men and I was back to living at home. I wasn't feeling the local vibe.

One morning in March, I woke up and decided to move to Vancouver. I didn't tell anyone, I just told my family I was taking a vacation, went there for two weeks, found an apartment, came back, announced I was moving, quit my job, booked my flight and then packed my stuff. My family was surprised. But I figured that all my unhappiness was due to my location and on top of it all, if I had studied acting, I should find a place where the industry was actually vibrant. Plus, I had plans to be on the X-Files, woo David Duchovny and live happily ever after with Fox Mulder. Too bad the series moved filming to L.A. the same year and we all know about the sex-addiction issues that Mr. Duchovny faced a couple of years ago. Good thing I dodged THAT bullet!

I left, armed with plans to succeed, find fame, fortune and love amidst the hippies, Starbucks and Mountains and Ocean. Sometimes plans, no matter how well laid, get crumpled up and thrown out the window. What I did was get knocked up and married. In that order.

I returned to my hometown, baby in belly and husband on arm. I returned to prove that I was now OK! Obviously not consciously, but thinking back, there was definitely an undercurrent there. Part of me was definitely feeling that I needed to show everyone how much better it was to expand one’s horizons beyond the backyard, look, I even found a husband! So there! See, I wasn’t defective, all of you were!

But any zookeeper knows that introducing a new animal into an established pack can be tricky; sometimes, the pack will attack the new member or leave it feeling completely ostracized and it never really fits in. I spent many years trying to make the Ex fit in with the pack, not so much for him, but for me; to make me feel better. To convince myself that I was ok. Guess what? It didn’t work. What happened was that I actually became a foreign element in my own sphere! This had nothing to do with anyone around me; it all had to do with me (please revisit title of this posting). Running away didn’t make me a different person, it didn’t fix anything in me; it was a great experience and wouldn’t trade it for anything, but it wasn’t a solution to the “internal struggle”. Hah! That sounds so pretentious, yet I am sure we’ve all experienced some level of it.

I would like to stress the fact that I know this can seem painfully obvious to others; I’ve seen other people do similar things and thought to myself, “Wow, it’s so obvious that they’re running away from their problems and they’ll just have to face them no matter where they go!”, like a good smartass would because it’s always easier to see what someone else is doing wrong than to look at the flaws within yourself. Not that the process is wrong per say, because obviously it took all of that to get here (STUPID JOURNEY!), but you know what I mean. I also know that in the midst of said running away there are many things to learn.

So here I am, feeling like I’ve learned a helluvalot in the past year right here in my own backyard. As mentioned previously, my urge to bolt is very low and I want to be surrounded by people who understand my cultural references, if they can even be called that. I want to go back home. So where is that?

I am facing the possibility of saying farewell to my best friend Dixie as she may be moving away and her son Chief expressed a rather rich sentiment when he said to her, “Ottawa may be home, but home is with my family.” For me, home is where I am surrounded with joy, laughter and love and this may very well be the place I spent so long running away from. There’s nothing left to run from and so, I sign off with another quote from the famed Confucius:

“Wherever you go, go with all your heart.”

Now I have a sudden craving for fortune cookies…

I’m an Earth Day Slacker

2009-04-23T10:44:00.002-04:00

See – I even post a day late. I remember the first official Earth Day we had around here; I was in high school, looked at the hippies with a foolish reverence and believed that I could change the world. I seem to remember making giant banners and the school arranged to have us bussed to Parliament Hill in order to partake in the days festivities.

My friends and I would eagerly remind everyone to recycle and would yell at anyone who threw away perfectly good… whatever (it could be that we just like the idea of yelling at people). It was when recycling started to become fashionable; there weren’t programs by which it would be picked up from our homes by the garbage men, but there were depots run by the municipalities that the dedicated would bring their refuse to and sort it out themselves. We had a bag kept between the microwave and the pantry and would generally fill to overflowing and when it was too full, I’m pretty sure that I was one of the first people to throw away a recyclable into the garbage so no one noticed.

Now, we all recycle for the most part, are all quite aware of the impact of everything we do on the environment and many people are spending time to reduce their carbon footprint. I applaud these people and give them immense kudos because they have something in them that I seem to have lost.

When the Boy was first born, I had a list of rules I was going to follow. I made homemade baby food, all organic that I made with the food I bought from the health food store I worked at, promised myself that I would never yell at him, that I would never use TV as a babysitter and would use active listening from the get go. I’m sure that any of you who have had children have gone through this as well; you will be the best parent ever and especially better than your parents EVER were. If you are a first time expecting parent, then you may want to stop reading before your bubble gets burst – yes, just click on the “X” at the top of your screen, because it’s nice to live in that delusional perfect world until the baby is actually born and before you struggle to maintain your ideology amidst a multitude of sleepless nights that make you want to pull your corneas out and make you understand how babies get shaken (I will specify here that it’s different to think about it than to actually do it – it’s not ok to do it, but I guarantee that every parent has considered it at least once when they cannot make the baby stop crying no matter what they’ve tried – don’t judge me! Extreme fatigue makes you think bad things).

I believe I digress.

Back on track; I had cloth diapers, strove to nurse my babies as long as I could, used a clothes line when I lived in the country and I’m sure there was a time I would have considered building a wind-mill to power my home. This is what I was “supposed” to do. Supposed to want to do. (Well, I might be taking it a bit far on the windmill, but let’s call it creative exaggeration).

Then I realized that I didn’t want to nurse my babies forever. I realized that I was getting exhausted with all the pressure I put on myself and the sense of failure I had when I could maintain the ideologies I had implemented upon myself. I was unable to be the perfect anything that I wanted to be, especially if it was not in line with who I really was inside. I realized that I’m actually kind of lazy!

It started with a switch to formula with the Girl. I had a sample and I tried it. And she liked it. And I suddenly had my breasts and the rest of my body back (but please don’t tell the other mothers about this, it’s highly frowned upon) and I really liked it. Then I started buying jars of baby food more and more often, explaining that I needed them for when I was out and about. The thing is; I found that I began to relax a little more with each shortcut I took. I mean, isn’t that the point of a shortcut? I was part of a 2 car family not just for the fun of it, but because it was a necessity and when I moved into the city and sold my car, it was also not for the fun of it nor for, as one person applauded me, “Way to reduce your carbon footprint!”

I still greatly value ecological principals, but I no longer feel the need to eco one‑up everyone. Have you noticed this phenomenon? There was an article about this very thing in some magazine over the past couple of months; the author wrote about a birthday party invitation she had received for one of her children that specifically asked for no gifts; donations to a green charity were preferred, but if a birthday gift was purchased, to please make sure that it was organic materials, and not gift wrapped unless it was recycled paper and vegetable based or soy ink. My RSVP would have been a decline – I can’t do that! I’ve already been the maker of one tofu-pumpkin sugarless birthday cheesecake (that was actually pretty damn good). I have also been the unfortunate recipient of the most disappointing birthday cake ever. Imagine if you will, being 5, just having turned 5 (which is why you’re getting a birthday cake) and this beautiful cake with a giant candle is placed before you. It’s a dark brown cake. To a 5 year old, this means it’s a chocolate cake; and your 5 year old mouth is watering and can’t wait to bite into this fabulous looking chocolate cake. Then when you bite into it, you experience an explosion of, CAROB!

car⋅ob [kar-uh b] -noun
1 - a Mediterranean tree, Ceratonia siliqua, of the legume family, bearing long, leathery pods containing hard seeds and sweet, edible pulp.
2 - Also called St. John's-bread, algarroba, locust bean. The pod of this tree, the source of various foodstuffs, including a substitute for chocolate, as well as substances having several industrial uses, and sometimes used as food for animals.
3 - a powder made from the ground pods and seeds of this tree and used in cooking, esp. as a substitute for chocolate.

Do any of those 3 definitions sound appealing to you now, let alone to a 5 year old? "Here, have a locust bean cake little girl, oh and it’s sweetened with nothing because sugar is evil." And it may be, but it’s a necessary evil at birthday parties my friend. I love cake that’s made from something from the legume family that came from a leathery pod! Mmmm, leathery pod...

Oh look, I digress again, but this is what that article reminded me of. It’s important to remember the fun in things and not always take oneself so seriously. Which is what I had to remind myself as I made the kids lunches yesterday, complete with juice boxes, Chef Boyardee (with meat (or something resembling it) raised in the most atrocious of environments, I'm sure) from a can and store bought granola bars (hey, I used to make my own), when the Girl gasped and said, “But MOMMY! We’re supposed to have a waste-free lunch today!” and I had to say, “Honey, if I did that, then your lunch box would be empty! But, we can take this can to the recycle box and do the best we can.”

And so I do. I do the best I can, which is not perfect, but I think I’m a lot happier not trying to be so perfect anymore, because in all honesty, I’d rather be happy than perfect.

Burning Times - 365 Days Later

2009-04-19T21:28:00.003-04:00

And so the circle is complete. One year to the day after the official end of my vows, I have emerged from the wreckage a new woman; harder, better, faster, stronger!

A ladies night was definitely in order to mark such an occasion; complete with wine (slightly more upscale than the usual plonk), grilled meat & burritos and the requisite torching of things.

Torching of things? Indeed. This occasion called for an airing of grievances (no erring on the side of caution) and cleansing of pain with the best cleanser of all: flames. It was time to rid myself of the last particles left over from what was done, pain, heartache and disappointment because I was no longer in need of any of those things. Antoinette described it quite nicely when I told her about our plans: "I like the idea, not just because I'm a closet Pyro, but because it's satisfying to see the badness lose against the fire. Fire always wins." sad she couldn't join us, she assured us that she would spend her evening singing "Burn baby Burn" accompanied by various kick-ass disco poses, which would surely alarm her husband, but in doing so may have also amused him.

There are many examples of how fire is used to cleanse; controlled brush fires are used for weed abatement, witches used to be burned at the stake to burn the evil out of them (though I don't condone that and don't believe that it really worked - but I just wanted to back up my story) and Alice Cooper wrote a song called Cleansed by Fire - Who can argue with Alice Cooper? Rock on and bring me some matches.

Armed with the last of my pictures containing the Ex, pages of sadness torn from my journal, sausages and the afore mentioned wine, I hauled ass to the The Napmaster's Party Palace, to later be joined by Miss Sweetness and Ms. Regina. Fantastic company for new beginnings and closing the door on what is no longer necessary! Everyone gets to partake in the exercise, whether a specific event has taken place, or whether something has been annoying the hell out of you this past month. Or 2 months. Or year or five. Whatever the case may be, we took the time to clean out our subconscious closets.

As I fed my items into the flames, I thought of where I was a year ago; lost, sobbing, adrift and overwhelmed by the journey ahead (and I already told you how much I hate the journey). I could not conceive of even leaving my home, telling my kids, my friends and my colleagues. I was so embarrassed and broken at the thought of such a large failure, of my efforts turning to dust before my eyes. I could not conceive of ever feeling OK again. Ever! I was so filled with rage and fear that I clung to my closest friends and thought I would be kidding myself if I believed what they told me; that I would come out of this being OK, that I would be happy again and that I would find joy once more.

The last thing I fed the fire was the last wedding picture I had. I had given him the wedding album to do with as he pleased, but when I went through my things, I found one last photo of the two of us, smiling and filled with joy. I was very young, innocent and quite naive. I placed the picture into the flames and watched them eat the image and felt this chapter come to an end; I felt no sadness, only strength!

As I slept, I dreamed of him. I dreamed he was at the door to my home, knocking and trying to get in, but he had no key anymore. He would forever be on the outside, not welcome into my home anymore. I stood at my window and watched him pace around my doorstep, looking for a spare key. There was none to be found. I then felt a light tap on my shoulder to find someone else, hand extended and asking me to dance. I took his hand and we began to Waltz (yeah, an actual Waltz - it's a dream, so I knew how) around my living room, bathed in sunlight and all awareness of the Ex faded away.

I woke up this morning feeling good.

Happy Easter

2009-04-13T11:40:00.002-04:00

What a restful weekend I’ve had. Of course, I didn’t accomplish many of the things I was supposed to; namely, learning choreography for the class I’m supposed to be teaching in the next week and a half, but I am rested.

Easter brings about interesting memories of brand new Easter dresses complete with bonnet (yes, my Grandma made sure I had a proper Easter Bonnet), patent leather shoes and little white gloves. Weather be damned, when you buy a little girl a new outfit, she will wear it whether there are 6 inches of snow on the ground or not. Having been given a solo in the Cherub Choir at Church, I was sure to want to look my very best and, filled with a few fistfuls of early morning chocolate, what adult in their right mind is willing to take on a child possessed with sugar, new clothes and a choir recital? Granted, I believe I was always better behaved at Christmas time, despite the year I was robbed of the role of Mary in the annual Christmas Pageant and stormed home to announce to my Grandparents that I would show them all the following year by getting the best role of all.

“Just you wait, I’ll show them! Next year, I’ll be GOD!”

Yes, I actually said that. Yes, apparently at 6, I had delusions of grandeur that were squashed relatively quickly when this whole episode appeared in one of my Grandfather’s colleagues columns in the Citizen once my Grandfather had regaled him with how “cute” I was. Anyway, I’m still working on *that* particular role…

Easter is quite different in my family these days; we don’t go to Church and even though I miss making little palm crosses on Palm Sunday, I think it just makes it easier for everyone at this point in time. I didn’t realize how out of the Christian loop I was until the Boy told me he had no idea what Easter was actually about in the religious sense. I gave him the Cole’s notes version and he stared at me blankly for a couple of seconds and said, “Okaaay…”, which I suppose is justified since the only other time he’s really been confronted with religion was at my former In-Law’s Church on New Year’s and I had to explain to him why there were statues of bleeding people everywhere. I suspect that he thinks of Jesus as a guy who had a really bum deal while he was here.

I then tried to explain the metaphor that by his “Rising from the dead” was a metaphor for spring, where everything that “died” over winter begins to grow again and he seemed find that a little more palatable, but not entirely convinced. It’s really all about the chocolate for my little heathens and that’s just fine with me. Instead of rushing to Church, we took a leisurely drive to the Alpengruss, which, in my humble opinion, still serves the best damn breakfast for a very reasonable price. I decided to drive back along the River Road to point out houses I used to live in to the kids and marvel them with stories about when I was young; the part that marvels them is that I actually used to be young, “Were you cute then?”, the Girl asked, “Aren’t I cute now?” I replied, but received no response. Taking a drive down memory lane on a lazy Sunday with the sun shining through the window is a terribly pleasant thing to do, especially since I rarely have occasion to drive these days.

We capped the day off at G3’s for the best lamb roast I’ve had since last year. For the first time in years, I felt truly relaxed in my family’s company. At the end of the day, after fine food and many Easter well-wishes from good friends; I was able to look back on a fantastic day that, had nothing to do with Easter in the eyes of the Church, but I certainly feel like I’ve stepped out of a dark cavern, wounds healing nicely and ready to take life on.

I guess that Chocolate *does* have incredible curative properties!

Skinny-Dipping, A Daydream for a Spring Snow-Storm

2009-04-07T15:20:00.001-04:00

Imagine it's hot summer day, you're arriving from work after having spent an hour in traffic in your car with broken air conditioning ; your business clothes stuck to your skin like honeyed muslin, the taste of salt-sweat sharp on your lips and your face shiny with perspiration.

It’s one of those days where everyone demanded everything of you, be it at the office, from family, the clerk at the store, the parking attendant and the bitchy lady at the dry-cleaners. Your plate is piled high with to-do lists, grocery lists, people to call, documents to sign and pets to feed (as well as the kids). Imagine you live next to a lake or a river, stepping out of that car and smelling the freshness of the air in the trees, the coolness of the breeze off the water, the staleness of your day rank on your skin. Have you ever had this day?

You’ve arrived before anyone else; your neighbours aren’t yet home, if you have kids, they’re at some sort of sports practice. This small snapshot of time, a not‑so‑guilty pleasure like that container of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer or that extra-dry martini waiting to be shaken and not stirred.

You take off your shoes and walk down to the water, feeling the cool grass between your toes, soft on your feet. The sun is still strong and hot on your clothes, so you take them off and lay them on the pier. New sweat forms on your skin and within the next split second, you run to the end of the pier and dive in.

The coolness of the water rushes past your ears, wrapping itself up your arms, down your torso to the tips of your toes. Sweet relief from the daily grind washes over you as you let the air out of your lungs and kick your legs to swim out as far as you can go. The current tugs at your feet once your head surfaces and you tread water pleasantly as it carries you along.

My God! Wouldn’t that be better than the slush and snow that’s just appeared despite it being spring? Frikking Ottawa Spring...

Grief-Minion

2009-04-05T21:02:00.000-04:00

Grief –noun -/grif/ [greef]
1. keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.
2. a cause or occasion of keen distress or sorrow.—Idioms
3. come to grief, to suffer disappointment, misfortune, or other trouble; fail: Their marriage came to grief after only two years.

Minion – noun - /ˈmɪnyən/ [min-yuhn]
1. a servile follower or subordinate of a person in power.
2. a favored or highly regarded person.
3. a minor official.

My wedding anniversary is a week away. I would have been married 11 years on April 11th.

I didn't think that the impending date would have any effect on me. I am by all means relieved that the relationship, or lack thereof came to an end and have come to truly enjoy the person I really am. But I have been plagued by this sense of discord within that I have not been able to appropriately identify. Last week, a wave of sorrow washed over me with a fervour that rather surprised me. I had no idea where it came from. Nothing had occurred to really unleash it. I knew it was more than the wicked hangover I'd foolishly given myself, but other than that, I was clueless.

It wasn't until I chatted with Dixie and she said, "Hey, I think you are finally grieving!" that I considered this to be a possibility; When things came to an end, I went into action mode. I had to find a new job, figure out how to leave my house, find a place to move to, moderate the children's emotions, coordinate summer camps, enroll kids in school, sell my car, deal with a pinched nerve in my back and then with the Girl's massively broken arm and then start another new job.

I went through anger, rage and overwhelm, but now I realize I never truly felt the loss, even if the loss was something that was never truly there. The illusion of that relationship and the effort I put into it kept me going for some time. I guess I am in a safe place to let myself do that now that the distance has made it possible.

The thing is that no matter what, grieving sucks.

I find it frustrating that this sadness comes along and kicks me in the junk and there is nothing I can do to prevent it and I cannot even really pinpoint anything in particular that triggers it; all I can do is let it happen and wait for it to pass. Dixie says its part of the process and that it will get easier and the pain will dissipate. I must admit that that does not bring immediate comfort, but I’ll take it. I’m not the type of person to squash it away and pretend it isn’t there in a fun-filled trip along denial. Sometimes I wish I were though. I would like to bury the truth of this matter as far down inside as possible, squish a big fat smile on my face and tell everyone that I am the strongest, most amazing single Mom ever and that like Erin Brockovich, I’m going to assist in successfully suing a large company that is secretly poisoning a small town.

The trouble, as I’ve mentioned before, is that I hate the journey. I long for the destination. From past observation, the journey is where the pain is, where everything must be worked out in order to get to the stupid destination that while you’re on the journey you’re wondering why you even want to go to the stupid destination in the first place and what was so wrong with where you were before and why did someone have to go and screw it all up? (Wow - run on sentence much?)

Oh right. It’s because the place you were in before was actually horrible. Oh right. It’s because you could no longer pretend that everything would be fine as long as you tried harder and maybe tried to be more like this, or that and maybe if you weren’t so blahblahblah. Oh right. It’s because humans need to experience growth. (Or at least some of them do. Do you ever wish you were stupid? Ignorance is bliss for the ignorant.)

Maybe I’m just lazy. I wonder if I could hire someone to do this grieving for me. I could post an ad in the Low Down to Hull and Back News:

Wanted - Grief-Minion
Individual willing to take responsibility for the grieving process of a single mother. Must be available for weeping without warning*, occasional bursts of massive anxiety and insomnia. Wringing of hands is optional.
*Kleenex not provided.

Thoughts? Do you think this would work? Rich people hire minions to do the dirty work all the time! Admittedly, single parenthood is not lucrative, but I’d be willing to sacrifice a few things to avoid all this crap. Wouldn’t you?

Oh wait. Maybe by hiring a Grief-Minion I would missing out on the whole point of all this shit. Maybe in my place, my Grief-Minion would actually wind up at my destination! And then I would end up having to sue my Grief-Minion for identity theft because they would have been reaping the benefits of my "destination" and that would cause a whole new ruckus of negative emotion spurred by more betrayal and loss of trust. Well that wouldn’t be any good would it? I’d almost be back to where I was a year ago! Crap! This plan is already backfiring!

I guess I will have to continue. Get up, go to work, come home, make dinner, process something or other and so on. I’m told that it will fade. It seems the Bear Hunt song I learned in summer camp many years ago stands true to this day.

♫Can ‘t go over it!
Can’t go under it! ♪
I guess I’ll have to go through it! ♫

The Girl vs. the Bus Driver

2009-04-01T13:47:00.000-04:00

The Girl has had a rather tumultuous school year, what with the changes and new routines and the general bustle of the day to day. I receive many notes from her teacher letting me know how she prefers colouring to nap time and would rather make her friends laugh whilst dancing on a box in the hallway instead of lining up to go to assembly. While I have absolutely no idea where on earth she may have inherited *ANY* of these traits, I have had my suspicions that things weren’t as bad as they were made out to be. I had conversations with her about following the rules, listening to her teacher and generally doing her best to get along with her classmates. I even set up a reward program where she would get a special sticker on the calendar each day she came come with a green smiley face from her teacher and, if after the week was complete, she had received stickers every day, she would get a super special surprise!

She has received one special surprise so far this year. Sigh.

She’s not a bad girl. Not at all, just one who has her very own ideas about how things are that don’t always mesh with reality. A girl with a very good imagination.

Last week, the regular bus driver was absent and in her place was a substitute that I will name Mr. Cranky. The Girl had had some problems with bus driver #1, including being written up, but nothing I surmised as being *that* bad; mostly just arguments between her and her arch-nemesis Noah. But on morning 3 with the new bus driver, she hustled her little self onto the bus and I turned to make my way to work.

“HEY! Are you this one’s mother?”

*This* one?

“Um, her? Yes, I am.”, I replied, slightly taken aback. I made my way to the bus door.

“She’s a very BAD girl! Did you know that? She is a danger to herself and to others and if she doesn’t behave, I will have her banned from the bus!”

Whoah. I blinked a few times, soaking in this unexpected statement. I’m not sure if you’ve had moments that catch you off guard and your real response gets squished under your surprise, but this is what happened to me. All I heard was “I will have her banned from the bus,” and the planner in my brain went “FUCK!”, so I called her over to me.

“Girl, honey. Did you hear what this big scary bus driver… uh, I’m sorry, what’s your name sir?”

“Mr. Cranky.”

“Did you hear what Mr. Cranky just told me?”

Her face squished down, lips turned into a pout and chin firmly planted as far into her neck as possible.

“Ok Girl, it’s very important that you listen to Mr. Cranky’s rules, he’s the bus driver and he knows the "safety first" rules. I bet you’re not feeling too good about being spoken to by me at the front of the bus like this and I know you know how to follow those rules, so how about it? High-five?”

What I was actually saying on the inside was, “Holy HELL! Evil little hellion! Banned from the Frikking BUS? WTF???? Why won’t you just goddamn LISTEN to ANYBODY???????????????????????”

I took a deep breath, smiled (or slid my lips back to expose my teeth, depends on the perspective) and turned to Mr. Cranky and merrily waved au‑revoir. Surely my little chat would be enough to turn the wheels on this situation.

But as the God forsaken song goes, the wheels on the bus go round and round.

The next day I received a call from the school Principle. Oh Yay! Call number two of the school year (number one was for the Boy, I’ll write about that another time). I had to remind her that we had in fact, spoken before regarding an incident with the Boy and I could hear her inner thoughts judging me. (Oh right, you. That single Mom…) Maybe I was just feeling a little over-sensitive, but whatever… Let’s call it dramatic license.

Anyway, she wanted to let me know that Mr. Cranky had spoken to her about the Girl’s behaviour on the bus and that she had met with her to discuss everything. I took the opportunity to express my dismay at the way Mr. Cranky had told me she was being difficult and that while I completely understood the ramifications of the Girl’s behaviour, I took offense at her being called a “Very Bad Girl”.

I don’t dish this out as though I think she is a perfect princess, I know she is not; however I do know that there are certain approaches that work better than others. I know the desire to use shame and embarrassment is strong in most (I have been guilty on both counts), the long term effect is rarely useful. I had to finally say to someone what I should have at least said when first surprised by Mr. Cranky; perhaps less effectual, but at least it was done.

I digress; the lovely Principal explained that she had taken some time to chat with the Girl about appropriate behaviour and following the rules. This is when she revealed that the Girl was kissing people on the bus. Kind of like… everybody. Oh geez. So she went over who she was allowed to kiss and remembered that kisses were reserved for Mom and Dad and on occasion, her brother (when he lets her). I hung up from the conversation feeling optomistic and that with the help of the Principle, things would go well and that the [Beast-Child] Girl would see that cooperation was the best way to go!

Have I ever mentioned how naïve I can be?

We had a good Thursday night, on Friday she didn’t take the bus, Monday came along and I asked her how things went on the bus.

“I had a great day Mommy! My morning was super and I got a smiley face from my teacher!”

Pause.

“Buuuuut tonight on the bus wasn’t so good. I was kissing people again. Don’t be MAD!”

Have you ever been so frustrated that you try to rub your face off while thinking of a way to deal with the matter at hand?

“Girl. Why do you keep doing this? Why are you kissing everyone when you know you are not supposed to?”

“It’s not my fault! I’m in Love with everybody!”

“You are NOT in love with everybody and even if you were, you are not allowed to kiss all of them without their permission! You are only 6 and you are not allowed to be in Love until you’re 30!”

“But Mommy! It’s how I’m MADE!”

Chissakes. How do you deal with a 6-year olds logic when it comes out like that? I turned my head so she wouldn’t see me laughing. Once composed, I turned to her with the only ammunition I had left.

“If you don’t listen and follow the rules, you will never be allowed to get on the bus again, Mommy will lose her job, we won’t have anywhere to live and Mommy will cry for weeks and months.”

Guilt!

The final frontier for the idealistic parent who once believed she would never rely on TV to care for her children while she cooked, cleaned or wasted time on the internet; who once believed that only home made, sugar free treats would pass through the lips of her offspring; who was once so convinced she would never yell or lose her cool with these "innocent" little beings.

After years of fighting it, I guess it just how I'm made...

I Wish I Were and Asshole

2009-03-31T15:58:00.001-04:00

“I wish I were an asshole.”

That’s what my friend Galacto emailed me today. He’s got neighbours having their roof re-done and the work starts early and it’s noisy and messy; leaving a good layer of roof gunk on his deck. The workers have promised to clean it up, but I’m sure we could all agree that many promises out there go unfulfilled. We exchanged a number of things he could do to exact his revenge if the crud isn’t cleaned, including salting the neighbour’s entire lawn and then peeing all over it while smoking a cigar and laughing like a movie villain.

What an image.

I often wish I were an asshole – or I suppose more appropriately for my gender, a bitch. And while some people would argue that I am, I don’t believe I have mastered the "Art of the Bitch" quite yet. Though I have moments of bitchy brilliance, I envy the bitches of the world and have observed that they seem to get more than their share of men.

Bitch
Pronunciation [bich]
–noun
1 - a female dog
2 - a female of canines generally.
3 - Slang.
1. a malicious, unpleasant, selfish person, esp. a woman.
2. a lewd woman.
4 - Slang.
1.a complaint
2.anything difficult or unpleasant: The test was a bitch.
3.anything memorable, esp. something exceptionally good: That last big party he threw was a real bitch.

I’m striving for definition 3.1 without the maliciousness. Well okay, it depends on the day. I guess the girl on the bus last week after teaching my weight class may have labelled me a bitch; after giving up my seat for an old lady on a very full bus, I made my way to the back and found the last seat available, proceeded to lower myself into it when the little thing in the seat next to it frantically began to flap.

"Oh, sorry, my friend is coming soon.", she says to me, trying to wave me away from the seat. She's about 20.

"HAH!", I replied and completed the act of sitting. I had just done many weighted squats and lunges, no dice little girl.

The girl shrank back and her shoulders sagged. Her 20-year old boyfriend then arrived and drooped alongside her. Did they really think they could pull off a "savies" on a packed city bus?

But that's nothing compared to the moments I imagine in my deepest fantasies that involve yelling at the elderly whilst driving behind them, 40km slower than the speed limit, or trying to get past the people in the supermarket that park their carts in the very middle of the frikking aisle! Those images that flash into your mind like short films edited to express the most perfect scenario of bitchiness. How I long to set her free and unleash the truth of the moments upon the unsuspecting.

I do see that it gets easier as you get older, so there's one of the benefits of aging. I listen to the endless tirade of bitchiness spill from my Grandmother about everything from the Mayor to the idiots on the road. She is one of the elderly people who likes to slow down on purpose when the driver behind her annoys her.

"When I get an antsy driver behind me I like to go extra slow... Sometimes I get the urge to roll to a complete stop just to irritate them extra.", as she slows to 50 in a 90 zone!

It makes my eye twitch as she explains exactly what she is doing, and I sit in the passengers seat feeling the cobwebs forming upon my brow and the irritation rising in my gut. It's a true talent I tell you. Because the sheer act of expressing that little scenario irritates the living crap out of me!

And then there are kids; they get to act upon their every whim because that's their job. They're supposed to learn about what's appropriate and what's not through the process of being assholes. My friend Salsa regaled me about and exchange she had with her son the other day.

Salsa - Son, you can't just scratch Ethan!

Son - But I wanted to hurt him.

Salsa - Why did you want to hurt him?

Son - I wanted him to cry.

Beautiful! I guarantee that Ethan is a little jerk! As adults, we still have those urges, but it's frowned upon to act upon them. Come on though, don't you envy him a bit?? Haven't you wanted to make someone cry in the past month? I am not too proud to say that I have.

I guess I am in that "in-between" age where bitchiness is mostly frowned upon except by the truly gifted bitches that deliver their own brand of nasty with nary a hint of conscience. So I just need to give myself some more time, let myself age a little more, or work on cultivating it more in my children instead of trying to instill the manners I once thought so important... Why ask nicely when you can just bulldoze your way to what you want?

Wallowing

2009-03-31T13:10:00.001-04:00

Being present can be a challenge when your mind is everywhere but at the task at hand. Today’s task at hand is being at work and actually accomplishing things. So far, I’ve managed to reply to 5 personal e-mails, check my Facebook and fuck around on Twitter. What gives? My brain or rather my being is so far away from here it’s not even humorous!

I’ve got a million things to do, professionally and personally and I have not really managed to accomplish a good handful from either column. Something is eating away at my inner core. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the anniversary of the day I got married is coming up and the anniversary of the day the marriage ended is hot on its heels. April 11th is the day that marks what would have been 11 years since I was married on the shores next to Deer Lake in Burnaby, BC. I was young and filled with hopes and dreams. 11 years later, I am in a vastly different frame of mind; thankful for the end after having gone through deceit and sadness, still filled with hopes and dreams, but of a very different kind. I’m done trying to please the unpleasable and strive to remain unapologetically Jess.

It seems the cycle has come full circle and the end of a cycle can bring about massive change and stir up emotion one didn’t even know was there. It’s renewal, like the spring I wrote about last week; rebirth and all that crap. And while birth can be a magical experience, it’s painful as hell. The end result is, for the most part, a good thing, but the journey must be experienced and that is the thing I sometimes find the most cringe worthy. Being present and not being so focused on the end result, the joy is in the journey. Screw you. Sometimes it’s easiest to just wallow in whatever it is you don’t even know is bothering you, no matter how self-indulgent it is, it’s just necessary at times, in order to recharge and finally pick yourself up by the bootstraps.

So finally, after all this bitching, I find myself looking down at my bootstraps, ready to grasp them firmly with both hands. What do I want? Really, what do I want? Am I willing to settle for mediocrity, allow myself to become invisible again or will I claim it? I know life takes time and I get impatient. Deep down I know I will get there in the end; wherever there is and once I stop sulking in the back seat, I’ll sit up and look at the scenery again. I’ll even appreciate it. Once I get there, I’ll switch it up and take the driver’s seat once more.

And who knows, if I’m lucky, I’ll get inappropriately propositioned at Starbucks again! God knows my naughty drawer could use some spring renewal!

French Lingerie

2009-03-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

I went to my local Starbucks the other day and, while crowded, managed to find an empty cushy chair to plop my bottom into. Shortly thereafter, the cushy chair next to me was vacated as I happily sipped my Chai and read my book and a man came by to ask if he could sit. Hardly glancing up from my book, I said, “Sure.”, and kept reading.

A few minutes went by and I hear: “How high would you say the heel on your boots is?”

Pardon?

I look at this man. He is in his mid 50’s, same as my Dad, slightly overweight with graying hair. He asks again, how high my heels are.

Yes, I know that this is a strange question, yet somehow, in my happy little bubble filled with reading and Chai, I didn’t quite get that off the bat, so I answered.

“I dunno, maybe 3 inches?”

And go back to reading my book. But he had more questions.

“Have you ever worn spike heels? Are they hard to walk in?”

Pardon?

By this point, I know that this is strange, but I’m still in that happy I’ve-got-time-to-myself haze and I’m caught off guard and somehow manage to find myself in a conversation.

“Why? Are you looking to buy a pair for yourself?”

Maybe that comment will make him go away.

“Oh no! Not for me. It’s just that, I bought these boots for my wife. We’ve been together for 20 years and I was looking to spice things up a bit and I bought her these tall leather spike-heeled boots.”

WTF? Baristas are walking by and I glance around to see if perhaps, I am on Candid Camera. There seems to be no evidence of people stifling smiles anywhere in the café; I look back at him and he continues.

“Actually, it was more than just boots. I bought her a whole outfit.

A leather outfit.

From France.”

I take another look around the café because this conversation is so not happening. Oh but it is and it’s apparently not done!

“It’s a beautiful fitted little number that’s black, tight and showcases the important parts,” He explains as he makes circular gestures around his man-boobs, “You know! There are holes for you to see. They’re not covered.” (Yes, your gesticulations made that clear!)

I begin trying to make eye contact with the passing baristas to have this man removed. No one is paying attention to me. I just wanted to read my damn book!

“Actually, I bought two of these outfits for her. But when she saw them, she got quite offended and she left me. But the thing is, I paid a lot of money for these works of art - they’re French and were over $700 apiece! I’ve been trying to find a lady that could wear them… What size are you?”

Well that burst my happy bubble completely. I stood up, tired of trying to get someone to remove this person. Gathered my Chai, my book and my jacket, turned to him and said, “I think you need to expand on your relationship criteria.” And left.

Coupons

2009-03-21T09:21:00.000-04:00

I know that most people use coupons for one thing or another at various times and have clipped my own from time to time. I generally end up forgetting to use the ones I have clipped and over time have only reserved my attention to these funny little pieces of paper for something *really* good like $2 off really overpriced powdered vegetable greens that are supposed to give me skin as clear as Nicole Kidman's. Yeah. So now, anytime my mail person generously brings the oh-so-useful flyer's to my place, I may glance the specials, but for the most part wind up tossing them.

This is, I've discovered, genetically dismaying to both my mother and grandmother, who for years have been bringing me coupons when they come over, sending them via my Dad who simply rolls his eyes or calling me to tell me to buy a magazine or paper that I wouldn't have purchased in the first place because there are some great coupons! I'll admit that they have come up with some very very useful ones in the past, often around back to school time when there are a variety of shoe and boot sales for kids and I have always appreciated them, but I would never have sought them out. Probably irresponsible, but that's how I roll. I should also mention that while I have skipped this genetic occurrence, the Boy seems to have inherited it and will hoard coupons for the strangest ans most useless items that we would never buy. It's true, he hoards them, I find them stashed away in his room when I go through his room and toss out - I mean "clean" the stray articles in his room. He says I'm throwing away money and I'm still working on explaining that it's not throwing away money if it's not something you would ever buy in the first place.

Anyway, I rolled my eyes again when my Mom e-mailed me to tell me she was sending some coupons over with my Dad.

Me - Oh? What kind of coupons Mom?
Mom- Uhhhh, there's some for cranberries, canned beans, fishsticks and tampons.
Me- Fishsticks and tampons? What kind, I'm brand-picky Mom.
Mom- Well if you don't want to use them you can give them to someone else!

Give them to someone else??? She suggested that I give them to one of my colleagues! I'm still relatively new in the office I work in and I ask you to imagine, if you will, the new girl in the office casually accosting you and pulling two little torn pieces of paper out of her pocket and offering you coupons for fishsticks and tampons. Together nonetheless! What a great way to make friends!

Me - Hey Jen, I uh, I have these coupons I thought you might like, Captain Highliner, Tampax...
Jen - Captain Highliner Tampax? Excuse me? What are you trying to say?
Me - Oh nothing, I just... Have these coupons, my Mom gave them to me...
Jen - I will have you know that I have a "medical condition" and that I DO NOT appreciate being made fun of for something that is not - my - FAULT! How dare you? I'm reporting you for harassment!
Me - Uh...

No Mom, I don't think I'll be bring those coupons to work, I'll just do what I usually do, throw them away. That way, the thing that needed to be done in the first place will get done and you will be spared the guilt you feel when even considering tossing something that may be useful at some point in the not-so-near future. And I won't tell you about it so you can keep feeling OK about it. But once again, I ask, before you clip these little gems, please ask yourself why you're clipping for something you would never buy yourself?

Well, that's it for now, I've got this article in the paper I have to cut out for my friend to read, she has no interest in the plight of the Toads of South Africa, but have a sneaking suspicion she'll really want to read this piece...

More Than Half Full

2009-03-09T08:38:00.000-04:00

Where did February go? Not sure, but I know that my trusty computer gasped a dying breath and expelled its hard drive, requiring some serious technical assistance from the Corb. And so the hiatus imposed itself.

February, the shortest month on paper, but one that seemed to go on FOREVER! Illness fell upon the Girl, requiring much time off work and causing worry within my comfort level at the new job. Too many things on my plate; a smorgasbord (is that how you even spell it?) of bullshitty things to do, remember, get signed and bake. Well, for the record I don't and have never baked bullshit.

The cold, cold winter tightened its grip upon my mood forcing me further into the desire for hibernation and making each morning a veritable feat to just get out of bed and out the door. "Will this ever pass? Will I ever feel normal again?" And I know that normal is perfectly subjective, but I wondered if I would ever have a moment to even acknowledge the thoughts that flew through my head, see the papers I was actually signing and noticing that I left all 3 eggs out of the Girl's birthday cake before I poured the batter into the pan?

Oh yeah, then there's all the choreography I have been cramming into my head for the new fitness program I'm in training to teach. In my spare time. A full weekend dedicated to training while being sick myself, all the while wondering why I thought it was a good idea! Morning 2, after spending at least 15 minutes in the bathroom hurling from a coughing fit I wanted to call my parents and demand they intervene. Demand they step in a stop me from the madness because I was certainly incapable of stopping myself. "What's one more thing?" my brain seems to say, "Oh, sure Boy, I will help you build a spaceship for your science project! Oh hey! Mentor-Boss, I will come in late at night and work 'till dawn so that I can make up for the time I missed while the Girl was sick!"

I should add that my Mentor-Boss has never asked any such thing, but I sure thought about that very thing.

And I haven't blogged! Each day that passed I lamented my lack of entries!

February ended and March came in with a burst of Arctic bitch-slap and I thought I was going to absolutely lose it. More cold! But as the week progressed, I felt myself settle into and suddenly the sun came out. I found myself being productive at work and also enjoying the fruits of my labours in the fitness program; I seem to have learned most of the choreography and am enjoying it!

What's more is that this past weekend was the Ex's birthday and I happily spent it alone, soaking in glorious solitude, not waking anyone up, not feeding anyone else and not worrying about whether I omitted any eggs from the cake I would have made an effort to make. Spring knocked on my door and shone the sunlight onto new ways I could manage my plate. Even though the snow is falling hard, I have renewed faith that the sun will be back soon to warm our souls and brighten our smiles.

Now I have to sign off and plan out all the various activities to undertake during March break next week; We'll go swimming, to museums, we make a castle from cardboard... Bake 8 dozen cookies... Save a whale...

Body image Part 2 - The Cleanse

2009-01-27T21:55:00.001-05:00

In my self-righteous bid to love my body the way it is, I saw my friend Island Lover for wine and chatties a few weeks ago. She looked fantastic; well she always looks fantastic, but she was svelter than her usual self. She had just done a cleanse!

A cleanse? Yeah?? I prodded and inquired as to the type of cleanse; 7 day, tablets you take morning and night, eat clean avoiding refined everything, lots of veggies. Pretty standard cleanse food.

Ponder, ponder, ponder. Blog about Body Image and then decide I too will go on this cleanse. I just need to pep up and top eating so much sugar. That's it! I FaceBook Island lover and tell her that I will also do this cleanse! Perfect! She will also do it again; she's going to Tobago in a week and a half to visit The Boy who lives there and needs to be bikini ready (she already was, but we all have standards right?). So we set last Sunday as the start day. Perfect.

I am no stranger to cleanses or to regimented eating plans. I have been vegan, vegetarian and have done a variety of cleanses and stuck to them. But I have found that they get harder.

Saturday before day one of the cleanse, I buy so much salad that the store clerk must have thought I had a pet bunny, tons of broccoli (which is offensively priced Loblaws!) and some wholesome brown rice. Mmmmm! Cleans-tastic! Did I mention that Island Lover had also come over the Friday night previous and we feasted on wine, cheese, baguette and these horribly yummy jelly heart coated in sugar? The hearts partially caused my gums to recede and expose the nerves on one side of my mouth, but I digress. Anyway, there was leftover cheese and other goodies in my fridge as well. Not a smart move.

Day one. I take my 4 morning capsules with full glass of water and eat my "yes foods" breakfast and off I go to teach my class. My day is going fantastic and I made it through to the evening. Then I looked at all my vegetables in the fridge and decided I wanted none of them. I had already eaten 6 cups of salad. I know! I need Indian food! I rationalized that rice was better than eating wheat, so off I went! Mmmm, Indian food. But then I experience the back swing of the pendulum, the guilt and shame of not sticking to my "yes foods". I take my evening capsules, formulated to aid digestion.

To Aid Digestion? You ask, what does this mean? I wasn't really sure, I often assume it's got enzymes that help breakdown what you've eaten to facilitate absorption. I think many people would assume that. It's what assumed for certain. This is apparently not what was meant in this particular formulation.

Later that evening I was on the phone with Dixie, chatting it up when suddenly, I told her I had to go. It was very abrupt and possibly even rude, but something had taken priority. The Digestive Aid had kicked into gear. I felt as though a bowling ball had been lodged into my lower intestine and was about to be cannoned out of me! Violent cramps sent me running to the bathroom with an intense fear that my asshole was about to explode! Digestive Aid really means Drano for your ass!

Or maybe it was the Indian Food... That's what I told myself on day two! Yeah, it was the Indian food and today I will follow everything perfectly! And I did! Until 4:30pm when upon leaving work, the receptionist offered me a Lindt chocolate. A Dark chocolate truffle! And I accepted! And then I got home and the Boy said he had the best dinner idea ever! Grilled Cheese Sandwiches! And I made them! And they were gooooood! (I did have 3 cups of salad with mine though) Then it was time for Digestive Aid - 4 capsules in the evening. I hesitated, but took them again, thinking of Island Lover's slimmed physique, doooo iiiit Jessica! So I did. And a few hours later, the "we mean business" gurglings began yet again. It wasn't the Indian Food.

Maybe it's all that frigging salad?

So here I am, day 3 of this 7 day cleanse and yes, I'm eating better than I have in weeks, but I've cheated on every single day and I'm annoyed. Annoyed because I haven't stuck to it, annoyed because I'm doing this for the wrong reasons and annoyed because I haven't stuck to it. Body image again. There's nothing wrong with the way I look. Island Lover looks fab with no flab, but she also teaches a million fitness classes each week (along with loads of school work - she's amazing and I don't think she's because she's thin like the other girl who blogged about her ;-) and just has a different body than mine.

All these hang ups, all this silliness. Stop the madness! So I will leave you with this, because it is day 3 and I think the Digestive Aid is starting to kick in again...

If You Read My Body Image Post

2009-01-26T10:39:00.000-05:00

Then Please go read the comments section for FlapJack's clarification, it is very enlightening. Now let's go get on that wavelength okay?!

Smells Like Freedom Baby!

2009-01-24T21:02:00.000-05:00

I walked into my bedroom yesterday and noticed something. My bedroom smells really nice. It doesn't smell like his sweat and body odour, his various gasses and morning breath. It smells like fresh laundry, even though I washed the sheets 10 days ago. My bedroom smells clean and looks nice.

I used to look forward to smelling him, but over the past couple of years, I had started wishing the smell would lighten up. I noticed a stench; not the foul offensive stench of trash or decomposition, but the stench of not caring. It's a raw pang of someone who no longer feels the need to come to bed clean or notices when his armpits are overripe.

I like the smell of my bedroom now.

I like the smell of freedom.

Body Image

2009-01-13T12:49:00.000-05:00

Body Image is my current foe. Well, this is nothing new actually, perhaps I should say it is my constant foe, ever present foe, the foe that follows me everywhere. How about Stupid Foe!?

I spent a considerably large amount of time in my marriage thinking that I would be loved if I could only be skinnier, if my tits were perkier and my tummy tauter (can you even say tauter?). I have gained and lost and gained vast amounts of weight over my lifetime and never is there a point of satisfaction. What gives?

I know many women of various shapes and sizes, many of them in what I believe are very stable and loving relationships. Over the years I have observed what a relationship can be like despite not being 104lbs and 6ft tall - yet I look at myself in the mirror and wonder how I can be loved?
How can I come to know that there is actually nothing wrong with me? I am healthy, active and in pretty good shape, but I battle in comparisons. I constantly compare myself to other women. Perhaps it stems from constantly being told which women the EX wanted to sleep with, but I think it may go beyond that.

The fact remains that I have *this* body. It's a good body, it's been serving me well and grew two pretty awesome kids (though lately, I wonder if the Girl is possessed - but that's another blog unto itself), and mostly gets me where I want to go. And at the same time, I curse it for not looking like the women on TV or on the covers of magazines.

I was chatting with my friend Flapjack last week; he's studying Philosophy and has a ton of fantastic information in that blond head of his, anyway, he was offering his thoughts on Body Image. The bottom line was that we each have our own bodies and it's our job to just be in them. Not be in the body, but the body is more than the vessle we're in, it's part of the being - the be-ing... Yeah - I'm pretty sure I can't convey it the way he did, but what I came away from that conversation was that acceptance is the far more favourable way to deal.

Oh? All I have to do is accept my body? Great - I can't believe I hadn't thought of that! Of course we all know that's what we need to do, but I have never been sure how to go about achieving that state of being. So while discussing Flapjack's information with Dixie, she talked about what she does, not just about her body, but about all aspects of herself. She asked me how I treated myself (we're talking inner-dialogue) vs. how I treat the children. Then she asked if I would ever imagine treating my children in the same way I treated myself.

If you are reading this and don't have children, take a moment and ask yorself if you would ever treat your friends the way you treat yourself. Take a real moment and imagine it.

Are you horrified?

I was.

So I have spent the past week, actively dialoguing with myself in a kind and loving way; in the way that I strive to speak to my children to. It has helped me to actually picture the 5 year-old me when doing it because when I started, all I would hear was "Bullshit!", I didn't believe a word of it. I have stopped taking all the metabolism enhancers, stopped berrating myself if I didn't get up at 5:30 am to do pilates and stopped yelling at myself if I have chocolate in the middle of the afternoon.

It's not magic, I still hear the horrible inner dialogue, but my hope is that I will begin to soften (and I don't mean in the mid-section), that my hardness towards myself will mollify and I can begin to truly like what I see when I look and think of myself. That I will stop even thinking about it and turn my energy to more satisfying quests.

So tonight, if I actually decide to go out for burgers and fries, I won't be too hard on myself. I hope...

Prelude to New Year's Eve, 2008

2009-01-10T16:41:00.000-05:00

New Year’s is almost here. I will bid farewell to 2008 and say good riddance to the most challenging year I have ever encountered. But that is not to say I am not grateful for the changes it brought. Isn’t that the best way to grow? To be stretched outside of your comfort zone?

When I participated in Choices, this 5 day life skills program all those years ago, the stretch was one of the most powerful exercises they had. I guess it was time for me to have another one. For years I have known that I was living in a marriage void of love, compassion and joy and now I get to press the reset button. I married a man who's soul seemed to have died a long time ago and who lives in a corpse of himself; now I am free to grow and heal and laugh again.

Dixie asked me what my resolutions would be for the coming year; actually, she asked me what my revolutions would be for 2009. What indeed.

Even this is hard to write – I sit down to type and I can think of a million other things to do, I’m hungry, I’m cold, I’m thirsty, I need a pedicure. I get nervous when the time to scratch below the surface of myself comes. It strikes like mild anxiety, making my heart flutter more than usual, making my limbs twitch like I’ve had too much caffeine. Looking outside my window, there is so much activity and I am inside, wrapped up in my shawl trying to write. Writing, but not knowing where I’m going. Panicking because my kids are coming home soon and even though I will be thrilled to see them and hold them in my arms again, panicking because I feel like I have wasted the time I had without them. I should have started writing the minute they left. I should have started painting the minute they left. I spent the last 5 days cramming so much into my days, keeping myself so busy that I took no time to look at myself on the inside. I spent a lot of time looking at this giant pimple on my chin, looking at how fatigued I look. Wishing I had someone to fuck, but not so much thinking about the kind of person I want to make love to, to be truly intimate with.

“Dixie,” I said, “I honestly have no idea… I want the typical things; exercise more, lose some weight. I want to get my divorce finalized, get my finances in order and I want to love myself, really love myself. I want to laugh and find joy. ”

I want to learn to love myself, to be with myself and to know myself. Know who I am and be totally okay with that; and if that means that I have a hard edge, to love that I have a hard edge.

Who are you Jessica?

The question taunts me from the computer screen. Describe yourself in 4 words, how would others describe you in 4 words?

Who are you beyond that?

I am not things, I am not feelings, I am more… But what? I look at the question and I have no answer. How can it be that at 32 I don’t know who I am?

Isn’t life itself the discovery of who you are? I could dispute that, I think many people in this life grow up with a clear picture of who they are, they are certain about those things that make up their being. They go to school with a clear career choice; they have their goals clearly laid out and achieve them. I am not that person. I have goals. Goals that I am afraid of expressing and don’t know how to, or if they are even possible to achieve.

It doesn’t matter does it? What other people experience is irrelevant to my experience. Certain common experiences may help me feel less alone, but I still have to go through it essentially by myself. Only I can learn the lessons I am meant to learn and I can do it willingly or kick and scream the whole way.

My New Years Revolutions:

To laugh as much and as often as possible.
To be the kind of parent my kids need.
To lose 20lbs, do yoga and meditate more often.
To get my shit together to finalize my divorce.
To get my finances in order and honour my financial commitments.
To date and screw, that’s right, they don’t necessarily go hand in hand either.
To honour my creative expression by giving myself time to write and paint.
To invite joy into my life.
To dance.
To love myself.

Better yet, I resolve to have my revolution my learning to be.

There it is Universe – what have you got for me? I’m listening.

Vanity Project Post 1 - Definition

2009-01-09T17:42:00.000-05:00

van-i-ty
/ˈvænɪti/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [van-i-tee], plural -ties, adjective –noun
1. excessive pride in one's appearance, qualities, abilities, achievements, etc.; character or quality of being vain; conceit: Failure to be elected was a great blow to his vanity.
2.an instance or display of this quality or feeling.
3.something about which one is vain.
4.lack of real value; hollowness; worthlessness: the vanity of a selfish life.
5.something worthless, trivial, or pointless.
6.produced as a showcase for one's own talents, esp. as a writer, actor, singer, or composer: a vanity production.

proj-ect
/n. ˈprɒdʒɛkt, -ɪkt; v. prəˈdʒɛkt/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [n. proj-ekt, -ikt; v. pruh-jekt] –noun
1.something that is contemplated, devised, or planned; plan; scheme.
2.a large or major undertaking, esp. one involving considerable money, personnel, and equipment.
3.a specific task of investigation.
4.to propose, contemplate, or plan.
5.to throw, cast, or impel forward or onward.
8.to regard (something within the mind, as a feeling, thought, or attitude) as having some form of reality outside the mind: He projected a thrilling picture of the party's future.
9.to cause to jut out or protrude.
10.to present (an idea, program, etc.) for consideration or action: They made every effort to project the notion of world peace.
11.to use (one's voice, gestures, etc.) forcefully enough to be perceived at a distance, as by all members of the audience in a theater.
12.to communicate clearly and forcefully (one's thoughts, personality, role, etc.) to an audience, as in a theatrical performance; produce a compelling image of.

Given the variety of meanings given to each of these two words, this blog is going to serve as a canvas for my thoughts. It is up to you, the reader (because I am vain enough to believe that there will be at least one person who will read this) to decide which of these definitions apply to the post at hand.

Who am I that I deserve my very own Vanity Project? Well, I am Jessica. I have a multitude of ideas wandering into my head at any given time, you may agree with some and others may offend you, but I can promise you this: everything written here comes from a place of truth. I will say that much of the words here are what I call fictionalized truth, in that events described may or may not have happened and names may or may not be changed to protect the guilty.

One could argue that anytime an experience is described to a party outside of said experience, it loses the truth of the moment. Bottom line is that maybe what you're reading really hapened (really, for real!), or I simply imagined it, relishing the exquisiteness of how it could have been if real life had let it unfold, a fantasy if you will...

If what you read upsets you, makes you uncomfortable or makes you laugh, good. Stay tuned.