Just another reason why Walmart is E.V.I.L.

When we were kids, we would wait with eager anticipation for the arrival of the Sears Wishbook. After Mom had a chance to peruse it, it was our turn. With pens in hand we would scan the glossy pages, skipping quickly over anything that looked naughty (like the lingerie pages), and heading straight for the toys. In awe of the world full of wonderful things that we had never seen or even imagined, we’d page through it carefully and with what was almost reverence. The first time through, we’d just look. The second or third times, we’d put little marks beside the ones that caught our attention. And then, when we were brave enough to mark up the shiny pages, we’d circle the things we dreamed of, going back several times to gaze upon the pure beauty of all those things we knew we’d never own.

It was all about the dreams, really. We were poor growing up. If we got one small toy (a doll, a second-hand bike) we were lucky. We never really believed those extravagant things in the Wishbook would arrive under our tree on Christmas morning. It was just too far out of reach. But that didn’t stop the dreaming. I remember the years I dreamed about the Barbie camper van that my cousin Christine was lucky enough to own. I coveted that camper van with every fibre of my being.

As much as we loved to dream about the beautiful things on those glossy pages, I don’t really remember it feeling too painful knowing that we wouldn’t own them. Sometimes dreaming is enough. Sometimes owning only serves to extinguish the dream. We were happy kids. Yes, sometimes we felt the sting of poverty, wishing we could have what some of the other kids had, but mostly we were content with our second-hand bikes and our hand-me-down clothes. Even though I never owned the camper van, I remember all the things my friend Laurel and I constructed for our Barbies to make up for its absence – three-story houses out of stacked chairs, cars out of cardboard boxes, you name it.

My kids have a lot more toys than I ever had, but still they have to live with less than most of their friends. Sometimes it’s about what we can or can’t afford and sometimes it’s about what we choose not to buy. Nikki wants a Gameboy more than anything else she can imagine. She knows she won’t get a Gameboy. Too expensive and too anti-social for my Christmas-buying list. And maybe it’s better for her to dream about it than to own it. If she owned it, she’d probably be bored with it in a couple of months.

Don’t get me wrong – I DO like to indulge my kids (and myself) now and then. When we sold the camper last year, every member of the family got to buy something their heart cherished. Nikki got an mp3 player, Julie got a bean-bag chair, and Maddie got some toy she had her eye on (I can't remember which). I got my digital camera. Marcel got a new bike. But that was a rare moment. I think the indulgences have to be rare and special for them to mean anything. In between, some of the dreams have to remain just that – dreams.

All of this is my meandering way of getting to the original point of this post – bashing Wal-mart. Have you heard about their new advertising ploy – Toyland? It’s a website where kids get to play a “game”, pick out all the things they want, and it then sends an email to their parents with their wishlist, saving them the time of writing it down, and helping them do some of the parent-nagging. Is it just me, or does this turn your stomach too? Maybe it’s no different from the Sears Wishbook, and maybe I should just chill out, but it bugs me how sneaky advertising is getting these days – especially when it comes to marketing for kids. To disguise a marketing campaign as a cheery little game, where little elves appear to tell you how cool each toy is, seems just a little too manipulative. I’ve gotten used to all the advertising on the internet, but I’m an adult and I can tune it out fairly successfully. Although we often talk about it with the girls so that they’ll be able to recognize clever marketing when they see it, they’re still very susceptible to what the advertisements tell them they should want.

In one of Anne Lamott’s stories (I think it was in Traveling Mercies), she talked about how it stunned her to realize how “entitled” her son seemed to feel – like the world owed him all kinds of things and he could expect to receive them. That’s what I fear in my kids – that with all this advertising being pelted at them thousands of times a day, they will begin to feel that owning all that stuff is the norm rather than the exception.

In spite of all of this, though, I have to say that our kids are fairly well grounded and not particularly greedy. Oh, they beg for things like every other kid, but they don’t make a lot of demands. They know their parents’ buying-power is limited and they’re also well aware that there are a lot of things we choose not to buy even if we can afford it. Mostly, they’re okay with that. As much as advertising to kids makes me see red now and then, I still believe it is possible to influence your kids to not be overly materialistic. (In fact, I've so indoctrinated my girls that the running joke in our house is that I start to twitch if we get too close to Walmart. I boycotted it a couple of years ago and haven't been back since. In fact, they've been so influenced by my shopping choices that their favourite store is Ten Thousand Villages, a fair-trade store with cool stuff from all over the world.)

I guess I just get a little weary of fighting the Wal-marts of this world to re-inforce my values with my kids. Those mega-stores have got the big bucks behind them, and a bunch of highly paid marketing gurus. My arsenal seems a little paltry in comparison.

Random things from my random brain

Random thought #1: First of all, I wanted to say thank you to all those who responded so kindly to my last post. I expect I'll go through some rough spots in the coming weeks and months, and I've come to realize that one of my support groups is made up of you, my blog community. Thanks for being that. I wish I could tell you more about what's going on, but it's complicated, involves legal issues, and is just a little too risky to discuss in an open forum. If anyone is dying to know, feel free to email me and I'll tell you more. Just say "spill the beans" in the subject line, and I'll bring you up to speed.

Now, some more random stuff...

Random thought #2: Has anyone seen the movie The Prestige? If so, what did you think? I LOVED it. It's one of the best movies I've seen in awhile. I went to see it by myself on Friday night, when I needed a break from the mental callisthenics my brain was doing, and it was just what the doctor ordered. It's smart, full of intrique and drama, well written, unpredictable, and has a delightfully surprising ending. It's about 2 young up-and-coming magicians who become obsessed with outdoing and ultimately destroying each other. In an odd way, it helped me understand a bit more about the human psyche in relation to the difficult situation I'm going through. At the beginning, the non-linear fashion of it (it hops back and forth through time) is a little distracting, but when you get used to it, it adds to the quality of it.

Random thought #3: Even though I know that part of being a good parent means teaching responsibility and life-skills, sometimes it would be WAY easier to send the kids away for a day, clean like a fiend and then let them back in the house rather than involve them in the cleaning. The girls and I cleaned all morning (in preparation for out-of-town guests and a birthday party we're hosting for our niece tomorrow), and between settling arguments about who had to clean more, checking the 4 year old's bedroom about 15 times when she asked "is it good enough NOW?", helping them haul the vacuum cleaner down the stairs, and saying "if the cleaning doesn't get done soon NOBODY gets a Slurpee", I barely got anything done. But I suppose the long term gain should be worth the short term pain - when my daughters invite me to their homes and they're at least reasonably clean, I'll be glad I made the effort. (On another note, someone tell my WHY I'm bothering to clean the house for the birthday party of a one-year-old? Like she'll really notice?)

Random thought #4: I just traded an old bicycle for a phone. Some guys from our youth group showed up at our door, playing the trade-up game that's inspired by the one red paperclip, and when they offered me a phone, I said "hey - why don't you take this old bike off our hands?" They were thrilled.

Random thought #5: One of my newest blogging friends is a talented artist named Andrea Pratt. One of these days, when I have a little extra cash, I'm going to buy one of her paintings, and hang it on my wall to inspire me. If you've got a minute, why don't you go on over and look at her art work, and while you're there, congratulate her for being the featured artist in an upcoming edition of Cahoots? When I first saw her art, I thought "she would be PERFECT for Cahoots", and it turns out I was right, 'cause they've decided to feature her. What's even more fun is that the article I wrote about blogging (which some of you provided quotes for - thank you very much) will appear in the same edition. You really should go on over to Cahoots and subscribe so you don't miss any of the fun.

Random thought #6: My beautiful niece Abigail turns one year old today. Our whole family is totally smitten with this little girl. The girls love to remind people that she is their "double cousin" (her dad is Marcel's brother and her mom is my sister), and they dote over her every chance they get. It's fun watching her grow up surrounded by cousins who adore her.

updated to add:
Random thought #7: If you're desperate for a little mommy-quiet-time, you might want to try my new trick. When the kids are all downstairs, wash and wax the upstairs floor (which includes the space just above the stairs) and every time they start to come up, shout "Stop! You can't come up right now. The floor is wet." When you're done, curl up on the couch and read a good book. Or just stare out the window aimlessly like I just did. If you're lucky, you can convince them it takes an hour for the wax to dry.

No, I will not be joining NaBloPoMo, or whatever it's called

Nope, I will not promise you a post every day (especially since I already missed yesterday). Normally I'd be happy to - in fact, I often post every day. But this month, I need the freedom to sulk and pout, and just be uncreative and occasionally uncommunicative. Yes, sometimes I might be found curled up in my bed with the covers over my head instead of at the computer being all friendly. It's not the pending winter - no, I rather enjoyed the fresh layer of snow. It's not the restlessness I talked about a little while ago. It's not even my sleepy soul.

It's something else entirely, and I'm dying to talk about it, but I can't. Let's just say it's ugly and unpleasant, and my name will probably be dragged through the mud a few times in the coming months and perhaps even years. And, starting next week, I will probably need to make a few too many trips to another province.

I'll just say that sometimes it's really, really hard being in management. Most of the time, I enjoy being in a position of leadership, but some days, it's not worth the "big bucks". Some days, I just want to be a working stiff who shows up in the morning, counts widgets, and then goes home at the end of the day. Some mornings, when I wake up from a nightmare brought on by all of this like I did this morning, I'd rather stay in bed.


On another note entirely, I've been reading Torch by Cheryl Strayed (recommended by Laura before she disappeared from the face of the earth under the allegations that she was a fake), and I have to say the woman (Cheryl Strayed, that is) knows how to get alot of things right. Like grief, for example. Like the deep trench left in your life after the loss of a parent. And like the betrayal you feel when you watch a parent move on to another relationship.

Here's a quote:
"...as the weeks passed and then turned to months, Claire's sorrow thickened, deepened. She came to see that her grief did not have an end, or if it did, she would not be delivered there. Grief was not a road or a river or a sea but a world, and she would have to live there now. The world was different for each person, for her and for Joshua and for Bruce. She couldn't say what Joshua's or Bruce's was, but hers was a place vast and wide. It was everywhere, went on forever. The sky at night in a place famous for its night sky: Montana or the Sahara Desert. And her face eternally tipped up to that sky."

Einstein, the sheep, and the witch

Doesn't quite have the same ring to it as The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, but everyone had their own ideas about costumes this year, so it was a fairly motley crew of trick-or-treaters at our house tonight.



I love Halloween, even on a cold snow-covered night like tonight. I like the cheerfulness of children on the street, I like opening my door to neighbours, I like sneaking peeks into other people's homes (who knew that our bachelor neighbour played the organ?), I like costumes, I like jack-o-lanterns, I like candy, I like wandering around outside with my kids, and I like the momentary feeling of community on our block.

The children are growing up, though. Nikki and Julie made plans with their friends (which included roaming the richer neighbourhoods because they give out better loot), so it was only Maddie and I making our way around the block. Nonetheless, it was a treat walking around with her, listening to her chat happily to everyone she met on the street and remembering to say Thank You (and then proudly reporting to me "Mom, I remembered my manners at FOUR houses in a row!")

Some days, I think my heart will burst with love for these children I've been entrusted with.

All these little pieces

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of my third grade teacher who gave me a sparkly pink change purse when I won the spelling bee.
There’s a little piece of my best childhood friend who lived a mile down the road, just close enough to get to by bike or horse, even though we had to sneak quietly past the skunk house.
There’s a little piece of her dad who used to tickle me on the couch with the two remaining fingers on his hand.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of the boy who used to call me “mighty heif”, with a hint of admiration, because I acted like a tomboy at recess time.
There’s a little piece of the girl-bully who yelled at me when I missed the ball in the outfield and blamed me for losing the game.
There’s a little piece of my best friend in high school who called me “hez” in a best-friend kind of way.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of all the children I used to baby-sit, and their parents who paid me my first real money.
There’s a little piece of my high school physics teacher who knew how to “slap ‘em into moles” and make science come alive.
There’s a little piece of my brother who gave me two hundred dollars to go on a high school band trip to Toronto because my parents couldn’t afford it.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of the mean boss in Banff who made fun of anyone who couldn’t make a sink sparkle or fold a towel with precision.
There’s a little piece of the friend who told me that God is like a mountain, and might look different depending what side you’re standing on.
There’s a little piece of the professor who told me he looked forward to meeting me again in the writers’ circuit some day.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of the man who raped me in my bed and then climbed back out the window through which he’d come.
There’s a little piece of the seventy-something woman my sister and I met in Switzerland, who still backpacked the world and was climbing the mountain to find a campsite.
There’s a little piece of my husband’s grandma who bought me a new sewing machine and came to see my play at the Fringe Festival.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of the boss who mentored me and gave me my first shot at management because she believed I could do it.
There’s a little piece of my sister who stood up to the mean nurse at the hospital and wouldn’t leave my side in the middle of the night.
There’s a little piece of the grown-up girl-bully from Ottawa who belittled me for releasing a report to the media, even though it was the right thing to do.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of my son, who cuddled with me only from the inside and never got to call me mom.
There’s a little piece of my husband, who made me laugh so hard the first time I met him, I think I snorted coke out my nose. (As in coca-cola.)
There’s a little piece of my dad, who used to sing “Like a bird” at the top of his lungs, and always ended with “bonk-i-bonk-bonk”.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of my daughters who make me get up in the middle of the night to clean up puke, but always seem to make it feel worth the effort.
There’s a little piece of the stranger on the street who stopped to hug me when the pain of a toothache seemed too much to bear.
There’s a little piece of the friend who told me she knew, the minute we met, that we were meant for friendship.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of the bishop I met in Tanzania, who shared his bread with me and told me the greatest downfall of the western church is rock-n-roll music.
There’s a little piece of my friends from church who showed up to stuff envelopes when few other people would make the time.
There’s a little piece of the first editor who told me my work was worth publishing, and then sent me a cheque.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
There’s a little piece of the first person who visited my blog and made me feel like I’d found a new home.
There’s a little piece of the “real” writer who dismissed nearly everything I pour my heart into, and left me feeling like a bruised child.
There’s a little piece of my mom who showers her love by feeding me delicious things and caring for my children.

There’s a little piece of you in me.
A million little pieces from a million different friendships and chance encounters.
All sharing space inside me to make me
Who I am.
Thank you for giving your piece.

No more death please

Nine year old Julie has three close friends at school - R, T, and C. All three of them were at her camping birthday party in June. All three of them were planning to join Julie at tonight's costume party at our church. All week at school, they'd talked about the costumes they'd wear and the fun they'd have. That was until the world changed for little T.

On Thursday, T was pulled out of class by her aunt. Her friends all knew it had something to do with her mom who'd been sick lately, with breast cancer. On Friday morning, the teacher told the class that T's mom had died and T wouldn't be in school for awhile.

Our home is full of sadness again. Julie is our compassionate little girl who does things like buy all her friends and sister (and half the kids in her class) treats at the bake sale at school yesterday, because she wouldn't want to enjoy them alone. Her little heart is broken for her friend. And my heart is broken for both Julie and her friend. Not only does T not have a mom anymore, she doesn't have a dad in the picture either. According to Julie, his departure has something to do with drugs. Unfortunately, we don't know the family enough to know if there's a strong support system around T and her brother and sister. I wish I knew. If not, I wish I could find that little girl, take her into my home, and protect her somehow. But, because T has left her family home and is apparently with her uncle right now, we don't even know where to find her.

I hate it when I know there is a little girl hurting, and Julie would do almost anything to comfort her, and we can do nothing. I tried to phone the school yesterday to see if they had contact information, but by the time I thought of it, the office was closed.

Last night, I crawled into bed with Julie, and we cried and prayed, and cried and prayed some more. It was all we could do. Unfortunately, it didn't feel like enough.

The things I have on my desk

For lack of anything better to write, here’s a list of the little treasures on my desk (and bookshelf and filing cabinet) and the little stories that go with them:

- A pottery figurine of a child lying on the floor leaning on an open book and gazing at a globe. This was a gift from my sister ccap, because she understands things about me and shares a common love of both reading and traveling.

- A Russian matryoshka doll which my brother Dwight and sister-in-law Lorna brought back from Russia. I love nesting dolls, and it is particularly significant to me because I once wrote a play (and had it produced) called “Wooden Dolls” which is about the various versions of ourselves we keep hidden inside the polished exterior.

- A magic eight ball. Ask a question, shake it, and the answer will appear. I bought it for fun when ccap and I were in New York City. I wanted some simple answers to my many questions.

- A black and white picture of me and my girls.

- A mini wooden artist's model, because I've always dreamt of being an artist some day.

- A carved wooden bowl that has an elephant leaning over as if to drink from the centre of the bowl. I bought it in Tanzania and I use it as a candy bowl.

- A family picture that's a few years old and should be replaced. Maddie's still a baby in the picture. All three girls are wearing the matching purple dresses I made for them one Christmas. That's the last time I sewed them matching outfits.

- A small translucent globe. I got this as a parting gift when I left my last job because they knew I was coming to work for an organization involved in international development and that I would do some globe-trotting.

- A small yellow cab, also bought in New York City, just because I loved all the yellow cabs in that fascinating city.

- A squeeze toy, also shaped like a globe. (Are you sensing a trend here?)

- A couple of plants that I’ve managed to keep alive for 2 and a half years (nearly a record!) One is actually a whole collection of plants in one pot – it was sent to me by a friend of mine on my first day of work here and it is still looking quite healthy.

- An inukshuk that was presented to me as a thank you gift for speaking at a communications conference. I spoke about crisis communications after my experience with communicating about SARS (I managed media relations at the lab where it was tested). Just recently, I met someone who’d been at that conference and she actually remembered something I said, so at least I made an impression on one person.

- An orange squishy toy/stress ball that my friend Jo-Anne gave me when she left work to start a new job. She was hoping for less stress in her life.

- A goofy-faced toy that speaks when you slam it against something. It usually says “You’re bothering me!” Maddie loves to play with it when she visits my office.

- A small plastic monkey. My friend and colleague Kelly gave it to me when we got through the huge challenge of communicating to the public that the lab was beginning to use monkeys to test deadly diseases like AIDS and SARS (we had to call them “non human primates” in all the communication material, because it sounded more scientific and less like cute fuzzy animals).

- A beautiful carved gourd that I bought in Africa. It has designs and animals (elephants, rhinos, and zebras) carved all around it. I bought it when I went to the market in downtown Nairobi with my friend C-L. To me, it holds memories of Africa.

- A pottery bowl that I made when I was learning how to use a pottery wheel (sadly, I never became proficient). It’s full of lentils and beans and rice, and for me it represents a begging bowl. Buddhist monks use begging bowls to go out into the streets of the village to beg for their daily portion of food. It represents their commitment to living simple lives and asking for only what they need and no more. It’s also about having trust that they will be provided for. I strive to live more like that, so I have the begging bowl to remind me.

I love all these little treasures gathered around me because each one of them tells a little story of my life and many of them are connected to special people. Sometimes I use them for ice-breakers when I facilitate workshops - each participant is asked to pick out an object and explain to the group how that object represents their life. It always seems to open up interesting stories.

What's on YOUR desk?

Sometimes the words of a song say it best...

I've seen a lot and a lot I've seen
Hope I never stop dreaming if you know what I mean
Sometimes it all ends in disarray
Sometimes I feel myself slipping away

My soul's asleep, so wake me up
My body's fading, so wake me up
My soul's asleep, come on and wake me up

Baby its subtle and it does it well
I just walk on through underneath that spell
Flashing lights and jamboree
I try to stay awake but I'm drifting away

I've seen a lot and a lot I've seen
Sometimes I fall through the gaps in between
And then the world it begins to sway
Pretty soon I can feel myself slipping away
Wake me up.

- Martyn Joseph

Call it restlessness, call it a "god-shaped hole", call it "a longing for heaven", call it "not ready for winter" blues, call it pms, call it depression, call it a sudden impulse to cry in the mall, call it "losing it over chapstick", call it a deep sadness over an evangelical festival that seems to forget that God is a god of peace and redemption and not just judgement - call it whatever you like - my soul feels asleep these days.

It will wake up soon - it always does - but for now I guess it needs to sleep.

Always waiting

Life is good. I have a great job. I might even call it my dream job. I get to do creative things like writing and designing and brainstorming new ideas. I get to meet lots of interesting people – both here in Canada and in other parts of the world. I am in a position of some authority, so I get to make decisions and have a real impact on the organization and the work we do. I work in a non-profit organization whose mission is to “end hunger” – what better goal could there be than that? I even got to create a new blog - on work time! (It's here - not my writing, just my design.) I get to feel good about doing philanthropy and I get to tell stories of the people whose lives we’re impacting. I get to travel to interesting places. In February, I’ll probably make my second trip to Africa – and this trip will be primarily for the purpose of writing stories and taking pictures – how dreamy is THAT?

I have a great marriage to a compassionate funny man. Three of the most beautiful girls in the world call me mommy and make me feel loved unconditionally. I have a comfortable home with enough food to eat, plenty of clothes to wear, a car in the driveway and a shiny bike in the garage.

So many of my dreams come true on a regular basis, it hardly seems fair. Not only do I have a great job, but I also get to do some fun freelance work on the side. My writing gets published fairly regularly now, I have a few opportunities to facilitate interesting workshops in leadership and creativity, and I get to do some public speaking now and then.

Life really is good. I could hardly imagine a more bountiful, complete life.

But then… why oh WHY am I always waiting for the next good thing to come around? It seems I am almost always restless, dreaming of something bigger and better and more adventurous. Beautiful things surround me, and yet I long for more beautiful things. There is always something I am dreaming of – another trip, another freelance opportunity, another adventure, another job, another room in my house, a bigger kitchen, another country to live in for awhile, more time for creativity, less responsibility to a 9 to 5 job, more time to take art classes, a beautiful office space that I can decorate to inspire me, a family vacation, and on and on and on.

Restlessness is so much a part of my nature, I probably wouldn’t recognize myself if I stopped being restless. When the thing I’m dreaming of arrives, I revel in it for awhile, feel blessed and refreshed for a brief time, and then I turn my back and start dreaming of the next good thing.

The teachers in school used to call it “daydreaming” and yes, I am very guilty of staring out the window and daydreaming. When I was growing up, I daydreamed about moving to the city, getting a good job, flying somewhere in an airplane, and having lots of adventures. Then I grew up, all those dreams came true, and soon I was staring out the window again.

Perhaps it’s in the nature of every creative person to have a restlessness like this. Maybe it’s good to always have a dream. Perhaps that’s the only way I’ll move forward – reaching for the things ahead of me.

But sometimes, I wish I knew how to be content. At least for a little longer. I think I could learn a lesson from the Buddhists who find contentment in mindfulness. Or the apostle Paul for that matter, who wrote these wise words: "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." Sigh. I wish I knew the secret of being content.

I need a maid

Yesterday, I lost it over a tube of chapstick. Totally lost it. The kind of “mamma’s gone around the bend” losing it that sends the children scurrying into safe places far from my wrath.

Julie and Maddie were fighting over chapstick. “I want it.” “But it’s MINE.” “But I found it!” “It’s MINE!” “Then why did you leave it lying around?” “Why did you take it if it’s not yours?” “GIVE IT TO ME!” “BUT IT’S MINE!!!”

I spun around from where I was taking cups out of the cupboard, slammed the cupboard door shut, and shrieked, in an evil “mamma’s possesed by a demon” voice, “GIVE IT TO ME!” And when it wasn’t offered up immediately, I shrieked louder, “I SAID GIVE IT TO ME RIGHT NOW!” Defiantly, Julie clutched it, daring me to snatch it from her hand. “But it’s MINE and Maddie took it.” “I didn’t ask whose it WAS. I said GIVE IT TO ME. NOW. If you fight over something, you lose it.” And then I snatched, opened the cupboard again, and stashed the offending chapstick on the highest shelf.

Fuming, I stormed out of the room, and did the only safe thing I could think of – gave myself a time-out in the bedroom. With the door closed, and the pillow squished against my face to hide the seething anger and overflowing tears, I took a few deep breaths.

The thing is, I wasn’t really angry at the girls. Oh, I was plenty annoyed with the constant bickering, but that didn’t really warrant the spinning, shrieking, and snatching. I was just annoyed in general, and because they were there adding to the annoyance, they reaped the wrath of Mommy.

Sunday often seems to be my grumpy day, especially if I haven’t gotten enough done, the housework is piling up, and I feel like resting but can’t justify it until I’ve done 6 loads of laundry and cleaned for a few hours.

Our house has fallen into disarray again, and that always makes me grumpy. I’m having a bit of trouble adjusting to Marcel’s full-time school schedule. When he was home, he kept up with most of the housework, and I did laundry and some of the deeper cleaning on the weekends, and it usually seemed bearable. Now that he’s at school full-time and usually has to study in the evenings and weekends, everything is falling behind. It makes me really cranky. It makes me do stupid things like blow up at my kids over some chapstick.

I need a maid. When Marcel and I were both working full-time, we had a housecleaner come in every second week to whip our house into shape, and it was a delight. We could keep up with the day-to-day stuff as long as someone did the deep cleaning every couple of weeks for us. It was downright dreamy coming home on those days when she’d been there. I’m far from a clean-freak, but a clean house always makes me happier.

Yesterday was just too much. I was tired and really wanted to nap, but I knew laundry and cleaning needed to be done. On top of that, Nikki was bugging me to work on her Halloween costume (she’s never happy with the last minute stuff I’m usually guilty of), Maddie really wanted me to look through her memory box with her, and Julie wanted to play games, etc., etc. So I lost it. And then, because losing it is not healthy for my family, I picked myself up and got myself out of the house. I spent an hour thrift-shopping, bought myself a new winter wardrobe (2 sweaters and 3 shirts) and some juice glasses for a grand total of $14, and then came home much more refreshed and ready to tackle the mountain of laundry.

Thankfully, my family caught on that Mom needed a little help (or therapy - take your pick), so everyone did their assigned cleaning, Marcel tackled the kitchen and entrance way (so at least it LOOKS reasonable should anyone enter), and by the end of the afternoon, the house was at least presentable and the laundry was almost caught up. I still seem to be stepping on squishy things on the basement floor, but I can ignore that for now.

I actually managed to relax at the computer and watch a little TV at the end of the day. I didn’t get a nap though. And I still need a maid. And perhaps some therapy. Or maybe just a vacation.

Oh, and I think I need to apologize to my daughters tonight.

Of ladybugs, leaves, and little girls...

Potty talk

In response to Jenny's post about the photo her friend sent her of an ancient potty-training chair, I found myself rooting around for this photo from my trip to Africa: Look inside that open door. Notice anything missing? Yes, you got it - a toilet seat. Or even a wooden bench with a hole in it. This, my friends, is what we "affectionately" referred to as the "squatty potty". You just hike up your skirt or shorts, squat down with your butt hanging over the hole, and do your business. With practice, you can actually get everything IN the hole instead of beside it - or worse, on your foot. After one of our travel companions, while trying to get used to the squatting position, dropped a few shillings down the hole, we started referring to our "business" as "dropping shillings in the hole".

When you're doing the kind of travelling I did in Africa (visiting remote villages, staying far from any tourist attractions), you have to get used to dealing with squatty potties. Not all of them were this bad - in some of the nicer establishments we stayed in, they looked a little more like this: See the shower head on the wall? In this particular hotel, the squatty potty doubled as the drainage for your shower. And, if I remember correctly, you were supposed to gather as much of the water from washing and showering in that bucket as possible, so that you could save water by using that for flushing.

Are you tempted to go to Africa yet? When I shared these pictures with Jenny, she said she was going to kiss her toilet. (I'm still waiting for the pictures of THAT!)

I love travelling, and I look forward to going back to Africa, but I have to admit, washrooms provided the greatest challenges for me. One never feels particularly clean when you have to squat over a dirty hole in the ground and only occasionally find a water source close enough to wash your hands. And (guys, you may want to skip the next sentence), if you have your period, like I did during my trip... well, you can guess how "lemony fresh" I was feeling. Add the oppressive heat and the dust, and the lack of showers in some of the places we stayed, and you have the makings of a fairly stinking bunch of travellers stuck in a bus together for hours on end.

One of my bleakest moments in Africa happened in a washroom. Thankfully, this was one of the few places with a western-style toilet, because I spent much of the night on it, doubled over in nauseous agony. In my sickly stupor, I glanced up at the concrete wall in front of me, and there perched a happy little gecko munching on his night-snack - a very large cockroach. Ugh.

The truth is though, I can't wait to go back. Africa is amazing, the people are fascinating, the experiences are exhilarating, and the scenery is incredible. I want to fuel my soul with their stories again. I want to be touched by their hospitality. I want to hear the joy in their singing. I want to listen to the wisdom of the community elders. I want to watch the children dancing in the village gathering-place. I want to be humbled and honoured when they share a meagre meal with me. I want to relive that breath-taking moment, watching the uniform-clad school boys dash off to school singing, while the sun rose over the accacia trees. Once in awhile, in this efficiency-obsessed western world, it does us good to squat over a hole in the ground for awhile. Sometimes, in the giving up of conveniences and the acceptance of simplicity, we find ourselves more connected with the earth and the people who walk on it with us.

All is well

Double by-pass plus valve replacement. He's in recovery. It's a wonder what they can do nowadays.

Not much else to say today. The girls and I attended movie night at school. Got to see Over the Hedge again. That's one of my favourite kids' movies of late. I LOVE Hammie's slow motion scene. It was worth it just to see that scene again.

Coming out of the school tonight, gentle snow was falling. It's hard not to like snow when it comes down so soft and gentle and the children dash outside to try to catch it on their tongues. The seasons of time are just as they should be, covering the ground with white so that it can rejuvenate and recover in time for another Spring.

Perhaps my father-in-law will be out in his garden again, come Spring. I can't imagine him without his garden and his John Deere lawn tractors.

For now, though, Fall has settled in, and just like Hammie with his nuts, it's time for the long rest.

Right now

My father-in-law is lying on an operating table with his heart sliced open.

Thank God for the gifted hands of surgeons.

And while I'm busy making people feel jealous, this one's for Michele...

Tonight, in the dark recesses of my cupboard, I discovered that I still have some of this...
So, picture me, sitting here in front of my computer, enjoying a hot cup of chai latte, in my favourite Laurel Burch mug. Aaahhh...

Wanna come over for some?

This post is solely for the purpose of making my brother jealous

This afternoon, I took my corporate credit card, walked down the street, and bought the following toys:

So the next time I go to Africa (which will probably be in January or February), I get to lug this baby around and snap me some real good pics! Jealous yet?

I'm just trying to catch up for the whole year of jealousy you caused me back in 1991.

Please God, don't let me die in a place like that

For centuries, people have been designing magnificent churches. They've also been designing beautiful and comfortable homes. Nowadays, companies spend millions to design beautiful stores and shopping centres. My question is - with all these gifted designers in the world, WHY hasn't anyone figured out how to design a decent hospital emergency room???

I've been in quite a few emergency rooms, and I have NEVER been in one that is designed well. They are the most depressing, ugly, cluttered, disconcerting places I have ever seen. Why? This is the place where people face fear, pain, death, loneliness, and all sorts of crazy emotions, and yet they're forced to spend time in a space that does absolutely nothing to make any of those emotions easier to bear.

There are so many things wrong with emergency rooms. The waiting rooms are cramped and ugly, with the most uncomfortable utilitarian chairs in the world. The only things adorning the wall are public health posters warning you of the infectious diseases you might catch to add to the pain you're already going through. The nurse's desk is designed purely for function (and badly at that), with no attempt at making it friendly and comforting.

When you get past the nurse's desk, through the horrific institutional doors that make you feel like you've stepped into prison, it gets worse. Beds are lined up against the wall with thin pastel curtains between them. There are tubes and wires everywhere. The nurses and doctors have to work in tiny cramped spaces. The walls are some nondescript colour that does nothing to soothe or comfort you.

In the portion of the emergency room we were in today, someone had made a feeble attempt at making the space more welcoming. They'd taped hundreds of calendar pictures all over the walls in a haphazard manner. It was enough to make your eyes dizzy, with splashes of unrelated colour in images everywhere you looked. It was a very sad attempt at redeeming an ugly space.

That's just the SPACE. Don't get me started on hallway medicine, where people have to spend hours and sometimes days lying in beds in the middle of hallways because there are not enough spaces for them elsewhere. More than once, I've had to lay on one of those hallway beds for several hours.

I could go on and on, but to tell you the truth, this rant is probably just my lame attempt at masking the real reason why I'm a little out of sorts tonight. We were in an emergency room tonight. Marcel's dad is back in the hospital. His heart is deteriorating. He needs surgery, but it's taken too long for them to book it, so he ended up with another heart attack. This time, they probably won't send him home again until they can manage to schedule his surgery. Between by-passes and valve replacement, they practically have to rebuild his heart.

There is so little I can say about this. It's not really my story to tell, since I am the in-law. But I can tell you that it hurts. No one wants to lose him, but nobody can change the way he has chosen to live his life. Nobody can hold him here. They can try to rebuild his heart, but they may not be able to ensure that it keeps beating.

These things are completely unrelated, but I feel like writing them anyway

I am no domestic diva. Not even close. Tonight, it was nearly 6:00 by the time the girls and I got home from dropping Marcel off at university and everyone was hungry. For supper we had spring rolls, scrambled eggs, and raw veggies. Odd combination, but it worked and the girls loved it. In my defense, at least the spring rolls were hand-made, bought from a farmers' market.
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I am quite proud to be friends with Linda and Michele today. They show up to help out with all kinds of things I ask of them - they've catered meals, helped with some writing projects, babysat my kids when we were in a jam, and today they helped stuff envelopes for a massive mailing we're doing at work. Not only were they gracious enough to show up, they're the interesting and fun kind of friends you love to introduce to your coworkers to prove what a cool person you really are for having friends like that. (I'm quite fond of their sister Yvonne too, but she wasn't there today.)
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My children are upstairs fighting when they're supposed to be clearing the table. I'm choosing to ignore it. Here's hoping no blood is shed.
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My new favourite show is Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I watch very few other shows with any kind of regularity (except maybe Amazing Race and occasionally Corner Gas, the greatest Canadian show on TV), but I'm totally hooked on this one. It has some of the smartest writing I've seen in a long time, the actors have the amazing ability to be both funny and serious on the same show, Matthew Perry has great comic timing, they have cool guest appearances (Sting!! Does it get much cooler than that?), and they actually treat Christianity with respect with a strong and funny character who reflects the kind of fun and real Christianity I want to be part of. For one of the best monologues in recent television, check out the following clip...



One of my favourite lines... "There's always been a struggle between art and commerce. And I'm telling you - art is getting its ass kicked!"

Your mission, should you choose to accept it...

Rather ironically, shortly before this whole deception thing blew up on my blog, I made a succesful pitch to Cahoots magazine for an article on blogging and how meaningful relationships can be built on blogs. I haven't given up on the story, even though it will now include a short section on how, just like in real life, some relationships can be precariously built on deception.

I already have the centrepiece of the article, but I need a few supporting quotes and ideas from people who have found that their blogs have helped them build meaningful relationships with people who show them compassion and support. I'm particularly interested in how blogs might help you work through difficult experiences or phases in your life - like tragedy, mental illness, postpartum depression, rough parenting times, etc.

So here's what I'm proposing - if you're interested in providing a response, I'd like you to answer a few questions (either as a post on your blog, a comment here, or in an email to me). I can't promise I'll include all of you - if alot of people jump in, I'll have to pick and choose the quotes I need to support the article. But whether or not I use what you write, I'm still very interested in reading it.

Here goes with the questions: (Feel free to answer all or just one or two.)

1. Why did you start blogging?

2. Do you feel that you've developed meaningful relationships on your blog? If so, tell a story or two of a relationship that made a difference to you. How are these relationships different and/or similar to your in-person relationships?

3. Have you used your blog as a place to work out tough situations in your life? If so, what was the situation/challenge, and how did the blog help?

4. Were there people you met through blogging who helped you through those tough situations? What did they do that helped?

5. Were there ever things that you felt you could talk about on your blog to "strangers" that you couldn't tell your flesh-and-blood friends and family?

6. Do your family and "in-person" friends read your blog? Why or why not?

7. Have you ever regretted admitting really personal things on your blog? Why or why not?

8. Have you come into conflict with anyone on your blog? Did it destroy a relationship that you valued, or was it someone you didn't care about?

9. Do you ever think about quitting blogging? Why or why not?

10. Any other interesting stories that might be applicable?

Thanks in advance. If you write something, please leave me a comment or send an email so I know about it. Also, I'd appreciate knowing if you're willing to share your real name for the article and the address of your blog.

And I'm going to have to assume, for the purpose of the article, that you're telling the truth! :-)

Liar, liar, pants on fire

So, according to Doc, Laura's a big ol' faker. Too bad. I quite enjoyed her blog and she seemed like an interesting person. Laura, if you're reading this, and you really are a faker, perhaps you should consider writing novels - you create some very convincing characters and you write well. And when you get your novel published, come back and tell me so I can go buy it, 'cause I'd read your writing any time.

The thing is, though, I really don't know if Doc's telling the truth. Perhaps Doc's the faker and Laura's an innocent "victim". Who knows? Or maybe Laura is Doc's alter-ego and they're one and the same person. We just never know, do we? Come to think of it, for all you know, maybe Michele's really MY alter-ego and deep down somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, I've hidden my inner dog-lover and gardener. (Although, her last few posts make the "dog-lover" part seem a little questionable.) If you believe my version of the truth, though, Michele is REALLY an amazing, smart, funny and compassionate person who's one of my best friends - in real flesh-and-blood life.

Yeah, it's true that we really don't know when we're being deceived online. But is that really any different than real life? I've been lied to in my real life too - by people I thought were friends. I used to have a friend (notice the past tense?) who was a pathological liar who concocted all kinds of stories about the classes she was taking, the friends she hung out with, the hard-luck stuff she'd lived through, etc. Mostly I just ignored it and chalked it up to a desperate bid for attention, but then the lies got personal. The deal-breaker was the rumour she spread that Marcel's breakdown and subsequent suicide attempt had something to do with the demise of our marriage and possibly even an affair. That was no longer ignorable.

I also knew a woman who got engaged to a man she thought was a gift from God. He treated her like gold and she was blissfully happy - until, by pure fluke, she discovered that he had a double life with a wife and kids. Big ol' liar.

Despite the knowlege that there will always be liars around, and some of them may even hurt me now and then, I much prefer to approach life with the assumption that most people are good people who tell the truth most of the time. I may get duped now and then, but I think life is happier if you don't live with paranoia and distrust.

And when it comes to blogs, well I'm just going to keep assuming that most of you are telling the truth. And if you're not - well, that won't really affect my life too deeply. If you're a good writer, and you enjoy creating an alternative universe, go for it. It's not really the end of the world. I think it's a little wierd and probably even a little sad, but who am I to say?

I think most of us are smart enough to realize that blogs are a form of entertainment and not really a replacement for real life. I never really understood all the hub-bub over "A Million Little Pieces". So what if it was all fabricated? Don't you read a book mostly for entertainment? It seems like lots of people were entertained (I never read it, so I couldn't really say), so was it the big travesty some people made it out to be? Now if he had been selling himself as a journalist for a reputable news service, then it would have been a different thing.

Yes, I have to admit that now and then I get a little nervous of having kids online, but even that doesn't worry me too much. My oldest daughter is one of the most cautious people I know, my second daughter would rather get lost in a book than a computer, and my youngest is still playing Elmo games. So I don't live in paranoia that they might fall into the hands of a predator online. We talk about it lots, and so far I don't see any reason for worry.

I'm not going to stop making blog friends just because some of you may be fakers. And those of you who are truly genuine people, thanks. You renew my faith in humanity. There are lots of truly wonderful people out there in blogland, just like there are in real life. Take the amazing Karla, for example - she's gone out of her way to help me fix my blog template. She's my new techno-hero, and she's nice in real life too.