Things that make me happy

I've been in a funk.

Mostly a blogging funk, but when we had to cancel the family road-trip to the west coast (breaking my mom's heart) due to automobile kerfluckedness, THEN suffered a self-imposed home-exile due to abhorrence to dealing with lice or lice-related issues any more than we had to. We did some fun stuff on our holidays, but still, it was no road-trip, and couldn't even be considered a bait-and-switch.

Then there was BlogHer. I didn't go last year, it didn't even occur to me to go (it did occur to me to make fun of it). This year was the same, except it DID occur to me to go. I'd befriended some pretty cool people in February (I mean IRL, they were already befriended) and there were mutterings of several of them going. Plus it was in New York. NEW FREAKING YORK! I don't have a bucket list, but if I did, going to New York would be on it (Chicago? check). I would have loved to see them all again & party in New Yawk. Seeing the photos, and even the videos, made me so sad I was shocked at myself. There isn't necessarily "always next year", as the people I want to see won't necessarily be there.

I decided to battle the crappy feelings by taking Nenette's lead (sure it was a month ago. I told you: blogging funk. I PASSED UP A MEME for crying out loud!) & coming up with some of the simple things that make me happy. I used her criteria: none of the obvious – family, friends, socio-economic status...

The happy list (in progress):

1. Pasta, specifically spaghetti, with butter & salt
2. My Ecco shoes – I've always heard tell of the magic shoe that feels like pillows on your feet. These are them, for me.
3. My bed. I was nearly 40 before I threw a hissy fit and got – no, invested in a real bed. Not going into what we had before, because this is about what makes me happy!
4. Sushi. With my GFs; with Max; with the kids; when Max makes it; with my sister. All are completely different experiences and all make me happy.
5. My sister's expecting. In February. I'm so freaking excited, but it's just not What We Do to be all weepy & squealy (besides, she'd slap me). I'm glad Norah did that when she found out. It was like I was jumping and squealing vicariously through her. She is going to kick my ASS for putting it here. HA! If she ever read it!
6. Taking photographs (with film). Haven't done it (really done it) in a long, long time, but it did make me happy.
7. Minesweeper. Shut up.
8. Washing my face. After some 35 years of fighting with skin products, I was looking up some Major Home Exfoliation Ritual that I think I found through Bionic Beauty and at the end of it they said, "or just use a rough face cloth & hot water" (???) so that is all I do now and it feels sooooo good. Add a touch of light moisturizer, and it sure doesn't hurt the happiness scale that Max says "mmm you smell so good"
9. Elizabeth I
10. Lasagne
11. My parents' cottage lot. It has coexisting promises of a future of family gathering & relaxing solitude at the same time.
12. xkcd
13. Getting @ replies
14. When the clock reads 12:34
15. Seeing hot-air balloon in the sky (haven't seen any this year, wtf?)
16. Painting my toes. Well, ok, my toe-nails. Although with my skill-level, I should just stick to calling it "painting my toes". But whatever, it makes me happy.
17. Getting a pedicure. Thanks to Rougie, I'm going to go by myself on my birthday (unless I get a better offer???)
18. Working in the garden

Wow. Lots of simple stuff makes me happy. What makes YOU happy?

(OMG! I really want some buttery/salty pasta RFN!)

(I Had a Fabulous, Witty Title but I Forgot It)

I hate my bad memory. I try and make up for it with emails to myself & post-its everywhere. My memory is so bad sometimes that I don't recognize my own reminder notes. I noticed an email at home with the subject "BRING BACK CORDS". My first thought: "motherfucker, who the hell is sending me some internet petition to restore corduroy pants to fashion A-lists?" Looking further, it was I, reminding myself to return the recharger cords for my phone & headset to the office. I had brought them home to be able to use them during my holidays.

If recalling something bugs me, it really bugs me until I remember it. I recall phoning my dear husband and screaming "HE'S OUR DENTIST!!" I'm sure he would have said "who IS this?" if not for call display. Even then...

We had seen a very familiar man completely out of context and it tortured me all day. I was quite ashamed as I got to the point of picturing this man in various forms of garb "suit & tie?" No "jeans & T?" No "safety vest & hardhat?" No.

I was starting to question my motivation for this avenue of thought (it's possible that some may consider the gentleman to be hottie hot hot perhaps somewhat attractive) except that I said to myself "it's not like I've imagined him in a Speedo" except – dammit, there it is. Sorry self.

I made it to "scrubs?" (don't ask why, I don't remember) when, wait a minute, there's something there… The "out of context" was at the funeral of the parent of a friend. A friend who used to work for that dentist. Her recommendation was how we had hooked up with him.

Do you have any tips for um... what was I talking about again?

Remembrance

His name was Charles Raymond Bradley and he was a Petty Officer with the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was my Grandmother's baby brother and the youngest in the family. I don't know exactly how old he was, because even though I had the presence of mind to pay some attention when my Grandmother spoke, I did NOT have the presence of mind to write these things down. He looks pretty young here.

He was a navigator on a bomber, and part of a fairly successful team – at least according to my only (possibly somewhat biased) source. My Grandmother told me frequently how after every successful mission, the crew each got an egg for breakfast. This was a big deal, as eggs were a rare commodity at the front. Reserved for the elite. Once you had twenty-five eggs, your tour was done. He had eaten twenty-one eggs.

When he was shot down over Germany, my Grandmother said that it ripped a hole in my Great-Grandmother's heart. She became embittered and angry at them for taking her baby. I wouldn't be so sure she even knew with whom she was angry.

I can't relate to the horrors of war. My heart lets me dabble at the edge of what it may be like to let your baby go off to an uncertain future, with odds further against them than you care to fathom. For obvious reasons, it doesn't let me more than dabble. More importantly, the only thing of which I am certain is that it would be nothing like one could ever imagine. Never mind the visit.

It's BECAUSE I can't relate that I am so grateful. I have not had to consider the possibility of such a hole ripped into me for the greater good.

I am so deeply indebted to the men and women who have served and continue to serve to protect my privileges as such a comparatively spoiled princess. Is there really any more that I can say than: Thank you?

----------------------

Max and I went yesterday to the Remembrance Day ceremony at the kids' school. The Principal makes a very sincere effort to beat the kids over the head with this. I believe it's pretty much provincial curriculum to not let this solemn day pass by un-noted, but I get the impression our Principal would not have to be asked. I was slightly disappointed at the parent turnout to this (what I think is an) important occasion, but noted that it was not specifically sent out as an invitation. I was extremely impressed at the children who sat silent and mostly (amazingly) still for a very long time. There are glimmers of hope.

Out of Water

I was born at a very young age in a galaxy far, far away – not a Ford Galaxie, that's probably where I was conceived (did you see what I did there? Ford actually made the Galaxie, and they existed at the time of my conception. That's called "research".) Actually, it wasn't all that long ago, and it was less than a mile from where I sit right now (crap, it's more like 5 km. What is that in dog years? I'm tired of research). I've lived here about 99% of my life (sunovabich, you're going to make me calculate this, aren't you? K: 3/41=7% of my life *not* living here. I'll take this opportunity to say "look waaaay up. What does that banner say?")*

Alright, so you'd think I belong here. But some of the typical conduct of my fellow citizens leaves me flummoxed. Here are but a few of the things that highlight how I may not belong here.

I:

• Don't vacate the city for the lake every summer. Yes, I need a second whole household to maintain and manage, because clearly I have too much time & money
  
• Hate the Guess Who. As in, *hate*. Can't stress this enough. It may or may not be that I've manufactured this entire post in order to be able to state that.
  
• Don't hate Toronto. More indifferent. And pity. They *so* want to be a world city. Not going to happen. This is Canada. That would be grandstanding.
  
• Didn't swoon over IKEA's announcement to open here (disclosure: already own everything, which makes me a good, cheap Winnipegonian; disclosure #2: I'll be there - with my paycheque in hand – the day they open; disclosure #3: I may have emailed them about it back in the day)
  
• Don't hijack any discussion of Neil Young with "he's from Winnipeg, you know". He left. I'm over it.
  
• Know where my turn signal lever is and know how to use it. And do. But not for hours at a time.
  
• Can use an acceleration lane.
  
• Don't make monthly shopping trips to Grand Forks (disclosure: Girls' GFF Weekend. Not my choice destination, but hey, I can spend money. And hey, it's my GFFs!)
  
• Don't pine for the Jets and hyperventilate when the league utters the word "expansion". They're gone. Get over it. In fact the only *possible* way to get them back is to let them go, move on and grow as a community until we earn them on our own merit. And for the love of Christmas, don't fucking call them "The Jets" if that miraculously happens. How about: The Wholesalers? Eh? Eh? Nice ring to it.
  

I've got about 15 or 200 more ways that I don't or haven't fit in to the various groups and communities I am either forced to, or really want to be a part of. What of you?

*And, ok further: a goodly chunk was spent just outside the city – some might call it "the country" – but really, our community was here, as it sure as hell wasn't out there. I have a long history of not fitting in. Also: damn right I double count that time as time toward my God-given right ability to call myself a country-girl. It probably landed me a husband, so I can't let it go now.

Very Small Rocks

I had a dream the other night that I was in my parents' garden and they rolled a giant rock out of it and it rolled right at me. I dodged it once, but then it rolled back, right on top of me. Just as I was yelling "HELP!" they looked up and I woke up. I always wake up before the worst part of a dream – even those that don't involve my own demise.

So I woke up and I immediately began thinking "what the hell was THAT?"

I don't usually ponder the meanings of my dreams. I've had relatively few that I could figure out even if I tried. The most vivid was one I had as a child – about four. A large crowd of people – including my mother, my father and me – were running in a field, being chased by a herd of buffalo. The sky was dark with a looming storm. My mother and father were at the front of this crowd and tossing me back and forth between them. My mother was wearing a green vinyl trench coat. Did I mention they were newly separated at the time? I think it was a warning about my aversion to crowds. And buffalo.

The only other one I can recall offhand was about a former boss, whom I respect deeply. I had an image of him in a bathtub having been electrocuted with a toaster. That one freaked me out. So I asked my mom what death meant in dreams. She assured me that it was all about change, which kind of made sense, since we had just acquired a new toaster at the kitchenette. I failed to mention the bathtub and the nakedness. I don't want to know what that meant. (He's alive and well, by the way. And clothed, I presume.)

Now, I often don't pick up on metaphors and deeper meanings unless they are explained to me in very small words (high-school English was a bitch), but I sort of decided that the big giant rock was something that was overwhelming me.

I discussed this with Max, who, after mocking me soundly about dreaming about giant rocks (that's just how we roll – HAW!), analyzed – probably correctly – that may I have some difficulty in breaking down problems/issues into manageable pieces. It's all or nothing. Give'er pig. Go big or go home. And then, bleh... I'm done. Burned out. But hey! I'm done, so I can just rest. This MO would often work out just fine in my pre-child years, in an apartment, but now it does not serve me well. There is no rest, there's just the next project or task or crisis (did you know I made a whole freaking RAGGEDY ANN doll? Embroidery and everything?) So I'll consider it. Because, hey, I like rest as much as the next guy. Maybe more.

And what the hell is up with the fucking brain anyway? Why can't it just say "HEY! YOUR PARENTS ARE SEPARATING!" or "HEY! YOU'RE MORE WORRIED THAN YOU THINK ABOUT THE CHANGES AT WORK!" or

"HEY!!! STUPID!!! TRY TACKLING YOUR PROBLEMS IN SMALLER PARTS!"

I can't help but note that if I were to break up this "rock" into manageable "pieces" that a pile of gravel that size would still kill me. But maybe I take the metaphor too far.

I also note that Max wasn't in this dream, and have concluded that he must have been holding the rock back, and is actually the reason I was able to wake up at all.

Paring

Pepper's last soccer game was Wednesday evening. The previous evening was Norah's last game. Both were, for some reason, the continuation of the spring soccer season.

That was it for the programmed activities for our kids for the foreseeable future. At least until the New Year, or until I scream "FUUUUCK YOU NEED TO BE SOMEONE ELSE'S PROBLEM FOR AN HOUR!", whichever comes first.

Last year's activities included:

Norah: Piano (half-hour lesson once a week, plus practice every day), Guitar (half-hour lesson once a week, plus practice every day), Dance (one-hour lesson once a week), Squash (one-hour lesson once a week), Soccer (one-hour practice once a week, plus two one-hour games per week at various locations around the city)

Pepper: Piano (half-hour lesson once a week, plus practice every day), Basketball (one-hour practice once a week, plus a one-hour games each week at various locations around the city), Dance (one-hour lesson once a week), Soccer (two one-hour games a week)

Stewie: Soccer (two one-hour games a week). For some reason (probably him NOT constantly badgering to join things), we didn't have him in much.

It was too much. We were constantly going. We started using Google calendar because between Max and me and one car, we had to strategize and analyze the logistics of every single evening. Including weekends. The kids – separately – said "Mom, we're too busy".

How did we get into this? We're not "those people". We always swore we wouldn't over-program our kids. We mock "those people". But there's just so much that's interesting. So much that we feel they should learn. Dance for flexibility and coordination. Basketball / Soccer for team-building and discipline. Music for brain-wiring and math skillz. And they asked for it all, were enthusiastic (at the beginning) for everything.

But while they liked dancing, they didn't love it. The team sports were fun, but none of them (so far) have the bloodlust I can see in other players the same age (as soccer players, they'll make great cellists). Maybe they will later, but I'm not willing to tear at their little souls to get it now.

Music is even more difficult to ditch, as both the girls have actually been advancing fairly rapidly. Plus, we bought a whole mother-fucking expensive piano. Norah, after (Guitar Hero induced) begging to take guitar lessons all summer last year, got exceedingly belligerent and ornery (I mean more than normal) after only about a month. We forced her to stick out the entire year (until June – acquiring Guitar Hero at Christmas may or may not have bought a little time). She was (and is) actually amazing. Her teacher – a local rock-star himself – commented on her skill and potential (I think he was also secretly a little jazzed to have a nine-year-old girl asking him to teach her Metallica's "One" and AC/DC's "Thunderstruck")

So, we quit. Everything. This fall and winter we are going to do some one-off family stuff. Skating. Movies. Skiing (hey, we may be in the flattest area in the FREAKING WORLD, but we've got a lump or two suitable for kids. And me. And there's always cross-country) And looking forward to some unprogrammed time. There is much to do to regain control (assuming it's "regain" and not just "gain", but either way). I hope to be able to document some of it here, but don't hold your breath. Cleaning up and gaining control of this cluster-fuck we generously call a blog is unfortunately not terribly high up on the list. But since I enjoy whining sharing here, look for continued, random brain-farts!

Paring down is only step one. I hope it works. What do you think?

Reflections

Why is it on birthdays we find it necessary to reflect on the past present and future? And then again on New Years? And ultimately at funerals?

Well, with my birthday eggs benedict at the ready (the day was yesterday, the 18^th, but with jobs and school, today is the special breakfast, though I got my bling yesterday – that's a given) I'm not here to answer that question – especially the funeral one (though with the dearth of posting of late, there is cause to wonder) – just to do it.

I am now 41. It happens. It will happen to you! It might have already. It's not a bad thing. It beats the alternative. I believe the problem people have with aging is usually a feeling that they didn't appreciate 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, when they had it. To paraphrase the tree-hugger thing: the best time to appreciate your youth was 20 years ago. The second best time is right now.* You are still young compared to when you'll be saying "I'm so old" in 10 years.

Last year on my birthday (a "milestone"), Max asked me, not if I was "happy", but: "if you could go back 20 years and look ahead to where you are now, would you like what you saw?"**

Without hesitating (well, after I quickly sorted through the ** below), I said YES! I would have been ecstatic to see us still married, both healthy and relatively fit (he IS, I might be skinny, but not necessarily what I'd call fit), three beautiful healthy children. We are in a nice house in a wonderful neighbourhood. I am gainfully employed in a job that still provides challenges and opportunities (I think that might even be in a vision statement somewhere). Great friends and extended family – who are all still talking (hey, these days, it has to be counted!).

Are there provisos and "well, if I were to really look into it I'd change (a), (b), and (c)"? No freaking doubt! I constantly feel as though I am one crisis away from spiralling out of control on most fronts. The grand irony is that every aspect of my life is *exactly* where I want it to be, but I sometimes feel as though I have it held together by string and gum.

[The one exception is the marriage. I guess it is proof that when you meticulously and systematically replace string and gum with trust and communication, the result actually can be pretty robust. (The funny part? At EVERY stage of this relationship, we have thought this had been achieved. I fully expect to read this at 60 and mutter "pfft. Amateur.")]

So I/we are in a period of regaining control. Fortunately, there are very small changes to make. Unfortunately there are a lot of them.

What about YOU? Would your 15 or 20 year-old self be pleased with what s/he saw now?

* The tree-hugger thing: "the best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is right now"

** Here, I have to put in that the enginerd in me can tend to get hung up on the details: Do I just see a picture? Do I just get to observe interactions, but not be seen (a la Scrooge's ghost tour-guides)? Do I get to ask questions? Do I get to be INSIDE my person, feeling what I feel? I talk myself from the ledge by reminding myself that the answer is the same regardless of the observation made (just some of the details maybe?)