Influence

One hundred years ago today (March 29), my Grandma was born.

Left: She and I at her London Street house c. 1969; Right: About 30 years later, months prior to the emergence of her first great-grandchild

Grandma's been gone for just over four years, and I miss her terribly. But her mark on my life was indelible, so since she has passed, I have had far less of a sense of loss than I imagined I might. She has really not gone anywhere.

As a woman of my generation and socio-geo-nomic upbringing, it's easy to become complacent about my lot in life. It's easy to wave off the fact that I vote and have an education and a decent job. That I am surrounded by people who accept it as a natural decision of circumstance within a family, that the father be at home with the kids. Or the mother.

There are two kinds of people (yes, I said "people") who have put me here today: there are those who spoke out & marched & fought & litigated & fought & marched some more; and there are those who just did. Grandma just did. Every day.

The Three Lessons From Grandma, that she never, ever said out loud:

1. Get yourself an education. And don't stop.
2. NO ONE can make you feel inferior without your permission (I realize that Eleanor Roosevelt said that, but Grandma lived it)
3. Do not take yourself too seriously, dammit!

Without words, every one of those lessons has been threaded through my person, as I've tried to emulate her spirit in an entirely different life & time. #2 is hard, but I think I'm doing OK.

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Happy Great-Grandma Norah Day!

(Pepper named the day, on Grandma's first birthday after she passed. She saw it marked on the calendar, she decided we should do something about it. So we did!)

Class

Yesterday (Thursday) afternoon, I'm sitting in a colleague's office. We'll call him "Him". By way of background, we may have been known to banter a little. I might have just been riding him for stammering when I asked him what his wife did (he was really only pausing to determine into how much detail to go).

Him: "OK, so I'll get this [answer/drawing/chain letter] back to you tomorrow."

Me: "I'll be away all day tomorrow"

Him (faking incredulity): "How come YOU get a day off?!"

Me (getting attitude)(I know, strange): "*Actually*, I'll be in class all day. Saturday too."

Him (feeding on my attitude): "Really? Is it dance class?"

Me (now mustering all the bring-it-the-fuck-on-asshole I can)(possibly going for a smidgen of shock-value)(I can't say for sure)(it was a pretty snap decision): "Yes. It's pole dancing."

Him (not skipping a beat): "I didn't know you're Polish!"

Composure decimated.

I love my co workers (not like that)(don't tell them).

Parenting... It's All About Communication

I yell: "STAND STILL SO I CAN TAKE YOUR PICTURE!":



I whisper: "chocolate chips":

(Actually, everything in all of life is all about communication, but that's a topic for a different post. One filed under "d'uh".)

Breathe

If you look to the upper right of your screen (assuming your screen looks anything like mine, which might be a huge assumption, me being only technically ept (how come "ept" isn't the opposite of "inept"?) enough to get myself into serious trouble and not necessarily out of it), you may notice the bio saying "something, something wife/mom/engineer something something". That might lead you to believe that I have some answers or at least suggestions about "balancing it all". HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! [cack-choke-cough]
Ohhhhhhmercy… (Sucker).

Really, that was just a lure to reel in those who might also have some ideas/notions/ANSWERS (preferably EASY answers) and then I could check them out, absorb them, and then I'D have life-balance, and then I could stop blogging and just sip G & T in my perfectly life-balanced back yard (where it would always be a beautiful day)(and summer)(and that perfectly balanced lounge chair would show up on sale, too). Or, OR I could keep blogging about frivolous stuff (without feeling guilty about it)(or feeling guilty about not feeling guilty about it)(and so on).

So anyways, that hasn't panned out (my GAWD you people have a lot of problems!) and I've had to resort to the HARD way (sometimes known as "the only way"). Which pisses me off. Well, not really. Except on some level. Maybe the level where I thought there was another way. This post is making less and less sense. I wish there was some kind of an edit button.

Was there a point? Kind of, though maybe not a strong one. I went in to work today (yes, Sunday). Work is nutty. Like, kind of surreal nutty. I went in to get a handle on it. On my way in, I was kind of pouting. "It's Sunday morning. I want to be lounging in bed, doing my Sudorku, or crossword" (no, that's not code)(or is it?)(no, unfortunately, it's not). After four hours of pretty successful focussing and dragon-slaying, I returned home. We were heading out to my folks place and it occurred to me that I had to switch gears (from engineer) and be those other things. Given the success of the day, and how I was looking forward to spending some (albeit short) time with my family, I started to think that maybe it IS about focus. Be in the moment.

There it is, an easy answer: Breathe, and move on. And breathe again.

[But not when you put the glass up to your mouth, because that will make you choke, and that is just a waste of perfectly good gin]

Do you have any more easy answers? Please?

Chicago

Alternate title: The one where I do not get knifed in my sleep.

It's funny how things go.

Just over a year ago, and really new to blogging, I random Googled something for work (at work – I truly wish I could remember what it was. I imagine it's one of those things that ends up on your "what the HELL kind of people are out there" Google hit-list posts) and hit Chris's post about a dead betta fish. I sent myself the link home with the message "check this out later" (hey, I can recognize quality, even when it's disguised as dead fish). Several days (weeks?) later, I saw my email to myself & went browsing again. This time, a bizarre comment caught my eye; so of course, I followed it (duh). There, I met Marshall. I left some kind of obnoxious comment on HIS blog and the stupid fucker replied (his first mistake) (it took me several more visits and some poking around the rest of his site to figure out that he's a -- REAL -- LIVE -- AUTHOR --)(Who's the stupid fucker now? You ask) (Don't ask! MY story. Everyone ELSE is the stupid fucker in MY story) (Get your own blog.)

So I tormented Marshall for a few months and I'm sure he was regretting his personal policy acknowledging every idiot with an internet connection who comments on his (fabulously quirky, clever & funny – just like his books) blog. Then (I can only assume) he sent his daughter after me. And for some (awesome) reason we hit it off. On twitter. (I still torment Marshall, but not very often, because he posts even less frequently than I do. I KNOW!! We're thinking of taking away his card).

In the mean time, I can't remember how I stumbled across AndreAnna. She just kind of seeped into my (albeit online) life. Because we were separated at birth. And 12 years. Some conversation or another migrated toward visitation jokes. She said "absolutely you come here and drink on my patio" and then "No. I mean it." And I knew she did. I had learned even by then, you don't question her.

So, long story short, and several "we should DO this" convos later, the three of us decided IT WAS ON. We picked a neutral zone – one that I could fly to directly, and a place that I've always wanted to go – Chicago. Cass and Sara said "HELLZ-YEAH, I'm in!" And it was done.

And then the Chicago contingent joined in. And Holy-Dinah! Suddenly the Whole World of Blogging had faces and names, and kids, and spouses, and exes, and parents, and lives. (Well, MY blogging world does. The rest of you are still robots. Very well-spoken, raw, snarky, hilarious bots, but still).

Given the course of actions over the previous year, it made perfect sense to me to hop on a plane & go. More importantly, it sat well with Jiminy Cricket Max. Had he given me one furrowed brow, I might not have given it a second thought (the cookies probably didn't hurt the case for there being a rational human being at the other end of the line. Yes, I use the term "rational" loosely.)(Cookies also came from Rougie – which helped the cause too – but I didn't blog about it, because, remember? I suck at this)

But try explaining that to the "outside" world. "You're going WHERE? And WHY?"

What most (including myself initially – and as I'm trying to rationalize this to others and myself) don't really get is that this (blogging/twitter) realm, can be not unlike friendships IRL. Some people you glance at; nod respectfully at; are aware of each other's work; despise, but can't turn away from; (despise and CAN turn away from); and, yes, grow with.

So, blah blah blah. I went to Chicago, drank an s-load, tried an Irish Car Bomb (wasn't exactly converted), climbed ascended "Big John". Met & hung with some really cool folks. HERE are my photos.

I had plenty I wanted to say about the fabulous time I had, but [something something busy/lazy asshat excuse] and all these ladies did a better job of it than I could anyway. Please go read, view the photos (the best & loveliest are by Cass) leave them obnoxious comments. Say hi for me & tell them I miss them:

Belle Plaine Living
Cass. Just Curious.
Annabelle Speaks
Chez Rougie
Lilsaej
McMama's Musings
Back To Me
Pseudostoops
AndreAnna

P.S. the "Alternate Title"? A nod to actual reactions I got when telling folks "I'm going to Chicago to meet up with people I've met on the Internet". I fully deny presenting the facts to them in a way which may or may not have elicited such a reaction. No YOU'RE inflammatory.

Balentimes

A few years ago, due to some unusual circumstances involving no one together that evening (plus Grandma in town for a visit), I decided to instead have a special family Valentine's breakfast. The more I explored the idea, the fancier and the idea grew. Our best china, champagne glasses for the orange juice, table confetti, flowers...

The funny part was that it was all very simple, and easily doable (even for me!) I had no idea what to have for a Valentines themed breakfast so I landed on biscuits. Made them heart-shaped, added whipped cream & fresh fruit (we splurged in the dead of winter)

The kids loved it, and the idea stuck. We've done it every year since.

This year, we were going to be at my parents' for a sleepover (unrelated to Valentine's day, but a different manufactured holiday combining Norah's birthday, Chinese New Year and mostly our desire to get together and make home-made ravioli one night an pad-Thai, chicken curry & spring rolls the next), and the kids got concerned about what we were going to do about our Balentimes breakfast!

So we took it on the road.

**UPDATED** see link to Pad-Thai recipe method!

OLYMPICS!

*Chicago post coming. Keep your pants on. Unlike you could in Chicago*

When I was 8 years old, I drove across the country with my aunt (how I was there is a long, weird story that is not relevant and I'd probably get wrong anyway, being 8 and all – I mean, technically, she drove so I've already screwed that part up). Every place we stayed, the TV was full-time Olympics. Yes it was colour. I saw swimming and running and horses (hey, I know, go figure, but it was cool to an 8-year-old).

Most significantly, I watched Nadia Comăneci score a perfect 10. I had a hero and I was hooked.

I got home and somehow the planets aligned to get me into gymnastics class at the University. That room was a dream world. They had every exact piece of equipment that had been brought to life by Miss Nadia. I bounded around, flipped & frolicked, swung & twisted. I WAS an, no THE Olympic champion. I WAS Nadia. Of course, no one tapped me on the shoulder. No one pulled my dad aside and chatted with him while I wondered what they were talking about. There was no one-on-one attention, but 8-year-olds don't notice those kinds of trivialities. We're on FIRE BABY.

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I LOVE the Olympics. Time stands still. For two weeks! Everything is my little hopeful 8-year-old self coming to life within each competitor. And no, not just the Canadians.

• The bronze medalist that is more surprised than anyone.
  
• The gold medalist who is known to be head and shoulders above all others and yet is still genuinely amazed at their score/rank/finish.
  
• The silver medalist who is clearly disappointed in their performance.
  
• The competitor who never really had a chance, but is hounded by their home-media as a rock star, because it's THE OLYMPICS!
  
• Holding your breath as the figure skaters make their jumps – wanting them to nail it so badly you can taste it yourself (even when part of you wants to see them land on their ass so your own can squeak ahead).
  
• Competitors persevering through injury to STILL come out on top. I'm looking at you Petra Majdič, Silken Laumann, Kerri Strug... did I miss any one? Or thirty? This is to say nothing of the invisible demons being cast aside at every turn.
  
• The come-from-behind-because-everyone-else-has-crashed-and-you-stayed-the-course victory (I think snowboard & ski cross are my new favourite sports).
  
• Feeling your adrenalin spike, ever-so, when you hear the starter's "pistol" (what the hell is that thing they're using now? It looks like something from Space 1999. Space 1999 is so 11 years ago!)
  
• The rapid about-face, among the competitors, from the kill-or-be-killed focus during completion, to genuine elation for your rival for the best run of their career.
  
• Commentators who have to fill two weeks of air time that end up saying things like "she is among the best in the world" Really? At the Olympics? Huh.
  
• And for all the positives, there are the failures. Those that brought it this far and just could not slay that last dragon. They bring to light how significant the victories are. I feel immense pride for their accomplishments to bring them so far.
  

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When I was in my 20s – probably mid – I was chatting with my grandmother. The conversation turned a little reminiscent. She laughed, "remember when you were taking that gymnastics class? One time I came with your dad to pick you up and was watching you at the end of class. Oh my goodness. You were the most awkward and graceless, gangly little thing out there. I felt so sorry for you!" Clearly, she figured I was old enough for the truth. I didn't have the heart to tell her I would not ever be. And my denial – in the form of multiple versions of "if only …" – rages on. Every two years I get to suspend all reality and re-view the world through those 8-year-old eyes. They tend to be a little weepier now.

On the weekend, I caught a glimpse of my kids outside "speed-skating" on the sidewalk...