Hi all - just a quick post to say that I won't be posting here anymore. I've got new digs at www.wavethestick.com* and they are much spiffier than this old thing. Once some time has passed, I'll likely be shutting this space down - but fear not, all my old ramblings are already over there too. You can bask in the joy of my archives as much as you'd like.
Please join me there - the design work of Schmutzie over at Ninjamatics is so lovely I'm actually inspired to write more.
*If that just brings you back to this page, you may need to clear your browser's cache, which sounds like a pain, but I promise it's worth it to see the new site. I promise!
Showing posts with label things that are true. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things that are true. Show all posts
04 April 2013
13 December 2012
Things That Are True - On Not Chickening Out and Holiday Concerts
My friend Neil over at Citizen of the Month has been doing a blogger holiday concert for years - and last year I really wanted to participate and I totally chickened out. This year I'm doing it - fumble-fingered guitar playing, flat vocal bits and all. The song is "The Christians and the Pagans" by Dar Williams.
Please to enjoy!
01 August 2012
Things That Are True - List the Fifth. And BlogHer.
I keep sending iphone photos like this via text message to HWSNBN (who is stuck at home, working) with witty captions like, "Hey, the Chrysler Building! No big deal."
Despite my assertions that I am really only here on his behalf to do some advance scouting for his two-years-away milestone birthday trip to New York, he remains unimpressed. He simply doesn't recognize what a giver I am, taking time out of my busy work and child-rearing schedule to research the best restaurants in New York. For him. It's all for him.
Oh, that little conference I'm going to? The one where I meet new friends and share long hugs and earnest conversations with some of the people I admire most in the world? Pure coincidence. Honest.*
In keeping with my rule of packing light, I brought only a carry-on bag and a laptop/large purse-ish bag, which left not a lot of room for excess stuff. There are a ton of posts out there about what to bring to BlogHer. Here's my list of things I didn't have room for:
1) Cynicism. Despite all my travels and city living, there is always hidden inside a young girl from Watson Lake, Yukon, pop. 1000 on a good day, who is startled and amazed at this incredible life I get to live. Jetting across the continent to spend time with all these gobsmackingly awesome people? And hearing Katie Couric, and Martha Stewart, and (for real, yes, not in person but by live video, uh, wow) Obama speak? Yeah. No room for cynicism in this suitcase.
2) Insecurity about how I measure up. This is a thing that has held me back my whole life. I refuse to carry it around with me anymore.
3) Worries about what to wear. I have clothes. They fit my body. Some of them are even cute. The end.
4) Guilt for leaving my husband and child for a week. There were brief moments of feeling bad, especially when The Imp had a total meltdown as I left, but remarkably it dissipated rather quickly as I enjoyed my surprise-free-upgrade-to-business-class pre-takeoff beverage. Funny how that is.
5) Obligations. So much of my day to day is filled with things I have to do. I have plans, and schedules, and lists, and all the necessities of parenting. This trip is entirely unencumbered. I've carefully not bought tickets to a Broadway show, not made dinner reservations every evening, not made plans at all. Spontaneity is a luxury I am going to enjoy.
6) A desire to shop. New York, I'm doing it wrong. Maybe. I just have a lot of stuff already, you know? Although stopping in at Strand today made me seriously consider just fedexing a box of things home.
7) Time for negativity. I try and make my way through my day inclined to be pleased with things, and I find that for the most part, things live up to my expectations. New York does not disappoint, which is hardly surprising.
 |
| Statue, Rockefeller Center |
8) My DSLR. A radical act, for me, to travel without my big camera. Last year I brought it with me, lugged it everywhere, and barely used it. This year, I brought my iphone as my camera. So far so good.
9) Fear of not belonging. Of all the places I don't belong, I don't belong here the least.
10) My guitar, which makes me sad. But a week in New York can make up for a lot.
*Fingers crossed means it's ok to lie, right?
25 July 2012
Things That Are True - Wednesday of few Words
Sick boy, home from daycare, who woke up long enough yesterday morning to wander out to the couch and fall asleep again. Thirty minutes after I took this picture, he threw up all over the couch cushions that cradle his head here.
So that's the kind of week I'm having. You?
06 April 2012
Things That Are True - List the First
I don't know the first thing about building a readership for this space.
Well, that's not entirely true. I do know a few things. I know I'm supposed to write keyword-rich post titles, I'm supposed to know what my niche is, I'm supposed to post new things here on a regular schedule, I'm supposed to reply to every comment, I'm supposed to strategically hit publish at the right time of day on the right day of the week, and pimp out my posts no more than three times a day on each of my social networks. I know what I'm supposed to do. And yet, I blunder along, not posting for weeks at a time, not writing post titles that are in any way google-friendly, and not having any idea what my "niche" is. I don't have one. Sometimes I write about food, sometimes about the absurdities of parenting, sometimes about social issues. Mostly I just write.
Actually, mostly I just avoid writing, but I'm working on that.
Hell, I'm still surprised and grateful that there are people who bear no familial relation to me that come to visit these pages from time to time.
I know that writing a new post and hitting publish at ten o'clock on a Friday night is completely useless.
Yet here I am. More often than not, here I am. Since I seem to love the quiet wasteland of the Friday night post, instead of berating myself about my ridiculous writing habits, I'm going to celebrate them. Celeberate! Hey everyone, it's a CELEBERATION! A hybrid of congratulatory self-loathing!
(Cue Kool and the Gang, y'all. There's a party going on, right here.)
For the last few weeks, I've been making lists on index cards (I know. Pens! Paper! How delightfully Neo-Victorian of me!) as a sort of personal project, an exploration of subject matters and aspirations and other things that make no sense to anyone but me. So from now on, I'm going to type out those lists on Friday nights, and publish them after ten pm. To embrace (and also mock, a little) my own eccentricities.
I love arbitrary rules that I set in place for myself - an idea I totally stole, by the way, from Schmutzie. (I mean, she talked about it publicly in a session at Blissdom Canada last year, so it was an idea ripe for annexing is my defense, your honour.)
The arbitrary rules I just made up are simple:
1) 100 lists
2) 10 items each list
3) 1 list published every Friday, after everyone's shut down their computer for the day and will never see it
And here's my first list:
I've Done a Lot of Stuff in My Life But Here Are Ten Things I Want to Do But Never Have*:
Feel free to join me, if arbitrary rules are your thing too.
*See? That title is not google-friendly. Not even a little bit.
Well, that's not entirely true. I do know a few things. I know I'm supposed to write keyword-rich post titles, I'm supposed to know what my niche is, I'm supposed to post new things here on a regular schedule, I'm supposed to reply to every comment, I'm supposed to strategically hit publish at the right time of day on the right day of the week, and pimp out my posts no more than three times a day on each of my social networks. I know what I'm supposed to do. And yet, I blunder along, not posting for weeks at a time, not writing post titles that are in any way google-friendly, and not having any idea what my "niche" is. I don't have one. Sometimes I write about food, sometimes about the absurdities of parenting, sometimes about social issues. Mostly I just write.
Actually, mostly I just avoid writing, but I'm working on that.
Hell, I'm still surprised and grateful that there are people who bear no familial relation to me that come to visit these pages from time to time.
I know that writing a new post and hitting publish at ten o'clock on a Friday night is completely useless.
Yet here I am. More often than not, here I am. Since I seem to love the quiet wasteland of the Friday night post, instead of berating myself about my ridiculous writing habits, I'm going to celebrate them. Celeberate! Hey everyone, it's a CELEBERATION! A hybrid of congratulatory self-loathing!
(Cue Kool and the Gang, y'all. There's a party going on, right here.)
For the last few weeks, I've been making lists on index cards (I know. Pens! Paper! How delightfully Neo-Victorian of me!) as a sort of personal project, an exploration of subject matters and aspirations and other things that make no sense to anyone but me. So from now on, I'm going to type out those lists on Friday nights, and publish them after ten pm. To embrace (and also mock, a little) my own eccentricities.
I love arbitrary rules that I set in place for myself - an idea I totally stole, by the way, from Schmutzie. (I mean, she talked about it publicly in a session at Blissdom Canada last year, so it was an idea ripe for annexing is my defense, your honour.)
The arbitrary rules I just made up are simple:
1) 100 lists
2) 10 items each list
3) 1 list published every Friday, after everyone's shut down their computer for the day and will never see it
And here's my first list:
I've Done a Lot of Stuff in My Life But Here Are Ten Things I Want to Do But Never Have*:
- spontaneously join a street musician/busker and sing harmonies for no reason at all
- successfully knit somethinganything
- have read all the books I own
- take an introductory photography class
- take fencing lessons
- post every day for a year at Vancouver Daily Photo
- get past week 3 of The Artist's Way
- make ravioli from scratch
- live in Paris for a year (and yes, even I gag at the cliche of it, but there it is)
- climb the Grouse Grind in under an hour
Feel free to join me, if arbitrary rules are your thing too.
*See? That title is not google-friendly. Not even a little bit.
27 March 2012
Things That Are True - Just Write
The Imp comes to me, all fresh from the shower and little boy clean, looking for a hug. I gather him into my arms and lift him onto my lap. He's so gangly now, all legs and elbows and accidentally banging his head into my chin when he comes in for a hug.
I marvel at this child who just keeps growing, which is a ridiculous thing to say, because of course he keeps growing. That's what children do. I know that, intellectually, but I still struggle to understand on a cellular level that this being who once tucked in under one arm to breastfeed now spills out off my lap and onto the floor when he leans into me. Other developments, like language and socialization and his quirky sense of humour have nowhere near as much impact on me as the sheer undeniable size of this boy.
As he walks away from me, the hallway light shines on six inches of bare leg and ankle where once a bath towel dragged on the floor.
This post was written as part of Just Write from Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary.
I marvel at this child who just keeps growing, which is a ridiculous thing to say, because of course he keeps growing. That's what children do. I know that, intellectually, but I still struggle to understand on a cellular level that this being who once tucked in under one arm to breastfeed now spills out off my lap and onto the floor when he leans into me. Other developments, like language and socialization and his quirky sense of humour have nowhere near as much impact on me as the sheer undeniable size of this boy.
As he walks away from me, the hallway light shines on six inches of bare leg and ankle where once a bath towel dragged on the floor.
This post was written as part of Just Write from Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary.
27 November 2011
Things That Are True - Observations from a Small Island in the Pacific
A few observations from my last 48 hours or so:
You wouldn't think a two hour time change could wreak so much havoc on a family routine - but does it ever. We were woken our first morning in Hawaii by The Imp actually running tight circles in our hotel room, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy." Over and over. It was 4:30.
----------
We immersed ourselves in Americana this morning and had a highly salted and oversweetened breakfast at Denny's. The thirteen year old girl at the table next to us was having a Red Bull and nothing else at 9:00. I hope that she had a healthier meal when she too woke at 4:30 am. I'm kind of surprised we didn't see her later, running in tight circles on the sidewalk, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy."
Aside: the Denny's on Kuhio is possibly the whitest place on Oahu - except, of course, for the staff. But you know you're about to get value for money when the majority of a business' customers are octogenarians with fanny packs. And I'm talking about the men.
----------
The Imp is much more opinionated about how he wants to spend his time this trip. The difference between not quite three and almost three and a half is remarkable. Not only does he remember every single thing that we saw and did six months ago, he has very distinct notions about how and when he wants to repeat them. It's been an interesting couple of days, managing his demanding behaviour and trying to discipline him in a way that doesn't involve me spending hours sitting with a sullen child in a hotel room. Follow-through sucks, y'all.
But when he is behaving, it's a joy to behold:
The Imp spent a bunch of time running up and down the beach across the street from our hotel. It's possible he was chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy," under his breath. What stopped him in his tracks was a dude with a metal detector working his way along the unoccupied bits of sand. Metal Detector Man was, as if straight from central casting, an octogenarian man with a fanny pack. The Imp was riveted.
----------
It's been a long time since I wore, or even much cared, about what was trendy in the fashion world. But here's fair warning for you: mom jean cutoffs seem to be a thing. That's right, waistline-meets-armpit washed denim cut so short that pockets flap around underneath their ragged hems. Cut so short you get to see whatever the bum equivalent of side-boob is. (Side-bum?) Based on the alarming number of young Japanese women I saw today sporting this look (because really, any number higher than one is somewhat alarming, no?) I am officially old and not-stylish. And I'm totally okay with that.
----------
Vancouver and Honolulu are, except for the weather, remarkably similar: both adjacent to ocean and mountains, both ethnically diverse, both highly influenced by a variety of Asian cultures, and both magnets for global investors who drive the price of real estate higher than the jobs provided by the local economy can afford. Of all the American cities I've visited, Honolulu actually feels the most like Vancouver to me - with the glaring exception being, of course, Vancouver's lack of palm trees and trade winds. The Imp keeps asking if we're still in Hawaii.
The Imp: "It doesn't look like Hawaii, Mom. It looks like Vancouver."
Me: "What are you talking about? How can you say that - the weather's beautiful today!"
The Imp: "It looks like Vancouver with all the coffee places."
We were exiting Starbucks at the time, so yeah.
----------
There were a number of times today that I was struck by what a cliche I am. A slightly frumpy, fifteen pounds overweight, middle-aged woman wandering around Waikiki, stopping at beach-side tourist restaurants to sip slushy drinks with a tower of fruit and paper umbrellas poking out the top, going to the beach and training my camera on my much doted-upon child. At one point I even was given an orchid to weave into my hair.
I'll admit, I felt self-conscious for about five minutes. Then I decided it didn't matter. I'm here with my best friend and my child, and we are enjoying the sun, and the ocean, and the family time. I tucked my orchid behind my ear, island-style, looked out at my boy running through the waves, and embraced the cliche.
And now, the boys are both snoring, and I am sleepy, so until tomorrow, aloha.
You wouldn't think a two hour time change could wreak so much havoc on a family routine - but does it ever. We were woken our first morning in Hawaii by The Imp actually running tight circles in our hotel room, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy." Over and over. It was 4:30.
----------
We immersed ourselves in Americana this morning and had a highly salted and oversweetened breakfast at Denny's. The thirteen year old girl at the table next to us was having a Red Bull and nothing else at 9:00. I hope that she had a healthier meal when she too woke at 4:30 am. I'm kind of surprised we didn't see her later, running in tight circles on the sidewalk, chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy."
Aside: the Denny's on Kuhio is possibly the whitest place on Oahu - except, of course, for the staff. But you know you're about to get value for money when the majority of a business' customers are octogenarians with fanny packs. And I'm talking about the men.
----------
The Imp is much more opinionated about how he wants to spend his time this trip. The difference between not quite three and almost three and a half is remarkable. Not only does he remember every single thing that we saw and did six months ago, he has very distinct notions about how and when he wants to repeat them. It's been an interesting couple of days, managing his demanding behaviour and trying to discipline him in a way that doesn't involve me spending hours sitting with a sullen child in a hotel room. Follow-through sucks, y'all.
But when he is behaving, it's a joy to behold:
 |
| Unless you have a heart of stone. |
The Imp spent a bunch of time running up and down the beach across the street from our hotel. It's possible he was chanting, "I'm not sleepy. I'm not sleepy," under his breath. What stopped him in his tracks was a dude with a metal detector working his way along the unoccupied bits of sand. Metal Detector Man was, as if straight from central casting, an octogenarian man with a fanny pack. The Imp was riveted.
----------
It's been a long time since I wore, or even much cared, about what was trendy in the fashion world. But here's fair warning for you: mom jean cutoffs seem to be a thing. That's right, waistline-meets-armpit washed denim cut so short that pockets flap around underneath their ragged hems. Cut so short you get to see whatever the bum equivalent of side-boob is. (Side-bum?) Based on the alarming number of young Japanese women I saw today sporting this look (because really, any number higher than one is somewhat alarming, no?) I am officially old and not-stylish. And I'm totally okay with that.
----------
Vancouver and Honolulu are, except for the weather, remarkably similar: both adjacent to ocean and mountains, both ethnically diverse, both highly influenced by a variety of Asian cultures, and both magnets for global investors who drive the price of real estate higher than the jobs provided by the local economy can afford. Of all the American cities I've visited, Honolulu actually feels the most like Vancouver to me - with the glaring exception being, of course, Vancouver's lack of palm trees and trade winds. The Imp keeps asking if we're still in Hawaii.
The Imp: "It doesn't look like Hawaii, Mom. It looks like Vancouver."
Me: "What are you talking about? How can you say that - the weather's beautiful today!"
The Imp: "It looks like Vancouver with all the coffee places."
We were exiting Starbucks at the time, so yeah.
----------
There were a number of times today that I was struck by what a cliche I am. A slightly frumpy, fifteen pounds overweight, middle-aged woman wandering around Waikiki, stopping at beach-side tourist restaurants to sip slushy drinks with a tower of fruit and paper umbrellas poking out the top, going to the beach and training my camera on my much doted-upon child. At one point I even was given an orchid to weave into my hair.
I'll admit, I felt self-conscious for about five minutes. Then I decided it didn't matter. I'm here with my best friend and my child, and we are enjoying the sun, and the ocean, and the family time. I tucked my orchid behind my ear, island-style, looked out at my boy running through the waves, and embraced the cliche.
 |
| If this is cliche, I'll take it. |
And now, the boys are both snoring, and I am sleepy, so until tomorrow, aloha.
24 November 2011
Things That Are True - Less is More
Once upon a time, I was the girl who took two giant suitcases with me to spend a weekend with friends. Once upon a time, I was unable to decide which pair of shoes I might wear most, so I brought six. Six pairs, not six shoes. Once upon a time, I brought dresses just in case I might get the chance to wear them, and running shoes just in case I went to the gym, and every makeup item I owned because you just never know.
Enter HWSNBN.
HWSNBN doesn't like to carry things, so he packs light. Whatever he neglects to bring with him, he does without or purchases at the final destination.
At first I really didn't understand this concept of taking the bare minimum, but over time the idea grew on me. For our two weeks in Paris in 2004, we decided to travel with carry-on luggage only. The earth didn't stop spinning on its axis because I only had one pair of black boots to wear. After that it became an unspoken rule: no checked luggage. Hong Kong and New Zealand in 2006, Paris and London in 2007 - we just gathered up our stuff and stepped off the plane and into our adventure. No waiting at the baggage carousel, first to arrive at the customs counter. Excellent!
And here's a secret: no matter how lightly I packed, there was always one item of clothing that never got worn. I began to pride myself on my ability to pack light. My travel mantra became: "Passport and a credit card. The rest is details."
Then we had The Imp. The amount of clobber you haul around for a 30 minute trip to the playground with a baby wouldn't fit in just one carry-on. For a trip to Provence when The Imp was two months old, I took: two suitcases, a large carry-on for myself, a giant diaper bag for The Imp, a baby bjorn, a stroller, and a car seat. Not to mention breast pump and bottles. Yeah.
Now that The Imp is past the diaper years, minimal luggage is possible again. We went to Hawaii in April with two carry-ons, a laptop bag, and a camera bag. We'd planned to do the same again for this trip. Today, HWSNBN wondered aloud, "Do you think we could do it with just one carry-on bag?"
The gauntlet was thrown down. "Challenge accepted!" I shouted, and got to packing.
Several hours later, I have unlocked the Less is More achievement.
Three people, nine days, one carry-on, a laptop bag, and a camera bag. Oh, and The Imp's "suitcase", which is actually his daycare lunch bag, with two small books, two small toys of his choosing, and George, his constant companion. (He carries his own bag.)
Granted, it's Hawaii, a casual kind of place, and warm, so heavy clothes are not required. That makes it easier to fit it all in less space.
What are we bringing, you ask?
The carry-on, which is the max size allowed for carry-on, contains:
Imp's clothes:
4 pairs underwear
bathing suit (board shorts & rashie)
4 t-shirts
1 short-sleeved button up collared shirt
3 pairs shorts
2 sets pajamas (granted, they're short sleeves & shorts sets)
HWSNBN's clothes:
3 short sleeved button up collared shirts
2 pairs shorts
swim trunks
4 pairs underwear
My clothes:
1 casual cotton skirt
bathing suit (tankini)
sarong
2 lululemon tank tops (with built-in bra)
1 sleeveless shirt
1 t-shirt
2 dresses
4 pairs underwear, 1 bra
nightie
sandals
1 litre ziploc bag of toiletries:
1 eyeliner, 1 lip gloss, 1 mascara
sample size toothpaste
sample size contact lens solution
2 pairs contact lenses
allergy meds
dental floss
3 toothbrushes
1 comb
3 hair elastics
men's deodorant, women's deodorant
20 Breathe Right strips, lest our marriage end before we return
1 set of invisalign braces, since I need to put in a new appliance on Tuesday
Oh, and a roll up real small tote to take snacks/towels/etc to the beach while we're there
Laptop bag contains:
macbook pro/power cable
car lighter to USB adaptor, wall plug to USB adaptor
wallet, passports, flight/hotel printouts
Kobo, USB cable
iphone, USB cable
glasses case: 1 pair prescription sunglasses, 1 pair non-prescription sunglasses
old school paper notebook/pen
100 page sticker activity book, Brain Quest alphabet write and erase set, fingerpainting art set (must keep The Imp busy while trapped in his seat for six hours)
Camera bag contains:
SLR w/35-70mm lens, additional 70-300mm lens
battery charger/cable, USB cable
315g package of Bassetts licorice all sorts for my uncle
pkg of 14 28g Hawkins Cheezies for my aunt
HWSNBN's pathetic excuse for a pillow - I have known towels that offered more padding
HWSNBN's sandals, The Imp's sandals
And that's it. We haven't exactly deprived ourselves; it's still a lot of stuff. But it's a lot less than I took to Hawaii, traveling alone, when I was eighteen.
We'll wear our heavy items on the plane: boots/shoes, sweaters, winter jackets. Airplanes are always freezing anyway.
What's missing?
Enough clothes - wash in the sink, hang in the bathtub, or find an actual laundromat
Shampoo/conditioner/soap - hotel provides, or buy on arrival
Towels - hotel provides, both for the pool and the beach
Sunscreen - buy on arrival
Razors - buy disposable ones on arrival
Nail clippers/tweezers - either do without or buy on arrival and leave behind - I have strewn nail clippers and tweezers in my wake everywhere I've travelled for the last several years
So what do you think? Anything we're not bringing that you simply couldn't live without? Could you pack for nine days in one carry-on, a laptop bag, and a camera bag?
Enter HWSNBN.
HWSNBN doesn't like to carry things, so he packs light. Whatever he neglects to bring with him, he does without or purchases at the final destination.
At first I really didn't understand this concept of taking the bare minimum, but over time the idea grew on me. For our two weeks in Paris in 2004, we decided to travel with carry-on luggage only. The earth didn't stop spinning on its axis because I only had one pair of black boots to wear. After that it became an unspoken rule: no checked luggage. Hong Kong and New Zealand in 2006, Paris and London in 2007 - we just gathered up our stuff and stepped off the plane and into our adventure. No waiting at the baggage carousel, first to arrive at the customs counter. Excellent!
And here's a secret: no matter how lightly I packed, there was always one item of clothing that never got worn. I began to pride myself on my ability to pack light. My travel mantra became: "Passport and a credit card. The rest is details."
Then we had The Imp. The amount of clobber you haul around for a 30 minute trip to the playground with a baby wouldn't fit in just one carry-on. For a trip to Provence when The Imp was two months old, I took: two suitcases, a large carry-on for myself, a giant diaper bag for The Imp, a baby bjorn, a stroller, and a car seat. Not to mention breast pump and bottles. Yeah.
Now that The Imp is past the diaper years, minimal luggage is possible again. We went to Hawaii in April with two carry-ons, a laptop bag, and a camera bag. We'd planned to do the same again for this trip. Today, HWSNBN wondered aloud, "Do you think we could do it with just one carry-on bag?"
The gauntlet was thrown down. "Challenge accepted!" I shouted, and got to packing.
 |
| Laptop bag, camera bag, carry-on, and Curious George |
Three people, nine days, one carry-on, a laptop bag, and a camera bag. Oh, and The Imp's "suitcase", which is actually his daycare lunch bag, with two small books, two small toys of his choosing, and George, his constant companion. (He carries his own bag.)
Granted, it's Hawaii, a casual kind of place, and warm, so heavy clothes are not required. That makes it easier to fit it all in less space.
What are we bringing, you ask?
 |
| Bloggable, indeed. Grin. |
The carry-on, which is the max size allowed for carry-on, contains:
Imp's clothes:
4 pairs underwear
bathing suit (board shorts & rashie)
4 t-shirts
1 short-sleeved button up collared shirt
3 pairs shorts
2 sets pajamas (granted, they're short sleeves & shorts sets)
HWSNBN's clothes:
3 short sleeved button up collared shirts
2 pairs shorts
swim trunks
4 pairs underwear
My clothes:
1 casual cotton skirt
bathing suit (tankini)
sarong
2 lululemon tank tops (with built-in bra)
1 sleeveless shirt
1 t-shirt
2 dresses
4 pairs underwear, 1 bra
nightie
sandals
1 litre ziploc bag of toiletries:
1 eyeliner, 1 lip gloss, 1 mascara
sample size toothpaste
sample size contact lens solution
2 pairs contact lenses
allergy meds
dental floss
3 toothbrushes
1 comb
3 hair elastics
men's deodorant, women's deodorant
20 Breathe Right strips, lest our marriage end before we return
1 set of invisalign braces, since I need to put in a new appliance on Tuesday
Oh, and a roll up real small tote to take snacks/towels/etc to the beach while we're there
Laptop bag contains:
macbook pro/power cable
car lighter to USB adaptor, wall plug to USB adaptor
wallet, passports, flight/hotel printouts
Kobo, USB cable
iphone, USB cable
glasses case: 1 pair prescription sunglasses, 1 pair non-prescription sunglasses
old school paper notebook/pen
100 page sticker activity book, Brain Quest alphabet write and erase set, fingerpainting art set (must keep The Imp busy while trapped in his seat for six hours)
Camera bag contains:
SLR w/35-70mm lens, additional 70-300mm lens
battery charger/cable, USB cable
315g package of Bassetts licorice all sorts for my uncle
pkg of 14 28g Hawkins Cheezies for my aunt
HWSNBN's pathetic excuse for a pillow - I have known towels that offered more padding
HWSNBN's sandals, The Imp's sandals
 |
| Bags are packed. Booyah. |
And that's it. We haven't exactly deprived ourselves; it's still a lot of stuff. But it's a lot less than I took to Hawaii, traveling alone, when I was eighteen.
We'll wear our heavy items on the plane: boots/shoes, sweaters, winter jackets. Airplanes are always freezing anyway.
What's missing?
Enough clothes - wash in the sink, hang in the bathtub, or find an actual laundromat
Shampoo/conditioner/soap - hotel provides, or buy on arrival
Towels - hotel provides, both for the pool and the beach
Sunscreen - buy on arrival
Razors - buy disposable ones on arrival
Nail clippers/tweezers - either do without or buy on arrival and leave behind - I have strewn nail clippers and tweezers in my wake everywhere I've travelled for the last several years
So what do you think? Anything we're not bringing that you simply couldn't live without? Could you pack for nine days in one carry-on, a laptop bag, and a camera bag?
22 November 2011
Things That Are True - Recipe for Peace
Earlier this evening I tweeted the following:
In the interest of world peace, I suppose it behooves me to post my recipe for all to see. HWSNBN may have married me for my blueberry pie, but I think the meatloaf is a big part of why he's still here.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix all of the following ingredients in a bowl:
1 1/2 lbs of lean ground beef
1 onion, chopped
1 egg
4 or 5 cloves of garlic, minced
(Your mileage may vary - whenever I see a recipe that's supposed to feed 6 people that calls for 1 clove of garlic, all I can think is, "You're adorable.")
About a tablespoon of dried mustard powder
About a tablespoon of herbes de provence
2 or 3 tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce (I just let it glug into the bowl until I think there's enough.)
Three slices of bread, chopped small (or about 1/2 cup of dried breadcrumbs)
1 cup milk - I use soymilk to keep it dairy-free
Mix well, transfer to ungreased loaf pan, and spread about 1/2 cup of ketchup (or bbq sauce, or if you're really fancy, sundried tomato puree) all over the top of it to cover. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes, or until meat thermometer inserted in the centre reads 160 degrees.
I don't have a photo of the finished product - it came out of the oven and more or less immediately into the gaping maws of HWSNBN and The Imp. I also ate rather a lot of it. But really, it should sit for five to ten minutes to make it easier to slice.
If there are any leftovers, sandwiches are definitely the way to go.
Do you have a recipe that could be responsible for world peace? Can you share the link in a comment? Please?
In the interest of world peace, I suppose it behooves me to post my recipe for all to see. HWSNBN may have married me for my blueberry pie, but I think the meatloaf is a big part of why he's still here.
 |
| Mix all this stuff with a cup of milk - world peace in a stainless steel bowl |
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix all of the following ingredients in a bowl:
1 1/2 lbs of lean ground beef
1 onion, chopped
1 egg
4 or 5 cloves of garlic, minced
(Your mileage may vary - whenever I see a recipe that's supposed to feed 6 people that calls for 1 clove of garlic, all I can think is, "You're adorable.")
About a tablespoon of dried mustard powder
About a tablespoon of herbes de provence
2 or 3 tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce (I just let it glug into the bowl until I think there's enough.)
Three slices of bread, chopped small (or about 1/2 cup of dried breadcrumbs)
1 cup milk - I use soymilk to keep it dairy-free
Mix well, transfer to ungreased loaf pan, and spread about 1/2 cup of ketchup (or bbq sauce, or if you're really fancy, sundried tomato puree) all over the top of it to cover. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes, or until meat thermometer inserted in the centre reads 160 degrees.
I don't have a photo of the finished product - it came out of the oven and more or less immediately into the gaping maws of HWSNBN and The Imp. I also ate rather a lot of it. But really, it should sit for five to ten minutes to make it easier to slice.
If there are any leftovers, sandwiches are definitely the way to go.
Do you have a recipe that could be responsible for world peace? Can you share the link in a comment? Please?
20 November 2011
Things That Are True - Grace in Small Things
Inspired by Schmutzie, who created Grace in Small Things to "wage a battle against embitterment", I thought I'd take a second to slow down today and think about some of the little things that bring me joy. In no particular order:
1) What started out as a horrible day turned into an inadvertent afternoon attendance at a Theatre Sports performance, which made me laugh my bad mood right out of existence. Also my headache.
2) Asking The Imp what he likes and having him happily reply, "I like EVERYTHING!" Way to be, kid.
3) No bedtime shenanigans today.
4) The Imp's fever is gone.
5) I finally got my little 4x6 photo printer working again. Hurray!
1) What started out as a horrible day turned into an inadvertent afternoon attendance at a Theatre Sports performance, which made me laugh my bad mood right out of existence. Also my headache.
2) Asking The Imp what he likes and having him happily reply, "I like EVERYTHING!" Way to be, kid.
3) No bedtime shenanigans today.
4) The Imp's fever is gone.
5) I finally got my little 4x6 photo printer working again. Hurray!
19 November 2011
Things That Are True - Of Friends, and Fondue, and Elections, and Buffy
I spent this evening with girlfriends, gathered around the flickering blue light of the tv screen and the slightly less flickering lights of smart phones as we watched favourite episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, checked twitter, gossiped, ate (a truly epic spread of food) and monitored election results.
We rocked the multitasking, yo.
Also, if anyone's at Mayor Gregor's victory party tonight and catering's running low, we have an impressive array of leftovers we could drop off.
Sometimes a quiet night in with good friends is exactly the right thing to do. Thank you Gwen, Tracey, and Sandi. Let's do it again soon.
Maybe with slightly less food. (Urp.)
We rocked the multitasking, yo.
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| Not pictured: chocolate fondue pot, cheese fondue pot, bread platter |
Also, if anyone's at Mayor Gregor's victory party tonight and catering's running low, we have an impressive array of leftovers we could drop off.
Sometimes a quiet night in with good friends is exactly the right thing to do. Thank you Gwen, Tracey, and Sandi. Let's do it again soon.
Maybe with slightly less food. (Urp.)
13 November 2011
Things That Are True - Endless Tiny Goodbyes
Tonight just before bedtime, The Imp came to me and demanded my attention. He put a dimpled little hand on either side of my face and very seriously said, "Mommy, I want to cuddle with you."
Who can say no to that? For one thing, he called me "Mommy".
But I am not a fool. This is a classic Imp bedtime-aversion tactic. Cuddling with me would temporarily delay the need for Picking up of Toys, and forestall the dreaded Brushing of Teeth and Putting on of Jammies.
So we made a deal. After all the toys were put away, and after he brushed his teeth, and once he was in his pajamas, then I would absolutely cuddle with him as he went to sleep - and curl up in bed with him I did.
We sang the "Night Night Song" - a little tune I made up way back in the breastfeeding days and have sung to him nightly since, and his other bedtime favourite, "Bye Bye Blackbird." Trust me when I tell you that you have not really lived until you've heard The Imp sleepily but earnestly trill out "No one here can love or understand me, Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me."
Bedtime hugs and kisses taken care of, lights turned out, blankets pulled up to his chin, he settled himself into the curves of my body as I lay next to him. "Hold hands, Mommy," he said as he reached for my fingers.
As I lay there with him tonight, in the dark, I was reminded of those terrified-new-parent newborn days with him. As he'd fall asleep in my arms or beside me in his co-sleeper, I'd listen so carefully for every breath, and jerk awake at every change in tempo or tenor, as if I could will him to keep living if I just paid enough attention.* Three and a half years later, I know and am comforted by the changes in his breathing; the way each breath slows and grows shallower as he drifts off to sleep. Instead of being alarmed by sudden spasms of a baby's startles, I smile to myself as I feel my big boy's limbs twitch in the first moments of slumber, and know that I can leave him to his dreams as I feel his grip on my fingers loosen.
He's getting so big.
I know it happens. Of course it happens. The only alternative is tragedy. We all know, intellectually, that our job as parents is to prepare our children to leave us. It takes a long time, but that's the end goal. I just don't think I ever really got that the leaving doesn't happen all at once, when they become teenagers, or when they go to university, or when they get married. The leaving happens daily, every minute. As a little mouth is nourished with solid food instead of milk from my own body, as little hands pull away from my grip while we cross the street, and as little legs learn to pump higher and higher without me pushing the playground swing. I love it, I do. I'm thrilled every day with his growing independence, with his confidence in his own body, with his relentless curiosity and enthusiasm for trying new things. But in the midst of celebrating this amazing person my son is becoming, there is also an endless series of tiny goodbyes. I mourn the newborn, and the learning to walk, and the first words.
Nobody tells you that part.
So as much as I'm a stern bedtime taskmaster, make no mistake: there is nothing that will get in my way when my big boy says "Cuddle with me, Mommy." I'll be mourning that too, soon enough.
*For the record, he was always a sturdy little lad and there was never any danger that he would suddenly stop breathing. I was just, like every brand new mom, totally and irrationally paranoid.
Who can say no to that? For one thing, he called me "Mommy".
But I am not a fool. This is a classic Imp bedtime-aversion tactic. Cuddling with me would temporarily delay the need for Picking up of Toys, and forestall the dreaded Brushing of Teeth and Putting on of Jammies.
So we made a deal. After all the toys were put away, and after he brushed his teeth, and once he was in his pajamas, then I would absolutely cuddle with him as he went to sleep - and curl up in bed with him I did.
We sang the "Night Night Song" - a little tune I made up way back in the breastfeeding days and have sung to him nightly since, and his other bedtime favourite, "Bye Bye Blackbird." Trust me when I tell you that you have not really lived until you've heard The Imp sleepily but earnestly trill out "No one here can love or understand me, Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me."
Bedtime hugs and kisses taken care of, lights turned out, blankets pulled up to his chin, he settled himself into the curves of my body as I lay next to him. "Hold hands, Mommy," he said as he reached for my fingers.
As I lay there with him tonight, in the dark, I was reminded of those terrified-new-parent newborn days with him. As he'd fall asleep in my arms or beside me in his co-sleeper, I'd listen so carefully for every breath, and jerk awake at every change in tempo or tenor, as if I could will him to keep living if I just paid enough attention.* Three and a half years later, I know and am comforted by the changes in his breathing; the way each breath slows and grows shallower as he drifts off to sleep. Instead of being alarmed by sudden spasms of a baby's startles, I smile to myself as I feel my big boy's limbs twitch in the first moments of slumber, and know that I can leave him to his dreams as I feel his grip on my fingers loosen.
He's getting so big.
I know it happens. Of course it happens. The only alternative is tragedy. We all know, intellectually, that our job as parents is to prepare our children to leave us. It takes a long time, but that's the end goal. I just don't think I ever really got that the leaving doesn't happen all at once, when they become teenagers, or when they go to university, or when they get married. The leaving happens daily, every minute. As a little mouth is nourished with solid food instead of milk from my own body, as little hands pull away from my grip while we cross the street, and as little legs learn to pump higher and higher without me pushing the playground swing. I love it, I do. I'm thrilled every day with his growing independence, with his confidence in his own body, with his relentless curiosity and enthusiasm for trying new things. But in the midst of celebrating this amazing person my son is becoming, there is also an endless series of tiny goodbyes. I mourn the newborn, and the learning to walk, and the first words.
Nobody tells you that part.
So as much as I'm a stern bedtime taskmaster, make no mistake: there is nothing that will get in my way when my big boy says "Cuddle with me, Mommy." I'll be mourning that too, soon enough.
*For the record, he was always a sturdy little lad and there was never any danger that he would suddenly stop breathing. I was just, like every brand new mom, totally and irrationally paranoid.
11 November 2011
Things That Are True - Lest We Forget
Today, as we do on every November 11th, we took The Imp to Victory Square for the Remembrance Day ceremony. He handled it well, singing O Canada with enthusiasm, being quiet when quiet was called for, listening to the amplified voices and trying to make sense of what he heard.
I don't know how much he understood. I don't think it matters, at this point. We haven't talked a lot about war with The Imp; he is, after all, only three. But he knows that his Granddad was in the air force during World War II, and he knows that a lot of people, including a lot of Granddad's friends, didn't ever come home.
The Imp did recognize that it was a solemn occasion. When the uniformed men in front of us saluted, The Imp raised his arm and brought his fingertips to his temple in imitation. When the children's choir sang, "In Flanders Fields" The Imp, in my arms, whispered, "They sound sad." And when the guns boomed out their twenty-one salutes from nearby Portside Park, The Imp looked at me with wide eyes and said, "That sounds like thunder."
Yes, yes it does sound like thunder.
May you never hear them in any other context, my beautiful boy.
I don't know how much he understood. I don't think it matters, at this point. We haven't talked a lot about war with The Imp; he is, after all, only three. But he knows that his Granddad was in the air force during World War II, and he knows that a lot of people, including a lot of Granddad's friends, didn't ever come home.
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| Granddad - almost certainly the source of The Imp's good looks |
The Imp did recognize that it was a solemn occasion. When the uniformed men in front of us saluted, The Imp raised his arm and brought his fingertips to his temple in imitation. When the children's choir sang, "In Flanders Fields" The Imp, in my arms, whispered, "They sound sad." And when the guns boomed out their twenty-one salutes from nearby Portside Park, The Imp looked at me with wide eyes and said, "That sounds like thunder."
Yes, yes it does sound like thunder.
May you never hear them in any other context, my beautiful boy.
09 November 2011
Things That Are True - Echoes
The second he woke up this morning, The Imp came striding out into the living room where I was curled up with a book, looked at me very intensely, and made the following announcement:
The Imp: I am taking away all your treats.
(We use the phrase "take away your treats" to keep his behaviour in line.)
Me: Really. Why are you taking away all my treats?
The Imp: Because you said no tv. So I'm taking away your treats.
Me: Why do you think I said no tv?
The Imp: I don't know.
Me: Because you were shouting and hitting last night at bedtime. Am I shouting? Am I hitting?
The Imp, reluctantly: Noooo.
It's so interesting to hear my own words echoed back to me by my child. I'm fascinated, watching him figure out how much power he has, how much power his words have. He's figuring out his place. He's crafting his worldview. And when I hear my words come out of his mouth, I'm keenly aware of how much influence I have on that.
I was reminded of this again later this morning, after breakfast, as we were getting dressed for daycare. He wasn't cooperating, and I told him if he didn't get dressed rightnow there would be no treats after school. He looked at me, dejectedly looked at his feet, and quietly said, "Fuck."
(Well, yay for using it in the correct context, I guess?)
Me, quietly: What did you say?
The Imp: Fuck.
Me: Honey, we don't say that word.
The Imp: You say it all the time.
(Um, yeah. He had me there.)
Me: You're right, I do say it. But I shouldn't. It's not a nice word. How about if I don't say it anymore, and you don't say it anymore either?
The Imp: Okay.
So we finished getting him dressed and got him off to daycare. There were no horrified stories of dropped f-bombs on pickup this afternoon, so I'm hoping that's the end of it. For now, anyway.
And I really do need to get a handle on the things I say. There's an echo in here.
The Imp: I am taking away all your treats.
(We use the phrase "take away your treats" to keep his behaviour in line.)
Me: Really. Why are you taking away all my treats?
The Imp: Because you said no tv. So I'm taking away your treats.
Me: Why do you think I said no tv?
The Imp: I don't know.
Me: Because you were shouting and hitting last night at bedtime. Am I shouting? Am I hitting?
The Imp, reluctantly: Noooo.
It's so interesting to hear my own words echoed back to me by my child. I'm fascinated, watching him figure out how much power he has, how much power his words have. He's figuring out his place. He's crafting his worldview. And when I hear my words come out of his mouth, I'm keenly aware of how much influence I have on that.
I was reminded of this again later this morning, after breakfast, as we were getting dressed for daycare. He wasn't cooperating, and I told him if he didn't get dressed rightnow there would be no treats after school. He looked at me, dejectedly looked at his feet, and quietly said, "Fuck."
(Well, yay for using it in the correct context, I guess?)
Me, quietly: What did you say?
The Imp: Fuck.
Me: Honey, we don't say that word.
The Imp: You say it all the time.
(Um, yeah. He had me there.)
Me: You're right, I do say it. But I shouldn't. It's not a nice word. How about if I don't say it anymore, and you don't say it anymore either?
The Imp: Okay.
So we finished getting him dressed and got him off to daycare. There were no horrified stories of dropped f-bombs on pickup this afternoon, so I'm hoping that's the end of it. For now, anyway.
And I really do need to get a handle on the things I say. There's an echo in here.
07 November 2011
Things That Are True - A Debt of Gratitude
Yesterday we had dinner with HWSNBN's mom, my brother- and sister-in-law and their three kids, The Imp's "big cousins" who he absolutely adores. Without fail, when we visit, he doesn't want to leave. Last night, way past his bedtime, he was chanting, "Never, ever, never go home again!" when it was time to head for the car.
There was no special occasion, just another family dinner. We bring wine and a home-made dessert; last night's blueberry tarts being a particular favourite. My brother-in-law is a brilliant cook, my mother-in-law always loves a family party, and that house with those people in it is The Imp's personal version of heaven on earth. The kids, ranging in age from 7 - 16, are fantastic with him. It's always a chaotic, kids running everywhere, ten conversations going on at once kind of event.
Last night as I looked around the joyfully cacophonous dinner table, I was a little sad that The Imp is one of one. There will be no more kids for us; a decision we made consciously before he was born. We love our lives as parents, but another child, no matter how wanted and loved, would introduce a slew of complications. There'd be obvious financial concerns, we'd have to move, we'd have less freedom, we couldn't travel as much... Assuming we could even get pregnant again, I'm not exactly of prime child-bearing age anymore. Keeping up with one three year old stretches me to my snapping point; I'm not sure how well I'd handle a newborn too.
We've had people tell us that our attitude is selfish, that we're doing The Imp a disservice by not giving him a sibling. (They're usually people who don't know what a struggle it was to conceive at all.) We've also had people who grew up as only children tell us it was the best thing ever and that they were glad they never had a brother or sister. There's no one right way to be a family, and this works for us.
But seeing The Imp enjoy his cousins so much tugs at my heart.
Then again, watching him in conversation with his Uncle Ron, laughing at Auntie Jane's funny faces, and running wild in the back yard with the big kids fills me with gladness. They don't just tolerate him, they love him. It's plain to see. If anything were to happen to HWSNBN and I, The Imp would eventually be okay.
There's a safe haven outside our home where he is truly loved.
No amount of home-made blueberry tarts can ever equal that.
There was no special occasion, just another family dinner. We bring wine and a home-made dessert; last night's blueberry tarts being a particular favourite. My brother-in-law is a brilliant cook, my mother-in-law always loves a family party, and that house with those people in it is The Imp's personal version of heaven on earth. The kids, ranging in age from 7 - 16, are fantastic with him. It's always a chaotic, kids running everywhere, ten conversations going on at once kind of event.
 |
| My contribution to last night's feast |
Last night as I looked around the joyfully cacophonous dinner table, I was a little sad that The Imp is one of one. There will be no more kids for us; a decision we made consciously before he was born. We love our lives as parents, but another child, no matter how wanted and loved, would introduce a slew of complications. There'd be obvious financial concerns, we'd have to move, we'd have less freedom, we couldn't travel as much... Assuming we could even get pregnant again, I'm not exactly of prime child-bearing age anymore. Keeping up with one three year old stretches me to my snapping point; I'm not sure how well I'd handle a newborn too.
We've had people tell us that our attitude is selfish, that we're doing The Imp a disservice by not giving him a sibling. (They're usually people who don't know what a struggle it was to conceive at all.) We've also had people who grew up as only children tell us it was the best thing ever and that they were glad they never had a brother or sister. There's no one right way to be a family, and this works for us.
But seeing The Imp enjoy his cousins so much tugs at my heart.
Then again, watching him in conversation with his Uncle Ron, laughing at Auntie Jane's funny faces, and running wild in the back yard with the big kids fills me with gladness. They don't just tolerate him, they love him. It's plain to see. If anything were to happen to HWSNBN and I, The Imp would eventually be okay.
There's a safe haven outside our home where he is truly loved.
No amount of home-made blueberry tarts can ever equal that.
06 November 2011
Things That Are True - Rules to Live By
Rule to Live By #1:
Rule to Live By #2:
Rule to Live By #3:
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| When life gives you a beautiful fall day and time to spend with your favourite people, don't be a fool. Take it and run with it. |
Rule to Live By #2:
 |
| Pastry dough is no trifling matter. |
Rule to Live By #3:
 |
| Dance every chance you get. |
05 November 2011
Things That Are True - Evening Gloves
A kajillion years ago, I bought black satin evening gloves at a second hand shop. I bought them to wear to the cast and crew Christmas party when I first worked on X-Files as a production assistant. After spending all my work days outside in the rain in polar fleece and gore tex and hiking boots, the opportunity to dress up like a girl and go to a party was not to be wasted; I went all out.
Then I tucked the black gloves into a drawer of my dresser, where they sat, basically untouched, for the next fifteen years. One year, back when I was single, I got all dressed up to watch the Oscars by myself in my apartment. Evening gown, hair, makeup: the works. Why not, right? Just because I was single and alone didn't mean I couldn't be eccentric, after all. I pulled out the gloves and put them on, just for fun. And then I took them off almost immediately because they were making it hard to eat potato chips.
In the years since, except for the occasional purge of my wardrobe, they've remained untouched at the back of my top dresser drawer. Every time I go through my clothes I think about getting rid of them. What use are evening gloves when I'm asleep by 9pm more often than not? Where does black satin formal wear fit in my life parenting a three year old? Why bother hanging on to them?
But I never got rid of them, I think because over time they came to represent a side of me I didn't get to play with very often; someone other than maker of lunches, kisser of owies, and reader of bedtime stories. It's so easy to get lost in the mundane and repetitive motions of the every day imperatives. This business of being a grown up is usually more serious than not. Having those gloves tucked away reminded me that I was capable of dress up, of sparkly - of whimsy, even.
Tonight I got all dressed up and went to a party. At the last minute I remembered the gloves, pulled them out, and put them on. And it felt good.
Now that I'm home, makeup removed, tortuous (but gorgeous) shoes put away, and party dress hung back in my closet, I'll tuck the gloves back in to their accustomed spot in the back of my top dresser drawer. It may be fifteen years before I wear them again. I hope not.
But next time? I'm busting out my tiara from the wedding box and putting it on too.
Then I tucked the black gloves into a drawer of my dresser, where they sat, basically untouched, for the next fifteen years. One year, back when I was single, I got all dressed up to watch the Oscars by myself in my apartment. Evening gown, hair, makeup: the works. Why not, right? Just because I was single and alone didn't mean I couldn't be eccentric, after all. I pulled out the gloves and put them on, just for fun. And then I took them off almost immediately because they were making it hard to eat potato chips.
In the years since, except for the occasional purge of my wardrobe, they've remained untouched at the back of my top dresser drawer. Every time I go through my clothes I think about getting rid of them. What use are evening gloves when I'm asleep by 9pm more often than not? Where does black satin formal wear fit in my life parenting a three year old? Why bother hanging on to them?
But I never got rid of them, I think because over time they came to represent a side of me I didn't get to play with very often; someone other than maker of lunches, kisser of owies, and reader of bedtime stories. It's so easy to get lost in the mundane and repetitive motions of the every day imperatives. This business of being a grown up is usually more serious than not. Having those gloves tucked away reminded me that I was capable of dress up, of sparkly - of whimsy, even.
Tonight I got all dressed up and went to a party. At the last minute I remembered the gloves, pulled them out, and put them on. And it felt good.
Now that I'm home, makeup removed, tortuous (but gorgeous) shoes put away, and party dress hung back in my closet, I'll tuck the gloves back in to their accustomed spot in the back of my top dresser drawer. It may be fifteen years before I wear them again. I hope not.
But next time? I'm busting out my tiara from the wedding box and putting it on too.
04 November 2011
Things That Are True - Four Questions
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| Apropos of nothing, the view from our dining room these days |
The lovely and supremely talented Catherine Jackson wrote a recap post about Blissdom Canada '11, answering four questions that Catherine Connors asked at the beginning of her opening keynote. I've been meaning to do the same, and here's my stab at it:
What don't people know about you?
In the late nineties I was briefly the chick singer in a funk/r&b cover band made up of Vancouver film crew folk. We played a few industry parties, and fourteen year old me almost died of the squee once when Rob Lowe danced in the crowd as I sang "Chain of Fools".
What are some things about which you are knowledgeable?
Film/scripted television production
Baking pies, especially apple and lemon meringue, but I can't stand and won't make pumpkin.
Grammar
Formula One auto racing
What are some things about which you are not at all knowledgeable?
Coding/programming
Photography - although I take thousands of pictures, I still don't know how to work my very basic SLR
Modern art
What are some things that you believe?
I believe that friends are the family you choose for yourself. I believe that no one can silence me unless I let them. I believe that every person I meet has a story to tell, and experience I can learn from. I believe that it's important to engage with people with whom I don't agree and have my own assumptions challenged regularly. I believe that if you don't vote, you don't get to complain. I believe that dancing with a small child in my arms is the best possible use of five minutes in any given day. I believe that good food and good stories with good friends is the best kind of party. I believe that the act of making something, anything, connects me to basic truths about myself in a way that consumerism never will.
And I believe that connecting with others over shared experience - whether face to face or simply here in my little corner of the internet - keeps me more than five minutes away from being naked in a bell tower with a sniper rifle.
Thank you for being here.
(And it's possible one or two law enforcement agencies would thank you too, if they knew.)
09 September 2011
Things That Are True - Epic Cuteness
In case you were in any doubt that I have somehow spawned one of the cutest boys that ever did live, I submit here for your viewing pleasure, the video we made tonight to send to HWSNBN to say goodnight:
And with that, I'm off to bed myself. Because hitting publish on a new post at 10:30pm on a Friday is an awesome way to build traffic to your blog, yo.
And with that, I'm off to bed myself. Because hitting publish on a new post at 10:30pm on a Friday is an awesome way to build traffic to your blog, yo.
24 August 2011
Things I Know Are True - 41st Birthday Edition
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| Me, at an unapologetic 41 years of age. |
On the occasion of my 41st birthday, I thought I'd sit down, take stock, and write a list of things I know are true.*
- I don't need more storage space, I need less stuff. The battle against clutter must be vigilantly waged.
- I don't understand boots with open toes, or sandals with ankle cuffs.
- I'll never be one of the cool kids. Even the cool kids aren't the cool kids.
- The best way to save money is to stop buying stuff. When you do need to buy stuff, never pay list. (That being said, I'll never buy cheap ice cream, makeup, or toilet paper.)
- There are no flaws. (Thank you, Karen Walrond.) When I stop worrying about what other people think of me, I start to appreciate the beauty all around me. This song's been on constant repeat in my head the last few days.
- As I get older, I care less about looking foolish and I make less apologies for who I am.
- "Let's dance, Mommy!" is my cue to drop everything, pick up The Imp, and get my funk on. Best use of five minutes on any given day, and he'll be embarrassed by it soon enough.
- Nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing my friends and family enjoy a meal I've prepared.
- Wheaton's Law always applies.
- Leggings are not pants.
Let's see what's on this list a year from now, shall we? In the meantime, what's true for you?
*These are things that are true for me. Your mileage may vary.
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