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.

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.

Things That Are True - Rules to Live By

Rule to Live By #1:

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.

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.

Things That Are True - Four Questions

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.)

Things That Are True - Smashing Pumpkins

The Imp wanted an angry face. I did the best I could.

Today our lone remnant of Halloween, The Imp's jack-o'-lantern, sat on the kitchen table, its scorched insides starting to emit fruit fly-attracting odours.

HWSNBN: Maybe I should take this whole thing out into the hallway and just pitch it down the garbage chute.

Me, looking at our balcony: Dude, if we are going to throw a 14 inch pumpkin down 21 stories, I want to see it smash at the bottom.

HWSNBN, beaming: That, right there, is why I married you.

(I wish, oh how I wish, that I could report that we did, in fact, chuck old Jack over the balcony railing. Alas, death of an innocent by pumpkin from above is frowned upon and legal counsel advised against it.)

Things That Are True - Burning Down the House

I am having that day; the day when I look around and feel like I'd be better off if I just burned it all down and started over. Picking through the embers and the ashes I'd find that which really matters to me, and just leave everything else behind.

Of course, the landlord might not be keen on me committing arson in or near his property.

It's a concrete building, but still.

A decade ago I was all about acquiring things. New furniture, designer clothes, a cool car; I was a good little consumer and diligently practiced acquisitiveness on a regular basis. Now, I would just as happily throw everything I own out the window (Except maybe my laptop. And one or two books. And the Armani suit I swear I'll fit back into some day.) as ever deal with any of it again. I feel like I'm constantly getting rid of things, and yet there's always too much stuff in my physical (and mental) space. It's like being at a rock concert that's just a little bit too loud (and that's how you know I'm getting old, as if a rock concert could be too loud, for the love of Mike) and not being able to leave.

It exhausts me, this stuff.

I am ever vigilant. The three of us live in 950 square feet. There is no room for excess, and yet it always feels like I'm not quite keeping up with the incoming tide. Toys are passed on the moment they're outgrown, books are read and given away, our clothes closets are purged regularly. I have foisted shoes on my friends, and traded a cast iron frying pan for waterproof cycling gloves. I have quietly divested myself of wedding gifts we don't use, appliances that take up more space than they're worth (how are you liking that juicer, Skot?) and been inching towards minimalism on several levels, but I still always feel like a wave of clutter is about to knock me on my ass.

So here's what I've been doing to strip away the things I don't want to deal with anymore:

• I sold my car. I didn't use it often enough to justify the expense, and when HSWNBN bought a new-to-us car in June, we decided to take the plunge and become a one-car family. I now bicycle everywhere with The Imp towed in a trailer behind me.

• I remove at least three items from my home daily that are never to return - even if it's just taking out the recycling, something leaves my house every day. I've put up photos on flickr and offered things free to the first taker on twitter. I've left stuff in the back alley behind our building - a guaranteed way to make it disappear in less than ten minutes. No way to change my mind and decide to keep things "just in case". 

• Anything new that comes in the house is balanced by something leaving the house. New toy in, old one goes out. New book, furniture, clothing, bedding, towels: same deal. 

Digital clutter: look how tidy!

• I'd been keeping old guitar, cooking, and crochet magazines because I might get to them someday. (Ah, the little lies we tell ourselves!) Instead of giving them valuable apartment real estate, I scanned the articles/projects I liked, and put the magazines down in my building's laundry room where they went on to find new homes. I now have digital clutter instead of physical clutter, but at least it's hidden away in a folder on a hard drive and not taking up space where I can actually see it.

Now I just need to figure out what to do with the detritus that somehow accumulates on flat surfaces. There is not a counter, table top, or cabinet that doesn't at some point fall prey to the migrating piles of paper that infest this house. It's like a plague or something. Or an STD. The piles just get passed from one flat surface to another and never really go away. How can I deal with this stuff? Someboday save me! I'm open to suggestion, people.

My goal, as I get older, is to have less and less physical stuff in my living space. I'd love to reduce what I own every year, so that by the time I die, my house is almost entirely empty except for the stacks of lush Persian carpets to gently break my final fall.

Sigh. A girl can dream.

Things That Are True - Blissdom Canada and Why I Blog

I went to Blissdom Canada, and it was seventeen kinds of awesome. I sat at a table of people who called themselves writers, and no one told me I was in their seat, or sitting at the wrong table. I called myself a writer out loud in front of other people and no one laughed.

We discussed the narcissism inherent in publishing on a public platform. We asked what makes a person a "real" writer. We talked about audience, and voice, and where our own boundaries are about what we feel comfortable with putting out there.

The conference sessions I attended were fantastic. I drank it all in greedily; this knowledge and practical experience of (dare I say?) my peers, and it left me giddy.

The takeaway, for me:


Blogging, women's blogging in particular, seems to break down into two basic styles: review/product/brand ambassador blogging, where it's a job, or a gateway to a job or some kind of income; and more personal blogging which is less a means to an end and more a need to get things out. I'm not saying one style is better or more engaging than the other, and there are those who do both and those who do neither. Generalization's always a tricky thing, but I did notice the same faces over and over again at the art track sessions I attended.


-----


I just have to write. As Tanis Miller, Bonnie Stewart, and Elan Morgan said in their session on finding your muse: inspiration is bullshit. Over and over again, I heard people talk about the need to just write. To get over the being stuck, to get past the fear of writing badly, to take it seriously enough to do it even when (especially when) it's really difficult. I realized that I actually don't care if I'm not one of the cool kids because I'm still using Blogger. I don't give a damn about ranking on google, or writing posts that are the right length and have the right keywords. But I will admit that writing at all is often a struggle for me, despite the fact that I can't imagine not doing it. I left Blissdom feeling so connected, so ready to come home and blog fearlessly.

And then I didn't.

I think about writing all day, every waking minute. I'm constantly composing posts and articles in my head, knowing just how I'll word what I want to say, and then I sit at my keyboard and excuses start to flood my brain. I get caught up in my own head, I worry about who might be reading, and I get stuck on things I need to write about that aren't entirely my story to tell.

It was liberating to hear that other people - people whose writing leaves me gasping, grinning, and weeping - struggle too. I've been inclined to think of myself as a failure because I can't just sit down and have the words flow magically all the time, even though I know intellectually that no one can.


What I need to do is just write.

-----

Finding your tribe is a powerful, powerful thing.

Catherine Connors, in her opening keynote, talked about intellectual hubris, the echo-chamber of surrounding yourself with people who already agree with you, and the importance of seeking out the other in order to make meaning and build community. It was a tremendous speech, and I don't disagree, but there's also value in finding the people who do think the way you do - if only to reassure yourself that you're not entirely crazy.

Like BlogHer back in August, Blissdom Canada was an amazing experience. The sessions were informative, and hilarious, and inspiring. The parties were fun!

But like BlogHer, the real takeaway for me was in the smallest of moments: staying up all night like college girls talking to my most excellent roommate, Jeanette; sharing a tearful moment in a crowded room; grabbing lunch at a restaurant with real tablecloths just because we could; connecting about the experience of living up north, bonding over a shared crush on Peter Mansbridge. None life-changing in and of themselves, but in the aggregate, a powerful thing.

These moments, these interstitial moments - away from the busy-ness, and business, of the conference itself - these shiny bits of truth are what I take home with me and treasure.

-----

And now I will hit publish, because I finally sat down and just wrote something.

Things I'm Doing - Blissdom, Baby!

On the plane.

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

This morning I woke The Imp at an ungodly hour because last night he told me he wanted to come to the airport to say goodbye to Mom.

He calls me "Mom" now. He's three, and he calls me "Mom". If "Mama" went by the wayside in exchange for "Mommy!" way too early, I'm really not ready to be just "Mom". I've got a lot of my own identity tied up in being "Mommy." "Mommy" is needed; the kisser of hurts, the smoother of a feverish brow, the watcher in the night, the knower of things. "Mommy" is the provider of cuddles for those blissful drifting off to sleep moments when the eyelids droop and the breathing slows. "Mommy" is still holding on when the startles of early slumber shake little boy limbs.

But "Mom" - "Mom" is letting go. "Mom" is watching big boy legs run away to play at daycare drop off. "Mom" is having to ask for a hug and a kiss while distracted eyes look past to playground friends. "Mom" is help with homework, source of money for video games, and maker of unjust rules.

"Mom" never lets me have any fun!

He's only three. I'm not ready to be "Mom" yet.

This is parenthood, isn't it? A long, aching, drawn out process of holding tight and letting go.

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

They are coming around with headphones now. (Damn, why do I never remember to bring my own? I have a growing pile of Air Canada be-logoed headphones at home.)

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

He wanted to come to the airport to say goodbye. Insisted he didn't want to sleep in with Dad.

(At least he's also dropped "Daddy" in favour of "Dad". That comforts me, like there's a fairness there. "It's not just me he's walking away from," my ego says. My ego doesn't give a damn about ending a sentence with a preposition, apparently.)

So I woke him up, and he was not happy.

"I don't want you to go to Toronto," he pouted. "I don't want you to go!" he shouted.

"I will fight you," he stated, matter of factly.

Is it bad that I was pleased he wanted me to stay? Is it awful that I still couldn't wait to go - to have an adventure for and by myself?

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

I just paid $10.08 for a chicken wrap and a can of Pringles. The freedom! The glamour of modern air travel!

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

It's been over three years since I've been on a flight alone. I bought a New Yorker at the airport magazine stand, just because I could. No interruptions, no questions, no reassurances, no thinking about anyone but me. No little grasping hands.

(I miss the little grasping hands.)

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

I'm going to Blissdom Canada today. Let the adventure begin.

Things That Are True - Thanksgiving

Four years ago, I was sitting, surrounded by family and friends, at a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner, and it was everything I could do just to hold it together and not weep into my plate of turkey.


Nobody but HWSNBN and I knew I was six weeks pregnant. And no one but HWSNBN and I knew I was bleeding.


The doctor we'd seen two days before had told us it was almost certainly a miscarriage. We'd done blood tests to determine if the pregnancy was progressing or not, but that was on a Friday before the long weekend. The results weren't available yet.


After six years of trying, many many dollars spent on fertility tests and treatments, and seven cycles of IUI, I'd finally gotten the longed-for two pink lines on the pregnancy test. We'd been toying with the idea of telling our extended family at Thanksgiving dinner - what could make a room full of people we loved more thankful than news that the circle around that same table would be one larger the next year?

I looked normal on the outside, but I was falling apart. I alternated between being heartbroken, feeling numb, and wanting to scream. We said nothing. 


We learned a few days later that what I was experiencing was a subchorionic bleed; first through blood tests, and then confirmed by ultrasound a week later when we heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time. The pregnancy went to term. And now, four years later, we have The Imp creating a noisy joyful whirlwind of confusion in our lives.


Every year as we sit around the family dinner table discussing the things that make us grateful I wonder, "What if...?"

And when people ask me, "What are you thankful for this day?" it's easy to answer.

This day and every day.

Things That Are Random - Tuesday in September Edition

This morning, once through with my appointment at the dentist, I bent over to pick up my bag and my bicycle helmet, and as I stood up I banged my forehead straight into the hard metal elbow of the fancy articulated dentist shine-it-right-in-your-eyes-interrogation-style lamp above the chair. I am now sporting a purplish bump just right of centre ice.

My right, your left.

I will tell people who ask that it's from the unicorn horn extraction.

The lesson here, folks, is don't take off your bicycle helmet at the dentist's office. Safety first, always.

-----

I found a stolen moment this morning and used it to sit on a bench at English Bay, coffee in hand, sun on my face, and enjoy the world going by on a perfect fall day. It was bliss.

I found another moment this afternoon and tried to replicate the first one. Alas, it was ruined by Proselytizing Man, who was peddling the harshest and most judgmental Dude in the Sky version of Christianity to any solo female he could trap on a bench.

The fact that he wasn't trying to corner guys and force his religion on them says something, I'm sure, but I find it icky and don't want to examine it too closely at the moment.

My lack of personal belief in God is never going to be changed by a guy who looks like a pedophile preying on women sitting alone at the beach and telling them if they don't love God and believe in the bible that they must love wickedness and are surely going to hell.

I wanted to smite him.

If that's the kind of person He calls to spread His message, I have to call bullshit on the whole All-Knowing-All-Powerful schtick. Honestly, Big Guy, your judgment's a little questionable there.

The lesson here, folks, is don't try to recreate a perfect moment. Make a new one.

-----

In the last three days I have seen no fewer than four young hipster dudes carrying a reproduction retro CBC Radio shoulder bag. This one.

I carried that bag three years ago. As a diaper bag, no less. (Now I want this bag.)

(The Imp is fully potty trained. I just want the bag.)

There's no lesson here, folks. Except that maybe my kid's diapers/wet wipes/bum cream were hipster before hipster was cool.

-----

Tonight at bedtime, The Imp said, "I want fireworks."

"There are no fireworks tonight, honey. Fireworks only happen in the summer. It's not summer now, it's autumn. There won't be fireworks again until Canada Day. That's in July. That's after your next birthday, when you'll be four. There are no fireworks tonight. Now, get into your pyjamas, buddy."

And then, just as he was settling down to sleep, we heard what I thought was the nine o'clock gun. Except that it kept going off.

"Fireworks, Mom! Those are fireworks!"

I went to his window, pulled back the curtain, and yes. Fireworks by Canada Place, courtesy of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, who were marking the end of their convention here tonight. Thanks, guys. A heads up would have been nice.

Big fireworks, and they went on for a long time. Long enough for HWSNBN, my mother (in town visiting for the week), The Imp and I to gather in our bedroom and watch them out the window.

Long enough for us to grow weary of standing, and to sit on the bed.

Long enough for us to grow weary of sitting, and lie down on the bed.

Long enough for The Imp to turn to me several times and say smugly, "I told you there was fireworks, Mom."

And long enough for me to explain the definition of gloating, complete with etymology, in words a three year old could understand.

The lesson here, folks, is that the IBEW will make you look like a lying liar. Also, when life hands you fireworks, gather your family close and watch from a comfortable spot.

-----

I wrote this post as part of Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write project. Check it out here.

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.

Things That Are Random - Thursday Night Edition

While I have not been here, I have been doing other things:

I wrote about why cycling rocks.

I wrote about sandwiches to salivate over.

I wrote about my five favourite things on Denman St.

That's right, I'm the new downtown contributor for Vancouver Mom!

I also waged battle against another Cold of Doom. I used to get the sniffles, feel yucky for a couple of days, and get over it. Now a cold lasts weeks, I'm unable to function for many days, and traces of it linger on long after the worst has passed. What's up with that? (I am not getting older. I am not getting older.)

Oh yeah, and I turned 41. (I am not getting older.)

BlogHer '11 was seventeen kinds of awesome, and then some. Every time I sit down to do a recap post, my head explodes.

Traverse Trip was seventeen different kinds of awesome. I'll do a recap post of that, too, when my head's done exploding from the other one.

Honestly, there's so much awesome in my life at the moment that I need a thesaurus to describe it.

You know what else is awesome? Sidewalk chalk, and a boy who won't stop moving, that's what.

Things I Know Are True - 41st Birthday Edition

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.*

1. I don't need more storage space, I need less stuff. The battle against clutter must be vigilantly waged.
2. I don't understand boots with open toes, or sandals with ankle cuffs.
3. I'll never be one of the cool kids. Even the cool kids aren't the cool kids.
4. 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.)
5. 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.
6. As I get older, I care less about looking foolish and I make less apologies for who I am.
7. "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.
8. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing my friends and family enjoy a meal I've prepared.
9. Wheaton's Law always applies.
10. 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.

Wordless Wednesday - Home

It's good to be home.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 7

In Portland. Karen is tidying up after our last in-room hotel picnic meal. Tomorrow we'll be home.

I did all the driving today: nine hundred and fifty eight kilometres. It's worked out that I've done most of the driving for the entire trip. There've been moments during the day while the others write, read, or nap, that I've looked out at the "...fine white lines, the white lines, on the free freeway" and let my thoughts wander.

I've noticed the long black scars of sudden braking on asphalt, and thought about the near misses they must represent. My eyes have followed the twin tracks of rubber that disappear off the edge of the road into grass, or gravel, or guardrails, and the tragedies they bear silent witness to as they flash by my hundred kilometre per hour windows.

In the quiet moments, with the radio off and the others occupied, I've thought about my own near misses.

Countless moments of stupidity.

Alcoholism.

Abuse at the hands of a man I thought loved me.



And yet, here I am.

Five hundred and four kilometres of scarred asphalt framed in the windshield remain between me and the end of this great adventure.

I miss my boys. I can't wait to be home.



Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. The navel gazing is free of charge, and entirely my own.


Also, I'm pretty sure Hejira is my favourite Joni Mitchell album.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 6

Interesting what three days of driving plus three days of BlogHer plus one day of driving can do to a person. I just checked into a perfectly reputable hotel outside Sacramento, California, looking like this:

Make way for the crazy lady, y'all.

 Also, yes my phone case is a monster face. Because I am twelve.




Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. And the crazy just comes for free.

Things I'm Proud Of - Eighteen Years

Eighteen years, friends.

My sobriety is, as of today, old enough to vote. It's old enough to send to college, old enough to be legally married, old enough to serve in the armed forces. It's old enough, believe it or not, to drink in Alberta, Quebec, and Manitoba.

Exactly eighteen years ago today, I woke up, took a long look at a tumbler of scotch by my bedside, and decided not to drink it.

I don't know why I didn't; I don't think I knew in that moment that I never again would.

Eighteen years. Sobriety's been a part of my life for me so long that I struggle to remember what it was like without it.

I remember events, and anecdotes. Flashes of experience, like someone else's old home movie. But I don't really remember being that person who needed to drink to feel normal. I'm not her anymore.

But I was. And that's what makes me an alcoholic.

Quitting drinking was the hardest thing I've ever done. I forget that sometimes, because it was so long ago. The days when it was a conscious decision - sometimes on an hourly basis - to not drink are far behind me. Now it's just part of who I am, like my green eyes or my delight in the absurd.

I only know my own story, and I'll tell it to anyone who wants to listen. But for now, I'll just say this: getting sober's hard. But I promise you it gets easier. I promise you.

I promise you.

I'm Alexis, and I've been sober eighteen years.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 4

It feels good to be not driving.

Not watching for road signs, not finding rest stops, not filling the gas tank.


Except I'm doing all of those things anyway, metaphorically at least.

The BlogHer experience is overwhelming. I knew this going in; I scheduled some quiet and alone time into the weekend. I didn't seek party invitations or product launches in the weeks leading up to this event. And today I am happy to just be.

I've sat in sessions today and been shown road signs: Why do you blog? What do you want to get out of blogging? What are your goals?

I blog because I can't not write. I want to tell my story, flawed as it may be. I want to know that there are others who have been there: alcoholism, triumph, identity crisis, motherhood. I want to leave a record for my son, so that he might know one day who I am, what I'm afraid of, what I love.

I've found some rest stops.

I hosted the Serenity Suite for an hour. I'll do it again tomorrow. I've had the opportunity to speak one on one, if ever so briefly, with some bloggers I admire greatly.

I've filled the gas tank.

I've sat in sessions and wept at the resonances. I've looked at these women, these smart, funny, accomplished women who accept me as one of their tribe. I've felt like I belonged.


And that is no small thing.


Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 3

Today there was shopping. Oh yes, my friends, there was shopping.

And I made the mistake of trying on a pair of boots before I actually looked at the price.

I saw them from across the store. It's possible that I actually said, "Helloooo, lover" as I reached to touch them for the first time.

"Doyouhavethisinaneight?" I asked, absentmindedly, as I stroked the soft brown leather.

Seth, the architect of my doom, was very helpful. He brought me the brown boots in a size seven and a size eight. He brought the same boots in black. In fact, he came out of the stock room with five or six pairs of the things, ready for me to try on.

So I did, and it was my undoing.

The boots of my dreams, they were. Soft, buttery leather. The exact right height, a perfect fit below my knees. A low heel, ideal for walking in.

I had to have them. Had to. I justified it in all kinds of ways. I've been looking for precisely these boots for five years. I've always wanted sort-of-riding-boots. They're such great quality I will wear them forever. The colour is exactly right. They fit perfectly - something that's been a challenge since my pregnancy when my feet changed shape.

And they were discounted; I would save four hundred dollars.

Yeah. I know. I have lost my ever-loving mind. Learn from my folly: do not walk into a Ferragamo store. Just don't. Trust me on this.

So I bought them, yes I did.

And then I stumbled out of the store as if out of a dream, and back, blinking, into reality. The conversation with HWSNBN a couple of hours later was interesting. As I explained why it made sense to spend more that I used to pay in rent on a pair of boots, he stopped me. "Lexi," he said, "you are the kind of person they keep in the basement of the White House to come up with reasons for completely horrendous government policy. You can justify anything."

He's not wrong. Still, they are fabulous.

Plus, they're a perfect match for my new cape.

Yes, I bought a cape. Because why not, right?

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego and back. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during the conference myself. And my own boots. I paid for those. Although it's possible I may have to wear them every minute until the day I die to amortize their cost over time.

Things I'm Doing - Traverse Trip: Day 2

I have a confession, friends.

As Curator of Musical Experience, I have totally skipped out on the job.

See, the Traverse that GM Canada has graciously allowed us to gallivant about in has satellite radio. My job: done. No need to play dj when you can tune into All Pearl Jam All The Time whenever you want. Plus, I've been doing a largish chunk of the driving, because the other women on the Traverse Trip team have deemed it prudent to allow me to drive rather than have to hold my hair back while I vomit on their shoes.

Motion sickness: it's a motivator.

(I am totally having greeting cards made with that on them.)

So today I turned on the Wayback Machine and we listened to 80s music all day. ALL DAY. For 1063 km. Which is 661 miles, for my imperially minded friends.

Tracey and I were pretty much on the same page, musically. At one point the seat dancing was so accidentally but perfectly coordinated that we felt the need to high five each other. This is what Madonna's Holiday will do to you, people. Consider yourselves warned.

So despite the fact that she does not share my love of Rick Springfield, and I don't understand her enthusiasm for Tears for Fears, there was much loud singing in the front seat. Nicole and Karen in the back looked up from their mifi-enabled tech addictions periodically to blink at us in puzzled wonder.

In addition to providing endless hours of amusement, the Wayback Machine also led to the inevitable "Who was your favourite member of Duran Duran?" question. Neither of us were Simon girls. (For the record, she: Nick, me: John.)

"What ever happened to Howard Jones, anyway?" we wondered as the miles rolled by. "What's Richard Marx doing now?" and "What ever became of Rick Astley?"

Because I have superspy access to secret information (read: google, I can haz) I will tell you what has become of them. I'm giving like that.

The good news: none of them has died.

The even better news (for them, anyway): all of them are still working and touring.

Howard Jones has a regularly updated website, a twitter account, and will be touring the US in October. He's also released a bunch of his music for the remixing pleasure of the general public.

Richard Marx is still writing songs, touring with a solo acoustic show in the US starting in a couple of weeks, and is tweeting and google +ing like a boss.

Rick Astley has committed the heinous crime of having music auto-play on his website (he's rick rolling us, how meta!) but is still touring. He'll be in Denmark in October, for my Danish readers.

(I'm pretty sure I have no Danish readers.)

(But now I want pastry.)

Tomorrow: the thrills of LA morning rush hour traffic, and on to San Diego and BlogHer '11.

w00t, etc.

Full disclosure: GM Canada is providing Karen, Nicole, Tracey and I with a Chevrolet Traverse, insurance, gas, and hotels to make the road trip to San Diego. I've paid for my BlogHer ticket and hotel during conference myself. And no animals were harmed in the writing of this post, although Karen and Nicole's ears may be bleeding from all the bad singing.