Now the Girl Guide’s of Canada my story as one of their top choice blogs for the year. Very cool!!  I just need people to vote to get the numbers high enough. What do I win? Basically, the exposure to tell little girls and the amazing big girl volunteers that GUIDES matters – and that my Mom was a fabulous role model. Oh, and that I cannot sew badges on anything, much less earn them …

To vote for my story go to:

http://girlguidescanblog.ca/2012/05/02/girlguidescanblog-big-deal-seal/

A fter six months of sleeping in the kitchen/dining room next to the pantry cupboard and the cat food tray, we can now stop hanging our housecoats off the kitchen chairs.  Our room is ready.

Why six months? Life, plain and simple, happens despite your best laid plans.

But the room was worth the wait. The Carpenter has done a fabulous job with a miniscule budget and he did it all by himself.  Did I mention his astrological sign in Leo? Yes, he did it all by himself (cough) because nobody else with their haphazard skills could ever possibly work to his high standards, despite the fact that the Carpenter had never fashioned a heated floor with ceramic tiles. That wasn’t the point. No, the fact was he needed to control the entire project. And control it he did.

That was okay by me. I would have agreed to anything after the first month of sleeping in the dining room. The temptation to roll over and grab chips from the pantry without even having to get out of bed was hard to ignore.  Guilty as charged.

Now, despite not being allowed to handle sharp objects I was given a series of vital tasks and responsibilities to support my Carpenter in his reno work. First and foremost, I had to occupy the children; keep them away from the tools, the freshly tiled floors and wet paint.  I also delivered fresh black coffee at regular intervals, while complimenting his progress, (read: ego).

Compliments are not to be confused with suggestions. Note to self: do not make suggestions during a renovation. Repeat: do not make suggestions, especially to a Leo.

Also, do not stand there and observe. I made that mistake once. My intentions were good. I was simply admiring the Carpenter’s skill and concentration (and perhaps the cheap thrill of seeing my guy in a tool belt), when he looked up at me with that furrowed brow expression, the one typically saved for the inept members of his jobsite crew.

“Do I watch you when you are working upstairs, writing your column?” he asked in a tone void of inflexion. I tried to find my best innocent pout unsuccessfully.  I was dismissed.

I could have challenged the Leo. It was my room too after all, but honestly; I was so turned on by the fact that something, anything was progress on this renovation that I didn’t dare.

This led to my final task, which was ‘don’t argue when your spouse selects the ugly tiles because they fit the renovation budget, which is now tapped out. ‘ Smile. Accept it. Make due.

In the end, his labour and my patience paid off: compromise and coffee. I suggested we look at a proper bedroom suite next, to make the furniture match the décor. The Carpenter laughed, with that furrowed brow again.

We celebrated in that room all night long. You bet we did. It was the best sleep of my life. What? That counts. Home renos make you tired, you know.

Sometimes when you make your own bed, you really do get to lie in it. A room with a view is sweet.  Thank you, Carpenter.

This inspired me to consider a career change. I think I should be a life coach for people who want to get married and have children.  I would accomplish two very important things in this role; first, I would lower the divorce rate by creating fear of marriage and, secondly, I would ensure that those foolish enough to ignore my advice would at least be prepared and thus, would go into the spirit of matrimony with their eyes wide open, (and I do mean wide).

I would start with the issue of home décor. You see, young women today grow up with visions of style magazines and home improvement fantasies in their organized, colour-coded heads. Most of these women have been independent in their lives too, earning their own money and coming into the marriage with their own treasure chest of furniture and décor.  It may be Ikea, but it has style.

Yet these women forget that they have fallen in love with men who think nailing art to a wall can be done with a staple gun or worse, a set of tacks.  Laundry bins become bedside tables, because while they never actually stow dirty laundry, they make a great spot to store sports equipment and if you balance your coffee carefully enough, it won’t spill. The arguments start when the your dream man asks why it’s okay for you, the wife, to put out a vase full of dried flowers but he cannot put out his shot glass collection next to his ’02 Spring Break memorabilia, a bottle of tequila with the worm still in it. It’s a collectible, don’t you know?

While a young couple settles on building their nest, the compromises may go fairly smooth and this fools them into adding children to the mix. Right, because children will fit your life (giggle), you won’t fit theirs (snort), and you’ll finally have the time to organize your life while the baby naps (guffaw).

New parents don’t know that children will infiltrate every aspect of their lives, which is pretty fabulous to be honest. That’s not the hard part. No, the hard part is what happens when they infiltrate your home. Every nook and cranny is filled with stuff, from toys to clothes to seasonal toys and clothes, to future toys and clothes and the giveaway toys and clothes. Do you see the pattern?

It’s okay, though, because all new couples plan to renovate and make their home bigger, more spacious and workable. Sometime between two full time jobs and four sports, doctor’s appointments and birthday parties, you can get that reno done in a jiffy, because your bank will be vying to send you into overdraft. Right.

That one slays me. I would insist all newly married couples be banned from watching those home improvement shows, pornography for the wanna-be self-improvement generation. You know, where they completely gut a house in day and, with a budget for new appliances and a team of professionals and designers, they transform your home into your castle within a week? Such a tease. It’s cruel, really.

See? Spring-cleaning stirs up more than dust bunnies.

You can crack under the pressure or you can sort it out. Life is messy. Go ahead and get dirty.

Some people consider the colour red as a symbol of love, but for me, love is orange. It is bright, bold, confident and courageous. I’m not just talking any shade of orange either. My orange is Benjamin Moore paint chip 2017-30: Tangelo orange.

This is the colour of one wall in my sacred space, my tiny office in my otherwise chaotic home.  It is the place where I get to be an artist in my own right, (or write, as it were).

That is the little thing that I refer too, something as simple as a paint colour. It may seem minor, but the significance of my orange wall is the reminder that my life, however short, had better be colourful.  It comes at the cost of a big life lesson, the loss of a friend I respected.  I did not say goodbye.

Marilyn, a talented artist, passed away peacefully this weekend, surrounded by her loved ones and her art.  In celebration of her life, I am painting my perspective on love, life and all things of genuine importance in a spectacular Tangelo orange hue, because in death, Marilyn has reminded me that to live well, one must make art of their life.

Marilyn was an artist, a mother, daughter, her husband’s best friend, an aunt, and a sister. She was a nurturer and a friend to many. She was a rebel with a cause, a staunch defender of art in public places, a brave heart pushing whatever boundaries came her way, including the illness that did not define her. Marilyn was the best party hostess to rock a Legion hall as a self-proclaimed Village Idiot, (member of Village Idiot Productions), who could raise the roof and raise funding donations with concerts for whatever cause she championed. Marilyn encouraged our little community to think outside the box and do it with a full colour spectrum. But she was so much more.

I asked Marilyn to help me pick a shade for my home office space. I wanted a colour to inspire my creativity. My only request was that the colour be a shade of orange. Marilyn came in, sat on my chair and flipped through her colour palette with serious concentration.  She looked around at my humble surroundings, with books, photos, and my children’s artwork. We talked about motherhood, about raising strong daughters, about the courage to go against the grain in our parenting, our careers, in our identities. This was the most profound discussion I’ve ever had inside those four walls. She understood why this little room mattered to me. That was enough.

Marilyn picked 2017-30 Tangelo orange, a positive expression of vibrant energy: a metaphor for my own writing potential.

True light shines even in the darkest hours, and in my memory, Marilyn will remain a beautiful orange glow. She showed me that art isn’t what you do, it is who you are, your authentic expression of self every day. Love is your colour wheel. That is enough.

Shine on M. xo

Now I am that crazy woman who wonders aimlessly up one aisle and down another, sidetracked by the slightest diversions because I honestly don’t know what I want, what I need or when I’ll have the time to actually make a meal with what I’ve eventually picked out.

I lean my beleaguered body over the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it forward as if it were holding me up and sliding my feet along, sighing to myself. Sometimes, to fake organization, I carry a piece of crumpled paper resembling a list, yet I hope inspiration will jump off the shelves and into my cart.

Guilt sends me spinning around the fruit and vegetables because I know that I should buy something good, healthy and not processed. I should make a salad. I should over-achieve and make a fruit salad.  Imagine that.

Except I know what would happen; it would get wasted. My family would be so suspicious of my culinary efforts that they’d be too afraid to eat it.

Sometimes I get hyper and think I’ll carve out time on the weekends to bake oodles of meals and stuff the freezer full of prepared dinners. Defrost. Reheat. Serve. It sounds so easy.

Okay, I know it is that easy but when do I have spare time to cook en masse, if I have a thousand other chores to do that are equally beneficial to the welfare of my family?  A day spent baking lasagna (which one child hates) or meatloaf (which the other child despises) or perhaps the meat pie that the Carpenter loves (and nobody else will eat) seems a little disheartening.

The truth is, I get no pleasure out of cooking. None. People treat this fact like I am some sort of a freak. Women especially like to use this fact as a superior one-upper on the imaginary scale of feminine competition.  Apparently, my maternal status negates that I must also be a culinary goddess. Fat chance.

People who love to cook are people who have the time , desire and talent to make it an experience. They are magical, skilled individuals, (freaks, if you will…) I love those people, I really do. I just wish they lived in my house. Jamie Oliver, your room is ready.

All I know is that I want this to grocery shopping over with. I want out of the halogen lights and aisles of possibility. I don’t want to socialize or smile because my sense of humour got left behind in the car with the reusable bags that I always forget in my trunk.

Yes, I know, a negative attitude is not a positive thing.  But I’m being honest with myself. I can easily blow through $200 of groceries and still eat out twice a week. (Somewhere a financial planner just slapped them selves on the forehead).

Am I the only person out there who cannot find the time or the coordinate meals between the end of the workday and the kids sports? Do other people eat dinner at 9 pm on a school night?

I realize I am fortunate enough to have this dilemma. When money is tight and it’s beans ‘n toast night, I am grateful just the same because I know I am lucky. I have food.

Apparently, I also have the shopping cart with the sticky, squeaky wheel.  Grocery karma. Looks like it’s beans’n toast again.

I may have a slightly unhealthy addiction to my mobile gadget, but it turns out the Carpenter shares this compulsion. While many would see this as a dangerous zone of communication dysfunction, I would argue that two mobile phones are better than one.

Texting is our marital Morse code. It is perfect for working parents whose jobs prevent chitchat with each other throughout the day. (Anyone who knows the Carpenter knows the man does not chitchat). We need quick, short, to the point messages sent with equally succinct, brief responses. Sometimes a simple Y for “yes” or K for “okay” is answer enough.

Occasionally, for fun, I make up my own single letter responses, like throwing back a J, for instance. It amuses me to know he is somewhere nervously wondering what J means in the Kelly Code, yet he is too afraid to ask, for fear of repercussions.

Typically, we use texting for things like “get milk” or to coordinate schedules. There are the dire warning texts; “Do not take money from bank account. In overdraft. Broke.”  Boy, that’s handy to know before you hit the grocery story to get the milk.

In this digital age, nothing says romance like text messages with emoticons. I know there is nothing the Carpenter likes more than smiley faces and red hearts showing up on his phone while he’s standing in a herd of construction workers. (Giggle). My Carpenter may be a man of few words, but sometimes his face says it all. I suspect when he gets those texts he turns a shade of red that does not pair well with his orange construction vest. It’s wrong, I know, but it makes my day in an office pass faster.

Mobile technology is good on those difficult days too, when you really need the empathy of your spouse to have compassion for the stresses in your alternate life (i.e.: work, family, friend-emies, etc.). I call these “vent texts.” Sometimes you gotta let ‘er rip, and your spouse is the safest audience for those rants. The Carpenter is great at vent texts, with language reserved for the jobsite, making his messages a fabulous read.

But my absolute favorite thing about wireless communication is the “oops call.”  Some refer to it as the pocket-dial, or in the Carpenter’s case, the “tool and dial”. This is when he calls me and has no idea he’s done so, but I can hear what he’s doing.  Once I got to listen to him reprimand a crew of construction workers who were apparently did not take direction well. The Carpenter used his stern work voice and inappropriate adjectives. The “tool and dial” call let’s me play spy. Is it wrong that I found his anger management sexy? He’s a totally different person on a job site, (thank goodness).

This leads me to the sex-text; virtual flirtatious innuendo to make up for the fact that all of the above have put a serious dent in your marriage reality. That’s when you know it is time to turn your mobile phone off.

I am not complaining. I am grateful that the worst thing we’ve dealt with in our family are colds and flu bugs that will eventually go away. I am grateful that I have access to health care, a hospital in town with good doctors, and a gamut of professional resources available for whatever ails us.

I was reminded of this luxury after a four-hour stop over at my regional hospital last week, with a sick child in my care. All around us, people were looking anxious about having to wait their turn. I get it. Being sick is not fun. But honestly, I took it all in stride. I would much rather have a hospital with trained staff taking care of my child, then be in another part of the world where no one would help us. Time slows down when you have a sick child. Sometimes we need to be reminded how lucky we are.

But I learned something about myself that I was not proud of: the duality of my mother’s guilt.  It hit me at bedtime on Sunday night. I am ashamed to admit this but, when my kids are sick I know that, as the lowest income earner and the nurturer (by default), I will be the one missing work the next day.  I know the ramifications that will follow.

No matter how much the Carpenter and I are a parenting team, there are inequalities in our roles. Nothing points that out faster than a sick child.  It’s not deliberate, it is just circumstance. One parent earns more money or has a job with more responsibility and that parent goes to work while the other stays home to hold down the contaminated fort. (Single parents, you have my utmost respect for your ability to perform dual roles).

When I became a mother, I swore I would always put my family first. I have, except to do so ironically means not doing so. Giving our families what they need, like a roof over our their heads, food on the table, and buying new shoes for their fast growing feet, it takes money. Then, of course, I need a vehicle to get them places, because I chose to live in a suburban community without transit. After the every day living expenses, as you all well know, there aren’t a whole lot of luxury items left on the list.

Living here, putting my family first comes at the cost of needing two incomes. For the Carpenter and I, for the choices we’ve made, it takes two to keep the boat afloat, and even then, we each have paddles and a bucket in case the unthinkable happens, like the dryer breaks or worse, the car, and then it’s Titanic ruin.

I confess, I like what I do and I want to go to work. It doesn’t mean my kids don’t matter though.  So the guilt becomes white noise. It never shuts off. The duality is the guilt for wanting to have a career and the guilt for not being able to be 100% present for my kids. It’s a choice to live how we live, but it is not easily made. I have no solution.

Nobody does. But today my kids learned that no matter what, they are the priority.  I still made a few deadlines. The world continued to spin. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to cope with the rest.

I declare this knowing full well that I have a son who wants to play sports where I will not enjoy seeing him acting as either the enforcer, or worse the one receiving the force. That is a whole different ball game. In this way, I am a hypocrite. I admit it.

Let me be clear. I am not suggesting brutality is admirable. Not even close. Unsportsmanlike conduct makes me ill. Teaching our children to admire those athletes that play dirty is ridiculous. We’ve turned our human athletes into super heroes, in a culture where celebrity is king. I don’t care if a hockey player drives a black Escalade and make $12 million a season. I don’t want my son to care either.

I am talking about enjoying the physical nature of sport, within the boundaries of an arena, referees and a time clock. Rugby, football, boxing, hockey, even soccer has an element of psychology that is about psyching out ones opponent, or knocking the stuffing out them for the sake of scoring a point. I don’t pretend to always agree with it, but I do respect it when rules are followed because there is something in this aggression we all relate too.  It’s in us.

If you had told me that I would find my balance of rough sport and integrity in athletes at a Toronto Rocks lacrosse game, I would have declared you insane. But that is what happened last Saturday, when I found myself watching the spectacle of an extremely physical sport where hacking and slashing are allowed. Believe it or not, I loved it.

I swore I would never like lacrosse. I grew up in Whitby, where lacrosse was a religion. I didn’t go to that church. Lacrosse scared me.  People running around with sticks, with full permission to whack anyone anywhere, or so it seemed, while throwing a hard rubber ball around at the speed of a bullet wasn’t a sport, it was a bar fight.  I didn’t see the athleticism and I didn’t like the goon mentality. For me, the stigma remained. Somehow I overlooked it for the love of hockey. As you well know, hockey is goon-free. Sigh.

The Toronto Rocks game changed my mind. It started when I opened the program and read the players bios. These weren’t million dollar athletes with sponsorship deals. These men were teachers, police officers, salesmen, and the local superstar who works for my community’s Parks and Recreation department.

You’d never know it by the way they played lacrosse, with a brute force and dexterity that made it one of the most exciting games I’ve seen in ages.  It was an adrenaline rush from start to finish and I will never look at the skill required to play lacrosse with negative judgment again.

Was it brutal? Was there a fight? Yes. Was it controlled? Absolutely. Did it diminish the game or the sheer athleticism required to play the sport? Not at all.

Next week, my son registers for lacrosse. He may or may not be cut out for the sport. It takes a certain kind of attitude for sure. But if the Toronto Rocks players inspired, if those are his role models, I’m okay with it. (sort of).

That’s right, I said it: the Carpenter liked a film chosen by me, and better yet, he admitted it. Honestly, the shock was so staggering that I went outside to be sure the sun was still shining and zombies weren’t marching through my neighborhood. Surely the world had ended.

Could this be true?  I innocently rented a film that did not make him fall asleep, start a crossword puzzle or leave the house? And get this ladies, Ryan Gosling was in the film (grrrowl).  I tricked my man into thinking the film was for him when secretly, I wanted to Mr. Gosling portray a risqué stunt car driver. (vroom, vroom, wink, wink).

Ironically, it totally backfired and I still came out looking like the best wife ever. It I have now scored a double-whammy on the Richter scale of matrimony. You see, I never got to watch the actual film, so the whole eye-candy viewing of Mr. Gosling didn’t happen for me, because I was stuck upstairs watching a chick-flick with my preteen chicklet. I fell asleep in the mind-numbing slow pace of that film and missed the late night viewing of Drive, the film I’d rented partly for my own selfish reasons.

To be fair, I did the rent the movie for the Carpenter because I knew that it had something to do with cars and gangsters. I have yet to meet a man who doesn’t find these two topics automatically of interest in plot, so it was an obvious choice. Cars lead to car chases and the inevitable smash-up, which leads to at least one explosion and more four-lettered words that than a construction crew on break, so I figured he’d like that. Gangsters, well, it’s a given that there will be several completely unrealistic fight scenes, more expletives between nouns and undoubtedly some gratuitous violence. Naturally, to tie it all together there has to be one seriously sexy woman who is single,  (because all the really smart, attractive women are still single in their thirties, you know) who will play a physically aggressive and sexual demure role (because, again, that’s what we gals do), while the main characters proceed to either woo her or kill her. Either way, her hair and make-up will remain in tact. In other words, I have chosen a great man film.

But just to add to my already awesome standing as the perfect wife, I did one other thing that made the Carpenter the happiest man in Wellington County. Stop blushing; it wasn’t that exciting. It was better. Yes, better. Really. As the ultimate spouse, I left my man alone with his guy film to watch it in silence. I did not insist we make time to be together. I did not sit and ask questions throughout the film. I did not chew my buttered popcorn with my mouth open. I didn’t even go downstairs. I left him alone, in the dark with the flat screen television, uninterrupted. I am that good.

The next day I was surprised to hear the Carpenter relay the gory details of this awesome movie to me. I heard about every explosion, crash, stabbing, blood-splattering fist-fight, with a mafia twist and yes, even the girl character who tied the whole thing together.

And then it happened, the moment I have long waited for: “Yes, I admit it, you picked a good film.”  Cut.

When the golden Oscar is handed to the recipient of the greatest honour in the motion film industry, for one brief second I forget that the whole event is a sham of political nepotism and big-money production houses run by a handful of men.  I forget that independent films with lesser budgets deserve more attention. I forget the great performances I’ve seen on stage by actors who will never get to the big screen.

Instead, I take a deep breath and I snuggle in my bathrobe for the 45 seconds of delicious dialogue that bleed into two minutes or more of gushing prose. Anything that can wrong surely will go wrong in this moment. From the goofy star-struck first-time nominees to the heartfelt long-shots and even the dignified, but greatly humbled repeat winners, it all comes down to the honesty expressed in those few moments, (except they are actors, so like really, they could be faking the whole thing).

Everything you need to know about that actor/director/costume designer spill out of their mouth in that itty-bitty time when the spotlight is on them. My favorite is the winner whose words are unscripted, and are thus uninhibited, uncensored and ramble on in the giddy, emotional realization that they have just reached their career pinnacle. The raw energy of that single moment is addictive.

There are the duds too, the winners who were cocky enough to draft a speech and tuck into their Spanx dress, deep in their stuffed-up cleavage or neatly behind their flask in the suit pocket.  When I see that flap of paper appear, the air is slowly sucked out the nominee’s acceptance speech before they even begin. But they’re not as bad as the few who say almost nothing except, “I am honoured. Thank you.”

What? That’s the best you can do? Way to go fool. Now we’re going to have to see Tom Cruise in another bad movie, or worse, Tom Hanks. Thanks for nothing. Go back to your seat. Cue the band.

I get a laugh when a large ensemble cast wins the award and one guy tries to hog the spotlight to thank his entire family while the other members of his team wait patiently for a turn they won’t get. Just once I’d like to see that guy get a hip-check and there be an all-out brawl for the microphone. I wonder what the fall-out is backstage. There is no “I” in team, super star. Hmph.

Or what about the actors who thank everyone but their spouse, the person who has  endured their public life and personally disorders for each film character. Imagine the awkward silence in the limo ride home. I would never forget the Carpenter in a speech, (he’s not that lucky).

Ahem … I would like to thank the academy, my parents, my friends, that weird guy in the coffee shop, and lastly, (big finish, mock tears) the Carpenter, who reminds me daily that our life together is award enough. Cue the band.