Wednesday, July 29, 2009

like it like that


And then there are the things that I like.

Things like really tacky songs (who knew a song could be tacky?). I submit to you for consideration Fire Burning by Shaun Kingston. God, that song rocks.

Maybe I like to dance with my girls if their dad isn't home after supper. By my girls I refer to my girls, one is 2 and one is 5, and after supper/before bed can be a make it or break it hour for us. I find that a good ole fashioned dance party, replete with some very loud Black Eyed Peas, turns our getting on each others nerves-ness around.

And maybe sometimes I like to read Danielle Steele at bedtime. Yup.

I like to take Wednesdays off work because really, who needs to work 5 days in a row. That just seems ridiculous to me.

I also like getting my eyebrows waxed. I mean not just so that I look better, which I do, I have very strong brows and they become wild and beast-like without proper maintenance. I mean, I like lying on the bed, having someone fuss over me, and entering a dreamlike state for 15 minutes interrupted only by hot wax and burning skin. When you have kids this really is a treat, trust me.

I like black nailpolish on my fingernails because I think it looks really sexy and not at all Goth. If it looked Goth I wouldn't like it.

I like singing along to the radio in my car. I also like letting people in if they are stuck in traffic, and I've had the opportunity to test that one out a lot this summer as half of the bridge is closed for construction. I always imagine that the person I let in was one moment away from a really bad day and I just turned it around for them.

I like going to yoga every day at lunch. If, as I so often say, I ruled the world it would be mandatory for everyone everywhere to go to yoga everyday.

I like picking my children up from daycare. Nothing beats that. Nothing.

I like writing again. Writing about things that aren't for work. Just to write. I like that a lot. I like being back at it.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Bright side of the moon


I grew up in Regina, Saskatchewan which when you are young feels like the middle of nowhere (and that is a bad thing) and when you are older feels like the middle of nowhere (and that is a good thing).

We played behind our house in the field, catching frogs in the culvert where the water would a foot or so deep. Although you wouldn’t believe it now, it feels like the entire time I was growing up there was a drought there was lots of talk about the poor farmers and the grasshoppers. I have still a personal hatred for grasshoppers, and one of my most vivid memories is being outside after supper wearing my pajamas with a watermelon on the front of them and feeling something on my ribcage. When I looked down there was an enormous grasshopper looking up at me. I felt as though I lost my mind for a few minutes. That led to my brothers putting grasshoppers under the door while I was in the bathroom so I would have to wait until my father came home from work to pick the lock and get the grasshopper.

But this isn’t about grasshoppers.I can’t imagine now letting my girls fish for tadpoles in a small body of water, the world has changed just enough that I see too many things going wrong with that, but perhaps they could scoop around in the small stagnant body of water in our backyard that was a pond with a fountain and fish when we moved into our new home. Along with an inability to let my children go the summers have gone and now instead of heat we have rain and humidity and everyone carries an umbrella. When I was little we didn’t have umbrellas because it was too windy when it rained and they always turned inside out. So now I carry an umbrella in my purse and I keep my children close and take a jacket to work in July in case it cools off like it tends to.

I wanted to be the editor of McLeans and although that is off the table I imagine that at some point sooner than later I will have a published novel and another on the way and the ideas that keep me awake at night, writing swirling sentences in my head will be put to rest at paper. Kind of like an exorcism; until the words are on paper they exist endlessly in my brain, floating and bumping into one another and generally making me crazy. Just a little crazy, enough to cause some sleepless nights, but not enough for certification. Ah, I’ve always believed that creative people walk a very fine line between what we call mental illness and quirky, although I do like to stay on the bright side of the moon.I also wanted to write for a living and although currently it seems as though I am wading through molasses to get there I am one.step.close.every day. I’m at one of those points in life where it fluctuates wildly between warp speed and small-town slowdown; where for a few minutes it feels like time is rushing madly like a river and then suddenly I relax and get some perspective and hey, wait a minute, it’s all going to be just fine.

Just fine.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Hello


Is there anybody out there?

Welcome back to me. It's like I'm throwing myself a party. A little early, all the (hm, was going to say shit but am not clear on the rules I had for self on use of profanity etc.)

Let's try that again.

Welcome back to me. I like that even better the second time, it's sort of like I was away somewhere glamorous and I'm being welcomed back to my real life. Which is also very glamorous, of course.

It is a little early, the shit that hit the fan is not all done but it's done enough that I can see the light and hallelujah and all that and damn it, I missed writing.

I was still writing, for work and all that, birthday cards and postcards and repondez s'il vous plait and grocery lists (I said glamorous; that may have been a lie) and cheques and cheques and cheques....perhaps I shouldn't get into that because I can feel my breathing getting all tight again. That is likely just the bronchitis, but I'll avoid that cheque talk for now.

I'm all over the map, I know. My fingernails used to ache for a couple of months when I put on those gel nails. The ones where you go into a little sweatshop type room every two weeks and spend what I considered a very painful hour or so (I know - obviously I was not a mother at that point - who has an hour to do that sort of thing anymore?) and I would come out with these funny little nails that I just loved. However. In the middle of the night I would wake up and I swear that my real nails were screaming at me to get.those.awful.things.off.we.can't.BREATHE. So I did, and really I was much happier once I could use my hands again instead of having to get other people to do pretty much anything that required use of my hands.


Point? Yes, the point. For the last few months, since I have not been here I have felt like that. Like my fingers and whatever small spot it is in my brain that finds it imperative that I am writing was waking me up and screaming. Screaming for whatever peace it is that this brings me.

It became so bad that I was writing constantly in my head. I'd get into the elevator at work (yes, many things are new and so I will have to apprise you of them but have patience I'll get to it the work of which I speak takes some energy and more time and so my time is eked out in small parcels, very little of which currently goes to me) but anyways when I get into the elevator at work or go to put the diaper on the baby or fill up the water table so that someone can shoot someone else in the eye with water and everybody can cry I was doing it all in Sentences in my head. Like:

"As Carolina filled up the glass [water table] of the sunburned tourist [sunblocked child wearing a hat] she wondered if he always fought with his wife like this [will she EVER get along with her sister?]"

Or I would imagine these ridiculous lives of these women wearing such strange clothes on the 10th floor. What is it about the 10th floor of my building? I mean really, how is it possible that they all wear such weird things? At some point, if I am ever not late for work I must stop on that floor and get out and see just what exactly is going on. Given my ability to be consistent if nothing else, however, it is highly unlikely that I will ever be not late.

I have faded out, my burst was short and probably not that sweet but oh so necessary. Again, with all the formality deserved on this occasion, I would like to welcome me back.

Welcome.