Thursday, August 04, 2011

Excelling

I'm considering whether it would be a) crazy or b) not crazy to create a master schedule for Life in the Fall.

You see, Life in the Fall scares me. It's when the shit hits the fan, in terms of busy, and I'm not such a coper that when the shit hits the fan I calm everyone down. Rather, it's more like when the shit hits the fan, I leap up onto the table, grab hold of the fan, and hang on for dear life, screaming at everyone to "hurry up! for god's sake, I said could you HURRY UP!"

So since one of my talents (I'm calling all my old jobs that now, since we've been reading so many fairy books where whatever the fairy is good at is called his or her talent, and I kind of like that better than boring old skills) is event planning, I thought perhaps I could consider my life, and the life of my brood, one big Event with many smaller events occurring throughout, sometimes simultaneously. Not simultaneously like I'm reading the paper, drinking coffee, and pretending to listen to two people and pretending not to hear the third and smallest. More simultaneous like one person has to be at French preschool and another needs to be eating lunch in the car while being driven to what seemed like a terrific idea at the time, lunchtime piano lessons. (I wasn't certifiably crazy at the time, meaning, I wasn't pregnant, so I'm not sure how that slid by the working side of my brain...ah, lunchtime piano? you mean, pick her up early from school, with the baby in the van instead of at home napping, and get her to eat her lunch without spilling all over, and convince her it's going to be "super fun" to go to piano, and then SIT and WAIT outside for half an hour, and then drive her back to school LATE).

Seriously. What the fuck was I thinking?

Anyways, back to my new master plan. See, this summer the kids were driving me batshit crazy with their "what are we doing today?" questioning, which sounds very innocent but in reality was like a volley of gunshots fired at me first thing every morning. Listen closely. "Whatarewedoingtoday,mommy?Isaid,whatarewedoingtodaymommywhatarewedoingtoday?canIhaveafriendover?whydoesshegettohaveafriendoverthat'snotfairshealwaysgetsafriendoverhuhthat'snotfairwhatdoIgettodo?" Like gunshots, I swear.

So I created this simple calender that you can print off the Internet for free (this entailed me having to call my Internet provider out and hours on the phone convincing the Internet provider that the reason my wireless printer wouldn't work was their fault, not mine, not an easy task when Internet provider is a Crown corporation...if you're not from Canada google Crown corporations + suck and you'll see what I mean, god I miss IT people...they're like magic) and creating a little road map of the summer months.

Nothing more extravagant than a white piece of paper with things like Gym and Camp and Have a friend over on it, but it worked.

And when I say it worked, it worked for them, and for me. Seems I thrive on having a little structure, a little game plan. Probably from years as a freelancer, where if I didn't have a plan I was set adrift in my own ability to get absolutely nothing done, something I unfortunately perfected until I started scheduling my own life in Outlook.

Here's how I see it. A strategy session (or two), where we sit down and put it all on the table. How do each of us ladies see our fall mapping out? What's important to us? What will make it all more than bearable (dare I say it - pleasant?).  For one it might be lasagna after every swim lesson. Another, perhaps a snack in the car, waiting, after dance. Organizing what meals need to be prepared in advance and what bags need to be packed and with what will save me from the frantic pace I set last year, where it didn't just feel like I was two steps behind, I really was.

Maybe this is what moms on mat leave do. We use the ...talents...we honed in our workplaces to create bearable, livable lives, where colour-coded spreadsheets make everyone breathe easy.

We'll see. I'll let you know how it goes.

Wednesday, August 03, 2011

“The tragedy of life is not death, but what we let die inside of us while we live.”

I've got three gorgeous girls. Three gorgeous girls, who are so wholeheartedly and unabashedly ready to scoop up every single thing they can learn.

And they've got me. With my anger management workbooks and the veritable library of self help books (interspersed, of course, with the entire Shopaholics series and no less than several hundred other pop fiction reads); they have someone who also is unabashedly ready to scoop up every single thing I can learn. About being a better person; a better mother. Better wife. Friend. Aunt. Woman. Daughter.

I used to be embarrassed by this direction; by the idea that I needed such work. And then I read "Who will cry when I die" by Robin Sharma, promptly ordered all his other books, and stopped thinking it was a reflection of my failures that I still need (a lot) of work. In one of them he conceded the same; that he had once judged people he saw toting tomes on self repair. And then he (and later, I), realized. What better project? What better place to direct energy? If I carried around books on getting ahead at work, or how to paint a better picture, or build a better bookcase, no one would judge. Why should anyone judge if I want to be a better person?
And so I'm not so ashamed, anymore. Not so ashamed of my desire to be better. Of my plan to wear a bracelet to remind me to be kind. (I know...it is poor when you need a bracelet to remind you to be kind. Nonetheless). Not ashamed to admit that I'm so far from perfect...

But I'm going to give it my best shot. And if that includes a constant and conscious working on being a better person, so be it.

Tuesday, August 02, 2011

1. Discover Your Calling

I feel a bit like Barbie, trying to figure out if I'm a doctor, a fashionista, Ken's girlfriend, or a cake maker. Those are the Barbie's we have here, anyways, I'm pretty sure there's a Barbie for every profession nowadays.

I have a pretty good idea what my talents are. Trouble is, it took me a while to figure it all out, and I'm not one of those people who knew when they were in grade ten that they were going to be a doctor. If I go way back, I always wanted to be the editor of McLeans. That dream has been passed over somewhat, and I must say I like the new editor quite a lot so I wouldn't want to take that job from him. I also wanted to be a lawyer, and now there are all the studies describing how women are so fed up with the hours that they're leaving the profession in droves, I'm glad I'm not stuck in that rut.

Another issue I struggle with is that I like to have many talents. Interior decorator, writer, event planner, socialite, fashionista, perfect wife, even more perfect mother - it's too much. I need to get a handle on picking one or two and letting the other stuff go.

Or do I? Can't I have several? Maybe some come and go, like the winter of crystal art (I'll have to find that old blog post). Hopefully that comes again. I miss my hand cramping, and ordering tiny pieces of Swarofski crystal off the Internet. Discovering that there are different qualities of glue.

And running comes and goes in my life, dependent on so much, like time and dedication and ease and where I'm at in the generating of children. I forgive the [not] running...why not the [not] writing and the [not] perfect parenting?

I like where I'm going with this. Maybe, for me, the discover your calling has happened. Maybe it's less of discovery and more of, shall I say, get on with it.

I think that's it.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Not

I spend a great deal of time working at being a better person, at being positive (definitely not my natural inclination), so this post may come across as the polar opposite of those goals. However, I have decided it is necessary in order to move me towards my goals.

Not sure of the goals yet as my molasses-like self improvement must be done in sequential steps and I have only so much time with my trio of ladies requiring all sorts of care, but even baby steps are steps.

I need to determine what is is that I am not, and let those things go.

I am not someone who loves gardening. While I appreciate people who do, and the consequences of their gardening (i.e. delicious lettuce for salads, fresh radishes, beautiful flowers, green foliage), I have no intentions of gardening. Whatsoever. I have carried around a desire to desire to garden for several years now, and I hereby relinquish it to the compost heap. Which I also don't have.

I do not like Canadian television programming. While I wish I did, shows funded by Canadian grants I find boring. Sole exception to this was one show a while back where the girl was a literary agent or something who got transported through time, but then it got all weird and I stopped watching. Canadian TV is like the poor man's intellectual equivalent of trying to be British. Where British television shows are razor sharp in humour, Canadian TV is simply boring. Give me some low brow American reality garbage any day.

I am not someone who can do the same thing, day-in, day-out. For sure I can put on deodorant, brush my teeth, eat breakfast, feed my kids...all that stuff that has to get done. Note: I did not say shower or wash my hair. Those things are expendable, in my opinion. Leads me to another...I am not someone who showers and/or washes my hair everyday. Rather, I need new, I need different, and I thrive on a project with a definite end date. And you know what I've figured out? That's not such a bad thing. The world needs the focused, the ones who keep the phones working and the lights turned on. But the world also needs the ones who put the flowers on the table. The ones who make sure everyone has a good time, and who understand that there is always another day on the horizon.

And, last but not least, I am not someone who has patience. I know, I know. Patience is a virtue, yadayadayada. However, it's impatience that motivates me and impatience that gets things done in my world.

And you know what?

That's okay by me.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Triple threat

And so we were talking about our oldest starting the new school year at a Catholic French immersion school. We must think we have a pretty tough kid, given the triple threat of switching schools three times in three years, moving from public to separate system, and into French from English only. Hopefully she forgives us. Her biggest concern, alongside having a hard-sided lunch bag, is the "sign language." I'm like, sign language? Turns out it's the sign of the cross they made in the assembly when she went to check out the new school.

With my limited knowledge of Catholicism, I show her.

"No, it's the sign of the cross. Like this." I demonstrate. "Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

"Ghost? What does that mean?"

This is a tough one for me, and so I delay by telling her that is one of the many amazing things she will learn once she goes to her new school.

Not good enough.

"So....is it like a sprite, then?"

Definition of a sprite, from perspective of someone who reads a lot of books with titles such as "Paige and the Magic Tree":

sprite: /sprit/ an elf or fairy.

And I was worried about the French.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Boom boom pow



Life is good, you know? And then there are the momentary recalibrations; the ones where something enormous really does happen, like an accident or catastrophic relationship meltdown. But there's something else that can happen, where it's as though someone picked up your world, gave it a really good, strong, quick shake, and set it back down. Everything is the same, but different.

That happened this weekend. We were walking around the lake. Correction, kid's dad and I were walking around the lake, smallest kid in jogger and bigger kids on bikes. And we were walking and talking and above all, enjoying. Dreaming, planning, you know - the things you do on a day where there's no major stuff to discuss and instead you can just talk.

And we walked by an elderly couple. I noticed them because they were walking slowly, carefully. I assume they live in the crescents, quite nearby, because of the direction they came from as well as the fact that I think it was quite a chore for the man to walk. His wife had his arm, and they walked together, not talking, just concentrating. I could tell that she was more together than he; perhaps he is sick, or his mind is starting to fade. They were both tall and thin, and wore clothes from the same colour palette. I imagine she chooses his clothing at the store and selects his outfits.

And it was like a staggering bolt of lightening, when I realized that (god willing), that will be Jade and I someday. Old, and fading. And the gamut of emotions that ripped through me were intense and thorough in the wake they left behind. From hope, that all goes well and we are blessed to walk around a lake when we're old and grey. That it isn't just one of us, alone with memories. Fear, that someone's mind will be gone. Although I can't imagine it for us, I've seen it happen and dread it.

The biggest realization, the boom-boom-pow in all this, though, was the surety, the actuality, that this, too will pass. We won't have girls on bikes, begging for ice cream and 'daddy give me a push.' We won't have sure feet and strong hearts forever. We won't necessarily have each other.

I think this is what they (I do love 'they,' so incredibly helpful) call a mid-life crisis. And while I got it in theory before, I get it in full-on, living it context now. I'm now nearly at a mid-way point, and I need to grow a new mantra. One of thankfulness, for every single precious moment I have.

I think that might be the first time I've used the word precious? Not typically a fan, but seems the only one that will do today.

Peace out.

Get on with it

To just start writing and see where it goes. Seems like crazy talk for someone whose mind swims with ideas and sentences and ... dare I say it? Desire? The desire to write, stifled for far too long, seeps into my dreams and my thoughts, continually, bothering me with the of course, undone.

Rusty. My fingers, my ideas, my ... flow. Rusty in how to get the thoughts down, no, not even that. Rusty in what thoughts? What ideas? Was this ever easy?

Keep thinking I need a schedule. I need to schedule the time, and then steal what I can. Feels an impossible task and so I put it off. Like in an interview, what is your fault? The fake answer, I'm a perfectionist...don't like to delegate control, sometimes don't finish things...the real answer? Afraid of failure, perhaps? So close, before, to accomplishing. Life got in the way a bit, the way I imagine cancer or death or catastrophic failure does.

That was helpful; that bit of regurgitating above. Perhaps to let it out, the hurt and disappointment, will allow the freedom to go forward? Perhaps, as there are tears in my eyes and a welling in my chest. Perhaps to acknowledge that some was my fault and some not; that things happen and that that is life, and to say it's okay. I'm on no one's schedule but my own. And I can be sorry and be sad that it hasn't moved at warp speed. Or I can say, okay, too bad, now get on with it.

Now get on with it.

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

Project - update

So I started the "Who will cry when you die" project some time ago. The book sits by my computer and I pick it up randomly, scanning the pages for tips on ensuring that there is a full house when I kick the bucket. I also have typed up two white pieces of paper with a list (bulleted, of course), of things I will do as a parent. For instance, have patience, not yell, blah blah blah.

I do make the utmost effort to read these parenting tips every time I either look in the mirror in my bathroom or open the spice cupboard (don't ask me why those were the locations I picked. The mirror I get - it's like a first thing in the morning spot. Spice rack? Don't know what the rational was on that one. Hey, when in doubt, blame hormones.). What these tips and the project have succeeded in doing is ensuring that I now recognize when I'm being a bag. I haven't developed as a person enough that when that recognition hits I actually do something about it, no. Instead, rather like I imagine an out-of-body experience would unfold, I hear myself yelling, feel myself losing control, and continue on.

I suppose that's like the initial baby step, the recognition of the Madness and then observation of said Madness. Perhaps would be a better parent/person, however, if that recognition and observation led to me actually doing something about it.

Maybe that's a project more suited for my 40s?

Monday, April 04, 2011

It's not me, it's Tina Fey

Dear god, I'm not even funny anymore. Worse, I worry that perhaps I never actually was funny and have now through some accident of hormones and pregnancy, simply realized the truth. That I am a flat and boring person.

After I had Soph (middle child, the one that will grow up disappointed that she wasn't either first or last), I was filled with things I had to say. So much so that I started this blog, wrote two (unpublished) books (don't get excited - as many published authors say in the Globe & Mail every week, anyone can write crap these days), and words and ideas tumbled out. Aided, in some cases, by a fat glass of wine, but nonetheless.

This new baby, first name Charlie, middle name Final, appears to have sucked (maybe literally?) the creativity out of me. I sit down to write and there's nothing. I stroll the sites I used to peruse on a daily basis, and nothing inspires. I journey through life, right now a series of scintilating stops at shops like Walmart, Safeway, and my all time fave, Superstore, collecting tidbits of crazy people, weird experiences, and other such paraphenilia which normally would write itself, and instead I have nothing.

So in the interests of supplying something funny, I have copied Tina Fey's article from the New Yorker. Trust me, it's laugh out loud funny. For all you kids out there, that's LOL.
xoxo

“Confessions of a Juggler” by Tina Fey


My daughter recently checked out a book from the preschool library called “My Working Mom.” It had a cartoon witch on the cover. “Did you pick this book out all by yourself?” I asked her, trying to be nonchalant. Yes. We read the book, and the witch mother was very busy and sometimes reprimanded her daughter for messing things up near her cauldron. She had to fly away to a lot of meetings, and the witch’s child said something like “It’s hard having a working mom, especially when she enjoys her work.” In the heartwarming conclusion, the witch mother makes it to the child’s school play at the last second, and the witch’s child says she doesn’t like having a working mom but she can’t picture her mom any other way. I didn’t love it. I’m sure the two men who wrote this book had the absolute best intentions, but this leads me to my point. The topic of working moms is a tap-dance recital in a minefield.

It is less dangerous to draw a cartoon of Allah French-kissing Uncle Sam - which, let me make it very clear, I have not done - than it is to speak honestly about this topic.

What is the rudest question you can ask a woman? “How old are you?” “What do you weigh?” “When you and your twin sister are alone with Mr. Hefner, do you have to pretend to be lesbians?” No, the worst question is: “How do you juggle it all?”
“How do you juggle it all?” people constantly ask me, with an accusatory look in their eyes. “You’re screwing it all up, aren’t you?” their eyes say. My standard answer is that I have the same struggles as any working parent but with the good fortune to be working at my dream job. Or sometimes I just hand them a juicy red apple I’ve poisoned in my working-mother witch cauldron and fly away.

The second-worst question you can ask a woman is: “Are you going to have more kids?” This is rude. Especially to a woman like me, who is in her “last five minutes.” By that I mean my last five minutes of being famous is timing out to be simultaneous with my last five minutes of being able to have a baby.

Science shows that fertility and movie offers drop off steeply for women after forty.

When my daughter says, “I wish I had a baby sister,” I am stricken with guilt and panic. When she says, “Mommy, I need Aqua Sand” or “I only want to eat gum!” or “Wipe my butt!,” I am less affected.
I thought that raising an only child would be the norm in New York, but I’m pretty sure my daughter is the only child in her class without a sibling. All over Manhattan, large families have become a status symbol. Four beautiful children named after kings and pieces of fruit are a way of saying, “I can afford a four-bedroom apartment and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in elementary-school tuition fees each year. How you livin’?”
Now, I’m not really one for status symbols. I went to public school. I have all my original teeth and face parts. Left to my own devices, I dress like I’m hear to service your aquarium. But the kid pressure mounts for other reasons.
The woman who runs my local toy store that sells the kind of beautiful wooden educational toys that kids love (if there are absolutely no other toys around and they have never seen television) asks me, “Are you gonna have another one?”
A background actor on the set of “30 Rock” will ask, “You want more kids?” “No, no,” I want to say. Why would I want more kids when I could be here with you having an awkward conversation over a tray of old Danishes?
The ear-nose-and-throat doctor I see about some stress-induced canker sores offers, unsolicited, “You should have another one. I had my children at forty-one and forty-two. It’s fine.” Did she not hear the part about the stress-induced canker sores.
My parents raised me never to ask people about their reproductive plans. “You don’t know their situation,” my mom would say. I considered it such an impolite question that for years I didn’t even ask myself. Thirty-five turned into forty faster than McDonald’s food turns into cold non-food.

Behind Door No. 2, you have the movie business. Shouldn’t I seize the opportunity to make a few more movies in the next few years? Think of the movies I could make!

“Magazine Lady”: The story of an overworked woman looking for love, whose less attractive friend’s mean boss is played by me…when Bebe Neuwirth turns the part down.

“The Wedding Creeper”: An over-worked woman looking for love sneaks into weddings and wishes strangers well on their wedding video, only to fall in love with a handsome videographer (Gerard Butler or a coatrack with a leather jacket on it), despite the fact that when they first met they knocked over a wedding cake, causing an old lady (Academy Award winner Jane Fonda) to rap.
Next, a strategically chosen small part in a respectable indie dramedysemble called “Disregarding Joy,” in which I play a lesbian therapist who unexpectedly cries during her partner’s nephew’s bris. Roger Ebert will praise my performance, saying I was “brave to grow that little mustache.”

Finally, for money, I play the villain in the live-action “Moxie Girlz” movie, opposite a future child star who at this moment is still a tickly feeling in Billy Ray Cyrus’s testicles.

How could I pass up those opportunities? Do I even have the right to deprive moviegoers of those experiences?

These are the baby-versus-work life questions that keep me up at night. There’s another great movie idea! “Baby Versus Work”: A hardworking baby looking for love (Kate Hudson) falls for a handsome pile of papers (Hugh Grant). I would play the ghost of a Victorian poetess who anachronistically tells Kate to “go for it.”
I debate the second-baby issue when I can’t sleep. “Should I? No. I want to. I can’t. I must. Of course not. I should try immediately.”
I get up to go to the bathroom and study myself in the mirror. Do I look like someone who should be pregnant? I look good for forty, but I have the quaggy jawline and hollow cheeks of a mom, not a pregnant lady. This decision cannot be delayed.
And what’s so great about work, anyway? Work won’t visit you when you’re old. Work won’t drive you to the radiologist’s for a mammogram and take you out afterward for soup. It’s too much pressure on my one kid to expect her to shoulder all those duties alone. Also, what if she turns on me? I am pretty hard to like. I need a backup.
And who will be my daughter’s family when my husband and I are dead from stress-induced canker sores? She must have a sibling. Hollywood be damned. I’ll just be unemployable and labelled crazy in five years, anyway.

Let me clarify. I have observed that women, at least in comedy, are labelled “crazy” after a certain age.

FEMALE WRITER: You ever work with XXX XXXX?

MALE AGENT (dismissive): She’s crazy now.
FEMALE WRITER: You know who I loved growing up? XXXXX McXXX. What about her for this part?

MALE WRITER: I don’t know. I hear she’s pretty batshit.


FEMALE WRITER. I got a call today from XXX XXX.

MALE PRODUCER: Ugh. We had her on the show once. She was a crazy assache. She wanted to see her lines ahead of time. She had all these questions.

I know older men in comedy who can barely feed and clean themselves, and they still work. The women, though, they’re all “crazy.” I have a suspicion - and hear me out, because this is a rough one - that the definition of “crazy” in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore.

The only person I can think of who has escaped the “crazy” moniker is Betty White, which, obviously, is because people still want to have sex with her.
This is the infuriating thing that dawns on you one day: even if you would never sleep with or even flirt with anyone to get ahead, you are being sexually adjudicated. Network executives really do say things like “I don’t know. I don’t want to fuck anybody on this show.”

(To any exec who has ever said that about me, I would hope you at least have the self-awareness to know that the feeling is extremely mutual.)
It seems to me the fastest remedy for this “women are crazy” situation is for more women to become producers and hire diverse women of various ages. That is why I feel obligated to stay in the business and try hard to get a place where I can create opportunities for others, and that’s why I can’t possibly take time off for a second baby, unless I do, in which case that is nobody’s business and I’ll never regret it for a moment unless it ruins my life.
And now it’s four o’clock in the morning.
To hell with everybody! Maybe I’ll just wait until I’m fifty and give birth to a ball of fingers! “Merry Christmas from Tina, Jeff, Alice, and Ball of Fingers,” the card will say. (“Happy Holidays” on the ones I send to my agents.)
I try to think about anything else so I can go back to sleep. I used to cling to the fact that my mom had me unexpectedly at forty, only to realize a couple of years ago that I had the math wrong and she was thirty-nine. A world of difference, in my insomniac opinion.
My mom was conceived in the U.S., born in Greece, and brought back here as an infant. Because of this, she never gets called for jury duty.

She grew up speaking both English and Greek, and when I was in elementary school she volunteered to be a classroom aide, because of the lot of the Greeks in our neighborhood were “right off the boat,” as she would say, and needed a translator. Sometimes the teachers would ask her to translate bad news: “Please tell Mrs. Fondulas that her son is very disruptive.” And my mom would nod and say in Greek, “George is a lovely boy.” Because she knew that if she translated what the teacher really said the kid would get a beating and the mother would hate her forever out of embarrassment.
Little kids’ birthdays in my neighborhood were simple affairs. Hot dogs, Hawaiian Punch, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, followed by cake and light vomiting. (Wieners, punch, and spinning into barfing would later be referred to as “the Paris Hilton.”) I would always complain to my mother after the Greek kids’ parties, because they served Italian rum cake. Covered in slivered almonds and soaked in booze, Italian rum cake is everything kids hate. No one ever ate it. It just got thrown away.
Cake Time is supposed to be the climax of a birthday, but instead it was a crushing disappointment for all. I imagine it’s like being at a bachelor party, only to find that the stripper has overdosed in the bathroom.

My mom finally explained to me that the reason the “Greeky Greeks,” as she called them, got the Italian rum cake was that it was the most expensive item in the bakery. They wanted the adults at the party to know they could afford it. Anyway, is that what I’m trying to do with this second-baby nonsense? Am I just chasing it because it’s the hardest thing for me to get and I want to prove that I can do it?

Do I want another baby? Or do I just want to turn back time and have my daughter be a baby again?
Some of you must be thinking, Well, what does your husband want? He’s a part of this decision, too, you know! He wants me to stop agonizing, but neither of us knows whether that means go for it or move on.

Why not do both, like everybody else in the history of earth? Because things that most people do naturally are often inexplicably difficult for me. And the math is impossible. No matter how you add up the months, it means derailing the TV show where two hundred people depend on me for their income, and I take that stuff seriously. Like everyone from Tom Shales to Jeff Zucker, I thought “30 Rock” would be cancelled by now.

I have a great gynecologist, who is as gifted at listening as she is at rectal exams. I went for my annual checkup and, tired of carrying this anxiety around, burst into tears the moment she said hello. I laid it all out for her, and the main thing I took away from her was the kind of simple observation that only an impartial third party can provide. “Either way, everything will be fine,” she said, smiling, and for a little while I was pulled out of my anxious, stunted brain cloud. “Everything will be fine” was a possibility that had not occurred to me.
That night, as I was putting the witch book in my daughter’s backpack to be returned to school, I asked her, “Did you pick this book because your mommy works? Did it make you feel better about it?” She looked at me matter-of-factly and said, “Mommy, I can’t read. I thought it was a Halloween book.”

Friday, March 18, 2011

My "Who Will Cry When You Die" Project

It's very likely that whatever I type on these hollowed pages will no longer make it public, and so I expect a certain freedom to reign. Not that I did much self-editing when I was last here, that area probably could have used some work. But since right now, at this very moment, I'm in the process of rediscovering my voice (and, apparently, my ability to type as fast as I can think, a skill obviously not necessary when I was working these past two years), I anticipate free-flowing thoughts, ideas, and hopefully, brutal honesty.

The brutal honesty part is because I've given myself a project. Fitting, given I've worked on nothing but projects the past years. However, due to the very nature of those projects (i.e. they were for someone else) and due to the sheer warp speed at which life was travelling, I let my biggest project falter. Yup, the continuing work that is myself. I've fallen by the wayside, lagged behind, lost ground - all of it. So in the interests of becoming a better person/wife/mother/friend/human being etc. etc. I nominate this as the year it all comes back around.

To put it simply, I was so happy when I left, and I need to get that back.

A good friend recommended Robin Sharma's book "Who Will Cry When You Die?" and as I like very much to order things off the Internet I quickly returned to the familiar halls of Amazon.ca. My purchase arrived shortly, and I devoured this short text that I still can't believe I hadn't heard of. I mean, jeez, I'm the queen of self help lit. How did I miss this bestseller? I'm going with the theory that things come into your life when you need them, not that I've lost my edge. Yeah, that's it for sure.

The book is comprised of 101 life lessons. My project will be to apply one life lesson per day, recording the lesson and some thoughts on it here. That's the extent of my project plan (see? working on personal plans is just so darn easy - at work I need spreadsheets and calculations and sometimes even the odd graph...this is just my rules - and I can change the rules at any time). Sometimes, maybe, we'll see, I'll inject other musings, but we'll see. There is an entire post on what happened to the writing, but I'm not ready to write that yet...but I'm feeling pretty comfortable here, right now, so we'll just take it one day at a time.

Anyways, from me to me, it's good to be back. It feels much better than I anticipated. See you tomorrow for Lesson One.