Jules -- Unfiltered

I still do

2011-05-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

This week my husband and I will celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary. Sixteen years...

Like any couple who has been married for a long time I can barely remember a time when Paul was not a part of my life. I look back at the pictures of our wedding and realize that we both looked like kids that day. I was twenty-three and he was twenty-seven and we had our whole lives ahead of us.

I wonder what we would have thought that day, if we had been given a glimpse of what was to come. The Julie and Paul who stood at that altar didn't want any more kids -- what would they have thought of the two daughters on they way? Would the couple saying 'I do' have believed that they would still be living in the same house or that it would take sixteen years before they finally took that trip to Europe?

I won't pretend the last sixteen years have been perfect. We have had our share of ups and downs but one thing remains -- I am still madly in love with the man I married.

When you are twenty-one years old you think you know everything. When I met Paul I was just finishing the third year of my degree (only one to go) and I was newly single. Like many young women coming through a tough break-up I had sworn off men. The plan was simple. I was going to finish my degree without the distractions of a relationship, graduate and then meet the man of my dreams and get married.

The man of my dreams would be tall, a white-collar professional with strong career prospects, a sharp dresser with a keen eye for fashion and an avid reader. He would have a taste for the finer things in life -- good hotels, nice trips. He would respect the fact that I wanted a career and would be willing to consider not having children. I wanted to live downtown -- never in the suburbs -- and I never, ever wanted to drive a minivan.

And then I met Paul.

He's not tall, he will never work in an office. His wardrobe was horrible (sorry honey, but you should choose a pair of pants for fit and not for the number of pockets). He loved to camp and brought me rock-climbing when we were dating. He was separated with a child, he lived in a condo in Kanata and he drove a mini-van. Thank God he liked to read so I had one criteria that I could point to from my precious list.

But he had a smile that melted my heart and he treated me like gold. He carried an extra pair of gloves in his pocket because my hands are always cold and I never had mine with me. He always warmed up the car and picked me up at the door. He made fabulous dinners and set up picnics on the floor complete with candles and placemats before he finally got around to buying a table for that condo in the suburbs.

He never bad-mouthed his ex and he was a great dad whose eyes lit up when he talked about his daughter. He didn't have a degree but he was smart as hell and could discuss current issues with a unique life perspective that far outweighed my university friends who quoted articles and read current events books.

For our first Christmas together he gave me booster cables, flares and traction pads. I had just bought a car and did a lot of driving between Kanata and Orleans so he wanted me to be safe. At the time I thought it was the worst gift ever, I realize now that this was a man who really loved me.

Within a year we were discussing marriage.

My relationship with Paul falls firmly under the heading of opposites attract.

Paul is calm and rational. He doesn't let himself worry about things that are out of his control. He understands that most arguments are not worth having and refuses to waste his energy disagreeing with people about unimportant things. He respects the views of others and feels no need to try convince them of his opinion. Live and let live.

When we first got married I found this extremely irritating. I often worried and wanted him to worry along with me. When we disagreed I felt the need to make my case and wanted to continue our debates until he realized I was right and he changed his position. I am sure this annoyed the hell out of him but he rarely lost his temper.

We fought a lot in those early years (or at least I fought) and on many occasions I wondered if our marriage would last. More than once I packed a bag as I ranted and raved, he stood quietly and watched me have my temper tantrum. I realize now how mean that tactic was and I am very, very lucky he never called my bluff.

I can't imagine my life without him.

Over the years our marriage has fallen into a pattern. We are a good team and without thinking about it we have taken on quite traditional roles. I am also aware that he spoils me.

One of my friends recently told me a story about her ex-boyfriend that shocked me. She told me that when they were out and the car needed gas her boyfriend would only get out and pump the gas if he had been the driver.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"If I was driving then I would get out and pump the gas," she repeated.

"What did he do?"

"He would sit in the car and listen to the radio."

"While you filled the tank?"

"Yes."

"What if it was cold."

"If I drove, I pumped."

"Even when you were pregnant?!"

"Yes. What do you do?"

"Paul pumps the gas all of the time. It would never occur to him to make me get out and fill the tank. That is one of things I love about him."

"Really?"

"Yep. In fact, I don't think I would continue dating a man that made me pump my own gas while he sat in the car. That would be a deal-breaker for me."

When I asked Paul about it later he told me that he does not see it as a question of man's job versus a woman's job. To him it is simple a) I hate the cold while he does not mind it b) he does not care if he smells like gasoline but he knows that I don't like it; and c) he does not spend the three minutes at the pump thinking about all of the dirty hands that have been on that pump recently. (Let's face it, how often are they washing those handles. Shudder) He does not see pumping gas as a man's job, he simply sees it as a job that is more-suited to him than it is to me.

It does not stop at the gas tank. Paul is also in charge of minor car repairs (although I do bring it in for servicing when it needs it), mowing the lawn, shoveling the driveway (if he is home), hanging Christmas lights, putting out the garbage and killing bugs. My cousin Kim calls these tasks the blue jobs. Again, most of these tasks are more physical and outdoorsy and Paul knows that I am just as happy to leave them to him.

I wonder if chivalry plays a role as well. Paul is very good about opening doors or giving me the last seat. Often I will wake up on a snowy winter morning to find that he took a few minutes to scrape my car before he went to work. In short, he likes to do little things to make my life easier. When he goes to Starbucks he will grab an extra 'cup sleeve' and leave it in my car because he knows I always forget to grab one and my fingers burn.

Early in our marriage I bemoaned the fact that Paul is not the man who has the fancy words to express how much he loves me. It took me a few years to realize that he says it all the time in the things he does. For Paul, talk is cheap. He makes it a point to show me how much he loves me.

Even as we have come to these understandings I realize Paul and I are still opposites. Last month when the Conservatives put a campaign sign on our front lawn I pulled it out in a huff put it in our front entryway. When Paul got home he said: "the sign is here."

"You want to put it up?" I asked him in shock. "Sure," he said. He likes the Conservatives.

I am voting for the NDP, I told him. He smiled. "Maybe we should get both signs," he suggested.

"Maybe we should just put this one out every other day," I countered. "We'll move it around each time and we can aerate the lawn while we're at it."

I didn't feel the need to change his mind and he didn't bother to try and change mine. In the end it doesn't really matter. We respect each other's opinions and cuddled on the sofa as we watched the election results roll in.

Our marriage after sixteen years is nothing like the one I pictured when we wed. At twenty-one, I refused to say "obey" in our vows and I insisted on keeping my name. We had separate bank accounts, our own cars and individual credit cards. Today Paul is the primary earner and I stay home with the girls. We share everything and I often introduce myself as Julie Gendron. If we were to get married again I would probably say obey in our vows.

Today I know that, more often than not, Paul lets me have my own way. I make the majority of decisions about the house, vehicle purchases, summer trips, our plans for the weekends and about our daughters. He trusts my judgement and wants me to be happy so if he does argue with me it is because he feels very, very strongly about the issue.

Case in point: when I was pregnant for Grace I was concerned about childhood vaccinations. I read dozens of books and articles and fretted about the formulations, the preservatives and the possible effects. I announced one night that our baby would not get the standard vaccinations. Paul didn't get upset -- he just asked if I had ever been to a country where children die of measles, mumps or whooping cough. When I said no he nodded.

"Well I have," he answered. "And my daughter is getting vaccinated." It was the end of that discussion and Gracie got all of the shots on the schedule. He had considered my opinion and he felt strongly enough about it to put his foot down. I didn't even argue.

Every night when Paul gets home from work I watch his car drive up and unless something is boiling over on the stove I open the door for him. He always gets a kiss hello (and our kids complain about us kissing again) and a hug before he heads off to hear about Grace and Kathryn's day at school. After sixteen years, I still get butterflies as he walks up the driveway. I think he is even hotter than the day I met him and I am genuinely happy he is home. Life is better when he is by my side.

When I get good news he is the first person I want to call. As we plan our trip to Italy this summer I realize that there is no one I would rather have at my side for this adventure. When I am sad or disappointed I yearn to hear his voice -- knowing he is there for me makes any challenge seem more manageable. He doesn't even have to be in the same city -- I just know that he has my back, no matter what.

If he needed me there is nothing I would not do for him. Nothing.

My friends have said that when Paul looks at me from across the room even a stranger would be able to tell that he adores me. When we go out he is the gentleman that offers to take my coat or get me a drink. When we walk he puts his hand on the small of my back in a way that demonstrates that he is proud to be at my side.

He can still kiss me in a way that makes my heart stop.

So on Friday morning, when he kisses me good-bye before leaving for work and wishes me a happy anniversary I hope he knows that I would do it again in a heartbeat. I hope he knows the last sixteen years with him have been a blessing that I would not trade for anything in the world.

Paul: you are not the dream man from my list but you are exactly the man I needed. I pray every day that our girls will one day find someone like you to spend their lives with. Someone who loves and respects them. Someone who does not try to change them but who helps them to grow and improve. Someone who does not try to control them but will walk beside them through every tough moment life has to offer. Someone who accepts every part of them -- even the things that they would like to change about themselves.

I love you Ginger. Sixteen years later -- I still do. There is no one else I would rather spend my life with.

Is it just a number?

2011-04-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

I have fabulous memories of my mom's father.

I remember that he loved to do crossword puzzles and he listened to the radio all of the time. He loved baseball and would bring my brother and I to see the Expos if we were in town for a home game. He enjoyed reading, loved music and often whistled as he kept busy in the kitchen. He served canapes whenever we visited and he made the BEST Caesar salad in the world.

Whenever he poured a drink for me he would put in five or six Maraschino cherries because he knew I loved them. It made me feel just as special at thirty drinking a rum and coke as it did when I was ten drinking orange juice. Each time I would visit he would look at me and proclaim Julie, you're terrific before giving me a big hug. I am getting teary as I write this, just thinking about it.

One of my most vivid memories is from when I was five or six years old and I was playing in the front yard at my grandparent's home. It was rare that we would be in the front yard; the house was up on a steep hill and at the bottom of the driveway was a T-junction of two busy streets. Grandpa was washing his car -- which is likely why were in the front yard instead of the back-- and I was at the top of the driveway counting marbles from a bag he had bought me earlier that day. Somehow I spilled the bag and all of the marbles rolled down the driveway and into the busy intersection. Before I could even cry I remember him running down to the road and stopping traffic as he collected the precious glass balls that I had dropped.

It was over thirty years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday.

My grandfather died a few years ago. He was in his mid-eighties and had been in the hospital for several months. When I was a little girl he seemed huge to me but when he passed he seemed smaller, frailer. I was devastated by the loss.

------

Last weekend I had the pleasure of spending time with my two cousins O and H. While they are my first cousins they are the same age as my daughters. They had come up from the U.S. to visit for the long weekend and spent a few days in Montreal before coming to our house for Good Friday. On the first evening I was asking my Uncle about his visit to see his mother -- my grandmother -- who has Alzheimer's. It is a wicked disease that steals the people you love and hurts not just the patients but the people who love them.

I asked O if she enjoyed seeing Granny and she nodded. "Your granny is my granny too," I reminded her as she played with my daughter Kathryn.

"My grandpa is dead," she said in a matter-of-fact tone that comes so easily for a six-year-old. "But he was very old."

"He wasn't always old," I told her. It makes me sad to think that her only memories are of an old man in the hospital when I have so many wonderful stories about a grandfather who danced at my wedding and played cards with me even though I was too young to really understand the rules.

"When I was your age Grandpa was young," I told her. I did a quick calculation in my head. When I was O's age, he was only 51!

What?! When I was six he seemed old. Now that I am pushing forty I am seeing fifty-one in a whole new perspective.

I suppose I shouldn't be too shocked. After all, I am married to someone's grandfather and I don't think of him as old. Grandfather or not my husband is still the hottest man I can imagine.

------

Age is a strange concept. People argue that it is just a number and I guess that is true. What is really important is our ideas about that number and how those ideas can change with our perspective.

When I was in the second grade, I remember the teacher telling us about the year 2000. She was telling us how the turn of the millennium would be a big celebration that few people in history would get to experience.

After a quick calculation on the blackboard she told us that we would all be 28 for the big New Year's Eve party. I remember thinking: "Gee, I'll be too old to even enjoy it!" In reality I was too pregnant to enjoy it. At twenty eight I was expecting our first baby and didn't feel that old at all.

------

It hit me again last week when I noticed an obituary on the bulletin board at work. George -- one of our regulars -- had died of a heart attack at seventy-nine. I was stunned.

I liked George. He was a friendly guy who always had a smile and something nice to say. He liked to joke with people and seemed to enjoy his daily routine at the gym. Apparently he had been ill but I had no idea. He looked healthy to me. In fact, I was shocked to learn that he was seventy-nine. He was fit and active. To be honest, I had never really thought about his age at all.

Working at a gym in the mornings, the majority of the people in my classes fall into one of three categories: stay-at-home moms, shift workers and retirees. I remember one Spin class a few years ago when some members complained about a new heart rate chart that only went up to the 55-65 age range. What about the rest of us? Someone asked. I looked around and realized that almost half of them fell past that parameter but despite their age they could still kick ass on those bikes.

Working in fitness I have learned that chronological age is highly irrelevant. I know plenty of seventy year-olds that could run circles around my forty year old friends. I know eighty year-olds that are younger-at-heart than people half their age. I have always been very bad at judging age. When I was a teenager working in retail I would dread "senior discount day." I always ended the shift with a pile of voided slips from discounts I missed and offended patrons from discounts I offered to those who didn't qualify. I'd probably still suck at it today.

Maybe my inability to judge age is an advantage. I don't want to assume anything based on age. I would rather be shocked and impressed when I see people living their dreams -- age be damned.

Why I hate April

2011-03-29T06:55:00.000-07:00

I met my husband in April.

It was a Friday night and a friend and I were celebrating the end of my third year of university at a downtown bar. Paul was there with a group of friends and somehow we ended up dancing. Before that day I had never believed in love at first sight but the first time I looked in his eyes (and saw that amazing dimple when he smiled) I knew I would marry him.

A year later -- also in April -- he proposed. The circumstances were bad, the words weren't romantic and he didn't get down on one knee. But there he was: the only man I had every really loved was holding a ring and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him.

We used to celebrate both of these 'anniversaries'. We would go out to dinner or if he was away he would make sure to call. When you are young and have no kids to distract you these milestones seem so important.

But now I hate April.

The dread starts a week before and by the time April finally rolls around I am in a full-fledged funk. I used to try hide it. Friends would comment that I was unusually quiet but I would smile and dismiss it as nothing. After ten years it seems too difficult to explain.

Some people suggest that time makes grief fade but I have come to realize that some types of sadness are always a part of you: hiding in your tissues, in your heart, in your mind. Sometimes it ebbs and your focus turns to other happy aspects of your life but you know it is not really gone. It will flow back.

Sometimes you know it is coming and sometimes it blindsides you when you least expect it.

I always expect it in April.

In April 2000 we should have been celebrating the birth of our first child; the baby Paul and I had nicknamed Gaffer. We had been waiting for this little person to come into our lives for almost three years. With each doctor's appointment, drug treatment and negative test Paul would hold me and remind me to focus on the baby that was waiting for us. His faith never wavered.

Our struggles with infertility started in 1997 when Paul and I decided to have kids (you can read about it in this post: http://juliehollingergendon.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-journey-to-motherhood.html) There were tests, pills, injections, mood swings and ultrasounds galore but in early August 1999 my prayers were answered. Against all odds -- I was pregnant.

I had just finished a disastrous treatment cycle and I had not held out a lot of hope for success. Midway through the cycle the specialists at the fertility clinic considered discontinuing the treatment, I had to take twice as many injections as they predicted and ended up I ovulating the day before a business trip (we had to ditch the insemination at the lab and buy Paul a plane ticket to San Francisco instead). When I started to bleed a few weeks later I was not surprised, I simply tried to put it out of my head.

Try as I might though I could not snap out of it. I was exhausted and nauseated and I chalked it up to the fertility meds working their way out of my system. The nurses at the clinic were not convinced. One of them explained that since I had two eggs there was still a chance I was pregnant. Sometimes one egg won't 'take' but the other will hang on. She encouraged me to buy a pregnancy test and find out for sure.

After three years in infertility hell, I had spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests. I had never, ever seen a positive sign and I was not holding out hope that this would be any different. I didn't even tell Paul I was doing it. I woke up, peed on the stick and braced myself for another heartache. As I sat on the side of the tub I watched the stick. One line appeared -- the test was working. Line two appeared -- I screamed.

Paul was in a dead sleep but was in the bathroom in a second, thinking I had either been attacked by a home invader or had been cornered by a spider. He was not prepared for a happy wife and the positive pregnancy test we had been dreaming about. We got dressed immediately and headed to the clinic for a blood test to confirm. I was pregnant.

Ten days later it started to unravel. More spotting, some cramping... I called the clinic and they told me it happened sometimes. Don't panic. A few days later I called my GP who sent me for another blood test. My levels were still climbing, he assured me. I was pregnant. A few days later I woke up with more horrible cramping and after a trip to the bathroom I woke Paul and told him that we had to go to the hospital. We drove in silence as I cried.

After a quick exam the doctor started an IV and did a blood test. They gave us a private room because I was almost hysterical. Paul was a rock but held it together for me. I can only imagine how much he was hurting. Finally the doctor came back. He was quiet and sat down on the stool by my bed. I never looked at him. I remember staring intently at the IV on the back of my hand wishing he would just leave. I knew that as soon as he opened his mouth it was over.

My levels were dropping he told Paul quietly. If I had not already lost the baby it was only a matter of time. There was nothing they could do. "I'm sorry," he said as he left us. I remember hearing the paper crumple as Paul sat down on the table behind me and held me as I sobbed. I remember the nurse peeking in and then leaving. When she returned a few minutes later her eyes were glassy. She removed the IV in my hand without saying anything to us. What was there to say? Instead she rubbed my arm and asked if there was anything else that she could do.

"Do you want me to call someone," she asked. "We have a chaplain and a social worker on call." Paul assured her that we were fine and after she left he helped me get dressed and all but carried me to the car. The next few days are a blur. I called in sick to work. I avoided phone calls and I cried. I was devastated and I was angry. I have never felt so out of control in my life. There was nothing I could do or say to bring my baby back so I punched walls, I kicked things and I cried some more.

After a few weeks, Paul convinced me to try another round of treatment and I got pregnant again. I was petrified of losing this baby and I did everything the doctors told me to do. We found out that we were having a baby girl and we picked a name. My parents bought us a crib and we set up a nursery. There were pink outfits folded in the dresser and hanging in the closet. I was so busy that when April rolled around I was surprised to feel the sadness set in.

The baby I lost had been due in April. While my belly was swelling with a daughter I loved more than life itself, I felt empty. While my rational mind reminded me that I was blessed to have a healthy baby kicking me from within, I mourned the baby I had lost. I would never know if it was a boy or girl. I would never give it a 'proper' name. That child would always be my Gaffer. I felt selfish as I cried. I wanted my baby back. I wanted them both.

At first I dismissed it as hormones. I was pregnant -- crying came with the territory. But the following April it happened again. And with every passing April for a decade the grief takes hold as the snow starts to melt.

Every April I open the beautiful wooden box that Paul and I bought after my miscarriage. It contains the pregnancy journal I had been filling out during my treatments and through the brief weeks my baby was with us. There is an ad for the hotel in San Francisco that trumped the fertility clinic. There is a ziploc bag with the positive pregnancy test. Some condolence cards. A poem that was sent to me by a friend who lost a baby and understood my pain. The hospital bracelet from our trip to the emergency room. A coin set. A package of seeds -- Forget-Me-Nots.

I never planted the seeds; I fully intended to when my mother gave them to me but the next year I was afraid. What if they didn't take? What if I planted them and they died? It would make me too sad. Instead I keep the packet. The seeds have potential -- the promise of life. It is seems odd to me that I am clinging to possibility of life that these seeds carry as I mourn the potential life that was lost. Instead of planting the seeds and letting them thrive, I am hoarding them. As long as the potential is there then I can't be hurt again.

I have thought about this post for a few days and struggled with whether or not to publish it; it is very personal and the pain is still raw after eleven years. But as I approach my fortieth birthday and look back at the events that shaped the woman I am today there is no way to ignore this part of my life. This child that no one had a chance to meet is as real to me as my others. I am also sharing this story because I know that I am not alone. Many of my friends admit quietly that they too have lost children. I am willing to bet that I am not the only one still mourning.

So as April sits on the horizon I brace myself to feel the sadness, to pull out the wooden box that no one else ever opens and to shed a few more tears for my Gaffer. This summer I will buy a flat of Forget-Me-Nots and plant them in my garden. The seeds will stay in the box.

You can't get there from here...

2011-03-27T13:39:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I was talking to a girl at the gym who is in her last year of high school. She had been accepted at one university but was still waiting to hear back from the program at the top of her list. Although it has been more than twenty years since I applied to university, I vividly remember the anxiety she was describing as she talked about checking her mailbox each day.

I was seventeen and it was mid-June. I was at school preparing to write one of my last exams. I had already heard back from Queen's and Ottawa U -- both had accepted me for general arts -- but I was holding out for Carleton. I had applied for the journalism program and the competition was stiff. One of my friends had gone home for lunch that day and had come back to school with a letter from Carleton offering an early acceptance to their engineering program. I called home and begged my mom to check the mail. Yes, there was a letter from Carleton. No, she was not going to open it before my exam.

Is it a big envelope or a little envelope? I asked. Is there a department on the return address? Tell me something... anything.... I begged.

I got home that afternoon and called my dad so he could hear the news along with everyone else. I got in. I screamed. I danced. I read the letter four times (later I would even frame it).

At that moment I felt that my life was set; I was going to be a journalist. My first choice was magazine writing but I would have been happy working for a major newspaper. I was going to live in Europe and marry someone fabulous. I wasn't going to have kids. I didn't like children and even if I did they take a lot of time and would interfere with my career. Yep. I had it all decided.

Twenty-some years later I look back at that girl and laugh. I did finish my journalism degree but mid-way through year one I realized that I definitely did not want to be a journalist. I have three lovely daughters and I live only minutes away from the house where I grew up. (I did marry someone fabulous, though!) I am a stay-at-home mom. I studied to be a nutritionist and a personal trainer. I teach yoga and fitness classes and I am writing a romance novel in my scarce free time.

If there was a road map for life's paths and someone plotted the life I had planned against the life I have now they would probably conclude 'you can't get there from here'. But somehow I did.

With the big four-oh only eight months away I have been doing a lot of thinking about the decisions and the circumstances that lead me to where I am now. How did a girl who hated phys ed. end up teaching Spin classes? I spent my early-twenties thinking romance novels were drivel -- today I would like to see my name on the cover of one.

Over the next few weeks I will share some of these turning points with you. Some have been significant -- meeting my husband, having a baby, quitting my job -- but some happened so gradually that I barely noticed them at the time. It wasn't a sharp right or a left but a slow merge from one road to another.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you about why I hate April.

clutter be gone

2011-02-05T12:18:00.000-08:00

As most of my friends know, housework is not my strong suit. I do it because I have to. If something more fun comes up I'll drop my chores like a bad habit and save them for the following week.

I used to stress about the house being tidy but over the years I have made peace with the fact that my house is never going to end up on the pages of "Good Housekeeping". Ever. It is clean but lived in. There are four people in this family and we all have lots of stuff.

It was easier before we had kids and even easier when we had a cleaning service that came in every second week. I would invite company and organize dinner parties for the day after the amazing Lisa was scheduled to come and would do my best to 'maintain' between visits.

The winter is the worst. We have a small entrance way and the hats, boots, coats, snowpants, mitts and scarves tend to overflow their baskets making the place look cluttered. When you add in the school bags, gym bags, running shoes and purses it tends to get overwhelming. I try to close my eyes and imagine a happier Julie when the summer rolls around and my front entrance is tidier. On days like today I just snap.

"That's it," I said to Paul this morning in a snippy voice. "I'm done."

Paul looked up from his computer to see what I was stewing about.

"If any of you has something in this house they really love they had better hide it," I yelled out. "Starting tomorrow I am throwing shit out!"

Not my finest parenting moment I'll admit but they know I'm serious and should consider themselves warned. If something special goes missing next week, it won't be my fault.

When Paul and I first bought our house we had precious little to fill it. A bed, a sofa, a dresser, a desk, a dining room table, a kitchen table, our appliances and an old stereo that had only one working cassette player and a turn-table on top. We each had clothes and a mountain of books but it was pretty sparse overall. As we would give people tours of our new house we would show them the storage room, the furnace room and the back room in our basement and wonder what in the world we would ever put there.

Fifteen years later we found out. The storage rooms are packed, the closets are stuffed and we have plenty of furniture. Now we have a choice. We can get a bigger house or get rid of some stuff.

I have been talking about de-cluttering for a while. Last month I was in the bookstore and I found a book on how to de-clutter your house in seven days. I flipped through it imaging a fabulous, minimalist home and nearly made it to the cash before my friend L shattered my dreams.

"You don't need another book to add to the clutter," she said in an annoyingly logical voice. "You just need to do it."

A month later I was back at Chapters (without that spoil-sport L) and saw a book called '100 Things". Paul was already in line at the cash so I could only flip through quickly. The author was talking about how he had walked through his home puzzled by how he had accumulated so much. I could relate. It started him on a one-year journey to live with less.

I was inspired.

"I'm going to do it," I told Paul on the way home. "Over the next year I am going to throw out one hundred things." He didn't say much. I tend to come up with a lot grand schemes and lofty plans so over the years Paul had become jaded when I make these proclamations.

I ignored his lack of enthusiasm and decided to google 100 Things when I got home to learn more. The first thing I learned was that I had missed the premise of the book. He isn't throwing out 100 things - he is going to live with only 100 things!

Huh? 100 things!! I have more than 100 items of clothing. I have a magazine collection in the basement that easily tops one hundred. Don't even get me started on the books. 100 items is crazy.

I looked at his list and was shocked to see that the writer gave up his yoga mat but used up 8 items on his list for camping gear! Clearly this man was cut from a different cloth than me. He did group all of his books under one item called library which made me feel a little better but I am still shocked. He lived with those 100 items for over a year.

While I admire the man's dedication I am sticking with my own guidelines and will be content with throwing out one hundred items. There are plenty of things in my closet that I no longer wear that could be put to better use at the free store at church. I have jewelery that I don't wear and cosmetics that need to be trashed. The nail polish has taken over a larger section of the refrigerator than I would like so that is another area to work with. Do I need three yoga mats? Probably not.

In the meantime I have been thinking about what items I would need to have on my 100 Things list. It is not a serious goal but more like the game you play at dinner parties: If you were stuck on a desert island and could only bring three things, what would you choose. (For the record I would bring Paul and let him choose the other two items -- what do I know about surviving on a desert island.)

What's on your list? I would be interested to hear what items my friends couldn't live without.

2011-01-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

Looking back at my blog posts for the past few months I realized that it has been a while since I posted any of my fiction. So, here is one from June of last year about a character named Linda, a cynical kindergarten teacher who has recently been disappointed by someone in her life. The challenged was to imagine a scenario where Linda is trying to teach her class but is being interrupted by her cell phone. The kids can only hear one side of the conversation.

________

in other words...

Linda sighed as she heard her cell phone start to ring again.

The first time it rang she had ignored it. Usually she turned her phone off during school hours but she had been getting a pep talk from her sister when the bell rang and had quickly thrown the phone in her desk drawer as the kids started to file in. Now it was circle time and she was clear across the room sitting in the old rocking chair with eighteen pairs of eyes staring at her.

When it first rang the kids giggled. She knew it was him. ‘Fly me to the moon’ was their song and she had set it as his ringtone the night they met and danced all evening at the old jazz club on Main Street.

She tried to ignore the interruption by diverting their attention.

“Samuel? Would you like to be Miss Linda’s helper today? Why don’t you come up here and pick a book for the class to read this morning?” Samuel happily scrambled over the bookshelf and considered his choices with glee. Oh, to be five again….

They were on page three when the phone rang the second time. Damn it, why did he keep calling? Linda made a face and pointed at a silly squirrel on the brightly-colored page hoping the kids laughter would drown out the tune that now made her want to cry.

If the kids noticed, no one said anything and she continued with the story. With a quick glance at the clock she noticed that it was only 9:30: it was going to be a long, long day.

She had wanted to call in sick; to pull out the list of substitute teachers who could save her from putting on her happy face for the eighteen little people who sat in front of her. Her sister convinced her to soldier on. “Linda, you need to go to work. Get up, splash some cold water on your face, load up on the Visine and face the world. What else are you going to do? Sit at home and cry for that cheating bastard?”

By 10:30 the kids were sitting at their tables to work on printing. She had spent the last hour singing loud songs and doing silly dances with them in an effort to drown out the constant calls and she knew they all needed a little downtime. But with the kids concentrating on making neat and precise R’s the phone’s ring seemed so loud it almost echoed. Enough.

“Excuse me boys and girls. Miss Linda is just going to answer this call so we can get rid of the interruptions. Everyone keep working on their printing. You are all doing such a good job,” she said in her best kindergarten teacher voice.

She placed her hand over her mouth as she slid open her cell to answer the call. “What do you want?” she growled much louder than she intended. A few kids at a nearby table looked up with alarm but she smiled back at them. “I am very busy right now,” she said returning to her melodic teaching voice in an attempt to reassure the kids. It was not the voice she would have chosen if she hadn’t had an audience. The words she wanted to use were also off-limits in a classroom full of five year-olds.

“I’m sorry. I know… I just, I needed to talk to you, to explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. Your, ahem, partner explained it quite clearly when we spoke on Friday. There is no need for you to keep calling.”

“Look I didn’t know that my wife was going to call you. I am so sorry. That should never have happened. I was going to explain.”

“I don’t think any further explanations are necessary. In fact, I think the whole situation is quite clear,” she said choosing her words quite carefully. “I was surprised to find out that another venture existed so I have decided to invest elsewhere.”

“Why are you talking like this? Oh shit, are your kids there? Is the whole class listening to you? Damn it, I should have thought about this before I called you.”

“Yes, I agree. There are numerous issues that should have considered beforehand but it’s too late to change it now.”

“I’m going to leave her. I love you, I swear, I just need time.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have already made my decision. Thank you so much for following up,” she let the sarcasm drip from her voice. “I don’t think you need to call again.”

Linda snapped the phone closed and took a deep breath steadying herself against the tears that threatened to fall. “I am sorry boys and girls. I am turning my phone off right now.”

Samuel looked up from the table in the centre of the room. “My mommy hates it when people call on the phone to sell us things we don’t need. She says they always call at the wrong time and that they are a ‘pain a butt’.” The kids all giggled.

Linda looked over at the little blond-haired, boy with the thick glasses who had handily changed the subject and saved her from having to make more excuses to the young class.

Yep, she had picked the perfect helper today.

__________________________

I am happy to say that The Character Project is continuing in the new year. If you love to write you should consider joining us. There are weekly prompts to inspire you and you can participate as often as your life will allow.

What is the lesson

2011-01-13T06:22:00.001-08:00

I am a New Year's resolution girl. I like to think of January 1 as a fresh start and it always seems like a good idea to focus on one or two areas where I can make improvements over the next 365 days. For many, New Year's resolutions don't last more than a week before they are forgotten (I work in a gym -- enough said).

In the past my resolution usually focused on my weight; I have entered more than one January hell-bent on losing five to ten pounds. I finally gave up on that train of thought because more often than not I ended up feeling worst about myself instead of better.

For 2011 I have resolved to learn. I love learning so on the surface it seems easy enough. Paul calls me a perpetual student and knows I am always happy to be knee-deep in books, papers and exams. But the resolution is not about that kind of learning, it is about the day-to-day lessons we all ignore everyday.

I truly believe that if we open our eyes we will see that life is presenting us with lessons all the time.

The people crossing our paths do so for a reason; we can learn from them. But it is not just the people we like that can help us to learn and grow -- what about the people in our lives that are more (ahem) 'challenging'? I read once that the people in our lives that we like the least are the ones that remind us of something in ourselves we do not like. Ouch...

My knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss the theory but when I stop to think about it there is a lot of truth there. Whether these people mirror a quality in me -- or have overcome a struggle that still holds me back -- their presence makes me uncomfortable. Recognizing this I have a choice to make: do I walk away or do I start to work on those areas in my life that are clearly hindering me?

There is a Sanskrit greeting Namaste which means (and I am paraphrasing) the Divine that is within me, recognizes the Divine that is within you. It is beautiful idea that transcends any creed or religion. While we may all have different interpretation of the Divine the core principal is the same. Every person has a 'spark' or a goodness in them. We may not see it immediately but it is something that we should recognize and respect.

It would be easier to lose five pounds. I have done it before but inevitably those five pounds will creep right back. The lessons, however, have the potential to make permanent changes in my life.

When did kids stop being kids?

2010-12-22T12:25:00.000-08:00

It is Christmas holidays and I am having a blast with Paul and the girls.

Over the past few days we have been doing a Star Wars movie marathon and Paul has been introducing the kids to the wonders of Luke, Leia, Han Solo Darth Vader and Yoda (we are not Jar Jar Binks fans so we are trying to discourage their enthusiasm for bumbling Gungan). As they watched the movies we have been watching their faces and their enthusiasm for the story. It has been fabulous to revisit the saga again from their perspective.

As with all kids their age, Christmas is top of mind. They are thrilled to have everyone come to our house for turkey dinner this year. They are anxious to see us open the gifts they bought for us at the school's Christmas shop and they are excited to see what Santa will deliver for them.

As I write this, Paul has brought them to the mall to get their photo taken with Santa. Kathyrn is six this year and Gracie is ten and they looked so cute in their outfits. I realize with a tinge of sadness that this may be the last year Gracie will agree to pose with the big man. I am hoping that she will continue to humor me well into her teenage years.

While I recognize that my daughter is growing up far too quickly for my liking I am thrilled that she is still a kid at heart. Some may argue that she is a little young for ten but Paul and I made a conscious decision to let our girls be kids for as long as possible. We monitor their television and movie viewing carefully, we try not to watch the news if they are in the room and I review all of Gracie's books if they have not been recommended by someone I trust.

They are sheltered and perhaps that is why I was so shocked by a sign I saw at CHEO yesterday.

While we were waiting for Kathryn in the reception area of the MRI and CAT scan clinic I saw a yellow sheet posted on the wall. "All female patients over the age of eleven will be asked about the possibility of pregnancy prior to a CAT scan or MRI." I almost spit out my coffee when I spotted it. My daughter will be eleven in only eight months and the very idea that someone her age could be pregnant devastated me.

I tried to imagine what I would have done if Gracie would have been the one having the test done. I don't think that the waiting room at CHEO is any place for me to have 'the talk' with my daughter -- especially when the nurse could be calling her name at any moment. She knows about the egg and the sperm but we have not explained all the details about the mechanics. I didn't think it was necessary yet.

I want to say up-front that I am not criticizing the staff at CHEO: I am sure the doctors, nurses and technicians see heart-wrenching situations and that there are good reasons why this policy is in place. It makes me sad, however, to think that there are eleven-year-old girls living lives where pregnancy may be an issue.

Eleven.

Maybe I am naive. As the parent of a pre-teen (and pretty one at that) I know that boys and dating are going to an issue soon. As a mother I will not be able to be with my girls 24/7 but I pray the lessons Paul and I taught them will stick. I want them to make smart decisions. I hope they know that they can come to us if they need to talk or if they have a problem they don't feel ready to handle.

In the meantime, we will continue to let our girls be children. I am glad that they have that luxury. Reading that sign yesterday I was reminded that not all little girls do.

It seemed like a good idea at the time

2010-11-06T11:17:00.000-07:00

Now usually when I say those eight words (I am referring to the title above) my friend L is somehow involved.

"We could totally raise $2,000 each and walk 60km in a weekend!"
"Don't worry, Julie and I can make hundreds of chocolate suckers for the Easter service."
"Sure it will hurt initially to pierce the cartilage in our ears but I am sure it will heal in no time."
"You'll love running in the winter. If you dress right you'll never even notice is it 20 below zero!"

This time I have no one else to blame. Signing up for NaNoWriMo was all my idea. For those of you who are not familiar with National Novel Writing Month, the challenge is to write a 50,000 word 'novel' in 30 days. For me the challenge is perfect. I am a master procrastinator and the 1,667 word quota each day provides me with incentive to sit down at my computer regularly. I actually like writing once I sit down but I lack the discipline to get started each day.

A few of my friends know that for the past four months I have obsessed with a story that has been floating around in my head. A few of the characters have been slowly introducing themselves to me and as the weeks go by I am seeing the framework of a larger tale coming together. I have typed out some of my notes about the characters, I have come up with a number of plot scenarios and I have even written a few scenes but the sheer scope of the project has been daunting. Frustrated and overwhelmed I realized that I needed to put that project on a shelf for a few weeks to see if I can get some clarity.

Enter NaNoWriMo. A few million people around the world would be starting from scratch on November 1. Keeping each other on track. Offering encouragement and suggestions on-line. I signed up in September and promptly forgot all about it.

Two weeks ago the e-mails started arriving. NaNoWriMo starts soon. Are you ready? I must admit I was tempted to drop out but the more I thought about it the more excited I got. There were four characters from a story I had written earlier this year that were hanging out in the back of my brain. Lisa, a pregnant paralegal; Jason, her lawyer partner and the father of her baby; Jon, her friend from university who was secretly in love with her; and Margaret, who got stuck in an elevator with her one fateful day. (click the links to read their initial stories)

A few friends had asked me whatever happened to them. Was this my opportunity to finally tell their full story?

Well, today is day 6 of NaNoWriMo and I am almost 8,500 words in! I am a little behind schedule (truth be told, I should be working on my novel and not on this blog post) but I am excited . Each time I sit down to write I am getting a little traction and a little more confidence.

I will keep you all posted and maybe by the end of the month I will have 50,000 words to share with all of the folks who asked me "whatever happened to Lisa?"

My beautiful Kathryn

2010-10-05T11:02:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I wrote a blog post about my daughter Grace on her birthday. I got a number of great comments and a few friends asked if I would write a similar post about Kathryn. So, in honor of her sixth birthday here are some of my thoughts about Kaye.

Kathryn is my bonus baby

I never planned to have a second child. I had trouble getting pregnant with Grace then had a horrible pregnancy followed by thirty hours of labour. My first words to Paul after Grace was born were: "I am NEVER doing that again." For well over a year we never even discussed the idea of another baby. Gracie had Meghan so she wasn't really an only child. Quite frankly, I did not want to press my luck. I had the healthy baby I had been praying for.

After a few years the idea of baby number two started to come up more often. Like all couples with only one child living at home, we were constantly told that we had to have another. Kids need to share, Gracie should have someone to play with, etc. etc...

I was reluctant. The first time around I had tried a number of drugs with unknown side-effects because I desperately wanted a child. But with Gracie in the picture I was less willing to take chances with my health: I was someone's mom!

Paul and I discussed adoption and started to get information from agencies specializing in international adoption. The process seemed so daunting and the waiting lists were long. "Would you be willing to try one cycle of fertility meds?" Paul asked me. I thought about all that entailed: giving myself injections in the stomach, countless blood tests and ultrasounds, crazy hormones. I looked at my beautiful Gracie and then at my husband. "One.. Just one," I agreed.

After a few months on the waiting list the process began. On at least three occasions we were hit with crazy obstacles that threatened to stop the whole project in its tracks. In each case an unlikely solution would drop in our laps. After only one cycle, I was pregnant. At the time I believed that baby was meant to be a part of our family. Only after meeting Kathryn would I realize how that true that really was.

Kathryn Adelaide

Finding a name was not easy. Paul and I picked a boy's name immediately (Noah for Paul's grandfather). A girl's name was more difficult. Sarah, Maya and Renee were all in the running but we finally settled on Lorelai, a name I fell in love with early on.

As my pregnancy was classified high-risk we got an extra ultrasound and coming into month five we found out we were having another daughter. My initial reaction was to say: "hello Lorelai" to the shadow on the screen but something stopped me. As we left the hospital I turned to Paul and asked what we would name our daughter.

"I thought we were going to name her Lorelai."

"What do you want to name her?"

"I want to name her Kathryn." (It is a name shared by of one of his favorite aunts and one of his favorite cousins.) The smile on his face was worth losing the naming rights for.

"Kathryn it is then. Can I call her Katie?"

"No, her name is Kathryn."

"Kate?"

"Kathryn."

There's something about Kathryn

I can't quite explain it, but there is something about Kathryn. It may be in her smile, or a gleam in her eye, or a tone in her voice, but there is something about Kathryn that makes people love her. The kid has her own little fan club.

If you have ever met Kaye in person you know about 'Kathryn speak'. She has some trouble pronouncing her R's and her Th's so she had to repeat herself a lot when she was younger so people would understand. Frequently Gracie would step in to translate as she spoke 'Kathryn' most fluently and always seemed to know what her sister was saying. When Gracie was not around things got a bit more dicey.

K: Momma, I bwushed (brushed) by haiw (hair) and teeth, so I'm gonna put it on the cho-chot.

Me: Cho-chot?

K: Yes the Cho-Chot.

Me:(in my head) cho-chot?, cho-chot....? (out loud) Where's Grace?

K: Upstaiws (upstairs)

Me: (in my head) Cho-chot?.... Kathryn, say it one more time for Momma.

K: CHO CHOT

Me: Sweetie I am sorry, why don't you just show me what you are talking about.

K: (pointing at the chore chart I had mounted on the fridge the day before). CHO-CHOT

Me: Oh, the chore chart.

K: That's what I said!

On another day...

K: Nana (my mom is making supper and does not hear her)

K: Nana! (still in the other room not hearing Kaye calling)

K: Nana (my mom looks up) Youw (you're) annoying me.

Nana: Excuse me?

K: I called and you did not answer. Youw (you're) annoying me.

Gracie: (who luckily intervenes) She is saying IGNORING

K: That's what I said!

One of my favorites!

K: Momma, how come my name doesn't have an F in it? It should have an F.

Me: No sweetie your name is Kathryn.

K: But there is an F sound

Me: No there isn't, it's a TH sound

K: (Pointing at her ear and speaking very slowly) Momma listen when I say it. KAFFFFWYN

Me: No, it's Kathryn

K: (shakes her head with disgust and leaves)

No Filter

Kathryn has no tolerance for foolishness -- Paul says she gets that from me. She sees no reason to play games or pussy-foot around. Kathryn will cut to the heart of an issue quickly and ruthlessly.

One day after circling the grocery store looking for something or other, I began to get frustrated. "Momma," she asked. "Why do they call it the Soupa Sto (Super Store), if it's not Soupa?" I could not help but laugh.

Kathryn also likes to follow our neighbor around when he does his lawn work. She chatters while he works and asks questions as they come to her. Some days it is about the lawn or the garden hose. Other times I cringe to hear her ask things like: "Why are you wearing that sweatshirt again? You wore it yesterday" Or, "You have more grey hair in your beard than my daddy, why?" She does not mean to be rude, she just wants to know. Luckily, the neighbor has a good sense of humor and a soft-spot for Kathryn.

Kathryn goes to school

With her quick wit and low level of tact Paul and I were concerned when Kathryn started school. Educators always assure you that your child will be different in the classroom but we had our doubts.

In junior kindergarten we were told that Kaye was the last one in her class to print her name. If this would have been Gracie I would have been panicking but with child number two you tend take these things in stride. I asked Kaye about it and she told me matter-of-factly that her name was too long to print. She had decided that she would only put a "K" on her work.

Me: There are five kids in your class that have names starting with K.

K: But they all write their names Momma!

I turned my head quickly so she would not see me laugh. That night we worked on our printing. It turned out that she could indeed print her name -- she was choosing not to.

The following year the teacher was concerned that her name was not printed correctly. She would only print her name with a capital R while the curriculum dictated that only the first letter should be capitalized. Apparently in SK, 'KathRyn' was not acceptable even if one could read at a grade two level.

It was February so I used Kaye's Valentine cards as an opportunity to work on printing.

Me: OK sweetie, write your name as neatly as you can.

K: K-a-t-h-R-y-n

Me: No sweetie, you need to use a small r. Can you make a small r?

K: Yes. (she prints a small r on the scrap paper)

Me: OK. Let's try again with the next card.

K: K-a-t-h-R-y-n

Me: OK again with the big R. Why?

K: It's prettier.

Me: But your teacher says you need to use the little r. Let's try again on the next card.

K: K-a-t-h-R-y-n

Me: Kathryn!

K: But Momma I am better at making the big Rs

Me: If you wrote your name properly you would get more practice!

17 Valentine cards all signed KathRyn. I wrote a note to the teacher telling her to let Kaye write her name however she wanted. Perhaps at thirty she will be a famous artist signing all of her work with that capital R. Maybe one day it would be her trademark.

The next parent-teacher interview did not go much better. Printing was still an issue but I was no longer willing to discuss it --let's face it, one day we will all be using computers anyway. This time it was about circle time. Kaye was having problems raising her hand.

Me: Kathryn, your teacher says that you have really good ideas and participate a lot in circle time. That's great. Are you raising your hand?

K: No

Me: Why not?

K: I know the answer.

Me: Maybe some of the other kids know the answer too.

K: But I said it first!

Me: Because they are raising their hands!!

Paul actually left the room during that talk he was laughing so hard. It is hard to get around her logic.

Katie G

A few months ago Kathryn made an announcement at the dinner table.

K: When I go back to school I want people to call me Katie.

Paul: Your name is Kathryn (he never really got over that)

K: I want people to call me Katie.

Me: Why? Don't you like your name.

K: I want to be Katie. It is shorter to write and there are no R's in it.

Me: No R's?

K: (sighing) The are seven letters in my name and I can't even say fwee (three) of them. I want to be Katie.

Paul: Your name is Kathryn.

K: Don't worry daddy. You can call me Kathryn when we are at home.

Kathryn loves dogs

Well, maybe it is more accurate to say that Kathryn really wants to like dogs. In reality she is scared to death of them. After a few run-ins she is petrified of any dog that may jump up on her.

Me: Just say DOWN when a dog comes near you sweetie. They don't want to hurt you. Dogs are just friends with fur.

K: But that's wude (rude)

Me: Rude?

K: They're dogs. It is not their fault that they can't talk. They just want to say hi. What if I say 'down' and it hurts their feelings?

Kathryn's new plan: to run away screaming lest she offend a dog that may want to jump on her.

Kathryn does have one dog friend that is the exception to the rule. My friend Jess has a black lab named Skye that Kathryn loves. Skye is calm and she doesn't jump! Kathryn was so taken by Skye that when Jess and Skye came for a sleepover Kathryn took it upon herself to make her dog friend feel welcome. After a quick game of Doggy Spa (Kaye combed a very patient Skye's fur) Kaye got a blanket and a book and cuddled up with Skye on her doggie bed.

K: Skye I am going to wead (read) you 101 Dollmations. It is a book about dogs.

(Skye watches cautiously as Kaye moves over on the dog bed and opens the book)

K: Now these are dogs but they are spotted dogs. You are a black dog. You are the blackest dog I have ever seen.

Unfortunately Skye moved to Alberta so they don't see as much of each other but Kaye still asks about Skye and gets excited whenever Jess posts more pictures on facebook.

Kathryn Speaks for herself

It is hard to describe Kaye so I hope that my stories about my beautiful girl will speak for themselves. Paul and I have tonnes of Kathryn stories and many of our friends have their favorites -- Jess loves to tell people about the doggy spa. Kathryn's way of looking at the world makes people laugh. She is honest, direct and funny.

Kathryn loves life. She wakes up with a smile on her face and she talks, laughs and sings all day long. She is in perpetual motion until she puts her head on the pillow and then falls asleep within seconds resting up for the next day.

A few weeks ago Kathryn started school full-time. I was excited for her because she was ready for the challenge but it also made me a little sad. For the last six years (with the exception of six months when I went back to work) Kaye has been my constant companion. She has chattered with me as we ran to the grocery store, she sang songs and told me silly jokes. I couldn't imagine how quiet my day would be without her.

I love you Kathryn

As I said at the beginning of this post Kathryn was not always in the cards for us. She was the second child we did not dare to hope for. For several years after Gracie was born we thought our family was finished. And then Kathryn came along!

Kathryn completes our family. She reminds us that life is supposed to be fun. Just because you're busy it doesn't mean that you can't have a good time. Kathryn does not take herself too seriously and she reminds me that I shouldn't take myself too seriously either. I hope she will carry this joy with her for the rest of her life.

Kathryn: your Momma loves you so much. I can't imagine my life without you. Happy birthday baby. Thank you for all of the laughs, for the hugs and for the lessons you teach me every day.

A penny for your thoughts

2010-09-20T11:22:00.001-07:00

To those of you who read my blog regularly (and thank you for that by the way) it is no secret that I love my husband dearly. He is a good man, a great dad and we get along famously. There are times however when I realize that Paul and I are polar opposites in so many ways.

He gets up early with a smile on his face; I stay in bed as long as I possibly can and grumble until the first jolt of caffeine hits my system. He loves the outdoors and Canadian winters; I think the indoors is highly under-rated and shiver from October until May. Paul thinks that footwear is designed for comfort and ankle support; I think that comfort is a secondary concern at best and that all of his boots and shoes should be burned for being so ugly.

Sometimes when I see him sitting quietly I'll ask him, "what are you thinking?" and he says "nothing". Wow! really? nothing? I cannot imagine what that's like. Some people have claimed that it's a "male thing" but I don't agree. I think that everyone is hard-wired differently. I am sure there are plenty of women who are able to quiet their minds and plenty of men who have minds that race a million miles an hour.

Paul and I can be having a lovely chat and after a five-second pause I will turn the conversation on its ear. We start talking about cars, I ask him if he bought eggs at the grocery store. "How the heck did you get to that?" he used to ask. A few times I tried to explain how my mind ended up moving from point A to point B and he just shook his head. He rarely asks anymore.

"Well, we were talking about how you liked the blue car in front of us and you asked if we should get something similar when our lease was up. That car has a bumper sticker on it that says Washington. I have always wanted to go to Washington but never got the chance. I have also really wanted to go to Europe but we haven't got there yet either. You used to live in Europe -- in Germany. We both like German food and I was thinking of making spaetzle some time next week. The recipe I use calls for eggs but we only have one left because I had and omelet yesterday which was yummy which made me think that maybe I could make omelets for brunch tomorrow morning. But, I won't be able to unless you picked up eggs. See... it makes perfect sense."

"You thought about all of that in 5 seconds?!"

"Yup!"

"Your mind is a very scary place, isn't it?"

It took a few years but I have learned to accept that Paul may indeed be sitting there thinking about absolutely nothing and he has discovered that my mind spins like a top for about eighteen hours a day. I think it is one of the reasons why people find it surprising that I teach yoga. 'Yoga seems so calm and peaceful,' they explain. 'And you're.... well.... '

There have been plenty of times when I struggle with yoga. There are days when my mind is going like a whirling Dervish and I wonder if it would not make more sense to go for a run with my iPod on full blast to settle down. Most often those are the days when yoga does me the most good. Focusing on my breath and on my alignment leaves little room for my mind to take a detour. I am not going to lie and say that I'm always successful. There have been plenty of mornings on my mat when I'm in Triangle position and I realized that mind is somewhere else completely: "what am I going to make the kids for supper? There is karate tonight and Mondays always mean a lot of homework so I need something quick but there is nothing defrosted and we don't have a microwave so I am going to have to get to the grocery store and, oh, I don't have enough gas in my car..."

One of my first yoga teachers told me that I had crazy monkey mind and that yoga would help me learn to quiet my thoughts and focus on the here and now. The image of a monkey jumping from branch to branch resonated with me so clearly that this instructor became one of my favorites. I learned so much from him because he understood my struggle. For me, yoga needed to start with the mind. I would often catch him out of the corner of my eye as he tapped his temple to remind me to focus. Nine times out of ten he was right and I had become distracted from what I was doing.

Ten years later I wonder what went on his mind. Was he able to find peace and quiet with his thoughts? Or, was he more like me and was that why he understood me so well? Maybe he was like Paul, calm of mind and married to someone with crazy monkey mind.

waiting in billund

2010-09-16T05:01:00.000-07:00

This story was certainly more timely when I wrote it but I have not been posting them to my blog as quickly as I had planned. (On the flip side I am almost caught up on my past stories and will soon be posting them as I write).

The prompt was to write a story about nineteen year-old Abigail who was stuck in a European city following a volcano in Iceland. While she is waiting to get home she meets someone. The first line was given to us.

Here is what I came up with!

waiting in billund

“Hi, mom, I don’t think I’ll be able to get home for a few days. Can you send me some money?”

He watched her across the lounge as she listened to the voice on the other side of the line. She uttered a few uh-huh’s and yes mom’s before hanging up and dropped her forehead against the brick wall miming exhaustion. Earlier in the day he had noticed that her big, green eyes were looking a little tired but he knew that frustration was the more likely culprit behind her display.

Slowly Abby lifted her head from the wall and turned to him with a bright smile on her face. As she walked back and sat on the seat across from him he found it hard to believe that it had been only thirty-six hours since they first met. Sure everyone else in the airport – hell everyone else in the world – was cursing the ash from a distant volcano, but he was praying for more time stranded with this girl.

She flopped down in the chair in front of him. “So…. my mom is freaking out. She actually talked about having my grandma come back and get me until the flight advisory is lifted.”

Kyle’s stomach tightened with anxiety but he tried not to let it show on his face. “What did you say?”

“I told her it was ridiculous. It is a three-hour drive each way from their town to the airport. There is no way that she should be away from grandpa for another six hours.” He noticed the sadness in her eyes as she mentioned her ailing grandfather and he got up and shifted across the aisle to sit in the seat beside her. He hesitated for a moment before putting his arm around her but she settled against him immediately and lay her head down on his shoulder. Quietly he took a breath and smelt a faint trace of mint in her shampoo. He fought the urge to kiss the top of her head knowing it was way too soon but at the same time he was painfully aware that his time with her was drawing to a close.

Feeling her sigh he closed his arm around her a little tighter. “You ok?”

“Yeah. I was just realizing that I will never see him again. He is old and the doctors say he only has a few months left. This trip was an amazing chance to see Denmark but it was really about saying goodbye.”

“I am sure it made him happy to see you,” Kyle said quietly. “I am sure that these last two weeks were as important to him as they were to you.” Last night she had told him about the dozens of hours she had spent sitting on the end of her grandfather’s bed looking at photos as he regaled her with tales of his youth and his time in the army.

“I know it sounds funny – because I just met you – but I wish you could meet him,” she said as she sat up and turned to face him. “I think you would really like him.”

“I’m sure I would.”

In fact, the idea didn't seem funny to Kyle at all. He would love to meet anyone who was so important to the girl beside him. He would love to rent an old car and travel the countryside with her to visit the home where her mother had grown up, to walk in on her arm and to enjoy a meal with her family.

When Kyle arrived at the airport yesterday morning nothing seemed more important to him than getting back to his classes in Toronto but this girl had caused his priorities to shift. He had noticed her immediately. She was sitting cross-legged on the blue vinyl bench with her nose deep in a book. She had curly blond hair that was pulled up into a sloppy pony-tail and she was twirling one stray lock absently around her finger. After a brief argument with the frazzled attendant at the ticket counter he had flopped down on the bench across from her.

She looked up at him and smiled. “No one is going anywhere today. I kinda feel bad for her; you are the first person in an hour that did not yell at her.”

He pointed at the Canadian flag sewn on her tattered backpack. “Are you going to Toronto as well?”

“Yeah. My mom made me put that on my bag. She said that people would be nicer to me if they knew I was Canadian. You are the first person that it has worked on.”

They talked on-and-off all night as flight after flight was cancelled. They watched travelers come and go and for a while they had placed bets on which ones would lose their temper and which ones would politely take a seat in the waiting area. They took turns napping on the vinyl bench while the other kept an eye on the luggage. Their “first date” had been a picnic of stale sandwiches and lukewarm coffee on the floor of the departures lounge.

In thirty-six short hours he discovered that Abigail Nichols was a promising photographer who was starting design school in the fall. She was a free-spirit who loved adventure and chaos much to the chagrin of her straight-laced mother. She loved coffee and chocolate and her nose crinkled when she laughed. In short, he discovered that he loved her.

Family -- finding the right blend

2010-09-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

Last week I was showing off pictures of my grandson to a group of friends. The ladies oooh'd and aaah'd as I bragged about how big he was and how he has learned to walk at only ten months. As far as I am concerned he is the cutest, most talented little boy on the planet.

In the small group was a friend-of-a-friend that I have only met a few times. "Your grandson?" she asked. "You don't seem old enough to have a grandson!"

I was thrilled at this observation and wondered why don't I talk to this woman more often. She is clearly brilliant!

I gave a quick explanation of my family situation. My oldest daughter is from my husbands' first marriage and she had a child when she was quite young.

"So he's not really your grandson then," she said.

Immediately I remembered why this woman and I didn't get along. "Of course he is. He is my daughter's son." Perhaps it was the tone of my voice but the conversation ended quickly.

It is not the first time I have heard the argument. Whenever I mention that I have a daughter in her twenties and two others in elementary school I inevitably have to explain that my oldest was a 'signing bonus' when I married my husband. I have stopped trying to understand why people feel the need to point out that only the younger two are 'really' mine.

****

I was twenty-one when I met my husband. He told me he was legally separated and had a child on the night we met. It was not something I was looking for in a relationship but I fell in love fast and hard for this man and that was part of the package.

We were married two years later. At twenty-three I was too young to be a step-mom. I was too selfish, too self-involved and too stubborn. As the adult in that relationship I take full responsibility. I should have done a better job and my failure to do so is one of my life's biggest regrets. As Meghan grew up -- and I grew up too -- I learned to love her. Several years ago I apologized to Megs for our early relationship and she was gracious enough to accept it and clear the slate so we could start over. She is a tremendous young woman with a loving heart and I am blessed to have her in my life.

On a few occasions she has lived in our home and I now think of her as one of my kids. I would do anything to help her if she needed me. If she needed a kidney -- I would be one of the first ones in line.

***

One of the turning points in our relationship was the birth of my first child. When I got pregnant everyone warned me that it would cause problems. Meghan was eleven years old and used to being an only child. Everyone predicted this baby would only make waves.

In hindsight I realize that Meghan's mother deserves all the credit for making Gracie's birth a positive event for our family. She would send Meghan for visits with brochures, pamphlets and booklets about baby care that we could look at together. She encouraged Meghan to be excited about a new sibling. It seems like an obvious approach to parenting but I have heard far too many horror stories about ex-spouses who see the birth of a new child as a threat. I will always be grateful to Carolyn for her role in making our family stronger.

When Paul and I discussed names for the baby we had a brief discussion about surnames. In the end we decided to go with Paul's last name because we wanted all of our daughters to have the same last name. My girls have never referred to Meghan as a 'half-sister'. In fact they only heard the term recently and Kathryn looked confused when she asked me how anyone could be only "half a sister". An excellent point Kathryn!

When Gracie was born Meghan was the first person we called. She was thrilled to find out about her new sister. When I got out of the hospital Meghan's grandparents drove her down to meet Gracie and the look on her face said it all. She was in LOVE -- they were not half-sisters.

****

When Meghan turned thirteen her mom brought her and a few friends to Ottawa for a concert and an overnight stay in a hotel (I know, very cool). Paul and I invited Carolyn and the girls over for breakfast the next day so we could wish her well and she could introduce her little sister to her friends.

As we sipped on our coffee I asked Carolyn if this was weird. She understood what I meant and we had a quick laugh as she told me that all of the girls at the table were from blended families. Moms, step-moms, dads, step-dads were the new norm. Both Carolyn and I come from traditional families: both of us have parents who are still happily married. We were the exceptions to the rule!

****

About half of my friends are divorced. Some have since married men who have ex-wives and kids of their own. Among them I am still the exception. I am fortunate enough to be in a blended family that works. Have we had disagreements? Of course we have. But we have been able to work them out without the stress, drama (and expense) of family court.

As I talk to some of my friends about their divorces and separations I am often tempted to call Carolyn and thank her for being so reasonable over the years. Carolyn: if you are reading this, THANK YOU!!

****

When Meghan called to tell us she was expecting a baby we were surprised but thrilled. I love babies and I believe that a new little person to love is always good news. "You are going to be a grandpa" I told Paul.

Minutes later the phone rang and I answered it. It was Carolyn. "Hi Grandma" she said. "Am I a grandmother too?" I asked her (not wanting to take on a title that was rightfully hers) and she assured me that I was. I was honored and thrilled that she was willing to share the joy of being a Nana.

So, to the lady who pointed out that Rowan was not 'really' my grandson let me assure you that you are wrong. He is my grandson. In our blended family there are no 'halfs'.

the delivery (part 2)

2010-09-06T15:29:00.000-07:00

Today story is part two of the tale I posted yesterday. If you did not read yesterday's story STOP and click here to get to part one!

*******

Lindsay fidgeted with the buttons on the blazer of her new wool pant-suit. It was hot, uncomfortable and had cost her the last three paycheques from the boutique but it was all worth it.

Today she slipped on the‘uniform’ and walked right past the receptionist at the firm without attracting so much as a second glance. Lindsay would look familiar enough after meeting the woman at the firm’s Christmas party but knew the receptionist would never be able to pinpoint her in her new office attire.

Moments ago she had seen Samantha at the cafe across the street and knew that this was her window to move. She strolled right past the receptionist and down the long corridor to Peter’s outer office and dropped the envelope on the desk.

She wished she could be a fly on the wall in Peter’s office this afternoon as he wracked his brain trying to figure out who was responsible. She knew that she would never be on the list of suspects. Peter had greatly under-estimated her trying to tuck her away in a dead-end job at the teen store. She may not be a candidate for Mensa but she was no fool – and she was definitely smarter than the dim-witted paralegal who believed that Peter could love her.

Peter did not love anyone. Lindsay had always known that.

the delivery

2010-09-05T17:10:00.000-07:00

Today's story involves a character we met in week 2.

Peter and Lindsay Lahann are newly married. He is a partner in a law firm and she is the manager of a teen clothing store.

The last time around we focused on Lindsay and her step-daughter Sarah but this week's story focuses on Peter. Specifically I wondered why he was so happy about Lindsay's new job. Why was he so keen to keep Lindsay busy during the day?

*****

the delivery

“Samantha, would you come in here please.”

Peter closed the envelope and held it up as his assistant entered the office. “Where did you get this envelope?”

“It was on my desk when I came back from the coffee shop. I know that you were waiting for information about the Hall deposition so I brought it in with your coffee and left it on your desk.”

“Who signed for it?”

“I don’t know,” she said as she shrugged her shoulders. “I was out so I just assumed that one of the other assistants signed for me. Usually Sophie keeps an eye on things while I am away from my desk and I do the same for her.”

“Go ask Sophie who delivered it and when,” Peter said abruptly. Samantha looked confused but got up immediately and did as she was told.

As she closed the door behind her Peter opened the large envelope once again. It was a plain manila — not the type of package he would expect to receive legal documents in but Samantha was new and likely did not know better.

The glossy eight-by-ten photos fell onto his desk and he flipped through them once again. The first shot was of him and a woman eating lunch in the back corner of a dark restaurant; him holding hands with his lunch companion; a quick kiss on the sidewalk out front; and finally one of him and his companion walking hand-in-hand into a nearby hotel. He recognized the images immediately. They were taken last week, during his business trip to Boston with his paralegal.

He shook the envelope one more time and a small note fell out. It was red marker scrawled on yellow lined stationary. “Is this why the new wife is hidden away at the mall – so she won’t catch you in your escapades? “ There were no threats, no ultimatums but Peter felt a cold chill run up his spine.

Lindsay… They had been married for less than a year and he had been sure that everything was under control. When they first met she was his housekeeper and she had asked him about working at the firm when she tired of cleaning houses. He told her it was impossible because of the firm’s ethics policy but nothing was further from truth. While the firm specialized in sexual harassment and wrongful dismissal cases, at least half of his partners were currently married to former assistants and just as many were fucking other members of the staff behind their wives’ backs. It was an irony they frequently chuckled about over scotch and cigars.

He wondered if he should talk to the other partners to see if they too had received a mysterious envelope today. Maybe it was an attack on the firm: it was an idea that had merit.

It could also be his ex-wife. The bloody woman was trying to get more money for Sarah’s private school and dance competitions. At sixteen, his daughter was already costing him a fortune and college was still years away. He would not put it past that cut-throat lawyer Susan had hired to pull a stunt like this to get some leverage. Lord knows Susan had never forgiven him for all of the indiscretions during their marriage. To ruin his relationship with Lindsay, that would be icing on the cake.

Peter got angrier with every passing minute. He worked hard to orchestrate things so that Lindsay was removed from his day-to-day life. He had encouraged her to take a job so she would be unavailable for lunches with the other partners’ wives. He bit his tongue when she found the position at the mall as the assistant manager in a teen boutique. While the job was an embarrassment, he knew that Lindsay’s new younger friends and lunches at the food court would never interfere with his own lunch-hour plans.

No matter who was responsible for this special delivery he had to keep the whole matter as far away from Lindsay as possible. He could not afford another messy divorce or another alimony payment.

There was a quiet knock on the door and he looked up to find Samantha sticking her head around the corner. “Sophie said she did not sign for any envelopes this morning. I also went to talk to the receptionist and she has been at her desk all day. She has signed for five packages and none of them were for you.”

“Thanks,” he said with a sigh. This was definitely not good news. Whoever was playing this game was closer than he had imagined.

Want to know more? .... Part 2 has been posted

Happy??? What am I supposed to do with that?

2010-08-24T06:21:00.000-07:00

The Character Project has been on hiatus since the end of June and I can't wait until we're back in September. Over the summer I continued to write -- I have been working on another project that is coming along better than I had hoped -- but I have missed the weekly challenges.

Some weeks the stories came easily. I would read the prompt and connected immediately with the character. Other weeks I would read the assignment over and over and nothing would come to me.

Week 12 was one such challenge. We were asked to write about Paula who was happy. Happy? What am I supposed to do with happy? Conflict makes for a much better story.

It took five days for me to get anything from Paula. Here is the story she finally told me.

packing up dreams

“You did what?”
“I booked two plane tickets to Europe,” Peter said with a grin. “Now, our flight leaves in six hours so we need to be at the airport in three. That gives you two hours to pack so you better get moving.”
Peter hustled Paula towards the stairs and followed her with an empty suitcase in hand. As she headed up to their room Paula’s mind was reeling.
“Peter, we simply cannot go away for ten days. What about the kids?”
“Your sister will be here in an hour. She is staying here at the house and looking after everything while we are gone.”
“You asked my sister to watch our three kids?” Paula was shocked.
“No, she offered and I accepted.” Peter headed over to the closet and started looking through the clothes hanging in front of him. “You are going to need at least two dresses for sit-down dinners. Does the black one and the purple one sound alright with you?”
Paula nodded so he brought the two dresses back to the suitcase and began to lay them flat at the bottom of the garment bag.
“Peter, I can’t just pick up and leave work. People count on me.”
“I called Janet three weeks ago and told her all about the trip. She agreed on the condition that you send her a postcard from Paris.”
“You called my boss? Does everyone know about this trip except me?”
“Yep.” Peter chuckled and moved over to the dresser where he started rifling through Paula’s neatly folded clothes. “The hotel in Paris has a pool. Do you want your one-piece or your two-piece swim suit?”
“Peter — Stop,” Paula walked over to him and grabbed his hand. “We really cannot afford a ten-day trip to Europe. “
Peter stopped and wrapped his wife tightly in his arms. “Please relax and trust me sweetheart. Everything has been taken care of.”
With a quick kiss on the top of her head he released her and headed to the en suite bathroom. She heard him searching through the vanity drawers and collecting various bottles in the shower.
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked with a giggle.
“Four years.”
“Excuse me? You have been planning this for four years and you never told me!”
Peter emerged from the bathroom with Paula’s bright pink toiletries case and dropped it into the suitcase. “Do you remember when I quit smoking?”
Paula nodded.
“You told me that I should take the money I had been spending on cigarettes and bring you to Europe.”
“I was kidding.”
“Well, maybe you were but it was a damn fine idea. Since then I have been putting my cigarette money into a secret account every week. Three months ago I had finally put enough away so I called a travel agent and bought the tickets.”
Paula sunk down and on the bed and stared at Peter; she shook her head unable to speak. Peter crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her.
“Do you remember the night we met twenty years ago?”
“Of course I do…”
“We went to that little cafe on Sycamore Street and you told me about how you were going to go to Europe when you finally finished your degree. You had it all planned out.”
Paula smiled. “I had been dreaming of heading to Europe since I was thirteen. And then I met you….”
“Exactly. You met me and we got married. We bought a house and we each got jobs. Then the kids came and now it is twenty years and three kids later and you never left the continent.”
“I love my life,” Paula said squeezing his hands in hers. “I love the kids and my job. I have no regrets.”
“I know you don’t.”
Peter stood up and headed over to the dresser and pulled out two pairs of blue jeans to put in the suitcase.
“You have been a fabulous wife and an amazing mother and you have been the woman I always dreamed of. But in the back of my mind I always felt guilty that you never lived your dream.”
“I had new dreams,” Paula protested.
Peter smiled and looked at the woman who had been the centre of his life for as long as he could remember. “I know, and I love you for that. But when I sat in that coffee shop twenty years ago I fell in love with an amazing, vibrant woman and I promised myself that I would help to make all of her dreams come true.”
Paula stood up and headed to the closet. She pulled down a black blouse and a denim skirt and brought them over to the suitcase.
“I love you,” she said looking up at him with tears in her eyes. After twenty years he was still the man she fell in love with sitting at that same coffee shop on Sycamore Street.

Gracie is ten

2010-08-18T13:39:00.000-07:00

It seems crazy to be typing that title. Gracie -- my baby -- is ten. (Of course now that she is ten she would like to be called Grace instead. As her mother I have permission to continue calling her Gracie.)

Gracie is my firstborn. I remember bringing her home from the hospital and spending hours just staring at her as she slept in my arms. She slept in a lot of people's arms -- between me, Paul and my parents I am sure there were days that her little body barely touched her crib or her bouncy-seat.

As I have shared in other posts my road to motherhood was a long and difficult one. Paul and I had been told by doctors that we may never have children before embarking on a number of fertility regimes. We were blessed. We named her Grace for that reason. We wanted a constant reminder that this little person was our gift from God.

Gracie is the spitting image of me. No one ever questions that she is my daughter. Her personality is also a lot like mine: she is a type A perfectionist that spends far too much time worrying about things she can't control. It drives me insane partly because it is something I understand far too well.

She is a beautiful child. She is a talented artist -- she gets that from my mom-- drawing pictures that amaze both Paul and I. She designs clothing and has recently starting sewing. I have no doubt that she will be an artist one day. She is a fabulous dancer even without any formal training and she shines when she has a chance to perform (even though she worries herself almost sick beforehand).

Grace feels things more deeply than anyone I know. When she is happy or excited she has a look of joy on her face that is contagious. But she also feels pain more deeply. She is frequently out of money because she has given all of her savings to a worthy cause: breast cancer research, combating child labor in Pakistan or supporting orphans in Haiti. For her birthday each year my parents adopt an endangered animal at the Toronto Zoo in her name. This year my mom asked if she wanted something else. Grace was horrified: "Nana, the komodo dragon needs us!" She can't help herself. She will give her last cent to make someone's (or something's) life better.

She is painfully loyal. When she was three she refused to try blueberries. She told me that she really liked raspberries and felt that eating blueberries would be a betrayal. I had no words to argue with that.

She can't pick a favorite -- not a color, not a food or even a favorite moment from a trip. She would feel that she was betraying all of the others and gets teary-eyed if she even tries. Since then I have learned to ask: "tell me three things that you really liked about your day" so she does not have to pick one as superior to the others.

When she was little I used to pray that God would toughen her up a little bit. At seven she would get so sad about every squabble with a friend or B on her school work. I was -- and still am -- petrified of the hurts and disappointments that face as she gets older. However, as the years passed I stopped praying that prayer. Grace's ability to feel things so deeply is one of the things I admire most about her. As her mother I can never protect her from the world but I can be there to hold her hand or give her a hug whenever she wants one.

Gracie I love you dearly. You are my gift from God and He blessed me more than I ever could have imagined when you came into my life. Your momma loves you.

Week 18: Felicia

2010-07-08T17:39:00.000-07:00

In week 18 we were asked to tell a story about Felicia who has accidentally dialed the wrong phone number, but the person who answers sounds familiar. Immediately the person recognizes Felicia, but because Felicia made the call she is too embarrassed to ask who it is. Using only dialogue, figure out who the person is.

The character was to be one of our characters from previous weeks and since Quinn was still on my mind I tied one more story into the Marcia Mayville arc.

hello cranton creek

“…and to re-cap our top story, actress Marcia Mayville was found dead in her home last night. She was 28.”

Felicia hit the mute button on the television, grabbed her cordless phone and her fingers began dialling a familiar number before her brain could catch up. It had been almost ten years since she last called Mike May but at this moment the time and distance seemed irrelevant. She needed to talk to him and tell him how sorry she was to hear about Marcie.

“Hello?” the voice on the other side of the line sounded strangled and broken.

“Hi. I hope this isn’t a bad time… I just heard the news on television and I am in complete shock. I am so, so sorry.”

“Felicia? Is it really you? How long has it been? It’s gotta be at least ten years. Are you coming home for the funeral? It is the day after tomorrow and I know it would mean a lot to Mike to see you there.”

Mean a lot to Mike? Wait, who was she talking to? There were only a handful of numbers from Cranton Creek that could be stored in her brain. Which one had she dialled? The voice was one from her past and hauntingly familiar but who did it belong to…?

“Have you seen him today?” Felicia asked the man on the line hoping to pick up clues.

“The whole town has seen him. You know Cranton Creek; people have been cooking up a storm since the news hit. At last count there were fifteen casseroles and twelve pies in Mrs. May’s freezer and there is no sign that the deliveries will stop anytime soon. There has been a steady stream of people in and out of that house all day,” the man on the line said with a chuckle.

“Sounds like nothing back home has changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” the voice said and Fiona was struck by the anger and remorse.

“Are you OK?” Felicia still had not zeroed in on the man’s identity but it did not take a psychic to know he was hurting.

“I feel like I have just been punched in the gut. I haven’t cried since I was a kid but I have broken down about a dozen times since yesterday.”

“I know that feeling.”

“It is like I am going through the motions, you know?” he continued. “I have been with Mike almost 24/7 since he heard and we drove back together yesterday.”

Felicia’s mind began to review a revised list of possibilities: males around Mike’s age who had escaped Cranton Creek. It narrowed the field considerably.

“We turned off the radio during the drive trying to avoid the radio reports. The speculations are rumours are making me sick,” the man said with a bite in his tone.

“I totally understand. I was watching the news re-cap and during the full three minutes of footage there was not one second where they showed the real Marcie,” Felicia agreed. It did not matter who was on the telephone line, anyone in Cranton Creek was sure to feel the same. “They showed her playing a druggie in a movie, they showed her playing a university student on television and that horrible clip of her walking into rehab but not a second of that report showed her being Marcie.”

“I loved her you know,” the voice said quietly. “After all of these years, I don’t know why I am telling you this but it’s true. I have loved her since she was six years old. It doesn’t matter that she never loved me back.”

“I know Quinn,” Felicia said quietly. The confession was the only clue she ever would have needed. Everyone knew that Quinn loved Marcie. It was the worst-kept secret in Cranton Creek. “I’ll catch a flight tomorrow. I promise.”

We first met Quinn last week in Troika.
Marcia Mayville made her first appearance in The Dailies.

Week 17: Troika

2010-06-27T07:07:00.000-07:00

In week 17 we got a picture of a young man named Mike. We were told that he had just received some news that would change his life. We could decide if that news was good or bad.

When I started writing about Mike I found it easier to get into the mind of his best friend so I decided to tell the story from Quinn's vantage point.

This story is the second of three vignettes surrounding the life and death of Marcia Mayville.

troika

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. He felt his cell phone drop out of his hand as his entire body began to shake.

“Mike, you OK man?” Quinn looked up from his laptop but Mike stayed silent. He looked over at his friend as if trying to respond but even as he tried to will his mouth to speak the words did not come.

“Mike…” Quinn stood up slowly and took a cautious step towards forward. “What is it man? What did they say?”

“It’s Marcie…” he lowered himself down into a nearby chair and let his head fall into his hands.

Quinn closed his laptop and went to the kitchen to get some water. As he filled the glass he felt helpless and confused. Getting a glass of water in a situation like this was something his mother would do and in the absence of another strategy it seemed like a logical step.

He brought the glass into the living room, laid it down on the table beside Mike and sat down on the coffee table facing his oldest friend. They had been inseparable since they were five years old and there was nothing Mike could say that would shock him or drive him away.

“What did she do this time? Shit, is she in rehab again? That fuckin’ industry is killing her.” As he thought about the last few years he felt the anger rise in his belly.

Marcie Mae was Mike’s twin. As an only child Quinn was often jealous of that bond that his best friend shared with his sister but the pair had always included him in their schemes. Almost every fond memory from Quinn’s childhood involved the three of them riding around their small town on bicycles or tearing around the backwoods playing explorer. Marcie always dreamed of finding something bigger… something more.

When she turned eighteen she picked up and left in order to follow her dreams. Everyone in town seemed shocked but Mike and Quinn had seen it coming for years. And now, little Marcie Mae had made good on her dreams: she was a star with all of the fame and the heartache that came with it.

Mike had always been proud of her. Hell, he and Quinn sat in the front row for every community theatre production and they took it upon themselves so start the standing ovation each time Marcie had a curtain call. They collected movie posters, magazine articles and memorabilia from each of her shows but Quinn also knew that Mike had lost countless hours of sleep worrying about his other half. First it was the drinking, then the disastrous relationship with the rock star and finally the stint in rehab.

Mike and Quinn had been hopeful at first and travelled to L.A. to greet her when she was released from the thirty-day program. She looked like herself again and Quinn could not decide if he was happier to see her or the look of joy and relief that had returned to his best friend’s face. On her first day home they rented a car and the three of them drove around Hollywood following a beat-up map of the stars’ homes. For a few hours Quinn felt like a kid playing explorer again with his two best friends.

“Mike… talk to me man. What happened?”

“She’s dead…” Mike’s voice was so quiet Quinn barely heard the words. He wanted to ask him to repeat it but he knew that uttering it even once had ripped his heart out.

“She tripped and hit her head. My mom wanted to tell me before we heard it on the news.”

Quinn felt the air leave his lungs but could not summon the strength to draw in another breathe. For a moment the world stood still.

Mike stood up suddenly and turned on the television before Quinn could stop him. As the screen flickered a picture of Marcie Mae filled the screen. Quinn tried to grab the remote from his hand but Mike jerked away transfixed by the image and the caption. “Marcia Mayville: Dead at 28 years of age”

week 11: Marcia Mayville

2010-06-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

We had a choice in week 11 to revisit a previous character or to work with the following prompt.

Name: Marcia Mayville
Profession: Actress
Age: recently deceased.
Opening line: “I’d like to dispel a few myths about death. The first being that it is not the end. Not that I am any great expert. I’ve only been dead a week.”

I was at a loss for five days. Lisa had not yet told me her story and none of my other characters seemed all that keen to tell me more about themselves. Marcia was also pretty quiet until Friday night when I had a very clear picture of her as a young actress watching the dailies on set. The rest of the story came together as I wrote it.

Marcia will be a secondary character in two more stories (again I will move out of the chronological order and post the Marcia stories together).

Enjoy!

the dailies

I’d like to dispel a few myths about death. The first being that it is not the end. Not that I am any great expert. I’ve only been dead a week and I am not yet sure where I am. I seem to be in a holding pattern waiting to move to the next phase but I am not scared. Rather I feel a sense of excitement like I am waiting to embark on a huge adventure.

Last week when my head hit the cold, hard cement I knew immediately that my time on earth was over. A tremendous explosion rocked me to my very core and suddenly I was free of my body, able to witness the action like a movie-goer watching a scene from my latest movie.

When my agent arrived an hour later to find my empty corpse floating in the swimming pool chaos ensued. Firefighters and ambulance attendants pulled me from the water trying to breathe life back into my lungs. My loyal assistant sat on the ground huddled in a ball and sobbing quietly, ignored by the photographers snapping photos over the fence and by my agent who was cursing his cell phone battery for dying on the most important day of his career.

With my body empty and nothing left to see my spirit simply floated away and a week later I am still here – hovering in the in-between.

I can still see glimpses of what I have left behind. The director who never returned my telephone calls started working the talk-show circuit telling the world that he was devastated by my passing – by a career cut short and talent never realized. The man who walked out on me and broke my heart now cries crocodile tears for the cameras bemoaning the love he has lost. Magazines that criticized me as a hack with no fashion sense now feature my face on their front covers trying to capitalize on my death to garner subscriptions. Celebrity bloggers wait with baited-breath for news of a failed tox-screen to titillate their followers.

In life I was an up-and-coming character actress. In death I am a full-blown super-star. Tripping on a pool noodle and cracking my skull was the best thing that ever happened to my career.

Before the accident I was known in the industry for being a serious actress. I arrived early on days when I was filming and I always knew my lines when I showed up on set. I never missed a screening of the “dailies” when the director the reviewed raw footage shot the day before to see where changes could be made. I was a rarity but I learned a lot from the shots of other actors who shared my scenes trying to understand their reactions to my lines, the development of supporting characters in the same plot.

It is ironic that the after-life I now enjoy is much like the dailies. As I wait to see where my spirit will end up I review scenes from the present and my past. I can observe how other characters in my life have been affected by my actions and choices.

I have not been allowed to choose the reels I have been shown – rather they pop up in front of me at random. I have been able to watch the images of my parents cry tears of joy when I came into the world 28 years ago juxtaposed with my mother’s sorrow when she was told of my passing. I have seen my father’s worry as the Hollywood-machine cast his baby girl as a down-and-out drug addict and his pride when the industry recognized me with an award for that same role. I have been thrilled to see the joy I brought my family as they celebrated my accomplishments and I have cringed to see their shame when the media blasted photos of a drunken fight with my ex on an L.A. street corner.

I always expected that my life would flash before my eyes as I travelled from one world to the other. What has surprised me is that I am not the star of that production: the truly compelling parts were the reactions to my drama.

Week 10: Spring Sale at the Stitch and Bitch

2010-06-13T18:12:00.000-07:00

So, the Lisa tales are done --for now. This week I started to work on her full story so there is definitely more to come!

In Week 10, we were asked to go back to re-visit a past character and tell a follow-up story with a spring theme. I decided to go back and check on Hammond. Hammond, a divorced mailman with a secret crochet hobby, was our first writing prompt. (read his story here) This story is one of my favorites and almost wrote itself once I sat down at the keyboard. Some weeks I really struggle with the writing prompt but Hammond has always been very co-operative when I decide to tell his story.

spring sale at the stitch and bitch

“Let me get that…”

Hammond rushed forward to hold open the door and bowed from the waist with flourish gesturing for the small, white-haired woman to go ahead and enter the store.

The older lady smiled and thanked him with a giggle. “Oh Hammond, you are such a gentleman.”

“Thanks Mrs. Grant. Glad to see you out today. There are lots of big sales: time to stock up!”

Hammond took a deep breath as he entered the store and let the door close behind him. The Stitch and Bitch was his favourite shop and it had become a haven for him after his divorce. As the only male patron who came in regularly, the older ladies had all wanted to take him under their wing which made him somewhat of a celebrity.

His crochet work was no longer an embarrassment. In fact, the ladies at the store found it charming and each week he would bring in a stack of dishcloths that he had made to pass out to his new friends. When he arrived they would give him a little hug and ask him about his health and his job. They all commented on how he looked too thin and many of the women had pulled him aside to try to set him up with a daughter, grand-daughter or niece that they were just sure he would love.

“A man can’t live too long on his own,” they had told him. Or “look at you, you are fading away. You need a woman at home to make you a proper meal.” At first he had made excuses but eventually he caved in to their wheedling and started to go on some blind dates. For the first time in a long time he had felt that he may have something to offer a wife.

The store was incredibly busy as he entered and all of his friends were milling around the bins of wool for the Annual Spring Sale. Knitting and crocheting were most popular in the winter and as the warm weather arrived the older wool stock was put on clearance to make room for lighter-weight cotton fibres.

Hammond was working on some new crochet projects but he still wanted to get some of the sturdy polyester yarn that he used to make dishcloths. The ladies at the store loved them after all and they looked forward to seeing him arrive with a few new ones each week.

As he headed to the back of the store he heard his name several times and he stopped to hug or shake hands with a few of the ladies along the way.

“Hi Mrs. Thompson! Thanks for the baking you left me last week. No one makes brownies like you do.”

“Mrs. Phelps, I am glad you liked the dishcloth I made you. Yes, I have a few left. I will bring one in for you next Saturday.”

“Mrs. Carnegie, what in the world are you making with all of that grey wool? I just saw a picture of your grandson last week, he can’t possibly be that big yet!”

“Suzette has my special order arrived? Super, I will be over in a minute to get it I just have to pick up a few things first.”

Finally he found his way to the back of the small boutique and selected a few balls of the sturdy fibre he had been working with for so many years.

“Hammond?”

He looked up slowly. The voice was so familiar yet so surprising…. Madeline.

There she was. His ex-wife was standing across from him at The Stitch and Bitch. He worried for a quick moment knowing that the legions of old ladies around him would not be kind to the woman who had broken ‘their Hammond’s’ heart.

“Wow… Madeline…. what are you doing here?”

She chuckled quietly. “I took up crocheting after our divorce. It turns out that I was right about one thing. No one makes a better dishcloth than you do. “

Too surprised to respond he just nodded his head and continued to stare at her.

“You look well,” she continued after an awkward pause. “You look …happy.”

“I am. I really am. The ladies here are wonderful and they spoil me with home-cooked meals and all the baking I can handle.”

She nodded at the four small balls of yarn in his arms. “I thought you would have needed more than that. It’s a sale. You should stock up!”

He looked down nervously at the beige yarn he had selected. “I don’t do as many dishrags as I used to. I have taken on a new project lately so I don’t have as much time.”

As if on cue Suzette held up two balls of baby pink cotton and called over to him. “Hammond it’s here and this cotton is even softer than we had imagined.”

The color drained from Madeline’s face as she stared at him.

“I’m making a layette – well three so far. My wife and I are having a baby girl. Suzette is the baby’s grandma.”

Madeline stammered a goodbye and congratulations as an excited Hammond rushed over to the counter look at the pink cotton with a pack of twittering old ladies. It appeared that Hammond now had a new life and she was the one who was left behind.

Once again, I encourage you to visit The Character Project and browse through the stories that have been posted. New entries are posted Sundays at 2:30 and I always look forward to reading what the other writers have come up with.

Week 15: The Elevator

2010-06-10T05:56:00.000-07:00

In week 15 we were asked to take two characters that we had created over the past weeks and have them meet in an elevator which was stuck between floors. Since Lisa was still spinning around in my head she was my first choice.

The second character took some time to appear. In the end Margaret stepped onto the elevator and the story moved from there. Margaret has appeared twice so far. She first showed up in a nursing room in spiders, sex and the modern senior and then a few weeks later Alfred told his grandson about 'Maggie' who was his first love.

I wondered initially what these two ladies had in common but they surprised me.

a conversation between floors

“Shoot, I have to get this,” Jason looked apologetically at Lisa as she hit the up button on the elevator. He tried to juggle his briefcase and reach for the cell phone in his pocket without spilling his unopened coffee cup.
With a sigh Lisa reached over and grabbed the hot cup to give Jason a free hand. “Look, we are going to be late. I’ll go up ahead to the office. You take your call and meet me up in suite 510 when you are done. “
“Thanks,” he said blowing her a kiss as she stepped onto the elevator.
Lisa walked to the back wall of the small car and leaned against the mirror before noticing that she still had both coffee cups. Great, she thought, I am only a few weeks pregnant and I am already getting absent-minded.
“Thirsty?”
Lisa looked over at the older lady standing on the other side of the elevator and smiled. “No, just tired, really tired. I...”
Before she could finish her sentence the two ladies were shaken by a sudden stop of the car and a flash of the lights overhead.
“Are you OK?” Lisa asked the older lady who was clutching elevator rail in an effort to stay balanced.
“Oh, I’m fine dear. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Lisa crouched down to put her purse and the coffee cups on the floor before crossing the elevator to open the emergency panel. It was an old building with a beat up phone and she lifted the receiver to see if she could get help. After a few minutes chatting with the security guard downstairs Lisa hung up the phone and turned to her companion.
“Well, good news and bad news. The bad news is that it will take at least 30 minutes to get someone here to fix the elevator.”
“Oh dear, the good news...?”
“We have two fresh cups of hot coffee. Can I help you down to the floor? We may as well get comfortable.”
The older lady smiled and laughed. “Thank you dear. My name is Margaret and coffee sounds delightful.”
“Hi, Margaret. I’m Lisa.”
The older lady chuckled quietly as she settled down on the floor and stretched out her thin legs. “My daughter Rose is going to be having a fit downstairs. She is always telling me how busy she is and about all of the things that she has to re-arrange just to take me out of the nursing home for a few hours. I almost feel sorry for the repairman who has to listen to her while trying to get the elevator running again.”
“Jason will be on his case too. He had a really busy day planned today and already had to move two meetings just to get here for this appointment, let alone an extra half hour while they spring me from the elevator.”
The two women laughed and toasted with their paper cups.
“So, what brings you out today, Lisa?”
“I’m pregnant,” Lisa said looking down at her cup.
“I am sensing that may not be the best news,” Margaret said quietly. “I don’t mean to pry but I am a stranger on an elevator and completely impartial. Who better to tell your secrets too? Plus, I have been around the block a few times myself.”
Lisa looked up with a grin. “I think I’m more shocked than anything. Jason, the baby’s father, is thrilled. I wasn’t planning to have a baby for a few more years and now I feel like I am in a run-away cart that is heading downhill and picking up speed. Everything is out of control.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll get married I guess,” Lisa said with a shrug. “Jason is a nice guy and he’ll be a great dad. He has been wanting to get married for a while now and I’ve been stalling. My mom will be thrilled to see me married to a successful lawyer but will be horrified that I’m ‘knocked up’.”
Margaret cackled.
“In my day, a woman in your situation was either sent away to live with relatives out of town or wearing an off-white dress at an altar within the week. That’s what happened to me.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” Margaret said with a smile. “I was in love with a lovely man named Alfred but his parents hated me. It broke my heart when he moved away to take another job and I poured out my heart to a very nice boy named Peter who had always had a crush on me. “
Lisa smiled as the other woman blushed and she gave her a light poke with her elbow encouraging her to go on with the story.
“Peter was a dear man and was so kind to me. At first I was just trying not to hurt his feelings but before I knew it, I realized that I was a little sweet on him too. We had not known each other for very long but one night we went out and one thing lead to another.... Well, I guess I don’t have to explain it to you.”
Lisa laughed at the teasing. “Did you marry him?”
“Oh yes. Peter was not the sort of man who would have stepped away from his responsibilities. When I told him about the baby he went right to my parents and asked for my hand. We eloped to Niagara Falls the next day and I had Rose seven months later.”
“Were you happy?” Lisa stared at the other woman intently. Margaret saw desperation in her eyes: like a drowning woman watching for a lifeboat.
Margaret reached over and put her hand on Lisa’s knee. “We were married for fifty years and I loved him dearly.”
Lisa took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she confessed. “I don’t know if I can just get married and live happily ever after.”
“You don’t have to my dear. It’s a different world than when I was in your shoes. Maybe it was easier for me not having to choose. Looking back I don’t know what I would have done if I would have been given an option.” Margaret shook her head. “I don’t envy you.”
Once again the lights flickered and Lisa and Margaret felt the elevator begin to move.
As the doors opened the women looked out to find Rose and Jason waiting frantically on the ground floor and Margaret gave Lisa’s had a squeeze.

***
I have decided that I am going to write Jason and Lisa's full story if only for myself -- and for the four or five of you who have been asking what happens to her. Jon and Margaret will both play important roles in the full story. If you are interested in the larger story add a comment below or on my facebook page and I will be sure to e-mail you a copy when I finally get a reasonable draft together.

Week 13: Lisa and Jon

2010-06-07T13:27:00.000-07:00

Originally I had planned to post these fictional stories in the order in which I submitted them but a number of you liked Lisa last week so I am going to change up the order a bit.

Last week we met Lisa sitting on her bathroom floor waiting for the results of her pregnancy test. This week's story goes back in time -- before she and Jason got together -- so you can get to know her a little bit better.

Here is the prompt that we had to work from:

Name: Jon

For inspiration choose two or more from the following: college student, laptop, library, misplaced book, unpaid phone bill.

First line: Her laughter broke the silence.

*********

past due

Her laughter broke the silence and attracted angry stares from students at surrounding tables who had crowded the library to study for finals.

Jon looked up from his textbook and watched Lisa as she leafed through the papers in front of her.

“Something funny?”

“No, that was hysteria.” Lisa lifted the top page off the pile and waved it for him to see.

“This is my phone bill. I owe $300 and I am $150 past due.” She continued to rifle through the pile. “This is my electric bill: $285 owing. This is my credit card bill: $600 owing. At this point I owe so much money, to so many people, that each new bill I open is almost funny. What’s one more? Maybe I’ll just burn the bills to keep warm and let them cut off my heat to save cash.”

She folded her arms over the pile in front of her and lay down her head looking exasperated.

Jon watched her take a deep breath and exhale with a sigh before reaching out to ruffle her short brown hair. “If you want I can give you a few of my shifts at the cafe if that will help to make ends meet.”

She lifted her head and reached out to grab his hand. “You are so sweet but I know that you need the money as much as I do. Your tuition bill is coming due soon and you can’t afford to be giving up shifts or tip money.”

“What about your tuition bill? I hope you took my advice and put some money aside from each cheque to cover tuition,” he said remembering the long talk they had about finances during her last money crisis when he helped her to put together a budget.

Lisa shook her head. “I tried. I really did but when my laptop died last month I had to use that money to buy a new one. You can’t get through pre-law without a computer – not that it does me much good now.”

Jon looked down at her pale hand that he was still holding across the table and gave it a little squeeze. What he wouldn’t give to be able to fix this for her. If only there was a way that he could swoop in, wrap her in his arms and protect her. To tell her that everything was going to be OK.

“You have bad karma,” he said with a teasing smile.

“You’re telling me. I am beginning to believe that I am not destined to be a lawyer.”

“What? You are at the top of our class and you are brilliant. One day you are going to be a partner in a huge firm, raking in cash and this will just be a distant memory.”

She shook her head and pulled her hand back staring at the table. She pushed her hair behind her ears with a nervous fidget deliberately avoiding his intent gaze.

“Leese? What are you planning?”

“I am not going to law school,” she said, the words spilling out quickly. “I spoke with the registrar at the community college yesterday and they can give me credit for some of my pre-law courses towards a diploma as a paralegal. They figure it will only take me six months to finish the program and then I can make some real money to pay these bills.”

Jon sat at the table in a stunned silence.

“Jon, say something…. I’ll go back to law school one day. I just can’t do it now; I can’t keep living with this stress.”

“Lisa, why don’t you move in with me? My place is small but there is room enough for a roommate and splitting the rent would be good for us both.”

“Jon, you are my best friend and I already owe you so much. You got me a job at the cafe. You escorted me to the wedding-from-hell when my mom got married. You don’t need me to keep looking after me. Your family doesn’t have money either and I know how hard you are working now just to keep your head above water.”

“This plan is ridiculous.” He took a deep breath trying to control his rising frustration.

“Lisa, you are the best in the program. You can’t become a paralegal while some idiot like Jason Randall just coasts along. He’ll graduate in the middle of the pack and walk into some cushy job just because his family owns the top law firm in town.”

“Jon, life sucks. How did you get though pre-law without figuring it out before? Besides, Jason isn’t a bad guy. His family isn’t his fault any more than our families are ours.”

Hearing Lisa defend Jason Randall was the last straw. As he thought about all of the late nights they had spent studying and the evenings that they had worked together at the small cafe on campus he began to get angry at her for not seeing the obvious. How could she be oblivious to the fact that he was in love with her?

He stood up from his chair and grabbed his books. “Well it seems like you have it all figured out then. Maybe Jason can put in a good word for you and get you a job at daddy’s law firm as a paralegal.”

“Jon, wait…”

But he could not bear to turn around and face her. Instead he hurried towards the exit without ever looking back.

Week 9: Lisa

2010-06-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

In week nine I stepped up to the plate and submitted an idea for a character prompt.

When I came up with the idea I had a totally different story in mind but as I sat down to write a different Lisa emerged. Stranger still, she has stayed with me. In the months that followed Lisa appeared in two more stories and she is still hanging around in the back of my mind. I am not sure what I am going to do with the story -- I may just have to sit down and write the whole tale just to exorcise her!

Character name: Lisa
Age: 26 years old
Scenario: She is sitting on the floor of a small bathroom with a watch and a pregnancy test. Is the result positive or negative? Is she happy about the results?

two minutes…

Lisa slid the cap back on the end of the pregnancy test and placed it gently on the back of the toilet bowl. She handled the stick with the caution that one might expect from someone re-inserting a pin in a live grenade.

Taking two steps back she leaned on the wall behind her and slid down settling herself on the cold black and white tile floor.

Two minutes. In two minutes she would know for sure. Her period was only two days late but her cycle was usually as regular as clockwork. ‘It’s probably stress,’ she had told herself the day before but she broke down and bought the test on the way home from work unable to wait any longer for an answer.

From her spot on the floor she craned her head looking her watch on the counter but it was not there. Crap! She had forgotten it on her bedside table. Well she certainly was not going to go back into the bedroom to get it. She couldn’t risk waking Jason; she just couldn’t deal with him right now. First, she would find out what was going on then she would talk to him about it.

In the meantime she would just count… one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

No, that wasn’t going to work either.

Feeling the tension in her shoulders and her neck she let her ear drop down to one shoulder in a gentle stretch. Then she changed sides and took another deep breathe.

What was she going to tell her mother? She was 26 years old and she was still afraid of what her mother was going to say. She could almost hear her now. “Lisa, dear you can’t be pregnant. What am I going to tell the other ladies at the church tea? I already have enough trouble trying to explain why you are not married yet. You have a wonderful man like Jason and still you won’t make a commitment. What on earth are you waiting for?“

Oh God, she couldn’t be pregnant. She considered a desperate prayer. Was there a patron saint for unwed women who may or may not be knocked up by men they no longer loved?

Well if any good came out of this mess it was that it would force her to deal with the Jason situation. If the test came back negative she promised herself that she would finally screw up her courage and tell him how she really felt.

It should be easy. She had practiced the conversation in her mind at least a dozen times over the last month alone. They would sit him down in the living room with a glass of wine and she would just tell him.

Jason, I think you are a lovely man. You are talented and bright and I will always care for you but I just don’t know if I am in love with you anymore. In the scenario she imagined Jason would have tears in his eyes but she knew that would never happen in real life. Men like Jason did not cry over the likes of her. They moved on and found someone new. She was sure that there would be another woman living with him in this very apartment in the space of a year if she ever moved out.

But, that was only one side of the coin. What if that test turned up with a plus sign? If she was pregnant she knew Jason would have a ring on her finger that very day. Men like Jason would do the ‘right thing.’ In fact, he had been trying to discuss marriage and kids for the longest time and she did her damndest to avoid it. Did he really want her or did he simply want the settled-married-man status that the partners of his law firm respected?

A quiet knock on the door startled her. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Lisa, are you OK… Can I come in, babe?”

“Yeah.”

Jason slowly pushed the door open and his eyes flashed with worry as he saw her sitting on the floor. He followed her gaze to the top of the toilet bowl and grabbed the stick.

As he turned towards her she caught a quick glance of the tears in his eyes as he dropped down in front of her and wrapped her in a tight hug.

“Lisa….”

Without even seeing the test, she knew the answer and she wanted to cry.

***

Yet again I encourage you to check out The Character Project and read some of the fabulous stories that have been posted there!

Week 8: Sam

2010-05-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

Wow. Can you believe we’ve made it to week 8? Incredible.

In week 8 we were introduced to Sam with the following propmt:

Character name: Sam
Details: Mathematics professor, divorced, with an 8-year-old
daughter who despises math.

Nothing came to me until Saturday night. The only thing that resonated with me was a hatred for math. Finally I thought about my own daughter who also hates math and the struggles we have during homework time.

Fractions

Sam closed his eyes tightly, took a deep breathe and ran his hand through his curly hair one more time.

“No Sarah, look at it again… “

Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes.

“I am never going to get this. It is useless. Just face it: I am never going to be good at math.”

As much as Sam loved spending time with his daughter he dreaded the homework hour. It was the one time of day when he felt that he was failing her.

Since the divorce he saw Sarah only every second week as he and Sharon shuttled the girl back and forth from one home to the other. When they first separated they told the teary-eyed girl that she would have two homes now, but the transition had been difficult and there were times when Sam wondered if she felt that she had a home at all.

The split had been amicable and now he and Sharon were able to sit down and discuss issues calmly. They had made a decision to try keep similar routines during their ‘Sarah weeks’: waking up at the same time each morning, eating meals at the same time and sitting at the table for an hour each night after dinner to work on homework. He wondered if Sharon was better being a tutor and he immediately felt insecure.

“Sarah, you are a smart girl and math is in your blood.” As the words came out of his mouth he wondered if they were true or if was Sarah more like her mother and gifted in other areas.

For Sam math was almost sacred. It was his favourite subject throughout school and when he graduated there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to continue studying it, researching new theories and sharing his passion with the next generation. Today he stood in front of a lecture hall of graduate students and spoke for two solid hours about John Forbes Nash and his work in differential geometry. You could have heard a pin drop as he discussed the intricacies of each theory and how they were still used and admired today.

Now, only four hours later, he was pulling his hair out trying to explain simple fractions to an 8-year old.

“Listen, maybe it will help if we use an example you can relate to.” He wrapped an arm around his daughter’s small, humped shoulders and gave her a little hug hoping to turn her mood around. “What is your favourite thing to do?”

“Shop.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I don’t think fractions are going to help there unless you want to buy me half a CD or one third of a t-shirt.”

As she spoke Sam was taken aback by the tone of her voice which sounded more like a rebellious teenager than the beautiful little girl sitting in front of him now. Where had she learned that tone? How had she grown so quickly without him even noticing?

“No but don’t you prefer to get one-third or one quarter off the regular price?”

Sarah sighed again and sat up reluctantly to look at the page in front of her. “I guess…”

It was a small victory but he relished it nonetheless and knew that he would replay this moment in his head next week when the table was empty and he was feeling like only half a parent.

I urge you to visit The Character Project at http://wegotcharacter.wordpress.com and take some time to read some of the other submissions. Sam had a lot of different faces!

My journey to motherhood

2010-05-09T01:56:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day! In honour of the occasion I wanted to share a little bit about my personal journey to motherhood.
When I first got married I did not want kids. I was twenty-three and I had a degree and a job I loved. I was marrying a man who already had a child so he was comfortable with my decision and for the first two years of our marriage Paul and I were childless by choice.
At age 25 my hormones blind-sided me and I realized that I wanted to change course: I wanted a baby. Unfortunately my body was not co-operative (I will spare you all the gory details). After several months of blood tests, painful medical procedures and disappointing at-home pregnancy tests Paul and I ended up in front of a specialist who matter-of-factly informed us there was a strong possibility we would never have a child.
They had determined that I have a condition called Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome PCOS). At the time, doctors were less familiar with the condition so my gynecologist put me on a long waiting list for the fertility clinic at the Ottawa Hospital. I was depressed and frustrated. Further exacerbating the issue, it seemed that everyone I knew was getting pregnant. That year Paul and I had a Christmas party where FOUR couples announced that they were expecting. While part of me was thrilled for them by the time couple number four spoke up I excused myself for a moment, went to the kitchen and cried.
I boycotted baby showers opting to make excuses and send a gift rather than sit in a room of pregnant women who were grumbling about pains of pregnancy and the joy of motherhood. I also avoided any conversation that started with: do you guys have kids? you really should, kids are so wonderful, you don't know what you are missing. To this day I will never ask someone if they have children. If they do it will come up in conversation. If they don't, there is likely a reason for it.
By the time I was finally called in to see the specialist I had already gone several rounds with a crazy medication called Clomid which is used to stimulate ovulation. It plays havoc with your hormones and has some strong side-effects -- not the least of which is something I like to call Clomid-rage. My temper would turn on a dime and on one occasion I physically attacked a vending machine that took one of my quarters. Paul did not fare much better and after a yelling match in the middle of a hardware store (I was the only one yelling) we decided that our marriage would be stronger if we did not go for round four.
The fertility specialist we were assigned to was not a warm or welcoming man. He sat down for a long interview filled with very personal questions and a strong dose of reality. There were several options available but they were all very invasive and time-consuming. Each round would cost thousands of dollars and there was less than a thirty per cent chance we would end up with a baby. (Keep in mind this was more than 10 years ago. Today I believe that PCOS is much more understood and treatable.)
We were advised to start with IUI (intrauterine insemination). Basically I would give myself an injection each day for anywhere from 10 to twenty days to stimulate my hormones and produce multiple eggs. Every two to three days I would present myself at the hospital at 7:30 am for blood tests and an ultrasound. That day I would need to be by a phone between one to two in the afternoon as a nurse would be calling me with dosage information and further instructions for the coming days. This information would not be left on an answering machine nor with anyone else so you needed to be by the phone waiting.
The ultrasound allowed the doctors to know how many eggs were developing. If you were not going fast enough they upped the doses. If there were too many eggs coming along the cycle was stopped and you started again in two months. The clinic did not take any chances with higher-order multiples and would not inseminate in you had more than four eggs coming along. Period.
The process was all-consuming. Paul and I did not tell a lot of people what we were going through as opinions about fertility treatments tend to be strong and often ill-informed. My body reacted sluggishly, dosages were often re-calibrated and at one point I was nearly cancelled. In the end three eggs were deemed acceptable and three weeks later I found out that I was pregnant. I was over the moon.
The elation was short lived and I lost the baby early in the pregnancy. The doctors and nurses who had monitored almost every element of conception could only shake their heads and say: sometimes this happens. If you are going to lose this baby there is nothing we can do about it.
I was beyond devastated and told Paul that I was done. I could not face the clinic again. I did not want to give myself any more needles. I was simply not strong enough to do it again. He listened, he held me when I sobbed and after two weeks he put his foot down. We had come too far to give up. It worked once. It was going to work again.
My first doctor had left on sabbatical and had been replaced by a wonderful man who I trusted immediately. He was sympathetic to our loss and assured me that they had learned a lot from my first cycle and that this go-around would be easier. He was right. Six weeks later I learned that I was pregnant again.
Paul and I named our first daughter Grace because it means Gift from God. We wanted a constant reminder that this child was truly a gift and a miracle. Four years later (it took a few years to convince myself to go through the process again) Kathryn arrived and our family was complete.
I love my children and I love being a mother. It is a crazy job with bad hours but it is so rewarding to watch my girls grow and learn.
I have a tattoo on my back with a symbol representing each of my children and the lesson I learned on each journey. Gracie's symbol is STRONG because I learned along the way that I was strong enough to handle the pain and come out on the other side. Kathryn's symbol is FAITH because I was able to put my trust in God and try again and I was rewarded with a remarkable little person. Finally I have a symbol for HEAVEN for the baby I lost and who I believe I will meet one day when this life is over.
Happy Mother's Day everyone. Whether your journey to motherhood was quick or long, arduous or unexpected, the destination is worth the ride.

Week 7: Alfred

2010-05-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

Week 7 was a unique challenge we were given a picture of an older gentleman and told to write a story about him. The story could be from any time in his life, any moment. If you have been to the Character Proejct site (and I urge you again to check it out) you can see a picture we had to work with.

As always, there were “bonus points” if one could link him up with a previous week’s character.

I 'knew' who Alfred was immediately but I was reluctant to do the story as it was my first challenge using dialog to tell the story. In the end it just flowed for me and I was a little surprised by one of the previous characters who popped up along the way. The result was one of my favorite of the scenes I have created so far.

***

Lightening Never Strikes Twice

“Come in…”

Chris turned his head just in time to see the old man enter the room and rushed forward wrapping him in a careful hug.

“Grandpa! You made it! I can’t believe you’re here. “

“Of course I’m here,” Alfred said patting the young man firmly on the back. “I don’t usually leave Florida to head North in February but how could I miss seeing my only grandson get married?“

“Thanks Grandpa, it means so much to me that you’re here. Where’s grandma?”

“Well, you know your grandmother. She needed to stop by the powder room to put on a little more lipstick. Also, your mother was going to see about finding her a corsage and getting her to sit down; she gets a little tired nowadays when we travel.” Alfred pulled a starched white handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead.

“I am sure Amy ordered enough flowers to outfit the entire church,” Chris said laughing and shook his head.

“I saw Amy at the door when we arrived. She is certainly a force to be reckoned with,” Alfred observed.

“This is quite the event she has planned here,” Alfred said gesturing at all of the decorations in the church lobby. “It must have cost you two a fortune.”

“We’re way over budget, Grandpa. She actually got another credit card without telling me and has already maxed it out. She thinks I don’t know about it but she forgot that the payment comes out of our joint account.”

“Can I give you a little advice – from someone who has been married for almost sixty years?” Alfred asked with a gleam in his eye.

“Sure…”

“Don’t tell her that you know. First of all, it will do her good to stew a while and worry about having to tell you. Second, it never hurts to have something like that in your back pocket in case you need some bonus points down the road.”

“Thanks Grandpa. That sounds like a good plan.”

Chris gestured towards a large armchair in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you sit down and keep me company. The wedding doesn’t start for another half hour and I’m going a little stir crazy here.”

Alfred lowered himself into the chair with a groan. “You look happy, Chris. I have to tell you I was not always sure about you and Amy but the more I see the two of you together the more I think you’re good for each other. She’s got spunk but you seem to know how to handle her.”

“She’s the one grandpa.”

“Well there was a time in my life when I would have agreed with you but now that I am older I wonder if there is really one perfect person out there for everyone.”

“What?” Chris felt his head jerk back as if someone had slapped him. “I thought you and grandma were destined for each other.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love your grandmother with all my heart but when I was your age there was another woman who was ‘the one’ for me.”

“Grandpa what are you talking about?” Chris sat down in the chair across from his grandfather and looked at his watch. “We have some time here. Why don’t you tell me about her.”

Alfred chuckled softly and cleared his throat.

“Her name was Maggie and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had long, dark hair and dark eyes. She was small but by God she had a fire in her belly that knocked me out. Brazen—that’s what they called it back in those days. My mother always thought Maggie was too wild for own good but I fell in love with her from the first moment I saw her.”

“She was sitting in a coffee shop with a girl I had known in high school. When I went over to say hello they invited me to join them. By the time I had finished my cup of coffee I was hooked.

“I remember when I stood up to leave — she stared right into my eyes and said ‘I work at the pharmacy counter on Main Street if you ever want to come by and say hello.’

“I went by every day for two months,” Alfred said sheepishly and Chris noticed a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.

“What happened? Was there someone else?” Chris asked.

“No,” the old man said with regret. “I loved her but after a few weeks I realized that I was not the man for her. I knew I would never be strong enough to deal with a woman who had so much fight in her. Back then no one was looking for a strong-willed woman.

“She was like a lightening bolt –bright and powerful — but I was always embarrassed around her because she laughed so loud and would talk back to the men who came into the pharmacy.

“So, I just stopped going…” Alfred said nothing for a few moments and simply stared at the handkerchief he had been winding around his fingers.

“I found out a month later that she was getting married. I didn’t have the nerve to face her so I took a job in the next town and left without saying goodbye.”

“Do you know whatever happened to her?” Chris asked softly.

“Well, right now I imagine she is sitting in the front pew talking your grandmother’s ear off,” Alfred said with a laugh.

“Aunt Margaret?” Chris gasped. “Maggie is Aunt Margaret!”

Chris looked around suddenly and whispered, “Does grandma know?”

“Of course she does,” Alfred said with a laugh. “She has known all along. In fact, Margaret set us up.

“You see, I came back to town once a month to visit my mother but I was careful to avoid the pharmacy. One day, though, I ran into Margaret at the same cafe where we had first met.

“I was stunned to see her. She was just as beautiful as the first day I saw her. She told me she was married but that her little sister had taken a fancy to me and would I be interested in meeting them for lunch the next afternoon.

“I went – only to see Maggie of course – but I could see that Stella was a fine woman. She had a gentle way about her and she was kind. She looked at me with eyes that made me feel ten feet tall. I knew that this was a woman I could build a life with. We were married three months later.”

Chris sat in silence for a moment then shook his head and stared at the old man. “Wow… just, wow…”

“I have never regretted marrying your grandmother,” Alfred said looking Chris straight in the eye. “We had two beautiful daughters and three wonderful grandchildren. We had a quiet, safe life. But over the years, I have to admit that there have been times when wondered ‘what if’…

“Chris,” he said softly. “If you think you are strong enough, hold onto that lightening bolt.”

Week 6: The Bride

2010-04-28T19:40:00.001-07:00

I provided the prompt for Week 6!

Name: Amy
Age: 28 years old
Scenario: She is sitting by herself in a small dressing room 30 minutes before her wedding
First Line: Amy could not help but wonder if she was making a mistake.

Even though the prompt was mine the result suprised me. I was initially thinking about a run-away bride when I came up with the prompt but my Amy had other ideas.

Here is the story I came up with:

Amy could not help but wonder if she was making a mistake.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly taking a long, hard look in the mirror.

“No … up. You’re right, it has to be up. Thank you James, it is perfect.”

James stood behind her and placed his hand on her shoulders. The two stopped for a moment and stared at their reflection in the large gilded mirror.

“You look fabulous Amy,” he said with a smile. “You go walk down that aisle and knock ‘em dead. Chris isn’t gonna know what hit him.”

James kissed her cheek and started packing up his equipment to leave. It was unusual for a stylist of his caliber to make house calls but he agreed to make an exception after Amy pleaded with him at her last visit. Very few brides came in for four pre-wedding consultations and James could see that she was a woman who rarely took “no” for an answer.

Amy stood up from her stool in front of the vanity and walked around the room to check on the last-minute wedding details. In half an hour she would walk down the aisle and all of her preparations and plans would finally come to fruition.

At 28, Amy had been a guest or an attendant at more than her fair share of weddings. In fact, in her circle of college girlfriends she was one of the last to finally tie the knot. From the moment Chris proposed last September she had been furiously planning the wedding of her dreams. Hell, who was she kidding, she started making arrangements weeks before when she first came across the ring hidden in Chris’s sock drawer.

It had been a long year. There had been site visits, marathon sessions with the wedding planner, menu consultations and dress fittings to see to. Chris was understanding at first but over the last few weeks he started to question Amy’s ‘obsession’ with the wedding.

Those were his exact words: your obsession with the wedding.

Amy had been sitting in the kitchen trying to finalize a song list for the DJ when he said it. She stopped cold and stared at him. How could he not understand? This was the most important day of her life and she wanted every aspect to be perfect. Instead of helping her, he was talking to her in a sing-song voice usually reserved for negotiators talking someone off a ledge.

A week later Chris’s calm, reasonable voice was a distant memory as he opened their Visa bill and started to review the most recent wedding expenditures. As he calculated how far they had moved past their budget Amy agreed to make some compromises.

The next day she applied for a new credit card in her name alone. It had taken only a week to reach the $5,000 limit but Amy was sure she had made the right decision. When Chris saw all of little details coming together surely he would have to agree that the extra spending was necessary.

Amy smiled as her bridesmaids slipped the white silk, crystal-encrusted princess gown over her head and zipped up the back. It fit like a second skin. Her bridesmaid handed her a small bouquet of pink calla lilies that had arrived that morning on a special order and she took one last look at her reflection.

Today every eye would be on her. She was born to be a bride.

****

Again I urge you to check out: http://wegotcharacter.wordpress.com to see what my fellow writers came up with!

Love at First Sight

2010-04-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

April 23, 1993

I had just come home from writing my last exam after my third year of university. I was tired and had a splitting headache but my friend Michele and I had made plans to go out and celebrate and she was not going to let me out of them. "Take an advil, I'll be there in an hour."

Our first stop was the Lone Star for dinner. Our initial plan was to head upstairs for a few beers and dancing but when we reached the lounge we realized that it was line-dancing night and those people took line-dancing very, very seriously. After a few attempts we realized we were out of our depth and decided to head down to the market. There was a bar where we had played pool the previous week and we decided to check it out again.

The place was slow to start. We had a beer and chatted until the DJ started to play some good tunes. We had not been dancing for long when a group of guys approached us. They were great: polite, a lot of fun, good dancers and so much nicer than the crowd at the country bar. About an hour later I excused myself to grab a beer and came back to the dance floor. I was looking for my girlfriend when a guy popped up in front of me. He had a great smile with a dimple on his cheek and when he looked at me everything around me stopped for a second.

I was not looking to meet anyone that night. I had just got out of a long-term relationship and my heart was still pretty fragile. I wanted to be single for a while and figure out what I was going to do with my future but the guy with the smile was all I could think about. A voice in the back of my head said: this is the man you are going to marry.

I dismissed it. There was no such thing as love at first sight. Sure, this guy was good looking, well-built and had a killer smile but I had taken myself off the market. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to a quieter spot to introduce himself. His name was Paul, he was in the army and he was 25. You can't be too careful when you meet a guy in a bar so I asked for I.D. -- his name was in fact Raymond but he goes by his middle name and he had a scar on his right shin according to the military ID that I had to ask about. He was a good sport and that smile was melting a hole in my heart so I agreed to go for coffee with him if he bought me a piece of pie. My girlfriend had be-friended one of his buddies so off we went.

As we walked to the cafe he told me it had started out as a bad night: he had ripped his jeans and lost a contact but he was happy with how it was turning out. I scrawled my phone number on the back of an ATM receipt with my lipstick and he promised he would call 2 days later.

The next day I thought about him a lot. He was in the army -- I NEVER dated military guys. He lived in Germany but he planned to be posted here soon. He was separated and had a child -- definitely too much baggage. He did not fit any of the criteria that I was looking for so why did I jump every time the phone rang.

He called on Sunday as promised. He had already bought a map and planned a route to my house. As we sat there that night drinking coffee and eating wings I don't know if he would have believed that we would end up here 17 years later: married, a house, three children, a grandson.
But, here we are. Ginger it has been a crazy ride but I am glad we took it. I love you.

Week 5: Karen Nichols

2010-04-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

Week 5 was the first challenge that asked us to create a new character to interact with someone we had met in a previous week. We got an opening line that was short but really said a lot about the type of woman that Karen was.

“The first time I met Karen Nichols, she struck me as the kind of woman who ironed her socks.” – from Prayers for Rain by Dennis Lehane

When I read the prompt I knew immediately that Karen was Robert's new wife but I was not really sure where the story would go from there. It took a few days before I saw Renee walking into the house to meet her step-mother.

Karen -- like Lindsay from week 2 -- was kind of elusive so I found it much easier to describe her from Renee's perspective. Renee was easier to work with and had spoken to me quite clearly in the previous week.

********************

“So this is it…” Robert said as he pushed the door open and signalled for Renee to go in ahead of him.

“Thanks,” she muttered nervously and stepped through into the large vestibule. “It’s, ah, very nice.”

“We like it,” Robert said with a proud smile. “It was Karen’s and I moved in after we got married.”

As the pair took off their boots and hung up coats they each searched their minds frantically for something to say next. This was only the third time Renee had seen her father since meeting him in the cafe two months ago. There was still an air of tension between the two of them that never seemed to dissipate.

Robert looked around nervously as if searching for something. “I think Karen will be home shortly. You’re going to like her. She is a great lady.”

Karen and Robert had been married year and Renee supposed that Karen was the one to thank for the reunion with her long-lost father. In the twenty years since her birth, Renee had never laid eyes on him but since marrying Karen last year he had decided it was time to find his daughter.

As Robert walked down a short hallway to the den Renee followed. She noticed immediately that the house was spotless. The white tile that graced the entrance and hallway was shining; each picture and painting lining the walls was perfectly straight; and even the leather-bound books on the oak shelves seemed to be dusted and arranged by size.

As she scanned the room Renee thought of her own home growing up. Her mother had worked two jobs throughout most of Renee’s childhood and housekeeping was low on her list of things-to-do on her precious days off. Most often they lived in small apartments or rented basements filled with her mother’s dusty books, three cats, knick-knacks and other assorted treasures they had collected along the way. The two worlds could not have been more different.

Hearing the front door open Renee looked up to find her father looking greatly relieved. She wondered instantly if this dinner party had been Karen’s doing as well.

Renee smelled Karen’s expensive perfume before she saw the woman come around the corner. As she came in she smiled warmly at Renee and crossed the room with her hand extended. “Renee, it is so lovely to finally meet you.” Renee was pleased the woman had not bothered to lie and finish that sentence with I have heard so much about you.

Looking at Karen, Renee wished she had opted for something nicer to wear. The woman was tall and wore a black pant suit that must have cost more than Renee paid for rent each month. Over her left shoulder she had expertly arranged a long green silk scarf and secured it with a lovely silver brooch. She had chin-length black hair that was cut into a perfect bob and Renee would have bet her last dime that Karen had a standing monthly appointment to have it trimmed by a top stylist.

Feeling awkward and sloppy, Renee quickly wiped her hand on her jeans before reaching out to shake Karen’s hand. Women like Karen always made her nervous. Renee bit her nails to little stubs while Karen had a perfect French manicure. Karen’s make-up was flawless while Renee’s mascara always seemed to smudge within an hour of application if she bothered with it at all. She wondered where women like Karen learned to fix their hair so it was pin-straight. Renee always seemed to burn herself if she tried to handle a straightener or a curling iron.

Looking at her father’s new wife she thought immediately of her own mother and the pieces suddenly fell into place. That was why he had never bothered to look for his daughter. Renee would never have fit into the upper-crust world he was trying to build. Karen and Renee’s mother were on opposite sides of the spectrum and Renee would never move far enough towards her dad’s ideal to make him happy. Renee in her jeans and stretched-out sweater stood out like a sore thumb in this perfect, sterile world.

As she looked at the perfect woman standing in front of her, Renee knew that her father would never call her again. This would be their last meeting.

Week 4: The guy in the red shirt

2010-04-08T19:13:00.000-07:00

In week we got a curve ball from The Character Project. We did not get a description -- only the first line of our story. “That guy. The one over there in the red shirt. He’s been in here every day this week.”

Here is what I came up with!

Coffee and Confusion

“That guy. The one over there in the red shirt. He’s been in here every day this week.”

Renee looked over her shoulder at the man sitting alone by the window.

“He just asked me if I knew you,” Anna continued as she refilled Renee’s coffee cup. “He called you by name and I told him I wasn’t sure if you had been in yet today. I wanted to ask you first before I pointed you out.”

Renee turned away quickly and gnawed on the back of her pen nervously. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Sandra answered. “Anything for my best customer.”

As Sandra cleared away the empty mugs on the neighbouring table she looked at Renee and frowned. She had known the girl for several months. She came in every Sunday at the same time, sat at the same table and worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle.

After five years waiting tables at the cafe Sandra was not in the habit of making friends with customers but she had a soft-spot for Renee. The older woman sensed the girl was lonely and having trouble adjusting to her first year at the local college.

Today Renee looked agitated. She opened a third creamer, emptied it into her coffee mug then added the small plastic cup to the pyramid she was constructing in front of her.

“Are you OK, honey? Do you know him? If he’s a problem I can get Jimmy to pitch him out. You just say the word.”

“No, it’s OK,” Renee answered. “I have never met him but I know who he is.”

In fact, Renee had been expecting the man for several weeks. She did not know where or when she would see him but she knew he was coming and was not sure how she felt about it. At that moment her head was spinning and the only feeling she recognized for sure was nausea.

Renee’s mom had given her the warning last month when she called.

“Your dad’s looking for you,” she told Renee. “He told me he was finally ready to meet you.”

“Excuse me?” Renee’s mom had a habit of making grand announcements like these without any warning.

“Your dad – your real dad – he called me yesterday,” she repeated. “Apparently he just got re-married and the new wife has kids. One of his step-daughters is your age and every time he sees her he thinks of the daughter he left behind.”

“Wow.”

“Renee, your father is a jack-ass. I am sorry to have to tell you but it’s true.”

“Great,” Renee sighed. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that you were in college in Caldwell and that you were an adult. I also told him that I was not sure whether or not you would want to meet him but if you said to get lost he should leave you alone. He agreed to let you decide.”

“Thanks a lot, mom”

“Honey, he’s a jack-ass but he is also your father. You are 20 years old and it is up to you to decide. I am not going to stand it your way if you want to meet him and I am not going to lie to the man.”

As she hung up Renee thought about all of the nights she had cried herself to sleep as a child because she did not have a dad like the other kids. Back then she would have given her left arm to meet her dad. Now she had no idea what she wanted.

Renee took a deep breathe and looked up to give Sandra a smile. She noticed a reflection of the man in the red shirt in a picture frame just off to her left. She could only see his profile from that angle but she could not stop staring at the image.

His hair was grey and thinning so she could not tell what color it had once been. His nose was long and crooked and she suspected it had been broken at some time in his life. She wondered when and how it had happened. She wished she had a better view of his eyes. Were they blue like hers?

He looked up from his newspaper and smiled as the waitress refilled his cup.

Renee stared with fascination as he doctored his coffee and added the small plastic container to a tower he was building on his table top. Then the man quickly glanced at the faces of the customers around him before returning to his crossword puzzle.

As always, I encourage you to visit http://wegotcharacter.wordpress.com/. My fellow writers had some fascinating tales about the man in the red shirt!!

Running...

2010-04-02T09:56:00.000-07:00

I love to run.
It is a strange thing for me to admit since I spent most of my time in high school phys. ed class looking for reasons NOT to run -- my back hurt, I forgot my shoes, I forgot my gym clothes, I have my period, it is too cold, I have a headache.... If I would have used half the energy that I spent generating excuses into running I would have been a track star!
I started running ten years ago after I had my first daughter as a way to lose weight and I got the bug. I signed up for a 5K, a 10K and then a half marathon. I have competed in a few triathlons and did hill training with a running group. I have done short sprints on tracks, long runs on trails and everything in between. I have run at Disney, on a cruise ship and in the Bahamas.
As much as I love running I have never tried to convince someone else to become a runner. When I get a new client and they say they like the treadmill I ask them: do you want to run or walk on an incline? It is up to them and I never push them to run. I have helped a few of my friends start running but only after they expressed an interest in the sport but I never pushed. Maybe that is why I find it hard to understand why so many people try to justify to me why they don't run -- or better yet -- try to convince me to stop.
Here are a few of the most annoying things that I hear from non-runners.

1) I am out running in the neighbourhood and they pull up beside me in their car and ask "do you want a ride?" ha ha... that one wasn't even funny the first time I heard it.

2) My doctor told me that no one should ever run because it is so bad for your knees and back. Really? No one should ever run? hmmmm I know a lot of people who run that are not crippled with bad backs or knees: some of them are even doctors. Also, those Olympians and Kenyan front-runners that run like gazelles at the 10K races better watch out because they must be in for some serious trouble.

3) Aren't you worried that your boobs are going to sag? All of that bouncing can't be good for them. Wow! I really appreciate your concerns about my breasts. I found this crazy thing called a bra. It works wonders.

4) I read an article once (they can never remember where they read it) saying that running puts stress on your heart. Aren't you worried about having a heart attack? Well, stroke, high blood pressure and heart disease all run in my family. I am more worried about the affect that NOT running will have on my heart.

5) Isn't it expensive? Those shoes cost a fortune and what about that heart rate monitor you have? I like my toys. The heart rate monitor was a gift from my hubby who is proud of me for running and my shoes cost much less than the stilettos and boots some of my girlfriends buy. I don't judge them for the cost of their footwear.

6) What about getting attacked or abducted? I could get attacked anywhere -- it is a sad fact of life. I am careful and only run in well-lit, populated areas or in a group.

7) I was thinking of going for a run and then I sat down, had a beer and the feeling passed -- Thank God... Ha ha ha... again a funny one. You non-runners are a bunch of comedians.

8) I worry about nipple chafing I still don't have an answer to this one. It came from a man I know and it completely took me aback. I think I laughed and told him that his nipples were his own business -- YIKES

9) There are too many runs in this city -- they shut down streets and it is really a pain in the butt. Running season is short and there only a few major races all year. They are well publicized and the road closures are announced weeks in advance. If you are stopped by one, pull over, get out of your car and cheer for the folks who are working hard.

10) I would run but since I had kids I don't have time -- I tend put my family first. This one annoys me because a) It implies that I have tonnes of free time. I don't -- I make time. b) My kids are important to me too. I am not neglecting them by taking time to stay healthy. I want to dance at their wedding and live to a ripe old age to see them have kids of their own.

Phew... that feels better!

I would be remiss if I did not finish this off by thanking some of the non-runners. Each year I run the 10K at Ottawa Race Day weekend and I am always amazed to see the people lining the roads cheering us on with signs and shouts of encouragement. Kids give us high-fives, people yell out "way to go", "Keep going" or "you're doing great." It is the most amazing feeling to realize that a total stranger took the time to come out and cheer me along.

But I think the most important reason I continue to run is for my girls. I want them to grow up thinking that fitness is a natural way of life. That people go out to run because it is a nice day and they feel like 'stretching their legs'. That exercise is a great way to blow some steam after a hard day. Last week my 5-year old told me: Mommy, when I am older I am going to run races too.

That's why I keep running.

Character Project #3 - Margaret

2010-03-16T15:41:00.000-07:00

Thank you all for your comments and e-mails on the Character Project -- the weekly challenges have been a lot of fun and I have really enjoyed "getting to know" each of these characters.

Week 3 provided us with a character and an opening line and the Margaret that popped into my head was a pleasant surprise. I hope you like her too!

First line: “Margaret narrowed her eyes and stared at the spider on the ceiling.”
Name: Margaret
Age: 84
Details: Housebound; has arthritis in her fingers; husband died three years ago.

spiders, sex and the modern senior

Margaret narrowed her eyes and stared at the spider on the ceiling. At one point in her life she would have been terrified and screamed for Peter to climb up on the nightstand and kill it for her. But now Peter was gone and the spiders no longer bothered her. Unable to kill them on her own she had adopted a “live and let live” policy when it came to the creatures.

She wondered if other people – namely her daughter – could ever adopt a similar philosophy with her. Since Peter passed away, Rose had become even more opinionated about the way Margaret lived her life. Margaret wondered how the little girl who once sang and played with such joy had turned into such a bitter, angry woman.

It had been three years since Peter died lying beside her in this very bed. She had fallen asleep comforted by the familiar sound of his snoring and when she awoke to silence at 2 a.m. she knew he was gone. The couple had just moved into the retirement home and now she was there alone; unable to get out to run errands, walk the mall or see the friends from her old neighbourhood.

Rose always got annoyed when Margaret complained about being stuck in the retirement home. One Saturday Rose arrived in a huff and sat Margaret down with the head nurse to review the schedule of activities available to residents. “For goodness sake Mother, they have bingo, sing-a-longs and bridge games. What else could you want?” Margaret had never done any of these things in her previous life and did not understand why these pastimes were supposed to amuse her now that she was old and alone.

Last week Margaret found herself in the main lounge when one of the nurses announced it was time for the weekly seminar. Previously she had avoided the lectures about gentle exercise, nutrition and good sleep habits but she was at the back of the room and unable to find her way to the door before the talk started. To her surprise the room was packed as the nurse began an information session about sex and the senior. She wondered if anyone was really listening to the young woman or if they were simply trying to find out who else in the building was still interested in sex.

Now, as she looked over at Howard asleep on the pillow next to her she smiled thinking about how angry Rose would be. If her daughter was too busy to take her out of the residence now and again then she would have to find things to do on her own wouldn’t she?

Rose would not be the only one annoyed at Margaret. Last week when Howard moved into the residence, several other women informed her that as the most-recent widow in building she should not move too quickly to woo him. Margaret thought the whole idea was crazy. She was 84-years old and not willing to waste time on some silly pecking-order.

Those were the kind of issues that should have been covered in the “Seniors and Sexuality” lecture. She had not learned much from the young nurse who had been tasked to review the new rules of dating. Had she been paying attention she would have asked the truly important questions: What is the etiquette for meeting a new partner? How do you stop dating someone who lives in the same residence? How does one open a condom wrapper if their hands are crippled with arthritis? (Margaret imagined that this was not answer which would be readily available to someone calling the 1-800 number listed on the box.)

As always, I encourage you to check out http://wegotcharacter.wordpress.com/ to find out how the other writers saw Margaret!

The 'Great' Outdoors

2010-03-11T15:38:00.001-08:00

I think I missed a memo somewhere along the line; I may be one of the few parents that did not attend the seminar about "Why kids MUST go outside". What's wrong with being inside??
Paul is a big Outdoors Guy. He likes the kids to be outside. It's like an obsession with him. For years he would get home from work and we would have the following conversation.

Paul: "Why are the girls inside?"
Me: Because they live here???
Paul: They should be outside getting fresh air. When I was a kid I was outside all the time. We would wake up, have breakfast, then go outside until lunch. Then back outside until dinner. We did not come in until the street lights came on...
Me: hmmmmm

Apparently during this wonderful 'time outside' they had adventures in the ravine, they played in the creek, they tobogganed, they bicycled... blah, blah. Once they even saw a coyote! If I put my 9 and 5 year-olds outside and did not know where they were for several hours during the day while they frolicked in the ravine child protective services would be at my door. Kids drown in creeks!
Mind you, this is the same man who suggested we go winter camping (hello.... have we just met? I don't like camping in the summer, I am certainly not doing it in the snow) and who wanted to sleep with the window open in February when we first got married.
Saturday afternoon, Paul will usually get the girls all bundled up in their snowsuits and send them out to play. They roll around in the snow banks, play with their shovels. Some days he gets all dressed up too and they head for the tobogganing hill. They come back with big smiles and rosy cheeks and Paul says: "you should have come, babe. It was fun." Oh yeah, cold weather, snow, sitting on the ground, jarring bumps on my spine -- sorry I missed that!!
For me being outside is a necessary evil -- or a punishment. If I send the girls outside it is usually it is at the end of the day when I am tired and they have been arguing for the past 20 minutes. At that point I snap and say "If you girls don't cut it out you are going to have to play outside." Will they be fighting outside? Probably, but I don't have to listen to it. Here's your hat, what's your hurry? Nowadays, if Paul comes home and the girls are playing outside he knows that it has not been a good day.
Remember high school they used to do aptitude tests to help you make career choices? One of the first questions was always: "would you like to work indoors or outdoors?" I always thought that it was the strangest question. Who in the world would choose to work outdoors? For 6 months of the year that would seriously suck. Yet, the man I married could not imagine working indoors. To him it would be a punishment (most likely because he was brainwashed by all of that outdoors time as a kid).
For some reason, the "outdoors guys" seem to gravitate to me. I think they see me as some sort of project. One guy I dated in university lived on campus. Before I go any further, I need to explain that the university I attended had a complete underground tunnel system so if you lived on campus, and you played your cards right, you could get through the full winter without EVER GOING OUT IN THE COLD. To me it was a dream come true. On a typical weekday I would spend at least 2 hours on a drafty bus or freezing my butt off at the bus stop. Meanwhile, he could roll out of bed wearing shorts and walk through the tunnel to class.
But he didn't. Each day, no matter how cold he was he would get up, put on boots, a coat, a hat and mitts and walk through the snow across campus. It was nonsensical to me! What fresh air!? It is minus 30 out there! You have a choice -- what are you thinking?
Today I am a partial convert. Now that I am a runner I enjoy it when the weather over 10 degrees Celsius. I think to myself 'this is nice weather for a run' and I actually get a little excited about it. I like to cycle and I am thrilled when I get an opportunity to get my bike out for a ride when the weather co-operates. But, I also have a gym membership so I can use the treadmill or spin bike if the weather is miserable.
Let's hear it for the great indoors!!

Character Project Week 2

2010-03-07T17:18:00.000-08:00

As promised, I am posting some of the fiction I have been writing this year for The Character Project. Each week we are given a prompt and encouraged to submit a 500 word story about the character or scenario provided.
Here is what I came up with for week 2!

__________________________
Name: Lindsay Lahann
Age: mid-30s
Quirk: well you know, that name has got to create complications in her life…
Profession: store clerk who previously worked as a … ? … (anything you like)
Optional prompts (choose none, some, or multiple):

The story can involve something overheard and misunderstood by either the main character or by someone else.

There is some sort of dilemma surrounding a piece of clothing.

Lindsay has an opportunity but may not be able to pursue it due to unusual circumstances.

She has a strange pet.

_________________________

“So anyway, Brittany was in the store today and said I was doing an amazing job. She says that if I keep doing so good they will give me a key to the whole store. I have only been there for, like, 2 months and some girls have been there for, like, a year and they don’t have a key yet. Isn’t that exciting?…”

Sarah took a deep breathe and concentrated on eating as Lindsay prattled on. Finishing the last of her salad she thought of how quiet dinner had been before Lindsay moved in. Most often, she and her dad had watched the evening news as they ate. Tonight her dad had hit the mute button on the television so he and Sarah could listen to Lindsay tell them about her new job at a local boutique.

Six months ago Lindsay Lahann had come into their lives as her dad’s new housekeeper but now they were engaged to be married. With the wedding still weeks away Lindsay announced that she no longer wanted to clean houses and applied for a job at the mall. Sarah’s dad supported the decision saying he wanted Lindsay to be happy but Sarah knew the truth. He would be mortified to imagine his new wife cleaning other people’s homes. The job at the mall was a good compromise. The store where Lindsay worked was frequented mostly by teenaged girls so the chances were low that she would encounter any of his friends or – even worst — their wives.

“So, today we were working like crazy to get ready for a big sale that starts tomorrow,” Lindsay continued. “Sarah you should come by and check it out. I can give you my new discount.”

Sarah nodded politely and brought her empty plate to the kitchen sink to rinse it off. Given the choice between a discount and introducing Lindsay to her friends, Sarah would gladly opt for the full ticket price.

Last week Lindsay came home wearing the same t-shirt Sarah had purchased only days before. When her dad noticed it Lindsay only laughed and said she and Sarah would have to co-ordinate their outfits in the mornings.

“Wouldn’t it be so embarrassing if we both, like, wore the same thing one day?” Lindsay laughed. Sarah imagined the thirty-four year old, bleached blonde serving pre-teens at the local mall while wearing a mini-skirt and manga t-shirt that showed her belly and laughed to herself. Clearly Lindsay had a very different definition of what was embarrassing.

Check out http://wegotcharacter.wordpress.com/ to find out how the other writers saw Lindsay!

The Character Project

2010-02-21T12:59:00.001-08:00

Last week I ran into one of my "facebook friends" at the grocery store. I was happy to see her in person. She is a lovely lady and someone I don't speak with nearly as often as I would like. I call her a facebook friend because -- like so many others in my life -- my sole contact with her seems to be the photos, statuses and notes we each post on facebook.
As we were walking away she asked me why I had not updated my blog recently. After a quick, giddy Sally Field moment (you like me... you really like me) I told her that my blog has taken second seat to another project that has been inspiring me to write again.
The Character Project was created by my friend Ingrid who issued a challenge on her blog last December encouraging people to take a weekly prompt and create a story around it. I had not done any fiction writing in ten years and the idea fascinated me immediately. Over the past 6 weeks I have had a wonderful time reading the prompts and building stories around them.
Over the next few days I will be posting the stories I have written so far. I will start with Hammond, our fist challenge, as some characters recur in future stories.
I would also encourage you to go to http://wegotcharacter.wordpress.com/ to read the other stories.
Every Sunday afternoon I am like a kid at Christmas looking forward to seeing how the others have interpreted the character and how they have brought him or her to life.

Week One: Hammond
Age: 42
Profession: Mailman
Guilty Pleasure: Crocheting
Marital status: divorced

Hammond’s fingers were aching again. On the coldest winter days they were so stiff and sore he could barely turn his key in the lock. An occupational hazard, he supposed. As a mail carrier his gloves needed to be thin enough to allow him to handle the envelopes and packages and as a result his fingers froze only minutes after he stepped out on his route each day.
The joints were swollen and arthritic now. After 25 years walking the same route, his hands seemed to have paid the highest price and they got worst each year as the weather turned cold.
As he made his way into the house the kitchen was always his first stop. He shooed the cat off of the counter and used both hands to pick up the old kettle. He filled it with water and put it on the stove to heat up for his afternoon tea. His fingers would feel cold for another hour at least but that first sip of tea managed to warm the rest of his body almost instantly.
Waiting for the water to boil he surveyed the cluttered kitchen trying to figure out where to start sorting out the mess. It was easier when Madeline was around. She couldn’t abide a messy kitchen and had kept it spotless. Thinking of her he could almost smell the Javex she used daily to scour the kitchen sink. She used one of his hand-made dish clothes because she liked the way they held up to grease but the bleach was hard on the fibres so they usually ended up in the rag bin after only a few weeks.
Thinking back Hammond wondered if the dish clothes were the only things Madeline really appreciated about him at the end. The only gift he ever seemed to get right.
He had started crocheting in his early years at the post office when his knuckles first started to swell. An older man on the job had taken him under his wing and suggested that he start doing the needlework to keep his fingers limber. The old man swore by it. “If you let your fingers get stiff there’s no going back.”
When he first picked up the hook he had no idea what he would ever make. He would simply make a base chain then move back and forth, row after row, completing a perfect square before fastening off the yarn. He had quite a stack of them by the time Madeline came into his life and it was she who decided that they were in fact dish clothes. Smitten with her, he was not willing to argue. He simply handed her a few squares off the top of the pile.
It was one of the last times she was truly happy with him. Shortly after Madeline moved into his home the relationship soured. He had been a bachelor for too long and she found it difficult to slip into his life and his routines and he resisted her attempts to fix-up his old home. He did not want a new electric kettle or a modern stove. The ones he had were fine: functional and reliable. She wanted to go out, to dance, to meet people but that simply wouldn’t do. He had to be in bed early if he wanted to be one of the first men in the sorting room the next morning.
Eventually she stopped asking and before Hammond knew what had happened, she was gone.

Home Reno Day (Part 2)

2010-01-31T07:56:00.000-08:00

As we stepped into the second home reno store the smell of lumber hit me again. Sensing that I was getting impatient, Paul took the control and lead us to the back of the store to look at bathroom vanities.

This vanity is going to go into the upstairs bathroom -- a room that I already love. The tiles are a light terra cotta and the walls are khaki green. The shower curtain and a great print I found at IKEA pull all of the colors together perfectly. I would be happy to leave the whole thing alone but the sink is a small pedestal and the only storage is a horrid four-drawer Rubbermaid system I bought to hold tooth brushes, a few rolls of toilet paper and the vast collection of bath toys that are necessary when one has toddlers.

Today it is even uglier. Stained with day-glo blue bubble bath, toothpaste and hair dye, it is stuffed to the brim with hair brushes, razors, replacement cartridges, shaving cream, a dozen tooth brushes (only 4 people live in the house), five tubes of toothpaste and an army of bath toys. The drawers only close if you push them hard and from a precise angle. I have a five year old -- how often do you think those drawers are left half open?! You will notice that there is no longer room to store a spare roll of toilet paper which annoys me to no end.

It is my hatred of this white plastic nightmare that Paul has used to coax me to the home reno store in the first place. He catches me at a weak moment when I walk in and find three of the four drawers wide open and I am wiping green tooth paste off of it once again. "We can keep the tile and I will re-paint the walls the exact same color. Think of how much nicer the bathroom would look if we had a vanity instead of this ugly thing." He knows how to push my buttons.

So here we are at the hated big-box store looking at vanities... too white, too boxy, too dark, not enough storage. There is one I like but it is too big. They do make one in the size we need but they don't have it on display. Paul shows me a small grainy picture on the side of a box. Exhausted and frustrated I say let's take it.

He leads me to the next aisle and tells me to pick a counter. I want to cry. I should have known from the toilet debacle that a counter would not be included with a vanity! That would be far too easy.

"White or beige?"
"Beige."
"Sink built in or with a drop-in sink?"
"Built-in -- you are not going to sucker me into a trip down another aisle"
"Sink centered or off-set"
"Off-set."
"Do you want to look at a new tap or use the one we already have?"
"You're kidding me right?"

With all of the questions answered Paul says great and begins to walk away. When I open my mouth to ask he says, "we'll have to come another day to pick it up, we can't fit all of this in the car right now." At this point I am wondering if divorce lawyers work on Sunday afternoons. I am pretty sure that if one set up a table at a home reno store each weekend they could make a killing.

We move over to the tile aisle and shift our focus to the downstairs bathroom where we will be tiling a counter instead of picking a pre-made one as the size we need is irregular and would require a special-order. I like several different options but find it difficult to settle on one as I don't know what color the walls will be. With kids in tow we track to the opposite end of the store to look at paint chips.

"Pick this color," Kaye says holding out a hot pink paint chip. Paul grumbles and shakes his head.
"What about this?" Gracie asks holding a purple chip.
"Look girls, this is not going to be a princess bathroom. Just let dad and I look OK..."
Turning to Paul I say, "I'm thinking of a pumpkin color." He simply nods and starts rummaging through the prepared color combinations.
At combo number 3 he stops. Pulls it out and says: "what about this?"
"Fine," I say and we leave the store holding only four paint chips.

3 hours, 2 stores and 1 fight later we have emerged with nothing but 4 paint chips!

As we get in the car I start to giggle and look over Paul. "You know that we are the same people who bought a car in an hour and a half, right?" He simply shakes his head as the incongruity of this sets in.

Home renovations - a continuing story

2010-01-27T05:37:00.000-08:00

After yesterday's post a number of you asked what we will be doing with the bathroom once the wallpaper is down. The short answer is paint the walls and install a new counter made from decorative tile.

This whole saga started in 2008 when the air-conditioner broke down. It was August and I was not willing to put out the cash at that point so we just lived without it. A few months later, Paul and I were hearing more about the energy assessment program. As our furnace is 30-years old and living on borrowed time, it seemed like a no-brainer to do the replacements now when there were rebates available.

Well, that adventure spiralled out of control and resulted in: a new (huge) air conditioner, a high-efficiency furnace, a new hot water tank, new home siding to cover the improved 3-inch insulation, five new windows and a new patio door. It was an expensive summer filled with noisy workmen tracking in and out of my home. Paul (mysteriously) was never here for any of the installations so I was left to my own devices. In other words I made coffee and tried to nod knowingly as they blathered on about measurements, building code and extending the life of my compressor. Whatever!

Looking at the list of suggested improvements we should also get insulation blown into the attic and replace the toilets. While we were looking at the toilets we were reminded that the downstairs powder room is old, ugly and dated and we need extra storeage in the upstairs bathroom. Finally, we need to do a lot of painting as the new patio door is smaller than the last and there is plaster and drywall exposed in the living room.

By now I am fed up with having strangers in my house. Those of you who know me well, know that I HATE having people in my house so it has been quite challenge for me already. I have put my foot down. We are doing the bathrooms and the painting ourselves.

We started this weekend at the new home improvement store. Paul was excited because he loves these places but I usually complain and whine the entire trip. Good times! When I was a kid my dad did a lot of woodworking and I have vivid memories of boredom-filled evenings at the lumber yard as my parents picked out the correct number of perfectly straight 2x4s. Home reno stores smell just like the lumber yards and all the memories just come flooding back.

Anyway, this weekend we started the process by looking at bathroom vanities which cost a fortune, are ugly and have shockingly little storage space in them. Within minutes I really didn't care what we bought, I wanted to go home. As we wandered up the aisle I noticed the automated voice on the PA -- "assistance required in plumbing"; "assistance required in lighting", "assistance required in lumber".

"What the hell is that?" I asked Paul.
"It's the new system they have so customers can find help. You just press a button and it triggers an announcement."
"Are you kidding me? It is going off every flippin' 2 minutes. Where is the staff? Are they in the back hiding?"
Repetitive automated voices grate on my nerves and from that moment on I heard every announcement and got increasingly annoyed with each one. My kids -- who know full-well that this kind of thing drives me crazy -- laughed harder and harder with each announcement and soon the trip resulted in the 3 of us girls giggling like idiots while Paul tried to pick a vanity.

Next we tracked over to the toilet section. Our two daughters are already bored at this point. They have their winter boots on and they are dragging their feet on the concrete as we trudge over. I tell Grace for the eighth time to pick up her feet when she walks. Kaye is hot so I take off her hat and gloves and carry them so we don't lose yet another mitt this year.

"We need to pick a high-efficiency toilet so check the price tags," Paul explained. "Make sure you are checking the price tag for the tank not the toilet."
"Wait, are you telling me that they sell the toilet and the tank separately?"
"Yes"
"Why would they do that? That's ridiculous!" Have I mentioned that I HATE home renovation stores?
"They just do."
"Seriously Paul, why? Do people come in and try to mix and match? OOOOHHH I love this toilet but the tank is all wrong. Can I get that tank instead? Honestly, who does that?"
"OK Jules, let's try to focus here."
"No really, who is buying just one piece? They change the color beige for appliances, toilets and sinks every freakin' five minutes! It's not like you are going to be able to come back when one breaks and get the same color to match your existing tank. It's crazy."

My husband has the patience of Job but at this point he is no longer enjoying Home-reno Land. We leave the store empty-handed and agree to try the huge hemo-reno store down the street. (Yes, there are two of them within spitting-distance of one another.) Relieved to be leaving, but wanting to cry that we have to start over in the next place, I do up my coat and bundle up the kids once again.

Part 2 tomorrow...

Wallpaper musings...

2010-01-26T13:03:00.000-08:00

I hate wallpaper.

I can count on one hand the amount of times I have looked at a wallpapered room and did not feel the need to lie about liking it. Usually I end up smiling politely and saying "Wow, you wallpapered". (It is a trick my mom taught me that gets you out of a situation where you would otherwise have to lie. I do it quite often. Usually it takes the form of: Wow, now that's a baby! or Wow! that's a unique hair color.)

I remember one afternoon when I was in my early 20s and I brought a new boyfriend of mine to see my mom at work. I warned him ahead of time that the office was in a basement with really bad 70s decor. It had gold shag carpeting and a HORRIBLE wall mural of a Hawaiian sunset on one wall. Seriously, who buys those things!?! Could they be more tacky!

A few weeks later this same guy brought me home to meet his parents. I was nervous because I was really falling for him and wanted his folks to like me too. As he gave me the tour of his home, he paused in front of an upstairs room to tell me that this was his his favorite spot in the whole house. "Actually I chose the decorations myself," he bragged.

As he opened the door and turned on the light my jaw dropped. They had the exact same Hawaiian sunset mural! I froze. I could not even muster up the courage to lie. Let's face it -- it's a Hawaiian sunset mural! I can fib with the best of them but even I could not get out of this one. He thought it was hysterical and laughed at my shock and horror for a long time after that visit.

Fast forward a few years later when I married Paul, a man who hates wallpaper just as much as I do. Unfortunately the previous owners of our home did not feel the same way and had wallpapered EVERY SINGLE WALL IN THE HOUSE. I kid you not. Every. Single. Wall.

After taking possession I quickly discovered that the best thing about wallpaper is stripping it off. It is one of my favorite home renovation jobs. There is something mesmerizing about grabbing a tiny corner and seeing how big of a sheet you can pull from the wall. For me it is almost therapeutic; it is a concrete, measurable accomplishment.

Today I am tackling our downstairs powder room. It is one of the last spots in our home that still has wallpaper. I spent the day with my iPod on full blast and my scraper and steamer in hand. There are small scraps wallpaper strewn on the floor and overflowing out into the hallway.

It has been a fabulous, relaxing day.