I still do

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?

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

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...

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

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.

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.

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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

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.