RSS Feed

Fine. I’ll rise, but I won’t shine…

Posted on

Even though our local hockey association has an enrolment of over 500 minor hockey players, they do not run a girls-only hockey development program.  This, despite the fact that Hockey Canada confirms enrolment for young girls is on the rise while, enrolment for boys is stagnant.  So my daughter is registered with a neighbouring community that does offer girls hockey.  This much larger neighbouring community runs an excellent girls hockey association that operates over 40 teams (some recreational, some competitive) and so develops over 700 girls in the sport of hockey.

But my daughter’s hockey association does not accept friend requests.  Not “friend requests” a la Facebook lexicon, but rather the registrar of the association will not entertain requests for organizing friends on the same team.  It’s a strict policy so I’m not sure how my friend and neighbour who lives just down the street managed it, but her daughter and my daughter (also friends … very convenient) have been on the same team for two straight seasons now.  If my friend told me she had to sleep with the president of the association to make it happen, I’d believe her, and support her.  I’d take one for the team too if it meant our girls got on the same team roster again.  The truth is, I guess she knows the right people, and this is critical … because it means we can carpool.

We take turns with most practices but particularly with those early morning practices (sometimes our husbands even take them), and as an added benefit we let the girls have a sleepover so only one hockey mom’s sleep is disturbed by that early morning buzzer alarm.  You may think I’ve inhaled a little too many zamboni fumes, but once in a while, those early morning hockey practices are actually not so bad.

Sunrise over farm (not my farm), SMN via Flicker

As I rose at 0600 this past Sunday morning, I patted myself on the back for getting to bed early on a Saturday night (true, I have no life, so there weren’t too many alternatives), and able to accomplish this without hitting the snooze bar.  In doing so, I also managed to successfully avert the Sunday morning nookie my husband was counting on (though probably not at 0600).

I gently woke the girls, quietly reminded them of our hockey practice and that we had to be in the car in twenty minutes, shut the boys’ bedroom door for fear of another giggle fest, and moved along to the kitchen to fix their breakfast.  I filled my trusty travel mug with deliciously fresh coffee, while they quietly finished their toast and OJ and then gathered their gear and headed to the car.  No arguing, no whining, no complaining.  They were both surprisingly and uncharacteristically accommodating.  What do they call this again?  Maturity?  I like it!   The car was almost as quiet as was the breakfast, save for the radio trying to snap us all out of our respective reveries.  I drove north, then east, and watched the sun peak out over the farm fields.  It was gorgeous.  “This is not so bad “, I thought and started to consider a few other positive attributes of these early mornings:

  • I get to zip along an almost-deserted highway; one that is otherwise usually clogged and polluted with commuters. I imagine every other driver is either heading off to work or heading off to hockey, just like me with their coffee mugs close at hand.
  • My passengers are stone cold silent – a far cry from their giggly 11-year old pre-bedtime selves the night before.  No one complains about my music selections, either (rare. very rare).
  • I can take pleasure in noting that the days are getting longer:  the sun is already peaking out at 630am.
  • There is ample parking in the garage at the university athletic facility where the practice is being held.  It certainly won’t be like this later on today.
  • Few parents are overly social at this hour so I get an entire hours’ worth of uninterrupted reading and writing before I hear the beep! beep! of the Zamboni shooing the skaters off the ice and beckoning me back to my Den Mom duties in the dressing room.
  • While I do  provide transportation, I do not have to go out there on the ice.  I can sit here and read, write and drink my lovely, fresh coffee.  There are five Dads out there right now and 16 eleven and twelve year olds who are not.

Goalie Girl

Now, with an hour’s worth of exercise behind them, the girls were chippier and chattier and the spirit that I associate with a girls hockey team dressing room had resumed.  They nattered on about their big plans for the day and week ahead, their hair, their clothes … MY clothes even.  Everything was back to normal and I felt a headache coming on.

We returned home shortly after 9am on this hockey morning, just as my husband was finishing up his breakfast and teenage boys were still not conscious.  I know that soon my daughter will be among those longing to sleep in on weekends.  When my three were still babies, a neighbour of mine with teenagers grumbled that at least I still had my evenings.  She, with teenagers, went to bed hours before them, leaving them to turn off the lights, the TV and to lock the doors.  This was certainly true at the time.  When all were nestled in their beds, I usually had some part of the evening to myself.  I can now sense my time zones shifting as well, just as my neighbour predicted.  However, though I may not have evenings to myself any longer, the mornings will all soon be mine again.  If I can meet these mornings with the same heart that which this morning was greeted, then I won’t complain for any lack of “me” time.  It will be there … just during a different time slot.

If this past Sunday morning early practice is any indication, I am ready to multi-task:  to rise AND shine!

* Just to be clear lest my daughter is expelled from her association:  I’m entirely certain my friend did not have to sleep with the president of the association.

Do you rise and shine or prefer the midnight oil?

A Zamboni of my own …

Posted on

A Zamboni is a truck-like vehicle that melts and mends the ice in a hockey arena. It cleans and levels the rough edges of the ice, leaving a smooth surface.

I shall not soon forget The Great Hockey Weekend of 2012:  Three hockey tournaments, three kids, three round robin games each = nine games MINIMUM in a 48-hour period.  One weekend.  One mom.  To say that I was emotionally distressed about pulling this one off is an understatement.  Its enormity was foretold months ago when my husband announced he was going golfing in Florida, the first weekend in February. “During hockey season?!” I screeched. “Who goes golfing during hockey season?!”

Well, apparently I know one such person.

And so I self-diagnosed myself with a new anxiety disorder known only to hockey moms: confero singularis formido (or fear of the solo tournament weekend).   Look it up!

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, “Oh God, please don’t let this be another pre-menopausal bitch ranting about how underappreciated she is …”, because it’s not;  I’m saving all that for my book!  Instead, I wish to pay tribute to those who help out in a pinch (or see a stark raving mad woman in serious need of an intervention because it’s truly a fine line).

The hockey family.

The hockey family is the one connected to me and this crazy sport who is outside my immediate family – those I can count on in a pinch. Seeing as this particular pinch was more of a circulation-inhibited, full-on head lock, I needed a hockey miracle of Paul Henderson proportions to get me through. And since my husband failed to come through with a mistress who was willing to help out with the hockey driving, I called in the Reserve.  My Reserve Unit consists of extended family and other hockey parents.

Over Christmas, my mother-in-law lamented that none of my kids had participated in a tournament near their home north of Toronto and she missed seeing them play. Ooooo, the Angel of Hockey Mercy hath rested her wing in the goal crease. “Well, have I got the weekend for you…” my plea began.  The reinforcements, aka my in-laws, were treated to rare grandkid-hockey-fest and able to catch at least one game of each grandchild. It is entirely possible that they would have preferred to do so over a slightly longer stretch of time (i.e. maybe not 5 games in 36 hours next time) but never mind that for now. It is also entirely possible that they would have preferred to eat something other than take-out pizza and copious amounts of coffee but never mind that either. I was grateful for their ‘service’ even if it meant me changing the sheets and towels.

The hockey family.

Hockey moms often refer to other hockey moms as part of their extended family.  Considering how much time you spend with them at arenas, on tournament weekends and various other social events associated with their kids’ sports schedules from August through April, they might as well be kin.  The parents on my kids’ teams come from all walks of life, many of whom have chosen paths on which I wouldn’t dare walk, who wouldn’t dream of walking in my path, and who’ll walk off in different directions after the games and practices and tournaments are over.  But all this past weekend, they walked beside me all the way.  For every single person who offered to help with pick ups and drops offs for my three kids, I am thankful.  And for every single person who asked me how I was holding up this past weekend, I am thankful!  This particular weekend, I am thankful to no less than eight people who drove, fed, or housed my three kids somewhere (or did all three).  Now, one could argue that such assistance is intentional because I am mother to three goalies and the team kinda needs a goalie, but that’s ok; they were still on my side.  God Bless ‘em!

A bolt of lightening is about to strike me dead, but when only one of my three teams advanced, I felt some disappointment for them but mostly relief for me; a fact that will likely not endear me to other hockey moms. But we all know my hockey/yoga co-dependency so I was hppy for their eliminations because they permitted my Sunday morning yoga class.  The parting words of my yoga instructor on Sunday morning could not have been better scripted had she been speaking directly to me.  “I hope you will take this feeling of gratitude in having devoted time well spent on yourself and extend it to those around you. Put forth an attitude of gratitude” … and with no bolt of lightening either!  With post-yoga latte in one hand and a basket of dirty laundry in the other, I felt as relaxed as a mom with 90% of her ‘to-do’ list still to do, but feeling gratitude for those who’d help me get through. I looked at the dogs (because they were the only ones still interested in my company) and shared a happy thought, “Hey!  We made it!” which was immediately followed by a not-so-happy thought, “Oh my God, did anyone feed you guys this weekend?!” So sincere thanks to my hockey family for helping me out this weekend and for making my rough ice a little smoother – a Zamboni of my own indeed.

Did you ever look upon a task with so much dread, only to find joy in it through the grace of others?

A word cloud is a graphical representation of word frequency. The word hockey stands out in my word cloud (made courtesy of www.wordl.net ) and a lot of other words scattered around it… like mom, love, writing… (actually kind of surprised that the word chardonnay does not appear there – it’s gotta be there!). So this was the mother of all hockey weekends where hockey, mom, love, and a little writing, once again featured prominently… as they always do in my life.

I’m a Wiener!

Posted on

I’m a weiner!

I mean, whiner (that’s actually true).

No! Wait!

Winer (that’s actually really true)!

Actually, I am a winner!

I’d like to thank God and the Academy …. Oops … wrong speech.  Wait a minute.

I’m thrilled, and very humbled, to reveal that both Annie who is Annie Off Leash! and Kelly aka Ahimsa Mama have so kindly presented me with the Versatile Blogger award, though I’ve been a little slipshod in acknowledging them for doing so. As a relative neophyte in this writing blosphere, I consider this a tremendous honour and I thank them for this tribute, and for their ongoing readership and support!  You should visit their sites (not now, though, keep reading).

In accepting this Versatile Blogger Award, I am to thank those who bestowed the award upon me, to divulge to readers seven things that most people may not know about me, and to pass on the award to 15 other writers whose blogs I admire, and therefore so should you.

First off, now that I’ve posted a Dear 16-Year Old Me letter, some of my secrets have come out of the closet (the rest should probably stay out in there at least for a while), however, here are seven things most people don’t know about me:

  1. I am a closet BeeGees fan (it’s true; RIP dear Maurice).
  2. A friend of mine and I won a High School Spirit Week cake decorating contest by decorating banner and beanie -shaped cakes in our school colours. We got our picture in the local newspaper. I have loved cake decorating ever since and recently made this XBox Controller-shaped cake for my son.  I swear my own birthday seems to come about eight times a year so I’ve been trying to forget them of late, but I know birthdays are uber-special to kids.  And so for my kids, I want their birthdays to continue being special (until they tell me otherwise)!
  3. I almost drowned off the coast of Cape Hatteras when I was about 6 years old having been caught up in the treacherous undertow. My father saved my life. I still love Cape Hatteras but have since held a healthy respect for the power of the ocean.
  4. Of the 48 years I have slept on this earth, I have had my own bedroom for all but 45 of them.  Seriously.  Sister, roommates, boyfriends, husband, children … the string of those that have slept with me since I was born is shocking.
  5. I was diagnosed Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome a year into trying to conceive my first child. I should think that the fact that I now have 3 healthy children gives hope to those with PCOS who have been told they will never conceive, or will have great difficulty conceiving.
  6. I played the baritone and trombone in high school.  To this day, I don’t know what the song is about, but think I could still probably pull off Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4” if I was drunk enough needed to.
  7. I lived in New York City… twice. While at Cornell, I did a 6-month internship for a restaurant company in 1986 and lived at the 92nd Street Y. After graduating, I returned to New York City and worked for my former boss at her new company for 6 months before joining Hilton.  It was the best of times; it was the worst of times … then the best of times once again!  Scariest and most awesome city in the world!

So either these 7 things will endear me to you, or just explain a whole lot!  Moving on …

Now for the fun part:  I want to share  15 wonderful blogs that also deserve this award and ones that I hope you will soon visit.  You might notice my list is female-dominated – that’s just the way it is.  I also know many of them (most of them, in fact) already proudly display their Versatile Blogger award, but you will certainly not be disappointed in the time and attention you spare for their prose.

  1. Bella gives us One Sister’s Rant
  2. Brenda describes to us her Passionate Pursuits
  3. KG tells all in  My Sweet Cheap Life and inspired me to dive into the writing world, blog first.
  4. Elizabeth is Yo Mama
  5. You can Find Catharsis with Laura
  6. Monica’s weaves a Tangled Web
  7. The The Gourmand Mom can cook and be a great mom
  8. June is holding The Neurosis File
  9. Meagan is Choosing to Grow
  10. Dani is The Girlfriend Mom
  11. The Mama Wolfe teaches us
  12. Amber shares with her Crappy Pictures
  13. Brianne reminds us of the Presence of Magic
  14. Tracy is Lost In Suburbia
  15. Read the writing with the Sarcasm Goddess

Thanks again, Annie and Kelly for this award, and to all of you for reading!

Dear “16-Year Old” Me

Posted on

I love to read.  I love to talk about my reads.  I love to share my reads.  This is one of those ‘shares’.  There have been some books make me laugh, some that make me cry and some that make me wonder.   Isn’t it wonderful that books can do that to a person?  I read today, while wearing my HR professional hat, that 2 out of 5 Millenials (those born between 1981 and 1995) have not bought a single book in the last two years, besides school text books (2011 Cicso Connected World Technology Report 2011).  So sad.  Anyhoo, besides the books that make me laugh, cry and wonder, there are also those books that make me tremble andd shudder – more so because it is NOT a textbook – here’s one of them:

Dear Me is a book, an anthology of letters, written by famous present-day people to their 16-year-old selves. Compiled and edited by Joseph Galliano, the UK-based book contains the letters of such notables as Elton John, Yoko Ono, Jackie Collins, to name a few, to their younger selves.

If they could travel back in time to meet themselves when they were 16 years old, what would these Oscar winners, pop stars, best-selling authors, comedians, musicians and one Archbishop say to themselves? What advice would they give themselves? What would they warn them about and against? Well, some are short and sweet, while others are honest and heartfelt anthropological essays.  Just a few excerpts:

Liz Smith (actress):      ‘never mind if they laugh at you – hold on to your dreams to the very end’

Anne Reid (actress):   And stop thinking you’re an ugly duckling  You look great!  I wish I looked like you.

Debbie Harry (singer-songwriter):      That the most obvious is often the best choice and can lead to something wonderful and satisfying.

Alison Moyet (singer-songwriter):      You marry and have clever children and mess up just like your parents did.  Forgive them. You will soon need forgiveness.

Elton John (singer-songwriter):           Never chase love – it will find you when you least expect it

Archbishop Demond Tutu:      Don’t be infected by the cynicism of the ancients in your midst.

Roseanne Cash (singer songwwriter):            You deserve a lot better than the guy you are going to meet next year.

Adriana Trigiani (author):       16 is the new … toddler.

My oldest is about to turn 16.  If he were him 32 years from now, what would want to say to himself? What would his 16-year old self want to hear?  No, of course, he wouldn’t listen, anyway. 

What would I say to myself, with now some 32 more years of experience on this earth?  Somehow reading this book (and it’s a short, quick read), I thought this might be an incredibly inspirational exercise. Then again, why would anyone subject themselves to reliving the torture of teenagehood?

If I thought for a moment that my 16 year-old(s) will take this letter to heart, I’m as delusional at age 48 as I was at age 16. But if for no other reason than it allowed me to remember and perhaps be a little more compassionate as they live through their teenage years.

Dear 16-year old me,

So you’re Sweet 16. What a birthday party you’ve had having a dinner party you planned and prepared all by yourself around the theme “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” from Billy Joel’s album which I know is your favourite album of all time, right now.

I know you like to cook. While many of your friends were drinking beer under the bleachers and ruining their parents’ knives heating them on the toaster, you put together some amazing dinner parties . Newsflash:  you will never be a chef. Sorry, I had to break it to you. But fear not, you’ll continue making messes in the kitchen for years to come and your kitchen will be the happiest place in your adult home.

Is there a reason you work so hard to be perfect? Stop now!  It’s annoying to others and bad for your self-esteem.  No matter how much pressure is put on you and how much more you put on yourself, you will never measure up to every person’s version of “perfect”. At the same time, you’re no better than the rest of them.  Stop try to be so high and mighty. It only serves to highlight your insecurity, which people will mistake for snobbiness.

YES!  FINALLY!  Contact lenses!! Not wearing those coke-bottle-glasses WILL make a difference in your life!

You’re about to take your very first airplane ride to New York City and vow that one day you’ll live there.  You will.

Later on this year, you’re going to quit ballet. You shouldn’t do that. It’s your only form of exercise. Who cares that you’re not going to end up in Les Grands Ballets Canadiens. It’s fun and you like it.  Why do you want to give it up?

On that note, it wouldn’t hurt for you to put those textbooks away and get out and get some exercise. Those “Freshman 10” (oh – you might as well know now – it was more like the Freshman 20) might never happen if you embrace fitness sooner than later.

The diary you’ve been keeping?  Your daughter’s going to find it.  You should find a better hiding place or practice poor penmanship sooner than later.

It’s a few years off but don’t bother rushing sororities in university. You know it’s not “you”. The sooner you stop sucking up to people you already know are full of it, the better. On the other hand, being a “little sister” in a fraternity? Good one.  Free beer.

In a few years, your parents are going to tell you you’re making a big mistake by quitting a perfectly good job and high-tailing off to Europe for 5 months with your loser boyfriend. You’ll second-guess yourself, but don’t worry about. They’re wrong. That trip will turn out to be the best ‘mistake’ you’ve ever made. And that loser boyfriend has provided over twenty years of love and laughter, not to mention a lifelong security net.  But your wanderlust, however, will never settle down.

Friends really do come and go.  Sometimes you don’t take care of them, and this is a big mistake. You’re going to regret falling out of touch with some of those with whom you shared Life’s richest moments. Some of your friends will love you more unconditionally than even your family.

Love, Me (You)

There. I did it.  And now that I’ve done it, I think I could easily edit it another dozen or more times.

I can’t say that this was a life-altering exercise nor can I say that I relived all my life’s so-called regrets, either.  But for a moment, however brief, I do remember what “16” felt like…and I pray that sentiment helps me parent my own 16-year olds with a little more empathy.  Not ‘understanding’.  No.  There is no way they’ll believe you understand them.  No. Way.

What would you say to your 16 year-old self?

A Mom’s Yoga-Hockey Co-Dependency

Posted on

Occasionally I have to miss my Sunday morning yoga class, and this is not a good thing.  Squeezing my yoga practice before, between, or after work and kids’ hockey, is a challenge but one that has proven to be an essential antidote to a busy hockey mom’s schedule.  It also happens to but one of this hockey mom’s current addictions –  superseded only by chardonnay, of course.  It is entirely possible that if I wasn’t a hockey mom, I might not need the balance that yoga provides.  That all my children are still alive proves that the benefits of its practice spill over into all aspects of my life.  I’ve been a hockey mom now for about as long as I have been practicing yoga (~twelve years, give or take a practice or pose) and am only now ready to own up to my hockey/yoga co-dependency! 

How do I know that I am co-dependent on both hockey and yoga?  Well, you be the judge:

My Yoga Life

My Hockey Life

   
My breath is slow and deliberate, and I am mindful of it. My breath is a gasp for air … and I am worried about it.
With each deep breath, I inhale 1.5 litres of oxygen. With each hockey weekend, I inhale 1.5 litres of chardonnay.
I open my practice with the chanting of “Om” in unison with the class. I open the hockey game with the chanting of “Let’s go!” in unison with the crowd.
I’m dressed in casual, comfortable organic wear. I’m dressed for a post-apocalyptic ice age.
I cast my gaze beyond my finger tips toward my destiny. I cast my gaze to my fingertips in which clumps of my hair can be found.
My face is soft. My face is frozen.
I initiate my practice with sun salutation. I initiate anything hockey with Semillon salutations.
I stretch my glutes. I freeze my glutes.
Hands at heart’s centre … Namaste. Hands at heart’s centre:  … “Clear it … Clear it …. DAMMIT CLEAR THE PUCK!!!”
Herbal tea is offered following class – free of charge. Caustic canteen coffee is available – acid reflux is free of charge.  
I open my ears to the soothing sounds of tranquil yoga music. I cover my daughter’s ears from the sounds of the teenage boys’ chirpin’ and swearin’.
During yoga, I occasionally close my eyes. During hockey, I frequently close my eyes.
I love my yoga! I love my hockey!

Namaste, team!

Author’s note:  I proudly and gratefully acknowledge my 11-year old daughter for her artistic renderings of these hockey yoginis - also the artist of my dust bunny icon.  She is presently negotiating her contract to illustrate my hockey mom-oir…

40 Days Later: My NaNoWriMo Experience

Posted on

If nothing else, my writing has introduced the opportunity for family comedy around the dinner table … at my expense.  My husband and three kids are true Family Guy fanatics (don’t judge) (On second thought – please DO judge).  Have you seen that episode where Stewie Griffin (the baby) teases Brian (the dog) about his novel?  Well lately the same scene plays itself out in similar fashion in our household:

Mom:  Did you all get your homework done today?

DS1:   How you, uh, how you comin’ on that novel you’re working on? Huh? Been on that computer for hours, huh? Anything yet?

Mom:  Pass the salt and pepper, please.

DD:  Yeah, really mom?.  Got a, got a nice little story you’re working on there? That big novel you’ve been working on for three years? Huh?

Mom:  Did anyone take out the garbage today?

DS2:  Got a, got a compelling protagonist? Yeah? Huh? Got a twist brewing there? Huh? Huh?

Mom:   Anyone feed the dogs, yet?

DH:  Nice little plot coming together?  Compelling story line?  Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl? Boy loses girl?  Then what? Yeah? Yeah? No?

Mom:  I don’t suppose the Brontës endured this at dinner.

All:   Who??

I read a posting over at WriteOnEdge which has inspired me to reflect upon one of my failures of 2011 (just one, mind you; I know you don’t have all day): 

In a flash of enthusiastic short-sightedness, I registered for NaNoWriMo 2011.  National Novel Writing Month – or NaNoWriMo as it is more commonly referred to – came in like a gush and went out with a burp.  For those not in NaNoWriMo-know, it’s an international online creative writing event which carries the tag line “Thirty days and thirty nights of literary abandon”.  The purpose is to write a 50,000 word fiction novel in the thirty days during the month of November (and not the same word 50,000 times, either).  My project was to be a work initiated on November 1st, not something previously published or previously initiated like a work-in-progress, and completed by midnight November 30th.  Quantity is stressed over quality – that’s what the editing process is for, right?  I would be declared a winner by verifying my word count on the national site and achieving the 50,000 word mark.  Lest you doubt NaNoWriMo’s popularily, the project started with about 28 participants in 1999 and grew to over 200,000 in 2010.   And while a whole lot of crap gets written in those 30 days by a lot of people, one of my favourite books, Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, was initially written as a NaNoWriMo project.  So it’s impact as a useful project can also not be underestimated.  Let’s just call it a anti-procrastination project, and the intent is to write daily without inhibition, self-doubt or self-criticism. 

Well, in my case, I was unable to abandon everything else in my life in order to write without abandon.

I dutifully created my profile page on the organizations main website and quickly jotted down my novel’s plot:

Anna learns that a sapphire and diamond brooch gifted to her by her late-great-grandmother was actually once owned by a young Jewish girl from Poland. She has also learned from an aging great-aunt suffering from Alzheimer’s that the brooch may have left this girl’s hands in an unsuccessful attempt to bribe an S.S. official from deporting her family. Follow Anna as she traces the ownership of this brooch backward through time on an emotional and physical journey, during which many skeletons come to life.

I know. I suppose it sounds an awful lot like Sarah’s Key and half a dozen other Holocaust story plots these days, but I have had this idea in my head for about 5 years.  Furthermore, I was bequeathed a lovely old-fashioned but feminine brooch from my maternal great-grandmother with my paternal great-grandfather’s initials on it… which is really weird when you think about it. Anyway, I was just fantasizing about it one day and came up with this idea for a historical fiction.

I didn’t get too far with Anna’s story during NaNoWriMo.  Anna got discouraged in her search for the truth, about the same time I got discouraged with my lack of a chapter outline,my  lack of real character development, my lack of other compelling characters , and my zero research.  I naively assumed not only would the words just “flow”, but that the opportunity to let them just flow without abandon, would just “happen”.  I quickly realized that if I was to continue writing an average of 1,667 words a day (a little more than 3 single-spaced typewritten pages) for 30 days, my Anna story was indeed going to turn out complete garbage.  Lesson learned, and thankfully only after about 8,000 crappy words.

The truth is, it’s way more fun to talk about writing a book than to actually write a book – and infinitely easier.  It’s also way more fun to be the brunt of family jokes about writing a book than actually writing a book – this part’s not so easy.

Nevertheless, this now is an official work-in-progress (baby steps, right?). As I initiate another writing project near and dear to my heart in preparation for a writer’s conference in April, I take to heart what I have learned from my failed deferred NaNoWriMo experience and my renewed commitment to writing:

Step one: Secure butt to chair.

Step two: Write.

Step three: Repeat Steps One and Two.

 

The process of writing is not that simple, and yet … it is

“Perfect” Thanksgiving Weekend 2011

Posted on

Yes indeed, this weekend would be Norman-Rockwell-picture-postcard-perfect.  I was looking forward to the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend with such bubbling enthusiasm that my poor siblings had to endure more than one email from me that began with “only # more sleeps!” until our reunion.  Imagine a vista where the slopes of the mountains were in their scorching splendour of furious reds, mellow yellows and vivid oranges, gentling protecting the beautiful Intrawest resort village of Mont Tremblant, Qc, Canada (about an hour north of Montreal).   Couple that venue with the crispness of a Fall morning that then gave way to uncharacteristically high daytime temperatures, transporting us all back into summertime mode (in fact, several heat records were broken on Sunday).  Then picture the cozy family campfire that transpired as the chilled night air returned.  Yes indeed, this weekend would be picture-postcard-perfect.

Perfect.

If you could take away the hike down the 875m mountain (2,871ft) on a trail called Le Bruler.  Translated, bruler means to burn, as in the knees, the quads, the calves, etc., as I quickly come to realize.

Perfect.

If you could take away that the younger generation effortlessly side-stepped shoe-sucking mud holes and gazelled from rock to rock.

Perfect.

If you could take away the image of the young father we passed heading down the mountain, while he was heading up with an infant in his front carrier and a toddler in his backpack carrier.  My sister couldn’t help muttering, “Show-off!” as she allowed him and his pre-school entourage to pass.

Perfect.

If you could take away the fact that the trail map suggested that Le Bruler was approximately a two-hour hike.  Never trust trail map approximations.  Three and a half hours later, I had made 2 frantic calls to my 74-year old mother back at base camp:  one to confirm we had acclimatized to the oxygen levels and were continuing our descent and one to coordinate lunch.

Perfect.

If you could take away the fact that due to this massive hiking expedition, Thanksgiving dinner took place at 10p – well passed the bedtimes of some of our younger guests (and mine, I might add)!

Perfect.

If you could take away the fact that the perfect homemade cranberry sauce (fresh cranberries, sugar, spices and a splash of Grand Marnier) never got served (but damn if that Grand Marnier didn’t go down good with 2k to go!).

Perfect.

If you discount the hydraulic patient hoist with which we all had to take turns the next morning to help us get out of bed, providing great inspiration to my niece aspiring to become a doctor (just not in geriatrics!).

Perfect.

If you could take away the unabated enthusiasm that surrounded the annual, traditional kids vs. parents football game.  Though my muscles begged for a forfeit, I endured my older brother’s Bluto-like soliloquy:  “’Over’? Did you say ‘over’? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell, no!”  Alright, already (though I did manage to sneak off the field and participate as official photographer instead … laparoscopic surgery is postponed).

Perfect.

If you could take away the fact that the kids legitimately won and now hold bragging rights for an entire year.  And really!  Seriously.  What were we thinking?  They were all young teenage athletes, one of them playing high school varsity football!  There’ll be just no living with them, now (but wait!  I do need them to help me down these stairs!).

 

 

Perfect.

But really… would I really take away these little (ok, sometimes not so little) imperfections, entirely?  Approaching Martha Stewart standard, but never quite?  Will anyone actually remember these little blemishes?  Maybe.  But there are what makes us a family – and what moves us to make the effort to continue to gather annually from (presently) six different North American locations.  Maybe, not-so-perfect is a much better standard.

Yes, indeed this weekend was picture-postcard-almost-perfect.

My glass is not half empty, it runneth over

Posted on

So what with me and New Year’s Resolutions, anyway?

 

 

 

res·o·lu·tion [rez-uh-loo-shuh n]

noun

  1. a formal expression of opinion or intention made, usually after voting, by a formal organization, a legislature, a club, or other group. Compare concurrent resolution, joint resolution.
  2. a resolve or determination: to make a firm resolution to do something.
  3. the act of resolving or determining upon an action or course of action, method, procedure, etc.
  4. the mental state or quality of being resolved or resolute; firmness of purpose.
  5. the act or process of resolving or separating into constituent or elementary parts.

Sounds painful.  Note the repeated use in the above Dictionary.com definition of some form of the word “resolve”. That’s not actually very helpful.

re·solve [ri-zolv]

verb, -solved, -solv·ing, noun

  1. to come to a definite or earnest decision about; determine (to do something): I have resolved that I shall live to the full.
  2. to separate into constituent or elementary parts; break up; cause or disintegrate (usually followed by into ).
  3. to reduce or convert by, or as by, breaking up or disintegration (usually followed by to  or into ).
  4. to convert or transform by any process (often used reflexively).
  5. to reduce by mental analysis (often followed by into ).

Ah! Now we are getting somewhere!

Those who know me even just a little, can appreciate my determination:  once I’ve resolved to do something, I’ll darn well git ‘her dun.  Think, ‘want something done, ask a busy person” and that’s me.  

I have noticed this year, however, that the New Year’s Resolution scales have tipped off balance (and yeah, not just metaphorically) because the excitement and energy put forth into setting new goals, no longer compensates for that inner regret and remorse in realizing, yet again, they will remain unaccomplished.

I am finding the predictable torrent of everyone’s lists of goals and resolutions this year are just a little more intimidating than they are inspiring.  My out-loud voice is saying, “That’s an amazing Resolution!  That’s great!  You go!” and I really mean it, but the voice in my head is actually wondering, “Really?  How are you going to accomplish all that??”  I continue to be energized by everyone’s passion in their New Year Resolution-making mirth but I seem to be a little more mindful of the obligation that comes with the next step… uh … carrying them out.

See, my plate was already pretty full up in 2011, so how in the name of New Year’s Resolutions and God Almighty do I think I can accomplish more in 2012?  Especially when 2012, and the world as we know it, is going to end on December 21?  Not that those 10 extra days would help, but I think it’s best if I just sit this one out, stand on the sidelines and cheer on everyone else’s fist-slammin’, list-makin’, weight-liftin’ ,picky-swearin’, pour-the-bottle-down-the-drain,goal-making Resolution Fever. Wait a minute, you’re not really going to pour those leftovers down the drain, are you?

Yes, this might make me seem a tad pessimistic, like my glass is not half full but half empty (come to think of it…), and maybe even a touch lazy, but let’s instead call it my age of acceptance.

I lead a very busy life, and it’s pretty darn fulfilling.  If I make room for even just one New Year’s Resolution, something’s got to go to make room for its achievement.  And I’m not sure what that would be, or if I’m willing to do less of it, or not be part of it at all. 

I read somewhere that people who break resolutions are weak; those who make resolutions are fools.  Thus, my pledge for 2012 is to stop being a foolish weakling!  There are things that have to get done, and I will get them done … there are things I want to get done, and I will get most of them done.  My plan is to enjoy the road I’m on…wherever it goes…

There! I guess I did make a New Year’s Resolution after all:   More of the same, please!

 So, cheers to all you ardent Resolutionists, and cheers to the rest of us too….

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 137 other followers