Remain Calm

This is the least of my worries.

Last night at bedtime, my husband reminded me that his parents, whom I love, are coming tonight. Somehow, I wasn't looking at the dates and thought that I still had another week before they would be here.

Bursting with Pride

A hug for the graduate. (And when did I get so short?)

I am so flipping proud of this girl that I can hardly write this without tears coming to my eyes. Today, our daughter Katie received her B.A. in English Literature (and a minor in Spanish), with High Distinction, from Carleton University. That alone is cause for celebration and pride, but what really impresses me is how hard Katie has struggled to reach this milestone.

Gathered in His Name

My daughters are remarkably pretty. I say this not to boast, but because it is true. Somehow, my genes and Steve's came together to create these beautiful women.

Unfortunately, despite everything we say and do, one of my daughters does not believe, in her heart of hearts, that she is loved. Instead, she is drawn to every flattering guy with smooth moves; she is drawn to the attention like metal filings to a magnet.

She's an adult now, and I can't protect her the way I did when she was young. Heck, even in her early teens, she was really quite beyond our control.

And it is absolutely terrifying.

This week, without telling us, she went with a man more than twice her age to another city, to be a model. Through various connections, I learned that she was at a motel.

Then I read that he had abandoned her at a gas station in this city where she had no money and didn't know her way around.

There was no communication from her for 12 hours.

In 12 hours, a young woman could be trafficked to another country. In 12 hours, a beautiful young woman could be raped, mutilated, and murdered. In 12 hours, a woman with her whole life ahead of her could be sucked into a life of prostitution and drug abuse. In 12 hours her whole life could change.

I thought of all those other mothers whose daughters go missing, who print posters and plaster them on lamp posts, who create Facebook pages for their daughters.

I reached out to my sister and brother-in-law who live in the city where I believed my daughter had gone. They were ready to head out to the motel.

I prayed on my own, silently. I called the police (and got shunted to voicemail because of unusually high call volume).

Then I remembered the power of communal prayer:

"For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them."

Matthew 18:20

I posted my plea on Facebook, then I went into the family room and asked my son to hold my hand while I prayed for his sister's safety. I cried with him.

Seconds after returning to my laptop, I heard from one of my daughter's friends that she had just received a text message. Seriously, mere seconds.

A few minutes later, I also received a text message.

She was alive. She was not where I wanted her to be, and she had no intention of coming home right away, but she was alive.

I will continue to lift her up in prayer. Out loud, holding hands with whoever will join me.

Arguing gives me a stomach ache.

I would've made a dreadful Yentl. My understanding is that there is a strong culture and tradition of debate within the Jewish religion. It is exactly the thing that ties my stomach in knots.

Yesterday, my husband posted the following on Facebook.

This kind of rhetoric is troll-food: it draws out people who take everything seriously and insist on commenting on it. Someone did. A long comment, in fact. Steve returned the salvo, and the game was afoot.

With a chuckle, Steve told me about the exchange, and I made the mistake of reading it. The comments got longer and longer with neither side listening or budging (as is usually the case).

I, however, started having an anxiety attack. Truly; my chest felt tight, my stomach felt troubled, I wanted to yell or cry and run away. I wanted sugar. [Well, the sugar may have had nothing to do with anxiety. I always want sugar.]

Steve, on the other hand, was enjoying the mental stimulation of every exchange, as a cat takes pleasure in the hunt, not the capture.

I asked Steve to take the discussion with his friend "offline" into messages. He said that others were following the discussion, so he would keep it open; I did not have to read it.

He's right, I guess, though I can't imagine anyone wanting to observe someone else's disagreement, let alone participate in it.

I don't know why I have such a low tolerance for this kind of discourse. Possibly because in my childhood home such discussions frequently degraded into thrown object, slammed doors, and someone storming off. I suppose that makes me "conflict avoidant," which is dysfunctional in its own way (can you say "passive aggressive"?). All I can say is you'll never find me on a debate team or on political hustings.

Now, off I go to think of unicorns, rainbows, and butterflies; babies and summer dresses; and sunsets and floral bouquets. Ah, much, much better.

And kitties. Kitties always help me calm down.

A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh

I cry fairly readily. And sometimes, it's just not the thing. Fortunately for me, Steve taught me that you can sing Amazing Grace to the tune of the Gilligan's Island theme song. Seriously! And the really cool thing about THAT is that you can use it to stop crying. 

Basically, it takes so much brain power to mash the two together that you are completely distracted from most things you might cry about. 

Here, I'll show you how the song goes.

See? It's also just funny. I suspect that the not-crying part is because it uses both halves of your brain. Melody is processed (according to Wikipedia) in the right secondary auditory cortex, but my understanding is that language is largely a function of the left hemisphere. In this case, we are taking words that have previously been merged with one tune (and a particular emotional context) and are transforming them into a completely different form. 

And, you can even just do it in your head. I've done it. I've also simply sung the uno dos tres from Sesame Street. It takes just enough brain power to calm me down.

Just, you know, don't do it out loud.

P.S. I do have other musical tips and tricks, but I don't think I'll be challenging Beyoncé any time soon, so don't worry.

Dream Re-Runs

Did you know that almost everyone has the dream where you're trying to drive the car from the back seat? Or the brakes are blown and you're trying not to crash and burn?

Apparently, that's a very common dream. I suspect it has to do with feeling that life is out of control. [Pause while I google to find out.] According to the Dream Dictionary, I'm not far off.

Cars are symbols of the real life conscious world. They are symbols of how you are progressing towards your goals. So think about the practical ways in which you have been moving towards your goals. Is the dream making some point about how well or how badly you are progressing. Are you heading in the right direction. A car at a standstill could suggest that you are taking a pause or that you have come up against some delay.

I've had that dream many, many times. I've also repeatedly had the flying dream, and the one about crumbling teeth, which is also apparently fairly common and apparently means something about the loss of something that should be permanent (a break-up or the death of a loved one).

But I also have a couple of other recurring dreams.

Darling Katie, not even one day old.

Babies!
Not surprisingly, I dream about babies often. But usually it's a really stressful dream: the baby is not my own, or there are too many babies to care for, or something is wrong. It's probably normal bad-mommy anxiety still playing out. If motherhood were remotely like these dreams, I would never have had four children.

Houses
Also an anxiety dream. The houses in my dreams are always my homes (in the dream, I mean, not in real life). They have rooms where you wouldn't expect them, are falling into disrepair, have indoor pools and secret passageways, multiple kitchens, and built-in beds. I've dreamt of cottages sinking into swamps, grand houses that could be featured in Architectural Digest, and just about everything in between. In all of these cases, things are in flux, something is incomplete (even in the mansions). I've also dreamt of my childhood home, but not often. [It was an irretrievably ill-designed house. Some day I will have to write about it, it was that bad.]

Tornadoes
These dreams started when we lived in Alabama and received training on what to do in case of such an emergency. In the summer, we had weekly tornado drills, with alarms. And we did have one tornado warning, meaning that tornadoes had been seen in the area. It was very frightening, and I remember hunkering in a linen closet with wee Katie, just months old, while sirens blared without stopping.

These are panicky dreams where I don't feel safe. [No shit, Sherlock.] They reached a peak when I was going through the most tumultuous time with my mother, before our estrangement began. The worst ones are where my tornado dreams and my baby dreams meld and I am trying to save children while this murderous force bears down on us. Mercifully, these are rare.

---

What about you? What are your recurring dreams, and what do you think they mean?

Peter's in stitches.

YesterdayToday, Peter fell and gashed his knee, requiring three stitches. There's more to the story.

There I was, enjoying my Saturday-afternoon nap, when the phone rang. Assuming it was a telemarketer, I let Brian answer it, but it was Peter, and he sounded distraught, like he couldn't quite get his breath.

"I need you to come and get me," he got right to the point. No niceties like, "Hi Mom."

"Where are you?" I asked.

"On the Mackenzie King bridge," he answered in a very tight, barely-holding-it-together voice. (Mackenzie King is where the main buses cross through downtown.)

"What's wrong?"

"Well," he stammered a little, "I've hurt myself and the bus drivers won't let me on the bus because I'm bleeding too much." Words to make a mother's heart sing.

"Okay, Peter, I'll be there in about 20 minutes," I assured him, then I hustled to go get him. I desperately wanted more information, but I knew that now was not the time.

Peter has Asperger syndrome. I hate saying that whenever I talk about him or write about him, but it gives important context. Peter's biggest challenges are social. It's really hard to describe, and it's not just that he's geeky. (Or nerdy; I know one is supposed to be an insult and one a compliment. I don't know which is which, so please assume I mean the kind one.)

Peter works part-time cleaning the inner-city parks of alcohol, drug and prostitution paraphernalia. It is really one of the few bottom-rung jobs he could get because he is ill-suited to anything in the service industry, like checkout clerk or McDonald's prep.

He takes his job seriously, works diligently, and is proud of the contribution this makes to our community. We're proud of him, too. However, in the course of this work, he has come across the unsavory underbelly of our society: the disenfranchised, the addicted, the psychotic.

These are not happy people, not stable. Peter is justifiably afraid of them. At one point, he considered carrying a can of mace (illegal) or a knife (stupid). In the end, he decided to work within the justice system and has chosen to study forensic science.

So when he called and said he had hurt himself, I imagined that one of the homeless people had hurt him. Steve imagined that Peter had cut himself on a crack pipe or a needle.

I pictured him walking from wherever this had happened to the bus stop.

I pictured him bleeding so profusely that a bus driver rejected him. I was angry at that driver. I was angry that no one helped him.

I pictured him shuffling along. One of the interesting features of Asperger syndrome is lack of coordination; in fact, it was this that first brought him into physiotherapy and occupational therapy, which eventually led to his diagnosis.

I imagined him looking somewhat like a homeless person himself, with unkempt beard and scruffy hair, with his bags of equipment for his job slung loosely about his body. I imagined people being afraid of him.

Finally, I got to him. There were two security guards with him who flagged me over to where Peter was. His jeans were ripped at the knee and sopped in blood all around the knee, which was wrapped in a grey cloth.

The security guards told me, indicating a young man nearby, that Ahab had helped him, had given his own T-shirt to Peter to stanch the bleeding which gushed every time he bent his knee. My anger dissipated with relief.

As we drove to the hospital, Peter told me what had happened: there was no violence. He was late for work, so was running. As he tried to dodge the crowds, he decided to hop over a fire hydrant. (Hey, it always works on TV!) He fell, landing on a pipe or piece of metal. It ripped his knee.

I wasn't happy that he was hurt, but I was glad that it was simply an accident.

But I prodded him on what he could have done rather than walking to the bus, who he could have called if he hadn't been able to reach me. In his state of anxiety, he had focused on getting home the usual way. It hadn't occurred to him to call for help until he was blocked. And THAT is what I mean by social challenge: most of us would immediately reach out if there were blood running down our leg.

At the hospital, things went as slowly as expected. Because Peter is 21 years old, I was told to wait for Peter in the outer waiting area. I paused, about to mention the Asperger syndrome, but then thought better of it. He was in good hands.

But I should have stayed. Turns out the doctor had mentioned that the gushing could be related to fluid from ruptured bursa in his knee. Peter never got a final answer on this (again, the social challenge) or, if it was ruptured, whether this is a big deal or not.

But we're home. He's got painkillers in his system, and he's in bed. We'll watch it, and if anything goes wrong, we'll follow up with a regular doctor.

Letting your kids, especially your "special needs" kids, become independent is fricking difficult. I wish I trusted the world more to care for him. I wish there were more people like Ahab.

Spiders?

Every now and then I check out the statistics for this here blog, out of idle curiosity. I only have 10 followers (Yay! I'm into the double digits!), so it's not like I expect to find that I suddenly have thousands of visitors or anything.

I shared a previous review with you, where I marvelled at the number of visits I get from Russia. Well, they're still coming, though not in the droves they once were.

What I found most interesting in this review was the key words people used in searches that led them to my blog.

spiders in colorado

colorado spiders

writer spider

spider

nasty spider

spiders of ontario

yard spiders

dinner plate spider

nj spiders

wynnanne.blogspot.com

What is it with me and spiders? Seriously! I mean, my own blog URL ranked lower on the list than spiders. A total of 66 people came to my blog after searching for the first two combinations on that list.

I can only hope that all those searchers eventually found Kimberly Hosey's blog "Arizona Writer" where she shares her singular experience with black widow spiders. Here's a sneak preview;

Kimberly's self-portrait.

Remind me never to move to Arizona.

You are Worthy of Love and Belonging

According to researcher/storyteller Brené Brown, the message we need to give our children, and anyone we care about is not, "You are perfect," but rather, "You, [I, we] are worthy of love and belonging."

Donna Karlin, my once-upon-a-time shadow coach, shared this video, which I have seen before, but which does not lose its power to make me think. It's a 20-minute talk, so it'll take a while, but I encourage you to get a cup of tea or a glass of wine and sit down and watch. I kept wanting to stop the tape and take notes.

With great humour and, yes, vulnerability and openness, she tells us that she has learned that the people who are happiest, who live their lives the most wholeheartedly, are also the ones who embrace vulnerability, risk and uncertainty.

"To feel this vulnerable means I'm alive." ~ Brené Brown, Ph.D

Not an easy place to be, but absolutely worth the effort. Enjoy.

When Piglet Travels

Have you read or watched "The Accidental Tourist"? The book is a long (sometimes boring) read, but the main character, Macon, played by William Hurt in the movie, is a lovably quirky agoraphobe [Blogger's spelling checker suggested that I really meant "Anglophobe"] who loathes travel but makes a career as a writer of travel guides for others like him. Like me.

While most of the world leaps at the chance of adventure and new experiences, I am quite happy to retrace my path week in, week out. I do like the luxuries of travel (hotel rooms, dining out), but I feel constantly unsettled when I don't know what comes next or am unsure of how to navigate my way from point A to point B.

Like Piglet, who lives in a constant state of anxiety and fear of heffalumps and woozles, I prefer the known. This leads to a certain amount of silliness.

For example, this past few days I staffed an exhibit at the Banff Centre for the Arts, a marvelous and inspiring location. Built on the side of a steep hill, there are "ground level" entrances on both the first and third floors of most buildings. Designed for guests residing on site, there are steep meandering paths connecting the architecturally sharp buildings.

On my first day, I managed to find a path from the parking garage to the exhibit hall. It was not until the third day that I discovered a more direct route - and then only because my "regular" path was blocked by construction. See? Silliness.

For people like Macon, Piglet, and me, it doesn't take much to get our pulses racing. Let me give you a glimpse inside our world.

Yesterday, I drove from Banff to Calgary, about a one-hour drive. I plugged in my GPS, set the destination and then hit the road. A beautiful drive, I enjoyed the spectacle of sharp-peaked young mountains, cliffs, waterfalls, trees and pristine mountain lakes. (Sadly, with no scenic turnoffs for photo ops.) I chuckled at signs like, "Elk crossing 4 km," which failed to deliver on its promise, or "LOGGING TRUCKS" which left me mystified as to what I was supposed to do. I can only assume that the pictograph of a flashing camera meant that I ought to smile, just in case. All was well with the world.

Then I had an Adventure.

An hour into the drive, I noticed the surrounding hills were swathed in suburban sprawl. Thinking that I must be nearing my destination, I glanced at the GPS only to find that its battery had died and it had turned itself off.

I probably would have noticed
before I reached Saskatchewan.
I think.

God only KNOWS how long I'd been driving without guidance! I could be ANYWHERE! I could've been half way to Regina. [Hello, K.B.!]

Panicked, I pulled over at a safe spot, jiggled the charger until the GPS turned itself back on and told me to take THE VERY NEXT EXIT. Seriously, I was about 200 metres from missing my exit. Can you imagine?

Breathing a sigh of relief, but with my Piglet-nerves heightened, I proceeded on my way. Moments later, I glanced again at my GPS and, AGAIN it had turned itself off! After much jiggling, I managed to stabilize the GPS and made it to my destination without further excitement. Thankfully.

That was enough for me. You may prefer to go whitewater rafting or ziplining, but I shall remain sufficiently entertained by my faulty technology and a good book.

Procrastination is My Downfall

[Note: I started this post on May 24. Of this year, but still.]

I know where my kids get it from. Every time I ask one of them to do something, I get, "Okay, just a sec. Can it wait til ___________?" Fill in the blank with one of the following:

• a commercial
• I die (video game)
• I finish my homework
• I sign off IM/Facebook/texting
• I finish watching this video
• this paint dries

I have the same dreadful habit of leaving any task until the last possible minute.

In fact, as I write this, I am procrastinating about going upstairs and getting ready for work. I'm always trying to squeeze in one more moment of indulgence.

[BREAK, BREAK: I got that far and realized I was being really stupid.]

So, here we are a full two weeks later, and I still haven't finished this post.

[BREAK, BREAK: Got that far and realized I had nothing witty or insightful to say.]

Some people claim to be procrastinators, but never seem to have missed deadlines or late fees. Their claims to being procrastinators is similar to mine for having Alzheimer's: I have just enough occasional flashes of forgetfulness to keep me aware of how good I have it, but not enough to really impair my life.

MY degree of procrastination, however, puts other sluggards to shame. It has caused crises and screw-ups that cost money (that hits where it hurts).

Ferinstance: my passport has been expired since January. I started the paperwork in December. I got new passport photos taken in February in anticipation of a March trip to California. But that trip fell through so ... no motivation to get anything done.

Remember that inexplicable scratch?
On the right is the passport photo taken the following day
(stylized so it can't be stolen and used for  an illegal passport).

Yes, I'm a little paranoid.

I also have slightly wonky eyes. Never really noticed that before.
They really kind of creep me out.

Also, please note that one is NOT permitted to smile in Canadian passport photos.

The forms sat in my basket since the beginning of February.

In March, I started e-mailing my brother about a potential trip to Georgia to see him and his family. Did that get me off my duff? No.

So, here we are, approximately two weeks from my departure for Georgia. I have an airline ticket and a bevy of family ready to welcome me in Atlanta. What I glaringly DON'T have is a passport that will allow me to cross the border into the U.S. of A.

Fortunately for people like me, Passport Canada has a solution: a $70 "dumbass" fee on top of the usual usurious charge.

And that, my friends, is why I will likely not change my habits: because things usually work out in the end, as long as you're willing to pay the dumbass fine.

A Drain on the Pocketbook



Shelley Long and Tom Hanks had nothing on us.

It's been 25 years since Shelley and Tom had us laughing at the trials and tribulations of home ownership. When the movie came out, Steve and I were newlyweds, still renting our homes. I don't think we even saw the movie at the time as it didn't relate to anything in our lives.

Well.

Here we are, living the dream, er, the nightmare. Chez Sibbald IS The Money Pit.

I don't remember much of the movie, but I do recall that when the couple moved in, the house had been stripped of all fixtures - even the ones that were nailed down. Similarly, when we moved in, we found that the house lacked any of the following:

• towel bars or hooks
• toilet-paper holders
• mirrors

Not as bad as their situation (I believe they didn't even have doors), but humorous nevertheless.

Our house inspection had warned us:

• the roof was on its last legs (or shingles)
• the fireplace had no flue (I'm not even sure what that is)
• the chimney needed a new liner and repointing of the bricks
• the furnace was old and tired
• the air conditioner was ready for replacement
• several of the windows were old (including two single-glazed)

So what did we do? Why, we set about making improvements!

I think our house deserves one of these!


• an inground pool! (Oh, sweet mercy, will I some day regret that decision?)
• landscaping to correct the grade in the backyard in order to put in the pool!
• upgraded wiring to allow for hooking up the pool!
• gas line in order to heat the pool!
• double the number of cabinets in the kitchen!
• new chandelier! (small potatoes, but still)
• built-in shelving in the living room!
• new furnace!
• new air conditioner!

And then, the money ran out. Truth be told, the money ran out well before these were done. We're still paying off the landscaping. And, um, the furnace was on a one-year deferred payment plan, so it comes due in July.

This is the fifth house we've owned, so it's not like we're completely new to this. But we'd spent the previous five years in a rental home which was only six or seven years old and needed no improvements (though if we'd been the owners, I'm sure we'd have found places to spend money - not least of which would be getting rid of the beige carpet and all the brass light fixtures).

The home-improvement cycle is like childbirth: you swear you'll never do it again, but then you fall in love with the results.

You'll note that we have not yet tackled the following from the inspector's list:

• the roof was on its last legs (or shingles)
• the fireplace had no flue (I'm not even sure what that is)
• the chimney needed a new liner and repointing of the bricks
• several of the windows were old (including two single-glazed)

Those are on the agenda for this summer and fall. Along with finishing the landscaping around the pool (it currently is little more than a gorgeous pool, a beautiful patio and a great deal of mud surrounded by a lovely fence).

SURPRISE!
The paint is right at the base of the maple.
Click picture for larger view.


Plus, we still have to deal with the surprises, like the sewage drain from our house to the main sewer line. Said drain has been crushed by a very mature tree (presumably planted by the city) on city property. While it is almost certainly City responsibility to pay for the repair, there will likely be some collateral costs to us as well.

Or like the surprise ant infestation. Latest word is that they are carpenter ants - so not to be taken lightly. We'll have them exterminated soon. Ka-ching!

And, the city is "rehabilitating" the sewer system on our street this summer, which means they'll be ripping up the bottom third of our driveway. Our driveway is in dreadful condition as it is, so now would seem a good time to get the whole thing regraded and repaved. Right?

Part of me regrets doing the pool before we'd done the other more sensible improvements, but a pool is really a long-term lifestyle purchase (I won't call it an investment, because it's not). Ten years from now we'll be empty-nesters and the pool will see much less use, so we seized the moment.

I fully anticipate a comment along the lines of Anonymous, who wrote, "You are so lucky to be able to afford it! You are certainly not living in poverty. :) ," which is true, and I am grateful. But I also know there are others who consider our two professional incomes and mutter to themselves (or to others, but never to us), "What do they do with all that money?" The answer? Possibly not what you would do with it, but it's certainly not burning a hole in our pockets.

Risky Business

I've just signed up for a new life-insurance policy. What fun! And I'll bet you were waiting with bated breath* for that tidbit of news.

The reason I mention it is this: I had to fill out a form listing the sundry ways in which my life is at risk. I checked off the boxes that indicated current or past history of:

• high cholesterol
• high blood pressure
• diabetes (Type II)
• mild sleep apnea
• depression

(Hey, I'm no spring chicken anymore.)

I anticipated that they would be concerned about the first four, especially the diabetes, which I've been told puts me at the same risk for a heart attack as someone who has already had a heart attack. (Eek!) I didn't expect them to grab onto the last one and get all anal about it.

I was wrong.

Yesterday, I received a letter asking for three pages of information about my history of depression. I was surprised for a couple of reasons.

1. I presume that any life-insurance policy is void if the person covered commits suicide. (NOT that I'm suicidal, far from it! And that is, in large part, because I have sought and received effective treatment.)
2. I would've thought that the diabetes was the biggest risk factor.

So, basically, I couldn't see what they were so concerned about. Unless ... depression increases the risk of premature death even apart from suicide. So I googled it, as any inquisitive person would.

Here's what I found at the (American) National Committee for Quality Assurance's page, "Focus on Depression."

In addition to the risk for suicide, depression is also associated with an increased risk of premature death from other causes (not self-inflicted), especially when depression occurs in combination with serious medical conditions, such as cardiovascular disease. A study of poststroke depression demonstrated the effectiveness of treatment (i.e., antidepressants) in reducing the risk of death from stroke within a year from 64% to 32%. [Emphasis mine.] 

So that explains why the insurer wants to know more. Fair enough. 

Interesting, isn't it? Even with the knowledge that the site is funded by Pfizer, maker of the antidepressant Zoloft, the statistics are impressive and support my belief that untreated depression or mood disorders are greater risk factors and have a more detrimental effect on individuals and communities.
But it did make me wonder about how many people would be inclined to "white lie" on the insurance forms or to refrain from seeking help. It frustrates me, as I've mentioned before.

In any case, I'll submit the information and see what the insurer does with it. But wouldn't it be nice if the insurance company had simply asked, "Did you seek treatment? Was it effective?"

* Today's trivia: I originally wrote "baited breath," but then thought better of it. It turns out that, indeed, my original spelling was incorrect. Find the explanation here.

Wait! I'm not d

*flush*

[I'll explain in a minute.]


The Junior hallway at Pauline Johnson Public School.
Those are classrooms on the left, with the library on the right.
This is pretty much what it loooked like when I went there,
though I'd heard they had put up walls. Or maybe that was a dream.
Source


The school I went to from Grade 1 to Grade 6 was an ultra-modern experiment in open-concept education, and I was among the "plank holders" who attended it during its first year. The classrooms were divided from each other by low partitions that could be moved aside for larger group activities.

The library, which was in a sort of sunken courtyard, formed the core of the school.

Each section was crowned by a pyramidal vaulted ceiling plastered with sound-absorbing tiles.

The whole thing must have driven the teachers absolutely crazy, but it was pretty cool for us students.

So, here's the explanation for the intro: one of the lasting memories from that school, however, has nothing to do with its contemporary architecture, and much to do with its conventional plumbing.

The toilets overflowed with alarming frequency. Or perhaps it was just me.

In any case, I eventually adopted a "cover me with septic water once, shame on you; cover me with septic water twice, shame on me" attitude. Since those early years, I have always waited until I am fully wiped, zipped, buttoned, tucked, and belted, with the door unlocked before I flush the toilet.

So I can make a speedy escape, of course.

And every bathroom in our house has a toilet plunger beside it.

Technology, however, has caught up with me. Now the newfangled contraptions flush automatically as soon as you (a) stand up, (b) lean forward, or (c) twist to reach certain parts of the anatomy that are not reachable without twisting (yes, I'm talking about ankles).
And every time that happens -- every time! -- I panic. OMG - the toilet's going to overflow and I'll be swept away in a tide of fetid, toilet-paper-strewn water! And people will see it and say, "Oh, look, there's her pooh!"

GAHHHHH!

No. It hasn't happened yet, but I live in fear.

Not to mention the ickiness of backsplash while sitting on the throne.

I hate those infrared sensors, though I do like the idea of not having to touch the plaguey toilet handle. [Not entirely sure "plaguey" is a word.]

I don't even want to think about what astronauts deal with. (Or, for the grammatically sensitive among you, "with which astronauts deal.")

A Little OCD Goes a Long Way

UPDATE: I updated the room layouts for greater accuracy. sigh.

I've diagnosed myself as being a little OCD (that's Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder). I say "a little" in the sense that it sometimes annoys me, but it really doesn't interfere with day-to-day life very much. It may irritate others as well, but I prefer to ignore their discomfort; I've got plenty of my own to deal with.

One of my doctors said OCD is often a way of coping with ADD, which explains a lot: when you are liable to keep losing track of things, becoming extremely organized and detail-focused is a good way of balancing the lateral vagaries of your mind.

For the most part, this peculiarity has actually helped me. A colleague once described me as "almost obsessively organized" -- in a good way. As a team, it helps to have someone who is watching all the loose ends.

But it does have its downside. For example, I am always irritated by crooked pictures, and there are a couple in our house that NEVER seem to hang straight. Like the one at left. It hangs at the bottom of our stairs. Because of its composition, it always seems to be tilted, ever so slightly. I'm pretty sure I straighten it every time I walk by.

I need to just get some nails or superglue or something and fix it permanently.

One day, I was at our veterinarian's office and noticed that one of the diplomas was off-kilter, ever so slightly. I tried to nudge it straight, but it seemed to be snagged, so I lifted it off its nail. Big mistake -- I could not get it back on. My efforts became more frantic the longer it took, until the vet walked in, looked at me quizzically and hung it for me. Awkward.

Another time, we rented a house for a 4-night long weekend with some good friends. The house was graced with a large, open family room with a grand central fireplace flanked by beautiful, 2-storey picture windows. The furniture layout, however, irritated the heck out of me for two full days before I rearranged it. Yes, I rearranged furniture in a rental accommodation that I was only going to live in for two more days. But, look, it was really stupid:

BEFORE: Sofas perpendicular to the windows
crowded pathways

I mean, I understand why they did it that way: the windows were such a focal point that it sort of made sense to align the furniture to them. But we moved things around to this:

AFTER: Furnishings focused on the fireplace,
parallel or perpendicular to main walls.

MUCH better, eh? A small change really (though I will confess to also moving the TV, the rocking chair, the plant stand and ... maybe a few other things as well). My arrogant self thought the rental agent/owners would walk in and think, "Oh, yes! That's what we've been missing!" But, alas, when we went back the following year, everything had been restored to its original position.

Yes, we did rearrange the furniture for that subsequent visit as well, though just a little bit.

The 80% solution - less fuss, but still an improvement.

It's worth noting that, though I was the only person bothered by the layout, my hubby and friends were happy to go along with my interference. That's love, folks.

Anyway. Hope you all had a good weekend. I'm going to go alphabetize the fiction books. (Non-fiction, reference, and self-help will have to wait for another day. A girl can only do so much at a time!)

What was I just saying?

Last night as I drifted off to dreamland, I had a brilliant idea for a blog post. A perfect balance between humour and insight, with just a touch of mommy-blog thrown in. Then I fell asleep.

*Musical interlude. Visit our snack bar for a refreshing, cold drink and a super-sized popcorn! (Grab me some Twizzlers while you're there. Unless they have Goodies/Good 'n' Plenty. In which case, get me some of those.)*

When I awoke, I remembered that I had had a Good Idea. Yay!

Unfortunately for you, I could not remember what that idea was. Several times throughout the day, I got the feeling that the idea was just, just out of reach. Like when you're searching for a word or a name.

This kind of thing happens to me with alarming frequency these days. Just last weekend, I was shopping for Steve's birthday present (he's turning 50!). The store I was at didn't have what I was looking for, but while there I remembered that I also wanted a proper cake stand with a cover. (A little self-indulgent shopping is allowed.) I walked to the other side of the aisle - no more than 3 seconds away - and completely, COMPLETELY forgot what I was looking for. It was gone. Phhhhp! Gone. Like mercury on a cracked floor. (I did that once. Twice, actually.)

Anyway, my shopping goal had vanished. All except for a niggling sense that I was no longer just idly browsing, but had a Purpose, an Intent. (And had a sudden propensity for Germanic capitalization. Actually, it's A. A. Milnes-ian capitalization, if you must know. It means Something is Important.)

I stopped. I looked around. Nothing. I tried mentally retracing my steps, to no avail. Finally, I walked back to where I had been and glanced along the shelves. My eyes lighted upon a completely unrelated item, which just happened to be the thing I had looked when I remembered the cake stand. Would you believe that I suddenly remembered the cake stand?

The store didn't have what I was (secondarily) looking for, but that's beside the point. The point is: I appear to be losing my marbles.

Oh, sure, you're thinking, "Oh, that happens to me all the time. It's normal, just a sign that you're overworked, overstressed, under-slept." ("Underslept"? WTF? Sleep-deprived!)

This post has now gone over-the-edge with asides, capitalization and general nonsense. Sorry. This is Serious. (A. A. Milnes-ian capitalization again. Incidentally, you have to read those words with special intonation to acknowledge the importance.)

Anyone whose family has been touched by Alzheimers must have these fleeting or lasting worries. My forgetfulness is undoubtedly normal. Especially for someone with ADHD. This isn't the first time I've obsessed over this. I actually had a brain MRI (or was it a CT? Can they even do that? Can CT scans go through skulls?). Plus, there's just normal aging. I'm almost 50 (in a year and a half)!

Believe it or not, all of this, all 458 words of it, is an apologia for not having a really interesting post for you today. So, um, sorry about that. If I remember what I wanted to write about, I will.


This is a neuron.



This is a neuron with Alzheimer's.

I'm not ready.

Photo taken by Emily.

I don't think I've ever been so ill-prepared for Christmas.

Our tree isn't up.
The eaves are unlit.
The liquor cabinet is bare.
No sweets have been baked.
There is no stuff for the stockings.
Half the gifts have yet to be bought.
The gee-gaws are still nestled in their bins.
Our annual letter has not been composed.
Our cards have not been written or stamped.
Of the gifts that have been bought, only three have been wrapped.

It's a jungle out there!

I think every mother remembers those first days of heart-stopping panic every time her newborn snuffled or grunted in his or her sleep. Or, paradoxically, whenever the infant slept quietly and peacefully, too silently. I don't know that that feeling ever entirely disappears.

In his eloquent and heart-breaking memoir, "What is the What," Dave Eggers describes (at least twice) young boys being attacked by wild cats (sorry; I can't remember just what kind of cat -- leopard? tiger?), whisked into the jungle and eaten, like a character from The Jungle Book. It happened in the blink of an eye. And, remember, this is a memoir: it is true. Not a myth or a cautionary tale or a Disney cartoon with a happy ending.

While I read the book, I thought, "Oh my goodness. Can you imagine ever taking your eyes off your children when you live in an honest-to-god jungle?" Because, in point of fact, I already worry about my kids as if there were indeed a tiger stalking them at every turn.

This is partly because I'm generally an anxious person, but also because each of my children has cheated death at least once -- despite my slightly neurotic surveillance of them. You may call it luck (bad luck!), guardian angels or, well, I don't know what else you would call it (though I did have a third one in mind when I started typing this sentence). But the fact is, if the worst had come to pass, I would be a childless mother right now.

Think I'm exaggerating? I don't think so.

At the age of four, one child decided to pretend to be a kitten. She strung a cord around her neck, attached it to her bedpost and purred her way to sleep. When Steve checked on her later, the cord was so tight that he could barely fit his finger between it and her neck, because she had rolled around in her sleep.

One day at the cottage, Steve was moving rocks by the shore, when one child trumpeted, "Oh, look, he's swimming!" One of our toddlers - within arm's reach, mind you - had lost his balance in the lake and was trying unsuccessfully to right himself.

And, alarmingly, I could go on. Each of our children has a story.

My point is, there really are tigers out there - of our own making or beyond our control. Steve and I count ourselves blessed every single day that we spend with our children.

One of our therapists was of the opinion that none of this was coincidental or accidental, that we were somehow cursed or, worse, neglectful parents. But I really don't think so. I think that if you talk to any parent of an adult child, you will hear stories of "near misses," of rescues, and of guardian angels. It might be allergies or experimenting with drugs, or car accidents, or congenital disease ... you get the picture. And, I'm willing to bet, where they are not "near misses," they are actual tragedies.

So what's a worried mama to do? Here's my [unsolicited] advice to other mothers:

• Trust your gut. If you have a "funny feeling" that something just isn't right? Listen to it. Let your kids call you overprotective, let their friends (or their friends' parents) call you neurotic.
• Have faith. I've mentioned before that I believe in miracles and in angels. You may believe that "it takes a village." Either way, we just have to trust that we are not the only ones caring for our children.

Today, as I drove Brian home from school, I road-raged aloud about some teenagers walking blithely down the middle of our residential street, not disturbed by my ton of metal bearing down on them. Then I apologized to Brian for complaining.

"It's okay," he said. "You're a mom." I'm glad he understands.

P.S. A dear, old friend of ours, now deceased, used to bless all infants he met as follows: "May you never be eaten by tigers." To my knowledge, his blessing never failed.

True Confessions: Kisses

I'm not very physically demonstrative with non-family members. The French custom of the double-cheek-brush/air-kiss is even a little more than I like, though I do it when the context is appropriate. (When in Québec, do as the Québecois do.) At least, that's what I like to think. But there is evidence to the contrary.

Case #1: Comme les français
During my first or second week on my new job in Colorado, I was part of a team hosting some visiting VIPs. I was nervous, still feeling out of place. Then I saw a familiar face: a senior officer we knew socially. In my relief, I greeted him as if we were old friends who hadn't seen each other in decades and (maybe because he is French-Canadian?) gave him a double-cheek kiss. Actual kisses, not air kisses.

Fortunately, he was gracious and made nothing of it. But I cringed as he left, wondering if he was going to ask his wife what was up with me. On future occasions when I bumped into him, I made sure to greet him with a big smile and nothing more. (Well, with clothes, too, of course. Just nothing more in the greeting sense.)

Case #2: A Near Miss
When Peter was four years old, he needed eye surgery to correct strabismus ("wall-eye"). He was small, so the doctor asked me to sit in the examining chair and hold Peter on my lap while he performed the examination. I did so.

Now, when my children were younger, it was simply an automatic impulse for me to kiss any bare skin that came within proximity of my face. Heads, tummies, shoulders, necks, bellies. Toddlers and babies are meant to be kissed (and to have raspberries blown on their tiny bellies). I did a LOT of kissing.

So while sitting there, I kissed the back of Peter's head. Then the doctor, wearing short sleeves, reached past Peter, past my head, to adjust something. I turned my head, puckered up and just BARELY stopped myself from kissing his bare arm. I think it was the extreme hairiness of his arm that woke me up.

Phew. That was close!

Case #3: Sharing of the Peace
In church, one Sunday, we were "sharing the peace" - that awkward part of the service where the congregation shakes hands and blesses each other, offering the phrase, "The peace of the Lord be with you," or something similar. Steve and I typically give each other a quick peck on the lips. I usually give the boys "noogies of the Lord." And on this one Sunday, I gave the visiting minister a kiss smack-dab on the lips. Yup. I don't know whose shock was greater: his or mine. Or his wife's. (Stephen didn't even notice. I told him about it later.)

I immediately wanted to disappear; spontaneous combustion would've been a real grace. The service continued for approximately 72 hours while I stewed in humiliation and God failed to answer my prayers for immediate rescue.

I still have no idea why I kissed him. I mean, he was a nice enough minister and all, but it's not like I was attracted to him ... I never spoke to him again. There's just no coming back from that one.

[Musical interlude while you cringe and pray for my soul.]

Allie Brosh has addressed the whole "awkward situation" dilemma in her ineffable blog, "Hyperbole and a Half." I can SO relate to her bottom line. (Click that link!)

Now I'm going to go brush my teeth because, evidently, I never know when I'll be kissing a stranger.

Some of the best things about parties

Usually, Steve has to drag me to parties. I don't like noise and I don't like crowds, especially of people I don't know. I don't always feel like getting "done up" to go out. (Hey, it takes some effort - and a fair amount of concealer - for this gal to look presentable!) Sometimes, I'm just lazy and antisocial and would rather stay home in my stretchy pants and veg. At least, that's how I feel before he drags my sorry arse out of the house.

Once I get there, it's a different matter. I almost always meet someone I really click with and discover a yummy new food that I hadn't tried before. I have a good time and am glad I went. I feel energized.

And, although we only do it once or twice a year, I do enjoy hosting a party. The great thing about hosting a party is that we know everyone there! Well, almost everyone. There are always some new people to get to know - spouses or the kids' friends. When I'm doing all the food, I enjoy finding new recipes (yes, I use my guests as guinea pigs) and getting all fussy with the presentation. When doing a potluck, I have less work and get to try new dishes again. And, when all is done, the food and drinks are cleared and the last guest has gone home, I get to enjoy a really clean house for a couple of days before all the crap I procrastinate about putting away starts to pile up again.

But I will confess to one deep anxiety about hosting our parties: no one showing up. This has actually happened to us a couple of times. Once, only two couples showed up to a party when we were prepared for about 20. (Lesson learned: ask for RSVPs.) (At that same party, all four guests turned their noses up at the home-made liver pate, which I hadn't considered all that exotic.) Another time, we had lots of RSVPs, but an ice storm blew through and only a few souls braved the slick roads to join us. They were treated to LOTS of food and drink!

Yesterday, we hosted a potluck to say farewell to our neighbours and friends. As "party hour" approached, I worried again that no one would show up. I reminded myself that most guests will courteously arrive a few minutes (at least) late, to allow the host those last few minutes of preparation. (They should know that an OCD couple like us was surely ready 15 minutes early.) Sure enough, within 15 minutes, the doorbell was ringing steadily and there was a cluster of people around the "bar." The music was playing, people from the different spheres of our lives were meeting each other and exchanging 30-second CVs. We caught up with some people we hadn't seen in too long and exchanged news and funny stories with people we'd been working or drinking with mere days earlier.

Steve, Peter, Emily, Brian and I had a great time. (Emily even had two of her girlfriends stay overnight afterwards.)

Today, the dust has settled. The house looks tidier than it has in many weeks. There are the silent echos of laughter and lively voices. And the inevitable leftovers. Reminders of the good time we had, and the good friends we'll miss.