Lisa McManus Lange: The Sassy Scribbler

Dragons, etc.

2012-01-27T05:48:00.000-08:00

So here we are, the Year of the Dragon. And I am surrounded by them – sort of. The Chinese New Year started on January 23rd, and will last for two weeks. Every year I jump on the bandwagon and bombard my Chinese friend with endless questions about traditional Chinese New Year practices: what foods are eaten (my fave) and the zodiac signs. I have known her for a few years, so she puts up with me – patiently.

Not only did her birthday fall on the first day of Chinese New Year this year (lucky girl – I guess that means double the luck!), but her zodiac sign is the dragon, a sign shared by my youngest son. Sadly, my other son and I are pigs – I’m not sure if I should be bragging about that.

It is said that those born under the powerful sign of the dragon are thought to be dominating and ambitious, energetic and warm-hearted. Driven and unafraid of challenges, ‘dragons’ are willing to take risks and are lucky in love.

Hospitals in China are already over-booked with mothers anxious to have their little ‘dragons’ born during this great year.

As for us ‘pigs,’ we are thought to be extremely nice, good mannered and compassionate: helping others and being good companions is what we are known for.

Hmm…maybe it’s not so bad being a pig, after all!

But back to the dragons…

All this talk about dragons these days has had me thinking. Those mythical creatures have been brought to life on the big screen and in books time and time again. DragonHeart (1996 movie), took place in the year 984 in England with knights and Saxons running hitherto with their swords. How to Train a Dragon (2010 movie based off a book by Cressida Cowell) took place in the times of the Vikings and their funny hats.

Fictional worlds such as that of the 2006 movie, Eragon, as well as the real/fantasy world of the Harry Potter series, has young boys face to face with dragons.

The Chronicles of Narnia (a book and movie) and Shrek (movie) both have dragons, good and bad, making their way into the hearts of readers and viewers.

In both the fantasy and romance sections of modern bookstores, shelves are lined with tales of men and women living with, and learning to live with, dragons. Katie MacAlister is one of many modern authors who have delved into the worlds of these creatures. Stories heralding dragons date back as far as The Argonautica, a Greek poem by Apollonius Rhodius in the 3rd century, BC, where a dragon guarding the magical Golden Fleece is put to sleep so the fleece can be stolen.

Through stories in poems, books and movies, the fate of dragons over the centuries has been tumultuous. Men and women, young and old, have fought, saved or befriended dragons. And very often the ones that were thought of evil were not so bad after all. All they needed was just a little patience and understanding.

But at the end of the day, if you are on the verge of being gobbled up by a dragon, his fire singeing your neck hairs, ya gotta do what ya gotta do. Pull out your sword, and be done with ‘im.

In my quest for more dragons, I went hunting on a windy day in historic Chinatown in Victoria, BC. And low and behold, I found Dragon Alley. I ventured into the alley, and made a quick exit as wind rushing between the narrow brick walls sounded like a low growl. A dragon slayer, I am not.

So this year, if you find yourself in the bowels of middle earth wearing a Viking hat, brandishing a sword, answering to a weird name like Fraindelöng, all while trying to outrun a dragon, remember - this the Year of the Dragon. They should be revered and praised, for in the Chinese culture this is to be a year of good luck, good health, and better fortunes.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

Footprints Forever

2012-01-20T06:05:00.001-08:00

I know this doesn’t look like much. And yes, even though snow is nothing new to many of you – to many parts of the world – I am not going to bore you with a bunch of pictures from one of Victoria’s rare snowfalls.

These are reminders of the past, always lurking around, like a ghost, never to be forgotten. Footprints that millions of years old refuse to let something like snow keep them hidden.

When there isn’t snow on the ground, many mistake them for big puddles, stepping over and around them just before running up the steps of the Royal BC Museum. Who wants wet shoes, anyways? As it usually rains here, snow being rare, they fill with water, and when mercury dips below zero the footprints become mini skating rinks.

These footprints are those of the Duck-billed Dinosaur, or hadrosaur. The herbivore’s prints were first found in the Peace River Canyon during excavations for the W.A.C Bennet dam, 75-110 million after the Duck-billed dinos roamed the earth. That’s a long time ago – and to think I was standing there looking at them in 2012.

But still, despite the years, the different forces of nature like…oh…say, meteors hitting the ground (if that theory is still in circulation), and ice ages (colder than temperatures I was in when I took these pictures), and massive volcanic eruptions, dinosaurs still stay in existence, in some way or another. Ever-turning we are with theories, discoveries, and the biggest and best computer-enhanced, high-definition rendition of the creatures found on any big screen. Dinosaurs are a mystery and an existence that will fascinate young and old for decades to come.

Their previous existence still lingers, as if they are ghosts. And even though we can read about them on hand held devices, and watch movies and documentaries about what we ‘think’ they were like on various sizes of screens, they are never far from our minds and daily lives.

So as I trudged around in the snow, my own footprints to melt away in a day or so, I snapped the odd picture here and there. My wad of Kleenex was barely able to keep up with my runny nose. Snow comes and goes, and daily life keeps going; we keep trudging along. And maybe, just maybe, we little beings on this earth can leave one day having left our own memorable mark.

This is what I was thinking about at temperatures of -7, a wind chill factor of -12.

(one picture is before sunrise when the first round of snow fell, the second picture is after another round of snow.)

The Quest for Copper

2012-01-13T06:04:00.000-08:00

I wanted to write about a penny, and not just any old penny, but a found penny.

I wanted to write about the funny perils and experiences that stem from when I see a penny and pick it up. If I am not falling over as I capture the copper in my greedy little hands, then I am apologizing to someone who has tripped head over heels over my penny-finding form – not that they would exactly be head over heels in love with me after ending up on the sidewalk on more than just their heels.

I hoped to regale you with stories of dropped coffee mugs, dismembered umbrellas and overturned purses as I would scramble for that rain-soaked one cent.

I find them everywhere, and it is a grander day when the coin of my affections is not copper but silver – 5 cents, 10 cents, 25 cents. A dollar or a twoonie heads cause for celebration.

So when I came up with the notion to write about the treasured coin, I searched high and low. Well, mostly low. It’s a strange day if you find one on fence post.

And do you think I could find one? No.

I scoured the sidewalks, curbs, gutters and roads. I was even willing to meet my fate with a car bumper and dash out to the middle of the busy road for a picture of the tire trodden copper.

I know the whole thing tinkles with desperation, but I get a kick out of finding one.

With my head down I trudged on, almost bumping into a telephone pole or two, and after a near miss with a bus stop and a fire hydrant, I found…nothing.

Sure, I found things one normally steps over, around or side-steps with a grossed-out hop. Without mentioning the gross things, the ground is littered with age-old gum, gum wrappers, bus transfers, bird seed, cigarette butts, and broken earphone bits.

And many things that have always been there, but never noticed. (This is on a sidewalk I have used a million times, but had never noticed before.)

But alas, no pennies. Penniless and forlorn, I would have nothing to write about at the end of the day.

It would be so easy to throw a penny on the ground, snap a picture of it, and let you think that yes, indeed, I did JUST find that. You would never know the difference.

But that wouldn’t be honest.

My missions served as a reminder to keep my head up, despite all the pennies I could miss (remember the near miss with the bus stop and telephone pole?). It proved that great things happen when you least expect, and not when you are looking for them. And before you know it, something grand comes your way, so enjoy it for what it is.

But I was not to be penniless, forever….

The next day my quest for a found penny and the need to get a picture of one was rekindled with a new determination, and again I kept my eyes peeled. All through my lunch break from work I clocked the miles on the sidewalks, eyes darting back and forth, and this time a little more wary of telephone poles, but found nothing. Resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to find one because I was looking for it, I relinquished my quest, and carried on with the rest of my day, penniless.

After my day’s work was done, I was leaving for home, and all thoughts of my quest for pennies were replaced with dinner planning. And just as I approached the front door of my building to leave, I spied it.

“Aha!” I proclaimed. I got a strange look from someone walking by, but they don’t know me and I don’t know them so that was just fine.

In the middle of the foyer, purses and bags forgotten at my side, I knelt down on the floor and snapped a few pictures - in case you had never seen a penny before. Folks hustled by heading to their cars or the bus, and luckily no one tripped over me. Happy with my photos, I collected my things, and picked up the penny. As I headed for the bus stop, this time my head held high, I realized that that found penny meant someone was likely going to be short for their coffee the next morning. Oh well….see a penny, and all that.

Mission accomplished!

See, I ended up writing about a penny after all!

Christmas Eve Panic

2012-01-06T05:42:00.000-08:00

It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house…

…the children were banished to their rooms for the rest of the night so Mom and Dad could do their Christmas Eve Santa magic. They were NOT to come upstairs. They were to call me from their cell phone if they were hungry, thirsty or dying. They had a washroom to use and running water. Come upstairs and dismemberment would be their middle name. It was a happy time.

Just as I was getting my groove on, happily applying last minute bows to gifts and artistically placing them under the tree, the man of the house went to check on the 16 year-old and the 11 year-old. He came back up with some Christmas Eve-shattering news.

The 11 year-old was panicking Santa wouldn’t come because he didn’t write a letter.

The same 11 year-old who, despite the rest of the family’s protests, declared months ago he knew who the ‘real’ Santa was. We all deny otherwise and enjoy keeping up the fantasy – even the 16 year-old. I knew ‘that time’ would eventually come (for some later than others, it seems), but I still do everything to keep those childhood fantasies alive and fun.

Minutes before, through some cajoling, he somewhat participated in the laying-out of the cookies and milk ritual, the carrot for the reindeer ritual, and the hanging of the Santa key on our front door ritual (we don’t have a chimney – how else is he supposed to get in?). And then my little sugar plums were banished to their rooms for the night.

But I think our ultra-heightened Christmas Eve antics planted such a seed of doubt in his head, he didn’t know what to think. With all the excitement, build-up and just plain old being tired, I think at that point I could have told him the sky was green and he would have wondered….

Back to the panic….

So there he was, banished to his bedroom, last minute thoughts of ‘what if’ swirling around in his head, tormenting him. Poor kid; awful mother.

I sent down some paper and a pen with instructions to write an EXCEPTIONALLY nice letter, and to ONLY ask for five things, with no guarantee. I knew ‘Santa’ was good on all accounts, so I had no worries.

The letter was later delivered to me for placement by the cookies, and through my tears I was able to read his apology for ‘forgetting’ to write the letter, his apology for ‘sometimes’ being a jerk (his words, not mine), and his list of only two things. Later, after I was in control of my emotions I went down for a goodnight kiss and hug, and his panic had subsided.

Christmas morning came ‘round, and Santa had come through.

Yes, Christmas isn’t about the gifts or the bows that I worked so hard to perfectly place. We are fortunate to be able to even have Santa come to our house – many houses are not. But the wonder and magic of the ‘what if’ of the season is part of the excitement, and there is no reason why that openness to possibilities can’t be carried on year round.

I thought about this ‘enlightening’ Christmas Eve, and after deciding the poor kid likely didn’t need therapy, I realized how important this moment was. It was a reminder that no matter what age, always save room in your heart for the possibility of magic, for the hope of greater things, and for the wonder of childhood. It’s now 2012 and time is flying by. Make the most of it and enjoy every moment, no matter what you believe in.

(P.S. Before you think I am a bad mother for exposing my kids’ crisis, he doesn’t read this blog, and I know no one will tell him, otherwise. Right?)

Lisa Goes to the Spa

2012-01-01T14:59:00.000-08:00

Last Christmas I received a gift certificate to a spa. And not just for any old spa, but the Willow Stream Spa at the historic Empress Hotel in Victoria, BC. I was elated, and not being a regular ‘spa girl,’ this was a luxury. A year later the gift certificate was burning a hole in my pocket, so I finally made the time to go during my lunch break from work.

With my faded, saggy bathing suit in my bag, I strolled to the spa as if this was all very normal. But as soon as I walked in the door, nervousness took over. I didn’t know what to expect or what to do. Babbling nervously, I told the receptionist my concerns, and she reassured me with her spa-like voice.

She led me down to the bowels of the ancient hotel. I was sure ghosts would be laughing at my saggy bathing suit. She explained I was entitled to use the sauna, steam room, Kur mineral pool, hotel pool and Jacuzzi, AND the sitting room with complimentary yogurt, fruit, and tea. Yahoo!! Snacks!

We went to the change rooms comprising of lockers kitted with fluffy robes and flip flops. Each locker had a resettable punch-code lock. She showed me how it worked, and told me to call the front desk if I needed anything.

Just as she turned to leave, I tried the lock. Lights flashed and gears grinded.

“OH! I broke it already!” I panicked, calling after the girl.

“It’s okay, you didn’t break it,” she crooned in her spa-like voice, “Just press this, this, then this. See, it’s here on the instructions.” She patiently pointed to the instructions RIGHT beside my locker.

“Oh, um…thanks.” I mumbled. She smiled her spa-smile then floated away.

I changed and nervously locked up my stuff. Pristine white towels were everywhere, so I left my old frayed towel, grabbed my robe and flip flops, and went off to investigate.

I had less than an hour, so I had to hurry along. I couldn’t do the sauna or steam room – a wilting hair-do wouldn’t do for work. So I thought I would try the Kur mineral pool.

Fountains splashed at either end of the tiny pool, but the rebounding droplets were a little too much for my liking. So after some navigating I found a spot where my hair wouldn’t suffer, and tried to relax.

The fountains were too loud and there was no music to listen to. With nothing to do I read the plaque about the traditional tepid pool - 50 times over. The recommended fifteen minute soak was taking forever. Added to that, the strategically placed underwater lights highlighted my thigh cellulite.

This wasn’t working.

So maybe the Jacuzzi would be better, and it was also a safe-hair zone. The spa/mineral pool area led way to the hotel guests’ pool and Jacuzzi, separated by a locked door with a code – on the spa side.

So I tried the Jacuzzi….and watched the clock. I was determined to enjoy this. I had the whole place to myself, and this time there were windows to look out, so at least I had SOMETHING to do. Lean back, empty my mind, close my eyes, and…

But I had to get out for a towel to dab the sweat trickling down my face. I not only had my hair to worry about but my make-up, as well.

I got the towel, dabbed delicately, and ignoring the gobs of make-up left on the pristine white towel, went back in the Jacuzzi.

Lean back, empty my mind, close my eyes (one peek at the clock told me I had been in there for 6 minutes), and….

Get out again, get the towel, dab my sweat…

After the third time I finally got smart and put the towel on the pools’ edge beside me.

The dabbing got to be too much, and sweat trickled from my scalp down my forehead. This wasn’t good for neither hair nor make-up, so I got out.

Remember the door with a code leading back to the spa?

I forgot the number.

Luckily there was a phone right next to the vault-like door – for dopes like me – so I called the spa reception desk.

“Um, hi.” I mumbled, dripping on the pool deck in my fluffy robe. “I’m locked out of the spa. I forgot the code to get back in.” I hung my sweaty head and muttered, “Sorry, I’m new.”

With a spa-like sigh, the receptionist told me the code. As I went through the mineral pool area towards the change rooms, I passed the sitting room and remembered – I’m starving!

Trying not to make eye contact with the lady getting a foot massage, I got a yogurt (or two), grabbed a magazine and a tea, and tried to look spa-like. Even after the foot-massage-lady left (I could finally get some peace and quiet!), I couldn’t concentrate.

So I roamed around a bit to get a feel for the place (like I was going to return anytime soon after such stress!).

Seeing as I didn’t have too much time left, I went back to the mineral pool, and positioned myself ‘just so’ to preserve the hair. Luckily it wasn’t hot enough to induce sweat, and then….

I finally relaxed - only 45 minutes after first arriving.

So I guess my New Year’s resolutions will be to take more time to relax, and always follow instructions.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T14:06:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a happy, safe and Merry Christmas. I hope all your Christmas wishes have come true, and thank you for reading all year long!

Lisa

Neurotic Notekeeping

2011-12-23T05:53:00.000-08:00

A writer’s best friend is a notebook. And not the laptop version, but an ACTUAL paper notebook with an ACTUAL pen. One of the countless pieces of advice for any writer is to always carry a notebook; always have one close at hand. Keeping pen and paper handy is essential for getting down observations that might make their way into a piece of writing, or for immortalizing that perfect sentence.

And the lucky girl I am receives notebooks as gifts. Nothing is more thrilling than receiving a brand spanking new notebook, encased in a gorgeous cover, waiting for my wandering words.

Not only do I receive them as gifts, but I buy them as well, stocking up as though readying for winter. They are stacked in my office on shelves, bookcases and in cabinets. I guess you could say I am totally stacked.

But I am a bit obsessive about them. Despite having stacks upon stacks of pristine, beautifully covered books at my fingertips, I ‘save’ most of them. Meaning, I save the really nice ones, just in case, and use the plainer ones. What am I saving them for? I don’t know. I have even gone so far as to buy plain old books when I need one, so as not to ruin my beautiful notebooks with every day wear and tear.

So like a good writer, I have one in my tote bag, and one in my purse. There is one beside the couch where I sit at night watching TV (I write in the mornings, so night time TV is my guilty pleasure). There is one beside my bed which, sadly, is a tad dust-covered (I am too exhausted when I go to bed), but on the rare occasion has come in handy - once I scrape off the dust with my nails.

I have notebooks and little pads of paper in the kitchen for when I am cooking, making lunches, washing dishes, cooking, making lunches, washing dishes, cooking – never mind, you get it. So when a brilliant idea comes to me, I can quickly jot down a few lines through the billowing steam. The notes written in the kitchen are usually wrinkled from sudsy wet hands or almost transparent from grease splatters.

So you would think having all these notebooks around I would be using them, right?

Well…

Instead, something will come to me at the most obscure time or place, and I will grab any piece of paper to jot down my magnificent thought.

I desperately guard my notes with my life, checking and rechecking where I have stashed them – in my purse, in my office, by my laptop, in my pocket – comforting myself with the knowledge that they are safe and sound.

But then sometimes I lose them, and the whole world must stop - now.

The greatest sentence, word, thought, phrase, idea is lost, and I simply cannot continue existing. I tear apart everything. I go through my purse five to ten times, practically destroy my office, and lie in bed at night replaying where I could have possibly put that tiny piece of paper.

Common sense would dictate I just keep everything in one book. I DO have books that have everything written down all in the same, compact area. But there are urgent times when any old piece of paper will have to do before I lose my thought/idea/masterpiece.

And even after I have made a poor excuse of recreating what I barely remember writing down, I can’t stop thinking about that piece of paper. It consumes me, lurking in the back of my mind as I race around the house straightening and cleaning.

So with the new year approaching, I must make one of my goals to give up the loose paper habit, to use the beautiful notebooks I already have, and to stop obsessing.

But I hope Santa brings me a few more notebooks for Christmas - just in case.

Thanks for the Memories, Santa

2011-12-15T06:13:00.000-08:00

The children were nestled all snug in their beds. The lights were twinkling and the trees were decorated to the hilt with everything sparkly. Early morning folks huddled around their coffees in….the food court of the mall. My friend calls this time of year ‘the craze fest we North Americans call Christmas,’ and I suspect those early morning coffee drinkers were savouring some peace before it started that day.

I was waiting for the stores to open, and as I found myself also savouring the moment of peace and tranquility, I realized a shift in my own household’s Christmas activities. Where I used to be waiting for my kids to go to sleep in order to buy and wrap presents, now I get out while they sleep-in (what a foreign concept to me).

As I rounded the corner and dodged a few vigorous mall-walkers making their rounds, I came upon something brimming with memories – and somewhat now foreign to me.

Santa’s photo booth.

True, Christmas is not just one day of Santa, presents, lights, and stale-dated eggnog - it’s a season. And even though memories are created year-round, for someone like me who has kids created memories are at their peak at this time of year.

And Santa’s photo booth starts many of them.

My memories blur between my own Santa visits as a kid, to those of watching my sisters having a meltdown at the first sight of the big guy, to those of my own children crying hysterically. Then there were the line-ups, the other frazzled mothers, and the waiting, excitement and fear all rolled into one. But they are all cherished memories.

Our Santa visiting days are over, as I knew they eventually would be. My wee lads are as tall, if not taller, than me and they live in fear that I will MAKE them ‘go see Santa.’ Yes, I have the power to MAKE them do whatever I want – but I am nice and won’t embarrass them. Maybe in a few years when those embarrassed-to-be-seen-with-family days are gone, I might be able to convince them to go for a picture with Santa. But eventually their own Santa-visiting time will come ‘round - with their own kids. I hope they invite me to come along.

As I looked around the empty Santa booth, I took in the camera and flash, the chair, the candy canes waiting for sticky hands to hold them, and the mail box. Countless letters have been penned and responded to in my house, and they are tucked safely away – just like my memories.

The last two Christmases had me sadly realizing those times were fading away. But this particular day where I had the whole place to myself, it gave me time to reflect (without the mall muzak system blaring). So what if the memories are not always exactly the same as last year, or the year before, or the year before that? All memories are special, and as I approach a new phase in my life with my ever-growing kids, new memories will always be created – and always cherished.

It was bittersweet standing there in the (near) empty mall, the Santa booth empty and waiting for the next generation. But it’s time to move on and create new memories while holding on to the ones I so fortunately have.

I am one lucky girl. Thanks for the memories, Santa.

(Author’s note - Three days after I wrote this, my secret wish came true. I guess Santa must have read this and cast a spell over my kids, as I now have a Santa photo featuring both kids. It was an unexpected surprise when we stumbled upon him ‘posing’ in an inconspicuous place – somewhere other than the mall. I won’t post the photo, as they would never let me live it down. Thanks again, Santa.)

World Photographer

2011-12-08T19:36:00.000-08:00

I live in a city that thrives on tourism and I, being the nice girl I am, feel it’s my duty to act as ambassador. I often stop to assist tourists who seem lost, but it’s those with cameras who really draw me.

There are those who visit Victoria, British Columbia, who squish their faces together with one outstretched arm holding the camera, only to get a distorted picture of themselves with half the Empress Hotel in the background. Then there are those who opt to use the camera timer and quickly stumble to their pre-set position in the group. The result is a photo with smiles forced from waiting too long for the timer to go off – and it’s lucky the photographer didn’t trip on his/her way to the group.

But heck, at least they have a photo of themselves - so that’s something.

But for those who are fumbling to get the greatest, memorable photo of all time, I can’t just walk by and NOT help them in some way.

So on behalf of Tourism British Columbia, I offer to take their picture for them. (Disclaimer: no one asks me to do this, I don’t get paid by the tourism folks – I’m just being nice.)

I have done this for a while now, meeting folks from all parts of the world, and am often met with varying degrees of acceptance; the resulting experiences, memorable.

One nice couple, surprised by the outpouring of Canadian generosity (I think they were from some far-off continent), declined politely at first, as if they were putting ME out. Um, I offered. Noting their hesitancy as they weighed the situation, it was clear they wanted to take me up on the offer. I urged the issue: “Are you sure? I don’t mind?” So, man, wife, and toddler grinned widely as I snapped a photo of them on the front lawn of the Empress Hotel. They were most, most appreciative, and somewhere in the world (in some far-off continent), is their touristy family photo - without my name credit.

Some folks wholeheartedly take me up on my offer, profusely thanking me for this divine opportunity. It’s always the man missing from the photo. The joy he exudes at the concept that he finally gets to be in a photo has him skipping over to stand beside his wife. His sandals, black socks, Hawaiian shirt (?), windblown comb-over, and sunglasses are forever photographically preserved.

I often have folks ask me to take their picture on the ferry between Vancouver and Victoria. I must exude welcoming Canadian pheromones, or something. I got to chatting with one couple after taking their picture, and their down-unda accents gave them away. As newlyweds, they were exploring Caaanada and all its’ glory, so I was happy to be part of their honeymoon - sort of. And nothing says Canada like a ferry smelling of White Spot burgers dripping with Triple O sauce - my personal fave. But heck, it’s all in the name of tourism and ambassadorship.

I should work for the U.N.

Sometimes, however, I am met with scepticism when making this generous offer. They hug their cameras and bags closer to them, frantically looking for someone resembling police. I suspect they fear I will either take their camera and run, or mug them for their Rogers' Chocolates bag (very tempting). Well if you saw me - knew me - you would know I am not the mugging type. Not that there is a ‘type’ for that sort of thing, but…

And then, sadly, there are those who, after a brief, calculating assessment of my person, brush me off as quickly as they can. Avoiding as much conversation as possible, they turn and head in the opposite direction from where they were going, making me want to yell: “But Emily Carr’s house is that way!” I have come to the conclusion they are not so much afraid of being left camera-less, but are fearful I will demand a tip for their photograph - or for saying ‘hi,’ being nice, or turning their map right-side up.

But this doesn't stop me from exuding Canadian hospitality. So I have learned to avoid a collision of countries and approach my global interactions accordingly. I don’t want to ruin my country's good name.

A Non-Yogi Writer

2011-12-01T19:49:00.000-08:00

I didn’t know it, but I do yoga, sortof....for my health and my writing.

Growing up, I was surrounded by notions of everything black and white; meat and potatoes. Anything else was just wrong - and weird. Girls took dance lessons for exercise and boys played football (we were a house of three girls), and anything other than that was considered ‘woo woo’ – especially yoga.

My own ways of thinking and opinions blossomed with adulthood, my eyes opened to the world around me - or so I thought. I still kinda thought yoga was…’woo woo.’

In the wee hours of 4:30 am, I go for walks/jogs for overall health, sanity, energy and focus. I stretch before and after, waking my body, my mind, and my limbs, readying me for another day – another workout. The early morning brisk exercise helps me sort out my thoughts, and very often gives me ideas or direction for my writing. My post-exercise stretch helps me center my breathing, relaxing and easing my muscles after a vigorous workout. I then get to the laptop and write. Both these happen whether rain or shine, tired or cranky, or sore or blank.

At the grocery store one night, I dashed by the magazine stand and the bright pink cover of the latest issue of Yoga Journal Magazine (December 2011) caught my eye. Procrastinating going home and continuing laundry, and given that I had already flipped through most other magazines the previous nights (I go to the store A LOT), I learned that not only could I use a few stretches shown – some specific for a bad back, like mine – but I was pleasantly surprised to learn that….I had a lot to learn.

When I disregarded everything advertised on the pages – the wispy yoga clothes, the ‘different’ yet healthy food, the free-spirited hair-do’s, the tropical yoga resorts in other time zones – I realized I had been doing yoga all along, but in my own way. Exercising in the fresh air gives me mental clarity, erasing negativity, while stretching before and after settles my mind fostering creativity. And, sometimes, I eat healthier - except for all the chocolate.

And when I finally crawl into bed at the end of the day, my mind still sometimes racing, I think about my walk the next morning. I visualize one of my various routes; each curve of the road, each house, hill and landmark – kind of like meditating.

In an article titled ‘Chair Pose’ in the Basics section of the magazine, author Annie Carpenter writes:

In Sanskrit the word for dedicated practice is abhyasa. It is the act of making an effort to reach a goal, wholeheartedly and consistently over time. In yoga, this implies discipline, but it is also a movement towards effortlessness. ‘Practice’ means staying aware of the present moment. This awareness is quickly lost if you get too interested in achieving a pose. Effortlessness arises when you let go of the outcome of practice. You have to make yourself show up, which is hard, but if you stay interested in the practice itself rather that the goal, effortlessness will come.

For a writer, how true this is! Yes, the goals are important, but the act of even showing up – of doing it – and practicing, will make the journey towards the goal effortless. This mindset has helped me not only in keeping up with my exercise regime, but also with my continual writing.

Does this mean I have been following the yoga Sanskirt abhyasa all along? Had I been doing ‘woo woo’ yoga all this time and didn’t even know it?

Yoga isn’t about the wispy clothes or hair, or the fancy resorts. My living room floor is my mat; my neighbourhood my tropical resort. My yoga is what is practiced and meditated every morning as I lie on the floor, clock the miles, and write the words - rain or shine. Who cares what it’s called. And I’ll do the upward facing dog pose my own way, thank you very much.

Ommmmmm…..

Unwanted E-ttention

2011-11-25T06:11:00.000-08:00

I like people. I do.

But as a busy mother who works full-time outside the house, when I find the time to read, and not talk, and not have someone bugging me, I cherish it. And when that time is jeopardized, I get cranky.

But I like people. I do.

My lack of technological skills and my tendency to be lagging in this high tech e-world is on-going. I don’t have the time or patience to sit with a new gadget, read instructions and fiddle with it.

So when I recently was given an e-reader to ‘try out,’ my tear ducts were given a run for their money. I was given the ‘simple’ model because I can’t handle anything with more than three buttons.

Well….it wasn’t so simple. I won’t reveal the model because that wouldn’t be fair to the company. It’s not their fault I am a complete dolt when it comes to this stuff.

So I have sort of figured out how to buy and download books – and not cry. Sort of – not really.

But the instructions don’t tell you of certain side-effects of owning an e-reader.

One morning while watching my son at his swimming lessons (a perfect time to read), I had one eye on the boy and I had just pulled out my e-reader when I heard, “Excuse me, is that one of those e-readers?”

A very nice elderly lady beside me stared intently at the gadget in my hands.

She wanted to know all about it. We exchanged a few words and she asked a bunch of questions I couldn’t answer. I told her I was new at it and really didn’t know much about it (which is dumb because I was READING on it, wasn’t I?), but the questions and comments still kept coming.

Sigh.

Feeling a lull in the conversation I casually went back to my ‘book.’ Settling into chapter one, word number four, I felt a tap on my shoulder and a male voice proclaimed,

“Hey, is that an e-reader? I really want one of those!”

The fellow introduced the lady as his mother-in-law (I caught that eye roll), and now we were all one big happy family – talking about the e-reader.

The son-in-law peppered me with questions about the e-reader, despite me explaining again and again that I was new at it. Kids/grandkids near and far were all but forgotten.

Him: “Is it compatible with a … (insert high tech thing here).”

Me: “I don’t know. I’m new at it.”

Him: “Can you do… (insert funky function here).”

Me: “I don’t know. I’m new at it.”

Mother-in-Law: “Does it have a light?”

Me: “I don’t know. I’m new at it.”

And on it went.

My eyes were starting to sting and water, and I wasn’t sure if it was out of frustration or from the high levels of chlorine. I just wanted to read. The humidity in the place always plays havoc with my hair, and my make-up slides off my face. I usually look like a Halloween-leftover in two seconds. So why – what about me – do people feel they need to interrupt me?

All I wanted to do was read the book that made me cry throughout the downloading process.

Two days later I was on the bus. When I read on the bus I curl up in the corner, don’t look up, don’t make eye contact with anyone, and keep my eyes on my book.

But buses are like sardine cans. Everyone is squished together, and you are in it for the long haul – or at least until your stop. And there is no getting away from anyone.

So there I was with my e-reader, and of course….someone sat down beside me.

And of course, the questions started to which I had no answers for. Oh for God’s sake - I just wanted to read.

Do I see other e-reader readers being hounded by non-e-reader readers? No one bothered me when I was reading PAPERbacks! Why me? I didn’t make eye contact; I wasn’t exuding welcoming pheromones or anything. Why? WHY? I need to look grouchier, I think.

All I know is that my problem with my e-reader is not that I don’t understand how it works.

It’s just that it attracts too much attention.

Not So Famous...and Happy for It

2011-11-18T06:14:00.001-08:00

Since the release of the book ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ which contains two of my stories, I have been busy being famous – or not.

True, the book is not a full-length novel bearing my name in raised, gold lettering. And true, I am ‘just’ a contributor in the anthology. But in my up-and-coming writing world, this is BIG. As I waited for the day to arrive when the book (as given to contributors upon story acceptance) would be in my hand, seeing my words in black and white, I wondered: would anything change?

I wondered if I would look different with this new-found ‘fame.’ Nope - I still had to use a ½ a tube of under-eye cream everyday to combat the puffiness. I still had to do my own hair and makeup – no one was coming to do it for me.

I wondered if people would recognize me and cry out, “HEY! There’s that famous Chicken Soup for the Soul girl!” as I sauntered down the street in my power suit, Coach™ bag and fancy hair. Considering my picture is not in the book, I own neither a power suit nor a Coach bag (but I have a Coach wallet, courtesy of Mom), and I still have the same hair from 1989, I am still just another person walking down the street.

I wondered if my new-found fame would instantly release my demure, mature, professional side that should have come out long ago. I recently all but fell to the floor writhing in joy when my sister gave me three packages of Purdy’s Sweet Georgia Browns – each package containing two of the chocolate, caramel and pecan delights. I ate them in two days. Actually, in one-and-a-half days. And I didn’t share. So much for maturity.

During the week the book was released, I would stalk the bookstores, waiting to see ‘my’ book on the shelves. When they did arrive, I danced/skipped in the aisle (truly), and stared in amazement at my name in ink. I fantasized about spreading a few books on the floor of the bookstore and frolicking in joy. So much for professionalism.

Since none of these ‘famous’ things happened, I reverted to basking in my own literary joy.

After the books were in the stores for a week, I built up the nerve to go sign some books. Me, Lisa, doing that – who woulda thought?

I had no idea what to expect, never mind having no idea of how it was done. So…I just did it.

I spoke to the manager of the first bookstore, and she resoundingly said YES to my offer to sign books. After bumbling like an idiot (me, not her), she told me to get the books from the shelf, and go to the corner to sign them. It took great effort to sign normally with shaking hands, all the while acting cool and calm, as if I do that sort of thing every day.

Done signing, I wondered what to do next. So I took the books back on the shelf - FACE OUT - and left the store.

No trumpets sounded; no red carpet was rolled. Oh – okay then. That’s all there is to it, I guess. But I wasn’t disappointed. I giggled and skipped my way down the street, proud of what I had just done.

The next day, feeling brave and confident, I stopped at the next store.

I approached the manager and he, along with his co-worker, was quite thrilled with the whole thing. “We just had Adrienne Clarkson (former Governor-General of Canada) here last week signing her book, and now you’re here!”

My GOD, I thought, I am being used in the same sentence as Adrienne Clarkson.

They asked me about writing, one of them blushed, they collected the books for me to sign, they wouldn’t let me put the books back….it went on.

At the risk of sounding like my head had swelled bigger than the bookstore, read on….

A week later I was reminded of WHY I write – not for fame, money, or a new Coach bag (well, maybe). On the Chicken Soup for the Soul® website, readers can subscribe to have a Chicken Soup story, randomly picked from their countless books, sent to their email. One of my stories from ‘my’ book was picked.

The next day, my elation at this honour still having me in whirlwind, I received an email from a Chicken Soup story subscriber. She made the effort to track down my email address to tell me she had read the story, was touched, and to keep writing.

And THAT is why I write. Forget about fame....

When Technology and Fruit Meet

2011-11-11T06:28:00.000-08:00

I am not overly techno-savvy. But I can navigate my way around a computer decently enough (heck, I made this blog, right?), format a letter of gratitude to the makers of Vidal Sassoon hairspray, and know when it’s time to recharge my apparently archaic 2 year-old cell phone.

I don’t own an iPad or iPhone. I have an iPod, but the songs have not been updated in 3 years. My son has to do that for me. One earphone is broken, and if I hold the wire JUST right, I can get both working; a feat mastered on my walks at 4:30am.

PAPERbacks are preferred, hence no e-reader. I am a sucker for simplicity and routine, and very often anything other than good ole tried-and-true rattles my world. Saying all that, however, I am willing to try something new - just once. Because we all know - change is good.

I will try new foods – rare fruits and veggies – provided I can down a few Rolaids® afterwards, just in case. Anything spicy or exotic, and my sensitive stomach retaliates. So sticking with the good ole tried-and-true is best.

Like apples, oranges and bananas - the basics.

So when I peeled my banana one morning, I was startled to find one of those new and improved ‘scan code’ things stuck to the peel. Those weird little symbols of garbled squares and blocks like something straight out of the 1980’s Atari® Space Invaders game have replaced the usual banana sticker.

I see the scan code things everywhere – there was even one on my new washing machine. When scanned with your iPhone, it links your phone to the company’s website – or something. I don’t have the phone to engage in such technological activities, and I wouldn’t have the time or inclination to do so if I did.

My techno-son says some call the weird black and white square things scan codes or bar codes. Even the age-old mysterious black and white stripped lines telling a cashier clerk the price of something, is changing. They’ve been around for years! Leave them alone, would ya?

But when I saw one of those Atari Space Invaders things on my banana, my first reaction was ‘Now THIS!?’ Yes, the fine print on the sticker says ‘Scan for Contest Info,’ but not even the chance at winning something, even if it was a banana yellow car, can conform me.

Leave my bananas alone.

I understand the companies’ need to keep up with these competitive times. As fast as technology can evolve, companies can rise and fall. But fruit is here to stay (global warming aside) – especially bananas.

Some countries in the world are so technologically advanced they have scan codes on bus stops relaying schedule information to riders’ phones, whereas some countries don’t even have bus stops – never mind buses and phones. I think I sit somewhere in the middle - one foot in each country, as it were.

But keep technology away from my fruit. Just leave it alone – leave it be. It’s just a banana – natural and untouched (except for all the processes involved in ripening and preserving them, but we won’t go there right now.) Don’t taint it with ever-evolving technological garbbledy-goop. Preserve its innocence, and leave it scan free. Can’t there be a little piece of life that hasn’t been touched by technology?

Leave my bananas alone.

Hairy Halloween

2011-11-04T05:53:00.000-07:00

It was time to get my hair cut; it needed it, desperately. Sun damage from the summer had to go. I don’t get my hair cut very often. Finding time, and the nerve, often hampers my coiffure pursuits. Keeping it long and straight (and boring), works for my busy life. A ponytail works wonders, so length is needed for the fast and furious up-do.

But I had to do it. Scraggly hair does not a Vogue cover model, make.

I summoned the courage, and before I could change my mind, off I went. Therefore, I have no ‘before’ pictures to compare, and the ‘after’ pictures I just can’t do – yet.

With a toothpick in his mouth, the hairdresser guy much younger than me chattered about Halloween two days away. The parties he was going to – snip. The costume he was going to wear – snip, snip. (Switch toothpick to the other side). And the grumpy old people who complain about Halloween antics? May the goblins get them, he cackled - triple snip.

I was determined to show him I was cool, composed, and unaffected by the amount of hair floating by.

I guffawed, cussed, and agreed at all the right times, my seemingly outward composure, secure. Sure, he had been doing this for 10 years, as he said. But with each snip, my composure fell to the ground, inch by inch. Hair grows, I kept telling myself. I needed to get this done, I kept telling myself. But my positive self-talk failed miserably.

Underneath the hairdresser’s cape, I was shaking. I couldn’t breathe the neck was buttoned so tight. Strangulation in the hairdresser’s chair was sure to be my demise. There was no ventilation under that thing, either. As sweat dribbled down my back, I was thankful for the cape - never let them see ya sweat, and all that.

Let me make one thing clear, however, should the stud himself ever read this – he did an excellent job. Truly. He did exactly as I asked; no more, no less. No weird ends. No missed pieces. Maybe a tad too short for my liking, however, but hair grows, as I kept telling myself.

What had I done?

The transformation complete, I made the mistake of looking at the pile on the floor as I got up. The shaking escalated, making my teeth rattle like the skeletons readying to roam the streets in two nights’ time. I tried not to gasp, failed, and with a lame giggle to cover my audible show of weakness, I jelly-legged to the cash register. My hands shook like a caffeine junkie as I tried to peel the bills from the wad of millions in my wallet. I chattered a bit too much. I flicked my hair in wonder at the weightlessness a bit too much. People were staring.

What had I done?

As I put on my coat, I realized I barely had to pull my hair out from underneath like I used to have to do only 45 minutes before. My family was set to visit the pumpkin patch heralding haunted houses and replica graveyards sporting dead bodies in a few hours. I would fit right in. I would be able to scare the young and old, free of charge.

How I drove home without creating a 1-car pileup (with me, anything’s possible), I’ll never know. I banned anyone from looking at me as I scurried in the house. I washed my hair, and attempted to do something with it. Luckily (for his sake), the man of the house noticed and said all the right things – not really.

“Wow, you haven’t had it that short for a long time.”

WRONG THING TO SAY.

The kids didn’t notice how bald I was. My hands were still shaking. I longed for a Valium. Off to the pumpkin patch we went.

It’s done, it needed to be done, hair grows I kept chanting to myself as we slogged through the fertilizer and pumpkin vines. A kid in a witch costume complete with a scraggly wig ran by – SHE HAS BETTER HAIR THAN ME, I moaned. The carved pumpkin I happened to be standing beside had no response.

Determined not to let trivial things like hair ruin our family time, I focused on the pumpkins, the hay ride, and the replica graveyard. For a split second as a few short strands blew in my eyes, I longed to lie down in one of the graves and get it over with.

On the way home, I realized no one turned to stone at the sight of me, and my family was happy with our Halloween adventure. And that was all that really mattered.

Hair grows.

Halloween day was business as usual; get up, do something with my hair, and go to work. The hair worked out relatively fine, what was left of it, and whaddya know? I could still put it in a ponytail. And even though I felt like I was practically bald – not that there is anything wrong with that – no one noticed. I guess those missing 3 inches of my precious locks didn’t make much difference.

This was me on Halloween, the hair-panic forgotten. I didn’t need fancy hair for my costume, anyways.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness

2011-10-27T20:08:00.000-07:00

This was what was on my door one autumn Tuesday afternoon from Canpar Delivery. Most interesting to note, of course, was who the boxes were from – SIMON AND SCHUSTER (book distributor). Note also, if you can, my explicit instructions of where to leave the (most waited for, highly anticipated, treasured) boxes. My note to the delivery guy said "Please leave just under the hose by door."

Hmmm……..the excitement was building.

The next day….

This was what my door looked like with boxes from Simon and Schuster sitting in front….the delivery guy followed my instructions. Note the hose; he followed my explicit instructions. I like that delivery guy.

This is what 40 copies of ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ look like. They were in the boxes.

Never before have books been so photographed…I have lots more pictures if you want to see…….

This is an artfully arranged display of the books, ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ (yes, I am plugging the book).

Why the boxes, books and pictures?

Two of my stories are featured in ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ (ISBN: 978-1-935096-77-1, Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC), story #31 – A Real Turnaround and story #85 – How I Talked My Way to Happiness.

There are no pictures of me with the books on the day they arrived. I looked awful from not getting any sleep the night before – I was waiting for the delivery guy to come back with my boxes.

Which was dumb of me, as it wasn't like he was gonna come back at 3:00 o’clock in the morning.

I was a tad excited, to say the least.

A Turkey and a Nighthawk

2011-10-21T05:51:00.000-07:00

Nosy Person: “Lisa, why are you limping?”
Sarcastic Lisa: “I tripped on a pinecone while feeding a toothless cat at 2:30 in the morning.”

Truly, that’s what happened.

My son was hired to feed a neighbour’s cat over the Thanksgiving weekend; just breakfast and dinner.

So on the third night in to ‘his’ job, I woke at 2am – wide, WIDE awake. After a trip to the washroom, hoping to remedy the non-sleeping issue, I went back to bed. The sandman was JUST about to have his way with me, when………

Oh my God – I don’t think the cat was fed dinner!

I sifted through the sand in my brain trying to remember if the cat had been fed. True, it wasn’t MY job. And true, the cat WOULD live until breakfast. But it would be MY luck, on OUR watch, that something would happen to the cat.

Added to that, the poor thing has no teeth. I couldn’t very well let it suffer anymore than it likely already was; separation anxiety from her owners, and all that. Never mind not eating turkey.

By then it was 2:15 am, so knowing I would never get back to sleep worrying about the cat, I knew what I had to do. With a coat thrown over my pyjamas, and bed-head big enough to turn a racoon to stone with one look, I picked my way through the leaves to the neighbour’s house. The extreme silence at that time of morning amplifies every sound, and I was sure that one wrong step on an extra crunchy leaf would have the neighbours calling 9-1-1. Onward I plodded; down the lane, down some steps, and I was there.

I got to the house - the cat was alive - fed her some pureed cat food, and started to make my way back home. Phew. Hopefully now, worry-free, I would be able to get back to sleep.

Up the stairs I picked my way, again avoiding the leaves.

Oh God. Did I lock their door?

Up a few more steps.

Ummmm…hmmmm. I can’t remember.

I knew if I went home, I would never get back to sleep with worrying about the door – even though I was sure I locked it.

Aw crap. I better go back and check. I’m awake anyways.
So back down the steps I went.

I (stupidly) step on some SOFT looking leaves, and….stumble and twist my ankle on a pinecone hidden underneath.

And mid-stumble, I had a million thoughts race through my head, all jumbled together in one long sentence:

What if I fall and as my body flails down the steps I wake the neighbours and they see me in my pyjamas and they call 911 fearing I am a crazy murderer and with my hair looking the way it does and my arm is still bad from my fall in July (see story ‘The One Armed Rancher' - August 11, 2011) and I hope I don’t fall on it and ohmygodmyanklereallyhurts…..

So I stumbled and fumbled, and luckily didn’t actually fall DOWN the steps. After the sound of things cracking and tearing in my ankle finished echoing off the surrounding homes (I swear I saw someone’s bedroom light come on), I hobbled my way down the steps, back to the neighbour’s front door.

It was locked. Lovely. Perfect. Great. I could finally hobble back home.

And of course, because I am a precautious kinda girl, not a few steps away from the house did I have to go back and double-check. Again. Just to make sure.

Great. The house was locked, the cat was fed - I could go home and back to sleep. Hopefully.

Little did I know (and by then I SHOULD have known – what am I, thick?), that after all those early morning exploits, I would never get back to sleep.

I hobbled home, my bed-head finally settling down. My shoes and coat were quietly thrown on the floor, and I made my way to the couch; why wake the rest of the house?

And then it started.

The throbbing. Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom, ba boom. That dull thud like a beating drum vibrated from my ankle through my leg, and kept me awake for most of the night. Or morning. Or whatever it was at that point. In the great scheme of things, it really didn’t matter.

Needless to say, the boy hadn’t fed the cat dinner the night before, so my nocturnal antics were not completely unfounded. I didn’t get mad at him, however; it’s not his fault his mother is a neurotic nighthawk.

And at least I got my turkey in the oven just a few hours later.

Mine never looks like this.

Thankful for the Words and I

2011-10-14T05:36:00.000-07:00

For the past year, much of my energy has been spent thinking about my bathroom.

Upon moving into our home - complete with one-and-a-half bathrooms - over a year ago, I claimed the ‘powder room’ as my own. My own office, that is. And I have exuded extreme patience while waiting to make it into my own place to write. But time and money needed to create the office of my dreams, in and around the toilet, have failed to surface. I won’t let those dreams completely flush away.

With a house too small to situate a desk elsewhere, every nook and cranny occupying Legos©, Nerf© guns, gaming systems, and cat paraphanelia, having a desk of my own, elsewhere, is not an option. All the bedrooms, albeit small, are inhabited. Now I see why folks get excited when their brood fly the coop – they immediately make plans for the bedroom left behind. Not that I am anxious for my growing little weeds to leave, just so I can selfishly foster my writing-space dreams, but…..

Books, endless paper (of all kinds), make-up, hairspray, and countless jars of anti-wrinkle cream are stashed on shelves, under the sink, and on a TV tray - from the 70’s, no less. But I love my room, it’s mine, and I can put anything I want in it.

Even autographed Rick Springfield albums.

So, while I wait for the bathroom transformation, I write at the kitchen table at 5 am before the world awakes. Every night I haul out the laptop, brush dinner crumbs off the kitchen table, and set it up, ready for the next morning. But, over time, resentment seeped in. Why can’t I have a desk like every other writer? Why is my office/bathroom STILL not a fully functioning office?

One night as I aggressively wiped a smear of ketchup from MY spot on the table, I remembered – countless writing careers were started at the kitchen table. And in the basement. And in the garage. And better yet, in the bathtub.

Now if my ‘office’ only had a bathtub…..

And although I am nowhere near being the next (insert famous author name, here), the bottom line is, I write.

I met someone the other day who admitted they always imagined writers as being reclusive and mysterious, living and writing in a castle far, far away. Heck, I’m a writer, and my castle is my rented townhouse. And really, I guess you could say I DO have my own throne.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that I don’t have my own office. Where ‘home is where you hang your hat,’ my office is wherever I write. Whether at the kitchen table, or sitting on the toilet seat lid and scribbling a few thoughts with paper and pen, or on the bus, it doesn’t matter. I write.

And I have also come to realize that not having an actual desk has been beneficial. No distractions.

The most distraction I have during the wee hours of my sacred writing time is watching a spider spin his (or her – I didn’t check) web under the glow of the street light outside the kitchen window. Sometimes the kitchen tap drips, so when a writerly thought is stuck, I get up to tighten the faucet. But once that procrastinating-task is complete, and I am sure the spider hasn’t fallen off his/her web, I am back at it, thoughts refreshed. And it’s just the screen, the keys, the words, and I. No paperclips to bend into weird shapes, no books to get lost in research, no nick-nacks to dust or rearrange. Nothing is within reach to distract, fostering procrastination.

Maybe not having a dolled-up desk is best, after all. Who knows….

Despite the spiders and faucets, I would still like to have a desk. All this doesn’t mean I am giving-up, thereby resigning to the fact of ‘never’ having a desk. There is always ‘one day,’ and the dreams surrounding it are endless.

But for now, I am thankful for what I do have. I have a space of my own, complete with toilet paper. I have a roof over my head to write, and the means with which to do so. I enjoy every moment my kids are at home, nestled in their rooms, and Rick Springfield watches me do my hair every morning.

Now, excuse me – I have to visit the powder room...

Pickles, Firemen and Chocolate

2011-10-07T05:26:00.000-07:00

With pickling salt on one side of us, and an urn on the other, I, along with members of the Vancouver Island Chapter of Romance Writers of America, chatted-up attendees at the Victoria Women`s Show. Fine ladies selling homemade pickles were on one side of our booth, while on the other side, a memorial/crematorium company sold…well…they weren’t selling anything other than an option of who to go to when you are ready to – go. The urn they had on display was quite nice, and at least a make-up artist was a few booths over to give one last quick make-over, just in case.

The Saanich Firefighters were conveniently onsite, selling their pin-up style calendar for charity. Those guys knew how to work a room – hey, it was the Women’s Show, what do you expect? Sadly, however, they never made it our way, so I resorted to eating a chocolate – or two. Maybe more.

So the weekend of October 1 was full of talking, smiling, talking, and smiling. When we weren’t promoting the chapter, we were promoting the romance genre and our authors. Hundreds of books, bookmarks and chocolates were handed out, all in the name of sharing the world of romance writing. Folks claiming to be ‘closet writers’ were thankful to have found us. There were those who were admirers of our local authors present at the booth, as well as those who were surprised to learn how rich Vancouver Island is with writers, published and aspired.

By the end of the weekend, the shortage of bookmarks and bookmarks was telling – we had done our best in promoting the romance genre. My networking muscles had a good work-out, and A535 was liberally applied at night to my sore cheeks aching from all that smiling and talking. And I neither ended up pickled nor in an urn – so that’s something!

From left to right: Jodie Esch, writer of young adult fiction; Susan Lyons, multi-published author of sexy romance; and me…just trying to look cute.

From left to right: Multi-published author of spicy romance,Bonnie Edwards; multi-published author of contemporary romance, Lee McKenzie; and Susan Lyons, multi-published author of sexy romance.

Mimi Barbour, multi-published author of contemporary romance, and Daniella Hewson, historical romance writer

Pat Amsden and Judy Hudson, romance writers

Not shown: Sharon Ashwood, Multi-published author of paranormal romance

Woolly Mammoth and T-Rex to Meet at Royal BC Museum

2011-09-30T06:16:00.000-07:00

I stopped at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, BC while on my lunchbreak – to get a coffee from the coffee shop, use the washroom, that sort of thing – and I came around the corner in the lobby to find this:

Aha! The suspense starts! Inconspicuous crates bearing labels with ‘Do Not Open Until September 28th’ were stacked, unassumingly, against a wall. No fan-fare, no signs, no nothing. Just the crates.

Do Not Open Until September 28th????? It was only September 13th!

Don’t they know better than to do that to me? I can’t WAIT! I skulked around the crates, itching to know what was inside. Now my imagination was fuelled.

Were more dishes discovered from the Titanic? And would they let me buy some to add to my collection of mismatched teacups? Or what if they are Dead Sea Scrolls? Or what if they found the Holy Grail?

Already wired, I skipped the coffee, but the washroom was a must. As I later left the building, I knew I had to get a hold of myself. My thoughts were racing; I had to put the crates out of my mind. With TOO MANY days to WAIT and ponder before the great unveiling (I was tempted to sneak in a crowbar), I had more important things to think about – to worry about.

Like if I had enough hairspray to last me the week.

Days later I went back, anxious to see if anything had changed. The September 28th timeframe? Forget it. I was sure it was just a gimmick to throw me off, the museum staff conspiring against me.

So I entered the museum lobby from a different direction than days before, hoping to throw THEM off their tracks, and made a beeline for where the crates were. I came around the corner, and……..the crates were GONE!

What? They're gone!? Before I could work myself into a later any further, I heard a low, snarling growl behind me.

Had the Woolly Mammoth from the Ice Age display come to life? Do we evacuate,for fear of being trampled?

Oh God! I hoped my hair would stay in place if I ended up in an ambulance. If I survived, that is.

I slowly turned, fearful of being stabbed by a great tusk (although I realize I would be miles shorter than the tip of the deadly ivory), and I saw this:

The crates had been moved, and MORE added. But this time they were roped off – to hold the curious back (meaning me). And aha! There was a sign! At last I would finally get to know what’s inside!

Oh. Seals.

The sign had a picture of seals accompanied with the words ’10 More Sleeps!’ Not that there is anything wrong with seals. In fact, I find great joy in seeing them in the water when I go to the beach, or when I see them from the ferry, or from the other beach, or from the other beach, or from the other beach...

Um, I can see seals anytime. I do appreciate them, and am thankful for them, and I do not wish them harm, but…. I got excited for seals? (Again, there is nothing wrong with seals). Alright, then. 10 more sleeps until I can see the seal display. I can get excited for that - I guess.

Another growl accompanied by a high screech had me almost dropping my camera.
Um, I didn't know seals sound like that. Not the ones I know, at least.

I scooted over to the coat-check desk, and asked the attendant if she knew what was inside the crates.

Frustrated, she grumbled, “They never tell us anything.”

Do I believe her, I wondered? These folks are pretty secretive…

The growling continued, the woolly mammoth stayed put, and I had to head to back to work – but not before I stopped at the drugstore for my hairspray.

10 sleeps later I went back, skulking through the back entrance to where the growling ‘seal’ crates had been. Black drapes, 20 feet high, hid the area. Well, I wasn't going to let a few drapes stop me, and given there were no ropes to hold back the curious (again, me), I went through an opening, and found this:

Guess I will be coming back on May 17,2012 to see the dinosaurs - but this time with the men-folk of my house! (The 'seal sign' was obviously a ruse to throw me. Because, as you know, this was all about me.)

Be sure to mark your calendars for May 17, 2012, when the dinosaurs and the mammoth meet at the Royal BC Museum to swap tales of old. Visit their website at www.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca for more information, or visit their blog at Royal BC Museum: Where did you shoot that mammoth?

(Many thanks to the Royal BC Museum for use of their Woolly Mammoth photo)
Royal BC Museum, 675 Belleville Street, Victoria, BC Canada V8W 9W2

Dumpster Diving: 101

2011-09-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

I bought a new purse.

Don’t get excited – no Coach, Prada, Chanel, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Kate Spade, Gucci or Dolce Gabana for me. It’s just a functional, it’s-okay-if-it-gets-rained-on, $15.00 cheapo purse. Nothing fancy, by any means.

So in my rush, angst, and excitement to discard the old, cheap purse, which was quite literally falling apart at the seams, I transferred everything from one purse to the other, marvelling at the wonder of intact stitching. Out with the old, in with the new; the old one found its way, hanging threads and all, into the garbage can under the sink.

Great. Whoopee. I felt like a new woman.

A full 24 hours went by with me strutting around with my new purse, intact seams and all, feeling like the Queen of the World, when I realized….

When I cleaned out my old purse, I forgot about one tiny side pocket.

Which had my flash drive in it. Which contained some of my writing.

I lost all feeling in my body, except for my stomach which was suddenly in dire need of antacids. I ran out to the dumpster where the garbage bag under the sink had eventually made its way – the garbage bag containing my old purse, containing my flash drive. Three garbage bags of the exact same colour were at the very bottom of the dumpster.

The very deep dumpster.

The very deep dumpster that was near impossible for me to climb into, unassisted.

Plus, it was broad daylight and the neighbours were watching.

My strapping young boys were willing to take on the task, but like I said - the neighbours were watching. Not that I felt that my neighbourly reputation out-ranked the need for my flash drive, but….

I alerted the husband of my dilemma, requesting dire assistance upon his arrival home from work – much later, after dark.

Pacing the house did not make the day go any faster, or the sun set any sooner. The novelty of the new, albeit cheap, purse wore off pretty quick. I knew I had most of my writing saved on my laptop…but…what if? What if there was something on the flash drive not on the laptop? I could visualize the purse in the garbage bag, covered in carrot peelings and egg shells, my flash drive safely tucked inside.

Much later, by the glow of the car headlights, in dove the husband. I offered kind support and guidance while standing outside the dumpster, holding the flashlight, with my trusty flannel pyjamas fluttering in the breeze. It was dark, so what did it matter? The neighbours were asleep by then, surely.

He opened each bag while I fought not to gag. The process would be quick, I figured, as I would be able to tell from the topmost contents, which bag was ours. Pizza boxes from way-too-expensive pizza joint – not ours. Organic milk containers – not ours. Baby food jars – not ours. Old, holey, runners – not ours. Bag by bag, my hope sunk faster that the bile rising in my throat.

Ew, ick, ew…..is that a…? Never mind. I didn’t mention to the husband what I observed. I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Three bags checked, and none of them ours. And then three bags double-checked, and still none of them ours.

Damn.

I replayed the last twenty for hours in my mind. The garbage bag containing the old purse, WITH my flash drive inside, must have made it to the dumpster shortly before the garbage truck came.

Shoulders slumped, and after helping the husband clamber his way out of the scary dumpster (it was touch and go there for a second – I didn’t think he was gonna make it), I made my way inside the house.

At least it wasn’t raining, so my pyjamas were dry, AND garbage- filth free.

“It’s gone.” I announced to the offspring inside, who knew how distraught I was.

Resigned to the fact, and knowing there was nothing I could do about it, I put away the flashlight and realized I learned a few things:

1. Some of us need to re-evaluate our household waste practices, including me.
2. You can learn a lot about folks from their garbage; be careful what you throw out.
3. Support for what I do comes in the most unexpected ways.
4. If I had purchased a better quality purse in the first place, something that would last longer, none of this would have likely ever happened.

And why was the flash drive in my purse in the first place?

For safekeeping, of course.

Shakespeare, Starbucks and Chanel

2011-09-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

Ahhh…books, bookmarks, and coffee. And chocolate. What more could a girl ask for.

I walked into Chapters bookstore in Victoria, BC, and as always, the smell enveloped me. After a lengthy absence from the store – summer vacations and all that - the smell of books, paper, and coffee from the Starbucks© coffee shop upstairs was like walking into a familiar home. Everyone’s home has its own scent.

I stopped the manager, Vanessa, and with my usual disclaimer of ‘I know this is a weird question, but I am not really weird,’ I asked her if anyone has ever mentioned the smell to her – but in a good way. She said customers mention it all the time, many saying they find it comforting. Every bookstore has its own scent, she says; whether be stores with new books or used.

Basking in the glory of the books, I browsed, grabbed a bookmark because I am addicted to them, and then made my way towards the door. But a wall, floor to ceiling, heralding e-readers and fancy leather cases, loomed before me.

That wasn’t there a few weeks ago. I stumbled around, disoriented with my routine thrown off. Ah, I reminded myself, times are a changin'.

Bookstores are closing, and more often than not, new books by favoured authors can only be found online, for purchase and download to your e-reader.

But if all bookstores close, what will I smell? And if all bookstores go, books will become passé – although I doubt that in my lifetime all books will not become passé – and what will I frolick in?

I THEN realized, horrified, as I made my way out the door to the busy street - What will become of bookmarks?!

I love bookmarks, collecting them from bookstores and authors – the signed ones don’t get used. In a pinch I have used a sticky note or BC Ferry receipt. I treat my books, new or used, like gold, refusing to crack the spine or dog-ear the pages. And of course, savouring the smell of the pages.

As car and bus exhaust replaced the intoxicating smell of the bookstore, I realized – book marks will become passé, eventually, as well. Extinct will be the tassels, the clips, the old receipts – even those crocheted worm bookmarks big in the 70’s (I know how to make them if you want one). I know e-readers have their own ‘bookmark’ feature, but like many avid readers who love the concept of paper in hand, many also love a good bookmark.

Saddened by the state of what was potentially yet to come, my world as I knew it was slowly unravelling like a crocheted bookmark right before my eyes. As I was on lunch, I made my way to a bench, to calm down and read, before heading back to work.

I dug my book out of my purse and flicked to the spot my bookmark was holding for me. In all my worry about eventually only having the memory of the smell of a bookstore to get me by, never mind paper books becoming a rarity and their bookmarks becoming artifacts in a museum, I realized….

Oh.

The bookmark du jour was a perfume card sample from the department store - this one, Chanel©.

Because I liked the smell.

Go figure.

Random Act of Reading - Obsessed Beyond Reason

2011-09-11T13:06:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t let it go.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

My obsession took control of my senses. Piles of laundry, filthy bathrooms, and a starving cat – never mind my starving family – were testament to my neurotic obsessing.

I simply HAD to call the lost and found at Victoria International Airport.

Going back a bit….

If you recall, IF you had been keeping up with my last two tales about the ‘Random Act of….Reading,’ dated August 26 and September 2, 2011, respectively, I recounted my find of a book being left like a message in a bottle by ‘Ann’ of Georgetown, ON. My then my subsequent obsessive attempt to pass on the love of a good book had me (neurotically) heading out the airport, leaving it in the washroom hoping someone travelling afar would take it, only to find it later removed by (possibly) a cleaning attendant. Which I realized, with much shame, was not a bad thing, after all.

Worrying that the book likely ended up in the garbage (I hoped the cleaning attendant at least took it home to read – that WAS the whole point of the experiment – to share a book), my imagination ran amuck, having me subsequently obsessing that the book was sitting in the lost and found department of the airport.

Unable to get it out of my mind, and with my cat nearing starvation, I had to put an end to my racing thoughts.

I called the lost and found department – at least I THOUGHT it was the lost and found.

Dialling the number and mentally readying myself to head back out there and get the book, the line connected. A voice of authority answered - “Security Office.”

Oh God.

What had I done?

“Um, I am looking for the lost and found department?” I was already wondering if I should have registered with Homeland Security before calling the airport.

“Yes, that is part of this office.”

I could practically hear security officers getting in their cars and tracking me down - they can trace calls, you know.

“Um, I am wondering if you have a book I lost?” Great. Now I am lying to the security department, and I KNOW they know I am lying because I am sure the phone is connected to a lie detector machine, and as we all know, I didn’t really LOSE the book….oh what have I done?

“When did you lose it?” Suspicion crept in her voice. I swear I could hear the security officers buckling up their riot gear.

“Um….sometime last week?” Great….any NORMAL person visiting the airport would know WHEN they were there, as they would have a NORMAL reason for being there, like picking up someone, or leaving to somewhere exotic. Because that is what NORMAL people actually DO at the airport. I couldn’t very well explain the REAL reason of why I was there, and why the book was ‘lost,’ now could I?

I would just look silly.

“Well, what day last week – end of August, beginning of September?” I could hear her flipping through pages of a book. Was I on a list somewhere?

Luckily for me, being the bright, quick one that I am, I was on my computer at the time, and while I rambled aimlessly about dates, I looked on my blog, noted the entry of ‘Random Act of ….Reading; The Saga Continues (September 2nd, if you have been following along!), and counted the days backwards to approximately when I was there.

“Um….around August 30th or 31st?” I say ‘um’ a lot.

“Okay,” I could hear more pages flipping, “let me see here.” I was holding my breath, waiting for security to come bursting through my front door, guns drawn, as she looked through some ‘list.’

“Ah, August 30th. What was the name of the book?” I could feel her impatience through the line. I hope she couldn’t see me flapping my arms in panic.

“’Rescue’ by Anita Shreve.”

“Okay…(flip, flip, flip)….laptop, book – oh wait…book? Harry Potter? No, that’s not it.” Harry Potter? Didn’t I just say the name of the book?

She continued. “Cell phone….sunglasses…" (pause) "Now to August 31st. Laptop - no. Wallet - no.” Yes, yes! I wanted to scream! The wallet is mine, especially if there is a million dollars in it!

But I would never do that….

She continued going through each date. The pages she flipped through was not a list of suspicious ‘persons,’ but a book of items found at the airport. She kindly went through each date, and each item found and registered. I wonder if someone would call from Cairo looking for their Starbucks card they dropped….

But no book of mine was to be found.

“Sorry, nothing here.”

“But did you check the whole week….um, from August 29th to September 2nd?” I was panicking, but elation was slowly creeping in.

“Yes, I went through the whole week. Nothing here.”

“Okay, well thank you very much for checking. I really apprec…..” And the line went dead.

Um.

So that ends that. The book did not end up in the lost and found, and I can only hope that a/ the cleaning attendant took it, read it, and has passed it on, or b/maybe the book ended up in Cairo or Dublin, or.....

My obsession has been quieted, for now. I hope the book ends up SOMEWHERE, with SOMEONE reading it and passing it on.

I hope someone emails me…..

Uh oh.

A new obsession has been started - checking my email every five minutes.

Stay tuned….sort of.

Random Act of...Reading: The Saga Continues

2011-09-02T06:15:00.001-07:00

(Please visit my previous story 'Random Act of...Reading' dated August 26, 2011 for understanding of this saga...)
I watched the short haul airliner load with passengers and luggage on the tarmac. Once loaded and checked, the doors of the 80-seat aircraft were sealed shut; the turboprops firing up at the pilot’s command. As the pilot continued his pre-flight check, the ailerons flicked up and down as if saying ‘bye bye,’ the rudder moving left and right like a fish tail.

Sure, Victoria International Airport (Airport Designator: YYJ) isn’t known for massive wide body airliners like 747s heading to Pakistan or Iceland. But many flights do depart to the United States, stopping at Vancouver International Airport (Airport Designator: YVR), connecting passengers to other flights travelling afar.

My French Fries were disappearing fast as I watched the flight departure in fascination, my imagination of destinations unknown in overdrive.

Because I knew it had to be in there.

The book.

I dipped a French Fry in (more) salt and ketchup as another aircraft taxied out to the runway. This adventure was well worth the dollar in parking (for two whole hours, no less), and the 2.99 I spent on fries; just to see my experiment take-off to who-knows-where.

If you read my last adventure, ‘Random Act of….Reading’ (Friday, August 26), finding a book being passed from one reader to another like a message in a bottle had me a little obsessive, to say the least.

So in order to get the book out of my hands, quieting my obsession, and have a proper second send-off, I plotted, planned, and contrived the best place to leave the book.

The airport.

As it was summer, travellers were bustling to and fro. But where to leave it, exactly? Because the book was women’s fiction, I figured the best place was the women’s washroom. Not that leaving it in the washroom was testament to the quality of the book, but leaving it in the waiting area at the arrivals was too risky. I could just see some kind person running after me, waving the book in the air “Oh, miss! Oh miss! You forgot your book!” And I would have to kindly accept it back, smile and say thank you. I couldn’t very well explain my whole planned experiment, could I? No.

I would just look silly.

So into the washroom I went, looking left and right for any observers/mind readers, and found the perfect stall. I placed the book, standing up as if on display, on top of the toilet paper dispenser. Satisfied with my mission, I left and made to wash my hands, just in case anyone was watching. I had to authenticate my need to visit the washroom, after all. Smug and quite proud of my accomplishment, I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror. Had I changed since accomplishing this ground-breaking feat? Despite the bags under my eyes, the dry, frizzy hair and the pimple on my chin, those Bond Girls have nothin’ on me.

So I celebrated with sodium-enriched French Fries, and eyed each person who came out of the washroom, making their way through security to the departure gate. Who had the book, and where was it headed to? And would they pass it on as I had inscribed in the book? I saw no one carrying the book, but was SURE at least ONE person had the great find stashed in her bag.

French Fries gone, the few planes on the tarmac now departed, the vortices curling and snapping in their wake, it was time to go. Besides, security was eyeing me, and I hadn’t brought my toothbrush for my usual overnight prison stay.

Curiosity got the better of me, though, and I simply had to go back to see if it was gone.

Entering the washroom, I noticed it smelled....fresher. Cleaner. Ah well, I shrugged the observation aside, this is a very clean airport. I likely didn’t notice the cleanliness during my initial visit, so focused I was on my mission.

I went to the stall.

The book was gone!

But before elation could get the better of me, I realized one thing.

The toilet seat was up, blue cleaner was still in the bowl, and the tiny scrap of paper earlier seen on the ground, was gone.

NO!

I went from stall to stall. All were the same. Lids up, cleaner within; clean as a whistle.

The cleaning attendants must have gone in while I was inhaling – sorry, DELICATELY dining on – my fries, and did their job.

Although I am not opposed to clean washrooms, and I commend the staff for doing their job, the book was supposed to be going on a plane to somewhere exotic. I could only hope the attendant didn’t throw it out, or leave it in the lost and found where it would sit forever. Mission failed, I made my way to the car, slumped over and disappointed.

As I drove away, the planes taking off without my book, shame washed over me like jet engine exhaust. This experiment wasn’t about me. The whole point of this mission was to get a book into the hands of another reader; to share the love of a good book, as the original book-inscriber had likely intended. Someone WOULD read it. It didn’t matter if they lived right across the street from me, or on the other side of the world. Even though my intent was to see a book travel the world, hoping readers would inscribe in the book, and possibly email me (again, see previous tale as mentioned above), I had forgotten the whole point - to share the joy of reading. So really....mission accomplished.

The planes continued leaving, I still kept wondering, and the French Fries were giving me indigestion. BUT, I decided to head back in a day or so and check-out the airport's lost and found, anyways – just in case.

If not, at least, for another $2.99 medium-sized French Fries.

(for more information about stuff going on at the airport visit/click Victoria International Airport)

Random Act of.....Reading

2011-08-26T06:14:00.000-07:00

Somewhere far, far away – far from where I live, at least – in Georgetown, Ontario, Canada, is someone who loves a good book.

And had a need to share.

I had six glorious minutes of peace, quiet and tranquility before my bus was to arrive. In my busy life, as for many, six minutes of peace is nirvana, and where better to find it than along loud, bustling, smoggy, tourist-laden Douglas Street in Victoria, BC.

Along a row of benches I found THE perfect bench to savour the moment. As I approached THE perfect bench, I spotted the object of my many desires and affections.

A book.

I tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. The authors’ name along the spine, Anita Shreve, had me whipping my ponytail in double-take. What a perfect find - an author whose books I enjoy, no less.

Do I pick it up? Should I pick it up?

What if the book was just lost, the owner frantically searching all over town for this treasure? What if it was being used as bait, kidnappers luring me in and waiting around the corner so they can throw me in the back of a truck?

Seeing that no one was running back for the lost book, no kidnappers were in sight, and that four of my six minutes had flown by during all this turmoil, I decided if it was covered in mud and goobers, in the trash it would go. And if I get kidnapped….well…..

With a quick glance around and looking unassuming and not-so-famous, with the stealth of a panther, the sly approach of a fox, and a nonchalant flick of my hair, I grabbed the book and made for the bus stop. With a quick flip through – it was goober free – I stuffed it in my bag before anyone could see. I wasn’t stealing, I found it, but I felt the adrenaline rush of a spy for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

On the bus, and eager to peruse my prize, I flipped it open, and written just inside the front cover was:

*Ann Smith
Georgetown, ON
Canada
Enjoy a good read!

*(I changed the name for her protection. Even though she took it upon herself to write her own name, I just felt that for things like freedom of information and privacy, identity-theft (for her sake), stalkers and the like, it might be a good idea.)

It took me a second to realize it wasn’t an inscription, as in gifting a book from one to another. But it WAS a gift to whoever picked it up. She was passing it on, sharing a book, and making her mark.

Who was she? What kind of person is she? Does she always do things like this? Did she like the book?

Where did she buy the book? How far had the book travelled? By plane or by car? Did she drive across Canada this summer, and purchase the book in Eyebrow, Saskatchewan?

What made her want to inscribe the book in such a way, and hope that someone picked it up? Has she done this before?

Intrigued and exhausted (from all that thinking, wondering and spying), I had deep thoughts while the bus jostled me to and fro. I HAD to write my own inscription for the next person – whoever that might be – and do as ‘Ann’ did, and pass it on. Hopefully the next finder of the book will write an inscription, and leave it for someone to find.

Here’s what I wrote:

Found this book in Victoria, BC Canada, by someone who wanted to share a good read. I am passing it on to you, hoping you will read, enjoy, inscribe, and pass it on. Write me and tell me where the book has been. (then my name and email)

As I finally spilled from the now jam-packed bus at the stop by my house, I was giddy with the wonder of the whole concept; the point of a ‘free book’ now forgotten. Kind of like a message in a bottle/chain letter kind of thing, I wondered if ‘Ann’ was on to something here. If she only knew what she set off in my imagination. What started for her as a simple random act of kindness, turned into, hopefully, something much more.

Now I just have to figure out the best place to leave it...do I drive to the airport? Go to the washroom in the Empress Hotel? a restaurant? a bus? What to do, what to do....

Will keep you posted if anyone writes me….

(oh…right…forgot one bit. ‘Rescue’ by Anita Shreve was fantastic. Read it in one day – go get it.)

Finding History at Whippletree Junction

2011-08-19T06:10:00.001-07:00

(A shorter version of this appeared in the April 2011 edition of Nanaimo Magazine - here it is in long play)

10 minutes south of Duncan, BC, or, 45 minutes north of Victoria, BC, (depending on which way you are travelling, mind you), sits a little ‘town’ – Whippletree Junction. Just off the Trans Canada Highway on Vancouver Island, 14 restored buildings from the early 1900’s house coffee shops, speciality shops, and restaurants. Antiques and artifacts nestled in the gardens between the shops further enhance the ‘old time’ ambiance.

But most importantly, to me at least, is the presence of a washroom. Nothing beats modern plumbing and electricity - thank you very much.

On the day I made the journey from Victoria to Nanaimo for a writing-related function, my halfway-mark pit stop at Whippletree Junction found me dodging puddles as I raced to the door bearing the ‘Ladies’ sign. The rain was awful – there is no flowery, fancy, or literary way to put it. Going 50 km/h on the typically 90 – 120km/h highway, I white-knuckled it as I fought each hydroplane-inducing puddle. The usual pit stop at the ‘town’ was much welcomed; not only for my bladder, but also for my nerves.

But as I made my way back to the car, already dreading the rest of the drive home, something caught my eye. In the alcove of a building sat a forgotten piece of history, rusting in the elements of Mother Nature. At first glance it looked like something out of Star Wars, circa 1977. But I soon realized Darth Vader’s throne, it was not.

Fighting the wind with my umbrella, my feet soaking in a puddle, I poked around this contraption, and figured out it was some sort of printing press.

Okay, I’ll admit it – the very large keyboard bearing still-intact letters was my hint.

As my research would later tell me, this particular ‘line casting’ machine, a printing machine able to print whole lines of type at once, was produced around the 1920’s by Intertype Corp., in Brooklyn, NY. With its 90-character keyboard (half upper case, half lower case, and the rest special characters – no qwerty anywhere), along with its countless levers, handles and gizmos, a hot metal ‘slug’ would be produced bearing words and sentences (I am giving you the extremely condensed version, here). Line those up, and you have yourself a whole paragraph, article or story! And Extra! EXTRA! You got yourself a newspaper.

Fun fact: The first line-casting machine was purchased for newspaper publishing by the New York Tribune in 1886.

How fitting I should notice this piece of history when my mind was abuzz of writerly thoughts, post meeting. I picked away a few stray pieces of grass, and juggling my umbrella, my purse and the rain drops, I snapped a few photos. How contrary this was, to be standing in front of this piece of rusted history, when only an hour or so before I was discussing e-publishing, e-books, e-readers – basically ‘e-everything.’

And I wondered – will our children, their children, and THEIR children line up to take pictures of our long discarded cellphones, laptops, Blackberries, iPads, Notebooks and god-knows-what-else has yet to come along? And in the typhoon-force rains like I was in, no less?

And what about those long past masters of their craft, able to multi-task all the levers, keys, and switches to produce copy for distribution. Have they been forgotten? Only their memory remains in this piece of history that sat before me, covered in old paint splatters, rust, grass and twigs.

What a long way we have come. Yet, now all we do is sit on our butts, type on a 104-key computer keyboard, 26 of which are actual letters, and moan that the printer is too far away from our arm to reach.

The One-Armed Rancher

2011-08-11T19:59:00.000-07:00

In Princeton, British Columbia, just east on highway 5A, is a gently paved road.

I say gently as I am sure somewhere deep under the potholes and rocks, time and logging trucks have compressed the gravel and dirt into something resembling smooth driving terrain.

The gently paved Summers Creek Road, 32 kilometres long, leads to a subdivision of 120 cottages surrounding Missezula Lake, a once highly renowned trophy fishing lake. To the normal driver, 32 kilometres doesn’t sound long, and would take maybe 15 – 20 minutes to drive if paved (if you drive like me, that is). But when you’re navigating your way around potholes, gravel the size of boulders, ground squirrels and chipmunks making a mad dash to and fro, never mind inching along sections wide enough for only one vehicle to slink around a blind corner, it takes a good hour to get to the other end. The cattle guards rattle your teeth, the twists and turns somersault your stomach, and the dust clogs your pores.

But as you reach for the anti-nausea pills, be mindful of the cows.

Yes, the cows. Forget about great fishing – give me the cows, any day.

Ranches flank the winding road, and except for the horses, the cows run amuck. The teeth-rattling, ankle-twisting cattle guards keep them where they should be – sort of.

I mean really, the ranchers can’t be everywhere, all the time, can they?

But I can.

With the hour-long bumpy ride behind me, and after the nausea cleared and I steam-cleaned my pores – in the wilderness, no less - three days into our stay at the lake, I found my calling.

While everyone slept off their s’mores, I maintained my daily walking regime. My early-morning treks to the lake were refreshing, albeit invigorating, to say the least. At nearly 4,000 feet above sea level, the walk around the subdivision has one who is accustomed to living well below sea level working up a good sweat.

One particular morning I set out, and just as was I pondering the whereabouts of cougars and bears, I could hear the cows mooing their little (or big) lungs out. Just outside the confines of our haven protected with a cattle guard and barbed wire, the cows ran and mooed their way down the road – towards our subdivision. Despite wondering if they were being chased by a bear or a cougar, I kept walking. That’s what cattle guards are for, to keep everything out - right?

With the cows still on my mind, I hiked the gravel roads twisting between the cottages, and watched the mist from the lake rise and disappear into the surrounding hills. But not even the entertainment of a mother loon and her babies fluttering between the docks could dispel my growing concern for the cows. I figured I better get back and check on the wild bovine; bears or cougars, aside.

I made my way to the entrance-gate where I suspected they would be, and there they were. The only thing between me and them were the mosquitoes, fresh mountain air, and the cattle guard. But I HAD to get closer. I side-stepped and slowly inched my way over the dusty pipes, out of the subdivision. I already had my arm in a sling; I didn’t need any more catastrophes (more on the arm, below).

I have been up close and personal with horses; riding them, grooming them, and getting bucked off them (the wrecked arm not a result of). But having nothing between me and ‘wild’ cows was a tad – intimidating.

They looked at me.

I looked at them.

I don’t know if the bull was there, but I suspect if he were, he wouldn’t be too thrilled with me traipsing around his harem.

They were on one side of the road, but I much preferred them on the other side, in the meadow - where they belong.

The rancher I am raised my ‘good’ arm in a ‘herding’ sorta way, and while making some cattle-call noises I was SURE ranchers EVERYWHERE use, I got them running. Across the road, through a break in the fence, and out to the meadow – where they belong.

Except for the big-horned one who engaged in a staring competition.

Uh oh. How fast could I run over the cattle guard with my arm in a sling?

But then he (I think ‘he’ - I didn’t ask if I could ‘check’), ambled his way through the fence, and carried on being a cow.

And I stood in awe of one of my greatest feats, ever.

I had become The One-Armed Rancher.

(As for the arm - I tripped and fell the week before the great ranching expedition and did ‘something’ to my arm. BUT, I can finally apply mascara with the wrecked arm if I tilt my head ‘just so.’ Aside from my sling that needs a good washing from all that dust, the cows survived, as will I. I am invincible.)

The Vancouver Island Chapter of Romance Writers of America Presents Mary Buckham

2011-08-06T08:46:00.000-07:00

September 10, 2011 (all-day fall workshop)
Speaker: Mary Buckham
Topic: From Thought to Plot
Location: Comfort Hotel and Conference Centre, Topaz Room, 3020 Blanshard Street, Victoria (Free Parking)
Time: 9 am to 5 pm (registration 9 – 9:30)
Cost: RWA members: $65.00, Non-members: $95.00 (includes lunch and coffee breaks)
Registration Deadline is September 1, 2011.

Break Into Fiction® From Thought to Plot

Mary will show you how to develop a budding idea before you begin to plot. This is not the two-day Power Plotting retreat, but a brainstorming workshop where she will show you where the stories and characters break down before the point of plotting. The backbone of a strong story begins with developing these critical elements in the early stages of brainstorming so that you aren’t trying to “shore” up your story later. Most stories that “don’t work” had the same problems at the inception stage, but once a writer has invested a significant amount of work in manuscript pages it becomes daunting to back up and make changes so they press ahead, band-aiding weak spots.

Come to this workshop with a new idea you have not fully developed. Learn how to spin your story ideas and characters to be fresh and different build a strong infrastructure for the plot.

You will learn:

Set Up to Character: Knowing certain things before the character steps into the story provides Checks and Balance on the characters as you write to assure your character stays “in character” and does in fact grow internally by the end.

Setting up to Conflict: In setting up the conflict, keep in mind that a conflict is only as strong as the character’s motivation to battle for something and the stakes that make the battle worth winning.

Setting up the Twist Points: In creating twist points, there are key elements to keep in mind: Motivation drives the character’s action. Decisions up the conflict and create a platform for action. Stakes drive the character’s motivation to act.

Do You Really Know What A Bigger Book Is? Tired of hearing, “Great story premise, strong voice, interesting characters…but it’s not big enough” – on a 400-page story with a subplot? Or maybe you’re ready to make the leap from category to single title. Learn what the differences are between a small concept and a bigger book!

Early Bird Draw: Register and pay by August 10th. Winner will receive free registration for the workshop.

Space is limited so register early! Registration Deadline is September 1, 2011.

Visit www.vicrwa.ca for more information on registration.

Start Spillin’ Some Ink

2011-07-29T05:51:00.001-07:00

I sometimes hear writers moan they have nothing to write about. Um, why do they call themselves writers, then? There is always something to write about. There is always something that needs to be said, created, imagined or interpreted.

These days, the word ink has become synonymous with tattoos, ‘Gonna get me some ink, man.’ And like tattoo artists, writers use ink to express themselves, make a statement, and create art. Everyone has something to say, something to express, something to write. Tattoo artists derive their art not only from catalogues of pre-designed tattoos, but they also expand on those creations, combine, or become inspired by those of other artists and create their own. They find meaning and direction through their art.

Getting a tattoo hurts – writing doesn’t have to.

I started this blog just over a year ago. Although I know I am not perfect – the craft of writing is ever-evolving and growing – I strive to entertain, warm the cockles of hearts, and inspire. Around the same time I started this blog, I was writing monthly articles for my writing chapters’ newsletter. I promised myself not to recycle articles/stories between the two – and I didn’t. It was all part of my goal to establish a writing routine to write more, as well as hone my craft.

I won’t lie by saying I never panicked – ‘Oh my god, what the heck am I going to write about? There is NOTHING to write about!!!’ I have a family, a job, laundry and bathrooms to clean, never mind a cat and fish to bother me. So sometimes, in the beginning, came up - blank. Coming up with something new every week is sometimes a challenge - no doubt about it. I have days were I am feeling uninspired. It’s only natural – I am a human-being.

But I gave myself a good shake, smacked myself upside the head, and gently reminded myself I am a writer. There is always, ALWAYS, something to write about. Writers write. That’s it. Plain and simple.

Do you ever hear tattoo artists moaning that they have nothing to create? Do you ever see them pouting outside their tattoo parlours? Do you see them moaning ‘I have nothing to design…’ their tattooed arms hanging limp at their side as they slump in a chair. Sometimes creative folk DO slump into an uncreative dry spell. But it’s up to you get it yourself out of it.

There is always something to write about.

The internet (don’t waste too much time lollygagging around on it!) is full of writing prompts to fuel your imagination and get your creativity going. Books and magazines on writing are over-flowing with ideas - the library is waiting for you.

And the best part – there is a whole world around you. What did you/can you learn from what you see – and not just what you see on the surface? What is beyond what you can see, before you?

You have a life you are living right now. You have imagination – use it. You have the ability to write – use it. You have a pen, paper, or computer – use it. You have thoughts, a voice, opinions, and dreams. Grab a pen and get them down.

Heck, make up a story about the meaning behind the tattoo on the neck of the guy sitting in front of you on the bus.

So quit trying so hard to be the greatest writer in the world. Be yourself – write what YOU want. Relax, let go, and look around for the little things.

Just put your pen to paper and let it fly.

Start spillin` some ink.

How to Wait Like a Writer

2011-07-22T05:51:00.000-07:00

Waiting for something doesn’t bother me – most of the time.

I don’t care about line-ups at the grocery store, post office or coffee shop – unless I am REALLY rushed (which is normal), and dying for my coffee (which is normal). However, I do get ‘restless’ when someone in the grocery check-out is complaining/whining/moaning about the lack of pureed, prickly pear, edible cactus.

Oh, for the love of God. Let’s just get ON WITH IT!

So I don’t mind line-ups. I can handle those, no problem.

But I hate waiting for news, good or bad. I hate waiting for mail - but love getting it. And it’s quite obvious that waiting for Santa, the Tooth Fairy, my birthday, and the Easter Bunny when I was a kid quite clearly, and still obviously, drove me out of my mind.

For a writer who is anxious to see their words in print, hoping to entertain, enlighten and inspire the world, waiting for any news from an agent, editor or publisher, positive or negative, can drive him or her (mostly me), off the cliff into a canyon of irrational behaviour – obsession.

Take, for instance, me. I am desperately waiting to hear about some upcoming writing news. I won’t share what it is yet because, given my near-psychotic superstitious nature, I’m afraid if I say anything now, I might jinx it.

So while I am waiting to hear, by email and mail from two different places, I obsess. I am practically catatonic and almost get nothing else done - no writing - as all my thoughts and energies are on one thing - waiting.

I scour the internet, searching for other writers who have posted their experiences with these publications on their blogs or websites. Information on response times, acceptances and rejections - I want to know it all. Time spent obsessing/stalking/surfing is time I should be writing. Yes, research and learning from others is part of the writing biz. But when I am not obsessing/stalking/surfing, I fight the urge to stare at the wall, frozen in anticipation, and inhale antacids.

Then there is the publisher who corresponds only by mail. Now for me, this is a good thing. The classic way of getting news via paper, envelope, and postage will never fail to thrill me. It makes me want to quit my day job and sit by the mailbox all day. But the Canadian Postal strike had me pacing the halls worrying about when it was going to be over. What if the publisher mailed me a contract and it’s sitting somewhere, waiting?

I contacted a fellow writer who knew someone, who knew someone, who knew someone else at the publisher, and relayed my worries. I know it sounds all very egotistical, as if I was counting my chickens before they hatched, but remember that I had to be proactive and think ahead – like a professional. So through the chain of information relayed backwards, my worries were settled. If they want my story, they will find me - no matter what. Kinda like CSIS (Canadian Security Intelligence Service). Cool.

My other writer friend (nameless at her request - for obvious reasons), became a sounding board for my psychotic concerns. She, too, revealed her…behaviour. In waiting for her own writing/publishing news, she gave up weeding her garden. While she watched the dandelions multiply, she directed her focus to the capabilities of her email. Did her email even work? Did she submit her work properly, as requested? Did she send it TO the right email address? Did she send them HER correct email?

She had her husband send her ‘test’ emails to make sure it worked. Um…while she was getting him to test her email, she was likely receiving mine.

So while I was obsessing, and not growing dandelions but grey hair, I was relaying all these ‘antics’ to a non-writing friend who is more supportive than any cross-your-heart-underwire-C-cup.

As I finished my tales of obsession, she looked at me stunned. As I worried she would call the men with straight-jackets for me and my writer friend, she said, “That’s like waiting for a guy to call!”

It’s true! I haven't been on the ‘market’ for a while, but memories of those bygone years still run deep; the waiting, worrying and obsessing. I need to stop waiting for him (or her) to call or write, and get writing.

Someone save me – from myself. And don’t make me wait.

And never put me on hold.

Grandma Knows Stuff

2011-07-15T06:13:00.000-07:00

I got a lead on free Slurpees®, and it was from my mother; aka, Grandma.

The Slurpee-run is usually Dad’s job, thereby fostering male-bonding and all that. I’m just not a Slurpee kinda gal. But to shake things up a bit from the usual Monday-to-Friday night grind of dinner, errands, driving kids hither-to, laundry and social graces lectures, I hustled my two young lads out the door after dinner on Monday, July 11, 2011.

It was, after all, summer vacation. And more importantly - the 84th anniversary of the good old stand-by convenience store, 7-Eleven®. Free Slurpees for all!

I kept our destination a mystery, just to build the excitement. I need to keep those yearlings of mine on their toes, you know. But my secretive coyness is better than I thought. The begging and pleading to know where we were going, coupled with their heightened excitement, had me wondering if they thought we were headed to Disneyland. I slouched in the driver’s seat as shame and guilt of my shortcomings as a mother set in. Knowing that all we were doing was getting Slurpees, and no neck-breaking rides or visits with Mickey Mouse were in the near future, I told them.

Not wanting to take all the glory for this wondrous ‘free stuff’ indulgence – for a free Slurpee, no less - the credit went to Grandma for this insider information.

Silence filled the car momentarily; the wheels spun in their pre-teen/teenage heads. Not only did the change in pace from the usual weeknight routine upset their sugar-addicted equilibrium, but the fact that Grandma knew…about FREE Slurpees….before THEY did….????

And how on earth did SHE, of all people, know of something so cool, trendy, and utterly childish? She who admits she has never in her life had a Slurpee?

She is as much as a mystery to them as they are to her. Living three hours apart, separated by water, makes family bonding a challenge. With her growing up in a family of mostly women, and then having three daughters herself, she struggles to understand the world of boys. The boys don’t shop at Holt Renfrew, and she has likely never built a Lego structure in her life.

But for one moment in time, they had a bond.

Not only did she lead them to sugar nirvana, but she found a way to connect with them; if only for a moment, from afar.

The car-ride home was filled with slurping their Slurpees and calling Grandma to thank her for the lead on the free sugar. Exemplary manners are expected by me at all times. Yes, I was driving somewhere to feed them sugar, but the unexpected trip gave us time together away from TV and anything electronic. While they peppered me with questions about 7-Eleven back ‘when I was a kid’ - if I hung out there, were there arcade games – my own continual quest to fit into their male world was satisfied. Yes, Slurpees aren’t only for boys. But in my house, especially given that I am the non-Slurpee-holic, I am the minority.

But much more was gained than a pair of blue tongues. It was a moment - out of the ordinary, the rush and routine - for me, my mom and my boys to connect.

Oh Thank Heaven for 7-Eleven®.

Sweet Anticipation

2011-07-08T06:05:00.000-07:00

I was second in line at the opening of the store created in 1910 - but I’m not that old. I had been watching and waiting for the big day, and at a mere 475 steps away from where I work (give or take a few steps to allow for the odd, excited stumble), how could I not be there for opening day. Every day I would pass by, quivering in anticipation for the doors to open.

And yes, I actually DID count the steps.

The English Sweet Shop, 101 years old, is as part of the essence of Victoria, BC as is the Empress Hotel. At 736 Douglas Street, just outside the Victoria Conference Center to which the historical hotel is attached, the sugary store has opened - finally.

I say finally because, as I said before, I was watching and waiting - patiently. But not stalking. Oh no, not stalking.

Wendy Beach, owner, had hoped to open on July 1st, which would have been perfect timing to kick off Canada Day, but a series of technical glitches delayed the opening to July 4th. Fine by me – I can say I was second in line 20 minutes after it opened. How cool is that?

First opened in 1910 on Cormorant Street, the confectioner’s delight then moved to Yates Street in the 30’s, moved a few more times up and down the street, then finally found a long-standing home at 738 Yates where it had been since 1946.

Until now.

Construction in the area of the old site had Wendy making the difficult decision to leave the historic storefront – oh, if those could talk, to be sure. But she has a following of folks who crave sweets and groceries from England-afar; treats they can’t get anywhere else. I know they’ll find her.

‘English’ candy lovers, both in-person and those who order online, likely have a running tab at the dentist, I am sure. With 360 canisters (yes, I counted them) of bulk sweets lining the shelves behind the counter, how could they not?

Bon bons, liquorices, mints and Swiss Petite Fruit – very jelly bean-like – wait to be collected and weighed, while candies twisted in foil sparkle in the new lighting.

Packaged delights from overseas like Cadbury’s Flake and Double Decker bar, not to mention Nestlé’s Toffee Crisp bar, line more shelves.

Visitors, ex-pats and new fans of such sacchariferous delectables would agree – they are worth coming downtown for.

An antique postal box greets you at the front door, and a telephone booth converted to a shelving unit holds groceries like jams, jellies, mustards and spreads, and something called….mushroom ketchup. ‘This rich cooking sauce was the secret of success of many Victorian cooks with steak and kidney pies and puddings, roast meats, sauces and soups since the 1800’s.’ So says the Geo Watkins label on the bottle, straight from Aylesford, Kent, England.

And this ‘ketchup’ doesn’t look anything like the typical tomato-based thick ketchup we North Americans drown our French Fries, in.

Huh, go figure - you learn something new every day.

But I’ll just stick to sugar today, thanks.

And of course, these days no ‘English’ store would be complete without Wills and Kate memorabilia. Mugs adorned with their faces sit beside ‘football’ scarves from Manchester United.

The new storefront, combined with the few ‘old world’ antiques and nostalgic sweets and groceries, was in sharp contrast to the modern Smart Car just outside.

As I watched the daily growth of the new store - from the guy applying the decals, to the movers wheeling in carts full of delights waiting for me to sample - I counted down the days, waiting and wondering in sweet anticipation.

And I knew that I, too, better double-check my dental plan. Not just for me, but also my kids for who I bought ‘English’ lollies. We’re gonna need it.

Visit The English Sweet Shop at 736 Douglas Street, Victora, BC Canada
http://www.englishsweets.com/

HAPPY CANADA DAY!

2011-07-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

Lucky Little Donkey

2011-07-01T07:40:00.000-07:00

How would you like a donkey named after you?

In a corner of a historic park in Victoria, BC, a jenny proudly shows-off her new baby.

What’s a jenny, you ask? Well, a female donkey, of course!

The Beacon Hill Park Petting zoo attracts thousands yearly, and these days are no different. Taffy, the miniature donkey, was all set to give birth in July. But as Mother Nature would have the final say, the baby - or foal - decided to make her way into the world a month and a half early. On May 25, 2011, Jeneece the miniature donkey was born.

The Beacon Hill Petting Zoo staff aptly named the baby after Jeneece Edroff, the 16-year-old dynamo who has raised over a million dollars for the Variety Children’s Charity (www.variety.bc.ca), all while keeping up with her studies at Claremont Secondary School. As a three-year-old she was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis – tumour growth on nerve tissues. As a thriving young adult, her medical challenges have spurned her volunteer work, earning her the Order of British Columbia. Find out more about this amazing girl and her work at www.jeneece.com

Jeneece, the girl, is honoured and thrilled to have this miniature donkey named after her, and I suspect if the donkey knew, she would be just as honoured to be named after such an inspirational kid.

Lucky little donkey.

Typical baby miniature donkeys weigh about 20 – 30 lbs, growing to weigh between 200 – 350 lbs at full ‘miniature’ size. That’s a lot of donkey, even for a ‘mini.’

And poor old mom carried baby around for upwards of 13-14 months before the big day. Ick. And I thought 9 months carrying around my own two little foals was bad enough.

The myth that donkeys are stupid is simply…a myth. They are self-preserving animals who know better than to put themselves in harm’s way. Stubborn, yet always craving attention, these underestimated herders hate being alone. They are happiest - when not getting unlimited attention from their owners, that is - in a pasture guarding sheep, goats, llamas, cats and dogs. Loyal and friendly, miniature donkeys make terrific pets, and given their potential 30-year lifespan, they make perfect lifelong companions.

Just don’t expect one to curl up at the foot of your bed.

Though curious by nature, Jeneece the donkey has remained close by her mother’s side. This particular sunny day when I all but climbed over the fence to cuddle her, she was a month and a day old. My shiny pink camera must have caught her attention, however, as the fuzzy foal inched her way towards me.

Step, step. Stop. Step, step. Stop.

She then gave up and figured she was better off with mom.

I don’t blame her, what with me and my paparazzi tendencies.

As donkey and girl sharing the same name grow in their own little worlds, one thing I knew for sure as I watched the little foal stumble her way back to mom; she was going to grow to be brave and as tireless as her namesake.

The BC Neurofibromatosis Foundation (http://www.bcnf.bc.ca/)

Unfinished Business

2011-06-24T06:07:00.000-07:00

One of my previous stories from September 9, 2010 - ‘ Writing With the Toilet Seat Down’ - told of my excitement in finally having my own office; my own space to write. The house we moved into last year has one-and-half bathrooms – the ‘half’ I commandeered to being my ‘office.’ And it IS my own space – as long as no other members in my house use it (!).

I have escalated my obsession with my office by banning everyone, even house guests, from using MY space. Yes, peek, have a tour, praise its beauty – but then get out. I make guests walk down two flights of stairs to the lower level of the house to use the ‘office’ down there.

That’s how selfish I am; how protective I am of my domain.

I serve coffee and tea to my guests like there’s no tomorrow, making up for my failings as a fully obliging hostess. But then, sadly, after all that coffee and tea, my adored guests have to make their way back down two flights of stairs.

Although we aren’t the socialites of the neighbourhood, constantly entertaining guests till the wee hours, I have been compiling reasons why my office – er, the washroom – is out of service. Just in case.

Cockamamie stories such as alligators coming up through the toilet. Not that we have alligators in these parts, mind you, but it sure sounds good.

And someone believed me – almost.

But it truly COULD happen, as just the other day an Emperor Penguin was found in New Zealand. http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/jun/21/emperor-penguins-detour-new-zealand

But I digress....

The most recent story used was that the hot water tank was on the fritz. Therefore, the water pressure was ‘off,’ and the toilet was, sadly, completely unusable (the hot water tank is very close in proximity to my office, so the story was highly probable). I apologetically explained that the landlord was set to repair it in two days (says I with my ever-batting eyelashes), so please use the downstairs ‘office’ – please.

And they bought it.

Um – I’m a writer – I create stuff. And in the name of protecting my domain, a girl’s gotta do what a girls’ gotta do.

But as you can see, the morph from lavatory to writing cave hasn’t progressed much further than from when we first moved in. My office still sits in limbo, waiting for more updating. Some days I am frustrated by the lack of progression. It’s been almost a year since we moved into this humble abode, and it’s shameful, really, to see that my office is pretty much the same. Sure, it’s a dream that has stalled, and previous announcements and proclamations have embarrassingly fallen to the wayside.

But it’s mine.

I write at the kitchen table, religiously pulling out my laptop every day at 5am, typing madly while in my precious jammies; not in the bathroom/office like I had previously planned.

But all good things come to those who wait.

I am a busy woman, spending all my money on my kids and coffee, and spending all my time on my kids, laundry, work and writing-on-the-fly. And making up…’stuff.’

I don’t wait very well, and some days it kills me - the waiting - but I have patience.

It will come; it will. It is still MY space – my office. I know some folks in my humble abode ‘borrow’ it when I am not around. They aren’t supposed to, but they do. So I keep chasing them down, and keep making up stories to prevent others from trying to sneak their way in there. And consider getting a lock.

For now, I keep writing. I have my space, I have my writing, and there are more important things in life to worry about.

Like stocking enough toilet paper to write on.

What kind of unfinished business do you have? Anything you have made public that you weren't able to follow through, with? Embarrassing? Funny?

Summer Has Arrived

2011-06-19T17:18:00.000-07:00

Tourist season in Victoria, BC starts building steam around April, at its height in July and August. Not only do the sidewalks congest with folks from afar seeking all that downtown Victoria has to offer, but so do the streets.

Transit buses carting folks arriving via BC Ferries jockey for lane space with red double-decker buses shuttling sightseers. Cars, bikes, horse ‘n carriages, tour buses and pedicabs - never mind those brave tourists who have rented mini-scooters for the day - all navigate around the occasional road construction and city parks workers who keep the city beautiful.

But what delights me most - the one vehicle that is out only for a day or two - is the hanging basket trolley. I get a real kick every year when I see it roaming the streets of Victoria. Not only am I witnessing a piece of history, but it also reminds that summer is almost here, and the kids are almost out of school (this is a good AND bad thing).

First started in 1937 to commemorate the 75th anniversary of the incorporation of the city in 1862, the 74-year-old tradition has city workers hanging baskets from lampposts in the beginning of June. Geraniums, petunias, and lobelia are just a few plants filling the famous baskets, with various varieties tried and tested every year, improving the assortment.

Watered daily from a truck carrying 2,250 litres of water, the baskets are further loved by weekly checks for moisture content as well as pH and soluble salt levels.

These are not just your ordinary hanging baskets.

The trolley roams the streets stopping at lampposts, and city staff balance on ladders, hoisting up baskets. Eventually to grow and weigh approximately 45 pounds, the baskets are barely half that weight to start; but that’s still a lot of work hanging close to 1,600 baskets.

But there is one other little transport unit zipping and buzzing around town, also minding the baskets. The Empress Hotel Bees, to be specific, according to Rachel Goldsworthy, who wrote about the latest buzz in Victoria. http://rachelgoldsworthy.blogspot.com/

Keep your eyes peeled if you come to Victoria. Everyone is busy, busy, busy; vehicles, people and…insects.

Jumpin' on the Bandwagon

2011-06-10T06:19:00.000-07:00

I have been drawn into the hype, excitement and swirl of emotions of the Stanley Cup Finals – just like I was during the Vancouver 2010 Olympics. And like most of the sports I cheered for during the Olympics, I don’t know a heckuva lot about our national sport - hockey. Sure, I know enough to cheer or groan at all the right, pivotal moments - but that’s about it.

And just like after the Olympics when the medals were ceremoniously handed out, after the Stanley Cup is presented, and the winners are kissing the cup – I will be done.

And jump off the bandwagon I so shamelessly boarded.

The Stanley Cup finals are in full swing, and like me, someone else has jumped on the bandwagon.

The bronze statue of Captain James Cook resides across the street from the famed Empress Hotel in the inner harbour of downtown Victoria BC. A hockey jersey of the Vancouver Canucks, one of the finalists vying for the historical silver cup, keeps Captain Cook cozy on these still chilly June evenings – truly showing his loyalty, pride and devotion to the hockey team the province, and most of Canada, are cheering for.

When Captain Cook dropped anchor in 1778 in Nootka Sound with his pals Mr. William Bligh and Midshipmen George Vancouver at his side, I don’t think he envisioned wearing fashionable garments such as this, one day, never mind watching a city/province/country going gaga over guys with sticks and a puck.

But alas, it’s all in the name of team support. Whether an avid fan, or someone like me jumpin’ on the bandwagon and asking every hockey follower I know to educate and bring me up to speed on this sport I know nothing about, it’s fun, it’s entertaining, and it’s an escape. Yes, there are more important things going on in this world. But for two hours, every few nights, watching a few guys chasing their dream down the ice towards that big silver cup – hey, it’s a break away from the rest of the world. It’s not a bad bandwagon to be on.

And like, after the Olympics, when all is said and done, even though I will be all ‘hockey-ed’ out, I will miss it. Like many who missed the Olympics when it was over – the fun, hype, excitement – I am sure many will miss huddling around the TV, cheering on the boys.

Who cares if I am not a ‘true fan,’ following along all year long. My heart is in it when it counts – just as is the bronze heart of Captain Cook - showing team pride and cheering for the ‘Nucks.

Western Speedway Race Track - Bad for My Pores

2011-05-30T05:50:00.000-07:00

The roar was deafening. With my heart racing, and my pulse barely able to keep up, my eardrums numbed with every pass. I coughed and spluttered through the smoke, still managing to scream, gasp and panic. I was on the edge of my seat, watching as the car careened into the sideboards, losing a fender here, bending an axle there, and watching as a wheel caved in submission against the force of the speed.

“Oh my God! He’s gonna crash!”

When it was over, I turned to my sons, stunned and alarmed, unable to make sense of my racing emotions. My earlier moans of exhaustion and sore back long forgotten. It was all too much for me.

“Calm down, Mom, they’re only qualifying right now. Ya know - to see who gets to race first?” He rolled is eyes, his brother echoing his actions, a smirk hinting somewhere in their exasperation.

Oh, right.

That’s why there was only one car on the track.

I missed that part.

We were at Western Speedway, in the City of Langford, 15 minutes from downtown Victoria, BC. Despite the track being surrounded by forest, the trees didn’t protect us from the breeze coursing through the grandstands we were in; I needed more hairspray. Between worrying about my hair and the guy, both equally important, I was a tad…flummoxed.

His now dented car – well, it already had enough dents so another few wouldn't matter, anyways – limped it’s way back to the pits; center-track. 14-second Nascar pit crew teams had nothing on this driver’s pit crew of one. It was something to be reckoned. The guy ambled his way over to a pile of tools and spare parts, grabbed a sledgehammer, and gave the fender a few wacks. When the pit crew of one was satisfied, and with one final kick, gave the thumbs up. Another driver was on the track ready to go, so there was no real urgency I realized, anyways.

My oldest son won tickets to the event, and despite my protestations of being tired, having a sore back, and being cranky, I went with my family – in the name of fostering family unity.

And was I ever glad I did. Talk about bringing out the woman in me!

Demo cars and trucks, all refurbished in the owner’s garages, had seen better days. ‘Hit to pass’ was where it was at, I would soon learn. A simple tap, or ‘crunch,’ from the trailing guy’s car on the leader’s rear bumper would send the leader spinning out of control – the trailing guy now gaining the lead. Every crunch of metal on metal, every car advancing to yet fall back, would send the crowd into a frenzy, taking me right along with them.
The driver’s momentum as they came ‘round the backstretch seemed to hydroplane the beasts, and as they struggled to gain control, I was wishing I had mainlined Alka Seltzer before I got there.

True, we’re not talking shiny, billion dollar Nascars, here. But to these drivers, their beat-up demolition cars that had seen many races, better days and one to many sledgehammers, were even better. Everything from Monte Carlos to mid ‘80’s Toyotas were there. Honda Civics, Mustangs, and hatchback Ford Escorts all graced the track in all their fender-trailing glory. Heck, I even owned two Ford Escorts when my kids were small, both cars sounding and smoking a lot like these racing machines – burst transmissions and all! Go momma!

But the best was the ‘76 Chevrolet Camaro. I teared-up a bit as I watched it race around the track, the same canary yellow machine as my first car was – minus the huge scoop and number. My boys were most impressed with their muscle-car maniac mother.

There were smash-up derby’s on the front straightaway, followed by figure-eight racing around tires, all involving MORE loud revving and more metal-crunching-metal. Then full-on racing around the whole track had me screaming for more - the need for speed and destruction was coursing through my veins. What had I become?

Smoke from barbequing hot dogs and hamburgers competed with the combination of car exhaust, burning rubber, oil and God knows-what else. The breeze that was ruining my hair had no affect on the mixing fumes. All that, combined with grease from French fries and onion rings, and I knew I was going to have some major deep-poor cleansing when I got home.

I couldn’t keep track of what was going on, and I tried to keep up with all the different races and events in constant action. Everything was so big and LOUD that trying to get a word in edge-wise to anyone to around me to was impossible.

Race after race, they readied at the starting line, revving their engines, smoking their brakes. By the time they got the green flag, you couldn’t see any cars at the starting line, so masked they were by smoke.

A receptionist by day, writer by night, I am just a city girl who, despite all my screaming, yelling, and panicking about drivers and my hair, still had her purse perched primly on her lap through the whole thing.

As the fireworks display started later that night with accompanying music vibrating through the bleachers under my feet, and the drivers long done for the night, I was glad I came and stood out like a sore thumb to be with my family. Sore back, dirty pores, bad hair, stomach ulcers and all.

But I knew I wouldn’t – shouldn’t - be coming back; I don’t think my psyche would be able to handle it.

Unless I was racing…

www.westernspeedway.net

My Life In Orange

2011-05-22T15:17:00.000-07:00

A rapid-fire of orange foam bullets shot from an equally orange plastic machine gun just miss me as I dive-roll my way to the safe zone – the couch. In this blinding sea of orange, I am the observer and the minority. And I love it.

'Cease fire!’ echoes through the house as Nerf® guns are reloaded; the chaos escalates.

Games like cops ‘n robbers, ‘Hunt’ and ‘War,’ as well as good old fashioned shoot-until-dead games are always on the agenda – the higher the body count, the better the game. Thank God for orange foam – no broken windows; no holes in the walls.

I better not speak too soon.

On a regular day in my too-small house, the four of us constantly trip over each other; easily done when two are fast-growing teenage boys. Add in another teenager (of course taller than I), and I huddle in the corner of the couch or hide in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the two areas are separated by enemy territory, so any chocolate and tea required for my refuge isn’t going to happen.

Many are likely shaking their heads in disgust, gasping in disbelief – ‘How can a mother, in this day-in-age, allow guns and violence in her home, with boys at such an impressionable age?’

Who cares, I say! They, the military personnel who run around my house, are safe, secure, and under my watchful eye for fair play and equal participation. ‘Sharing’ is ever-monitored, even with teenagers, and any foul language is immediately admonished by the General –me.

They aren’t hanging out at the mall; they are drug and alcohol free.

They aren’t on the internet looking up things they shouldn’t. They are interacting with each other face to face, practicing proper social skills, as opposed to texting or Facebooking all day.

And in a weird way, they are getting exercise; their flushed faces and stops for water are telling. Numerous corners and countless stairs requiring stealth twisting and turning would challenge any army recruit in basic training.

At an age where they are typically more concerned with hair-gel, over priced clothes, and anything electronic - never mind their ‘female’ enemies/allies - it’s refreshing and endearing to see them still be kids, doing what they should be doing for as long as they can; playing, laughing, cheering, and sometimes screaming in terror.

An orange foam bullet whizzes by me. Apologies ensue, and not only from my own two boys, but also from their too-tall friend. Manners are still in check when re-loading their Tommy guns.

I know I will find stray foam bullets in my shoes tomorrow, and I will tune out barked commands of ‘Freeze!’ as I stir their lunch of orange mac’n cheese. I am the minority in this testosterone-riddled, orange plastic and foam world; I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Now excuse me – I need to reload my Uzi. It’s stashed behind the couch.

My Next Husband - Michael Hauge

2011-05-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

I’m in love, and I just found my next husband.

Current husband’s aside, this next husband has everything I want.

A sense of humour that would keep me giggling right through days spent sitting in our rocking chairs in the retirement home, generosity, kindness and patience…oh, and he’s tall.

Oh and did I mention the best part? He GETS fiction writing and what makes a good story. He knows everything there is to know about making a story elicit emotion in a reader or viewer and – AND - he is a Hollywood scriptwriter – so he KNOWS people. Maybe he would hook me up with Brad Pitt.

I met him in a smoky room, our eyes met across the throngs of people clamouring for his attention. Everyone wanted a piece of him….but I had dibs on him first. He’s mine.

In the end I had to share him with 90 other women.

Scriptwriters, writers of every genre and, specifically on this occasion, romance writers, all want him. He is a wanted man, and I, being the girl of adventure and living on the edge, LOVE a wanted man.

I sat in Kwantlen College, Richmond, BC, at the Write On, Vancouver conference hosted by the Greater Vancouver Chapter of Romance Writers of America. Already having gorged myself on bagels and cream cheese and a few pieces of token fruit (to ease the guilt from all the cream cheese), I raptly listened to a Q&A panel with editors from Harlequin and Samhain Publishing. But I was anxious to see what Michael Hauge had to say for himself.

And by the end of the day, I was in love.

His workshop, Story Mastery, taught the art of eliciting emotion in a story, and outer and inner conflict in characters. And the number one thing I learned? If your story isn’t going anywhere, revisit your characters’ outer motivation.

By the end of the day, I knew what MY outer motivation was; to convince him to come for a ‘sleepover’ at my house – BUT NOT FOR WHAT YOU THINK. Man, if I could get that guy to come to my house for a nasty weekend of manuscript coaching, I would be the NEXT BIG THING.

As I write this, I am about to attend the last day of the conference and soak-up every juicy word, wealth of knowledge and experience he has to offer. I will sit up front and hope that my ever-batting eyelashes will coax him over for a coaching session, or two.

His books, Selling your Story in 60 Seconds (Michael Wiese Productions, 2006), and Writing Screenplays that Sell – 20th Anniversary Edition (Harper Collins, 2011) – are in my possession and now autographed by him (SWOON!). Accompanied by the copious notes I took, all are sure to get me on my way – to successful, publishable writing.

I am heading in now for day two of the conference as I write this, and I won’t eat so many bagels this time. A girls’ gotta watch her figure ya know, if she knows what good for her…manuscript.

Back off, ladies - he's MINE.

Check out the delectable Michael Hauge at www.StoryMastery.com

Copper Socks

2011-05-07T06:37:00.000-07:00

So…here’s the thing.

All I wanted to do was buy my dad a pair of socks for his birthday. That’s it, that’s all.

I had struggled to figure out what to buy the man who has everything – except for a Chrysler Prowler.

A worldly kinda guy who, despite the increase in age (I don’t forget that my age is ever-increasing, as well), is very hip and knowledgeable in this high-tech world we are in. He has fancy computers, high-tech cameras, and super-duper gizmos of every kind. All the stuff a semi-retired Dad needs and wants.

So I wracked my brain – what TRULY speaks DAD? What can I give him that shows I TRULY put in a lot thought?

SOCKS!!!

Yes, my friend - socks. But these were not to be just ANY old socks, as I would soon find out.

Dad started a new ‘fitness regime’ some time ago – power-walking. I am extremely proud of him. And although, much to my dismay, he does not wear sweat bands reminiscent of the Jane Fonda 80’s exercise hype, he wears good walking shoes we shopped for together.

He hates shopping.

So knowing that he is likely wearing men’s dress socks during his walks, I figured HEY! I can get him PROPER sports socks!

So off to the store I went, very proud and excited of my GREATEST IDEA EVER!

I was holding a pair of high-tech looking sport socks, when a very excited sales girl came rushing up to me.

“Oh, those are just PERFECT!” (How does she know, I wondered?) “But we have women’s socks over there!”

“Thank you, but these are for my Dad.” I divulged, but then I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “He’s a power-walker.”

She got even MORE excited. “Oh perfect then! Those are perfect as they are made with REAL copper, and are PERFECT for controlling odour and fungus! Carefully woven into the air-breathing fabric, copper has been proven to prevent fungus and odour, and these would be perfect for your Dad and his power-walking! And….” (I might have zoned out for a bit, missing some of what she said.)

All I wanted was to buy a darn pair of socks.

Even though I was giggling inside, I wanted to whack her over the head with the amount of exclamation marks she was using (but she was very nice, I have to add). I wished so bad that Dad was there to witness the conversation. He would have had a giggle – he’s just that kinda guy. We generally don’t talk about those kinds of things, but this would have been a great ice-breaker to venture into unchartered conversational territory.

“Well,” I said, trying to control myself, “I’m not sure he has those kinds of problems.” (Oh God, how I wished Dad was there!)

“Yes, but the socks are PREVENTATIVE!” Exclamation-mark-sales-clerk said, her eyes widening in excitement. I swear her eyes were about to pop out of her head.

“Well, then! I guess I SHOULD get them!”

I got a tad excited, myself; I was looking out for Dad’s health and well-being, in a PREVENTATIVE sense. How PERFECT!

Oh dear - I hope the darn things don’t turn green.

So not only did Dad get a new pair of socks for his birthday – and a three-pack, at that – but it gave us a story to talk about for years to come.

And if all else fails, he can take them to a copper recycler and cash ’em in for big bucks - he’s gonna need 'em if he wants that car.

Not Just Another Galaxy - Cherry Bomb Toys, Victoria, Bc

2011-04-29T05:32:00.000-07:00

I sit here in a well-worn easy chair, the faded green velour fabric reminiscent of 1970. I wonder who else sat here before me, quaking in fear.

But I have no time to worry about retro furniture. The enemy is approaching – and fast. As Imperial Stormtroopers advance, their weapons drawn, At-At walkers march behind. As I idly wonder how much gas those things take, what with gas prices ever-rising these days, Clone soldiers surround me, ready for my escape. And just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, Fisher Price people circa 1975 swoop down from the ceiling like a 2-inch high SWAT team tactical unit.

The Death Star looms over me, its shadow darkening the words on my page. I just know – no, feel – Darth Vader gazing down on me, a maniacal grin on his face.

No wait, he has a plastic mask; the mask can’t grin. Or maybe he was grinning under the mask, or maybe….

Oh, never mind.

Princess Leia flaunts her youthful body, mocking mine – at least my hairdo is better than hers. As for Jabba the Hutt? Well, he could do with a lot more than just a few Botox injections. He needs to work on his manners; beauty starts from the inside.

Lego® mini-figurines skulk behind the circa 1980’s arcade game – still 25 cents a game.Wait – what? I didn’t know that the galaxy far, far away had arcade games?!?

GI Joe, his pals, as well as countless Transformers look on - many still in their packaging. Joe’s cocky grin reveals his thoughts - “Those stupid Ewoks! I’ll show them!” Decepticons, the bad guys of the Transformers clan, are positioned and ready for battle. With all this chaos, they should just jump in the Radio Flyer fire truck and make a break for it.

And that isn’t dramatic, galactic music setting the mood in the background! Retro toy commercials and cartoons from the 70’s and 80’s continuously play on big screen TVs.

Now I am really confused. Someone must have spiked my coffee I purchased down the street, because I am nowhere near where I thought I was.

Desperate for fresh air, what with all the galactic exhaust from X-Wing fighters and Tie-Fighters zipping around, I run outside, knocking over Strawberry Shortcake and Huckleberry Pie having tea. On the sidewalk I turn, sure to see GI Joe racing after me, and look up.

Outside, I am in the current year and proper galaxy, but inside….I was in a swirl of 1970’s and 80’s toy nostalgia – in Cherry Bomb Toys.

Their business card says, ‘Toys with Memories Included,’ and as I skulk back inside to wander around with my three men, those four words pretty much sum it up. Star Wars toys, Legos, GI Joe figurines - many of which are lovingly stored in display cases - are in every corner. X-Wing Fighters are suspended from the ceiling in perfect attack position; Strawberry Shortcake and Huckleberry Pie dolls from the 80’s are now safe behind glass. I am thrown back in time perusing the shelves and cabinets displaying toy history. Girlfriends and wives tagging along with their men constantly sigh, “I remember this!”

I run a household, a galaxy of its own, where I am the minority. A mere mother in the 21st century with a house full of men - with anything and everything galactic - I find a way to fit in with my own memories.

I was a child of the 70’s and 80’s, and played with Star Wars figurines on my neighbour’s front porch – many neighbours kids' were boys. But as I watched Star Wars episodes IV, V, and VI, I didn’t want to grow up to be a Jedi Knight. I longed to be Princess Leia, swooning in the arms of Hans Solo – what a hunk.

Memories of an era not so long ago help me fit-in in my galactic household….in a galaxy not too far from here. And Cherry Bomb Toys brings it all back.

Minding the life-sized cardboard cut-out of Boba Fett, I put my (non-spiked) coffee on the floor, and spy a collection of vinyl records from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. I flip through, and find another one of my hearts’ desires (sorry Hans)……..

A Rick Springfield record! There was something for me, here, after all!

(To be transported back in time, visit Cherry Bomb Toys at 1410 Broad Street, Victoria, BC. For more fun, visit Pearkes Recreation Centre, 3100 Tillicum Road, on May 1st for the Toy Fair put on by Cherry Bomb Toys)

Making Memories - One Easter Egg at Time

2011-04-24T10:23:00.001-07:00

The Easter Bunny was gearing up for his trek around town, and I was getting kinda worried if he would actually make it – given the weather.

The week before, we woke with freezing temperatures, frost clinging to the roofs of our homes. While we scraped ice from the windows of our cars in the early mornings, the robins and the tulips didn’t know whether to don scarves or just give up and curl back down to hibernate for another few weeks. I know parts of Canada – and the world, no less – still have snow. So technically, we shouldn’t complain!

It’s been the talk of the town, in these parts. The wacky weather. My worry was that the Easter Bunny was going to give in to this weather-induced stress disorder, and just give up this year.

But then we had a glimmer of hope! The day before Easter, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, and everyone, including their dog/cat/hamster were out mowing their lawns, racing to the garden shop, and throwing on shorts in hope of a tan. Now THIS is Easter!

The night before, a few of the men hesitantly asked if…um…if....um…if the Easter Bunny might, perhaps, be paying a visit. Two birthdays had just rolled by, and they were beginning to wonder if their time was up – if the Easter Bunny passing by our house is simply part of growing up. I shrugged, shook my head in dismay, and mumbled it’s supposed to rain, so (hee, hee, hee), I don’t think the Easter Bunny will be by this year. Two pairs of eyes questioningly searched mine, hoping I was teasing. I guess I am a terrific actress as two heads hung in disappointment.

But Easter morning arrived, and the weather man, as predicted, was right. Clouds with rain was in the forecast, and even though we made the most of the day before, the overcast morning had the robins still nestled in their nest – not a chirp was to be had. Bummer! THIS isn’t Easter!

But as my three men emerged from bed, two of them in their teens, and one of them nearing mid-life, excitement brewed. Actually, I was more excited than they, as they all looked up at me from their rumpled beds, all swollen-eyed and drowsy. My throaty, opera-like rendition of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” got them out of bed – and not a pillow was thrown at me in exasperation.

With a smirk, they all rolled out of bed, anxious to see what the hubbub was about. Well, they kinda already knew. Hustling around, gathering their eggs, their baskets in tow, I remembered one thing.

No one – not even Mother Nature – can rain on our parade. Who cares about the weather. It’s the memories that are created not just every holiday, but every day. No matter the weather, the season or the age.

And the Easter Bunny will keep visiting, rain or shine, no matter how old they get.

Happy Easter!

Gene Autry recorded "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" around 1950. To listen to the actual version of the song, not the opera-like version I sang to my kids, copy this link to your browser....it's a true classic!

http://heavens-gates.com/fifties/petercottontail.html

Spectacle Lake - It Was Meant to Be

2011-04-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

I love it when things are meant to be.

The need to escape our routine, our house (and chores), and forget about the prospect of the upcoming school/work week had us packing mushy tuna sandwiches, too-sweet hot chocolate, and any other snacks I could grab from the pantry – oh, and the odd requisite carrot to ease my guilty-mother conscience. Had to counter-balance the too-sweet hot chocolate and cookies, ya know.

Kids, umbrellas, mushy tuna sandwiches and the carrots were all thrown in the truck, and off we zoomed for a much needed adventure to Goldstream Provincial Park - just outside Victoria, BC. Although it was April it was misty and foggy, Mother Nature tricking us into thinking it was autumn. But we hadn’t been on one of our adventures for a while, and we were longing for an escape.

The parking lot was full, as were most picnic tables, and the collective slump of shoulders within the warm, dry truck was telling. We wanted the park to ourselves – we were being greedy and selfish, and resorted to toddler-like attitudes. We didn’t want to share.

It wasn’t meant to be.

Up Highway 1 we sped, my mind whirring of where to go. As the altitude increased, so did the fog. Yes, there were many picturesque viewpoints over-looking Brentwood Bay we could have stopped at, but with the fog ever-increasing, what was the point.

10 minutes away from Goldstream Park, I saw this…..

Up for the adventure, I followed the sign, curious what we would find. Another sign lead us to a parking lot, and despite the trail leading us, hopefully, to the lake, I wondered if we were going to have to portage (minus the boat, of course) our tuna, carrots and hopefully-still-hot hot chocolate for 5 miles through the woods.

With our rations (maybe I should invest in a GPS for these outings), off we trudged through the mist.

We had barely hiked for 5 minutes when we came to this….

It was meant to be.

Complete with picnic tables, a sign indicating no life guard on duty and to be aware of thin ice, it was instant heaven. Our collective gasp startled a bald eagle resting nearby (well, not really – but we did see a bald eagle), and we set about drying a table, and unpacking our great feast.

Just as the mist turned to a drizzle, we finished our lunch; they were the best mushy tuna sandwiches ever. I packed up our lunch, and eyeing a path leading somewhere, off we went.

Through a world of moss-covered fallen fir and cedar tree branches, we trudged along the gravel trails, stopping every so often to peer over a rocky ledge (perfect for fishing for trout, as we learned from a fisherman), into the water below. The trail zigged, zagged, rose and fell, carrying us over wooden bridges and walkways which hovered over creeks.

Unsure as to how far around the lake the trail would take us – remember, I didn’t have a GPS – we turned and made our way back. We found out from the fisherman, by then packing up his gear, we had almost made it around if we had only kept going just a tiny bit farther. Darn.

On our way back, a flash of red caught my eye. A dogs’ tag with ‘Victoria Adoptables’ engraved on one side rested on a mossy log. Through this company, www.victoriaadoptables.com, two lives had intersected.

My kids trotted ahead while I looked at the tag, placing it just ‘so’ on the log so I could take a picture. I was intrigued by the owner, who had taken the time and trouble – and who had the heart and soul – to adopt a dog. I envisioned a dog and his owner tromping around this oasis we had stumbled upon. With the dog splashing in the lake, his tongue lolling, his ears flapping, and his tail ever-wagging while scaring the fish, the owner would be looking on, equally happy and content to be sharing this natural haven with his new best friend.

They were meant to be.

What's New?

2011-04-02T08:40:00.000-07:00

…I get asked. I shrug, and absently mumble, “Not much.”

Whoa, whoa, WHOA! ‘Not much?’ What, am I living under a rock or something?
There’s lots that’s new!!! Let’s see:

First, we had a ‘super moon,’ or ‘perigee moon,’ which rose at 8:03pm, Pacific Time, on March 19th, delighting moon-gazers everywhere. Its large size was testament to the fact that it was 50,000 km closer to the earth than its normal distance of 384403 km. Not that I have personally measured this, mind you; I leave that to the expert spacemen. Let them find a tape measure that long.

As my family danced on the beach overlooking the San Juan Islands while waiting for this great occurrence, a sliver of fiery orange spilled over the silhouette of one of the islands. They howled like the wolf pack they are, and as the moon rose higher, the colour and size intensified – as well as the howls emanating from the pack. As I barked at them to keep quiet, all three wolves - small, large and larger (in comparison to my height) - cowered, their ears flat on the back of their heads. Ah, my role of pack leader never ends (excuse me, I have an ear to scratch).

On another, unrelated night, the shorter lad readied to skip THE PERFECT rock off the dock at a local lake. However, I failed to remember that wooden docks are slippery when wet. Down he went, one whole leg in the water. It was dusk, and cold, and if it weren’t for his fingernail-grip on the dock, and me pulling him back, there would have been a whole lot more of him in the water than just his leg.

After righting ourselves, staring at each other in panic and surprise, the remaining rocks in his pocket were thrown unceremoniously into the lake – the moment was lost. At least we had a great laugh about it on the car ride home, and he was most excited to tell everyone ‘what he did on spring break.’

Yes, how exciting – while your mother has a heart attack.

The other lad, taller than I, is ever-supportive in opening jars of mayonnaise, creating laundry, and rejoicing with me in my writing accomplishments – what a guy. Prouder than a peacock, I am. Notably, as he grows taller and cuter than I, I have noticed a new-found, ever-constant need for hair-styling products. As I watch him bee-line, yet again, to the drugstore, I am stupefied; he spends more money on hair gunk than I do – and I am the retro ‘80’s hairspray queen!

As for the writing accomplishments the strapping young lad and I rejoiced about…..

Even if you don’t live on Vancouver Island with easy-access to local publications, please check-out the April edition of Nanaimo Magazine at www.nanaimomagazine.ca (click on the starfish once you get there).
Download the April edition, and on Page 20 of the magazine, you will find my article, Finding History at Whippletree Junction. Or if you happen to be riding BC Ferries or VIA Rail, or visiting any retail establishments up and down the island, please pick up a copy – I would be happy to sign it for you.

So that’s what’s new…

Find Yourself in the Dark on March 26, 2011 - Earth Hour

2011-03-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, March 26, 2011 at 8:30 pm, Earth Hour will begin. From 8:30 - 9:30, all lights need to be turned off, and candles need to be rediscovered - for the greater good.

Sydney, Australia kicked-off Earth Hour in 2007, with 2.2 million individuals and more than 2,000 businesses turning off their lights for one hour to take a stand against climate change (I wonder what the poor sea turtles must have been thinking while they floated along the East Australian Current). The annual practice spread across the world, and has now evolved into a record-breaking challenge every year. On Saturday, March 27, 2010, that years’ Earth Hour became the record-breaking year, where 128 countries and territories took part, joining forces in celebration of one common interest – our planet.

Now, there is no mention anywhere of turning off TV’s, laptops, computers, or gaming devices. And forget the proud new owners of the Apple iPad 2 that just went on sale worldwide yesterday – they’re too busy playing with them. Maybe we should contemplate no electricity of any kind for that hour. Why not? Oh - but then gadgets can be charged-up ahead of time - right. We don’t want to die of withdrawal from lack of screen-display.

I wonder if there is an ‘app’ (short for ‘application,’ so the trendy-folk tell me) for that sort of thing. A little icon you can touch with your finger, guaranteeing instant stress relief from screen withdrawal. I betcha there is. If there isn’t, maybe someone can invent it, and give me some of the royalties. But that wouldn’t be very Earth-friendly, now would it? Another contribution to the electric-consuming world we are in, it would be.

So back to earth hour….I write this on my laptop, plugged into the wall. Even though the silly thing has a battery, I worry about it dying, leaving me in the dark. I keep sucking electricity out of those funny-looking holes in the wall, fearful my laptop will fade to black at the most critical moment. And if it did – my GOD – how would I write?

Um, with a candle, some ink and paper – what a concept!

I just ran around the house doing chores. Laundry with my washer and dryer, baking two dozen muffins with my oven on for who-knows-how-long, washing the inside of a bacon-scent infested microwave (gag), and then washing the light switches in the kitchen that were covered in spaghetti sauce splatters – don’t ask. Am I any better?

Am I really contributing to the upcoming Earth Hour? With everyone charging up electronics in anticipation of Earth Hour, for those who are participating, that is, is our surge of electric use in the hours leading up to the event really a good idea? Heck, there is a website dedicated to it – which is a fantastic way to spread the word, modern day communication being what it is, and all. But think of the electricity needed to initially create that site. Shouldn’t Earth Hour be a continual practice of electricity conservation?

So for now, as I wallow in guilt over my electric consumption, my gasoline consumption, and the amount of water needed to clean my house, I will spend the day running around collecting candles, and make a night of it with my family, and hopefully, in my own twisted way, be able to teach them something.

There goes the buzzer on the clothes dryer – gotta run. Next load is ready to go.

I really need to re-think this.

The Vancouver Island Chapter of Romance Writers of America Presents Kristina McMorris

2011-03-20T11:27:00.000-07:00

What: Kristina McMorris presents her workshop 'Selling the Tough Sell'
When: Saturday, April 9, 2011
Location: St. Aidan's Church, 3703 St. Aidan's Street, Victoria, BC
Time:The workshop runs from 1:00 - 3:00pm

If your manuscript, whether traditional or out-of-the-box, has been labeled a hard sell, you won't want to miss this presentation. Join award-winning women's fiction author Kristina McMorris as she shares how more than determination took her first novel from rejected repeatedly to sold internationally. Learn secret tips on making your query stand out from the pile and gain unique marketing insight to land that manuscript in a top agent's or editor's hands.

“I've picked up many helpful tips that can give authors of any genre—no matter how unique the book—a leg up while traveling on the bumpy road to publication. The primary focus is on querying, pitching, and selling.” ~Kristina McMorris.

Kristina is a two-time Golden Heart® finalist and recipient of nearly two dozen national literary awards. Her debut novel, Letters From Home, is scheduled as a trade paperback release from Kensington Books (U.S.) and HarperCollins/Avon (UK) in March 2011, when a condensed version will also be distributed in the Reader's Digest Select Editions Volume.

For more information about Kristina McMorris, please visit her website at www.kristinamcmorris.com

For more information, and how to register for this presentation, please visit the website of The Vancouver Island Chapter of Romance Writers of America at www.vicrwa.ca

'Enjoy it NOW!' The Sequel...

2011-03-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

(This is the continuation of the Great Canadian Tire Money tragedy (see entry Feb 19, 2011 ‘Enjoy it NOW!’) I have had many ask what I bought, so here it is)

On wobbly legs I trekked over to the local Canadian Tire Hardware Store, my great wealth tucked safely in my purse.

I had six dollars worth of Canadian Tire Money, all in 5 and 10-cent bills.

Six whole dollars! That’s a lot of nickels and dimes when you think about it. I mean, what store really accepts your payment of 110 nickels and 5 dimes? So I was smart about it. I counted the 5-cent Canadian Tire bills into paper-clipped bundles of $1.00 each, ending up with five bundles. Then the other bundle had the remaining 5 and 10-cent bills amounting to another $1.00. That’s six WHOLE dollars! Let the bells ring out!

But what if they wouldn’t accept them? What if they had stopped accepting the bills? What if $6.00 was too much to shop with at one time? What if they thought I was nuts and hauled me down the motor oil aisle straight out the back door to a waiting big white van? (At least they would be in the right spot if they needed an oil change!)

But I am not nuts – truly.

With my bundle of cash ready, a speech prepared in my head, and my ever-batting eyelashes at the ready, I walked through the door and found the manager.

Not the same one as last time – phew! I would have been escorted out the door for sure (like I said, see entry of February 19, 2011).

Desperation and urgency were making me a tad crazy.

With a bat of my eyelashes, and in my most professional, mature, sweetest voice, I asked if I could use my accumulated bills of $6.00 to buy something. “Is that okay? Am I allowed?”

So, of course, the manager looked at me like I was nuts. “Well no DUH!! Of course you can! Good God, woman! What do YOU think? How cruel do you think we are?”

“Well, pretty DARN cruel, if you ask me! What with discontinuing Canadian Tire Money and all! Sheesh!”

He didn’t really say that, and I didn’t really say that. He just said “Yes” and continued stacking packages of toilet bowl freshener.

Yippee! I skipped down the aisle to my much anticipated purchase, grabbed what I wanted, and skipped to the cash register.

I picked the register with the most patient looking girl, and handed over my purchase and my 'money.'

She looked at the paper clips, the massive bundle of bills, my purchase, and kindly did not roll her eyes – at least not in my presence.

Like a good employee, she counted them out. First stack: 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30…$1.00. Second stack: 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30…$1.00. Third stack…and so on. Then she got to the stack with the 5 and 10 cent bills combined, and that threw her off a bit (ha ha!) (I wasn’t doing this to be mean, mind you). She finally made it to the $6.00 mark then rang it all through. I still owed $1.45 in ACTUAL cash, paid that, and off I went, skipping home with my purchase! (I do A LOT of skipping)

I did it! My God, I did it!! I felt like I was getting away with something! I had accomplished the greatest feat of my life! “Look what I have everyone! I practically got this for free!” I shouted at the Sunday afternoon walkers with their dogs.

I ran through the door, and showed everyone my purchase……

Look! LOOK! LOOK what I bought!!!!!!

Sane Editing for Writers

2011-03-06T12:21:00.000-08:00

Artists experiment and learn on different canvases and mediums, so why can’t you? Painters don’t always paint on traditional canvases, often switching to paper, bed sheets and bodies!

Writers need to experiment as well. Yes, notebooks and computers are a writers best friend, but so are grocery receipts, dinner napkins, hands and arms, and index cards - anything that can take thoughts spewing forth from pen or pencil. Forget using bathroom walls at the mall – you can’t take those with you.

So when it comes to proofreading, editing and revising, writers should take the same ‘freedom’ with various canvases as they do with their writing.

Keep Your Ear – Don’t Go Crazy

Editing is needed to find grammatical flaws, punctuation flubs, spelling mishaps, and homonym mix-ups (there vs. their). Added to all that, editing also means keeping an eye open for storyline and character name confusion, sentence run-on (my own personal problem) (can you tell?), and much, much more!

PHEW! Trying to juggle all those, plus keeping your coffee cup refilled, can make you go crazy!

But changing HOW you edit – like the painter who changes his canvas - will help you see things in a different light, therefore edit more precisely and concisely. Unlike Vincent van Gogh, you don’t have to lop off your ear to be a famous, fantastic artiste!

Save Your Sanity, Not Paper

If writing on a computer, print your work to review and edit. Not only does it give your eyes a much needed rest from the screen, but there is something to be said for using a good old fashioned blue pencil (don’t use red – it’s too angry). Sure you have to go back and type in your changes, but errors jump out at you if printed on paper.

Don’t always rely on your spell check feature in your word processing program – it sometimes lies. Homonyms are not always picked up, and wrong word usage can get skipped over. Just when you thing technology will save your butt, it only comes ‘round and bites you IN the butt (see the word ‘thing’? Spell check never ‘flagged’ it). Your mind and eyes need a change, so use yet ANOTHER piece of paper (recycled kind is best), and sharpen your blue pencil.

Get a Dye-Job

Countless authors handwrite their first draft on yellow legal pads. Why not try this yourself? And while you are thinking in colour, why not try writing on coloured printer paper? A ream of it is it fairly cheap at the stores, and although unlined, it can give you the freedom to keep writing, outside the lines.

And when printing that manuscript to revise, why not print on coloured paper? The glare of white paper can be headache-provoking. Soft pink or blue can be soothing. Why not give green or yellow a try? But don’t try black – it doesn’t work for some reason.

Screw With Your Mind

If working on a computer, copy and paste your work onto another publishing program, if available. When transferring my work to this blog, my work is inputted to a different kind of screen for posting - a different ‘canvas’ – enabling me to edit even more because I see things differently (I hope!).

Email yourself. Although this is not conducive for a whole novel, why not email parts of it – the parts giving you a bit of a struggle? It’s all very psychological - a mind over matter kind of thing - and again, the different medium will be a change. And heck, on days when you are feeling lonely and no one has sent you an email (not even a spammer), at least SOMEONE has emailed you!

Why not considering changing your work to a different font? Yes, editors and publishers and publishers require submitted work in a specific font, such as Times New Roman or Courier, but for your own editing purposes, a different font might just do you a world of good.

Take a Bathroom Break, Then Start Talking!

Take a break. Take a step back from your work, and let it simmer, or rest, for an hour or two; or even better, a few days. Come back and see things with fresh eyes – but don’t take that break for too long!

Read your work aloud. To yourself, your cat, your plant, or even a writing partner. Reading aloud helps you discover lack of flow and countless errors. After reading the darn thing so often, you can sometimes skim without even knowing it. Reading aloud slows down your reading, forcing you to enunciate read each word. So gargle with mouthwash, take the pen out of your mouth, and start reading out loud. You don’t need a diploma in Toastmasters – just do it.

So print, scribble in blue, use a bit of colour, and edit to your heart's content – and remember, sometimes spell check lies!

Write Naked, Exfoliate, Then Flash ‘em

2011-02-27T10:17:00.000-08:00

Put your butt in that chair, pick up your pen, and fire up your computer.

And as you do, strip down, bare it all, and write naked.

Bare everything, even if it’s saggy, hairy and a bit too flabby for your liking. You don’t have to show anyone your naked writing; it’s for the privacy of your own room or bathroom. This is the writing that, after working through all the layers of clothing, is what is underneath - your heart and soul.

Who cares about the pimples, bunions, warts or other weird-growths-we-will-not-discuss. They can always be removed later. Just keep writing - write naked.

Drop your Drawers – Lose Your Inhibitions

Authentic naked writing from the depths of your gut means ignoring all the restrictions swirling around in your head. Lose the bras, the belts, the garters, the corsets – anything restrictive and binding. Lose those inhibitions – including your drawers.

Those drawers are the final step - if you’re truly going to bare it all. Like the tiniest seed of doubt in the back of your mind, they are the hardest to let go. Self-doubt and second-guessing will limit and cramp your writing if you don’t take a deep breath and ignore whatever else is in your head. Be brave and bold, and let go –of your hold on your boxers. No one has to see anything if you don’t want them to.

So drop ‘em – and write.

So Ya Wanna Show it Off?

Your new-found freedom has released you, and you have decided to submit your work – yourself – to agents or publishers. GREAT! You are braver than you thought! And even better, you (hopefully) have a writing partner or editor to peek at your work for you.

But before you show your partner or editor, get out the tweezers and depilatories and start editing. If you intend on putting it all out THERE, you need to give your work a total body overhaul. But keep in mind - your naked writing is NOTHING to be ashamed of. This is YOU; who YOU are.

Your naked writing needs to be showered, shaved, and tweezed within an inch of its life – edited like there’s no tomorrow. Like those who go to the aesthetician for buffing, polishing and removing of the unwanted, unnecessary and redundant, your writing needs the same kind of treatment.

Everyone needs a good haircut and nail trimming now and then.

Exfoliate, Exfoliate, Exfoliate

You have removed every hair visible, and you have sent your work to your writing partner or editor. This can be scary - this first REVEAL. Don’t let modesty get in the way, covering up those sensitive areas with a towel. Don’t start making excuses for this roll here, that flab there. They have to see it all if they are going to help you. They will find the hairs you missed and the warts between your toes. Let them exfoliate your work. Don’t let their comments get you down; learn from them and improve yourself – your writing.

But as you hesitate dropping the towel in exposing your work, remember to ask yourself: how badly do you desire publication? How badly do you want to share and be heard by more than just your cat? Your peers won’t bite; they want you as beautiful as possible. And when they have finished exfoliating your work, listen to their beauty tips, go soak in the tub, and exfoliate some more.

Time to Flash ‘em

You have primped, preened and perfected your work, becoming brave and bold with your naked writing. You should be proud of yourself! Look at how far you have come since first dropping your drawers! Liposuction worked (less is more, remember), and you have rid your writing of all the unwanted stuff. Your lean, fat-free work is ready to submit to publishers.

But before licking the stamp or sending the email, ask yourself; with all the tweezing, exfoliating and liposuction, have you kept the YOU in your writing?

Take care to not jeopardize the YOU in your naked writing. Don’t try to be like anyone else. Forget face-lifts, injections, implants, and Botox. They might look great on the surface, but your naked writing - your authentic writing - would be lost in the silicone.

So take a deep breath, forget about injections or implants, and send out your heart, soul, and your naked self. Flash agents and publishers your best, and only your best. You have come this far – why stop now? Just do it!

Don’t Shimmy Into Those Undies Just Yet...

You have taken a deep breath and bravely, and confidently, submitted your work - and now you wait. Get dressed and head out for a celebratory something-or-other with a writing buddy - you deserve it! But that’s it. Don’t sit around waiting in your comfy undies, covering up everything. Get naked and get writing.

Enjoy it NOW!

2011-02-19T22:00:00.001-08:00

It was 5:30 in the morning, and my world as I knew it was about to come crashing down. Everyone, including the cat and the fish, was still asleep; I was on my own.

Through puffy eyes I watched the news, and something the newscaster said woke me up faster than 10 cups of coffee.

The hardware store, Canadian Tire – a part of Canadian history - is getting rid of Canadian Tire money.

WHAT?? How could they do this to me?

I love Canadian Tire money. I mean, I LOVE IT.

For those of you who don’t know, Canadian Tire first opened in Toronto, Ontario in 1922. In 1961, as a customer loyalty incentive, ‘paper money’ was handed out - in denominations of 5, 10, 25, and 50 cents, as well as 1 dollar bills – the amount distributed based on a percentage of the purchase. The intention was to draw customers back to the store and use the money as ‘cash’ towards their next purchase. The incentive is still going strong.

But the company has decided to uproot this Canadian currency icon, and gear towards an electronic loyalty program – same thing, different method. And their decision sent me into a tizzy.

I thought about it all day; those coloured bills corrupted my every action. I poked out my eye with the mascara brush. I almost left the coffee shop with my coffee - black! While slicing paper in the paper-cutter at work – you know the kind with the big-arm blade – I cut my employee ID tag in half. In HALF, I tell you!

The bills were still clouding my senses much later as I tried riding the bus using my library card instead of my bus pass.

Oh, I cannot, CANNOT take much more of this.

So I had a plan. I had to find out if this - this ATROCITY - was true. I mean, newscasters CAN get things wrong. Right?

Lucky for me, a Canadian Tire store is at the bus stop where I get off. Mentally urging the bus driver to go faster, I knew that all I had to do was confirm the absurdity of this NEWS with the store manager, and all would be right in my world. See? Easy.

I did not run. I serenely and sedately walked into the store, and just as serenely and sedately, walked up and down the aisles looking for the manager. AHA! Found him!

I calmly and casually walked up to him, and asked him my burning question.

“Tell me – TELL me it isn’t SO! Are you really getting rid of Canadian Tire money?” I crumpled to the floor, sobbing and wailing – he ended up calling the paramedics.

Sorry, I got a bit carried away. What I actually asked was:

“Excuse me sir, but is it true that your fine company is eliminating Canadian Tire money in favour of a new electronic customer loyalty program?” I batted my eyelashes a few times, just in case.

He blankly said, “Yes.”

I stumbled out of the store without buying anything. He must be wrong, HE MUST BE WRONG! JUST because HE’S the manager cannot POSSIBLY mean he knows everything, right? I’ll show him. I’ll email the company – take it straight to the top!

And I did.

And the kind lady in somewhere-Canada promptly wrote me back - with the same answer.

It’s true. IT’S ALL TRUE! Why are they doing this to me?

I save the ‘dollars,’ hoarding them like chocolate. Like a miser I hide them, fearful that (gasp!) another family member will steal them. I am not greedy; truly I am not. I am just saving them for a rainy day.

For a day when funds are low and a summer toy (squirt gun, badminton birdies, etc) is desperately needed for a bored kid, or for a day when a bottle of motor oil will surely fix a sputtering car. Or what if I need something to cheer me and FINALLY cash in and get the 10-in-one hammer I have dreamed about for ages?

But those days never came.

I squirrel away ‘special things’ to save for a rainy day – just in case. And more often than not, I realize, those days never come, and it’s too late to enjoy.

I save things to use only on special occasions. I moved in the summer and found a velveteen dress I bought about 15 years ago with the pricetag still on it. I was saving it for a something special – a special occasion. Why didn’t I just wear it, and enjoy it, then? If I wore it now, I’d look like an idiot – out of date and out of style. And my good china? It has so much dust on it from 'saving' it, I don't know what it looks like anymore.

I save everything for various reasons; for a 'special occasion,' for a 'rainy day,' or 'just in case.' The reasons are endless, and I never enjoy the NOW. Just use IT (whatever it is) NOW and don’t wait for seasons/styles/trends to pass before it gets too late.

So I ate a pound (or two) of chocolate to calm down, and after rolling around in the piles of great wealth I worked so hard to save, I pocketed my $9.15 (comprised partly of 58, 5 cent bills), and skipped back to the store with a new found intention – enjoy it NOW!

And bought kitty litter.

(oh, and I saved a few bills – just in case)

Writing Like the 60’s

2011-02-12T20:31:00.000-08:00

While I was lying on the floor of the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, BC, I realized I had a lot to learn from the 60’s, John Lennon, and a famous car.

And why was I lying on the floor, you ask? I was taking pictures of a car, of course.

Tourists stepped over and around me, and I could tell from their expressions reflected in the highly-polished chrome, they likely assumed I was some high-class photo-journalist.

How could they not? With my pink digital camera – it fits perfectly in my purse beside a pack of gum of the same size – and my body contorted to weird positions solely in the name of getting the most PERFECT artistic shot, I was definitely a ‘pro.’

Or maybe the chrome warped their reflected expressions and they were actually giving me weird looks.

But I didn’t care as I was doing my ‘thing;’ doing what I wanted. And I didn’t care what they thought.

I was practically nose to nose with a door handle that had been grasped by members of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Moody Blues, Bob Dylan, and countless others beyond my social circle – if I had been born during that time, that is. They did what they wanted, wrote about what they wanted, and in turn, we are still singing their songs.

The museum is the proud keeper of one of John Lennon’s numerous cars, a Rolls Royce Phantom V. Purchased in 1965, Lennon eventually had the Valentine’s black paint job covered by the ornate yellow, blue and red floral design the car is now famous for. The European flair of the design is reflective of the artists who painted it; a Dutch team of gypsy artists who originally painted a wagon that sat in Lennon’s back yard were commissioned to do the artwork on the car. Lennon also had the car fitted with a sound system, TV, fridge, and phone, and the back seat was made to a convertible double bed. Pre-paint job, the car carried the Beatles to meet the Queen to receive their MBE medals – Members of the Order of the British Empire.

Needless to say, the car has ‘been around.’ After it lived the rock ‘n roll life, Lennon and his wife Yoko Ono donated the car to a museum for a tax credit - much needed to pay off a few debts. After sitting in storage for a few years, the car eventually made its way to Vancouver, BC when it was purchased by Mr. Jimmy Pattison, Vancouver business man, for $2,299,000. It was on display at Vancouver’s Expo ’86 – a mere 6 years after John Lennon’s death – and was then given as a gift by Mr. Pattison to the Transportation Museum of British Columbia in Cloverdale, BC. It lived at the museum in Cloverdale from 1987 to 1993, when it was then moved to the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, BC.

Which is where I was, lying on the floor, and having deep, psychedelic thoughts about how I can apply John Lennon, the 60’s, and the car, to writing.

The era, and the flamboyantly painted car, are truly symbolic of how we, as writers, should write; vibrantly, passionately, and without care. When Lennon was out cruising the streets one day, a British woman smacked the yellow car with her umbrella and screamed, “You swine, you swine! How dare you do this to a Rolls-Royce!” Did he let that bother him?

Forget about everyone else. Forget about what your mother, father, siblings, great aunt or the hamster will think. Ignore the internal editor in your head saying ‘I shouldn’t write THAT.’ If you don’t write truthfully, from your heart, it will show.

Inducing a 'purple haze' to foster creativity is not my thing, and I don't intend on burning my bra anytime soon (this is 2011, after all), but maybe applying the same ways of thinking of those times - not letting fear and censorship smother passion and conviction - will have folks reading my work for generations to come.

Imagine all the possibilities.

Peace, man.

Frozen for Now

2011-02-06T09:51:00.000-08:00

I had a teensy-weensy bit of a hissy-fit.

With my hair flying out of control, the pots and pans acquiring a few dents in my angst, and the cupboard doors left barely hanging on their hinges, I counted to ten and gently asked, “Where is my mini baking pan?”

3 pairs of eyes tried to mask their terror.

“I dunno.” Those words mumbled in unison made my toenails sizzle – they shouldn’t have said that.

And they shouldn’t have shrugged their shoulders, either. That was a BAD idea.

Out I stormed to the deep-freezer in the garage. My quest? Frozen peas. I also figured sticking my head in the freezer would help cool me off and help me put the missing pan into perspective. Peas now, pan later.

I opened the freezer door, the sudden whoosh of cold air instantly doing the trick. Before I could start hollering ‘Where ARE the stupid peas!?’, something caught my eye; or should I say some things caught my eye. The pan, the peas and my sizzling toenails were suddenly forgotten.

There is snow in my deep-freezer, and not the kind that needs to be chiselled off the inside walls (come to think of it, the big box COULD use a good defrosting).

I guess in my constant whirlwind-blur these last few weeks I hadn’t noticed these things – or maybe I just forgot about their existence.

Or maybe the now missing bag of peas was previously hiding them.

Seven snowballs sit, frozen in time, the joy of their existence preserved in a box of sub-zero degree temperatures. And underneath the snowballs? The missing mini baking pan.

Six of them are circa November 2010.
One of them is circa January 2011.

We DID have one from November 2009, but a move during a record-breaking August heat-wave sent the poor thing melting faster than Frosty the Snowman on a sunny winter’s day.

I tried to save it – I truly did try. But moving a household of thirteen years worth of belongings took precedence.

The deep-freezer has held, and still holds, a great many things – and not necessarily all food. One year we saved part of the carrot Rudolph snacked on – you can’t just leave Santa a snack on Christmas Eve, now can you? Even though it was preserved in a Ziploc bag, eventually the gnarled, blackened nub of the half-eaten carrot had to go.

A tier of wedding cake sits beside a turkey waiting for the next great feast. Freezies from last summer wait for next summer, while a water balloon, filled and frozen (yes, it’s true), is nestled between loaves of bread. An ice-pack is at the ready for the next injury (and in this house, there are many).

But what are most important are the snowballs – God forbid the power goes out for an extended period and the freezer defrosts, thawing everything within.

The six from November 2010, were made by Brother 1 and his friend when Brother 2 was at a sleepover. Brother 1 and his friend didn’t want Brother 2 to ‘miss out.’

The seventh snowball recently preserved in January, was made on the night of The Great Snow that had us outside until 10pm – WAY past bedtime on a school night, no less. Keep in mind that in these parts snow is rare and causes great excitement, good and bad, sending the city into upheaval (see my entry dated December 5, 2010 - Don't Panic - It's Just Frozen Water). As the weather man/woman/person predicted, the snow melted away by the next day, but we had them beat. We saved a ball of this precious commodity, holding on to the memory of that wondrous night.

I struggle to foster and savour memories for my family. I fight myself from participating my children in a science experiment to stunt their growth, so eager am I to hold on to their youth – the NOW. I know these snowballs will eventually shrink and evaporate (think of the ice cubes sitting too long in the ice cube tray – they always shrink), unlike my children who will grow and grow, no matter what.

I have to remember to freeze the NOW. Forget about missing pans, missing peas, and dinners yet to be cooked. Freeze the memories I have now; don’t let them melt away.

As they freeze the memory of snow, sometimes bragging to their friends that they have REAL snowballs at home, I remember to freeze my own memories.

I went back in the house, hugged them all, my frozen cheeks and tears making them squirm - and made grilled cheese sandwiches.

Forget about the peas and pan - long live the snow.

Superstitious Lucky Rabbits

2011-01-30T08:10:00.000-08:00

I just threw salt over my shoulder, and missed – damn.
Now it’s in my eye.
Just a sec.....................

How superstitious are you?

Derived from religious and cultural beliefs, superstitions have been passed down from generation to generation, often blurring from one culture to the next. Many ‘old wives’ tales’ have faded in time, their wording and meaning changing with each era. But some superstitions are so commonly known, so part of our daily lives, that we practice them without thinking (uncross those fingers!). Even those who STRONGLY object to superstition still pick up a penny when they see it. But do they do it in the spirit of acquiring great wealth, or are they repeating the age old saying ‘See a penny, pick it up, and for the day you’ll have good luck?’

Now, if I were smart about it, I would have saved every penny I found since childhood; I would have been a wealthy woman by now.

Not that I am compulsively phobic about superstitions, rearranging and arranging my life around them, but they are ever-present in my daily life. Heck, I even confuse one with the other, but I figure ‘better safe than sorry,’ and perform some sort of luck-fostering act.

And if I learn of one that has apparently ‘been around for ages,’ I panic – ‘How come I didn’t know about this? Oh how my life would have been luckier/wealthier/happier/safer if I had ONLY known to (insert appropriate newly-learned superstition here) all these years!’

Getting back to that salt in my eye, I dug around a bit (not in my eye, mind you), and found a clearly worded phrase to match the action:

Bad luck will follow the spilling of salt unless a pinch is thrown over the left shoulder into the face of the devil waiting there.

Ack! I never knew about the ‘devil’ bit, but the part about bad luck/salt over the shoulder? My mother instilled this on me since birth - more than the necessity for hairspray.

While discovering superstitions surrounding salt, I came across this one:

Put salt on the doorstep of a new house and no evil can enter.

That’s news to me! And to think I recently moved and never salted my doorstep! Would salting slugs do? Na – that’s not very nice.

How about this one:

Salty soup is a sign that the cook is in love.

Does that apply to mounds of salt on French Fries? And scrap the love bit...just pass the salt and vinegar, please!

And don’t go getting me around a ladder. In fact, I darn well nearly cross the street just to avoid the stupid things.

In my constant flurry in the kitchen, something is always being spilled, dropped, thrown or broken. I practically weep every time I drop a spoon – doing so brings disappointment.

My free-spirited friend thinks I am crazy, and mocks my twisted belief system. Sceptics like her say if you can’t see it or prove it, well then - forget it.

I don’t care. What’s wrong with a little luck? It never hurt anyone, did it?

Just to fuel my worries, I have been hounding my co-worker about Chinese superstition and luck. Her teachings have spiked my superstitious concerns, my imagination and phobic tendencies instantly taking on these cultural ways of thinking as my own.

As the Chinese New Year fast approaches, I grill her for every shred of lucky action I can perform. I am near ready to swallow tarantulas whole if it would make my life better.

Why this sudden neurotic need for more superstitious knowledge than my frail mentality can handle?

Numerous opinions on fostering a successful writing career have been penned by experts more prolific than I. Some strongly oppose the concept of having luck on your side when pursuing the literary dream. They say the road, path, journey – whatever you want to call it – to publication is not one of luck, but of hard work, perseverance, and determination. Other authors strongly oppose, saying that very often, especially in their own experiences, luck has played a huge part in their success. I agree with hard work and determination – and luck. What’s to hurt having a little on your side?

When I asked my co-worker what I should and shouldn’t be doing on Chinese New Year, hoping that any rituals I perform on the day commencing The Year of the Rabbit would prove successful for me in the forthcoming year, she patiently reminded me that with a country of 1.3 billion people in over 20 provinces, hosting numerous religious and cultural ways, she cannot possibly know all traditions.

“Oh.” My shoulders slumped. “Fine. Gimme what ya got.”

She pointedly looked at me and listed two ‘what not to do’s:’

No cussing. No reading. (She never elaborated as to why.)

Damn. I’m done for.

But then she brightened and said the day of the Chinese New Year is a ‘good time’ to buy clothes and underwear.

HOT DAMN! I guess I’m going shopping!

As I bid you Kung Hei Fat Choy, wishing you much happiness, wealth and luck in the coming Year of the Rabbit, I remind you to rely on your own strengths and determination to see you through.

And keep your fingers crossed – luck is right around the corner.

Wish me luck!

Now What?

2011-01-09T13:20:00.000-08:00

It was just over a week ago when we ran around cheerfully shouting ‘See you next year!’ to everyone and anyone. It’s a joke we all share, knowing how absurd it sounds. ‘Next year’ is literally only a day or two or three away from the day we say it, depending on how much time off we have off from work, or when we will see the person next. We can only say it once a year and mean it, so we relish the time when we can.

Unless, of course, you were lucky enough to be able to sell all your belongings, pack a few undies and a bathing suit, and head over to the beaches of the Seychelles Islands for a year.

The noise makers, champagne flutes and badly recorded versions of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ are now tucked away with the Christmas decorations for another year. Our living rooms are devoid of any sparkling light or activity. The bowl of dust-covered ribbon candy is the only remnant of the season past. We sigh in relief grateful that the chaos is over, routines resuming with previously scheduled regularity, but yet.....

Now what?

Our lives are dictated by seasons and holidays. In the months following Christmas and New Year’s, although we stumble into work secretly glad for the return of routine, we scowl in our coffee cups and mumble ‘now what?’ Leftover Christmas candies and treats are our only joy.

Next on the calendar is Ground Hog Day, February 2nd. Not a holiday, and no food or candies are consumed, so scratch that. Valentine’s Day, February 14th, approaches and although not a work-free ‘holiday,’ at least we can gorge on chocolate. The Easter Bunny follows-up by breaking into our homes, leaving a (welcomed) mess of chocolate. Ground Hog Day and Valentine’s Day (for some) was a bust, so the Easter Bunny better pick up the slack. At least we can mainline chocolate again, drowning our sorrows in sugar and cocoa.

But what do we do in between? Sure we raced out on Boxing Day anxious not only for deals on electronics and Chia Pets, but also for deals on chocolates and candies. While waiting for more holidays in which to excessively gorge ourselves on candies, chocolates and lavish dinners (turkey again?), we are back to the original problem; now what? What do we have to look forward to?

In my angst to find SOMETHING to look forward to in the months leading up to another holiday/excuse to eat everything sugar or chocolate-laced in sight, I found the perfect ‘calendar’ a person could ever dream off.

A Candy Holiday Calendar. Be still my heart!

The wonderful folks over at the National Confectioners Association, www.candyusa.com , just saved my life and sanity.

‘Representing the Candy, Chocolate & Gum Industries since 1884,’ the National Confectioners Association is a trade organization representing and supporting manufacturers, distributors and retailers of CANDY (the proper word is confection).

Searching the website under ‘candy holidays,’ I rejoice out loud, thanking Mr. Hershey (chocolate bars, USA, 1894), Mr. Nestle (chocolate bars, USA, 1875,), Mr. Rogers (chocolatier, Victoria, BC, 1885), and Mr. Purdy’s (chocolatier, Vancouver, 1907) for making our world a better place. Here are just a few of the holidays I found:

• January 8th is National English Toffee Day.
• January 26th is National Peanut Brittle Day
• February 19th is Chocolate Mint Day.
• March 19th is National Chocolate Caramel Day

The list goes on. For a moment, my anger surged; WHY DIDN’T I KNOW ABOUT THESE HOLIDAYS?! But before I lost all mental faculties, verging on doing something stupid like swearing off candies forever in revolt, I sat back...

...and thought about it....
...and ate a leftover chocolate from New Year’s...
...and realized....

...there is always something to look forward to, at any time of year, no matter what the season. The most simple can brighten your day, candy or otherwise.

There is so much to look forward to – even in the little things – while waiting for the Easter Bunny.

Now go eat a chocolate - you’ll feel better.

Happy New Year!

Call Waiting; Thought Waiting.....

2011-01-02T16:57:00.000-08:00

I love it that writers are on the same PAGE.

We interrupt, shush, and ignore each other. We ‘cut-off’ each other mid-conversation/email. Why? To preserve a writerly thought - an idea. Before the other person can utter another word making us loose that paramount idea forever, we MUST get it down, even if it means tossing all manners aside. It’s understood; we get it. It’s an unspoken rule, and no apology or forgiveness is ever needed.

And if your writer friend suddenly stares off into space as you recount your marvellous, newly discovered technique of how to trim your cat’s claws, don’t be offended – she isn’t bored with your story. She is just having writerly thoughts.

Most recently, my writer friend (a fellow blogger) and I were having a quick chat on email, and something she said inspired her. She had a writerly, or more specifically, a bloggable thought, and had to run to expand on it, thus promptly ending our email conversation. I didn’t respond to her last email - I didn’t want to make her feel obliged to read and respond thereby interrupting her thought.

No problem; no hard feelings. I get it – I’m with ya on that one, sister.

Alternately, I hate that call-waiting thing with a passion. Maybe it’s because I was left on the ‘line’ one too many times many years ago when call-waiting on private household phones was invented. Patiently waiting for the person to finish their call with the person on the OTHER line (I called FIRST), I would sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Out of frustration and hurt (never mind the need to pee) I would finally hang up. I don’t hold a grudge, but still waters run deep and all that...

Being put on hold when calling a business, however, is a different story. The concept is guaranteed, and you’re naive if you think it won’t happen to you. Although lengthy and time consuming, your frustration skyrockets if the music playing is not to your liking. And then to no one listening on the other end, except for the sporadic recorded ‘thank you for holding, your business is important to us – please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly’ greeting, you curse the company, curse the phones, and swear to never allow yourself to be put on hold EVER again! (Not that I have ever done that!)

But holding while the receptionist confirms my earlobe-lift appointment is a different story. NO problem - THAT, I can handle.

And at least if you are on the phone with a writer friend (although rare because we are too busy ignoring each other), if a writerly thought does come up, we can write it down in silence, and still stay on the line.

What do you think hands-free phones are for?

There are no awkward silences while on the phone with a writer friend – we are WRITING! And no, this is not some lame excuse fabricated to chat on the phone during our writing/working hours. This is what writers do; chat, bounce ideas off each other, support each other, and nurture each other’s self-esteem. And then, when convenient, promptly ignore each other in the name of creativity, throwing everything our mothers and Miss. Manners taught us out the window.

My friend's 'bloggable thought' interruption was welcomed, embraced, and cherished. It is said that the business of writing is not for the faint of heart, so if you hope to make it in the writing world, toughen up and get used to being ignored/shushed/cut-off - and love it. We are like folk – the community of writers share a common bond, and receiving this kind of treatment means you are welcomed.

Now go away – I just had another bloggable thought.

Just BE - On Boxing Day

2010-12-26T08:53:00.000-08:00

Now - I know, and you know, and we both know each other knows that Boxing Day is synonymous with shopping, eating leftovers, nursing hangovers (for some), creating new hangovers (for some), and cleaning up after the torrential onset of Christmas Day. In this fast paced hamster-wheel world some of us live in, the Christmas season is wrought with exhaustion, tightening waistbands, shrinking room on the credit card and even less in the bank, and a constant beeline to the store for Alka Seltzer.

But why not, on that post-chaotic day of Dec 26th, just sit.

And breathe.

And just enjoy BEING. Being together, being alone – it doesn’t matter.

Be outside, if weather permits.

Be with someone you haven’t seen in a long, long time; someone you couldn’t squeak in the time to see during the flurry leading up to the Big Day. But do so with a cup of tea, a cookie and be calm about it.

Stay in your jammies; watch a movie, read a book, play a board game with your family. EAT (again)!

If you are a writer, be alone (if you can manage it) and just organize your thoughts, your paperwork, and any new books you (hopefully) received on the Big Day. Plan upcoming projects. You may have let things slide over the previous week leading up to the Big Day, your writing falling to the wayside in favour of too much peppermint schnapps; it’s okay. You can start new on Boxing Day. Curl up on the couch in your jammies, and with a pen and paper (and the TV OFF) restart, re-organize, and revive your writing spirit. But don’t get too busy – remember, just ‘be.’

Yes, there will most likely be cleaning to do like boxes to break down to ready for recycling. But they can wait. Can’t stand the mess? Fine – perfectly understandable. True, leftover turkey gizzards that sat on the counter overnight are not safe for consumption and should dealt with. But time yourself; tell yourself you will clean ONLY for 20 minutes - then just SIT for 20 minutes. If you absolutely MUST clean, as your compulsion to have a clean house precedes everything, do a BIT at a time; but only a bit. You will have the days following to do bits of cleaning here and there.

As for the shopping – haven’t you shopped enough already? The sales will still be there the following days/weeks. Why go out and get all sweaty and stressed, pushing people over in your angst to get the 70% off Chia Pet you didn’t receive for Christmas? Aren’t you already broke, anyways?

Boxing Day starts with the letter ‘B,’ so do just that; B (be).

Seagulls at Christmas

2010-12-24T16:10:00.000-08:00

I jaunt down the street, a spring in my step, the wind behind me pushing me along, and my hairspray failing miserably. But I don’t care.

It’s the Christmas season.

Cars are honking, people are bustling (cliché, I know), the odd argument is progressing as I jaunt by those unsuspecting of my ever-perked ears.

The Netherlands Centennial Carillon – ‘The Singing Tower’ with its 62 bells - chimes in the distance. A horse-drawn carriage clip-clops past; the pompom on the horse’s Santa hat bounces while the jingle bells on his harness tinkle in unison. St Andrews Presbyterian Church (circa 1890), with its red brick exterior and it’s tower blocking the sun trying to peek through the clouds, plays Christmas carols through its external speakers; the carols can be heard for blocks down the street.

I feel like I should be in a movie, bouncing along, swinging my bags, my beret on my head with a sprig of holly pinned on top, and my perfect ¾-length, red wool coat accenting my perfect lithe form. Of course my hair would be perfect. A light dusting of snow would be resting on my shoulders, flakes on my perfect long eyelashes, perfectly setting the mood. And did I say my hair would be perfect?

Suddenly, to break the ambiance - the yuletide atmosphere that has been staged by all these perfect visual and auditory attributes - a reverie overhead stops me in my tracks.

The screech of a squabble of seagulls jolts me back to reality; a plop of white narrowly misses my shoe, my pants, and my now un-hair sprayed hair.

Thank God I wasn’t wearing my perfect ¾-length, red wool coat.

So much for Christmas.

Well, not really.

I smooth down my hair, step over the white blob (not snow, unfortunately), and keep going. Suddenly the song Mele Kalikimaka (A Hawaiian Song – Bing Crosby) pops in my head – seagulls don’t even live in Hawaii, I’m not even NEAR Hawaii, so I don’t know where that came from.

No, seagulls are not a traditional Christmas presence, but in these parts, they are.

Who cares about what SHOULD be typically traditional. Whatever is traditional in your neck of the woods is what is traditional to YOU. No matter where you are in the world - Hawaii with the floral shirts; the Amazon with clingy Spider Monkeys; China with solid gold chopsticks; Australia with their sea turtles waving their fins to folks firing up the barbie on the beach – if you celebrate Christmas, even though you might not have all the things you see in a greeting card or magazine or show or book – it’s still Christmas. It might not be perfect, but it’s still Christmas – for you.

Yes, we all have expectations, fantasies, and memories from years past we would like to relive. Books and movies fuel our perception of what a perfect Christmas should be. But what is perfect? Yes, in some parts, snow would be welcomed – depending on how much, and as long as my hair-do isn’t affected. And yes, a roaring fire, chestnuts roasting (they make me gag, actually), and a stress-free turkey dinner with red bows decorating the sterling silver platter are what greeting cards are made of.

And of course, my hair would be perfect.

In these parts, we rarely get snow (see entry dated December 5, 2010, for the exception). We are surrounded by a cold Pacific Ocean. Ducks, Canadian Geese and seagulls fight for space on (unfrozen) ponds, lakes and beaches. Harbour seals wait for us to feed them from the docks. In the past, our parkas and boots have stayed stuffed in the back of the closet, and sunglasses were needed to protect our perfect eyes from the glare of the sun. My umbrella is at the ready, and usually my hair looks like crap because of the wind and rain. We have to drive 5 hours to find snow. Some of us don’t have chimneys (but Santa still finds his way in with the help of a ‘magic’ key), but we DO have deer that come eat our now blooming Crocus.’ Maybe not reindeer, but let’s pretend, shall we?

But this is normal – traditional – for here. This is where I live. This is what I have. This is what is normal, and PERFECT, for me.

Yes the greeting card photo would be nice, indeed, but I embrace what Christmas is, here, for us. It’s a season; a celebration. It is a time to accept the world around you, enjoy what you have, forget about what you don’t have, and let go of trying to be perfect.

I got next to zero baking done. We have no snow. My hair isn’t perfect. Seagulls are not part of Christmas. And I just remembered I forgot to buy napkins – crap.

Sure I wish for this and that; ALL my family near me, a fireplace, a white Christmas, a clean house, my baking done – and perfect hair. But this is the way it is.

I have family; some live afar, some live near - but I have them. I have a roof over my head. I have food in the fridge (except baking). I HAVE hair, albeit not perfect. I can walk down the street swinging my bags. I have a home to go to; kids to get on my nerves. I will walk with my family around the lake on Christmas day and laugh at the otters playing in the water (if I can unglue them from the couch that is – my darling children, not the otters). And seagulls entertain me.

So wherever you are in the world, and if you celebrate Christmas, don’t pine for what you don’t have, what you wish you had, and what isn’t to be, there. Things can’t always be perfect, and wishing otherwise will ruin what you already DO have. Accept what you DO have, cherish where you live, love your family, and enjoy the barbie on the beach.

Now excuse me, I have to go fix my hair.

Merry Christmas, from......

Beagles, Bulldogs, and A Brother

2010-12-19T09:17:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night.*

It was the kind of dark and stormy night that sent me sliding down a muddy hill. So muddy it soaked right through to my underwear - true story.

But I was hurrying, you see, and no amount of mud or rain was going slow me down.

I slogged home, changed clothes, and jumped in my car. The windshield wipers barely kept up with the rain – never mind the speed of my driving.

And why was I hurrying?

I found a typewriter.

After searching online, I found a Brother Electronic PY-80 Typewriter – only 7 years old. The magic words “$15.00 – obo – no offer refused!” drew me in further. I wrote the seller, and after a breathless day (for me), she responded – it was still for sale!

What are the chances?!

So I raced through that dark and stormy night to the seller’s house. The Divine Miss M. (name withheld), along with her two English Bulldogs who kept snuffling in my purse looking for treats, sold me the treasure for a mere $13.00. I learned the typewriter had been her grandmother’s who used it to type her Christmas cards, and I felt guilty – I should have offered her double for this gem.

Cradling my prize like a newborn baby, I ran through the rain to my car, and made it home in one piece. I plugged it in and starting typing!

With members of my family complaining it sounded like a sub-machine gun, I pounded away, getting used to the feel and sound of it. Look at me everyone -I am a WRITER! If Hemingway could see me now!

With every keystroke, the permanent crease-of-concentration between my eyebrows became....more permanent. Like a four-legged race, I tripped and stumbled over words I could usually spew forth with grace and style (I said USUALLY). This wasn’t as easy as I thought.

Lack of automatic wrap-around and waiting for the typewriter to catch up with my typing, never mind the clunky feeling compared to my computer, made it a challenge. With the correction tape malfunctioning, my paper looked like I was back in Grade 8 typing class. Discarded paper riddled with typos and disjointed thoughts piled up.

But I loved it. I felt ‘grounded’ to this ‘rustic’ way of writing, and took a few days to practice with it. I had to really think about what I was going to say before I typed. Computers truly are designed to keep up with this fast-paced world – or do they just make us go faster? We rely on the backspace and delete keys, never mind Ctrl C and Ctrl V (copy and view) to see us through.

I soldiered on, determined to make it work. With every keystroke and carriage return, I learned a few things;

• Slow down and think about what I want to write. I very often write in longhand before typing it on the computer, and there is no reason why I can’t do so with a typewriter. But the lack of backspace/delete/correction tape, never mind oodles of paper piling up, really made me SLOW DOWN.

• Sometimes it’s important to take a few steps back, to go many steps forward. Going back to the old ways made me appreciate the new, what I have, and how to better manage my writing.

I do intend to keep writing on my trusty typewriter. I love it, and know I have yet to learn much more from it.

***

As you will note from my entry of December 12th, my plan was to conduct a time travel experiment, and write this week’s blog entry on my beloved typewriter.

Between writing some of it with pen and paper then transcribing it to the typewriter, as well as ‘typewriting’ some of it straight from brain to paper, I did write it (most of it) on my darling typewriter. It was a challenge, but a challenge I welcomed with open arms.

With the rain pelting down once again outside – yet another dark and stormy night – I sat down to write the FINAL (with minimal typos) draft (as above) on the typewriter, as promised. The plan was to later use the COMPUTER and all its funky features of scanning, converting, and a whole bunch of other techno stuff I don’t want to bore you with, to post my typewritten story.

I typed the first few four lines and....crap!

Looks like I’ll be going online to shop for typewriter ribbon cartridges – go figure.

(*Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1830; Snoopy, July 12, 1965)

Time Travel With Fred Flintstone and a Typewriter

2010-12-12T18:09:00.000-08:00

After waiting for what felt like my whole life, I finally got a desk.
It was a Fred Flintstone desk, the writing surface interchangeable to a chalkboard-type writing area.

I had always wanted a desk. I smirk as I say always - I was about 5 years old. Not long enough to consider a wish as ‘always,’ but it seemed like forever at the time.

And although I was still in Kindergarten, desks being only for the ‘big kids’ in grade one, I wanted my own desk more than anything. What did I expect to do with it if/when I got one? I have no clue. I had visions of sitting at a desk all day doing important things – and what kind of important things? I have no idea.

After finally learning how to print then handwrite, my knees outgrew the Fred Flintstone desk, and it became a place to shove schoolwork brought home with pride.
Then I wanted a typewriter.

And did I know what I wanted to do with it? Nope. But I wanted one.

I wanted to type, produce and create ‘important things’ – things that meant something to someone, somewhere. What kinds of important things, I don’t know - but I had an urge.

I wanted the sounds: the clanking of the keys, the arm with the little letter (typebar) whacking at the paper. I wanted the ding, the rush of the carriage as it swung back with a push of my hand, and the grinding of the paper roller (platen); all working in repetitive unison.

Maybe it was the future inklings of wanting to be a writer.

Even though I wrote a story once - a ‘gory thriller’ about a spider - I never thought I would BE a writer. I thought writers were mysterious people living in castles in the sky, typing their stories on diamond-studded typewriters. I assumed they rode around in limousines all day, thinking writerly thoughts, never talking to pee-ons like me. They were a mystery.

But I still wanted a typewriter.

Now, 30-some-odd-years-later (I’m NOT revealing – so don’t bother asking), I am a writer.

I don’t live in a castle in the sky. I don’t own a typewriter, diamond-studded or otherwise. No limousines for me, and I talk to EVERYONE. Am I mysterious? Hmmmm....maybe (see reference to age, and again, don’t bother asking).

In this world of e-everything, typewriters are a dime a dozen. Folks itching to get rid of these space-consuming relics sell them online; it not for the cost of an über-fancy coffee, then often for free. It’s kind of weird - ironic actually - to see typewriters being sold on computers.

But it’s good timing for me, as I am conducting an experiment – a science experiment.
Better yet, let’s call it a time-travel experiment.

As I write this on the computer, my word processing program waits for me to type, delete, backspace, copy and paste, change fonts, italicize and bold – all with the swift movement of a finger or two. No paper, carbon paper or correction tape is in sight.

I itch to compare; to see what I will learn from the experience of going back in time, and to test my writing skills and SPEED on a typewriter.

I am in the process of taking advantage of those e-people anxious to rid of the objects of my affection. I am on the hunt, the prowl, for a typewriter, and will write my next blog (this will be interesting – can I download from my typewriter to the internet?) on a typewriter. To compare how I write, the way I write, and what differences, positive or negative, might try to sway me from writing alternatively.

Stay tuned for the scientific results of my experiment...now if I only had my Fred Flintstone desk....

Don't Panic - It's Just Frozen Water

2010-12-05T07:48:00.000-08:00

We Victorians (the people of Victoria, BC - not the era) aren’t very accustomed to that white stuff called snow.

As in frozen water.

According to www.merriam-webster.com, snow is simply - a : precipitation in the form of small white ice crystals formed directly from the water vapour of the air at a temperature of less than 32°F (0°C) b (1) : a descent or shower of snow crystals (2) : a mass of fallen snow crystals.

The words flurries or snow uttered by the poor, ever-cursed meteorologist sends the people of the Isle into absolute histrionics. Stores are depleted of canned goods and water; automotive shops sell snow tires faster than the time it takes for Jack Frost to get his boots on. The panic in the hardware store as everyone fights for snow shovels and salt makes me want to scream ‘We have had snow in the past, people - you mean you have never purchased these kinds of things before?!’

True, the city of flowers doesn’t get THAT much snow, and not every year, but....come on!

My own panic stems from trying to round up mittens and toques for the men-of-all-sizes who reside in my home. Their feet keep growing; finding boots that fit is never ending.

It doesn’t bother me that it took me three hours to get home during a ‘freak’ snow storm; a trip by bus that, on a good day, takes 30 minutes. Our reaction to the concept of white things falling from the sky sends the prairie folk into a flurry of eye-rolling – ‘You Victorians don’t KNOW the meaning of snow!’

So yes, the snow around here makes driving hazardous; it’s the OTHER drivers, not ME, I am worried about. And yes, my salt-splashed pant legs made me look like I ran through a bucket of paint. And yes, by the time I stepped off the bus after the three-hour ride I had to pee so bad I couldn’t read. I was sure crystals had formed in my bladder (oh wait...that’s in cats – never mind).

For two days of our measly few centimetres of snow that graced our part of the island, everyone tromped around in Sorrel boots (not my family), cocooned themselves in parkas fit for the Antarctic, and cursed the meteorologists, their counterpart Mother Nature, and God.

But for every negative, there is a positive.

Or is it the other way around....never mind.

On the positive side of the snow that everyone was up in arms about (and those arms were SURE raised high), there were moments to capture on film before they melted away. You just had to look for them through the thousands of raised arms....

Within 2 days, our parkas were shoved to the back of the closet, with boots stationed underneath – as if nothing had ever happened. The shovels are on stand-by, as are the mittens and toques. Never will we be unprepared again…...

How to Jump a Ditch and Write

2010-11-28T08:34:00.000-08:00

We had a moat around my house; not a fence, but a moat.

Actually, most of the houses in my neighbourhood had moats; our castles protected by whatever swam within. Mostly ducks and slime.

And the odd muddy kid.

Many neighbourhoods in Richmond, B.C., established around the 50’s and 60’s, have drainage ditches separating the front yard from the road. It was with these ditches we learned courage, strength and agility.

When ditches were in their heyday (newer neighbourhoods don’t have them), the ability to ‘jump the ditch’ without falling in was a kids’ rite of passage. Even the tip of your shoe dipping in the murky water behind you as you attempted to clear the 3 – 4 feet wide span would set off gales of laughter and teasing from other kids. No one dared try the ‘super deep’ ditches, or the ditch of grumpy Mr. Brown-down-the-street-with-the-mean-dog; we weren’t THAT stupid.

Fear of humiliation should I not make it across, never mind the thought of falling in the murky water, sucked the courage right out of me. Building up the nerve to take that first running step was always the worst. A few false starts of running a few steps, stopping, turning around and dragging my embarrassed self back to the starting point was torture – but enough to kick me into action.

And then...GO!

Full speed ahead, one foot take off, two feet landing, and dry as a bone on the other side. Victory! Turn around and do it again – just to show off a little. I had already mastered it once; I was a ‘pro’ now. And the occasional wet shoe was nothing – as long as no one was looking. I had surpassed the fear, mastered the move, and was one of the gang. I was invincible.

By the end of autumn we were ditch-jumping pros; spring and summer training had paid off. But then winter would come, shutting us in, preventing us from maintaining our ditch-jumping skills. All the courage, skill and technique acquired during the months previous - gone.

Winter would have barely faded into spring, and we would be back out there. Out of practice and out of courage, we had to start over and reclaim all the physical and mental strength we mastered only a season ago.

As it is with anything, if you haven’t done something for a long time, you lose your touch. Being away from something for too long, you try to come back to it, yet feel ‘rusty’ and lack confidence. As writers, sometimes a project becomes a little unfocused, we get ‘stuck,’ frustrated and find ourselves going nowhere. Courage and momentum you once had, now a distant memory.

But you can get it back. Get into runners stance, ignore those taunting chants from inside your head, ignore your fear, take a deep breath, and start running. As you near the edge, don't come to a screeching halt – just jump. You’ll make it. So what if you get a bit wet that first time - who cares? You’ll dry off, turn around, and do it again.

Don’t jump for anyone else but yourself - and only yourself. You might have supporters cheering you on, suggesting what to do, what not to, and how best to do it. Perfect – that’s what you need. But when you are building up the courage to take that flying leap, remember my neighbourhood friends I was trying so hard to impress. When I made it to the other side, dry and unscathed, thankful I wouldn’t have the burden of those kids laughing and poking fun at me, it was my own sense of accomplishment that made me turn around and do it again...and again...and again.

Keep jumping. Keep writing. Keep submitting. And don’t let a season pass by, interrupting your courage.

Saints or Trolls: Take Your Pick for a Prosperous Writing Career

2010-11-21T13:44:00.000-08:00

Talismans, rituals, lucky charms, muses and saints are often used in time of need; to help provide hope and direction. Whether it’s to bring luck, gain inspiration, prosper, ensure safety, or to help through a troubling time, the reasons are endless. If it doesn’t hurt anyone, why not?

And writers are no different. Some have a special pen or coffee mug. Some keep a lucky troll on their desk (apparently the fuzzy-haired guy works for Bingo players, as well).

When the stress and anxiety of waiting for a ‘yes’ from an agent, editor or publisher sends you to your knees, wailing and praying to anybody or anything, why not pick a saint? If not for luck then, at least, for inspiration and guidance. It won’t hurt anyone or anything, and the worst that can happen is your cat thinks you’re nuts while he sits watching you wail, pray and beg to thin air - or so he thinks.

A good one to pick is St. Francis de Sales (1567 – 1622), Patron Saint to Writers. As Bishop of Geneva in 1602, he wrote Treatise of the Love of God and Introduction to the Devout Life. These writings, as well as many others, brought instant acclaim, and were translated to several languages. His writings are said to have influenced the revival of French Catholicism in the 17 century.

Sounds like they should have had the New York Times Bestseller list back then; he likely would have been on it for sure.

Another good one is John of God (1495 – 1550), Patron Saint of Booksellers and Printers. After serving in the army, he turned to religion, and had a ‘vision.’ Given his love of reading, he felt the need to share his love of books with others, and pedalled religious books. His successes lead him to open a book shop in Granada. For reasons unknown, he went mad, ran through the streets tearing out his hair and gave away his stock of books.

Um....maybe that’s not a good one to pick.

Can’t find that coveted piece of paper bearing the greatest word, idea, sentence or plot you ever came up with? Pray to Anthony of Padua (1193-1231), Patron Saint of Lost Articles.

Too busy meeting deadlines to cook meals? St. Zita (or Sitha) (1218-1272), Patron Saint of Housekeepers, might be able to help in that area. She worked for an Italian family from age 12 until her death at age 60. Mistreated by the family for many years, she eventually earned their respect through her loyalty, devotion, and commitment; her faith kept her strong.

If lasagna doesn’t magically appear, maybe find a lamp with a genie.

Praying to St. Jude (1st century), Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases, might seem like a good, proactive idea. But stop. That would only be counter-productive calling yourself a hopeless case. You are not. Remember: you are a writer. Have faith in yourself - and keep writing.

And if all else fails, stick with trolls.
At least you can comb their hair.

For the Love of Pink

2010-11-14T14:47:00.000-08:00

Ah yes - the good ole days of the 70’s and 80’s. Newly invented cell phones were big enough to warrant carrying an extra briefcase. Hair shampoo like Prell© and Body on Tap© (with beer!) promised unwavering beauty, and Farah Fawcett’s white teeth were the product of Ultra Brite© toothpaste. Deodorant finally escaped the confines of pressurized cans and morphed into a healthier ‘stick.’

And the best part? Toilet paper came in 4 colours – blue, green, yellow and PINK.

Sheer bliss. Life was so simple with coloured toilet paper, but the atrocity of our bums turning green put a stop to all that. I miss that one luxury of life.

Flash forward 30 years, and I am sauntering into the grocery store with my credit-card sized cell phone in my pocket and earth-friendly reusable bags under my arm. My ‘scientifically advanced’ stick deodorant has been applied in triplicate-times-5 as I live in fear that any offending smells will be Blogged or Tweeted by the person behind me at the checkout.

But first, as always in my world, I make a beeline to the customer’s washroom.

Some things never change.

I flick on the light with my elbow, close and lock the door with my sleeve, and…low and behold! Pink toilet paper!

Over the years I have longed for the return of this 15th wonder of the world. Coloured bums aside, why can’t we go back to colour-coordinating in its most extreme? When I planned my Barbie and Ken fantasy marriage as a kid, I vowed to always buy pink toilet paper. Heck…Barbie’s Corvette was pink, so why not?

But back to the grocery store and my euphoria in the customer’s washroom….

The shelves of earth-friendly household cleaner, organic kitty litter and re-usable paper plates (?) are a blur as I bolt from the washroom. I finally find the rows of pillow-soft, earth-friendly, double-rolled, extra-strength packages of...white.

Suddenly, the dust clouds part. A single beam of fluorescent light spotlights a package of pink, and I swear I hear angelic choirs singing.

‘Stop the flushing and come look at this!!’ I want to yell down the aisles. ‘And they’re on SALE too!’

Purex®, makers of the pink (yay!) toilet paper, brought back this classic in an effort to raise money for the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation; 25 cents from every package sold goes towards cancer-fighting research (double yay!). Not only will I have the glory of owning 12 rolls of bubble-gum coloured segmented squares, but I will also know I played a part in contributing to research for this awful disease.

I grab a package, and like a football player, hug it to my body as I charge past the other customers and their carts full of lentils and goat’s milk. Don’t worry – I make it to the checkout safe and sound. Can’t say the same for the lentil-buying customers who dared get in my way, though.

I forget everything else I need to buy – my family will just have to starve. As I break the speed limit going home, a 3-minute drive on a slow day, I lovingly stroke the pink package in the passenger seat beside me.

Pink-dyed skin be damned, this is gonna be great!

As you will recall, I have an on-going renovation project of my new bathroom/office (see post from September 9, 2010, Writing with the Toilet Seat Down), and the pink rolls are a perfect addition. I have claimed full ownership of this ‘office’ (see previous blog as mentioned above), and this means everything within. No one will be allowed to use these pink rolls, even if down to the last….solitary...white…square.

Now if someone could please tell me where I could find scented toilet paper…

For more information, visit the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation at www.cbcf.org, as well as Purex at www.purex.ca

Come On, It's Just a Little Water....

2010-11-05T12:59:00.000-07:00

As a ‘west coast girl,’ I grew up in the rain - literally. With the ditches around my house overflowing, the school field flooding every year, and my Holly Hobbie umbrella always in tow, it was a way of life - constant rain. Therefore, I hate the heat, AND, of course, anything tropical. My body, my psyche, just isn’t acclimatized to being dry for long periods. I hope to one day travel the world, invariably leading me to places of blistering heat. But the rain will always be my comfort. Give me the sound of rain over sweat-pooling heat, any day.

Dashing from the car to the store without an umbrella is commonplace in these parts. Coats with hoods and a little extra hairspray in the morning, and we’re good to go. I store spare shoes and socks under my desk at work. I have two umbrellas; one under my desk, one in my bag. Also in my bag is yet another pair of socks, just in case. I always keep a plastic bag in my purse, should I want to sit outside and read – under my umbrella.

Those sun-worshippers mockingly curl their zinc-covered lips at my apparent stupidity; “What’s with all that stuff needed for wet weather that can last for 8 months? Is it worth it? It’s MUCH easier somewhere tropical wearing next to nothing!”

But then I would be carrying around sunscreen, after-sun lotion, Noxzema©, sunglasses, extra deodorant, and extra clothes to change out of sweaty clothes. And then, eventually, think of all the anti-wrinkle creams, laser treatments, and miracle-to-end-all-wrinkle treatments I would have to spend money and time on! What’s that stuff those cowboys use on saddles to keep the leather supple? I will have to find out and express-courier some to those leather-skinned sun worshippers.

And as for the wearing next to nothing bit? My pasty white body would blind the whales surfing by, and that wouldn't be very nice of me, now would it?

To think there are places where sunscreen application stations are EVERYWHERE – like Australia. At places of employment, schools, parks….truly, there are! Which is smart, thank God, but all that work, all day, everywhere you go. Ugh! The agony of constant application…..

The freckles on my arms are misleading. Some think I am a closet sun worshipper, secretly basking in the sun during those non-rainy months. Everyone needs a bit of a break from all those cats and dogs, and those sun-kissed streaks in my hair from the harmful rays has me channelling Bo Derek. But if you look between those spots, pure white skin shines through. Bo Derek, I am definitely not – and proud of it.

Sure my hair is frizzy, and the ends are often damp. What do you think ball caps and ponytails are for? Keep a hair dryer in your desk! And skirts and pantyhose can still be done; just wear your boots to work. This is normal. No one will look at you funny around here.

Aw come on….it’s just a little water! What’s the big deal?

A little water doesn’t stop life for I-of-the-West-Coast. The sound of the rain on my hood is hypnotizing as I hike through the woods, my extra-tread boots tightly laced. Jogging through the drops at 5:30 in the morning, water in my eyes, dripping off the brim of my cap and streaming down my ponytail – there’s nothing better.

So make like a duck, and get out there. It’s just a little water!

Happy Halloween!

2010-10-31T15:20:00.000-07:00

Hope Everyone Has a Safe and Fun Halloween!

Unfashionista Me

2010-10-31T14:00:00.000-07:00

The possibility of hors d’oeuvres had me running - dodging raindrops (unsuccessfully) as well as bike couriers and speeding buses (successfully). My stupid umbrella was useless.

Curiosity coupled with the desire to meet someone famous – someone I grew-up watching on TV - had me running to The Bay department store in downtown Victoria, BC. My death-defying race was in the name of fashion, and unfashionista me HAD to be there.

But hors d'oeuvres weren't the the only thing on my mind. I was racing to catch a glimpse of Jeanne Beker.

For all you unfashionistas out there, Jeanne Beker has hosted the Canadian produced show, Fashion Television, for 25 years. Television, journalism, and fashion design have her travelling the world, rubbing elbows with and interviewing the who’s who in the fashion world. Coinciding with the 25th anniversary of the show, Jeanne is currently promoting her new fashion line, EDIT, which brought her to The Bay that rainy day in downtown Victoria.

I grew-up watching the Canadian fashion icon. As a teenager I loved watching the show, but I had no interest in fashion - and still don’t. But it has always intrigued me - this other world so seemingly unattainable to suburban little me.

I haven’t watched the show since, and though the years of motherhood and working have made watching daytime TV next to impossible, I occasionally flick through channels, see her on some flashy-splashy fashion show and think “Hey, there’s Jeanne Beker!”

Spurned by the need to meet her (and heck, I’m always up to meet someone famous!), I raced through the doors of the department store, only to be met with rows of empty chairs and staff already dismantling the stage and lighting.

I missed the whole thing.

One of the staff, with her chic black outfit and coiffed hair, must have noticed my slumped shoulders and pitiful wet hair. Ignoring (thankfully) my unfashionista appearance, she told me Jeanne Beker was in a press conference and would be out shortly…if I wanted to wait, that is.

Well, HECK! Of course I would want to!

I grabbed a commemorative “25th Anniversary FT” magazine, and sat in the glossy white chairs previously set up for the fashion show, and waited.

Like an unfashionista dork.

I dug in my purse (straight from the shelves of Wal-Mart) for a pen, readying for an autograph should I be so lucky. With my hair now a-frizz from the run in the rain, and my crappy umbrella dripping on the uber-shiny marble floor, I knew I didn’t fit in.

But my fleece jacket was only 6 years old, and heck, it was in great shape!

Regardless, every inch of me screamed UNFASHIONISTA.

I waited, watching all the bustle and nervous flutter, everyone anxious for her re-emergence from the press-conference. When the bustling increased, signalling Jeanne’s presence, the kind staff person discretely waved me over.

I ‘glided’ towards her, all the while screaming at myself “Down Lisa, don’t act like an idiot. Walk like you OWN the catwalk. You ARE a fashionista.”

As I gracefully approached, the staff person indicated to Jeanne I had been waiting a while and would like to meet her. Oh great, now she thinks I am an unfashionista STALKER. Thankfully she left out the part about my crappy, dripping umbrella.

No one mentioned my hair.

I introduced myself, we shook hands, and Jeanne's smile was as big and gracious as I had seen on TV. Not once did she give me the 'once-over;' not at my hair, my ancient jacket, nor my $10.00 purse – none of it. She autographed the magazine and posed for a photo with grace and class, all the while chatting to me as if I was one of ‘them.’

It didn’t matter that I didn’t fit in. I didn’t want to anyways. I was me, and that was all she saw. I was, and am, happy being my unfashionista self.

But damnit! I missed the hors d’oeuvres!

Writing Within the Pizza Box

2010-10-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

Your stomach growls. You know what you want. And not the frozen kind, either. The real thing. Steaming. Filling. Fulfilling. Heavy and hearty with all the good stuff. It’s indulgent – satisfying, and only the best kind won’t end up as leftovers the next day. All in a cardboard box.

Pizza.

The base comes first – thin crust, thick crust – the yeast has created the heaviest, richest dough. The plot. Your idea has grown, risen, creating a base from which to start.

The sauce – the glue of the idea – is what separates the base from the ingredients, yet holds it together. Marrying the ingredients with the dough – enhancing the flavour of the ingredients. Sometimes spicy, yet sometimes mild, and sometimes not always the favourite but always smooth and rich. Rich and perfect grammar and punctuation is necessary.

Countless ingredients, or words, to choose from, seemingly thrown together. But when in the right combination can be a masterpiece. Choose those ingredients wisely – some don’t go well together, some do. It’s the writer’s job to decide and play with what works in epicurean harmony together. The right chef can create magic.

If you’re lucky, the delivery guy, chef, agent, critic, or editor hasn’t messed up your order; changed it to something that you didn’t intend. If so – and at a risk, mind you – send it back. Rewrite. Start over. You’ll be starving and anxious while you wait, but the wait for perfection will be worth it – sometimes they know what’s best. But stay true to your heart, true to what you want, in your writing. You know what you want, what you crave. But be willing to try something new. Be open to change.

You open the box – the steam and saliva-inducing smell rewards you. You think “This is IT!” – perfection. But you look closer. Grease pooling between the olives needs to be dabbed with a napkin – excess words that might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but contribute nothing to your story except boosting your already fragile, yet hungry, ego, need to go. Those olives, onions and anchovies are too much. Like editing, you painstakingly pick out each unwanted bit. But remember, it’s in the name of perfection.

Sometimes you need to put those olives in – it’s what the editor wants. It won’t completely RUIN everything, but give them a try. Who knows, you might like it, and want more next time.

As the hot cheese dribbles on your chin, then burns the roof of your mouth, don’t worry. The pain will go away. Criticism, self-doubt, and rejection all sting – but within time, the burn heals, and you learn from it. You are ready for next time.

And then you open the next box, anxious and starving to try again, and dive in.

Don't forget the antacids.

The Unveiling of "Our Emily" - October 13, 2010

2010-10-17T15:33:00.000-07:00

With high hopes of free cake and chocolate, I ran through the streets of downtown Victoria, BC, with autumn leaves swirling in my wake.

Blinded by sunlight, I tripped through the gardens at the Empress Hotel, not only hoping for a sugar-high (as advertised in that mornings’ newspaper), but to also witness the unveiling of the statue made in honour of iconic artist and writer, Emily Carr. It was perfect weather for a most historic event.

I bustled through Girl Guides, local dignitaries, band members of the Reynolds Secondary School Band, and the “Three Emily’s” - all present to make the day even more special than it already was. I forged on, my desperation for cake and chocolate still present, and I was met with countless Emily fans shielding their eyes from the sun. Folks from all ages leaned on fences, peered through bushes, and sat on the grass in front of the stage waiting for action (the gardeners won’t be too happy).

I plowed my way through the crowd, watched the fabulous cake being wheeled out (stomach grumbling), and sweated it with the chefs as they transferred the artistically decorated cake from the dolly to the serving table. Oh wait! There is juice too! And with cut-up lemons! What a day this will be!

Continuining to where the statue sat veiled at the corner of Belleville and Government Street, kitty-corner to the Legislative Building, I was met with yet another crowd. Parts of the street had been closed-off, making room for us Emily fans. Although drivers honked and whistled (they didn’t have a clue what was going on), the avid followers and admirers of one of the city’s most revered artists waited patiently, many on tip-toe, straining to get a glimpse of the statue still under wraps.

When speeches were done, members from the Reynolds Secondary School Band led the dignitaries to the statute, madly playing their instruments while elbowing onlookers out of the way.

The “Three Emilies” made their way to the statue, and the paparazzi readied themselves. We novice paparazzi pushed forward, readying our own cameras, anxious to get a decent shot - even if someone`s head was in the way.

“The Emily’s” in question dressed in garments as portrayed in photos of their heroine. These girls had it down pat. They posed, smiled and chatted most patiently. Evident from their ever-present grins, their “Emily” spectacles glinting in the sun, it was clear they love what they do. One “Emily” works at Emily Carr’s house on Government Street. The second, from Calgary, was used as a body model for the creation of the statue. And the third “Emily,” as I was told, has portrayed Emily Carr on Broadway for 45 years.

Once everyone was in place, the paparazzi took aim and the bronze statue, created by Barb Paterson of Edmonton, AB, was unveiled. We cheered, clapped, 'oohed' and 'ahhed,' and yet again, fought to get the perfect picture - but not before we sang the national anthem.

And yes, on the street corner.

I had to continue with my day, and with the line-ups for cake and chocolate too long for my stomach to wait, I left the festivities weak with hunger and low on sugar. But aside from my gluttonous ways, I was thrilled and proud to have been part of history - just a few blocks away from the house where Emily Carr was born.

One of the fabulous cakes created.

(for more information on artist and writer Emily Carr, visit www.emilycarr.ca)

How Rick Springfield Saved Me from Dying of a Heart Attack

2010-10-01T20:01:00.000-07:00

(Anyone who has known me since I was 12 (age revealing) is likely very appalled I haven’t, as yet, devoted at least one opus to my hero – Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome himself – Mr. Rick Springfield. I am not a crazy stalker fan, so don’t go thinking the movie MISERY or something – I am just...well....ya know...)

Comfy in my well-worn pyjamas, I lay in bed the other night sleepless with anticipation, for the release date of Rick Springfield’s memoir, ‘Late, Late at Night,’ was only days away (swoon). The whole morning of Oct 12th played out in my head: being at the bookstore right at 9:30 a.m., racing past the throngs of other women, snatching my copy, then bounding to the cash register in glee, cackling - “You snooze, YOU LOSE, Ladies!”

Suddenly it hit me: WHAT IF THE BOOKSTORE ISN’T ORDERING ANY!???

I lay there hyperventilating, sweating, my left arm suddenly in pain.... OH SAVE ME! I’m having a heart attack and I never even had the chance to read the book!!! OH the despair! OH THE AGONY!

I rolled over, fumbling for the picture of Rick on my nightstand – I wanted his face to be the last I saw before I died. (The irony that my beloved husband’s name is Rick is not lost on me.)

Wait a second....

I was just lying on my arm funny.

As I wasn’t dying of a heart attack, I calmly and rationally devised a plan; I would run to the bookstore the next morning and ask if copies had been ordered. Simple. All is not lost – yet. Sighing in relief with my new-found plan, I hummed “Jessie’s Girl” to soothe myself to sleep, the guitar solo the last thing I remembered as I floated into blissful Springfield-dreamland (more swooning).

9:30 the next morning couldn’t come soon enough; the morning dragged torturously at work. Finally it was 9:29, and out the door I ran.

I flew through the doors of the bookstore, and with my purse tucked like a football under my arm, I James-Bond-dive-rolled past the dilly-dallying browsers - “MOVE it PEOPLE! I am on a MISSION HERE!”

I grabbed the first clerk I could find, and dragged her to the computer begging her to tell me they had ordered copies. As she fumbled with keys and touch-screen commands (oh COME ON, THIS IS NOT ROCKET SCIENCE I wanted to scream), she shook her head “Um, no, it doesn’t look like we will be getting any in.”

Hyperventilating and sweating (again), this time my arm really DID hurt (note to self - paper bags and nitroglycerin for my purse). I could barely see her computer through my tears when, as she continued typing, his face on the book cover filled the screen. “Oh wait! Here we are.” she confirmed confidently. “We DO have 11 copies on order, and they will be ready for purchase on October 12th.”

I collapsed on the floor, hugging her legs and wailing in gratitude. Although still hyperventilating and sweating, my arm (oddly enough) stopped hurting as my purse clunked to the floor, everything inside spilling out.

Oh.

Right.

Um.....I was carrying around some...stuff...in my purse.

A drumstick rolled under the bookshelf. A guitar pick impaled itself in the side of a book. An autographed CD was almost crushed in the path of a passing stroller – but I kicked it out of the way (the stroller, not the CD). A passerby nearly stepped on my shatter-proof bottle of sweat, but I tripped him before he could step on it – just in case. And OH the HORRORS! Locks of hair fluttered around me, lost forever in the black carpet. But don’t worry – I have more under my pillow. No wonder my arm was killing me; I forgot about all my Rick Springfield memorabilia I was carrying around in homage to the upcoming day!

I lovingly gathered my treasures, reserved a copy of the book, and skipped out of the store grinning at my good fortune (I had the book reserved AND I didn’t have a heart attack!). I floated back to work, humming “Jessie’s Girl,” and tried to concentrate on the rest of my stressful day.

And the countdown begins..........

(Rick Springfield’s memoir, ‘Late, Late at Night,’ hits bookstores October 12, 2010)

Chocolate for Writers (or anyone who wants a treat)

2010-09-26T14:40:00.000-07:00

Any writer worth the salt they’re licking off the margarita glass knows that chocolate cures writer's block, aids in dealing with rejection, enhances procrastination, and is always eaten in celebration. With Christmas just around the corner (and it IS, you know, even if Halloween is only just on the horizon as I write this), I figure now would be the best time to share a family recipe; to give you a head start for those Christmas preparations.

This is easy. There is no stress. Honestly. No need to over-think it. Just follow the directions, and it will work out JUST fine.

Here we go:

Chocolate Marshmallow Roll

Ingredients:

1 egg, beaten
1 cup icing sugar
4 squares semi-sweet chocolate, melted
2 tablespoons butter
120 mini coloured marshmallows
1 – 1 ½ cups sweetened coconut

Before you do anything, pull out a sheet of wax paper. Not parchment paper. Not clear cling-film wrap. Not foil. Not freezer paper.

Just WAX paper.

Pull out maybe 17 to 18 inches of it, and sprinkle about half the coconut along the middle of the WAX paper, but not all the way to each end. Eventually, you will need to ROLL the whole thing up, twisting the ends closed, as this recipe is for a ROLL.

Now, before we begin, a few notes about the ingredients.

The eggs: this is an OLD family recipe, so the exact size of egg is not clear. But let’s meet halfway and use a medium-sized egg. If you crack one open and it’s one of those double-yolk-ers, although good luck in some parts of the world, DON’T USE it. Save it in the fridge for making a face mask (there ARE recipes for such a mask). I don’t think brown eggs make a difference, and I don’t know the measurement for those pre-beaten eggs from a carton. And forget about powdered eggs. Gag.

The icing sugar: just use NORMAL, everyday, icing sugar. Not FINE sugar, the kind for strawberries. Not pre-made icing from a container. Don’t try to use granulated sugar, brown sugar, raw sugar, artificial sweeteners, liquid sugar, or finely minced sugar cane. IT WON’T WORK.

The semi-sweet chocolate squares: don’t try to substitute with a million chocolate chips (eating them while you make this is fine). Don’t try carob chips; another gag. Don’t get bitter chocolate, sugar-free or organic. Just use good old fashioned, sugar-laced, calorie-laden, non-organic, semi-sweet chocolate squares. They come in a box, each square individually wrapped - very cute, actually.

The butter: real butter is fine, but if you have margarine, that’s fine too. I know that margarine is supposed to be unhealthy for you, but if that’s all you have - fine (you’re already using semi-sweet chocolate squares, so you might as well go all the way). DON’T use any of the margarines that are made with olive oil, are vegan (you’re already using eggs, don’t forget), are salt-free, are packed with Omega3, reduced-fat, fat-free, dairy-free….the list goes on. Who cares if it contains yellow dye? Just use regular, cholesterol-laden ordinary margarine. You’re eating all that chocolate anyways. And for the love of chocolate, do NOT use those sprays. If this is too stressful for you, just use real butter. But don’t use salt-free, lactose-free, or clarified butter. And don’t use….oh never-mind.

120 mini-coloured marshmallows: when I say 120, I mean 120. Not 119. Not 121. Specifically 120. Count them out by tens if you must, putting them in little groupings on the counter. You will need 12 groups of 10. And yes, there IS dye in those coloured marshmallows (like the yellow dye in margarine). But they are technically FRUIT flavoured marshmallows, so they can’t be THAT bad for you.

Sheesh….you’re looking a little too deeply into all this, aren’t you? This is a SIMPLE recipe.

The coconut: remember, this is a SIMPLE recipe. Don’t buy a whole coconut and burst a hernia trying to crack the darn thing open in hopes of shredding the gunk inside. It’s messy, painful, and you will end up with hairy things from the husk everywhere. Don’t use canned coconut, dehydrated chunks, or coconut milk powder (yes, there is such a thing). Just use regular, over-processed, over-sweetened, preservative-laden, packaged coconut. No-name brand is fine.

Okay, now for the process.

1. Melt chocolate and butter/margarine in a saucepan over low-medium heat. Remove from heat.
2. Stir in icing sugar until well mixed, then the egg.
3. Mix well until smooth and shiny.
4. Fold in marshmallows.
5. Spread mixture in a ‘log’ formation on top of the coconut on the waxed paper.
6. Sprinkle remaining coconut over roll.
7. Roll into a chocolaty, wax-papered log, twisting the ends closed.
8. Chill for up to 3 hours (overnight is best), unwrap, slice into ½ inch slices, and serve (looks pretty with the coloured marshmallows).

See? Wasn’t that easy? And there was NO stress involved. You didn’t have to over-think anything.

Enjoy, and happy writing (and eating, and baking)!

(author’s note: I am not an epicurean expert - I know my own slices are not round in the picture. Who cares – JUST EAT IT!)

Writing with Waterproof Mascara

2010-09-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

Ahhh…Maybelline Great Lash® Mascara. A true classic and basic staple for most women. And to think it’s been around for almost 40 years, according to a magazine advertisement I came across the other day. That iconic pink and green tube helped transition many girls from their tweens to their teens; those same girls who likely shed a mascara-laced tear or two during those hormonally imbalanced teen-years.

Those days are long gone for me and, since then, I have sometimes paid $10 - $20 for mascara I was told would transform my look (umm…I have never really had a ‘look’ but…whatever).

I was promised THIS mascara, with its high-tech wand and revolutionary formula, would plump, thicken, lengthen, and strengthen my ever-batting eyelashes. I was assured THAT mascara would make my eyes look bigger, wider, brighter, younger, and bluer. And of course, I would look thinner, younger (again!), sexier and ever-alluringly more mysterious.

And none of them worked.

I am not a ‘Vogue-esque’ kinda girl. I am just simple little me. I am just a mom, just an employee, just a writer.

And I still do, occasionally, succumb to the ever-trending, ever-increasing promises I know deep down will never come true, and try something different – something new.

Just to say I tried. Just to know I tried.

And sometimes I end up going back to the basics; the classics. What I know works - for me.

Good ‘ole Great Lash® Mascara, every time.

As a writer, I try to branch out and try something new; a new idea, style of writing, or genre of writing. I work at being brave, ignoring that inner-critic. And I figure trying something new has to be good for all writers – for anyone. It’s important to flex those creative muscles, to try something else, and see how far you can push yourself in your writing and in your creativity.

But what about those times when a project just won’t work? When no matter what you do, or how you do it, it just won’t work the way you thought it would? Do you have a fit, cry and wail uncontrollably, then give up and quit? (If it makes you feel better, do have a fit, but do it privately and wear waterproof mascara.)

But for the love of mascara, whatever you do, don’t give up! Just put it aside – for now.

It’s common for a writing project, or idea, to fall flat and loose its steam. DON’T THROW IT OUT for God sake! You spent time and effort writing your heart out; there will be something in there that can be used one day, in some way. Try it again when the timing is right. Rework it; reword it. Maybe you need to wait for a renewed sense of direction. Thoughts, tastes, and abilities change.

Go back to the basics – to what you know – for now.

Like that tube of $20 mascara that was too clumpy/flaky/chunky/dark/light and basically just didn’t fulfill its promise. Unless it gave you an eye infection, DON’T THROW IT OUT for God sake! You just spent $20 on the darn thing! Put it away in the bottom of your make-up bag or at the back of your bathroom cupboard (but not behind the calamine lotion – you might forget it’s there). One day, maybe, you might try it again (or you might be out of Great Lash® and need that $20 tube in a pinch!)

Go back to the basics – to what you know – for now.

As for the 40th Anniversary of Maybelline’s Great Lash® Mascara? The creation fell into make-up bags everywhere in 1971, and hasn’t stopped enhancing eyelashes since. A tube is sold in drugstores every 1.7 seconds, according to Maybelline® of New York (www.maybellinenewyork.ca), and is always on hand, backstage, at fashion shows.

Not bad for a little tube that usually sells for around $6. There’s something to be said for the basics.

Writing with the Toilet Seat Down

2010-09-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

Virginia Wolff had it right; a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

Well, the money part might be a long time coming for me…but the room part? Well, read on…

I spent too long moaning, groaning, whining and crying about not having any where to write. Um…hello!? There is a whole world out there in which to write. Not EVERY human being can fill EVERY little nook and cranny. There is ALWAYS somewhere to write: on the bus, on the couch at 5 am, on a park bench, and in the bathroom.
The bathroom? Yes, it’s possible.

I will explain in a minute. So, for now, just cross your legs and read.

During a brief break from all the moaning, groaning, whining and crying, I finished blowing my nose with Kleenex-by-the-foot (toilet paper), and reflected on the past year. Armed with a set of goals set at the beginning of the year, I had ALWAYS found a place, and time, to write. Maybe not as often as I would have liked, and maybe not in a fancy oak desk with a leather swivel chair with my tea brought to me hourly by a Chippendale’s dancer....but I always managed to write.

And I guess I paid my dues because, so far as it seems, and although I am still in the early organizing/planning stages, my time has come.

I will have my own office.

Where I KNOW great things will happen.

Before you flush this down the toilet at my self-indulgent smugness, read on.

I live with three men; a husband and two sons. I am the minority. Space has always been an issue, what with everyone growing. Finding time to write, finding space for myself, has always been a challenge. But somehow, I have managed. Between refereeing at home, going to various extra-curricular activities, homework, meals, laundry, laundry, laundry, never mind forever cleaning the bathroom…..

And so very often, the bathroom is often my refuge. As long as I have super smelly soap that NO ONE is allowed to use, I am happy. As long as the bathtub is rinsed of sand, grass, and pine needles after their bath, I am happy. As long as the toilet seat is down, I am happy.

But what makes me most happy is finally having my own bathroom. Just a little powder room, but I don’t care. It’s mine.

We moved, and not only did I acquire a kitchen window, but an extra bathroom.

And I had a flash of brilliance, as I so often do, of TRULY making it mine.

Why not make it my office?

And of course I have told anyone and everyone about this; the bus driver, the girls at the grocery store, and everyone else in between.

A writer friend of mine had the brilliant concept of converting a commode to a chair, able to fit over the toilet. Another friend of mine came up with having a drop down table suspended by chains, from the wall.

THIS is going to be perfect.

I have yet to get to it; boxes are still being unpacked, furniture still being re-arranged. I still get confused as to where I am now keeping the Hello Kitty Waffle Maker. It will come together eventually. I have already stored ‘writerly’ things under the sink, awaiting the bathroom transformation - but it will come.

I am patient.

I’ve waited this long.

And get this: all through the move, through the packing/unpacking, chaos, and too many nights of ordering pizza (which really isn’t a bad thing), I continued to write.

Even, still, without the ‘office.’

Stay tuned….and while you’re at it, go change the empty toilet paper roll.

Fishing Lures, Eyelash Curlers and Patience

2010-08-26T05:54:00.000-07:00

At the request to go dock-fishing, I promptly put down my eyelash curler like the devoted mother I am, and followed The Mighty Fisherman out the door.
With only one set of my lashes properly curled.

Only moments before I had washed my hair with water from a hose outside; treated lake-water as cold and pure as the forest around us. The circling hawks and osprey overhead were likely waiting for me to drop dead of brain freeze.

With my ‘Jackie-O’ sunglasses firmly in place - I dared not let a bear see my one set of non-curled eyelashes - I sat in the sun drying my hair, while The Mighty Fisherman readied his tackle.

For 45 minutes.

I should say ‘I sat in the sun patiently.’

I could have curled my other eyelashes during this time, but I didn’t want to portray disinterest. Instead, I entertained myself by contemplating all the trend-setting jewelry-making possibilities of the fishing tackle in The Mighty Fisherman’s box.

So I continued to wait – patiently.

At 30 kilometers in the bush, time and patience are pretty much all you have - but with a few extras. The dock in question floats precariously on Missezula Lake, an isolated lake just north of Princeton, British Columbia. A subdivision of 80 or so cabins huddle around one end of the lake. With electricity and water luckily available, year-round residents in neighbouring ‘houses’ luxuriate in hot water baths, while I resort to cold water mornings. But my complaining stops there, as plumbing in all capacities is available. As long as there are flush toilets, I consider myself the toughest female in the bush.

Finally the mighty fisherman announced he was ready, and off we went.

As The Mighty Fisherman and I trudged out to the end of the dock, he was sure-footed, whereas I was….not. The movement of the dock in sync with the waves from passing motor boats didn’t faze him. I, on the other hand, reassured myself with the excuse that my lack of sea legs was due to my unbalanced, unevenly curled eyelashes.

Without a word or backward glance to make sure his poor mother hadn’t fallen in the water, The Mighty Fisherman set about opening the container of worms and his tackle box (did I just see a pair of school scissors in there?), and readied his rod.

I, on the other hand, finally made it close enough to him to assist if necessary, yet far away enough to prevent my eyelashes getting caught on a flying hook as he cast out. I figured sitting was safer than standing, but better yet, lying down was safer than sitting. I attempted to recline gracefully, waiting for the luxurious lull of the waves to relax me. With my ‘Jackie-O’ sunglasses firmly in place, I KNEW I looked the part of tough outdoorswoman.

But instead I flopped like a fish from back to front, trying to get comfortable. Nothing worked. Not only were the fish laughing at me from below, but I was positive the hawks and osprey above were, yet again, waiting for me to die – but this time, however, from infected slivers I was acquiring in places we will not discuss here.

As The Mighty Fisherman muttered to himself while doing fisherman things, I focused on having happy, reflective thoughts. My mind wandered to all the writing fodder I could glean from this trip to the great outdoors. Why didn’t I think to bring a paper and pen with me? At least I could have made paper airplanes to ward off the slowly approaching hawks - they really had it out for me.

The Mighty Fisherman then reeled in, and more muttering ensued (I am pretty sure I heard ‘stupid fish’ among his ramblings). He fiddled with the hook, and cast off again.

And then for the longest time……we waited.

And waited.

My thoughts bounced from my eyelashes, to the slivers in unmentionable areas, to writing.

As for him, his remarkable patience, for a 10 year old, kept him trying. He reeled in, and instead of giving up, he changed hooks, flies, bobbers or lures…whatever they are…and cast out again.

And patiently waited.

Again.

Just sitting there.

I asked his back, “What are you thinking about?”

“I am figuring out what to use next” came the thoughtful reply.

At that moment, with the circling hawks awaiting my death, my eyelashes a mess, and The Mighty Fisherman muttering….stuff…I was reminded of what the writing life is all about.

Patience.

When I send out queries or submissions of my work to editors and agents, I can drive myself crazy waiting impatiently, almost to the point where I want to stab myself with my eyelash curler. I find myself mentally pacing, mentally twiddling my thumbs, and basically accomplishing nothing.

But the mighty fisherman’s response to my probing question reminded me to always keep moving forward. Planning my next hook. Planning my next bait. Perhaps starting something new. Perhaps planning a new approach for next time. Just keep writing. Just keep fishing. Keep trying. Keep casting out.

I began to feel a prickling on my ears, and thankfully it was not the hawks’ and ospreys’ beaks pecking away, but my ears slowly starting to burn in the sun. The heat likely uncurled my one and only perfectly curled set of lashes, so it was time to head in.

With reluctance he agreed, because he was ‘getting hungry anyways.’ Thank God I don’t have to gut a fish tonight, was my only thought. The Mighty Fisherman’s shoulders slouched in defeat. Skunked again.

As he packed up his tackle box, his school scissors positioned ‘just so,’ I asked The Mighty Fisherman what he planned to use next time.

His one word answer: Wieners.

And whaddya know - they worked.

Long Live the Pen

2010-07-27T21:12:00.000-07:00

I was a child of the 80’s, and my career aspirations amounted to having my own desk in an office somewhere. What I was to be doing at that desk, I didn’t know (and I didn’t care). As long as I had shoulder-pads, a can of Aqua Net® hairspray in my drawer, and an artistically arranged cup of pens at my desk, I would be complete.

The threatened existence of pens was far from my mind.

Grade 8 typing class had me gnawing on my Jelly bracelets in agitation. The nerve-grating repetition drove me crazy. By grade 9, we put our record-breaking typing speed to the test on computers with 5” floppy disks, and for a moment, WANG enriched our lives. With all the high-tech, futuristic promises flooding the airwaves, would pens become extinct?

During all this, the 80’s boasted to be the era of all eras, and pens fought for power. Erasable ink landed in our hands, its fame riding on the coattails of pencil erasers. The pen had won the battle…for the time being. Liquid Paper® further enhanced their mortality.

In the early 90’s, I entered the office workforce – I was 19. I was THRILLED that little ole’ up-and-coming-office-worker-me had my OWN typewriter at my desk – an IBM Selectric. And beside it, of course, was my cup of pens.

I thought I was somethin’ else.

I also had – oooh, get ready – a (massive) computer, or terminal, as it was called. As a data-entry-friendly glorified typewriter, the concept of talking to each other via these boxes was still in its infancy, and you were ultra-cool if you had access to such a commodity.

And to think I took shorthand in high-school only a few years before.

19 years later, I have two kids who use pens to kill ants, and, with failed attempts, each other (pens make great darts).

I’m still an office-worker and proud of it - and my pens.

My kids are rolling their way through school, and I wonder if handwriting is becoming a lost art. By grade 4, various homework and projects must be typed and printed from computers. This leaves me typing my kid’s homework, simultaneously stirring the Mac ‘n Cheese. Watching the poor kid struggle for half an hour, only to type three short sentences, is beyond torturous. Computer classes start in kindergarten, but no typing classes. A tear plops on my keyboard as I realize they won’t inherit my shorthand textbooks.

When I find an exploded pen at the bottom of a back-pack, I cherish the moment. They’re still around, and they’re not going anywhere – the pens, I mean.

In this paperless world where we print everything for fear of losing something in a ‘crash,’ as long as there is paper, there are pens.

Pens keep upping the ante in their campaign with stealth marketing, ergonomic attributes, and earth-friendly plastics and inks. Even though they are readily tossed in the trash when they ‘die,’ they continue to persevere through generations of mouths, fostering deep thoughts. They substitute as a screwdriver, or a hair-do holder; they morph themselves to indispensability.

In same amount of time it takes to open a laptop, Blackberry or i-phone (or any other gizmo-trend of the day), fire it up, find the right document or ‘app’ to thumb-type a note, a pen could have already scribbled thoughts on a receipt. But I worry the pens are quivering in fear as more and more thumb-friendly, note-taking gadgets are created. Have no fear, my trusty little Bic® - the banks love you, and I love you.

Yes, you laugh at me as you read this on a computer, laptop or Blackberry. You think that I, too, have succumbed to a pen-resistant world – but not completely. As a writer, I always have a pen around. Much of what you are reading was scribbled on bits of paper, the ideas littering my desk as I try to piece them together into something sensible. Beside my keyboard is an ever-present pen and paper to catch miscellaneous ideas.

My desk at work has changed, but not much. Pictures of Rick Springfield have been replaced by pictures of my kids – mostly. Aqua Net has been replaced by TRESemmé® hairspray. Shoulder-pads decompose in land-fills, and I search eBay for an ‘old’ typewriter to add to my collectibles. My flat screen monitor is thin enough to fit in my backpack. But my cup of pens stands strong.

In this questionable, ever-changing world, this I know for sure: pens are here to stay. As I jaunt down the street humming Rick Springfield songs, I want to kiss the (hunky) businessman who, as he fumbles with his Blackberry, stops to ask me for a pen. I tell him to keep it, bat an eyelash or two, and silently thank him for saving another pen’s life.

Another one lives on.