Tupperware® List

I took a week off from my too-busy day job. I had months of catch-up to do – household organizing and cleaning, computer stuff, writing-related fun things to do, general sewing and mending – and basically I just needed some R&R. I knew I would be busy, but I was also going to make time to rest. So I made a list – a long list, despite my desire to find time to rest. It consisted of stuff I needed to do as well as stuff I wanted to do. I knew if I didn’t have a list, nothing would get done and I’d end-up going back to work feeling like I hadn’t accomplished anything. My week off wasn’t about going away on a trip, nor was I thinking I was going to write a novel in a week. I just needed a break to catch-up.

I was determined to complete that list, yet I gave myself permission and allowance that I might not get everything done. I’m a busy momma – there are just only so many hours in the day! Heck, the week before I was so busy I had to write a note for myself to remember to make a list, and THEN I even jotted down a few things to remember to put ON the list, just so I wouldn’t forget

So determined was I to stay on track and finish the list, I eloquently told my husband that I had a list of things I needed/wanted to do during my week off. It was my subtle way of saying ‘don’t bug me.’ I assured him I’d make time for him, of course, but I knew if I didn’t clearly state my intentions for the week early on, I’d get wrapped up in other projects around the house. It sounds mean of me, I know, but I had to create and set balance for my time – for me and for my family. I would still be there for my family – I always would – but I needed to step back from everything and catch-up a bit. I gave him a few examples of things on my list, just so he had an idea of what the purpose of my week-off truly was to be. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I was gentle yet I was firm and ready to stand my ground should any misinterpretation of my intentions arose.

After a moment of thoughtful reflection he said, “So you kind of have a Tupperware® List.”

So mildly geared-up I was for any resistance that I immediately assumed he was insinuating my needs and wants were trivial little things that could be tucked away in a random plastic container. My feminist hackles rose at the thought he was implying my list was merely housewife-worthy things to-do, a woman’s place in the kitchen with her Tupperware®, and all that.

I took a deep breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth, as I didn’t want to start off the week in a squabble over metaphors – and calmly said “What do you mean Tupperware List?” I tried to keep the sarcastic drip in my tone at bay.

I’m a better actress than I thought as he clearly didn’t detect any froth in my calmly-spoken words. “Well, you know. Some people have a Bucket List of huge things to do – climb Mount Everest, go to space, visit the Great Wall of China – you know, things like that. But your things – smaller in scale yet still very important, easier to do and more of them - are perfect for a Tupperware container. They are things you want to do, but just not as big as typical ‘Bucket List’ things. And instead of a Bucket List, it’s a Tupperware List.”

Oh. So that’s what he meant.

I turned my head in shame. Serves me right for being a little snot, hinting at him to not ‘bug me.’ Here I was ready for a battle and generally being an assuming-the-worst cow. I was no better than a pesky little fly.

And his idea was brilliant. A Tupperware List. It made complete sense! A Bucket-type List for tangible and doable day-to-day, everyday-items.

I’m using ‘Tupperware’ here as a proprietary eponym (for more on propriety eponyms, visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generic_trademark). My husband wasn’t meaning at all that my to-do list wasn’t worthy or less important or frivolous in a little-housewifey way as I had so thought. Oh no. He was just equating the importance of my to-do list to that of the much-important little plastic containers, often referred to in a general sense as ‘Tupperware.’ I swear by Tupperware the brand, and would never trivialize their product’s quality or importance in our lives. He was using the word Tupperware in a generic term.

I told him he was brilliant and we went on with our day, and subsequently my busy week. I was able to balance my to-do-list-completion-time with time spent with him and my boys, all while completing my list and adding in a few extras along the week. Staying focused, determined, yet balanced made the week much more productive than I ever thought. Having an understanding husband made it all the better.

And the extra bonus? He gave me something to write about, too.

For Tupperware® product information, to find a consultant near you, or to become a consultant yourself, visit www.tupperware.ca

Sidetracked

I had been carrying around a card in my purse to mail to a friend. For almost two weeks I always had it with me, but I just couldn’t get around to buying a stamp. Something was always sidetracking me from the simple task of stopping at mail depot in the drugstore by my house on my way home from work. Just a few steps over from my usual route going home through the center after work and badda-bing, badda-bang, I could get the stamp, mail the card, and all would be right in the world.

But in my busy life – teens to referee, houses to clean, meals to organize, general chores to do all while working outside the home – I kept getting blown-off course and forgetting my important errand during my rush and daily grind.

And then one day it happened. I had time – I was of sound mind and disposition from my usual busy panic – and I remembered to get that stamp. So after the bus dropped me off at the shopping center near my home after work on a Friday afternoon, I made my way to the drugstore. Just as I was almost there, I happened to glance back and noticed firefighters standing in front of the grocery store collecting donations for a charity. I felt guilty passing them by, but I was well across the parking lot before I noticed them. I vowed to donate next time I was by.

I picked my way through the parking lot of the shopping center, keen to stay away from the sidewalks that would lend to window-shopping and distractions. Sure it was a bit risky that busy Friday afternoon making my way through the chaotic parking lot, but I was determined and focused. I had one thing on my mind – get across the lot to the drugstore, get that stamp, and FINALLY mail that card.

The mail depot at the back of the store was busy, so I bought a stamp from the front cashier. Proud of myself for FINALLY getting the stamp, I went outside through the automatic doors of the store, eager to get to the mailbox just outside. My head was down as I busily shoved my wallet in my purse with one hand and gripped the stamped card in my other. I was determined, focused and pleased with myself for finally have carried out such a simple task!
Just as I stepped through the doors into the hot afternoon sun, I heard a man’s voice cooing gently just outside the doors: “There you go....watch it now, careful....there you go....”

Before I could wonder if someone was kindly cheering me on in this great postal feat, I looked up to find one of the firefighters from the grocery store guiding a mother Mallard duck and her babies across the parking lot. The firefighter, along with another shopper, held back traffic to protect the young family as they made their way towards the sidewalk.

Just as Mom and babies climbed their way up and over the curb of the sidewalk, everyone (the babies, not the growing crowd of onlookers) decided they had had enough. Too pooped to go on they suddenly all huddled together and as one downy, fluffy mass plunked down for a rest. I couldn’t blame them: heck, I was tired from walking all the way across the parking lot, myself!

After patiently waiting a beat or two their mother gave a loud QUACK and up they rose in one fluffy mass. For a second Mom seemed to ponder which way to go and the firefighter and I looked at each other in question. Going one way up the sidewalk would only lead them further into the shopping center, while going the other way would take them out of the center and in the direction of the pond. They had a long way to go, still, to get to the pond, but all we could do was our best as crossing guards and ensure their safety across the nearby busy street. So I followed along shepherding them in the right direction, while the crowd of duck-enthusiasts oohed and aahed and snapped photos, parading behind the little waddling duck parade.

‘Stay away from the drain!’ I exclaimed as they each hop/stumbled off the sidewalk just beside a storm drain and onto the road. We blocked traffic once again, steered them away from another storm drain, and then watched with relief as they hopped up and over the opposite sidewalk and then made their way under a fence through someone’s back yard.

Where did they come from? It’s a quite a big parking lot, the nearest ducky pond is too far away for the seemingly freshly hatched babies to have travelled all the way up to the shopping center. And why were they choosing that moment to pick their way across the parking lot? Why then? Why there? They didn’t belong in the parking lot! Had they got sidetracked? Had mother and father not quite made it to the pond in time to nest their little eggs? Had they been too busy window shopping to do their chores and failed to ready their home in time for their little brood?

They had gotten sidetracked, somehow, but Mom was focused and determined to get them all back on track, even if it meant making their way through a chaotic parking lot.

But wait! Who was I to talk of getting sidetracked and not stay focused?

Because as I made my way home relishing in seeing a fellow busy mom hustling about her day – even if it was a duck – I realized I still had the card in my hand. I had forgotten all about it and never mailed it. Sidetracked, AGAIN! I had a lot to learn from that mother duck about staying focused and getting back on track.

I never knew if they found their way to the pond. As I made my way to my own home I kept watch for the sidetracked little family and listened for the juvenile ‘quacks’ and chirps of the little babies accompanied by the occasional instructional QUACK! QUACK! from their mother hurrying them along.

So despite me failing in my mission and NOT mailing the card, I had been part of something good. I helped to get someone else to get back on track.

And it was Friday the 13th, at that. Go figure.

(And yes, I did eventually go back to the shopping center later that night and mail the card AND donate to the firefighter’s charity)

The Thing About Spring...

We made it – we survived another winter. Spring is here on the West Coast and I’m loving it. It was just what the doctor ordered to pick up my spirits after a dark winter.

I’m specific about what seasons I like. Hot and dry summers are not my thing, and even though I’m lucky because the winters here are mild – salt and ice scrapers only sometimes make an appearance – everything gets so colourless and blah. I’m more of an autumn person – the cool, crisp afternoons where the sun skitters through rust-coloured burnished leaves is my favorite time of year. In a close second to autumn comes spring – a zillion colours are around every corner, and there’s a sense of excitement and anticipation in the air, in everyone; we are leaving dark, drab winter days behind.

Spring is a time of beginnings and birth. Everywhere you turn something is growing, blossoming, and regenerating. Lambs run amuck through their fields, mallard ducklings start to waddle across busy streets, and cherry blossoms pose for countless cameras. It’s a time of starting – kind of like starting fresh.

But this year I’m looking at spring as a time for ME to re-start and re-set myself. With it being only just three months into the new year, I figured it’s a perfect time to look back and review the goals and resolutions I made on December 31st . Have I veered off a course I tried to set for myself? Have I achieved anything so far? Or had I simply forgotten what I had intended on doing this year, and allowed external factors to deter my plans? I’m not putting pressure on myself – too high standards and too much pressure can only lead to disaster. But it’s easy to forget about those little goals set at the new year when the novelty of resolutions wears off.

And I know because I’ve done it.

So I’m checking-in with myself and if needed, starting anew. Again, no pressure – but I’m taking the time to re-visit and re-assess what I’ve done or tried to do this year, and maybe start again. Heck, we were fortunate to have a leap day this year (happens only every four years, you know), so it’s an added bonus! It’s an extra day this year for us to accomplish the great things we can all do if we set our minds to it.

We started fresh and new on January 1st, but life is life and we all get busy and forget about these great things we said we were going to TRY to do this year. It’s never too late to start something new – to change. But for some of us who had vowed at the new year to do this and that as well as BE this and that, sometimes we need to sit back part way through the year and see where we’re at. And why not do it in spring, the ¼ mark of the year, when everything is blossoming, blooming, and starting new?

The first day of spring this year was on Sunday March 20th and even though it rained a bit, that didn’t dampen anyone’s springy spirits. On that rainy day I pulled out the list of goals – or ‘intentions’ as I am calling them – I had written out in the new year. And I was pleased with myself. Some things I had actually been unconsciously doing all along (that’s what writing them out does – cements them in your head), and some things I had forgotten about. Seeing those ‘intentions’ – both accomplished and newly ‘remembered’– was just the kick-start I needed. The year is young, all is not lost, and there’s plenty of time to accomplish what I set out to do. Sure I hadn't started a few things yet – and that’s okay. This is what spring is for; a second chance to start fresh. Slowly but surely I'll get there.

So while many bulbs are just starting to poke their way up and out of the dirt – the same bulbs that were in the ground last year and are now taking another chance at another fabulous year of colour and beauty – I too will also be starting anew and taking another chance at doing what I set out to do: to have a fabulous, colourful, beautiful year, and no matter what the season.

A Hard Habit to Break

It was all so innocent in the beginning....

Or not.

He wanted bread clips; lots of them. They weren’t for a ‘collection’ to compare colour, expiry date or sturdiness. They weren’t for trading with friends; whoever had the most of any one colour would be the ‘king of the world.’ They weren’t to fulfill a neurotic need; no obsessive compulsive desire needed to be satisfied.

They were meant for one thing and one thing only – to be flicked.

The plastic bread clips as we know them today was first created in 1952 by Floyd Paxton. As the story goes, Floyd was travelling home on an airliner when he couldn’t seal-close his half-eaten bag of in flight peanuts. Frustrated and concerned about preserving their freshness, an idea struck all those thousands of miles up in the air. Floyd pulled out an expired cardboard credit card from his wallet and with a pocketknife (allowed in those days), he proceeded to carve a crude version of what we now know as a bread clip to seal the bag. A business man at heart, his invention caught the eye of food processors and he had orders for more. The tiny little discs could be mass produced by the thousands and an expiry date was soon added to their functionality.

Sadly, Floyd would never obtain the patent for his invention we so readily take for granted.

Then in the pre-internet times when kids were bored more often and had only their own imaginations as entertainment some kid somewhere found another use for the easily disposed of clips. Break them in half, wedge the inside half on the tip of your pointer finger ‘just so,’ draw back your finger, use your thumb for extra catapult-like-thrust, and let ‘er rip! FLICK! The little plastic clip-half goes flying through the air at warp-like speed, annoyingly hitting someone in the head, ear, face or wherever the aim-practiced clip launcher intended. The weapon is not meant to maim or kill, but to annoy. The well-practiced gains notoriety for bulls-eye-like accuracy, only to be beaten up by brother, sister, friend or foe.

Mission accomplished.

So in my son’s case, this was actually the intent. When he discovered the easily mastered, ammunition-readily-available sport, he threw himself into the sport and made it his mission to obtain the largest arsenal of bread clips possible. A mug was ceremoniously placed in the corner of the kitchen counter, and instructions were issued to all the bread consumers in the house to SAVE THOSE BREAD CLIPS. One by one we started tossing them in the cup, and on nights where boredom was all-consuming, he’d sit and prepare his ammunition. SNAP, SNAP, SNAP – he’d break them in half one by one. Then, when the time was right and when the right enemy was near, FLICK – and someone would be nailed in the head.

Of course this would only result in nagging from the general (me) to collect all the shell casings (flicked clips) from the carpet and/or couches, but it was all in fun – all in the name of family bonding.

As all things in life grow and change, so did he and his methods of brotherly annoying. The flicking ceased and new methods were contrived. But the clips were still insisted upon being saved. The cup would overflow so I’d put them in a baggie and put the cup back in its place for continued collecting.

Over time he forgot about the clips – but I didn’t. I couldn’t stop savings them. It became a habit; saving them, automatic. As soon as a loaf of bread or buns was done, the bag would be recycled and the clip tossed in the cup. I couldn’t bring myself to throw out the clip or recycle it – but what was I saving them for? He started something I couldn’t stop, and I suspect my saving them was a way of saving a little bit of my boys’ childhood innocence; their boyish antics I don’t want to let go of just yet.

And so I keep saving them.

Sure there are numerous reuse-it ideas for the little plastic discs – crafts, framed art, power cord labellers, jewelry (!), flip-flop repairing, wine-glass markers – the list goes on. But even the crafty person I am doesn’t want to make anything with them, altering them into something other than what they are to me: a memory.

I can’t get rid of them, and I can’t stop saving them. It’s a habit I don’t want to break anytime soon. I know I have to ‘let go’ – it’s the hardest thing to do for any mother – but I’m not ready to let go of the bread clips just yet.

IF and WHEN I do break the habit and stop saving them – I shiver at the thought – I know I will forever relate them to the boyish ways of my kids; when annoying anyone, namely each other, was paramount to their existence and when the worst worry we had was ducking from all the halved bread clips flying through the air. I would give anything to pick one out of my hair right now.

So I’ll keep saving them and likely become the weird little old lady with a zillion bread clips hoarded in her house...

But at least I’ll have something to nail my grandkids in the head with. They’ll never see it coming.

Thanks for reading!

Lisa xo

A New Word About Words

It was a normal Friday morning…..or at least I thought.

I was thrilled that it was Friday, despite anticipating at busy workday ahead, but the knowledge that the weekend was right around the corner (despite inevitable laundry and chores) had me all but skipping to Starbucks for my celebratory early-morning-Friday-latte.

As I ordered my drink from the dear, sweet barista-girl who I always chat with, we exchanged pleasantries about the fact that it was Friday and what our plans were for the day. She said she had a test later that day. I knew she was in school for writing…or journalism…or…something – something to do with words. But it was early, you see, and I was in a fog. My ‘wheels’ weren’t working yet, I hadn’t had my coffee yet, but I knew I was correct in remembering what she was in school for – how could I not? We were sisters in the literary world.

The nearby gargantuan coffee machine got its own wheels working, what with all the grinding and churning and steaming that it does to make fancy drinks. But when I asked her what her test was for (puffing out my chest a bit as I wondered if I – the writerly person I am – might be able to help her), the coffee machine chose that moment to execute the grand finale of my latte; a final loud whir and whoosh and burst of steam and the machine was done making my hot latte.

“It’s a test on mor *STEAM/WHOOSH* phines…” was all I heard. I saw her mouth move, and I couldn’t hear exactly what she said, but….WHAT?

“Morphines?” I asked, instantly awake. I didn’t think pharmaceuticals had much to do with the written word (well, maybe for some folks) – or maybe she had switched class and was now going to school to be a doctor, or a pharmacist or….

She patiently repeated ‘morphines,’ but by then the coffee machine was at it again, performing al its’ whirring, whooshing and steaming for someone else’s drink.

“Morphines?” I asked over the coffee/milk-milk-steamer-thing. “Like as in the medicine?” If I furrowed my brow any harder, I was gonna need surgery to unfurrow it – a perfect time for morphine, indeed.

“No,” she started again. If she was counting to ten on my account, she hid it well. “M O R P H E M E,” she spelled out. “It’s the smallest unit of a word.”

HUH?

I unfurrowed my brow so fast I think it nearly fell off.

She tried to explain a morpheme and I kind of ‘got’ her explanation – but I didn’t. I had her write down the word so I could research it (aka GOOGLE it).

I would later learn that, according to the Miriam Webster dictionary, a morpheme is a word or a part of a word that has a meaning and that contains no smaller part that has a meaning. Wikipedia says a morpheme is the smallest grammatical unit in a language – the smallest meaningful unit of a language.

I was intrigued – I didn’t expect to learn about MORPHEMES when I got up that morning. Where she is studying linguistics which is the scientific study of a language, I am a writer and I play with words and jumble them around trying to set them into an order that is entertaining and perhaps meaningful: our interest in the written word and language the same….but different. With departing words of wishes of luck on her test, I had left the coffee shop with my latte in hand intrigued and inspired about what had happened. Where we had had a somewhat (ahem) confusing (on my part) exchange using language, about language, I wondered: do we hear what we want, or assume we think we know what we heard? Words, no matter what size, shape, form or meaning, are powerful yet confusing. They intrigue us enough to study them, dissect them, or play with them. Or, in our case that morning in the shop, share them.

Although I was more confused than ever, I would later realize after spending much too much time doing research (Googling) that I would have to get someone to sit down and explain morphemes to me – over a cup of coffee. I had learned a new word about words, and although I don't claim to know everything about everything, it just goes to show you never know what you’re gonna learn – and when.

Keepin' it Simple...

“THAT’S IT!” I said one day after I lost yet another sock. “I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!”

Yup - I had had enough.

Our washer and dryer sit side-by-side in a little closet: folding closet doors hide them away. To get the washer or dryer out, say if you chose to do something odd like clean the lint and dust out from behind them, you have to take the closet doors right off their hinges then ploy one of your in-house strong men with ice-cream to come pull out the washer or dryer for you. The closet is so tiny – so perfectly measured for the average washer and dryer – that whoever built the house sure wasn’t generous with their measurements. There is JUST enough room for both machines to fit.

So when a sock, a pair of underwear or a dishcloth goes tumbling down the tiny space between the dryer and the wall, that’s it, it’s gone. The dishes will have to stay unwashed and someone will have to go sockless or commando – the later most undesirable. My arms aren’t long enough to reach down to retrieve the sock/underwear/dishcloth, and no coat hanger or yardstick can ever get the lost item up close enough for me to reach down and grab it.

But when time is of the essence and my men are too busy, the whole unhook-the-closet-door-off-its-hinges-to-pull-out-the-dryer-procedure just can’t happen right away. It’s a bit of a task and frankly, a pain in the butt. So a pile of lost items collects down the side of the dryer, safely nestled in the dust-bunnies of lint – a fire hazard, to be sure.

So one Saturday when yet another sock met its fate down the dark, narrow abyss it was the final straw. I had had enough. Waiting for someone to come available for the whole door-removal procedure was just silly. I simply couldn’t keep waiting for help and it was time to take matters into my own hands. It was time to give myself a break, and the idea that grabbed me wouldn’t let go.

So off to my home-away-from-home I went. Canadian Tire is my one-stop-shop for all things gadgety, and I knew they would be able to save me. The ‘Gotcha’ reaching tool was what I needed. An extra arm, and a LONGER arm at that, was the answer for my constant lost-laundry quandary. Able to pick up almost anything out-of-reach with a simple pull of the trigger, and I knew my life would be complete.

But as I drove home, my ‘Gotcha’ tool in the passenger seat and me dreaming about all the other things I would be able to grab with my new gadget, I realized the long-arm actually meant so much more than it actually was.

I had recently changed jobs after almost eight years of being at the same job – which I loved by the way. I had been anxious yet excited for my new world and was ready and willing for a change of pace, scene, and situation. A seven-year-itch it was not.

And as I neared the start date of my new job, a wise friend gave me some advice I would not fully realize or appreciate until I was right in the throes of my ‘change.’ Laura Tobias, author of “What Lainey Sees,” advised me to take it easy during the first few weeks of my new job and to not be so hard on myself. She said to give myself permission NOT to do any writing, or do much of anything else for that matter, and to not beat myself up over things like house chores left unattended. I was gonna be tired and overwhelmed, she said, and with my routine turned upside down, things would take a while to settle. She then again reiterated to go easy on myself – to keep things simple.

I should have listened better to my friend’s warnings. In those first two weeks of my new job I DID get overwhelmed, and I DID try to do everything and I DID get frustrated at being tired and unable to keep up with other things. I didn’t realize how much my much-needed change would become more of a change than I realized.

That Saturday at Canadian Tire was after the first two weeks of being in my new job. I was tired and overwhelmed yet anxious to get on with the chores I had let slide. I had a lot to do, and only a weekend to do it in. So as I drove home that day, anxious to put my ‘Gotcha’ to good use, I realized the handy little gadget meant much more than something to retrieve socks or underwear. It was a reminder that it was OKAY give myself a break and that it was OKAY to sometimes make things simpler. Doing so was allowed, but I had to be the one to allow it; I didn’t have to be so hard on myself. My friend’s wise words echoed in my mind and with my ‘Gotcha’ at my side – a silly little symbol of so much, and more – I knew things would get better.

Change is hard – but needed. No one likes it, but it’s inevitable. But in times of change, good or bad, I learned how important it was to let go, and to allow for hiccups along the way. There always is an easier way of doing things – why keep life more difficult than it already is?

I raced in the house, my newfound freedom and excitement at being able to pick up things urging me faster down the stairs to my laundry room. I peeked down the side of the dryer and gave the pile of socks, underwear and cloths an evil ‘gotcha’ eye. With a practice ‘click click’ of my ‘Gotcha,’ the hand-like grip at the end working perfectly, I leaned over the dryer and took aim.

The handle caught on the edge of the dryer, the space between the wall and the dryer still too narrow for the handle of the gadget to fit. The ‘claw’ of my gadget was an inch away from the top of the laundry pile down the narrow abyss and no matter what I did – no matter which way I turned the gadget – it wasn’t gonna fit.

I slumped. All that excitement for nothing. But then I remembered what I had also recently learned during all this change and transition: I had to also allow for hiccups along the way.

It was time to head to the store for ice-cream; I had three men I had to hire for some washer and dryer moving. At least I was still keeping things simple.

Pearls, Nail Polish and Horoscopes: What Every Archer-girl Needs

It started with a hole-in-one, or a ‘bullseye’ as it were. Golf and archery are very different, but both dictate that putting something in the middle – in the center – is a good thing.

But at that moment, it wasn't such a good thing.

It was Sunday morning and the weather forecast was calling for high, high HOT temperatures. But days of the week and high temperatures were not my concern right then. I was about to participate in an archery tournament and my nerves were a bit...off. The tournament was distance-challenging and feelings of ‘I’m not experienced enough to tackle distances my bow isn’t strong enough to do’ had me inhaling antacids by the bottle-full. I shoot recurve bow with a draw weight of 20lbs, and since I've only been at this whole archery thing since January, I think I was allowed my over-the-top angst. I hadn’t planned on doing this particular kind of tournament for at least a year or so, but my loved ones – along with my adventurous side – talked me into it.

And I guess deep down I was a tad excited as the true archer I am painted my nails blue to match my bow (it was fluke or fate that the blue nail polish I bought on a whim about half a year ago sort of matched my bow). As I continued with my pre-archery beauty regime, I was sure not to forget my pearl earrings. I have made it my personal ‘cheeky statement’ to always wear pearls to archery.

That’s right – PEARLS.

But that day I chose to go ‘all out’ in honour of the tournament and opted to also wear a pearl pendant saved only for special occasions.

Just as I was clasping the necklace around my neck it snapped and the pearl pendant slid down and off the chain. The pearl bounced and spun and twirled around the bottom of the rounded sink faster than my hand could clamp down and stop it from its dreaded destination – the drain.

Yup, down it went.

It was fate! It was karma! It was a sign I should NOT be participating in the tournament! Serves me right for making a cheeky statement I thought as I stared at my pearl sitting in the bottom of the pipe. It was silly of me to think I, of all people, could compete in such a tournament. Who did I think I was? All the confidence-building techniques I had worked on (and wrote about) throughout this new sporty venture of mine went right down the drain as well.

I couldn’t get at the pearl without risking forcing it further down the pipe. The onsite/in-house repairman kindly offered to dismantle the pipe – just for me. “We can’t do that NOW!” I shrieked. “There’s no time! We have to GO! Oh this is DEFINITELY a sign I shouldn’t be doing this tournament! Oh what was I thinking?! What am I DOING?!” I wailed and moaned all-but renouncing the sport of archery right there in my tiny office/bathroom.

As I downed a few more antacids in angst, the onsite/in-house repairman promised he would work on the pipe after the tournament and proceeded to leave DO NOT USE signs over the sink.

With reassurances and promises of ‘it’s an easy fix’ and kind words of encouragement about my archery skills to coax me out the door - along with the promise of an Ativan-enriched smoothie on the way (well not really, but I sure could have used one right then) – we loaded up the car with our archery gear and snacks and off we went.

But all that pre-tournament excitement had made me a hungry momma, so first was a stop at the good old ‘golden arches’ for a breakfast sandwich and a DECAF coffee (and no, they don’t sell Ativan-enriched smoothies) (I asked). True, my stomach was already in nervous turmoil which for anyone else would ruin their appetite, but I’m an athlete, you see: I MUST fuel-up.

The morning news was playing on the in-restaurant TV screen and just as I was about to sip my coffee a commercial came on – for nail polish of all things. AND they showed a shade of blue even closer in colour to my bow than the shade I was wearing! What were the odds? Was it a sign? I was still rattled by the pearl-down-the-drain business, but the ultimately PERFECT shade of blue nail polish? Now THAT was a sign if I ever saw one!

So a plan was hatched to visit the neighboring drug-store for a bottle of the blue goo. As an archer I know to always go prepared; the nail polish would not only be good for touch ups on my nails, but for any scratches on my bow, as well.

As we dove into our breakfast sandwiches the onsite/in-house repairman passed me the newspaper (he, too, was in the tournament but our young offspring archer was sitting this one out). That’s a good idea, I thought. Some nice quiet pre-tournament newspaper time might do me wonders.

And then inspiration struck.

I quickly flicked through the newspaper to the horoscope page. I don’t regularly read horoscopes but on a significant day, I will.

And I choked on my coffee as I read the first line. By the time I got to the end of the horoscope, I was speechless (which is rare).

I showed the onsite/in-house repairman and he, too, was mystified.

“Well,” he started. “I guess that’s a sign, for sure!” (He isn’t as into signs, luck, superstitions or anything-that-can’t-be-explained, like I am)

So with our bellies full, my nails re-painted and my Scorpion zodiacal sun in astrological alignment (or whatever it is) off we went.

The tournament started after an equipment check and practice and as the tournament progressed, I was calmer than I had been all morning. But the various ‘signs’ – good and bad - that had started before the tournament were not to leave me yet. At about the ¾-mark of the day my BELOVED onsite/in-house repairman sheered a fletch right off my arrow with one of his, embedding the plastic little arrow-wing in my target (three of us shot on one target).

(note: an arrow has three 'fletches' or the little wing-things at the end - I was by then down to two)

I was doomed! Destroyed! Defeated! My archery career was over before it even began! Although I had tried to be prepared what with the nail polish and all, I had no back-up arrows – a mortal sin in the archery world.

“Just keep shooting,” ordered the unflappable judge Helena Myllyniemi as I panicked and wailed about my faulty arrow. “It will shoot fine,” she pacified as she gave my arrow a twirl to test for straightness.

“But what about…”

“Just shoot it.” She interrupted with an order, handed me my arrow, and sent me a penetrating stare. “It will shoot fine.”

Sabotage! I thought as I sent my onsite/in-house repairman the most deadly 'you will die'-glare of all time. I won't disclose the retaliation I planned as we walked back to the shooting line. But I was also worried - and panicking, of course. Would the arrow shoot okay? Was the tournament over for me that day?

And Helena was right (of course). The arrow shot MORE than ‘fine’. I got quite a few ‘10’s’ with that arrow before the tournament was over – a ‘10’ being the highest score you can get (aka: a bullseye, or an ‘X’). I deemed it my lucky arrow.

And after all was said and done I came home with a wicked sunburn, a feeling of pride and accomplishment that I even participated in the tournament at all, and a score of 779 out of a possible 900 on the three target distances of 35, 30, and 25 meters. I had a fabulous time and my pearl earrings and blue nails were a hit (well not really; I was the only girl in the tournament. I sure showed those guys!), and we DID eventually get the pearl out of the pipe.

The lesson learned? Even when things seem to be going down the drain, keep aiming forward. You’re bound to hit something good, eventually.

For results of the tournament, visit The Victoria Bowmen Archery Club.

The Parade Marches On

It was the morning of the Victoria Day Parade, May 18, 2015, a parade to mark the holiday honouring Queen Victoria’s birthday (which is actually May 24, 1819). Although I never met Queen Victoria I’m sure she was lovely and it’s always nice to remember someone’s birthday, but I wish someone would have a parade for me. Queens and birthdays aside, however, that morning I was going downtown, but NOT to watch the parade. Our family’s parade-watching days are over; my kids too ‘old’ and too ‘cool’ for such things. I suspect the next time I watch a parade with either of my strapping young offspring it will be with their kids – my grandkids.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let me get through the tumultuous teen years, first.

As the bus rumbled along bringing me closer to my destination, my heart and stomach were going ‘round faster than the wheels on the bus. You see, on one hand I was very much aware of a parade I would likely (sadly) not watch, yet I was also aware of a great transition about to happen.

I was getting my hair cut – and in a big way.

About six inches of hair was going to be removed from my head – as in GONE – and I wouldn’t be able to put it back if I changed my mind.

I was nervous, determined, scared, yet excited all at the same time.

Yes, I know I have written about my hair many times before. I don’t get it cut very often, and when I do it’s a BIG DEAL – to me at least. Where Queen Victoria likely had people to do her hair for her, I am lacking in royal parade-worthiness so I have to rely on my own two hands to do my hair. I’m a busy momma, so although I treasure my tresses and worry about them daily, I don’t have time to fiddle with my quickly greying strands. Keeping things simple by keeping my hair pony-tail-worthy long has always been the easiest.

But it was time to let go and make a change.

Just as we neared the outskirts of downtown and my whirling nerves were picking up speed, we slowed down. I had left the house early to accommodate for any parade-required street closures, so I wasn’t worried about being late for my hair appointment. Traffic was almost at a stand-still and as we inched along I saw the cause of our delay.

The parade participants – bands and floats and so on – had convened near the start of the parade in an empty parking lot of a shopping mall. It was an organized chaos of folks practicing their moves, getting in line, and doing last-minute checks of their parade floats. Excitement hung like a cloud over the parking lot, and I had no doubt many participants were as nervous as I was. As the bus trundled past I looked out over the floats, marching bands and performers with envy and longing. My heart was heavy with the reminder that parade-watching with my kids was over.

Traffic thinned and we started to speed up. As the parade convening area (is that what you call it?) slowly disappeared out of sight a procession across the street caught my eye. A school’s band was marching their way to the parking lot, complete with instruments, gold-buttoned/double-breasted blazers and feather-adorned marching band hats.

As I admired their blindingly clean, white pants (and wondered what stain remover their parents used), I realized that although we were going in opposite directions, we were both marching toward the start of something great.

I had been wanting – no needing ¬- to get my hair cut for a long time. I knew it was time to put an end to something and start anew. Just as parades have a start and an end, and just because my parade-watching days were over with my kids, didn’t mean there wouldn’t be other memorable moments with them down the road. And just like I knew it was time to lose my too-long locks and go for a change, it didn’t mean it would be forever; hair grows. But it WAS time for a change – for a new start.

Not only is Crescendo For Hair Salon near the ‘end’ of the parade, it is also outside the exact spot where my kids and I used to sit and watch many parades. To be making a change at the same spot from something I knew I had to move on was bittersweet. I had to let go of the nostalgic heavy heart that would drag me down every time there was a parade I wouldn’t be attending with my kids.

Just like I had move on and accept that my kids were growing, I had to let go of my hair. Hair always grows back, but kids grow and don’t stop. I was lucky to be able to have the parade days I DID have with them, but it was time to stop pining for the past, and cherish the NOW and what I could have with my kids.

Life has a way of forcing us to ‘let go’ – and always when we least want to. But that day I made a choice to let go of something that was weighing me down – my hair.

The day before my big downtown non-parade-hair-salon adventure, I found a quote by Coco Chanel:

Finding that quote was like a sign. I realized I was doing the right thing at the right time in my life – for so many reasons.

Once downtown, determination to let go and move on had me impatiently picking my way through the fast-growing crowds lining the by-then closed down street. But by the time I walked through the hair salon doors, despite my nerves still a teensy aflutter, I knew the time was right. It was time to march on.

With every snip of the scissors, Chris at Crescendo For Hair Salon watched for the merest hint of a quivering lip or a filling tear duct. The master he is knew cutting off THAT much hair was a big step for a girl. We could hear the parade outside – he even stopped to listen: "Yes, it sounds like it's started!" – and after an hour as the parade still marched on outside, we were done. And I didn’t cry. And in fact, I actually wanted more cut off.

But given the amount of hair already piled on the floor we decided to give it a week to a/make sure I didn’t cry and b/make sure I truly DID want more cut off. I would, indeed, go back and already, now, a week after THAT, I still want more.

With a new bounce in my step – heck, who wouldn’t with all that extra weight, gone? – I left the salon. The parade was still going on, so I figured, “Well, while I’m here...” and made my way to OUR parade-watching spot. A band marched by, some fire-trucks trundled past, and a little boy in his daddy’s arms beside me waved at the passing procession. I clapped at the right time, took a few pictures, and kept patting my hair while wondering if anyone could tell I had just changed.

And I didn’t cry, I didn’t long, and I didn’t stay for the end, either.

I turned around and moved on with my own parade.

I left.

Nasty Four-Letter Word

I started swearing this year - yup, I did - and it’s a nasty four-letter word.

For some people, their New Year’s resolutions involve vowing to start, stop or at least cut-back on doing something. As for me, I planned a little bit of everything, but just not saying a particular word.

I had great plans of starting – or at least trying – something new this year. But I didn’t exactly count on adding a swear word to the mixture. But what bugs me most about my over-abundant usage of the word is that it’s a word I have often written about NOT using.

Plug your ears, close your eyes, and get out the soap to rinse-out my mouth.

The word is CAN’T.

So far 2015 has been a time of trying new things; but doing so has not always come easy for me. ‘Fear of the unknown’ was one of many roadblocks I often allowed to stop me, but age has given me confidence, and various life experiences has given me perspective to be more adventurous and less restrained. ‘Who cares about what anyone thinks’ and ‘who cares if I make a fool of myself’ are phrases I now frequent. Life is short; I want to do things and be able to say ‘at least I tried.’ And if there is any hesitation or second-guessing before trying something new, I never regret trying – even if I wasn’t exactly the greatest at whatever it was.

But lately my can-do/positive attitude I try to always portray has been shaky. I wonder if it’s because I’ve been attempting so many new things all at once – however exciting, adventurous and progressive they might be. Fear and uncertainty have been trying to knock me down, and can’t has been rudely – sinfully – uttered from my mouth one too many times; too many times, in fact, that I feel as though I am bordering on being a fraud.

Since January I’ve taken up archery. For four years I sat on the sidelines watching my son perfect his skill at the high-focus sport. ‘I’m a mom; archery is HIS thing’ was always my response when someone asked me if I, too, participated in the sport. But I now know that nasty word can’t had been hovering in the background. But on a whim one day last summer I tried it – and I loved it. I got my own bow for Christmas – although I panicked about using it when I opened it Christmas morning – but through support and assistance from my son and other members of the archery club we belong to I’ve been learning. There have been various hurdles to overcome, but I’ve persevered. Trying new equipment and subsequent equipment malfunctions, strength and endurance development, and skill and technique-perfecting have all played a factor in testing my confidence.

But true to my can-do ways I participated in a tournament – just to say I did it. Gosh – I COMPETED IN A TOURNAMENT?! What’s my problem then? What am I so worried about?

But still when new equipment or techniques are presented to me, I struggle/panic/stress about something new and that four-letter word can’t comes out, only to have me beating myself up for saying the horrid word in the first place. Then ‘I can’t’ and ‘who do I think I am?’ play tag in my head and some days they win, and some days I win, but I keep going – I keep trying.

I can’t do what I don’t try.

But it’s hard. That word keeps trying to bring me down.

During all this I was presented with a writing opportunity way outside my comfort zone, knowledge or experience; I was asked to write a short science fiction story. I gulped in trepidation but then looked at it as a chance to stretch my wings and figured: What the heck? I’m used to writing slice-of-life stories, as well as contemporary fiction for kids. I’m no expert in either and honing my craft is on-going – I get that. But I have never tackled writing anything science fiction, and my knowledge/expertise/experience is limited. Well, I figured, why not give it a try? It’s all part of my ‘trying something new’ mantra for the year.

Well, I’ve struggled and struggled with the piece I’ve been working on. I’ve wrote, re-wrote, started, stopped, stalled and re-started too many times to count. Can’t has been clouding my brain, and I have nearly given up a zillion times. But I can’t do it – I can’t give up, I keep telling myself. I won’t. The thought of doing so bugs me.

That word can’t has been really getting to me.

So I’ve decided to snuff it out – completely.

Archery and writing are each about intense focus. I can focus not on what I can’t do but what I CAN do. Maybe I put too many irons in the fire and got overwhelmed – I don’t know. So I have taken a step back and have done what I’m comfortable with; first thing first was writing this. I have further decided I will write what I want, when I want, how I want; I will shoot how I want, when I want, and progressing with what equipment I want – all in my own time. I don’t HAVE to try any new archery equipment or techniques. I can strengthen what I already know, and when I’m ready, I will try something new. It won’t kill me; it’ll only make me stronger.

Recognizing this nasty word usage and writing about it here has given me the much-needed boost. Whether it will be a new piece of archery equipment or a technique, or if it’s that writing project that keeps tripping me up, focusing on what I can do and not caring about anything else will only get me farther ahead. Focus, perseverance and mental strengthening skills learned from each archery and writing can be applied to the other, only enhancing my performance, output, and over-all enjoyment. It's all in the approach.

And if and when that nasty little four-letter word creeps back into my vocabulary just when I have gotten tough and have all but exorcised it out of my life, I will take a step back, remember to focus on what I can do, and then move forward again.

I realize now that part of winning the ‘battle’ has been in educating myself; knowledge is power, and all that. I realized I had to learn WHAT about trying something new in archery or writing was scaring me, preventing me from progressing and moving forward. I have taken the time to learn about the new piece of equipment or technique before trying it; I have taken the time to learn more about writing science fiction and have learned it doesn’t have to be any one certain way. And I have to remember I’m not competing with anyone else and I’m not doing any of this to please anyone. I can do my own thing – learn archery at my own speed and write whatever story my heart desires. It doesn’t matter what I do, just as long as I do it. As long as I follow through; as long as I finish. Arrow after arrow, word after word, I WILL get there. I WILL get through and surpass what’s slowing me down, and I WILL replace that four-letter word can’t with another four-letter word.

WILL.

Communication Clash

In early January of this year the Royal BC Museum, in conjunction with a week of ‘by donation’ entry, had a letter writing campaign – but not in that way.

By way of fostering the ‘lost art’ of letter writing, the museum set up a letter writing booth and invited patrons to engage in the ‘age old’ art of communication. Complete with writing paper and pens, patrons could write a letter – like an actual handwritten letter – and the museum would foot the bill for postage.

To back up a bit….

My friend Ros had seen an advertisement about the museum’s by-donation week as well as their letter writing booth in the newspaper. Ros is my friend who usually sends me out on various ‘assignments’ (see previous blog post called 'What Happened That Night'), so of course, at her instruction, I set out on another adventure. (To learn more about her romantic suspense fiction works, find her here)

As time is of the essence - my usual state-of-being - one afternoon during my lunch hour from work I hustled my way to the museum. I donated the few dollars I had in my wallet, and made a quick whip around the exhibits. I said a quick ‘hi’ to the woolly mammoth, sipped my lunch hour coffee while I chatted with some seals and sea lions, and then quickly made my way through the rest of the museum, stopping to look at the displays of days-gone-past in the ‘old town’ – I love the old typewriters and sewing machines.

As time was ticking, I still had one mission to accomplish – write a letter. I found the booth and at the encouragement of the kind girl working there, I found a spot at the table between two other women. I grabbed some paper and a pen from the supplies provided and got to work.

And it was hard work, I have to say! Not only did I have write neatly, but I had to think of something on the spot! Something meaningful – something with heart. Something interesting other than the usual ‘weather’ chit-chat (when in doubt, there’s always the weather).

Just when my letter-writing muse kicked into gear two more women arrived. Well, I have to admit, as much as I foster the fostering of anything – especially writing – I was rather put-out. It was MY time, I was in just getting in touch with MY muse, and there wasn’t a lot of space at the table. So I stifled a ‘huff,’ scooted over, and with an obligatory smile to everyone enjoying the getting-back-to-letter-writing moment, I kept my head down and got busy.

I had a letter to write, after all.

I met my friend Ros through a writing group and you’d think, given how we are ‘writers’ and all, that we would have seen each other’s handwriting. But in this technological age where email fosters friendships and a keyboard is a writer-girl’s best friend, I realized she had never seen my handwriting before.

And I was instantly embarrassed. I have atrocious handwriting. It’s a cacophony of half-printing and half-cursive writing, combined with an intricate code of self-created shorthand and abbreviations that half the time I can barely decipher. So I wrote/printed/scrawled as neatly as I could, all while acknowledging and apologizing to Ros for my crappy handwriting. The weather had already been talked about.

Just as my tongue had all-but dried out from being stuck out the corner of my mouth in concentration, someone ELSE arrived at the table. GEEZ! Can I NOT just WRITE a LETTER in PEACE!?!

Chit-chat among the letter writers ensued and suddenly I was eavesdropping - I had no choice.

But I was sure glad I did.

I dare not repeat another person’s story here, but a woman recounted her own family’s letter-writing story surrounding events in 1942 involving a highly recognized politician’s wife. It was during World War II – Europe and England were right smack in the middle of the war - and all is can say is her family owns a historic treasure.

Wow!

I am so glad I didn’t ‘shoo’ everyone away. What a treat to be able to hear the story I did!

After everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the fantastic story – one I won’t ever forget – we all got back to work.

Just when pens-scratching-at-paper was the only thing to be heard, the museum worker broke our getting-back-to-basics moment by telling us she had an iPad, internet ready, in case anyone had to look up an address.

WHAT? What about the moment? What about getting-back-to-basics? How contradictory was an iPad to what we were actually doing! Talk about clash of the communication worlds!

My letter writing adventure was getting more and more introspective with every minute.

I finished recounting the World War II story in the letter to Ros then, upon realizing the time, took a few photos of my letter with my cell phone, bade them all ‘happy letter writing,’ and grabbed my purse and by-then cold coffee. As I made to leave, the museum worker pointed to a table on which to leave my mail. Sitting on top of the table was a museum-style display case showing old writing utensils. Cool!

It wasn’t until I took a few pictures - again with my cell phone - that I saw it. Sitting just beside the display case was a ‘modern’ ink pen.

Wow! When was the clash of the communication worlds going to end?

With the letter writing campaign just too much for me, I guzzled my cold coffee then hustled back to work for a much needed rest.

I’m a receptionist answering phones and forwarding mail for a living. Go figure.

Bringing home Christmas Dinner

A few weeks before Christmas, I was at a turkey shoot and with my trusty bow and arrow I GOT ONE!

Well, I did, but not in the way you think.

My son belongs to the Victoria Bowmen Archery Club (Victoria, BC), which has been around since 1949. In the last four years since joining the club, he has shot hundreds of arrows in practice and in competitions, gaining notoriety and ranking locally and provincially. He even tried out for the Canada Games!

So after a few years of watching him shoot in both the clubs’ indoor and outdoor events, it was finally time for me to shoot my first arrow – and I loved it.

I have joined the club and although I haven’t practiced very often (I’m a busy momma and my son is first and foremost in these sporting aspirations), and my shot is often a tad off the mark (practice makes perfect and all that), I am enjoying learning about the historic sport.

Recently the club hosted their annual ‘Christmas Turkey Shoot’ – a fun shoot for all members/all ages of the club. Archery games, prize draws and a potluck following the shoot make for a festive, fun event for everyone.

And, as the title suggests, some of the prizes are…turkeys! Archers don’t actually SHOOT the turkeys but various archery games have turkeys (purchased from the store), and other Christmas dinner fixings, as prizes.

I had been holding-out buying our own turkey for Christmas, in anticipation of this fun day. Even though I didn’t know what the games would entail, I was hoping our noble and accomplished archer would, as it were, bring home dinner for us with his own trusty bow and arrow.

As my lack of skill was an embarrassment to most, I stayed out of everyone’s way and left the skill-based games to the pros. I stuck to the general practice targets. I fumbled getting the arrow on its rest and my jangled nerves shook my bow – not good for lining up the sight with the yellow center of the target. I need glasses and my lack of experience and knowledge showed in my shot (I DID, however, get one or two ‘10’s,’ or in layman terms, a bullseye – so maybe I wasn’t THAT bad, after all). I am proud to say that at least I HIT the target, although from at half the normal shooting distance. Everyone participated in the games and, if I may be so bold to brag, my son shot right through a moving ping pong ball suspended in mid-air by an upturned leaf-blower – THAT’S how good he is.

The one game I DID participate in, however, was for the turkeys (or in this case, gift cards for turkeys). Various prizes (turkeys, boxes of stuffing, cans of cranberry jelly and so on) were written on post-it notes, the notes then stuck sporadically all over a big piece of paper. That paper was then placed on a target and another piece of paper was placed over the whole thing, hiding the post-it note placement. We each had to shoot one of our arrows randomly at the paper and hope it either hit, or was closest too, a prize. At the end of the day, with the arrows still stuck in the paper, the top paper was carefully peeled off revealing the prizes in relation to the arrows. Closest arrow to that prize/post-it note, won.

So first was the turkey prize. I glanced at my young archer/offspring, and silently sent a prayer to the archery Gods that his skill had served us well. But, you see, this game was not a matter of skill, but of luck. It was a ‘blind’ shoot – you had no idea if your arrow hit a prize, or not, until the covering paper was removed. Well with my husband, son and I each with an arrow in the running, we had a one-in-three chance of winning SOMETHING.

The turkey/arrow was the first prize up for assessment. One of the club members pulled out the arrow closest to the turkey prize, held it up and announced, “Whose arrow is this?”

It was mine! IT WAS MINE!

My son would later tell me I kept shouting, “That’s my arrow! THAT’S MY ARROW!” but all I remember was jumping up and down in disbelief that I – me, Lisa – had won! THAT WAS MY ARROW! CHRISTMAS COULD GO ON!!! WE WOULD FEAST LIKE KINGS!!!!

I can’t continue without mentioning that my husband and son DID win prizes – Christmas to/from gift tags for one and a big box of brownies for the other. Everyone was fortunate to leave with something thanks to the generosity and planning of the organizing committee of the Victoria Bowmen Archery club.

So when I throw the great bird in the oven on Christmas morning, I will pat myself on the back knowing that MY arrow – my ‘skill’ and expertise (or more specifically, LUCK) – was what fed my family that Christmas of 2014.

Bring on the next target!

How to Catch a Spider - Advice from Ros

I have a secret passion for hardware stores. I’m not a carpenter, electrician or plumber (save the ‘crack’ jokes). I don’t know how to change the oil on a car or repair a leaky roof. I can barely figure out the circuit breakers in our house and don’t bother telling me to pass you the ‘Phillips’ screwdriver – just say the screwdriver with the star.

So when I recently wrote about my ‘adventures’ with a spider and my hair dryer (check out ‘Karma, Irony and Guilt – Lessons From a Spider'), my very good friend, romantic suspense writer Rosalind Villers (www.rosalindvillers.com), was quick to give me some valuable advice. I like her, she knows stuff, and she writes a mean bit of prose; of course I was gonna do what she says!

She recommended the Bug Trapper, a nifty gadget perfect for catching all little things creepy- crawly. Although I’m sure it can be found via many other outlets, she was quick to recommend Lee Valley Hardware.

Well, given my penchant for hardware stores my excitement and curiosity mounted. Not only was I going to get the gadget that would ‘change my life’ (her words), but I could also check out this renowned hardware store I had often heard about but had never been lucky enough to go to!

The store was off my regular well-beaten path, but after a few wrong turns I found it. It was during one of my typically busy Saturday afternoons, but I was on a quest – I had to get this gadget! I was determined to find the store, no matter how busy I was. My car was full of frozen food and meat from a whirlwind grocery shopping spree but since I was ‘only going to be a minute’ I figured everything would be fine (which, in the end, everything WAS – no one died of botulism or salmonella or whatever) (not yet, at least).

Now before I go on I must insist that my story here is in NO way criticizing the store or how it does business. In fact, how they do business was quite ingenious. The store was clean, neat, usual-hardware-store-smell-free, and rather…ritzy for a hardware store. The store clerks were beyond knowledgeable and polite and I will, most definitely, go back again.

Moving right along…

Finally finding the store, I pulled-up to the newly built store and….scratched my head. It was too fancy and too small to be a hardware store – at least to be the kind of hardware store I was used to. But seeing as I was on a quest for something that would ‘change my life,’ I had no time to spare. Dawdling and pondering about the appearance of a store was not on my schedule.

A few steps in I stopped short. Wall-to-wall carpeting, spa-like music in the background along with fancy wooden shelving and display racks made my shopping experience in a ‘hardware store’ a little….confusing. This was not a ‘hardware store’ but a retreat for those needing a getaway from the usual grime and oil-slick of other hardware stores.

Whatever, I shrugged. Ros must only shop at the uber-fancy-hardware stores, I realized. Just when you think you know a person…

But I had no time to spare – food was in the car. I pushed my friend and her champagne-taste in hardware stores out of my head and went in search of the Bug Trapper. But as hard as I tried I couldn’t find it, which was understandable given the fancy store I was clearly unaccustomed to.

The store clerk I asked for assistance was beyond friendly and helpful. She knew exactly what I was looking for and led me to a little wall of gadgets. The first bug catcher she showed me was 4 times what I was willing to pay. No bug is worth more than my hourly wage (well…maybe). The next bug catcher – the exact one Ros showed me – matched the contents of my wallet.

“I’ll take it!” I announced and went to grab the gadget. This was easier than I thought!

“Oh no…” she started, and pointed to a code on the tag. “You’ll need this code.”

She then went on to explain that the store is kind of a like a mail order/warehouse store and then she showed me an order form. At first I didn’t understand. Would I have to ‘order’ the item and wait for it to come in the mail? My excitement deflated – I would have to spend another night in my home vulnerable, unarmed and defenceless.

Seeing my confusion the nice clerk reassured me I WOULD get to go home with my gadget. She explained that I had to first fill out a form then take it to the counter where a staff-person would retrieve the item from the warehouse in ‘the back.’

I looked at my watch. Damn that Ros, I cursed my friend. What had she gotten me into? (No wonder she’s such a good suspense writer – she had sure kept ME in suspense of what I was really getting myself into!)

After ensuring I was okay and understood what to do, the very kind store clerk left me to my own devices and assured me she would be ‘right over there’ (by the scary looking soil and compost thermometers). Using a cute little golf pencil (of which I wish accidentally rolled into my purse) I filled out the form. By then I had my bearings and understood what the store was all about. I wish I had more time to browse but with the threat of the meat frying itself in the warm car, I had to hustle.

Presenting my form at the counter another equally nice clerk went in ‘the back’ to retrieve my Bug Trapper. Before I could truly enjoy the beauty of a copper slug belt (another ingenious gadget) beside me on the counter, she returned with a little box.

“Is that the Bug Trapper?” It seemed too small compared to what the first store clerk had shown me.

“Oh yes, my dear, here…” She opened the box. Oh, my shoulders slumped. I would have to put it together. “It’s from England,” she continued. “It’s quite extraordinary, actually.” Her serious tone had me second-guessing the hilarity of what I was really buying. This Bug Trapper was no laughing matter.

With manners Miss. Manners would envy the clerk processed my order then wished me well in my endeavours. Again I wished I had had the time to look around but I swear I could smell the meat sizzling in my car. Damn that Ros!


I made it home in record time and the food was fine. Despite my lack of hardware/handyman skills, I assembled the Bug Trapper then practiced trapping an imaginary bug/spider/insect/creepy-crawly and relocating it outside. The Bug Trapper sits at the ready and despite me cursing my friend Ros throughout my experience, I am thankful for her advice and introducing me to something new.

But one thing was clear - I obviously need to get out more. First stop - Lee Valley Hardware.

Karma, Irony and Guilt - Lessons from a Spider

I’m usually up super early in the mornings to get in a power-walk and a bit of a writing session before work. Doing both, even if only for a bit and even when I don’t exactly feel like it, are a great start to get me energized and motivated for the day.

But one Monday morning when my alarm went off at its usual 3:30am wake-up call, I ‘gently’ turned off the alarm then rolled over and resumed dreaming about all things writerly. I decided to skip the walk but still get in a bit of writing as I rationalized I had been SUPER busy all weekend running around doing chores. I figured a day of rest wouldn’t hurt and allowed myself a ‘sleep-in’ until 5 am.

A little while later with my ‘sleep-in’ over and me sort of awake and dressed, I dragged my sorry self upstairs to my bathroom. Squinting against the bright bathroom light, I threw a facecloth in the sink and just as I was about to turn on the tap……

THERE IT WAS.

The biggest most horrendous house spider I have EVER seen in my life.

At first I thought it was one of my sons’ tarantulas. I’m not scared of his ‘pets’ but I was more concerned that the typically caged creatures had the potential of escape, never to be found again. He would be devastated if it ever happened – perfectly understandable. Closer inspection, however, revealed it was NOT one of his beloved darlings.

But then it moved and THAT, my dear readers, meant WAR.

Now before I continue with what happened next you should know that I truly DO love all creatures great and small. I truly didn’t wish to harm him/her. I just wanted him/her GONE.

So I whipped out my hair dryer and readied for battle.

Why a hair dryer you say? Well, because I had to blow that guy back down the drain from where he came, of course!

It would occur to me later that, in theory and technically speaking, it IS impossible for spiders to come up through a drain.

Right?

But I didn’t have time to worry about technicalities right then because when he took a few steps, I sprung in to action. My sole goal was to blow him down the drain, but I didn’t anticipate what blowing air does in a round, smooth sink. It spins things around like in a tornado, taking everything with it. So, of course, around and around went the spider. When I stopped for a split second to reassess my plan of attack he started running. Can you blame him? I would too!
I panicked some more then redirected my hair dryer to blow the air in a different angle – a better approach sure to direct him down the drain. Around and around the sink we chased each other and then….

…one wrong tilt of the hairdryer had the tornado blowing the poor defenseless spider up and out of the sink, through the air, and right at ME!

I screamed, yelled, squealed and all but begged for mercy from him, from God, from the Universe and from every deity possible. I twisted my already compromised ankle and pulled my already compromised back in my desperate attempt to get out of his way. He was after ME!

Luckily for both of us he landed on the bathmat. While he sat catching his breath on the mat, I kept my hair dryer trained on him like a Glock and stayed out of full range from his potential attack. Before I could whip out my bazooka, footsteps bounded and echoed up the stairs.

My dearest husband was roused from his slumber by my…antics…and had come to the rescue. He knew right away, before even getting near, what it was.

“Is it a spider?” He calmly – CALMLY – asked before he even rounded the corner. (I still don’t get how ANYONE could be CALM at a time like that!)

“IS IT A SPIDER?” I dared not take my eyes off the poor innocent offending creature as I challenged my husband’s silly question. “THIS is NOT a spider!” I spat. “This is….THIS IS….” I couldn’t continue.

And so he picked it up by his hands – by his BARE HANDS, I tell you – and carried the poor offending creature outside. I kept my Glock, I mean my hairdryer, trained on both of them, just in case. What if the spider bit my dear question-asking husband turning him all zombie-like? (This is the imagination of a writer, no matter what time of day).

And that was the end of that. My husband went back to bed without a second glance and I was left wishing I had a personal defibrillation unit.

As I finished getting ready for work (I had a bad hair day after that, and rightly so) I felt dumb. And guilty. And dumb. And guilty. Not only because of the way I OVERreacted about a defenseless creature that was a gazillion times smaller than me but also because, um, there are three tarantulas and two scorpions in residence one floor below my office/bathroom. Talk about irony.

I wondered if the spider showing up in my sink was Karma’s way of getting back at me for not getting up and out for my daily routine. But Karma had much more in stock for me. The guilt weighing me down for days after for taking a hairdryer to a poor defenseless creature was worse. Whether that’s considered Karma or not, I had that guilt comin’ to me. It was only fair – and truly deserved.

So at 5 o’clock on a Monday morning I had had lessons in Karma, irony and guilt, all rolled up into one tornado-like mess. All thanks to an eight-legged creature no bigger than the circumference of the end of my hairdryer.

And I as I write this, I realize now that the real irony was how I felt more guilty about the spider than for my husband having to bolt out of bed at that early hour.

(PS. I never wrote a single word that morning)

Thanks for reading!

Lisa