labels

When I was 13, I used to take the tags off the inside of my collar and sew them onto a plain t-shirt, probably of the Zeller's variety, to stretch my dollar. Two Mexx shirts for the price of one. 13-year-old girls are a stressed out lot. Stressed that the boy that sits beside them in Algebra thinks they're fat and ugly. Stressed that they only got 84% on their English mid-term (why not just one mark higher?) Stressed that they'll stand up one day and there will be a tell-tale mark on their bum, proof that their hips are widening, a signal of their impending right of passage from Pretending to Make Ken and Barbie Kiss to Thinking About Him, All The Time, Would He Just Get Off My Mind Already? I Have a Computer Science Assignment Due. Guhh! And, of course, stressed that the clothes they're wearing don't at all say about them what it is they want to be said: I am beautiful. My dad can afford to buy me Mexx, all the time. Not just one shirt out of two. Yup. Nothing but the best for me!

I re-read the last few months of my blog this afternoon, after cleaning the floors so that Boh won't have to crawl around on hardwood covered in dried-up, week old beans, or Gordie fur, when he gets home tonight, and before a beautiful run that made me both happy to be where I was at the same time as slightly regretful that I didn't go skiing in the Hills this weekend, because if not this weekend, then I don't know when I could next get around to it. I re-read it with an eye to thinking about what it says about me, how it labels me, to people who might pick it up in the middle and look back and follow forward, people who I don't really know but who know me, now, because of the words I bring to your screen. I'm not sure it's a completely accurate depiction of who I am or what I think, this blog. But it's pretty good. There are certain places I will never be able to go, demons I will never be able to unleash on you so that you sit there with your mouth slightly agape, morning coffee in your hand, horrified, wondering who this crazy person is that you had drinks with last weekend or gave birth to 28 years ago. But I like that you know things about me that you might not were it not through my writing in this medium. And I hope that you still like who I am.

the not-so-fabulous adventures of a wannabe Single Me

I'm on day five of Temporarily Suspending Reality So That I Can Pretend To Be Single Me Again. I'm tired. Being a Single Me is tiring. And expensive. And did I mention tiring?

So.

Tiring.

The warm nest I've created for myself is disrupted. Dirty dishes grow mold on the kitchen counter, and instead of neatly folding my trousers to hang them back on the hanger so as to get another wear out of them before requiring a wash, my pants are scattered all over the bedroom floor, legs inside out, panties still inside of them, a consequence of late nights that push me into slumber before I can properly undress.

I've slept with my makeup on twice in the last two days. I haven't done that for two years.

There's a whole different side to Ottawa that I wasn't aware existed. It's an Ottawa where you go from an eight p.m. office departure straight to a downtown pub and then straight into a cab to speed you home so that you can go straight to bed and wake up five hours later to do it all again. It's an Ottawa where you listen to a smartly dressed young whipper-snapper tell you about her bad date with Paul Wells. ("I don't think of myself as Paul Wells, prominent writer for a major national newspaper and magazine, I think of myself as Paul Wells, little guy from Sarnia trying to interpret the world for others." RIGHT. THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU THINK OF YOURSELF.) It's an Ottawa where, if I were really a Single Me, and not just pretending to be one during the couple of days that the Babe gets to bond with his Grandpa and Grandma, I would live in a small one-bedroom apartment at the corner of Metcalfe and O'Connor, with an overweight apartment cat and a dead houseplant, and my Friday nights would all be about Thai food and cheesy chick flicks and awkward dates with random dudes who got gift certificates to LavaLife from their mothers for Christmas. The parallel universe is sexy for about two hours, and then you wake up the next day with a hangover and a need to buy two or three Starbucks just to make it through the day. And you remember that the steak and salmon you share with the love of your life over a nice bottle of red on Fridays is so much healthier for you than take-out Thai. Honestly, who knows how much MSG goes into that shit?

Fun is fun. And life is life. I look forward to the return of my guys tomorrow. The nest is cold without them. (But don't worry girls. Single Me has it within her to make one final appearance tonight in the Market. Be there or be square.)

project race monthly update

Still runnin'. I've been getting into the good habit of waking early during the work week to take the Woof for our 6.5K runs. It's a harder run; there is no time to let my oatmeal digest before embarking - so I don't eat anything at all, for fear of the stitches - meaning that after about 4Ks in I have to pull out everything I got that the previous night's sleep didn't completely deplete within me. These morning runs are a good four to five minutes longer than when I do them any other time of the day. But I can't wait until the sun rises earlier and I can watch the warm glow of the world open the door to another day. Photosynthesis for my soul.

if the shoe fits

My Zen constantly ebbs and flows. One minute, everything clicks; the next, woe is the world. I can tell which way the wind blows by my footwear. If life is good, I care; if I’m simply living, it’s black flats with every outfit, worn until even the smallest puddles provoke water rot on my soles. Itchy.

I think, if I was to answer K. honestly, it’s the same reason I write. It’s more a reactive thing for me than a proactive one. A consequence.

You see, I have big feet. Gi-normous ones. Ladies’ size 11 wide. Men’s? Size nine. Skis. Thus, shoes were always an afterthought when I was growing up, contemplated just once a year during the annual family pilgrammage to Minot, a once-great beacon for the almighty south-Saskatchewan dollar prior to the Walmart invasion in 1994. Payless Shoes had yet to make its debut in a mall near you, and since it was the only store that reliably had my size in semi-decent styles, I stocked up. And then I went to Appleby’s.

Even with a Payless on every corner though, it took me a long time to get excited about footwear. Just until recently in fact. I’ve finally come to realize that I’m worth a great pair of shoes, and that it’s okay to call attention to my feet. I now see my soles for what they can be: glorious exclamation points at the end of an equally fabulous outfit. Even the sentence itself. I can think about shoes, because I am happy; and when I’m happy, I’m creative; and when I’m creative, I write.

If I had patience, I might scrapbook instead. If I had talent, I might paint. If I had mettle, I might sing, or let an instrument consume me. But, because I have none of those things, I expose myself through the written word at the same time as I let it veil me. I will know I’m in trouble if the flats return, or if there is silence on this page, because then other more weighty things must be on my mind. In the meantime, I’m happy to shoe shop.

the disappearing baby

babies for breakfast

better than coffee

getting to where we need to go

Gack! [ed: or maybe something just slightly more obscene, hmm Winter?] I knew I should have left a minute earlier! I hate when this happens. Oh well, maybe this can give me something to blog about: Shitty Ways To Start The Day. (Or maybe just Poopy Ways To Start The Day, depending the extent I want to censor myself.) This could be number two; number one would be stepping in cat puke on the way downstairs to get socks. Number three? Sleeping in? Maybe. The list needs more thought.

My pace slowed. There was no rush now; I had another nine minutes before the next bus came. Just enough time to think about what the first task accomplished should be when I sat down at my desk. Just enough time to wonder how Adoring and Wonderful Husband really is adjusting to the life of a stay-at-home dad (he says No Big Deal, but I know better: I know it takes more than two weeks to come to terms with the fact that The Outside World spins without you, that it's okay to nap twice in one day. So even though I’m sure he's happy as a clam, I still worry.)

It’s cold in Ottawa today. Perhaps I judged Global Warming too quickly. Maybe it was just nervous, needed time to digest its drink before it felt comfortable to speak without stuttering, to lure me into a conversation I didn’t know I wanted to have until we started talking. Global Warming? He’s not such a bad guy. Give him another chance, you’ll see. I tucked my ears into my coat like a turtle, bracing for the next seven minutes. Examined the bus stop graffiti with the sensibility of an 80-year-old. Stonerville? Where’s that? My 18-for-life persona chimed in: Maybe I should go.

"Morning," he said, crunching into the shelter. I had seen him once before.

"Morning," I replied, and looked away. A too short wait for our ride seemed to preclude anything further; a too long wait in the cold pressed me to keep my mouth moving so as to keep warm.

"Ottawa police have too much time on their hands if they’re able to come out to every little fender bender that happens," I remarked, gesturing to the car with a broken tail light flashing its emergency signals just down the street, and the police cruiser blocking traffic in the next lane stopped behind him. "That’s one thing I found really different when we moved here. Where I come from, your car has to be practically totalled off before the police will come. You practically have to be in the hospital from the injury."

"Oh yeah, where you from?"

"Regina," I said, with the measure of pride I reserve for when people ask me about the Queen City, as if my prior address was a war wound. "Been in Ottawa about three years now."

"Oh yeah, I’ve been here two. I’m from Iqaluit."

And that’s how I met B., from the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, Canada’s national Inuit organization. During my 30-minute commute, which usually takes, like, forever, but not so much this morning, B., a grandfather of three and who is close to retirement (don’t worry, Adoring and Wonderful Husband; I only have eyes for you), told me a little bit about his past, the places up North he’s been to, the places he recommends I see. ("You’ll really like Whitehorse when you go there. Lots of really unique urban pockets sprinkled throughout the city.") He also reminded me how woefully ignorant I am about Aboriginal issues (though not so pointedly as to call Bullshit). ("Who do people think of as the spokesperson for the Aboriginal perspective? Phil? How about Mary Simon for the Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami? Or Chartier for the Métis?" I had to admit the latter failed to cross my mind, and that the former, well, I didn’t even know it existed.)

We talked about land claims and political jurisdiction, and about sports and cars and retirement. ("Of course Ottawa doesn’t see the issues facing Aboriginal people in the same way as people in Regina do," he agreed, going further: "People here have cars.")

Blink.

Blink, blink.

"I’ve never thought about it that way!" I gushed excitedly, because even on issues of such solemn gravity I am happy to learn. (And my, oh my was I learning.)

"Often the issues are the same for every community," he went on, because I wanted him to, and because I think he is a teacher at heart. "I had a neighbour who everyday goes to the bar, from four until eight, gets drunk, and drives home. But society doesn’t see him on the street, they don’t judge him the same way as they do someone stumbling down the road, because he has a car. He can make his problem invisible in a way an Aboriginal cannot."

Not because he (or she) is different from you or I. Not because we all can’t be as tortured in the same way (and, on the other side of the coin, be as successful and productive). But because one person has a car, and the other doesn’t. (If they're lucky), The Other has to take the bus, like I did today, when I became him, and B. became me, and I learned that - for want of a steering wheel - we are each other.

"It was nice to meet you, Winter." "It was nice to meet you, B. I am sure we'll see each other again." And I tucked my ears into my coat, bracing myself for my two block walk. Hmm…next blog post? How about, Super Ways To Start The Day. Number two? Not stepping in cat puke.

quick on the draw

Squatting gives one time to think. "Prolly shouldn't have ate that chili before I got here" and "Shoulda titled that blog post 'Kinda the same thing as sitting in line overnight in -20 weather for front row seat tickets to Metallica and then getting a real desk job two weeks later and being too scared to ask for the morning off (but not really)'" are just two things that come to mind. I thought I might have time to change the title of my previous entry without anyone knowing, but you already read the last post (at least some of you did), so you would know that I am neurotic enough to go back and rework something so inconsequential as a blog post, when there is laundry to be done, gall-darnit! Couldn't expose myself like that, now could I? It would be on par with pretending that I didn't smell anything in a BodyPump class full of women ("It wasn't me!") when I know in my heart that the female persuasion is simply just way too discerning when it comes to the subtleties of bodily function, now aren't we girls?

Best just to suck it up.

poop

Life's Little Instruction Book is decidedly less clear about how to handle this situation:

Hi, Winter:

Thank you for your email to CBC News Sunday. We appreciate you taking the time out and sending us your thoughts on our program.

While we regularly ask viewers permission to use a portion of their email on our show, in this case we would be interested in finding out whether you would be interested in coming into the nearest CBC studio and read a portion of your email message that will be taped and included in the feedback segment of our Sunday morning show.

Write back and I would love to hear back from you with a contact number so that we can work out the logistics of the shoot. Thank you so much.

What would you do?

101 things to do before you die

#78: Write a letter to the editor at least once a year. (Does an email to CBC Sunday Morning count?)

"Tony Merchant's legal tactics are admittedly obnoxious. That said, I wonder if the same criticism for his role in settling residential school claims would be heaped on a firm more politically palatable to Central Canadian political interests, such as Ogilvy Renault? Somehow I doubt it."

[Edit: Not from "101 Things To Do Before You Die", but from "Life's Little Lessons." Mea culpa.]

exonerate me, fully and completely?

A number of you have written to ask what Ferberizing is, or wonder how it is going. On Question #1: Theoretically, the Ferber Method is an approach that trains babies and toddlers to sleep through the night; parents respond to crying only after increasingly extended stints, eventually teaching the child that it's not worth the effort to exert so much energy for so little reward. Practically, Ferberizing is an excuse parents use to make them feel better about taking time for themselves at the end of the day while their kid screams bloody murder upstairs.

And how's it going? Depends on who you ask. I think okay; despite being in the midst of sprouting his upper front teeth, the Babe has had only limited night wakings in the last few days. Ask Boh, and he might tell you he hopes that I am saving - saving for years and years of the therapy that he will surely need as a result of my neglect.

It's all about interpretation, really.

going to Hell

It's a different world than it was 10 years ago, my friends. I now ask Google what Peter Mansbridge is like in real life - as if the G.-man had beer with him after work last Friday or something - and this is the first hit that spits back out at me. I didn't write it, but I feel that The Big Man is frowning on me just for having pointed it out to you.

But on the Peter issue: Seriously, who knows whether or not he is an ass in real life? Let's dish. (Also, he is TOTALLY tapping that Claire who does the weather, no?)

buried in three feet of snow

You need something to read. Obviously. I still do this with B.'s blog, and G.'s, and D.'s, check back compulsively, that is, even though I know it's more miss than hit. (Though D. is slightly better at the update - only slightly. And while we're at it, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GRACE US WITH A 2007 POST C., HMMMM?) So if I haven't the time to write anything good, I'm going to let you in on my dirty little secrets: indulgence blogs, even if they're not featured prominently on the sidebar. Why aren't they there, you ask? Simple, really. They're like the chocolate I like to leave at the back of the freezer, or the fudge that Adoring and Wonderful Husband's co-worker N. made for us just before Christmas. I'll sit back at 10:00 pm with a nice cup of tea and suddenly remember them, Chocolate! Sucre à la crème! Both at the back of the freezer! Making me so, so happy, hitting the spot. Hereforth, I give you:

inspiredbycarriebradshaw

and

Blog-O-Licious

My prairie peeps. Happy shovelling.

(PS: Forget the social and economic union. French-Canadian dessert is really the reason we need a united Canada.)

answer: damned near impossible

Question: How is it to Ferberize your child at 9:30 at night while writing a briefing note for the Big Kahuna due at 8:00 am the following morning? (At least Adoring and Wonderful Husband is out watching the Sens get their asses whooped instead of sitting here tsk tsking me with his, "Are you REALLY SURE we should be letting him cry like THAT??!")

Don't worry, Blogging Buddies. I am still alive. (Just barely.)

letter from mommy: month nine

Dear Little Man,

Sigh. Today I publish your nine month letter...two days late. Whereas before I drafted these words well in advance of the actual month marker, from now on it will be a race against time to translate my thoughts into type, my heart into my head and through my fingers. These are the deadlines they don't tell you about when you start back at work after parental leave, I suppose. The ones that matter.

Things you've done this month: You venture up the stairs (and promptly fall down them). You continue to babble and coo, but still don't say mama. Or mum. Or moo. Or anything that would suggest to me that you love me at least as much as you love your dad, whose name you've been saying - repeatedly, and in the most heart-breaking sing-songy voice my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear, ever - for over a month now. (And I tell ya kid, I have never wanted anyone to call me moo before, but I want you to. I want you to wake up right now, even though it's 11:30 at night, and say Moo! I love you! Can I watch those cheap adult TV shows that are on Showcase on Friday nights too? Just like daddy is? Because I would say, Yes. Yes you can. But don't get any ideas when you see all those boobies. Because mommy's have been put away, and they can't come out to play anymore. Sorry.)
I miss you, Sweetheart. At work the other day, sitting in a computer room listening to techies drone about how to save files into the fancy computer system they built (um, you press Save, in case you were wondering), I imagined you crawling around through the chairs, under the desks, greedily eyeing the wires before you GRABBED THEM, AND ATE THEM. My mind wandered from the subject at hand - printing (um, you press Print) - and my thoughts turned to your smell. Ahh, your smell. It is my oxygen when you're near me, and the death of me when you're not. And your daddy is so, so lucky (and so are you) for this time the two of you now have together. And this is what I remind myself of, what I say silently, internally, when I need to snap myself back to the task at hand: Searching for electronic files (um, you press Search), or learning about the proper way to format a briefing note (one inch margins, 14-point font, and never EVER over two pages, because THAT is how policy gets made).
And when I want to transport myself back onto your car mat on the living room floor that sops up your spilt milk and which is covered in books, green plastic rings, and more than a few of the six toy cell phones you have now in your possession, I look down at my pant leg at the medley of formula, goober and oatmeal tattooed in an oval just above my knee, the place where you pull yourself up to kiss me as I stand at the kitchen counter to pour my morning coffee just before leaving to catch my bus to work. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, but I wear mine on my pant leg, at least until I walk in the door after a too-long day away from you. Then, I scoop up my heart in my arms and inhale deeply, able to breathe once again, at least until the next morning, when the process starts itself again.
And that is what you did when you were nine months old, Mr. Man: You taught your mommy what it means to breathe.

A million sloppy Boh kisses, C'est Bon. I love you so, so, so, so, so, so much.

Mommy

happy birthday niece!

Love Auntie Winter, Uncle Justin and your Big Cousin Boh. Can't wait to meet you.

one down, two to go

Edit: I resolve not to eat at my desk while emailing the Pope asking him to troubleshoot why I can't type question marks, only e accent aigus. This, I think I can handle. (Unless nobody else can help me on that one. In which case, I won't have to worry about eating at my desk because I WILL JUST QUIT MY JOB, BECAUSE E ACCENT AIGUS? THEY ARE DRIVING ME $#&*ING CRAZY.)

resolve

1. Run two races in 2007. (Have already enrolled for my first one, the 10K race at the ING Ottawa Marathon on May 26th. My goal is to finish in 48 minutes.)

2. No more eating at my desk at work. Even if I have to stand outside my office door and wolf down my turkey on whole wheat, I mean it.

3. Decrease my carbon-based energy consumption by taking the One Tonne Challenge. (I can still do this even if our elected officials think this is a waste of time, can't I? At least they left up this AWESOME website that calculates how much energy I use based on my activities, and how much I could reduce my emissions with certain small lifestyle changes. It amazes me how a few simple adjustments and investments will reduce my consumption by over 10%.)