I Got You A Little Something



"Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.”
~Oren Arnold~
 
OR
 
"Don't give
 ceramic-golfing-monkey-door-stops
 as Christmas gifts"
~McDishy~



When I was a little girl, I used to beg my parents to open their gifts early.  Please, please, pul-ease!!!

When I was a little girl, I used to get so excited about giving a gift that I'd almost go into seizure mode trying not to tell the recipient what it was.

When I was a little girl, a six year old little girl, I had my father convinced that I had out-done my six year old self when it came to giving the perfect gift.  I had single-handedly, -brilliantly- if you will, hunted down and purchased the perfect gift for my father. For any father for that matter.

For weeks I would squeal in delight about how much he was going to love his gift. How it reminded me of him, how it was just soooooooo perfect.  He tried to guess what colour it was, whether it was clothes, or food, or music, or something for the house, or the car, or something he could use at work.

He guessed and guessed and guessed until finally it was Christmas morning, and it was time to open the gift.  I was so excited as he held the  "ultimate gift" in his hands.  He held his ear up to the package as he shook it.  I danced from bare foot to bare foot, nightie dancing all over the place as I trembled in delighted anticipation. Oh man! This was it! He was going to loooooooove this gift! I was the best daughter EVER! 

He tore the paper away! Ripped open the box! Plowed through the bubble wrap to unveil.....DRUM ROLL PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE-The! Most! Gorgeous! Ceramic-golfing-monkey-door-stop-you've-ever-seen!  When I looked at his face, the unabashed awe was unmistakable. He was speechless. He loved it. I was six years old, and the best Christmas-gift-giver ever.

Just as a point of interest the ceramic-golfing-monkey-door-stop was no match for the painted ceramic plate with a mill scene which I purchased for him the following year. What can I say, I had a thing for brightly painted ceramics. We were barely out of the 1970's after all.

The ceramics were topped a year later after my grandmother taught me to crochet. I crocheted a light blue "hammer warmer" for my father. He gracefully accepted the gift with a look of extreme unabashed awe, followed by ripples and ripples of laughter from my mother and grandmother. You see, the blue crocheted hammer warmer looked exactly like a blue, well, like a crocheted condom. Yes, yet again, I had outdone myself as the gift-giving-empress.

Needless to say a few years have passed since then, and I think (hope) that my gift giving savy has been somewhat more finely tuned.  In those "few years", I have become a parent myself, and have shared that same unabashed expression of awe unwrapping gifts from my own child.  I think that look is one that every parent owns, or at least rents from time to time.

With Christmas looming in the not too distant future, there are a few gifts that I must buy. I am bound by duty and obligation.  Generally my friends and I have a meal together and make time for one another -what better gift to a friend who appreciates the value of time as a working mother.  A few glasses of bubbly are obligatory.

I would like to say that I scour the gift giving guides in all of the magazines to which I subscribe. I'm a magazine junkie, and although I do scan the gift guides, I don't think that spending fifty dollars on four square inches of lemon yellow, jasmine and citrus scented sachets really makes sense.  I do think spending fifty dollars to make a delicious fruitcake or two makes sense.  My friends would slap me if I bought them a one-hundred and eighty dollar Wedgwood pitcher, but they'd think that spending that much on a meal for a group of us was money well spent.

The simple things are what are most important to me. A homemade pie and cozy jammies, or, eating cake at the dinner table surrounded by the kids for my birthday are what makes the moments special; an afternoon out being made up and eating lunch, drinking beer, eating cupcakes, and gazing at world-class art....these are the moment that I treasure.

In the past I have been the recipient of; gorilla slippers, a vibrating pillow, sugar-free chocolate (that person turned out to be a dud...run if  you ever get sugar-free chocolate from man. Trust me on this one), tacky plastic jewelry that was found not purchased, really stinky soap, candles that ignited themselves entirely, a rabbit (?!), and broken piece of resin decor.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciated these gifts. I appreciate the sentiment more.  Someone told me recently that I was difficult to satisfy.  Not if you really know me.  I think that we're all easy to satisfy if we feel valued, understood and cherished. 

When I was a little girl, as much as I relished opening my presents, the anticipation of just looking at the wrapped gifts underneath the Christmas tree lights made me excited. I would sit in the before bed-time-quiet in my flannel nightie, blond pigtails hanging down, staring, as if at a miracle, at all of the fancy paper and bows.  I would walk up the stairs to my bedroom, taking one last look at that beautiful tree, and snuggle under my covers feeling like the luckiest kid in the world.

To this day, after everyone else is in bed, the magic of Christmas is somehow translated by the glow of the lights on the tree, and the deep peace of silence.  The presents under the tree are for my child now. He goes off to bed with the solitary lights of the Christmas tree glowing down the hallway. I'm left to lock up and unplug the lights before our home closes shop for the night. Still, the possibilities, the hope, the warmth of all that I know and am grateful for becomes clear in that magic space between the twinkling lights and the darkness.



Look out She's Gonna Blow!!!



"... love dares you to care
For people on the edge of the night

And love dares you to change our way

Of caring about ourselves

This is our last dance

This is our last dance

This is ourselves under pressure."
~Queen/David Bowie~

 Lack of patience begets frustration. Frustration is akin to a spiritual pressure cooking disaster resulting in all kinds of weird outbursts.

I have been told I'm a very patient and calm person, that I lend balance to conversation, and offer a very deep sense of calm to any issue at hand. Oh wait. WAIT! Nope. Wrong person. I think that was something said of Gandhi, or the Dali Lama, or Maya Angelou. Yep, pretty sure that wasn't about me.

I have been trained to listen, trained to mediate, trained to crisis intervene. Alas, it is all in direct opposition to my natural persuasion to be; Passionate! Creative! and  Fearless!, and an  it's-ok-everything-is-just-fine-I-have-it-all-under-control leader.  When I feel helpless to affect the change I want to see in my own life, I withdraw, focus inwardly, and think...think...think...and not always that rationally. Like Winnie the Pooh, sometimes I am a bear of very little brain. Usually, after some thought, some bubbly, and the inevitable,what-the-hell-I'm-going-to-jump-in-with-both-feet moment, I feel better.

Business studies have shown that effective people are not necessarily those who make the "right" decisions, but those people who can be decisive. It is said that those folks who  think things through to the best of their ability, and regardless of equally weighted benefits, drawbacks, and the great number of what-ifs, can make a decision and take action. In work and in life I have been known to take great leaps of faith, and as my great kiwi friend says, "Trish, I don't think it matters what you do. You're like a cat - you always land on your feet".

However, every once in a while no amount of decisiveness, planning or drive can make a dent in my  frustration.  I briefly did the math, and I've decided that about once or twice a decade the lid on the pressure cooker of my frustration blows high enough and hard enough to architecturally rearrange my life. 

This weekend the lid went through the roof. Metaphorically speaking the skylight that it created gives me a great view, and a fresh perspective on the sunshine I need in my life.

Feeling misunderstood at work and home at the same time is a great stress. When words are exhausted, time has passed and there's no solution, movement or resolution in sight.....frustration abounds and multiplies exponentially.

Despite my four dharma classes, deep breathing, and silent commitment to myself to just carry on along my own path and let the aftermath fall where it may, I completely lost it a few days ago.  I mean snapped. I mean completely snapped.  I'm surprised my head didn't spin, my eyes didn't pop out, or that I didn't begin speaking in tongues with the dulcet bass tones of satan.  The damage is done. Sorry doesn't take it away. Repeating what's been repeated in an effort to be understood is useless, and what led to the whole damn mess anyway.  But boy oh boy do I feel better.

Like the pathetic sounds of air coming out of a bagpipe after the last hurrah, I cried for almost two days after my lid popped.  Tears rolled down my face during meditation, and again in dharma class. Some lovely fellow whom I don't know came over and handed me a most unceremonious gob of tissues,  for which I was (and still am) sincerely grateful.  Thank you, thank you, thank you. Omitofu.

My adopted mom spent an afternoon with me being made up at MAC cosmetics and lunching. She had to suffer through me trying not to cry. Which of course is an awkward process of intermittent silence and verbal spewing.  Kind of the weird mood that goes just right with fish tacos and bananas wrapped in sugar-coated, deep-fried tortillas.

The victim of my totally-blowing-my-cool (and whom shall remain nameless), had a chance (I think) to clear their mind and have their say afterward, and I had to just let it all be. I was wrong. Ewwww....I hate having to admit that.  Wrong?  That's worse than being the "B" word.

Let me be absolutely crystal clear here; I was wrong to snap, but not wrong to feel the way I felt/feel.

Causes and Conditions eh?  Dependent Origination you say?  Absolutely. The conditions were perfect for the perfect storm as it were.   As I told my story to my friend Tish over a delicious sampling of a premium Belgian beer and blowing out a candle on a giant cupcake, I realized that feeling badly about the situation was going to do me no good.  An apology was all I could do to try and repair any damage.   Patience, and learning from my mistakes and past transgressions would take me much further. After all, it wasn't a total loss; the new skylight created by blowing my top provides a much needed new perspective. Cheers to that. Now make a wish and blow out the candle.

Flashdance Mess Your Pants

"I really don't think I need buns of steel. 
I'd be happy with buns of cinnamon."
  ~Ellen DeGeneres~

If you've ever seen me, you know at first glance that physically, I'm built for pleasure, not for speed.  In other words I have lots of, well, let's just call them soft spots. Despite my natural propensity for food, wine, merry-making and what I'm sure boils down to having blue blood from a past life somewhere in my all-Canadian veins, I do manage to get out to the gym a few times a week.

This may seem like an unrelated bit of information, but trust me it becomes important later in this blog post.  I also like to bake. Each week I bake on Sunday night or Monday night.  It's my child's choice, and ironically this week the request was for raisin bran breakfast muffins.  Stick with me here folks.

As is reflective of my personality, I love to be surrounded by people provided they don't bother me, or are at the very least entertaining without making an effort.  Fitness class allows this combination of social indulgence. Sweating and losing my breath is a very private pursuit, best shared at a distance if it's not brought on by multiple glasses of wine and masculine charm.  Before the classes start, there's a bit of chatting, and at the end of class, we all dissolve away home and leave our acquaintance at that.

I've just been back to the gym for a week.  I let it lapse during the summer so I could accommodate my child's busy sport schedule...that and I'm a lush. So, tonight I was chatting up the woman who had the bad fortune of assuming her place directly behind me.  Right before the music started, we noted that yet another substitute instructor had been brought in, and my friend's last words were, "Trish, as long as I sweat, I'll be happy." 

Boy did she sweat. Tonight even the dorky squash players who hang out just outside of the women's fitness class sweat just watching our new sub.  She was a gristled up piece of Caucasian  protein the colour of brown shoe leather,  sporting chap-like wind pants.  There was no eye contact with anyone in the class, and it was clear she had heard her calling from the creator to punish us all into the same state of gristleyness.

Before I go to the gym, I make myself as ugly as possible. Well, not intentionally, it just works out that way. I'm hopelessly clumsy, so all jewelry comes off except for the rings that remain on because they're premenstrually attached to my fingers. I put my hair back with a giant elastic band, wash off my makeup, and dress in my spandex. 

There are lyrics to an Aaron Lines song that go, "...even when her hair's messed up and her make-up's gone, you can't hide beautiful".  Well, it's not quite like that when I go au naturel. I'm not hiding beautiful under my make-up and hair-do, I'm at the very least hiding homely if not downright frightening!  I get suspicious of anyone who can maintain eyeliner and lipstick and huge pieces of jewelry around their jugular while flailing around and sweating.  I'm convinced these people are secret aliens, somehow aligned to take over the human race along with pug dogs and persian cats.

Tonight when the music started, and the instructor started speaking, I almost laughed out loud. Clearly, CLEARLY, by the tempo of the music, and the shouting it was evident that she had mistaken this hi/low yoga class as bootcamp.   As we "LIFT(ed) LEFT!RIGHT!LEFT!RIGHT, WORK(ing) THAT BOOTY!!!", the reflections of shocked women stared back at me in the mirror.  I have a broad sense of humour that is often not shared in crisis by the people around me.  I couldn't help but laugh out loud. As my heart rate became dangerously high, I realized that I had an hour and a half of this to go and I'd better pace myself.  Collapsing on the floor in a fit of giggles was not going to be cool, or appreciated. As I lifted and kicked a la '80's style dancersize, I watched as my classmates looked as if they were going to either smack the instructor, or burst into tears.

When Miss Booty, who was wearing dangly earrings and pearls - Yes, that's right, pearls in a fitness class- called out, "Are you ready to really work it?!", I couldn't help but yelp back the expected, "WOO!!!". I was the only woo-hoo-er. If anyone had any energy or nerve enough to vary from the booty-camp regime, I'm sure they would have turned and glared at me. I was laughing at my own shock as much as at the evident horror of my innocent classmates.

As a teenager I often filled in for the fitness instructor who came to my little town to teach evening classes in the school gymnasium. I was 5'8" and barely 100lbs.  I could kick, jump, squat and move like the wind.  I was never going to be the unfit-35-year-old-tired-out-full-time-working-mom that I've turned into.  Tonight I was vaulted back to those days in the late 1980's/early 1990's as each song pumped itself out of the speakers. I'm not sure which song made me want to laugh more, the I'm-on-cocaine-120-beats-per-millisecond version of, "You Sexy Thing", or the same hyped up style of "La Bomba".  The moves matched the music.  A room full of spandexed chubbsters squatting and kicking like my mother and I used to do to Richard Simmons's "Sweating to the Oldies". 

About twenty minutes into the class three people, mopping their faces with their delicate little towels, left the room.  "KICK IT UP TO YOUR BOOTY!!!", the instructor barked into the mic.  Booty? Really?  There's nobody in here under 25! No one here uses that word in their regular vocabulary! Heck, at this stage of my life, the word "booty" is kinda porn-ish.  I relate more to pirate ship booty than to anything that I'm going to shake if you know what I mean.  I'm at an age where I really only want one man to check out my booty, and that's by flattering candlelight after he's had enough to drink to make the puckering smooth itself out.

We did cardio, arms, legs and were moving on to abs before yoga. I hadn't done some of those moves since I was a kid.  The last time anyone called the "bicycle" the bicycle, I'm sure I was in public school. Although, one brutal she-man-wanna-be-gym teacher that I had in high school may have made us do that, but I've blocked that trauma from my long-term memory. 

After the bicycle (and the traumatising memories that brought back) we were instructed to roll over and "swim". You know, lift your arms and legs and flail around like fish out of water.   I'm not sure whether I was horrified or relieved when my raisin bran breakfast muffin announced it's arrival in my colon.  I was praying there would be no applause for this arrival by any other part of my digestive tract.  So, as disappointed as I was to miss out on the entertainment of watching this woman take us back to the eighties and the reactions of my classmates, I decided to play it safe and waddle home with my aching muscles and bran filled booty.

I ache tonight. I actually feel like I've worked out, and I kind of hope this woman comes back to push me a little harder than usual.  I respect her. I am reconsidering my baking though.  Clearly I should just stick to cookies and and my other favourite gooey baked delights so it doesn't get in the way of my favourite hour and a half fitness class. I'm a genius. Pass the chocolate.