As though some cruel twist of fate, it is my job to tell people not to wander off. Working for a nature reserve, I am tasked with constant outreach to our visitors, explaining why it is so very important to remain on the trail, obey the rules, stay safe and behave yourself. I have created signage and newsletter articles preaching such obedience. If only they knew…
Once while lost in a spice market in Dubai I was lead through the alleyways by a young man and his promise of beautiful purses. I wasn’t even interested in a new purse, but sleep deprived and jetlagged, it only made sense to follow. When I climbed the stairs and entered his apartment in some unknown alley in the depths of Dubai, another man quickly locked the door behind me. I cursed my curiosity. No one would miss me for days. Luckily, the men’s shady dealings were limited to the sale of knock off purses. A room full of Coach, Gucci, Fendi all ready for me to take home. The men misinterpreted my desperation to leave with hard bargaining – prices quickly fell from $200 to $20 as I unlocked the doors, fled down the stairs and out into the labyrinth of city streets, lost again.
Wandering off is both my best and worst habit. Just ask anyone who has gone grocery shopping with me – while my shopping partner is mid-sentence, I am three aisles over, dazzled by the different types of vinegar. I am drawn to shiny objects like a raven stocking her hoard, forever blown off the path.
Exhausted, filthy and sore, I found myself in Africa, making my way to see the lions. The main road up to the Ngorongoro Crater, a major link between Tanzania and Kenya, traveled by tourist-filled 4x4s and precariously loaded transport trucks alike, was more rugged and jarring than the abandoned logging roads back home. As the Land Rover edged over to the side of the road, I was surprised that our guide Stephen could even tell we had a flat tire.
Stephen scoured his brain for the very few English words that he knew, chose two and said them with utmost authority. “stay here”. I immediately unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbed my camera and ventured off. We had stopped in a quiet, dusty village, just waking up to the day. A mamma brightly dressed in her khanga, bustled along with her load teetering upon her head, starting the day’s unending tasks. Men lingered outside the shops, as though waiting for a bus that would never come. Children rolled the frame of a bike tire, running by laughing.
I garnered a few uneasy looks, not because I am unwelcome, but my imposing camera is. I slung it over my shoulder and continued to wander, glancing momentarily back at our Land Rover. A few fellow travelers had dismounted only to stare at Stephen while he struggled with the tire. The others remained inside, trying their best to look as bored as possible, yawning and pressing their foreheads to the grimy windows, trying to get back to sleep.
I spotted the village grocery store – a thatched booth so small that would fit neatly in my front hall closet, spilling over with fresh produce – tomatoes, onions, pineapple and bananas. Being my 4th day in Africa, my Swahili was very poor, but my charade skills were excellent. A timid young boy wearing only shorts, approached me as though I was a mother lion, a very hungry one at that. I smiled, pointed, and waved my arms around like a mad woman, and after a few minutes I was the proud owner of five tiny yellow bananas. We were both quite pleased with ourselves.
Shrieks of laughter stole our attention, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of a girl running into a nearby shop. Small pairs of eyes peered out around the corner, followed by screams of laughter, and an immediate retreat to the safety of the shop. An invitation if I’ve ever heard one. As I approached the doorway and heard the girls in fits of giggles, testing who would be the next brave one to sneak a look at the white mzungu. They are startled when I enter, but equally curious. “mambo, habari?” I asked, spawning even more uncontrolled laughter. It was contagious, I find myself both shy and grinning at once.
Using my most entertaining charade skills yet, I introduced myself and asked what their names were, offering my hand. The bravest took my hand in hers, shook it and immediately bolted back behind the counter to the safety of the others, spilling over with laughter. The next girl did the same, moving my hand with hers, adding in a little twist, and a fist bump. I went down the line, with each introduction the handshakes became more elaborate, joining our hands in new found friendship, adding in dance steps, and finishing off with a hug. I gave them a handful of pencils and bought some water for the ride, and waved goodbye to my new best friends.
Heading back to the 4x4, I could still hear the squeals of laughter, and can’t help but smile. The others were settling back in, trying not to be annoyed with the delay, in a rush to find the day’s adventure. I offered them my bananas, a small consolation. I have already had my adventure; those lions would have to roar extra fierce to outshine my new dance moves.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Breadcrumbs
The rain drizzled as we approached the cemetery, the morning cold, bleak and dreary, yet the excitement and mystery that lay ahead of us was enough to keep me warm. We passed through the gates and looked for our first clue. I spotted it first, a green arrow, sprayed on the green path. We were on our way. Passing faded and worn stones, aisle after aisle the arrows guiding us to our past, to a missing piece of our history.
While I had never met my great grandmother, known as Granny Hill, and the stories were few and sparse, I couldn’t help but feel we had plenty in common. I come from a line of very strong women, women who are familiar with tragedy yet strong enough to not only withstand it, but to rise above it. We have tempers are so fierce that I fear for anyone daft enough to cross us, yet our hearts are warm and full of compassion. We love foolishly, but with all of our heart. Most of all, we know how to fill up a kitchen, with sweet and savory aromas, laughter and stories. Myself, my mother, my aunts and cousins, and my nana alike - I believe this all comes from Granny Hill.
She remained a mystery from afar. Throughout my life I’ve discovered snippets of information, a puzzle with more pieces missing than found. A woman abandoned by her reckless husband, then her children one by one. One lost to scarlet fever, the others tempted away by the promise of a new land, and a new husband. I’ve heard stories of séances held in the kitchen, sharing laughter and ghost stories with girlfriends. I’ve also heard of a passport, a plan to join her family in Canada, before an illness struck her down. My nana, so poor and unable to return for the funeral, was left heartbroken. She spoke of returning to Scotland regularly, we often sat over tea imagining our voyage together. She’d show me the rowhouse where she grew up, the theatre where she was an usher. While she never returned, a seed was planted.
A few years ago, I made that voyage with my mother instead. Armed with a simple street address, and a map of Rutherglen, we were determined to breathe in the scent of our history, tread on the streets, observe the bustle the neighbourhoods. Even more importantly, we needed to find Granny Hill. Others before us had made the attempt to discover her final resting spot, to no avail. She was lost to us, as her family before had been lost to her.
Arriving at the cemetery, vast, somber and foggy I searched the dewy grass for our directions. My contact at the cemetery wasn’t available to assist us in person, but she made a promise, we would find our way. We followed along the green spray-painted arrows, little breadcrumbs guiding us to our past.
Passing faded and worn stones, aisle after aisle the arrows like breadcrumbs guiding to our past, to a missing piece of our history. We found her, in an unmarked grave, identified only be a gap in the row of stones, and a single green-painted X. For all Granny Hill had given us, our strength, compassion, tempers and our favourite banana bread recipe, the only thing remaining is a green x painted on green grass, doomed to vanish with the next pass of the mower. We placed a Canadian flag on the spot, stood in the damp fog, and thanked her.
She is no longer lost to us. Working with family records and the helpful cemetery staff, we have now made the arrangements. The ownership of your grave, once misplaced through administrative twists and turns has been returned to the family. I now own her plot and will ensure it remains in the family, and will soon be placing a gravestone, one to tell the world that she was a wife, a mother, a source of life. It’s the least I can do for the legacy that she has created, and one delicious banana bread recipe.
While I had never met my great grandmother, known as Granny Hill, and the stories were few and sparse, I couldn’t help but feel we had plenty in common. I come from a line of very strong women, women who are familiar with tragedy yet strong enough to not only withstand it, but to rise above it. We have tempers are so fierce that I fear for anyone daft enough to cross us, yet our hearts are warm and full of compassion. We love foolishly, but with all of our heart. Most of all, we know how to fill up a kitchen, with sweet and savory aromas, laughter and stories. Myself, my mother, my aunts and cousins, and my nana alike - I believe this all comes from Granny Hill.
She remained a mystery from afar. Throughout my life I’ve discovered snippets of information, a puzzle with more pieces missing than found. A woman abandoned by her reckless husband, then her children one by one. One lost to scarlet fever, the others tempted away by the promise of a new land, and a new husband. I’ve heard stories of séances held in the kitchen, sharing laughter and ghost stories with girlfriends. I’ve also heard of a passport, a plan to join her family in Canada, before an illness struck her down. My nana, so poor and unable to return for the funeral, was left heartbroken. She spoke of returning to Scotland regularly, we often sat over tea imagining our voyage together. She’d show me the rowhouse where she grew up, the theatre where she was an usher. While she never returned, a seed was planted.
A few years ago, I made that voyage with my mother instead. Armed with a simple street address, and a map of Rutherglen, we were determined to breathe in the scent of our history, tread on the streets, observe the bustle the neighbourhoods. Even more importantly, we needed to find Granny Hill. Others before us had made the attempt to discover her final resting spot, to no avail. She was lost to us, as her family before had been lost to her.
Arriving at the cemetery, vast, somber and foggy I searched the dewy grass for our directions. My contact at the cemetery wasn’t available to assist us in person, but she made a promise, we would find our way. We followed along the green spray-painted arrows, little breadcrumbs guiding us to our past.
Passing faded and worn stones, aisle after aisle the arrows like breadcrumbs guiding to our past, to a missing piece of our history. We found her, in an unmarked grave, identified only be a gap in the row of stones, and a single green-painted X. For all Granny Hill had given us, our strength, compassion, tempers and our favourite banana bread recipe, the only thing remaining is a green x painted on green grass, doomed to vanish with the next pass of the mower. We placed a Canadian flag on the spot, stood in the damp fog, and thanked her.
She is no longer lost to us. Working with family records and the helpful cemetery staff, we have now made the arrangements. The ownership of your grave, once misplaced through administrative twists and turns has been returned to the family. I now own her plot and will ensure it remains in the family, and will soon be placing a gravestone, one to tell the world that she was a wife, a mother, a source of life. It’s the least I can do for the legacy that she has created, and one delicious banana bread recipe.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Stuck in the Attic
I am discovering there are many challenges to living alone… while I have mastered the trick for opening spaghetti sauce jars, there are other adventures where having someone around might prove helpful. For example – getting down out of the attic.
I woke the other night to hear shuffling about above my head. And then promptly fell back asleep, because that’s the only thing that makes sense at 3am. After hearing the noises again at 6am, and later again that morning, I figured I should investigate. While I have a vast appreciation for critters, I seem to have rules about them roaming around in my house. Especially if it’s a June bug plotting a kamikaze dive bomb attack in my dining room. He lives out in the yard again, scheming for another day.
So, I set to work, putting on my big girl pants and figuring out how to solve my little problem. I already know my ladder is too short, so I’m grateful that I still haven’t removed my roof racks (i.e. begged my friend to remove them for me…) as I ran off an borrow one. I also bought one of those flashy orange extension cords that mean I’m all grown up now. And to top it off, one of those super bright, fire hazard, covered with warnings work lights that people who know what they’re doing tend to own. Home depot helps me with such a charade.
Easy peasy, I am ready to go. After dismantling my closet shelves, I am ready to ascend. Except the ladder doesn’t fit into the closet exactly… It’s ok – I’m good at climbing things. After some acrobatic and fancy stunt work, I arrive covered in insulation and dust in my attic. My insulation looks like it was involved in an epic pillow fight – which would have been entirely fun if I were a smaller fur covered mammal.
Enter the tricky part – getting back down. I have climbed big trees, made my way onto roof tops, into tree houses and general places where I should not have been, and without fail ended up stuck, needing someone to guide me down. Down is way harder than up. At one point I was cursing myself for not being Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. He’d just jump down, and look good while at it. Really all I needed to do was a perfect 45 degree leap through a little hatch and land sideways on my wobbly ladder. No sweat. I sat up there for 20 minutes, plotting my escape, and shaking my head at my foolish ‘will I ever learn?’ ways.
I still don’t now how I pulled it off. Perhaps the heat pushed me into some Zen euphoria where I was able to channel Tom’s agility. All I know is that my next adventure will involve asking someone taller for help. Bruised ego and all…
I woke the other night to hear shuffling about above my head. And then promptly fell back asleep, because that’s the only thing that makes sense at 3am. After hearing the noises again at 6am, and later again that morning, I figured I should investigate. While I have a vast appreciation for critters, I seem to have rules about them roaming around in my house. Especially if it’s a June bug plotting a kamikaze dive bomb attack in my dining room. He lives out in the yard again, scheming for another day.
So, I set to work, putting on my big girl pants and figuring out how to solve my little problem. I already know my ladder is too short, so I’m grateful that I still haven’t removed my roof racks (i.e. begged my friend to remove them for me…) as I ran off an borrow one. I also bought one of those flashy orange extension cords that mean I’m all grown up now. And to top it off, one of those super bright, fire hazard, covered with warnings work lights that people who know what they’re doing tend to own. Home depot helps me with such a charade.
Easy peasy, I am ready to go. After dismantling my closet shelves, I am ready to ascend. Except the ladder doesn’t fit into the closet exactly… It’s ok – I’m good at climbing things. After some acrobatic and fancy stunt work, I arrive covered in insulation and dust in my attic. My insulation looks like it was involved in an epic pillow fight – which would have been entirely fun if I were a smaller fur covered mammal.
Enter the tricky part – getting back down. I have climbed big trees, made my way onto roof tops, into tree houses and general places where I should not have been, and without fail ended up stuck, needing someone to guide me down. Down is way harder than up. At one point I was cursing myself for not being Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. He’d just jump down, and look good while at it. Really all I needed to do was a perfect 45 degree leap through a little hatch and land sideways on my wobbly ladder. No sweat. I sat up there for 20 minutes, plotting my escape, and shaking my head at my foolish ‘will I ever learn?’ ways.
I still don’t now how I pulled it off. Perhaps the heat pushed me into some Zen euphoria where I was able to channel Tom’s agility. All I know is that my next adventure will involve asking someone taller for help. Bruised ego and all…
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Hot Dogs and Cake
I'm discovering I'm a girl with many food related traditions. Sunday morning pancakes. Friday night caesars. Hagan Daaz strawberry on the bad days, chocolate on the good days.
I have another one that I celebrate annually - hot dogs and cake. When we were kids, that was the traditionally summer birthday party at our house, my brother would gather up his friends, we'd hang out in the yard and gorge on hot dogs and cake, and celebrate his birthday. We never needed anything fancy, it was always perfect.
This year we would have celebrated his 40th. There is a lifetime of "would have, should haves" when it comes to Sean. It's easy to get caught up in the gloom of it all, however not this day. This day, I celebrate his life, not mourn our loss. While I munched on hot dogs in my backyard, devoured a slab of cake, and laughed with a friend I felt transported back in time, I could hear his laugh, and our family was whole. It's pretty impressive what a plain old hot dog can do!
Happy birthday Sean, we miss you.
The Inner Hippie
I was explaining the other day to a friend that I was off being a hippie for the weekend - wearing my birkenstocks, a colourful knitted poncho, uncouth hair and a full-to-the-brim feeling of "see, we can just all get along!" I was off to Summerfolk.
I've been going to this folk festival for about 25 years. (It's a little horrifying that I can say such things...) My father had the sense to drag me along when I was ten, mostly because my big brother got to go, so I likely demanded "me too!" He had the sense to include me, but I'm not certain it was good parental sense... sitting around campfires with more than campfire smoke in the air, singing until the sun rose. The 'responsible' adults in my circle far far far away from sensible, and I was witness to a world of shenanigans. As a result, I still call my father by his first name. Still, I couldn't be more grateful.
My father no longer makes the trek to Summerfolk, and I have transformed from "Carmen's daughter," to one of the gang. Days filled with incredible music, evenings dancing in the beer tent, and nights of campfire dazzlement. Laughing until my back spasms, and then laughing some more. Friends that fill my heart up with joy. I come back to reality all refreshed, centred, blissful.
However, my friend suggested that my hippie isn't so inner. I wear my birkies into the office some days. My tunes all seem to have messages of "everybody get together and try to love one another". My hair is never refined, and you can often spot a wee braid in there. I suspect he's right - I just learned how to knit so I could make a new poncho. Thanks Carmen!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Girlfriends
I am a very lucky girl. My life is enriched every day by the constant presence of laughter, understanding, compassion, commiseration, and a huge understanding of the importance of cute shoes. I have my girls.
Each of them bring something so special to my life, I can only hope that I am able to enrich theirs even half as much. I try my best to even it out with fresh baking. I have one friend who tries my new shoes on as soon as I wear them into work, and gushes with ooohs and aaaahs. Another gives me sticky notes to remind me "you must not stab boys who try to kiss you". One is a fantastic travel partner who will know exactly how much the cab should cost from a zambian bus station to an obscure lodge at 3am. One knows far too many secrets.
One magic trick that these girls can do is make clouds vanish. My dearest friend is worn out, as she has recently given birth to a fantastic little one, while finding time to chase around a 2 year old. When I talk with her, her sentences stop mid way to scream things like 'get off the bookshelf!' or 'that doesn't go in your ear!' or she shares the horror stories of poop, infections and vomits. (She's also a brilliant form of birth control.) But once nap time arrives we can pick up like no time has passed at all, I can share my woes, rant about boys, laugh about life, and catch up on the last month of the soap opera my life has become. She, exhausted, sleep deprived, and likely barf encrusted, can still scrounge up the energy needed to make me feel better about the list of fiascos I have presented her with. Pure magic.
I have recently met a brand new friend... she's lovely. We've already shared a rant about the complete lunacy of boys, so i think we're going to get along just fine!
Each of them bring something so special to my life, I can only hope that I am able to enrich theirs even half as much. I try my best to even it out with fresh baking. I have one friend who tries my new shoes on as soon as I wear them into work, and gushes with ooohs and aaaahs. Another gives me sticky notes to remind me "you must not stab boys who try to kiss you". One is a fantastic travel partner who will know exactly how much the cab should cost from a zambian bus station to an obscure lodge at 3am. One knows far too many secrets.
One magic trick that these girls can do is make clouds vanish. My dearest friend is worn out, as she has recently given birth to a fantastic little one, while finding time to chase around a 2 year old. When I talk with her, her sentences stop mid way to scream things like 'get off the bookshelf!' or 'that doesn't go in your ear!' or she shares the horror stories of poop, infections and vomits. (She's also a brilliant form of birth control.) But once nap time arrives we can pick up like no time has passed at all, I can share my woes, rant about boys, laugh about life, and catch up on the last month of the soap opera my life has become. She, exhausted, sleep deprived, and likely barf encrusted, can still scrounge up the energy needed to make me feel better about the list of fiascos I have presented her with. Pure magic.
I have recently met a brand new friend... she's lovely. We've already shared a rant about the complete lunacy of boys, so i think we're going to get along just fine!
Monday, August 15, 2011
Optimistic, or just plain dumb?
I found myself in a couple of situations recently that I willingly chose to be optimistic about. Despite the fact that these situations were surrounded by caution tape, red flags, big warning beacons and a squirmy feeling in my stomach.
I like to believe in things like good intentions, integrity and sincerety. I don't want to be the person that doubts everyone, is all jaded and skeptical because I think that just carries too much weight. I prefer to traipse through life all whimsical wearing my oh so pretty rose coloured glasses.
The most sketchy of scenarios turned out rather well. Someone came through for me when I may have let my doubts wiggle around too much. I did obey the caution tape on this one a bit, but I take comfort in knowing that despite the skeptisism and convoluted conversations, there was a happy ending.
Especially since the other situation blew up in my face. Badly. I've been searching around for the word that captures how I feel about it all, and I seem to be hovering around "livid". But who is to blame, the fool, or the fooled? Once I figure that out, I'll know who I am most angry with.
I think though, despite the livid, I will keep those rose coloured glasses handy. Because they are rather pretty...
I like to believe in things like good intentions, integrity and sincerety. I don't want to be the person that doubts everyone, is all jaded and skeptical because I think that just carries too much weight. I prefer to traipse through life all whimsical wearing my oh so pretty rose coloured glasses.
The most sketchy of scenarios turned out rather well. Someone came through for me when I may have let my doubts wiggle around too much. I did obey the caution tape on this one a bit, but I take comfort in knowing that despite the skeptisism and convoluted conversations, there was a happy ending.
Especially since the other situation blew up in my face. Badly. I've been searching around for the word that captures how I feel about it all, and I seem to be hovering around "livid". But who is to blame, the fool, or the fooled? Once I figure that out, I'll know who I am most angry with.
I think though, despite the livid, I will keep those rose coloured glasses handy. Because they are rather pretty...
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Drama Free Thursday
Thursday is quickly becoming my second favourite day of the week. Nothing will touch Pancake Breakfast Sunday. Fierce competition for Caesar Friday though, it's Drama Free Thursday.
For one day a week, drama has an off-switch. Boss all ranty? Too bad, it can bother me tomorrow when I can drink it away with a patio caesar. Boys being dumb? Doesn't matter today, even idiocy can have an off-switch. Freaked out about the new roof purchase? I can do that tomorrow instead. Today I let stress vanish like just out of the oven cookies at a tupperware party.
The cool part of this is that drama can be optional, we often get to choose how much we let it bother us. I find it liberating to just say "Nope, not today, thanks!" The surprising part is that it actually seems to work. Hopefully someday I'll be able to expand this, similar to my Meat Free Mondays that often last until Drama Free Thursday. (By Thursday I need some beast to chew on, and in an attempt to avoid a chaotic shark-like feeding frenzy of flesh by holding out any longer, it's best just to decide to have a drama free ham sandwich.)
Happy Drama Free Thursday to you!
For one day a week, drama has an off-switch. Boss all ranty? Too bad, it can bother me tomorrow when I can drink it away with a patio caesar. Boys being dumb? Doesn't matter today, even idiocy can have an off-switch. Freaked out about the new roof purchase? I can do that tomorrow instead. Today I let stress vanish like just out of the oven cookies at a tupperware party.
The cool part of this is that drama can be optional, we often get to choose how much we let it bother us. I find it liberating to just say "Nope, not today, thanks!" The surprising part is that it actually seems to work. Hopefully someday I'll be able to expand this, similar to my Meat Free Mondays that often last until Drama Free Thursday. (By Thursday I need some beast to chew on, and in an attempt to avoid a chaotic shark-like feeding frenzy of flesh by holding out any longer, it's best just to decide to have a drama free ham sandwich.)
Happy Drama Free Thursday to you!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Cupcakes, Good Deeds, and Hope
Hey wanna...? Is usually how the trouble starts with Rhonda and I. Hey, wanna go to Africa? Hey, wanna take a belly dancing class? Hey, wanna jump into Victoria Falls and swim around a bit? The answer is always yes, and never even a moment of regret.
One Hey Wanna in particular makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. "Hey wanna take a cake decorating course?" Rhonda still curses me for this one... but in the end, it was one of my favourites - not for the endless sugar rush, or the futile attempts at embracing my inner Martha but for the good deeds that were made possible as a result.
Rhonda and I were off for another African adventure. That's a whole other very long winded blog. My apologies if I've held you captive while I gush for hours about Africa, but it has a pretty firm grip on my heart. This time, we wanted to do a little more than just sneak up on lions, we wanted to be able to return even a fragment of the kindness that we were shown during our previous African escapades. Enter the cupcakes...
I whipped up a few batches of cupcakes, decorated them all pretty with little flowers and polka dots, and then served them up with a gob of guilt trip charity request from my oh so tolerant friends. In the end, I scored about $135. Not bad, but Rhonda with her massage raffle (not that kind of massage, she's an RMT) raised a huge bunch more. Out of my little $135, I was able to buy bags upon bags of groceries delivered to a few families in a very poor area of Moshi, Tanzania, and bought a bike, a few soccer balls, flour and sugar for an orphanage in Livingstone Zambia. All from a bit of pretty cake, and a heap of generosity from my hungry friends.
Now, I'm not telling you this story to boast about how fabulous my cupcakes are, but to offer a bit of hope. We hear on the news about the absolute devastation being faced in Kenya, Ethiopia and Somalia at the moment, and feel helpless, or even guilty about our well stocked fridges. But I can tell you with absolute confidence that every little bit counts. For $17 in a Moshi market I was able to buy bags upon bags of beans, rice, soap, cooking oil and other staples, enough to make a huge difference for a few families.
Your donations are being matched by the Canadian government right now. Red Cross, World Vision, Unicef, it doesn't matter, the money will be put to good use. Your $17 can make a real difference to someone's life. The good karma points are just icing on the cupcake.
One Hey Wanna in particular makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. "Hey wanna take a cake decorating course?" Rhonda still curses me for this one... but in the end, it was one of my favourites - not for the endless sugar rush, or the futile attempts at embracing my inner Martha but for the good deeds that were made possible as a result.
Rhonda and I were off for another African adventure. That's a whole other very long winded blog. My apologies if I've held you captive while I gush for hours about Africa, but it has a pretty firm grip on my heart. This time, we wanted to do a little more than just sneak up on lions, we wanted to be able to return even a fragment of the kindness that we were shown during our previous African escapades. Enter the cupcakes...
I whipped up a few batches of cupcakes, decorated them all pretty with little flowers and polka dots, and then served them up with a gob of guilt trip charity request from my oh so tolerant friends. In the end, I scored about $135. Not bad, but Rhonda with her massage raffle (not that kind of massage, she's an RMT) raised a huge bunch more. Out of my little $135, I was able to buy bags upon bags of groceries delivered to a few families in a very poor area of Moshi, Tanzania, and bought a bike, a few soccer balls, flour and sugar for an orphanage in Livingstone Zambia. All from a bit of pretty cake, and a heap of generosity from my hungry friends.
Now, I'm not telling you this story to boast about how fabulous my cupcakes are, but to offer a bit of hope. We hear on the news about the absolute devastation being faced in Kenya, Ethiopia and Somalia at the moment, and feel helpless, or even guilty about our well stocked fridges. But I can tell you with absolute confidence that every little bit counts. For $17 in a Moshi market I was able to buy bags upon bags of beans, rice, soap, cooking oil and other staples, enough to make a huge difference for a few families.
Your donations are being matched by the Canadian government right now. Red Cross, World Vision, Unicef, it doesn't matter, the money will be put to good use. Your $17 can make a real difference to someone's life. The good karma points are just icing on the cupcake.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Ring-a-ling
I recently volunteered to shoot at a kids cycling event. (shoot a camera, not a gun. I've done both, but figured the camera would be more appropriate here) The smallest age group to race was teeny little 3-4 year olds. All twitchy, ready to go with their big helmets, Shrek racing shirts, teddy strapped on to the handlebars, and training wheels spinning at top speed.
I love when life's instructions are oh so simple. When we say go, you go. Just keep pedaling in a straight line until we tell you to stop, ok? If only life were so easy. True to life, as soon as the wee ones were told to go, pure mayhem broke out. A cacophony of bike bells, cheering parents, and officials trying their best to maintain order. The kids veered every which way but straight. Some tested the limits of their bikes as they blazed by, others meandered along smiling and waving as if they were royals on parade. Sheer chaos. It was brilliant.
I think that's exactly how it should be. Test our limits, while remembering to linger and say hello. And ring every bell you can get your hands on.
I love when life's instructions are oh so simple. When we say go, you go. Just keep pedaling in a straight line until we tell you to stop, ok? If only life were so easy. True to life, as soon as the wee ones were told to go, pure mayhem broke out. A cacophony of bike bells, cheering parents, and officials trying their best to maintain order. The kids veered every which way but straight. Some tested the limits of their bikes as they blazed by, others meandered along smiling and waving as if they were royals on parade. Sheer chaos. It was brilliant.
I think that's exactly how it should be. Test our limits, while remembering to linger and say hello. And ring every bell you can get your hands on.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Beat it, Jack
Nothing urgent popping into my head today, so instead I will share with you a favourite bit from Jack Kerouac that I have stuck to my desk.
"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Don't forget the slippers
I ended up in a rather morbid discussion the other day. What to wear when you're being buried?
Now, normally for me to figure out an outfit for any sort of occasion requires a few things - a hurricane through my closet, a fit of tears, a promise of a diet - tomorrow, some iphone pics to a friend, a cheerleading response, and about 17 shoe changes. I'm not quite sure when I turned into a girl, but it's hard work sometimes.
But the answer to this question came in a flash - if i'm going to be lying very still in a box awaiting the line up of worms wearing their bibs, then I want to be as comfy as possible. My old ratty quilt, my fuzziest of pjs, and my knitted slippers.
And if this is what I happen to be wearing as I roam through your house haunting you, just think how easy it will be for me to tip toe up behind you... had I chosen my cute dorothy getaway shoes, the clippy cloppy heels would just give me away. With slippers, I'm in for all sorts of fun!
Now, normally for me to figure out an outfit for any sort of occasion requires a few things - a hurricane through my closet, a fit of tears, a promise of a diet - tomorrow, some iphone pics to a friend, a cheerleading response, and about 17 shoe changes. I'm not quite sure when I turned into a girl, but it's hard work sometimes.
But the answer to this question came in a flash - if i'm going to be lying very still in a box awaiting the line up of worms wearing their bibs, then I want to be as comfy as possible. My old ratty quilt, my fuzziest of pjs, and my knitted slippers.
And if this is what I happen to be wearing as I roam through your house haunting you, just think how easy it will be for me to tip toe up behind you... had I chosen my cute dorothy getaway shoes, the clippy cloppy heels would just give me away. With slippers, I'm in for all sorts of fun!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Please hold still while I scan you.
I have a friend with a brilliant idea. He suggests that we should all have bar codes. Upon meeting a new person, especially a potential partner or friend, they can be scanned to divulge all that makes us "special".
This way we know right off the bat, rather than wading through awkward first dates, or ending up four years into a relationship and finally realizing the dreaded "oh, I can't fix him after all" or "this person is an absolute riot, you will have a blast and likely end up in jail together."
Usually we should be able to figure these things out right away, but sometimes we are so blindly optimistic (or stupid) that a simple bar code scan would save us some trouble, or at least hint at the circus to come.
"This is Michelle. She's a nice girl, a bit odd, loves cheesecake, and already has her bags packed for the next adventure. Or commitment freakout."
This way we know right off the bat, rather than wading through awkward first dates, or ending up four years into a relationship and finally realizing the dreaded "oh, I can't fix him after all" or "this person is an absolute riot, you will have a blast and likely end up in jail together."
Usually we should be able to figure these things out right away, but sometimes we are so blindly optimistic (or stupid) that a simple bar code scan would save us some trouble, or at least hint at the circus to come.
"This is Michelle. She's a nice girl, a bit odd, loves cheesecake, and already has her bags packed for the next adventure. Or commitment freakout."
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Some cheese with your whine?
Well, let me start this one with a mea culpa, for I too complain. This little note itself might be a complaint. But I'm discovering that we might just be a big bunch of whiners, if we're not careful about our words.
In this age of super quick communication, be it a facebook post, a tweet, an email or phone call, it becomes essential to keep that internal filter finely tuned. I regularly receive emails or texts from friends that are just one big laundry list of complaints. Barely even a hello. I've even had a friend text me about roadkill. Really?
I don't mean to be crass, I do care about my friends, and their various trials and tribulations. And I can dish it out, goodness knows I've had my days. But to what end? By sharing your random list of woes, does it become more bearable in a misery loves company sort of way? As a result, do we become more callous when something really tragic does happen? "ya ya, you got your leg ripped off. what else is new?"
Could you imagine if we did the opposite? Spread a little more joy or humour than grumpiness? Or at least a combination or it? Perhaps we need a maximum complaint quota per day, either given or recieved. "I barely slept, I burned my toast, my car was out of gas, I was late for BEEEEEP - we're sorry, you have run out of whine for the day. Please hold until tomorrow. Thank you, have a nice day."
In this age of super quick communication, be it a facebook post, a tweet, an email or phone call, it becomes essential to keep that internal filter finely tuned. I regularly receive emails or texts from friends that are just one big laundry list of complaints. Barely even a hello. I've even had a friend text me about roadkill. Really?
I don't mean to be crass, I do care about my friends, and their various trials and tribulations. And I can dish it out, goodness knows I've had my days. But to what end? By sharing your random list of woes, does it become more bearable in a misery loves company sort of way? As a result, do we become more callous when something really tragic does happen? "ya ya, you got your leg ripped off. what else is new?"
Could you imagine if we did the opposite? Spread a little more joy or humour than grumpiness? Or at least a combination or it? Perhaps we need a maximum complaint quota per day, either given or recieved. "I barely slept, I burned my toast, my car was out of gas, I was late for BEEEEEP - we're sorry, you have run out of whine for the day. Please hold until tomorrow. Thank you, have a nice day."
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Grab on, hold tight.
Sad weekend for our family, we lost a cousin in a rather spontaneous, unpredictalble manner. Here one moment, gone the next.
Fortunately (if such a word can be used in such circumstances...) his immediate family had the opportunity to gather up, hold hands and say their goodbyes and I love yous before the final moment arrived.
Why wait? Eat a big slab of cheesecake, tell your best friend how incredible they are, and live big. Seize the carp and all that jazz. Today.
Fortunately (if such a word can be used in such circumstances...) his immediate family had the opportunity to gather up, hold hands and say their goodbyes and I love yous before the final moment arrived.
Why wait? Eat a big slab of cheesecake, tell your best friend how incredible they are, and live big. Seize the carp and all that jazz. Today.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Oh, do I need to explain the Newt bit?
Will it satisfy curiosity to simply say "oh, it all started in college..."?
Not much of what happens when you're 18, away from home for the first time and getting into all sorts of misadventure, makes sense a couple of decades (yikes) later. Technically it's only a decade and two thirds. And definitely one of those 'you had to be there' moments.
Vertebrate biology class. Learning about all sorts of critters, and desperately trying to drive my dear friend Sue over the edge with my pestering ways. She finally snapped. "If you don't shut the hell up and behave, I am going to squish you like a newt!!" "Newt" became her warning word, shorter than having to say "I'm going to kick your ass." It stuck. Not only did it stick, it expanded to reflect my behavior. When I did well on exams, I was Newton. (a la Sir Isaac). When I would take her goldfish for a walk, leaving her wondering why the bowl was empty, I was Bad Newt. When I filled her bed with rubber snakes, of which she was terrified, i was Evil Newt.
I won't tell you what she called me when I filled her bed with cornflakes. My mother might read this.
Not much of what happens when you're 18, away from home for the first time and getting into all sorts of misadventure, makes sense a couple of decades (yikes) later. Technically it's only a decade and two thirds. And definitely one of those 'you had to be there' moments.
Vertebrate biology class. Learning about all sorts of critters, and desperately trying to drive my dear friend Sue over the edge with my pestering ways. She finally snapped. "If you don't shut the hell up and behave, I am going to squish you like a newt!!" "Newt" became her warning word, shorter than having to say "I'm going to kick your ass." It stuck. Not only did it stick, it expanded to reflect my behavior. When I did well on exams, I was Newton. (a la Sir Isaac). When I would take her goldfish for a walk, leaving her wondering why the bowl was empty, I was Bad Newt. When I filled her bed with rubber snakes, of which she was terrified, i was Evil Newt.
I won't tell you what she called me when I filled her bed with cornflakes. My mother might read this.
Some people have a pot problem...
Mine is a pottery problem. I simply can't be helped. It seems there are no 12 step programs for pottery addicts, and even if there were, I would have to say no, no, no.
I went to an artsy-craftsy festival the other day with my trusty sidekick Rhonda. As I am newly mortgaged, I begged, pleaded with her. "Under no circumstances am I allowed to buy any pottery. No matter how perfect it is, nor how cleverly I may justify it, you must restrain me. Even if I cry."
Instead, not only does she watch me make a b-line for a favourite potter, she pulls out dishes and bowls and says "oooh, this one is perfect!" As she dangles them in front of me in my weakened state, I start to twitch. I have an awesomeenabler friend.
I scored four little bags of pottery, and have been blissful ever since.
I went to an artsy-craftsy festival the other day with my trusty sidekick Rhonda. As I am newly mortgaged, I begged, pleaded with her. "Under no circumstances am I allowed to buy any pottery. No matter how perfect it is, nor how cleverly I may justify it, you must restrain me. Even if I cry."
Instead, not only does she watch me make a b-line for a favourite potter, she pulls out dishes and bowls and says "oooh, this one is perfect!" As she dangles them in front of me in my weakened state, I start to twitch. I have an awesome
I scored four little bags of pottery, and have been blissful ever since.
Everyday. Regular, but hopefully not dull...
Hmm... perhaps you've found me. Congratulations on accomplishing such a feat - it seems I've been trying to find myself for quite some time now. Draw me a map? Leave me some breadcrumbs? Or at least some pretty bits of string to act as flagging tape, leading me on my way?
I expect nothing profound from this blog, and I hope you keep similar standards for me - this is simply an exercise to keep my fingers occupied, my love of words stoked, and prevent me from doing anything outrageously silly like vacuuming. Short-winded bursts of creativity where I can sneak in the words I encounter during my day, delicious words like "calamity" or "unbridled absurdity".
Who knows? Perhaps these brightly coloured words will form themselves into that map I need...
I expect nothing profound from this blog, and I hope you keep similar standards for me - this is simply an exercise to keep my fingers occupied, my love of words stoked, and prevent me from doing anything outrageously silly like vacuuming. Short-winded bursts of creativity where I can sneak in the words I encounter during my day, delicious words like "calamity" or "unbridled absurdity".
Who knows? Perhaps these brightly coloured words will form themselves into that map I need...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)