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…

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!

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!

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...

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!

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.

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.

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!"

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!