When I was young, my grandparents had an organ in their living room. It was very old and small, only about four octaves of keys on the right side, a few dozen chord keys on a panel on the left, and a pedal that didn't work.
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 when I took a sudden interest in this organ. Since no one in the house played an instrument, I had to go it alone, and the first few attempts I made were nothing more than one-finger renditions of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I used to watch people play piano on TV, mull over my own playing, and think, "hmm, this is going to be harder than I thought."
One day, Aunt Ida came to visit (she was actually my Grandmother's sister-in-law, but when I was young, I considered every older female family member to be my aunt). At first the visit was no different than an other, but only until Grandma told Aunt Ida about my piano ambitions. She was very pleased and moved to the organ bench to show me how it was done. I don't even remember what she played, but I do remember wondering how she could possibly make such beautiful sound from those few dozen little keys. And then I was on a mission.
I spent the next few months pouring over the books that came with the organ; a difficult task, since I couldn't read music. But, in pestering Grandma half to death with, "how does this one go?", I used her singing and humming to memorize the melodies to a few standards. Before long, I could play "My Wild Irish Rose", "Home on the Range", "Long, Long Ago", and others (the names of which escape me) from these books.
Repetitively banging away at these songs on the organ led me to discover that I could quickly pick up the melodies to other songs, without having any sheet music for them. Over the next few months and years, I taught myself how to play piano by ear. When people would come over to visit, I would always end up putting on a concert in the living room. The favorite was always "The Rose" by Bette Midler.
I'll never forget waking up Christmas morning when I was 10, and seeing a brand new keyboard. It wasn't fancy by today's standards, but back then, it might as well have been made out of solid gold as far as I was concerned. A "real piano", oh, the things I could do! The songs I could play!
For my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party, I played "Wind Beneath My Wings", my grandmother's favorite song, for the whole crowd. I remember being as proud as a peacock, though looking at myself on the video of that evening all these years later, it's obvious I was scared to death. After all, Donald MacRae and Joe Oram had just played for that same crowd; it was a tough act to follow.
Then came the business of piano lessons. Since I was quite good for my age, without being able to read music, it was decided that formal lessons might do me some good. Mr. Digout made an attempt, as did Ms. Thibeau, Mrs. Garrison, and even the great Henrietta Doary, but to no avail; me, my parents and grandparents, were all told that my self-taught methods would be impossible to break, and that lessons would not do me any good.
In my formative years, I became a fixture at variety and Christmas concerts, pageants, plays, and other amateur venues that allowed myself and others to take the spotlight. Still, as much as I loved the applause, playing piano alone in my bedroom was always my favorite place to shine.
I haven't played the piano in years, and I'm not even sure I could anymore. But, I remember well the pride and satisfaction I felt just from being able to play once upon a time, pride that turned an article about my new venture into an article reminiscing about my piano-playing days.
That being said, my dear departed Aunt Ida would be happy to know that I've again taken her advice. The same woman that encouraged me at the piano had, for years, begged me to take up violin. She assured me I'd be good at it, and even though I had never so much as held a fiddle before, learning to play has been on my bucket list for many years.
I finally got my hands on one last week and the learning process has begun. I may not be able to play like Donald MacRae yet, but I don't let the squealing sound of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" discourage me; after all, it worked last time around.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A Dying Breed
Imagine reading this job advertisment in the paper.
At your disposal: big screen television with satellite and surround sound, a movie collection, a Nintendo Wii with American Idol Karaoke and Guitar Hero, Playstation 2, phone with unlimited long distance, laptop with high speed internet, novels and magazines galore, and a refrigerator full of food.
Your duties: keep open ears, use common sense, behave, and let the dog out to pee when he starts dancing in front of the door.
Your qualifications: mature, responsible, reliable, drug-free.
Salary: negotiable.
Any takers? Believe it or not, we haven't had a single one, which begs the question, where have all the babysitters gone?
I babysat from the time I was 13 years old. There are no restaurants or corner stores in River Bourgeois, so if we wanted to work, we had to baby-sit. There wasn't a huge market, but girls usually found one or two people in the community who they regularly sat for.
On an average night, I'd arrive at around 7:00pm, say goodbye to the parents, and play with the kids for awhile before tucking them in bed. Once they were settled, I'd have to clean up (like my mother had instructed me to every time I went to baby-sit. "They're paying you, the least you can do is tidy up and do the dishes.")
I'd spend the rest of the evening doing homework or watching television, unless the kids woke up, which rarely happened. Once the parents arrived home, usually at around 2:00am, they'd thank me, hand me over $25 or $30, and drive me home. As I got older, the only thing that really varied in this scenario was that I'd drive myself there and back.
It may not have been much money (about $5 per hour), but hey, it was money, and since you can bet my parents weren't throwing $30 at me every time I left the house, it was money I cherished. I babysat every weekend night I could, even as I got older, since making money was always more appealing than blowing it on junk food and garbage, like I would if I were out roaming around with my friends.
Cut to years later, and I found myself looking for a babysitter. Even five or six years ago, it wasn't all that difficult to find someone. I had a bevy of young girls waiting by the phone for me to call, since I paid a whopping $40 for a night out.
But now, with two young kids, a home in the middle of Port Hawkesbury, and a desire for a night among adults, a babysitter is harder to find than a four-leaf clover. We've been looking for two full years, and haven't found a single suitable candidate (well, one, but we only found her a month or so before she left for university).
We've been told we're a bit too picky, but this is our children we're talking about. We won't settle for less than absolute trustworthiness and maturity since their well-being is our top priority. Our "no drug users" stipulation has, sadly, limited our pool of candidates, by their own admission. We could easily find someone who is 12 or 13 to watch them, but that's only a year or two older than our oldest son, which, as far as I'm concerned, is too young to baby-sit a three-year-old. If you have a 12-year-old baby-sit your toddlers, that's your decision; it's not a chance that I, personally, am willing to take.
So where are all the high school juniors and seniors? What do they do on the weekend? It has been suggested to us that we're wasting our time, for several reasons.
They have part-time jobs and aren't willing to give up their nights off to work some more. Fair enough, it's good to see young people working. But (and this is just friendly tip), for any teenager who would rather baby-sit than don a visor, I dare say you'd make as much money babysitting as you would working a few shifts a week at a fast food place.
Others have said it's because parents are giving their kids enough spending money that they don't have to work. I can tell you this much, my sons needn't think that, at 16, they'll be getting $20 from me every time they leave the house. A few bucks, whatever - but parents giving their perfectly able-bodied and employable teenagers an endless stream of cash? Wow.
I've heard everything from, "they're out at the bars" to "they're home taking care of their own kids" to explain the elusiveness of good, occasional babysitters in town.
Whatever the reason, it's not making my quest any easier. Do I just not know the right people? Or are there really no babysitters? Drop me a line if you can shed some light.
At your disposal: big screen television with satellite and surround sound, a movie collection, a Nintendo Wii with American Idol Karaoke and Guitar Hero, Playstation 2, phone with unlimited long distance, laptop with high speed internet, novels and magazines galore, and a refrigerator full of food.
Your duties: keep open ears, use common sense, behave, and let the dog out to pee when he starts dancing in front of the door.
Your qualifications: mature, responsible, reliable, drug-free.
Salary: negotiable.
Any takers? Believe it or not, we haven't had a single one, which begs the question, where have all the babysitters gone?
I babysat from the time I was 13 years old. There are no restaurants or corner stores in River Bourgeois, so if we wanted to work, we had to baby-sit. There wasn't a huge market, but girls usually found one or two people in the community who they regularly sat for.
On an average night, I'd arrive at around 7:00pm, say goodbye to the parents, and play with the kids for awhile before tucking them in bed. Once they were settled, I'd have to clean up (like my mother had instructed me to every time I went to baby-sit. "They're paying you, the least you can do is tidy up and do the dishes.")
I'd spend the rest of the evening doing homework or watching television, unless the kids woke up, which rarely happened. Once the parents arrived home, usually at around 2:00am, they'd thank me, hand me over $25 or $30, and drive me home. As I got older, the only thing that really varied in this scenario was that I'd drive myself there and back.
It may not have been much money (about $5 per hour), but hey, it was money, and since you can bet my parents weren't throwing $30 at me every time I left the house, it was money I cherished. I babysat every weekend night I could, even as I got older, since making money was always more appealing than blowing it on junk food and garbage, like I would if I were out roaming around with my friends.
Cut to years later, and I found myself looking for a babysitter. Even five or six years ago, it wasn't all that difficult to find someone. I had a bevy of young girls waiting by the phone for me to call, since I paid a whopping $40 for a night out.
But now, with two young kids, a home in the middle of Port Hawkesbury, and a desire for a night among adults, a babysitter is harder to find than a four-leaf clover. We've been looking for two full years, and haven't found a single suitable candidate (well, one, but we only found her a month or so before she left for university).
We've been told we're a bit too picky, but this is our children we're talking about. We won't settle for less than absolute trustworthiness and maturity since their well-being is our top priority. Our "no drug users" stipulation has, sadly, limited our pool of candidates, by their own admission. We could easily find someone who is 12 or 13 to watch them, but that's only a year or two older than our oldest son, which, as far as I'm concerned, is too young to baby-sit a three-year-old. If you have a 12-year-old baby-sit your toddlers, that's your decision; it's not a chance that I, personally, am willing to take.
So where are all the high school juniors and seniors? What do they do on the weekend? It has been suggested to us that we're wasting our time, for several reasons.
They have part-time jobs and aren't willing to give up their nights off to work some more. Fair enough, it's good to see young people working. But (and this is just friendly tip), for any teenager who would rather baby-sit than don a visor, I dare say you'd make as much money babysitting as you would working a few shifts a week at a fast food place.
Others have said it's because parents are giving their kids enough spending money that they don't have to work. I can tell you this much, my sons needn't think that, at 16, they'll be getting $20 from me every time they leave the house. A few bucks, whatever - but parents giving their perfectly able-bodied and employable teenagers an endless stream of cash? Wow.
I've heard everything from, "they're out at the bars" to "they're home taking care of their own kids" to explain the elusiveness of good, occasional babysitters in town.
Whatever the reason, it's not making my quest any easier. Do I just not know the right people? Or are there really no babysitters? Drop me a line if you can shed some light.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Stagette Chronicles
November, 2008: I, as hostess, commit to throw my sister's bachelorette party in mid-March. Plans are put on the back burner because, really, who needs more than a week to plan a party?
December, 2008: Party planning officially begins. An extensive search of eBay commences after seeing the meager selection of stagette supplies in the Strait area. I place my orders.
January, 2009: An entertainment company from Halifax is consulted. Due to the apparently strenuous nature of dancing in a g-string for seven minutes, the best negotiated price I could land was $750. Upon hearing that news, I thanked the company for their time.
Later that day: A second entertainment company is consulted, with similar results. I let loose an angry tirade about children in Sri Lankan sweatshops doing twenty times the work for a fraction of the money those half (and sadly, because of new "labour laws", only half) naked grease-bags are demanding. They're ugly and old anyway, a pathetic novelty, I remind myself. Time for plan B.
Later still: A third, more PG-13 form of entertainment is consulted, booked, and sent a deposit. A conference room is booked at a local hotel to accommodate the upcoming antics.
February, 2009: Invitations are sent via Facebook. Over 20 people confirm. I start considering which small home improvement projects can be started and finished in four weeks. My husband immediately dreads the coming four weeks.
The day after: Local businesses thrive, especially those selling home decor items. Purchased: paint and painting supplies, a new bedroom comforter set, various picture frames, vases, plants, candles, assorted other unnecessary junk that matches and compliments. (At present, I'm still negotiating a new dinette set.)
Late February: Our entertainment cancels, citing, "someone booked us in Halifax that night, and it's much cheaper for us to just do a party here." After pointing out the extra charge I had agreed to pay for travel expenses, I expresses disappointment (read - fly off the handle in blind rage) and demand a deposit refund, like, yesterday. The lady says to keep them in mind for our next gathering. I suggest that her and her troupe hold their collective breath and sit by the phone waiting for my call.
Two days later: My eBay order arrives. I find an incorrect color scheme on four items. What else will go wrong?
Early March, 2009: I decide to tackle a painting project far beyond my experience and capability. Reinforcements are called in and painting of the long-anticipated kitchen backsplash begins. The task of measuring and taping the applicable area proves much more difficult than we originally thought. Several unplanned snack and chat breaks are taken to avoid frustration and "mission abort". Task successfully completed.
Two hours later: A shock of Sesame Street green infiltrates my lovely taupe universe. Panic button is officially slapped. My reinforcement serves up encouragement and tall glass of merlot. Crisis averted.
T-minus 4 days: One of four iron-on t-shirt transfers is defective. Discovery of this fact is made while I attempted to transfer the patch onto my own t-shirt. T-shirt ruined. Adding insult to injury, I burn my finger on the iron. Wonderful.
T-minus 3 days: I try not to contemplate egg salad vs. ham sandwiches and where people are going to park and mental to-do lists, as I complete tax returns for three different people. The tax returns then have to be re-done for fear of careless mistakes I might have made because I wasn't concentrating. I say goodbye to two wasted hours of my life I'll never get back and finally get to bed at 1:30am.
T-minus 2 days: I order a banner from a printing company. Not realizing the cost of paper has seemingly gone up about 7000% since I last purchased some (a month ago), I reluctantly lay down $25 for this blessed accessory. It's four feet long and a little over three inches wide. It has a total of twenty letters printed on it. It's made of paper. Twenty-five dollars.
T-minus 1 day: I begin the hunt for last-minute items. The shelves I want are gone from the store, and another store has sold out of the martini glasses I need. Upon my arrival home, the dog gets excited and pees on the welcome mat. My new room spray smells like Play-Doh. I burn my finger while boiling the water for Jell-O shooters. Like clockwork, I cut my other finger (the third digital injury as many days) while chopping celery for the veggie tray. I chalk it up to it being Friday the 13th.
Day of the party: It's now 12:10am on Saturday, March 14th. I'm on my way to bed, seeing as I've completely exhausted myself over the past few days. The thought of acting out and staying up late is almost more than I can bear. My sister better appreciate this party.
December, 2008: Party planning officially begins. An extensive search of eBay commences after seeing the meager selection of stagette supplies in the Strait area. I place my orders.
January, 2009: An entertainment company from Halifax is consulted. Due to the apparently strenuous nature of dancing in a g-string for seven minutes, the best negotiated price I could land was $750. Upon hearing that news, I thanked the company for their time.
Later that day: A second entertainment company is consulted, with similar results. I let loose an angry tirade about children in Sri Lankan sweatshops doing twenty times the work for a fraction of the money those half (and sadly, because of new "labour laws", only half) naked grease-bags are demanding. They're ugly and old anyway, a pathetic novelty, I remind myself. Time for plan B.
Later still: A third, more PG-13 form of entertainment is consulted, booked, and sent a deposit. A conference room is booked at a local hotel to accommodate the upcoming antics.
February, 2009: Invitations are sent via Facebook. Over 20 people confirm. I start considering which small home improvement projects can be started and finished in four weeks. My husband immediately dreads the coming four weeks.
The day after: Local businesses thrive, especially those selling home decor items. Purchased: paint and painting supplies, a new bedroom comforter set, various picture frames, vases, plants, candles, assorted other unnecessary junk that matches and compliments. (At present, I'm still negotiating a new dinette set.)
Late February: Our entertainment cancels, citing, "someone booked us in Halifax that night, and it's much cheaper for us to just do a party here." After pointing out the extra charge I had agreed to pay for travel expenses, I expresses disappointment (read - fly off the handle in blind rage) and demand a deposit refund, like, yesterday. The lady says to keep them in mind for our next gathering. I suggest that her and her troupe hold their collective breath and sit by the phone waiting for my call.
Two days later: My eBay order arrives. I find an incorrect color scheme on four items. What else will go wrong?
Early March, 2009: I decide to tackle a painting project far beyond my experience and capability. Reinforcements are called in and painting of the long-anticipated kitchen backsplash begins. The task of measuring and taping the applicable area proves much more difficult than we originally thought. Several unplanned snack and chat breaks are taken to avoid frustration and "mission abort". Task successfully completed.
Two hours later: A shock of Sesame Street green infiltrates my lovely taupe universe. Panic button is officially slapped. My reinforcement serves up encouragement and tall glass of merlot. Crisis averted.
T-minus 4 days: One of four iron-on t-shirt transfers is defective. Discovery of this fact is made while I attempted to transfer the patch onto my own t-shirt. T-shirt ruined. Adding insult to injury, I burn my finger on the iron. Wonderful.
T-minus 3 days: I try not to contemplate egg salad vs. ham sandwiches and where people are going to park and mental to-do lists, as I complete tax returns for three different people. The tax returns then have to be re-done for fear of careless mistakes I might have made because I wasn't concentrating. I say goodbye to two wasted hours of my life I'll never get back and finally get to bed at 1:30am.
T-minus 2 days: I order a banner from a printing company. Not realizing the cost of paper has seemingly gone up about 7000% since I last purchased some (a month ago), I reluctantly lay down $25 for this blessed accessory. It's four feet long and a little over three inches wide. It has a total of twenty letters printed on it. It's made of paper. Twenty-five dollars.
T-minus 1 day: I begin the hunt for last-minute items. The shelves I want are gone from the store, and another store has sold out of the martini glasses I need. Upon my arrival home, the dog gets excited and pees on the welcome mat. My new room spray smells like Play-Doh. I burn my finger while boiling the water for Jell-O shooters. Like clockwork, I cut my other finger (the third digital injury as many days) while chopping celery for the veggie tray. I chalk it up to it being Friday the 13th.
Day of the party: It's now 12:10am on Saturday, March 14th. I'm on my way to bed, seeing as I've completely exhausted myself over the past few days. The thought of acting out and staying up late is almost more than I can bear. My sister better appreciate this party.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Not Buying It
I didn't plan on writing this article, but I feel it incumbent upon me to speak for a small, yet (in my opinion) sensible, group of women.
When I was young - who am I kidding, up until...well, not so many years ago - Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was the day when us single ladies cursed the woman in the cubicle beside ours when a huge bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk. It was the day that we completely ignored those red roses like they weren't a big deal, when really we wanted them more than we wanted oxygen pumping into our lungs. February 14th was the day we pretended all the fuss was ridiculous, when we rolled our eyes and made fun of the squealing girlfriend whose boyfriend just sent her a diamond bracelet. Then we went home and watched Jay Leno, ate a big bowl of ice cream, and cried about being single and not having Valentine's Day presents.
Maybe not every single gal, but quite a few.
Ten years later, I have seen the light. I now have a husband who understands the significance of Valentine's Day. Even though he has no use for it personally, he knows his spousal responsibilities as have been set out in the "V-Day Code of Conduct", if you will. He knows what he's expected to buy and what he's expected to do. And, like the wonderful husband he is, he sucks it up with a smile and acts a sport through it all.
Now, I know some of you wives are going to gasp reading this: my husband loves to buy me jewellery. Imagine that People's flyer arriving in your mailbox the first week of February, and picking out whatever you want! He also lives by the motto "spare no expense" when it comes to these matters, and left by himself to decide, I'm sure there would be flowers, jewellery, candy, stuffed mammals of every variety, and more pink and red than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.
Luckily for him, I don't want it. As a matter of fact, I have forbid him from buying any of it. Now that I'm in a position to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day, we choose not to celebrate it at all. Let me explain why.
When I was single, I wasn't jealous of those squealing gaggles of girlfriends because I loved flowers so much; it was because they had someone to give them those flowers in the first place. That's all we bitter hens desired, was someone to publicly proclaim their love for us.
I had someone proclaim their love for me in a church in front of all our family and friends, and that's a pretty big deal, better than any singing telegram or vase full of carnations. Once that happened, the novelty of gushing romanticism wore off for me, since I had seen what a real proclamation was all about.
V-Day is the most contrived "holiday" in history. There isn't any real significance behind it, except that the 1870s British tradition of exchanging homemade cards with people you cared about, has been turned into the most genius mass-marketing scam ever masterminded. And sorry, I'm not buying.
I'm not trying to get down on all you lovebirds out there - and I know you're out there. It's great that you turn all romantical and stuff on 'the big day'. If that's what you want to spend your money on, far be it from me to stop you.
However, you might want to contemplate, if Valentine's Day is the day you celebrate your love for each other, what are the other 364 days for? I think it's important to be in love all year round, especially after you're married for awhile with a few kids running laps around your house. But even if you're supposed to pick one special day to celebrate, isn't that what your anniversary is for? I don't know about you, but with bills to pay and kids to feed, I'd sleep better at night knowing money was used for these things, rather than on overpriced chocolates or flowers that will be 50% off the following morning.
Ladies, if you agree, put your man out of his misery and let him know. He might think you're trying to trick him at first, since he's been pretty much brow-beaten since birth to appreciate the significance women place on February 14th, but a sincere explanation might make your Valentine's Day a whole lot lighter.
But guys, unless your lady really gives a convincing "don't bother buying me anything" speech, you better err on the side of caution and scoop something up, just in case. She might just be trying to trick you.
We do that sometimes.
When I was young - who am I kidding, up until...well, not so many years ago - Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was the day when us single ladies cursed the woman in the cubicle beside ours when a huge bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk. It was the day that we completely ignored those red roses like they weren't a big deal, when really we wanted them more than we wanted oxygen pumping into our lungs. February 14th was the day we pretended all the fuss was ridiculous, when we rolled our eyes and made fun of the squealing girlfriend whose boyfriend just sent her a diamond bracelet. Then we went home and watched Jay Leno, ate a big bowl of ice cream, and cried about being single and not having Valentine's Day presents.
Maybe not every single gal, but quite a few.
Ten years later, I have seen the light. I now have a husband who understands the significance of Valentine's Day. Even though he has no use for it personally, he knows his spousal responsibilities as have been set out in the "V-Day Code of Conduct", if you will. He knows what he's expected to buy and what he's expected to do. And, like the wonderful husband he is, he sucks it up with a smile and acts a sport through it all.
Now, I know some of you wives are going to gasp reading this: my husband loves to buy me jewellery. Imagine that People's flyer arriving in your mailbox the first week of February, and picking out whatever you want! He also lives by the motto "spare no expense" when it comes to these matters, and left by himself to decide, I'm sure there would be flowers, jewellery, candy, stuffed mammals of every variety, and more pink and red than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.
Luckily for him, I don't want it. As a matter of fact, I have forbid him from buying any of it. Now that I'm in a position to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day, we choose not to celebrate it at all. Let me explain why.
When I was single, I wasn't jealous of those squealing gaggles of girlfriends because I loved flowers so much; it was because they had someone to give them those flowers in the first place. That's all we bitter hens desired, was someone to publicly proclaim their love for us.
I had someone proclaim their love for me in a church in front of all our family and friends, and that's a pretty big deal, better than any singing telegram or vase full of carnations. Once that happened, the novelty of gushing romanticism wore off for me, since I had seen what a real proclamation was all about.
V-Day is the most contrived "holiday" in history. There isn't any real significance behind it, except that the 1870s British tradition of exchanging homemade cards with people you cared about, has been turned into the most genius mass-marketing scam ever masterminded. And sorry, I'm not buying.
I'm not trying to get down on all you lovebirds out there - and I know you're out there. It's great that you turn all romantical and stuff on 'the big day'. If that's what you want to spend your money on, far be it from me to stop you.
However, you might want to contemplate, if Valentine's Day is the day you celebrate your love for each other, what are the other 364 days for? I think it's important to be in love all year round, especially after you're married for awhile with a few kids running laps around your house. But even if you're supposed to pick one special day to celebrate, isn't that what your anniversary is for? I don't know about you, but with bills to pay and kids to feed, I'd sleep better at night knowing money was used for these things, rather than on overpriced chocolates or flowers that will be 50% off the following morning.
Ladies, if you agree, put your man out of his misery and let him know. He might think you're trying to trick him at first, since he's been pretty much brow-beaten since birth to appreciate the significance women place on February 14th, but a sincere explanation might make your Valentine's Day a whole lot lighter.
But guys, unless your lady really gives a convincing "don't bother buying me anything" speech, you better err on the side of caution and scoop something up, just in case. She might just be trying to trick you.
We do that sometimes.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Growing Up
I can feel it coming. It's like a big, thick, ominous fog rolling in from sea, and it's got it's GPS set on a spot right over my head. In just about a month, I will be thirty years old.
Thirty years old. Ten years shy of the big 4-0, half way to 60. How does this happen? I remember being in high school and thinking of thirty-year-olds as old fogies. Is that what kids in that age bracket think of me? It couldn't be, I'm only young, right?
I suppose that depends on who you are. If you're in your 50s, I'm just a spring chicken and you're probably annoyed at how old I'm making YOU feel by complaining about turning thirty.
If you're in your teens, you're probably glued to Facebook and not reading the newspaper. Carry on.
This whole "milestone birthday" thing comes at the worst time, too. As if the reality of sprouting grey hairs and stiff muscles weren't enough, I'm faced with a far more worrisome problem.
I guess I should have seen it coming, as the mother of two sons. Both of them are gorgeous, for starters. I don't mean cute, I'm talking stop-in-your-tracks, striking good looks. They have warm hearts, good manners, and quick wit. Not to mention, they can be saucy and miserable when they want to be, which is the perfect icing on the eligible bachelor cake. That's why I shouldn't be surprised about the girl factor.
In the past few months, my oldest son has started talking about a girlfriend. She's a little girl from his class, I'll call her Britney. At first I thought he was making it up to impress his father, since he was always too busy playing a sport to worry about girls. But then talk of Britney became more frequent, and more detailed. Conversations about everything from television shows to sawdust eventually become laden with "Britney this" and "Britney that" and "Chicken noodle? That's what Britney had for lunch today."
I should probably explain what a Grade 5 "boyfriend-girlfriend" relationship involves, so as not to alarm anyone. According to the moles I have planted throughout the neighborhood (sneaky, yet reliable), these relationship arrangements are made soon after the school year begins. The selection process isn't very complex, and from what I understand, the females are in control of boyfriend assignments. A boyfriend seems to be more of a ceremonial role than anything else, and I'm told there isn't even hand-holding. However, based on the phone activity in my house lately, you'd swear I was keeping two newlyweds apart.
Grade five courting is carried out largely through a series of networks. Britney will call her friend, Suzie. Suzie will call my son's friend, Bobby, who will call my son. The message? Call Britney. In the meantime, should Bobby not get this message to my son quickly enough, Suzie will then call our house to get the "calling Britney" process moving more quickly. In the course of five minutes, the phone will ring twice, I'll get two call waiting beeps, and there will be about sixteen messages on my answering machine, all of which are hang-ups. In case you're wondering, yes - this is exactly what I want happening amidst after-school chaos.
I could handle the calls if the girlfriend situation would stop at that, but it doesn't. Now the problem has escalated with the approach of Valentine's Day. I actually thought it was cute when my son suggested buying Britney a present, and I imagined him giving her a special card, a chocolate rose, and maybe a few dollars worth of candy. Imagine my disbelief to see him scoping out the display cases at the jewellery store looking for something that "doesn't look cheap". He said, and I quote: "She said she wants a bracelet, but only if it has diamonds, she said pearls are ugly. I think I'll get her that ring, it's only $79.99."
I have officially become old when my child wants to buy his (apparently high-maintenance) lady friend a ring that is more expensive than anything even I, a married woman, expect to receive for Valentine's Day. I suppose a marriage proposal is just around the corner, or at least that's what it feels like.
Where does the time go? One minute we're high school graduates, and the next minute we're Martha Stewart's key demographic. I still find myself referring to 1997 as "a few years ago", and now the kid I call my "baby" is analyzing the plot holes in episodes of Clifford and spelling his own name. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with how quickly life seems to be flying by.
Here's hoping there's still something to be said for the young at heart.
Thirty years old. Ten years shy of the big 4-0, half way to 60. How does this happen? I remember being in high school and thinking of thirty-year-olds as old fogies. Is that what kids in that age bracket think of me? It couldn't be, I'm only young, right?
I suppose that depends on who you are. If you're in your 50s, I'm just a spring chicken and you're probably annoyed at how old I'm making YOU feel by complaining about turning thirty.
If you're in your teens, you're probably glued to Facebook and not reading the newspaper. Carry on.
This whole "milestone birthday" thing comes at the worst time, too. As if the reality of sprouting grey hairs and stiff muscles weren't enough, I'm faced with a far more worrisome problem.
I guess I should have seen it coming, as the mother of two sons. Both of them are gorgeous, for starters. I don't mean cute, I'm talking stop-in-your-tracks, striking good looks. They have warm hearts, good manners, and quick wit. Not to mention, they can be saucy and miserable when they want to be, which is the perfect icing on the eligible bachelor cake. That's why I shouldn't be surprised about the girl factor.
In the past few months, my oldest son has started talking about a girlfriend. She's a little girl from his class, I'll call her Britney. At first I thought he was making it up to impress his father, since he was always too busy playing a sport to worry about girls. But then talk of Britney became more frequent, and more detailed. Conversations about everything from television shows to sawdust eventually become laden with "Britney this" and "Britney that" and "Chicken noodle? That's what Britney had for lunch today."
I should probably explain what a Grade 5 "boyfriend-girlfriend" relationship involves, so as not to alarm anyone. According to the moles I have planted throughout the neighborhood (sneaky, yet reliable), these relationship arrangements are made soon after the school year begins. The selection process isn't very complex, and from what I understand, the females are in control of boyfriend assignments. A boyfriend seems to be more of a ceremonial role than anything else, and I'm told there isn't even hand-holding. However, based on the phone activity in my house lately, you'd swear I was keeping two newlyweds apart.
Grade five courting is carried out largely through a series of networks. Britney will call her friend, Suzie. Suzie will call my son's friend, Bobby, who will call my son. The message? Call Britney. In the meantime, should Bobby not get this message to my son quickly enough, Suzie will then call our house to get the "calling Britney" process moving more quickly. In the course of five minutes, the phone will ring twice, I'll get two call waiting beeps, and there will be about sixteen messages on my answering machine, all of which are hang-ups. In case you're wondering, yes - this is exactly what I want happening amidst after-school chaos.
I could handle the calls if the girlfriend situation would stop at that, but it doesn't. Now the problem has escalated with the approach of Valentine's Day. I actually thought it was cute when my son suggested buying Britney a present, and I imagined him giving her a special card, a chocolate rose, and maybe a few dollars worth of candy. Imagine my disbelief to see him scoping out the display cases at the jewellery store looking for something that "doesn't look cheap". He said, and I quote: "She said she wants a bracelet, but only if it has diamonds, she said pearls are ugly. I think I'll get her that ring, it's only $79.99."
I have officially become old when my child wants to buy his (apparently high-maintenance) lady friend a ring that is more expensive than anything even I, a married woman, expect to receive for Valentine's Day. I suppose a marriage proposal is just around the corner, or at least that's what it feels like.
Where does the time go? One minute we're high school graduates, and the next minute we're Martha Stewart's key demographic. I still find myself referring to 1997 as "a few years ago", and now the kid I call my "baby" is analyzing the plot holes in episodes of Clifford and spelling his own name. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with how quickly life seems to be flying by.
Here's hoping there's still something to be said for the young at heart.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Gina the Writer
My writing quasi-career began not as a job, but as a blogger. And not even as a my-opinion-is-more-important-than-yours-type of blogger; I had written dozens of articles before I ever gave anyone the web address, and even then, it was by request. I really and truly wrote only for myself.
Now that I write for the paper, I have to generate at least one article per week. Normally, I pick through the hundred things in the news, or the thousand things that bounce around in my mind, and write about whichever one happens to be the most newsworthy, the most controversial, or sometimes just the easiest to pen 800 words about.
There have been weeks when I can't stop writing. Suddenly there seem to be a myriad of interesting and important topics, and I'll pump out five or six articles in a matter of days. I'll see something on the news or in the paper, and it consumes my thoughts to the extent that I've actually gotten out of bed to write a piece while the words were still fresh in my mind.
Here we are more than two years after I started blogging, and everything I write, while it may go through a more complex editing process than before, is much the same. I am very fortunate to be in a position where I choose the subject matter of my articles, and I have fantastically open-minded and tolerant employers to thank for that.
How strange that, even after more than 60 published articles, I still feel like a fraud calling myself a writer. I've never been to journalism school, nor have I take a single writing course. I wasn't pursued as a writer by any publication, I took a leap of faith and hoped someone would find promise in my work. Even though I am able to say I get paid for the things I write, I would never be so bold as to describe my occupation as "writer".
This train of thought has cropped up for a very obvious (at least to me), Freudian reason: lately I've had to go over my own work and choose which articles from the past year are the best. Not the funniest, not the most newsworthy, but the best in a technical sense. And this task of choosing puts me and my ego in a difficult position.
I don't know if my idea of funny was funny to someone else. Maybe the most hilarious moment of my week, which I wrote about in detail and with great flourish, soared over the heads of most others and fell flat.
I don't know if my explanation of an issue adequately told the story I was trying to tell. Maybe I had false expectations of the public's familiarity with a subject, didn't use enough back story, and people were wondering what in the world I was talking about.
I don't know if my work is good enough. Maybe, even though I know lots of big words and roughly where to place my commas, my writing is just a bunch of partially incoherent, irrelevant nonsense, by someone with too many opinions and not enough writing chops to properly construct a print-worthy article.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. What I'm assuming are words uttered often among writers of my experience,and perhaps even occasionally by seasoned ones from time to time.
I'm reluctant to admit, this is the one area of my life where I have sufficient self-doubt. Not so much in the validity of my opinions, or the sincerity behind what I write, but in the cogency of my arguments, the clarity of my points, and the style from a technical perspective.
It is during these moments of self-doubt that, while I simultaneously end up turning them into an article for this week's paper, I have to remember that I do this for myself, just like I did in the beginning. I might have an audience larger than one, but that hasn't changed my purpose or my goal. And since my goal is to use the skills I have to rid my swirling brain of some of it's overwhelming content, I have accomplished what I set out to do before a single issue of the paper is purchased.
So I'm sitting here, for what has to be the fiftieth time, looking over my work from the past year and wondering which articles are fit to be judged by a trained eye. I still haven't even figured out which are those of Gina, the wife, the mother of two, the university drop-out and frequent windbag, and which are those of Gina the professional writer. I haven't even decided if those are the same people. But I have decided neither of them are going to stop.
Now that I write for the paper, I have to generate at least one article per week. Normally, I pick through the hundred things in the news, or the thousand things that bounce around in my mind, and write about whichever one happens to be the most newsworthy, the most controversial, or sometimes just the easiest to pen 800 words about.
There have been weeks when I can't stop writing. Suddenly there seem to be a myriad of interesting and important topics, and I'll pump out five or six articles in a matter of days. I'll see something on the news or in the paper, and it consumes my thoughts to the extent that I've actually gotten out of bed to write a piece while the words were still fresh in my mind.
Here we are more than two years after I started blogging, and everything I write, while it may go through a more complex editing process than before, is much the same. I am very fortunate to be in a position where I choose the subject matter of my articles, and I have fantastically open-minded and tolerant employers to thank for that.
How strange that, even after more than 60 published articles, I still feel like a fraud calling myself a writer. I've never been to journalism school, nor have I take a single writing course. I wasn't pursued as a writer by any publication, I took a leap of faith and hoped someone would find promise in my work. Even though I am able to say I get paid for the things I write, I would never be so bold as to describe my occupation as "writer".
This train of thought has cropped up for a very obvious (at least to me), Freudian reason: lately I've had to go over my own work and choose which articles from the past year are the best. Not the funniest, not the most newsworthy, but the best in a technical sense. And this task of choosing puts me and my ego in a difficult position.
I don't know if my idea of funny was funny to someone else. Maybe the most hilarious moment of my week, which I wrote about in detail and with great flourish, soared over the heads of most others and fell flat.
I don't know if my explanation of an issue adequately told the story I was trying to tell. Maybe I had false expectations of the public's familiarity with a subject, didn't use enough back story, and people were wondering what in the world I was talking about.
I don't know if my work is good enough. Maybe, even though I know lots of big words and roughly where to place my commas, my writing is just a bunch of partially incoherent, irrelevant nonsense, by someone with too many opinions and not enough writing chops to properly construct a print-worthy article.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. What I'm assuming are words uttered often among writers of my experience,and perhaps even occasionally by seasoned ones from time to time.
I'm reluctant to admit, this is the one area of my life where I have sufficient self-doubt. Not so much in the validity of my opinions, or the sincerity behind what I write, but in the cogency of my arguments, the clarity of my points, and the style from a technical perspective.
It is during these moments of self-doubt that, while I simultaneously end up turning them into an article for this week's paper, I have to remember that I do this for myself, just like I did in the beginning. I might have an audience larger than one, but that hasn't changed my purpose or my goal. And since my goal is to use the skills I have to rid my swirling brain of some of it's overwhelming content, I have accomplished what I set out to do before a single issue of the paper is purchased.
So I'm sitting here, for what has to be the fiftieth time, looking over my work from the past year and wondering which articles are fit to be judged by a trained eye. I still haven't even figured out which are those of Gina, the wife, the mother of two, the university drop-out and frequent windbag, and which are those of Gina the professional writer. I haven't even decided if those are the same people. But I have decided neither of them are going to stop.
The Battle of the Bulge, Part 3
I stand (well, actually, I sit) before you a changed woman. Through trials and tribulations, frustration and near death, I have beaten down the demons and tackled the powerful beast that has had a hold on me for so long.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have finally quit pop.
I use pop almost as a verb because, to me, it was never just a thing, it was a habit. I can say this now since I don't do it anymore: the first thing I would do when I got up in the morning was pour and drink a nice glass of pop. Isn't that disgusting? Coffee and tea are universally accepted as morning beverages, but I don't drink either of them, and pop gave me that jolt that I needed to face the day.
What's even more disgusting is that I didn't stop all day. I was lost without a glass beside me, not because I was thirsty, but because it had become a habit. Not to mention, I was addicted to the constant steam of caffeine. There were days when I would drink more than a full 2-litre bottle by myself. As of today, I haven't had a single drink of pop in two weeks, and that's like an eternity in pop-addict years.
What I didn't realize is how quickly I would see a change. The first few days I panicked when I found myself eating more, but only until I noticed that the food I craved had gone from chocolate bars and popcorn, to cereal and fruit. Not only that, the times I was eating had changed, too. My old routine was, fill up on pop all day, let the caffeine suppress my appetite, and then snack the night away. Now, I have a big breakfast, I eat smaller meals throughout the day, and snacks just don't seem appealing without my Big 8, so they've been reduced to a minimum .
Another big difference in my routine is water. By replacing pop with water. while I may have to parade to the bathroom every ten minutes, I've found a way to stave off a snack-attack and get my eight recommended glasses per day. Drinking a whole lot of water might not seem like a life-altering activity for most, especially for those who do it already, but for someone who lived and breathed cola and nothing else, it's a big deal. You'll just have to take my word for it.
And the best part about quitting pop: incentive. I haven't dropped 50-pounds or anything, but my favorite jeans are now too big, my grandmother told me I lost weight, and better still, I feel much better. All this in two weeks? What will I feel and look like after one year? I can't wait to find out.
My one remaining obstacle is exercise. It's not that I don't like to exercise...no, wait, that's exactly what it is. I get that some people enjoy it, and that it makes some people feel better, but I'm just not one of those people. I've joined the gym before, and no matter how long I go or how many different machines I try, it's just not for me.
I'll admit that I make way too many excuses about exercising. I suppose I could manage to find an hour to go for a walk, but I won't, since the thought of leaving these screaming kids with their dad after he's spent 10 hours at work just seems unfair. So what's a girl to do?
I've narrowed the field to two options (not counting gastric bypass surgery, which seems very appealing at times). First is the Wii Fit. This little balance board comes with games that help you lose weight by shifting your body around in ways that it probably wasn't meant to shift. No matter, if it works, I don't care much about defying the laws of physics. I've heard tales of people having lost almost 30 pounds since Christmas, and that sounds pretty promising to me.
The second option is Zumba. Zumba is a 30 minute class that combined disguises cardio fitness with fun little salsa-like dance moves. I know a few people who have gone, had a great time, and whose legs burned like a bugger the next day.
Convenience is making me lean toward Wii Fit, but I'm open to suggestions.
In any case, I'm hoping to be about 60 pounds lighter by the time my friend's September wedding rolls around. You can start praying for me right about.....now.
In case you're wondering, I normally wouldn't chronicle my personal weight-loss efforts with a bunch of strangers, but I figure it's a good way to be accountable. Knowing I've told readers about my goals will give me more motivation to reach them.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have finally quit pop.
I use pop almost as a verb because, to me, it was never just a thing, it was a habit. I can say this now since I don't do it anymore: the first thing I would do when I got up in the morning was pour and drink a nice glass of pop. Isn't that disgusting? Coffee and tea are universally accepted as morning beverages, but I don't drink either of them, and pop gave me that jolt that I needed to face the day.
What's even more disgusting is that I didn't stop all day. I was lost without a glass beside me, not because I was thirsty, but because it had become a habit. Not to mention, I was addicted to the constant steam of caffeine. There were days when I would drink more than a full 2-litre bottle by myself. As of today, I haven't had a single drink of pop in two weeks, and that's like an eternity in pop-addict years.
What I didn't realize is how quickly I would see a change. The first few days I panicked when I found myself eating more, but only until I noticed that the food I craved had gone from chocolate bars and popcorn, to cereal and fruit. Not only that, the times I was eating had changed, too. My old routine was, fill up on pop all day, let the caffeine suppress my appetite, and then snack the night away. Now, I have a big breakfast, I eat smaller meals throughout the day, and snacks just don't seem appealing without my Big 8, so they've been reduced to a minimum .
Another big difference in my routine is water. By replacing pop with water. while I may have to parade to the bathroom every ten minutes, I've found a way to stave off a snack-attack and get my eight recommended glasses per day. Drinking a whole lot of water might not seem like a life-altering activity for most, especially for those who do it already, but for someone who lived and breathed cola and nothing else, it's a big deal. You'll just have to take my word for it.
And the best part about quitting pop: incentive. I haven't dropped 50-pounds or anything, but my favorite jeans are now too big, my grandmother told me I lost weight, and better still, I feel much better. All this in two weeks? What will I feel and look like after one year? I can't wait to find out.
My one remaining obstacle is exercise. It's not that I don't like to exercise...no, wait, that's exactly what it is. I get that some people enjoy it, and that it makes some people feel better, but I'm just not one of those people. I've joined the gym before, and no matter how long I go or how many different machines I try, it's just not for me.
I'll admit that I make way too many excuses about exercising. I suppose I could manage to find an hour to go for a walk, but I won't, since the thought of leaving these screaming kids with their dad after he's spent 10 hours at work just seems unfair. So what's a girl to do?
I've narrowed the field to two options (not counting gastric bypass surgery, which seems very appealing at times). First is the Wii Fit. This little balance board comes with games that help you lose weight by shifting your body around in ways that it probably wasn't meant to shift. No matter, if it works, I don't care much about defying the laws of physics. I've heard tales of people having lost almost 30 pounds since Christmas, and that sounds pretty promising to me.
The second option is Zumba. Zumba is a 30 minute class that combined disguises cardio fitness with fun little salsa-like dance moves. I know a few people who have gone, had a great time, and whose legs burned like a bugger the next day.
Convenience is making me lean toward Wii Fit, but I'm open to suggestions.
In any case, I'm hoping to be about 60 pounds lighter by the time my friend's September wedding rolls around. You can start praying for me right about.....now.
In case you're wondering, I normally wouldn't chronicle my personal weight-loss efforts with a bunch of strangers, but I figure it's a good way to be accountable. Knowing I've told readers about my goals will give me more motivation to reach them.
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