We had a VISITOR the otherday

I anticipated a surprise visit from a social worked this week. She came bright and early Tuesday morning. She was about 10 years younger than me, very peppy and perplexed about my response to her question "How are you". When I said "very freaked out", she did a double take. We sat and chatted for about 45 minutes. I recounted the whole story. I showed her the newly installed locks and Harry sat on my lap, kissing me saying "I love you mommy". Yes he did. Owen and Harry were putting on their best performance - they were friendly and hyper and more outgoing than Tony Little promoting his Gazelle freestyle trainer at 2am on local tv.

And here is the one thing that I learned. Social Workers need to get the last word in. And I suppose you are a compliant case if you allow that to happen. With the new locks installed, I was reprimanded for not being outside with my kids at all times. I must say I handed the event with grace and without transforming into a snarky bitch. Her comment that "your kids are very happy and this is something I look for" was not appreciated either. I suppose she could not go back to the office with a sense of "accomplishment" without giving me advice that apparently she forgot THAT I ALREADY KNOW. (and incidentally I already do). I am getting a bit testy here about all the questions, the poking around and such. Questions like "have you ever been involved in Domestic violence" and comments regarding Owen's small stature "I'd worry that he had a some sort of Growth disorder" - well you know.. I needed an rolling eyes icon.

So, if you are trained to see nothing but dysfunction, I suppose that is what you look for.

I called my best friend for a shot of empathy and reality.

"What do you mean she actually had to TELL you that her investigation is not going to become a Child protective services case?! I would have fucking lost it"
"At the time losing it would have not worked in my favor"
"I suppose"

Now CPS has had a great deal of media scruntiny over the past few years. A couple children have died while under their watch. An 18 month old died in her crib of dehydration, and a 4 year old boy was mauled by 4 Rotweiller within the last 7 years. So, this young sprite new Social Worker is just insuring that we did not open the door and decry 'Aidan! Set forth an Explore yonder terriory!" , nor did she discover the basement meth lab or notice the shackles and portrait of Jesus in the closet. I did crack a joke about leaving Aidan at home with a bit of water when I went to work. And she did laugh.

And meanwhile, while we are having said conversation, Aidan went to the kitchen, took a whole basket of Concorde grapes, lugged them upstairs, dumped them all over the windowsill (which is a perfect height for him) and then played with his Thomas trains in them. There must have been some mutant avalanche of concord grapes on the Island of Sodor. Or Sir Toppam Hat had some serious wine making plans. Too bad I discovered this after Social Worker P.I. had left.

Karma payment plan

When Eric and I are not getting our knuckles wrapped for having kids, we're upgrading our stuff. Like many newlyweds, we brought a mishmash of furnishings to the marriage. Some items were new purchases, some were family hand-me-downs, some reminants of our single lives. And since our population has burgeoned from 2 to 5, the stuff took a beating (more like a walloping). As you know, furniture these days is not constructed like it used to be. Wood furiture can be just a decoy - made to look good, not to be used well. Anything made with MDF and veneer will not withstand the force of three children. It's proven in fact. And the fabric on sofa is not manufactured to withstand 7 years of sitting, sleeping, (eh em mom and dad stuff), puking, snotting, food of a variety of assortments, peeing and yes the stray poop. This summer, Eric and I purchased a new couch (chesterfield, sofa whatever monicker you choose) with the proceeds of our Van sale. (another upgrade). The previous incarnation, although structurally sound, was spewing its stuffing. And a couch spewing stuffing is not only an eyesore, but a household hazard with 3 children. A hole to any child, whether that be a naturally occuring hole, an orifice, a hole in the wall, keyhole, well, drain, toilet etcetera... gives a clear signal to a child: "fill me". Case in point - the drain in the basement must be filled with pee, and holes in the sofa must be filled with a variety of sundries - crumbs, leftovers, dinky cars, little hands, dirt, bits of wrapper and paper...The new sofa is lovely, comfortable and above all has a 5 year guranteed stain guard.

Which reminds me - there is a clause on the stain-guard that is just too delicious to pass up:
In the list of exclusions it states:

Acts of God, fraud, international acts, war or hostilitiesof any kind if arising from illegal activity.

This means that if I am slaughtered by a terrorist in my own livingroom, the MagiSeal company will NOT clean my couch for free. And they will not if I hire the mob to off Eric while after he stumbles home and passes out on said couch after an evening "out with the boys". Drat. I suppose I could make a case because my religious affiliation is excluded from the clause and there is nothing which prevents me from claiming a stain purely from bad Karma. So if my sofa is damaged in a wayward snowstorm, I could make the case that it was my karma that produced said damage, and since it was not outlined in the exclusions clause, I should have it cleaned to its new shiney happy state. And since neither myself or the MagiSeal company can scientifically prove a karmic reap or an act of God, we could therefore fight it out in court. And because it deals so directly with religion, I'd get all kinds of media attention and I could buy 2 new couches with the proceeds of my book sale. That sounds like good karma.

And speaking of Karma - am I reaping or sowing some more here. I say this tongue in cheek - and in all reality (since we're dealing with my reality) - its most likely an equal smattering of both. After the sofa replaced and we reconditioned the children to carry no food substance on it, we realized that our dining experience needed upgrading. We are one chair short, so we have not been able to eat as a whole. Usually, the kids eat first, and then mom and dad together. Or one of us will dine with the kids and someone gets to eat solo. Its yet another aspect of our familial chaos.

So we went to the local Canex, (which is a store catering to us military folk) and I found a table to my liking. We chose the Canex, because it has a fair payment plan. Its not one of those "Don't pay a cent for a year and then we'll charge you outlandish interest upon repayment". The payment plan at "the Canex" is divided equally over a series of months, with little to no interest tacked on (Eric may be able to clarify this one). So as I continue, there was method to our madness. Canex has an online catalogue. So if there is something that you want to purchase that is not in-store, you can order it in. And this is what happened with our table.

I have to admit, I am pretty choosy about my furnishings. And so should I be. If I am going to be forking out Erics hard earned pay, I damn well want exactly what I want. For a diningroom, I had some clear parameters - a square or rectangular table, not round. Two tones, not one colour, or wood grain, ladder back chairs, with wooden seats (not covered in fabric, which would be a holy nightmare on spaghetti night...especially since most coverings are beige.) Originally I wanted a table with black cherry stained legs and chairs, with dark wood stained accents. However Cannex only had this one, but I could not live with the arrowback chairs. So I went toward the opposite end of the palate, and sacrificed my choice of color for form. And it became apparent that form is more important than color when it comes to my taste on diningroom furniture. Here is it, by the way.

And yesterday we got the call that it is IN, and we can pick it up at anytime. Oh yeah, without paying inflated interest, we do not get free delivery - or assembly! Eric came home with four boxes, one behemoth with the table, and three others of similar shape - 2 chairs per box. Eric, being the busy beaver he is, got set to work on the table. And its lovely! Chair assembly was going to be a collaboration, and with allan key in hand I followed Eric's instructions (since paper ones make little to no sense to me). After we securely assembled the seat frame, and started on the foot rails, it becames glaringly obvious that there was something desperately wrong.

As you can see, the back (which is one piece) is not the correct back. No matter how much weight watching I endure, there is no way I can stick my legs under the table when I am sitting in the chair. And this of course is while I am balancing precariously on it, since there are ill-fitting front legs. There is no camera trickery here. The chair is standing against the table.

Now I cannot hold Canex responsible - but since they are the middleman, they need to fix our problem quick. I have a dinner party to cater.

Karma. Wash and wear, assembly required, batteries sold seperately...

A Card of Thanks

When I started blogging this February, I did not have much of an agenda. I used to keep a journal before I got married, which kept me sane in some insane times. I mused, pontificated and poked fun at myself - and found the experience to be the cheapest form of therapy (and also less likely to be bad for my health). With marriage, kids and career, the time that I allowed for myself quietly slipped away. Until that day in February when Eric had been away for almost 2 months on exercise. I was bored and lonely, I felt isolated from the world but at the same time holed myself in the house (mostly due to bad weather and precocious kids) - and felt like I needed to say something - and considered journaling to be equivalent to decent adult conversation. Since I had been an adept diarist, I wondered how the public dimension would alter or change what I wanted to say. It did change my rhetoric quite dramatically. And this is a good thing. When scribing my inner thoughts on paper, I tended to be funny, but I was also self deprecating (both consciously and not). There were more doodles and thoughtful consideration of pens and their nib size. I also tended to obsess about my "issues" and eventually realized that journaling was contributing to their perpetuation. I had to stop writing about it, as a step to healing those demons. When I stopped writting about my baggage, I had nothing else to say, and therefore discontinued the practice. I was not getting the same fix. This also coincided with the filling of my days (and nights) with diapers and spit-up.

Blogging is different for me. I do offer a performance. But I think I am expressing part of my personality that normally manifests in every day conversation. I do like to joke and see the funny side of things. And for all the heartache and stress, the kids are excellent material. While of the otherhand, parenting to me can be mundane and dull, and for me, isolating. The funny stuff reminds me that they are as intellectually stimulating as a conversation with a Phd in Phenomenology. I have spent days feeling dreary and not in the least bit interested in another sibling fight, catering another meal, cleaning up another shitty ass, reading the same story over and over again, listening to the same damn DVD again, cleaning and wiping and dusting and washing and folding yet another item. I've learned, probably the hard way, that "good" parenting is as much about the way you look at things, as it is about they way you do things. Getting in the habit of finding the ridiculous and absurd is ultimately more productive than seeing only the routine and mundane.

But when the shitty stuff happens, as it will happen to us all, there is nothing more validating and comforting than 8 very kind comments from people who took time out of their own day to read and respond to my crappy day. And in this regard, blogging trumps traditional journaling hands down.

Thanks!

Sometimes things aren't funny any more

Today is one of those rare, serious, not very funny posts. Now I've spent a little time wondering if these are the things that I ought to write about. I think I want to write about this to keep it real. I know people who don't know me read this. And people are going to think what they are going to think. Enough of a preamble.

I was going to title this post "And we survived Friday, and social services WERE called." Yeah, makes the hairs stand on the back of my neck too. Aidan. Aidan Aidan. Friday afternoon was much like most Friday afternoons. It was 30C, not a cloud in the sky. I was outside in the backyard with the kids. A neighbour was over and her daughters were playing in the pool with them. Aidan is pretty manageable with a group of children. Sometimes he plays with, or around them. It has been well established that Aidan is a happy wanderer. He just walks in whatever direction is pleasing to him at the moment. The only time he will bolt, is when he sees me. There is no amount of coaxing or calling or bribing that will get him to stop. It really is a matter of me outwitting him and catching him - he's getting better at this, I fear. This is not an isolated thing - as many of you have read that he has done this to me before. Taking him to the store is becoming an increasing challenge. There is no strap or safety belt that I have found that keeps him in one place. (The belts on shopping carts, I have learned, are only there to make the stores look like they care and offer a false sense of security to parents. He can houdini out of his Graco stroller in 10 seconds flat. The car seat is good. He can't writhe out of that, in fact he has tried). I have actually looked into getting one of those leash-harnasses, but they are so philosophically out of favor that I cannot find one. Anyway.

Back to Friday afternoon. Aidan was not the cause of my concerns. It was Owen. He was having a hard time getting along with the other kids and there were a number of trips to his room. It was hot, and it was Friday. I was tired. It was one of those days when you can't possilbly be creative enough to come up with another meal plan. So I decided to do the pizza thing. I like frozen pizzas and figured I'd dash off to the store when Eric came home. I was expecting him around 4, but he did not arrive until 5. I was in full blown STARVING mode - which happens when you are on a diet and do not eat at the exact time every day. I heated up some Alphaghetti to satiate the kids. Eric went right to the shower. He stayed late and went out for a beer. (I could bitch and whine about this, but I won't. The sentiment remains however).

Eric said he would be 5 minutes in the shower (he had done physical training prior to his trip to the watering hole). I sat Aidan at the table and then sat myself in the livingroom. I was drained. And hungry. I spaced out. And then a couple minutes later, I realized that the blissful silence was ominous. I called up to Eric "Is Aidan up there with you?". No. I ran outside, imagining I would see him in his usual spots, in the sandbox, in the garden attempting to pick green tomatoes, behind the shed. No no and No. Then I ran to the front of the house. No Aidan. I looked and looked. In other yards, then down the street. No Aidan. My heart began to race. I ran back in the house. I checked the basement. No Aidan. I jumped in the van and drove down the street, looking in each yard. How hard can it be to spot a blonde boy in only a diaper? I drove around the block and there he was in someone's arms. I jumped out of the van and then felt the full brunt of her stare. She stood beside the woman holding Aidan. She had the cellphone. Dour and suspicious.

I grabbed Aidan and breathed a sigh of relief.

"He was sitting in the road" She said.
"Oh my God, Thank-you so much". I was shaking, my heart was not slowing. In times of stress I am known to show little emotion. Such was a moment.
"Don't you watch him?"

Okay. I am grateful that this woman stopped her car to help the woman who found Aidan.

I was about to leave when cell phone woman said

"I called the police, they asked us to stay put"

My heart sank. Was I going to get booked for being a bad mom? Was there such a crime? I could hear the jeers from the courtroom and the banging gavel rapping the bench "SILENCE!" "We the jury find this woman guilty of neglect and incapable of caring for her children". Now I know that this is pure fantasy, but these are the things that run through your head when you've lost your kid and is found by the moral high ground.

The next 20 minutes were long and uncomfortable. I did not much care for small talk. I was hyperconscious of everything I said. And then doubtful of my silence. I second guessed every word I muttered, thinking that it would be misconstrued in the worst of ways. The woman with the cellphone, with her arms crossed, glared at me and grilled me about the events which occured. "Where were you when we found him?"

Some of these questions are biting, "I was looking all over for him". She did not seem to understand how close we lived, thinking that Aidan wandered miles over the countryside to cross paths. We lived 2 blocks away. But she did not seem to appreciate that Aidan made a bee line through the backyards. It was a short dash for him. Meanwhile I was wasting time looking for him in other places.

Anyway. Then there was grumbling about how long it was taking the cops to arrive. The gravity was weighing heavy on me. When they arrived, I was briefly questioned. I was asked why I did not keep my doors locked. "Because he can open them?" I hope that answer was sufficient. It was true. In the end, he told me that any incident involving a child required a call from social services. That hit a nerve. I was assured that it was routine, although the words echoes in my head and my gut, and heightened all my motherly guilt which has already hypertrophied.

And that was that. So I am sitting with the aftermath, wondering what the hell is going to happen next. Eric and I, at the suggestion of my mother, decided to install another sliding lock at the top of each door so that I could control who came in and out of the house. With three doors (A front, back and side) I can't help but worry. The feelings of shame, guilt and failed responsibility weigh heavy. We've become hypervigalent, which maybe what I need. I may have become too complacent with his recent antics.

It would have been worse. Much worse. He could have been naked.

(and then there is that death issue, don't worry. I don't like to talk about it out of pure superstition).

The Big Picture's Musical Meme

List ten songs that you are currently digging. It doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're no good but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions, the artists, and the ten songs in your blog. Then tag five other random people to see what they're listening to.

I will admit that I cannot be as organized as Mary P and list the album and track. I am all about MP3's.

1. Tannhauser Overture
Artist: Richard Wagner

2. Ramble on
Artist Led Zeppelin

3. Fevered
Artist: The Stills

4. La Vie En Rose
Artist: Edith Piaf

5. Ziggy Stardust
Artist: Bauhaus

6. The Hindu Times
Artist: Oasis

7. Motorway to Roswell
Artist: The Pixies

8. Road to Nowhere
Artist: The Talking Heads

9. Underground
Artist: Tom Waits

10: I can't put my Finger on it
Artist: Ween

If you want to tag yourself...be my guest! Sometimes a random tag is like a sales call. So, play if you wish!

I left the Park and no one called social services on me!

Today I had a playdate. Two of my beloved friends, witty, intelligent, and all good things were meeting us at the child friendly park...sounded like a promising day. Near the picnic tables were a series of jungle gyms and climbers. Over the knoll - about a 5 minute stroll was the wading pool. It is overcast and cool. Not good wading pool weather. It is just out of sight.

So, I am sitting at the table, eating my sauteed portobello mushroom and mozza sandwich (low in points of course) watching Aidan like a hawk. He was playing on the jungle gym in front of me. The conversation became ever so engrossing and Aidan became bored. He toddled to another play gym just out of sight. Just as the conversation became all about ME. Thats what I wait for...when I can discuss my favorite topic - ME. Anyway, so I go to the gym to see Aidan and he is playing with a little girl and her dolls. I bring him closer to us, and he takes off to his point of origin. Then there is issues with Harry. I attend to his stubbed toe and then went to fetch Aidan. No Aidan. I scan the park. No Aidan. Now this has happened to me so frequently with Aidan, in fact I am so used to his antics that I no longer panic. I just wonder what the hell he is up to. And if someone were to take him, I would not really panic, since Aidan would end up escaping anyway. He's like that.

So I saw a woman running over the knoll. Intuition told me that she was looking for me.

"Are you looking for a little blonde boy?"
"yes" I try and sound desperate, even though I am not. Exasperated is more like it.
"He's in the wading pool naked. I saw him there all by himself and I stopped my car"
Great.

I dash down to the pool. This is an ankle high pool. I was not all that worried that he would be belly up. But I at the same time I was mortified. And there he was. Splashing around, happy as a lark and having a grand time. And naked. I suppose if I were not so enraged, it would look kind of cute.

How does one get a small child out of the wading pool when you are wearing trousers? Very carefully. He insisted on running away from me. In the pool. I get him out and dress him. Catastrophe averted. Again. Aidan is making me reap karma...I just know it. It feels like a life lesson.

You know what this means of course? Socializing with friends while on a playdate is strictly out of the question.

Well that sucks.

Or all future playdates will have to be hosted in a walled compound. The Forbidden City? Alcatraz? Buckingham Palace? The White House lawn? I suppose. The secret service dudes might come in handy too...

And after a body search, there were no homemade weapons or prison tats

Remember my brief mention about primate feces yesterday? Well, it officially hit the fan.

It IS the dog days of summer. From here on in, until all three have Postal Codes of their own, the end of summer will be a behavioral nightmare. This gives me a moment to think about every parents bane: discipline.

Whenever I read a new take on this practice (especially when I am at my wits end, and that much closer to losing "it") you can see me, book in hand, rolling my eyes. Its predictable. There is some qualifying statement about discipline - that is latin derivative means to learn, and it ought not be about punishment. Can you see me? Yes, I am rolling my eyes again.

So, now that beating kids with a belt is thankfully out of fashion, we have been given a few options. The most and least popular being time out. Once upon a time, I was paying big bucks for a full psychological early learning profile on Owen. And I was given lots of great advice on how to do a time out properly. And trust me folks - I am as consistent as they get. I let nothing slip by. Owen's goal in life is to test every single boundary, repeatedly. Someday this may come in handy. In the meantime, I will continue to bang my head against the wall in frustration.

Implementing the time out system was nothing short of torture, on my part. First there is the warning. When it enters Owen's ear and is translated in his brain means "do it again, and show mom how you enjoy it!". Then there is the announcement "Time Out". That means, run away as fast as your little legs can carry you. Did I mention that Owen can outrun me? Then there is the escorting to the time out - and getting Owen to sit in said spot. Communicating that he gets MORE time for not sitting, somehow does not enter his thought stream. And then there is the constant policing to actually sit in the chair. And being quiet. This of course means dropping whatever you are involved in and focusing on Owen 100% of the time. I heard the voice of the psychologist, echoing in my memory " The purpose of the time out it to give the child no attention. Give him lots of positive reinforcement when he demonstrates good behavior and ignore him in time out". Right.... The pre-time out build up takes no less than 30 minutes. And this is for a minute of every year of age. So 30 minutes for a 5 minute time out...makes no sense in the end. I persist.

Mastering the time out learning curve took months. Now that Owen can be timed out, and he does not need 25 extra minutes of tacked on time for not listening, I suspect that they are no longer effective. I think he has outgrown them. What the flying bleep am I going to do?

Yesterday, I went downstairs to start some laundry. Something didn't quite smell right. A month ago, we scrubbed that basement until it was pinefresh. With the dehumidifyer, the basementy odour has dramatically subsided. I looked at the drain. Wet. I knew it. The boys have been pissing down the floor drain again. At that moment, I nearly lost my mind. I sent the boys to their room for 2 1/2 hours. At that moment I had some time to reflect. Aidan toddled upstairs, and I was wondering what the heck to do with him. I couldn't really leave, and play with him outside, since Owen and Harry need constant supervision in the time out. Aidan went to his room. And fell asleep.

It was 2 hours of bliss actually. No kids. Nice.

I have never been an advocate of the Prison system. I don't think it is an effective deterent for crime, nor do I think it works all that well as a punishment. I felt like a mini prison warden and my kids were in lock-down. Is this method effective, or a way of indoctrinating our children at an early age about the prison system? What sort of a loser parent am I anyway? I keep thinking about all the granola moms who merely need to say "I don't think that was very appropriate " and the child is in immediate compliance. That child then organizes a neighbourhood wide bottle drive and gives the proceeds to charity. I have kids who piss down the basement drain.
And now they are in Kiddie Jail.

After their sentence, the kids came down stairs. Harry came to me, gave me a hug and said "Mommy I am sorry, I won't pee down there again". Owen, who is not as touchy-feely, came up "Give me a high five" and then offered his appologies. I was amazed. And after a body search, there were no homemade weapons or prison tats. Imagine that...

I am so confused...

T minus 4 1/2 days and counting...

The dog days of summer have arrived. The kids are driving me and each other ape shit, the tomatoes are on the cusp of ripening, the flowers are in full bloom and some are getting straggly, evenings are not as long and mornings come sooner. Yes, the ends of August draw nigh. School starts after Labour day. What pray tell am I counting down? The opening of Terry Gilliam's Brothers Grimm. My best friend and I have a date for its' showing on Friday. And I'm counting down just because I have nothing else to look forward to this week. I also have this looming thing called "back to school" myself. I know this is my final term teaching. I have NO desire to go back to teach in the new work environment - I'd rather pull out each of my finger nails with pliers. So, I have new goals. Terry Gilliam happens to be one of them. Aim High I say!
And it has all the elements I look for in a movie: great effects, dark and scary, wry humour, a bit of beefcake. Brazil was one of the best films of all time. The Fisher King was a personal favorite.

I'll tell this story because it is ancient history - Its at least 15 years old. And I tell it at the risk of mortifying my dear mother, and her panicky thoughts of her neighbours stumbling across my blog. Oh the fun I could have.

It was also the dog days of summer, the waning weeks of August 1992. My friends were at Lollapalooza (The Chili Peppers were headlining) where they had Press Passes to be that much closer to Anthony Keidis. I was left at home. I was not so much left, but had to stay, since I was the only one with a job - which involved looking busy for 8 hours a day at the Department of Advanced Education and Labour for the local provinical government. It was mere weeks away from my move from small maritime city to Toronto, where the population of the university outnumbered the population of said Maritime city. I was alone for the weekend, and decided to rent a VCR and a movie - The Fisher King. I also procured a hit of acid (LSD for the uninitiated) to chase my feelings of loserdom and dejectedness over the rainbow, where things sparkle and only make sense in the moment. I think I was only going to do 1/2 a hit, for those who know what I am talking about, one just doesn't do this sort of thing by themselves. I was bored, so I went ahead with my crazy plan. And those already in the know would concede that I was even more insane by dropping it after lunch. But my friends were at Lollapalooza and I was going to leave them all behind in a couple of weeks to live in the big cold city. I was opting for the insanity plan.

The Fisher King was utterly brilliant. I interpreting meaning in that film that I am sure that was unintended even by the director. I was following this theme throughtout - Robin Williams character was portraying a once normal man with a normal life now homeless after the death of his wife. His character was a metaphor of Christ and the more I looked, the more it appeared. He spoke to God, and lived in the marginal territories between insanity and genius. As I stand back - it probably really did resonate with the savior theme - The grail stuff is there, and each character does go through personal transformations. So maybe I was not that crazy. I was so emersed in the film that tears streamed down my cheeks at moments. They were poignant only to me, I suppose.

So, I am here in my kitchen, kids with breakfast and Spongebob, being nostalgic and all and I can't help but see the pattern developing. The Dog days of August, Terry Gilliam, on the cusp of big changes ahead. There will be no more LSD, who needs it when you have Spongebob?

Mmmmmm-muffins!

When I am in the throes of PMS, besides the temptation to rage on any living organism that crosses my path., I also get uncontrollable munchies. This month, PMS has been particularily rabid. (That deserves a post of its own later my friends.) I've analysed whether getting the munchies - is it an off shoot to "emotional eating"? No, I have come to the conclusion. It's comparable to the cravings one gets during pregnancy. You know the voracious ones that also comes with uncontrollable voltions to procure (or better yet, get hubby to procure) a Double Whopper with Lg fries during the 11pm news? My PMS cravings usually constrain themselves within the chocolate and potatoe chip boundary -and usually consumed in large quantities with the 11pm news. Not a good thing when you are stubbornly determined to a new eating regimine. And one that is high fiber, low fat and vegetable dominated.

Bear with me folks. This is NOT going to become a food dominated blog.

So I found this Weight Watchers recipe for chocolate muffins that were low in points. (A snack that is below three is ideal). The recipe was ridiculously easy. A box of cake mix and a can of pumpkin. Oh yeah, a dash of patheticness and smidgen of self-loathing... So in the throes of PMS, I threw caution to the wind. The kids went into a pre-chocolate rush frenzy when they saw me crack open the cake box. "Cake! Mommy is making cake!"

Owen and Harry rush over to the kitchen. I am flanked on either side by salivating potential bowl lickers. This I do not mind. I think it is the first step to producing men who like to cook. I refuse to unleash another man into the world who does not like to cook. Living with a non-cooker is one of those clauses I would like to revisit in my marriage contract.

"Can I get the eggs mommy?" Owen asks.
"No eggs in this cake" I reply as I open the can of pumpkin. The looks of confusion and bewilderment set in. First, in a mixing bowl, I try to stir the cake mix and pumpkin together. Given the consistency of both materials made the job all the more challenging. I began to doubt the success of my experiment. Owen at this point was completely mortified at this sacrilige. He excused himself from my adventures in low fat cooking. Harry was entranced.

"Mommy it looks like poop!"

I gave up stirring by hand and got out the big guns. My hand mixer. The thick consistency even proved more daunting to my handy dandy mixer. Pellets of brownish orange batter began flying out of the bowl and clumping the beaters. Harry's excitement turned into frenzy.

"Mommy it looks like poop! MommyitlookslikepoopmommyitlookslikepoopmommyitlookslikePOOP!!!"

I stop mixing. PMS rage is in full expression and get out the mutha of all blending contraptions. My Brawn ten speed, blades that could puree your hand food processor. I scrape the glop in. Then I wiped the rest that spewed over my counter. Given the smear factor of the batter, I have to concede with Harry. It does resemble poop quite strongly. And given the orangish browny hue of the smear, I'd day it was a spot-on replica. I was thinking of lovely pranks that could be committed with the batter. Oh how evil I could be.

In 10 seconds, my batter was blended, all shitty coloured and viscous. I still doubt the resuls. I spoon it into muffin tins and bake at 350. They did not rise, as much as develop a cake like consistency. This is a good thing. I took a bite of the result...not bad...not bad at all. Moist, and a bit dense, and chocolaty. No hint of pumpkin.

Mmmm...PMS friendly muffins!

My Indigo kids

Mary P.'s recent post about Burton White's Raising a Happy, Unspoiled Child, got me thinking.
After pondering about Aidan's lack of maturity, it occured to me how dependant these books are on the accepted learning curve. I like the advice Mary has found - that fine line between spoiling and setting boundaries. Sometimes I think I teeter on that fence daily. And when my kids were babies and someone muttered "Would you just put that baby down?! Letting him cry it out will do him some good". I wish I actually had that book to throw at the offender. I also teeter on that precarious fence between thinking there is nothing wrong with my kid to creating a knot in my gut with worry about Aidan's slow speech development. And one thing that I learned through my experiences with Owen - is that weekly one hour speech therapy sessions merely loosen mom's knot of anxiety. That amount of therapy doesn't really contribute much, if any, to a child's speech development. And sometimes it can even heighten a parents anxiety by contributing to their fears with the contant reminders of how far behind they are. With Owen, I've become hyperconscious of the power of labelling and how they are not just words. They can affect a child's development, and self identity and the way we learn to treat them through that label. Think about it. Another case in point: in the 50's homosexuality was a psychiatric illness. Now it is way of being one is born with (I don't really buy into that arguement that its an immoral choice).

INTERJECTION: folks at CBC...Negotiate that settlement already!! I want my morning radio show. Given that my morning show typically consists of talk radio, hearing music is discombobulating. K-OS followed by Leonard Cohen folllowed by The Barenaked Ladies....come on!!

Back to my regular scheduled program...

So when I was camping at Fundy a couple weeks ago, another parent was admiring the precociousness of my kids. He was sincere. (It wasn't one of those back handed compliments.) "You have three indigo kids! Amazing!"

Huh? Whats an indigo kid?

I'm imagining Violet Bauregarde after the infamous peice of full-meal chewing gum.

"Indigo kids are very special children who are often misdiagnosed as having ADD or ADHD"
I was hooked. The word misdiagnosis has me hooked.

Then he mentions he just read the book, and he'll give it to me.

And he did. The nice thing about camping is that I was able to arrange a bit of child free time and sat at picinic table and read it. I skimmed. I am good at skimming.

I have to admit, that the advice was great - give children lots of choices, honour their differences, keep boundaries clear and firm...that sort of sage advice. The context for this advice was...well you decide for yourself.

The term indigo is used, because it refers to the color of their aura. These children have been "arriving" on earth since the 1980's (some claim the 60's) and they are more spiritually evolved than non-indigos. (There is a whole typology associated with Indigos. Check out their website and scroll down...you can see it for yourself). Apparently they have arrived to meet the advanced techological and moral challenges of our world. This was learned through the use of channelling by the way.

Yeah...

I am open to many things. But I tend to furrow my brow when it comes to mention of crystals
and trance channelling. Its' in my nature. Teaching the academic study of religion for these ast 8 years has given me a tough as nails approach to the new age movement. Yet the advice was good, and did not involve the use of Crystals, Spirits, high vibrational frequencies or auras. Normally I would be all over this topic like a pirranah on flesh. I'd be vicious and scathing, critical and condescending.

I hesitate. I liked the fellow who swore by this book. I met his kids. They are unbelievably well adjusted and very normal. Harry and his 12 yr old son had a blast making up stories about farting, pooping and death. His daughter was the most intelligent, mature and sweet 10 year old I have met. I mentioned in a previous post that she offered to help put my kids to sleep so I could enjoy some grown-up time by the campfire. I might not have converted myself to the theology around the indigo kid...but it sure humbled me to meet a dude with such wacky ideas with such well behaved kids.

So, you can't really judge a parenting manifesto by its cover...

I think I have control issues

As I type this I hear this collective "Well duh!"

This is an update of sorts regarding that D thing I embarked on about a month ago. For those wondering, no its not divorce, drugs, or dysfunction (of any sort). I joined Weight Watchers, in a moment of either total insanity or momentary lucidity. According to what BMI chart you read, my weight either started at the high end of normal for my height, or "obsese". Regardless of the prefab standards, I was lumpy in all the wrong places, and I was slowly getting too comfortable in a size 14.

On the one hand, I am all for the criticizing the media's projection that normal women have clear transluscent skin and wear a size 2, (and that is when they are bloated and PMSy). Ideas about beauty are scary. If it involves Versasce, Louis Vuitton, Uggs, aqualine noses and silicon - count me out. I'd rather be butfuck Uger-lee! I don't want unshapely thights - where we can hear the wind whistle through them. I want boobs and some tush. Who cares if I sag - I earned that droopage - hard work, pain and stress. Oh, don't get me started on stretch marks. My thighs look like a map of the punjabi countryside. I gleeful contributed to each one of them ...one chocolate at a time.

Wow. Its amazing how far I let my tangents go. So I started Weight Watchers and have since developed this fondness for watching and journalling everything I eat. I have found a new interest in reading nutritional labels and backing up a line of shopping carts behind me. There is nothing more joyous than serving a seemingly sinful dish and exclaiming - Its only 5 points! And made with fat-free evaporated milk! Clearly, I am disordered and sick in some way. I have to date lost 9.4 lbs. I am hoping that I have enough sense to know when to stop - and feel good about my losses. My sister asked me what my "real" goal is.

Here is the skinny on the "real" goal vs the Weight Watchers goal. With the Weight Watchers goal, you announce to the lady with the scales what you would like to set your goal as. When you meet it, maintain it for 6 weeks, you become a lifetime member. This means that you do not pay the weekly fee anymore. So, I get my goal much higher (in fact I am almost there) because I think it is an ideal weight to maintain for the rest of my life. This is also including the perils of menopause - which are closer on my horizons than adolescence. My real goal is what I'd like to be at this very moment. I decided that I am not going to aim for a number in imperial or metric, but rather in a dress size. Is that bizarre or what?

For other insane reasons, I have taken up exerice. I power walk 4-5 times a week, and I have started a weight lifting program. I picked up this book for a buck at a Flea Market the other day Joyce Vedral's The Fat Burning Workout. Its a scary title. The pictures are scarier. Its 15 years old (meaning...written in the 90's - scary!). There is an almost Flashdance quality to her wardrobe. And the hair. Ode to a can of Aquanet. The routine is pretty basic, and all I need are some freeweights and off I go - all I need is an engrossing video for the boys. If I am going to lose weight, I figure that I should go all the way.

Okay. I am off now, me and Joyce are going to do some Lower body workout. Since this is my first time, I am going to lock myself in my room so no one can watch me struggle with the learning curve. I do have standards you know.

Ode to my Three Year Old

After some thought, I realized that Aidan did not get much favorable press here on The Big Picture. I've discussed Harry's orange pants, and purposefully discussed Owen and Einstein in the same post, but most of Aidan's attention comes in the guise of his temper tantrums, or boundary issues. Aidan, sometimes reminds me of Oskar in Gunter Grass's The Tin Drum. Now should Eric read this, he'd be mortified I even dared make the comparison. He found elements of the story so disturbing that they have been etched into his sieveish memory. And Rightly so - eel fishing with a horses head and popping other people's boils are not things that Aidan typically participates in (nor would I encourage). If you have not read this novel - its weird and ecclectic - and proudly displayed on my "See! I am an intellectual!" spot on my book shelf. It's nestled between Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 and Ben Okri's The Famished Road. Enough intellectual egosim, Heather.

In The Tin Drum, Oskar (for reasons I presently forget) decides to drum himself young -or rather, prevents himself from growing when he was three. Oskar also had this ability to shatter glass with a high pitched screech, which he invoked when his drum was revoked. Although Aidan does not drum, he rivals Oskars screeching ability. Especially in public. Aidan seems to have willed himself young too. He truly does embody the baby of the family. Case in point - he gave up his soother (binky, pacifer) by 2 or 3 months, but now he carries his bottle around. Most of the time it is empty, and there is this chirp that eminates - the sound of Aidan sucking air from an empty bottle. I think that with each suck he wills himself small, and for the time being, it seems to be working.

Alright alright, I betcha you are beginning to wonder why a three year old has a bottle? Well, because. WHO CARES. Owen and Harry were attached to theirs too. And then one day when I decided the time was right, there was no more bottle. Owen proudly attended kindergarten without his, and Harry will soon follow suit. So, for the collective tisk tisk that I might endure, my response is who gives a flying BLEEP... You are only a baby once.

Aidan is not on the ball when it comes to talking. This of course served only to provide mom and dad with a huge amount of anxiety. Would we endure the diagnosing, testing and useless speech therapy (ad nauseum) with Aidan? He is not nearly as quirky as Owen. He is not into spinning objects or looking at fans and 90 degree angles. So I decided to postpone the worry, and not pursue or engage with any professional hell bent on mislabelling him. Aidan has had chronic ear infections since he was 18 months old. He had tubes surgically inserted, and one failed to work properly. So we continued with the ear infections. Sometimes I wonder if that has contributed to his reluctance to speak. I mean, there isn't much to hear when everything sounds like it is underwater.

Late speech also postpones potty training. That bites. Seven years of shitty diapers are more than enough for my lifetime. He does love to be naked, and has developed that important skill of holding his weenie and aiming his stream. That's progess, I figure.

And of course there is Ed and Bess. When it became clear that Ed was his constant companion, I decided it was time to name his little horse. I brilliantly came up with Owen's companion Mr. Moo, who still participates in Owen's bedtime rituals, although he has retired from public life. So, whats a good name for a horse? All I could come up with is Secretariat, which is not the best of names when you haven't yet learned to talk.

"Eric, whats a good name for a horse?"
"Mr. Ed"

So Ed it was. Notice the wear pattern on the tail. That is Aidan's favorite part. And Ed was one of Aidan's first words. He says Add...but no one is complaining.

Yes, Aidan is our baby. Some day when he smells like BO and is getting phone calls from shy and tittering Junior high girls, I'll fondly remember how he learned how to sing before he could talk and how he spent hours playing with Thomas the Train, and follow any child around in the mall who was wearing Thomas sneakers. I'll tease him that he asked me to read Alexander and the Wind Up Mouse at least 5 times in a row each day. And who can forget those adorable little cheeks? They are nicely tanned now that he refused to wear a diaper outside.

Camping, and back again

We've returned in one piece and Fundy National Park appears to have survived our weekend invasion. I tend to be a master packer. My husband takes responsibility for all the gear - the tents, sleeping bags, camp stove. I organize the rest - dry food, cold food, utensils, dishes, clothes, the list goes on. I have to admit that either I was extremely distracted, not on the ball, or really out of practice - because I forgot all sorts of things this time around. Twenty minutes into our drive to Fundy I exclaimed "Shit, I forgot the camera". Of course, I get chastised by Eric, who jumps, and apparently relishes every opportunity for a good chastizing. I did remember thinking about it, I am not sure what distracted me from not packing it as soon as I thought about it. I forgot the hotdogs, my deoderant...and I was blamed for not packing Eric's bathing suit. But he said he'd pack his own stuff, so there must have been some crossed wires there.

For those of you who have not been granted the opportunity to visit Fundy, it is my little patch of Shangri-La on earth. The road begins to wind and stretch down, twisting and turning. As you near the coast, the slope instensifies, until pine and sky break and you see a clear view of craigy cliffs, pine tufted undulating hills, blue blue sky and ocean - with the world's highest tides. Take a deep breath...can you smell it? The whiff of salty freshness?

It was overcast, foggy and threatened rain. We found our site. Our local Shambhala group reserved a group site, so we found the site, and Eric (a well trained soldier) immediately set up camp. Two tents, with cots. Yes, being in the military has all the perks...camping gear galore. I located the food and took the kids to the cooking shelter and rustled them a campers supper. We met up with other brave sangha members who dared camp in the cool and damp (the rest of the weekend promised to be beautiful). A huge bonfire was ignited and the kids connected with their primal roots and wanted to play with the fire. Marshmellow roasting was about making torches, not for eating. The more Owen could set to flame, the merrier he became. Aidan was testing his boundaries...how close CAN you stand to the fire and not be consumed? Harry enjoyed the tradition of telling stories around the fire with a 12 year old boy. Of course, all the stories involved death, excrement and flatulence - and usually someone losing their pants. Finally, the sky broke and rain beckoned us to our tents. I was bunking with Aidan and Harry. Harry and I had a cot and we constructed a comfy nest for Aidan in between. As rain began to pitter on the tent (and there is nothing more relaxing than that sound) I read Harry and Aidan the first eight chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Harry began to drift. I tried to set Aidan down in his little spot on the floor - he was so indignent. He did NOT want to sleep there. So, we struggled for 20 minutes before sleep won that battle. As I turned the flashlight off, I realized I was somewhat claustrophobic. The walls of the tent loomed closer and the thick darkness lay heavy on me. I tossed and turned most of the night and fell asleep as dawn broke. Thank-goodness that 7 years of childrearing has made me impervious to sleep deprivation.

The rest of the weekend was glorious. The kids went swimming in a salt water pool, Eric took them to a playground and left me to my own devices. I did the lunch dishes, and then spent the rest of my time lounging and reading the climax of The Rule of Four. There was another evening bonfire and more sangha members came as the day warmed. The bonfire was lively and chatty. The resident bodhisattva, in the body of a 10 year old girl, offered to put Aidan and Harry to sleep while mom enjoyed adult company. She has a magical touch with children. They were sleeping within 10 minutes. By midnight Aidan was awake and freaked out, and I spent another 30 minutes with a cranky, tired and pissed off almost three year old, who refused to sleep in his cozy nest between Harry and I. Sleep came to us all. I awoke in the morning to find Aidan missing. Frantically I searched the tent, figuring he wiggled himself under the cot. He was not there. A combination of being awoken in shock and the terror that quickly ensued was paralizing. I jumped outside and scanned the area. No Aidan. Aidan, is a wanderer by nature. He is one of those kids who could get lost for two days in the woods and would need a search team of hounds and helicopters. The horizontal zipper of the tent was open about 6 inches - obviously enough space for a vivacious, very quiet and wandering spirit to wriggle out of. So, I ran toward the cook shelter, where we spend a majority of our time. There he was in someones arms. He was playing merrily on his own and being watched by other campers - who began to wonder where the parents were. Catastrophe averted. Distaster was clearly eminent.

Take a deep breath mom.

Camping with an almost three year old offers a new edge to camping...

Who said there was no challenge to being a Florist?

Florists of the world..UNITE and...well...arrange a kick ass nosegay...

(clicky here to see more of my recent creations). I have been comissioned to make 2 more arrangements...and a flurry of ideas has erupted ever since. They are all silk, polyester, plastic and other various non-degradable materials.

Do I need a business card yet?

Everytime Eric sees me coming with flowers, his eyes go slightly glazed.

Good Golly...I've been tagged...

Robin-Diane tells me that I am "it"...

Three names I've gone by:
1. Heather
2. H
3. Hef - only in Jr High, by my friend Heather and my sister

Three screen names I've had:
1. samsara_mom
2. owenv
3. heathert

Three physical things I like about myself:
1. My eyes
2. My hands
3. My cheeks

Three physical things I don't like about myself:
1. My teeth
2. My skin
3. My BIG FAT ASS

Three parts of my heritage:
1. Welsh
2.German
3. Brit

Three things I am wearing right now:
1. Flip-flops
2. Pj Bottoms
3. T-shirt

Three favorite bands/musical artists:
1. Brian Eno
2. Bob Mould
3. David Bowie


Three things I want in a relationship:
1. honesty
2. integrity
3. wads of cash (hope you are reading this E. heh heh)

Two truths and a lie:
1. I have three sons
2. Aidan is obsessed with Theodore Tugboat
3. My grandfather used to grow pot

Three physical things about the preferred sex that appeal to you:
1. Height
2. Eyes
3. Hands

Three favorite hobbies:
1. Reading
2. Gardening
3. Cooking

Three things I want to do badly right now:
1. Eat copious amounts of chips and dip
2. Read my book while eating copious amounts of chips and dip
3. Wash the chips and dip down with 2L of coke

Three things that scare me:
1. Criticism
2. Heights
3. Failure

Three of my everyday essentials:
1. The computer
2. The telephone
3. Coffee first thing in the AM

Three Careers you have considered or are considering :
1. Florist
2. Archaeologist
3. Professor

Three places you want to go on vacation:
1. Prague
2. Trinidad
3. Tuscany

Three things you want to do before you die:
1. See Europe
2. Touch a Palm tree
3. Play with my grandkids

Three ways I am stereotypically a boy:
1. I fart loudly
2. I am a Star Wars GEEK
3. I don't mind havng hairy legs

Three ways I am stereotypically a girl:
1. I like to cry
2. I get really bitchy once a month
3. I LURVE shoes

Three celeb crushes :
1. Gary Oldman
2. Alan Rickman
3. Edward Norton

And I am tagging..MCEtcher

...since you have been the topic of conversation lately

The blue line

You know it's not often that I get requests...

Mc Etcher has an itch over a blue line. Thank goodness its not a double blue line like on a Clear Blue Easy. Heh. For those of you who read me using Firefox, the blue line ought not to be a problem. For those who choose to ride the exploits of Micro$oft, there will be a blue line that seems to strike through "The Big Picture". Figures.

I did test my new design on both browsers and noticed the line issue. Noticing is one thing...fixing it is another. I had someone on a Discussion board recommend some sites to help fix it. I tried and either I failed or the fix wasn't the right fix. So I am at a loss to make this design compatible with both browsers.

Another solution: fix the image. By fix I mean remove the blue line. It is part of the image. Right now Eric is on Big Mama playing civilization. That sounds horribly smutty. I'll translate before I derail any more minds into the gutter: My husband is playing a terribly addictive game on our main computer, the computer with my awesome photo-editor (Corel Photo-Paint 10). I will not even think to attempt .jpeg manip on this laptop where I muse. It can barely open 2 windows at a time. (But I can blog in my backyard - so I am not complaining *too* hard).

So, when I have access to Big Mama, I will rid the world of the fetid blue line.

If that were all it takes to find world peace....ridding the world of blue lines, one line at a time...

There is a new reader among us

I'd like everyone to say "hi" to my mom, who has just informed me that she is reading my blog.

My husband ordered a new fangled computer for her, which arrived last week. The previous incarnation was purchased in 1999 and trudged the internet via a dial-up modem. No wonder using the computer became a chore. Anyway, so she has a spanking new computer AND DSL. So what does hubby do when he sets it up? He gives her the link to my blog, and then tells me. When he did, I panicked. Yes mom, I panicked. I had to go through every entry that I ever wrote (in my head, mind you) and ask myself if it was Parent Certified. (None of my deepest darkest secrets have yet been revealed. Phew!!)

So she comes to pick up Owen for the weekend, and tells me she's read it, and then says

"What ever happened to my little girl who whispered 'excuse me'?"
"Huh?" I am not following the conversation. There is no mention of my clever and cheeky writing, no mention of my wit or brilliance, no mention of trying to break out professionally, or saying she sent the link to absolutely everyone she knows in a moment of parental pride. Nope. Just this question...what the heck?
"You said the word FART for everyone on the internet to read".

Apparently when I was a little girl I was well trained and would say "excuse me" after every toot, regardless if there was an audience.

Oh Well. Times have changed.

I like to tease my mom...

fart fart farty fart and POOP, crap, dump and shit.

how about FUCK?

There. I use those words, albeit sparingly. It's okay mom, you can put your eyes back in your sockets. You have survived the blog test. Permission to read on.

And leave a comment...(yes you ma)

Hell is now clean

I live in a rented house, that has been rented out to other families since the 1950's. As far as rental houses go - its pretty good. Hardwood floors, a nice sized kitchen. There are enough strata of paint that could be easily excavated, catalogued and analysed by any archaeologist. The finish on the floors is wearing off though...the cushioned floor has seen better days and the bathroom is way too small for a gal and four boys. And then there is the basement. We have not have had a good relationship over the past year - considering the earlier trials I had with it ..its not surprising that we've been avoiding each other. My husband divides our labour thus: he does all the laundry - I do things like wash floors and bathrooms. He does the kitty litter too, so I will not complain too loudly about having to clean our microbathroom. So, usually all I have to do is dash down the stairs to procure something out the freezer - something I try and avoid by shirking it on the kids as a favor to mom. But, hubs announced that my dank, musty and I hate to admit mouldy basement was going to be cleaned. Something happens when you start counting points and watching every bit that passes through your lips. It has an exteriorizing effect...like I want to purge all the clutter and junk accumulating. So the basement seemed a natural progression.
With mop in hand - I scrubbed that floor so it smelled like the Pine forests near Jasper National Park. We pitched and turfed, and I freecycled three big bags of neglected toys. Three. They went in less than 1/2 an hour.
My present for my basement? A lamp.

Half-baked thoughts on the Half-Blood Prince

Okay, so I am not a speed reader, but I finished it yesterday. I'll kindly warn anyone who cares, that there are spoilers and so forth, so read with your discretion.

I am yet another one of those who likes to dally in the world of make believe. On the one hand I am overly sentimental of Harry's world. And maybe because of it, I have very high expectations for the development of the story. (And in case any of you are wondering, my Harry is not inspired by Potter. My Harry is a Harrison, a tribute to my all time favorite characters, Han Solo and Indiana Jones. I do remember the early rumblings of Harrymania and thought that it would take away the weird factor of me wanting refer to Harrison as Harry. Which it did.

Overall, I found the story rather bloated. The first couple chapters were irrelavent and made to book slow to develop. They could have introduced Scrimgeour through Weasley Sr or in the Daily Prophet. I have to say, that I was rooting for Snape. I think that is partially because I am such a huge Alan Rickman fan. So, Snape's true colours have been revealed. This, might bend up offering us a twist in the final book. Having Dumbledore trust Snape so uncritically weakens his character. Maybe kids will not make the jump to question his other decisions and choices. I supppose it makes sense in a way to make him a fallible character. I also developed some sympathy for Snape. After learning about being bullied by James Potter, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, I felt bad for the guy. I don't have nearly as much attachment to other staple characters such as McGonagle and Dumbledore. So, I am interested in how his storyline is going to develop in the final segement. Come to think of it, it is Snape, next to Harry that has the most character development. Maybe I am just Snapecentric.


I did not like the way Rowling develop or did not develop the character of Lavender Brown. Essentially, she was Ron's floozie. She had no personality, and I suppose this was done so characters would eventually root for their break-up. Still, I don't think she needed to be a cardboard cut-out. We all know what is coming for Ron and Herminone in the last book, do we not?

I hate the term Death-Eater. Not inventive enough. My humble opinion.

And here is a weird thing. Professor Slughorn refer to Ron as "Rupert" - obviously a way of suggesting how irrelevant Ron is to Slughorn, but why choose the name Rupert? (And in case you are really wondering, Rupert Grint plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter films). What is that all about?

I admit I was fooled throught most of the story - I was convinced that the Half-Blood Prince was Voldemort. I liked the twist, makes perfect sense when you think about it.

As Far as Dumbledore - well I am not all the surprised that he was the sacrificial lamb in this series. We were not given enough history to really care deeply about him. He was desribed as wise and powerful, but I wanted to know a little more about who he was. Maybe those are some of the storylines that authors have to sacrifice in their storytelling. Sounds like a Prequel waiting to be told/sold eh? I heard rumblings that Hagrid might go. I'm glad that didn't pan out.

And the chapter with the Inferi in the lake was waaaay to Deadmarshes. But there isn't a soul writing fanatasy fiction these days who is not influenced by Tolkien in some way or another. Maybe this was a tip of the hat to Tolkien. Who knows.

Predictions: The Gryiffindor's horcrux talisman is going to be Harry's scar.

New Wheels

Like I said. Brand Spanking new wheels. When I drove it off the lot, I clocked it's very first kilometer ever. Now before your imagination gets ahead of you, its a 2005 Dodge Caravan. Silver if you are curious. Roomy enough to fit three children, two adults, one stroller, three lawnchairs, and umbrella, a load a groceries, and the other sundries necessary for any excursion.

So on Thursday Owen and Harry came scrambling in the house. "Mom we getting a new VAN, with a DVD!!" Then I knew that someone when to scout out the lot. We have a 1999 Caravan. Its been very good to us. But, I am sensing its time is nigh. It needs some work. Eric is going to be away most of the fall, and most likely to Afghanistan after Christmas. If anyone followed my adventures last winter...and even if you haven't...I'd rather have a rectal exam than car problems. I do not choose car problems to fit into my paradigm.

Thursday night Owen and Harry asked, "Are we getting the New Van with the DVD...are we huh? When?" "Tomorrow" was not a satisfying answer. The questions abounded until my precious angels were nestled and tucked into their beds (after spiking their OJ with Valium...and do I have to qualify this with a 'Just kidding'?)

So, Friday morning, we packed the whole lot of us bright and early, emptied our van of its contents and off we went. I am not sure what part of my brain told me that it was sane to load the entire crew into the car dealership. Surely, that area was either asleep or lulled by the potential of the smell of new car. Three kids in a car dealership. Can you stop to imagine the hairs that raised on the backs of all those guys in ties? Owen was enamoured with the shiny 2005 Jeep. Harry was chatting up the salesman with his incessant and usually nonsensical questions. Aidan, at first was cooperative. He played quietly on the showroom floor with his Thomas trains, choo chooing and being rather cute. I was so relieved that he was entertaining himself that I was not bothered by the fact that he was sprawed out on a probably very dirty floor.

You see, Aidan has this thing about his Daddy. Daddy is his top priority. I can stand back and giggle since this is all working in my favor you see. Most of the time. On this particular Friday daddy needed to speak to the Financial officer and then needed to make some phonecalls to our insurance company. These are not the sort of things that can be easily accomplished with a 2 year old hanging off your neck. Mike the salesman recommended that we could lock ourselves in the customer waiting room - since there was a TV and some toys. Sounded like a plan. The room was occupied by a grumpy old man watching CNN (London Bombing ad nauseum), and clearly unimpressed with our recent invasion. The toys consisted of a bag of MegaBlocs, which the boys immediately started fighting over.

Aidan decides he is going to be traumatized by being momentarily separated from his father and proceeds to start screaming. Aidan's whine factor is set to lethal. I dragged him out of the room, and headed back to the office to find Eric on the phone - on hold. A screaming exasperated 2 year old was not exactly useful to him at that moment. So I am back in the showroom, and notice a couple of salesmen pitching other potentials...and knew that my screaming brat could cost that one sale. I headed outside. I sat Aidan down in a sort of time out so he could collect himself and I would not have to feel the pressure of being the mom with the screaming brat. I spoke to him calmly, lots of SHHHHHH's otherwise, he was beet red and sticking his fingers in his mouth trying to make himself vomit.

We played this game two or three times. When he was somewhat settled I'd take him back inside and he'd proceed to scream when he realized that daddy was still on the phone and I was not going to take him there. At times, I can imagine myself as a baby shaker. Really.

Then, was all over. We had to come back at 2:30. WE HAD TO COME BACK. It was 11:30. We explained to the boys as best we could what was happening...but there was a collective whine 'I want a new van mommy...not the OLD one! We want a NEW van with a DVD". Spoiled. ugh. Home, lunch, nap (me and Aidan, we were beat from the morning trauma).

We loaded the gang again, and just out of town Eric exclaimes "Shit! I forgot a blank cheque!". We drive home again, with our best explainations about the detour. New Van? DVD? Yes yes...we need to get something...new van? DVD? HOME?!? Why?

On our second attempt to the car dealership, in approximatley the same spot as Eric reminded himself of the cheque he asks "Did you bring a DVD?"

Our first trip in our new van was to Blockbuster.

And there is something precious, darling and gratifying about the look of three children rivited and engrossed, staring at the little picture box on the ceiling. It looks somewhat like Baby Valium (that wonder drug that would rival Viagra)

Oh No not the D word...

I've decided that I am in need of more personal transformation. As if converting to Buddhism, learning to meditate, and quitting smoking we not already enough. I joined Weight Watchers.
I know, boring housewife stuff. Well hello folks...(large neon and chaser light sign pointing in my general direction) Thats what I am...right??

I've never been on a diet before. I loathe any product that says "Diet", "Lo Cal" or "Low Carb". Asparatime makes me want to hurl. I'm not the sort to order Diet Coke with my Whopper Meal. I take my sugar straight-up thank-you very much. I like my double double, sometimes twice a day. I have a litre of coffee cream in my fridge. However, over the past few months, there has been this unpleasant trend. I've been growing out of my clothes. No longer can I fit in my 10's...and recently a 14 is feeling comfortable. Then I noticed this real attractive roll that likes to hang out around the waste of my trousers. Like eww! And my arms suddenly got a little more floppy. Lets not talk about my ass and my underware, please.

So my sister came over for dinner a couple weeks ago. She looks amazing. She told me she lost 20 lbs on Weight Watchers...and I picked her brain about it for the rest of the evening. The next week we were off to my first meeting. I stepped on a scale for the first time in a year. 146.5.
I know to some this is a weight some could only dream about. I was a 110lb waif most of my life (the kind that didnt even need to work at the weight thing...the sort of person dieters outwardly loathed). Now, I am fully aware of the changes the body undergoes during three pregnancies and births...and matters did not help after I quit smoking. My present concern is my cushiony tushy and those love handles. Ick.

So, I am on my 20 point limit for the day...and do you know what folks...I am LIKING it. I must be a closet control-freak. I like the watching-what-you-eat rigamorole. And sure there are times that I could eat sugar coated lard, but I mostly enjoy making these really yummy dishes and beaming to my husband "The whole thing is only 2 points!!" I have discovered that my greatest love and pastime, Indian cooking works very well with Weight Watchers. The vegetarian stuff anyway. I even had some points to spare at the end of supper and now I am enjoying a Mikes Hard Lemonade with my blog. I must be completely fucking mad. Part of me discovered that fundamentally I have decent eating habits. I just cut out all the soda and snacks, watch the amout of oil and portion size. I was positively giddy when I discovered how much 3oz of Tofu really is. By the way, my farts are really pungent. I thought healthy food was supposed to alter one's flatulenic odour? Yeah, you all just needed to know that.

So this is day 4 of my diet. Yeah, I betcha I'll GAIN weight during my first weigh in. That is on Saturday. Until then, I'm going to kick back with my Lemonade and The Half-Blood Prince and imagine a side of popcorn...with BUTTER...

And now Introducing....

The new me!!

Ta da! Now close your eyes and imagine...well after you have read this of course...aucpicious drum roll, the Brass Band, Confetti, Balloons, Fireworks

and free gifts!

[Thank-you for coming to my inaugrual post]

I'll be back soon. A Sick child - hot hot hot weather and of course there is all that time I have been spending on the technical side of things

To subvert or not to subvert - very big questions

Thanks for your input and coversation regarding Owen's breakdown during RotS. You'll be happy to know that he did not suffer any lasting side effects and is currently watching Zaboomafoo. This conversation is slightly reminiscient of the Vatican's position on Harry Potter. I don't think I need to say much more about this other than to reiterate something that Obi-Wan Kenobi said to Anakin Skywalker "Only a Sith thinks in Absolutes".


And now to Completely change the subject: Check it out
http://samsaramom2.blogspot.com/
I am still working on it - so, I'll debue the new template here in the near future. The template is a reworking of Library from not-that-ugly.co.uk If I can take a moment to brag - I am rather impressed. I groped around with CSS for a while and added the comment and archive function all by myself. Had there been a hidden camera in my kitchen you would have seen me hit reload and cheer in self indulgent enthusiasm. I am going to add a few things before the Scribe template has been officially retired.

What I really wanted to write about, is stuff thats happening at work. Not nice stuff. Actually very ugly stuff. But, as you all know, this is one of those grey areas where I could potentially overstep my boundaries. And if I were really honest about how I felt, I could get slapped with some defamation of character lawsuits...should this blog have a wider scope than the handful of my dedicated and utterly appreciated readers. The gist - corruption and tyranny of the majority. That's all I'll say. These decisions will directly impact me. I don't think I'll ever be able offer the course that I taught during intersession again. Its' nothing personal. Its' not about how I taught or what I did, its mostly about the Full-timers pulling rank on the part-timers. Just because they can. I have to stop. That makes me really sad. Teaching that course is more than an academic exploration. Its' personal. And also for the students.

I've been beating my head against a wall for the past two years. I feel that these series of events have offered me a moment for reflection. I am no longer comfortable in my position as a part-time faculty member. How do I read these events? Is it time to jump ship and abandon academia altogether? Is it time to buckle down and get committed to starting my Phd? I am seeing a collection of (seemingly) intelligent adults act so corruptly, self servingly and mean spiritedly - that I wonder if this is what I would be signing up for? I love to teach and learn about my area of interest. I love teaching, I love finding new and interesting ways to reach students, and present the material in unexpected ways. Is staying in academia the only way to achieve this? Do I need to become power hungry and egomaniacal to achieve in academia? Can you be humble in this profession? Can you utterly have problems with power and authority and how it is used to marginalze and silence? Do I need to adopt this view in order to actively subvert it? I am so uncertain. Sometimes I feel that my uncertainty is telling me that this profession is not for me. While at times my determination to keep the plan alive is evidence enough to encourage me to continue on.

I find this so ironic actually. I had a lengthy conversation about this issue (before these recent series of events) with the Acharya during my mediation retreat. He offered me good advice - suggesting that I ought to. He said that its not all that common to hear people who have a passion about doing what they do. After that conversation, I experienced a sense of determination and confidence and wanted to make it happen. I was comfortable and assured in my babysteps towards that goal and no longer seemed overwhelmed and paralysed by the big picture. I am more than ever, more certain and comfortable with who I am and how I go about things.

Heavy issues in my own epic indeed. I want to respond to this situation as opposed to reacting to it. I want my decision to either end my journey in academia or continue on to be a well thought out response rather than a reaction to a series of fucked-up events.

Reach out with your feelings, Use the force.

Star Wars III - Revenge of the Sith debued this weekend for its one weekend showing at the Base theatre. The theatre is one of those military living perks: 2.50 per child and 5 for an adult is a sweet deal for a huge spacious theatre, Dolby Surround and cheap snacks.

Being that I am a soccermom, I packed up the boys and went. Owen and Harry, are (mother created) fans. All is routine at the theatre: the underlying sound of crunching popcorn, Harry going to the bathroom every 20 minutes, and falling asleep during the last 45 minutes. During the scene where Anakin storms the Jedi Temple and confronts a youngling "Master Skywalker what are we going to do?" was no doubt one of the most poignant moments in the film. A couple scenes later, Owen is sobbing I ask what is wrong "What happened to the little boy?' In my best movie theatre whisper I try and explain that Anakin killed him. "Why?"..."Because he turned to the Dark Side"..."Why?" more tears...the kind that flow uncontrollably down one's cheek, despite the will to hold them in.

I was actually getting weepy myself at Owen's very rare outpouring of emotion. He's a typical kid - his emotions tend to be physical or egocentric reactions - so this recent outpouring was different. I suppose I could have felt guilty about taking Owen to a film that was not rated G. But I thought this was a positive thing...I mean empathy is good right? In my experience, its hard to teach these things. I mean, he can take his little brothers favorite toys and then whack him upside the head with a profound lack of conscience and guilt. And you know the lecure about "Imagine how your brother is feeling right now...would you want someone to do that to you?" does not seem to work at the time. Maybe it does? Maybe I no longer have to fear that I am raising a sociopath.

In the van on the way home, he openly sobbed on the way home. I tried to explain that it was good to feel this way. In the back of my mind, I was thinking "what sort of sick and twisted message is he getting from this one?" I just reassured that he was okay. The I tried the "silver lining" technique.."what happy things happened in the movie". This is Revenge of the Sith - you don't get much darker than this folks. I managed to salvage the birth of Luke and Leia as the token happy event (despite the fact that their father has turned to the dark side, their mother dies in childbirth and they are seperated until Return of the Jedi).

I am beginning to realize how profoundly damaging Barney really is. Kids are being fed this sugar coated reality... (or it has some educational worth)...doesn't this perpetuate a fantasy that bad things don't happen? Chalk one up for mom and George Lucas. Reach out with your feelings Owen...

The Cult of the cult

So, here I sit in my kitchen, with my laptop, drinking my raspberry-chocolate flavored coffee. The CBC is yattering in the background. The news has recently returned to normal. The London bombings renewed the media's insistance on only reporting the bad news. There was a slight blip on the badnewsometer as of late: We are clearly numbed and most likely bored of the current atrocites in the Congo, Afghanistan, Palestine, Iraq and the Darfur (to name only a few countries) So, my radar alerted me to Live8 (markeing circus or protest movement, take your pick) The G8 Gleneagles Summit (aka - politicians reclaiming the fiction that they care about anyone but their own western money making agendas)...and of course Tom Cruise, his big mouth, and not so popular opinions.

In one way, I feel rather silly about this composition. For one, the media hype is clearly over. War of the Worlds has been released and now Tom Cruise, and the great big money sucking media machine is reaping its' investments 10 fold. Or more. This is old news. Yet as I was transcribing the notes from my retreat, I was scratching my head after watching Cruise's embarassing tyrade on the Today show, ranting about PPD and promoting vitamins. Then there was all his oddness on Oprah, and the associated chatter about Katie's conversaion to Scientology. The nice thing about the media is that we are somehow forced to care about people who have rather irrelavent jobs. And we treat them with the same respect as we do with our extended family - there is no rumour or tidbit of gossip too damaging to spread. So this had me curious. (And yet I wonder if I am contributing to the great unrelenting media march?)(probably)

I went on a crazed reading frenzy on Scientology.
In my Introduction to Religious Studies course, I teach a section on New Religious Movements, and try as I might, to promote the idea that the word cult is as prejudicial and biogoted as referring to every Muslim a potential terrorist. It's a word that has more baggage than a hollywood starlet. What terms come to mind when you hear the world cult? Brainwashed, mind control, scam, weird, destructive, mass suicide, charismatic meglomaniacs, (to name a few). I ask "given the choice, would you want to join a religion or a cult?" and usually the answer is the same and then I continue preaching - "well why would you give someone else that label? What is that saying about your attitude?"

This attitude and prejudice about New Religious Movements is deeply so deeply ingrained, that I have learned, as a professor, that students are not ready to radically question this term. When I propose how destructive and bigotted this term is, students automatically assume that this means I am okay with all the behaviors and beliefs all traditions promote. (I am not sure what that is about.) If I suggest that the Branch Davidians had a right to choose thier beliefs, and that the most o them were intelligent, compassionate human beings, they assume I defend their actions. Oi! Usually, students come to the conclusion that any non-violent tradition (outside of the Big 5 - Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism) - is a New Religious Movemment and the bad ones are cults. (What about your attitude!! How does that perpetuate violence!!!). In my recent reading the word cult and scientology are expected companions.

Scientology has a developed cosmology, ontology and epistemology - not that any sit well with me. The practice, I think, was developed first - with L. Ron Hubbard's publication Dianetics. It addresses questions most of us are concerned with: why bad things happen and what I can do to change them. Originally, I think some of these ideas were not devised as having any sacred or religious significance. Esentially, our consciousness is imprinted with "engrams" (negative emotions) in traumatic situations which are recalled and reenacted when we are confronted with similar circumstances. Auditing (with or without the e-meter) was developed to rid the consciousness of engrams - and transform the mind from being a reactive agent to an active (and hence in control) agent. Sounds all very milk-toast to me. In fact, I can understand how some people would be attracted to this. It sounds to me as if could have a more positive outcome, say, than praying to a deity...I digress!.

What I am not clear about, is when its cosmology was developed. I think it was after people started practicing Dianetics. Here he presents the view of a galactic federation, Xenu, Thetans, a mountain, H-bomb and so on. You can read the tale anywhere on the net with very little effort. What I am not clear about is how L. Ron Hubbard came to this information. Was it in the form of a revelation? A dream? An alien visitation? I don't know. It is common knowledge that he was a science fiction writer - so how do his sympathizers distinguish his fiction from his facts? And sorry folk, I do not buy into the belief that all members of Scientology are blind followers and will believe anything that they are told.

And what about the countless reports online that Scientologists abuse and even kill dissenting members? Its possible, maybe even probable. Name me a religious tradition that has no blood on its hands. I hear that there is this Christian who claims to be "born again" and is self professed to crusade and rid the world of "evil-doers". He even has comissioned an army to do it for him, and to this date approximately 1800 of his young men and women have died in this holy struggle (and that is nout counting the hundreds of thousands killed, injured and displaced in the country he claims he has "freed") If I tried to convince anyone in the US that the American government should be prosecuted on the same grounds as Scientology, I'd be regarded as the nut. When did it start to make sense that it is not okay for Americans to kill other Americans - but okay to kill Iraqis? How did I get to this place?

I think I am still outraged about London.

Loose Ends

I've been cooking up a post about the current Scientology frackas. I know I know...everyone has an opinion about the recent Op-ed from our friendly neighbourhood Scientology missionary Tom Cruise. Actually I have not been reading all that much in support of the man who immortalized OId Time Rock and Roll. I am not sure if I am going to be offering much in Tom's defence - but I tbink its as close as we can get without spewing full fledged Scientology apologetics. I have to admit that I was quite tempted to perform bloggus interruptus when when transcribing my notes from my retreat. So, you have all been warned!!

The Pilgrimage of Litany - With profound sadness I announce the end of the current incarnation of Litany's Pilgrimage from Alaska to Chile. An unbelieveable number of unforseen circumstances came into conjunction - a pregnancy, knee injury and family illness contributed to its premature conclusion. You can catch the best of TPoL right now. Best of Luck Litany...hope you continue to blog!

The School Blog - For those of you already in the know, I introduced blogging to a course I taught during Intersession (May 2005). This was an experiment that I decided to try with a smaller class short -term course. If the blogging was distasterous, it would only be short lived. Many students loved it, and I had alot of feedback to try and convince my colleagues who have their students post their work via HTML or discussion boards that blogging is the way to go. That was an unexpected surprise. It was an amazing way for students to share their work, and many of them enjoyed being able use the comment feature. I also discovered some new things while offering a course which integrates blogs: to focus on the comments and to use them for pedagogical purposes. It was a positive experience. I am going to continue using it in September. One other thing I learned was that I need to limit who can leave comments - to only the course members - anyone else will need my permission. This is not for elitist purposes - its a way to prevent malicious spam. My students blogs were hit pretty serverely recently - and it was pretty bad (key words such as mother-son incest...YUCK!!) The freaks of this world really seem to want to ruin anyone's good clean fun.

Thumbs up from me and the class!!

Post-Retreat Re-entry:
I have had some inquiries as to how I fared upon my return. I got home in the late afternoon. Eric had not arrived back from his trip to Montreal with the kids (he visited his family while I was away). So I had a bit of time to organize myself, find out what was going on in the world, deal with my e-mail etc. Incidentally, I wondered why I check the news so frequently...since nothing really happens in the course of a week! The gang arrived home shortly after - and then I realized how spacey I was. I seriously felt like I was on some good 'ludes!! This was an amazing after affect...I was calm, content, very euphoric - while at the same time I was very sharp mentally (unlike you would expect with a couple good Quaaludes). The experience was lasting. I've been trying to wake up every morning for a sitting - but it is hard to predict at times when the kids will rise. I was also really sensitive for a couple days afterwards...being with people who are keen on dealing with their own baggage and not projecting it on to others is an amazing experience - I was not quite prepared to deal with the rough edges when I came home. I allowed myself to become really vulnerable and soft while I was away, and was not expecting to have to deal with other people's bullshit. It made me very sad actually - that others don't seem to care that their harsh attitudes and opinions have a profound affect on others. It made me realize have much I put up with - how calloused I've become, while at the same time, it is pretty easy to shed. So, re-entry was both smoothe and rough. So Buddhist eh?

Oh, and one last thing
Here they are

Day 7 Friday

Editorial Note: This is the last post about my retreat! Thanks to my biggest fan Hotboy for following my every move (pun intended).

I've completely lost track of time. I had to look back a few pages to see what day I am on
(note: and even that day was wrong!!)

Practice went well today. Imagine that! I seemed to be able to calm things down. I don't feel so frantic or "loud" . I've been able to focus on my breathing for longer periods, the anger and frustration from borebom has been quelled to some degree. I have discovered how to effectively work with my body while sitting - I have been learning about the best posture for me. I can mov my spine subtly and alleviate any irritation. Sometimes I think squirming makes the situation worse!! The comment I heard yesterday about practice being a prison actually had some effect.

I also realized how much energy my body generates (ever 28 days) - tons of energy. I tend to channel it into anger and frustration. I am wondering if I could turn it into something else. I wonder if I am just choosing the negativity. I am wondering how to choose again. Its simple to come to these conclusions in ones head, but another story to make it corporeal. Or is it? Is it as simple as tapping a thought and calling it "thinking"? The negativity is hard to escape when menstration is still a hush hush subject. We still can't even deal with the fact that it's RED ladies...not BLUE like the maxi pad commercials tell us. There are few women I meet who relish this experience. While it's regarded as a pain in the ass most of the time, it's also a welcome sight. Not seeing it come is far scarier if you're not in the market for some offspring. But I digress. What I experienced - which can only be described as a simple, very normal very unelaborate conclusion is that energy is just energy - the ego is just offering it some perspective.

Otherwise I spent most of the day working on my focus - gently letting go of thoughts and returning to the breath. It felt very good for the most part. Very normal and very sane,

If meditation is like sailing - I've managed to steer successfully throught the choppy waters, and on relatively manageable waters. It's not still, but I am rocking gently up and down, contented for the time being.

Day 6 Thursday

Practice is starting to soften up around the edges. My monthly fertility reminder reminded me that all is working this morning. This explains much of my restlessness and frustration over the past couple of days. Were I not sitting, I'd be a cranky old hag with water retention. I am surprised I was not more aware of this source of inner irritation.

I had a converstion with the teacher of the program. I am finding that my practice tends to be a little heavy handed...I think I have offered the gist of that. It's surprising how loud one can be inside one's own head. In some ways it's better just to sit with the loudness - because I know very well that were I not sitting with it, I'd be letting it leak out all over the place. I was offered some sagely advice on lightening up - it takes some getting settled into the practice to realize my inner drill seargent is barking out THINKING...she morphs into the inner kindergarten teacher and all is lovely. I am still dealing with some physical stuff - but with much less frequency and intensity.

This afternoon the umdze read a letter written by Chogyam Trungpa for Dathun participants (once upon a time). I heard one thing I really needed to hear: Don't look at walking meditation, tea time, mealtime, work period as a break, or meditation will seem like a prison. So screamingly obvious eh? How come it takes me this long? But, this is what sitting is starting to become for me. I go there willingly, but in the same vein as I do to go clean my bathroom. I know that sounds ridiculous for someone who paid good money to attend a week long meditation intensive. Sometimes its just too much for me to sit with the my aches and pains and annoyed state of mind. Do I look at the pending hour long sitting with delight and enthusiasm? Nah...I brace myself. I'm annoyed that I am annoyed. I suppose that makes sense on one level - but I can see how it is colouring my practice. Why I choose to stay with that is as much as a mystery as Sasquatch. I suppose I idealize those who enter the practice with exuberance... I imagine that RaBliss is exemplary of this attitude...

Facing the same frustrations in each sitting - allowing the anger/frustration/irritation get the better of me, then labelling it as thinking, returning to the breath seems so simple - yet I can't seem to get it together when I need to the most. The good news is that I am working with this one thought at a time. Thats the lovely thing about sitting. Each moment is only a moment, and there is only room for so much...then things become workable. I can see how focusing on my inner b/s changes a raindrop into a torrential downpour, until it eventually errodes whatever ground I have attempted to establish. Going back to the raindrops is more manageable.

Here is my embarasssing story for the day:

Lunchtime. Oryoki lunch. I escape mindfulness (as usual), and think to myself "Gee I am really starting to get the hang of this". You know I am getting the whole choreography, in order to develop some panache or elegance for ornamentation purposes. It was not 2 or 3 minutes later when the bowl slipped out of my hand and onto my lap. And the amazing thing was that I was feeling rather confident of my grip - it was if some unknown force thought the soup looked better in my lap than in the bowl. Because eating is done without conversation, everyone looked. You know, it's a tangable experience to see all heads and eyes turn to your general direction. Nothing better than a side of public humiliation with your soup.

I'd like to thank the higher beings whom I offer a pinch of rice to everyday that my bowl was only 1/4 full...or 3/4 empty...depending on how you want to look at it.