Spooktacular Events

I think it was Holy Hub, who is ever the pragmatic and dare I add a reluctant if late blooming partyer ~ and his third muttering that we would have been better off to book a pool party, order a pizza there and call it a day rather than continue on with this spooktacular howler set for Holy Daughter's 9th birthday party tonight ~ that clued me in.

I would like to be one of those Moms that sets out cake and ice cream, has a civilized gift opening, and succumbs to the wild excess of a pin the tail on the donkey game for good measure, but I'm beginning to realize, that probably ain't gonna happen on my watch.

And I'm OK with that. Not everyone in this house is, but I will go to my grave defending that excess and Halloween actually share the same etymological root derivative.

Speaking of graves and roots and nonesuch, the party today is a graveyard one. Holy Daughter wanted to go a bit goth and creepy this year. So we put out strict orders that no one was to come dressed as a cute puppy, pretty princess or kitschy cartoon character. We switched the dining and family room furniture around - thankfully there wasn't much in the family room to begin with, and have set this room, which shares space with the kitchen, up as a haunted dining room with some Frankenstein costume-clad tall candlestick holders looking on. And I'm happy to report that once lights get turned off and candles lit, the room will be quite creepy and most kooky, mysterious and spooky, maybe even altogether ooky, just like the Schmidty family.

My little Vampiress wants to watch one of the scarier episodes of Goosebumps with her 8 friends in the dark downstairs and then after dinner, we're going to send the bravest of ghouls out to the backyard, where we'll have a Boneyard Cemetery set up, to collect bones for prizes.

All of which has entailed hours of planning and set-up for a 3-hour tour. A 3-hour tour.

I know. I totally get it. But I think it's about taking a stance upon familiar soil. Do I want to stand for lame parties and even lamer treat bags? Never in good conscience could I do so and be able to look myself in the hair eyeball of the morning mirror again. Nor could I stand way over there, at that blowout party extraganza place, which even now in my mind's eye, resembles more of a tailgate bash than the annual celebration of a child's birth. My kids have been to parties like that. Where every child in the Western Hemisphere was invited and where stacks of presents were presented and left unopened.

We've never permitted more than 8 or 9 friends and even that seems excessive, especially given the fact that both kids only have one or two friends they truly count as their closest companions.

So yeah, I kinda get my place in the mix - I like to think I stand on that middle ground soil. But after another equally anal PTA Mom and I planned Holy Daughter's year-end class carnival picnic last year and people were oohing and ahhing over all the little details that this other Mom and I thought nothing of (truth be told, we thought a lot of it was kinda lame given our limited time and budget), I realized that maybe I am a breed apart when it comes to event details. Color coordinating and decor and little chutzkahs have always mattered to me. Even back in the days when we were planning our first annual Christmas open house I can recall getting hung up on matching napkins to plates. It's a genetic flaw, I'm sure - I now know I come by it honestly - my birth family are party throwers extraordinaire. And I know that some of it has come from being so often thrust into the role of event planner in my career this past decade.

But I also get that life is long on fear, droll duty and disaster - especially of late - and rather short on fun. I'm channelling a little of that medieval carpe diem spirit which I know rhymes with evil, but it doesn't take a degree from a Freudian college to figure out that fun, feast, and frivolity are perfectly natural human responses to doom, gloom, and tomb.

Methinks the lady doth protest too much and perhaps that's true. But it's my soapbox so I get to hog the mic and defend, on behalf of anal home birthday party planners everywhere, our right to party plan.

A month ago, as all 5 of you faithful readers out there will recall, I went off on what I like to think of as a bit of a midlife coming of age rite. It felt, looked and acted a whole lot like a native naming ceremony might - I figuratively went out to the wilderness to figure out my role in this large tribe called earth and then owing to my already near-elder stature, I named myself. We worked a lot with figuring out our stances and lesser known but equally impactful defining moments in life, as a way to get clear on what we stood for and showed up as important to us. Early on in this process, it became clear to me that commemorating rites of passage was important to me. Everything from the sacred - milestone birthdays and events - to the profane - hitting my wild thing musical button everytime I accomplished some menial task - has meaning for me.

And so it is that I got tested not even a month later. And that's cool. I can't lie and say I don't feel uncomfortable with being mocked and held at gunpoint at trial for my excessive ways. That's not fun. But it's who I am and I finally own that now. I'm the one that gets the red carpet rolled out at party stores. They see me coming and their response is positively Pavlovian. So be it. It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it.

Same, same with Holy Hub. He takes a stand for quality barbecuing. It's a source of great pride for him as a Weber grill owner. He seldom buys anything but the best cuts of beef or most succulent breeds of salmon. He's also a Webernation member, which is an elite secret society of grill snobs who make it their business to evangelize grill owners of inferior brands as to the Truth of barbecue salvation. No word of a lie - he even has the marketing materials - buttons, stickers, brochures - to prove it.

So we all have our thing, our quirks, our ideosyncracies. For my sister-in-law, it's compulsively folding plastic bags into little triangles whereas for me, it's the tiny details on a party table.

To each their own, this above all, to thine own self be true, and all that crap.

On that note, I have a party that needs tiny details on the table. Pictures at 11.

Canada Votes

I have my priorities wrong, apparently. I hopped over to CBC.ca to check out the winning anthem for Hockey Night in Canada and inadvertently clicked on the Canada Votes tab.

The Hockey Night in Canada theme song is THE voting concern in the nation, is it not? Apparently there's this other little matter of a federal election happening on Tuesday. PM Stephen Harper is worried - plagued as he's been this past while by Afghanistan expenditure disclosures, plagiarism issues and the usual dissent in the east ~ so who knows how that will all go. And let's face it - it's always a crap shoot. Canada's disproportionate election process is equally as snafu as the American electoral college. The election is almost always decided before polls have even closed in the west.

Anyways, of the real vote - Hockey Night in Canada - I'm tickled that my shortlisted favourite won. This will be his claim to fame - or in hockey language, he shoots, he scores!

Have a listen.

OCTaves

It's been one of those weeks. The best of times, the worst of times. Not getting much done but not beating myself up too terribly about it either.

It's already Thursday as the crow flies - speaking of which, I had a crow almost fly right into my windshield this morning heading the wrong way. Aren't I supposed to be chasing him? Very ominous. I'm watching my back.

We had a crow fly right into an open window of our living room back in 1988. That was creepy because it wasn't like it was all that easy to just all of a sudden be flying along the north end of Halifax harbour like that and then suddenly, end up as a crash-landed wingnut on our floor. He must have already been nose diving. I remember wondering at the time if it was some kind of foreboding sign about our upcoming nuptials later that summer. I made sure no pictures were accidentally or even purposely knocked over and soon forgot about it.

I like when Monarch butterflies appear on my shoulder, for they signal rebirth, change and metamorphosis. But crows are just all around bad news. There's an old dittie about crows that goes like this - one is for bad news, two is for mirth, three is a wedding, four for a birth, five is for riches, six is a thief, seven a journey, eight is for grief, nine is a secret, ten is for sorrow, eleven is love, and twelve is joy on the morrow.

I saw one but I'll keep my eyes out for more - I'll take mirth or weddings any day over bad news.

And then just a few minutes ago, I heard the distinct sound of someone's voice ring out to me from upstairs. I'm home alone but I wondered if perhaps I might have left the garage and house doors open such that a neighbor was poking her head in. I went upstairs but the doors were locked and there was no one there. OK, very creepy.

I heard the song Psycho Killer on the radio earlier this morning. Which reminds me, I'm completely digging this heated leather seat and satellite retro radio thing in my mornings now. It so makes the commute to the old neighborhood almost worth it. But anyhoo, welcome to my brain. It's a pinball machine at times. So I heard this song and I thought to myself, yes, that's kinda like my anthem lately. Psycho Killer.

You know that fine line between genius and insanity? As Oscar Levant quipped, I think I've erased it. I vacillate between wanting to kill something and create something each and every day lately. I'm never quite sure which way the pendulum will swing.

Seriously though, I do have this kind of Frankensteinian energy but nowhere to direct it. I've been like the madwoman in the attic, feverishly concocting creativity modules for our weekly Artist's Way class. It's been very enlightening. I can't wait for our week on Abundance. I'm going to resurrect that old game, Masterpiece - do you remember that game? Even though I knew nothing of art history, I loved that game. Except I always ended up with forgeries, which really sucked wind.

I'm going to have the participants create a work of art of their choosing the week prior to class, and then unbeknownst to them, I'm going to auction the works off to the highest bidder in the group - whoever is feeling the most generous with her Monopoly money. Everyone will assign their own arbitrary value on the back of their artwork prior to class and then we'll debrief after the game and deconstruct the process. What was liberating and conversely, what felt uncomfortable? Did we bid on our own work? Why or why not?

I think there will be some interesting stuff come up around the issues of worth and self-worth, vis-a-vis our creations. I already know what I'm making. I'm going to nab this glass head from Pier 1 Imports, tart the face up a bit, maybe glue some earrings and hair on and maybe affix a brain inside and I dunno - we'll see.
But anyways, I am a walking, talking creativity bibliography lately. In fact, if you're looking for a book on creativity and you live in my area, don't bother checking the local library: I have them all. Who knew there were so many books on the topic? Who knew? I have another blog, Quinndskmo, where one fine day I hope to get around to posting the myriad creativity and writing bibliographies I've been amassing.

October is always a bit of a creative and festive month in the Schmidthaus. Canadian Thanksgiving is sneaking up way too early this month - we've invited our neighbors over for a feast Sunday afternoon. They lost their middle-aged son just this past spring so it's been a tough year for them. He died of a sudden heart attack. They were very close - he would come over for dinner like clockwork once a week. The kids really like them - Holy Daughter is forever running treats over to their dog and visiting and just generally annoying them with her presence.

And then we head into birthday party planning for Holy Daughter. She wants to have a spooky Halloween party - no princesses and cute fairies - it's all ghosts, goblins and ghouls. As it turns out, she's mostly inviting boys. We'll set up a cemetery in the backyard (perfect solution for our dirt pit of a yard) and send the kids on a bone hunt. And we'll do an indoor scavenger hunt. One year, I vow not to go overboard. But not this year.

And then there's Halloween itself. Holy Son wants to fly below the radar this year - 7th grade now, so he's cool, right? I may see if I can talk him into doing Mr. Candyman again - make it an annual tradition - except this time, we'll get him a bona fide, stylin' suit. He unloaded about 10 lbs. of candy off his suit jacket last year...and met most of the girls in his school as a result.

But Holy Daughter is going for the gusty - she has to top last year's costume, when she dressed as a potted flower. This year, she wants to dress as Snoopy, the Red Baron. We have the aviator gear and scarf but we need to figure out the Snoopy head. Go big or stay home - that's my Halloween motto. Case in point, check out my camel costume - my best Halloween costume ever - courtesy of my Birth Mom and Grandma Ring Around the Rosie. I totally had it going on that year. Holy Hub dressed as an Arab sheik (pre-9/11 when you could still be politically incorrect), and other friends of ours dressed as a harem girl and an Indian swami. Suffice to say, we garnered a lot of attention.

Can't wait 'til I'm old enough to start going out for Halloween again. I miss the Halloween hooplah.

Wassup & Other Nonsuch

We've been knocking back OJ, frying bacon, cooking eggs and griddlin' waffles in honor of the OJ sentencing - 13 years to the day he was acquitted for the murder of Nicole.

Talk about karmic payback. I still can't see a white SUV and not think of him.

Anyhoo, that was SO breakfast. Lunch this weekend was an overdose of church meetings sandwiched between soccer games and Nutcracker rehearsals. I'm now teaching in Holy Son's middle school class, where we romp through world religions at nanosecond speed. Owing to the auspicious occasion of the Jewish high holy days right now, we're on Judaism.

And dinner is of the hamburger variety - school bbq Friday night, and then the kids and I had a burger last night at A&W - I love Teen burgers but A&W has not been available in Washington State until just recently, I presume. This particular A&W is situated in a precarious area near the Sam's Club - some weirdo walked into the A and dub and he started cussing and yelling up a storm - Holy Hub noted to the kids that that's what happens when you do drugs. Umm, yup, pretty much. We saw quite a few homeless men wandering the streets with their shopping carts as well.

We were there, as I noted, to check out the Sam's Club. I was so curious about Sam's Club, I made everyone stop what they were doing yesterday afternoon so we could go check it out. I had no idea it was Costco. Why didn't someone tell me that? Jeesh. So of course, owing to its look and act and smell like Costco-ness, we spent way too much money on stuff we probably don't need.

But it was the post-dinner kick-back that was most energizing. Hockey season is back - which means the snow should be flying soon somewhere - let it not be here! - and CBC Sports was busy hyping the new Hockey Night in Canada anthem.

They're down to 5 finalists - we listened to them all - not bad, the lot of them - but there was one clear winner in my mind. Have a listen and see if you can guess my pick.

Don't you hate those games ~ Guess what I'm thinking, come on, you know you want to? Like you care. Or maybe you do. Or maybe you don't. Some do, some don't, some will, some won't, I might. Vote for my pick, that is.

To Be or Not To Be

As some of you know, I was away on a spiritual retreat this month. It was only a few miles from my home but quite honestly, it felt as though I was a world apart in terms of where my headspace was at.

The retreat center was located on the water overlooking a particularly lovely setting in the Puget Sound. Our vista was the westward, Olympic Mountains view and the weather was hot with crisp blue skies each day.

The nature of the retreat was about getting some clarity around who I am, what makes me tick and then, celebrating that essence, that spirit. Sounds hokey, right? I thought so, too. My initial thought was, "Yeah great, but so what? I don't care about my Being-ness....I care about knowing my Doing-ness."

But what I realized, in retrospect (and it took me five days to 'get' this) - was that cutting to the doing-ness part is a little like putting the cart before the horse. I needed to get at the animal of my Spirit. And incidentally, as I think about that - the animal of my spirit - the animal that comes to mind for me is raven. But that's neither here nor there.

I can't lie and say the retreat was all fun and games. We were a group of 17 in communitas away from our larger communities, and as is the case with throwing any 17 people together into a relatively controlled environment, we were all vastly different in our worldviews, demeanors and energies. And yet what connected us was Love, arguably the only true Real thing that exists. And therein lies the magic and beauty of connection.

The retreat was also about finally stepping into my own shoes. Think Cinderella and the glass slipper minus the fairy prince and imagined fantasy life thereafter. I can't tell you how massively powerful that ownership and affirmation of Beingness is. All I can say is wow. It's huge, huge, priceless stuff. Finally daring to look deep enough to examine who I am, how I show up in the world, what I value most, and what my role in the larger tribe of life is. It was hard, freakin' work, let me tell you and for awhile I doubted if I had dug deep enough.

But finally, finally, self-acknowledgement came. It came to me late on the last night of the program. It spoke to me in code, actually. I went to bed that final evening with an incredibly sore and constricted throat. And it wasn't until I was able to process this in retrospect the next day, that I finally got it. The essence of who I am, since time immemorial, is about voice.

Prior to that, I had spent much of the weekend focused on what I perceived others might think of or define me to be. Was I too this or that? Was I maybe not enough that or the other thing? It was driving me crazy - most especially when coupled with my rejection filter. And more importantly, it was inhibiting me from doing the real excavation work. Once I stopped doing that and acknowledged and fully embodied that it is none of my business what others think of me, then and only then did I finally get to the real work. I got alone with me and I got real.

Who I am is Inukshuk Speaks, which is esoteric-speak for a wealth of things. I chose to be visual and spiritually totemic in identifying my essence because well duh....I'm a visual and spiritual kinda gal.

An Inukshuk, for the non-Canadians in the audience, is an Inuit stone figure, akin to a mountain cairn, that looks eerily human in shape. It is a sacred show and teller, of sorts. It serves to mark and commemorate the site of key tribal events and it also acts as a silent navigator, guide and way-shower for those lost upon the roads less travelled in Canada's netherland Arctic.

It's no accident I should choose this. I've always been hugely attracted to all things northern and Eskimo. My maiden name is Quinn and my favourite song growing up was The Mighty Quinn (when Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody's gonna jump for joy). I used to sing it whenever we played Eskimo on the playground as kids (what else was there to do on a minus forty day in northern Alberta, I ask of you?). One of the things I miss most about living in Alberta is being able to see and be dazzled by the Northern Lights.

But the affinity doesn't stop there. I am, if nothing else, the voice of truth and justice in the dark, the epitome of the road less travelled, and I am the commemorator in my family of all things sacred and profane. Being a guide or navigator is what I've always done in life ~ it has just taken many forms, is all.

I was one of two college class valedictorians honoured with being able to commemorate our time by cracking a joke or two. I have always worked in tourism ~ doing destination tour guiding, hotel show 'n tell site inspections and business consulting on next-step kinds of directions. My business name - how's this for a little northern altitude/attitude syncronicity? - is Summitup. And my current role, a la this particular era of my life, is as Speed Demon Driver and Satellite Radio Controller of the Honda Pilot, as well as Chief Cheerleader and Guidance Counsellor to the small Schmidts.

Anyways, I share this long diabribe - not because it's profound but because it's affirming. I have been running from affirmation all my life. Affirmations scare the living hell out of me, I guess because there's so much power in affirmation and because I've heard through the grapevine that they work. It's like being the ventriloquist's puppet who after a long time lying crumpled and lifeless on the shelf, comes to life when the breath of the great Animator breathes sound through the pipes. Scary stuff. Amazing schmidt happens (my nose no longer grows and I stop punishing myself and running off with the burlesque crowd), when I finally speak my truth and claim Who I am.

I finally owned a week or two back that I am here to Speak and give voice to my essence as Still navigator and way-shower.

After trying on so many odd pairs of shoes, I finally found the One(s) that fit and I feel like I've finally found that missing piece of me that got lost with my placental matter at birth.My wise-sage daughter, who is all of 8, asked me when I got back Sunday night ~ after having lived on much laughter, many tears, and very little sleep during the course of five days that felt more like a year and the journey of a thousand miles ~ "what was it like, Mommy?"

And I said, "Well...it was a little like being thrown into an old-fashioned wringer-style washing machine and then chucked into a dryer on gentle cycle with a bunch of warm, fuzzy towels." I'm not sure she got it and that's OK. I did. Finally!

Which brings me to my final thought. This spring, during a similar but more profoundly cathartic retreat, I wrote these words to myself: "I live happily ever after on a moment-by-moment basis, and die erect like the trees to the same ~ death will kill me standing up."

Those words meant several things to me - that happiness lies in the Now, that all life is rebirth, and that my actions will pen my epitaph. But now, in light of my new self-vision, I can honestly attest that "death will kill me standing up" has renewed meaning and vitality for me.

I now see the ground upon which I stand ~ where I have lived and upon where I shall die. It is where I have always stood. My legs no longer feel shakey when I stand there.

I now understand the notion of be-longing. It's that primordial place I've longed to Be. It's my solid ground and my stake in the world and I am eternally grateful that I got to do this soul-search before I died, instead of croaking and then getting called in for death detention into the office of The Maker, who would have sternly asked me, "It's a little late now, Missy, but do you have any idea or inkling of Who you were supposed to Be?" and then having to mumble in shame, "no friggin' clue, oh Hallowed Universe ~ please, do tell!"

The End but to be continued...as always.

Stuff in My Head

Time Keeps on Slipping
As August fades into September, I’m always reminded of the wheel of time and the return of annual rites which seem to slip away in summer’s grasp but return in vengeance each autumn. Rites of passage such as the kids’ re-traipsing back to school following Labor Day ~ another year older, wiser and readier to risk and take hold of their stake in the world.

Holy Daughter is more excited than ever – despite the fact that we’re in the midst of a teacher’s strike that has postponed the start of school until God knows when. She’s excited because her school is brand-new.

And I look forward to returning, strike dependent, to my own fall rites – cocooning into creative projects like writing and volunteering and Christmas prep and new this fall – facilitating The Artist’s Way class at my Church, as well as hopefully finding the courage to splash colour on the walls of this old house.

With this seasonal return comes the eternal return to community, or in our case, overlapping communities. Soccer, ballet, Irish Dance, Scouts, Brownies, seminars, church committee all beg their place in the weekly schedule this fall, as do the inevitable Nutcracker rehearsals for both kids (Holy Daughter was cast as a Snowflake in Act I – a beautiful dance for a beautiful girl; and Holy Son, despite having grown another couple of inches, is once again playing the roles of the nephew, Nutcracker King and the Nutcracker Prince – handsome roles for a handsome boy).

I like how time circles back upon itself, shapeshifting the landscape from year to year so the soil appears freshly tilled and fertile, and the vistas, brand new visions. It is an Eliotian pilgrimage, of sorts, for to journey back in sacred return on any repeat visit is to “arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

Never mind that said arrival is beginning to feel more and more like I’m riding a high-speed express train between years, akin to the train one might ride between airport terminals. Like that time and space between terminals, such a ride between the years feels innocuous, vacuous, and liminal. I am more sensitive to this sacred circling and dance than ever before – how it leads me to retrace my steps precisely with slight changes to the choreography to add some salsa to the mix.

I had the opportunity to experience this déjà-vu feeling firsthand this past weekend when Holy Hub, the kids and I travelled to Orcas Island for a mid-week camping trip.


Holy Hub and I had not been to Orcas in 15 years but it was prophetic that we should return exactly 15 years, almost to the month, since we had last stepped foot off the ferry landing there. Orcas was the site of an intensely personal retreat course we both attended (individually and separately within the span of a few months). I remember falling in love with the island in all its rugged and rustic beauty. It was little wonder, when asked to project ahead 15 years and imagine my life then that I should conjure a vision of Holy Hubby and I living on the west coast with two adolescent children, as yet unborn in thought and form. At the hedonistic age of 27, having to picture my life 15 years much less 15 minutes into the future was a long-term visioning exercise akin to walking over hot coals, which is to say an alternative form of hell.

And so it would be foretold that this prairie girl would find herself moving not just to the other side of the world, but to the west coast within 15 years, with same Holy Hub, two kids and considerably more baggage in tow. I confess, I’m a little disappointed that the huge timber-framed house with the panoramic window overlooking the Puget Sound which was the locale for my west coast family vision did not seem to come to fruition.

Alas, here is the water view out our kitchen/side deck window.

It is a lesson in living and dreaming and scheming, nonetheless. One I’ve not forgotten but one I’ve been more than a little afraid to recreate. It’s the old adage - be careful what you wish for: you just might get it.

And so here we are. And here I am, setting out to retrace the creative labyrinth, or manifest quest, as I like to call it, in communitas with other trepid creative types this fall, who fear not our inadequacies, but our “power beyond measure.” I’ve been shrinking and playing small for awhile now (even as my waistline of late suggests the opposite) but I can see, in kabalistic retrospect, that I have done so in tsimtsumic gesture. Just like God is said to have done in those penultimate moments of earthly creation, I withdrew inward in order to provide space for my darling creations to expand, evolve and flourish these past couple of years. And they have.

But I had a little lightbulb moment on this trip – when we were doing a little round table session where each family member had to say a couple of complimentary things about another member. Suffice to say the kids were at a loss as to what to say about their dear old mom. Oh sure, the usual suspects attached to the daily grind of life showed up. Chauffeur, homework-helper, etc. Not that I was expecting them to articulate their eternal gratitude that I have helped them to find and live up to their highest potential. Nothing so grand as that but I got me to thinking about my own highest potential and if I am somehow playing small by being a stay-at-home mom. And suffice to say, it got me to thinking about what kind of familial epitaph statement I want my kids to recite from their hearts at my funeral. And… “Here lies Mom. We’ll sure miss her. She always let me steal gum from her and let us listen to Radio Disney in the car.”…is not it.

On that note, I’m heading on a personal development retreat next week, aimed at giving me some more clarity on what the hell I’m actually doing on this planet. Carving out four and half days away from home with our schedule is no small feat. Holy Hub will virtually be working half-days (or no days if the strike continues) and taking the weekend off, to do the school and after-school activity runs. But the departure from the norm will be great. Perhaps the kids will see that I am more than a chauffeur and homework-helper. Somehow I doubt that. The more likely scenario is that I’ll return home with less of a vested interest in how they see me and more validation for how I see me. The wise adage that it’s none of my business what others think of me is one I continue to struggle with. It’s all part of the journey, I guess.

Nerve Endings
Speaking of journeys, my healing journey continues. My right hand and arm got wratched in the accident this summer. The whiplash has gotten progressively worse so I’ve started getting treatments at a naturopathic health clinic/college. They’ve implemented a multi-week regime for me that will encompass a combination of ultra-sound, massage and chiropractic therapy. The regular MD prescribed a night-time medication for me to help ease the nerve pain I was waking up with, but it turns out neuro medication moonlights as an anti-depressant. I stopped taking it. I wasn’t noticing much difference in the morning pain department but I was starting to feel a kind of heart palpitation feeling, not to mention an uncomfortable dry-mouth.

Chronic nerve pain sucks. But I consider we were most fortunate, in retrospect, to have sustained as minimal of injuries as we did, considering this was a high-speed vehicle collision.

Need for Speed
Not that anyone can ever accomplish much of a high-speed around here, with all the rubber neckers and gawkers. I have never seen anything so inane in my life as watching traffic come to a standstill on a freeway because there’s an abandoned vehicle on the side of the road or because there are construction cones on the roadside or because said drivers need to put their bifocals on to read the blinking traffic advisory sign board overhead. And don’t even get me started about traffic in the rain. You would think Seattlites would know how to drive in the rain…not. There’s some kind of strange correlation between the wiper blades swishing back and forth across the windshield and brake riding. I don’t get it.

Auto Pilot
And of vehicles, I have to say, we’ve owned Violet the Pilot (a.k.a. “the beast”) for almost a month now and true confession: I’m kinda digging the sunroof, heated leather seats (but not the fact that it was so cold one day this August, it merited a flip of the switch), and the satellite radio features. Holy Hub had what might be called a mini conniption when he discovered I had the XM dial tuned to Oprah & Friends – I love hearing Nate Berkus on the radio. He’s practically the most gorgeous man ever. And his boyfriend, Brian Atwood, isn’t too shabby either. Which reminds me of my first experience walking into a gay bar. It was a jaw-dropping experience on many accounts but most especially because never before had I seen a room full of such good looking men gyrating to techno music. I remember thinking, ohmigosh, THIS is where they’ve all been hiding! See how my mind works? I can go from vehicles to gay bars in just zero to 12 seconds.

Brain Food
But that’s not my fault. Blame it on the random firings of my neurons. I’m reading this fascinating book, This Is Your Brain On Music. I’ve been intrigued with music and brain patterning for awhile now, on account of the fact that the sound of music, like scent, is a great tool for tapping the memory wells. And on account of the fact that my son, the budding cellist and bass guitarist, is beginning to think and hear life in beats, which is sort of Last Mimsy woo-woo, but it’s also more than a little cool. I don’t necessarily make the same musical connections.

The author is a rock musician/producer turned cognitive psychologist and neuroscientist, who has penned such a terrific book for us nerdy types who are eternally intrigued, in a mysterium tremendum et fascinans kinda way, with all things neurological. He also dummies things down, which is no easy task, given that many of us musical neophytes struggle with discerning a staccato from a stiletto and a vibrato from a vibrator.

Memory Lane
You may be wondering how I can tie vibrator to my next trainwreck of thought. Well actually, it segues quite nicely to the latest book I’m reading ~ Loose Girl: a memoir of promiscuity. I have read so many memoirs these past couple of years, that I, too, feel more than a little voyeuristic and promiscuous. Can one be promiscuous in a literary way, I wonder? It was weird and somehow affirming to pop into a little indie bookstore on Orcas Island recently and recognize so many past-read titles throughout the store. I even saw a weight loss book by Mike Huckabee.

Political Madness
To be honest, the Orcas trip, up until that point, was a nice respite from the non-stop political madness this nation seems gripped in. And I do mean madness. How is it possible that campaigning has been allowed to overshadow real politics? Bush and Cheney have been arrogantly resting on their laurels, watching the campaign debacle with amusement, no doubt. In some ways, that bodes well for the Democrats. On sunny days, I trust beyond the shadow of a doubt that Obama will get elected. Because he stands for peace and equality and community building. But then the Republican fear-mongering blows upwind towards the Pacific on stormier days, and then I’m not so sure I trust in the hopes and dreams of the American public.

Madame Palin is representative of so many redneck mamas in this country not to mention Canada, where hockey moms rule the roost. She packs a pistol, cockily declares herself a spitfire and cut her political teeth on teen pageants and PTA boards. I’m all for women shattering the political glass ceiling but her NRA membership and Alaskan pipeline ambitions and pregnancy cover-ups scare me.

Holy Son bragged to his grandparents that if McCain wins, we’re moving back to Canada. I’m not sure where he got that but he’s not far from the truth. I don’t think this nation can sustain two war-loving Presidents hellbent on “victory,” especially when one of them doesn't even purport to know how many homes he owns. I can't believe that the victory rhetoric, relative to Iraq, is still being bantered about and served warm to a gullible public. The only true victory is peace and peace does not follow war except in the title of Tolstoy’s epic.

But maybe that’s what it’s all about: epic. This election campaign has turned into one. It’s both mentally and financially taxing. And it’s such a pity that all those campaign dollars are wholesale wasted. There ought to be a law against such gross wastes of financial resources to say nothing of our attention but then again, we’ll fixate on anything. Watching all those regular Joe, hanger-onner delegates at these conventions had me wondering: who are these staunch political groupies and don’t they have a real life?

Meanwhile north of the border, PM Stephen Harper is looking in the days ahead to call a snap election for mid-October. We’re talking about a campaign span of less than six weeks. Now that’s the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Holy Hub sent me this clip of KC.


Back in the day, he was uber handsome. And so I got to wondering - where is he now? And so I took the liberty of Googled him 'cuz I was curious. I shouldn’t have done that. Suffice to say, he’s aged a tad and I don’t mean that in fine wine terms. More like a crumbly cheese.


But no sooner do I type cheese when what does Holy Son blurt out but, "Cheese makes the world go 'round!" He declared this out of the blue as though he’d solved the key to the universe. Apparently it starts with the cheese which attracts the mouse, which attracts the cat, which attracts the dog, which attracts the boy, which attracts the girl, which brings about love, which makes the world goes around.

Yessiree, it’s all circular. Journeys, chases and even time slips that shift the axis of perspective and cause all manner of disparate things like kids and retreats and island and nerves and traffic and SUVs and sex and drugs and rock ‘n roll and politics converge into one pregnant train of thought inside my head going absolutely nowhere.

Scary, isn’t it?

Back to School Blues

Some parents feel blue when their kids go back to school. Much like an anthropologist, I am fascinated if a great deal suspicious of this rare and deranged creature.

Then there are the rest of us, who rejoice a la Julie Andrews romping through a valley of flowers, singing Joy to the World, the kids are gone, there tru-ly is a God! when the kids go back to school. And we know the moment down to the millisecond, for we have been fervently marking X's on our calendars just as our fellow prisoner brethen have taught us is the thing to do until the Get Out of Jail Free card comes in.

And the ones who rejoice the most are those of us who were too stupid and idealistic to schedule the heck out of our kids all summer, opting instead of summer camps to keep things footloose and fancy free in hopes of having "family time" to visit parks and attractions. Yeah well, let me tell you, that fun family fantasy faded fairly fast - and those are the only f-words I care to share in polite company - I think it was day two of summer in this household before I began spouting the other f-words, as I recall. That was about the time I Googled to see if drinking alone without benefit of other adult commiserate-types constituted pure and certain alcoholism.

I had made it all the way to my last calendar X, without benefit of much anesthesia, as miracles would have it (and yes, I'm bragging), when what could only be classified as a parent's worst back-to-school nightmare occurred.

The school district announced a strike tonight. No school until further notice.

My latest f-word is flabbergasted, to say nothing of feeling frayed at the edges and fried for breakfast at the thought of how long this strike might potentially last. Rumour has it the last strike in these parts lasted 7 weeks. I did the math and that's just asking for Social Services to come calling.

But I'm somewhat prepared to handle this emergency in the short-term. I have an unopened bottle of Bailey's and I know with absolutely certainly, without even having to Google it, that Bailey's is a 24/7 apothecary item. No 'After 6pm only' notation there.

So I'm good to go until Wednesday at the outset. After that, I dunno. You may want to send back-up in the event you haven't heard from me. Chocolate cake and a nail file may not cut it.