Dragonfly Landing

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This province makes me want to fucking weep.

And Karma Kicks My Ass

I got a phone call from one of my girlfriends the other day.  She'd been at a party and met someone I went to high school with.  My friend loves me and was excited to make a connection between us.

This girl said to my friend, "well, if you can't remember my name, tell her I'm the one who's boyfriend she tried to steal."

Well, 20 years on - karma kicks my ass.  I hope my girlfriend told her that.

I had to laugh.

(And for the record, I didn't try to steal him, I just wanted to kiss him.  He was pretty hot, and I was irritated with the possessiveness all the high school relationships displayed . . . in which there is probably a lesson for me.)

In all fairness, I could have behaved better.

Debt paid, I think.

It was a mouse massacre

How many mice can you kill with one piece of chocolate?  Because I shared my good stuff with the little bastard(s).

Two - so far

Ok, I don't know that you can call two dead mice a massacre.  But there are two fewer Charlies in the world today.

(I however am such a mouse chickenshit, that I waited until the middle of a party - it was one of those outdoor, everyone's wearing lumberjack coats kind of parties - that I asked my neighbours to set my mousetraps for me.  Then I asked them to empty the traps.  In the middle of the party.  At midnight.  Then again at 3 am.  Dealing with dead mice disposal is much easier after a few beers.)

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

You may remember my mouse.  Named Charlie.  Actually, Charlie may or may not be dead (my upstairs renter trapped two earlier this summer.)  I'm totally down with Charlie being in heaven. 

The other day, I was cleaning on top of my fridge (an annual event), and I found an open bag of M&Ms.  And a pile of M&M shells.  If the fridge weren't so high, I would have suspected G (we have a little chocolate addiction going on in our household), but I took a closer look, and Charlie (that little bastard) picked M&Ms out of the bag, broke off the outside shell and scraped out the chocolate with his teeth. 

So I don't know if its grosser that Charlie loves/ed (I sure hope he's RIP) chocolate or if the shells are so nasty that a mouse won't eat them.

Is chocolate poison to mice?

21 Meals

I cannot begin to express how much I love Paris.  This was the fourth time I've been, and the first time I had fun.

Its weird to be in love with a city where I have never had fun,  but the first time I went I was 17, and went with some poor bugger who was even more naive than me.  I don't remember eating anything but mushroom burgers the whole time, because he was too intimiated to go into a restaurant and order lunch.  So we walked around with me sugar-lowing the whole week.  And hypoglycemic-me is not a pretty sight.  The second time was the middle of August, and I spent the entire two days in the lobby of the Canadian embassy waiting for a new passport for my friend.  The third time was wonderful.  Me alone, for five days doing only what I wanted to do.  I loved it, and while I love being alone, I'm not so much of a party flying solo.

But, this time, I went with my best-girl L, who rocks my world.  She's got a degree in art, so she could explain what the hell the art meant (and hanging out in a museum is my idea of a party, so long as its followed up with a glass of wine (or two or three.))  She's a perfect travel companion - we can sit in silence for hours and not feel uncomfortable, or talk non-stop until the wee hours of the morning, and hang-over or no, be ready to get up and walk through the city all the next day. 

I took 400 photos, which is pretty good for me.

This is what I normally look like, two babies hanging around my knees, tugging at my legs.  One of the greatest things about this trip was eating 21 whole meals without having to wipe someone's butt, feeding someone else, shovelling food as fast as I can in my mouth so I can get up and run, run, run.  I forgot how great it is to just sit.  And eat.  On the second day, L looked at me and said "you eat a lot."

Sure do :)

(I don't however claim my boobs are quite so perky.  I'm not sure what the deal is, but all the art-boobs in Paris are exactly this-15-year-old-boob-in-a-cold-wind.)

This was the view from our hotel.  How can you not be in love with this?

And, should you find yourself in Paris, you have-have-to go to Angelina's for the best hot chocolate in the world.  The best.  Can't say it enough.  Best-freaking hot chocolate ever.  Go out the north exit from the Louvre and head left along that street.  Its 226 or 228.

We got a little lost on the way.  After the massive tour of the Louvre, I think L was ready to go back to the hotel and crash, but I dragged her up and down several streets, practised my French asking for directions to a place I couldn't remember the name of, but I was on a mission.  For the (insert superlative here) hot chocolate in the world.  L was tired and doubtful, but decided it was worth it.

Its like heaven's having a party in your mouth.

I think the hot chocolate alone is worth going to Paris.

M Rocks at Nightime Parenting

8:08 the day I returned from my trip and both babies were in bed.  Wow.  That never happens with me.  Usually its 10 o'clock by the time I get everyone settled.

M took a week off to parent while I was in Paris, and when I came home, our boys had a good sleep schedule going, I*'s whining was at a minimum, G (mostly) stopped hitting I* (and I* had discovered how to fight back).

Whoo hoo!

Now I just have to be diligent about keeping to the schedule.

We balance each other well as parents. 

The Ballad of Lucy Jordan

The mornin' sun touched lightly on the eyes of Lucy Jordan
In her white suburban bedroom, in a white suburban town
As she lay there 'neath the covers, dreaming of a thousand lovers
'Til the world turned to orange and the room went spinnin' round

At the age of 37, she realised she'd never ride through Paris
In a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair
And she let the phone keep ringin' as she sat there softly singin'
Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair

Her husband, he was off to work, and the kids were off to school
And there were oh so many ways for her to spend her day
She could clean the house for hours, or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked down the shady street screaming all the way

At the age of 37, she realised she'd never ride through Paris
In a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair
And she let that phone keep ringin' as she sat there softly singin'
Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair

The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of Lucy Jordan
On the rooftop where she'd climbed when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtseyed to the man, who reached and offered her his hand
And led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd

At the age of 37, she knew she'd found forever as they rode along through Paris
With the warm wind in her hair
Ooooohhh yes with the wind in her hair oooooohhhh......

Its my birthday - I'm 37 and this is NOT ME!!!!!

I think I want to rent a convertible in Paris.

11 more days!

Happiness

Driving down the highway, the scent of freshly picked sage perfuming my car; my babies in the back bonelessly asleep, worn out from sunshine, fresh air and swimming; the earth glowing from the inside out, all shades of green and yellow, purples and blues; the endless prairie sky filled with thunderheads, fingers of sunshine, triple rainbows and perfect blue, I cry.  At first I cannot identify the feeling flowing in my veins and overwhelming my heart, and then - I realise - it's happiness.

Its been so long since I felt this, I almost forgot what it is to feel joy.   

Murphy's Law

Jesus Murphy and his damn laws . . . the first time I get hit on/asked out in - oh let's see, forever? - is by a married man with a child.

What the fuck.

I have put my intention out to the universe that I want to start dating.  Apparently the universe thinks that's kind of funny.  Or I need to be a little more clear in my intentions.  Or something.

Fuck.

My Greatest Teacher

I've written a lot about how much I hate M* and how I've never hated anyone before.  I've spit out a lot of vileness and anger.  Perhaps not undeserved, but as I continue my journey, I am recognising the dis-proportionality of my anger towards her.  So I had to ask myself "why"?  I have been betrayed in worse ways than how she betrayed me.  I have been hurt with deeper cuts than she inflicted on me.  So, what is it about M* that lets me hate her?

This question has been rolling around in my head and dipping into my heart for the last month or so.  The easy answer is - M* is easy to hate.  I have no positive feelings toward her, no internal conflicts with wanting her to like or love me.  Hating her costs me nothing.

I've reached the point where I recognise the futility of my flailing, and as is usual in my spiritual practice, I asked myself "what am I supposed to learn from this person?"  I still don't have a diffinitive answer to that, but what I have excavated from my psyche is that M* represents all the women who have wounded me.

I cannot hate my mother, because that would mean hating a half of my DNA.  I cannot hate my mom, because that would mean hating the road I have travelled to become who I am, and, I fear would result in a loss of love I am afraid I could not bear.  I cannot hate my sister because that would mean hating my reflection.  I cannot hate my auntie, because that would be insane.  But I can hate M*.

Which means that it is not M* who I hate.  Leading me back to "what am I supposed to learn from her and this situation?"  I'm still trying to answer that question, but I do know what I have gained and some of what I have learned.

While rationally I know that M* is not the main actor in the earthquake of the last year and a half of my life, I have mentally given her more space and time than is warranted.

As the Dalai Lama advised, it is useful to look at your greatest enemy as your greatest teacher.

So ...

Because of M* I have been forced to confront and heal the mother-wound inside of me.  For that I am grateful.  Because of M* I have learned that I am a better mother than I ever dreamed possible.  For that I am more grateful than words could express.  Because of M* I have begun to live my life in a state of consciousness and awareness.  Because of M* I have needed to ask myself, nearly every day, "what do I really want for myself?"  Because of M* I have needed to chose those paths that are not easy, and as cliche as it sounds, they are the paths that have led to greater rewards.  I have wanted to live and work my passion for a long time, but never had the courage or the fortitude to pursue art as a career.  And now I am attaining success as an artist.

For these things I am truly grateful.

I still haven't quite reached the point where I am personally grateful to M*, but I am grateful to the universe to placing her in my path so I could learn these lessons.