From Nat's Brain

And then a strange fear gripped me

I was asked to do a bit of research on social media monitoring for work. And as I was speaking with a consultant, I left my body for a moment as I heard myself say.
"I'm on twitter and I have a blog."

Holy fuck did I just say that? Where is the control-Z when you need it. Luckily it was just she and I...
"Really, you should send me the links."
Seriously lady, you don't need to read my 500 word missive on how I hurt myself during sex or how I like to rock really freaking hard.

"Ummmm... well, it's not about work really."
"Oh come on..."

Don't think so.

And as I have explained, I do feel terribly terribly boring but at the same time... do I need her to see this? Maybe I just want to come here and spew off and write the odd half decent sentence. Maybe I don't need the "professional life" intersecting with the personal. Which is stupid I realize since I, by its very nature, work intrudes on my time. There are, in fact, a few work-type colleagues, who if they looked, could find the blog and that's ok. (The new VP for one -- as I nod and wave, skip that post about sex please, it was for a fundraiser or something.)

Thing is I like my little blog... but I don't want to have to edit too much. But it's definitely not anonymous either...

All to say she's not getting that email.

Lip service

I am not what you would call a girly girl. In fact, while I like to look cute once in a while. Usually it's more of a passing fancy. The hair, however, is something, I do enjoy splurging on. Added bonus that Meghan (at Le Spa on McLaren) completely and totally rocks. Double extra bonus she's a friend. She manages to indulge my fancy for magenta and copper streaks. It's like I'm a four year old who got creative with her mom's highlighters. "Look ma! Pink hair."

She makes me relax. "Nat, you are going to read smut while you are here. Let me get you a glass of wine."
I would complain because you know... wine is so hard to take. (ahem)
(Assessment form this issue of Vogue -- evidently shoes fit for taking a step or two in are clearly out of style. Which is too bad, since I need to walk at work. If only to get coffee. Then to pee.)

Then I get weird ideas:
"Meghan, how would I do this to my hair?" (She mocked horror, and told me that in no uncertain terms what she'd do to me if I went out like that in public.)

On Thursday though, she wanted to boost my spirits.
"Are you a germaphobe?" she asked.
"Depends." I reckon this is the right answer to this question.
"Here try this."
"What is it?"
"Just try it."
"Looks like lip gloss."
"It's a lip plumper. Cost $41 a tube. I tried it once. It's got collagen in it. Last 24 hours."
"So I can look like a trout? No way..... "
"Come on, I was saving it for you. I'm the only one who's used it. It'll be fun." She said in that impish way that makes me smile when she is suggesting something a bit... well... out there. Meghan's not a girly girl either.

Gingerly I applied to $41 lip gloss, to my lips. And if I was a good blogger, you'd get photos not only of the hair (not big difference) and of the lips. But I suck. Fact is, the plumper is the weirdest feeling. You know when you have dental surgery and your face starts to thaw. That stage where it's tingly and it doesn't quite hurt -- but it's not totally good. That's how it felt.

Looks wise, it seem to bring out my subtle upper lip. But just enough to make me want to blow raspberries. Did it look better? I don't know. I mean my lips were all shiny. (I hate that.) It smellled rather yummy. And well, the lipstick really isn't my thing, I do Blistex when my lips get dry. Still, I took them out for a test drive I had to try things -- like drinking wine. (Yup, definitely like the dentist -- less drool no dribbles.) Very odd. I look for people to kiss, but well, I'm not that kind of girl... anymore (and the only men there were gay - Meghan confirmed.)

Still it made me wonder, as I poke my lower lip, then my upper lip and made "b" sounds. People actually get this crap injected into their lips. Meghan laughed as she said it made our lips "look younger". We'd been meaning to have a talk about the fact that well while she is 27 and I'm 38 -- our lips make us look like we're ... umm.... what are my lips supposed to look like? Meg Ryan? Melanie Griffith... they don't look younger - they just look like they've had a lot of work done.

Thing is I'm going to get old. I see the wrinkles. Maybe it's easier because I was never totally hung up on my looks but ... this ... well... this just seems silly. Certainly fun over wine and a haircut -- but I'd never leave home like that.

P.S: Apologies for this piss poor post. I'm blaming muscle relaxants.

What the tea bag said

"Your heartbeat is the rhythm of your soul"

Wonder what it means that the teabag exploded when I poured hot water on it.

A question was posed during what, I am sure, was an inconsequential meeting designed to specifically to make me feel like I was part of the 'process'. One of those broad based, state of your career questions. I always feel a bit odd, since my career is more by dumb luck than good planning. Perhas the guffaw at his self-assurance was a bit much. I'll give you that. Still the question lingered. Yes, really, I see the problem. I think the team does too. It's just that I don't like to be caught off guard. My answer: flippant. Best to let me play with the idea. I am the one who likes let things like this steep.

I still do not have an answer, which is really too bad. If it were easy maybe we would have fixed it long ago. On the bright side, it did lead me to ponder my goals, objectives and plans for life, and some deeper reflection about my life and how I've been approaching it of late. There are things we forget along the way.

It's like on this path of life, once in a while, we get distracted by a pretty flower in the forest. During these times, we lose sight of the important thing. Look the pretty flower, and all we think about is the flower. But it will fade and we are left standing far from the path. Distracted from what really matters. The path and the goals I've set up for myself. And the realization that I cannot change anyone but myself, and I do not control anything but my actions. It's time to get back on the path.

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On Friday we are switching from Bell to Rogers, if anyone is using either of my sympatico accounts, please switch to gmail. Thanks.

Who you are

Over pad thai in an off-the-beaten path restaurant, M. asked me rather pointedly if I considered myself a francophone or an anglophone. Around here, that's a loaded question. M. is one of our translator, and most definitely a Francophone. In fact, although I didn't ask her she would say, proudly perhaps, that she's a Quebecoise. After a decade, I wonder if she considers herself a Franco-Ontarien now.

Me, well, it's not so simple. In our house growing up, we were defined more by what we weren't than what we were. We moved to Aylmer, Québec when I was six from Moncton, New Brunswick. In Moncton, well, I spoke with an Acadien accent heavily tinged with the chiac* of the region. My mom is from the République, my grandmother an ashamed-Acadien my grandfather, well, he's form Madawaska. I don't think he'd ever refer to himself as Quebecois. She, however, would. In her mind, the power and the glory were definitely in Quebec. My maternal grandmother, all about appearances, thought the only way to succeed was the blend into the majority. (She was ashamed of a lot of things. The family goes back to the late 1500s in Canada. She was scandalized to find rather large amounts of First Nations blood in the family. Obviously, she never had a good look at folks. You can see it.) Bar one, all of the kids married non-Catholic anglos. This was the late 60s, it was a scandal. She looks upon them suspicously.

My dad is an Anglo from Montreal -- and, for what it's worth, an Anglican. He's a third generation Canadian. Go figure. When I was six, we moved to Aylmer Quebec -- I became the funny French speaking kid from New Brunswick with an English last name. One thing was perfectly clear though, I was not one of them. Never would be. Still am not. Francophones outside Quebec have an odd relationship with that majority. Fact is, they are the big fish in the small pond. The rest of us, well, we're swimming in the ocean and I think we're bait. I never really fit in. Maybe part of me still doesn't, or maybe it's just that I'm ok with not being the majority. The outside looking in is not a bad place to be once you're an adult.

But for the kids, it's different. As a kid, it was hell. I'd hoped things would be easier for the second generation of don't fit in. The Boy is not a jock, he's quite the artsy, and well, he's not really into cars. It's not easy being like the other kids. He's a social monster. He likes people. But well, no one likes being picked last for the team. (Apparently their latest twist is that he gets to referee and keep score. He said it's ok, since he sucks at the game anyway.) The whole thing is rather heart breaking. You can talk to the teachers, and make sure he's supported there. You can tell him it's not ok to let anyone call him names and to insist that he tell the teacher, no matter what the other kids say. But the fact is, in the politics of the playground, popular matters a lot, and all the parents can do is console, guide and reassure.

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*Québec: is pronounced KAY-bec not kweebec or kwaybec. (To me this is up there with the nuclear/nukular)
**Chiac is a anglo-French hybrid thing that they speak around Moncton-Shédiac.

I blame the cold medicine and the dust

A propos of nothing at all:

The Boy is in the bath and he'd like to know why Scoobie Doo walks on all fours while Scrappy Doo walks on his hind legs? Very valid question.

If one goes away on vacation for two weeks and hires a family member/contractor to do the floors when can one actually expect the project to be completed? (Actual estimate was roughly a week after we got back.)

Has anyone actually ever received a reassessment from the Canada Revenu Agency that was in their favour? (This year's damage $775. )

This profile of McCain in Rolling Stone does it make one iota of a difference to anyone? (You know he must really have a temper when EVERY one mentions his temper. I mean it's all egos in politics, they all have tempers.)

Canadian election on Tuesday, it's an early birthday present to Hilly. Woohoo Hilly! For you I will vote for... the incumbent. Is this going to make one iota of a difference?

Ever read a book, enjoy it all the way through until you got to the last chapter and you wanted to call out "No Fair!!!" -- any good book recommendations.

Album of the Moment is once again Wintersleep's Welcome to the Night sky. I think I have a crush on the lead singer's voice. It seems so earnest. (Interesting arrangements as well.) Definitely worth a listen....

There is a post. It just needs more brain power than I have.

5 Across -- Ink

My grandmother always did the Globe and Mail crossword puzzle in ink. A pencil, she said, showed a lack of confidence in your answers. You had to commit in ink. She passed away many moons ago now, on September 1. I can't remember the year. I'm not really sentimental like that. Stomach cancer, she'd told my father she wasn't going to see 70. Sure enough she died 18 days shy of it.

I was laying on our loveseat struggling with an easy Kakuro (Cross sums). It's a number puzzles that I am really not very good at. I was using a pencil -- a dull one at that with most of the eraser missing. Maybe if I used a pen the solution would come to me. Although there may be more to it than that. Every time they came to visit she'd bring me a book of logic puzzles. I wasn't very good at those either.

Granny had a few passions and in her retirement she seems to have devoted herself entirely to them. But she also had a few guilty pleasures. A good cryptic crossword, Harlequin Romances and Crown Royal with Canada Dry Ginger Ale. In fact, as her cancer progressed she'd indulge more and more in the Crown Royal, less and less in the Canada Dry. (Lovely stuff who can blame her really.)

Me, well, I have many guilty pleasures. Chai Lattes, a propensity to listen to my music a bit too loudly, I expect to renew my love of all things gin when it will be acceptable for me to not get up until noon. (This parenting gig is a drag on my vices.) I can't stand Harlequin Romances but I do have a thing for murder mysteries. Both in print and on TV. I ended up catching The Mentalist last night, the cast isn't as strong as it could be (specially the lead investigator) but Simon Baker is lovely isn't he?

Every year, my grandfather sends a generous cheque for my birthday.(This started before my grandmother died.) And this year, I spent it on those guilty pleasures. I know she would approve. In fact, I think she'd invite me to have another glass of Crown Royal while we finish the crossword puzzles.

Fact is, blowing part of the cash on silly thing wasn't quite what I had in mind. I was secretly coveting the Garin Forerunner 405. My old 205 is having charging issues. But The Man and I never talked about it. And on Saturday morning, along with The Boy's special birthday fruit salad, I got presented with a lovely new black Forerunner 405.

And me, well, I also got to indulge in a few extra guilty pleasures -- like my kakuro. In pencil.

The next few hours

Lobster Rock Cove
Originally uploaded by From Nat's Lens

In these last few hours of my 37th year, I sit here and think about life. I've been sitting in this spot for the last few hours, and my active mind was being amused and confused by Speed Racer.* While my subconscious worked out a fix for my bruised ego.

Sad when the old ego takes a beating. I try to keep her in check. She gets the better of me, then anger tries to take over. Totally ugly. Work brings out the worst in me. Been hard few days.

The girls shouldn't have been let loose. There they were, reasserted control. Sort of. But ego is bruised. Big picture is to remember what I control. I control the breath. Just think about the rocks.

Tonight was a healing. Pizza, the movie, snuggling and quiet reflection. Just go back to the rocks.

I snuggled up with The Boy. Happy he still likes his night time decompress with his mom. We did the family thing. Life is good. He told me he loves me. The Man and I having seen too many Hollywood films where kids die not knowing they were loved.

The Man is excited about the present he got me. Said it's the "present you didn't know you wanted" --- so that rules out Pearl Jam, Bruce Springsteen, and a trip back to Newfoundland since I know I wanted all that. I pride myself on knowing what I want. Pride... maybe that's the lesson this week. Too much pride. Curiosity.

In my office today, three of us were talking about nothing in particular. It was Jewel's break and the Philosophy Major stopped by for advice on girls. Odd thing is we all share a birthday. (Biologically old enough to be PM's mom. Ack. Old.) Good people. Jewel and I had such a hoot last night.

This weekend is going to be fun... I'm running half-marathon number 9, going to have some cake, maybe eat some not so good food. Rest. Run. And be merry.

Meanwhile I am going to think happily on the year that was.
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*The film features Susan Sarandon possibly one of my favourite actresses of all time. I want to be Susan Sarandon when I grow up. Supposed it's too late since she's already who she is. Also a silly thing to say given the nature of this post.

A moment at the kitchen table

The Boy came home tonight with a Reflection Log as homework. Once a week, they need to write five sentences about something in their lives. I talked about the blog. Told him that my blog is where I reflect on the world around me (usually in more than five sentences.) For example, yesterday I blogged about our lunch together, this made him smile. The Man explained about his journal -- he's more old school about it. Pen and paper. Nobody reads it. Nobody at all.

The Man has just explained that he doesn't think when he writes in his journal. Or rather he doesn't think about writing. It's not supposed to be perfect, he said. But a blog is a more public forum. I am guilty of tweaking and tweaking posts, fussing and futzing. I may not preen in real life but I am guilty of suffering from a bad case of "mot juste". Sometimes I don't find it. Sometimes it's in French. Then I look for a translation. It usually doesn't work either. Then, I swear at myself and begin again. Overthinking is not where great writing lives anyway.

I've had this quote from Leonard Cohen's Sisters of Mercy stuck in my head for a few weeks.

"I've been where you're hanging I think I can see how your pinned.
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned."

Cohen is brilliant -- to write like that. This line describes my writing process. I get pinned. The words they torment. (Although in reality the song relates more to a friend who is having a really rough time.) But I write, and well, in reality the words come from the quiet. I can't write with the television. I can't write with too much happening around me. I write in the quiet. I have to able to tap into the silence. It's almost like the words live there, and I have to tap in to find them. Like the way you can get disoriented in woods. I need to still my mind. Turn it off and let if go. Shhhhhhhhhhh.... where did they go? Where have you been. Sometimes it's brilliant and all the colour of the rainbow. Other times, they are harsh and disjointed (like this.) It's like the ideas can't find their shapes in the words.

The Boy finished his entry 30 minutes ago. He wrote about his new room and why he likes it. Maybe he's onto something...

It's not easy staying green

The trees don't seem to shimmer any more. I was driving down Fisher Ave this spring, when I first noticed the cluster of trees near Island Park seemed electric. Every trees singing it's own symphony of green -- all the shades of the spectrum. Today, the trees are looking a bit muted in the sunshine. A few leaves have already begun to yellow. It's subtle but the leaves are a bit dull.

Then again, maybe I am waxing nostalgic because I know The Boy starts Grade 3 on Tuesday. Hardly seems possible -- my baby in Grade 3. He's grown like a weed this summer. Last week, we tried on his school uniforms and nothing fit. Nothing. As in, it doesn't do up at all. Not even if he sucked it in. This sent me into a bit of an organizational tizzy*. Skipping over size 10 right to 14 doesn't seem right. Should have knows when half way through our trip, I noticed much of the child's clothing was no longer fitting. And the food consumption... whoa. I think we need to start a food fund for when he hits puberty.

Kind of sad to be going back to the routine. The rushing to get to school for the 8:45 bell (oh hush I'm not a morning person.) We've been costing in the mornings. Talking about the day over rice krispies with fresh blue berries. Maybe I'll try to move that tradition up a bit. Working like mad monkeys. Homework. Back to the post school activities. Jui Jitsu. Swimming. Life gets regimented.

I don't really like summer in Ottawa, it's usually too hot and too humid. I much prefer summers on the coast. And well, I could easily summer in Gros Morne. This summer, well, this one seemed right. It all feel into place briliantly. The Boy's summer camps, no major drama at work, and the trip... for the first time Autumn is feeling like a bit of a let down. So I wait for the leaves to go from muted greens to fiery reds, yellows and oranges.

And I ponder another marathon.

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*Tizzy is code for mad panic, he wears uniforms what would we do! UNIFORMS!! Show up on the first day wearing ratty old shorts, and all the parents would think he has the worse parents in the world. Top Marks, the uniform supplier, were happy to rush me my order (at no extra charge) and completely amused at my state of panic. He now has shorts. I'm not sure if the pants will make it through this year. As an added bonus The Boy has a tie for the first day.

Fishing boat.

The lovely and talented Aimee over at Greeblemonkey picked my photo of this little fishing boat, we saw in Rocky Harbour as part of her first Photo contest ever. Amazing I made it given the quality of some of the other photos. (As I said in my reply, I think some are better than mine.) But she made my day.

Voting continues until Thursday. Worth checking out for the photography.