Egg Hunts are Scary

My oldest nephew no longer believes in the Easter Bunny. Turns out Santa and his elves are fake, too. When the bubble burst, my mother was most devastated. "I hate to see the kids growing up," she said, more than once and more than twice. "It's just no fun any more when they stop believing." Still, we upheld the tradition of an egg hunt, and this year I found a few bonus items on my search:

• A stream of cobwebs, thick enough to hold a light fixture in place.
• A thank you letter, written and illustrated by my sister 32 years ago.
• A container of used razors, soaking in soap and dirty shower water.
• A stack of old music - crumbling but playable - from my Grandmother's days.
• A bottle of Wasabi sauce - expiry date June '04.
• A patch of lilies, waiting to burst open.
• A capsized lamp post that will actually make sense at Hallowe'en.
• A bottle of vodka, waiting for a glass (thankfully, vodka never expires).
• A Christmas towel that hasn't moved from its rack for 8 years running.
• A basket of eggs - fresh, gourmet, adult chocolate eggs.

Growing up is hard, and it would seem that letting go of old ghosts is just as difficult.  Maybe that explains the bottle I found hidden in the freezer, and maybe my Mom would like us all back at home - young & innocent - so that she doesn't have to witness the loss of childhood fantasy in her family. For whatever reason, my Mom holds on to things until they are dingy, dirty and disintegrating - but her house is full of the past and its voices. Not a bad trade-off, after all.

People are Pets Too

Poor Zara was a six pound bag of farts when she took her last pill. She died in my mother's arms - wrapped in her blanket, I imagine, tongue flopped out to the side, all dry and pasty from months of pain meds. I wasn't there for Zara's final moments, but the vet took great care in making my mother comfortable in Zara's final days. My mother was suffering, so it took time to work out a plan of exit for Zara. Time to convince my mother that the damn dog was rotting from the inside out and it was time to let her expire.

Don't get me wrong. Zara was a family member. Often, I was her babysitter and dedicated caregiver when my parents travelled. More than once, that dog barfed on my carpet and ate my homework - literally. When a meal of pillow stuffing took us to the emergency vet for pets, I held Zara in my arms, determined that she would not die in my care. So, we fixed her up, fed her boiled rice & chicken for a few days and shipped her home - no harm done.

It was Zara's back troubles that did her in. A mini-Dachsund who looked more like a rat, Zara had a long spine that simply couldn't handle its 8 pound load. She was coddled in her blanket and carried out to pee, but she did not get better. Now, Zara's ashes sit on a shelf in the basement and maybe some day my Mom will reveal her intentions for them. I have a horrible feeling she wants us to mix her ashes with Zara's and hold a sprinkling ceremony at the zoo.

For now, there are no pets to replace Zara. Only a 4 year old grandchild, who is frequently wrapped in a blanket, coddled and stroked between the eyes. Zara's favourite spot, naturally.

Sex Talk

I have some very horny neighbours who need approaching before I lose more sleep. But I don't know what to say. Maybe I don't have the words because Sex Talks with my Mom went like this:

On the Matter of 'Your Changing Body':

Mom: You know that bra & pantie set your Auntie V. sent for Christmas?

Me [headvoice]: You mean the hot pink set that looks like it came off a Barbie doll? The one that humiliated me when I opened it and everyone cooed at how cute, bla bla bla?

Me [out loud]: Yeah.

Mom: Maybe it's time you started wearing it. You're starting to develop. [The phrase 'starting to develop' fell on me like an anvil.]

Me [headvoice]: Can I go now?

Me [out loud]: Um...it's kind of ugly. And won't it show through my clothes? Do I have to?

Mom: It's time. Besides, it's cute and I don't think we'd find anything small enough for you. It's perfect for now.

Me [headvoice]: Shitballs. Trapped. I am *not* wearing that overstetched Barbie crap. It has a picture on the crotch, for fuck's sake! A little bit of childish scenery I'd rather not sport around, thanks.

Me [out loud]: Sure. Okay.

I never wore the pink bra & pantie set. What normal 'budding' 12-year-old would? So, instead of taking me shopping, two white training bras appeared on my bed as a gift. Bras which took several months for me to try on. Bras which I wore long past their expiry date. My Mom never said a word about bras & panties again. After the hot pink set and the training bras, I somehow waded into the complex world of fitting my boobs with the feeling that I should keep the fact that I have breasts a secret.

Even today, when friends or lovers suggest that bras can be sexy, that lingerie is fun, I am somewhat shy. Sure, I have a drawer dedicated to bras - all plain black or white, all highly functional, and all purchased in haste and frustration. I have yet to step foot in a fancy bra shop (too much stimulus), but I hear it's a total turn-on. Makes you feel like a woman.

Hm. Maybe I should talk to my neighbour. Ask her where she shops for lingerie. From what I hear through the walls, she's having a lot of that fun I've been missing.

Great Balls of Fire

We wanted to name him Nolan, but my mother insisted on Trigvy. "I want at least one member of the family to have an Icelandic name," declared my mother. The compromise was Trigvy Nolan, but we yelled for Trig.  The only male child in the house, Trig's favourite sport was sprinting. When he broke out for a run, we piled into our green Ford Torino and drove around the court - slowly - with a piece of white bread as dog bait.

Trig ran like a pumped up rabbit and had us whipped like no other pet we'd owned. He was a real boy, a pure breed, destined to sire a great line of show dogs - until we cut off his balls. My mother took the position that Trig's forebears had led horrible lives and she was not about to see Trig suffer long hours of grooming and training. Trig's failure in puppy school after puking up a box of elastics (which my Dad stuffed neatly into his suit pocket) had nothing to do with my mom's decision.

When the time came, Mom took Trigvy off to the vet to be fixed. Just on the cusp of adolescence, I was more than interested in the mechanics of this operation and had great expectations about the changes I might notice. The best information I had from Mom was that Trig would "settle down" after the surgery. "He'll be less rambunctious," is how she put it. I took her at her word, but was hoping for something more dramatic. These were his parts, for God's sake, and I could only wonder what it might mean to have my newly sprouted breasts lopped off for the sake of behaviour modification.

Had we placed a bet on the outcome, Mom and I, I would have won. Trig came home more than a little stoned and took his position in the middle of the kitchen floor. Sprawled out on his back, Trig clearly needed air to cool the heat of his groin. His scrotum were like red baseballs, rolling casually over his white belly. Castrating the poor dude was a bad idea and, once the swelling went down, there was no difference in Trig's behaviour. I got my drama alright, but Trig was the ultimate victor.  One week later, we were out chasing Trig in the Ford.

Fire and Ice

When we visited Iceland together, my Mom told stories of the Vikings and volcanoes. Known as the land of fire and ice, in Iceland it is possible to sit on warm sulphuric mounds (or lava crust) and reach just a few feet over to grab a handful of ice. It's an incredible land, this country, one that puts you in your place if you understand the power of what lies very close beneath your feet. In Iceland, I walked on fresh lava fields, drank glacier water from a stream and bathed in milky blue hotsprings. This is where I decided that, in my next life, I would be a geologist.

On our trip, I took photos of a boiling pool that my mother had bathed in 12 years earlier. Now too hot to touch, I stood atop a crust of sulphur at the edge of this pool and felt the roar of water blasting out from under me. This pool sits at the base of Kafta, a volcano that has been ready to blow for some time. Now, the Eyjafjallajokull volcano has begun to rumble, and the worry is that an eruption at Kafta will be triggered in its wake. All I can think of are the pots of steam we saw all over the country and the houses surrounded by hardened lava.

Recently, Iceland has suffered economic collapse and its citizens just rejected a new plan by the government to pull the country out of crushing debt. And now this? If I learned anything on my trip to Iceland it's this: these people are survivors. They eat putrid shark and sheep's head, their museums display children's toys made out of bones, and they have only recently entered the modern world. The people of this country (only 320,000) will show the rest of us what it means to hold fast and make due.

Time to call Mom and see what she thinks.

Lurk, Lurk

When I think about growing up in my mother’s care, I have to wonder, was it really that bad? Close behind the question is a voice: "No, honey. It wasn't that bad, so what the fuck have you been complaining about all these years?" Well, then, this is my conundrum. Am I full of crap, or do I have a case?

Here's a primer from the archives of memory:

Mom [charging up from the basement]: Why did you vacuum the living room after school today?

Me [looking up from my homework]: Uh...

Mom: Do you know what your grandmother is doing right now?

Me: Uh ...watching T.V.? ...knitting? ...hissing at the cat?

Mom [spitting swords]: She's downstairs talking about how hard you work.

Me: Uh...OK...

Mom: So what? Are you trying to make me look bad in front of your grandmother? Huh? You little shit...

[Shit flew with such force out of my Mom's mouth that I nearly left a slick of the stuff on the kitchen chair.]

Me: Uh...

The end. Mom made a nice clean break for it and headed back down to the red dungeon. I, on the other hand, had Calculus to massacre and a buzz of adrenaline so strong I nearly stroked out. At the time, though, I did a fine job of biting my stiff upper lip. Nothing penetrated this bitch (Yeah, right) 'cause I was an Ice Queen in the making. Impervious to slings & arrows, I was not at all ruffled by this tantrum. Not one bit.

Alright, fine. Maybe I was a little ruffled, and maybe there are a few daemons in this girl's memory chest looking to escape. And, while I'm no drama queen, let's just say I've never invited my dark side out to play (Okay, once...and I liked it). Perhaps it's time I grabbed some toys and got going. Memory, after all, is a persistent playmate. Wouldn't you say?

One Horrible Thought on an Otherwise Perfectly Lazy Sunday

Oh boy. I am more like my mother than I thought.  Two clues have set me all a-flutter today: (1) I dumped clean sheets on the bed and didn't bother to make it - why now when later is sure to arrive? (2) I just realized my Christmas lights are still up - and the garden furniture is still out. Crap. Why do these blasted moments of clarity creep up on a person so stealthily? I've avoided housework all day, and now that I've finally got the dust rag out, I have this little revelation to face. Poop on this Sunday.

Here's the thing.  My mother's house is a disaster.  And, while my place appears to be all perfection and shine, there are signs, my friend. Signs, I say! Big freaking signs that say You Have Not Escaped. In part, I know a visit to my parent's house requires careful navigation of last week's newspapers (which I sift through and read), never mind the impossible situation in the kitchen (beautifully renovated into complete dysfunction). To cook in my mother's kitchen is to risk injury when cupboard contents tumble forth; to dress a burger from my mother's condiment collection is just bad-assed risky behaviour. The old joke about making penicillin in the fridge ain't so far off in this offspring's case. Until this blog began, I thought I was better than all of this.

But alas, it's in me.  I have spent all of today begrudging the stale-dated leftovers in my stuffed fridge. I need to purge, but can't get off my butt to do it. I've even done my taxes to put off the task, for crying out loud.  How bad can it be to haul out the garbage can and dump? Funnily enough, I secretly toss things out of my mother's fridge when I visit, and I am ruthless at work. Office mates who leave long-expired yoghurt, fossilized pizza slices and fuzzy oranges in a shared fridge should simply know better. Didn't their mothers teach them the basics of cleanliness and mutual respect? So, here I sit, confused about the lessons I learned.

Clearly, I did not grow up in an ordered and meticulously kept household, so where did I get my tight-assed attitude about how a person ought to keep their personal space? The first, most obvious answer lies in a theory of opposites: when we live in one set of conditions, we aim to break out and create another, more enviable (envied?) environment. I wanted nothing more, as a young girl, than to invite my friends over after school without wondering if there would be a big green bag of garbage sitting in the kitchen. Would this be our greeting to snack time? Usually. Rarely did I invite anyone home.

As of today, I think it's time I dug deeper. What does my battle (the need for clean vs. the need to relax already) really mean? What was so bad about the mess? To be brutally honest with myself, I have to fess up on some things...take a hard look at why cooking and cleaning were far from priority 1. Check it out:

Instead of living in an ordered household, I got art and music.

Instead of having an empty waste basket, I wore hand-made costumes in the school play.

Instead of building a proper hope chest, I learned to fend for myself.

Instead of eating pancakes & syrup, I learned to tell time (another blog, another time).

Instead of learning to cook & clean like a good girl, I earned an education & an independent life.

Already, I am admittedly humbled. It's time I gave dear Mum a break and swallowed some of my stiffly guarded pride. What do I take from this little refelction, after all my self-righteous fist pumping? Take a load off, honey. Enjoy a Sunday, unburdened by agenda and expectations of getting things accomplished. Let the garbage fester and allow a little chaos into the mix of life. After all, has it hurt you any in the past?

Family Fare

My mother is lousy in the kitchen - and a fabulous cook.  A child of the '70's, I was fed every permutation of beef casserole possible, and I am a long suffering victim of bad kitchen experiments. Still, I have been fed deliciously creative food and taught the value of good eating. Consider the evidence:

I've eaten cow's tongue - marinted for a full day in an ugly yellow pot -and could not, would not overcome the sight. To be clear, humans aren't the only creatures with a tough, bumpy skin for tasting. Just ask the butcher to cut you a slice.

I've known the joy Maroccan chicken flavoured with homemade preserved lemons at my mother's table.  The hours of preparation, I hope, were gratified by our celebration of flavour.
I've choked down canned cream corn several times too many. Thanks to California and Mexico, creamed corn is off the menu.

I've anticipated Mom's steamed chocolate pudding at Christmas. Thank you, Mum, for every bite.  I've begun to wonder who will take up the tradition and do it justice.  Help...

And, can someone please explain why a mother would make corn chip casserole the first time she feeds her future son-in-law?  Honestly. Thankfully, she left before dinner and simply slapped the dish on the table.

[Then again, she did make that incredible Spannish Paella that took days to prepare and hours to consume. Now there was a meal that brought the whole fam-dam-ily together.  Legends do not happen overnight.]

The result is this: my mother is the best and worst cook I know.  She is the reason I am both adventurous and cautious about food.  She has every tool in her kitchen for exotic and experimental cooking, but can't be bothered to make sure there's enough salmon on the table for Christmas dinner. She spends days creating delicate flowers to top a cake, but sends me to the grocer for the cake mix. In every meal, there is a victory and a disaster, and I have learned my way around her table.

Here are the rules:

1.   Expect the least; be surprised by the best.

2.  Contribute. Generously. To every meal.

3.  Drink. Wrecklessly, but not irresponsibly.

4.  Count on indigestion.

5.  Smile through the gustatory upheavals.

6.  Help with the dishes. Leave just enough undone to ward off the Guilt Monster.

7.  Say thank you, and part in good time (remember #5).

8.  Accept leftovers. Stop at the pound to adopt a dog.

9.  Print the recipe. She'll just know...

10. Expect the least; be surprised by the best. 

I cannot deny that I find family meals frustrating. Politics, preparations and expectations complicate every gathering and test every nerve. Fear over what will be served, consumed and digested is very real in my family.  But still, however odd or spectacular the menu, I can always count on the uncertainty of surprise. Slowly, I am beginning to make sense of a simple lesson: the less we expect of people, the more we are surprised and gratified by what we are given.  Especially if we didn't ask for it.

To Be - Or Not

I wonder
about the possiility of
writing in e-prime -
without 'to be'.

This exercise
tests my flexibilty
rids me of my wordiness -
unwinds the knots.

No future perfect,
no past perfect,
only now must suffice -
Look inside the moment.

A worthwhile moment,
this one we live.
Stay.
        Linger.
                   Discover.
Do you see?
It works!

No lazy lolligagging
with words,
no windy lines of
overblown prose.

With this restriction
verbs pop and crackle
under my fingers -
what fun with words!

Just This Once, Mom. Please?

Because my mother taught me good manners, I was unable to haul off and hit a co-worker today. On a good day, this particular colleague has a bad habit of charging up behind a person too early in the a.m., and I have an intensity of character that does not invite an early morning invasion of workspace. Today was not a good day, and I so wanted to wind up and let'er have it that I nearly cocked my fist (note: my tongue was also sharpened and ready to let fly). But sadly, there was no trashy girl fight in the office and I lost out on the primal release of deep irritation by way of scratching and kicking. Instead, I sucked back two cupcakes and had a highly productive morning.

So what stopped me from busting out and throwing knives?  Well, apart from keeping up appearances, I have my standards. That is, I have my mother's standards for getting along and her voice is clear: When you go out in public, be polite, be nice, and help with the dishes. In other words, no hitting, no biting, no scratching.  File your nails, keep your complaints to yourself and suck it up (or back, as the cupcake may be). Makes sense to me - most of the time.

Obviously, my mother's lesson is basic, useful and appropriate. To succeed as social beings, we must often put our instincts in check - we must all, on occasion, set aside minor and insiginificant irritations in the name of getting along. Killer bees beware: If we cannot find this restraint within ourselves, then we are the 'hothead' in the room.  We are the loose cannon, the one with the temper, the intolerant beast that everyone sidesteps and talks about later. Clearly, courtesy and diplomacy earn us points on the social acceptability scale. Repeat mother's mantra in times of need and all will be well. How else, my cool-headed compadres, do you think I scored my morning cupcakes?

But where does this well-practiced suppression of impulse leave our unspent frustration? Somehwere, somehow, do we all not experience ill-timed erruptions that follow the long, low rumblings of exposure to our workmates? Most commonly, we excuse our inappropriate displays with, "I lost it. I couldn't take it any more and I just lost it on the bitch." And then guilt tortures us - the guilt of knowing that we broke the code of social decorum and, much worse, the guilt of knowing how disappointed our mother would be. She's not a bitch, she's just freaking loud, immature and obtrusive (that she, by the way, is your co-worker and *not* your mother). Coming unhinged is not cool and feels like a confirmation of failure - yours and your mother's.

So back to this morning with a question (or two): Did throwing a cupcake into the pit satisfy the gods? Has the cheap girl-on-girl fight fantasy been sufficiently held back? I think not. While mother would have been pleased and the day unfolded as it should, the gators remain unfed and I could use some bait. Now don't get me wrong. To launch torpedos this morning would have been off the mark of anything near acceptable. My poor target knew nothing of my ire, nor should she.  I felt like a bear this morning and she was the first to get in my way. Not her fault. But what to do about this fantasy of mine?

Now that I am no longer out in public, though, I ought to blow up that punching bag, hit the gym for some cardio, or crank up some raunchy tunes. But even in private, these healthy outbursts of my darker self feel embarrassing and oddly unnecessary.  This is silliness, I think. This morning's urges have dulled and I've more than burned off those cupcakes, so why would I deliberately flail about and punch a bag of air? It's over.

...or not. 

Truth be told, the very thing we would often like to do, is not the thing we can do.  And it sucks.  So, for now, the pit remains deep, the gators await their meal, and I carry on.  Maybe tomorrow will be the day I unleash - or not.  The fact remins that my need to appear sane (and more than a little in control) is greater than my need to let loose.  I am 'better' than my instincts.

For now.

The Attraction/Revulsion Effect

I don't get it.

Am I the only only who is weirded out by The Bachelor? Do people really believe in this crap? Has our ability to connect authentically with other living human beings in real time and space gone completely to hell? Honestly, only in America (sorry, neighbour) is it possible for such vapid content to be so voraciously consumed as though it had worthwhile substance. I know, I know, it's mindless entertainment, a 'fairy tale' world we enter to escape our own flatlining romantic lives. Lives with real people who have real connections - full of frustration and conflict and, oddly enough, fulfillment. And yes, I know we watch, in part, to balk at the crazy notion that such artificial circumstances (They're in paradise, don't ya know?) can give rise to 'true and everlasting love' (Oh baby, oh baby). But still, I marvel. Why do we watch this drivel with such hunger? What is it that we are missing - missing so deeply that we rely on such shallow fabrication to satisfy ourselves that the possibility of what we are witnessing is possible for us - in real life?

Indeed, I have had my own own fun at the expense of the man & gaggle of women who inhabited the proverbial island, all planted there for one purpose: to find a deep, meaningful and lasting connection with another. Heck, I even had fun with the fantasy and spent more than a few Monday evenings (alone on the couch) getting in touch with that lovin' feeling I've known with that special someone. So you've caught me. Yes, I followed this season's sickening trip...or 'journey' as they who came to find true love prefer to call it. But, to my credit, I did not commit my Monday nights to every episode...or 'Rose Ceremony' as they who produce the show like to call it. Often, I had better things to do and did not even flutter at the thought of missing The Bachelor: On the Wings of Love. I have my pride. Heck, many a Monday night, I even forgot that it was the Monday-thing-to-do. Sometimes, a girl just wants her couch and a good book. Or a little yoga, a warm bath and some sappy music on her iTouch (how sexy!).

But truly, I am mildly baffled by those who did set aside their Monday evening me-time for this me-fest (Have you ever noticed how narcissistic this Bachelor/ette phenomenon is?). With great importance and - it seems to me - reverence for the 'journey', I know at least three single & over-40 women who could not/would not miss their Monday night fix of TB. Not only were they hooked, but they followed, outside of the Monday night realm, the rumors and gossip and blogs, and all the sundry accessory marketing/bullshit that comes with the show. If I missed a Monday, I could count on all three sources to fill me in - and gall darn it if they didn't make the whole damned thing seem important enough to follow. Here, it behooves me to admit that I am more than a little miffed at how things turned out this season (He picked her?).

But let's get back to the heart (ha-ha) of things. Did the lovers find love? Did the shiny happy people make a real connection? This cynic says, um, likely not (Just check the tabloids and you'll see). I think we can all look at the packaging, read the ingredients, and recognize that real life has yet to be lived. Before long, this hot couple (You saw it, too, right? That undeniable spark?) will have to confront the work and commitment they must pour into enduring love. Soon, we will all hear the disheartening news that the couple has split (bad things happen to good people) and our fairy tale bubble will be burst. TV is a tough place to start and carry on a romance, after all. Just look at all the the movie-star marriages that have gone bust. But hey, let's be fair. When you live in America and go public with your love, it's pretty obvious by now that holding-IT-together is darn near impossible.

Truly, though, I am not at all cynical about love. Not even close. Yes, I am mystified by the willingness of some to completely expose their so-called search for love on national TV - but I am more mystified by what I have discovered from being deeply in love with another. It's an incredible feeling - a feeling that occupies my senses long after the end of the affair. Which is where The Bachelor begins to make sense for me. That is, I suspect my girlfriends may still be searching. That they need some context for a modern 'happily ever after' scene laid out in front of them. These girls have yet to connect and to know the pefectly wonderful depths of surrender. And, perhaps there is a part of me that needs a boost of faith to know that love may come my way again.

So, this is where I back off and give credit to those who created The Bachelor. For many, your show is hope and a dream within reach. We need to know that our ideals have some place in mundane reality. Whether long attached and looking for a little reminder, or still single and looking for some reassurance, we all need a little jolt of that romantic fire once in a while. It just feels good, and now I get it. Looks like I'll be checking out the score next season.

Irked & Unknown

I have a cyber request. That is, 'For the Love of Mother' has been taken by another blogger and, while this is totally irksome, it is not unexpected. Who are you, I would like to know, and can I have your (my) title? 'For the Love of Mothers' is a yucky second choice and I will have to settle, but if you're out there and would like to trade with me, I'm in. You see, this blog is about one mother - not yours or anyone else's - and that mother is mine. I want to be found in this other world by the right title and that title must not be plural! Ergo, my title-snatching mystery blogger, I need your title.

Think about that irksome 's' at the end of 'Mother' and you'll get my point. Syntactically, that 's' directly implies (can implication be direct?) that this blogger's intent is to write about motherhood. And sure, I have thought about just that. You know, writing meaningful stuff about mothers and all that they do for us; searching essays and poetry and one-liners about mothers for reflection; even hiding out for a year - to hunker down and write about mothers - just to see what might come of the exercise. But all I really want is to exorcise (think mind-weeding) some psychic debris and satisfy a secret curiosity (Can I write?).

Indeed, this blog began because of one mother and, as it sits, my title misrepresents my purpose. 'For the Love of Mothers' is off colour, I fear, and rings a little sharp. Hence, I need your title, my cyber-partner in 'For the Love of Mother' blogging. For now, I know I must limp along with my 's', but maybe some day in this weird world of anonymous cyber networking, you will find me and I can have my swap. To be true, I have not yet found you and may one day discover that your are long gone from this alternate universe; that your efforts to blog have long been abandoned; that the original 'For the Love of Mother' blog is dead and my title forever taken. After all, this blogosphere is rife with the detritus (a.k.a. krippy-krap) of dead projects and half-assed attempts at putting-IT-out-there. It occurs to me that I may never get my title; it also occurs to me that I, too, may never be found.

As far as I can tell, I may never gain followers in this mission. The only person to view me so far is myself - and one other anonymous blogger (who had specific instructions to find me - right here). After some effort and dialogue, I was found and followed. Once. Actually, this fellow-blogger is not unkown to me in my human world, and little effort was taken to click in to their cyberspace. But that's because I knew where to look - knew enough about the human behind the posts to search for and I.D. the writer. Come to think of it, I like knowing the writer behind the blog. I like having contact with the real person - the one who might also be a follower of my words. There is comfort in knowing I am not alone, not the only hopeful cyber-scriber awaiting my first real follower (the rest will follow the first, right?).

Therefore, 'For the Love of Mother' #1, I forgive you if you never turn up. I know it's hard to get noticed in these here parts, and I understand the attachment one can have to a name or a title. With some regret, I may even concede my (your) title and accept my 's'. One letter, I recognize, may not be the difference in this blog being discovered. As it turns out, I am quickly discovering that blogging days are slogging days and, if you are still out there blogging your stuff #1, good luck and Blog On! Writing is not for sissies and we are all alone in this crowded cyber-room. Can anyone out there help me find some followers?

One into Another

There she sits, all stiff
and rigid in her finery;
She does not look up,
will not give you a glance.
God forbid,
forbidden fruit;
you are her nemesis,
the threat to her throne -
built of ice -
frozen.

But you are just as cold.
Frozen in your secrets
locked out of this queen's castle.
If you think for a second
she will let you in,
beware.
Beware the cold stare, the
hard heart and your part.
You are the unwanted one.
Not a friend.
Just an extra.
Sometimes worthy,
usually not.

You made it out
to be this way.
Once a friend,
now an extra.
Always looking for
the way to her heart,
to melt her stare
into liquid -
the liquid of your dreams.

No, this is not about you.

Not My Birthday

What's a girl to do?

Scene 1

For a few groceries and some Advil, I owed my mother 40 bucks. She shunned my offer of a cheque and said, "Don't worry, you can pay me later."

"No, it's okay, I can give this to you now. You're leaving for Arizona and I won't see you for a while."

"No. Don't worry. You can pay me later since you're not feeling well."

"It's okay, really. Here's a cheque."

"No, I don't want you to worry about this now. We'll make it your birthday present - for next year."

[Seriously. She said it. Out loud. My birthday for this year had just expired. Read my internal monologue: Take the freaking money before I pound you one!]

"I'm fine. Take the cheque."

Cheque in hand, mother, father and sister left to celebrate my nephew's birthday.

Scene 2

Two days later, mother sent dad back to pick up an old set of golf clubs I was giving her to play with in Arizona.

"Please, take them. They haven't been used for four years. I'm happy to see them used."

"Are you sure? What if you decide you need them? I don't want to take your clubs."

"Go ahead. I haven't golfed in four years, so take them and enjoy."

"Okay, but we can ship them back if you want them."

"Sure."

[Whatever. Two hours later, my mother had an idea and called to tell me about it.]

"I just wanted to let you know I've decided not to cash your cheque."

"Why?"

"Consider it rent for your clubs."

"That's not necessary, but thanks."

"I just feel so guilty taking your clubs."

[Yeah. I think I'll reach for a kitchen knife and cut this one off.]

Scene 3

"Hey, dad. How's Arizona?"

"Great. We've setteld in. Had a lot of work to do at first, but the new retirement condo in Leisure World is looking good."

"That's nice. What have you been doing to relax?"

"Oh, well, I should tell you that your clubs never made it to Arizona."

"Oh really? How come?"

"Well, they are big and bulky and it was just too much to ship. Would've been at least 50 bucks."

[No shit, Sherlock. I'm the one who spent an hour rearranging my storage room to dig the suckers out of their cave before loading them into your filthy over-filled bumble-bee yellow Mazda.]

"Hm. To bad. Well, next time?"

"Actually, we went to an orphanage and they were having a fundraiser. Turns out we were able to buy a set of clubs for 10 bucks. Can't beat that, eh?"

"Nope. Can't beat that." For the love of...

Looks like I may take up golfing again, 'cause that 40 bucks I saved will be just enough to cover the greens fees. Thanks for the round, Mom.

Birthdays Are Bloodbaths

My mother turned 60 in Iceland . Big birthday aside, the location for the occasion raised the bar of expectation for an already important event. We travelled as a family (minus one sister & two grandchildren) to the great land of our ancestry. Well, not my father's, but he came along for the ride, leaving all Icelander jokes at home. We would embrace the hardfiskur and the lamb, fork over nine bucks (all figures Canadian) for a stinking head of broccoli, and learn that, yes, corn is indeed a pizza topping. This little island, after all, is another world - a crust of lava and ice where nature's power rumbles steadily - and we were togther, our first family trip in a very long time.

So here's the deal: when your mother's 60th approaches, have a freaking plan. And, when you will be spending the occasion in Iceland, the place of your mother's heritage, make The Plan a good one - a Plan you can be sure to execute, flawlessly, without a hint of 'we-will-pull-this-together-when-we-get-there'. Scheduled to land a day before The Day, we thought, why not make it an all Icelandic affair? Artsy gifts would be bought from local shops, dinner would be eaten in Rekjavik, and the day would end with a family walk under the bright night sky. But retrospect gives me this: we had no hard-core Plan. Our Plan, my cyberfriend, was a pipe dream - a dream full of vapid, misty smoke that went puff, puff, poof. Trust this post and do not follow where we went (unless you have a thing for cold winds and driving rain).

Here's the thing. On arrival to Iceland (from Toronto to Boston to Keflavik to Rekjavik), we were very tired and my mother was suffering serious nicotine withdrawl. No patch feeds enough poison for this blogger's mother's habit. Every transfer along the way had a smoke-break factored in, and now that we are all kicked to the curb to smoke, this meant we made more than one shuttle-bus mistake in Boston. The only time I ever saw my mother move faster to get somewhere was when my sister - about 6 at the time - floated face down into the middle of Crystal Lake, Saskatchewan. But we made it to our apartment in Rekjavik, fell into bed and napped for a few hours. It was July in the land of fire and ice, the sun would be up forever, so what did it matter when we slept? We had time.

Ah, but it did matter. Within hours, we had a guest. A distant, long-in-the-tooth family relative whom we had never met, nor did we have any real ties, apart from our claim that we were somehow legit as Icelanders. With the arrival of our guest, The Plan began - most predictably - to unravel. We were invited to a brunch that would mean July 2, the birthday day, no longer belonged to us. We were going to brunch, which seemed just fine - until my mother had a guilt attack. "You girls do not have to come," she insisted. Knowing the routine, we insisted back, "We don't mind, really, we don't. It's your birthday. We'll come." Truly, we didn't mind. And truly, she pushed and pushed and pushed for us to do something else, to escape the shackles of our parents. "I don't want to ruin your vacation," she said. "You're not ruining our vacation," we said. And on it went for the first bright night in Iceland.

So now, on day 2 (that's July 2), The Plan was this: brunch for the grown-ups, and spa day at The Blue Lagoon for the young'uns. They had no interest, mom said of the spa experience, so why not go while they were at brunch? We would rejoin that evening, and a birthday celebration would follow the day after - July 3rd. Agreeing to this new plan was a big mistake, not smart and poorly played. What the fuck were we thinking? My mother wanted us there, wanted to show us off. She wanted to tell family stories, look at pictures and let people know that "the only daughter making babies for me is at home in New York". It would have been our birthday present to her, she said. To read between the lines, to know what she really meant, and to enjoy the company of bonafide Icelanders would have made her day perfect. And ours, most likely.

How could we have been so daft as to think she really meant it when she sent us on the bus to the spa on her big day? How could I have missed the secret code I know so well? You girls do not have to come does not mean "You girls do not have to come." Of course she doesn't mean what she says! The subtext, screaming in our faces was, "You're a pair of thoughtless meanies if you don't come to brunch on my birthday." And obviously, We have no interest in the spa does not mean, "Go ahead, it's OK. Enjoy." Not at all. It was not OK, we should not have gone ahead, and clearly she meant to say, "Enjoy the spa, but it will cost you." We just weren't listening and I can only blame it on the jetlag. Honestly, we were bagged & confused. Two grown children lost in translation is all we were.

This was check mate. We were eternally screwed for every birthday to follow. Game, set and match. My mom awoke more than a little misty-eyed on her big day. An email from my baby-making sister in NY was pointedly relayed to us: she had remembered, planned ahead, sent an online gift, made a big deal. We had nothing (except our sister's lasting sympathies). We could not go to the spa; we had to go to the spa (we were sent & we went). We could not plan a party; we had to plan a party (we offered gifts & dinner a few days later). As The Day stood, we could not hope for anything more than a quick sunset for that cold & blustery July 2nd (Oh, the irony of where we were).

If I learned anything in Iceland, it is this: there is always a cold, driving wind. You cannot escape the wind, you can only learn to dress for it, preferably in a sporty line of clothing from 66 North or a hand-knit Icelandic Wool sweater. Many Icelanders insisted the days were colder than usual that July (average temp. of 4 degrees and much rain), and while we shopped for the right outerwear/underwear, I never found the right pile of layers to thaw my bones. Whatever the weather, I stayed cold and faced the extremes. I drove steep cliffs, climbed bubbling volcanoes, crossed blue glaciers and watched whales on the North Atlantic (well, no whales were seen, but a puffin or two was sighted while all but a few of us lost their lunch)...

...all this with my mother in tow and, all ranting aside, worth repeating. She bought us bag after bag of salty black toffee and we saw the most amazing things. She told us stories and we ventured almost to the tip of the world together. This was the trip of a lifetime - perhaps our last as a family - and I have vowed to return. Do pass the hardfiskur (it's delicious), but hold the butter. There is no other place I know of where you can eat dried fish like potato chips. Gotta love it. Thanks mom, for the time up north. Really. I mean it.

(Exactly one month later, I found myself in South Korea, in perhaps the hottest dampest mustiest weather I have ever felt. There, my bones melted to mush and I truly marvelled at this place we call earth).

Tethered to Love

Once upon a time, there was a quiet little girl who had never been to the ocean. In fact, she didn't even know the ocean existed. Until, one day, the moon captured the tide, found the little girl, and tugged and tugged and tugged on her wee little fingers with the most beautiful threads made out of moonbeams. Of course, the moon was gentle and patient and lovely - so lovely that the little girl fell secretly in love. Before long, all the little girl wanted was to follow the moon's threads.

Frightened by the moon - its powerful beauty and long moonbeam threads - the little girl took a deep breath to mettle her nerve. Finally, she reached up high, grasped at one of the threads and gave it a tug. For one blissfully fearful moment, the tide lurched and the threads wobbled, but the girl steadied herself and stood firm (her other secret, you see, was that she had long looked up to the moon and yearned for adventure, for the moon to come and take her away). And so, with her feet newly settled on blank earth, the little girl nudged herself forward. "If I hold on a little tighter," she asked, "where will you take me?" Because the moon was wise and knew that the little girl was timid, the moon simply said, "Have faith, my delicate girl. Come with me and I will show you the most beautiful things."

And so, in time, the moon's beams grew shorter and the tugging stopped. You see, the little girl had fallen into the moon's beams and let them carry her wherever the moon wanted. Together, the moon and the little girl braved the dark forest, moved heaps of dead earth and made the most brilliant new shade of pink to splash through the sky. And the tide grew resentful. After all, the moon had captured the tide, and it was the moon's job to carry the tide in and out, along the shore, in keeping with the ocean's rhythm. Without the tug of the moon's beams, the ocean would lose its sway and the moon would never be able to show the little girl all that the ocean held.

But the moon didn't care. The moon had the little girl in its grasp, riding its beams. They had become a pair, limbs and beams entwined in their limitless potential. Caught in the moon's beams, the little girl couldn't believe all that she had seen - and she couldn't imagine herself without the moon. This is when the moon, gazing at the little girl, forgot the tide and gave all of its beams to the little girl. This is also when the little girl surrendered herself to the moon, opened her wings to the pink sky, and discovered perfect happiness in the waves and light of the moon.

Patient and gentle and lovely as the moon was, however, the moon could not sustain itself against the crashing tide, wild without the moon's beams to steady its flow. What the little girl didn't know (and what the moon didn't tell her until too late), is that the waves did not belong to the moon. They were the tide, captured by the moon, bound to the ocean. The unstoppable, immovable ocean. The ocean that would, with relentless patience, remind the moon that they were forever bound to shift and sway.

Lost in the waves, the little girl could never have predicted that this terrible force, this beautiful ocean, would be the ugly thief of her dreams. And while the moon had not let go, the little girl soon came to know that the moon's beam's were changeable and weak in her grasp, especially against the constant strength and rhythm of the ocean's tide. The moon did not want to be tied to the little girl and she would have to let go.

At first, the little girl thought she would try and try and try to join the shift and sway of the moon. But the moon simply stretched out its beams beyond the little girl, searching and wandering - sometimes wending its way back to the little girl, and sometimes piercing her heart with the most wicked and knowing betrayal. The little girl had to know that the moon would never focus all of its beams in her direction.

Over time, the little girl was able to stretch herself further and further away from the moon. The tide would sometimes draw her back and she would fall back into the waves, but always the moon reminded her - these beams are not for you and they will always reach beyond your body. Gradually, the little girl lost faith in the moon and as the last of the moon's beams slipped out of her fingers, she knew that the moon would never again tug at her fingers. Finally, the little girl could fly.

She is me; I am she

The recent genesis of this project is Christmas '09 and the holiday games my family played (mind-fucks, that is - not the fun & games of a family at Christmas). In other words, this blogspot began long ago with the long-standing, ever-unspoken mother/daughter struggle that I imagine we all endure. I am not special because my mother can be a nut - not at all. We all have a story or two to tell, and mine happen to be rather absurd. So, I will take this cyberspace to tell my tales.

That said, I am no 'writer'. I have yet to discover my voice, and it may be that I utter a hoarse and unharmonious tune. Whatever the result (bitch-fest? mama-rant? psychic purge?), I can only offer myself to the mercy of imperfect words. Something will come of this. Not everything I write will be about Mother - and everything I write is because of Her. She is my mother.