My husband read my blog post last night and informed me that, no, actually, we weren't going to pay $15.98 for a CD we didn't really wreck in order to re-balance my karma. (Apparently, he wants me to come back as a slug in my next life.)
So this afternoon, I phoned the library and timidly explained my situation to the very kind sounding lady on the phone. (She sounded, in fact, the very way you'd imagine a Very Kindly Librarian with Grey Hair to sound, the kind of librarian you might remember from your childhood. She made me think of the Very Kindly Librarian with Grey Hair who worked in my hometown, whose name was Aunt Sheila. She really was my aunt, actually - well, my great aunt. And she had a Scottish accent so didn't really sound anything like this lady on the phone today, but I could tell they were cut from the same cloth. As in, the Kindly Librarian cloth. It's probably a tartan cloth.)
Anyway, the Kindly Librarian (not the one I yelled at, by the way) kindly checked both my son's card and my card and could not find a damage fee of any sort. "If you could kindly bring in the notice the next time you're here, I'll sort this out for you. And don't worry, you don't have to pay the fee."
Hmmm. I guess the Other, Not-So-Kindly Librarian was just trying to scare me by sending me a notice in the mail, and then, poof, eradicating the fine, since, let's face it, it never would have stood up in court. (Or where ever it is one takes one's library fine grievances.) Either that, or God and the Universe have a great sense of humour (and the ability to send fake library notices. Interesting.)
xo M.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
True Confessions of a Library Vandal
I have a confession to make.
I behaved badly last week.
Okay, so I probably behaved badly more than once last week, but this time was particularly bad. And also, it had consequences. My bad behaviour is going to cost me money. Not a lot of money, but money no less.
The other upshot of my uppity actions: I have besmirched a local establishment I and my children frequent often, and hold in high regard. Besmirched, I say.
The place I have besmirched is the library.
I behaved badly last week.
Okay, so I probably behaved badly more than once last week, but this time was particularly bad. And also, it had consequences. My bad behaviour is going to cost me money. Not a lot of money, but money no less.
The other upshot of my uppity actions: I have besmirched a local establishment I and my children frequent often, and hold in high regard. Besmirched, I say.
The place I have besmirched is the library.
Here’s what happened:
You may recall there were a few rainy, windy, crappy days last week. And while I know in my last post I preached the benefits of gratefulness and not making a big deal out of the small stuff when the alternative is being buried under a pile of rubble, on this particular windy, stormy day, I wasn’t feeling especially grateful. The kids had runny noses (and have had runny noses, it seems, for the past month, with no end to the snot storm in sight), the wind was buffeting us down the street at an alarming rate, I feared an errant tree branch was going to be the end of us all, we were freezing, some of us were crying, and we had one last errand to run before we’d finally be able to return to the safety of home for a nice, warm lunch.
Our final task on this blustery day: We had library items to return. Books and a CD.
I pulled up to the library, scooted the stroller up the ramp, and attempted to open the book-return drop box on the lower level of the building. But the box was locked.
I jiggled it, annoyed. Definitely locked.
Which is when I noticed the cloth bag I was holding, containing said (already late) library items slated for return, was dripping.
I reached inside. Everything was soaked. An errant sippy cup had made it’s way into the bag and leaked its water contents all over everything.
Damn it.
"Poop," I said aloud.
"Poop," my son repeated with a laugh. (We recently had an f-word incident so are working very hard around our house to clean up our potty mouths so my son will stop, for the love of God, saying at every possible opportunity, "We CAN'T say FUCK, Mama. FUCK is a bad word.")
While the wind continued to howl and rage, I removed all items from the bag and wiped them with my coat. They were just a little damp, nothing a few wipes wouldn’t cure.
Except for the CD -- which was called Healthy Kidz, by the way, and was so lame we’d nixed it as a family in favour of some Pretenders (Maia’s new favourite band; you should see her kick it to Back on the Chain Gang). The water had leaked into the case and soaked the liner notes. Although the CD itself was fine (still lame, but fine) no amount of wiping could hide the fact that someone had wet the CD case. Besmirched it, if you will, with an unknown substance.
Oh how I wished the drop box wasn’t locked.
Oh how I didn’t want to have to plunk my pathetic wet CD case in front of the librarian and see the judgement in her eyes.
Another gust of wind blew off my son’s hat. I ran down the ramp to retrive it while he laughed and shouted "Poop!" into the wind.
By this time I was feeling annoyed. Okay, not just annoyed. I was feeling downright indignant. I’m a taxpayer, dammit, I was thinking. I pay taxes – and, if I’m being honest, far too many library late fees -- so that things like book return drop boxes will be bloody well open when I need them to be open, in order to avoid pulling my unwieldy stroller all the way into the library, loading it and the kids onto the elevator, going up the elevator and handing my (wet, damn it, damn it, damn it) books and CD to the librarian! Why the hell isn’t the drop box open?! Why, I beseech you?!
(When I'm angry, my inner voice tends to become extremely wordy and drama-queeny.)
So I parked the stroller and ran through the glass doors of the library, then shouted up at the librarian, who was at the top of the stairs behind her counter.
“Why,” I shouted, my hair flying out everywhere, an angry expression on my red face, “isn’t the drop box open?!”
“Because,” she replied coolly. “It’s only open when the library is closed. And the library is open right now."
Like I was stupid or something.
And I wasn't the stupid one. The library was the stupid one!
“Well, that’s stupid,” I shouted. “Even Blockbuster keeps their drop-box open all day and taxpayers aren’t even paying for that drop box.” (Listen, I told you: I behaved badly. I didn’t say I was proud of myself.)
The librarian didn’t respond. She gave me a very judgmental look. It made me angrier.
I stormed out the door, grabbed my library books, pulled the kids inside the library – making a big show about how difficult it was to pull the stroller through the doors with all the wind – parked them at the bottom of the stairs, stomped up the stairs, and dumped my books and (wet) CD in front of the librarian.
Then I ran away before she noticed that everything was damp.
Heading for home, I felt ashamed already. I mean, the librarian herself probably hadn’t made the decision that the drop box was to stay closed during library hours. And it probably wasn’t a calculated attempt to burn idiots like me who spill their kids’ water all over their stuff.
What was I thinking, being such a cow? I let my temper get the better of me. I yelled at the librarian. I stomped around the library. Library's are quiet, nice places. Quiet, nice places with books.
I probably shouldn’t have been surprised today when I got a notice in the mail from the library informing me (or, more accurately, informing my son, whose library card the items were taken out on, for shame) that I owe $15.98. For the damage of the Healthy Kidz CD, natch.
Part of me wanted to stomp over to the library and say, “Come on, people, the CD wasn’t damaged, the liner notes were wet, that's all! Geez! Half the stuff we take out of the library looks like it's been chewed by a pit bull before we even get a chance to chew on it ourselves!"
But another part of me knew this notice probably never would have arrived if I hadn’t behaved so badly.
If I'd been nice, if I'd explained to the librarian what had happened, if I'd apologized for wetting something that wasn't mine, things probably would have turned out differently. Even if the CD was damaged -- which I am SO sure it wasn’t by the way (and yes, I do have a thing about being right even when I know I’m wrong) -- the librarian might have decided to go easy on me and not make me pay for the lame CD that probably came free with a box of cereal.
Instead, I stomped, I yelled, I potentially wrecked her morning.
I have to pay the $15.98.
While I’m not saying I’m never going to let my temper get the better of me again - I'm me, after all, and not always the cooleset customer on the block - I am saying I learned a lesson. It's a pretty basic one: It's always nice to be nice. In the immortal words of the Stone Roses, Love Spreads. Plus, if I had been nice, I would have been setting a better example for my children, too. Because they are (the f-word incident being a case in point) watching and listening.
Poop.
xoMarissa
Sunday, October 4, 2009
I'm Thankful For ...
Gratitude is the key to happiness. There, I said it. You can stop wondering, quit going to therapy and return all those self help books, because that's the key, right there.
According to a recent study by a prof named Todd Kashdan, women are statistically happier than men because they are more grateful. (And here I thought we members of the fairer sex were happier because of the unabashed shoe shopping, playful accessorizing, and not having to deal with having a penis.) But no, says Kashdan. It's thankfulness and joy, the essential elements for living a good life.
There's a group dedicated to gratefulness called The Grateful Nation, and they insist people who are grateful are happier in general, whether they're male or female. Being thankful is good for your health, these full-of-gratitude people say.
But how can this be achieved? What if you just don't feel like you have anything to be grateful for? What if you screwed up at work, got stuck in traffic on the way home, flipped another driver the bird and felt like an idiot, got dinner going late, burned it, became hangry* at your loved one and said something mean, then went to bed annoyed with the world?
What if you forgot to pay the hydro bill and your power got turned off and you're cold and pissy, or you misplaced the novel you were reading right when you were at the exciting climax, or you lost your cell phone while drunk and have descended into a feeling of alcohol fuelled paranoid fear that none of your friends are ever going to be able to reach you again or that someone is stealing your identity as you speak?
Or, worse, truly worse, what if you lost your job and don't know how you're going to pay the mortgage, or someone you love is sick, or you feel alone, or anxious, or simply blue, for any number of very valid reasons?
I wish I could give a pat answer, something like, Hey, channel Pollyanna, because it could be worse, my friend, you could be living in Sumatra right now.
Except that maybe it isn't. Maybe we all just need to be more grateful for what we do have, instead of focusing so determinedly on the things we don't.
My Seasonal Resolution (I like to make resolutions - and get a facial - every time the seasons change, not just in January) is to be more grateful. And what better time to make that resolution than autumn, the very season of giving thanks, a concept as old as pioneers, pumpkin pie, and possibly Stonehenge?
My plan is to focus on the small things this fall. Because, as they say, God is in the details. Or is it 'The devil is in the details'? Either way, I like details.
Here are a few of life's details that I rather enjoy: sitting by my son's bedroom window, looking at the full moon with him and feeling like we're sharing a secret ("Wow," he breathed last night, his eyes as wide as the celestial orb itself. "Is it a big flash light?"); when my daughter cuddles into my chest, nestles her head under my chin, sticks her thumb in her mouth and emits a coo that says, "Ah, this is the place, the place I belong"; the way my husband's cold feet always find mine in bed on these chilly fall nights; an extra duvet; spending a day at a fall fair; the flash of pleasure the comes from reading, in a poem, story, or any other written work, something that is beautiful. Even when it's about something sad. Like this: “My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” -- Robert Frost.
Happy autumn, everyone!
xo Marissa
* - Hangry is a term bandied about in our house, meaning one who hasn't eaten in several hours, has low blood sugar, and is feeling irritable. This person must be fed immediately or they will say or do something they will regret later.
According to a recent study by a prof named Todd Kashdan, women are statistically happier than men because they are more grateful. (And here I thought we members of the fairer sex were happier because of the unabashed shoe shopping, playful accessorizing, and not having to deal with having a penis.) But no, says Kashdan. It's thankfulness and joy, the essential elements for living a good life.
There's a group dedicated to gratefulness called The Grateful Nation, and they insist people who are grateful are happier in general, whether they're male or female. Being thankful is good for your health, these full-of-gratitude people say.
But how can this be achieved? What if you just don't feel like you have anything to be grateful for? What if you screwed up at work, got stuck in traffic on the way home, flipped another driver the bird and felt like an idiot, got dinner going late, burned it, became hangry* at your loved one and said something mean, then went to bed annoyed with the world?
What if you forgot to pay the hydro bill and your power got turned off and you're cold and pissy, or you misplaced the novel you were reading right when you were at the exciting climax, or you lost your cell phone while drunk and have descended into a feeling of alcohol fuelled paranoid fear that none of your friends are ever going to be able to reach you again or that someone is stealing your identity as you speak?
Or, worse, truly worse, what if you lost your job and don't know how you're going to pay the mortgage, or someone you love is sick, or you feel alone, or anxious, or simply blue, for any number of very valid reasons?
I wish I could give a pat answer, something like, Hey, channel Pollyanna, because it could be worse, my friend, you could be living in Sumatra right now.
Except that maybe it isn't. Maybe we all just need to be more grateful for what we do have, instead of focusing so determinedly on the things we don't.
My Seasonal Resolution (I like to make resolutions - and get a facial - every time the seasons change, not just in January) is to be more grateful. And what better time to make that resolution than autumn, the very season of giving thanks, a concept as old as pioneers, pumpkin pie, and possibly Stonehenge?
My plan is to focus on the small things this fall. Because, as they say, God is in the details. Or is it 'The devil is in the details'? Either way, I like details.
Here are a few of life's details that I rather enjoy: sitting by my son's bedroom window, looking at the full moon with him and feeling like we're sharing a secret ("Wow," he breathed last night, his eyes as wide as the celestial orb itself. "Is it a big flash light?"); when my daughter cuddles into my chest, nestles her head under my chin, sticks her thumb in her mouth and emits a coo that says, "Ah, this is the place, the place I belong"; the way my husband's cold feet always find mine in bed on these chilly fall nights; an extra duvet; spending a day at a fall fair; the flash of pleasure the comes from reading, in a poem, story, or any other written work, something that is beautiful. Even when it's about something sad. Like this: “My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” -- Robert Frost.
Happy autumn, everyone!
xo Marissa
* - Hangry is a term bandied about in our house, meaning one who hasn't eaten in several hours, has low blood sugar, and is feeling irritable. This person must be fed immediately or they will say or do something they will regret later.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Boldface Names, and What I Did on My Summer Vacation
Fall has sprung, and it's officially time to become an upstanding member of society again. Which means I will be blogging more frequently, I promise. No more cottage sojourns (okay, one more, but only because the weather is so fab), no more camping trips (ever again. in my life. never, ever, ever, unless I can be guaranteed perfect weather and a non-leaky tent.), and no more lazy, hazy slacking off. My son started nursery school this week (I cried; he didn't.), the nanny is back part-time (my daughter cried; I didn't.), and I have a list of things to do and write as long as my arm. (I'm also two-thirds of the way through the first-ish draft of my second novel, and have been hearing noises about my first one being picked up, too, so life, writing-wise, is looking good indeed.)
Speaking of life, writing-wise, being good, I went to the launch of National Post columnist Shinan Govani's novel, Boldface Names, this week. The party was held at the Holt's Cafe during the film festival, so it couldn't be anything but fantastic. Also, and probably more importantly, it was in honour of Shinan, who simply is fantastic, especially in his Prada suit. ("Tweet it baby, tweet.") So it was double fab.
Overheard at the party: "What can be wrong about a party with free champagne?" Nothing. Nothing at all.
xo Marissa
Speaking of life, writing-wise, being good, I went to the launch of National Post columnist Shinan Govani's novel, Boldface Names, this week. The party was held at the Holt's Cafe during the film festival, so it couldn't be anything but fantastic. Also, and probably more importantly, it was in honour of Shinan, who simply is fantastic, especially in his Prada suit. ("Tweet it baby, tweet.") So it was double fab.
Overheard at the party: "What can be wrong about a party with free champagne?" Nothing. Nothing at all.
xo Marissa
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Twilight Summer
It's official: I am a Twilight addict.
I know. This is probably not the groundbreaking admission I think it is, considering the Twilight books have been out for so long they've already started taping the third movie in Vancouver, and almost everyone has already read the entire saga. (A bonus for me; I don't have to shell out for hardcover.) But I have an excuse: over the past few years, I have been a little busy, what with having two kids and writing one and a half books and a slew of freelance articles, while trying to have a life and make sure the house doesn't disappear under a layer of filth. Thus, I haven't had much time to read. (Which is profoundly sad. Almost as sad as falling in love with a painfully beautiful vampire you can never be with. Because I really love to read.)
Having a life is going to have to wait, though. For the next month or so, I'll be neglecting my domestic duties (more than usual) and staying up far later than I should reading the next three books in the saga. (Which is as it should be. Vampire books should always be read at night, while everyone else in the house is asleep, and the house is full of dust and cobwebs, yes?)
I must know what happens with Edward and Bella. (Oh, and I totally get the Robert Pattinson thing now. When I first started seeing pictures of him in the tabloids, I alternated between thinking, "What on earth is Twilight?" and "Hmmm, that guy is kind of odd looking. What's the appeal?" But now I understand. Were I not happily married, I, too, would meet him for dangerous trysts in dark forests. I am NOT on Team Jacob. No way, no day.)
Edward, Edward, rah rah rah!
When I can become so absorbed in a story I forget all about critiquing the writing and plot, or thinking in a high minded way, "Ugh! I could do better than this!", that's big.
That's what's happening to me with Twilight. I know it's not Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff, but who cares? It's a bloody good story - pun intended. I feel like Meyer has succeeded in capturing every fantasy I ever had as a ripped jean, Doc Marten-wearing, Jane's Addiction and Cure-obsessed teenage girl.
.
Of course, now that I have a new obsession, I've spent a great deal of time Googling Twilight and catching up on what I've been missing the past few years. And I've been reading about Stephenie Meyer, the Twilight author. I especially liked this section of the Twilight website, where she does a Q&A.
http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilight.html
I once heard another writer critique Meyer, saying she's an average writer who doesn't deserve the fame she's enjoying. I strongly disagree. Anyone can have a great idea, but actually writing a book is hard. Writing a book while taking care of kids is quite another matter. Writing a bestseller that becomes an international phenomenon ... I'm in awe.
Go Stephenie! Rah rah rah!
I'd love to write more, but I have to go now. Edward is waiting for me. Swoon.
I know. This is probably not the groundbreaking admission I think it is, considering the Twilight books have been out for so long they've already started taping the third movie in Vancouver, and almost everyone has already read the entire saga. (A bonus for me; I don't have to shell out for hardcover.) But I have an excuse: over the past few years, I have been a little busy, what with having two kids and writing one and a half books and a slew of freelance articles, while trying to have a life and make sure the house doesn't disappear under a layer of filth. Thus, I haven't had much time to read. (Which is profoundly sad. Almost as sad as falling in love with a painfully beautiful vampire you can never be with. Because I really love to read.)
Having a life is going to have to wait, though. For the next month or so, I'll be neglecting my domestic duties (more than usual) and staying up far later than I should reading the next three books in the saga. (Which is as it should be. Vampire books should always be read at night, while everyone else in the house is asleep, and the house is full of dust and cobwebs, yes?)
I must know what happens with Edward and Bella. (Oh, and I totally get the Robert Pattinson thing now. When I first started seeing pictures of him in the tabloids, I alternated between thinking, "What on earth is Twilight?" and "Hmmm, that guy is kind of odd looking. What's the appeal?" But now I understand. Were I not happily married, I, too, would meet him for dangerous trysts in dark forests. I am NOT on Team Jacob. No way, no day.)
Edward, Edward, rah rah rah!
Ahem. Sorry.
As a writer, it's difficult for me not to read a book and edit it in my head as I go along. I'm sure that sounds terribly literary-snobbish of me, and I don't mean to. I know I'm no Martha Gellhorn (or John Irving, or Audrey Niffeneger, or Emily Giffin for that matter). However, I have been writing for newspapers and magazines for almost a decade, so editing and rewriting are as natural to me as breathing. (Ooh, or if I were a vampire, I might say as natural to me as craving human blood! Shiver.)When I can become so absorbed in a story I forget all about critiquing the writing and plot, or thinking in a high minded way, "Ugh! I could do better than this!", that's big.
That's what's happening to me with Twilight. I know it's not Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff, but who cares? It's a bloody good story - pun intended. I feel like Meyer has succeeded in capturing every fantasy I ever had as a ripped jean, Doc Marten-wearing, Jane's Addiction and Cure-obsessed teenage girl.
.
Of course, now that I have a new obsession, I've spent a great deal of time Googling Twilight and catching up on what I've been missing the past few years. And I've been reading about Stephenie Meyer, the Twilight author. I especially liked this section of the Twilight website, where she does a Q&A.
http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilight.html
I once heard another writer critique Meyer, saying she's an average writer who doesn't deserve the fame she's enjoying. I strongly disagree. Anyone can have a great idea, but actually writing a book is hard. Writing a book while taking care of kids is quite another matter. Writing a bestseller that becomes an international phenomenon ... I'm in awe.
Go Stephenie! Rah rah rah!
I'd love to write more, but I have to go now. Edward is waiting for me. Swoon.
xoMarissa
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Tell Me a Story
I'm back from the wilds of Muskoka. And boy, was it a long drive.
On the way home, my husband screeched to a stop on the 404, where we sat throwing snacks into the back seat and singing to the kids at the top of our lungs as we waited for the gridlock to clear. "I hate driving," he said. "I hate it. Let's get rid of the car. Let's never drive again." Which would be nice, for lots of reasons. And also not nice, for lots of other reasons. (Having to take the bus when we want to go to Muskoka, for one.)
On the way up north, however, despite the fact that it took five plus hours when it should have taken three and we got lost a mere ten minutes away from our destination and drove in circles for an hour, we did, as a family, experience a brief time of calm solidarity. It came in the form of Stuart McLean.
We'd forgotten our iPod adaptor so we had to listen to the radio. (Gasp. I know. A friend forgot his iPod enroute to the same cottage and turned around and drove all the way back to the city to get it, rather than suffer through hours of long weekend traffic while forced to listen to DJ drivel and ads. He got to the cottage around midnight, but he was happy.)
I had my secret weapon, though: CBC Radio 2. It used to just be classical, but now they have the contemporary urban (I don't know what that means but I like it) Live Drive in the morning with Tom Allen, and in the afternoon, after the classical sojourn, it's Rich Terfry (by night, he's contemporary urban rapper/musician Buck 65 and I think he's a great DJ. He plays lots of funky, folksy, rootsy, rocky, and cool-in-general-music, and also, he's funny, in an unassuming way. When introducing Haydn's "Let's Break Up" last week, he said, "This is a breakup song. But you can dance to it. If you know what I mean." I don't know why I found that so endearing.)
But when I clicked to 94.1 it wasn't Tom or Rich. It was Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe hour. My husband rolled his eyes, but really, it was either McLean, BTO on Q107, or Nickleback on every other station.
In his halting voice - there's something about the way McLean talks that makes you want to listen in rapt silence (or, in my husband's case, change the channel immediately) - he discussed a man from Texas he'd learned of who had apparently never been on vacation in his life and, for his first ever road trip, decided to go to Montreal with a pal to see McLean live. What a wildman.
Wilder still, McLean's plan was to phone this man and surprise him on live radio. Ooooh, crazy. But as hokey as it was - and believe you me, it was as hokey as they come - the segment was cute. The Texan man - Don - was beside himself. His day, if not his life, had obviously been made. And when Stuart informed Don that, should he ever decide to drive thousands of miles to Canada again to see a Vinyl Cafe show, the tickets would be on the house, I thought the old Texan was going to cry.
Everyone else on the highway look panicked and pissed off, but not us - we were listening to McLean and smiling.
Then McLean told one of his Vinyl Cafe stories. (The Vinyl Cafe is what he's famous for - he tells stories about bumbling Dave, the owner of a second hand record store. The motto of Dave's store, and the entire show, is "We may not be big but we're small". That sums it up well. Hokey, pokey, and totally adorable.)
The story was called Cat in the Car, and was a rather apropos family road trip tale.
The kids stopped crying and listened in silence as the cat hid in the car and scratched at Dave's ankles all the way to Tobermory and beyond. At intervals, Maia giggled and cooed, Joseph laughed and said, "That's silly!" (when the family took a wrong turn and ended up in a parade) and my husband stopped swearing under his breath at passing motorists. Who doesn't like being told a story? It's reminiscent of cozy bedtime and evenings or afternoons spent snuggled on an adult's lap, just listening. And what better way to suffer through a traffic jam than by becoming absorbed in a funny tale which serves no purpose other than to warm the heart and entertain?
As far as road trips with traffic and toddlers go, it was a nirvana moment. By the end of the story, both children had fallen asleep and Joe and I were calm.
The traffic was still there, though. While we weren't paying attention it had regrouped and intensified.
And we still had three more hours ahead of us.
I'm not saying things didn't get hairy again, I'm just saying our Vinyl Cafe break was a brief moment of calm solidarity.
I think I might need to buy a Vinyl Cafe CD for our next family road trip.
Either that or sell the car and never go anywhere ever again.
Happy summer, everyone! Drive carefully!
xo Marissa
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Sensible Shoes
I am incapable of buying sensible shoes.
I believe this is why - or at least one of the reasons why - I have so very many shoes. I go shopping - frequently - on a quest for sensible shoes. Comfy shoes. Shoes that will carry me through a long day of walking uphill while pushing a stroller, grocery shopping while bribing with treats, playing at the park in all its dirty, sandy, glory, and simply being me: a woman who might be a mother, but still likes to think she has a little style.
That's the problem: as soon as I get to the store, the sensible shoes look so frumpy compared to the stylish ones. And the sensible ones always seem to be more expensive! So I end up getting the cute metallic pumps, or the fun white heels with the floral embellishment, on sale, of course, and coming home sans sensible footwear.
Also, I really don't look good in flats. They make my legs look like tree stumps. There I said it. I try them on, stand in front of the mirror, and lumberjacks everywhere salivate.
Yesterday, I noticed Trove, one of my all time favourite stores, is having a sale.
All footwear and handbags 50% off.
You have no idea. The panic/excitement/must shop must shop/shop or perish shop or perish refrain was almost unbearable. I made a promise to myself to bypass all the pumps and pretty handbags and only look at their collection of sensible, eco-friendly footwear. They have tons, and I've had my eye on a few flat (ish) pairs.
In I went, squeezing through the aisles with my double stroller, both children placated with goldfish crackers and promises of a trip to the park.
I tried on every single pair of sensible shoes in the place. Ask the salesgirl.
I also tried on a pair that seemed to be a compromise between sensible and stylish.
What do you think?
I hope you like them, because these are the ones that followed me home. (Who doesn't adore that commercial?)
They're called El Natura Lista and they're made of eco-friendly materials, recycled when possible and sustainable, too. The company also runs and contributes to humanitarian efforts, which I think is nifty. Also, they make funky shoes. Check out the site. http://elnaturalista.ca/
The ones I bought have a tiny heel, so I suppose they're not exactly suitable for long hikes on wilderness paths, but I'm not really the wilderness path type. I like to stick to the sidewalks so I can still look in the shop windows.
Also, they're red. (The photo doesn't quite reflect the fabulousness of the red. In person, they're deeper, more black cherry than apple.) So I suppose they won't go with everything. Then again, Stacey on What Not to Wear is always insisting red is a neutral, and saying things like "Shut up! I love a red shoe."
So, shut up, I suppose! I love a red shoe, too.
xo Marissa
I believe this is why - or at least one of the reasons why - I have so very many shoes. I go shopping - frequently - on a quest for sensible shoes. Comfy shoes. Shoes that will carry me through a long day of walking uphill while pushing a stroller, grocery shopping while bribing with treats, playing at the park in all its dirty, sandy, glory, and simply being me: a woman who might be a mother, but still likes to think she has a little style.
That's the problem: as soon as I get to the store, the sensible shoes look so frumpy compared to the stylish ones. And the sensible ones always seem to be more expensive! So I end up getting the cute metallic pumps, or the fun white heels with the floral embellishment, on sale, of course, and coming home sans sensible footwear.
Also, I really don't look good in flats. They make my legs look like tree stumps. There I said it. I try them on, stand in front of the mirror, and lumberjacks everywhere salivate.
Yesterday, I noticed Trove, one of my all time favourite stores, is having a sale.
All footwear and handbags 50% off.
You have no idea. The panic/excitement/must shop must shop/shop or perish shop or perish refrain was almost unbearable. I made a promise to myself to bypass all the pumps and pretty handbags and only look at their collection of sensible, eco-friendly footwear. They have tons, and I've had my eye on a few flat (ish) pairs.
In I went, squeezing through the aisles with my double stroller, both children placated with goldfish crackers and promises of a trip to the park.
I tried on every single pair of sensible shoes in the place. Ask the salesgirl.
I also tried on a pair that seemed to be a compromise between sensible and stylish.
What do you think?
I hope you like them, because these are the ones that followed me home. (Who doesn't adore that commercial?)
They're called El Natura Lista and they're made of eco-friendly materials, recycled when possible and sustainable, too. The company also runs and contributes to humanitarian efforts, which I think is nifty. Also, they make funky shoes. Check out the site. http://elnaturalista.ca/
The ones I bought have a tiny heel, so I suppose they're not exactly suitable for long hikes on wilderness paths, but I'm not really the wilderness path type. I like to stick to the sidewalks so I can still look in the shop windows.
Also, they're red. (The photo doesn't quite reflect the fabulousness of the red. In person, they're deeper, more black cherry than apple.) So I suppose they won't go with everything. Then again, Stacey on What Not to Wear is always insisting red is a neutral, and saying things like "Shut up! I love a red shoe."
So, shut up, I suppose! I love a red shoe, too.
xo Marissa
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Nautical Disaster
So, I have a friend whose husband is actually in the navy (the navy? the seaman's club? see, I'm really dumb about all things nautical, and you'll see just how dumb in a moment ...) and she was kind enough to point out that in my last post, I mention that I was on a boat and everyone was asked to go "starbird". Which is how it's pronounced. But really, it's starboard.
I stand corrected! If I were the captain of the ship, I would have a very confused crew, indeed. (Or would I? Because I would say starbird and it would sound like starboard so everyone would know where they're supposed to go. Hmmm. I guess I'd be the only confused one. Which is why I'm not in the navy. Or the seaman's club. Or even a yacht club member.)
Ahoy!
I stand corrected! If I were the captain of the ship, I would have a very confused crew, indeed. (Or would I? Because I would say starbird and it would sound like starboard so everyone would know where they're supposed to go. Hmmm. I guess I'd be the only confused one. Which is why I'm not in the navy. Or the seaman's club. Or even a yacht club member.)
Ahoy!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Treehugger Tuesday and the Importance of Being Earnest
This past weekend, I read in Margaret Wente's Globe column that if the entire world switches to organic produce, it would be a catastrophe.
And here I thought going organic was going to save the world! Sheesh.
This article gave me something to think about. And this is what I think:
The organic movement is getting commercialized to the point that it might be costing consumers more than it's worth, in certain cases. (For example, who really cares if your cookies are organic? White sugar will kill you. The pesticides will probably just help you not know what hit you when you go.)
Also, if what Wente says in her article is true, organic farming in its current form is not necessarily the most sustainable practice in the world, in every single case. Damn it.
But what Wente's article isn't taking into account is that there's a potential we're heading for global catastrophe anyway. (I apologize that a blog entry with a title as cute as Treehugger Tuesday is getting so morbid, but it has to be done.)
So which way do you want to go down - while aerially spraying fields with pesticides and having your apples radiated and shipped from Chile, or while buying food from the farmer's market down the road and eating veggies and fruit that have been grown with local love? (Come on, let's all start singing kumbaya.)
I think our choices should all be earnest ones. I think we need to think about what we do and why we do it - and, perhaps most importantly, how we do it - rather than just accepting what's lumped on our plates. I think if we all thought a little more about our actions - from where we get our veggies to where our garbage goes when we throw it "away" - the world would be a few steps farther away from imploding.
That said, I do think we need to take a balanced approach when it comes to the organic movement.
When everyone starts doing something at once, it can be a bit alarming. I was once on a whale watching boat and the captain announced there was a group of minke whales cavorting at starbird (at the time, I knew what that meant) and everyone ran starbird and the boat nearly capsized.
The same goes for organic, and everything eco-friendly, I suppose. We need to be balanced in our choices. Is local more important than organic? Is fair trade more important than either of those? (I don't know about you, but the fair trade chocolate square I nibbled on earlier tonight did not seem to make its way immediately to my hips the way un-fair trade chocolate seems to ...)
Either way, if you're making a choice between local and organic, organic and fair trade, at least you're making a mindful choice, rather than grabbing strawberries from California when they're at their peak right here in Ontario and not thinking twice about why that might be a bad move.
Enough said.
Happy Tuesday! Hug a tree!
xo Marissa
And here I thought going organic was going to save the world! Sheesh.
This article gave me something to think about. And this is what I think:
The organic movement is getting commercialized to the point that it might be costing consumers more than it's worth, in certain cases. (For example, who really cares if your cookies are organic? White sugar will kill you. The pesticides will probably just help you not know what hit you when you go.)
Also, if what Wente says in her article is true, organic farming in its current form is not necessarily the most sustainable practice in the world, in every single case. Damn it.
But what Wente's article isn't taking into account is that there's a potential we're heading for global catastrophe anyway. (I apologize that a blog entry with a title as cute as Treehugger Tuesday is getting so morbid, but it has to be done.)
So which way do you want to go down - while aerially spraying fields with pesticides and having your apples radiated and shipped from Chile, or while buying food from the farmer's market down the road and eating veggies and fruit that have been grown with local love? (Come on, let's all start singing kumbaya.)
I think our choices should all be earnest ones. I think we need to think about what we do and why we do it - and, perhaps most importantly, how we do it - rather than just accepting what's lumped on our plates. I think if we all thought a little more about our actions - from where we get our veggies to where our garbage goes when we throw it "away" - the world would be a few steps farther away from imploding.
That said, I do think we need to take a balanced approach when it comes to the organic movement.
When everyone starts doing something at once, it can be a bit alarming. I was once on a whale watching boat and the captain announced there was a group of minke whales cavorting at starbird (at the time, I knew what that meant) and everyone ran starbird and the boat nearly capsized.
The same goes for organic, and everything eco-friendly, I suppose. We need to be balanced in our choices. Is local more important than organic? Is fair trade more important than either of those? (I don't know about you, but the fair trade chocolate square I nibbled on earlier tonight did not seem to make its way immediately to my hips the way un-fair trade chocolate seems to ...)
Either way, if you're making a choice between local and organic, organic and fair trade, at least you're making a mindful choice, rather than grabbing strawberries from California when they're at their peak right here in Ontario and not thinking twice about why that might be a bad move.
Enough said.
Happy Tuesday! Hug a tree!
xo Marissa
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Thunder From Down Under
Treehugger Tuesday seems the perfect spot to talk about John Butler, who I saw perform at the Phoenix last night.
John Butler makes me feel like being a hippie isn't lame. (Even though I am kind of alarmed by his super long fingernails, which my husband explained he uses as guitar picks. And he is a really good guitar player. But still.)
Anyway, any man who can sing as passionately about his wife and daughter as he does about treating mother earth with respect is alright with me. Last night's version of my fave song, Peaches and Cream, was even better than this, but it was the only one I could find on You Tube.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5p-05HvAhc
So here he is, the man who inspired the Riley character in my book because, well, as my lovely gal pal Lisa once put it, who wouldn't go for the cute Australian musician guy? (Not me, of course. I go for the cute computer nerd type with the rockstar alter ego. Much safer in the long term. Also, no wierd long fingernails, because you don't need those for playing air guitar.)
xo Marissa
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Waste Not, Want Not
I missed Treehugger Tuesday this week because I was away in Bloomfield. (I saw Gord Downie walking down the dunes at Sandbanks with his three kids, which made me feel like I made a pretty cool vacation-spot choice. Unless, of course, Gord isn't cool anymore. He was at a beach with his three kids, not partying like a rock star. Then again, I was sitting on the beach with my two kids and not partying like a rock star either, so there you go. Sandbanks must be the vacation spot of choice for people who used to be cool. But aren't anymore.)
We spent the week in a small cottage with my dad, stepmom, and two of my brothers (the youngsters, they're 13 and 16, and they don't think I'm cool either). Then there was my husband, myself, my two-year-old son and my one-year-old daughter. It was a little tight, but we made it work. In fact, I never once felt cramped.
This is my dad's style. Why rent a huge cottage when you can rent a small one and be just as happy? As the week progressed, I noticed some of my dad's other waste-not-want-not habits I'd forgotten about, since it's been a while since I lived with my old man. (Or partied like a rock star, for that matter.)
He throws nothing away. Nothing. They should ship him to Toronto to teach us how to deal with the garbage strike. There'd be no need for park dumps and pesticide blow outs if he were around. The man saves leftover tablespoons of homemade dressing in teeny jars to use the next day or add to a new dressing. (He makes his own, since preservative laden store bought stuff doesn't taste as good as throwing some olive oil, rice vinegar, garlic, and basil together in a jar. Obviously.)
I saw him save an inch of tortilla wrap with a smidge of grated cheese inside that my son didn't finish for lunch. He later had it as a snack. (My son, not my dad. Although my dad probably would have eventually consumed it rather than see it go to waste.) Every morning, he made me a bowl of fresh fruit. Every morning, I suddenly decided I was back to being a teenager and left in on the table, untouched, in favour of a cinnamon waffle. He'd doggedly put the bowl in the fridge, and I'd always eat it later.
If we didn't finish a bottle of wine, he'd funnel it into a smaller bottle so it wouldn't oxidize over night. (Admittedly, this wasn't often a problem.) Seriously, he saves everything. At first, I looked on in bemused wonder. But as the days passed, I began to realize my dad is probably the most sustainable person I know. Some might call him cheap. He is part-Scottish, after all. But from now on, I'm going to call him eco-friendly. (I have to admit, watching him in all his item saving glory made me feel a little nostalgic. I still remember visiting my grandpa's apartment as a little girl and there being a clothesline across the kitchen, hung with rinsed out paper towels.)
I think the rest of the world is starting to catch on to the fact that being eco-friendly saves money. In the face of economic crisis, big companies like Walmart (they installed motion detector lights in their freezer section and saved millions) and Home Depot (switching to energy efficient light bulbs proved to be a huge money saving boon) are making environmentally minded choices because of the bottom line. Sure, it would be nice if we all decided to be eco-citizens because it's the right thing to do, but there's really no point in arguing about sizable reductions in carbon emissions, is there?
Last year, a good friend of mine, who works as a project manager for the Humber River Watershed, asked me to be her date to the Charles Sauriol Environmental dinner. The keynote speaker was Ray Anderson, whom I looked up on Google and discovered was the CEO of a company called Interface. Interface is the largest carpet manufacturer in the world. Definitely wasn't enough to give me goosebumps. I was sure the dinner was going to be fun, but listening to the owner of a carpet company in Georgia speak ... well, I was going to drink a few extra cups of coffee after dinner just in case.
But from the moment Ray opened his mouth and began to speak in his Georgia peach accent (can you call a man a peach? Trust me, this man is one.) I was riveted.
He spoke of reading in Paul Hawken's The Ecology of Commerce that industry leaders had the power to change the world, environmentally speaking, and deciding that he was going to. Change the world, I mean.
At first he started small, but none of his changes proved to be thus. Recycling carpet trimmings into new carpets instead of sending them to the landfill saved hundreds of thousands of tons of waste, for example. Since 1995 he has reduced the waste his company produces by a third, and his plan is to produce no waste by 2020. (I don't have enough room to wax ecstatic about all the things he does, so if you want, you can learn about him here.)
He relayed what people always tell him: "What you're trying to accomplish can't be done". His response: "It has been done. And if it has been done, it can be done."
I almost swooned. (Yes. This is what it takes to get me all hot and bothered these days. I'm definitely no longer cool.)
As I walk around the city, watching the garbage fester and wondering what kind of person simply throws bags of garbage on the ground beside taped shut bins (seriously, what is that??) I've been thinking of my dad, and Ray Anderson, too.
It's been done: my dad saves everything, and, in his own words, that's helped him pay off his mortgage faster - and also, reduce his impact on the planet.
And, on a bit of a grander scale, Ray Anderson saves everything, too, and the business model he's operating on is one of the most cost efficient ones in the world. He saves money, while saving the world.
So there is hope. Because if it has been done, it can be done.
xo Marissa
We spent the week in a small cottage with my dad, stepmom, and two of my brothers (the youngsters, they're 13 and 16, and they don't think I'm cool either). Then there was my husband, myself, my two-year-old son and my one-year-old daughter. It was a little tight, but we made it work. In fact, I never once felt cramped.
This is my dad's style. Why rent a huge cottage when you can rent a small one and be just as happy? As the week progressed, I noticed some of my dad's other waste-not-want-not habits I'd forgotten about, since it's been a while since I lived with my old man. (Or partied like a rock star, for that matter.)
He throws nothing away. Nothing. They should ship him to Toronto to teach us how to deal with the garbage strike. There'd be no need for park dumps and pesticide blow outs if he were around. The man saves leftover tablespoons of homemade dressing in teeny jars to use the next day or add to a new dressing. (He makes his own, since preservative laden store bought stuff doesn't taste as good as throwing some olive oil, rice vinegar, garlic, and basil together in a jar. Obviously.)
I saw him save an inch of tortilla wrap with a smidge of grated cheese inside that my son didn't finish for lunch. He later had it as a snack. (My son, not my dad. Although my dad probably would have eventually consumed it rather than see it go to waste.) Every morning, he made me a bowl of fresh fruit. Every morning, I suddenly decided I was back to being a teenager and left in on the table, untouched, in favour of a cinnamon waffle. He'd doggedly put the bowl in the fridge, and I'd always eat it later.
If we didn't finish a bottle of wine, he'd funnel it into a smaller bottle so it wouldn't oxidize over night. (Admittedly, this wasn't often a problem.) Seriously, he saves everything. At first, I looked on in bemused wonder. But as the days passed, I began to realize my dad is probably the most sustainable person I know. Some might call him cheap. He is part-Scottish, after all. But from now on, I'm going to call him eco-friendly. (I have to admit, watching him in all his item saving glory made me feel a little nostalgic. I still remember visiting my grandpa's apartment as a little girl and there being a clothesline across the kitchen, hung with rinsed out paper towels.)
I think the rest of the world is starting to catch on to the fact that being eco-friendly saves money. In the face of economic crisis, big companies like Walmart (they installed motion detector lights in their freezer section and saved millions) and Home Depot (switching to energy efficient light bulbs proved to be a huge money saving boon) are making environmentally minded choices because of the bottom line. Sure, it would be nice if we all decided to be eco-citizens because it's the right thing to do, but there's really no point in arguing about sizable reductions in carbon emissions, is there?
Last year, a good friend of mine, who works as a project manager for the Humber River Watershed, asked me to be her date to the Charles Sauriol Environmental dinner. The keynote speaker was Ray Anderson, whom I looked up on Google and discovered was the CEO of a company called Interface. Interface is the largest carpet manufacturer in the world. Definitely wasn't enough to give me goosebumps. I was sure the dinner was going to be fun, but listening to the owner of a carpet company in Georgia speak ... well, I was going to drink a few extra cups of coffee after dinner just in case.
But from the moment Ray opened his mouth and began to speak in his Georgia peach accent (can you call a man a peach? Trust me, this man is one.) I was riveted.
He spoke of reading in Paul Hawken's The Ecology of Commerce that industry leaders had the power to change the world, environmentally speaking, and deciding that he was going to. Change the world, I mean.
At first he started small, but none of his changes proved to be thus. Recycling carpet trimmings into new carpets instead of sending them to the landfill saved hundreds of thousands of tons of waste, for example. Since 1995 he has reduced the waste his company produces by a third, and his plan is to produce no waste by 2020. (I don't have enough room to wax ecstatic about all the things he does, so if you want, you can learn about him here.)
He relayed what people always tell him: "What you're trying to accomplish can't be done". His response: "It has been done. And if it has been done, it can be done."
I almost swooned. (Yes. This is what it takes to get me all hot and bothered these days. I'm definitely no longer cool.)
As I walk around the city, watching the garbage fester and wondering what kind of person simply throws bags of garbage on the ground beside taped shut bins (seriously, what is that??) I've been thinking of my dad, and Ray Anderson, too.
It's been done: my dad saves everything, and, in his own words, that's helped him pay off his mortgage faster - and also, reduce his impact on the planet.
And, on a bit of a grander scale, Ray Anderson saves everything, too, and the business model he's operating on is one of the most cost efficient ones in the world. He saves money, while saving the world.
So there is hope. Because if it has been done, it can be done.
xo Marissa
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Treehugger Tuesday meets Meat Free Monday
(Treehugger Tuesday is much catchier than Eco-friendly Tuesday, don't you think?)
Today I'm pressed for time. That's because I'm writing that outline I was procrastinating yesterday. But I do have time to post this link, which is about Meat Free Mondays, a phenomenon I think may just overtake Treehugger Tuesday in terms of global popularity.
http://meatfreemondays.co.uk/
The Meat Free Mondays site is about going meat free on Mondays. Obviously. But it also provides a lot of useful information, such as why opting out of the huge-carbon-footprint-inducing meat industry for one day a week is a good idea, and how to go meat free and still enjoy your meals. Oh, and there are wine pairings. And a list of cool (and a few sort of uncool, depending on who you ask) veggie celebs. Like Paul McCartney. Who I at least think is cool. How could Paul McCartney be wrong, I ask you?
(Okay, so he was wrong about Heather Mills. And that My Brave Face song, which my dad has affectionately dubbed My Brain Hurts. But otherwise ... well, he's Paul. If I were a Beatle, I think I'd probably be Paul. I know it's more hipster cool to say you'd be Ringo, or George, but I'm going to be honest: I'd be Paul. I would not marry Heather Mills, but I would be a vegetarian. At least on Mondays.)
xo Marissa
Today I'm pressed for time. That's because I'm writing that outline I was procrastinating yesterday. But I do have time to post this link, which is about Meat Free Mondays, a phenomenon I think may just overtake Treehugger Tuesday in terms of global popularity.
http://meatfreemondays.co.uk/
The Meat Free Mondays site is about going meat free on Mondays. Obviously. But it also provides a lot of useful information, such as why opting out of the huge-carbon-footprint-inducing meat industry for one day a week is a good idea, and how to go meat free and still enjoy your meals. Oh, and there are wine pairings. And a list of cool (and a few sort of uncool, depending on who you ask) veggie celebs. Like Paul McCartney. Who I at least think is cool. How could Paul McCartney be wrong, I ask you?
(Okay, so he was wrong about Heather Mills. And that My Brave Face song, which my dad has affectionately dubbed My Brain Hurts. But otherwise ... well, he's Paul. If I were a Beatle, I think I'd probably be Paul. I know it's more hipster cool to say you'd be Ringo, or George, but I'm going to be honest: I'd be Paul. I would not marry Heather Mills, but I would be a vegetarian. At least on Mondays.)
xo Marissa
Friday, June 19, 2009
Update: I'm not the world's leading slattern, and happy father's day to all
My dad just emailed to say he's been trying to leave a comment about my last post, but he can't figure out how. So here it is: (Since it's father's day on the weekend, I thought I'd do the old guy a favour and allow his voice to be heard ...)
Issa, I love your blogs! Being a moron, tho, I can't figure out how to post a comment. It's the ID thing that keeps messing me up. I was trying to post a comment saying how "even the great Bruce Stapley sent samples of columns to 50 papers in Southern Ontario before finally being taken on as a full time freelancer by the Stouffville Tribune while unemployed and STILL having Molly Maid come in to clean his sister's house where he was living! So you aren't the world's leading slattern afterall! Ha!"
Keep your chin up, Iss! We think you are a great, yet to be discovered writer!
Love, Dad
And there, in a nutshell, is my dad. He's the world's greatest, and I really mean it - the moron thing aside. He's also a great writer, and I can only hope I've inherited an iota of his talent.
Happy father's day, Dad -- and happy father's day to all the other great dad's out there, my husband included.
Have a great weekend!
xo Marissa
Issa, I love your blogs! Being a moron, tho, I can't figure out how to post a comment. It's the ID thing that keeps messing me up. I was trying to post a comment saying how "even the great Bruce Stapley sent samples of columns to 50 papers in Southern Ontario before finally being taken on as a full time freelancer by the Stouffville Tribune while unemployed and STILL having Molly Maid come in to clean his sister's house where he was living! So you aren't the world's leading slattern afterall! Ha!"
Keep your chin up, Iss! We think you are a great, yet to be discovered writer!
Love, Dad
And there, in a nutshell, is my dad. He's the world's greatest, and I really mean it - the moron thing aside. He's also a great writer, and I can only hope I've inherited an iota of his talent.
Happy father's day, Dad -- and happy father's day to all the other great dad's out there, my husband included.
Have a great weekend!
xo Marissa
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Not So Good Housekeeping
The kids are napping. I just made spaghetti sauce for dinner, cleaned the kitchen (halfheartedly), and folded laundry. (I'll be honest: my mom was over this morning and she folded about three quarters of the laundry, which I had artfully scattered around the living room in a pitiful attempt to get her to feel sorry for me and do it. It worked.)
I don't mind cooking, but I'm not great with housework.
I have an excuse, though! I'm a writer, and a freelance one at that. In the time it takes me to clean the house, I always tell my husband, I could write an entire article. It just doesn't make sense for me to clean for hours when we can hire someone to do the entire house for a fraction of what I charge for an article. (Sadly, that theory didn't really wash when I was writing the novel and we were paying someone to clean the house and take care of the kids a few mornings a week while I sat and wrote something I wasn't getting paid for. I unsucessfully tried to sell it as one of those Mastercard commercial vignette's:
A clean house: $60 plus tip
Occupied children: $13 per hour
A happy writer working on her first novel, unshowered and still in her pajamas .... priceless.)
I do wish I had a clean house, even if, as L.M. Montgomery might have written, clean houses provide less scope for the imagination. I also wish I were a perfect housekeeper, mother, and wife. I wish I could be the kind of mom who is more than happy, when her little darlings go off to dreamland, to scour the floor of harmful bacteria they might pick up as they crawl, bake them organic, whole grain, carob chip goodies, and plan a craft for when they wake up that's more inventive than slopping glue on a piece of paper and dumping dried chickpeas on top of the glue. (It's bean art! Lovely!)
Instead, the second the kids go to sleep, I throw the lunch dishes in the dishwasher, turn on CBC Radio 2, power up my laptop, and start to write.
Sometimes, I write emails. Sometimes, like today, I write blog posts. Sometimes, I write fiction. And sometimes, I actually write those paid articles I use as the excuse for being such a slattern.
I wondered if there were other writers out there like me, so I typed "writers don't clean the house" into Google.
On the first hit, a writer's blog, the writer was talking about how fabulously clean her house is when she has writer's block. "I know I'm not the only writer," writes Merrilee Faber, "who rushes to do the dishes and mop the floor when their subconscious is conspiring against them."
Um, uh oh.
Am I the only writer who, when I have writer's block, makes a cup of tea and reads a really good book? Or emails a friend a longwinded missive she doesn't bother to spell check? Merrilee was making me feel bad, until I continued reading her post: "Today my house is a vile pit of filth and disease, suitable only as a rancor den (but without the tastefully scattered bones)."
Ah, that's better. Mine, too.
xo Marissa
I don't mind cooking, but I'm not great with housework.
I have an excuse, though! I'm a writer, and a freelance one at that. In the time it takes me to clean the house, I always tell my husband, I could write an entire article. It just doesn't make sense for me to clean for hours when we can hire someone to do the entire house for a fraction of what I charge for an article. (Sadly, that theory didn't really wash when I was writing the novel and we were paying someone to clean the house and take care of the kids a few mornings a week while I sat and wrote something I wasn't getting paid for. I unsucessfully tried to sell it as one of those Mastercard commercial vignette's:
A clean house: $60 plus tip
Occupied children: $13 per hour
A happy writer working on her first novel, unshowered and still in her pajamas .... priceless.)
I do wish I had a clean house, even if, as L.M. Montgomery might have written, clean houses provide less scope for the imagination. I also wish I were a perfect housekeeper, mother, and wife. I wish I could be the kind of mom who is more than happy, when her little darlings go off to dreamland, to scour the floor of harmful bacteria they might pick up as they crawl, bake them organic, whole grain, carob chip goodies, and plan a craft for when they wake up that's more inventive than slopping glue on a piece of paper and dumping dried chickpeas on top of the glue. (It's bean art! Lovely!)
Instead, the second the kids go to sleep, I throw the lunch dishes in the dishwasher, turn on CBC Radio 2, power up my laptop, and start to write.
Sometimes, I write emails. Sometimes, like today, I write blog posts. Sometimes, I write fiction. And sometimes, I actually write those paid articles I use as the excuse for being such a slattern.
I wondered if there were other writers out there like me, so I typed "writers don't clean the house" into Google.
On the first hit, a writer's blog, the writer was talking about how fabulously clean her house is when she has writer's block. "I know I'm not the only writer," writes Merrilee Faber, "who rushes to do the dishes and mop the floor when their subconscious is conspiring against them."
Um, uh oh.
Am I the only writer who, when I have writer's block, makes a cup of tea and reads a really good book? Or emails a friend a longwinded missive she doesn't bother to spell check? Merrilee was making me feel bad, until I continued reading her post: "Today my house is a vile pit of filth and disease, suitable only as a rancor den (but without the tastefully scattered bones)."
Ah, that's better. Mine, too.
xo Marissa
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Holding the Baggie
Even though I penned a novel about an ecojustice lawyer who travels to Canada's Western Arctic to fight against offshore drilling and protect a beluga whale habitat, I have a long way to go before I can wear the What Would Suzuki Do? baby tee I just bought (in organic fair trade cotton, and dyed with vegetables) in public without feeling like a poser. (As it stands now, I usually just wear it at home, and my two-year-old points and says "Who's that man?")
I'm going to come out and say it before my book comes out and everyone just assumes I'm a valiant eco-warrior: I'm not the greenest person in the world. True, I don't drive -- but as much as I'd like to say that's because I'm trying to reduce my carbon emissions, the truth is, I just can't . I've tried. Taken lessons. Failed tests. Taken more lessons. I'm one of those People Who Don't Drive. Much to my husband, aka The Chauffeur's, chagrin. He didn't think it was funny when I asked him if he'd start wearing a cap and letting me call him Jeeves. (Side note: my Grannie didn't drive either, and she was a great writer, so maybe it's just one of the things I have to give up for my trade.)
Sure, I turn out lights, use those new lightbulbs even though I detest their greeny-blue glare, carry cloth bags when I buy mostly local and organic food, use natural household cleaners and cosmetics. I'm not going kid myself, though. Those things are easy. And the natural cosmetics thing is even fun, since it involves shopping.
I also take long, hot showers, even though I recently read that the amount of water a Westerner uses in his or her morning shower is the same amount a person in the Third World uses all day long. I impulsively purchase cheap clothes and shoes shipped from developing countries, the ecological implications of which I'm sure I don't fully comprehend. I buy imported wine, and lots of it. The list goes on. I'm no saint.
For a while, I thought I was alone in this world. I thought the green movement was all or nothing. Then I read Vanessa Farquharson's new book, Sleeping Naked Is Green.
Now I’ve decided to give up plastic baggies. (If Vanessa reads this, she's probably not going to be impressed. She made 366 green-minded changes over the course of a leap year that blow my little baggie project way out of the water, as it were.)
It's about more than baggies, though. I often ponder the legacy I'm going to leave behind for my children -- and I don't want that legacy to be hundreds of thousands of little plastic bags, languishing in landfills, bogging up waterways, choking water fowl and turtles, and otherwise wreaking all manner of havoc long after I've shuffled off the mortal coil.
So as of last week, I decided to store all my food and snacks and sandwiches and such in reusable containers from now until the end of time (or until my voice as a consumer is heard, and Ziploc comes up with a biodegradable baggie alternative, which is just one of the advantages of taking small steps towards sustainability. I learned this from Rob Grand, who owns and operates The Grassroots Store, and who I interviewed for an article last week.)
In characteristic form, I’ve been trying to find an easy way out of this thing, though. What I really want is to buy a brand new, full set of these.
But I can’t, because, of the promise I made my driver. Er, I mean, husband. He’s been so supportive of me this past year, and of my quest to become a published novelist - even as I've allowed my freelance writing career to take a back seat and focused on a project that has yet to earn us a dime - so I feel I should probably be more supportive of him, and his quest to Stop Spending Money So We Can Still Afford to Eat and Pay the Mortgage. (Also, he's probably going to read this, which means I really do need to tow the party line. Hi, honey. No, I did not buy anything new this week. I've had those red espadrilles for several seasons.)
The problem is, we still have some baggies leftover from a pre-baggie-embargo trip to the grocery store. And those teeny tiny plastic baggies are always peering temptingly at me from their oh-so-convenient open-top box, begging me to use them. “I'm right here, just a flick of the wrist away. And I’m so little,” they tell me in their sing-song siren voices. “What impact could I possibly have on the planet?”
How many baggies am I going to use in a lifetime? (I have no idea, you're saying, and nor do I care. Whoever this girl is, her blog is boring, and I am definitely not going to read her book when it comes out. But wait, I beseech you! I promise, I'm getting somewhere. Ahem.) So, let’s say I use two baggies every day for the rest of my life. And, let’s say, I live to be 85. (Yes, I’m being generous in terms of lifespan, but this is supposed to be a positive-thought provoking type blog, or at the very least not a depressing oh-my-gosh am I really going to die at 65, there are so many things I have left to do, questioning-one's-mortality type of blog.)
Right. So, plastic baggies. (And I promise, after I'm done here, I will never, ever, say the word baggie on this blog again.)
If I use two baggies a day and live to be 85, that’s 36,500 baggies. (Don't ask me how I got that total. Just trust me. I'm right. Or maybe don't trust me. I am a writer after all, not a mathematician.) And if I convince my husband to give up baggies (and promise him not to replace said baggies with an investment in a whole set of cute stainless steel containers, but instead use the storage receptacles we already have in the kitchen, i.e. glass pyrex bowls with lids and plastic food tubs for stuff I don't plan to reheat) I can double the number. (This is kind of like a fun game, isn't it? Um no, you're thinking.)
If my kids don’t use baggies anymore (and kids tend to use an awful lot of almost everything, so I think for a kid the number can be quadrupled, especially if I purge my home of all baggies until the little darlings move out… ) then that’s a damn lot of baggies. I'm not even going to try to calculate the number, lest my right brain and my left brain get in a fight and my head implodes.
The point is - and I really do have a point - two baggies, or even a temptingly convenient box of a hundred, is not a lot. But 100, 000 bags is. Giving up baggies means I’m not leaving all those plastic bags behind to not biodegrade, and instead off-gas toxically for hundreds of years. It's a small step, but it's getting me somewhere. Small steps tend to have that effect. Which I think was one of Vanessa's points, and an admirable one indeed.
(An added bonus: worrying about baggies is keeping me from checking email and voicemail every five minutes - which saves on carbon!)
xo Marissa
I'm going to come out and say it before my book comes out and everyone just assumes I'm a valiant eco-warrior: I'm not the greenest person in the world. True, I don't drive -- but as much as I'd like to say that's because I'm trying to reduce my carbon emissions, the truth is, I just can't . I've tried. Taken lessons. Failed tests. Taken more lessons. I'm one of those People Who Don't Drive. Much to my husband, aka The Chauffeur's, chagrin. He didn't think it was funny when I asked him if he'd start wearing a cap and letting me call him Jeeves. (Side note: my Grannie didn't drive either, and she was a great writer, so maybe it's just one of the things I have to give up for my trade.)
Sure, I turn out lights, use those new lightbulbs even though I detest their greeny-blue glare, carry cloth bags when I buy mostly local and organic food, use natural household cleaners and cosmetics. I'm not going kid myself, though. Those things are easy. And the natural cosmetics thing is even fun, since it involves shopping.
I also take long, hot showers, even though I recently read that the amount of water a Westerner uses in his or her morning shower is the same amount a person in the Third World uses all day long. I impulsively purchase cheap clothes and shoes shipped from developing countries, the ecological implications of which I'm sure I don't fully comprehend. I buy imported wine, and lots of it. The list goes on. I'm no saint.
For a while, I thought I was alone in this world. I thought the green movement was all or nothing. Then I read Vanessa Farquharson's new book, Sleeping Naked Is Green.
Now I’ve decided to give up plastic baggies. (If Vanessa reads this, she's probably not going to be impressed. She made 366 green-minded changes over the course of a leap year that blow my little baggie project way out of the water, as it were.)
It's about more than baggies, though. I often ponder the legacy I'm going to leave behind for my children -- and I don't want that legacy to be hundreds of thousands of little plastic bags, languishing in landfills, bogging up waterways, choking water fowl and turtles, and otherwise wreaking all manner of havoc long after I've shuffled off the mortal coil.
So as of last week, I decided to store all my food and snacks and sandwiches and such in reusable containers from now until the end of time (or until my voice as a consumer is heard, and Ziploc comes up with a biodegradable baggie alternative, which is just one of the advantages of taking small steps towards sustainability. I learned this from Rob Grand, who owns and operates The Grassroots Store, and who I interviewed for an article last week.)
In characteristic form, I’ve been trying to find an easy way out of this thing, though. What I really want is to buy a brand new, full set of these.
But I can’t, because, of the promise I made my driver. Er, I mean, husband. He’s been so supportive of me this past year, and of my quest to become a published novelist - even as I've allowed my freelance writing career to take a back seat and focused on a project that has yet to earn us a dime - so I feel I should probably be more supportive of him, and his quest to Stop Spending Money So We Can Still Afford to Eat and Pay the Mortgage. (Also, he's probably going to read this, which means I really do need to tow the party line. Hi, honey. No, I did not buy anything new this week. I've had those red espadrilles for several seasons.)
The problem is, we still have some baggies leftover from a pre-baggie-embargo trip to the grocery store. And those teeny tiny plastic baggies are always peering temptingly at me from their oh-so-convenient open-top box, begging me to use them. “I'm right here, just a flick of the wrist away. And I’m so little,” they tell me in their sing-song siren voices. “What impact could I possibly have on the planet?”
How many baggies am I going to use in a lifetime? (I have no idea, you're saying, and nor do I care. Whoever this girl is, her blog is boring, and I am definitely not going to read her book when it comes out. But wait, I beseech you! I promise, I'm getting somewhere. Ahem.) So, let’s say I use two baggies every day for the rest of my life. And, let’s say, I live to be 85. (Yes, I’m being generous in terms of lifespan, but this is supposed to be a positive-thought provoking type blog, or at the very least not a depressing oh-my-gosh am I really going to die at 65, there are so many things I have left to do, questioning-one's-mortality type of blog.)
Right. So, plastic baggies. (And I promise, after I'm done here, I will never, ever, say the word baggie on this blog again.)
If I use two baggies a day and live to be 85, that’s 36,500 baggies. (Don't ask me how I got that total. Just trust me. I'm right. Or maybe don't trust me. I am a writer after all, not a mathematician.) And if I convince my husband to give up baggies (and promise him not to replace said baggies with an investment in a whole set of cute stainless steel containers, but instead use the storage receptacles we already have in the kitchen, i.e. glass pyrex bowls with lids and plastic food tubs for stuff I don't plan to reheat) I can double the number. (This is kind of like a fun game, isn't it? Um no, you're thinking.)
If my kids don’t use baggies anymore (and kids tend to use an awful lot of almost everything, so I think for a kid the number can be quadrupled, especially if I purge my home of all baggies until the little darlings move out… ) then that’s a damn lot of baggies. I'm not even going to try to calculate the number, lest my right brain and my left brain get in a fight and my head implodes.
The point is - and I really do have a point - two baggies, or even a temptingly convenient box of a hundred, is not a lot. But 100, 000 bags is. Giving up baggies means I’m not leaving all those plastic bags behind to not biodegrade, and instead off-gas toxically for hundreds of years. It's a small step, but it's getting me somewhere. Small steps tend to have that effect. Which I think was one of Vanessa's points, and an admirable one indeed.
(An added bonus: worrying about baggies is keeping me from checking email and voicemail every five minutes - which saves on carbon!)
xo Marissa
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Waiting
I wrote a book.
It's called Saving the World (In Sensible Shoes) and it's currently being shopped to publishers by my fantastic agent.
Which means, I'm going crazy.
Tom Petty said it best: "The waiting is the hardest part." It really, really is. Every morning, I tell myself, this might be the day a publisher calls my agent and says, "I must have this book, immediately, if not sooner! Get Marissa Staple-Poni-whatever-her-last-name-is on the phone now. We need to lock this deal down." (I have no idea if that's actually the way publishers talk. Somehow, I doubt it. But at the moment, I have no frame of reference, so the publishers in my head all talk like Texan businessmen.)
Every time the phone rings, my heart races, because I think it might be said agent calling to tell me of the aforementioned enthusiastic phone call from The Best Publishing House in the World. (That's what I'll call them, after they call.)
I check my email (constantly), and yet the dread of receiving a rejection is almost too much for me. The seconds that elapse between hitting send/receive and loading my messages seem like an eternity fraught with anxiety. I check voicemail endlessly, too. It's like waiting for the boy I like to call. Except that he hasn't called yet. Sigh.
(I'm not actually waiting for a boy to call. I'm happily married to a man who always calls when he's supposed to and says he doesn't mind playing second fiddle to my publishing dreams, or my talking constantly about my future book deal, or having to read endless drafts of my novel when he'd rather be watching Sports Line.)
I'm obsessing. An easy thing to do, I suppose, when the project I've worked on for almost two years and revised no fewer than eight times has finally been sent out into the world, all alone, without her mummy. I need distraction. Possibly, I need professional help. "What you need," said a friend, who is also a writer (but a published one -- she wrote this, and has another equally exceptional work coming out in the spring.)"is to start your blog, novel sold, or not sold. Who cares? Go for it!" (Or something to that effect. She probably didn't say "go for it". She probably said something much cuter.)
So I'm taking her advice. I'm going to use this space to chronicle my novel's journey from pre-published, to post-published, and beyond -- because frankly, this is the exciting part, even if I'm functioning these days on far too few nerves and far too much adrenaline. Maybe Tom Petty's wrong. Maybe the waiting is actually the exciting part. Maybe I should be embracing the heart palpitations and enjoying the dreaming and creative visualizations another novelist-to-be pal has encouraged me to practice. As in, I lie in bed at night and picture myself a renowned, accomplished author, and then one day -- poof! -- I am one. Right, so it probably doesn't work that way, but it's still fun. I bet David Suzuki always hoped to one day pose practically nude for the CBC. And then, one day -- poof! -- he was standing there with a maple leaf over his unmentionables.
(The protagonist of my novel has a small crush on David Suzuki. More of an intellectual one, really, but this photo definitely fans the flames. I, of course, do not. The only unrequited crush I have is on the publisher from whom I am desperately awaiting a call. Sigh.)
So that's me. A finished work of comedic women's fiction with an eco-twist waiting to be sold, and some extra time on my hands.
I'll keep you posted!
xo Marissa
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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