Imposter Syndrome VS Paint What You Feel

I hesitate to call myself an artist.

It's Been Too Long

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. Sometimes it hits you with a one-two sucker punch to the gut. Or a bullet to the head.

Kindness

Be kind, everyone. Every person you meet is a human being, no matter where they come from, no matter what they look like on the outside.

#100daysoftoomanyfrigginprojects

Lately I've been admiring the collections of photos on Facebook and Twitter under the hashtag #100happydays. Frame after frame of all the lovely things of daily life, filtered and Instagrammed into near-perfection. The premise is great - seriously, how can you NOT have time for happiness? I loved it so much I decided to take on the challenge myself.

I lasted two days.
Then I bitterly uninstalled the photo editor on my phone and proclaimed myself a failure.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

#indulgePEC: The Art

Yup, there's wine and food a-plenty in the County. When you've had your fill of both (or just need a moment to digest before the next round, as we were doing on our tour) there are countless art studios, galleries and shops to visit along the Arts Trail.

The County is home to a close-knit community of visual, media and craft artists, many of them working out of their own homes or offering tours of their studios.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves ...

(PS - that pretty, shiny thing right there? It's not even supposed to be art. It's a colour tester from Mark Armstrong's workshop. A piece knocked off the end of a stick, likely destined for the recycle bin. But I love it.)

Wordless Wednesday: Playing Tourist

Byward Market in bloom

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
- Ferris Bueller

I walked around the Market and along the Ottawa River earlier this week, seeing my city in a whole new light, discovering places I'd never been to before. I truly felt like a tourist on her first trip to our nation's capitol, and I was awe-struck by its beauty.

These are a few of the scenes I caught in my travels.

melt/freeze/thaw/bloom

Rideau Falls, after the annual NCC river blasting

Spring. Calendar may not say so, but I know it’s spring. The birds, long silent in the deep of winter, are twitterpated and filling the air with their chorus.

Best-laid plans

Sometimes things don't work out the way you have planned. How's that song by John Lennon go? "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." Lately, I've been running myself ragged to the point that I don't even know what day it is. Case in point: showed up for a party at a friend's house only to realize I had the dates wrong; it was NEXT weekend. D'oh.

Solstice

Caught a clip of all the druids dancing around Stonehenge on TV, and remembered it was the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The "official" start of summer. But the BBQ's been going for about a month now, the kiddie pool has been filled and refilled, and we've had a few weekends of stellar weather. This is really just a technicality.

Late-night chores and a bottle of red

Seems I've become quite the night owl. I'm finding myself still awake at 11:30, midnight, 1 am, blogging, browsing, reading up on wine events, and cleaning. The last part takes forever because I'm distracted by a great deal of the former. Oh, and I spend far too much time on Facebook. (But have you seen my new Page? It's so pretty! If you're on the FB, please "like" me. Please?)

My wine-soaked frontal lobe

Wine has a way of connecting itself to memory. An aroma, a flavour, a sip, and you're back in that special place again.

A shirtless Sawyer ... Simpsons-style

I realize this has absolutely nothing to do with wine (except that I do enjoy a glass while watching Josh Holloway brood, smirk and mouth off on LOST) but I came across this fantastic blog that features Simpson-style mock-ups of popular movie and TV characters, including my beloved Sawyer:

There's something rotting under my sink ... cool!

Happy Earth Day, folks. (Seriously, though, do we have to limit it to just one day? Come on.)

I'm proud to say our household has always been pretty committed to being green. We recycle, we reuse (just LOOK at all the Doodle's clothes that are going to be outfitting Baby 2.0), we reduce. Our trunk is full of cloth bags for shopping. All our wine and beer bottles are diligently returned for refund. No pesticides on the lawn. Cold-water wash only.

Despite all that, we were still sending a bunch of garbage to the landfill every week, a lot of which could have been composted. Unfortunately, living in a condo stratus as we were, composting was rather frowned upon. Then along came the Green Bin.

I have been stoked about this project since the City started mulling it over a few years ago. Curb-side service to pick up your organics, without having to mess around with worms, tacky fluorescent cones or hungry wildlife? A super-easy way to cut back on garbage? Where do I sign up?

After much debate and delay (cuz gawd forbid the City should ever do anything without a little bit of both), the green bins arrived in January of this year, and I've been in love with them since. The little pail under the sink, lined with its special, leak-proof coating (that's debateable), eats up all manner of organics: veggie scraps, bones, meaty bits, mouldy leftovers, spent corks, eggshells. Used Kleenex, dryer lint, swept-up kitchen floor debris, pizza boxes, paper towel. Yard waste, spent flowers, raked leaves. Hair, dust bunnies, nail clippings. I can't get over how much can be crammed into that nifty gadget, and find myself positively giddy as I fill bag after bag.

Of course, the naysayers (those crusty types who shake their fists at kids running on their lawns - you know who you are) have complained. It's too expensive. The bags cost too much. It's too much work. It smells bad. It attracts animals. I don't want The Man telling me what to do. My tax money shouldn't be going into something I don't even use.

Given that logic, if we don't take the bus, we shouldn't have to pay for public transportation either, should we? Or if you don't have kids, why pay school taxes? If you don't own a car, why pay for road maintenance? And so on, and so forth.

I think the City should arrange some sort of tour for the public to see, first-hand, how much is diverted away from our landfill through composting. Expensive? Possibly, depending on your circumstances. To low-income households that need to focus on rent and food, buying the little liner bags is not a priority. There are ways around that, though, like wrapping stuff in newspaper. Hard work? Hardly. Do you put the garbage out on garbage day? Do you put out your recycle bins? This is no different.

There are lots of excuses for not using the green bins ... and for not saving water, or turning the lights off when you're not using them, or bringing old clothes to the Sally Ann instead of pitching them. It really comes down to a matter of laziness, and the way the world's going, we just don't have the luxury of being slackers anymore.

Spicy Citrus Floor Tile Marinade

Of all the mornings for chaos to ensue, why did it have to be this morning?

In case I haven’t mentioned it already, we’re in the process of selling our house. We found our “forever home” in early December and, by Christmas, had the papers signed and the inspection done, making it the biggest and best present ever.

So then we turned our attention to the townhouse unit we currently own. I tell ya, de-cluttering and staging a house for sale is not a fun process. We painted, we cleaned, we tidied, we stuffed extraneous odds and ends into a storage space, and spent long nights making everything look purdy. (A neurotic, perfectionist, obsessive-compulsive’s dream come true.)

Today’s the first day of showings, so we tiptoed around, trying our best to get ready for work without disturbing the pristine space we had created. I got up extra-early so that I could do those few last-minute things like wiping down the table, putting out the garbage, etc. I was also on tap to prepare the Doodle’s breakfast.

Juice poured, cutlery and plates out, I open the cupboard to get at the peanut butter. That’s when all hell breaks loose.

This rivals the cheesecake incident in its grandeur, I kid you not.

A bottle of hot sauce, perched precariously on the top shelf, leaps off in a spectacular dive, landing on the full glass of juice. The juice splashes all the way up the side of the fridge, inside the cupboard and onto the ceiling, before pooling in a lake of citrus yellow on the counter. The hot sauce continues its gravity-fed journey, knocking over my drinking glass in the process, which falls to the floor and shatters into three billion tiny pieces, some of which are projected out into the living room. Finally, the hot sauce comes to rest with a resounding crash, busting open the cap and spraying its contents all over the now glass-covered floor.

I stand for a few minutes, in juice-soaked, dumbfounded wonder, cursing Murphy and his stupid law. Taking a breath, I call out, “A little help down here, please.”

The Doodle replies with, “Uh-oh, Mummy. What happened? Did you break a wine glass?”

No, sweetie. That would have been a lot easier to deal with.

We cleaned up, re-washed the floor, emptied the garbage of its now hot sauce-infused stench and still made it out the door with time to spare. Hubby assures me that everything will be fine, but with my nostrils clogged with the pungent aroma of this accidental marinade even an hour later, I’m convinced I’ve totally sabotaged our prospects. Thanks a lot, Murphy.

Blizzards aren't just a dessert at Dairy Queen

I'm sitting in a Starbucks watching the blizzard outside - Snowmaggedon '09, they're calling it. Pfft - whatever. I've finally reached the age where i can honestly say I've seen worse.

I've gone and singed my tongue on my tall-decaf-soy-gingerbread latte, but my spirits are still bright. What else can you do on a day like this? The barista must have thought I was nuts, smiling and greeting him with a jubilant good morning. How were the roads? Terrible, I sez. Gotta just roll with it. You can't rush, you're going to be late, so is everyone else, so just chill.

Today *would*be a good day to curl up with a latte and a laptop, like what the guy at the next table is doing. Blog and surf and write, while the blustery day roars by. I don't own a laptop myself, and jealously covet those nifty, slim, portable PCs and Macs my friends have. I commented to Santa that a Netbook might be nice under the tree ... but we've got a house to buy, so those little luxuries will have to wait.

Yeah, we're in the throes of house-hunting, looking for "our" place in a sea of maybes and definitely nots. I keep finding houses that have this particular kitchen with that specific layout in the master bedroom, and wonder what it would take to airlift that room out of where it is into the house I want? My world for a bottomless budget, a nice parcel of land and no restrictions. Then I'd have the second-floor laundry, the all-window studio, the jetted roman tub, the fully finished basement with wireless theatre capabilities, gourmet kitchen with a walk-in pantry and stunning mosaic backsplash ...

I don't think all that will fit in my stocking, but it's nice to dream.

Now what?

So now that I have "free" time on my plate, I can't quite decide what to do with myself.

Of course, there is content to write for the first issue of Brix ... and I've had a few offers to work on wine-related projects for the Web ... all my friends keep sending me messages asking me for advice on what wine to serve with which food ... then there's my reviews over on WineAlign ... need to get cracking on the new blog layout ...

OK, so maybe I've still got enough on my plate.

Add to this an arm's-length list of renovations Hubby and I want to do in the kitchen and bathroom. This will be our first foray into big-time changes to the house since we moved in. That in itself was a challenge - we repainted almost every room in the house ourselves, with varying degrees of success and more frustration than I care to deal with ever again. We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we are not fix-it types, and if there's a professional out there who can do the job, then by gawd, let them do it.

Of course, now that the warmer weather has finally rolled in, the patio beckons and our weekends are filled with sun-dappled outings to parks, carnivals and Dairy Queen. We'll get to the renos ... eventually ...

Remembering Sandrine

In 1999, a little girl named Sandrine Craig died in a bus accident. She could have easily left this world as a tragic statistic, but instead lived on not only in memory, but as a giver of life to six other people ... because she was an organ donor.

"I think this happened to us because we were supposed to do this. All the people who are involved have been groomed their whole lives to do this. It gives Sandrine's life, and mine, a purpose. If she had been buried with all her organs, it would make no difference to me today, but it sure made a difference to those six people."

Sandrine's legacy not only helped the lives of six people, but offers hope to the over 3,000 people waiting for transplants in Canada. They wait for kidneys, for lungs, for hearts. They wait for eyes to see. And the cure is there to be had.

That was part of the first article I wrote in 2000 for Sandrine's Gift of Life, an awareness campaign launched in her memory to bring the important message of organ donation to Canadians. After reading about Sandrine in the Citizen sometime around the first anniversary of her passing, I jumped on board as a volunteer writer for the campaign. I met Diane, as well as several other amazing people: transplant doctors, organ recipients, people on the waiting list, parents, spouses, children ... all of them painfully aware of the desperate need for organ donors.

With every interview and article, I learned some incredible truths: eight lives can be saved through organ and tissue donation, while 75 more lives can be enhanced, allowing recipients to enjoy a better and more productive quality of life. More than 1700 recipients are waiting on Ontario's transplant list. Yet most people are unaware of how organ donation works, or are unwilling to donate, due to a lack of knowledge on the subject. The more I learned, the more I shared with family and friends, and the stronger my resolve became to educate others.

It's been a decade since Sandrine left this world, a decade since her gift of life was shared with six other people. This past Sunday, Diane, Kenny and a crowd of friends and family gathered at Pinecrest Cemetery to remember Sandrine. Unfortunately, I didn't hear about it until days later, and so wish I had been there. I never knew this little girl, but felt so close to her and her family from working on the campaign. Now, with a daughter of my own, I find her story ever more touching and awe-inspiring. All the more reason to rejoin the movement and spread the word.

For more information, and to register as a donor, please visit the Trillium Gift of Life Network, and let your family know of your decision. Or check out this fantastic, youth-oriented site at Recycle Me. You can make a difference in someone's life. It's time to stop burying the cure.

Yeah, I look like a dork. But I'm still warmer than you.

We're in the middle of a bone-numbing cold spell here in O-town. Between wind chill and the bus strike, it's making for some short tempers. Still, I try to find the silver lining in all of this. Today's amusement came from watching people walk the streets hatless, gloveless, and opened jacket flapping in the wind. Um, did you NOTICE IT'S COLD???

I know it’s not just the mom in me speaking, cuz even back in high school I couldn’t quite comprehend what was gained (other than acute pneumonia) from walking around half-naked in the middle of winter. I still feel that way. I could care less about my hair; it’s got so much gunk in it, it’s not going anywhere. As for looking like a complete knob in my snow pants, peering out from the tiny slit between my ice-crusted scarf and toque, so be it. I’ll still have all my appendages attached at the end of the day.

Restoring my faith in humanity

In the mad rush of yesterday’s morning routine, I slipped five envelopes into the mailbox with the rest of our outgoing Christmas cards. We then hustled and bustled into boots and coats, gathered up our things and dashed out the door. Only when we were halfway down the parking lot of Bank Street did I realize my mistake.

Those five envelopes—with nothing more than a first name written on each—had gift cards destined for the caregivers at Doodle's daycare. I searched the house in vain, even though I knew fully well where they had gone.

I tried calling Canada Post, but of course, they could do very little with the strike still going on. As my only resort, I wrote a note to the mail carrier, beseeching that person to please return the items to our mailbox. I tucked it in the slot and left the rest in the hands of the Christmas spirit.

The note could have been blown away; the carrier could have been in a hurry and didn’t notice either the note or envelopes. Or it could have been someone who simply didn’t care.

But when we returned home later that day, there they were. All five of the envelopes, safe and sound.

There is, indeed, a Santa Claus. Thank you so much, kind stranger. Merry Christmas.

Heh heh, you said CAULK

"Some people seem to think you have to shove 40 tons of CAULK in there to make it work." My father, ladies and gentlemen.

The guy who owned our house before us thought himself somewhat of a handyman, but his DIY (do-it-yourself) was more like DDIW (dumbass did it wrong). The basement wiring was a fire hazard waiting to happen, the self-installed garage door opener fell apart two weeks after we moved in, and the grout work between the ceramic tiles he boasted about in his seller's ad has all but turned to dust.

And there's the stellar job he did on the shower. Caulking about two inches thick bulging out over the enamel and collecting black mould like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. That's when I called in the reinforcements: me Da.

Home improvement is a big thing with my dad; he put the extension on the house, built desks for my brother and me, tends his lawn like it's the last patch of grass on earth. There are few things he can't fix, and very little he doesn't know already about plumbing, insulation, sump pumps, woodwork, car repairs, construction and how to build the perfect squirrel-proof bird feeder.

Aside from the double-entendres and the total wrongness of hearing my father use the word "CAULK" the entire day, I enjoyed myself fully, getting that same sense of "I did this!" satisfaction I did when I was picking grapes in Norman's vineyard. But much more important than that feeling of achievement was the time spent with my dad. It meant a lot to me to be working alongside him while he was in his element, digging out mouldy bits of plastic and getting high on a combination of bleach, rubbing alcohol and paste fumes, to be able to stand back at the end of it and say, "We did this!" Thanks, Da.