Blog Post Winner

Deb: ...and the winner is…. ALL THREE blog entry ideas. Followed closely by “Model Performance”, with a tie between “Face to Face with Facebook” and “A Record of My Past”.

So I will do all three in order of win.

Model Behaviour (modified from Model Performance)

When I was asked to be a model in a runway show, my first thought was, “I shall do my level best not to be 5ft tall.”

But, after all, this was for charity. It was for the women’s Heart and Stroke Foundation, so it was a no-brainer, despite my challenges in the height-al arena. Plus, this was the first year they were having men in the show and my husband was asked to walk the runway too.

With fleeting thoughts of “something to tell the grandkids”, we accepted.

We were each assigned to a designer and they were to create something wonderful for us. It could be short, long, sleek or frilly, but it had to be red. The event is called “The Heart Truth (Canada)” and it was to be held in the fabulous Carlu in Toronto.

When asked by the people running the event if I had any specific likes or dislikes, I said that the designer could do anything as long as my arms didn’t show. That’s it. Just please do not show the upper arms. Please. I show them in the summer in the real world, but not on a stage or on film or, dear God, on the friggin’ runway. My arms are slim, but they have become the sudden victims of the parasite cellulite.

So I am sure that it comes as no shock to you that I arrive for my first fitting to find myself sleeveless. With the midday sun shining through the designer’s window, my arms looked like a lovely low-fat snack to be mixed with the fruit of your choice.

After the fitting, I contacted the producer and begged her for a touch of sleeve. I hated compromising the designer’s vision especially since she was a doll but, after all, it’s the only request I made. I had one more fitting after that and the sleeves were there ... in theory, but all I could see in reality were two sticky-outie things that made me look like Jane Jetson.

In the end, Michelle of Karamea came through and I had sleeves! Only four inches of sleeve but it was the difference for me between confidence and humiliation. As a thank you to Michelle, I worked it for her, babies, I worked it. I worked it left, I worked it right, I worked it as much as a 56-year-old, big-busted, short-waisted, “sleeve slut” could work it.

And if I came to the event without confidence, this group of lovely models would soon make me forget every insecurity I had. Each and every one of them stood backstage cheering and applauding loudly for all the models. It was glorious fun, and the real surprise is that even the long-legged gorgeous ones were nervous sick.

I stood backstage waiting to go on, buoyed by my sleeves and a glass of champagne. After it was over, all I could feel was relief. God knows I couldn’t feel my hands, lips or feet. Every inch of blood had run screaming to my heart. But after a second glass of champers, it all came back!

I’m glad I did it. It was nice being able to knock “runway model” off the to-do list. But mark my words, there are no sleeves in the world that could entice me to do it again!

Barbara: Deb, you ROCKED! I was so lucky to get an invite to this celebration, along with my daughters and dear friend, Charlotte. We all had a wonderful time clapping for the stunning and brave models on that stage. Deb and Colin managed to look both gorgeous and fun at the same time. No one betrayed their nerves. And everyone—both models and audience––seemed to just vibrate with positive energy.

I have to say that I’m surprised you wouldn’t ever do it again, Deb. You looked like such a natural. That said, in your shoes I’d probably be apoplectic, so I do relate.

If you could walk a runway (for charity, in front of an audience of enthusiastic supporters), would you do it? Is it a secret dream, or your worst nightmare?

Watch live streaming video from thehearttruth at livestream.com

PS: Deb appears at the 14:47 mark and Colin appears right after her. He is a must-see too as he channels James Bond (in a charmingly funny way). Huge thank you to Rigel for teaching us how to embed the video!

Happy New Year!

In honour of our first year birthday, we decided to re-vamp our blog a little. Gone are the “Side of Slaw” and “WTF?!” pages (look at our list in the left column). We weren’t really updating them, so… wtf, right? In their place, we now have Deb’s Deco Tips and Barbara’s Easy Recipes. We're hoping that since these new pages are different enough from our regular posts, we'll (hopefully!) be inspired to regularly update them. From now on, we’ll feature a new deco tip and a new easy recipe every second Saturday in addition to our regular blog-posts. We’ve also moved our Bookmarked list to its own page so we can add more books, keep existing ones, and link to all of them in case you want to check them out for yourselves. We'll also be happy to link any of your books to this list.

In the meantime, if you have any great decorating ideas or easy recipes you’d like to share here, just email us at radeckirites at gmail dot com and we'll publish them with links to you and your page.

And for all of you waiting with baited breath as to the winning blog-post of Deb’s blog-draw last Monday, we’ll be posting the winner on Wednesday.

We'll get back to our usual shenanigans after this, but we did want you to know that we’re excited to shake blog-things up a bit. We’re excited at the prospect of chatting with you wonderful peeps for another blogging year. And we’re thrilled that it’s spring and the birds are out. Thanks for all your love and support over the year, and please know that we’re sending you ours.

xo Deb and Barbara

Middle Ages Milestone

Art by Deb's finger

Happy 1st Anniversary, The Middle Ages! It has been an amazing journey filled with new friends and old, and fraught with venting, kudos and wonderings. And we have loved every single minute of it.

Which is why we are sad to say that we have to hang it up. We’re not saying forever. In fact, we NEVER SAY NEVER. But with personal and professional commitments, we are finding ourselves overwhelmed and we both know that is the last thing any of you dear and darling followers would want from us.

So what we have done for our last (for now) blog-post is to compile a little story, each of us taking one sentence from our random archival blogs, trying to give them a flow. Each sentence contains a link, so any sentence you click on will take you to that old blog-post chestnut. We hope you enjoy it.

And please know that at this point the only words we can manage are:

April Fools Day!

As if we would ever leave!!!! Who the heck would we prattle on to?

The part about today’s post is true however. But it is in honour of our 1st anniversary, not our departure. So enjoy. You are stuck with us.

Love, Deb and Barbara

Deb: Dearest Blog Readers, 

Now that I know what I was missing, I ask myself: how could I have gone so long without this???!

I keep telling myself that there is nothing wrong with me just because I engage in verbal solitary intercourse, is there?

I’m a bright girl! I’ve been well edumacated!

But I faked it, faked it up, faked the “love”! 

Oh well—I guess that’s the difference between fantasy and cliché! 

It can take me way back to my days as a child.

Nothing worse than a teenager with a good point. Should be against the law.

Human beings at their best kill me. Their capacity for compassion and empathy is bigger than air. And when we are lucky enough to witness it or be a part of it, we are filled to bursting.

After all, it’s like that scientist said: there is greater diversity in the DNA of a handful of snails than there is in the entire human race!

It makes up wonderfully for all the times we cry for sorrow, doesn’t it? 

Oh and P.S. while I am writing this, the thunder and lightening is cracking in the sky! 

Wasn’t that the most stirring storm? Nothing scary (unless you’re a dog), just lovely cracking and pouring, indeed! You see, we just shared that storm together—beauty. 

Today is one of those days where I find myself embarrassed for the weather. 

“Quit biting … Quit biting … Quit biting.”

It’s a cutting of the apron strings from the other side of the old cliché.

As long as we don’t let the power go to our heads, bwa ha ha…. 

As I watched the Queen approach, I thought of you.

So please, pray for him or think of him because he is our boy. Our boy’s first boy. He sleeps in our bed. He is our family and we are losing him. 

I always loved the age I was right then and there.

I just am. Spontaneous meditation. Joy. Joy. Joy. I am alive.

On our wedding day, I wonder how many of us really take it in when the phrase “for better or worse” is uttered?

My goal is to always try to find that good side.

The other day Deb bit my head off. True story.

I am not judging. 

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!

And gie’s a hand o’ thine!

And we’ll tak a right guide-willy waught,

For auld lang syne.

Barbara: Happy Birthday, Baby!

Hopefully, our poor taxed brains won’t self-combust in this new venture!

I am a chicken-shit. Simple as that.

Have you ever lost something that was really precious to you––and you can’t figure out how the hell you lost it? 

I have still not gotten over that utterly disorienting feeling of confusion I experienced on looking and looking and LOOKING at her and not understanding what the hell I was seeing. 

It took me to hit rock-bottom before I realized I had left myself without that precious life-preserver: a true girlfriend.

It was different for me, this friendship thing. I was the girl in school who had a gang.

I’m getting much better at choosing to embrace who I am over worrying about what other people think.

Sure, they should understand that people might indeed judge them, but they shouldn't live their lives making choices out of fear.

My older self would say that any good friends will do … as long as no one brings expectations or judgment or recrimination. They will fit together—maybe not perfectly or seamlessly, but willingly––because they need it as much as you. 

Why can’t I just say “Thank you” and leave it at that???

And I will share my knowledge with you. It’s not too tough. It goes like this. “Thank you”. 

Express Yourself!

Barbara: So easy, right? Just say it. Be confident, be honest. People will listen. They will get it. Right?

But what if it’s not so straightforward as all that???

The other day I was trying to explain something to Deb. (Okay, it was about how to link our blog to her Facebook account. And you already know how the FB is making Deb freak a little bit. So I wanted to be deft.) Now, I’ve worked very hard to learn how to express myself as clearly as I can. You who know me only from the blog can’t really appreciate just how tangent-y and convoluted my spoken word can be. I know I can be obtuse here, but at least I have the luxury of reading, re-reading, and editing to help me get as close as I can to my intended meaning. But all bets are off when I am in full ramble-mode.

So there’s me trying to explain something technical to Deb. I'm not good with the technical, so I was nervous. Keep it simple, I remind myself. Be clear. So what do I start with?: “There’s this glitch and I have no idea how to fix it.” These were literally the first words out of my mouth. I haven’t even told her what to do yet and already I’ve planted this very loaded piece of information in her head. So I ramble on: “Click on the Facebook link,” “find a good thumbnail,” “delete the comment,” “add a headline,” “click share”. Well, Deb—quite naturally—is still trying to wrap her mind around this “glitch that has not ever been solved". She wants to help figure it out, you see, or find someone who can. But I keep trying to sweep over this glitch business (“Why is she worrying so much about it? It’s not that big a deal.”). And then I realize—or rather, Deb explains to me—that I have set up our whole conversation around the existence of a relentless, irritating, unsolvable GLITCH. Who wouldn’t worry about it?! I started all over again with my explanation (sans “glitch”) and all ended well … but it got me thinking.

This whole conversation reminded me how easily we needlessly complicate things when we speak to each other. Warning people about dire consequences before I’ve put anything in context is my thing, I know this. But I think we all have our things.

A big one I’ve noticed (and of which I am also guilty) is OVER-EXPLAINING. The human mind is incredibly resilient. After a life long of reading––whether it’s books, newspapers, magazines, Facebook messages or email––we are very adept at extrapolating information from a few key words. But many of us (yes, me me ME!) over-explain because we don’t trust this process. And also because (I think) we’re so worried we won’t be heard or trusted or understood.

So, yes, we have to express ourselves. But we also have to keep honing this tricky skill too, don’t you think?

Deb:  This happens to my husband and I all the time. We are each clear about the intention of our point and yet we find ourselves bonking heads. Each of us trying not to say to the other either “am I crazy here” or “are you nuts?” I think it’s because we both have our line of thinking mapped out for us and we do not want to be swayed for fear that we lose our train of thought. Barb kept saying, “No wait, let me go over it again,” assuming I did not understand, instead of looking at the big picture of her statement, “There is a glitch that we can’t solve,” which is what I was focusing on.

I am also guilty of over explaining. I will say to someone, “Oh sorry I can’t be at the meeting because you see (bla bla details)(bla details reasons)( bla reasons excuses bla). Lately I am trying very hard with a good deal of success to stop that. “I can’t be at the meeting, sorry.” Feels so good.

But in your case, Barb, you were over explaining and repeating because you thought I honestly did not get it, which is a sweet reason for over explaining. Because, well, you are sweet.

At any rate, I got it, thanks to you. And what I would normally say here is, “Oh thanks for explaining because you see I just didn’t understand the (bla bla) and I couldn’t (more useless facts) because you see I (extraneous details) and so I (bla bla friggin bla). But instead, I’ll just say “Thanks. I get it now. xo”

Can't Get Started

Deb: This isn’t the first time I’ve sat down to write a blog uninspired or tired.  There are other times when I sit down with a whole blog mapped out in my head only to find my fingers typing something else. Actually those are usually my faves.

But today is a new one. I’ve started three blogs and I just can’t find my angle. I am uninspired with me today. The facts of the stories are just facts, although each experience was really interesting and/or fun for me. 

But I sit here expressionless.

So today’s blog is my bloggie version of a movie trailer, a coming attractions if you will. Maybe one will be a huge Blog-buster hit, or maybe they’ll all go straight to video. So here they are, coming this spring??? (or not) to a Middle Ages Blog near you:

1. A Model Performance

The other night I walked a runway for the first time in my life.  No surprise there, as I hardly have the body of a model. Five-foot tall, hourglass shape is not what they seek to sell clothes. But thanks to charity––in this case, the Heart and Stroke Foundation––I was walking the walk. And for the first year ever, they included men, so my sexy husband walked too. Each participant was matched with a designer who then made a custom dress for each of us and we had the requisite fittings and changes, nip and tucks. My designer was Karamea and her instruction from me was just this: “I WILL NOT SHOW MY ARMS!

To vote for more of “A Model Performance” vote MP1

2.  A Record of my Past

My husband and I just came home from a record show. Cash only, bartering welcome. We went down just to see what was what and to make a few purchases. Nothing gives me more joy than popping a disc on the record player. Slipping the vinyl out of its sleeve, blowing the dust off, and gingerly placing the needle on the thick grove at the edge. Then comes the lovely scratch of anticipation and, boom, instant time machine.  When I was a kid, records were my pride and joy. I would actually carry around a fave album at school with my books like it was a baby. I remember Led Zeppelin 11 actually having the grooves of my handprint on it. So did Lighthouse’s One Fine Morning.

To vote for more of “A Record of my Past” vote ROMP2

3. Face-to-Face with Facebook

I tried the Facebook many years ago and did not like it one bit. Rather I should say, it was not for me. It felt too...in my face, the Facebook. I guess I did not really grasp its purpose, as the fact that it was in my face came as a big shock to me. So Barb tried to convince me to go back on Facebook for, If nothing else, the sake of our blog. She felt it would help to get it out there.  Well, that made perfect sense and so I resigned myself to try it again.

So I am back on the Facebook and I just can’t face it. Facebook has already––ONE DAY IN––sent me a warning and cut me off from accepting friends. And the sad thing is, I do not know what I did. So within 24 hours I am in the FB penalty box.

To vote for “ Face to Face with Facebook” vote FTFWFB 3

And if the snippets are enough for you, please vote BTTODB (Back to the Old Drawing Board).

THE IRONY THAT THIS IS THE LONGEST POST I HAVE EVER WRITTEN IS NOT LOST ON ME.

Barbara: I, for one, am thrilled and inspired by this idea, Deb. I love it when we shake it up a bit here on the blog. Just so you know, I’m not gonna vote as I’ve heard the stories. But I can say this: they’re all classic Deb.

The Game Changer

Barbara: You know when you read something and it sticks with you and then you try to quote it back later in conversation and you can’t for the life of you remember what it was? I know we sometimes roll our eyes at people who pluck quotes out of midair and repeat them back verbatim, but I’ve always secretly coveted this trait. Oh, to reference Shakespeare or Sartre or Sontag with perfect recollection. Not for the intellectual kudos, mind you, but for the accuracy. The POINT of what they said.

I was trying to recall a quote for a friend recently and I paraphrased it so badly I may have changed the meaning entirely. And I was so frustrated with myself that I ran up to find the book, flipping maniacally through all the pages, until I found it. The irony was not lost on me that this was AFTER I’D ALREADY QUOTED IT! Still, I needed to see how close I’d gotten. (I was miles off, of course.)

That said, the quote is really so GREAT that I decided to blog it. I would love to know if this idea resonates with you as much as it did with me. I was reading Tony Hsieh’s autobiography, Delivering Happiness––he’s the CEO of Zappos.com––and he talks about all the stuff he learned though years of ups and downs and ups. At one point he makes an analogy between playing poker and running an effective business (aka, living life). He says (and I quote): “I’d realized that whether in poker, in business, or in life, it was easy to get caught up and engrossed in what I was currently doing, and that made it easy to forget that I always had the option to change tables. Psychologically, it’s hard because of all the inertia to overcome.” And here’s the clincher (*caps are mine*): “WITHOUT CONSCIOUS AND DELIBERATE EFFORT, INERTIA ALWAYS WINS.”

Isn’t this true??? I mean, from a very early age, I recognized this. And hated it. Why, if I had so much I wanted to do, felt compelled to do, didn’t I do it? Well, Tony put his finger on it: it’s Inertia’s fault! I’m all, I gotta get out there, conquer the world, and Inertia’s all, Nah, it’s cozy here on the couch with the TV on, fuggedaboudit.

No, kidding aside, I’m a super-hard worker. Pretty much everyone I know is a super-hard worker. There’s ALWAYS more to do than there are hours in the day. I want desperately to get my shit done, to feel a sense of accomplishment. Inertia doesn’t hold me back at all in the “doing” regard. BUT. I like understanding that if I don’t make a deliberate effort against inertia, if I don’t make myself uncomfortable from time to time (and routine, however busy, can also get “comfortable”), then I will get stuck. And that stuckness will echo through every facet of my life.

So, while I capped Tony’s inertia/winning quote, I will also try to remind myself—and any eye-rolling listeners of my fumbled attempts to accurately repeat a quote––that the key is actually in understanding the need to regularly “change tables”.

And how have I changed tables, you might ask. Well, in the last year, certainly blogging and going on Facebook has changed my game significantly.

What’s next? I’ll tell you when I do it :)


Deb: I can certainly quote anything verbatim from a 1960’s Mad Magazine, so there. Take that! 


You can always change tables. How do I love that? And I have the same as you, Barb, Facebook and blogging are huge committments for me. It was very hard to change that table. Writing and developing shows was another table changer but I always looked over at that table and there was never an empty seat and the players were drunk. 


This has soooooooooo resonated with me. I am going to always keep my eyes open for another table, another game. Not blackjack though. I’ve tried it. The other players yell at me.

Spoiler Alert: We’re All Going To Die Someday

Deb: Do you ever sit and think about your death? I don’t mean how or when, but the fact of it––the fact that you and I are going to die. And we don’t know when.

Woody Allan certainly does. It is his lifelong obsession and I am quite sure he sees the irony in that. It is what makes him all at once a brilliant comedian and a full-time psychiatrist patient.

One of my dearest friends has fought this concept in her mind all her life. If she even thinks of it for a second, she is gripped with fear and pain and disbelief. My mother, who is one of the most insecure people I know, said to me one day, “I just can’t imagine the world without me”. It was said in a most honest way, not with ego or self-importance. She just could not imagine it. I loved her for this statement. I guess we all feel this way deep down.  We just cannot imagine the world turning without us.

But do you think about it? Really think about it?

The other night during that glorious and cozy full moon, I sat in our window seat marveling. I am a moon-gazer and have been known to sit for hours at a time enthralled.  And because the moon was so close to earth, it felt like Moon had just dropped in for tea.

As I was keeping company with Moon, I started to think about the friends we have lost in the last few months and how much I was missing them here with us on the planet.

Then I started to ponder the idea of my own death. Not my death exactly, not the hows and whys and wheres and whens of it. But the fact of it.

I stared at that moon and thought, “There will come a time when I cannot stare at the moon, because I won’t be here. I won’t be on this earth. I might be in some other place or I might be nowhere, but I certainly won’t be here, as me, as Deb. I didn’t feel gripped with fear or with pain. But I felt ripped off. And a little jealous of the moon, I don’t mind telling you. Even if it was just for this single moment, I could use infinity lifetimes.

And I know people say that is why we have to live each moment to the fullest. But what if we do try to live each moment to the fullest? What if we do adore and appreciate and revel in each and every second? Shouldn’t there be a points card system? Fill your card with joy and get another life? And I know, I know. If we did, we would not appreciate the life we have. But still. What a rip.

So I said “Goodnight Moon” and went to bed deciding that from now on, I would make every single solitary minute second count. And the next day, before I knew it, I was watching “Cake Boss”. Life.

Everybody has got to die, but I always believed an exception would be made in my case. ~ William Saroyan

Barbara: Oh, Deb, such beautiful agony! I actually haven’t thought about my own death much. Weird, huh? I mean, I really really avoid any and all thoughts in that direction. But if I must ponder it, then yeah, I guess I get your mom’s innocent wonder at the incomprehensible possibility of a world without me. One where stuff keeps happening and it no longer affects me (or me it). Just mind-boggling. But I guess if I go down that slippery slope then it’s equally disconcerting that a whole bunch of stuff happened before I made my illustrious debut.

It’s true, there is nothing quite so magical as those rare moments (like pondering a perigee moon) where you feel just transcendently, spectacularly alive. And yet, if only I knew how to convince whoever’s in charge that I’m sure I could summon that appreciation if allowed to live for all eternity.

Does Love Complete You (or is it just a nice bonus)?

Barbara: I might be opening a kettle of fish with this question (and I guess I want to), but if you come along for the ride, you could end up helping me a lot.

Here’s the scoop. I’m currently working on a screenplay (it’s an adaptation of a novel) where the heroine enjoys a lot of personal accomplishments, but finds that she is missing true love. Because of this void, she feels somehow less whole.

The reason I’m throwing this question out to you is because I want to fully commit to the truth of my character’s emotional arc. And if you share your own stories and thoughts with me here, you could get me closer to an essential and universal truth. In other words, my personal experience is not necessarily enough to answer such a big question!

At some point in our lives, we’re all exposed to the literary or idealistic conceit that a significant other is our “other half”. “The two shall become one,” “You complete me,” “My better half,” “The yin to my yang,” etc, etc. I don’t think anyone will argue that love is wonderful and beautiful and enriching. That our lives are more abundant if we are fortunate enough to have any form of reciprocal love in it, preferably in many different forms. I certainly believe that. But would I feel less complete if I was working and creating and socializing, loving and living a rich life, if I didn’t also have my “other half” along for the ride?

My husband and I have been together for 31 years, since I was 16 (I know!). In that time, we have gone through an incredible amount of personal and relationship change and growth. We have mined depths of love that I feel incredibly blessed to have experienced (and depths of pain I feel incredibly lucky to have survived). I also know that as a result of such a long-term connection, we both had to go through times where we desperately needed to find ourselves—not as a new-age expression, but as a truthful part of our personal development. Where does he end and I begin? What do I love because I LOVE it or because he loves it? What are my dreams, what are his dreams. what are our dreams?

I know my situation is very rare. And some of you will find it wonderful and sweet and some of you will shudder in your shoes at the very thought. I, of course, couldn’t be happier that my life has worked out this way. But if (god forbid) my situation were to change, would I feel less complete?

I want to say, No. Absolutely, no-holds-barred No. I am my own person, I follow my own dreams, I make my own decisions. I love my life. I don’t need another person to fulfill me. Instead, I am lucky that I have a loving partner. But that said, I speak from the viewpoint of someone who is lucky enough to have a loving partner. If he were to walk out the door tomorrow (again, god forbid), I might not need another experience of this kind because I have known it already. But if I had never EVER known it, would I always be wondering what it was like, feeling the void of it, desperately wanting to have it? Even if I had all the other things I currently have?

I know I’m asking a lot because there are so many variables (kids, economic security, emotional needs, etc), but all things considered, surely you all must have an opinion on this question. And if you do, I would be deeply, eternally grateful if you shared it with me. xo

Deb: This triggered thoughts that have been hiding in the broom closet of my brain. Thoughts that have arisen from my dear friend losing her husband recently at a young age. Through her loss and pain, I could see what she was facing and it raised many questions in my soul.

I guess speaking for myself, I would safely say that I am totally my own person with my own likes and dislikes and my own sense of self. I do not need someone else to complete me. I have worked very hard over the years on self-improvement and plan on staying that course until my time to die. And yes, it will keep me busy!

But––and here’s the thing––I want to share it with my husband. Over time I couldn’t even tell you which of us liked what first, or if something was his idea or mine, or even where the line was drawn. I love that the line is murky. That is what a good partnership is for me. The fact is, we have influenced each other because the respect for each other’s opinion is so strong in each of us. I respect his taste and he respects mine. And maybe without his valued opinion I would not have tried something new and foreign to me. But I did and I do. And I am so much richer for it. I hope he is too. I am lucky enough to have another set of very loving eyes from which to view the world. I take what I like and the rest falls under “agree to disagree” category.

But that is the crux of it for me––his and my point of view melding together to make the marriage the multi-faceted union that it is. And it is a union. And there are all sorts of wonderful types of unions. But ours is a legal union that we needed to make. The instant our wedding was over, we instantly felt like family. It was one of the nicest feelings I have ever had.

I have always felt in my heart, and especially lately, that I would not seek out a new love if Colin died (God forbid). I feel secure in the knowledge that I am such a strong person, such a lover of life, that I would go on in new and different directions alone, having had something special that I could never top. The love that we have now would carry with me alone into the world and I would be happy for its company. 

No Good Can Come Of A Naked Troll

Deb: With all the talk of nudity in our blog last week, I felt it was the perfect time to trot out my “nudie tale.”

When my husband and I were first married, I had an arsenal of “characters” that I would pull out when I wanted to make him laugh. Unlike my husband who just always makes me laugh. There was a myriad of subtle and varied characters, which included Willie McGee and Grip Woman. Yes. Grip Woman. One particular favourite was my troll.  Name: Troll. I would pull a sweater over my head, covering it and then, well yes, I would speak like a troll. I would say troll-like things. For example, I might say something like:

“Mighty is my hunger today, husband. Omelet will I chose to satisfy the pangs.”

Yes, I know you are judging me at this point. Go ahead. But in my defense... yeah, okay  go ahead.

What can I say? It was the silly kind of things newlyweds do.

Well, if the Troll wasn’t nuanced enough, you can only imagine what pregnancy did for it!  As I got bigger, so did the antics of the troll. I was hormonal, you see, and decided to become the Naked Pregnant Troll. So picture if you will, me, all five feet in height, weighing 95 pounds when our son was conceived, and at this point of the pregnancy, tipping the scales at 150 lbs. (I would go on to gain almost 80 pounds!)

So one afternoon, I am feeling particularly Troll-esque and bursting with a craving that I had from the moment we conceived till the baby was a year old: “Fetch for me, oh husband of my heart, a pudding dense to feed our unborn offspring and satiate me.” Or something to that effect. Did I mention we had only been married a couple of years???

Anyway, my doting husband set out on his quest for Jello Chocolate Pudding Mix, and I set to work. Naked as a newborn, I lay in wait under my bridge with Troll-like patience for my mate to return, my sweatshirt clutched in my puffy hand.

Suddenly I heard the key in the door and I chucked the sweatshirt over my head and proceeded down the spiral staircase in our apartment.

“Have you returned successful from the hunt, my mate?” Silence.

I move a little further down the spiral stairs, tilting my naked preggo self to and fro as befits a pregnant troll. “Have you returned successful from the––”

Suddenly I hear a man’s voice. Not my husband’s. Then a second voice. Not my husband’s either.

I pull the sweatshirt off my head and down to cover most of my nakedness, only to see the Superintendent and the air-conditioning guy. Flushed, awkward, and struck dumb as they face the great Troll.

I will not say I ran up the stairs because running was no longer an option. But I sure as shit waddled faster than anyone who has waddled before.

When my husband returned, he found the Super and the air guy in the living room going about their business and me in the bedroom, now COMPLETELY covered and laughing so hard I thought I would give birth. So if anyone ever asks why I don’t do the nude thing...

Barbara: OMG!!! Laughing out loud. Truly. Tears running down my face!! Deb, only you would seduce your husband impersonating a netherworld creature with bad hair.

I’m racking my brain for my own story of this ilk, but really everything just sounds lame compared to Naked Troll. But, strangely, this racking recalled another funny Deb "seduction" that I HAVE to share.

Shenanigans about to unfold...

Several years ago, our families went on a ski trip together. The kids would’ve been in their mid-teens. At the end of a glorious week on the slopes, we were getting ready to leave. The van was packed, the kids were in the back row, Deb and I were in the middle row, and the two guys were strapping the skis onto the roof. The doors beside Deb and I were open as the guys balanced on the sills to attach the straps. Deb was in a playful mood and, after a while, decided to tickle her hands up Colin’s belly as he worked. This playful hand-tickle was accompanied by the requisite singing of, “Doopy, doopy, doopy, do!”

Deb's boy toy

But all of a sudden, Colin’s face appeared next to the belly being fondled. Then we all realized: it wasn’t his belly at the mercy of Deb’s nimble fingers. In fact, it wasn’t a belly at all. It was lower. Yep, that low. Phil’s disembodied voice confirmed the case of misplaced affection. He wondered if Deb was trying to give him a “happy ending”.

Thankfully, this story also had all of us rolling on the floor with laughter. Even the kids. Still brings tears to my eyes. (Well. Maybe Colin didn’t find it so amusing…) 

Deb: OH GOD, I LOVE THIS STORY. And I am howling with laughter at the memory. My husband knows well enough that I would not add another lover to the roster. Who has the time? 

Worried Sick

Barbara: Susan Sontag wrote a famous essay about “compassion fatigue” (I couldn’t find the essay itself, but this is an excellent article that discusses it). If you don’t know it, she talks about how there’s a real danger that we can become immune to the tragedies around us because we are so inundated with images depicting them. She calls this phenomenon “compassion fatigue”.

I don’t know about you, but I am not in danger of succumbing to compassion fatigue; I’m at risk of collapsing under the weight of fatigue brought on by my compassion.

I am virtually vibrating with my concerns and fears for Japan right now, never mind that those concerns are piling up on top of recent worries about New Zealand and renewed ones about Libya and Haiti, and on and on. I try to drown myself in my work, which helps in the moment, but I come out of it exhausted and inexplicably weepy. I feel powerless. I feel impotent.

Lori Landau posted an interesting article yesterday about her own thoughts on this. Lori suggests that in order to take care of the world, we need to take care of ourselves first. This is such a simple and powerful logic, I have to repeat it here. We’ve blogged a lot about personal trials and tribulations and how to lend a helping hand in times of need. But a unanimous consensus among us is that in terrible times, we are bound to “hit a wall”. This is when we most need a break to recuperate and heal. For each of us, this process will involve something different. Lori recommends meditation. Her point—and rightly so—is that through meditation, we can also increase our communal energy. And that communal energy can bind us together and give us an exponential healing power, even in the worst of times.

Now I am terrible at meditating. I’ve tried it to little avail. But I can see the beauty and truth in joining spiritual forces and BELIEVING. If there is one thing that exemplifies the best of the human spirit, it is our ability to prevail, adapt, and grow. We can’t give up now. We have to believe in ourselves, in each other, in good. Let’s not get so fatigued that we succumb to it, that we settle, that we give up. “Believing” might not be meditation in the classic sense, but it’s the kind of meditation I, for one, can grasp. It gives me energy when I most need it.

Deb: Barb, wonderful food for thought. I too have been struggling with this. I look at the photos and it looks exactly like a disaster movie. It looks unreal and surreal and as a result, it is hard to grasp. So I find myself instead focusing on the individuals.

I was struck by a photo in the newspaper of a little boy. He must have been around three or four. He was standing in front of a man in full radiation gear, as the man waved a wand over his tiny self. His eyes were wide and his little arms and legs were spread-eagle. He looked not terrified but aghast. At least as aghast as a tiny boy can look. And I sat staring at the picture of his sweet face and thinking that no matter what happens in the rest of his life, this is the defining moment. He will never ever ever forget this moment. It will shape who he is, and who he will become.

I have meditated since I was twenty. I kept it up for years and years. I picked it up during menopause and it was a great help, but since then I have strayed again.

So Barb, you have inspired me to slip into my Transcendental Meditation and send loving thoughts of peace and hope and healing to the Japanese people. And as I repeat my mantra, I will think of them, one human at a time, through the face of one tiny little boy. 

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way (nudity might be involved)

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way With Hart

Deb and Barbara met Hart through her excellent, thoughtful and spirited blog, Confessions of a Watery Tart, which explores lots of "real life" stuff, but focuses mainly on her journey as a writer. Hart has a mind-blowing amount of stamina: not only does she work full-time, raise a family, write her novels, and blog everyday, but she is an ardent, generous reader and supporter of dozens of other people’s blogs, including ours. And we love her.

The Aging Nudist

Hart: Before I get going, I really want to thank Deb and Barbara for having me. I adore these two: the honesty, the energy, the fun... all things I aspire to. In honesty, though, there are things I don't talk about much because... they're embarrassing...

Oh, I hear you. Anyone who knows me is convinced I embarrass myself all the time, but that is the intentional buffooning to throw attention off the... buffoon. But I thought maybe here was a good place to get naked...

See, I've been a nudist most of my life. At age two I refused to keep on the wet swimsuit because WET CLOTHES are UNCOMFORTABLE! (And I had a point, ne? They're MISERABLE!  Mom said I was easy to potty train, though, so I suppose that is the other angle to the naked toddler in the front yard.)

Two years later I gave up nightwear for good... (it gets TANGLED!), and at sixteen I finally started recruiting... you know, spreading the word about how much more COMFORTABLE it was!

But here's the thing... at sixteen, or twenty, or twenty-five, I could legitimately say I looked better naked *cues Chris Isaacs song*. Video here  (note, it is the 1:07 mark where he says 'you're the kind of a girl who looks better naked'). I'm a bit Amazonian... have always hopped the line between the high end of normal and overweight... not the kind of girl to compliment the latest fashion (particularly anything straight-legged—even at my thinnest, I've always had ample thighs), but my parts were firm and smooth... they held in place... so long as I made a point of getting some exercise and some sun, it worked well.

Jump ahead 20 years... past two pregnancies... four or five significant weight losses and regains... and frankly... it isn't pretty. I still walk A LOT (about 25 miles a week)... there is solid muscle coating my legs, top and bottom... erm... under a layer of lumpy stuff... the tummy sags a bit... in fact when I bend, it folds into rolls... lovely.

I don't have many mirrors in my house and it takes quite an effort to see one’s lower half (like standing on something). And it takes the hand-mirror to see much of one’s backside.  I never really thought about this until my last hotel stay when it was all too easy to see that time just was not being nice.

Instead of giving up the Nudism and embracing an age of modesty, though, which goes against all that I am, I've decided to embrace the opportunity to practice a little self-acceptance.  I see older women who look GREAT and that is great—good for them and more power to them. But I also see older women who are trying far too hard to hang onto something that just isn't happening—lovely, young curls on a face of wrinkles doesn't have the same kind of grace as gray curls.  And makeup doesn't hide it—in fact, it just settles into the creases and looks tacky.  Ton of eye make-up?  HELLO, CIRCUS ACT.

Hart's tatoo

And at least I can be content in my knowledge that I really DID know what I was doing when I chose my tattoo location... upper central back... that moon will neither wrinkle nor sag, no matter what happens to me.

Barbara: First off, LOVE the tattoo! Second, one of the things that drew me to you and your blog, Hart, was your deep commitment to honesty in all forms. That comes across in your writing, of course. But there was always something about the nudism angle that seemed to support that honesty even more (symbolically and literally).

I WISH I had this kind of freedom, I really do, the kind that says “free me of my shackles, I need none of them”. But, sadly, I am not a nudist at heart and never have been. Well… there was this one time…

Honeymoon pic. Yep, nekkid under the hat :)

When my husband and I went on our honeymoon (obviously back in the “young bod” years), we found ourselves on a topless beach. I was intrigued by the idea of nude sunbathing. But I was also wracked with nerves at the idea of taking anything off. Finally, though (okay, with some prodding from my new hubby), I decided to go for it. It was exhilarating, no question, to have the nips out in the fresh ocean breeze. My husband jokes that I went from, “Please, no, I can’t possibly take it off,” to “Weeeee, let’s play topless beach-ball!”

Did I find my calling? Um, no. As much as I loved it, it’s not like it ever happened again. But now that I’m older and the older parts are showing? I don’t know. Would it be less likely… or more??? After all, I care less now about what people think. And I also think I’ve accepted the aging process with some amount of grace. But the truth is, maybe I’m just not a nudist at heart.

Should we be hiding our lumps, or showing them off?

Deb: Ahhhh, Hart, you are my HERO! I have always wanted to be that person. Free as the birds, age of Aquarius, flappin’ in the wind kind of gal. But alas and alack, I am clothed. Fully clothed. Don’t even like to go barefoot. Very similar to Barb in that way. And funnily enough I went topless on the island of Santorini on my honeymoon too. Well to be honest, it was the first honeymoon, first husband––does that count?  And... I have the pictures to prove it. I won’t lie to you. I had a kick-ass body from the age of ten (yeah, ten, sadly, too too young) to the age of 52.

I remember the day it all ended.  It was a February day, a little overcast and breezy, high of minus two, when the bod years died. One brief glance in the mirror and I knew the bod years were history.  But even in the day, the “days of the bod”, couldn’t do the bare naked. I even get out of the shower and cover up when I am alone in the bathroom, for crying out loud! Don’t know why exactly, but I suspect it had something to do with having a woman’s body at such a young age. I spent many early years trying to hide it and cover it up. Hence... I guess... the covering up.

You work it, girl. God invented the body, we invented the clothes. xo

Hart Johnson (aka:  Alyse Carlson and The Watery Tart) is a super-secret social scientist by day. At night, Hart writes suspense, YA and adult mainstream books from her bath tub.  She is currently writing book 9 (the second as Alyse Carlson). Alyse writes Cozy Mysteries for Berkeley Prime Crime––a series to make its first public appearance in June 2012.  The Watery Tart is responsible for most mischief you will ever encounter.  She's incorrigible.

Hart can be found at her blog Confessions of a Watery Tart, at the blog of her Writer's Group Burrowers, Books and Balderdash or at the Burrow website.

Quick, My Car Needs To Be Somewhere!

Deb: My car has a very busy life. In addition to taking me safely thither and yon, it has its own agenda. I can’t believe it has time to fit extra chores in, what with my packed schedule, but clearly it does. Or at least, it tries.

I was on my way to the Danforth the other day (which is a neighbourhood in midtown Toronto), but it turns out––without consulting me, mind you––my car had another appointment downtown. So off we went. Just as my car was getting to her destination, I realized that I was going to be late for my appointment so I made a u-turn and doubled back. Yeah, I feel bad about it, but what are you going to do? I hate to pull rank on my car, but I am kinda the boss. I guess because I didn’t pay cash, my car thinks she has the right to do her own thing. Maybe she’ll stop making her own frivolous plans when I have her paid off. But for the time being, she’s a gal on the go.

I cannot tell you how many times we get somewhere and I slam on the breaks and say, “Where the hell am I?” My car’s not telling.  She does it on a whim.

I have talked to friends and they say that this has happened to them … this, this, this usurpage of power, this mind-screwing-“hood” trip. They, too, have found themselves late and confused, asking the same damn question, “Where the hell am I?” Lately, it’s a good month if my car doesn’t go off halfcocked at least once. But even on the good days, I know she’s making plans, we’re not fooling each other. At the end of the day when I’m heading up to bed, I can see her sitting there bathed in streetlight, plotting our next detour.

Where are we off to next, I wonder, and how long will it take me to notice this time? God only knows.

Barbara: Ack!! I had no idea where you were going with this, Deb, until about halfway through … and then the lightbulb went off!!

THIS HAS HAPPENED TO ME!!!

It is the weirdest phenomenon. La-di-da, all happily driving along, then, oops, totally wrong side of town (and let me tell you, folks, in a city the size of Toronto, these car-propelled detours are no small inconvenience). At least now I know who to blame. It’s my car, gosh-dangit. And she has a mission of her own.

Okay, Deb, next time this happens, I will calmly pet her soft little dashboard for her silly shenanigans rather than smashing my head repeatedly against the steering wheel! 

A Blog Slut On Women’s Day

Barbara: Being a blog slut and a proud woman are not mutually exclusive, are they? You see, I discovered I was a blog slut coincidentally on the same day as I was celebrating International Women’s Day (yesterday). How did this happen, you might ask. Well, let me tell you…

First there is the blog. This has become such a wonderful place to “hang out” for me. You are such an amazing bunch of people: passionate, empathetic, thoughtful. Through you I have developed a whole online life that a short year ago I would never have thought possible. Where once I protected my privacy with a vengeance, now I can’t wait to throw off my clothes and walk bare amongst you. (Okay, not literally. Haven’t crossed that line yet. Although next Monday’s 3-way guest, Hart, may challenge that :-) ) I look forward to your take on things, your positive twist when dealing with the worst, your stories. Yesterday, I was on Facebook and found myself surrounded by a group of online friends––many of whom are regular readers of the blog––when an interesting discussion turned into a blatant display of mutual respect and love from one “virtual” friend to another. It just spiraled around each one of us like a feminine dervish. It was generous and abundant. It was uplifting. It was intoxicating.

I really did feel myself get all slutty with love.

We are goddesses. Lori said so. But Amy says it too. And Melody and Hollye and Cheryl and Kathleen. So many of you feel that we can turn the tide of hate and apathy and destruction if we choose to focus on the good and true and positive. And women, as Melody said, are the perfect vessels to push that tide. Who wouldn’t be seduced by that idea? By any idea that brings with it the hope of redemption and joyful living?

I remember when I was a new parent and utterly committed to raising my kids the best way I knew how. I loved that time in my life. But I also remember viscerally the sense of loneliness that pervaded the everyday. It wasn’t all-consuming, but it was … depleting. It was like I was hopscotching from one island of relief or joy or happiness to another, with stretches of indefinable abyss looming between them. I am a people person, no question, and not being surrounded by them regularly impacted the quality of my life. I have discovered that having daily access to people either here or elsewhere within the online community buoys me incredibly.

And then I celebrated International Women’s Day, which brings with it the stories of the many extraordinary women who have changed our world and changed our place within that world. We are still a long ways away from that change being universal, but when I consider how much has been accomplished in such a relatively short time, I can’t help but imagine that great things are still going to happen. And if women’s issues can be tackled with so much courage and grace and determination, well then why not world hunger, poverty and peace?

I am a proud and hopeful woman, slutty for the love you show not just me but each other and our world. 

Deb: Oh dear, do I have to be a downer? You know I’m not a downer. I am never with the downing down of something. And I agree that we have come a long way, baby. But I also see sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much room for growth, change and respect for women. We are still the bottom feeders as far as the planet reaches and as close as our next-door neighbour. I saw it first hand in the Congo. But I do have hope. Always hope. And I love being a girl, but please watch the attached for some startling statistics. Barb, your bloggy joy was palpable and I pray we rise on its wings.