Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way With Madge

Deb and Barbara first met Madge in our comments section, and we’ve grown to love and admire her for her bold, straight-from-the-hip writing here and on her blog, Madgew-musings. She represents everything cool about owning your age: independence, free-spiritedness, compassion and intelligence.  Madge also has three other blogs: one about her trip to China, one about her trip to Japan, and another about her trip to Eastern Europe.

Madge: I HAVE A NEW CAREER

Madge in Japan

I have screamed that headline for years as I was looking for my passion. I have been an office manager in a doctor's office (passionless), run a 5 hospital program that trained fellows in Gastroenterology (even more removed from passion), own and manage real estate (feeds my ability to travel), been a mediator, artist, and now a writer (have written for as long as I can remember). Whew, I am tired of all my careers. But my best one to date is writing and being the marketing director for The Next Family.

Let me back up. A year ago May I turned in a story for a storytelling night at the Spark Off Rose Theater in Santa Monica, California. The title of the night was Children, and I wrote a funny piece about my son moving back to LA with his family of 5. I must admit it was the most fun I had had in a long time. My family and friends were in the audience and it was very well received. At the same time a woman named Brandy was telling her story. We connected and within weeks my story was on her website and I was her marketing director. The last year and a half I have finally found my passion. I have connected with the most amazing women and some men who are all writers in various fields and all over the world. In fact through one of these connections I met this two crazy women Barb and Deb and started following their blog. And follow I did. I comment all the time as I love to show my appreciation for someone else's wit and wisdom, sorrow and excitement. It has been a love fest ever since. Putting my words out there has somehow freed my soul. My ex boyfriend, lover, friend with benefits has not been as keen sometimes as I wrote about us and how it is so up and down. My family has been very supportive and they too have gotten sometimes not the most favorable reviews, but it is all done with love and humor and a real passion to have my truth out. Too long I hid behind the "people pleaser" motif. As I aged that person disappeared and the real Madge emerged––funny, loving, always caring, terrific and sometimes loudmouth with no filters.

Madge and her adorable granddaughter

As the marketing director of The Next Family, I search out writers who I think would fit our demographic as well as our site. It is for alternative families and it proves all families are really similar in their wants and needs, whether it be two moms, two dads, single parents by choice, IVF, adoption, surrogacy in India, or straight urban dwellers. It has taken a passion I have had on and off since I was young (kept diaries and wrote amazing thank you notes) alive and well. And now it is working into a career of sorts. Most writing today is for free and I have no desire to write a book. I write about my life, my loves and my travels. I have a popular blog and also amazing facebook friends. Please take a look and enjoy what you find.

3 more adorable grandkids

I am 62, divorced for over 20 years (that is all in my blogs) and enjoy being a mother to 2 grown sons and their families and a grammie to 4. They all give me great joy. I have an aging parent and thank goodness a sister to commiserate with. I can be funny, irreverent and I always speak my truth. I love my life and have fought very hard for it. Boundaries are my specialty and it took years to learn. I can teach you. I live in Los Angeles as a native. I have lived in the same house since 1972 on a quiet street in the middle of a metropolis. A little Spanish house with a zen garden and low maintenance.  Life is good.

Deb: Madge, this blog made my day! How often do we hear people singing their joy? And although you had to kiss some frog careers, you have found your princely job. You were made for it and it for you.

And I can totally relate to the people pleaser thing. I too have been a people pleasing pepe all my life, and yet with middle age and menopause, not so much anymore. I would never be rude or unkind but at the same time, I will not disparage myself to make the other person feel better. Nor will I (most times) allow someone to be mean to me. Took a long time and I still work on that one. But hurrah to those of us who live our dreams in any way shape or form. You deserve to feel this way about your life, Madge.

We all do.

Barbara: Absolutely, Madge! And thanks for always inspiring us to do the same.

You’d think as an actor—someone fully engaged in an “alternate” non-office-based life––I would never question what I’m doing or why. Guess what? Not so lucky. I have gone through many heart-thumping, hair-pulling, unabashed wailing sessions as I tried to figure out which path to take at any given point. But it was thanks to this process (an utterly painful and embarrassing one) that I rediscovered my passion for writing. There’s nothing like gnashing your teeth and wailing despondently to make you realize you need to … get a life. 

Thanks, Madge, for sharing your wonderful journey with us!

A Furry Teen In Our House

Deb: I remember the day she stopped paying attention. It was a week ago Tuesday at 6:21 PM. She was now ten months old. A teen. A friggin furry teen.

I did what I always do when she starts to bark. “Bairn, come!” Works like a charm. Say it only once or the word will cease to mean anything.

Waiting. Waiting.................................................................................................Waiting.

No come. Not a come to be found. Now what?

Can’t say “Bairn, come” again. The trainer told me that. DO NOT SAY IT MORE THAN ONCE.

So now what? Me waiting. She running amuck. Waiting. More amuck. Waitingness. Amuckness.

Me putting on rain boots. Yes, raining. Pouring. Downpour. Monsoon. I knew it would happen like this.

Out I went embittered and soggy. I stand my ground. She circles the pool. I reach for her. She eludes my grasp. I strain my back and curse her. She doesn’t give a flippin damn.

So ... after ten minutes of this Tom Foolery, I cave.

Bairn, come....................Bairn, COOKIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She comes faster than the speed of light.

And when she crosses the threshold I shout “NO COOKIE. NO COOKIE! You are bad! Bad Bairn! Bad. Bad. Bad. BAD. BAD. No cookie! No friggin cookie because you DID NOT COME. Ha ha. Yeah you think there’s a cookie coming, but there is NO COOKIE.”

I stood there soaked in triumph.

And she looked at me trusting and wide-eyed.

Bairn

Gave her a cookie.

Who’s the asshole now?

Barbara: Oh, Deb! So funny!! This is like me and my teenaged girls. “Girls, pick up your stuff. Girls, pick up your stuff. Girls! Stuff! Pick it UPPPPPP!” Except, wait, they never look at me wide-eyed anymore. And my bribe isn’t “cookies”, it’s chai lattes. Okay, we’re back on track here—I definitely give into those even when stuff isn't picked up. Even un-wide-eyed, these girls sure are cute. Plus I’m a sucker for chai lattes (which in order to get, by the way, requires leaving said stuff-strewn house).


PS: Stay tuned for a wonderful new 3-way on Wednesday!

An Arts Fart

Barbara: I know I just ranted about our recent national election, but I have one more point I want to make that’s very near and dear to my heart.

This rant started after I heard that someone yelled to our Prime Minister right after he won the election to “kill the CBC” (something he has in fact insinuated he might do). Now for those of you readers not from this country, this is an easy catch-up (for my point). The CBC is our national public broadcaster. They produce and air mostly Canadian content. Because it is government-owned, its Canadian content is largely protected. But because taxpayers pay for it to survive, its existence is often threatened.

“Kill the CBC” is a regular call to arms from certain types. And I always wonder why. I mean, first of all it’s a business like any other, filled with employees who rely on it for their paychecks (so they can, yes, pay their taxes and boost the economy with their confident spending). These people (whether writers, actors, producers or administrators) are as worthy of jobs as the next guy. Would people line up to shout at our elected officials to “Kill Schools” or “Kill the Bank of Canada” or even “Kill GE”?

So let’s ask those taxpayers who hate it––why do you gang up on the CBC? Is it because it’s an arts’ based forum and therefore not “serious”? The CBC features TV shows and radio programs and films and news and documentaries. Are TV and radio not as worthy as, say, drilling for oil? Now I’m not going to debate the merit of any specific show, but I will ask: who doesn’t friggin watch TV, listen to music, read, or watch a movie every now and then?! I mean what would we do without our arts? We’re not talking hoity, evening-gowned snobs sipping champagne and flicking channels with manicured fingernails (although let’s presume they do too). We’re talking virtually every single ordinary one of us!

All of us rely on some form of the arts to help us get by. To make us normal, functioning members of society and not just work-oriented automatons. The arts are as vital to our survival as healthcare and education. And they make us a hell of lot more fun and interesting to be around.

Deb: I have been employed by the CBC many times in my career. I have listened to CBC radio and I grew up on everything from the Friendly Giant to Rick Mercer. The CBC gives Canadians a starting point, a common ground if you will. Is it perfect? No. What is, I ask you? When I travel the country for Little Mosque and meet the fans, I see firsthand what the CBC means to Canada. Not everyone lives in the big cities, flipping through 200plus channels.

Can you imagine for one minute, Britain scrapping the BBC? It would never happen. They hold onto their precious institutions and so should we. 


PS You can also visit Friends of the CBC

First In A Series of ... People I Adore And Admire

Deb: There is a group of actor/ improvisers who my husband and I love. And we are not alone in our adoration. Their official title is grander than The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. And yet, it fits them perfectly:

They are called, quite simply...THE NATIONAL THEATRE OF THE WORLD.

Photo credit: Naomi Wright

They personify everything I think an artist should be. They are inventive, inclusive, supportive, and many other “ives” that escape me momentarily. They are risk takers and investors. They take themselves seriously, and yet don’t take themselves seriously at all.

And man, do they “fan up”! They are constantly seeking out people they admire to work with and collaborate with. And when you are on stage with them, no matter how shamelessly you mug or how voraciously you upstage, or how hungrily you chew the scenery, they give it over to you. They literally “fan you up”!

I have been on the receiving end of their generosity while mugging so shamelessly as to only catch––out of the only still corner of my face––their smiling admiration.  And despite the panicked mugging born of insecurity, they “fanned me up” by inviting me to play with them again.  WHAT? And this time before performing the mugging, I took some magnesium. It abates the cramping of the face. 

But these “Theatre of the World” pepes, are endlessly creative. They make us laugh and make us proud. They are younger than us (who isn’t?) and they possess a passion for the work I wish I had when I was their age. They work it!!!!

Anytime my husband is looking at his email and I hear him say “God love them!” I know he is talking about National Theatre of the World. I’ll say, “What?” and he’ll say, “ Wow, they’ve got some new thing going.” They are the personification of “if you build it they will come”. Of course, more will come on “pay what you can” nights, but still...

The “they” in National Theatre of the World are: Matt Baram, Naomi Snieckus and Ron Pederson. Chris Gibbs and Christy Bruce are associate producers who help produce the other shows outside of the fabulous “Impromptu Splendor”, their flagship and calling card. Naomi Wright is their outreach director and play-reading director. Kudos to all for your dedication and desire.

So often in show business we are measured by our fame and our fortune. But these performers have their riches in talent and sheer creativity with a smattering of big ole’ balls. The fame and fortune will come. And if it doesn't, who cares? They are artists after all.

Barbara: Wow, Deb, I love this idea of honouring people we admire! There are so many talented people out there who deserve a special shout-out.

I know that feeling of just filling up with pride when my pepes shine—whether it’s on stage, on paper, or around the dining table. So many people out there are just wells of amazing, sometimes unexpected (and often not wholly tapped) wonder.

Thanks, Deb, for sharing with us your treasure trove.

Link here for The National Theatre of the World's Canadian Comedy Award winning cult hit variety hour; The Carnegie Hall Show is proud to present a very special night on May 4th at 8pm at the Bread and Circus. A star-studded jam packed glorious night to raise funds for Impromptu Splendor's up coming Script-Tease Project.

The Right To Vote

Barbara: We have an election in Canada today and it seems like a good time to vent my frustration about all things political.


What happened to the gentlemen and women of politics?! I mean, where is the decency, the honour, the honesty, the compassion? When will our politicians be transparent? When will they do what they say they’re going to do after they get elected?

I know there are probably legit answers to all of these questions: politicians were never gentle; decency, honour, honesty and compassion don’t win votes; transparency is “dangerous”; and battling parties prevent the one in government from doing what it said it would do. Blah blah blah. And bullshit!

And here’s another big question: why are so many political platforms run on money issues and not on issues that shape the quality of our lives? Who among us hasn’t realized that on our death beds we will NOT be counting our filthy, crumpled dollar bills with maniacally gleeful grins on our faces, but will be looking around at our loved ones (hopefully) and being glad for a life well-lived, one filled with love and compassion, both outwardly given and self-directed???

So why do so many of us roar and cry over money money money when it comes to our governments? “We shouldn’t share it; we shouldn’t give it away; we shouldn’t take care of each other because if we’re not careful, we will go broke and will therefore be unhappy, so let’s hoard all our bucks in the coffers of our biggest businesses and government basements.” Why is it that money is always the one to talk? I wish it would shut its big fat mouth and let us quietly contemplate for a moment what we want to say on our deathbeds about our countries.

When will our politicians work together instead of fighting each other like schoolyard brats and work instead like gentlemen and women toward a common good? When will our politicians—all of them, not just a few unelectable ones—realize that this would be our greatest legacy?

Listen. I get that our economies are always of some concern. But can’t we have our cake and eat it too? Can’t we look to how we need to support each other, whether through healthcare, employment, environmental safety and support systems, and raise these issues up first—just like we would do if we were addressing issues in the smaller circle of our families?

Okay, and so why, as voters, do we not fight harder for the honour of our politics? Why do so few of us go to the polls and vote? In Canada and the U.S. the average is around 60%. Really?! 40% of us don’t care enough about the outcome of our elections to get off our butts and spend a few minutes in line to help shape our countries?

Let’s demand better from ourselves and our representatives. And vote. Our voices together do make a difference.

Deb: I could not have even begun to express this better than you have. Your words are reflecting the conversations going on in our home and in the homes of friends.

I never thought I would get to the point where politics would repel me, where the players would all bore/sicken and stun me.

But I will say this.

Despite my boredom regards the players in this election, I am proud to say that I can walk into a voting station today and cast my vote. This civic duty will continue to be dear to me, its significance will not be lost on me, its importance will not be overlooked.

SO VOTE YA BASTARDS. I don’t give a damn who you vote for, just vote. 


PS: On a lighter note, we published a new deco tip and recipe on our other pages.

Royal Wedding

Deb: The big day is here. It seems just yesterday, he was Willie the Wombat. And today, he’s the young man getting married who we’ve all grown to love and admire.

Barbara and Deb

Barbara: Deb very graciously offered to host a Royal Wedding party—and never one to say no to a party, especially one involving scones and champagne, even if it means getting up at 4am (!!)—here I am in hat and pjs with my gals to watch the pomp and ceremony unfold.

We’ll update this page a few times this morning to share our experience with you. If any of this reads like gibberish, blame the wee hours and champagne…

In honour of the big day: we’re following our friend Tannis’s lead and sharing our royal wedding guest names. You start with either Lord or Lady. Then it’s your first name is one of your grandparents' names. Your surname is the name of your first pet, double-barrelled with the name of the street you grew up on. For fun, share yours with us in the comments section.

Deb’s wedding guest name is: Lady Leticia Girds-Tulloch.

Barbara’s is: Lady Gisela Kita-Sussex

And fellow partier Janis’s is: Lady Edna Blackie-Inchbury

Deb and Janis

It is now 5:10am (local time): Two more lovely ladies have joined our festivities. 

Lady June Baby-Thursfield
Lady Jean Hannah-Robina
And we're all speaking in (quite ridiculous) British accents. 
PS: is it sc(oh)ne or sc(aw)ne? Anyway, we're eating them with Devon cream and strawberry jam. Mmmm.


6:40: We think Catherine looks beyond beautiful. One of our favourite dresses ever. And they truly seem to love each other. Their love for each other makes a huge ceremony full of pomp look very intimate. Okay, we got a little teary. Weddings...


8:11: Waiting for the balcony kiss. Just realized we forgot to post Deb's photo of her with the Royals. Taken yesterday (at the grocery store -- gotta love those Royals, so accessible ;) )

9:05: Perfect wedding, perfect couple, perfect day. Sigh. We had too much fun, but are knackered now and will go back to bed (or to work as the case may be...). We'll leave you with one final picture. Keep in mind Deb adorned this precious hat with her own decorations:

PS Don't forget to leave your wedding guest names in the comments section!

Spring Cleaning My Brain

Deb: So ... Colin and I set out in the last month to rip through the house and divest ourselves of every single thing we did not need.

We cleaned out the closets, we threw out old rags,

We emptied the rec-room of boxes and bags!

And all through this tornado of tidy, this this ... cyclone of sweep, I kept saying over and over...”I want to get this all done and then spend the summer reading books, lounging in the garden and listening to the birds.”

And then I read something. It was the February 26th quote from my “Women Who Do Too Much” calendar that my husband buys me every year. The reason I just read it today was because I have been too busy since Christmas to open it. TRUE STORY.

I would love to give you the exact quote in the calendar, but I accidently recycled the fucker during my “Hurricane of House Proud”.

Basically, and in a nutshell, the gist of the quote was, “Do we get addicted to being busy?”

The quote stopped me cold when I glanced at it, my arms full of winter shoes that needed a cubbyhole in which to spend the summer.

But on the way up the stairs, all the while thinking of colours for the new paint job on the house, I thought, “AM I addicted to being busy?”

“I don’t think I am!!!” was my swift and panicked response.

But then I had to ask myself honestly ... when my last gas receipt is filed for taxes and the last electrical cord that belongs to something we no longer own is discarded, what will I do?

Will I hunker with my book?

Without guilt?

My husband thinks no.

Bastard.

I think ... YES ... Maybe ... I don’t know ... Quit bugging me.

But I have a goal.

And this is it:

Wake up. Eat breakfast and read paper. Tidy. Work out. Read. Listen to records and watch spring bloom out the window. Read. Think thoughts. Nod off. Drool a bit.


I don’t want to start taking time for myself because I have no options. I want it to be a choice.

So dear readers, think of me. And when you do. Picture me ... reading. Thinking. Drooling. 

Barbara: This is so funny. Funny ha ha because, well, you’re funny ha ha, Deb. But also funny ironic. I have been asking myself the same question now that three major writing deadlines have just been met. I am wiped … and yet, and yet, my mind wanders to two more soft deadlines that I want to meet. Oh, the laptop beckons. Oh, the mind wants to journey away again. And then I contemplate all the spring-cleaning, which is yelling at me over the piles of winter coats, boots, old Tupperware, endless receipts, bulging purses, unshelved books, and aging pantry staples.

My name is Barbara and I am a workaholic.

But how do you change if you don’t wanna??!! (but really need to…)

Lvoe, Barbars

Barbara: Tha’s hwo I sing my emials evry single time.

Friggin’ typos.

I know my way pretty well around the spelling, but there are words I typo every time. What teh hell? I’m all in the zone and writing my email, text, or Facebook message as fast as three fingers can possibly fly over a keyboard, and––since these formats don't auto-correct––I have to stop and go back 1000 times to fix teh same mistakes over and over. It’s buidling, not building. It’s not good, it’s god. Obvioulsy, not obviously. And friggin' teh teh teh!

And don’t get me started on the two words I maybe use most of all in my messages. “Love, Barbara” comes out every time as “lvoe, Barbars”. I may have even sent an email or dozen with this indecipherable sign-off. Maybe that’s why I stick with the untypo-able: xoxo (Although, real truth be told, I have typed xoxxo, or variations thereof—not the same issue, I know, but I aim for and like the symmetry of xoxo. So I even have to spell-check my acronyms and emoticons. Llo, *sihg*).

It’s exhausting! And why can I write “exhausting” without a slip of a key, but for teh lvoe of Barbars, can only ever get “beleive” on the first pass?!

It’s always soemthing…

DEb: it is so funny you should bring this up because I do many of these adding a few of my very own. I always have to correct lvoe and I also have caps in the middle of words. My fingers just want to. Wonerful isn’t it, how some wrods just end up with misSing letters and some end up with letters that wan’t to be soMewhere else? I worried about the fact that lvoe never comes out rigHt for me. I thought it was a weird thing, sOmething to fret about. So glad you lvoe to write lvoe the same way I lvoe to. KindEred spirits!

Lvoe, DEb

Wasted Space

Deb: Heaven knows I am not a design expert. Like most of us, I know what I like and that’s good enough for me.

What I don’t like ... ever … is wasted space. I loath the room that sits empty, all decked out like a prom queen who’s been stood up.

I love to use each inch of space in the house. I adore beauty and yet I crave function. My old high school boyfriend and I used to always chuckle about his Mom and Dad’s living room––pristine, quiet as a tomb, and covered with plastic. I know many of us have grown up with this type of “that which shall not be sat in” room. 

Me, I want to live in the living room. Odd I know, but after all, let’s have a little respect for title. Living room––Yep, no mistaking what we are supposed to do in there.

A few years ago our living room was becoming that sad perfect empty room. I could see it crying out for company and, despite the fact that I would visit it on occasion with a good book, as time passed, it became the “company” room. When guests were coming I would feel so happy for the living room as we prepared it by lighting its candles and stoking its fire. But then the inevitable would happen. The guests would all gravitate toward the kitchen.

The kitchen is the nemesis of the living room in house-land––stealing its thunder and its head count.

So after its last disappointment, I decided to shake it up.

I switched the living room and the dining room. Just had them change places. Oh what fun it was. Beauty and function. Felt like a whole new house. So now the lovely living room is right beside the family room for flow of guests and the dining room table is right in front of a roaring fire.

The house took on a whole new energy and we love it.

After the boy left, lo these three years ago, my husband decided to leave his office retreat and bring his computer to the main floor, to the casual dining table by the window overlooking the backyard. I soon joined him and we found a whole new life at that table across from each other. We were doing our own thing, but we were “together” sharing a joke or a newspaper item or just checking and double-checking in on our ical events. It was a wonderful way to bridge the gap of the boy’s leaving.

And it stuck. We love it.

But of course “as two become one workspace”, I was again facing the issue of the wasted office space. My office was built above the space we now occupy together. It is pretty and I love it. After I deserted it, I found myself visiting it. I would stand at its door drinking in its velvety tones. I even considered putting a rope across it and charging admission.

Then the day came, as I knew it would, when I would no longer be able to stand the waste. So...

The desk came out of the middle of the room and went to the wall, housing my record player and some records. The mirrored chest of drawers came out of the office and went into our master bedroom replacing the chair and ottoman that would go into the office. Just angle the chaise lounge a tad differently, place the trunk behind it for balance, and boom––new master with lots of breathing room. And now my sad little lonely office is my reading, meditation and record playing room. Deb’s Treehouse, boys allowed.

I am tickled pink. And the bonus is that when I have my bouts of insomnia, I can slip behind our bedroom’s blackout curtains, turn on a reading lamp and read by the light of the 3am moon without disturbing my sleeping husband one wit.

And the best news. Didn’t cost a dime.

And wow, it’s like having a new house. I keep going up there to stare at it, so delighted am I with my own handiwork. Hmmm, maybe I’ll have to put that rope up after all?

Barbara: I can tell you this, dear readers: I have visited the hallowed space. It is museum-worthy. Not in the hoity, uptight way. But in the way that a well-anointed gallery perfectly captures a time, an era, one iconic room from one person’s life: Madame McGrath and her lovely, cozy, welcoming, bright and happy home.

I love my home, but I’m not so nurturing of it at the moment. Too busy/distracted to even …care (sorry, House!). But I love the fact that it doesn’t seem to judge me. Would that I didn’t waste any of its precious space. Deb, I smell a little inspired furniture moving in my future!

That Old Gang Of Mine

Deb: “And the last to go will see the first three go before her.”

So said the Wicked Witch to Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

This was always the most terrifying part of the movie and, even as a young child, I got it.

Dorothy’s impending death wasn’t as horrifying to her as the thought of watching the death of her friends. That would be the real torture.

Deb's gorgeous parents

My Mom and Dad just lost their last dear lifelong friend. The last of their gang. The last of the dear friends who were around to hold my brother and I in their arms when we were born.

My own pain around Stan’s death was deep enough, but it was watching Mom and Dad that really broke my heart.

Stan was 89, looked 70, and was projected to outlive us all. He was a true gentleman in the truest sense of the word. A kind, warm, engaging, spirited thoughtful man who never had a bad word to say about anyone.  He looked like Dean Martin and stood a handsome 6’4”.

When I posted his death on Facebook, I said, “Stan George, 1922 to 2011, and yet not long enough.”

I know it sounds odd to be shocked at the death of an 89-year-old man, but we were. Because Stan had found the secret to life and the evidence of it showed in his every gesture.

My parents loved this man so much. Even the mention of Stan could bring a smile to their faces. They would light up, just at the thought of seeing him. He never disappointed either. It’s not easy to live up to your hype as any actor knows, but Stan surpassed his.

And now he’s gone. They are all gone, that old gang of my parents. And Mom and Dad are alone. They of course have their family, close and extended, all of whom they love and every one they are grateful for. 

But the gang is gone. 

A while back Dad said they were thinking of having some friends in for a wine and cheese evening. Dad was having a good week physically and they thought it would be fun to host a small gathering. Suddenly they looked at each other, saw the irony, and started to laugh. Not certainly at the fact that there was no one left to invite, but at the fact that this had somehow caught them by surprise.

Can you imagine this?  A time of your life when your friends are gone. All gone? I would not even try as the thought is unbearable.

But there my parents sit, engulfed in memories of skating parties and New Years parties and swimming parties and precious phone calls filled with laughter.

I remember each and every one of their old gang. They are right there in my mind’s eye as I watch from my pajama-ed perch on the stairs, my Mom and Dad and their group of dear friends, dressed to the nines, laughing and dancing the night away in the unfinished basement in our home.

Barbara: Oh, Deb, I’m so sorry for your loss and that of your parents. It’s amazing how powerful those memories are, those of our parents reveling and enjoying their dear friends. Why do all children gravitate toward that energy like moths to flame? Is there one among us who doesn’t remember some form of late night eavesdropping, listening intently to gales of laughter and clinking of glasses, quintessential music counterpointing every beat and rhythm of their celebration?

I am loathe indeed to contemplate all my friends being gone one day. Thanks god for these glorious days. I do not take them for granted!!

Love to all, xo

Deadlines And Play Time

Barbara: I don’t know if I mentioned to you guys that I have a few deadlines looming lately. I’m trying to simultaneously write 4 different projects that are as different from each other as Astaire and Cera, as ice skating and roller derby, as winter and summer. So it gets interesting in this household to say the least.

People ask how I can write four different stories at the same time. Well, that part is easier than it sounds. I liken it to having children: you treat each child as the utterly individual beings they are, but you also know them so well, so intimately, that you don’t even have to think about it. When you’re with them, you’re just in their zone, talking their language, feelin’ their vibe (ooh, yeah). 

My issues flare up when it comes to balancing writing with down-time and family. I love to write and I love these projects. I want to get them right (and rather need to, as well). But what happens when my family humbly requests my presence? Politely asks if I will join them for dinner, for a chat, for a movie? Do I hiss in their faces that I’ll eat when I’m damn well ready (or, worse, cook dinner)? Do I ignore them as they reveal their latest news and keep tapping at my keyboard while offering the occasional , Mm-hm, Uh-huh, and Awwww? Do I pretend to watch the movie while actually composing the next scenes in my mind, and then pretend to discuss the movie afterward with some kind of authority while really not knowing at all what I’ve just seen???

The thing is, I know I need down-time and breaks (and dinner) or my work will suffer. But when a deadline (or in my case: deadlines, plural) is looming, how do you prioritize?

This is what I’m doing, for right or wrong. When my kids need to tell me something, I finish typing my sentence and give them my time (I know I can usually get right back in the flow, but I might never get that moment back with them) When my husband needs to tell me something, I ask him to wait (you see, he gets it. And while his feelings can get as hurt as the next guy, he’s also remarkably resilient.). If it’s my turn to make dinner, I prepare my go-to quick meals (even if we’ve had chicken six times last week, or *shudder* take-out). Housework and taxes? Those fall by the wayside, but I do try to set aside an hour here or there to manage them. Amazingly, stuff gets done (if not exactly to “spring cleaning” standards). Movies and playtime? This is my Achilles heal. It feels like play should be put off till I’ve met my deadlines. But when another deadline will just replace the last one met, then that might mean deferring it till, I don’t know, 2013. So I force myself to put away the computer for certain chunks of time. And watch a movie. With my peeps. Is it hard? So very!! But I do feel better afterward. Refreshed. Ready to write more and better.

But it’s also a constant battle. And one I have to keep reminding myself to wage. How do you do it?

Deb: When our son was younger this was a real issue for me as I wanted him to know that he and his Dad were always my first priority, but I also wanted him to learn to respect the fact that my work needed my attention too. We came up with a solution, the memory of which still warms my heart.


I told him "Luke I will always stop writing to be there for you, so you never have to worry about that." But when someone is writing it is awful to be in the middle of the perfect sentence, the perfect thought, and be interrupted. When that happens, your creative moment comes crashing down. So, here is my idea Luke. When you want me, just come up behind me and gently and without sound, lay your hand on my shoulder. That will tell me you need me, I will finish my sentence or thought and then I will be all yours." The sweet memory of that boy coming up to me time and again, laying his hand on my shoulder and waiting patiently just lights me up. And it worked.


And as a young adult writer I hope he understands how important that little ritual was. As I am writing this, I would give anything to have his lovely hand on my shoulder. What I wouldn't give right now for one sweet distracting interruption from my boy. 

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way

Deb and Barbara Have A Three-Way With Rayna

Deb and Barbara found Rayna’s wonderful blog, Coffee Rings Everywhere, and were instantly hooked. Rayna writes in “drabbles”: essays or stories written in exactly 100 words. It’s a fascinating format and Rayna is a compelling expert at it. She drabbles about everything from writing, to life in India, to raising her two (ridiculously cute) kids. And her photos are gorgeous icing on her blog cake.

Rayna: The first thing I noticed was her book; Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird". The train was almost empty, but I chose the seat directly opposite her.

She was in her late twenties, though the severe hairstyle made her look older. Her clothes were too big for her­­––perhaps she hoped to cover the excess fat, but she only looked shapeless. I noticed she was using a boarding card as a bookmark––definitely a professionally qualified executive.

She must have sensed my scrutiny, because she looked up. I met her eye, and smiled.

"I was looking at your book", I said. "I have exactly the same copy."

"It's one of my favourite books,” she confessed. "Must have read it at least a dozen times."

"Me too." We got chatting.

Rayna running

"Who runs?", she asked, looking at my backpack with the logo of a marathon.

"Me. I've done four half marathons, and one full."

"W-O-O-W", she drew out the syllables. "I can't even dream of running 5 kilometers."

"Why don't you try? You might surprise yourself. That's what I keep telling my kids."

"You have kids? You don't look it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're so slim."

"Well, I do work out."

"I wish I had the time."

"You can always make time." I knew how superior I sounded.

"I guess so! But tell me", she said, changing the subject. "Is motherhood all it's made out to be?"

"I can't imagine not being a mother", I replied. "But have kids only when you are ready to put your life on hold for them."

Rayna and her beautiful boys

Her station came. "Been great meeting you. Hope to run into you again,” she said grabbing her bags.

"We will." I reassured her. "And one other thing. Harry Potter. Do start reading Harry Potter!"

I don't understand why my friends are dreading turning Four-Oh. My twenty-nine-year-old self had not recognized me, and she was clearly impressed by what I had become. How many more surprises are in store as I advance further into the best age––the middle ages.

Deb: My younger self was a good girl. A very good girl. I was a good friend, daughter and sister. I cared about people and championed them when needed. Just as now, I woke up happy and smiling, and I loved life to bits.

I had a small period of two years where I went off the rails for a while. It was the 60’s, after all. I lost my footing, my focus, my MIND.

But I came back, I like to think, better than ever and ready to chew each bite of life 100 times.

So why is it that I feel such shame about this DerailedDEB? Why can I not shake her? I was in therapy ten years ago––menopause––and was trying to solve some serious issues I was having––menopause––and my therapist said to me, between my sobs–menopause––“Why do you refer to this teenage self as if you are talking about a stranger?” I said it was because this DerailedDEB seemed like a stranger to me, doing things that were not Good Deb or Kind Deb and I refused to acknowledge her as a bonafide full-fledged Deb. She was a pretender to the Deb.

My therapist gently told me that until I made friends with DerailedDeb, I would not be truly happy.

So I started to look to DerailedDEB for lessons that Good Deb could learn from. Not enough hours in the day for that however. I tried delving in and thinking everything through and rationalizing and making amends with Derailed.

But it just didn’t feel right. Too much focus on something so long ago. And then something dawned on me. What do they say, “The best revenge is living well?” I realized that living well in my own skin is exactly what I had been doing ever since those days.

So I decided that whenever I thought of DerailedDeb and felt shame or panic, I would simply say, “Hey D.D. it’s okay now. We made it.”

Barbara: No quiet bookworm here, no DerailedBarb (in Deb’s sense), but I’d like to talk to my 37-year-old self. The one sobbing in the corner as she found herself in one of a long series of crises. The me that was bereft of energy and will and courage, who wondered weakly how she could ever survive it. That Barb was sure she had done everything right. And well. And in a goodly way. That Barb held hands, wiped others’ tears, cleaned house. That Barb worked hard on her acting whenever the chance came along, hadn’t yet re-discovered her writer self, and always felt she was hitting a wall. Banging her head on not just a glass ceiling, but hemmed in by glass walls all around her. Cubed in by life. That Barb couldn’t bear the unfairness of it all, the randomness, the cruel irony.

I want to tell her that it will get better. It will take a while, but the tide will turn. It’s a midlife crisis––not the kind triggered by oneself, but the kind triggered by outside events. And as much as that Barb went through self-pitying wallowing (even when righteous, wallowing makes for an uncomfortable bed), she will learn a shitload of stuff. Really really useful, life-changing stuff. She will “find herself” because of it. And she will learn to protect that self with fierce determination and gentle support.

So I’ll let her wallow and cry. I won’t sooth her out of it. I know from experience that she needs to be there for a while. Sorry, kiddo, but it’s ‘cause I love you.

Thank you, Rayna, for one hell of an interesting look into the past!!

Rayna Natasha Iyer is the Founder and Chief Evangelist of the "If enough people wish hard enough and long enough, will the day actually have 30 hours?" movement that most of you wish you could be a part of. She's a mother of two boys now in primary school, is obsessive about the non-profit she works for, and tries unsuccessfully to make time for running, photography, reading, writing and gardening. She dreams of being a published writer, someday! Rayna can be found at her blog, Coffee Rings Everywhere, her photo-blog, Snapshots of Bombay, at the blog of her Writer's Group, Borrowers, Books and Balderdash, or at the Burrow website.


PS come back tomorrow for a new Deco Tip and Easy Recipe!

When The Voice In My Head Is Louder Than Yours

Barbara: I noticed this phenomenon first when I was on the receiving end, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that I do it too!

When in discussion with a certain someone, I’d suddenly become aware of the fact that she was finishing every one of my sentences for me. It wasn’t malicious, it was … hmmm, what’s the right word? ... “enthusiastic listening”. She was so intent on letting me know that she was on the same page as me that she kept flaunting our symbiosis by speaking my mind for me. Now here’s the real problem: she was almost always wrong. I would be on my way to saying one thing, she’d interrupt, and I’d have to start my thought over again in order to make the actual point I was trying to make.

Me: “If we bring flyers to the school, we can—“

Her: “I know, hand them out to all the kids. Great idea.”

Me: “Oh, okay, we could do that. But I was going to say we could give them to the teachers to hand out.”

Her: “Right. Give them to the teachers. We could do that too.”

You can see there’s a twofold problem for me: one, the obvious one of being interrupted and misread, but two, the subtler one of the voice in her head being so eager (and clearly much louder than my own), trumping the idea I was about to present and making it seem … lame. And ironically, her habit seems to deflate her too: one, because she’s not on as “same” a page as she thought, and two, because she kinda really likes her own idea now much better and foresees a (possibly lengthy) debate.

It used to really irk me. (I’ve had issues with being “heard”.) Until I found myself doing it too. Repeatedly. To all kinds of people. Then I read somewhere (wish I could find the link for you) that studies show that while we all spend time interpreting other people’s thoughts and intentions, we’re only right 20% of the time. 20%!!! If we’re really gifted and sensitive, it maybe gets bumped up to 30%. That means ALL OF US ARE WRONG ABOUT PEOPLE’S INTENTIONS 70 to 80 percent of the time! Can you believe that?!

I realized that rather than getting irked when it happened to me, I had to do my own homework. I’d have to restrain that voice in my head that can get very LOUD and INSISTENT and, quite honestly, a little OVER ENTHUSIASTIC. So I came up with a game plan: Stop finishing other people’s sentences! Stop trying to convey how much you “get” them! Listen, listen, listen! You can always formulate ideas after you’ve heard the one on the table first. It’s not a race.

And maybe I can hit that 30% mark. But don’t interrupt me. Please.

Deb: I am both a perpetrator and victim of this senseless crime. My excuse is that I get so excited sometimes that I just burst out. Most of the time I say, “Sorry I interrupted you,” but by then the damage is done.

Other people do it to me, and for the most part I can see that it is because they are excited too.

Bottom line is, we do not listen well enough to each other. Well, many of us anyway. And the truth is, I am a very good listener and a major question asker. I am genuinely interested in people and their lives. But when something they say sparks something in my brain, I blurt.

But here is my take on the whole affair. My rule is to try to appreciate the person’s intention. 

Are they simply forcing their stuff on me or are they just enthusiastic? The enthusiasts can be forgiven, but should learn to wait for it… wait for it… wait for it...

I am one of those enthusiasts, always down on myself when I interrupt, but doing it nonetheless. It is something I truly work on ALL THE TIME.

But those of us who think that our poo is just more interesting than the next guy’s poo, shut up and listen. If you do, you may find yourself responding with something far more intriguing than the thought that was ruminating in your noggin while you watched the other person’s lips moved. Take it from a pro. 

PS Stay tuned for a new 3-way on Friday! And a new recipe and deco tip on Saturday.            

A Record Of My Past

Deb: My husband and I just came home from a big show selling old vinyl records. Cash only, bartering welcome. We went down just to see what we would see 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 groove at the edge.

What comes next is the lovely scratch of anticipation, then––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 schoolbooks like it was a baby. I remember Led Zeppelin 2 actually having the welt of my handprint on it.

Today, at the record show, that history was for sale. Boxes and boxes of albums, some carefully labelled alphabetically and others tossed randomly in a crate. People were pouring through them searching for their own musical treasures of the record player age.

I was looking for my own memories. Specifically, for good copies of albums I already had that were scratched beyond recognition. And oh, the treasures I found. First was an album called Nucleus. Mine had been played and played and played until its only use was as a serving tray. And I found it. Nucleus. Perfect condition. Then I found The Eagles Long Run, perfect condition. Then I found a Beach Boys Christmas Album and a very rare Beatles album with a cover I have never seen in my life. Snapped them up! The cold hard cash we were carrying was gone in fifteen minutes. There were no bank machines and we were empty. Spent, literally. As we were strolling out the door I was grinning like a gargoyle clutching my albums, feeling all Grade 11.

Suddenly something caught my eye. Led Zeppelin 2. A beam of light shot from the heavens and pointed me right to it. Original packaging, NEVER BEEN OPENED. Heart pounding, I approached gingerly. And I was playing it so cool. LIES. Not cool at all. Covetous. Approaching maniacal. Picked it up and read the price. $60.00. Fair price for a masterpiece, UNLESS YOU DON’T HAVE THE DOUGH ON YOU. So we left and realized that we forgot to get the seller’s card.

So please, send a prayer to the rock and roll gods to give me a chance at that album again. That pristine perfect platter of my past. I will NOT fail the next time. I will search and I will find it. But till then, I will “ramble on, and now’s the time, the time is now to sing my song.” And I will. It will be a scratchy duet. But when I get a good clean copy, I will dance the dance of the air guitar and it will be sweet! “Leaves are falling all around, time I was on my way-ay!”

Barbara: Mmmmm, real records. Now that triggers a surge of nostalgia in me like almost nothing else. When I was growing up, my dad worked in the record industry and I got most of my LPs for free. Yes, we had the requisite photos hanging on our walls of him posing with industry luminaries: The BeeGees, John Mellencamp, The Village People (shut up!). Music was always playing in our house, whether it was classical, opera, rock, or the soundtrack from the latest hot new movie musical Grease. 

So buying my first album with my very own hard-earned money was definitely a rite of passage that I came to much later than most teens. But I remember it well: The Cars by The Cars. Oh my. Sex in music. I could’ve listened to it all day. And, yes, the scratchy sound, the lack of crisp clarity were all part of the aural charm.

Unlike you, Deb, I don’t have a player hooked up anymore, but Phil and I have talked about setting one up. Your post just makes that urge that much stronger. I love my CDs (and legally paid for downloads), but there is something about that classic, making-out-in-dark-basements vibe of the good ‘ol record that beckons.

Through The Wringer

Barbara: Have you ever been put through the wringer … and loved it?

Here I sit, weakly punching the keys on my keyboard to write this, a shell of my usual self. I am spent, exhausted, and done. Why, you might ask. Well, I’ve spent the day taking apart a story that is near and dear to my heart and then reconstructing it. But verbally, first with one, then with two other friendly co-conspirators. We are working together to get a script to the next level (meaning ready to film). But each of us has a slightly different idea of what the best route to that level should be.

Now that said, there have been many times when I’ve been in this situation … and it’s been very frustrating. I’ve felt undermined, disrespected, and/or invisible. After those kinds of sessions, I feel done, yes, but also depleted. Angry. Sad. Beaten.

But sometimes a wringer situation can be exciting and stimulating and invigorating. It forces you to clear out the cobwebs. In a good wringer situation, you need to listen well, but also think quickly. You need to access everything from the mental filing cabinet that might be necessary to solve a problem (or even to see a potential problem). So you need to get rid of anything extraneous that might clutter your brainwaves. It’s like mental spring-cleaning. But done in one fell swoop, like a sweep of hands across a desk (without the flurry of papers and pencils and office detritus littering the floor).

Today was such a day. So while I might be a spent and exhausted shell, I am still brimming with motivation and confidence. And while I might not want to experience a wringer day every day, I do believe I am jiggy with it (wtf?! sorry about that).

Anyway…

Put me through the wringer and hang me out to dry. I am content to flap exhausted and spent in the calm breeze.


Deb: Barb, you sound so filled with the juice of creativity!  I love it. 


When I was a young girl, my Mom actually had a wringer washing machine and I would sit in the laundry room and watch her put the clothes literally through the wringer. I will never ever forget this. It fascinated me! Because I am the queen of giving souls and feelings to inanimate objects, I would picture them coming out of the wash, clean but downtrodden, still heavy with water and unable to rid themselves of the extra baggage. But oh, when my Mom put them through the wringer and I watched that water get pulled and pushed out of them, I just knew how they felt. They came out the other side of the wringer saying, "ahhhhh". As did you, Barb. And my Mom had nothing to do with it.