Italicized Love

Deb: When I write, I tend to lean on the emphasis devises. If you read our blog you will know this to be true. You will be hard-pressed to find more “!!!!!!!’s”  or more  “LOVE IT’s” or more “:-)‘s” if you searched the web 4EVER!!!!!

I guess I do this because it is the way I speak and the way I feel and I want this to come through in my writing.

AND for want of better vocabulary I must fall back on !!!!!!! LOVE :-)))))))))))) et al.

For today’s installation I have employed the “italicized” devise because I felt I needed to UNDERSCORE my joy.

MY HUSBAND IS HOME. :-)

We decided for career reasons that he should spend this past four weeks in L.A. I could not join him given my responsibilities at home with my Mom and Dad. We knew we could get through it and we did. And we are used to being apart. But not for a month. And what we found was this:

NO FUN.

Not a bit. Nope. Doesn’t work for us. During his away we would Skype and text and call and email and FB but it didn’t work for us.

We had to examine the why of it and in doing so discovered the reason.

DON’T WANNA.

Don’t wanna be apart. Marriage works in all sorts of ways for all sorts of people but for us people, our marriage, it doesn’t work apart.

Paul and Linda McCartney said they never spent a day apart. They were lucky. They had the means and the money to make that happen. We do not.

But what we do know is that after this away experiment we will not do it again. How many of us have to make these compromises?

What we have discovered through this period of away is the fact that despite what you have to do when you have to do it does not mean you have to do it the way you think it has to be done.

We cannot change what our life is right now. It is what it is.

We cannot change the needs of the many or the needs of the few. (special thanks for paraphrasing that quote goes to the Geek in me)

But we can change the effort. We can choose not to take the easy road and think it’s going to be livable.

Sometimes the shortest line between two points is the longest road.

From this point on we have decided that our marriage requires that we take one hundred hours to do a two hour drive.

With apologies to my husband I give you his nemesis—Sting. But in my defense, Sting nails it.

                                   

P.S. Video aside the words are the message here.

Barbara: First things first, Deb: I was under the (often embarrassed) impression that I far out-italicized/EMPHASIZED you here!! I’ve even admired your restraint for the most part for all words emphaSIZED. I hate to usurp you in any way, but I had to call it before someone else does. I mean, can I use any more question marks or exclamation marks in my stories, responses, and comments???!!! Anyway, I had to get that out of my system. I am a lover of speak-writing the italics, so clearly I hear you here.

As for the italicized love, I can only say that you made my heart pitter-patter with this post. You’ve been such a trouper this last month. If Colin is reading this: it’s true she has. This month defines Deb’s spirit. She never once complained, she filled her time, she did her thing, she had fun. Let me say that again: SHE NEVER ONCE COMPLAINED!!!! (you see what I did there—caps and italics and exclamation points) It’s only now that you are home, Colin, that she has let the damn burst and let her true feelings of missing you have their way with her. I am so happy you two are back together. The world is as it should be once again.

Sheeple Are People Too

Barbara: I was not going to write about this. I don’t know; maybe I didn’t want to rant at you again, maybe I hoped something funny would happen to me over these last few days and I could tell you about it and we could all laugh and laugh. But as often happens with my most tenacious thoughts, they really dig in their claws until I let them have a few moments in the spotlight. As my threshold for pain has lowered dramatically in my middle years, I’m gonna go ahead and do my little rant. Also, nothing funny happened to me. So please feel free to disagree with me here (ironically, I have a high threshold for debate).

Remember when I posted that Kony 2012 video the other day? And I’m sure you all know how it just exploded since then, both in viral hits and in discussion, rhetoric, and vitriol. The thing is, I did do a bit of homework before I posted—and I knew there was some controversy about the facts, history, and worthiness of the charitable organization behind the video (Invisible Children). If you read our comments section, you might’ve read the part where Brianna and I discussed some points and issues. The reason I went ahead and posted the story to the blog was because I was so excited that a “cause” had ignited the hearts and minds of millions of people—and at that time, mostly young people. This was for me a sign that it was possible to have care and concern generate a contagious momentum. The fact that the video hits have now topped a 100 million people absolutely astounds me—that’s right up there with such deep and world-changing Youtube fare as “Charlie bit my finger” and Justin Bieber’s “Baby”.

And, maybe because I’m a glutton for punishment, and maybe because I really really do love debate and turning issues over and looking at them from other sides than my own, I ended up mostly reading articles about this phenomenon (is that the right word?) that basically lambasted this effort and vilified anybody who made or supported the video. And I could totally understand their points: yes, we should do our homework before blindly committing to something, and yes, there might have been mistakes on the part of the filmmakers, and certainly there might be hundreds of important issues not addressed in the film. But I did—in my own homework—trust that these young people really wanted to make a difference. And I didn’t wholly trust all the facts of the naysayers either.

What I really didn’t get, what I struggle now to understand, what confuses and annoys me is the anger and insults hurled toward people who are trying to make a difference (even a possibly misguided one). In one article I read, they actually called the video supporters “sheeple”. Cute play on words, I’ll grant them that, but so very insulting. And I started to worry—maybe needlessly—that all these millions of people who decided to take up a cause and stand up for something fundamentally wrong ... would now feel like idiots. I know that I certainly vacillated between righteous anger and self-conscious embarrassment. Within minutes of posting the Kony link to her Facebook, a beloved was castigated by foaming critics of the film until she felt compelled to take it off her page. Because I had already decided to trust the good intentions of the filmmakers (for right or wrong) I worried that they would now feel like dolts who should crawl into a hole and lick their wounds, instead of feeling proud that, after spending 9 years in and out of the jungle, getting to know the story and its victims, aligning with those victims, dreaming of and then following through on their plans to help them, they managed to document a film (which is either a good or bad one) and tell it to the world. I highly highly doubt they had visions of personal wealth dancing in their heads. I can’t imagine they dreamed in their wildest dreams that “viral” would mean anything more than a few million hits, if that.

Is this what we want to do? Is this how we want to feel? Please, yes, let’s debate and discuss how to take care of the good of our planet—we’re bound to disagree!—but please, let’s support our often maligned and underworked sense of compassion. Do we want to be those people in our homes who hear the woman screaming outside but don’t call the police because we’re afraid of being judged stupid, deemed wrong, or making a mistake? Not me, baby, not me.

It’s not our fault or the filmmakers’ fault that this happens to be the medium that brought awareness to such a huge amount of people. If only it had been for a less controversial issue; if only it had been made in a less controversial way. But it wasn’t. This is the piece that broke through on a scale which journalists and humanitarians the world over, sadly, could not achieve. And the beauty is, if we do learn to raise our voices, even in misguided ways, we get used to raising our voices. Then we get used to doing a bit more and a bit more. Today it might be clicking on a video, tomorrow it might be doing more and better research, the day after it might be going to our governments. And if there are issues around the issues that need to be brought to light, the conversation can—and will—shift and change accordingly. But we’re talking, people, we’re talking! We are not sheeple. We are all in this together.

Maybe that old axiom “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” should be “good intentions paved the road away from hell”.

PS I talked to Deb and Charlotte about this before I posted and it led to some lively discussion. Charlotte emailed me this link (after I’d written my piece, just fyi!) and it seems fitting to add it here. This is by Nicholas D. Kristof and it appeared in the op-ed section of the online New York Times; he actually addresses several of the negative articles that I read and shares a similar dismay over the denouncement of the filmmakers: “The bottom line is: A young man devotes nine years of his life to fight murder, rape and mutilation, he produces a video that goes viral and galvanizes mostly young Americans to show concern for needy villagers abroad — and he’s vilified?”

Also, it seems fitting to end on a high and related note: yesterday the judges of the International Criminal Court released a unanimous decision to convict Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, a Congolese warlord, for turning thousands of children into soldiers.

Deb: Barb has already very nicely represented my point of view so I will not take too much time in my comment. I feel very much as she does: “but they are doing SOMETHING!” And I agree that I do not think that the motivation behind the film was a get-rich-quick scheme. If that were the case they could have picked a much easier, safer, more comfortable subject. Growing up in the 60’s and seeing protests and being a part of them (smaller ones) it is great to see people rally behind an unjust cause. People can certainly decide what to do with their hard-earned dollars regards charity, but it is tough to look away when the truth is being raised. Awareness is worth gold. 

Family Dog

Deb: I went on to Facebook last night to see if there was a charming video or the like to share on the blog. My friend Moira Dunphy had posted this. It was the first story I read and it struck me to my very core. I got her kind permission to share it with you. The dog’s name is Cahill, rhymes with Pal. 

Moira: I'd like to tell you a story. It is about a boy and a dog. Only this boy had Tourettes, and often felt frustrated and isolated. And the dog actually belonged to the boy's grandma. Boy and dog meet from time to time, love playing together. But when the dog is 9 & the boy is 13, the families move in together, and from that very first night the dog and boy are in love. But the Tourettes gets worse. The boy is horrified that sometimes his tics make him suddenly pinch or squeeze the dog. Every time, the boy's face freezes in pain when the dog winces or gives a whimper or yalp. And every time, without fail, that dog-in-love would immediately turn his face to the boy and give him a big lick. "It's ok" his eyes would say, "I'm not hurt, I know you didn't mean it." and the boy would relax and continue to pet and play with him. And today, the dog-loves-boy-loves-dog story ended. The 12&1/2 yr. old dog, at peace but dying with tumours, was put down, already half-asleep, with such gentleness. The boy could not leave the car and come into the clinic, but the dog turned around and gave him one last kiss. The grandma gave him the dog's collar, and he does not want to let it out of his grasp. Thank you, dog. Well done, my good and faithful servant...

Hate-On For Hogtown

Deb: I am from Toronto. I am a very open-minded open-hearted traveller. I have never been anywhere where I didn’t find many or at least some things to like about my destination. I am kind, respectful, friendly, and I do my part to stimulate local economies—heaven knows! I go out of my way to tell people when I travel how much I love their city, town, country, or hamlet. I am a fan of the planet, what can I say. And yet....

Yet....

I am from Toronto.

The hated, despised Toronto. It is the city the rest of the country loves to hate. In the U.S., I believe that city is New York. In Canada, it’s Toronto. I guess every country has to have a whipping town. No point in saying I am sick of it because that isn’t going to stop it. No point in saying I am hurt by it because the people who would bash my city to my face think that I have no feelings. They think that because I am from Toronto.  They think that I when you are from Toronto you are a self-centred, head up your ass, don’t care about anyone else in the world, cold-hearted, narrow-minded, city dwelling knob. They apparently think this of every single person who resides in Toronto. I can only assume that this includes animals and children.

First of all, no one in Toronto thinks these things. It is the rest of the country that assumes we go around thinking we are the greatest. What we are really thinking is what YOU are thinking: how do I pay my mortgage, raise my kids to be good people, keep my career going. We are thinking what the whole planet is thinking and yet...

Yet...

I was in a taxi in Vancouver last February. Vancouver (my home away from home—my husband’s home) was in full spring bloom and I was thrilled to be there. As we drove along I had a lovely chat with the cabdriver, asking him what part of the city he was from, if he was born there, and generally going on about the sheer beauty of this lovely city. Until he finally asked me where I was from. Do I need to tell you the rest? This time the irony of the about-face was just too much for me. When I got out of the cab, I pointed out to him (peeing a little, shaking a little) the following: I said, “Jim,” (Yes, Toronto snob that I am I had asked him his name when we met. For the record, he did not return the courtesy.)To continue—I said, “Jim, I got into this cab and engaged you in conversation. We had a lovely chat and I think you judged me to be a nice person. When you found out where I was from, where I was born, where the fates had decreed I hail from I became the enemy. Every single thing you saw and heard with your own eyes, you decided to shun. So, Jim, I would like to say that I am a nice person, a good person. I am from Toronto. Please remember that and please remember that even after your very hurtful, very rude display, I GAVE YOU A TIP!”

And here’s the kicker—HE HAD NEVER IN HIS LIFE SET FOOT IN MY CITY!!!!

So many bashers I have been victim of have never been to my city. Others decide they will hate it before they come here, leaving no room for open mindedness. Other people come here and it is just not their cup of tea. Or they come with an open mind and still hate it. Fair enough. You have the right to hate it. I am not saying that it does not have its flaws. Truth be told, I have never been anywhere on this planet that does not have its flaws ... Okay, maybe the rainforest. But the fact is, we are all from somewhere. Whether we stay there or whether we stray, it is still home. So when you are bashing someone’s home remember, it’s someone’s home.

I have friends around the world who live in areas that would never make me happy. Places that I would not live in only because they do not suit my style, they do not serve my needs. And when I visit them or when I am talking with them I sing the praises of their home sincerely for all the beauty I see in it. What is the point of the put-down? If it isn’t right for me does that mean it is an awful place? Why would I say something nasty about it? Yes, that is exactly the right word. People are nasty about Toronto. To my face, on Facebook, on Twitter, at parties ... They love the hate of Toronto. They feed off of it. And just so you know, I am not posting this looking for the Toronto the Good stories. But nor am looking for Toronto the Bad stories. If you hate my city then please feel free to talk behind my city’s back. But to my face, it is simply rude. It is my home.

And like everything in life, and believe me I have had to learn this lesson of the city judgment (although in fairness I had the decency to talk behind said city’s back), maybe we should step back and try, just try, to look at any  place we hate with fresh eyes. Maybe through our preconceived notions, a glimmer of something else will slip through. Maybe we will open our minds long enough to enjoy something we have decided to despise. This also applies to creamed corn. Toronto the Good has lots of Good about it. And you know what they say: if you can’t say something nice about a geographical location, say nothing at all!

Barbara: Yeah, I'm familiar with this phenomenon. It's very weird. Phil travels across the country a lot and has had many people tell him to his face that Toronto sucks. We've lived here for a long time now (after living in BC and Montreal--both sexy, wonderful cities). Toronto is awesome. It's my home and I'm proud to call it that.

The "Stuff" That We Are Made Of

Barbara: One of the ideas that has been exciting me lately is my newfound awareness that this connection we all feel for one another—even when we hate or disagree with each other!—comes from a very simple source: the stuff from which we are made.

We’re talking about it in my Quantum Physics class and we’re talking about it my writer’s circles. We’re talking about it scientifically and we’re talking about it creatively and spiritually. Because, whether it resonates with you or not, at our very most atomic level, we are exactly the same as everything else. Everything else in the UNIVERSE. It brings that “we are one” mantra to a kind of whole other level, doesn’t it?

Here is a beautiful video by Max Schlickenmeyer that illustrates one such answer from astrophysicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson in a Time Magazine interview.

  

Clothes Pony

Barbara: I do love the look of beautiful clothes. I have coveted my fair share of finery: silky shirts, cashmere sweaters, comfortable but still sexy pants. But I am so not a fashion maven. In fact, for the most part, I’ve even stopped reading fashion mags—they make me think too much about a world in which I don’t really have time to revel. Argh to the shopping scavenger hunts, to the changing-room fiascos, to the sticker-shock of non-third-world-child-sewn quality wear. But I come full circle to the fact that I also really really love the look of beautiful clothes. If I were to answer my own question about what to do about them from the safety of my keyboard, I would say irrefutably, “I want me some.” But what about actually going out into the real world and dealing?

There’s this closet in my house full of lackluster, serviceable clothes which greet me when I go to pick out my outfit every day. There’s the drab uniformity of the same colour choice over and over again. Or rather: non-colour. I have planted myself in that world of “easy choices”. Everything—almost everything—is black, white/cream, or grey. There’s some brown, some dark blue. Not a lot. But it’s easy, right? Most everything “goes together” and I can always pull together a classic “chic” look if I need on a moment’s notice. How can a black shirtdress with opaque hose and chunky jewelry not work?

The other day I was admiring a friend’s red coat. It looked spectacular on her. She told me that three different people had offered her three separate wise observations when it came to wearing colour. 1) Colour made you feel better. 2) Colour made you look better. And 3) Colour made you look younger. And so then I began to think about colour. If I was going to buy new clothes, didn’t I need colour too?

But colour isn’t always easy to wear, certainly not for me. Secret confession: I’ve often coveted and admired Deb’s clothes and those of my sister-in-law—both are impeccable fashionistas with style in abundance. And both of them have offered me precious items from their collections when they were spring-clearing. Oh, you can imagine my delight and excitement! Beside myself with giddiness, barely able to stop and kiss my husband hello before racing for my bedroom to try on this guilt-free benevolence (aka: I didn’t have to pay for it and they didn’t have to buy it for me). But time and time again, those very pieces that I coveted the most, the frothy blouses, the architectural jackets, the detailed sweaters, made me look (and by extension, feel) ridiculous! I know it’s logical when I say it, but it never feels logical when it happens: how could something look so beautiful and special and right on this person and so overblown and silly and wrong on me?!

And so, with a spring-cleaning ritual ahead of me and the correlating semi-annual itch to refresh the old wardrobe, I find myself wondering about what choices I will make when I next visit the stores. I mean, I have to have a plan of attack if I’m going to make the rare event a success, don’t I? And despite my reservations, I am now coveting colour, I am coveting striking, I am coveting unique. But will it all make me look like a damn fool who’s trying too hard? How do I invest my shopping hours and modest budget with the best results? And how do I split the difference between what I admire, what I wish looked good on me, and what truly makes me feel (and, as a result, look) good? Deb, help me!!!!

Deb: Help is on the way. Here is the deal. Colour is wonderful. The trend is trending for two years and I love love love to see it. But we always have to be true to who we are and how we see ourselves. I see the models in a hot pink silk skirt and cobalt blue top and I love it, but it’s not me. Sooooooo I will buy as I have done this last month, bright yellow shoes and teal blue shoes. I will buy a bright purse. I choose (mostly) to colour block with accessories. Or try a hot pair of coloured jeans. I love the pastels but not on me, so I have red and they rock. Then I play it down with a white t-shirt. Also you can do your own blue jeans (maybe in a new shape?) and just add a great and bright flowing top. Flowered tops are wonderful with ripped and torn jeans. I just got a gorgeous vintage pale yellow background and flowered silk shirt and I wear it with really distressed jeans to mix up the soft and hard. The other night I wore a gorgeous full lace top (so soft and fem) with ripped jeans and vintage doc martens. Or bling it up. I think I was telling you that I have this vintage rhinestone collar and it is a huge piece that just screams fab. I just wore it (as you know) with a vintage Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress but in the summer I will wear it with white crops and a white T.

Go through your closet and toss all the boring that is not classic. DO BUY or borrow your daughter’s fashion mags. Decide which looks you would love to add to YOUR look. Then pick five pieces that can spice up your look. What I have stopped doing is going shopping and buying a million things that I will wear once. I decide what my look for the season will be and I invest in a few “key” pieces. And DON’T worry about trend. Stress what would makes YOU feel good, visualize how you would love to look this spring and summer. And then ... GO BABY GO!

I would LOVE to help you with this. I WOULD LOVE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Okay, somebody stop me; I could go on and on and on and on and on.

Okay, one more thing. Go shopping in your own closet. You may be surprised that a little piece you bought years ago will work well NOW. I save things that I love and I wait like a fashion tiger to pounce on them when their time comes around again. And by that I don’t necessarily mean trend-time but rather when I LOVE them again. And mix it up. Some of your clothes may be boring to you because of the way you USED to wear them. Mix them up!!! Introduce that little cashmere sweater to a different skirt, pant or shoe. You may just fall in love all over again. And only after you have done that ... you go shopping to fill in the blanks.

Okay, I will shut up now, but I will still be thinking about it while I work out. Then I will call you and then I will pester you and you will regret opening this can of couture! xoxo 

How We Celebrated International Women’s Day

Deb and Laurel

Barbara: Because we love and honour you women so much, of course we had to acknowledge this most important day: International Women’s Day. Yesterday morning, Deb was invited to speak at a breakfast hosted by Ontario MPP, Laurel Broten (a smashingly lovely, articulate, and sincere politician). I accompanied Deb—to my great delight. Because Deb is a damn good speaker. As you can imagine, she is charming and funny and insightful and compassionate.

She used this chance to speak from the heart about what being a woman means to her. She asked me if her speech was too long to publish to the blog—and I answered, as we often do, that people can read as much or as little as they choose. But I can’t imagine anyone choosing to skim it (although you can skim the (unexpected) parts about me ;) ); Deb’s speech is fantastic. Of course I am always aware of how amazing Deb is, but she still manages to surprise me and take it to a whole other level. She makes me so so proud. So here is Deb’s Women’s Day speech in all its unadulterated glory!

Deb: In honour of International Woman’s Day, I want to talk about the joy of the female presence in my life. I say “female presence” not only because of the women in my life, but because I am blessed to have in my family two men who are very much in touch with their feminine side. I am married to actor Colin Mochrie and we have one beautiful 21-year-old boy, Luke. Colin, for his part, cries like a girl during So You Think You Can Dance. It is sweet—and yes, I got his permission to share that. 

When we had a boy, we thought, “Okay, here we go, hockey, baseball, soccer. But the boy had other plans. Ballet, jazz, musicals, modern art. When he was around ten, he decided to add a game to family game nights. He called it: Luke Goes on a Date. I would play his “date” and my husband would be relegated to play bus driver, chauffeur, waiter, cab driver, and that ilk.  He had to reconcile himself to being a “special business extra” in our son’s dating life. So we would play the game and Luke would take his part very seriously, as would I (Oedipal implications aside).

At the end of playing our very first time, our son broke down in tears. We were shocked, especially Colin who felt that he had particularly excelled at the role of the valet guy. We asked the boy what was wrong. God bless him, through tears he said, “It’s just that, some day, some day it’s going to be real!”

One day when playing the date game, he stopped in his tracks as we fake-walked into a restaurant, “Mom what do I do about the door. Should I open the door for my date? Will she like it; will she be upset?” And I said, “Luke, here are the three stages of opening the door in a woman’s life. In her teens she will think it is sweet and romantic because she is all squishy about the prospect of love and romance. In her college years she will reel on you. ‘Why the hell are you opening the door for me for? Am I helpless, am I an idiot? Do I not know how the damn handle works?!’ In her middle years, she will be comfortable with her equal role to men and be grateful for the thoughtful gesture, secure in the fact that masculine and feminine have nothing to do with equality.” He soaked it all up like a sponge and, although he is only going on 22, he has had a great relationship with a beautiful young woman for three lovely years. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. Me and his cab-driving dad.

I am a lucky woman, my friends tell me, as my husband does all the cooking, grocery shopping, and laundry. I know what you’re thinking: What the hell do you do? I think my son said it best when asked to describe what his parents did for an essay at the age of 6. After listing Colin’s jobs for two long pages, he finished with: “Mommy lights the candles and pours the wine.” He was exaggerating a little, of course. I now use battery candles that are on timers, leaving me extra time to allow the wine to breath.

But in my defense, my husband LOVES to cook. It is his hobby and his joy. And he does the shopping because he does the cooking. He does it alone because he says, and I quote, “You just slow me down.” And he does laundry because—given the vastness of my wardrobe—I need only do laundry twice a year, during summer and winter solstice. My husband on the other hand has enough socks and underwear to last exactly two weeks. That is the way he likes it—and who am I to argue if a few of my items get cleaned in the mix. I am just that kind of collaborating partner.

And believe me, I do plenty. Believe you me. I know it sounds like I doth protest too much and I admit that my list would sound lame if I spouted it off, but I do what every other woman I know does, I keep our family afloat; I keep all the cogs greased and turning; I keep all the balls in the air. Okay I know that sounds like I am generalizing because I have no real list, but it’s not. All I know is, I never sit down. You are going to have to trust me on that.

So, branching out from the TESTROGEN in my house (just invented that word), I am surrounded by a wealth of wonderful women. I have tons of dear friends, some that I have had from the age of five whose relationships I still cultivate. But I have also come to friendships later in life that surprised the heck out of me. One such relationship is my guest here today. My wonderful and charming friend and writing partner, Barbara Radecki. We have collaborated on TV scripts, movies, and the project closest to our hearts: our blog, The Middle Ages. When I met Barbara in 2001 doing a film together I was instantly struck by her charm, gentle manner, energy and haunting beauty. But I had no interest in pursuing a friendship with her—and not because she was a shade taller than me (6 inches) and a tad prettier (waayyyy prettier). You know how it is when the friend roster is packed to capacity and you barely have enough time for the friends you currently have? Well, that was the case here. 

Barbara and I had started shooting a film called Expecting on the unfortunate start date of 9/11 and the day after, Barb went to her local mall to get some school stuff for her girls. The short story is that as she sat in the parking lot chatting with her husband on the phone who was in Windsor on business and she suddenly found herself the target of an attempted carjacking. Suddenly she was kicking and screaming as she fought off her aggressor, a man wearing a scarf around his face demanding the car. She kicked his ass from here to there. The next day I asked her how she did it? Wasn’t she scared? How could she kick and scream and win? She simply said, “After 9/11, I was not going to be a victim.” And I thought, “DAMN, gotta make room for this one in my life. Gotta. That girl is the whole package and I need this special gal in my life!”

I think woman are stupendous creatures and not just the stuff of the online poems and platitudes that I get in my inbox every day. Now, make no mistake, I am not casting aspersions at the Irma Bombeckian bombardment. On the contrary, I love Irma. She was one of the great broads. But I will warn you. If you send me one of these, I tell you in advance that I will not be forwarding them to 5 fabulous women I know and sitting by the computer to see if I get five back. Apparently getting five back in the yard stick by which my worth as a fabulous woman is measured. My reasons are this: I am secure enough at this stage of my life to know that I am fabulous and insecure enough to sit waiting all day, staring at my inbox, obsessing over how many I am getting back or not.

Because of our blog, The Middle Ages, I am now lucky enough to also be warmly surrounded by women from all over world. These women come in the form of teenagers and grandmothers, and everything in between, with every point of view imaginable. My world of woman is branching out thanks to our blog. Oh, and if you are thinking of joining the party, keep in mind that typing “blogspot” is imperative after “The Middle Ages”, unless of course you are interested in medieval forms of torture and tales of scurvy and the plague.

Because of all my women, young and old, far and wide, family and friend, with their voices secure in my heart and in my everyday life, I really don’t need the little daily reminders of what women are. I know what women are, as I have seen the stuff of which they are made every day throughout my life.

The women in my life are the people who drop off coolers of food to my 85-year-old parents to lessen their load. They arrive at my doorstep when they know I need a face-to-face and can’t ask. They sit at deathbeds ushering a fellow human out of this life when others can’t take it. They plant gardens and send flowers. They keep the family traditions going year after year. They emphasize the beauty in this world when it is threatened by the bad. They keep their relationship conversations going in good times and bad and refuse to be silent and let issues slide. They stand up for other women. They do not paint all men with a single brush. They judge each human as a human first. And yes platitudes abound as we laugh till we pee while we eat chocolate and watch An Affair to Remember. Thank God there are plenty of those good times. But when times are bad, these women are the people I turn around and see in front of me. They are the one’s asking, “What can I do?”

Viral Good

Barbara: This video went viral in exactly six days. How did I find out about it? The darling daughter of my BabyFest friends has been a passionate advocate for all things Africa ever since, well, ever since I can remember. She went to Kenya to teach last summer and came back an even more passionate advocate. Of course, she would be inspired by the Kony 2012 movement!

As she can introduce the film and its phenomenon better than I, here’s what she says:

Brianna: The film gives you most of the information you need regarding Invisible Children and Joseph Kony. What is really inspiring me right now is how viral the video went, and the many possibilities it could unlock. Over 100 of my Facebook friends reposted the video. Student organizations (including the ones I am in charge of) are planning events, and everyone is gearing up to "cover the night" on April 20th. All of a sudden, people really care.

What I am trying to figure out is why now? What does this video present that other organizations have not? I have known about the LRA for quite some time—why are people listening now? Was it because people just didn't know? I have a few ideas including:

- It gives everyday people the chance to catch the bad guy

- They are not asking for money, or asking people to build schools, they're asking for people to make noise. 

- That film puts faces behind stories, and shows the link between the US and Africa.

Regardless, I am just so inspired by how inspired others are getting about this, and I hope people continue to research further. Unfortunately Kony is not unique. Rebel groups are using child soldiers in many other countries including Liberia, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Burundi, and Sudan. Capturing Kony is so important, but I hope this is just the spark that begins to open the world's eyes.

I hope that after watching the film people take action and keep educating themselves and moving forward. Invisible Children has done something truly spectacular and I cannot wait to be a part of what happens next.

KONY 2012 from INVISIBLE CHILDREN on Vimeo.

Barbara: What I believe is this: a) all that stuff ornery people like to spew about young people “not caring” is absolute BS. This is snowballing thanks to caring kids all over the world, b) we can truly gather and gain momentum for good in this new socially connected world like never before, and lastly, c) the primary importance of a campaign like this is not in funding it, but in realizing the force of our collective good—which also carries the power to let those who “do whatever they want with no consequences” realize irrefutably that “we’re watching you” … by the millions.

Hocus Focus

Barbara: So in a “perfect storm” of social messages lately, I’ve been bombarded with lessons about focus. Our lack thereof. And the possible life-changing advantages of learning how to get it back. First, there have been several messages about learning how to meditate. Whether it’s from beautiful blogger, Lori, or from our own sweet Shalaka. Then it was a newspaper article last week about Michael Phelps’ very particular training style. And then it was an informal conversation with my Quantum Physics teacher on our drive home last night.

Okay, okay, I get the message!!

Here’s the nutshell. Meditation is said to be good, right? I mean, we’ve all read/heard it a million times. And if you’re anything like me, you might be all, “Yeah, oh, I wish I could do it, but well, I have all these other things to do!” or, “I’ve tried it a couple of times, and well, I, you know, SUCK at keeping my mind quiet and focused!” I don’t need to go into further detail on the meditation thing, right? We’re same-paging it, I’m sure.

Which brings me to the Michael Phelps article (click on the link to read the article). Turns out that—aside from the genetically perfect swimmer’s DNA from which he’s made—he has a dedicated training program that focuses on, well, focus! He meditates on his swims, going over them in minute detail in his head, rehearsing them from the moment he arrives at the aquatic centre to what he’ll be listening to on his ipod to how he’ll hit the water to how his strokes will feel to the final reaching touch of the wall, over and over, until he can literally do them with his eyes shut (turns out he needed that skill—his goggles were leaking during one of his races: he closed his eyes, he swam like he’d rehearsed it, he won—not only the gold medal, but a World Record!) What really intrigued me about this article was the idea that in each of these thousands of imagined races, he, of course, won every one. So his days were filled with what they call “small wins”. These small wins have all the same positive effects on his psyche that come with an actual gold medal win, and these effects in turn feed his ability. It’s small-win/big-win—and it’s all thanks to uninterrupted focus.

And then last night, there was my drive-home convo with the teacher. Focus came up once again! I don’t remember how we actually got into it, but let’s assume we were trying to address my vague grasp on the stuff he’s teaching. Anyway, he pointed out that our minds want to take us in a million different directions ALL THE TIME and that this is not only exhausting but counter-productive. And that this mind-habit of ours is so engrained and “normal” that we don’t even realize we do it. He brought up an athletic comparison, as well. In his case it was the golfer: what’s the difference between an Average Joe golfer and a powerhouse star? Well, the powerhouse doesn’t let his mind waver for even a millisecond from the moment he raises his club through to contact with the ball through to the after-swing. The rest of us? Waver waver waver. Our brains divert for tiny little fractions of a second, not once but many times—and so we lose our focus and the shot is compromised.

And what’s more? All this mind-wandering, all this lack of focus, is exhausting!!!

We become depleted and drained by the meaningless world travels of our mind. (One other real-life reminder of this for me: my inability to write last week, remember?) Okay, in all of our defenses, of course not every mind-ramble is “meaningless”, many will lead to interesting thoughts or ideas, but it’s amazing how often they are counter-productive.

And maybe if we train ourselves to focus, a little bit at a time, we might be able to tap into that extraordinary energy we otherwise dissipate as we contemplate the mundane, the same-old, the inner-critic, the internal-bosses-of-us.

How? Well, back to square one on the meditation thing. Meditation has got to be a training ground for focus, right? But how about practicing focus when you’re doing something as simple as (to my teacher’s example) washing the dishes. Try applying all your focus to the task. Don’t let your mind wander. Or when you’re driving the car. Just look at everything you see and focus completely on that. Or when you’re getting ready for your day in the morning. Don’t think about the day ahead, just on how it feels (and looks) to lather that soap and comb that hair and brush those teeth.

If we can put ourselves in a “state of focus” for even just small snippets of time, maybe, just maybe, we will build up our focus muscles. And maybe, just maybe, our daily lives will be filled with much-deserved and darling “small wins” about which we can feel really truly pumped and which can take us to a whole other athletic level!

Deb: (trying hard not to blognap) I love this topic. It’s like you were a fly on the wall in a family discussion we had last night about focus and its many natural enemies. I adore the ideas you put forth here, Barb. And I am going to start simple. Brush the teeth, focus on the teeth, etc etc.

I have been a meditator since I was in my early twenties. T.M. to be exact. Shalaka and I actually had an online discussion about it. I loved meditation and, although I know this is an overused phrase, it saved my life. It turned things around for me at a tough and challenging time. The best part is, it was gift of love from my cousin Scott, the cousin I mentioned in an earlier post who helped out my Mom and Dad through this last period of time.

I kept it up for years, loving it and then ... it slipped away. It made a guest appearance during menopause and saved me again. I am getting the messages loud and clear that I need to resume. I keep using excuses like, “I don’t have two 20-minute periods a day to meditate.” Wrong. I do. I must find the time.

And in a funny turnabout, there are days I could not get through if it were not for split-focus, you know what I mean? Sometimes my brain has to serve many many masters. But of late it serves many masters all the time. I am inspired. Thanks, Barbara. 

Superheroes Come In All Forms

Deb: One of the first things that my husband and I discovered was common ground was comic books and cartoons. And while I was a huge Archie, Millie the Model fan, I was also into Batman, Superman, Spiderman, Fantastic Four, and that ilk. So I not only loved this, but was a bit jealous. After all, my girlfriends and I just drink wine and talk about clothes. I need some galpals that are willing to tie on a sheet and bank to the left with me!!!!





And you've gotta check out this link for a very funny look at comic book women and men!

Real Life Versus Reel Life

Deb: The boy was in town this weekend visiting us and we went over to pay his grandparents a visit. My Mom, the boy’s “Growee” (he couldn’t say Granny when he was a toddler and Growee stuck), was watching Godfather Part 2, arguably the best sequel of any film every made and certainly, one of only two sequels to ever win an Oscar—Lord of the Rings, Return of the King being the other.

As we were watching it in the background, I thought of that time in my film life and all the films I saw and loved. What I realized was that a good deal of those films I could not and would not see today. Certainly The Godfather would still be among my viewing choices now, but I would struggle much more with its violent moments than I did back then.

In my teens, my Dad used to constantly question my film taste and wax on about the gentler films. He loved the musicals and the John Wayne’s where, he pointed out, you did not need to see guts spilling and heads blowing off to know that a man was dead. If the Duke fired a gun in someone’s general direction and they fell careening backward or clutched their heart and doubled over, that’s all you needed to know. My rebellious teenaged argument was that those films did not reflect reality! The death and destruction depicted in them was fake. I needed real, man!

“New films are showing it like it is, Dad! It’s reality!”

“So is throwing up, but I don’t want to pay two bucks to look at it,” would be his response. 

First of all ... 2 bucks????!!!! But I digress.

Of course this conversation happened in the 70’s and some of the scary and violent films I am referring to are Straw Dogs, Joe, Walking Tall, Easy Rider, Chinatown, The Godfather of course, The Wild Bunch, Bonnie and Clyde, Exorcist, Clockwork Orange, and Wait until Dark to sample a few.  

Was I disturbed by them? Hell, yeah. Never ate pea soup again.  But it was a right of passage, a way of rebelling. It was one of the ways I could separate myself from the parental units and all they stood for. I adored them, but I deemed them old-fashioned and out of step regarding “film”. The movies I was flocking to see shocked and thrilled and opened up new worlds to me, both in their subject matter and the style of the filmmaking. I could escape into them. It was a different escapism than my parents, but it was mine and my generation’s, and I owned it.

When I look back on it now, I realize that I was able to embrace these films that literally spewed a kind of reality for the simple reason that I had not tasted reality as a person yet.  Any “reality” in my Real life existed only in my Reel life.

I remember the first time it changed. It was two weeks after I lost a beloved Aunt to breast cancer and my darling 25-year-old friend in childbirth. I went to see Terms of Endearment, a movie lauded by critics and audiences alike. And I despised it. And with good reason. In the weeks before I saw it, my reality had morphed into my former escapism. I also remember in later years when my husband and I were watching season two of E.R. and he got up in the middle and said, “I’m done. I cannot watch one more baby die or one more couple say goodbye over a death bed.” The real life picture of our precious baby sleeping in the other room trumped his reel life.

So now, as is the way of life, I have become my father in this specific regard. This year I cut a swath through every Oscar film I could see, leaving out Warhorse and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Cannot do 9/11 again and cannot see horses being hurt and killed. After all, I’m the girl who ran out of Benji the Hunted. Not even joking.

And in fact, if I had known about the dementia aspect to Iron Lady, I probably would have passed on that too. The reality is that since those early film days of shock and awe, I have been shocked and awed by life more times than I care to count.

And yes, I know it’s reality. But I don’t want to pay 13 bucks to look at it.

Barbara: This is so interesting, Deb! I had never thought to compare my early film-watching days versus my older ones. I might actually be the opposite—that the films I could and would watch when I was young were actually less dark and graphic than the ones I often choose to watch now. I don’t know if I was trying to preserve my innocence back then or whether I thought I could never grasp the true significance of the story because I was so, well, innocent.

Nowadays, I rather revel in the harder films. I’ve certainly watched more horror films in my middle age than in my adolescence. Why? I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s my burgeoning curiosity, innocence be damned, or if it’s because I have seen so much more in real life and want to see how others do it in reel life (those others being characters in a movie, sure, but still, somehow they become my psychic other halves). That said, I did step away from E.R. years before it ended—although I think it was Phil who uttered Colin’s exact words. Until I started watching the forensic procedurals. Until I stopped watching those. You know, I think those shows lost it for me more because the formula got sooooo boring than that I was too sickened to watch them.

I don’t know. Such an interesting question, Deb, you've got me thinking!

When I'm Too Tired To...

Barbara: We all have times of super-power energy and then times of downright oomphlessness, right? Anyway, I do. There are times I have a million things to do and I can not only accomplish every one of them, but I feel like I could take on even more! And there are times when I can hardly do one or two things—and then feel guilty about my lack of drive.

I am in an oomphless slump right now. I don’t know if it’s from coming home from a break with my family (last week’s ski holiday), maybe a bit of lingering jet lag, maybe a bit of disconnect between off-time and up-time, maybe a bit of overwhelmed stress at all the things I didn’t tend to while I was gone and now must. But there it is.

This is the first time I’ve looked at my blank blog page and not known what to write about. How I wish for pithy insights or deep pondering to pop up on the page. Wish wish wish.

Funny thing is, I’ve been pretty introspective lately, with some really interesting personal musings stirring up and some subtle but distinct internal shifts, but I CANNOT REMEMBER A SINGLE ONE OF THEM. There was something about sports training and life I wanted to bounce off you and something else about writing. But I can’t for the life of me pull them from the miasma of my brain to the forefront of this blog.

Listen, don’t worry about me (if that’s your tendency). All is good. I’m happy. I’ve got cool things I’m busy with. But my brain feels tired. It doesn’t want to think. But it does. But it doesn’t. But it does. (See what horror I’ve wrought?)

As a last ditch effort to engage you, I’ll leave you with this: last night I was having dinner with a friend and we were discussing her long string of unbelievably bad luck and how she’s had to focus on keeping up with it all—like a cowboy riding a wild bronco—while her life-goals get left behind to watch enviously from the sidelines. And I don’t know if it’s related or not (remember my brain is on holiday), but I did wonder if sometimes we need to just ride the bronco and hold on for dear life, and sometimes we need to gently but firmly steer our life-goals away from the sidelines, and sometimes, sometimes, we need to look at a blank page and just … do … nothing.

Deb: Barbara, how many times in our lives have we heard the phrase “listen to your body”? This blog choice is clearly a case of “listen to your brain”. I think it’s great that you shut down and admitted you had “nothing”. As you know I have employed this concept in the past regards our blog to relaxing results. And the beauty of our blog-faithful is that because of their wonderful support (always!) we feel we can do this and they will be behind us. Sometimes we just have to shut down the mechanism to make ready the new assembly line of ideas. After all, it’s not like you were taking a huge exam or readying yourself to apply for a job. Your brain was simply putting its feet up ... amongst friends. Has anyone else had a recent shut down they care to share? 

Brain on a Break. Drawn for us by our wonderful blog-buddy, Becki. Copied with permission!

Sleep Emancipation!

Deb: I came across this article on FB. I am sure many of you have seen it. But honestly guys—changed my life. Changed my whole way of thinking about sleep. I will no longer feel that deep pang of loneliness when I am up at 3am. Rather, I will feel a connection to my ancestors and a needed break from my unconscious state. I will relax. I will do something simple to occupy my time and I will resume my sleep only when I feel the drooping flutter of my lids. Really worth reading!

Article in the Daily Mail UK by Ted Thornhill

Most people believe that life can become a bit of a nightmare without getting an unbroken eight hours of shuteye each night – but sleep experts are arguing the case for the broken sleep pattern.

Historian Roger Ekirch from Virgina Tech has been researching sleep for the past 16 years and has produced a wealth of evidence that it is perfectly normal for slumber to be interrupted. In fact, one sleep expert even suggests that broken nighttime patterns can help regulate stress.

Sleep psychologist Gregg Jacobs told the BBC World Service during a debate: “For most of evolution we slept a certain way. Waking up during the night is part of normal human physiology.” He added that when people were forced into periods of rest and relaxation, this increased the ability to keep stress under control.

Ekirch, meanwhile, in his book At Day’s Close: Night In Times Past, references more than 500 examples of disrupted sleep patterns throughout history. The evidence ranges from diaries to court records, and medical text books to classic literature, including Homer’s Odyssey.

Not only did people in the past sleep in stretches, but some used the periods when they were awake to pray, smoke or even visit neighbours.

Also taking part in the BBC debate was Russell Foster, a professor of body clock neuroscience at the University of Oxford, who concurred with the other experts. He said: “Many people wake up at night and panic. I tell them that what they are experiencing is a throwback to the bi-modal sleep pattern.”

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2105490/The-myth-hour-sleep-How-scientists-increasingly-agree-rest-better-you.html#ixzz1nq2ya5El