Adding To The Conversation: Women And Media

Barbara: So last week Ashley Judd asked us (and by “us” I don’t mean The Middle Ages specifically, but wouldn’t that’ve been cool???) to “join in—and change—the Conversation” about women and how we’re seen and represented in the media. In case you missed it, she wrote this biting piece for the Daily Beast in response to the overwhelming attention she’s received lately based SOLELY on her looks. She’d wanted to ignore it at first, but then she got mad. And then she knew she couldn’t sit back anymore and “take it”. She needed to speak out.

Now Ashley isn’t the first person to speak out against this kind of thing, but I really believe one of the reasons themes keep repeating themselves in our blogs here or in our conversations in life or in society in general is that we need to keep remembering—and reminding each other—to adjust. Because adjustment is so incremental (another common theme here!), we need to practice working and re-working our gears toward the truer and clearest path toward compassion and acceptance.

Why was Ashley lambasted? Because she’d “had work done” … or because she hadn’t. No one (in these articles) talked about how she’d scored a strong lead role in a new TV show, that she was setting a great example for strong female characters, one which didn’t need to be overtly sexualized to be interesting. No, the articles were all about her looks. And the mean-spirited writers of these pieces were usually (maybe exclusively) women! She calls it a misogynistic attitude. Not anti-male, but anti-female. That we are so conditioned to deconstruct each other that this is the only conversation worth having in our media right now: the insulting speculation goes viral, the nasty comments pile up, the media jumps in to ride this next wave of escalating vitriol. Ooh, we love to hate each other!

Now, I almost didn’t talk about this here because I know we’re not of this ilk. I’ve seen it over and over in how we support each other and celebrate our spiritual wellbeing. But then I also realized that if we don’t talk about it here, we’re missing a chance to spread the consciousness of a really important issue. We can put our feelings into words here—and everyone will have slightly different words—and we can make a difference in how women and men talk about women.

As an actor, I obviously have had to give my looks a lot of thought. But I was almost never cast as the “beautiful” girl, was almost always as the sweet mom. And so I didn’t really feel the onus of needing to look a perfect way. That said, the “beautiful” girl roles are usually the most exciting. And I do remember the whole “is she fuckable” question that was applied to who would eventually be cast in any given role. And, yes, this question gets applied to male actors too. But I’ve never been in a position where my looks have been scrutinized, picked apart, and spit upon like Ashley Judd has. People say Ashley was “asking for it” because she chose a career that puts her in the public eye. I have news for you: people who want to be actors are almost never in it for the fame. Is fame seductive, can it twist you around? Most certainly. But fame is really only part of the equation for an actor because if you’re famous, well, then you get to work—and actors want nothing more than to work (you can’t perform a little show by yourself, for yourself, the way you can, say keep a writing or drawing journal or dance or sing). People become actors because they have a deep-seated need to communicate with other people, to help share the human experience by showing you yourself. We’ve needed actors as story-tellers since the beginning of Man. Why would we excoriate them for not looking like some increasingly bizarre notion of "perfect"?

As a now “middle-aged” woman, I see my role in society shifting, my looks changing. Of course, I ask myself from time to time if I would ever get “work done”.  Funnily, this is probably the one instance when I have been guilty of deconstructing a woman’s looks: when she’s had so much work done, her face looks like an unnatural mask. I don’t know where to look; I blurt out how “great” she looks because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. And what am I doing when I do that? Implying that in her natural state, the one where she looked utterly like herself, she was somehow not lovely?

I had lunch with an acquaintance a little while ago. I had only met her once when we’d had an amazing dinner together years before. When we got together the second time, I was delighted to see her again. She asked if she looked different; I said no, she looked exactly the same! It was just so great to see her! But she was disappointed. She’d lost a lot of weight, changed her hair colour, and felt like she’d shed some old unhappy, unhealthy version of herself. I was gobsmacked. I swear, my connection with her had been through her eyes, through her spirit that one night, through her stories. I guess how she looked hadn’t made as strong an impression on me as how she WAS. Sure, she looked great the second time, but she’d also looked great—to me—the first.

I think, like with health and wellness issues, how we look is only important as far as how it makes us FEEL. And we all need different things to make us feel good, don’t we? But we’re also making it harder to FEEL good about ourselves when so much focus seems to be on how we LOOK.

By reading or passing around the nasty garbage about how this person has cellulite and that one has wrinkles and the other one is “puffy-faced”, we are giving this kind of discussion weight. We need to stop valuing each other and ourselves for how good we look (or not). It’s not “innocent banter” or “silly gossip”. It insinuates. It snowballs. It corrupts. It undermines. And it is so IRRELEVANT.

Think about it: the people we really admire, the ones we really love, the deepest, realest connections in our lives have nothing to do with appearances.

Maybe if we practice believing it, we might actually one day believe it.

Deb: This is a subject I have wanted to tackle for some time and have had in my notes and on my mind.  Thank you, Barbara, for bringing it up. I have continued to marvel these last years about the continued and growing attack on woman—by women. I have much more to say on it, but it will be for another time. Right now and for this post, you have nailed it. But I must say, I think the conversation should continue at The Middle Ages. I think we have just landed on a theme that deserves some length of time. I might even suggest a spring theme if you will. I will build on what you have written if you like and you do the same. A great dialogue will ensue, I am sure. For women and for men, we MUST start setting new ground rules. We must. It has lost its way ... mostly, but not entirely. Not by a long shot.

Barbara: Yes, let’s do it!!! 

PS Tomorrow, Annette is going to guest-blog here about her own hilarious encounter with trying to walk this delicate line!

101 And Still Driving!

Deb: This is what I want to be when I grow up. This is what I pray I am when I grow up. Drive on. The road is endless. xo

Therapy Browner

Deb: I am happy to report that at the ripe old age of 57, (COLIN JUST SCREAMED “57???” ), I have found another thing I excel at. Therapy. I am not only good at it, I am a therapy browner. When I was in grade five, the smartest girl in the class would dress up to get her report card. Party dress. Really. I, on the other hand, tried hard on report card day to look as much as I could like my parents’ signatures.  At this stage in the game I have given up on the dream of academic prowess. My academia fantasies are all drawn from my anniversary copy of Love Story.

I have gone into therapy to help me with the pain, issues, guilt and stress around my parents’ transition in life. I am a very in touch with my feelings kind of person, as you may have noticed, so one would think that I would serve as the perfect therapist for me. But try as I might, I could not find my old psychology degree anywhere, so I thought it was best to call in the big guns. And by that, of course I mean a registered legal therapist.  What therapy has reminded me (yes I’ve been there before) is that the “physician heal thyself” does not work even for the most introspective among us.

I go in to my sessions knowing exactly what I want to talk about, focus on, target. One question or comment from my therapist can take me down a whole new path of discovery. It is a kooky journey. It is sometimes painful, but it is always freeing. And always uplifting. Because it reminds me that I can always change. I can change it right up to the year, week, or minute before I die. And my therapy sessions are little treats. I never have to rely on my dogs to eat my therapy homework as I am always excited to get to it. I have been applying these lessons to everyday life and I am nailing it, I am kicking its ass. I AM therapy. 

It’s funny how I grew up thinking about the concept of therapy. Growing up in the 50’s was all about “what happens in this house, stays in this house”. The idea of therapy was for weaklings, for the rich, and for the rich weaklings. A “quality” person would take pride in conquering one’s own problems in the privacy of one’s own head. They would pull themselves up by the bootstraps and get on with it. “Be grateful for what you have. Stop whining.”

When I first went to therapy I felt a little like that. As soon as I walked through the door, I felt I had failed myself. I was walking through this door because I could not handle it myself.  It was like when I first got a cleaning lady. I did not grow up with one. Well, actually we did—called her Mom.  But for years after getting a cleaning lady myself, I would still leap to my feet when she came into the room, hiding my Instyle magazine under a cushion. Partly it was my shame of allowing myself this gift of help. And partly it was the thought that I could bloody well do it myself, as I was brought up to believe. The same with therapy. But after I started therapy, I realized that it was my own emotional intelligence that brought me there. I was clearly an emotional genius!

My problem however is that once I get started, I don’t want to leave. Previously, my therapist had to politely kick me out. She said, and I quote, “You know at this point you are paying me good money for us to sit here, talk and laugh.” My response was that I had hoped she hadn’t noticed. It is nice to delete your trash with someone who did not have to hear it as a friend, who was expecting to spend a fun evening with you.

And part of me wants to stay because I am a great student. Top of the class. First time in a long time I have done well in school and I cannot wait to get back there! Sadly, I am left wanting for a gold star or even a seasonal sticker. I do feel that the “professional” therapists are lacking in that area. No stickers, no stars, no chewy candies of any sort. But I know I deserve a star. And so does my therapist. I am rockin’ it! Sticker or not, we’re not fooling anybody.

Barbara: Well, Deb, you certainly get a gold star from me (I’ll bring one on our next coffee date)! And, while it’s been years since I went to therapy, and while I did accumulate a fair collection of real honest-to-goodness gold stars in my childhood until I started to … not (cough, math, cough, history, cough, chemistry), I totally relate to your sense of excited accomplishment from the School of Couch.

I had what I like to call my midlife consciousness crises when I hit my late 30s. Nothing had turned out the way I’d imagined and everything felt wonky, false, contrived, exhausting. I finally realized I needed some help. Smartest thing I ever did. I never understand people who rail against therapy, who are insulted and demeaned by the very thought of it. People who, in fact, would probably benefit a really really lot from it.

But I—get this—actually have a little bonus point for you all here, a brownie point beyond my full endorsement of Deb’s charming post. I just finished a wonderful book called How the Brain Changes Itself by Dr. Norman Doidge—it was, in fact, so interesting, I was going to blog about. I probably still will, but one of the many impressive points he makes is that because all our bad habits, emotional and otherwise, come out of the basic science that when our “neurons fire together, they wire together” (ie: I’m sad, I need to eat; something goes wrong, I feel guilty, and on and on), and in order to undo that network (which you CAN do: “the wires that fire apart, wire apart”), you need a kind of systematic mental exercise, like push-ups for the brain. Therapy gives us that exercise. A good therapist will illuminate your weak spots and remind you of them over and over so you can breathe away from the habitual old responses … until the neurons have, quite possibly, finally, wired apart.

I congratulate you, Deb, and I wish you continued success. You are pure gold all the way!

Fashion Forward

Barbara: So last night, my daughter Stefanie was part of a fashion show presentation of the graduating class of her university program—Ryerson University Fashion Design. Four years of work, four years of growth, four years to prepare for this moment: the next phase in her life, the one where she faces the world and, hopefully, finds her passion and talent fitting nicely into the market and demand.

For me it was an emotional moment, sitting in the semi-dark in the audience, Phil and Stefanie, Deb and Colin, and my sister at my sides as we waited for the show to begin. Oh, let me just interrupt my unchecked tears here by adding that thanks to a perfect storm of Deb’s computer somehow deleting Colin’s e-ticket which prompted a contrite visit to the box office combined with Colin’s shall we say Recognizability Quotient, instead of all of us being seated in a hodgepodge throughout the auditorium (each of our assigned-seat tickets had been purchased separately and so we were all seated apart), we were graciously whisked to THE FRONT ROW and seated all together!! Yes, fame does have its privileges. And I was happy to partake thereof! Thanks, Colin *mwah*!!

Okay, back to my maternal sobbing. For the record, I didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed with emotion. I don’t know why. One would think, given my close relationship with my daughter, knowing that this would be her last school-inspired fashion show, that she would be facing her future and most probably one involving a move out of our city and most likely the country, I would’ve been inclined toward heavy emotion going in. But I think I was too elated and excited. More distracted by the promise and potential and—because I know her collection so well—so filled with parental pride about how it turned out that I forgot to be wistful. Instead, we all met for dinner before the show and feted Stefanie and laughed and caroused and I was just feeling so so good.

Flash forward to the lights going down and us sitting side by side in that theatre and the music starting up and my emotions suddenly and unexpectedly swelling and shifting to those of the proud mom who’s watched her child grow from a baby (who at 18-months would routinely pull herself out of her crib to change into elaborate outfits then crawl back into bed where we would find her later, sound asleep, peacefully donning—over pajamas—layers of swank tops, several posh necklaces, and a bedazzled headband or two) to a crayon-carrying child (no blank page would go left undrawn) to a fashion-curious teenager who HATED to sew, to a first year fashion design student (who had to turn down an opportunity to go to a top American university and who shouldered the disappointment with grace and determination) with lots of talent but only basic skills, to a mature and dedicated young woman who works two jobs (one as a paid design assistant at amazing Canadian fashion house, Greta Constantine, and one at super-cute retail store, Frock), designing several illustrations for online mags, while also going to school full-time, honing her sewing skills, developing her creative talent, and designing and building the extremely work-intensive collection you see here.

Stefanie and I holding the gorgeous programs--yes, those are her dresses in the spread.
Behind the mag, Deb, Colin and my sister,  Nicole.

It all came rushing at me as the music started and the show began and I had to literally hold myself in my seat to prevent myself from grabbing my daughter and clutching her to my chest and sobbing out loud.

But the show did go on—and it was a magnificent display of talent and vision. Every student was required to design and create 5 outfits from any category they chose. There was everything from ballet tutus to Shakespearean costumes to bondage-wear to wearable art to men’s and children’s fashion to outfits for the fashion-conscious woman of today. Stefanie chose to design for women—and that’s the market she sees herself designing for in the future. Clothes that are classy and still sexy, that are beautifully and lovingly crafted, that are timeless while also being fashion forward. I know I’m her proud mother, but I also know what I like—and I LOVE her collection.

I also love the girl, this daughter of mine, who never stops dreaming and creating and pushing herself, no matter what the obstacles. Both my daughters constantly remind me that this is the joyful and courageous way we all should—and can—be living our lives every day.

Deb: I was praying that Barb was going to blog about Stefanie today. If she didn’t, I would have. Colin and I love Stefanie and have always stood in awe of her considerable talent and grace. Stefanie was nervous last night although you would not have known it until she said so. That is part of her charm. I had seen the sketch designs and knew they were good. I started to realize just how good, when we got there and found out that her designs would be closing the show. Then we saw them and knew why. They were ethereal and wearable, fanciful and edgy, sophisticated and sexy. They were Stef.

As I sat in that theatre I had my own feelings ruminating in my head, as this was the school that I had attended for four years, and we were in the theatre where I had done all my shows.  And for the record it did not look smaller. And I remembered how it felt after the last show I was in and how, although scared, I felt I had the world at my feet.  I hope Stefanie feels that way. Because she does. 

The dresses are all silk chiffon, with details in leather and wool.

Us at the end of the show (Nicole took the pic!).

All photos: Philippe Ayoub, all dresses by Stefanie Ayoub. All rights reserved.

PS You can see more of Stefanie's work here.

A Child’s Imagination

Deb and Barbara: Rigel sent us this amazing video the other day—she knew right away it would be a great fit for one of our Tue/Thurs posts. The moment we saw it, we knew it was a keeper. This is one of those sweet stories that first of all shows you the resourcefulness of a young boy when encouraged to use his imagination and turn his vision into reality, and then shows what happens when word gets around and people rally to make his vision a dream come true. What most impressed us was that even when it seemed no one would come to play after all his work, he never lost sight of his goals. He refused to give up. He proves in a huge way: If you build it, they will come. We dare you not to tear up!

Caine's Arcade from Nirvan Mullick on Vimeo.

Invisible

Deb: Throughout these last years as the care of my parents has become a more regular part of life, I have made some tragic observations. The most distressing of these is that my bright, funny, interesting, charming parents have become invisible. They have quite faded away in the eyes of most people.

I have been watching this with growing sadness at every social function we attend. As befitting their age and stage of life, they are always greeted by everyone in attendance. I have watched people ritualize them as if they are a King and Queen. They are treated warmly and enthusiastically, but also like figureheads who must be welcomed and respected but not lingered over. The respects are paid with very good intentions. But there is no “engagement”. They are no longer the people with whom you have an “interesting” conversation. So “hello” becomes enough. They aren’t up on pop culture references and what they have to say is outdated. So instead they are asked, “How are you doing?” in a loud voice. They are asked if they can be given more food or beverages. They are asked what they think about the weather and how they are enjoying the early spring. Of course there are those who go beyond this cursory greeting, but I would be lying if I said these were not the rarer breed.

I am not angry as I write this rather; I am heartbroken. I have noticed more and more how people just look right through Mom and Dad and other people of their age. I find it even more distressing given the contrast of my own experience.

When we were growing up, our grandparents were the centre of the visit, the reason you looked forward to going at all. I remember visiting my Granny, her Scottish tablecloth laden with sharp cheese, crackers, bread, canned corned beef, scones, jam, raisin bread, shortbread, and tea. Always tea, lots of tea. And that was just when I visited alone! Every visitor would have the same feast laid out before them. I can feel, smell, and taste those visits. I remember the light from the kitchen window and the sounds from the alley as we sat at that table, Granny and I. We would talk about life and her garden and the family gossip and when I left I felt that we had visited, really visited.

When I see any grandchildren of the invisible, it makes me so sad to think that they are not getting this visit of my past. And they are not learning about their past through these wonderful people who love them so much and just want to be loved in return. They might be surprised to learn for example that the things they think their grandparents are out of touch with are the very things their grandparents are fascinated and in awe of and would love to hear more about. And these grandchildren, without really truly knowing their grandparents, might never be able to say, “I do that, just like Papa” and be proud of their lineage, their connection.

I do know this. Paying respects to your elders at the beginning and ending of an event does little towards building a bond. The most painful thing to observe in these moments is the invisible noticing that they are invisible.  And you can scramble and rush to their side and try to fill the void. But it’s too late. They have already noticed and the hurt of it makes them a little harder to see.

Easter weekend, Colin, the Boy and I hosted an 85th birthday for my parents. We had a casual afternoon gathering and it was lovely. The only gift asked for was one of conversation with each of them. Now this particular gathering is what I would call, preaching to the choir. These are people in my parents’ lives. But even so, they took the invite to heart and chatted ones and twos and threes with Mom and Dad. And as a result, each of them who engaged my parents came away with a new story about their lives or an experience that had previously been unknown to them.

My parents for their part, had the best night. I could tell. Because at that party, on that day, they were the first people you saw when you walked through the door.

**One of my favourite John Pryne songs ends with this lyric:

“So if you’re walkin’ down the street sometime

And you should spot some hallow ancient eyes

Don’t you pass them by and stare as if you didn’t care

Say Hello in there. Hello.”

Barbara: As my parents and their spouses aren’t yet of this age (and by that, I mean they are still mobile, which means they can control their engagement), and as my grandparents, who are older, live so far away, I’ve never consciously observed this heartbreaking trend from centre-of-attention to invisible. But I can feel the truth of it, especially if people are in the mindset of not knowing how to greet our older generation—or even that they should and MUST. Have I engaged Deb’s parents before this celebration and Deb’s gentle request? Of course. And I have loved speaking and laughing with them. But there was something sweet—and not the least bit forced—about doing it consciously at their 85^th. In fact, this is an excerpt from the thank-you letter I sent Deb after the party:

Thank you so very much for the absolutely lovely celebration for your parents. It was a gorgeous and wonderful day. Your parents are such loving and amazing people and deserve every bit of revelry and honour they get! You are a doll and wonderful daughter to always make sure they get their due. I love that you asked us to chat with them and I love that they had so much fascinating stuff to share. I had no idea your dad was such a Western buff and how he only really has patience for non-fiction. He regaled me with some great facts and stories about the wild west! Your mom is just so lovely and honest, telling about her frustrations and concerns, but also her love of life and for her family.

All this to say that by consciously making an effort, by consciously being aware of engagement and taking interest, I got so much out of the experience, so much more than just a superficial exchange of greetings or observations. And I think it’s a worthwhile bug-in-our-ears to make sure people like Deb’s parents get more than just a courteous greeting, but get their real and deserved due. And I guess in order to do that, especially as we get older and older ourselves, we need to remind and teach each other and our children to be aware of it. Open ears, open hearts. It’s another one of those win-win situations we love to embrace here!

Pack For A Purpose Re-visited

Barbara: Deb and I thought that today’s short post could be a little re-call of our amazing trip to Costa Rica and our discovery of the wonderful charitable organization, Pack for a Purpose. We discovered Pack for a Purpose thanks to the organizers of our trip (Costa Rica Gift of Happiness) and were just so impressed with the idea of bringing useful gifts to your host country that we jumped at the chance to participate. The Pack for a Purpose site easily outlines what might be most needed in your destination country, whether it is school supplies or medical essentials, and how to drop them off. You might remember that we decided to bring soccer balls and school supplies and to donate them to the Maleku tribe.

Pack for a Purpose founder, Rebecca Rothney, asked us to write a short piece about our experience, which we happily did. Now we feel that linking to the story (it is the second on the page) is a great reminder of a wonderful cause, as well as giving us all another opportunity to talk about efforts like this and how we can best share our resources with people around the world. If you have any thoughts or ideas, we’d love to hear them.

Read our story here! And read our original story here!

Family Celebration Reimagined

Barbara: When I was growing up, the big event celebrations—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays—were all lovely, relatively low-key gatherings. We usually celebrated just the five of us (my parents and two younger sisters), with very rare visits from my grandparents or aunts, uncles, and cousins (who lived across the country). As that’s all I knew, that was fine by me: holidays were intimate affairs where food was a wonderful main feature. As my mom is an excellent cook, this tradition nurtured my own love of a delicious meal on a holiday.

I also remember with vivid detail the elaborate machinations when I was a child of the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. Like one Easter morning when every person in my family was gathered in our den—and all of a sudden the crystalline tinkle of a bell rang out from the far-off living room! I scanned the den in disbelief and counted my mother and father and sisters. All were there and so not possibly responsible for the ringing bell—yes, at 8, I still totally believed, but part of me must have thought that an adult hand was involved in the holiday magic, otherwise why was I so earnestly scanning the room? But, with all persons accounted for, the ringing bell MUST have been the Easter Bunny! As an adult, and still amazed at this magical feat, I had to ask my father how this happened. Turns out he’d rigged a wire from one room to the other, hid it behind his back and tugged on it, ringing it to signal the arrival of the Bunny Himself. My dad knew I’d be on the lookout, so no convolution was too elaborate for him. How do I love this man. (PS, yes, a little part of my adult self was secretly disappointed when there was a logical explanation for this magical ringing *shrug*)

When Phil and I got married and started our own family, holidays meant holiday pilgrimages—either we would schlep the hundreds of kilometers to be with one parent or another, or they would schlep to us. Suddenly the little 5-person holiday tete-a-tete expanded to include an increasing amount of beloveds: our siblings married and had their own families and our parents remarried and brought their new mates into the fold. One unforgettable Christmas featured 3 sets of parents, including 2 exes, 3 siblings and their spouses, and our babies. It was crowded but wonderful!

Every year since then, we’ve tried, at the very least, to share the holidays with at least one other family, either one of our parents and their second spouses, or a sister or brother and their families. Holiday dinners are lively and noisy and packed.

And then there’s this year. This year, our younger daughter couldn’t get home for Easter (various extenuating circumstances). It’s one thing to not be able to celebrate a feast day with extended family, but to not have our own child at home? I mean, we all agreed to the situation going in. We understood it was all good and right and for the best (in fact, as a result of staying in Montreal, she was able to celebrate a rare Passover with my mom and her husband—a lucky result of the timing matching up for both celebrations). And the rest of the extended family had other Easter commitments. Thankfully, one sister and her husband and my niece and nephew were able to come over for Saturday dinner, and so we held an early and honourary Easter dinner, with several delicious courses of food and quite a bit of revelry (including a ribald game of Pictionary over dessert where certain adults—okay, Phil and I—had to keep reminding themselves—okay, ourselves—that the niece and nephew are still, you know, children!!)

Easter brunch. I'm on the phone with Michele!  

And then there were three. Easter Sunday was quiet: just Phil, Stefanie, and me. We ate a late brunch and did some chores and then ate a lovely dinner and watched some movies. Yes, it was quiet; yes, I missed my baby; yes, it was changed. For the first time, no noisy table, no elaborate Easter egg hunt, no complicated menu. But it was intimate and sweet. It was also incredibly easy. I think maybe because we accepted our new and changing situation, we made sure to make it, in its own unique way, special.

Deb: I think we are adaptable. Humans are adaptable. Barbara, your memories of family gatherings past are wonderful. We come to expect a certain vibe, don’t we? A certain number of people, a certain succession of events. We count on this to make our holidays the way we have remembered them. We need these things to remain the same. And then we have a surprising delight like you had yesterday and we realize that it can be delightful. We have adapted and found the joy in the new configuration. This is a lesson I have learned in spades over these last few years. The things that were norm are now the new norm. The things I did not think could ever change or would ever change ... have changed. And it is special. Each time it changes. Special and new. 

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Deb: Recently the Canadian government decided to stop minting the penny. The bottom line of this reasoning is that it costs too much to produce and can buy very little.

I actually agree with this idea so if you are expecting a rant, you will be sorely disappointed. The penny, despite being the low man on the coin roll, managed to outlive the one and two dollar bills, Sunday as a day of rest, and even the Dominion of Canada.  As a result, the penny will proudly go out with its “heads you win” held high.

 

The finance minister actually had a good idea regards the copper’s demise. He suggested to Canadians that they free their pennies from their jar prisons and give them a good home in a charitable organization.  A darn fine idea and I support it.  Although I wish the finance minister’s suggestion had been taken one step further. I wish the government had started a campaign to put that idea out there and make it a cross country goal. Call it something like PennyCanadal  and make it a reality. The more I think of this the more I think it would be an amazing sendoff for the penny. The lowly copper could go out with a hero’s farewell! In fact I would take it one step farther. Since the Government says it will save 11 million a year as a result of scrapping the penny, why can’t they put half of that towards charity themselves? Or if they can’t do that, perhaps all of it could be placed into social programs that are being scrapped or cut back. Wouldn’t that be Pennies from heaven! 

I got to thinking about the penny and what it meant to me when I was a kid. To this day, every single time I see a penny on the floor I say, “Find a penny pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck.” I do confess that there have been times when my burning desire for good luck was outweighed by my lack of interest in picking up said penny from a gross sticky unfamiliar floor. In those instances I convince myself that we make our own luck!  Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I wait for my gag reflex to abate.

But wow, when I was a kid, a penny could garner three Sour Strawberries or two Lickemaids or a Fruit Compriment, or three Black Balls, or a Sour Key or a licorice pipe. A penny was akin to a pirates booty. And a mere three pennies’ worth of penny candy would guarantee you the most “worth it” upset stomach!  Add to that the fact that playing Rummoli will never be the same without the penny. Remember pinning all your hopes and dreams on the 7-8-9 sequence which was always full up with pennies in the last moments of the game. I remember my ten-year-old self thinking, “Just need the 8 and I’m rich. I’M RICH!!!!!”

*Sidebar* I JUST found out as I went online that Rummoli is a Canadian game, which I NEVER  knew. So to those that don’t know the game, suffice it  to say, it was cards with a big plastic playing board and you bet pennies!

But best of all, even more than what the penny could buy, was the way it looked when it was new. A new penny is a thing to behold. Today’s penny is made of mostly steel, but the penny of my childhood was a gleaming golden red copper, Maple Leaf on one side, Queen on the other.

So penny, I won’t miss you filling up my wallet and I won’t miss you crowding the piggy bank. But I will miss the idea of you and what you stood for in simpler times ... My two cents.

Come on, you knew I had to end with that.

Barbara: My two cents? I’ll miss it. Like you, I don’t need it, I don’t like the crowded wallet, thanks to instant debit, I can barely even remember the last time I pulled out a penny (or rolled a stack), but it is a piece of nostalgia that I do hold dear.

I was never much of a penny-candy girl (frankly, don’t even remember them), more of a chocolate nut (still am). I used to save my precious babysitting quarters for Mars bars and Crunchies. But still ... the penny!!!! It’s a penny. Copper (or at least copper-coloured), etched with its distinct images, a comforting weight in your hand, more lovely and elegant than all the rest. On its way out now like the Canadian dollar and 2-dollar bills before it. Maybe now, too, the winsome “a penny for your thoughts” will go the way of “egads”, “forsooth”, and “malarky”...

Happy 2nd Birthday, Middle Ages

Art by Deb's Finger

Happy Birthday to us,

Happy Birthday to us,

Happy Birthday, Middle Ages,

Happy Birthday to us.

On April Fool’s Day, The Middle Ages turned Two.

It has been our joy.

It has been our job.

It has been our connection to the world.

We never would have believed it could be this lovely.

That’s what makes it a celebration.

Thanks to each and every one of you.

You know we love you all.

Love,

Deb and Barbara

xooxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxo

What Makes You Feel Vulnerable?

Barbara: My daughter posted this video to my Facebook the other day and—because it’s 20 minutes long—I kept putting off watching it. If I get something—a link, an email, a private FB message—that I am sure will move me or make me think, I like to hold off viewing/reading it until I have some quiet time to truly focus on it and receive its message, whatever that might be (the downside of this is that my Achilles heal is that if I don’t tend to something as soon as I get it, then I risk forgetting it! Anyway…).

I am going to ask you guys to take some time to watch the video embedded below. In fact, maybe you can also take some time to pass it on. It’s an amazing TedTalk lecture by Brené Brown—a self-labeled “researcher-storyteller” whose background is social study—and she gives incredible food for thought in terms of how we shut ourselves off in order to avoid feelings of sadness, disappointment, loss, and fear. But, she says (and I don’t want this to be a spoiler for you to watching it because it is so worth watching), the main difference between those of us who feel an overall sense of worthiness, who have a strong sense of love and belonging, and those of us who don’t is that the “worthy” ones BELIEVE they are worthy. Only diff.

She goes on to talk about the essential ingredient at the core of this belief—which is that we need to embrace our vulnerability. To put ourselves out there despite possible rejection or dismay. “I love you”, not because I want you to know I love you, not because I hope if I say it you will love me back, but because I love YOU. Simple as that.

Of course, we’re very vulnerable with each other here. We’ve gotten used to telling each other our stories despite what people might say or think. To me this shows that vulnerability-practice “makes perfect”, or at the very least “makes adorably imperfect”. If you’ve read any of our earlier posts, you might remember that at first this concept of honest vulnerability was very hard for Deb and I. We came this close to blogging anonymously, or under pseudonyms, or making up stories to get a laugh or make a point. It took a huge leap of faith for us to put ourselves out there and speak openly and truthfully as ourselves and from the heart to people we didn’t know. If you ever read my very first post, you’ll remember that I talked about how hard it had been for me to really embrace female friendships in my life—because I didn’t know how to be vulnerable … and I didn’t really want to be. It wasn’t until I realized I HAD to be vulnerable (and utterly myself) in order to gain the kinds of friendships I yearned for, that the onus was on ME to take that plunge, that I forced myself to re-jig my approach to people. It was painful, like one of those bone-cracking, flesh-chlurping transformations you see on werewolf movies.

But it was worth every contortion, contusion, and muscle cramp. My vulnerability has made me a better, happier, more at peace person. That said, I will also take Ms. Brown’s advice and embrace my pain and loss and disappointment because these things remind me of my humanity.

So now I want to follow her Twitter-lead and ask her question: what makes you feel vulnerable?

I’ll start by answering: of all the fears that make me feel most vulnerable, it’s in the possibility of being rejected. Over the last several years, I have learned to embrace this vulnerability. Why? Because even if you don’t love me, I still love you. I love loving you. Because even if you don’t like my words, I still want to say them. I love saying them.

Deb: I will start my response by saying that I am in therapy. There. How’s that for vulnerable? But in my vulnerability I am strong enough to know it and use it. I have gone to therapy again recently to help me cope with the conflicting and painful feelings around the changes in our families’ lives. And I go because I am vulnerable and I embrace it and I talk through it. I also happen to have a warm, giving, and extremely bright therapist whom I adore. I look at her as my gift to myself.  I go because I want to expose myself to the possibility of internal peace. I go because I want my life to be the very very best life it can be. I admit that it is not, but I also address the fact that I know it can be.

What makes me vulnerable is not trying to grow. Yet even when I only try to exact growth in myself, I am The Hulk. 

Presenting Shalaka Kalyanpur!!

Barbara and Deb: Yesterday we promised we’d share with you the amazing artwork that our regular reader and commenter, Shalaka, created for us and which she presented to us over Skype and email on April 1^st to celebrate our 2-year blogiversary!!  Needless to say, Deb and I were gobsmacked. And deeply touched. And absolutely floored. This girl is brilliant. We predict an amazing career ahead of her.

Shalaka told us that she started painting as a young girl and kept changing mediums, even trying fabric painting when she was a young adolescent. Now her medium of choice is the digital pallet of Photoshop. She explained to us that she uses a photograph as a template, “cutting” out the basic shapes and then digitally layering on all the colours and lines until she is satisfied. She said each painting usually takes her a few weeks to complete.

Shalaka asked us for a few photos from which she could choose to paint—one of Deb and I together and one of Colin—which I emailed her a few months ago. The painting of Phil was a total surprise for me—she used a photo off one of our older blog posts. One of the reasons she wanted to present the paintings over Skype was so she could see our faces during the reveal. I don’t think she was disappointed as we literally gasped in awe as we looked at them. The painting of Phil--which is of him goofing off during a ski holiday that we took with Deb and Colin--makes me laugh every time I look at it (which is a lot!).

Now keep in mind that this talented Mumbai-based artist is only 19-years-old! Thank you so very much, Shalaka. We love them and we love you!!

PS If you have any questions for Shalaka, I’m sure she’d be happy to answer them in our comments section.

The Wow Of Now

In praise of modern technology!

Deb: The other day I was on Facebook and my “chat” popped up. On the other end of the chat, was a dear friend who was in Berlin doing a show. We chatted away back and forth for about a half hour. It was absolutely delightful!  As I was waiting for her response, the computer informing me, Naomi is typing, I thought, Wow, look at us chatting away in real time across the planet! I told her this and she said, “That is exactly what I was thinking”. She said that the day before she had “chatted” with a friend as she travelled across Germany in a train. Later I got a FB message from her saying it felt like we had spent the morning having coffee together. The whole thing left me giddy. Couldn’t get over it really. The rest of the day I was wide-eyed and gawky, like the computer had been invented five minutes ago!

I hate when I take my modern inventions for granted. But happily, every so often—WOWZER! I am blown away.  At least once a month I am standing at my bank machine, or sending an email, or pausing a live show on TV and I have to stop and marvel. And I giggle because sometimes I just can’t believe my eyes. I think back to the days of frantically trying to get to the bank by 3pm on a Friday so as to have money for the weekend.  And if you didn’t make it, you were screwed. No weekend fun for you. Imagine!!!

I guess I am awed by it because it is awesome!

I think of my grandparents and the changes they saw! Can you fathom a lifetime of these wows: the CAR, the RADIO, and the TELEVISION? Ironically though, as witnessed by the popular expression, it is the invention of sliced bread that left the biggest impression! :-)

In my own lifetime I have been wowed by everything from colour television to the moon landing to Skype. I have always celebrated the advances in technology and continue to be awed by the speed with which it is growing and changing. 

I know we rail on about how technology is stealing our lives, but that is a whole other subject. That is about balance in our lives and that balance remains up to us as individuals. 

What I am awestruck about too is the sheer convenience of it. Our lives are so darned easy because of technology. I think one of the reasons it continues to astound me is that I simply don’t believe it’s possible. Any of it! Can’t fathom it. Don’t get it. Don’t understand how the technology works or, indeed, why it works. If I open my MacBook I am sure to find hard working fairies inside, working their wings off.  From the seat of my grasp on the inner workings of technical matters, it might as well be. And if it is ... thank you, fairies! Bless your little hearts.

But whatever the reason, be it fairies, or “hard words to pronounce”, technology is a gift. It is there for the taking. Look how lucky we are! We complain about Facebook Timeline like it is ruining our perfectly ordered lives. “FB timeline has broken my spirit”. Really? That’s all we got?

Today Barb and I started our Sunday morning on Skype with the lovely Shalaka. We sat and chatted, the three of us and our dogs. All the while I kept thinking, We are in Toronto in the morning and she is in Mumbai at night! Couldn’t get over it. Wanted to run out and tell someone, anyone. 

The idea behind our first Skype with Shalaka is that she wanted to be “with us” when she unveiled the gorgeous portraits she did of us and our handsome husbands. It was stellar. We got to hear each other’s voices and see each other smile and laugh, and it was awesome both emotionally and technically.

So in honour of that, as the earth is awakening in April, so too will be my awakening and appreciation of mankind’s inventions. While Mother Nature offers her chirping birds and tuliping tulips, I shall add to my annual awe by giving it up to my iPhone, that splendid device that just took a picture in Canada, which my friend in England is already viewing.

There should be an “App App”—an “Appreciation App” for all the brilliant geeks around the world who have made and continue to make our lives awesome.

This stuff takes my breath away. As it should.

Please stay tuned on Tuesday, same blog time, same blog station, as we reveal Shalaka’s stunning, loving portraits!!!

If you want to laugh till you cry please take time to enjoy this old chestnut from the genius of Louis CK. A man after my own heart! (We couldn’t embed the video, but it is so worth watching by simply clicking on the link.)

Barbara: I have to say, I agree with you completely, Deb. Sure, I believe people who tell me that technology is bad for me and that it’s a slippery slope and that we will somehow all be ruined by our rampant tech “addictions”. I believe these people … in theory. Because in my heart and in my life experiences, technology has offered me the complete opposite. Yes, there are all the lovely saving graces Deb mentions here like instant cash and such, but I can also feel on a visceral level the difference between my early 30s self—the she who raised young kids very often alone because her husband traveled, the she who often felt disconnected and lonely and unimportant (not always, of course, but often enough), the she who felt like she was losing touch with the world at large on both an emotional and intellectual level—and my present day self. Today—while I can certainly feel lonely sometimes, or alone, or disconnected—I feel like you are all here at the touch of a key-button, at the scroll of a cursor, at the launch of a browser. And we can talk and examine and discuss and soothe and support and laugh and cry. And if one of you isn’t available at any given moment, another of you is! It is miraculous. And I feel like the more we use these new innovations, the more we will adapt to them, not falling apart or shriveling up like “they” warn, but expanding and swelling and gaining more and more and ever more. But then again, I am an optimist : ). And those computer fairies? Yeah, they rock. As do the tiny little people inside our TVs and radios.