Ready... Set... Finished?

The last two weeks have been full of highs and lows - symptomatic of my life in general (and really, everyone else's!). I've been thinking about writing for some time, now - and in this thinking have realized that it may be time to end this blog?

:::30:::

I turned thirty ten days ago and at the very second I became a thirty-something, I had an epiphany. No scary thoughts of being old, or worse, not young - no, I've spent a great deal of my life with people who were thirtysomethings, and have been looking forward to my turn because of it. That was a day when I lost all my anger and petty grievances and just felt the love and the light. I saw what was important and dropped what was not. I realized I am who I've wanted to be (all this time) but also how much more I can be. I felt a tiny bit scared because I am no longer eighteen. I chopped off my hair the day before (to a fetching shoulder-length) as well as turning it the lightest shade of blonde it's ever been. I threw my twenties away because I was finished with them. I let go of my guilts, my embarassments, my disappointments and made a promise to myself to never stop trying in my life.

Such is the soul-awakening of thirty (epiphany no.1).

:::You Can't Go Back:::

My mother always said this to me - you can't go back, so you might as well go forwards.

Even so, there have been times that I've wondered about old friends and lovers, but really couldn't quite bring myself to send that e-mail... So the other night, after reading an article about an ex's mother (in which it divulged the sad news of her father's death), I decided I would write. She had been so good to me, so loving and sweet - while her son was sometimes mean, she always told me I was too good for him.

I didn't really expect to hear back from her, and after nearly a week had gone by, I assumed I would not. I felt a bit funny about that - maybe I should've left well enough alone. Instead, nearly eight years after the last time we spoke, and she remembered my birthday.

I was completely shocked by her message. Not only because of the news it contained, but because of the way it affected me. Throughout my twenties I had been harbouring a hurt and angry fugitive in my heart - I was scared of bumping into him, had successfully avoided going to certain places that reminded me of that somewhat ugly time, and somewhere, somehow, for some obscure reason, I still carried around some of the unpleasant things he used to say to me.

When people make jokes about things like this, it always comes from somewhere. No matter how 'healed' you might feel, sometimes hurt has a way of creeping up on you.

But instead of feeling gleeful or satisfied that his life had taken a bad turn - I felt sorry for him. To read that he'd nearly died in a car crash, had lost his best friend to the same accident, that he was now living with his mother because he was in too much pain to work... I know that it's karma - I didn't feel the need to point it out to anyone because it doesn't matter. I know, and that's what counts.

Which leads me to another thought: if I know that what counts is what I think (and not the rest of the world) then how is it that I am so affected by the thoughts and actions of others?

In any case, his mother and I caught up by e-mail - and while we discussed meeting up for lunch, I realized over the course of a weekend, that I don't want to. I am protective of the things that are mine - and my experiences are just that. I don't 'own' any one person or place, but I do reserve the rights to my experieces. For that reason, I don't want people who haven't been there with me - through it, earning it - to share the details.

(epiphany no.2)

:::'Someday' Will Come:::

Around my birthday, Mr. Right's birthday and his Little Miss Bean's birthday, Mr. Right and I shared our first anniversary.

Much of my thirty years has been preoccupied with the desire for Love. I always knew it would happen 'someday'. I didn't know which day, just that it would be one of them. Did I know it when we met? Did a great bolt of lightning come flashing out of the blue and jolt me with the knowledge?

No.

But I had a sneaking feeling about it - about him. Whenever I wasn't sure (in those early days) there was a part of me that knew for sure. It's easy to walk away when things aren't easy. I never wanted to - even when I was scared and upset and even thought about it. He became my Mr. Right many months ago and since then has been no one but him.

We laugh when we're together and even right before we sleep. I wear a dopey grin when I talk about him because such is the bliss of this love. I've begun to conquer my hormones and I no longer confuse my own brand of biological warfare with the non-issues.

Once in a while, in a sleepy, dazy way, we tell each other why we love each other. It's impossible to express it all at any one time. I love the crinkles around his eyes, while he loves my tooth that sticks out. I love that his mind is always sharp, while he loves to listen to my thoughts. I love and he loves...

I had imagined it, dreamt about it and hoped it would happen to me one day. And when I least expected it, hadn't prepared or planned for it, and at the very-most inconvenient time - I found it. Who knows why and how - and that is immaterial. To believe in something that you've never had is to believe it is possible. To my beautiful circle who are without a warm heart and body to lie with, I tell you: it will happen.

(epiphany no.3)

:::Life Will Never Be the Same:::

My beautiful mother had another two trips to the emergency room, one night after another. Her health has been declining and while my family is doing everything we know (and don't know) how, there isn't a damn thing we can do about her condition.

This damned disease has sent us each into a private (and collective) tailspin.

But I realized that if we can't beat it, we'll have to 'agree to disagree' with it and make the most and best out of what we've got. Life will never be the same as it was when we were kids - nor teenagers, not even the way it was two years ago. And that's how life is and how it should be. I am reconciling myself to the fact that I will lose my mother in body one day. We have already begun grieving for the loss of her old self. It crept up and bopped us over the head. Another thing I wasn't prepared for - losing a parent - something that always happens 'someday'. Just didn't think it would be so soon.

I always thought it took courage to pack up my life and shlep it half way across the earth to find a new place to live. I have experienced several things in my life that required a silent kind of bravery, but none as much as this.

Facing up to my fears means I'm officially 'grown-up'. Nowhere to run, no way to hide from the truths in life - if I could get through some of the painful times I've lived so far, I know we will get through this one. Even the very worst one - losing someone I love so very, very much - is not surmountable.

(epiphany no.4)

The biggest gift of my thirtieth year has been the realization that I have not lived, loved, suffered or hurt in vain. I have learnt the lessons of my youth and can now grasp the possibilities of my future with both hands and a full heart. I've got lots of work to do still, and while I would like to say that I 'can't wait', I won't. I can wait because rushing through it is like skipping school: you miss the lessons.

Pinnacle

I'm a very lucky girl. I always have been. Sometimes I forget it, which is one of my weaknesses. Sometimes I don't know how to ask for what I want. Sometimes it all comes out wrong.

But tonight, Mr. Right and I talked about us and our plans for the future. Nothing official, no 'big news' to report. At a weak point, the tears fell and I wasn't sure what I was doing. He put his hands on my face and looked at me with his beautiful blue eyes... And I knew no matter what, that everything will be alright. I felt stupid and shy and madly in love all at the same time. I've never had this love before, so I will forgive myself for my clumsiness.

While life may not always go as smoothly as it should, we can only do our best. If we do that, if we try, then nothing is as bad as it seems.

Kitchen Catastroph... Oh, wait a minute -

Fresh (from frozen) berries, Devonshire custard, plain yogurt and granola should come to a fantastic dessert. I mean, these are all good things. How I managed to balls it up, nobody knows.

My granola turned into mueslix, and had surprise corn flakes in it. A bit 'ghetto' as a my friend-who-I-never-get-to-see would say. A little, umm, 'bargain' as my sister put it. I tried to weed out the flakes, but the damn things multiplied closer to the bottom of the bag. It's Swedish stuff (I was trying to look cool) so at least I'm pretty sure it will taste good, if not healthful.

The whole office is ensconced in losing weight - and while I should probably pay a little more attention to my expanding derriere, I can't really be asked. In fact, I was kicked out of the 'slimming club' today as I am apparently the weight others would like to be. Hmph. So I thought by throwing a few diet-savvy items (like yogurt, mueslix and fruit) it might divert attention from the fact that the whole damn thing is made up of custard - a low-fat variety of which there is not.

But something went awry - frankly, it looked hideous. Not like anything I would dare bring with me to work and present to my friends and colleagues. Certainly not following salmon and who-knows-what-else!

I slunk upstairs to ask my sister, resident gastronome and bakeologist extraordinaire (I came home to some sinful banana-chocolate muffins), what-the-bloody-hell-do-I-do?!?

Fashion a pie crust, said she, and bake it. 'It'll turn out like cheescake.'

The more I thought on the mess that sat on the counter (and in the bowl), the time of night (the lack of sleep), my expanding thighs and shrinking wallet... I worked myself into a froth that involved the f-word a few times. 'I'm not you,' I moaned. 'I can't just bake a pie!'

I slunk back down the stairs to sulk. I deviously stuck a spoon in the great blob that sat in the silver mixing bowl. I saw no point in allowing it to sit there any longer, taunting me with its tasty facade - I knew a debacle lay underneath. In went the spoon - and then something wonderful happened... The berries now fully defrosted and smelling delicious let out beautiful droplets of purple and pink. The corn flakes disappeared. The yogurt tempered the sweetness of the custard.

I turned on the oven, grabbed the last of the Danish sugar cookies and brazenly turned them into a crust. I threw in some brown sugar, a blob of butter, some more of the corn flake mueslix. Patted it down in the baking dish and poured the custardy mixture to fill it. Baked for 40 minutes, checking obsessively to see that it wasn't on fire or exploding.

House now smells of my sister's wonderful banana muffins (I've eaten two) and my fruity custard pie. Which is why I am writing this at 1am, when I really ought to be in bed. Damn thing has to cool.

Like I always say, my sister's my rock - she's always got an idea up her fashionable sleeve. Thanks Beejoo.

Christmas

Christmas overseas was always quite exciting - mainly because I would roam Oxford Circus and Portobello Road for presents to bring home to my family. In the two years I lived in London, I flew home both times - half excited to see my parents and sister, half certain I would be missing London a little too much to ever really 'be home' in Toronto.

I imagine it must be the same now as it was then - throngs of people crowding any and every available space in the shops and streets. They used to widen the sidewalk down Regent Street to accomodate all the hoopla at Hamley's (for one). Fortnum & Mason's always had a beautiful window display filled with ornate little dolls and sparkly things. I would never ordinarily go there for my groceries, but there was always something extra special about bringing home jam and tea in hand-painted jars with gilt labels.

Shopping there was much like shopping anywhere - the physicalities of it, I mean - bundling up to keep out the damp cold, and sweating like mad on perusing the goods inside. It always seemed like people were walking more slowly then. I had this annoying thought the other day, as I walked into a store on Queen Street to buy my sister's birthday present - all these flaming people were meandering aimlessly and making me late. I was so sure I would find what I needed inside, that by the time I stepped out again - empty-handed - I became one of those people. I was a little dazed and bemused, completely unsure where to go or what to do next. I was running out of options.

Fortunately, I persisted, and a little down the way very happily found just what I was looking for - in spades! But I made a note to myself to try to keep a little perspective and have a bit more patience with humanity.

The second winter away from home, I had spent all kinds of money I didn't really have to bring loads of little goodies for my family. I wrapped everything carefully and managed to fit them all inside one giant shopping bag. I only packed a small suitcase and with my bag of presents, made my way to Heathrow for my flight home.

I never really remember my flights, as I prefer to sleep. I'm not a great flyer, always managing to get some sort of food poisoning from the suspiciously undefinable meat in my meal. I do remember one time, though, watching as the Kosher, Halal and vegetarian meals were served out first. While others dug in hungrily, a Muslim man sat quietly with his tray still covered. He waited until everyone else had been served, said a prayer and began to eat. From that flight on, I vowed to do the same - always requesting a special meal since a very ridiculous incident one flight, that had me almost losing an arm to the high-powered vaccum plane toilet (don't ask - no, really, you do not want to know!). I doubt very much that anyone else noticed, and indeed I couldn't possibly tell you what he looked like. I just remember that he was that thoughtful and considerate a person.

As I rushed from the planebag full of presents, I zipped over to one of the many long elevators to customs at Pearson. I hate waiting at customs. It's usually a very irritating experience - long lines and low patience from the agents. But this time I thought I had it licked - I was well ahead of everyone, save for one tall fellow, who stood in front of me on the escalator.

I could've sworn he swooned.

Just as I shook my head and refocussed, there it was again. A definite swoon. Followed by a very definite faint, knocking both me and my bag of treats to the floor. My long green silk scarf (bought in Portobello on a whim) got stuck in the escalator. My huge paper shopping bag ripped and all my presents spilled out onto the floor around me. I lay on my arse and wondered if it could possibly be more embarassing than this.

Of course you know it would - and it was. My scarf stopped the elevator and as I looked up, I notcied that somewhere in the region of three hundred people must've de-planed and were waiting, very annoyedly, to come down the escalator. Fortunately there was another one beside me. The cute lion-tamer who'd been sitting next to me rushed to help me while the fainter rushed off.

He left me there, legs akimbo, mangled scarf and pride and all.

By the time I'd collected myself and my things and got to the customs area, I saw that he was at the front of one of the lines. Embarassment turned to anger as I marched over to him and scolded him for what he'd done. He insisted he'd never fainted and he didn't know what I was on about. I slunk to the back of the line and cursed under my breath.

The holidays do funny things to people.

But this one will be extra-special to my family - we don't know what is to come in the future, but we are certain that things with my beautiful mother will be much worse. So this year, it isn't about show-off presents and ridiculous overtures, but this wonderful chunk of time we will be able to spend together as a family.

Happy holidays to all my readers - thank you for sticking with me this year!

xo fifi

Bei Mir Bist Du Schon

I just thought I might point out how odd it is, to be writing this blog while listening to the Andrews Sisters belt out some golden war-time tunes. I guess back in those days (when my parents were kids, growing up on opposite sides of the universe) no one ever had any idea that a regular person like me would be able to flick a switch and have the whole world at my fingertips.

In a difficult year, this week has been pretty brilliant. I was given a (big) raise, Mr. Right asked me about getting 'married', and my beautiful mother called my sister out of the blue, just to have a chat and ask her how she was.

I write these in no particular order, because all of them are good - but in truth, the happiest thing is the last. As the weeks turn into months, memories of how my mother used to be flood through me thick and fast. My sister says that she has a hard time remembering and it scares her. I tell her not to focus on it and then the memories will come.

I've got to admit I'm pretty hacked off about the whole thing. Dementia stinks. Especially when it's happening to my beautiful mother. She isn't really able to have conversations with us anymore and seems to laugh when it seems appropriate (as in, when everyone else is laughing too). My dad says that sometimes, she seems like her old self - and others, she has difficulty remembering his name.

This is devastating. To all of us. And imagine how she must feel, when it's happening to her.

So I've been noticing that I get really angry, really quickly, over things that really aren't that important. And I've finally put the two together - I am stinking mad, no, FURIOUS that this is happening to her and there is absolutely no recourse. I have no one to shout at or complain to, no one to write to, demanding fairer treatment. And I am absolutely steamed over it.

I realized that, this week. And I am now making a concerted effort to think before reacting.

I am also reminding myself to appreciate all things good and happy where they happen - and if they don't seem obvious, to look for them. Those silver linings are everywhere, and for that, I am grateful.

In this week, I was appreciated a little more at work and loved a little more at home. My sister and I sat in our kitchen this morning, while the delicate snowflakes twirled from the clouds, sipping hot chocolate and yapping. I just adore her - she's so cool and she doesn't even know it. In my lowest days in life, my sister has always managed to say something - whether as inconsequential as 'bathroom information' or as important as our family - that gets me laughing. Out loud and practically wetting myself. She's that kind of funny. She's been helping me balance the madness.

So, the title of this wee little blog is for all of you (and you know who you are).

xo fifi