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The Things We Do For Love

Posted in Blogging, Cooking, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Parenting, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on September 19, 2013| 11 Comments »

As I navigated the aisles “The Things We Do For Love” played in my head; a screechy record I’d have given anything to snap in half.

You see I had an intense headache all day yesterday. Wait, that’s a lie. It wasn’t all day. It did presto into a massive migraine for several hours or so just to mix things up a little.

But, as us mum’s do, I trudged on, driving the boys to school, continuing the laundry I’d started the day before, cleaning one of the bathrooms that just couldn’t wait another second, sorting and tidying a pile of wayward clothes that were, admittedly, mostly mine, cleaning the fish-y bowl and running up and down the stairs five hundred times or so fetching this and that for my daughter who was, to top it all off, home sick with the flu.

So yes, I hopped around like a good little bunny mummy until it finally took me out. Around four o’clock I had no choice but to surrender.

With one last swoop of my sponge, the pain grabbed hold and dragged me to my room, roughly shoving me onto the bed. “Lie down,” it jeered. “And stay down, or you’ll be sorry.”

Its grip tightened.

It was showing me who was boss and I knew better than to cross it. It pressed with all its might. It squeezed until I thought my skull would open and seep onto the pillow. I lay in frozen fear with no intention of disobeying its very clear command.

That is, until I realized with horror, that I’d forgotten about dinner.

“Who’s going to make dinner?” My panicked whisper pierced through the delirium and my throbbing brain.

“Not you,” hissed the pain. “I told you you’re not going anywhere.”

There was a moment I’d felt defeated. A moment where I thought I had to listen. A moment when I believed I couldn’t win.

And then there was the moment where I (gingerly) sat up, (stiffly) stood up and (somewhat sheepishly) spoke up; “Screw you,” I exclaimed. “My family needs to eat!”

That folks, is how I found myself staggering through the Safeway aisles, and I can literally use the word painfully here, picking out the ingredients to create a robust Spaghetti.

I almost made it too.

Standing in line, waiting to pay, reality kicked in. Still in front of me, was getting this stuff home, organizing it, cooking it, serving it and cleaning it all up and I have to say, it all just seemed a tad undoable.

As I leaned on the cart and discreetly dialed the number to our favourite restaurant, the record played on, only a little louder and little less screechy and it made me realize that when you do things for love, you never lose.

TONIGHT'S DINNER - made with love

TONIGHT’S DINNER – made with love and only slightly less agony

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How Does Your Garden Grow?

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Parenting, Relationships, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on September 16, 2013| 7 Comments »

Well, we’ve finally become those people. We’re increasing my life insurance payout, but rather than freaking, I’m stoked. Why? Because I’m pretty sure it’s my husband’s Hallmark way of saying; “Hey babe, I realize that although no amount of money could possibly replace you, I’m willing to bet you’re worth at least half a mil dead.”  Aww, shucks honey.

We’re also upping our…shudder…RESP contributions. It turns out that fifteen years of socking it away is barely enough to cover one child’s university tenure, let alone three and that whoop it up, I’m here for anything but the books college lifestyle isn’t even in the equation. Every hard-squeezed dime has to go towards education. Those campus capers and naughty nights will have to be subsidized by the part-time job my poor kids won’t have an ounce of spare time for.

Sigh.

These are my children though. The little humans that I grew from teeny seeds. For years, I’ve watered, fed and fertilized them and despite my lack of talent for gardening, I’ve (miraculously) managed to keep this one lush and vibrant to date. I want to give these sprouts the sun, the rain and the shade they need and I don’t need to tell you I want nothing but optimum growing conditions to sustain their roots. But wanting the best for something puts you in the position of having to understand what that really means. What exactly is this elusive best?

Will the palatial gardens I’ve been tending turn desertous if they have to feed and water themselves? I, of course, realize an actual garden would eventually become dull and desperate if it had to rely on itself for nourishment, but we are talking about kids here, right? They have arms, legs and mouths after all, moving parts for heaven’s sake, that can be surprisingly helpful when it comes to wielding a hose, directing a nozzle and taking a sip.

I admit I’m not sure at exactly what point we’re supposed to know when it’s time to shut the tap, but in the meanwhile, I’ll keep providing and pruning. After all, they’re only just beginning to bloom.

Lunch 1

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Writing Can Feel Like an Exquisite Form of Possession

Posted in Uncategorized on September 15, 2013| 4 Comments »

A lucky writer friend found a very special gift. Read about it here:

francisguenette's avatardisappearinginplainsight

P1080575

Over the last five days, I have been utterly possessed by what could become a significant work-in-progress. Some of you, who have been following my blog for a while, will remember that I wrote a post about my mother being a writer. For years, as I was growing up, my mother was writing a book. My father worked the night shift at a lumber mill, and night after  night we kids would be lulled to sleep by the clacking of my mom’s old Remington typewriter, complete with the ding of the bell to indicate she had come to the end of a line and then the crank-swish of the carriage return.

As I got older and curious about this book, my mom would dole out little bits and pieces of the story like Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights. The characters and the plot wove its way into my being, in…

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Stir It Up

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on September 14, 2013| 10 Comments »

Like a droid, I walked into Starbucks and it wasn’t until I opened my mouth to order that I realized I didn’t actually want a coffee.

 

What am I doing here? I wondered.

 

If you’ve ever been to Starbucks, you’ll know there’s a language. You need to be able to order your grande, non-fat, half-sweet, extra hot, double shot, no whip macchiato in 5 seconds flat. No stumbling. No stuttering.

 

So, to be standing in front of this high-haired, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed barista and not have a clue what to say was, well, awkward.

 

“Something cold?” She offered, unable to conceal the hopeful gleam that I wouldn’t hold up her line much longer.

 

Something cold, I puzzled. Something cold? But, but I always got coffee. Hot coffee. Extra hot coffee. Something cold?!

 

Her eyes fluttered and a Colgate crescent fastened itself into place just below her sweet, petite, pierced nose.

 

“We have these things,” she informed me in a voice that sounded like a long, twirling question mark. “They’re like, cold with ice and berries, you know? They’re good.” She shrugged.

 

“Alright,” I conceded. “I guess I’ll try one of those.”

 

It felt odd to watch her write my name on the foreign, clear plastic cup, the comfort of my usual white, smooth familiarity gone with my snap decision. But I only had a moment to feel uneasy about my impromptu choice. In a flash, spontaneity was set in front of me, beads of water diluting the black lines of my freshly Sharpied H, A, Z and Y.

 

As I walked out into the sunshine, I paused, the fear that my gamble would disappoint, halting me.

 

Finally, caution was thrown to wind and I whet my whistle.

 

Sometimes it just takes a ballsy barista to bust your blahs and quench what has been a long-standing thirst.

Very Berry Hibiscus Refresher

Very Berry Hibiscus Refresher

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Squirrels: This Time It’s Personal (PART 8 OF THE CSB CHAIN STORY EVENT)

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Mystery, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , , on September 7, 2013| 31 Comments »

As happens with most things I take on, when I signed up to participate in the Community Story Board’s Chain Story Event, I immediately checked to see if I had in fact, fallen off my rocker. Turns out it was a lot of fun and I got to be inspired by a heap of imaginative peeps. The first seven parts are linked below and my bit, the eighth bit, follows after the first seven links and there’s a link at the end to what will soon be the ninth bit. I hope you enjoy!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight of “Squirrels: This Time It’s Personal

Gosling Fedora

“Oh Shit,” McAdams murmured. “Now we’re done for.” She was staring at Sauron who had fallen to his knees, blood soaking his gilded gown.

All Gosling could see through his watery eyes and the smoky billows were her deep, red lips. He tore his gaze from them just in time to watch Sauron’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he fell, face first, into the dirt.

“What now, genius?” She continued. “We’ll only have every nefarious creature in the Kingdom after us. That’s all. Nothing to worry about here, folks.”

“Oh c’mon, my little steam pot,” Gosling soothed as he hauled himself up, swatting dusty debris from the sheen of his pants. “You know he wasn’t gonna let the goat-poker thing go. I did what had to be done.”

“Listen loverboy, we’re Canadian. We are not equipped for this kind of nasty. It’s just not, well, polite!” McAdams had also managed to stand and was fixing her skirt and fluffing her hair.

Damn. All that broad had to do was bat her lashes and Gosling was a goner. He attempted to shut out her porcelain skin, gold locks and tiny waist.

Ahem. Clearing his throat, he straightened his shoulders in an attempt to appear macho. “Since it seems we’ve forgotten our manners then, I may as well help myself.”

He stooped to pick up Sauron’s gold fedora and proceeded to place it on his own head. When he saw disgust cross McAdams’ face, he simply said, “Don’t think I didn’t hear your gun go off as well, killer.” and with a wink, he started along the path.

“She’ll be hot on our trail, you know.”

“Who?” He asked, already aware of the answer.

McAdams kicked a rock out of her way further scuffing her already destroyed designer pumps.

“The Goddess, that’s who. I’m sure she somehow already knows what we’ve done.”

Gosling had no time to worry about the Goddess. He’d deal with her when the time came. Right now he had to get them to Rivendale in one piece. He knew McAdams was behind him, knickers in knot, twisting her fake diamond ’round her slender finger, fraught over stinking like Cayenne, but he could not let anything distract him. Well, maybe he could indulge in a few impurities from this morning’s romp with her just to keep him motivated. A man has needs, after all.

Back at the old Smokeasy, Sam stood polishing glasses and wiping the bar. He was restless. The place was empty but for one and the cleaning kept him busy. He sliced limes and restocked the ice, folded the drying towels that were fresh out of wash.

But all the while, he kept an eye on his one customer who sat with her back to him, long tendrils of smoke curling up above her head, the pink bow of her apron jutting out below the back of her chair, a blood stained pencil sticking out from her disgruntled bun.

The intermittent clink of ice from her glass reminded him every once in a while, that he wasn’t alone.

***

And with that, I pass the torch over to Treyzguy who seems more than capable of keeping it lit.

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No Pain, No Gain

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Parenting, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on August 30, 2013| 9 Comments »

Sometimes I can’t help but feel I’ve missed the boat. Or maybe a better analogy would be that I got a ride when I really should’ve hopped on the bus…years ago.

I’m forty-three now, (yes, my birthday sadly fell amongst last week’s horrors) my oldest boy is seventeen, my middle dude, a big one-four and the titch at the end is somehow soon to be twenty-two thirteen.

I’ve been through the baby years, times three, and some teen years and let’s just say if I wrote about them on a public forum I might wake up with my fingers Crazy Glued together. And that would only be a warning.

I read these mommy blogs and, I love them. I relish them. I devour them. In fact, I unfold in them and, honestly,…I’m jealous of them. These women have so much material! And, their kids are far too short to reach the Crazy Glue.

As for me, well, I’ve done my moving countries, my getting married, my precarious pregnancies, my preemies, my “gee, that birth nearly killed me”, my “damn, I swear this demon baby has not slept in eight months”, my “whoa, this postpartum depression is killing me”, my money meltdowns, my midlife misadventures, my doggy demises and my “good god, I’m woefully not wonderful at anything whines.”

I mean, all those things have passed. What’s left to write about?

On second thought, I’ve toiled so long over my laptop that this *blister has formed on the outside of my arm and having revisited all of the aforementioned ominous and opiate-encouraging topics just to write this post, maybe, subconsciously, I’m hoping there really isn’t anything left…

Blister

*Note: this (extremely painful) blister was actually caused by a rogue, lava hot spattering of the stew I made for dinner last night, but as a writer, I reserve the right to change and over-dramatize the facts to benefit the tales I tell. The good news is, this must mean my subconscious’ search for writing material will be extensive and eternal.

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Work-in-Progress: The Light Never Lies

Posted in Uncategorized on August 26, 2013| Leave a Comment »

And this folks, is how you get things done!

francisguenette's avatardisappearinginplainsight

DSC_0046

My current work-in-progress, The Light Never Lies, (the sequel to Disappearing in Plain Sight) is moving along towards publication. In today’s post, I’ll overview how the process has unfolded so far.

I followed Stephen King’s sage advice and wrote the first draft in one season – January through March. I put the draft away for a month. When I took it out, the dust had barely settled. I got busy with a complete read through. I made note of the key areas that needed work. In the rush of creation, I had left a few blanks where relevant research had to be done. Scenes needed to be fleshed out with the detail that would come from that research. I discovered that all the characters were nodding, shrugging, smiling, and looking around way too much. Some serious work on the beats was necessary. In Self-Editing for Fiction Writers…

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The World’s Worst Dog

Posted in Blogging, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Relationships, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , on August 24, 2013| 20 Comments »

As all good things must come to an end, I thought life with Rowan would go on forever. No, you’re not confused. You needn’t read that sentence again. It’ll still say the same thing.

You see, I’ve been known to remark once or thrice that she really must be the World’s Worst Dog. I haven’t hidden my rants or rages. My sputterings and spews have been no secret. I have openly complained and cried in frustration. I’ve fallen and forgiven for all to see. I’ve been a martyr at best.

You understand, right? I mean, she filled my life with insane and unnatural amounts of hair and stained my carpets to the brink of despair. She chewed up precious belongings and sabotaged our prized Wisteria. Her incessant howls cost us neighbors and got her ixnayed from our camping roster. She dragged garbage out over the floors and snatched lavish steaks off the barbie. Walks were harrowing horrors as she pulled and strained with all her might. She vanished when unleashed and ignored our frantic pleas for her return. Yes, without a doubt, she was the world’s worst dog.

But this week, she lay at my feet, panting and whimpering, immobilized and pained. Helpless.

And all I could remember were her ears flapping in the wind, her saucer eyes and her soppy, sweet demeanor. As my family spread out to sleep on the couches and the floor because she could no longer make the trip up to our rooms, I thought of the way she once guarded our house and made us feel safe. While we set our alarm for her 3am meds, I envisioned the way her legs splayed out to the sides as she scrambled to meet us each time we came through the door. While we hand-fed her a homemade turkey and quinoa mix with little sips of water, I wished for the once annoying click of her nails on the wooden floor. And as we changed out the cool packs soothing her collapsing neck, I swore I heard all the laughter she’d brought into our home over the last seven and a half years.

This week, she could do none of that. She simply lay, gasping, blinking, scared and scarred and I realized what I must’ve known all along. She wasn’t the world’s worst dog. She’d be my family’s best memory.

Rowan aka: Ro, Rowey, Rosa and The Ro Show January 23, 2006 ~ August 22, 2013

Rowan aka: Ro, Rowey, Rosa and The Ro Show
January 23, 2006 ~ August 22, 2013

Note: Rowan was taken from us by an inoperable case of Intervertebral Disc Disease

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Colour Me A Camper

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Parenting, Relationships, Travel, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on August 11, 2013| 9 Comments »

There’ll be hell to pay for this post. I will have all happy holidaying nature-lovers in a tizzy. Thor will rain down and strike me with his what are you thinking? club. I’ll be frowned upon by the Gods of all things multi-wheeled and RVQ’d and I hang my head in shame. I do.

But, as I watch my husband drip with sweat, nip his fingers, work harder than a pack mule and swear bloody murder over and over, my mind meanders across the fence to the other side where dark things grow.

Shaded tendrils of twisted tarnish creep and curl around my closing throat. Vicious vines slither through the naughty nooks and corroded crannies of my mind.

“Why?” They hiss.

We have a lovely backyard, a wonderful deck, running water and a conveniently located fridge and yet….sigh, and yet, we pack up everything including the kitchen sink and putt off into the wild blue yonder to snooze on gritty sheets and feast from swampy coolers. We cram our clothes into damp outside wardrobes and eat off paper and perfunctory plastic. It takes ten times longer to do things and the room service bell is long out of order.

Gearing up for a camping trip takes days and decamping, even longer and somehow, after six years of owning a tent trailer (we used to tent – shudder), we still don’t have it down pat. You’d think we’d be bursting from the Velcro seams at this point, but somehow there’s always a ten yard dash before every excursion which includes us whipping out the worn and weary Visa at least twenty times over.

So, back to the why. Well, like I said, it’s that blue yonder thing, the dream that we’re free as birds while living under an azure sky. I’m not a nature girl by any means, but there’s something to be said for cooking in the open air and sipping a cider while flipping the morning’s flapjacks. At what other time is booze before breakfast ok? Well, pretty much never.

And, as parents, we take solace in the knowledge that the teens we now drag along will one day look back and have memories they will probably distort, but at the very least, cherish. The swearing, sweating and screeching, the worrying, working and waiting, worthwhile. We’re learning what life’s all about and passing it on, but most importantly, we’re bonding. Our little family is growing into a well-oiled machine, albeit slow and somewhat painful.

I guess swampy and gritty bring out the rainbows.

Our home for the next ten days

Our home for the next ten days

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Hazy Crazy

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , , on August 6, 2013| 11 Comments »

Hazy Incognito

It was unsettling.

Everywhere I turned; “Hazy! Hazy! Sign here!” “Hey Hazy, will you write this postcard to my mom for me?” “Aww Hazy, what I wouldn’t give to pick your super-creative, ultra-talented brain for an hour.”

Shouting from every corner, greedy fingers with long black nails clawing at my sleeves, hundreds of white-hot flashes blinding me and oh so many offers of representation, I couldn’t keep track. It seems Hazy had become a household name.

I was overwhelmed. What sort of unmanageable monster had I created? I had to stealthily dart down dark, deserted streets and hide behind parked cars. I had to use an alias. I went incognito.

Okay, maybe the hood was because it was raining and my $14.99 tourist rip-off umbrella broke after 1 minute of use. And perhaps the grim look on my face was not due to the hoards of people vying for my attention but because I was paying tribute to the victims of Ground Zero at the time. Still, it’s nice to imagine, isn’t it? Success of a certain magnitude?

And, why not? I don’t believe that only a select few are earmarked for stardom from time of conception. I doubt we come equipped with some sort of unique barcode that’s scanned at birth and separates us into two distinct piles:

~ will be famous

~ will be a janitor

Not that there’s a darn thing wrong with being a janitor, of course. It takes all kinds to make the world tick. I myself, tend to get a definite and deep satisfaction from the sheen of my freshly washed floor, albeit short-lived. (The sheen, that is)

I believe anyone can be anything provided they believe it too. So work towards it, grasp it, nurture it, buy it, own it, polish it and believe it. Pretty soon, you’ll need a hood as well.

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