Posts Tagged ‘Goals’

No surprise, but I’m a daydreamer. It’s not an easy thing to hide. My school reports often cited that I tended to wander off without actually leaving the classroom, and seeing as I’m confessing it all, I may as well admit that I probably still wander off about a hundred and sixteen times a day.


But there was a period of time in my life where I was able to focus. You see I used to be this really good housewife. I was even, in fact, once accused of mirroring the likes of June Cleaver from Leave It to Beaver. I admit I didn’t see the resemblance back then, but I will say that I took my daily chores very seriously. They were always completed in a timely, organized fashion and no cupboard or corner was ever left unturned. The kids smelled good, unmentionables were folded, floors gleamed, toilet rolls were always miraculously placed on the holder and there was something fairly edible to eat at all the right times. The least of which is not that I somehow managed to perform all of these things with barely an eyelash bat.


So, why not now?


Now everything is Everest, its trails littered with obstacles and me, always looking to tunnel through the middle rather than suffering the long way ‘round. You know the drill. The perfectionist holds out—Oh, if I just give this a swipe and that a wipe I can hold off another week until I can do it…properly. These are the tall tales I tell myself. They are the bungees that bounce me up just before hitting the hard bottom of that long dark rabbit hole—It looks fine. It’ll do for now. No one notices anyway. But I notice. And I’m held in a state of unrest.


So, why don’t I just buck up?


I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. And, it’s starting to sink in. There are just too many balls to buck. I can’t focus because I don’t know what my focus is anymore. Now that the kids are older, my plate is piled even higher with outside responsibilities that go beyond vacuuming and changing the bed sheets. Back when I was a young housewife with three small children, my role wasn’t in question. It was simply to serve and protect. And although serving and protecting will always be my heart’s work, the kids are vying for independence and with me on the precipice of 45, it seems only natural that I start to question whether there might be more to the meaning of my existence.


So back to my daydream. I was imagining what it would be like to step off the front stoop every morning to follow my fiction. To have nothing on my mind for the first eight hours of every day but fostering what it is I want to achieve. To write without distraction. To have someone running my family and my home, allowing me to work on making a success of myself. To be one of the chosen few who gets to concentrate solely on my goals and aspirations.


But daydreams aren’t always realistic. To truly triumph I must achieve whatever it is I want while living the life I’ve already made.


That’s victory. That’s genuine success.


That’s being a mom.






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This is a post from almost a year ago, that I decided to revamp. Much to my delight, I didn’t end up feeling like I needed to change all that much. Most times I read my old posts and end up buried under the covers, shivering for the rest of the day.

Have a safe and happy Friday folks, and thanks for reading!


I have this old adding machine and for about ten years, the battery cover has been missing. It’s because of this I feel a profound sadness every time I pull it out of the drawer. Without the support, I know it will only be a matter of time before those little coils relax and let the batteries fall to the floor. But it would hurt my heart to replace a perfectly good thing due simply to the fact that it’s missing a piece. After all, it still works faultlessly and if anyone appreciates a bit of help in the calculating department, it’s me. You see, I can’t add worth a damn. I still count out on my fingers and have to write anything more than a three-digit sum down on paper or the numbers start climbing, tripping and toppling over one another in my head.

Many years ago, I waitressed and always kept a tiny calculator tucked into my billfold, never wanting to expose my tricky little secret. My fellow servers let bills flail from their pockets or flap from their cleavage and somehow still managed to finish their closes ahead of me and my tightly organized stash of cash.

I also worked in retail and strived to move up through the ranks. But moving up meant making manager and making manager meant numbers, which was, as you can guess, intimidating for someone like me. Eventually I learned to make my fingers fly over the chunky buttons without even looking. I earned a sense of control I’d never felt before, being able to ‘rule’ math that way. Granted, the bookwork to be done was very formulaic and the risk of something going seriously wrong was low. The numbers either balanced or they didn’t and if it turned out they wouldn’t, the mistake was usually very easy to find. It got so that I could do the hour-long nightly paperwork in twenty minutes—fifteen if I had somewhere more enticing to be.

Much to my dismay, long after being paid to fret over it, math continues to linger in my life and it seems the only time I’m able to call it rewarding is when I’m gauging the tip for a sly pub lunch. Things like balancing checkbooks, crunching numbers, logging endless expenses and estimating interests do not bring me joy.

What. So. Ever.

But the other day I decided it was time to clean out my junk drawers—oh shush, yes I have more than one—and you can probably guess what I came across. That’s right. Lo and behold, there, on the drawer’s gritty bottom, lay the battery cover for my old adding machine. I have to say my heart skipped a beat and I did experience what could be considered a teensy jab of joy.

Don’t give up on something because it’s disjointed or incomplete. You never know when you’ll find that very thing you weren’t even aware you were searching for. And sometimes, that little piece is all it takes.


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It can be tough to keep going. Everyone has reasons—some physical, some mental, some…imaginary.


You’ve given it your all, done all you can and you’re tired.


Maybe you’ve been trying to lose weight, but can’t seem to shed more than a pound or two, perhaps you’re training for a new job and things simply aren’t clicking, you might have been blogging for years and a high-profile publicist has somehow failed to swoop in and make you a star, maybe every query you’ve ever sent has ended up in the slush pile or it might just be that the expensive tooth whitening system you succumbed to buying just isn’t delivering those shocking pearly whites.


Unfortunately, I get it. I am very familiar with the rigorous tear down of the emotional psyche. No surprise there. Why do you think it occurs to me to write posts like this?


So last Sunday, I watched my daughter play yet another soccer game. She’s a good little player. Usually the oldest and almost always the smallest. She’s phenomenal with ball control, but sometimes doesn’t have the physical strength to match the other players. She was on a team at 4 and 5 years old, but quit shortly after for whatever reason of the day she gave back then, probably a blister, but decided to start up again two years ago. She’s almost 14. She’s playing with girls who never quit. Girls who have been playing since they were 3, 4 and 5 years old. Needless to say, it has taken her some time to build enough confidence to do more than run the ball for more than a few feet or make a quick pass to another teammate.


But Sunday was a great day. The weather was invigorating—cold and crisp with the odd burst of energizing sun. We played on a beautiful landscape adjacent to the prestigious grounds of UBC. The team played particularly well and incredibly hard. We were treated to all kinds of fancy footwork and the opportunities to cheer were plentiful.


And cheer we did.


Especially when my determined little girl seized the chance to strategically chip the ball up over the goalie’s head and score for her first time on a Rep level team.


Everyone needs a goal. What’s yours?

Not from Sunday, but a good one, nonetheless. (Photo cred goes to Kori Balaberda)

Not from Sunday, but a good one, nonetheless. Ava is the one in all black. (Photo cred goes to Kori Balaberda)




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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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I am borrowing a page from the Book of Saige. Eating the bread, drinking the wine; entering the daunting Confessional. Bless me Father, it’s been never since my last confession. Is it a sin to confess when you’re not Catholic? I know you’re probably not supposed to drink the wine…

1. I shared something on my personal facebook page a few days ago. It went like this:

Marilyn Monroe....the worlds biggest icon! Her tummy isn't tightly toned, her thighs touch, her arms aren't skinny, she has stretch marks and her boobs aren't perky. She is known as one of the MOST BEAUTIFUL women in history. Be confident girls. You are HOT, you are SEXY, you are a Marilyn so do not let any man, media or moment of judgement ever take away your confidence! ♥ EL

Marilyn Monroe….the worlds biggest icon! Her tummy isn’t tightly toned, her thighs touch, her arms aren’t skinny, she has stretch marks and her boobs aren’t perky. She is known as one of the MOST BEAUTIFUL women in history. Be confident girls. You are HOT, you are SEXY, you are a Marilyn so do not let any man, media or moment of judgement ever take away your confidence! ♥ EL

Now, while I do believe the gist of this to be true, with an upcoming Maui trip as my motivator, I immediately proceeded to google ‘diets’, found one and voila, apart from the bread and wine I consumed above, I am hungry. No harm in dropping ten pounds, right? Except when you pass out on the morning of day three.

2. I write for myself, but I won’t lie. After a year, I have finally started to accumulate more than five sympathy ‘likes’ from supportive friends and my mum on some of my posts…sometimes as much as thirty-four. Yay, me!

Anyway, a person starts to depend on get used to this sort of thing and when one of my pieces only drummed up a mere four this week, it stung. Ah…don’t go running to like it, now. I get it. It blew. It’s okay. Big girl pants glued in place.

3. I want to be published. Don’t we all? However, I’m nothing but talk. I haven’t taken any steps toward making this happen since 2010. I’m ecstatic my blog has me writing regularly, but I’ve also let it distract me from my ultimate goal. Don’t get me wrong. I’m extremely happy here in the blogosphere, but I’ve let it satiate me. Apparently, I want to eat my cake and not have to bake it first.

4. I used to give my house a thorough cleaning every other day and quick wipes and swipes in between. I now give it a wipe n’ swipe every few weeks and a thorough cleaning once a, ehm, year…? Something’s wrong with this picture. If I were working steadily and regularly toward my ultimate goal, this would be understandable, but like I said…

5. We have an extra fridge in our garage and it smells like something died in there. Since it only houses sealed beverages, I’m afraid this might actually be true. I have yet to investigate since my abovementioned yearly cleaning isn’t due for at least another six months.

6. The posts I spend days hours on get less likes that the ones I whip out in hours minutes. I am not sure what this says about my writing or me. If you do, please give me hint.

7. I scraped a smattering of mold off the top of the sour cream last week and let everyone have it. Expiration dates are only suggestions, aren’t they?

8. I am a fully trained and licensed Aesthetician and have, what is probably the worst skincare routine ever. It works for me. Don’t tell anyone.

9. I douse most things in hot sauce or failing that, chili peppers. I may be known to keep one of these items in my purse at any given time, but I never, ever bring my own tea bags. Promise.

10.Smallmight be slightly autobiographical.  Just sayin’.

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Through the fog, it vies for my attention. I can barely see it just below the surface of the sand. Grains scattered over the exterior, it’s mottled, difficult to visualize. Dust surrounding, settling, my view is nearly blocked.

People walk past, not seeing what I can almost see, busy, distracted. Although the sun skips on the water’s tips, a haze keeps me from seeing clearly.

I stab and strive, but can’t reach it.

The longer I wait, the deeper it drives. Rooting itself in the bottomless beneath and I fear I will miss my chance. Never see it again.

I beckon passersby, begging them to nab it. I wave and yell, scream. They take no notice of it or me, oblivious to my struggle.

I reach out for what I’m sure will be my last chance and its edges finally hint at my fingertips.

“I am yours,” it murmurs, “and only you can keep me from sinking.”

Only You

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You’ve been scrubbing your teeth, swilling the swash and downing the whiskey and water in an attempt to rid the aftertaste of my defeat from the back of your tongue. Like me, one click and you were sunk; immersed in the deep of my abyss.


I feel guilt. I gave no warning. I offered no escape.

Today is a new day. I found a ladder. Grab a rung. We’ll raise a glass at the top.

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The paths are littered with boulders, rocks and large, fallen branches. Some are blocking my way and moving them is difficult. I push and pull, tug and tear, all the while; aware I’m not alone.

I make my way up and over the many big rocks, each one cutting, bruising and scraping my skin. I shimmy under branch after branch; their leaf laden twigs, poking at my torso.

I am famished.

Gales gust through the forest and whip debris up into my face. My eyes sting with the biting force and my hands fumble at the clasped satchel strapped across my chest.

Seeking shelter behind a large trunk, I lift my meager loaf as red eyes stare out from the darkness above and paralyze me. Frozen from the cold moments before, I am now crippled with terror.

I regain my composure but realize it’s coming for me. Many more red reflections materialize in the woodland’s black backdrop and I understand the brute is not alone. The group starts to emerge from the deep and their mangy fur, glistening lips and cloth-like tongues draped over razor teeth become clear to me.

They are ravenous.

I look down, knowing the food I have will distract them, but not for more than a mere wisp of time.

I decide to run.

Holding my satchel to my chest, I bolt out into the lashing rain and flee the pack. I sail up and over rough terrain and dash past gigantic trees, their low-hanging branches narrowly missing my head. Brush slices at my cheeks but the blood is washed away by torrents pelting from the sky. The creatures snarl and snap at my heels, their teeth snag and shred the fabric of my clothes.

They are relentless.

Muscles scream and my body aches. I sense I’m reaching the end and fear the battle is lost. My journey has been long and my heart close to exploding as I climb what I believe will be my last crest. Weary, I grow, as I turn to face what will be my maker, but I see their lowered heads and tattered tails drifting back down the trail.

It’s then that I know – If I had fed them at the bottom, they would not have driven me to the top.

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I’m not a rah, rah, rah girl.  I believe I’ve mentioned before, I was never a cheerleader. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for a little support, but it can only go so far. Eventually, the game ends, everyone goes home, the pom poms are tossed and we’re alone. What then?

I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been traveling, dirty and distracted, busy, not connected to the World Wide Web; all valid reasons for my somewhat short hiatus.

We all know I could’ve made time. I had my laptop. Writing and saving to post at a later date was always an option.

But I discovered something interesting about myself – the greater the gap, the heavier the fog, the fainter my fortitude.

A few cheers along the way did light a search for what inspired the rally. I reread several of my past posts and found myself thinking; “How did I do that? How did I sound so convincing?” Convincing that is, that I believed in myself, what I was writing and my ability to write it.

It proved to me something that I didn’t know I didn’t know; belief  in one’s self is everything.

Hopefully the cheers don’t stop. They are much needed and are appreciated more than possibly known, but the belief those cheers cause us to chase is imperative to persuasive writing. Hell, belief is imperative to doing anything convincingly.

We need to enjoy the rally and not engage the boos, we’ve gotta hear the accolades and not cry over the crud, we must pledge to prepare, perform and produce, not fall prey to position.

Success is the prize; trainers, cheerleaders and coaches can help push us there, but it’s our own two feet that will find the line and finish the race.

Don’t give up your place for anyone.

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I made it to ten. Ten posts, ten snippets, ten little pieces of me out there for scrutiny. I gotta say, I’m pleased. And, not nearly as concerned about the scrutiny part of it as I probably should be.

I haven’t, so far, made my pieces particularly personal, but they do all come from some aspect, big or small, of my innermost musings. Musings I don’t often share. Thoughts that never see the light of day. Feelings I’d normally keep to myself. Introspection unglued; cut and pasted into a global village. All resident buzz welcome.

What this blog is…what it will become, is unbeknownst to me. Unlike so many others, I don’t have a theme or a premise. That would take too much focus on my part. Hazy was supposed to be a whimsical epithet, but really, it encompassed what I was thinking when contemplating a Web Log. I had a very punch-drunk perception of the life I wanted it to have and so far, I’m still in the misty.

For me, the fun lies in the obscure. The freedom of the unknown is inviting. Cracking open a new post, sitting back and watching where it takes me (don’t be fooled – I’m not doing the driving) is captivating.  Well, for me. I can only hope that for you, it’s at least mildly entertaining.

I enjoy coming across inspiration in the most surprising places. I take immense pleasure in another way of looking at things. I’m ecstatic my reflections have somewhere to call home.

Ten posts, a handful of readers and only two fibs.  Let’s not adjust the sails…the mystic’s a sweet place to be.

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