Generation Exhausted

One. More. Day.

And then February is OVER. Bring on Spring, and bring it on NOW.

As is tradition hereabouts, towards the end of the month we have a gander at the kitchen calendar, and notice that all those things we had to do this month? They're done. And, to see what the rest of the week holds for all and sundry, the calendar page must be turned.

Since the page is turned, better grab a pen and fill in all the stuff we have to do next month. And before you know it? We're saying silly things like "And on the 31st, I've got..."

Wow. We can make a month disappear before it's even arrived.

Nonetheless - time to bid February farewell. Here's to sunny days, and warmer weather, and wonderful spring-like stuff to come. Ready? Forward....March!

Standing on guard for thee

I realized a week or so ago, that I never did tell you what happened in the Orlando airport. I think I meant to put it in a trip report on my Disney blog, but didn't get around to it. And, for some reason, I never even mentioned it to hubby until a couple of weeks ago. Just goes to show how exhausted I must have been at the end of that eight days in October.

Anywho. This is a true story of what I experienced in the Orlando airport on October 11, 2005.

We were through security and all settled in at the departure gate. Since we had something like a zillion more hours before our plane actually left, I left hubby and the gang and went a short ways away to the news-stand/bookstore place. This is always a trial - I could spend hours browsing, but I always feel guilty about how much time I'm getting to myself. So I was feeling a little anxious to begin with.

Now, keep in mind - this is 2005. If you haven't flown since 9/11, you may not know that every 25 seconds, there are announcements to watch your luggage, don't leave it unattended, REPORT any luggage unattended, etc. After a while, it's easily tuned out, but you're still kind of aware, you know? It's weird. In some ways, flying since 9/11 is a LOT different, but you get used to it.

So there I am, browsing the magazines. And I round the corner of a shelf, and there's a briefcase/laptop case-type thing on the floor, leaning up against a shelf. Okay, that's odd. Maybe it belongs to that guy.

So I kind of linger, and That Guy leaves the bookstore. So I linger some more, and I'm watching people, and realizing - no one seems to own this briefcase.

I'm feeling conflicted. The novelist in me is imagining the whole airport being evacuated, and the bomb squad swooping in. The movie-watcher in me is remembering all those movies where SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING HOW STUPID CAN THEY BE? The Canadian in me doesn't want to make a fuss.

And yet. It's four years after 9/11, and the loudspeaker is reminding me that it's my duty to report these things.

I wander away, mentally locating the fire exits, but convincing myself that I have an overactive imagination, and a tendency toward hysteria. I'm sure that, the next time I round the corner, some nice traveller will have picked up the briefcase and wandered away with his newly purchased copy of Newsweek.

I round the corner again. It's still there.

Almost 15 minutes have passed, and this briefcase is still sitting there, and I'm starting to feel very, very creeped out.

So, feeling partly foolish, and partly panicked, I go tell. Because that's what you're supposed to do, right? You're supposed to tell. THE LOUDSPEAKER SAYS REPORT, SO I'M REPORTING.

I tell the clerk. "Um...there's a briefcase over there, near the back wall? And it doesn't seem to belong to anyone, and it's been there a LONG TIME. So. I thought you should know. In case it's like, a bomb or something. You know? Unattended luggage and all that."

And the clerk says, "Someone probably forgot it. I'm sure they'll be back."

And I stare at him and know that he's never watched a disaster movie in his life. But I am Canadian, and, having decided I have a moral obligation, am determined to see it through.

So, I politely persist. "Um, don't you think you should go look? Because it's just SITTING THERE? And this is the kind of thing you see in disaster movies, and plus, Homeland Security says unattended luggage is a BIG DEAL?"

And he says, "I'm busy. I'll go see if it's still there in a while."

And I'm even more conflicted. You see, I'm Canadian, and there's that moral obligation thing, but also, I'm Canadian, and there's that I don't want to bother people thing. I don't want to be in the bookstore when it blows up, but I don't want to make a scene, either.

So, I hang around, and I try to convince the guy to go look, and finally, he does, and just as he gets there, someone appears and picks up the briefcase and takes it away.

So, no story. No reason to panic after all. But here's the facts:

You're supposed to report unattended baggage. The loudspeaker says so.

I REPORTED.

They didn't care.

Really, really makes you think, doesn't it?

Su-Do-Who?

I used to be smart. Even though I'm not American, I could name all fifty states and most of their capitals, plus name the key generals on both sides in the US Civil War.

I knew that "jumper" was British for sweater, and that Nicholas was the last of the Tsars. I knew that entymology was the study of insects, and that the area of a circle could be found by figuring out the answer to pi times the radius squared. And I knew that pi was 3.14. I knew that a badminton birdie was a shuttlecock, and when JFK got shot.

I also knew how to get a ballpoint pen mark out of a t-shirt, and that clear nail polish could stop a run in your pantyhose. (if you were lucky and your timing was good) I knew all the words to "Summer of '69" by Bryan Adams, and that Ringo Starr's real name was Richard Starkey. And that his birthday was July 7.

I was smart enough to know that the real secret to solving Rubik's Cube was learning how to take it apart and put it back together.

I knew so many things that my children thought I was brilliant. They did so.

And then along came the Sudoku, and it all went to heck in a handbasket.

Numbers tend to make me cry to begin with. Math makes my head hurt, and even though I can add, subtract, multiply and divide, I only do so when I absolutely have to. So when the child puts a Sudoku in front of me and says, "Can you help me?" I have but one option: to run screaming from the room.

And yet they LOVE them, these precious little geeks of mine. Middle Daughter in particular - they've become such a distraction from things like, oh, homework, that I have to search her room before she studies, to make sure she's not hiding one inside her French textbook.

On Saturdays, when I open my National Post, there's a big Sudoku-shaped hole; she's already been by with the scissors to cut it out. She prints them off the Web and does them. When she discovered that WalMart had WHOLE BOOKS of them,  I thought she might collapse from the sheer joy she was experiencing. (it just seems very, very wrong when a teenage girl would rather spend her gift card on a Sudoku book than a new pair of jeans)

I don't trust this obsession with Sudokus, and I certainly don't understand it. My inability to crunch the numbers just right makes me look bad. And I'm very concerned that my children are going to realize what I've been smart enough to hide from them -  that I'm not very brilliant after all.

Four the sake of a meme

Ok, this has been trickling around the blogosphere lately, and I know for a fact that Jennifer tagged me. Possibly others as well. So here goes:

Four jobs I’ve had

1. Waitress
2. Income tax preparer
3. WalMart cashier
4. Freelance writer and editor (this is current, and the BEST)

Four movies I can watch over and over

1. The Outsiders
2. Finding Nemo
3. The Breakfast Club
4. Gone With The Wind

Four places I have lived

1. Elliott Lake, Ontario
2. Sarnia, Ontario
3. Windsor, Ontario
4. Yep, that's it, just three

Four TV shows I love

1. Gilmore Girls
2. West Wing reruns (but not the last two seasons)
3. Degrassi: The Next Generation
4. Friends

Four places I’ve vacationed

1. Disney World
2. Carribean cruise
3. Kootenays, British Columbia
4. Niagara Falls

Four of my favorite dishes

1. Ramen noodles
2. Pork chops and mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy
3. Homemade macaroni and cheese
4. Lasagna

Four sites I visit daily

1. CBC.ca
2. Lileks
3. Faster Than Kudzu
4. Miss Snark

Four places I would rather be right now

1. Disney World
2. On a cruise
3. In a bookstore
4. Colorado

Four people I am tagging - two Kims and two Lindas!

1. Kim
2. Kim
3. Linda
4. Linda

I will NOT read anything into this

Thanks to new reader Crazy Lady in Vegas, I wandered over to see what the number one song was on the day that I was born. So. On September 12, 1971, topping the charts in the U.S. was....are you ready for this?

Go Away Little Girl by Donny Osmond

And in the U.K. it was:

Hey Girl, Don't Bother Me by the Tams

Geesh.

Go check your birthdate here!

I almost didn't recognize it

I've had the oddest feeling for the past few days, and I just couldn't figure out what it was. Certain elements of my life are chaotic right now - there's some beyond-my-control stuff happening with my largest client, Older Daughter is having a Crisis Of Confidence, I have a project that's not progressing as I'd like, and the calendar has reminded me that in the next eight weeks I have to publish two magazines, and an annual Baby Guide, and, oh yeah, fundraise a total of about $10,000 for two different groups. (not all by myself, but, you know)

But for the last couple of days, in spite of all that, I've felt...unburdened. More relaxed. Comfortable.  And tonight, I finally realized what it is.

It's hope.

And optimism, and enthusiasm, and look out mister, here comes the sun, I just know it.

There are lots of actual reasons why. Mommy Bloggers asked me to contribute on Valentines Day. I have that project I mentioned. The strong possibility of other writing assignments. An agent looking at a full that I feel very, very optimistic about. And February is now officially half over, and the spring clothes are out in the stores.

But it's more than that.

It feels like the little grey cloud, the one that's been hovering over me for the last several months, (a year maybe?) is finally starting to fall behind me, and I'm coming out of the grey and the gloom and into better days ahead.

Oh, and I wrote something. or the beginning of something. And it felt just like old times, and in this case, that's a good thing. There's a corner up ahead, and by god, I'm going to turn it.

So, let's all keep our fingers crossed that I'm not mis-reading all the signals, or kidding myself into seeing something that's not there, shall we?

It's all about the love

Two great Valentine's presents for me today - the first is that the hubby surprised me with a brand new set of kajillion thread-count sheets. Okay, they're actually 480-count, but boy, oh boy, the luxury!

In turn, I got him this nifty little "52 Weeks of Romance" thing I found at Shoppers. Whoo hoo hoo - scratch cards for "him" and "her" that give you....ahem...ideas.

The second present I got was the opportunity to contribute to the Great Love Fest Of 2006 that's been going on over at Mommy Bloggers. The gals over there have been posting a plethora of ponderings on love, from moms (and dads) all over the blogosphere. They've been at it for four days now - why don't you go have a look? Click here.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Telling tales out of school

I think I set a new record today - three rejections in one 12-hour period.

Ugh.

One for an article query, one for a novel query and one for a novel partial.

But!

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I do have a project I'm working on, and I hope y'all will spread the word and help me out.

I'm looking for Canadian moms and dads to share their tales of playground politics with me - the gossip, back-biting, power struggling and all around ickiness that's often found in schools' parent volunteer groups, like PTAs, Parent Councils, etc.

If you're a Canadian parent who fits the bill and would be willing to chat on the record with me, please email me at shelleyatshelleyhaggertdotcom. And be sure to pass the word along to your friends, relatives and neighburs!

Get your hands out of my drawers

I'm almost positive that my mother - being the good and wonderful mother that she is - (hi mom!) - always made sure that I started each school year properly equipped for the year ahead. As it was the olden days, she probably didn't have to invest a small fortune in things like pencils, pens, notebooks and crayons; those things were likely provided happily by the Taxpayers.  But I know my mom, and I know she would have made sure that I had what school supplies I needed, whatever they might have been.

But I was an irresponsible child. (although I've since decided that I was not irresponsible, but rather, a creative genius, perpetually misunderstood. And disorganized. Very, very disorganized.)

Where was I? Oh yes. I was THAT kid. The kid who, by eighth grade, had totally alienated every other kid in the class by constantly asking to borrow a pen, coloured pencil, sheet of lined paper, you name it. By tenth grade, I don't think I was even bothering with a backpack anymore. I'd show up for class, borrow a pen from the kid in front of me, paper from the kid behind me, and at the end of class, shove my notes in my jeans pocket. And the next day, start all over.

Fast forward to These Days. You know, These Days Of More Taxes, Less Taxpayer Funded Stuff. At the beginning of each school year, parents are given a list of supplies that they are required to provide so that their children may fully participate in the Joy Of Public Education. The list grows each year, and the subtotal is about the equivelant of the GDP of a small nation. We not only buy pens and pencils and crayons, we also have to supply j-cloths and Kleenex (tm). No doubt, by 2010, kids will be expected to provide their own desks.

Little Susie: Mommy, do I have a college fund?

Mommy: We started one, but we ended up spending it on magic markers and graph paper.

Now that I'm a grown up, I'm very possesive of my "school" supplies. Of course, I call them office supplies now - paper clips, pens, spiral notebooks. Glue sticks. Scotch(tm) tape. I'm footing the bill for the things that fill my cute little rolling cart, and they're MINE.

Sadly, my kids are no better at keeping track of their Crayolas than I was when I was a child. So, on any given day, a kid is wandering through the house in search of a glue stick, cue cards, pair of scissors, calculator. Even my teenaged brother next door comes begging for supplies to do his homework. And, of course, they're wandering into my office.

Lately, this has me feeling very territorial. Of course, this might have something to do with the fact that last night my keyboard keys were covered with glue because a child, using MY glue stick, and MY scissors, sat at MY desk to do her homework.

Or it might have something to do with the fact that also yesterday, I needed a glue stick and Scotch(tm) tape, and my cute little rolling cart yielded nothing. A glue stick was eventually procured from my brother next door, and the hubby - braver than I - ventured into the teen's room and found the Scotch(tm) tape.

So I've decided - once an agent realizes how wonderful my novel is, and signs me, and sells my book, the first thing I'm buying is a new cute little rolling cart with a LOCK. Because I worked hard to become more responsible with my stuff, and these kids are messing up my progress.

Entering the Frey Fray

I had no intention of picking up A Million Little Pieces, and had detached myself from much of the media surrounding the book over the last few weeks. However, a friend, who read Frey's book before his credibilty ended up frayed, (sorry, I couldn't resist) has handed it to me.

And god, who gets a free book and doesn't at least TRY to read it?

So. I'm taking a mini-retreat of sorts for the next few days and will be Away From Desk. During that time, I hope to regroup, re-xamine, and re-focus, and figure out just what the heck I'm aiming for, particularly with my writing, over the next few years. And I'll have time to read A Million Little Pieces.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting to get out of it, other than perhaps a good read. But it's hard to ignore the controversy and discussion; everyone with a keyboard seems to have weighed in, in one way or another, over the last few weeks.

Linda brought up the point that concerns me most. What is Frey's Mistake going to mean for those of us who write creative non-fiction? Are we doomed now to a future that includes rabid, hyper-active fact-checking? Editing that removes all semblance of entertainment and individuality from the tales we tell? Are our innocent exaggerations, the things we...embellish...going to be held up as one more example of Lies And The Lying Liars Who Tell Them?

Because...um...we don't always tell the truth.

Ok, that's a lie. We DO tell the truth, we just tell it from an individual perspective that may or may not mesh perfectly with the perspective of our eyewitnesses. And yeah, sometimes we exaggerate. Other times, we condense. It all depends on what the story calls for.

I wrote about our Adventures With Head Lice once. I've been told it was a laugh-out-loud, excellent piece that anyone who'd Battled The Bugs could relate to. In it, I claim that I spent so many hours leaning over checking little heads, that I developed arthritis in my neck.

Truth? It FELT like arthritis. No one ever told me it wasn't. But no one ever told me it was, either. So, is it a lie? And does it matter?

Here's another example:

My version: I was three years old, and my mother was taking me for a checkup. She let me out the door to wait on the porch, and said, "Don't go near the garage." I walked over to the garage, tripped on the gravel, and fell in a bucket of motor oil.

My mother's version: I was two years old, and I escaped out the back door, ran to the garage and LEAPT in a bucket of motor oil.

They're both true - they're just different sides of the same story. The end result was the same - I ended up in a bucket of motor oil, and had to get all my hair cut off because they couldn't get it clean.

As last week progressed, it became pretty clear that Frey didn't just mis-remember, he lied. And humorous exaggerations about parenting perils don't necessarily have the same impact as Frey's fables. But I'm sure that many writers like me are asking themselves the questions I've been asking myself:

Will this change how and what I write?

Will this change what publishers are looking for?

and most important....

Will my kids some day sue me for telling the world they had head lice?