56

“You and me, we’ve met geniuses. And we know we’re not like them, don’t we? What is it like to go on, knowing you are not a genius, knowing you are a mediocrity? I think it’s the worst kind of hell.”

“Well,” Less said. “I think there’s something between genius and mediocrity—“

—Less, by Andrew Sean Greer

And that is the bar I am aiming for as I begin my 57th year. Anything between mediocrity and genius will do.

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day

I love this face

This face, this face

The space it takes

When pressed so close

To mine

The crinkled corners

Of kind blue eyes

The deepened grooves 

That earn another year today

I love the way it takes me in

The tam o’ shanter

Silly grin

That makes me laugh

(At stupid things)

The words that form

Inside its rooms

They swirl and dance

Into songs and poems

My Valentine’s Boy

He makes me sing

He makes me better

He makes me think

There was supposed to be

An earth shattering KABOOM

And oh, by God, there was

A spark, a flame, a plume

That face, that face

it caught me fast

I’m smitten now

No looking back.

Happy birthday, sweet I! ❤️❤️❤️

The Shape Of My Joy

What is the shape of your joy? 

In Kyo Maclear’s wonderful memoir, Birds Art Life, she refers to her friend Jack Breakfast and his cure for creative depression: "He had discovered his joy was bird shaped."

A few years ago, I think it was the month of June, I was walking my dogs through the local park during my lunch hour, when I heard a bird song for the first time. What I mean is, until that exact moment in time and space, this song had been nothing but white noise in my head, the soundtrack to a busy, distracted life. But on that particular day, for whatever reason, the universe opened up and it was like I heard it for the first time. Its melody was sweet and clear. Two notes in succession, repeated. I remember feeling fully aware in that moment and the distinct sensation of my heart lifting in my chest. I scanned the trees above to find the source of the music but to no avail. It was only much later, in describing it to Ian, that he identified it as a chickadee song. 

As it turned out, the shape of my joy was also a bird. And in discovering that joy, my life was permanently altered and I became a bird person.

****************************************************************************************************************

Late last night when I should have been in bed, I was busted by Ian as I edited a selection of the 500 plus bird photos I took during this past Sunday’s snowstorm (make that crazy bird lady). 

“What are you doing?”, he asked.

“Editing photos when I should be winding down.”, I replied sheepishly. I showed him the shot I was working on.

“Nice! I wrote you a poem.”, he said. “I sent it through messenger.”

“Really?” 

(As much as I love poetry, I especially love it when it’s written for me.)

Here is the poem:

My love loves taking photographs

The backyard birds are famous now

Her spirit animal

Chick a dee dee dee...

Little cuddly looking cuties 

that can't be cuddled

Cause they can't be still

If I were to describe a bird 

that most resembles her

It would be the chickadee

Predictably unpredictable 

Or unpredictably predictable

These little flitterfluff rascals

All puffed out against the 

fierce forces of winter

Flitting and quitting 

in acrobatic routines 

that never repeat. 

Peep peep

hard to photograph, a challenge

They don't sit still for long 

Not long enough to focus on. 

Always on to the next task

I'm waiting for my chickadee

To come home

— Ian Hanchet

And here is the photograph I was editing (the shape of my joy):

So tell me, what is the shape of your joy?

What’s In A Name Domain?

So I just bought a domain name thinking it would inspire me to write more blog entries. Here goes.

Actually, I bought two domain names: I purchased the second one after making a big spelling boo boo on the first one. I’ll blame that on my cataracts. Apparently I have to wait five days before canceling the first one which makes absolutely no sense to me unless they’re hoping I forget to cancel. 

In other news, I am following four times more people on Instagram than are following me which makes me rather uncool and needy. Not to mention many of the accounts that do follow me promise to make me more popular on Instagram. Sigh ... welcome to the world of social media. 

Oh, and there are a total of eleven people (still) following my blog. (If you’re reading this, you’re one of them!) Out of those eleven, two are the same people, one is my husband, three are from my defunct book club and five are (loyal) friends.

I’ve entered cancelling my domain name in my smart phone calendar. Five days seems so random. 

My domaine name is bogeyandruby.com, by the way. I was both shocked and pleased it was still available. Sounds a lot better than bogieampruby. com, don’t it?

A Little Support, Please!

I went sports bra shopping today. Not because the ones I wear aren't doing the job. Rather, I wouldn't want to be caught dead in one if I were in an accident and somebody had to perform CPR or something.

Anyone who knows me well knows well enough how much I hate clothes shopping and shopping for undergarments is no exception. Luckily, my go-to clothing store is conveniently located next to my favourite bookstore, the ideal place to console myself after a failed attempt to find something, anything that fits. (I have a lot of books, by the way.)

This particularly clothing store happens to sell a sporty line, clothes to sweat in, or in my case, stuff to sweat in AND wear to the office. I am particularly drawn to the fact that they carry an "ultra-petite" section though by section I mean one pair of stretchy pants (what the hell are sculpture pants?) that are still two inches too long for my 26" inseam.

I found the sportsbra rack at the back of the store, all black except for one conspicuous salmon-coloured model, and searched for my cup size. Uh ... what the heck does size "extra-large" translate to in cup-size? I spotted a sales clerk lurking in the shadows and asked her how the bra sizes work. She replied, "Well, I take medium.", as if that was supposed to be some kind of universal reference point for the rest of us. "I'd better try a large then.", I decided. I headed to a cubicle, undressed and pulled the claspless, crossed-back bra over my head, then grimaced in anticipation as I turned to face my reflection in the mirror. Well, folks, how do I put this? It would have been a perfect fit if I'd been looking for some sort of abdominal hernia support. Or a hammock to have a nap in before I used it to carry my coconuts home.

"How's it going in there?', the salesgirl called from the other side of the cubicle. "I'm afraid I'm not as young and perky as you.", I lamented. I need proper cups that lift and separate and provide a solid surface to rest my chin on.

Besides, I just remembered a book I need to get.

The expedition wasn't a complete loss though. I managed to snag a fall coat on my way out the door. Don't you just love stuff you can try on without undressing?

Additional rant: please, please, please, dear fashion Gods ... make skinny pants/leggings go away and bring back the boot cut. I really don't like having to take my glasses off to try on pants, never mind my shoes. And I don't like having to put my socks back on everytime I take them off. It's bad enough being 4'11" on a good day without feeling like I'm just another link in the sausage train!

Had any luck with clothes-shopping lately? Do share your stories of inspiration.

P.S. I did wear a pair of jean leggings the other day that my dear work friends bought me before my honeymoon last year. It's the first time I wore them in public and even though I was very uncomfortable and had to take my shoes and glasses off to get them on and and put my socks back on when I took them off, I wore them happily because they were chosen with love, by people I love.

An Unexpected Bucket List Item

There are some bucket list items you never think about listing until you've actually crossed them off your list. Like the one one I put a line through today: leaping from a moving vehicle.

I've thought about what I would do plenty of times if for example my brakes suddenly failed in between intersections on a busy boulevard, or my car had a blowout on the highway, or I lost control of my car crossing a bridge and it plunged into the river, or God forbid if the concrete overpass I was on suddenly gave way (scream all the way to my death would be my only option).

But nothing prepared me for Ian's car rolling away from the gas pump with me in the passenger seat and Ian inside the station hut paying the bill. After the first few seconds of shocked disbelief, I felt the car picking up speed and screamed for Ian. With my life flashing before my eyes (and an image of the running shoes I'd regrettably exchanged for sandals before leaving the house), I undid my seatbelt, opened the passenger door and leaped out of the moving car. 

Peeps, I gotta tell you, it's a lot harder to do this in real life than they make it seem in the movies. I am incredibly grateful that I recently joined a gym and have been duly practicing my deadlifts and squats. As a result I managed to plant one foot squarely on the ground, drag the other one out real quick, all the while keeping my balance. I swear the only thing missing from this stunt was a Captain Kirk barrel roll. A week or so pre-gym and I likely would have injured myself, badly.

By now, Ian had heard the commotion and ran out of the hut in time to watch his poor jeep crash into a fire hydrant. Awful as that sounds, it was a better case scenario than heading into the busy intersection just beyond. 

We examined the damage and determined the car was drivable but would need to be repaired. My only excuse for flight instead of fight was that I didn't know what else to do. Ian asked why I didn't hit the brakes. Duh, but that would only have worked if I had Gene Wilder's leg length à la See No Evil Hear No Evil instead of Hobbit feet clad in comfy sketcher sandals. Alternatively, I could have straddled the middle console, grabbed the parking brake as if it were a kettle bell, and performed the mother of all deadlifts, saving the day and the front end of the car. Obviously, neither scenario crossed my mind while my magic car ride was underway.

These kinds of accidents always leave us feeling yucky and wishing we had done things differently. Like leaving a little earlier, or stopping at a different gas station and paying at the pump, or maybe keeping our running shoes on and our wits about us. 

If I could channel Hiro Nakamura and alter the space-time continuum, I'd stay in the car this time and somehow stop it from crashing. But I didn't and we didn't, and it's only stuff, right? Stuff that can be replaced or repaired. Besides, nobody got hurt which is the best part. And what's a bucket list for after all, if not for crossing off. 

The Lone Ranger Rides Again

From over a year ago, right before my dad fell ill and the rest of us fell apart. I've made magic bars only once since.

• Last night someone in our household was farting the Lone Ranger theme song. Either that or it was me humming the William Tell Overture to a galloping rhythm. 

• Here's an oxymoron for you: rushing through a new book on meditation so that I can start meditating as soon as possible. Apparently meditation is the new sexy.

• It's a good thing I did a quick meditation before discovering I had run out of chocolate chips in the middle of baking magic batrs. Rather than shout for Ian, who wasn't home anyway, I turned off the oven, replaced inside yoga pants (jammies) for outside yoga pants, backed over the garbage can lid in the driveway, stopped at Starbucks for a latte (since I was out anyway), remained calm as I counted the cart contents of all the other people in the 8 items or less line at the grocery store, and made it home in time to answer the phone. It was Ian asking if I needed anything from Costco. 

• There's this gorgeous welcome mat at the local grocery store that reads "Bonjour" though it's not so much the message I like but rather its fresh, grass green colour. Ian, knowing me well, suggested I may do better off with a mat that says "Au Revoir".