Registration for Special Students
Author: jill
•9:03 PM
The other day, we strode across the University of Windsor campus - Addie C. and I - like we owned the joint.

Okay ... it was 9:15 on a Friday morning and all the regular students were at some summer job earning money toward their education. Or, they were still sleeping. But still ... I was on campus and I was handing in papers. Important papers.

Papers - a portfolio of my writing, to be exact - that will determine whether I will be admitted into Creative Writing I.

I guess, that if I am not signed into the class, I will know that I should pursue another goal in life. Which is good ... because I don't want to spend a couple of years studying, only to be told at the end that perhaps I should move in another direction.

For now, I must wait. But I have registered for my other classes. Do you remember this process of selecting what you will study for the next semester? It's a little scary ... pieces of paper scattered about, each one with very important tidbits of information, laptop glowing with overuse, and a woman mumbling to herself, generally ignoring her family and their needs/wants/whining/fighting.

Back in those old-fashioned days of the late 1980s, we would pick up a newspaper that listed all the courses being offered, and then try to coordinate a schedule that did not include any classes on Friday. In my first year, we actually had to stand in a line and hand a paper to someone (like, a real person ... I kid you not) with the course numbers we wanted to take. S/he would then tell us whether the class was full or available. If it was full, you had to submit an alternative ... which meant that you had to be prepared for any scenario. Or, you had to be prepared to come back later that day and wait in a very long line again ... without a Blackberry to entertain you. I am sure that I do not have to explain the stress this type of situation would create for a person like me. 

In my second year, there was new state-of-the-art technology, and we could register by phone - similar to banking by phone. That is how I registered for my classes for the rest of my university career. And, if a class was full, you could end your session, play around with your schedule (ensuring no Friday classes), and then call back.

Now, of course, everything is done over the Internet. Which means you must use a computer. A computer who does not know when someone is special ...

My Mom has always told me that I am special ... I am seeing now that she may have a point. But being special is not always a good thing. In the interest of being politically correct, the correct terminology for a girl woman person like me is not "mature" but a "returning" student ... a student with an Honours Degree who needs to pick up some required (undergrad) courses in order to be allowed admittance into a Masters prorgam. In the University computer, I am coded as a Semester 8 Student ... which my Mom might call "special," or you might call "mature" but that the computer only knows as "returning." Which is NOT a first-year student ... keep this information in mind.

When I first looked into pursuing some education in Creative Writing, I met with a professor. A really nice guy, he told me that to enter into the Masters program, I first need to have an undergrad degree in English ... which is no problem because I have already taken several English courses, and will only need to pick some required courses to qualify for an English degree. However, one of those courses is a first-year course and you must be in your first year to register for it. But I am a Semester 8 student, remember? I am special.

So, my first hurdle was to convince some poor English professor to take pity on me - because I am old and special - and sign me into their already full Writing About Literature course. But I did it, and was ready for the next challenge.

I hope it has not escaped you that in a few short weeks, I will be sitting in a university classroom with a bunch of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. I will appear to them to be an old lady ... I could be their mother. Ugh. This sends Jonesy into fits of laughter.

The second hurdle to overcome in the world of "course registration" came when I tried to register for my second course, Contemporary Literary Theory. One must have a minimum of Semester 3 standing (check, because last I inquired 8 is bigger than 3) and have taken one other English course. This is where the problem lies ... the computer does not recognize the courses I took as part of my previous degree ... my old degree is not sharing its information with my new plans in the computer. So, I (once again) had to get special persmission to be signed into the course. Once again, my Mom was right ... I am special.

I actually registered like an average (that is, un-special) student for my third course, Early British Literature. And, as already mentioned, I am awaiting news on my fourth course, Creative Writing I. Now the hard part begins because I have to wait for the summer to be finished. But, who wishes the summer away? Me ... that's who.

So, as we strolled across campus the other day - well, Addie C. ran and I walked at a normal pace for an almost forty-one-year-old woman - I felt excited. Excited for the Fall Semester to begin. Excited for possibilities. Excited for the Back-to-School shopping.

Excited for Frosh Week ... because if I am registered in first-year courses, I can attend all the Frosh Week Activities, right?
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We Grew up in That Water
Author: jill
•4:09 PM
On June 19th, he would have been thirty-eight years old. He would be a man now. And on the day that he would have turned thirty-eight years old, I stood in the same lake that took him from us for the first time in the twenty-one years that he has been gone.

On June 11, 1989, at about 7:50am, there was a knock at the door. I can assure you that if you get an unexpected knock on the door early in the morning, it cannot be good news. I was faced with a police officer, who told my father and I that my brother was missing, and presumed drowned. My mother was hosting a class reunion and had spent the night at a local hotel with her nursing classmates. It would be another hour before she would know her son was gone. Which was okay because obviously, there had been some kind of mistake. Your brain is an amazing organ because its main function is to protect you from the things that you are unable to deal with; and in this case, my brain told me that there must have been some kind of mistake ... because my brother was both an outdoorsman and an excellent swimmer. I found out later that my Mom's brain was working in the same manner as mine because when they arrived at the beach, she made my Dad search through all the long weeds along the shore. She was sure that he had reached the beach but was too exhausted to call out for help. Yes, your brain works hard to protect you.

However, there had not been a mistake, and we were eventually forced to face the reality that he was gone. For each member of my family, our lives changed in that instant.

The beach that my brother had spent his last hours of life was the same beach that we had grown up on. In a previous post I mentioned that my parents owned a cottage just outside Rondeau Provincial Park on Lake Erie. We grew up in that water ... we swam at dusk in that water, we had contests to see who could hold their breath the longest in that water, my Uncle gave us 100-pounders in that water, we swam in rain storms in that water, we had races out to the sand bar in that water, and we swam when that water was so rough that we could body surf the waves, pretending we were real surfers like the ones in California. And it was fun ... in fact, perhaps it was a time when I was actually carefree. We grew up in that water. So, you see, it seems impossible to believe that same water could hurt us. Consequently, as I stood there more than twenty years later, watching that same water wash over my feet as my own children played and splashed one another, I tried not to imagine the day that same water had spit him out onto the shore for some poor young mother to happen across on a walk with her little boy, almost two weeks after he had gone missing. 

His canoe capsized after they had paddled out too far in the lake. The police later told us that his friend reported they could no longer see the shore, and decided that they should turn the canoe around. This was a fatal error. His friend made it to shore; my brother did not.

And so, I have not been back there since his death ... to the same Rondeau Park that had brought me such great times as a child. In fact, while my parents visited that beach every day until he was found - waiting for news from the police search and rescue-turned-recover  team - I could never make myself go, except for their last day of searching. I arrived in time for them to call the search off.

About a month ago, my parents announced they had reserved a campsite at Rondeau Provincial Park and they wanted my family to join them for Father's Day weekend. I am not an avid camper ... I am more of a "shower-every-day, avoid-the-humidity-at-all-costs" kind of girl who can appreciate a fun campfire. However, if I push all my aversion to camping aside, it was really the idea of visiting that place again. That place that had taken by little brother away. It might seem strange but consider your feelings if you had to visit the exact hospital room where a loved one had died ... how would you feel? Overwhelmed? Sad? Perhaps, relief that suffering was over? Whatever the emotion, you cannot hide ... I was no longer able to avoid thinking about that force of nature that swooped down and took away a life. A life that was very important to me.

But, a strange thing happened. I felt relaxed at Rondeau Provincial Park. I felt reassured and comfortable; everything was familiar. The big dock ... still had lots of fisherman on it. The little grocery store where you could get an ice cream cone is still there ... it's been fixed up a bit, but it is still there. The cottage my grandparents once rented is still there. The house my parents built when I was three years old is still there. The Nature Museum is still there. And yes, our old cottage ... although greatly modernized and expanded ... is still there. Some things are gone ... most notably, my Grampa's dance hall ... but everything was familiar.

And so, I found myself overcome with emotion but not overcome with sadness. Don't get me wrong, that beach will always invoke great emotion in me. But I felt more happiness from the memories that surfaced about my time spent there as a kid, with my brother, than sadness that would warrant me avoiding this place that been so important to our family. I had some unexplained flashes of things that I could not fully remember, and some things came to mind that I had not thought of in years: like the (imagination-inspired) games we used to play in the forest around our cottage, and the beach parties, and the little secret fishing hole where you could always find my brother with his fishing rod and a small container of left-over corn kernals ... that was his secret bait, but I don't think he would mind if I told you.

I wonder if it was his presence I felt out there? Maybe it was him that made me feel okay. Do you think that could happen?

His name was Joel and I still miss him every day. He would have turned thirty-eight years old this past Saturday. Wish he could have come camping with us to celebrate. Wish he could have known his nephew and nieces. I just wish so many things.
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The Journey Along the Pathway of Life
Author: jill
•10:40 PM
The other night I awoke from a dream laughing and felt extremely happy. Like, over-the-top elated with happiness. I did not feel stress or worry or pressure to get something done. It was like I was in a bubble and couldn't hear anything from the outside world. I felt carefree and without concern for anything. It was freeing, this sense of happiness.

I haven't felt that kind of unburdened joy in quite some time.

This is not to say that I am in a deep depression and walking around in a constant state of gloominess. But I am saying that I always have something on my mind and something I need to get done ... what to make for school lunches, a book to read, a temper tantrum to resolve, a snack to prepare, an errand to run. I am saying that I am a Mom responsible for three young children. I am happy, but I am not carefree. In fact, I'm not sure that I have ever been carefree ... it's sort of how my brain operates.

Are you happy with your life? Are you doing what you want to do with it? Are you spending your time in a way that makes you feel good (inside)? Do you do things with a sense of purpose, or do you do them because you feel like you should?

Recently I read No Impact Man by Colin Beavan, and wrote about his project to live for one year without having any impact on the environment. Click here, if you want a refresher.

One of things that Beavan discovers (quite unexpectedly, I might add) while living an impact-free life are the things that really make him happy. He learns about what things he truly enjoys doing. He begins by recounting a typical day ... he rushes around in the morning to get his daughter to her babysitter; then he rushes off to work; he works through his day, often spending ten hours at his craft, and sometimes becoming impatient for the work day to end; and then he rushes to get his daughter from the babysitter; on his way home he picks up the take-out du jour for supper and then continues home to get his little princess fed, bathed and tucked in for the night. He and his wife then share a night in front of the television and their laptops simultaneously until they are finally ready to go to sleep. And then they get up the next morning to start all over again.

Sound familiar?

But while working on the No Impact Project, he took the time to consider whether he felt happy about how he was living his life. Not just with regard to the environment, but with respect to how he spent his time. Why did he work for ten hours a day, when seven or eight was enough? Why didn't he take his little girl to the park more often? He tries to answer his own questions by suggesting that people work long hours so that they can buy stuff or do stuff or pay off stuff. Because the more stuff you buy or the more fabulous (and by fabulous, I mean expensive) the vacation, the happier you feel, right?

Psychologists refer to this phenomenon as the hedonic treadmill. When you buy something, it gives you a burst of pleasure. It makes you feel good, this thing you have purchased. Likely, you are excited because it is something that interests you or will make your life easier in some way. I feel this way after buying a book ... before I am even finished reading the book I bought, the thrill wears off and I am looking for the next one.

Beavan considers (in a very clever and unassuming way) whether he is spending his free time in a way that makes him feel fulfilled. Does rushing around until you literally drop on the couch each evening make him feel fulfilled? Does it make you? Could you be happy with the things you have currently, without having to travel around town all the time, picking "stuff" up or dropping "stuff" off? Do you ever do things because you think you should, or to keep up with your neighbours or your co-workers or your friends? Do these things that you feel obligated to do make you feel happy inside? Are they necessary for existence? For instance, is it really necessary to have really super green grass? Or, the biggest television money can buy? Or, a new car every three years?

That is a lot of questions to ask yourself. And you might not like the answers, if you are honest with yourself.

For me, it is the reasoning behind the decision. If you really enjoy gardening and take pride in your yard/landscaping/garden, then ... yes, it is necessary for you to have super green grass. Because it fills you with a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, and you enjoy working on it. But should you feel obligated to make your grass as green as your neighbour's? Or your Dad's? Or your friend's?

And, if you feel the need to run out and buy a pair of very expensive shoes because a colleague at work bought a pair, then I question your motives. Unless shoes are your sole reason for existing.

Beavan recalls rushing to get to the park, so his daughter could start to have fun. He was almost pushing her along the sidewalk and became frustrated when she stopped to play with a chain hanging off a fire hydrant. But it was then that he realized his daughter was already having fun.Because, sometimes, it is the walk to the park that is the fun part.

Could it be that the real excitement we all crave is in the journey along the pathway of life? Not in the destination?

Why can't we enjoy the here and now? I realize that we all have to earn a paycheque in order to survive, but we don't have to make earning money the centre of our world. We don't have to rush through life, trying to get more; instead, we could just enjoy ourselves. Why did I have to challenge myself to read one hundred books? Why couldn't I just enjoy them at whatever was a comfortable pace? I'll tell you why ... because I was looking for the burst of excitement that comes from accomplishing something other than seven loads of laundry all in one day.

The thing is ... psychologists have learned that the happiest people are those who do not live on the hedonic treadmill. They enjoy what is happening in their lives now. They do not live for tomorrow. And they do not buy things to make themselves feel good about what themselves. They do not feel obligated to do things ... they do them because they want to.

It is hard to be different from others though. I think it is a natural instinct (for most people) to want to be liked; to want to fit in with everyone else. Probably because it is easier; but also because when you buy a new patio set and your friends all tell you how much they like it, you probably mistake that for them really liking you, too. And it makes you feel good. So sometimes it is difficult to do what is right for you when it makes you stand out from everyone else. For instance, what if you didn't want to have a patio set in your backyard, like all your friends? Instead, you decided scatter lawnchairs around your yard and to refurbish an (old-fashioned) picnic table for those nights its not too hot to eat outside. Would you feel self-conscious because it is different from all your friends' backyards?

I believe that it is much easier when you do something because you strongly believe in it, rather than because you are forced to. Perhaps it makes you feel good to refurbish something, instead of buying something new because it has become important for you to re-use and re-cycle. Beavan had a self-realization every time he found a way to get what he wanted without having to buy something new ... like his refurbished bike. However, you may not have the same feeling if the reason you did not purchase the new patio set that you love so much was because you were unable to afford to.

Am I making any sense? I feel like this is a mix-up of the many thoughts spewing out of my brain.

When I was an infant, I had an infection in my shoulder. The infection caused damage to the bone and the way that it would develop. I was lucky that the infection set in my shoulder instead of my hip ... but I do not feel lucky because it makes my body different from yours. One of my arms is more than four inches shorter than the other, and the range of motion is restricted. Sometimes it is not noticeable at all; other times, I'm sure it is all people can see - depends on what I am wearing and doing. Jonesy has always said that it is part of who I am and I should embrace it but I would do anything to make it go away because it makes me different from you. Of course, it is much easier to deal with now, as an adult, but there were some very upsetting times when I was growing up. I have been forced (by Mother Nature or Fate or some other natural force) to deal with an arm that makes me different (for my whole life) ... but I don't believe in it. I don't want to do it.

However, I do strongly believe that the state of our food supply and its production is atrocious and I would talk about it until I was blue in the face if I thought I could make a difference. I don't mind telling you that I am willing to pay a little more for a food item if it is organic or local or nutritionally sound ... even if it means I buy a little less. I don't mind telling you that giving my children carbonated drinks or KoolAid is unthinkable. I look forward to picking blueberries with my kids in the summer ... because it is fun and because I gain some satisfaction in harvesting the food we are going to eat. I don't mind telling you that I make the majority of our food from scratch ... please note that I am not telling you that I always enjoy doing it, but just that I do it. And I don't mind telling you these things because I feel very strongly about them and I don't care if that makes me different from other people. It is important to me. However, I have been questioned about my strong ideas with regard to my food choices and talked about behind my back ... because I do not choose to give my children sugary drinks and prefer organic, locally grown food if I can find it. But I don't care.

As Beavan takes away all the modern conveniences and technology, he begins to realize what is important to him. For the first time in his life, he actually prepares food for their meals ... and he enjoys doing it. He learns that television is really not all that important. He learns about really doing things with his time, and the art of conversation ... with people instead of keyboard. He wrote, "Four weeks after the project began, we weren't just changing the way we lived; changing the way we lived was changing us."

So, I ask you ... are you enjoying the here and now? Are you making the most of your free time? Are you doing what is right for you, even if it makes you a little different from your friends?

It is in this spirit of relishing the journey along the pathway of life that I share some exciting news ... I am returning to University of Windsor to study Creative Writing and Literature, working toward a Masters Degree. I have found a real love for writing, and I want to learn more about it. I want to study the great writers and I want to learn more techniques. I want to broaden my knowledge and investigate whether I could actually earn some $money$ as a writer. As is usually the case with me, I feel like education is the place to start ... the publishing industry, the art of writing, the History of Language. Yes, that is the actual name of a course I will be taking. Okay, maybe I'm a little more interesting in Creative Writing I, but I will endure learning the History of Language if it will get me where I need to be. And who knows, maybe I will enjoy learning the history of language. After all, I do love words.

And so where does this new turn of events leave my challenge? Let's be honest, I was probably not going to read one hundred books in one year. However, I will continue to read over the summer, and blog as I go. But the pace is sure to slow because my kids want me to conduct a summer school of sorts ... more about that on another day.

And, I'm hoping to be able to find the time for my blog while I learn more about Creative Writing ... a professor has already warned me that two of my four courses are very "writing" heavy, but I'm sure I'll have time for a few Addie C. stories at least. After all, she starts school in September, too. And wherever Addie C. goes, a story is sure to follow.

So, don't give up on me if I have not written for a few days. I love this too much to walk away from it.
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What Impact Do You Want to Have?
Author: jill
•2:30 PM
Because we don't think about future generations, they will never forget us.
                  - Henrik Tikkanen, Finnish author and artist

When you are trying to read 100 books in 1 year, you are constantly on the prowl for good books. As I noted in an earlier post, I will be using The List as a guideline, and if something does not draw me in immediately, I will invoke the (self-described) right to substitute. So, I always want to have a substitute ready in the wings.

To be honest, I already have a very long list of substitutes started. Friends have sent me the names of their favourite books, and I have come across many titles that have grabbed my attention for one reason or another. For instance, have you heard of the Millenium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson? It wasn't really the books that drew me in, but the story surrounding the death of the author. This trilogy of books was not published until after he had died, and has gone on to become international best-sellers.

But, I digress.

One morning while drinking my coffee, I was browsing around the Yummy Mummy Club website, when I happened upon a contest for a free book. Win a book? A free book? Sounded good to me, so I entered my name, and to my surprise I won (by random draw). I never win anything, this was big news at my house. Hey if you like to win stuff too, the Yummy Mummy Club has many contests for all kinds of great stuff. Check it out sometime!

I just finished reading my free book that I won, called No Impact Man by Colin Beavan. My head is spinning with information and thoughts ... I hardly know where to start. When this happens, the only thing I can do is start at the beginning.

Colin Beavan is a writer who lives in New York City with his wife and toddler, Isabella. He is not a political activist, nor did he consider himself an authority on environmental issues. He is a regular guy who works for a living, but he began to question how he wanted to live his life. He started to take notice of the state of the Earth. He wondered about global warming, and emissions in the air, and what sustainable eating meant. He asked himself, not whether we use our natural resources, but what we could use them for.

After much thought, he decided that he couldn't be one of those people who talks about how terribly we (as a planet) sustain our natural resources without trying to do something about it. He made the decision to live for one year, exerting as little impact on the planet as he could. His philosophy can be summed as this ....

     Negative Impact + Positive Impact = No Net Impact

So, he set out with his wife and his little girl in tow, to see what he could learn about living an environmentally conscious life and what he could learn about himself.

He broke the No Impact Project into seven phases. The first was to eliminate all garbage from his life. Can you imagine not creating one piece of garbage? It seems impossible, but he did it. You must be willing to give up many things and make some major changes to the way you conduct your daily business. Just as an example ... NO plastic bags. Sure, we are all trying to use the canvas tote bags, but it goes beyond that. If you will recall, I have declared my newfound love for the Bulk Barn? Well, how would you have your purchases weighed and how would you transport them home, if not for the use of plastic bags? I have tried to reassure myself that I re-use those (BulkBarn) bags for marinating meat, or storing muffins. But still, when I am finished with them, I put them into the garbage. But the part that really makes me take pause is that throw-away plastic bags are constructed of material that is designed to last forever.

The issue of plastic is overwhelming for me. It seems like a battle we cannot win, which is the wrong attitude to take ... but it is very overwhelming. Every piece of plastic ever created is somewhere on the planet right now. It just doesn't go away. And when in gets in the water, it breaks down into miniscule balls of plastic that are ingested by the fish and then ingested by us when we eat the fish. In fact, according to Beavan (and I have read this elsewhere as well) human beings have these miniscule bits of plastic flowing in their bloodstreams now. Along with many other foreign chemicals ... but we'll talk about that another day. I've got enough on my mind for now.

Plus, I love plastic straws. Some drinks are just not enjoyable without a straw ... Fruit Smoothies, for example. I make the most incredible Fruit Smoothies using just frozen fruit and juice, but you must drink it with a straw. My kids like ice water with a straw. Yes, we really like straws and Ziploc baggies at my house. Ziploc baggies are convenient and come in just the right size - which is whatever size you need. And I refuse to wash them; in fact, when I have tried to wash them it makes me annoyed and angry. Furthermore,  they don't look pretty anymore because the soap never rinses out properly. So, I just don't do it. I buy more instead and live with the guilt. Again, this is just wrong.

To make matters even worse, now that I have read No Impact Man, I realize that in the water, plastic bags look like jellyfish to sea turtles. And, the turtles eat the plastic bags. But guess what? The bag cannot be digested, so it ends up blocking their digestive tract until they die from starvation. Just because I like to use plastic bags. So, now the guilt is becoming overwhelming.

I have also taken notice of how much "stuff" we throw out. Plastic bags and containers and meshing are used for so many products. Packaging is a huge problem for the environment. Huge. Because plastic is not as "recyclable" as you might think. Just this morning I threw away, two plastic food packages, a plastic (Bulkbarn) bag, four straws, a small piece of saran wrap and some toast crusts ... all before nine o'clock. Ugh.

So, for Colin Beavan and his family to produce no garbage for one entire year is really an incredible feat, without even considering all the other things he did for the environment. Think about it ... could you produce no garbage for one year? For one week? For even one day?

The only modes of transportation he allowed himself were walking, and his bicycle. This was easy for him because he lives in New York City, but it was a huge adjustment because they were accustomed to travelling by taxi. However, one of the biggest hurdles for their family was giving up travel by airplane, to visit family.

Basically, the Beavan family adhered to the principles of the 100-mile diet; although they allowed themselves a 250-mile radius based on the recommendation from an organization promoting local foods. They ate a lot of cabbage in the winter months and enjoyed a bountiful supply of many different foods in the summer months. This would be the easiest part of the Project for me to undertake, but having said that it would still be a challenge. Unless you can locate a local coffee bean grower, coffee is out; salt could be a problem; dairy products, if you eat them, could be difficult to find. However, once you start to look around, I bet you will learn about all the great local food sources in your neck of the woods. I'll be writing more about this on another day.

People like to buy stuff, don't you think? I mean, people are buying stuff all the time. And, they like to show off their new stuff.



Carlin's routine is funny and provides me with some much needed entertainment in this post. However, the rate at which people buy stuff and throw stuff away is ridiculous. Doesn't anyone try to fix things anymore? I can hear my mother snickering right now ... because didn't your parents tell you not to waste things? Mine did. However, I can see that my children have not learned this value. In fact, there have been several times where I have tried to explain that if something is broken, it is gone forever. But it doesn't work, because they have been to the stores with me.

"Addison, don't step on those CDs," I said, just this morning. "If they are broken, you won't be able to watch your movies any more."

"No, Mommy," she explains. "You can just buy more at the store." Sad, isn't it? But I bet your children have said the same thing to you.

Stuff today is designed to only be around for a short time. Cars are leased for only three years, we have purchased three vacuums in our sixteen year marriage, two sets of a washer and dryer, and I honestly don't know how many VCR/DVD players we have owned. Are the car makers trying to tell us that their cars are only good for three years? The fancy term is called planned obsolescence ... watch this video called The Story of Stuff and you will understand ...



I know, I know ... it's twenty minutes; but it is a twenty minutes well spent, in my opinion. What makes me angry is the fact that as consumers we are taken advantage of. I mean, there are some things that we do not need to replace ... like a blender or an i-Pod. Life will go on without these things - by that, I mean that you could survive. You might not be "cool" but you would survive. But a washing machine or a refrigerator must be replaced. And when you are forced to buy a new one every five years or six years, it's ridiculous. But, you'll do it because you need those things ... and that is what those big companies rely on.

The most ludicrous example of this is the home printer and replacement ink. You can purchase a new printer, which includes the ink cartridges, for less than the price of replacement ink cartridges. But what are you going to do with old printer? Throw it away?

The fifth phase of Beavan's Project is to give up electricity. This, of course, was the most difficult thing to live without. But he does it. What would be hardest for you to give up? Me? Ummmmm ... computer, refrigeration, and I would not live without a washer/dryer. I wouldn't. Or, a dishwasher. But I do not watch television very often, so I would not miss it at all. However, I will be very excitedly tuning in for the new season of True Blood starting in exactly five days. The promotional tag is "Do Bad Things" .... Oh my God, I cannot wait to do bad things with Alexander Skarsgard!! Uh-oh ... once again, I digress.

The sixth phase of the No Impact Project is to reduce his usage of water. So, Beavan and his wife do things like shower every other day, and turn the water off while brushing their teeth. But Beavan also wanted to reduce the number of pollutants in the water. So, they did not use shampoo or dish soap, or soap of any kind, as a matter of fact. Again, I would have a couple of problems in this area because I NEED shampoo and conditioner, which amounts to a lot of pollutants to the water, I think. But I need them ... I really do. In fact, I need to shower every day. It seems as though I may not be able to help the environment at all, at the rate I am going. But I want to, I swear I do.

And, finally, Beavan wants to take part in the movement to give back to the Earth. He wanted to help restore some of the damage that we have done. So, he planted trees and he cleaned up garbage. And, he learned a great deal about the state of our planet, and the ways in which we can work toward sustaining our natural resources.

What is environmentalism, really? Beavan describes it as follows ...
"... environmentalism is not about trying to use less but about trying to be more. It is not about sucking our tummies in but pushing our hearts out. Environmentalism is not about the environment. It is about people. It is about a vision for a better life - for people."

Beavan learned that there is one natural resource that people have chosen to ignore, and that is their life. He chooses to use his life as a resource that can give back to the Earth.

Think about what kind of place you want your children and your grandchildren and your grandchildren's children to have. Think about it and decide what you want to do to make their lives better. And then do it. Because maybe if we each do a little bit, we can actually do a lot.

  
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Addie C. Jones and the Re-Styled Pink Party Dress
Author: jill
•9:53 AM
I am currently reading a book in which the author confronts the idea that most of us do not enjoy what is happening right now. We wish we were younger. We wish our children would move on to the next (developmental) stage. We can't wait until the weekend or our week of vacation at the end of July. Why do we rush through the things we are doing? Why do we rush to get to the park? Why do we rush around doing errands on Saturdays? Why do we hurry and eat supper?

He says that we should enjoy the here and now.

Obviously, he has not lived with Addie C. Jones, or he would understand that the reason I rush through supper (on some days) is because it means that I am one step closer to bedtime. And the quiet.

When the kids get home from school, it gets a little chaotic on most days. Everyone is talking at the same time, about something different. Backpacks are unpacked, popsicles are chosen. Some go outside, some go to the computer, some go to the television.

But today, Addie C. just disappeared for a few minutes. This, of course, means trouble. Eventually, she turns up and decides to follow Marnie outside. However, as she is running by the kitchen, I notice that something just doesn't look right with her dress.

"Stop!" I call after her. Addie C. comes back to the kitchen.

"Yes, Mommy?" she asks. She sounds sweet, doesn't she? All innocent and everything.

"What is on your dress?" I ask her. "Can you show Mommy please?"

She smiles her biggest smile. She proudly shows off how she has taken a dark green marker and decorated the sash on her pretty pink party dress. Why is she wearing a pretty pink party dress on a regular Wednesday afternoon, you ask? Because this is Addie C. Jones and every day is a party for her.



So, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of the message from the book I am reading. I need to enjoy the here and now because she is not always going to be a very cute little four-year-old girl. Someday soon we will be arguing over make-up and skirts that are too short or shirts that too revealing or curfews. Plus, this particular dress is getting small and we didn't have any special parties planned that require a pretty pink dress.

Addie C. is very creative, don't you think? I mean, I bet there are times when you have wanted to change your pretty dress to make it an original ... change the colour, or add some kind of embellishment. Addie C. is not the type of girl to wear a dress "off the rack" because  - and I think we can all agree on this - Addie C. Jones is an original. 

Jonesy and I told her how pretty she looked and she smiled her biggest smile again. So proud of herself. Then, I took her picture.



The back door slammed as she ran outside to torture her older sister. Me? I went back to stirring my spaghetti sauce, counting the minutes until bedtime.
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A Sight for Sore Eyes
Author: jill
•11:07 AM
Addie C. had a terrible day today. She needs to get some more sleep. I think I have written about this before because it seems to have become a recurrent problem. She gets behind on her sleep and then things get pretty tense around here. And today was the breaking point ...

In a moment of bad judgment, or perhaps just utter frustration, I took her to her bedroom for a time out. We both needed a moment to regroup. However, Addie C. was not going to use her time effectively, and chose to stand at her bedroom door, screaming at the top of her lungs. Begging to come out, pulling on the door knob. While I, being the excellent parent that I am, stood on the other side holding that same door knob so she could not escape.

But I just couldn't do it. I felt like Julia. Julia the completely demented stepmother, and poor Addie was my Francine. So, I opened the door and let her out ... with strict instructions that she must lay down in Mommy's bed and watch a movie. We each ran off in opposite directions ... she to my bedroom with her blankie in hand, and me to the couch with my latest book in hand. Because I had to know how Francine was going to escape the evils of her stepmother...

Do you even know what I am talking about? If you have read A Sight for Sore Eyes by Ruth Rendell, you know that Teddy rescues Francine. But does he really? That is the question.

If you have to write a paper for an English class, and you need something to write about, pick up A Sight for Sore Eyes. I absolutely love this type of book because it is a psychological study of people. And you can speculate about why the characters turn out to be the way they are.

Teddy Brex is born to disadvantaged parents. Okay, I am being polite. Teddy's parents are losers and they really had no business trying to raise a child. But I guess that is point; they didn't really try to raise him. He was never touched, cuddled, or talked to. I think that the only time he was actually handled was when his diaper was changed; and I don't think that happened very often. He was not loved; in fact, it was pretty evident that his parents were devoid of any emotion, unable to engage in any sort of real (emotionally-based) relationship.

And so, of course, I was sympathetic toward Teddy while I read his story. Because I wanted to save him. But if you read this blog regularly, I am sure already guessed that.

Teddy grows up into a young man who is incapable of feeling emotion. He does not know how to have a relationship with another person ...

"People were, as he had long suspected, uniformly vile and rotten, vastly inferior to things. Objects never let you down. They remain the same and could be an endless source of pleasure and satisfaction."

This idea is carried throughout the book. When he wins an award for his artwork, Teddy finds satisfaction from the prize alone and decides he does not need to share his excitement with anyone else. He becomes obsessed with a house and the things inside it ... the beautiful ornate furniture, the structure of the home. And when he and Francine begin dating, he dresses her in silky fabrics, draped in jewellery, positioning her in bed the way he likes best, just like you might arrange flowers in a vase until you achieve the look you want.

Oh, and he finds that killing is the easiest way to get what he wants ...

I have seen Teddy referred to as being autistic. Teddy Brex is not autistic ... he is psychotic. People who suffer from phychosis are said to be lacking a true sense of reality. They often have hallucinations, are delusional, have difficulty with social interactions and are unable to handle "normal" daily activities. I have always equated psychotic with being emotionally void; they understand what is wrong, but they do it anyway because they just don't care. Of course, after a terrible day (like today) with Addie C., these words could be used to describe me.

But is it Teddy's fault that he is the way he is? I mean, the child was never touched or held or loved. Erik Erikson, a renouned developmental psychologist, teaches that when an infant does not receive consistent, prompt care it learns that people cannot be trusted. So, what must it do to a child whose cries are met only after a long period of crying and never are the cries calmed in a loving manner. Like a mother "normally" does. In the case of Teddy, who was never really acknowledged, it was almost a miracle that he (physically) survived his childhood.

In the 1960s, a psychologist by the name of Harlow conducted experiments in the area of maternal separation and surrogate mothers on infant development. His most famous study involved rhesus monkeys. In a cage, he placed a hard surrogate mother made of wire, who had an easily accessible bottle of milk attached to her. There was also a furry/warm/cozy surrogate in the cage that did not have any food attached to it. The baby monkeys ALWAYS chose the furry mommy, venturing near the wire surrogate only for very short periods to receive some milk. However, the rest of its time was spend with the furry, soothing mommy. A baby will choose comfort over nourishment ... it says a lot, doesn't it?

I experienced this all the time with my own kitty. She would meow and meow and meow to be fed, tripping me as I walked closer to her bowl. After I put the food in her bowl, I always took the time to give her some love. I would pet her and scratch her ears and have a little talk with her. Now, this supposedly starving cat would suddenly have no interest in her food; she would purr and rub against my hand. She always chose love over food ... always.

Feeling loved and having interaction with other human beings is an important part of childhood development.

Harlow also conducted experiments in which monkeys could see, smell and hear other monkeys, however, there was NO physical contact. After six months, these phsyically deprived monkeys were described as psychologically disturbed, and were unable to socialize with other monkeys when reunited with peers.

Premature babies who are held a great deal are known to put on weight at a faster pace than those who are not ... which explains why Caiden looked like a ButterBall when he was about nine months old.

And so, again I ask whether Teddy Brex's view of the world is a result of his mistreatment as an infant and child? I would say, yes.

I am beginning to see that my four years as an undergrad Psych student have paid off. However, this will conclude my psychology class for today. But come back soon, because I am sure to go into another rant soon!

Francine Hill becomes the object of Teddy's desire. Unfortunately, she does not come without her own demons. At the age of six or seven years, she is in the house when her mother is murdered; her father comes home to find his daughter weeping over her mother's dead body, sitting in a pool of her blood. Francine's father falls in love with Francine's psychologist (the Julia mentioned at the beginning of this post) and they end up marrying. Julia gives up her therapy practice and dedicates her life to protecting the now fragile Francine. In fact, Julia becomes a psychotic momoholic, when she puts the perceived needs of Francine ahead of her own. She becomes unnecessarily obsessed with Francine's safety; and in doing so, renders Francine dependant on her "parents" and very naive. Basically, Julia is like me times one hundred. 

   Momoholic Me X 100 = Psychotic Momoholic Julia

As the years go by, Julia becomes controlling, delusional and loses her grip on reality. Until eventually, in order to protect Francine from the (imagined) evils that she has conjured up herself, Julia locks Francine in her bedroom while her father is out of town on business.

We all want to protect our children ... but we aren't allowed to lock them in their bedrooms. Even if they are four years old and having a very terrible day.

Anyhow, I really enjoyed this book. It is a book that entertains you and scares you and makes you want to give your kids a big hug. I would consider reading another book by Ruth Rendell ... she has written more than fifty of them. In fact, she has a new book coming out some time this year.

When you read a story that moves you to have so many thoughts - and these are just a few of mine about this book - you must consider the title. "A Sight for Sore Eyes." Maybe Teddy says it best ...

"She (Francine) must easily be the most beautiful girl in the world. A sight for sore eyes. Alfred Chance had once used that expression and it had stuck in his mind. About an object, though, not a person. It meant that looking at beauty took away pain and hurt, and made you better. Francine made him better and his eyes were sore when they couldn't feast on her."

So, I guess this book has been a sight for my sore eyes. It took away the pain of having to deal with an overtired four-year-old. And, I feel better for having read it. 

Give this one a try ... it would make a great book to read while lounging around the pool.
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The Black Mole of Death
Author: jill
•8:23 AM
I found a black mole on my back. It is small, but I couldn't pretend that it was not there. It is in the centre of my upper back, about an inch above my bra strap.

So, of course, I googled it.

Apparently, black moles are a very deadly form of melanoma. They grow inward, toward your organs, and quickly metasticize. So early diagnosis is critical. This is not what I was hoping for.

"Jonesy, can you look at this mole on my back?" I asked, pulling at my t-shirt. "Get that look out of your eyes, this is serious. Tell me what shape it is."

"It's a perfect circle."

"What about the outside edge ... is it defined or kind of jagged-y?"

"I would say it is clearly defined," he reported. Okay, this is all good news.

"Is it all the same colour?"

"Yeah, in fact it looks like a blood blister to me," Jonesy said. A blood blister? Why would I develop that? Old people get those. Plus, Jonesy is not a doctor. I just ignored this as a possibility and moved on to the next question ...

"Is it raised or flat?" I asked.

"Maybe, a little raised."

"Hmmm..." I muttered, walking back to my laptop.

"What are you thinking?" Jonesy asked. I knew he wanted to know if he gave me the answers I was looking for.

"I don't know..." I answered.

So, I did what any sane person would do and headed for the bathroom. I sat up on the bathroom counter as close to the mirror as I could get and used a hand-held mirror to look at the black mole of death for myself.

And then I made a doctor's appointment.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and that evening pretending that it did not bother me. But what if it was something that I should be bothered about? What if it was something serious?

The Internet told me that the typical person inflicted with the black mole of death was often in the prime of their lives. They are not sun worshippers nor were they outdoor labourers who are exposed to the sun all day long. They are office workers who get large doses of sun exposure on the weekends.

Great ... now I am a weekend binge drinker, binge sugar addict and binge sun tanner.

The next morning I was still pretending that I was not worried about it. It's just a little mole ... he'll probably burn in it off right in his office. No big deal. Stop thinking about it. Seriously, stop thinking about the black mole of death that seems to be growing a little bigger with each minute that passes.

This is one of those times that it is great to have an entrepreneur for a husband ... because he could look after the crazy four-year-old while I went off to face my doom all alone.

"Hey, Jill," the Doctor said. "Good to see you. What brings you in today?"

"I have a black mole on my back," I said. "And, I need you to look at it."

He grabs his fancy Doctor's flashlight, and looks at it for approximately ten seconds.

"That's nothing. Don't worry about it," he reports.

"What? That is the black mole of death," I said, rather emphatically. Sometimes I can be a know-it-all, even when I am not.

"Really, you don't need to worry about it," he says, smirking. "It's just a subaceous cyst." That sounded about as alarming as a blood blister ... ugh. Maybe Jonesy is a doctor afterall. Do I have to tell him that he was right?

He explained that a subaceous cyst is a small sac (associated with a hair follicle, I think) that fills with sebum and causes a cyst. Sebum is a fancy Doctor word for fat or oil. So basically, I had some hair follicle that filled with fatty oil and created a very small cyst. Gross. Now, I'm just embarrassed to be here with my disgusting sac o' fat.

"Are you sure that is what it is?" I asked.

"Trust me, that is all it is," he replied, again with the smirk.

"I don't think I like this whole getting older thing," I told him. "I mean, there was a time when I had lovely skin that did not get sacs of fat lodged in it."

My Doctor laughed - right at me. "Well, think of it as a trade for wisdom and being distinguished."

Distinguished? Ugh. I don't want to be "distinguished." Old people are wise and distinguished.

All kidding aside, my Doctor's appointment could have turned out much differently today. It could have been something serious. My post today could have had much different tone.

Go ... buy yourself and your kids some sunscreen. Avoid the black mole of death. 
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