I got a phone call from a guy when I was reporting at City TV. He left an angry message on my voicemail. It wasn’t because he thought I was unfair in a story, or wanted to find out more. It was because he thought I was single and found out I’m not. He accused me of “false advertising” for not wearing a wedding ring on air. First I laughed and then felt kind of gross. When had I turned into a walking billboard. An advertisement for anything?
As much as i don’t like to admit it, that’s exactly what TV is all about. You can do great stuff, but in the end, especially if you’re a woman, it’s all about the clothes, the hair and the teeth. Marshall McLuhan’s famous: “the medium is the message” has morphed into “the messenger is the message”. In television, it’s just too hard to get past the appearance of the person on the screen.
We’re all to blame for it, the tv execs who fuss and fidget over what’s appropriate for TV. (Sombre but stylish is the ideal.) The TV anchors, reporters and hosts who spend more time on their make up, hair and shopping than they do on the story, becoming actors instead of journalists. And you, the viewer snipping and sniping about what you see instead of what you hear. (And now that I’m out, I catch myself doing the very same thing).
I remember at CTV Newsnet, the techies and the writers would lovingly (sometimes) refer to the anchors as “the meat”. Which--even as a vegetarian--, i’d much prefer to the more common “hair and teeth. (As in: “Who’s the meat”, or “Who’s the hair and teeth” in the anchor chair today?) At least meat has substance.
Most of my career was in radio, so I was naive to the tv image game. When I got a ridiculously large clothing allowance and huge discounts at snotty boutiques it should have triggered something. But I lapped it up. Shopping sprees, someone to do your make up and hair every day. I fell for it hard.
Somewhere along the way it gets out of control. It simply isn’t healthy to spend so much time looking at yourself and having people look at you. That hyperawareness grows and grows. You notice things about your face or body and become fixated on them. Shopping becomes a chore because you’re only buying what works for TV.
All of this to tell you that my closet is jammed to the rafters. We had to incorporate a walk in closet into our designs when we renovated our house a couple of years ago. And even then I have rows and rows of grown up clothes crammed into a closet in another room.
They are souvenirs of my TV career. And since I’m not sure I ever want to go back to it, I’m wondering what to do with it all. What about ebay? Since I’m getting rid of just about everything I own, why not put my life up for sale? I’m stepping out and you can take my place, shoes included. Along with the house. The car. The closet full of clothes. The furniture. The parking permit. The membership at the gym, and even my daughter’s coveted spot in the SK french immersion program. If someone can auction off a piece of cheese, or a tomato or toast that looks like Jesus or the Virgin Mary for thousands, surely I must be worth something. (On that toast note, could someone please explain why Allah, or one of the millions of Hindu gods, never appear on food? Does it always have to be about Jesus?)
Steve snorts when I tell him my Ebay idea. Because it was a particularly rough day with the kids he asks if they can be thrown in as a bonus. Kind of a 4 for 1 sale. Then he gets into it and make some very inappropriate comments about what his relationship might be with the new Avery.
But before can even start figuring out how much my life here is worth, the plan starts unravelling. We find someone who wants to buy our vehicle, and really, what’s a life without an SUV? (sarcastic joke to taunt my eco-brother) Then the house is sold off. This Ebay thing would have probably been a hard sell at the best of times, but without a house and a car , it just won’t have the same impact. Not much of a deal. You wouldn’t be buying my life, you’d be getting my leftovers, really.
We’re still trying to figure out what to do with the furniture and extra toys. But those clothes, the ones that didn’t cost me much, but came at a price? I am finally getting some joy out of them. My girlfriends have been coming over, one by one and taking what they want. For me it’s shopping in reverse and it’s even more fun. We laughed at some of the stuff (too tv-ish says one friend), but mostly they’ve walked out of my house with overloaded arms, excited about their new wardrobes.
I’m saving a few suits in case we come back and I have to get a job. I’m also taking some stuff I know is very impractical. Like the stunning J. Lindeberg three piece white pant suit. Insanly expensive, I bought it to eat up my clothing allowance before the end of my last season at Discovery Health. I have a fantasy about wearing it at a dinner outside our jungle house overlooking the ocean, Bobby Bland blaring on the stereo, watching the sunset with Steve and the kids, who are equally duded up. And there is no one to see any of it, except us.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Summer 2006
My favourite image of the summer has to be of my 5 year old daughter Eva and her best friend Leila. They couldn’t be more different physically. Leila’s hair is a tousled mop of bouncy, rich dark curls. Her skin is luminous. Her eyes are impossibly dark with incredible lashes. Her body is already athletic. And when she runs she juts her torso forward almost begging her legs to keep up.
Eva has long, very straight blonde hair. With big blue eyes and ruby lips. She is tall and lean and runs with the same will to get there fast. Despite their physical differences, they could teach the world a thing or two about how to behave. When one gets in a funk it rarely disintegrates into anger or tears. Instead the other will make a joke and they laugh and giggle in a way only girls their age can. It is the sound of angels and fairies and princesses. The sound transcends the senses. It becomes the sight of breathtaking beauty and the smell of a sweet delicacy
The image I will carry with me to Costa Rica is of the two of them, arm in arm, the sun shimmering off their hair, at the end of one of those lazy summer days. Where a morning play date extends through to an afternoon at the park, with a stop for ice cream. A thrown together dinner in the backyard. The day ending with both of them collapsing in bed for a sleep over.
And even as I revel in that moment of pure childhood freedom I feel tinges of sadness at all Eva will miss. Even at five, the joy of a best friend is hard to replace.
And then there is Riley, our 10 year old who has pretty much worn a path from his bedroom to the neighbours house next door where three boys live---kids Riley has known his entire life.
He can jump on his bike or skateboard --meet up with friends at his school around the corner. The new thrill of being allowed to go solo to the toy store or the bookstore to spend the money he made from dog walking, babysitting and weeding. The trips to Kensington market to skateboard at Adrift.
And I know he will miss his soul mate Carolyn, best friends since the age of 2 when they met at the park. I knew they’d be friends forever when Riley whacked her on the head and she turned around and whacked him back, maybe even a little harder! Despite the gender difference, it’s been like that ever since. Except now it’s all about burping and farting contests, and most recently: experimentation with hip hop and rap and sideways caps.
There will even be adjustments for Paulie who’s just two and probably the most adaptable. Every morning he asks for Marno, the 1 and a half year old son of our incredible caregiver Marivic. A woman who inspires me to be a better mother through the patience, love and laughter she shares with her own kids and mine as well. When they come in the morning, Paul covers Marvin (aka Marno) with kisses and hugs. Patting his hair, giving him toys and loving him the way he might a younger brother. Marivic’s 8 year old son Andre is the big brother Eva wishes she had when hers is being especially horrible.
And because Eva, Riley and Paulie Pocket are my children, I will absorb their losses too when we get on that plane. They have so many adventures ahead of them, but it does come at a price.
Steve and I have will be making sacrifices as well. I’ll miss the community that has helped me raise my children. The park where I have spent endless hours watching them play. The stores along the Danforth where I am greeted by name. The friends who have brought real meaning and happiness to my life.
But most of all I’ll miss my mum, who lives about an hour and a half outside of Toronto. I talk to her almost every day, out of desire, not obligation. I need her now as much as I did when I was a little girl. I share with her everything that happens in my life. And in exchange she gives me the greatest gift: she is free of judgement. Always has been, no matter what mistakes I’ve made. The only thing that makes leaving her easier is that I know her life is so rich. So full of passion for what’s happening in her community and in the world. She is a true activist. Committed to making a difference.
I’m also very emotional at the thought of leaving my brother Tim, who I have so much fun with. Older by less than 2 years, but much, much wiser. He LIVES his morals in a way no one else I know. His love of adventure makes what we’re doing look like a walk in the park. And yet I know he is proud of us (and might even accept some of the credit) for trying something new.
I am doing what I can to ease the transition. Leila’s mum, Emily and I have planned a “blood sister” ceremony. The girls will get their wish for pierced ears, an early Christmas present. And there are plans for a surprise visit in Costa Rica for Eva’s birthday in April.
Carolyn and her family, close friends of ours, are coming to visit for a couple of weeks in March and I’ve promised Riley he can come home next summer for a month of camp to reconnect with his friends.
And for Paulie and Steve and I? I hope with all my heart we can convince Marivic to come for a visit. Let US take care of HER for a while.
i have no doubts that my mum and brother will come for extended visits. And I may even see more of my rock star sister, who lives on a rollercoaster.
Through these uneasy months just before and after we leave, I’ll try to remember what I have told my kids. There are many things we can’t take with us. But we can leave with hearts that have been filled to the brim by those who mean so much to us.
Eva has long, very straight blonde hair. With big blue eyes and ruby lips. She is tall and lean and runs with the same will to get there fast. Despite their physical differences, they could teach the world a thing or two about how to behave. When one gets in a funk it rarely disintegrates into anger or tears. Instead the other will make a joke and they laugh and giggle in a way only girls their age can. It is the sound of angels and fairies and princesses. The sound transcends the senses. It becomes the sight of breathtaking beauty and the smell of a sweet delicacy
The image I will carry with me to Costa Rica is of the two of them, arm in arm, the sun shimmering off their hair, at the end of one of those lazy summer days. Where a morning play date extends through to an afternoon at the park, with a stop for ice cream. A thrown together dinner in the backyard. The day ending with both of them collapsing in bed for a sleep over.
And even as I revel in that moment of pure childhood freedom I feel tinges of sadness at all Eva will miss. Even at five, the joy of a best friend is hard to replace.
And then there is Riley, our 10 year old who has pretty much worn a path from his bedroom to the neighbours house next door where three boys live---kids Riley has known his entire life.
He can jump on his bike or skateboard --meet up with friends at his school around the corner. The new thrill of being allowed to go solo to the toy store or the bookstore to spend the money he made from dog walking, babysitting and weeding. The trips to Kensington market to skateboard at Adrift.
And I know he will miss his soul mate Carolyn, best friends since the age of 2 when they met at the park. I knew they’d be friends forever when Riley whacked her on the head and she turned around and whacked him back, maybe even a little harder! Despite the gender difference, it’s been like that ever since. Except now it’s all about burping and farting contests, and most recently: experimentation with hip hop and rap and sideways caps.
There will even be adjustments for Paulie who’s just two and probably the most adaptable. Every morning he asks for Marno, the 1 and a half year old son of our incredible caregiver Marivic. A woman who inspires me to be a better mother through the patience, love and laughter she shares with her own kids and mine as well. When they come in the morning, Paul covers Marvin (aka Marno) with kisses and hugs. Patting his hair, giving him toys and loving him the way he might a younger brother. Marivic’s 8 year old son Andre is the big brother Eva wishes she had when hers is being especially horrible.
And because Eva, Riley and Paulie Pocket are my children, I will absorb their losses too when we get on that plane. They have so many adventures ahead of them, but it does come at a price.
Steve and I have will be making sacrifices as well. I’ll miss the community that has helped me raise my children. The park where I have spent endless hours watching them play. The stores along the Danforth where I am greeted by name. The friends who have brought real meaning and happiness to my life.
But most of all I’ll miss my mum, who lives about an hour and a half outside of Toronto. I talk to her almost every day, out of desire, not obligation. I need her now as much as I did when I was a little girl. I share with her everything that happens in my life. And in exchange she gives me the greatest gift: she is free of judgement. Always has been, no matter what mistakes I’ve made. The only thing that makes leaving her easier is that I know her life is so rich. So full of passion for what’s happening in her community and in the world. She is a true activist. Committed to making a difference.
I’m also very emotional at the thought of leaving my brother Tim, who I have so much fun with. Older by less than 2 years, but much, much wiser. He LIVES his morals in a way no one else I know. His love of adventure makes what we’re doing look like a walk in the park. And yet I know he is proud of us (and might even accept some of the credit) for trying something new.
I am doing what I can to ease the transition. Leila’s mum, Emily and I have planned a “blood sister” ceremony. The girls will get their wish for pierced ears, an early Christmas present. And there are plans for a surprise visit in Costa Rica for Eva’s birthday in April.
Carolyn and her family, close friends of ours, are coming to visit for a couple of weeks in March and I’ve promised Riley he can come home next summer for a month of camp to reconnect with his friends.
And for Paulie and Steve and I? I hope with all my heart we can convince Marivic to come for a visit. Let US take care of HER for a while.
i have no doubts that my mum and brother will come for extended visits. And I may even see more of my rock star sister, who lives on a rollercoaster.
Through these uneasy months just before and after we leave, I’ll try to remember what I have told my kids. There are many things we can’t take with us. But we can leave with hearts that have been filled to the brim by those who mean so much to us.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Mal Pais
I’m sitting in Steve’s new office. And this is what I see outside: Trees and bushes that look like they’re juiced up on steriods. Palms, wild flowers usually seen only in the tropical section of the garden centre. Mango, lime, lemon and avocado trees, still too small to bear fruit, but not for long. Only planted 2 months ago, already they’ve grown a foot and a half. Flitting in and out of my view are butterfies of all colors, rivaling the beauty of the land. Cartoon clouds in the sky. Sometimes those puffs are stretched like white candy floss. My eyes, wide with beauty, are also soaking up the Pacific Ocean. I can see the ripples from here and the varying shades of blues and greens and frothy white where the waves are crashing onto the rocky shore.
The sounds? The ocean rumbles like rush hour traffic, without the aggression. A symphony of crickets. Strange bird calls, and from deeper in the jungle I hear the gutteral moans of Howler monkeys. To me it sounds like the noise a man might make if he were able to give birth. Testosterone driven labor. I haven’t found anyone, yet, who agrees with my analogy, but it’s the best I can do to put the sound into words.
If I look up, inside the structure where I’m sitting I see a cluster of bats clinging together like shrivelled prunes, sleeping off last nights adventues . And almost right above my head a honeycomb, dangling precariously from the ceiling and teeming with bees. On the floor beside me, a snake skin, much smaller than the one Steve found earlier that belonged to a boa. The desk is made of tree stumps and a piece of of plywood. The only thing adorning it is an empty Heiniken bottle with a candle stuck in, just in case the power goes out, as it often does here.
No, I’m not in Toronto anymore. Steve’s three week mission to Mal Pais to clear some of the land, meet with contractors and find us a place to live while our house is being built, now includes me. I love the fact that he asked me to come here for a week to help make decisions. Even though I know it’s partly so I will shoulder some of the blame if mistakes are made!
The drive from the beach, up the mountain and onto our property is like a rollercoaster ride. An old wooden roller coaster, like the one they used to have at the Ex. A very slow old wooden roller coaster, because it’s so steep you can’t go any faster than first gear. Chugging up, up up, through tarzan vines, under canopies of trees so thick you feel enveloped by nature. My abs hurt from bracing for the bumps. My arm aches from white knuckling the passenger handle.
And then you’re here. 6 acres of the most incredible combination of jungle and ocean views. The land came with a house. And a nickname: The Bat House.The people who owned it before wanted to be at one with nature. So none of the openings have doors. Or windows. Hence the bats, bees, snakes and other wildlife that call this home.
We were up here last night with Nat and Frederico, two lovely men who are helping us turn this into a home we can live in. The four of us get caught up with eachothers great ideas. Figuring out what will go where, what materials to use, how to re-configure it and make it safe so the kids can’t tumble off the cliff and into the valley before.
Then we all stop and watch as a storm moves in over the ocean. In no time there is pounding rain. Thunder that drowns out all other sounds. Flashes of lighting competing with the setting sun. Because we are so high up, we actually see some of the storm clouds rolling in below us, obscuring the view below. Steve and I are in awe. And so are Nat and Frederico, despite the fact they’ve lived here all their lives. I am amazed that it hasn’t gotten old for them, this beauty. I remember a three month exchange to Switzerland when I was in highschool and how quickly the majestic alps lost their intensity for me. How I was dumbstruck at first and then rarely even noticed the postcard beauty.
(I just used my computer thesaurus to try and find another word for beauty or beautiful since it’s a word that I need so much to describe this place. One of the words that popped up was “toast” the other “pulchritudiness” . Writers should not use the thesaurus.).
The storm passes and the four of us get back to business. Because of time constraints and the difficulty finding a place to rent, we decide to do a quick reno on this house. We’ll live in it when we get here and then turn it into a guest house after Steve has finished building the big house nearby. But can it be done in time? Our one way tickets have been booked for January 10th. The kids school starts on the 15th and our house in Toronto closes on the same day.
My heart sinks and races at the same time when Nat tells us there’s no way it’ll be ready by January. The month of October is a write off, because supplies won’t make it up our rollercoaster road during the rainy season. Little gets done in December because of Christmas. It’ll be February at the earliest, but mostly likely March before we can move in.
Now I question our planning. It’s high season here in January. Trying to rent a place, competting with tourists who will spend thousands for a week, is impossible. And besides, everything is booked up solid. Sensing my panic, Frederico says not to worry. Without thinking twice, he tells me our family can stay at his house until the job here is done. He’ll stay with a friend. His two bedroom home is right next to the school, a walk to the beach. In that moment the spirit of the people of Costa Rica has already found a place into my heart. Their national saying is Pura Vida. The good life. And already I have found out, through one man’s extreme generosity, just how much Pura Vida there is. And how much I want to rename this town. Mal Pais means bad country, a title it doesn’t deserve. it should be called Beuno Pais,which it clearly is.
The sounds? The ocean rumbles like rush hour traffic, without the aggression. A symphony of crickets. Strange bird calls, and from deeper in the jungle I hear the gutteral moans of Howler monkeys. To me it sounds like the noise a man might make if he were able to give birth. Testosterone driven labor. I haven’t found anyone, yet, who agrees with my analogy, but it’s the best I can do to put the sound into words.
If I look up, inside the structure where I’m sitting I see a cluster of bats clinging together like shrivelled prunes, sleeping off last nights adventues . And almost right above my head a honeycomb, dangling precariously from the ceiling and teeming with bees. On the floor beside me, a snake skin, much smaller than the one Steve found earlier that belonged to a boa. The desk is made of tree stumps and a piece of of plywood. The only thing adorning it is an empty Heiniken bottle with a candle stuck in, just in case the power goes out, as it often does here.
No, I’m not in Toronto anymore. Steve’s three week mission to Mal Pais to clear some of the land, meet with contractors and find us a place to live while our house is being built, now includes me. I love the fact that he asked me to come here for a week to help make decisions. Even though I know it’s partly so I will shoulder some of the blame if mistakes are made!
The drive from the beach, up the mountain and onto our property is like a rollercoaster ride. An old wooden roller coaster, like the one they used to have at the Ex. A very slow old wooden roller coaster, because it’s so steep you can’t go any faster than first gear. Chugging up, up up, through tarzan vines, under canopies of trees so thick you feel enveloped by nature. My abs hurt from bracing for the bumps. My arm aches from white knuckling the passenger handle.
And then you’re here. 6 acres of the most incredible combination of jungle and ocean views. The land came with a house. And a nickname: The Bat House.The people who owned it before wanted to be at one with nature. So none of the openings have doors. Or windows. Hence the bats, bees, snakes and other wildlife that call this home.
We were up here last night with Nat and Frederico, two lovely men who are helping us turn this into a home we can live in. The four of us get caught up with eachothers great ideas. Figuring out what will go where, what materials to use, how to re-configure it and make it safe so the kids can’t tumble off the cliff and into the valley before.
Then we all stop and watch as a storm moves in over the ocean. In no time there is pounding rain. Thunder that drowns out all other sounds. Flashes of lighting competing with the setting sun. Because we are so high up, we actually see some of the storm clouds rolling in below us, obscuring the view below. Steve and I are in awe. And so are Nat and Frederico, despite the fact they’ve lived here all their lives. I am amazed that it hasn’t gotten old for them, this beauty. I remember a three month exchange to Switzerland when I was in highschool and how quickly the majestic alps lost their intensity for me. How I was dumbstruck at first and then rarely even noticed the postcard beauty.
(I just used my computer thesaurus to try and find another word for beauty or beautiful since it’s a word that I need so much to describe this place. One of the words that popped up was “toast” the other “pulchritudiness” . Writers should not use the thesaurus.).
The storm passes and the four of us get back to business. Because of time constraints and the difficulty finding a place to rent, we decide to do a quick reno on this house. We’ll live in it when we get here and then turn it into a guest house after Steve has finished building the big house nearby. But can it be done in time? Our one way tickets have been booked for January 10th. The kids school starts on the 15th and our house in Toronto closes on the same day.
My heart sinks and races at the same time when Nat tells us there’s no way it’ll be ready by January. The month of October is a write off, because supplies won’t make it up our rollercoaster road during the rainy season. Little gets done in December because of Christmas. It’ll be February at the earliest, but mostly likely March before we can move in.
Now I question our planning. It’s high season here in January. Trying to rent a place, competting with tourists who will spend thousands for a week, is impossible. And besides, everything is booked up solid. Sensing my panic, Frederico says not to worry. Without thinking twice, he tells me our family can stay at his house until the job here is done. He’ll stay with a friend. His two bedroom home is right next to the school, a walk to the beach. In that moment the spirit of the people of Costa Rica has already found a place into my heart. Their national saying is Pura Vida. The good life. And already I have found out, through one man’s extreme generosity, just how much Pura Vida there is. And how much I want to rename this town. Mal Pais means bad country, a title it doesn’t deserve. it should be called Beuno Pais,which it clearly is.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Clothesline
By now my neighbours must think I’ve completely cracked. Gone off the deep end. Getting rid of the car. Giving up the career.Leaving an amazing neighbourhood and selling a home we’ve spent years perfecting. All of that I think they could wrap their heads around, just for the sheer adventure. But the clothes line in the backyard might be the tipping point.
I’m sure they believe now that they are living next to eco-guerilla girl--former tv host, who in a single bound has rejected her car for a crazy red bike and now refuses even to use a clothes dryer. The truth, which I haven’t yet spilled, , is that my high priced, fancy shmancy Fisher and Paykel dryer stopped doing just that. Drying. It moves round and round but no matter how long it’s left on, it doesn’t dry. There’’s no heat. Friends have offered to let me use their dryers. There’s also a laundromat not so far away that will even wash and dry and fold, for a fee. But instead, because I have just a little too much pride to bag up my wet clothes and cart them around the neighbourhood, I enlist the help of my 5 year old daughter Eva. We grab some twine and string it from the play fort to the swimming pool slide, a distance that spans the length of our downtown backyard.
Together we haul the clothes out of the washer, up from the basement and take them outside. Eva didn’t know there was actually a time before dryers. She was oblivious to the real scent of the outdoors on her clothes, a smell so different from the deceptive “morning rain”, and “summer breeze” promised by the soap companies.
Clothes lines are before my time too, but I do have some vague childhood memory of being disgusted by bird poop on one of my shirts. I also just now remember that when I was in highschool in Fenelon Falls our dryer was broken. For years. And a family without a dryer is just about the shadiest thing possible in a small town. I know the sight of my mum, lugging garbage bags of wet clothes to the laundromat must have triggered a whole new round of gossip, further shaking our already tenuous position in the community.
We had after all, committed many unwritten--and to us at the time, unknown--social sins of small town living. My mum probably bore the brunt of it. My dad’s insane knowledge of music and sense of humour protected him from the usual nightmare of being a highschool french teacher. But my mum refused to wear the title of upstanding wife, mother and substitute teacher. She instead wore crazy tights (years ahead of vogue) and far out clothes from India. She started up a drama school for kids where all sorts of “weird” stuff went on. Petitioned to have streetlights installed at the corner where we lived. Got right in there to try and wake up the United Church to embrace gay people. And then there was the Peace Project she started up, holding meetings, marches and selling t-shirts she designed with a logo of a duck in the crosshairs. Get it? Sitting ducks. (Believe it or not, activism was probably the biggest small town sin of all, at least then, in the 1980’s.) And on top of all of that, there were the feasts with crazy music in the backyard. And not at 5pm either, but sometimes even as late as 7 or 8! Yes, the Haines family provided the gossips with hours of entertainment.
I don’t know how much of this is family lore, but I do remember my mum , by now giving up any attempt at fitting in, telling a nosy neighbour that she was outside sweeping at 6 in the evening to gather up leaves. For our dinner. The same woman was caught red-handed standing at the backdoor of our house, with her ear actually pressed against the door trying to listen in on our raucus family meals!
There was also a rumour that we had orgies at our house. A word I still crack up over, because the guy spreading the gossip didn’t know that orgy has a soft “g”.. He called it an or-ghee. A pronounciation error that has forever messed me up in the rare occasions when I need to use the word. Orgy? Orghee? I go back and forth like Dave Letterman’s unfortunate Uma/Oprah bit at the Oscars years ago.
You’d have to ask my mum if this stuff was malicious. I don’t remember it being so, but I was only a kid at the time. I think it was just boredom talking more than anything else. And the older I get the more I realize that all those crazy things that go on in small towns-, happen in the big cities too. We’re just so disconnected from eachother, so private and closed off in the city that the gossip rarely gets back to us.
And here I am, years later, abruptly ending my love affair with the city. Moving to a town smaller than the one I so quickly left as a teenager.
I think I’ll have an easier time of it than my mum did. Partially because the town of Mal Pais, the littleI know of it so far anyway, is made up of so many different people and cultures that one more oddball family won’t make a difference. More than anything though I think we’ll fit in just fine because we live near the top of a jungle mountain, with no one to hear our loud music, rowdy “leaf” dinners or our or-GHEES.
I’m sure they believe now that they are living next to eco-guerilla girl--former tv host, who in a single bound has rejected her car for a crazy red bike and now refuses even to use a clothes dryer. The truth, which I haven’t yet spilled, , is that my high priced, fancy shmancy Fisher and Paykel dryer stopped doing just that. Drying. It moves round and round but no matter how long it’s left on, it doesn’t dry. There’’s no heat. Friends have offered to let me use their dryers. There’s also a laundromat not so far away that will even wash and dry and fold, for a fee. But instead, because I have just a little too much pride to bag up my wet clothes and cart them around the neighbourhood, I enlist the help of my 5 year old daughter Eva. We grab some twine and string it from the play fort to the swimming pool slide, a distance that spans the length of our downtown backyard.
Together we haul the clothes out of the washer, up from the basement and take them outside. Eva didn’t know there was actually a time before dryers. She was oblivious to the real scent of the outdoors on her clothes, a smell so different from the deceptive “morning rain”, and “summer breeze” promised by the soap companies.
Clothes lines are before my time too, but I do have some vague childhood memory of being disgusted by bird poop on one of my shirts. I also just now remember that when I was in highschool in Fenelon Falls our dryer was broken. For years. And a family without a dryer is just about the shadiest thing possible in a small town. I know the sight of my mum, lugging garbage bags of wet clothes to the laundromat must have triggered a whole new round of gossip, further shaking our already tenuous position in the community.
We had after all, committed many unwritten--and to us at the time, unknown--social sins of small town living. My mum probably bore the brunt of it. My dad’s insane knowledge of music and sense of humour protected him from the usual nightmare of being a highschool french teacher. But my mum refused to wear the title of upstanding wife, mother and substitute teacher. She instead wore crazy tights (years ahead of vogue) and far out clothes from India. She started up a drama school for kids where all sorts of “weird” stuff went on. Petitioned to have streetlights installed at the corner where we lived. Got right in there to try and wake up the United Church to embrace gay people. And then there was the Peace Project she started up, holding meetings, marches and selling t-shirts she designed with a logo of a duck in the crosshairs. Get it? Sitting ducks. (Believe it or not, activism was probably the biggest small town sin of all, at least then, in the 1980’s.) And on top of all of that, there were the feasts with crazy music in the backyard. And not at 5pm either, but sometimes even as late as 7 or 8! Yes, the Haines family provided the gossips with hours of entertainment.
I don’t know how much of this is family lore, but I do remember my mum , by now giving up any attempt at fitting in, telling a nosy neighbour that she was outside sweeping at 6 in the evening to gather up leaves. For our dinner. The same woman was caught red-handed standing at the backdoor of our house, with her ear actually pressed against the door trying to listen in on our raucus family meals!
There was also a rumour that we had orgies at our house. A word I still crack up over, because the guy spreading the gossip didn’t know that orgy has a soft “g”.. He called it an or-ghee. A pronounciation error that has forever messed me up in the rare occasions when I need to use the word. Orgy? Orghee? I go back and forth like Dave Letterman’s unfortunate Uma/Oprah bit at the Oscars years ago.
You’d have to ask my mum if this stuff was malicious. I don’t remember it being so, but I was only a kid at the time. I think it was just boredom talking more than anything else. And the older I get the more I realize that all those crazy things that go on in small towns-, happen in the big cities too. We’re just so disconnected from eachother, so private and closed off in the city that the gossip rarely gets back to us.
And here I am, years later, abruptly ending my love affair with the city. Moving to a town smaller than the one I so quickly left as a teenager.
I think I’ll have an easier time of it than my mum did. Partially because the town of Mal Pais, the littleI know of it so far anyway, is made up of so many different people and cultures that one more oddball family won’t make a difference. More than anything though I think we’ll fit in just fine because we live near the top of a jungle mountain, with no one to hear our loud music, rowdy “leaf” dinners or our or-GHEES.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
The New Pornography
In case you haven't heard, in my neighbourhood at least, real estate is the new porn. It’s more salacious than the cheating wife. The husband who bailed. The naughty child.. Multiple offers are better these days than multiple orgasms. And it’’s the real estate agents, with their fingers on the pulse of the throbbing market who are basking in their 15 minutes of fame. Peppered with questions: What’s for sale. What sold. For how much. And by the way, what do you think MY place is worth?
Sometimes even before the “for sale” sign gets hammered into the lawn the whispers begin. Can you believe they’re asking that much? Did you see the basement ? Not even a parking space! The throngs line up for open houses with a frenzy that was once reserved for blockbuster movie premiers. Sit down for a coffee and someone is bound to bring up how much that dump down the street went for. Head to the playground and the gossip is often about the bidding wars, or the bubble bursting. Can prices really go any higher?
Trolling through the MLS listings is a hobby for those who hide their addictions. And for those who are “out of the closet” :The weekend open houses are a bonanza . There’s something exciting and so intimate about wandering though a strangers life. A home on display. Primped, primed and plumped up like a beauty queen vying for first prize. Instead of a crown and flowers, the winner gets a quick SOLD sign.
Real estate agents, capitalising on the social aspect of all of this, are turning open houses into afternoon socials.. There’’s food and drinks and neighbourhood friends to catch up with. In the states, as usual, it’s a little more extreme. I recently read about agents hiring actors to play the part of the happy family.. A charming 12 year old will offer to show you “his” room, while the dad throws something on the bbq for you and the “wife” fixes you a drink.
And so, for all those reasons, Steve and I tried to sell our house quietly. Without the hoopla. No sign. No open houses. No fake family. In the dead of August, when even the most die-hard real estate fanatics are taking a break, we let our agents know about our decision. We tell them a sign can go up in September, but if anyone is interested before them, we’d forfeit a potential bidding war and accept offers. Just days later our agents show our house to a woman at 10 in the morning. Her husband got a tour in the afternoon and by that evening we were signing the papers. The price was right. They were okay with a long closing and --like true urbanites--they actually liked the fact that we didn’t have parking.
Then we panicked because it all worked a little too well. And that’s when the doubt set in. Should we have rented it out instead. One agency found a family willing to pay 10 thousand bucks a month for one year minimum lease. But the thought of having worries at this home, while trying to make a new life thousands of miles away made selling the obvious option. There was also the fear of a market crash and being stuck with a home in Toronto and Costa Rica, unable to unload either.
And then those practical fears turned emotional. How could we leave this house. Our home for the last 14 years Say good-bye to the backyard where Steve and I got married. So long to the bedroom where our first child was born, a home birth that ended with the three of us snuggled in bed. Warm and safe, with no idea of how our lives would change. 5 years later we turned the guest room into a nursery for Eva...and then just two years ago welcoming yet another beast into the den. In the midst of all that ? Seemlingly endless renovations and additions.
And if we as grown ups were struggling with these feelings, how would our kids react. I worried most about Riley. At the age of 10 he has the most to gain, but also the most to lose from this adventure. Eva and Paulie are young enough to adapt, but Riley might find everything a little harder. The language, the new friends, the new culture.
We told our two youngest while Riley was away at a 2 week overnight camp. Our five year old Eva cried., But, when she learned she could bring her dolls and the little chandelier that hangs in her bedroom, she carried on as before. Paulie’s too little to get it and just keeps repeating to everyone: “we’re goin’a coshta rica. we’’re goin’a coshta rica”
And then the biggie: breaking it to Riley. The usual joy of picking him up from camp was tempered by the fact that I had to give what he might well see as very bad news. I rehearsed what I would say and how I would handle the reaction. I role played with my friend Larissa, a psychologist, as she offered great advice on not making it too big of a deal. Letting him decide if it was something good or bad. And just hearing out the fears and anger he may express.
And then, on the 2 hour drive back from camp, my heart beating, I finally spit it out in probably the most clumsy of all ways: :”Oh,. Riley, by the way, we sold the house.”. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his body slump against the seat. And then a breath.And a question that convinces me the real estate fixation transcends generations. The first words out of his mouth, upon hearing that the only home he’s ever known, the home where he took his first breath, has been sold? Not: “How could you!”. Not: “I hate you and you’re ruining my life”. Instead he asks: “How much did we get for it?”. And when I tell him, he pumps his fist in the air, smiles and says: “that’s goooood!”. I think, at least for now, everything will be all right.
Sometimes even before the “for sale” sign gets hammered into the lawn the whispers begin. Can you believe they’re asking that much? Did you see the basement ? Not even a parking space! The throngs line up for open houses with a frenzy that was once reserved for blockbuster movie premiers. Sit down for a coffee and someone is bound to bring up how much that dump down the street went for. Head to the playground and the gossip is often about the bidding wars, or the bubble bursting. Can prices really go any higher?
Trolling through the MLS listings is a hobby for those who hide their addictions. And for those who are “out of the closet” :The weekend open houses are a bonanza . There’s something exciting and so intimate about wandering though a strangers life. A home on display. Primped, primed and plumped up like a beauty queen vying for first prize. Instead of a crown and flowers, the winner gets a quick SOLD sign.
Real estate agents, capitalising on the social aspect of all of this, are turning open houses into afternoon socials.. There’’s food and drinks and neighbourhood friends to catch up with. In the states, as usual, it’s a little more extreme. I recently read about agents hiring actors to play the part of the happy family.. A charming 12 year old will offer to show you “his” room, while the dad throws something on the bbq for you and the “wife” fixes you a drink.
And so, for all those reasons, Steve and I tried to sell our house quietly. Without the hoopla. No sign. No open houses. No fake family. In the dead of August, when even the most die-hard real estate fanatics are taking a break, we let our agents know about our decision. We tell them a sign can go up in September, but if anyone is interested before them, we’d forfeit a potential bidding war and accept offers. Just days later our agents show our house to a woman at 10 in the morning. Her husband got a tour in the afternoon and by that evening we were signing the papers. The price was right. They were okay with a long closing and --like true urbanites--they actually liked the fact that we didn’t have parking.
Then we panicked because it all worked a little too well. And that’s when the doubt set in. Should we have rented it out instead. One agency found a family willing to pay 10 thousand bucks a month for one year minimum lease. But the thought of having worries at this home, while trying to make a new life thousands of miles away made selling the obvious option. There was also the fear of a market crash and being stuck with a home in Toronto and Costa Rica, unable to unload either.
And then those practical fears turned emotional. How could we leave this house. Our home for the last 14 years Say good-bye to the backyard where Steve and I got married. So long to the bedroom where our first child was born, a home birth that ended with the three of us snuggled in bed. Warm and safe, with no idea of how our lives would change. 5 years later we turned the guest room into a nursery for Eva...and then just two years ago welcoming yet another beast into the den. In the midst of all that ? Seemlingly endless renovations and additions.
And if we as grown ups were struggling with these feelings, how would our kids react. I worried most about Riley. At the age of 10 he has the most to gain, but also the most to lose from this adventure. Eva and Paulie are young enough to adapt, but Riley might find everything a little harder. The language, the new friends, the new culture.
We told our two youngest while Riley was away at a 2 week overnight camp. Our five year old Eva cried., But, when she learned she could bring her dolls and the little chandelier that hangs in her bedroom, she carried on as before. Paulie’s too little to get it and just keeps repeating to everyone: “we’re goin’a coshta rica. we’’re goin’a coshta rica”
And then the biggie: breaking it to Riley. The usual joy of picking him up from camp was tempered by the fact that I had to give what he might well see as very bad news. I rehearsed what I would say and how I would handle the reaction. I role played with my friend Larissa, a psychologist, as she offered great advice on not making it too big of a deal. Letting him decide if it was something good or bad. And just hearing out the fears and anger he may express.
And then, on the 2 hour drive back from camp, my heart beating, I finally spit it out in probably the most clumsy of all ways: :”Oh,. Riley, by the way, we sold the house.”. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his body slump against the seat. And then a breath.And a question that convinces me the real estate fixation transcends generations. The first words out of his mouth, upon hearing that the only home he’s ever known, the home where he took his first breath, has been sold? Not: “How could you!”. Not: “I hate you and you’re ruining my life”. Instead he asks: “How much did we get for it?”. And when I tell him, he pumps his fist in the air, smiles and says: “that’s goooood!”. I think, at least for now, everything will be all right.
Saturday, July 1, 2006
Learning Spanish
How many times have you thought about the fact that when you put two verbs back to back, you don’t conjugate the second verb? Like: I want to go. I want is conjugated and“To go” is the 2nd verb so it’s left alone. These are the thoughts that rumble through my brain five months before we pick up and move our family from Toronto to Mal Pais Costa Rica.
Welcome to the glamourous world of leaving it all behind and starting over.
The things that worry me can change from one breath to another these days. But at this moment there are two: we don't have a place to live and we don’t speak spanish,. Steve is leaving again for Mal Pais in a couple of days for three weeks to try and resolve the living issue. And I’ve begun Spanish lessons. My brain hurts. It has been years, too many to even think about, since I’ve been in a classroom setting. I signed up for a Think in Spanish beginner course. It meets once a week in the dreary basement of a church about as far away from Costa Rica as you can get. I only make it through one session. Barely. Just a few minutes into the class and it all comes back. I feel like the naughty kid I was in grade 9. And 10 and 11. I want to giggle. I want to say “Dos cervecas, por favor. or Donde esta el bano because that’’s all I know. I want to scream at the knob beside me who asks questions just for the sake of it. (What is it about the classroom that brings out the Eddie Haskell in some people? The scratch of chalk on the blackboard. The fluorescent lights. The fear of public humiliation. It all hangs over me like a dark cloud.
And so I skip next weeks lesson and am ashamed for feeling so good about it. Like I got away with something. Chuckling inside about what sort of excuse I’ll give the next week. I don’t do my homework. I ignore an email from Mark, the co-ordinator wondering what’s happened to me. And then it hits me. This isn’t learning for a grade, or learning to please someone else. It’s about survival. About knowing how to buy my groceries and make friends and order food. Even with that motivation I know I can’t go back into a classroom. Instead I convince Mark to credit me for the lost classes and use them towards one on one sessions. Two hours, three times a week.
I meet Leyte in a sunny room in the west end offices of Oise. I squeak out an embarrassed “hola” and spend the next two hours trying to impress the queen of cuba, a lovely reserved young woman who I desperately want to please. I am now on lesson 8. I try to navigate the language, racking my brain for each word. I sound like some lunatic spewing out staccato sentences. And, in the midst of this brain storm, one english phrase keeps popping into my mind. “I pity the fool”. Mr T’s wisdom is stuck on a loop each time I think about poor Steve trying to learn this. Unlike me he doesn’t have french to rely on and most people who only speak one language don’t think about HOW they put together sentences, they just do it. Steve’s wrapped up in trying to design our house and co-ordinate the construction from here. So far he’s made very little progress with the language tapes we have.
My apologies to all spanish speaking folks but here goes: Estoy muy contente parque puedo hablar y entiender un poco de espanol. I have learned the basic verbs: to be (there are two, ser and estar), to want, to like, to need. I know how to say: I don’t understand. (no entiendo). I am crazy (Soy loco). I have three kids and we are hungry. Tengo tres hijos y tenemos hambre. I pretend to understand why the word for morning and tomorrow are the same (manana) and that tomorrow morning is manana por la manana. The word for wife and handcuffs is essentially the same (esposa and esposas).
But what I have learned most is appreciation. And utter admiration and respect for the 2 year old set. I now understand the exhaustion my 2 year old fees at the end of the day. We are both struggling to figure out sentence structure, verb tenses , pronouns and nouns. Me go park sounds cute out of the mouth of a two year old. Not so much out of the mouth of THIS babe. And I also know that Paulie and Eva and Riley --their fresh, absorbent brains will soon be exercising their patience with me when I beg them to help me understand how to say something en espanol.
Welcome to the glamourous world of leaving it all behind and starting over.
The things that worry me can change from one breath to another these days. But at this moment there are two: we don't have a place to live and we don’t speak spanish,. Steve is leaving again for Mal Pais in a couple of days for three weeks to try and resolve the living issue. And I’ve begun Spanish lessons. My brain hurts. It has been years, too many to even think about, since I’ve been in a classroom setting. I signed up for a Think in Spanish beginner course. It meets once a week in the dreary basement of a church about as far away from Costa Rica as you can get. I only make it through one session. Barely. Just a few minutes into the class and it all comes back. I feel like the naughty kid I was in grade 9. And 10 and 11. I want to giggle. I want to say “Dos cervecas, por favor. or Donde esta el bano because that’’s all I know. I want to scream at the knob beside me who asks questions just for the sake of it. (What is it about the classroom that brings out the Eddie Haskell in some people? The scratch of chalk on the blackboard. The fluorescent lights. The fear of public humiliation. It all hangs over me like a dark cloud.
And so I skip next weeks lesson and am ashamed for feeling so good about it. Like I got away with something. Chuckling inside about what sort of excuse I’ll give the next week. I don’t do my homework. I ignore an email from Mark, the co-ordinator wondering what’s happened to me. And then it hits me. This isn’t learning for a grade, or learning to please someone else. It’s about survival. About knowing how to buy my groceries and make friends and order food. Even with that motivation I know I can’t go back into a classroom. Instead I convince Mark to credit me for the lost classes and use them towards one on one sessions. Two hours, three times a week.
I meet Leyte in a sunny room in the west end offices of Oise. I squeak out an embarrassed “hola” and spend the next two hours trying to impress the queen of cuba, a lovely reserved young woman who I desperately want to please. I am now on lesson 8. I try to navigate the language, racking my brain for each word. I sound like some lunatic spewing out staccato sentences. And, in the midst of this brain storm, one english phrase keeps popping into my mind. “I pity the fool”. Mr T’s wisdom is stuck on a loop each time I think about poor Steve trying to learn this. Unlike me he doesn’t have french to rely on and most people who only speak one language don’t think about HOW they put together sentences, they just do it. Steve’s wrapped up in trying to design our house and co-ordinate the construction from here. So far he’s made very little progress with the language tapes we have.
My apologies to all spanish speaking folks but here goes: Estoy muy contente parque puedo hablar y entiender un poco de espanol. I have learned the basic verbs: to be (there are two, ser and estar), to want, to like, to need. I know how to say: I don’t understand. (no entiendo). I am crazy (Soy loco). I have three kids and we are hungry. Tengo tres hijos y tenemos hambre. I pretend to understand why the word for morning and tomorrow are the same (manana) and that tomorrow morning is manana por la manana. The word for wife and handcuffs is essentially the same (esposa and esposas).
But what I have learned most is appreciation. And utter admiration and respect for the 2 year old set. I now understand the exhaustion my 2 year old fees at the end of the day. We are both struggling to figure out sentence structure, verb tenses , pronouns and nouns. Me go park sounds cute out of the mouth of a two year old. Not so much out of the mouth of THIS babe. And I also know that Paulie and Eva and Riley --their fresh, absorbent brains will soon be exercising their patience with me when I beg them to help me understand how to say something en espanol.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Reality Tv
Isn’t it strange how the very thing you want to escape from can grab a hold of you and try to keep you in it’s clutches? It’s like that with me and tv. Just when I’ve made the commitment to take a break from it, I can’t seem to shake it off. And my dream of trying to live a different kind of life with my family came dangerously close to turning into one of those awful reality tv shows.
In keeping with the style of bad tv, I’ll start with the back story, build an arc to create tension and suspense and then resolve the crisis, rolling the credits and letting you get on with your day.
Opening shot: Haines as a young woman in journalism school, fade to photos of her working in radio and tv, including one very quick shot of her anchoring disaster at CTV. Fade to photos taken over the last four years with a voice over detailing how proud and honoured she is to have hosted a two time gemini awardwinning talk show.
Up tempo music with narration over images of her impossibly handsome, sexy, sweet, adorable husband Steve, working as a set decorator on major tv and film projects in Toronto.
The arc builds as Steve and Avery realise they have everything but aren’t fully living their lives. They contemplate a drastic move to India, where Avery spent her childhood, but chicken out and settle instead on the much less extreme Costa Rica . The tiny central american country has great memories. A long ago wedding proposal. A recent month long family vacation. No army. Kind people. Relatively easy language to learn. Great weather.
The plans move fast. The car is sold. So is the house. 6 acres of land, overlooking the Pacific, purchased in a little town called Mal Pais. That’s right. Bad Country. And it’s near Montezuma. As in Montezuma’s revenge. The duo refuse to focus on images of bad countries and diarrhoea and push on.
The little fishing/surfing village is nestled along the coast [lots of shots of howler monkeys, huge iguanas, armadillos, red crabs] It is very remote. About 5 and a half hours along nasty roads to the capital of San Jose. And that’s IF the roads don’t wash out during the rainy season. [ roll wild west music with dust storms and huge craters] There’s no hospital. No post office. Not even a bank. But there are unbelievably friendly locals, a strong expat community of surfers and yogi’s and more than a few tasty restaurants, with an organic market on the beach every Saturday morning.
But if this were a reality tv show, we wouldn’t focus too much on all of that. Because good and happy is boring. Instead we’ll cut to the crisis: Will we put our dream for sale. Are we willing to exploit our adventure for money. And because reality tv is rarely real at all, we’d have to alter our dream as well. Become a little cartoonish. The screaming wife, the angry husband, the naughty children,. The funny bits of us trying to learn the language. The inevitable tears and frustrations. Fast paced edits with the obligitory shots of sexy surfers and sunsets on the beach.
There would be 2 cameras and a sound person following us around for the first 6 months, as we try to set up a home, make friends, create a community. It could pay for our adventure. But would the money be worth it?
And I so badly wish I could say we dismissed outright the proposals that came our way. That we slammed down the phone. Deleted the e-mails. But the truth is, we talked to a couple of producers. We were tempted. Steve and I even fought over it. But in the end it was pretty obvious to both of us.
I have no doubt that it would have been fantastic tv. And even though we contemplated it, the decision to say no wasn’t tough. Anyone who’s watched even one reality show knows that there’s no winning.. We would have been seen at our worst. . Our lives edited and chopped and twisted to create the necessary elements for a good show. And we would have done it only for the money.
Steve asked me if writing a column was exploiting our experience as well. I guess in a way it is. Except I love to write. I have control. And I can edit out the parts that make me look especially bad. Crisis resolved. Roll Credits.
In keeping with the style of bad tv, I’ll start with the back story, build an arc to create tension and suspense and then resolve the crisis, rolling the credits and letting you get on with your day.
Opening shot: Haines as a young woman in journalism school, fade to photos of her working in radio and tv, including one very quick shot of her anchoring disaster at CTV. Fade to photos taken over the last four years with a voice over detailing how proud and honoured she is to have hosted a two time gemini awardwinning talk show.
Up tempo music with narration over images of her impossibly handsome, sexy, sweet, adorable husband Steve, working as a set decorator on major tv and film projects in Toronto.
The arc builds as Steve and Avery realise they have everything but aren’t fully living their lives. They contemplate a drastic move to India, where Avery spent her childhood, but chicken out and settle instead on the much less extreme Costa Rica . The tiny central american country has great memories. A long ago wedding proposal. A recent month long family vacation. No army. Kind people. Relatively easy language to learn. Great weather.
The plans move fast. The car is sold. So is the house. 6 acres of land, overlooking the Pacific, purchased in a little town called Mal Pais. That’s right. Bad Country. And it’s near Montezuma. As in Montezuma’s revenge. The duo refuse to focus on images of bad countries and diarrhoea and push on.
The little fishing/surfing village is nestled along the coast [lots of shots of howler monkeys, huge iguanas, armadillos, red crabs] It is very remote. About 5 and a half hours along nasty roads to the capital of San Jose. And that’s IF the roads don’t wash out during the rainy season. [ roll wild west music with dust storms and huge craters] There’s no hospital. No post office. Not even a bank. But there are unbelievably friendly locals, a strong expat community of surfers and yogi’s and more than a few tasty restaurants, with an organic market on the beach every Saturday morning.
But if this were a reality tv show, we wouldn’t focus too much on all of that. Because good and happy is boring. Instead we’ll cut to the crisis: Will we put our dream for sale. Are we willing to exploit our adventure for money. And because reality tv is rarely real at all, we’d have to alter our dream as well. Become a little cartoonish. The screaming wife, the angry husband, the naughty children,. The funny bits of us trying to learn the language. The inevitable tears and frustrations. Fast paced edits with the obligitory shots of sexy surfers and sunsets on the beach.
There would be 2 cameras and a sound person following us around for the first 6 months, as we try to set up a home, make friends, create a community. It could pay for our adventure. But would the money be worth it?
And I so badly wish I could say we dismissed outright the proposals that came our way. That we slammed down the phone. Deleted the e-mails. But the truth is, we talked to a couple of producers. We were tempted. Steve and I even fought over it. But in the end it was pretty obvious to both of us.
I have no doubt that it would have been fantastic tv. And even though we contemplated it, the decision to say no wasn’t tough. Anyone who’s watched even one reality show knows that there’s no winning.. We would have been seen at our worst. . Our lives edited and chopped and twisted to create the necessary elements for a good show. And we would have done it only for the money.
Steve asked me if writing a column was exploiting our experience as well. I guess in a way it is. Except I love to write. I have control. And I can edit out the parts that make me look especially bad. Crisis resolved. Roll Credits.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Walnut Oil
What is it about my brain that has me fixated on walnut oil and silverware. There are a million things to think about as we move our life from Canada to Costa Rica. Thousands of things to sell, get rid of, give away. And for some reason when I try to process all that needs to be done I keep coming back to the walnut oil and silverware. Do I take them with me? Give them away? Store them when/if we come home?
No psychology degree here and yet it’s clear: If I leave the small stuff unresolved I don’t have to deal with the big stuff. All my books--including too many that are on the still -to- read shelves. Our winter clothes. The bicycles. The strollers. And what about all those lamps and vases and bowls. The art on the walls, more specifically the incredible photos I had framed while in the throes of grieving my dads sudden death. The images he snapped while whisking us on around the world adventures. My favourite is one of me, of course. I am about 5 or 6. I am sleeping naked in a semi circle, with a scrawny black cat stretching from my toes to my head, completing the circle. We are lying on a rumpled white sheet, a discarded child’s swimming mask off to the side. The composition is breathtaking. The soft black and white is bathed in the love of the picture taker--my dad. I remember that day--driving in a rickety old car through the streets of a small island in Malaysia. Someone --sensing my crazy love of animals -thrust the little black cat through the window and into the car. I begged to keep her, and we did.
There’s another photo, it must have been taken on a tripod or with my dads arm extended. It’s of my mum and dad, in the early 70’s when we lived in India. They are beautiful and vibrant, arms around each other. My mum wearing big sunglasses ,a newspaper peeking out from under her arm. My dad, his long brown hair dancing on his shoulders. They are so confident and sure. Chins uplifted, the world ahead of them. It’s that picture that comes to me in my moments of doubt. They lived their lives, with three kids in tow, without the need for conventional success or long term goals . They traipsed from New York to New Mexico. From New Delhi to Washington D.C. And then, strangest of all, to Smooth Rock Falls and then Fenelon Falls, with side trips to far flung countries around the globe. The hill stations of India, Sri Lanka, Japan, Thailand, Indonesia, Italy Greece, France.
And it is that childhood that I focus on when I jolt up in the middle of the night, panicked by what’s in store for my kids. Will they be able to handle the move, make new friends, learn the language, cope with the urban-to-rural culture shock. And in those moments I realise that the parts of me that are good and strong didn’t come from safety or the security of routine. They were born from travel, from adventure and being thrown together as a family to work things out. Because we moved as one, and didn’t have the luxury of splintering off. We had each other.
My friends think our move is brave or gutsy. But really I think it was predestined. It’s what I was meant to do. Most kids in their teens and twenties try to shake off their upbringing by rejecting convention and scouring the world to find themselves. I did the opposite. My rebellion was to have a plan. To plot my career. To be a grown up. I got married early, had three kids. Now I am in the final moments of my 30’s and I feel surges of passion to give my children all that I was given as a child. In the process I will , in my own way, recreate my parents’ journeys. Seeing the world with their imprint but through my own eyes. This move to me, feels like going home. Back to my roots.
Steve had a very different upbringing and so it amazes me that he’s up for this challenge. He grew up in a small town, in a lovely family with their fair share of financial hardships. For as long as I’ve known him Steve has had his eye on the prize. Working hard, earning a lot, making sure our future was secure. And I love him for all of that. But I love him even more now for being so quick to give it all up and start over.
The walnut oil will go to my friend Emily. The silverware, which I have no attachment to except for the need to have something to eat with, will come with us.
No psychology degree here and yet it’s clear: If I leave the small stuff unresolved I don’t have to deal with the big stuff. All my books--including too many that are on the still -to- read shelves. Our winter clothes. The bicycles. The strollers. And what about all those lamps and vases and bowls. The art on the walls, more specifically the incredible photos I had framed while in the throes of grieving my dads sudden death. The images he snapped while whisking us on around the world adventures. My favourite is one of me, of course. I am about 5 or 6. I am sleeping naked in a semi circle, with a scrawny black cat stretching from my toes to my head, completing the circle. We are lying on a rumpled white sheet, a discarded child’s swimming mask off to the side. The composition is breathtaking. The soft black and white is bathed in the love of the picture taker--my dad. I remember that day--driving in a rickety old car through the streets of a small island in Malaysia. Someone --sensing my crazy love of animals -thrust the little black cat through the window and into the car. I begged to keep her, and we did.
There’s another photo, it must have been taken on a tripod or with my dads arm extended. It’s of my mum and dad, in the early 70’s when we lived in India. They are beautiful and vibrant, arms around each other. My mum wearing big sunglasses ,a newspaper peeking out from under her arm. My dad, his long brown hair dancing on his shoulders. They are so confident and sure. Chins uplifted, the world ahead of them. It’s that picture that comes to me in my moments of doubt. They lived their lives, with three kids in tow, without the need for conventional success or long term goals . They traipsed from New York to New Mexico. From New Delhi to Washington D.C. And then, strangest of all, to Smooth Rock Falls and then Fenelon Falls, with side trips to far flung countries around the globe. The hill stations of India, Sri Lanka, Japan, Thailand, Indonesia, Italy Greece, France.
And it is that childhood that I focus on when I jolt up in the middle of the night, panicked by what’s in store for my kids. Will they be able to handle the move, make new friends, learn the language, cope with the urban-to-rural culture shock. And in those moments I realise that the parts of me that are good and strong didn’t come from safety or the security of routine. They were born from travel, from adventure and being thrown together as a family to work things out. Because we moved as one, and didn’t have the luxury of splintering off. We had each other.
My friends think our move is brave or gutsy. But really I think it was predestined. It’s what I was meant to do. Most kids in their teens and twenties try to shake off their upbringing by rejecting convention and scouring the world to find themselves. I did the opposite. My rebellion was to have a plan. To plot my career. To be a grown up. I got married early, had three kids. Now I am in the final moments of my 30’s and I feel surges of passion to give my children all that I was given as a child. In the process I will , in my own way, recreate my parents’ journeys. Seeing the world with their imprint but through my own eyes. This move to me, feels like going home. Back to my roots.
Steve had a very different upbringing and so it amazes me that he’s up for this challenge. He grew up in a small town, in a lovely family with their fair share of financial hardships. For as long as I’ve known him Steve has had his eye on the prize. Working hard, earning a lot, making sure our future was secure. And I love him for all of that. But I love him even more now for being so quick to give it all up and start over.
The walnut oil will go to my friend Emily. The silverware, which I have no attachment to except for the need to have something to eat with, will come with us.
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
How the dream started
So, we got rid of the in-denial SUV--You know the one. The kind you pay through the nose for because NOT owning a mini van is the only thing that keeps you from forever losing even a semblance of your pre kid life. The Volvo xc90--designed to trick the pseudo hipsters like me? Well, it’s gone. Now I use a bicycle to get around. And I am stunned by my sense of freedom. Wind through my hair, legs pumping, heart racing.
And, two days ago we sold our house. Bought it for 234 thousand dollars just over a decade ago when Riverdale was the place west enders went when they couldn’t afford the Annex. Gone for more than a million. Signing the real estate papers makes me feel even freer than handing over the car keys.
And now I’m looking around at all the stuff we own and realise it too must go. Good-bye to the white leather sectional couch, the flat screen built in tv, the deco cabinet, the mission dining room table. Even the lamps, the thousands of dollars of suits that cram my walk in closet all meant for a career that I’ve put on pause. So long to the high heeled shoes, the gorgeous winter coat, the hundred dollar pillows, the fancy coffee maker.
I have not gone bankrupt. I am not getting divorced and I am not entering a monastery.
But I am giving up this life to try a new one, at least for a while. Like a bolt of lightening I have been struck by the fact I have become too comfortable in my comfort. Trapped by my trappings. And I feel a huge urge to turn things upside down. Forget about investing and amassing and consuming. I want to divest, downscale. Live now and use less.
I’m also increasingly worried about speed. Not the drug, but the pace. Espcecially for my children, who seem to be in such a hurry to grow up. Everything happens so fast. and I want (to try) and slow it down. The pressure to be something else feels even more offensive when you see your children falling prey to it. My 10 year old Riley already thinks he’s a teenager and wants a cellphone, Eminem cd’s and even asked for a blackberry(!) the other day. My five year old Eva spends too much time in front of the mirror and, like so many other girls her age, seems overly focused on the exterior. And I overheard my 2 year old (a boy, by the way) say he wanted a “belly shirt” the other day, a desire picked up from his sister.
Thank god my husband Steve is feeling the same way about all this. And so ...we’re all moving to Costa Rica. We bought 6 acres of land on a mountainous jungle overlooking the Pacific ocean. There are howler monkeys in the trees, boa constrictors in the grasses and stick insects and scorpions on the walls. There’s a little international school on the beach where the first rule is “No throwing mangoes”. Rule number two: no going to the ocean by yourself.”. The uniforms; surfer shorts and yoga skirts. Friday afternoons are set aside for surfing.
The small fishing town reminds me of a tropical wild west. A dusty strip with shacks for stores. Some surf shops, a falafel hut (!) and a chicken joint. A couple of small supermarkets, a bicycle rental shop, a place to buy booze. Fishermen selling the mornings’ catch on the beach every afternoon. And when you need something a little more refined, the main drag is book ended by a couple of beautiful boutique resorts that occasionally draw some high profile celebrities--like Gwyneth Paltrow, Mathew McCaughney and that supermodel Giselle, looking for the ultimate seclusion.
And the beaches? They go on for ever...some stretches have the most beautiful sugar sand, others are crusted with hardened lava, creating perfect tide pools for small ocean creatures. The days are slow. The weather is almost perfect. The people are friendly.
I know all this sounds too good to be true. Even in the telling of our plans I realise I am painting only a partial portrait. This may be a dream, but my eyes are wide open. I am not expecting some kind of perfect trade in. Exchanging the big bad life of materialism, consumerism, superficial success and snow for a pure life of tranquility, enlightenment, selflessness and sun. . I know that a snap shot of paradise changes once that two week vacation is up. The images of palm trees and beaches, surfers and girlie drinks start fading fast when paradise becomes your home.
It’s been 6 months since we made our decision to move to The Rica, as Steve now calls it. And the road from dream to reality is a funny one. My feelings most closely resemble those howler monkeys swinging from the trees on our property. Secure and determined while hanging on the vine,. Exhilarated and terrified but still keenly aware of the destination in the moment before grasping the next vine. Right now, as I hang between vines, I feel liberated and freed by my divestment's. Excited by the possibilities. I have a strange tingle in my stomach. The same sensation as when I first realised I was in love with Steve. It’s the feeling of being loved and in love. But more than anything it’s the feeling of being alive. Really alive.
And, two days ago we sold our house. Bought it for 234 thousand dollars just over a decade ago when Riverdale was the place west enders went when they couldn’t afford the Annex. Gone for more than a million. Signing the real estate papers makes me feel even freer than handing over the car keys.
And now I’m looking around at all the stuff we own and realise it too must go. Good-bye to the white leather sectional couch, the flat screen built in tv, the deco cabinet, the mission dining room table. Even the lamps, the thousands of dollars of suits that cram my walk in closet all meant for a career that I’ve put on pause. So long to the high heeled shoes, the gorgeous winter coat, the hundred dollar pillows, the fancy coffee maker.
I have not gone bankrupt. I am not getting divorced and I am not entering a monastery.
But I am giving up this life to try a new one, at least for a while. Like a bolt of lightening I have been struck by the fact I have become too comfortable in my comfort. Trapped by my trappings. And I feel a huge urge to turn things upside down. Forget about investing and amassing and consuming. I want to divest, downscale. Live now and use less.
I’m also increasingly worried about speed. Not the drug, but the pace. Espcecially for my children, who seem to be in such a hurry to grow up. Everything happens so fast. and I want (to try) and slow it down. The pressure to be something else feels even more offensive when you see your children falling prey to it. My 10 year old Riley already thinks he’s a teenager and wants a cellphone, Eminem cd’s and even asked for a blackberry(!) the other day. My five year old Eva spends too much time in front of the mirror and, like so many other girls her age, seems overly focused on the exterior. And I overheard my 2 year old (a boy, by the way) say he wanted a “belly shirt” the other day, a desire picked up from his sister.
Thank god my husband Steve is feeling the same way about all this. And so ...we’re all moving to Costa Rica. We bought 6 acres of land on a mountainous jungle overlooking the Pacific ocean. There are howler monkeys in the trees, boa constrictors in the grasses and stick insects and scorpions on the walls. There’s a little international school on the beach where the first rule is “No throwing mangoes”. Rule number two: no going to the ocean by yourself.”. The uniforms; surfer shorts and yoga skirts. Friday afternoons are set aside for surfing.
The small fishing town reminds me of a tropical wild west. A dusty strip with shacks for stores. Some surf shops, a falafel hut (!) and a chicken joint. A couple of small supermarkets, a bicycle rental shop, a place to buy booze. Fishermen selling the mornings’ catch on the beach every afternoon. And when you need something a little more refined, the main drag is book ended by a couple of beautiful boutique resorts that occasionally draw some high profile celebrities--like Gwyneth Paltrow, Mathew McCaughney and that supermodel Giselle, looking for the ultimate seclusion.
And the beaches? They go on for ever...some stretches have the most beautiful sugar sand, others are crusted with hardened lava, creating perfect tide pools for small ocean creatures. The days are slow. The weather is almost perfect. The people are friendly.
I know all this sounds too good to be true. Even in the telling of our plans I realise I am painting only a partial portrait. This may be a dream, but my eyes are wide open. I am not expecting some kind of perfect trade in. Exchanging the big bad life of materialism, consumerism, superficial success and snow for a pure life of tranquility, enlightenment, selflessness and sun. . I know that a snap shot of paradise changes once that two week vacation is up. The images of palm trees and beaches, surfers and girlie drinks start fading fast when paradise becomes your home.
It’s been 6 months since we made our decision to move to The Rica, as Steve now calls it. And the road from dream to reality is a funny one. My feelings most closely resemble those howler monkeys swinging from the trees on our property. Secure and determined while hanging on the vine,. Exhilarated and terrified but still keenly aware of the destination in the moment before grasping the next vine. Right now, as I hang between vines, I feel liberated and freed by my divestment's. Excited by the possibilities. I have a strange tingle in my stomach. The same sensation as when I first realised I was in love with Steve. It’s the feeling of being loved and in love. But more than anything it’s the feeling of being alive. Really alive.
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