Trading spaces

My subscription to Better Homes and Gardens is on its last issue, and I’ve decided not to renew. I’ll pick up my subscription again when I move back to the States. Mentally caught in the middle between two places, I’ve lost interest in decorating for the first time in my adult life.

I became a homeowner at the tender age of 21, moving into a brick ranch that E and I bought in Oklahoma. A small house set on a long narrow lot in a blue collar neighborhood, it was modest in every sense of the word, but I loved it. I thoroughly enjoyed decorating it--choosing paint colors, accessories, and furniture to create a mood and make it ours. Outdoors, E built a garden shed in the backyard, added a deck off the kitchen, and began developing his landscaping skills.

We lived there for six years, rented a townhouse briefly when we first moved to Virginia, and then bought a Cape Cod with big windows, French doors, and cozy places under the eaves. It sits on a generous corner lot filled with hardwood trees and pines. We lived there for 15 years, and we’re renting the house to friends while we’re overseas.

The interior of that house has been painted more times than I can count—beginning the day we closed on it. We drove straight to the property with paint supplies in hand and got to work because I’m not a fan of white walls and couldn’t wait to lay some color down. The light peach I chose looked mighty orange under incandescent lights that night, and I thought I’d made a huge mistake. But when daylight streamed through the double colonial windows and all our furniture was moved in, the color gave the rooms downstairs the perfect soft glow.

After Mr. A was born, we added onto the house, a big room with vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, lots of windows, and a fireplace with gas logs. Over the years, we replaced carpet with oak flooring, chose new vinyl for the kitchen, had the master bath renovated, changed window treatments, furniture, art, and wall and trim colors. The house, like any house, was a work in progress, and the changes we made, big and small, were a source of joy.

Being a stay-at-home mom and a work-at-home writer, I can honestly say the house and all its accoutrements was my world. Because I spent all my time there, the comfort and design mattered to me even more. I was always tweaking the interior to get it just right.

And then we moved to Belgium.

We looked at close to 20 homes before deciding to rent the one we’re in. It’s bigger than our house in Virginia but the yard is small and less suitable for kids, though it’s private and fine for adults. The house, a traditional European brick cottage, has lovely stained doors and trim, iron hinges and hardware with “birdcage” handles, exposed beams, knotty pine paneling on portions of the ceiling, brick walls highlighting some of the downstairs rooms and walls that are nearly all glass looking out on the garden. It has a sunny kitchen, a stone fireplace, a covered terrace, beautiful casement windows, tile wainscoting in the kitchen and baths, a curving staircase, and lovely views from the attic. The driveway is cobblestone, the retaining walls are made of stone, and there’s a wraparound patio. Sure it has its quirks—not many outlets, only one closet, no space for built-in appliances in the kitchen, ongoing issues with hot water—but most days it’s easy to forgive these minor shortcomings.

Yet as lovely as this house is, the fact that it is not our house affects how I feel about it. It has been strange to live in a place and feel disconnected from it, to admire it and yet feel so detached from it. I can’t paint these white walls. The house came with curtains but they were dingy. I washed the ones that I could do in the machine, but I refused to have the drapes dry cleaned because it would cost more than $400. I won’t pay that to clean someone else’s curtains. Nearly all the art I had shipped over has not been hung, partly because I can’t find the right spot for it, but also because I don’t want to put holes in the wall of someone else’s house. No matter how much I like this house, my heart and purse-strings are drawn tight—I won’t invest myself emotionally or financially in making this house a home. Sure it’s comfortable and beautiful, but it’s not MINE.

It’s a strange frame of mind, I know. Renting vs. owning has pinged on my subconscious in a way I never expected. Instead of living where I am and making the best of it, I make imaginary lists of improvements to the Virginia house. I visualize how things will be arranged and changed, make to-do lists, mentally budget resources, and set priorities. I can hardly wait to go to Lowe’s and linger over the paint chips. I’ll be reclaiming my space and making a home, mentally and physically, with each stroke of the paintbrush.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 16, 2006

Don't miss this

Untitled at www.untitledlife.com had linked to this article on Christianism. It's a brilliant essay on the discomfort so many believers feel about the politicalization of faith. Check it out here.

Helpless, not hopeless

Arabella is having surgery today to improve her chances of getting pregnant. Teebs has spent a remarkable amount of time with her feet in the stirrups trying to get to the bottom of her infertility. Brooke has suffered four gut-wrenching miscarriages and is trying to line up financing for IVF. Untitled has been trying to conceive baby number 2 and despite shots in the ass and sex on a schedule, she’s let down each month. I have close friends and family who have lived through these cycles of heartache, including a sister-in-law who had a viable pregnancy and lost it unexpectedly when she was about five months along. She almost died in the process. Her only child died in her arms.

For all my whining about back pain, heart medication, PMS, and life in the slow lane, when it comes to reproduction, my body has pretty much done the right thing. I was ambivalent about having kids for 12 years, but when we finally decided to give it a try, everything went smoothly, more or less. Mr. A decided to be born on Labor Day weekend instead of close to Halloween, when he was due. Yeah, delivering a premature baby was traumatic in its own way, but I thank God his life was never in danger and he was spared major complications.

I had a miscarriage and D & C with baby number 2. My doctor gave me Valium because I couldn’t stop crying. And while there was sorrow and questions associated with that whole sad experience, I quickly became pregnant again and had a healthy pregnancy and birth that brought me my darling E-Grrrl.

I have no comforting words for those of you who have been beat up and broken in a hundred private ways by infertility. I have no advice on getting pregnant, no clue how or if your situations can ever be bearable, no idea if you’ll ever have peace or the babies you desperately want. In short I have absolutely nothing to offer—and that helpless feeling as an observer of your dilemmas gives me the tiniest glimpse of how enormously frustrating and disappointing it is for all of you to live with a sense of powerlessness in the face of infertility.

So today’s blog is for Arabella, Teebs, Brooke, Untitled, KK, V, and L and all those who have been put through the wringer of infertility. A portion of sympathy. A large dose of prayer. Hope that things will get better.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved

May 3, 2006

Life of V: The Movie

There’s a Web site, www.myheritage.com , where folks can upload a photo of themselves and computer analysis determines what celebrities they most resemble. As Debbie and Wordgirl have discovered, the results are often comical. I haven’t tried playing that game, but it got me thinking: If a movie was made about my life, who would I want to play my role?

To me this is less about physical resemblance and more about the intangible qualities actors bring to their roles.

I think Kate Winslet and Laura Linney could capture my life the way it is now. I’m thinking of Kate’s performance in Finding Neverland and Titanic, and Laura Linney’s in Love Actually and You Can Count on Me. I also relate to Virginia Madsen’s acting as the love interest in Sideways. That scene where she describes what she thinks about when she samples fine wine is so rich in words, imagery, and passion. Love it.

Now, if the movie was set in my teens and twenties, Winona Ryder would be a good choice. There’s something about her skinny-chick vulnerability and intensity that conjures that time in my life for me.

What about you? If a movie was made about your life, who would you want to see cast?

And for those of you who know me, what do you think of my choices?

Wardrobe Malfunctions

It started with Teebs, and then it was picked up by Ditsy. Now I too have joined the ranks of women sharing their embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions. At least I’m in good company.

Scene 1:  College

Clock stopped. I've overslept! Mad rush to get dressed and make it to 8 a.m class, which is followed by 9 a.m. class, which is followed by 10 a.m. class. No time to waste in the restroom. When I arrive at the Student Union for lunch with friends, I desperately need to pee.

In the bathroom I drop my jeans and notice something isn’t quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it.  I keep staring at the undies around my ankles and going, “Huh?”

And then it hits me:  yes, in my great haste to get dressed in the morning, I put my underwear on SIDEWAYS.

Sideways?!!! I know, Internet, you’re thinking, how the hell is it possible to put your underwear on SIDEWAYS and not notice immediately? Ask Victoria’s Secret, makers of the particular panties that pulled this trick off. They were French cut, stretchy, and the waist and leg openings were about the same size, as was the width of the side panels and the width of the crotch.

But excuses aside, let me just say I am not a MORNING person. Not at all. And I don’t drink coffee, so I don’t emerge from my mental fog as readily as some people do.

Scene 2:   Gym

Once I had my second child, not only was I not a morning person, I was not an afternoon person either. I also wasn’t a night person. What I was instead was a barely functioning person day and night. The toddler-with-a-baby years ruined my mental and physical health.

And thus to restore some semblance of my former self and get out of the house for an hour or so a few days a week, I signed up for an aerobics class. Getting to the class, however, was tricky, because if my husband was delayed as little as five minutes getting home from work, my carefully constructed logistics would fall apart.

I needed to leave for the gym just after 5 p.m. Everyone with kids knows this is the single most evil hour of the day. They tend to become bored, tired, hungry, cranky and crying all at once, right as you’re trying to cook dinner. It’s not pretty. Every rotten thing my son ever did occurred after 4 p.m. And my daughter, well this was the moment she needed to be in my arms every second. And being trapped in the kitchen with two unhappy children was not working for me—because hey, grownups also get cranky, tired, and hungry but we’re not allowed to throw tantrums. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!

And so, long story short, I was always in a tizzy trying to get the kids fed, and get  dressed, grab my stuff, and get out the door so I could sweat my stress away.

This might explain why one day when we were warming up in class, I looked down at my feet and discovered I was wearing two different shoes. Two different shoes!!!

The only thing they had in common was that they were both Rykas. But one was a walking shoe and one was a HIGH TOP.

How did I manage to do this? To borrow Ditsy Chick’s tagline, “I used to have a mind, but now I have small children.”

But my stupid gym woes didn’t end at that moment. No, I had to further humiliate myself on another day.

Now most of the women in this class were far more buff and fit than I was—and they had the cute workout outfits with the shorts and sports bras. Not me, I had big oversized t-shirts borrowed from my husband and gray heather bicycle shorts purchased at Sears (yes, SEARS!).

One day I was again running late and came flying through the gym door, tossed my towel and water bottle into a cubby and joined the people who were already in motion. Naturally, the back of the class is crowded with newbies trying to learn the routines, so despite the fact that I am not buff or well-dressed, I jump in where there’s room--on the front line.

I’m confidently grape-vining to the left when I glance at the enormous mirrored wall behind the instructor and see something white flapping below my throat. What is that stuck to my shirt?

Grape vine to the right and peer closer.  Reach up to my throat and realize that the white thing bouncing in the breeze is my t-shirt tag.  Yes, Internet, my t-shirt tag. Not only do I have my tacky tee on inside out, I also have it on backwards!

Thank God I was wearing matching shoes.

So now that I have bared my fashion faux pas and wardrobe malfunctions to the WORLD, you’re invited to do the same.

 Comments?

March 29, 2006

Things That Make Me Go "Hmmmm...."

1. On a tag attached to a $50 purse manufactured by Esprit:

This item is made of fake nubuk. If it gets wet, the color may transfer to textiles. This is not considered a grounds for complaint.

Translation: You’re spending $50 on a fake leather purse that will stain your clothes the first time you get caught in the rain. Hey Stupid, don't make me say you weren't warned.

2. Belgians love frites ( fries) and potato chips. The snack aisles in the grocery stores are full of every imaginable variety of potato chips--BBQ, paprika, dill pickle, vinegar, onion, sour cream—but even in the biggest super stores, you can’t buy a bag of pretzels in any shape or form.

3. Printed on the back of a bag of sugar-free Jelly Bellies:

“Warning—consumption may cause stomach discomfort and/or laxative effect.”

Translation: This candy will make you fart—or worse. Do not consume before long car rides, job interviews, dates, or a visit to the gym.

These are not sold in Belgian stores but they are sold at the American Embassy. If Americans have an image problem abroad, we can blame it on the (jelly) beans.

4. An ad seen almost daily on my Yahoo home page proclaims:

“You can live and work in the U.S.A!”? (Well, DUH! Been there, done that!)

“You’ve been pre-approved to participate in the U.S. Government Green Card Lottery” (U.S. Government Lottery? So what do people have to do—buy a scratch card or pick six? This could be an international money maker!)

“Get a Green Card that lasts a lifetime” (Hey, even my driver’s license is only good for a few years. I think non-citizens are getting a better deal—or they’re dying shortly after arriving in America.)

Being a good American capitalist, I’m investigating whether I can lease my U.S. citizenship to someone else until I move back to America in 2008, just in time to elect a new President.

5. V-Grrrl climbs into bed and realizes E-Man has her favorite pillow. Ever the demure and compliant wife, she hollers, “Hey! You’ve got my pillow! Pillow thief! I don’t know WHY I love you. The outrage! (Sigh) I can see I’m going to have to find myself a new husband.”

E-Man replies without looking up from his book: “Good luck.”

The Tao of Laundry

Dedicated to Granola Grrrl 

Gentle Readers, this is not for those who brag they can take things from hamper to hanger in half a day but for those who linger on the journey from Unclean to Enwhitenment.

Now, in a perfect world, all dirty clothes would begin their journey in the hamper. But, as we know, the world is full of Suffering and only half the dirty clothes are in the hamper. Only you can decide if the hamper is half empty or half full, Little Ones.

You must ever be a seeker and seek that which you should find: dirty clothes may be next to the hamper, behind the hamper, on top of the hamper, on the floor of the bedroom, in the toy box, mixed in with clean clothes, piled on the trunk, sitting on a chair, or waiting on the basement stairs. The world is full of Confusion. As you can see, the first step down the laundry path is the hardest—identifying and gathering all that is Unclean and bringing it to a central place.

Next we must identify the true essence of our uncleanness. Even as we seek Oneness, we must divide to conquer. And so Little Ones, we sort. Coloreds from Whites. Permanent Press from Knits. Delicates from Heavy Cottons. Towels from Sheets. Warm from Cold.

The piles may stretch all along the upper hallway and cause dismay. Do not think of the piles as obstacles, they are an essential part of the journey, way stations in life. Inhale. Exhale. Release your tension. Accept that it may take days to move to Enwhitenment.

Yes, before we can ascend to the White, we must first descend into the Dark. Down, down, down the curving basement  stairs we carry our burdens, one load at a time, and we become One with them. In the dark, all is crammed into the washer where the gentle tides of the front-loader will separate the dirt of the earth, the sweat of the body, and the stains of bad moments from the fabric of our lives. Turn, turn, pause. Turn, turn, rest. This is our Mantra. This is our life.

When will it end? When will the Laundress release us from our wishy-washy existence and take us to the next station on the path to Enwhitenment? How long must we sit? Minutes? Hours? Days? It is up to the Laundress to decide and no one, not ONE, has understood the mystery of her timing.

Finally, all is pulled coil by coil from the bowels of the Great Washer and tossed into the Dryer to be refined by heat and tumbling, to shed its Damp Nature, and unfurl all the creases of its consciousness. Remember Little Ones, the beep at the end of Dampness does not signal Completion. Be wise and know that it signals patience and waiting. One does not emerge from the Dark Place of Drying immediately, one may have to linger--minutes, hours, days--before one is freed.

At the right time, the Laundress from above will descend into the Darkness to lead you out to the Light. And yet the world is full of Uncertainty. If the Laundress is in a Great Hurry, only that which she desires in the Moment is brought into the Light and that which is not in that Moment becomes for a time Not Essential and is left on top of the dryer to consider its usefulness.

Yes, the road to Completion is long. Once carried out of the basement Darkness and into the Light, laundry often has ample time to be still and meditate in yogic positions on the sofa or the bed, to observe the sad state of that which is still piled on the floor, to wonder when its disorderly state will become ordered, when it will be permitted to rest in the everlasting comfort of neat Dresser Drawers or hang in bliss in the Closet of All that Fits.

Likely it will be moved once or twice before being folded into proper Alignment. And then once folded, it will experience yet another time of learning Patience and Surrendering of Expectations.

Will it finally reach the Bliss of its Proper Place in the World? Or will it be prematurely snatched from the laundry basket of life and forced to begin the difficult journey again, gathering dirt from the earth, sweat from the skin, and the stains of awkward moments?

Karma is a mystery. The cycle of laundry, like the cycle of life, is endless and sometimes exhausting. Have compassion. The Mighty Laundress feels your pain. She too is seeking everlasting Enwhitenment and an end to all suffering along the Lotus Laundry Path.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 13, 2006

Spring Cleaning

Back home in Virginia, as soon as it was warm enough, which was usually in early March, E and I would throw open the windows and spring clean as a team. I’d start with the kitchen and clean every appliance, everything that sat out on the counters, and the decorative plates above the cabinets. The cabinets themselves would be cleaned and then polished, the contents culled and rearranged.

Throughout the house, I‘d clean all the switch plates, doors, and grimy spots on the walls. I’d tote a toothbrush with me to get into dust packed crannies. E and I would take down all the glass covers from the light fixtures and run them through the dishwasher. E would steam clean the carpets and wash the windows, and I would dust the baseboards and wash curtains.

Soon the whole house would sparkle and brighten as the Southern sun streamed through the windows and those sweet spring breezes lifted the curtains off the sills. In the fall, we’d repeat the whole process again right before the holidays so that the house would be clean and cozy for the long nights ahead.

This week, despite our decidedly wintry weather, the spring cleaning bug bit me right on schedule, and once again I began the ritual of examining what we have, tossing what we don’t need, donating the excess to others, and then cleaning what’s left.

Today I had a moment of epiphany when I recognized that our twice-a-year deep-cleaning routines always coincide with the start of the Episcopal church’s penitential seasons, Lent in the spring and Advent in the winter. Penitential seasons last a few weeks and are times for self-examination and renewed commitment and discipline. In short, it’s a bit like spring cleaning for the soul—a time to discard what’s useless, sweep out the dust, and polish what remains so God’s light can shine in as well as reflect out.

One of the things that amazes me when we thoroughly clean the house is discovering how much junk and grime we live with and don’t even notice. The layer of dust on the electronics, the smudges on the toaster and kettle, the gunk in the microwave, the dust and hairballs under the furniture, the cobwebs dangling in the corners, the way the white curtains have gradually grayed—it’s all in the background until we commit to seeing things for what they are and changing them.

Our hearts are the same way. It isn’t until we break from our usual habits and pause and examine our lives that we see what needs to be done to bring out our best. So go ahead and do a little cleaning, inside and out. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 5, 2006

The best things in life aren't things at all...

Teebs at Soul Gardening got me thinking again about consumerism with her entry on the spending habits of the jet set. It’s easy to roll our eyes over the absurdity of someone paying $1,000 for a dessert or $1,300 for an espresso maker, but consumerism permeates every aspect of American life and culture. Our economy and lifestyle are driven by the energy of shopping and owning things.

These days I try to evaluate my motivations when I consider buying anything. I don’t want to buy things because I’m bored. I don’t want to get something to impress someone else. I don’t want to buy anything I’m not absolutely certain I’ll wear/use/value, preferably for several years. I don’t want to get things I don’t have room to store. I don’t want to be a mindless collector, nor do I want to deny that some things that aren’t “practical” are still worth having.

The bottom line is that I want to be surrounded by things I delight in, that satisfy me, that I’m grateful for, that appeal to my sense of comfort, beauty, art, usefulness. But above and beyond all that, I never want to forget that the best things in life aren’t things at all.

My former priest, Debby, used to close each service with a prayer that included a line requesting God to bless “all those we love and those we will come to love, now and forever.”

Debby always delivered that prayer in a loud voice with enthusiasm and joy, and I would carry that with me as I exited through the church and stepped out into life. How uplifting it is to dwell not just on those we love, but those we will come to love--those we have yet to meet as well as those we have failed to appreciate.

Those were the perfect words to end one week and start the next. They reveal a world of wonder and possibility that doesn’t depend on what we earn or what we own but on who we choose to be and those we’re blessed to love.

So, Happy Weekend--and may God bless all those you love and those you will come to love, now and forever. AMEN!

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Reasons to Smile

Midway through another week and there are lots of reasons to smile. First off, a package came in the mail yesterday from TB containing a CD of her Soul Gardening music mix, a package of bath salts—and many, many packets of ketchup (fancy, grade A ketchup I might add ). Thanks Teebs! I love the way the blogosphere creates a virtual neighborhood of people scattered all over the world.  (Hey Ash, we should get together for lunch in the Neverlands. I’ll bring the ketchup!)

And while we’re talking ketchup, let’s talk catch-up, as in the dreaded utility catch-up bill that’s the norm here in Belgium. When an American friend in a house identical to mine got a 3,000 euro ($4,000)  catch-up bill,  I cringed, not knowing what to expect when I received my own. Happily when our catch-bill arrived, it was only about 700 euros for the 9 months we’ve been in this house. Big sigh of relief. I’m glad I left my energy-glugging American appliances at home and that my husband, the resident “turn out the lights!” taskmaster, has never let up in his efforts to get us to conserve energy, despite my desire to illuminate our house like a Thomas Kinkade painting.

I finally went to have my eyes checked and discovered my prescription had kicked up several notches. I now have new glasses and a new outlook on life. (“I once was lost/but now am found/was blind/but now I see.”)

February. Day 22. I’m feeling so much better.