Compost Studios

I am a writer, nature lover, budding artist, photography enthusiast, and creative spirit reducing, reusing, and recycling midlife experiences through narrative, art, photos, and poetry. 

I can be reached at:

veronica@v-grrrl.com      

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Veronica McCabe Deschambault, V-Grrrl in the Middle, Compost StudiosTM

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Entries in Leftovers (81)

Thursday
Jan262006

Oops, she did it again!

Oops, she did it again! Melanhead has tagged me! Evil poking.  And so to honor her request, here is the “Four Things About Me” meme:

Four Jobs I Have Had  A lot of work.

  • Residence Hall receptionist
  • Sales clerk in a shoe store
  • Journalist/photographer
  • Research associate for an environmental consulting firm

Four Movies I Watch Again and Again Bouncing a ball.

I don’t really watch movies again and again, but I’ve seen these more than once:

  • Bridget Jones Diary
  • Love Actually
  • There’s Something About Mary
  • When Harry Met Sally

Four Places I Have Lived Relieved.

  • Long Island, NY
  • Rockbridge County, Virginia
  • Fredericksburg, Virginia
  • McAlester, Oklahoma

Four TV Shows I Watch Kicking a can.

Here’s a little known V-Grrrl fact:  I don’t watch TV. Yeah, I'm a freak.

After I graduated from high school, I went more than 20 years without owning a TV. It seemed there was always a better use for $500 (or more) so we never bought one.  In 2002, we inherited a small TV from E’s dad and use it to watch DVDs. No cable, no TiVo, no satellite, no network broadcasts. My kids didn't have access to TV until they were school-age and are only permitted to watch it on weekends. I'm a bad, bad woman, people. Psychotic.

Confession: I have seen Friends on DVD and love that show. Just purchased all ten seasons on DVD for E-Man and I's birthdays, which are next week.

Four Favorite Books Can't write anything.

  • A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
  • The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elizabeth Robinson
  • I Don’t Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson
  • Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott

Four Places I’ve Vacationed Jealous.

  • York Harbor, Maine
  • Duck, NC
  • New York City
  • Paris

Four Websites I Read Every Day New idea.

(I read about 15 blogs, but keep in mind, some of my favorite bloggers don’t update every day.)

  • Soul Gardening
  • Come to Find Out
  • CNN
  • For Better or For Worse comic strip

Four Favorite Foods Chef.

  • Dark chocolate truffles
  • Fried eggs, bacon, toast
  • Fresh apples and apple desserts
  • Potatoes (baked, fried, mashed, any way!)

Four People I’m Going to Tag  Harassment.

  • Shirl Grrrl
  • Granola Grrrl
  • Katie Cowhorns
  • Erni Jo
Friday
Jan202006

Person-of-the-week?

I'm not worthy!  I'm not worthy!  And yet Melanhead has selected me as her Person of the Week. Evil poking. Check out www.melanhead.com for my exclusive online profile.

Friday
Jan132006

Flying My Freak Flag on Friday

Because I’m tired. Because I’ve got kids coming over later today. Because the hamper is overflowing. Because I still haven’t taken down my Christmas tree. Because I have to spend the morning in Brussels getting my back worked on. And because John (http://johnsthing.blogspot.com/) tagged me, I’m taking the easy way out on the blog today and doing “Five Weird Things About Me.”

1. I’ve never studied numerology but believe in the power of numbers to manifest meaning and connections in life. Specifically, I see patterns in important dates in my life. For example, I believe the number 3 has significance in my life. My mom was born on Jan. 3 and I was born on Jan 30. My children were born on Sept. 3 and Sept. 30—nine months from my mom and I’s birthdates and of course, 9, the numeric representation of September,  is the product of 3 x 3. As I mentioned, my birthday is Jan. 30—it also the date my sister died AND the date my son was conceived. I could go on and on along these lines…. I liked my old phone number in the States a lot.  I felt it was a GOOD number. I'd be willing to pay to get it back when we return to the U.S.

2. I hate to make phone calls. I don’t know why. I have to overcome tremendous resistance to pick up the phone and call anyone. Talking on the phone is fine, making the phone call is not. Hate it.

3. When I was pregnant for the first time, I had a physical reaction to the color mauve. Every time I saw it, it made me nauseous. It was very popular at the time and hard to avoid. I managed not to hurl at the mall, surrounded by racks of mauve everything. Bleah. Still don't like mauve.

4. I like to eat crackers spread with butter. Saltines and Triscuits are best. It seems like a white trash snack, which is probably why I always eat it in secret.

5. All my life, I’ve refused to join sororities, women’s clubs, women’s church groups, and women’s service organizations, but I love getting together with my Grrrl friends for Grrrls Night Out! I guess I'm not a "joiner," I'm a "gatherer."  Or maybe I'm just a freak. Whatever.

Go ahead,  make a comment,  share your weirdness, confess your secret habits. It’s Friday, we all need to lighten up!

Wednesday
Jan112006

Reflections on The Pursuit of Dust vs. The Pursuit of Happiness

The good news is that the sun shone in Belgium this past week, an occasion for celebration. As I pulled back the curtains in every room to let the light stream in, I confronted an ugly reality—dust everywhere.

It was dense on the windowsills, a gray scum on our dressers, camouflaged on the bookcases, forming clumps on cobwebs in dark corners, sullying the china cabinets, dimming the glass mirrors, and whitening the black electronics.

The benefit of gray days, failing vision, and a poorly lit house is that I’ve been spared the sight of the dust and grime building on so many surfaces. The top of the toaster and kettle, the inside of the microwave, the hood over the stove, the curves of the lamp base. In the dim light of an average Belgian day, I am blissfully ignorant of the dust invasion, the subtle shift from clean to dirty. Each day my eyes are glued to the words on my computer monitor or the intricacies unfolding in the world outside my window.  Dust is just dust in the background of my life. I'll address it when I address it.

My mother would be appalled. Even with six kids and her invalid mother under the roof, she kept a spotless house. She was always in motion and always tired. She weighed only 120 pounds but her feet slapped the floor with purpose. When she walked through the house, she sounded like a burly soldier marching off to war. Yes, she took a certain pleasure in her well-scrubbed home, but it was clear it was also a burden to her. As I moved through my teens, I sensed she was on auto pilot, doing her duty, waiting for her life to change, biding her time. As the years went by, the joy imperceptibly drained from her in a slow leak of disappointments.

This may explain why my own house is not like the house I grew up in, and why I find housework less and less satisfying the older I get. There was a time when my whole house got thoroughly cleaned every week and underwent “spring cleaning” twice a year. Now I do what’s necessary and leave the rest until the spirit moves me or company comes (I have my pride). The E-Man, who really likes a clean house, tolerates my approach and cleans the things he can’t live with.

Which brings me to this poem by Erica Jong:

Woman Enough


Because my grandmother's hours
were apple cakes baking,
& dust motes gathering,
& linens yellowing
& seams and hems
inevitably unraveling
I almost never keep house
though really I like houses
& wish I had a clean one.
Because my mother's minutes
were sucked into the roar
of the vacuum cleaner,
because she waltzed with the washer-dryer
& tore her hair waiting for repairmen
I send out my laundry,
& live in a dusty house,
though really I like clean houses
as well as anyone.
I am woman enough
to love the kneading of bread
as much as the feel
of typewriter keys
under my fingers
springy, springy.
& the smell of clean laundry
& simmering soup
are almost as dear to me
as the smell of paper and ink.
I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.
I sit at my typewriter
remembering my grandmother
& all my mothers,
& the minutes they lost
loving houses better than themselves
& the man I love cleans up the kitchen
grumbling only a little
because he knows
that after all these centuries
it is easier for him
than for me.


Poem copyrighted by Erica Jong. See www.ericajong.com for more on the author.

Text copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 11, 2006

Friday
Dec302005

Shelves of Good Intentions

My house is full of bookcases, and there are shelves that overflow with my good intentions.

I want to be a serene, strong person with inner calm and great posture, and thus I have an entire shelf dedicated to yoga. Unfortunately, my spine is as stiff and unyielding as the books’. We’d both be more flexible if I cracked our spines more often. 

The yoga books share a shelf with the titles mirroring my other good intentions. I aspire to be a spiritual person who spends some time each day considering my faith and the wisdom of others. I have books with quotes, essays, and readings on simple abundance, prayers, meditation, Christianity, and women’s issues. They share dust with the yoga books.  How cozy.

Above the yoga and inspirational titles is an entire shelf of French books, dictionaries, and language CDs. I studied them regularly BEFORE I moved to Belgium but now that I’m here, I can’t seem to make it a habit. DUH.

I’m not totally apathetic. I occasionally read the books on writing, but mostly I just write. I occasionally read books on organization, but mostly I just organize. I have lots of cookbooks but mostly I just cook (or not—let’s be honest).

I’m moving through my shelves of unread novels at glacial speed. I have books of poetry that satisfy like nothing else—when I spend time with them. I don’t even pretend to read about history, politics, or science—unless it shows up on CNN.com.

My life is virtual in more ways than one. I only look good on paper. I don’t need to tell you my New Year’s resolutions, do I? I didn’t think so.

Inhale, exhale, don’t hold your breath. I’m changing as fast as I can.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 30, 2005

Thursday
Dec222005

To sleep, perchance to dream

With the days at their shortest and the skies gunmetal gray, every fiber of my being is telling me to sleep. When the alarm goes off in the morning, I surface in slow motion to full consciousness, the world a dark and blurry place.

Some days I never quite exit sleep, it drags at my limbs and fogs my brain. Every horizontal surface invites me to recline. On the Metro, I struggle to keep my chin off my chest as the train hums along between stops. The cold air outside the station provides a needed slap in the face, stirring me to full consciousness.

At night, the moment I shut my eyes I begin dreaming, disheveled arrangements of time and place overlapping in jagged storylines. I want to stay in this dream world where all time exists at once, where friends and family from the past, present, and future mysteriously come together and assume new roles. I could pass the whole winter wrapped in warm flannel sheets and my favorite red fleece blanket.

It’s been weeks since we’ve had a sunny day, and I think that’s at the root of my lethargy. I desperately need to recharge my solar battery, to tip my face up to the sky and not feel rain, to step out the door and reach into my purse for my sunglasses.

Blue skies and white clouds,  a dream on the horizon.

Copyright 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

December 22, 2005

Wednesday
Dec142005

December

The last of the leaves have lost their grip, and autumn’s blue skies have turned pewter gray, hunkered down under a blanket of clouds. The landscape broods, the rain falls, the Christmas lights defy the somber mood.

The sun is like a bad employee, showing up late and leaving early. At 8:30 a.m. , the streetlights are still on and the pedestrians shuffle along the sidewalks like ghostly souls waiting for redemption.

The mercurial sun paints the horizon ivory with touches of sherbet pink and orange. Sometimes as the sun sinks, the earth tenderly wraps the trees in a veil of fog. Twilight falls like an indigo shawl on the shoulders of the house and we gather in the kitchen for a bowl of soup and a slice of bread, our backs against the radiators.

The mail brings love and good wishes, and I stack my blessings in a sturdy basket on the table. I gather the year’s griefs on a string in my pocket and handle them one by one.

Prayers, like colored threads, weave through my hours: for J who is going through a divorce, for S whose brother died this week, for M facing her first Christmas as a single mom, for E who works with the severely retarded, for M who has had his second heart attack, for S whose dad has been fighting cancer this year, for N who is being ravaged by three serious conditions at once, for M who is fighting drug addiction, for K who is pregnant after years of trying.

The end of the year is a curious mix of death and life, joy and grief, celebration and mourning. Just when it seems darkness will overtake our days, the balance shifts, the sun stretches, the lights come on, hope glimmers, faith triumphs, and we find a warm hand to hold as the calendar announces a new beginning.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 14, 2005

Tuesday
Nov222005

November

Late November and so many leaves still cling to the trees, some still green, others a soft gold. The blue skies and warm days of September and October have faded to gray skies and chilly rain.

Often the fog embraces the forests from daylight to dusk. Cars crawl cautiously through the mist, their headlights peering at shapes rising along the road. Red brick and red tile homes artfully punctuate the landscape, and the grass resists a wash of sepia. The hedges guard each garden with green, refusing to bend to the turn in the season

Winter solstice is a month away, the days curling up in the cold, the nights stretching in languor. We rise from our beds with effort in the dark and sink into them with delight under bright stars or soft rain on the roof. We turn collars against the cold in the morning and pull quilts up high at night. Our hands cup the comfort of hot mugs; our hearts turn to holidays and those we love and those we’ve lost.

Soon it will be December, and we will light candles against darkness and hang evergreens with hope, each wreath a reminder of the enduring circles of family, of life, of seasons. But for now we cling to the vestiges of autumn like the bits of gold and green still peppering the trees. Winter will come. We feel its breath on our necks, its frost nips at our heels. But for now, autumn lingers and sends one last sigh up to the pearl gray sky before sliding into slumber with resignation and relief.

Wednesday
Nov162005

My Glamorous Virtual Life

I got an e-mail linking me to the Neiman Marcus holiday catalog online and with the click of a mouse, I’m one of the Beautiful People. I’m rubbing shoulders with perfectly coiffed blondes and chiseled-chin men, and we’re all at a fabulous party in a place where everything speaks of wealth and elegance.

I see myself in the 18-karat white-gold diamond circle necklace with matching earrings, the black Vera Wang dress with the hand-beaded hem, the Manolo Blahnik sandals that cost more than a month of groceries, and that Tory Burch velvet clutch bag that is a “bargain” at only $378. A bargain, that is, compared to the horrific Fendi fox-fur bag that is ugly, tacky, and a crime against nature. It costs a whopping $2,100.

This a world where the food is fine and the wine is better. The laughter bubbles merrily and everyone is smart and somewhat famous. The 3-inch heels never hurt your feet, your date never acts like a jerk, your stomach never pooches out and ruins the line of your dress. You have just the right amount of cleavage to channel sexy but tasteful. Your arms and shoulders are defined and tanned, even though it’s the dead of winter. The dark lipstick you’re wearing makes you look like a model, not a vampire. Your hair is not frizzy, your roots are not showing, and your face glows with happiness, not oily shine. It’s the first of many parties and you don’t think of the kids for a moment because they’re home with the nanny. Life is good.

Ah, there’s the good life, and then there’s the real life, where I doubt I’ll be invited to any holiday parties, let alone any that require evening attire. There is no slinky dress, sequined clutch, strappy sandals, or diamond jewelry in my short-term forecast. No sleek and sinewy body, no perfectly styled hair, no dark lipstick, no bright white teeth. No people sipping champagne and gazing into a starry night as the moon rises over the water. No enormous chandeliers, marble floors, or gilded mirrors. No endless sparkling conversation.

And that’s OK. Give me a fire and Irish coffee. The company of friends. A Christmas tree with ornaments made by the kids. A plate of dark chocolate truffles. Laughter that makes my mascara run and my stomach hurt. Big hugs at the door coming and going. And a starry, starry night to remind me of the blessings that sparkle in my corner of the world.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 16, 2005

Tuesday
Nov152005

V-Grrrl Gets Crafty

When it comes to crafts and the domestic arts, I’m a loser. I would not even earn a medal in the Special Olympics of Crafting because I don’t even make it to the starting line. I’m the type of woman they would have burned at the stake  hundreds of years ago, the towns’ people convinced I must be a witch devoted to the black arts seeing as I am clearly not devoted to domestic arts.

I’m an average cook and I’m good at laundry—the essential home processes. That’s it. I don’t sew, I don’t knit, I don’t stitch. I don’t scrapbook, I don’t paint ceramics, I can’t throw a pot. I don’t quilt, I don’t arrange flowers, I don’t make holiday decorations. I don’t garden, I don’t sketch, I don’t paint. I don’t make preserves, I don’t make Halloween costumes, and hell I don’t even bake cookies.

But I admire those who do.

I took three art classes my last year in college and was hooked. Back home in the States, I went to galleries nearly every week to see what was new in the art world. I have a weakness for watercolors, rustic pottery, and handmade jewelry. I longed to win the Lotto so I could afford some of the paintings I so admired. I loved to attend church bazaars to buy handmade hats and scarves, cross-stitched Christmas ornaments, embroidered linens, decorative wreaths, and chances to win a quilt. Yeah, I’m one of those people who fakes domestic talent with the help of my checkbook.

My sister-in-law G, however, is the real deal. She makes award-winning quilts. She can knit a traditional Icelandic sweater or a hip and cozy poncho. She can upholster a chair and make window treatments to match. She decorates cakes like a professional. She creates beautiful shadow-box collages. She gives handmade gifts, including crocheted baby blankets, American Girl doll clothes, and custom quilts. When her daughter was small, she made her a long Victorian-style coat, dark red with black satin braided trim and enough flare to make it a joy to twirl in. My daughter wears it now and loves it so much we had her professionally photographed in it. She worships her Aunt G.

You probably envision G as some quiet, meek homebody in a Super Mom sweatshirt who vacuums every day and watches Leave It to Beaver reruns on some obscure cable channel while her knitting needles click away and the meatloaf browns in the oven. You would be so wrong. G, my friends, is a prosecuting attorney for the U.S. Department of Justice. G specializes in white-collar crime and money-laundering schemes and reduces people to shadows of their former selves in the courtroom. She’s taken on high-profile cases and had FBI protection when things got hot. She has a degree in Russian and psychology and is every bit as smart as she is talented and ambitious.

I am never going to be like G. I’m just proud to be related to her.

But I’m taking baby steps toward a more crafty existence because Shirl Grrrl, my pal since middle school, has inspired me to flex my creative muscles on something other than the computer. A few years ago, Shirl Grrrl took up rubber stamping, a hobby that has burgeoned in the era of scrapbooking and paper crafts. She makes incredible cards layering paper and stamped images, using a variety of inks, coloring with pastels or watercolors, and adding other embellishments. Each one is a mini-work of art in an envelope, and Shirl holds workshops on how to make cards and do other forms of decorative stamping. She also sells all the materials. I thought this would be a hobby my artistic daughter would love. She admires Shirl’s cards as much as I do, so I requested a catalog from Shirl and soon it was tagged with Post-it notes. Wow, so many cool things—and not just for my daughter. Maybe I could do this too!

I sent Shirl a preliminary list of the stamps I liked and asked what else I would need to get started with stamping. Well, let me just say it’s not as simple a process as it looks, so my initial list (and my investment) grew. Quite a lot.

But in the coming weeks, a big brown box filled with stamping supplies and card stock and pastels and a paper cutter will arrive on my doorstep, along with instructions from Shirl on how to use all this stuff. I’m sure I’ll be getting online “tech support” as well as I venture into the world of domestic art.

I’m heady with the idea that I may be on my way to becoming a stamping artist and a craft goddess. With the help of Shirl Grrrl, Queen of the Stamping Wrrrld, I can finally BE SOMEONE and wipe the big L off my forehead. ; )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 15, 2005

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