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. 

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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)

Saturday
Nov122005

Things to Do Before I Die

Bestsellers, self-help seminars, and TV shows have focused on this topic. There are people that make these sorts of lists and systematically plan how to accomplish all their goals.

This is so NOT me.

I can’t even make the list. I have no lofty goals. I never live my life on those terms.

I don’t believe there’s some list of destinations and accomplishments that will make me feel complete and at peace. I am completely and utterly into the journey. Into the day to day, only slightly curious about where life will take me, acutely aware that I can’t fast forward or turn back the clock and that ultimately that is a good thing.

The here and now. This moment. Sitting at the computer on a damp gray Saturday morning that smells like burnt butter (thanks to my son’s culinary adventures), listening to my kids clean the mess they made in the kitchen (knowing that they’re making a bigger mess in the process), realizing there are dirty bathrooms, a nasty litter box, and piles of laundry waiting for my attention. It doesn’t sound good, does it?

But I also know there are hidden joys in this day waiting to be discovered, and my goal is spot them amid the clutter and mundane tasks that face me. As Granola Grrrl has implied, there isn’t a bus or shortcut to Enlightenment (or Joy or Meaning or Peace or God or whatever it is you seek!) There’s only you and the road you’re on.

Savor the journey and in the words of every geeky modern mom on the planet, “Make good choices!” ; )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 12, 2005

Wednesday
Nov092005

Unseen Forces in the Universe

OK, there are all sorts of TV programs dealing with the paranormal, but one subject is never explored that affects thousands of women every day. I’m talking about the mysterious forces that tangle and mangle bracelets and necklaces while we sleep and our jewelry is supposedly secure and at rest in our jewelry boxes.

This topic is high on my list of unexplained acts of nature because today I stopped in at the spa at the Embassy to see if I could get my daughter a haircut. Our stylist was booked, but I noticed the massage therapist wasn’t busy and so on the spur of the moment, I decided to get a massage. I have never gotten a professional massage before, but since I’ve been a little depressed, the E-Man is out of town, and my chiropractor is on holiday, it seemed like a better than excellent idea. I needed it mentally and physically.

So I undress and remove my jewelry, which includes a 24-inch gold chain with a diamond heart pendant. The E-Man gave this to me in college for surviving a brutal session of summer school, and it has a lot of sentimental value. Because of this, I’m extra careful with it as I take it off and refasten the ends of the chain together before laying the necklace in the little ceramic tray in the room.

Before long I’m face down on the table, oiled like a body builder, and loving life. The massage therapist spends 45 minutes untying the knots in my muscles, loosening my joints, and revving up my circulation. When the massage is over and I’m getting back into my clothes, I lift up my diamond necklace and notice immediately it has a knot in the chain. How is it possible that while the therapist was working out my kinks the necklace was getting kinky?

I try to unravel the mess in the chain and can’t do it. I blame it on the dim lighting and my lack of glasses and just put it in my pocket to work on later. When I get home, I pick at the links only to reach a point where I’m down to the end and it looks like a Chinese puzzle—one piece apparently having slid through another but refusing to reverse itself.

How is that possible? Why does this happen? And who’s going to get to the bottom of this mystery (and untangle my chain)? Are there pissed-off pixies at work in the world? Grouchy gremlins? Evil elves? Aliens seeking accessories? Bad-ass borrowers? Mind-bending magnetic forces? Part-time poltergeists? Sinister spirits?

Enquiring minds want to know. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

November 9, 2005

Wednesday
Nov092005

Breakfast of Champions

It’s Wednesday. It’s cold. It’s gray.

The kids are off from school, but the alarm clock went off at 6:25 a.m. anyway. How did that happen? I went back to sleep and rolled out of bed at 8:40 a.m. only to discover the kids had made “cookies” using sugar, graham cracker crumbs, and peanutbutter. Apparently the floor was an integral part of the process. At least that’s how it looks.

Oh God. Slept so much and still so tired. Feel hungover. Bad, bad hair. Worse kitchen. Teacher conferences today----aargh!

I’m starting my day at the top of the food pyramid by eating Mentos for breakfast. I guess this means five servings of fruits and vegetables for lunch and eleven servings of whole grains for dinner. If I eat the peanut butter “cookies” with a glass of milk, will that count as protein?

You know, Mentos actually make a good breakfast—all minty and fresh when the rest of me is stale and rumpled. I'm counting on my shower to revive body and spirit. More later. Maybe.

Friday
Nov042005

Dedicated to N., Overworked Surgeon

When last we left our hero, he was still in a doctor’s coat, face mask, and nasty latex gloves, confined to a windowless room with bright lights, nervous patients, and assistants waiting for a weekend.

He wonders what day it is--and where he is. Tyson's? Richmond ? Alexandria ? Norfolk ? Maybe he's home asleep and dreaming about work. No, no, no, that can’t be right. He's at work and dreaming about home.

He tries to recall what he had for breakfast. He tries to recall where he WAS for breakfast. Or was lunch his last meal? He's not sure. And what's that thing called that comes between last patient of the day and first patient call-back in the evening--the one he eats in the car while driving north, no south, no north, on I-95? Sometimes they serve it on a plane too. It's the one you're supposed to eat with your family. At least they do on television. Whatever.

But the eating thing is important--he learned that in medical school. That was first year--right? Or was that second year? Oh well. His pants are hanging on his hipbones. He's glad the white coat covers it. Makes mental note: eat next meal, make it healthy, whenever and wherever it comes. Also, tighten belt.

He vaguely recalls buying a mattress a while back. He was with what’s-her-name, the brunette with the big brown eyes, the girl who shares his mattress--oh God, that's right, she's the one he exchanged wedding rings with, back in, when was that? Winter? Spring? A year ago? Less? Hmmmm. It was another windowless room. Another long day. But no latex gloves because she put the ring on his finger—he remembers that. Just can't place the date, month, season, whatever. Damn, he has to ask the receptionist about it so he can get it into his Palm Pilot and have the receptionist send roses to that girl, what's-her-name, ummmm, the really, really great one, can't believe the name is slipping away. Oh yeah--Lisa. Lisa, that's it. Lisa the Mattress Shopper. Lisa the Mattress Sharer. Lisa his Wife.

He has GOT to remember to talk to her more often. Must remember to roll over and see if she's still on the mattress—they did deliver that mattress right? Or does he crash on the old mattress? Or the sofa? Is Lisa mad at him? Whatever. He can check the shower stall for Lisa’s shampoo, and see if that closet on the other side of the bedroom still has her clothes in it.

Soon. He'll get to it. He's sure of it. One of these days he'll find his way home and sleep off the stupor he's in. And if he's lucky, he'll get a whole day off. Any day. Wherever. Whenever. Whatever. Windows or not. Food optional. Mattress mandatory. Hope Lisa will share it.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 4,  2005

Thursday
Nov032005

Christmas in November

Most of the leaves are still on the trees here. We haven’t had a frost. And I’m trying to complete my Christmas shopping, wrapping, and mailing. Go ahead, gag if you want to.

I’ve always been one of those people who shops early, mostly because no matter how fabulous the sales, I can’t bear to go to a department store in December and be crushed by the surly crowds.

I would officially begin my Christmas shopping every year in mid-July when Hallmark launches its line of Keepsake Ornaments. The July holiday extravaganza was on my calendar a month in advance, and I’d happily step out of Virginia ’s summer heat into the icy air conditioning and seasonal music that accompanied the big Hallmark sale. I’d been shopping there for years, and I knew the owners and employees by name. I’d have my first homemade sugar cookie in more than half a year, load up my basket, hand over my charge card, and carry my big honking bags of ornaments to the car—the first packages to be sequestered in the trunk and brought into the house under cover of darkness.

In the coming months, I’d hit Wal-Mart, Target, and the mall early in the morning when they were virtually empty. I’d milk the Labor Day, Columbus Day, and Veteran’s Day sales for all they were worth. And by Thanksgiving, everything would be purchased and ready to mail. This let me spend December decorating my home and going to parades, concerts, and holiday gatherings and avoiding the Bah-Humbug Retail Rodeo.

But this year is different. In mid-July, I dutifully sat at my desk, went to Hallmark.com, pushed my mouse, and ordered my ornaments. No music, no candles, no familiar faces, no beautifully decorated designer Christmas trees, no sugar cookies made by the store owner’s elderly mother, no fun freebies at the checkout. It was a virtual experience in every sense of the word. Disappointing.

I’ve repeated the process in the past few months, pointing and clicking across the Web, hunting for gifts. It’s convenient but boring. No fun. No great deals. And I’m having a hard time finding the right gifts for some folks.

Why not shop the Belgian stores? Well, for one, I don’t’ know where to start. There are very few big stores, mostly small shops and I have no clue where to find the types of things I’m looking for. The small shops are expensive and the sales tax here is 24 percent. If they had truly original items, it would be worthwhile, but much of what they carry is the same as you’d find in any American store, so there’s no incentive to buy it locally.

Plus, I don’t have a car and have to get to the shops by bus or Metro and carry my purchases home. I just bought an LL Bean rolling duffle bag to help me with this task but shopping this way is a drag—literally. I’m pulling my purchases behind me as I go from store to store and the duffle can’t get too heavy or I’ll hurt myself lifting it onto the bus. Plus, shoes and clothing here are sized using a completely different system: Does Emily wear a 130 or a 140? Should I get those slippers in size 39? What’s the return policy at the store? You get the picture.

The final insult to my holiday shopping—I need to get everything mailed well BEFORE Thanksgiving this year. Because we use the military postal service, all our packages are transported from Europe to the U.S. by the armed services and then plugged into the U.S. postal service when they arrive there. During peak mailing times, it can take weeks for items to reach their recipients. So I either have to mail very early to make sure items arrive in time or risk that they won’t get there until January. So no, I can’t wait to see what’s offered at the big outdoor holiday markets next month—it will be too late. Sigh.

It’s enough to make a Grrrl say Bah-Humbug—in early November.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 3, 2005

Wednesday
Nov022005

V-Grrrl Gets Personal

Reading about Katie Cowhorns’ and Granola Grrrl’s experiences with Internet dating and the hidden messages in personal profiles made me wonder what I’d say about myself and what I value in a partner if I were posting a personal ad at this stage in my life. This proved to be my toughest writing assignment in weeks. The results of my exercise:

Very white female without tan lines seeking single man, with or without tan lines.  Need not like kids but must like mine. Sense of humor critical, hair optional but preferred. Must be into fitness but not sports, spiritual but not a scripture-quoter, clean but not too neat, responsible but not uptight, empathetic but not wimpy, kind of traditional but not patriarchal, smart but not a smart ass, a thinker who takes life but not himself seriously. Must be familiar with the over-40 female psyche and able to navigate amid fluctuating estrogen levels. Must know when to advance, retreat and surrender. Ability to discuss books, movies, and politics necessary. Ability to make me laugh richly rewarded. No whiners or TV junkies allowed. Those who can’t/won’t do housework should not reply.

As for me, I’m a tea-drinking, Web-writing, mid-sized, middle-aged chick, who can be smart, funny, and a little lazy. Not a morning person. Not exactly a night person either. I haven’t figured out what kind of person I am. Idealistic and cynical, sometimes in the same sentence. Cheerful and moody, often in the same minute. Theoretically committed to embracing change but finding it hard to make change happen. Spiritual and religious in fits and starts. In shape from the waist down and flabby from the waist up. Brown eyes, thick curly hair. I shed like a Lab but I’m not a dog. Done with having babies, into raising kids. Bored with sports but interested in health and fitness. Trying to age gracefully but still covering my gray. Into all things cozy. Unimpressed by most things shiny. Practical.  I'm amused by pop culture, treasure my friendships,  and have a weakness for sweaters and books. OK, OK--I admit it--I also have a lot of purses.

(Yeah, I know. Who would answer this? I think I have the only interested party on long-term lease...Better not let the E-Man read this. He may decide I'm not his type.)

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 2, 2005

Tuesday
Nov012005

The Politics of Napping

Most days, I need to take a nap just to make it through. And being an American, this fills me with shame. You can do anything in America, the land of opportunity, but don’t you dare sleep in the middle of the day!

Every time I kick back in a recliner or curl up on my cranberry-colored sofa, I’m wracked with guilt. A chorus of historical voices looks at me in dismay. The Puritans despise my flabby work ethic, the early colonists wonder about my sense of adventure, the frontier settlers see I lack a can-do spirit, the 20th century modernists cite me as an example of why America is falling behind, the post-modern workaholics shake their heads and list all the activities on their agendas that supplant sleep. As I hunker down in my gray sweatshirt and navy knit pants, I hear the collective voices of American capitalism sneering at me in disdain.

How vile! How slovenly! When I collapse on the sofa, I am not consuming a product or service. I should be trudging through stores, charging my purchases, eating lunch out, burning gas while stuck in traffic, and dreaming of a bigger car to haul my stuff in and a larger house to accommodate it all. And not only have I failed as a consumer, I’ve failed at producing anything of value. I’m personally responsible for slowing down the economy! I annoy all the hyperactive, slack-faced Americans who measure their worth in sleeplessness, cell phone activity, volume of e-mail, and hours spent multi-tasking.

Yes, I’ve let my country down. I’m an ambassador of lethargy and malaise. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more un-American than valuing silence and doing nothing or indulging in nature’s narcotic: sleep. So I keep my secret vice under cover, shall we say, as I pull a fleece throw up to my chin and draw the curtains during daylight hours. I listen to the clock tick on the mantel until everything fades to black. Ahhhh. Inner voices are silenced, my body is content, and I’ll wake up and deny it all happened as soon as I’m asked, “What did you do today?”

©2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 1, 2005

Thursday
Oct272005

Something to Protest About

Everytime I see a protest, even an unpopular one, I smile and think “Democracy in action!” Thank God for protestors. Even the ones who stop traffic and delay us. They’re trying to get our attention. Let’s at least listen for a few minutes and consider their issues. And more importantly, let’s consider what issues we’re willing to raise our voice to address.

I’m thinking about protests because I just got an alert from the American Embassy about upcoming protests in downtown Brussels. Approximately 70,000 members of the Socialist, Christian, and Liberal unions are marching to express their displeasure with proposed changes in retirement benefits. While they’re marching from one major rail station to another in the city, a much smaller protest consisting of 300 Congolese will take place, highlighting the lack of human rights for women in the Congo.

Many years ago, the Congo was a Belgian colony, and King Leopold committed untold atrocities in his quest to maximize the resources in that African country for the benefit of Belgium’s citizens. My husband’s grandmother was quick to settle in the Congo, happily leaving behind Brussels and the social constraints women of her century faced. She was ambitious, and in the Congo she was free to run a number of successful enterprises. But eventually the trampled Congolese rose up in a bloody fight for independence. My husband, Eric, a Belgian citizen born in the Congo, lost his father in what some said was a suspicious plane crash in the aftermath of the revolution. His grandmother lost everything.

His mother remarried, to an American working for the Embassy, and Eric soon left the Congo and his Belgian citizenship and relatives behind, living in Algiers, Greece, and Turkey before settling in the U.S. as a teenager.

And here we are, thirty years later, living in Belgium. The Congolese, once exploited by the king of Belgium, are now abused by their own. And the Belgian workers, with one of the highest standards of living in all of Europe, are irate because there will be a delay in collecting their generous retirement benefits. If the government has its way, retirement age will bump up to 60. (I think it’s 58 now.)

There are 70,000 people willing to spend a day protesting the age at which one can collect retirement benefits and only 300 souls willing to fill a street to protest the treatment of the estimated 40,000+ women who have been raped during the six year civil war in the Congo (figures from Amnesty International). The BBC reports that these women are emotionally and physically traumatized, exposed to or infected with HIV, rejected by their husbands and families as being “unclean,” denied medical care and justice, and often burdened with caring for the children conceived in violence.

Many were abducted from their homes and held for days, even weeks, being raped repeatedly. Some are as young as 12. Some, after being raped for hours, drag themselves down the road to get medical care for their serious injuries—and encounter more men who rape them all over again. Many are mutilated as well.

In America, as in Belgium, we’re quick to holler or sue if someone threatens our piece of the national pie, the American Dream. Show me an American who isn’t willing to stand up and explain what they’re entitled to, and I’ll show you a dead American.

But what we’re “entitled” to is getting to be ridiculous. I read on CNN that Congress is in heated debate over a broadcasting law change that will eliminate analog TV signals at the end of 2006, meaning owners of older TV sets will have to purchase a $100 converter to continue to get network TV. Keep in mind that according to MSNBC, 85 percent of Americans receive their TV signals by cable or satellite and will be unaffected by the switch from analog to digital broadcasting in 2006. Still, this “issue” that affects 15 percent or less of the U.S. population has many Congressmen red in the face as they declare the INJUSTICE of this proposed change and ask how the government is going to fund all those signal converters that people MUST have in order to meet the American standard of living which means freedom and TVs for ALL. We all know it’s impossible to expect those affected by this change to SAVE $100 over the next 14 MONTHS and upgrade their OWN precious TVs. You can see this is a BIG CRISIS worthy of tuning in to C-Span. Maybe this will be just what Bush needs—he can bring all the soldiers home from Iraq under the guise that they’re needed here to install signal converters in the homes of underprivileged Americans that own multiple analog TVs!

OK, let’s face it, we all know the Congressman's rants really have nothing to do with the poor and their TVs, it has to do with the business interests of those manufacturing expensive digital TVs, the interest of others in re-developing those abandoned analog channels, and of course the business interests of the broadcasters, their advertisers and the power of their political action committees. After all, what will politicians do if they can’t reach that 15 percent of the population with cleverly produced ads of half-truths and lies? Those political ads can determine which politicians get to plant or keep their porky asses in the leather chairs on Capitol Hill. Can we risk losing access to the 15 percent who may base all their decisions on what they see on TV? Maybe the rest of us can—the pols can’t.

So today in America, the difference between the haves and the have-nots boils down to the value of your TV and your ability to watch Desperate Housewives and Monday Night Football in 2007. This is what our politicians are fighting for. In Belgium, it’s about when you get to stop working and enjoy a comfortable retirement. And in the Congo, a handful of women are risking their lives to ensure that others will one day be able to live without suffering multiple gang rapes, and that today’s victims will have access to medical care to deal with their injuries.

Does the injustice of all this make you want to scream? To hang your head and weep? To hit the streets yourself and protest? It should. Our hearts should curl up with shame over some of the things that preoccupy us and incite our outrage. We should all ask ourselves what’s worth fighting for—and then fight the GOOD fight wherever and whenever we can.

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 28, 2005

Tuesday
Oct252005

Overheard at My House

Squeamish 8-year-old daughter

“I wish someone had told me before that nails are made from dead cells. I never would have chewed them!”

 

10-year-old son to chatty 8-year-old sister

“You’re like a radio that I can’t turn OFF!”

 

Kitchen conversation between Oscar and Felix

E-Man , sighing while picking three slimy macaroni and cheese noodles off the table: “These kids have no concept of clean whatsoever!”

V-Grrrl, who often doesn’t remove the breakfast dishes from the table until right before she serves dinner: “I’m sure YOU never made a mess when you were a kid.”

E-Man: “Of course I didn’t! I don’t remember doing any of this.”

V-Grrrl: “I know, I know, I’m sure you were PERFECT.”

E-Man: “I was. Ask my Mom!”

V-Grrrl: “Babe, your mom survived raising three boys and made it to old age by forgetting most of your childhood. Consider yourself lucky.”

 

You Did What?!

“Mama! Guess what?! We swept all the leaves off the sidewalk down the street and put ‘em in a big, big trash bag and carried them home!”

“Why?!”

“Well we used them to decorate the yard. We spread them all over so it will look more autumn-y!”

 

School Picture

“I look a little funny. I mean I smiled a happy smile, but my hair was in a bad mood.”

Tuesday
Oct182005

The Shallow Life

Back when I was in college and had illusions about the size and value of my intellect, I secretly sneered at people that read People magazine. I assumed everyone with an appetite for celebrity gossip and melodrama was a bit dim. I preferred the serious world of the Atlantic Monthly and New Yorker balanced by an occasional issue of Rolling Stone or Glamour to read over spring break. Yet whenever I found myself stuck in a waiting room, I picked up People and got my trashy journalism fix. Oh sure, I was too smart to buy such magazines but not too good to read them.

But once I became a mother, everything changed. By the time I embraced parenthood, I’d lost my sister and my own parents, and every emotion was heightened and raw. Submerging myself exclusively in literary books, serious movies, or the natural and manmade disasters on the news left me feeling weepy and defeated. Every hopeless story reminded me once again how vulnerable we are and how I couldn’t protect my children (or myself) from heartache or worse.

And this is when I began to understand the allure of the Shallow Life. Consuming celebrity gossip and fashion articles is a retreat to a world where the biggest worries are weight gain and being seen in last season’s shoes. The carefully polished and packaged worlds presented in these magazines are a thousand miles away from the reality of my own heart and home. And that’s a good thing in every sense. I don’t want to live in those scripted and styled worlds, but an occasional visit is worth the $4 cover price.

Embracing the world’s suffering may have made me a more compassionate person, but InStyle magazine helps me emerge from a gray fog and get on with life. When you can’t answer life’s big question (“Why am I here?”), it’s comforting to dwell on a smaller one (“Now that I’m here, what will I wear?”). Pop culture is like a cold fizzy drink on a hot day--needed refreshment when reality gets too hot to handle. Go ahead and watch The Apprentice or laugh at a Ben Stiller movie—it beats having your heart broken on CNN.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 18, 2005