Brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things

Recently the mail bought a fat envelope from Low Maintenance Grrrl. The outside was marked “Photos—do not bend” and I fully expected to tear it open and find pictures of my godson, Derek, who is a high school senior. Instead the envelope included an assortment of photos from my family, going all the way back to when I was dating my husband 26 years ago.

In the enclosed note, Low Maintenance Grrrl wrote that knowing how much I missed my own family photos (which are in storage in America), she thought she’d ease my homesickness with snapshots and portraits I’d sent her over the years.

What a fabulous surprise. My kids will be turning 9 and 11 in September, and the photos I’d missed the most were from their baby and toddler years. I was thrilled to once again see a snapshot of my son at a year old, dressed as pumpkin and sitting in a pile of leaves and the one of my daughter wearing a white bonnet and frilly dress on her first Easter. There were the Christmas photos sent out each year, one revealing the super short haircut my 5-year-old boy had given his 3-year-old sister (“I want her to look like me,” he’d said, standing over a pile of her long blonde hair). Then there were photos of me pre-kids, with my 80s hair style, and one taken of me in a black leather miniskirt back in THE DAY. (Proof that I once had a flat stomach!)

The unexpected gift of the photos got me thinking about the wonder and joy of care packages. The only thing better than receiving one is sending one out. There’s a true element of surprise with a care package and the chance for the giver to be creative. Unlike birthday or Christmas gifts where there’s some expectation as to what is appropriate, care packages are all about being thoughtful and just sending something fun.

Life as an expat has lonely moments and there are times when homesickness rolls in like a fog turning the world gray. Those times have been eased by the kindness of friends back in America. More than once Low Maintenance Grrrl has sent surprises my way, including my first scrapbook. Shirl Grrrl, who introduced me to the fun of papercrafts, recently surprised me with a beautifully decorated journal that she made. When I was completely stressed out preparing to come to Belgium, Lynn sent me chocolate chip cookies she’d baked with her kids, and when she visited in July, among the items she brought for us was a 10 pound bag of our favorite pancake mix, a regional specialty from Virginia. Last winter, Granola Grrrl surprised me with an oversized teacup and saucer, and my former neighbors sent me tea and my kids candy for Halloween.

On my first birthday here in Belgium, my friends gathered for a party in my honor, videotaped it and included a DVD in the enormous box of gifts they assembled for me. It may have been my best birthday ever. And then there was JMo, someone I’ve never met, who had bagels FedExed to me from New York after reading about how much I missed them. Sitting here remembering all these not-so-random acts of kindness puts a smile on my face and reminds me how blessed I am to have such warm-hearted, generous people in my life.

I’ve sent packages to friends going through rough spots in their marriage, those that are overwhelmed at work and finding it hard to carve out any time to recharge and recover, college students far from home, new moms who are often neglected when all attention shifts to the baby, and friends that just hit a low spot or need a boost. Everything from yoga tapes and candles to books, CDs, chocolates, lotions, cosmetics, potpourri, and gourmet foods have found their way into the packages I’ve mailed.

Tucking items into a box, taping it shut, and sending it on its way is a singularly satisfying act. I can just imagine the recipient’s face when they discover a package in the mail and have no idea what could be inside that box or why it’s shown up at their door. It’s better than Christmas—friendship is a gift we can celebrate and give all year round.

August 31, 2006

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Blogging, scrapping, and the meaning of life

Once I became a mom, I joined the camera-toting hordes of people who believe their kids are making history every minute of every day.

When my children were infants, I shot a roll of film a week. I kept a baby calendar marking milestones and a lavishly illustrated baby book. I lined them up for professional photographs, and in addition to keeping up my own photo albums, I created photo albums for each of them.

I never did buy a video camera, though I occasionally recorded my children’s voices on cassette tapes. My own journal writing, which I’d been faithfully doing for more than 20 years, tapered off with the arrival of my son and practically ground to a halt with the birth of my daughter.

When it was time to pack for our overseas move, I had to figure out what to do with the thousands of photos, old letters, and journals that had chronicled my life. They filled a large closet from top to bottom.

And then once I settled in Belgium, I took up blogging and scrapbooking, joining millions of people worldwide writing about their days and posting snapshots in elaborate books and online albums. The deeper I get into blogging and scrapbooking, the more I'm fascinated by their popularity. 

Why do we do it?

Why do we seem to be becoming increasingly obsessed with documenting our lives?

On the surface,  it appears to be simply about preserving memories or expressing ourselves artistically or creatively. But I wonder if there isn’t something bigger going on. Are our blogs, scrapbooks, photo albums and discs our way of stopping time and anchoring ourselves in a rapidly changing world? Are they a way to justify our existence—to physically demonstrate that our daily lives mattered?

Some scrapbooks and blogs seem to be an attempt to recreate lives with a more colorful cast of characters—an attempt to whitewash the mundane, portray reality in a flattering light, and write a better story than the one we’re living. They’re like PR campaigns tuned to a positive key message. Other blogs and scrapbooks seem more authentic, an attempt to record what time and discretion might bury and to connect with one’s self and one’s peers. Both groups talk about extending that connection beyond their lifetimes and into the next generation, imagining they’re casually writing a history or biography that someone down the line will appreciate.

This of course presumes that the next generation will care about the minutiae of our lives. I already carry the photographic legacy of my grandparents, who had their first child in 1918, and my parents, who had theirs in 1946. The number of photos generated increases with each subsequent generation. How many will be too many to save? Who will have the space and interest to store and care for generations of memories? I wonder if the scrapbooks and photo albums that we’re laboring over may end up in landfills years from now. Or maybe there will be a special recycling bin for them.

I know from experience that we can’t carry the past, physically or mentally, too far into the future. The truth is that future generations will be more concerned with living their own lives than sharing ours. They won’t want our pasts crowding their closets, basements, or hard drives.

Or will they? What do you think?

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

August 29, 2006

Happy Blogiversary to Me!

On August 27, 2005, I stepped into a new neighborhood on the Web and joined an ongoing party in the blogosphere. It was a bit like something out of the 1960s--crashing on a sofa in a crowded stranger’s house, dropping your inhibitions, and taking a hit off the powerful drug that’s being passed around. Once you inhale in the blogosphere, you’re hooked, and all you can think about is sharing the LOVE and the strange trip you’re on. What starts as a series of random hook ups becomes something much more.

The value of blog relationships is that they transcend my physical reality. They allow me to meet and interact with a cast of characters from around the world, operating outside the normal geographic and social filters that determine who my friends are and what kind of people are in my circle. How amazing that as I sit alone at my desk, my world becomes bigger, my point-of-view broader.

The blogosphere reminds me of a masquerade ball where we all arrive in costume. Our masked online personas both hide and reveal who we are and set us up for intriguing relationships that are both distant and intimate.

As we hide behind our monitors, it’s exhilarating to share things we’d probably never cover in normal conversation—our fears, passions, vices, idiosyncrasies, and wisdom as well as the day-to-day grind of life where we are. The paradox of blogging is that we become more of who we are even as we wrap ourselves in anonymity, online personas, or our carefully crafted bios.

I started blogging for all the usual reasons: to have a creative outlet, to discipline myself to write regularly, to keep in touch with far flung friends and family, to capture a unique time in my life, and to nourish my fantasies of fame and book deals.

A year and more than 270 entries later, I’m still typing and mousing, cruising and commenting, and checking my blog first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and many times in between. I’ve been humbled by the talent of some of the writers I’ve met on the Web, and my site meter has squashed all hopes for fame and fortune. Writing day in and day out is a challenge, but one that’s been made easier by some folks in my inner circle.

Special thanks to:

The people who have encouraged and supported my writing forever: Shirl Grrrl, Low Maintenance Grrrl, Lynn, Neil (no, not THAT Neil), Erni Jo, Granola Grrrl, and Steve.

My family members, E-Man, E-Grrrl, and Mr. A, who accept when I’m glued to the keyboard and have respected my passion for writing.

All the bloggers, commenters, and other readers who have given V-Grrrl in the Middle a piece of their day and let me know directly and indirectly that someone was out there listening to what I had to say.

Finally, I raise my glass to the B-List Bloggers who have offered friendship, support, wisdom, and comments in good times and bad.

Blog on!

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

August 27, 2006

I've seen London, I've seen France.....

But nothing beats Neil's underpants!

Neil at Citizen of the Month is such a fan of V-Grrrl that he's tossing his underwear at the monitor in California in honor of Blogger Appreciation Day.

As you can see, I'm a fan of Neil's too--but I skipped the panties on the monitor.

 Happy Blogger Appreciation Day from Brussels, Neil!

Thanks for the laughs.

Show me the monkey!

Unlike many of the expats I know, I haven’t indulged in collecting Belgian items like tapestry and lace. Yes, they’re lovely, they’re traditional, but I have no use for delicate linens and textiles and refuse to buy anything that will languish in a drawer somewhere. Besides, lace and tapestry are not my style. Filling my house with it would make me feel like a granny, and I already feel old enough.

No, instead I’ve amassed a collection of Belgian products infinitely more practical, definitely more colorful, and famous not only in Belgium but around the world. Sometimes I think I should join a support group and confront my addiction. Yes, my name is V-Grrrl, and I have fallen under the spell of Kipling bags.

I bought my first Kipling handbag two weeks after we arrived. I was seduced by its light weight and body-crossing design, perfect now that I was walking everywhere and using public transit in the city. Soon I’d picked up a small khaki-colored backpack for longer day trips and sightseeing.

The combination of practicality and fashion-forward designs kept bringing me back for more. I couldn’t resist the burnt orange hobo handbag with its interesting variegated finish and handy compartments. I loved its shape and the way it sat solidly on my shoulder. Next I bought a Kipling wallet to accommodate the size of my new Belgian ID cards and folding change purses to hold my euro coins. For Christmas I received an oversized navy blue shoulder bag perfect for shopping trips and toting books and maps.

In the spring I fell for the fresh look of a green-striped shoulder bag, and I bought a weekend duffle bag for travel. When it got hot, I felt bright and summery with a bright orange, yellow, and baby blue bag, embroidered with flowers and sporting big happy tassels. My daughter, who is only 8-years-old, fell hard for a multi-colored striped shoulder bag from the same line, and we agreed to split the cost and share it. The best part? The furry orange monkey hanging from its hardware has my NAME on it. Clearly, we were meant to be together.

I share my love of Kipling bags with American friends looking for a taste of Belgian style. When Low Maintenance Grrrl was here on her birthday last summer, I gave her a blue-gray Kipling bag. Lynn received a black one for Christmas and carried it while she traveled with us in Belgium last month. Her daughter E has a beautiful orange and pink bag shaped like a flower that we gave her for her birthday, and my daughter E-Grrrl has a deep fuchsia monkey-faced backpack that she received for her birthday. I mailed Char, a former coworker, a lavender-colored bag, and Low Maintenance Grrrl liked the Kipling I gave her so much that she bought one for her girlfriend.

So let the tourists drink beer and collect lace, tapestry, chocolate, and statues of Mannekin Pis. Me, I’m carrying my memories of Belgium home in style—in an authentic Kipling bag.

August 24, 2006

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Conversation with My Keyboard

V-Grrrl:  Sure is beautiful today. It feels like fall. The air’s a little crisp.

Keyboard:  Ah, that means back to school—and no one beating me up playing video games. Ouch!

V-Grrrl: Don’t get too comfortable. I’m still going to be finger tap dancing on your face.

Keyboard: Oh now that’s something to look forward to!

V-Grrrl:  It is, Keyboard! It is! Bernie says you should always look on the bright side of things. He even sent a Monty Python song on the subject.

Keyboard: Really?

V-Grrrl: Yes, but I explained to him that while he has small problems like dying relatives, in-laws having strokes, a wife recovering from surgery, and the cost of universityto deal with, I have really big, overwhelming problems, like using public transit, getting caught in the rain, having to spend all my time with my own children, and not having any ice to mix a margarita with.

Keyboard: Those are some serious hardships. I don’t know you manage!

V-Grrrl: Me neither. I told Bernie it’s a curse being half Irish and half Italian. My DNA is against me. The Irish are prone to melancholy and Italians are sentimental. Put those two together and you get offspring that cry a lot. It’s just the nature of things.

Keyboard: Could be worse—you could drink a lot. Beer to honor the Irish side, wine for the Italianos.

V-Grrrl: True! Instead I write a lot--and  I wash the antidepressants down with a cup of tea. Nothing's better. See, Keyboard, we’re already learning to look on the bright side.

Keyboard: To all of life’s problems, there’s a pharmaceutical solution. Now pass me a Tylenol.  I’m getting a little sore from all your typing.

August 23, 2006

Brokeback Mountain

Yesterday I finally watched the film Brokeback Mountain. I wasn’t sure what to expect after all the hype, gossip, critical reviews, and Oscar night drama. Would it live up to its reputation? Over and over again I’d read this was not a “gay cowboy movie” but a  love story. And while I didn’t know the plot in advance, I fully expected to shed a few tears as it progressed.

As I watched the movie on a gray day with rain pouring off the roof, I was surprisingly unmoved. The relationship with Jack and Ennis didn’t seem to unfold as much as it exploded. Even knowing what was coming, I didn’t see it coming. Was that intentional on the actors’ and director’s part? Was it supposed to convey how these forbidden feelings were suppressed and denied by the characters until they couldn’t be contained?

Probably. And while the understated performances were magnified by the contrast of the grand sweep of the Western scenery, I had a hard time capturing the essence of the relationship between Jack and Ennis. Maybe that's because they didn't understand their relationship either. Why did they love each other? What was the basis of their attraction? What bound them to one another?

The scenes where they scuffled, in fun or in anger, were brilliant, illustrating their inner struggles and the way they were masculine in every sense of the word. Heath Ledger did an incredible job of conveying a man in a man’s world grappling with the social expectations that imprison him. His facial expressions, his body language, his restraint say so much more than his dialogue. Jake Gyllenhaal does a great job of conveying Jack’s’s unease with his place in society and yet his refusal to give up his dreams of happiness. Neither actor nor director falls into cliches depicting gay men.

And yet despite these fine-tuned performances, I didn’t cry as these men two-stepped through unfulfilling marriages and strained family relationships. I didn’t even cry when Ennis called Jack’s wife to get the details of his death or during the heart rending scene with Jack’s parents.  His father’s wary, hardened face makes his disappointment and latent disgust with Jack palpable, and yet there are hints of wistfulness as he recalls Jack’s talk of plans to help run the ranch with a buddy. His mother’s resignation and ambivalent acceptance of who her son was is there in her compassion for Ennis. And they all sit in a spartan house on a windswept plain and privately consider how all traces of  happiness have been scoured from their lives.

Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana wrote the screenplay for Brokeback. McMurtry is one of my favorite writers—his writing is spare, subtle, and restrained, yet his novels are loaded with emotion. His books not only earn coveted space on my shelves, but his stories nest in my subconscious.

I’m not surprised then that while I didn’t cry during Brokeback, I can’t stop thinking about Ennis and Jack and the world they inhabited. Like their attraction to each other, the story just won’t leave me be, haunting me long after the screen faded to black and the TV clicked off.  

August 22, 2006

The old gray Grrrl, she ain't what she used to be

E is in the States and on his list of things to buy are half a dozen boxes of L’Oreal Superior Preference Hair Color in medium amber copper brown. L’Oreal sells lots of hair color in Europe, but not Shade 5 ½ AM. MY color.

It’s funny how I’ve come to think of this shade as “my color.” True, it’s a close match to the hair I was born with —a coppery color between auburn and brown. But if I were honest with myself, I’d admit that “my color” is really the dull shade at the roots that disappears every four weeks under a fresh application of L’Oreal 5 ½ A.M.

I started coloring my hair when I was 39 and the hair framing my face started to be overtaken by gray. Throughout most of my 30s, I kidded myself that my gray hair wasn’t so band and looked like highlights. Later when I’d walk past a shop window and glance at my reflection or see photos of myself, I’d recognize the unmistakable skunk stripe that was working its way back from the front of my head toward the crown.

When I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old with waist length hair and pink cheeks, I told myself I’d never dye my hair, I’d age naturally and gracefully. This is only half true now. At 39, I was resigned to the lines on my face but not the streaks in my hair. When you’re 39, you want to believe only 50 year olds should have a lot of gray hair. (I’m betting when I’m 50, the acceptable age for gray hair will bump up to 60. Ha!)

And so, much to my surprise I started perusing the hair color aisles before my 40^th birthday, looking for the perfect color. Medium golden brown was good, but medium amber copper brown turned out to be the Holy Grail of Hair Color. It was ME, only better.

Now as my roots catch the light and wink at me from the bathroom mirror, the truth bitch-slaps me in the face. Like it or not, the mirror reports, the REAL me, has a ton of gunmetal gray hair. Not a striking salt-and-pepper mix, not a glamorous silver grey, and not the rich copper color that’s been my trademark since childhood.

Without the L’Oreal, my hair would tell the world that I’m old enough to be a grandmother. A grandmother! It hurts to even TYPE that, but if I’d had children when I was first married, and they’d had children at the same age, I’d be some toddler’s Nana. Good lord, why did I mentally go there?

Lately, I’ve been envisioning liberating my inner Gray-Haired Grrrl. I tell myself that hair dye can’t alter the truth and that my face and disappearing waist declare my age anyway. Why not GET REAL? Why not GET GRAY?

A part of me is clamoring for authenticity and demanding I claim my age and accept how it really looks. My inner FemiNazi has some issues with hair color. But the other part of me is still sliding her legs into Levis, letting her eyes linger too long on those photos of Becks and Luca Tony, and wishing she could go out with the girls and kick back. My mental image of myself is frozen somewhere around age 30, before motherhood and gray hair entered the picture. Those were the days when I had the lithe figure of a runner, hot pink accessories on my little white car, the latest music in my CD player, and the ability to make a miniskirt sing.

Those days are over. That Grrrl is long gone. But I’m attached to her. No, I won’t humiliate myself with short skirts, motorcycle jackets, or silly car accessories, but the L’Oreal 5 ½ AM? It’s all I’ve got left of the Grrrl I left behind. I’m not ready to trade bronze for silver. At least not yet. Maybe when I’m 50. Better yet, make that 60.

August 21, 2006

Thanks but I've had enough...

Of summer that is.

I’ve been with my kids 24/7 since June 10.

They had one week of day camp that didn’t turn out well (for them) and so the two subsequent weeks of day camp were cancelled. Note to self: no matter how many snotty obnoxious kids and stressed staff members there are at camp next year, the kids are going. Period.  E thinks it’s expensive but to me it's  worth it. No, it's more than worth it--it's necessary.

I haven’t been alone with E all summer. Actually, I haven’t been alone with E since February. If my memory serves me right, that’s the last time we were able to find a sitter. He’s in the middle of a two-week trip right now. Gone is the last adult voice in my life.

I have not been out alone with a woman friend, or gone shopping, eaten out, or exercised by myself since May.  I feel like a little engine pulling a long, long train everywhere I go, with kids chatter clickety-clacking in my brain at all times.

I love my kids, and they’ve been great this summer—no exaggeration. They’re smart, creative, and often a lot of fun to be around, but I am completely burnt out with all our togetherness.

We’ve done art projects, cooked, gone to the library, read together, visited castles, windmills, caverns, museums, playgrounds, pools, and zoos. They’ve been kayaking, biking, hiking, and skiing. There have been countless play dates and ice cream cones and hamburgers and all that jazz. In short, they’ve had a good summer. It was a good summer for me too until the second week in August when they began to get bored, and the days started to string together in desperation. After the heat wave broke records in July, August has turned out to be cool and rainy, possibly the wettest August on record. This doesn’t help with cabin fever.

Every morning when I wake up, E-Grrrl ask “What are we going to do today?” and Mr. A asks “What’s for breakfast?” and I have to take a deep breath to keep from snapping. I’m beyond tired of planning days for them and trying to carve out moments of sanity for myself. I’ve been staying up later and later just trying to grab some private space in the day and recharge. Sometimes that means sitting at the computer and having a good cry, other nights I plug in a DVD and veg in front of the TV, and all the while I feel guilty for not coping better with the every day demands of my life which, all things considered, aren't much. 

Still I'm counting the days--counting the days until I can breathe again.

One more week.

August 20, 2006

Quote of the Day

From an Associated Press story by Ben Feller on driver education classes:

Instruction isn't always the problem, said Mike Orr, who teaches driver's education at Rockridge High School in Taylor Ridge, Ill. Within two weeks of class, he says he can tell which kids will be bad drivers because they lack maturity and a sense of responsibility.

"Driving expertise comes from attitude, not just skills," Orr said. "You can't legislate parenting skills. Those responsibilities have to be taught day one in the classroom, from kindergarten all the way through. But more importantly, it's got to be taught at home."

***

When I was hit by a teen driver, her mom showed up at the scene asking me not to call the police or my insurer and report the accident. Her daughter, she confided, had been in an accident earlier that same week. She was a "good girl" and her mom didn't want her to lose her driver's license or insurance. She was 16 and had her own car.

Hello? Anybody home? If your daughter, who I admit seemed very sweet, is involved in TWO accidents in one week and they're both her fault, then maybe she shouldn't be driving. I don't care about her GPA or how responsible she is at home, what matters is her ability to DRIVE well.