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

I've got a big, big problem

by Mike on the Bottom

The following spam subhead in my work email inbox stopped me in my tracks this week:
MIKE, 67 PERCENT OF WOMEN DON'T LIKE YOU

It turns out that size DOES matter to more than two-thirds of women, and the company that sent this email can help me with my little problem for a low, low price. 

Hmmm. So THAT'S why women editors have a problem with me.

Wait. If 33 percent of women DO like me, I'm doing pretty well for myself.

Is the glass half empty or half full? Or should I say, 67 percent empty or 33 percent full?

When, oh when, will women stop thinking of men as sex objects and appreciate sensitivity?

Discuss

Mike on the Bottom, aka Michael Zitz Beckham, is a journalist, baseball fanatic, and FOVG (Friend of V-Grrrl). She likes him a lot about 67 percent of the time. 

Me and Eddie Go All the Way

Things got pretty hot and heavy with Eddie over the summer. We spent hours online together, I kept getting packages from him, and he always seemed to know just what a Grrrl wants—soft hoodies, linen dresses, cute wrap tops with modern prints, t-shirts in my favorite earth-tone colors. When the weather cooled down, Eddie and I weren’t in touch as often, though I’ve lived in his turtleneck sweaters and fabulous down vest with the fur collar.

Those of you have been following my love affair with Eddie know that he never disappoints me. We have a long term relationship that goes back at least 15 years and has only deepened over time. Sigh. Eddie’s in my heart, he’s in my head. Let’s face it--he’s all over me. It’s true--Eddie Bauer has got me covered from head to toe with the kind of quality clothing and gear I adore (www.eddiebauer.com).

Today I received the best after-Christmas present ever—pants that fit! Yes, we all know that finding pants that fit is heavenly under any circumstances, but finding pants that fit online is an absolute miracle. I’ve been living in jeans and sweats for months. After ordering--and returning--some pants from a big-box mall retailer online, I tried some on in local stores, but they never fit right or flattered me.

Catalog stalwart Lands End always rubs me the wrong way. And L.L. Bean doesn’t fully appreciate my long legs. Let’s face it, both LE and LL make me feel a little dowdy, a little old. Still I wasn’t ready to let other catalogers into my pants. I mean, sure we’ve shared a sweater or two, maybe some outerwear, but pants are different. I mean, I didn’t even feel comfortable letting my faithful love Eddie in my pants after an awkward incident in a dressing room years ago.

But Eddie Bauer has changed since then. Grown up. Matured. Now he’s more experienced. He completely revamped his pants sizing and fit categories this year,  just as I was getting a little desperate.  Timing is everything. Finally,  just before Christmas,  he propositioned me with a 20 percent off discount and free shipping offer. Clearly it was now or never.

It was time for Eddie and I to take our relationship to the next level. I spent hours online, studying the fit diagrams and descriptions, reading the Web catalog copy, and making a wish list. And then I JUST DID IT—I ordered SIX pairs of pants from Eddie in different fits, styles, and colors praying ONE of them would work and I’d be freed from my slovenly existence of all jeans, all the time. I was filled with both anticipation and dread—how would things work out?

Today Eddie finally showed up on my doorstep, and I couldn’t wait to get at that package. Fifteen minutes later, all I could say was “Oh Eddie! Oh Eddie!” ALL the pants fit. ALL the pants flattered. How could I ever have doubted him?

But now that the afterglow has faded, it’s time for reflection and a bit of remorse. I shouldn’t have! Six times! What was I thinking? How am I going to explain all this to my husband E? Will he understand? Will he forgive me? Will it all blow over in a month when the credit card bill is paid?

One thing I know for sure: I need both E’s in my life. I would hate to have to choose between them. One dresses me, one undresses me—it’s an ideal arrangement. Every woman should be so lucky.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 28, 2005

Ten Cheap Thrills for My Grrrl Friends

Hey Grrrl Friends! Looking for cheap thrills and winter pick me ups?  Here are a few of my favorite things, most of them available at your local discount store for way less than $10, the rest from Sephora:

1) Covergirl TruBlend Makeup. I’ve bought at least three different types of foundation in the last year, the most expensive leaving a $38 hole in my wallet. I was searching for that perfect combination of natural color, light coverage, sunscreen, and ease of application. I found it for less than $10 when I picked up some TruBlend powder foundation. Finally—the 2-minute all-in-one solution. The first foundation that seamlessly blends with my skin so I can spot apply it without fuss.

2) Cargo Bronzer. Being the fairest of them all and one who has had surgery for skin cancer, I avoid the sun and wear sunscreen year round. My life without tan lines means my face can get positively pasty looking, giving new meaning to the phrase “dead of winter.” Cargo bronzer is the gift of life for the sun deprived. It doesn’t have orange or yellow undertones, it won’t put glitter on your face or leave it shiny, nor will it make you look like you’ve been working in the mines. It imparts that rarest of all things—a perfect healthy wash of color, as if you’ve just dashed into a building through the rain, shared a good laugh with a friend, or spent a few moments remembering the great sex you had last night. Apply with a big, soft fluffy brush and feel the love, grrrl friends

3) Neutrogena Advanced Solutions Facial Peel. I’m a big fan of Neutrogena skin care products and this one is amazing. Twice a week you apply this to your face, let it sit for about five minutes, then gently massage your face with a light touch, and rinse everything off. The mild exfoliating AHAs and BHAs dissolve the dull outer layer of dead skin cells and let your best self shine through. Hey, I still have wrinkles but my skin has more of that peaches and cream look that ruled in my 20s.

4) L’Oreal Colour Juice Lip Gloss. I’ve always been a fan of lip gloss. It’s quick and easy and it adds a touch of color and shine with lots of moisture. I’ve used the type that comes with wand applicators and the stuff in pots you stick your finger into. Some are sticky, some are oily, some are gloppy, some taste or smell gross, but L’Oreal’s are just right. Perfect texture, sheer color, a bit of shine, and comes in an applicator tube—no need to use a mirror or your fingertips to blend. Go ahead and smile, Sweet Lips.

5) St. Ives Invigorating Apricot Scrub. I’m a big fan of exfoliation. Some body scrubs are too tender to get the job done, and some are too rough. Others are just a hassle to use or leave my skin feeling oily, not moisturized. This is the perfect body scrub. Comes in a handy tube, costs less than $3. Even if you’re not a body scrubber this is great for winter weary hands and rough feet.

6) Jergens Natural Glow Moisturizer. Most self-tanners are awful. The irony is that the people who need self-tanners the most (the whitey whites) are the people that have the most problems with them. Most formulas develop tans that are too dark, dramatic, or orange and many formulas are tough to apply evenly. I don’t want to look like JLo, I just don’t want to look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Jergens Natural Glow doesn’t deliver an instant tan, it delivers a subtle bit of color in an emollient base that is easy to apply and spread evenly. Use it every day and you’ll gradually develop natural looking color a few shades darker than your own. Follow the directions on the label.

7) Tommy Girl Summer Cologne. I know it’s the middle of winter. You won’t be able to find this in stores, but as soon as it appears, give it a spritz and let it transport you to your teenage beach days. It’s light, fresh, summery and has a hint of that irresistible Coppertone lotion smell. I love the bottle too. So pretty.

8) Johnson’s Bedtime Lotion (for babies and those that need to be babied). The smell, the texture, the way it softens your skin—everything about this lotion is comforting. I even use it on my face sometimes.

9) Sally Hansen Cuticle Massage Cream with Apricot Extract. Ideal for those of us with natural nails, short or long, unpolished. This is a solid moisturizer that comes in a little pot, easy to keep in your handbag. Smells wonderful, leaves a subtle shine on your nails, no oily residue and keeps cuticles and nails from getting ragged.

10) Blistex Fruit Smoothie Lip Balm in Mango. The last thing I put on at night, the first thing I put on in the morning. Ah!

OK, enough about me--what’s your favorite cheap thrill?

Winding down the year

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is one of my favorites. It’s the time of year I embrace all the odd projects I haven’t had time for—and do everything or nothing without guilt!

This is the week photos will go into albums and the post cards I’ve bought from the places we’ve visited will finally be placed in a scrapbook. I’ve delved into the stamping supplies and idea books I got from Shirl Grrrl and have made notecards with little E. Today I’ll sit at the kitchen table with my kids and write thank you notes. I’ll take a long walk. I’ll update my Web page. I’ll start a good book. I won’t be thinking about what I should be doing instead.

This is the week we wile away with jigsaw puzzles and board games. E and A will work on the models A got for Christmas. We’ll forage in the refrigerator at meal times or rev up and cook something different. We’ll stay in pajamas without apology until lunch. We’ll take naps. We’ll watch movies. And yeah, we’ll bicker and scrap and get in each other’s way. Thank God this house has three floors, there’s always a place to hide.

If we get cabin fever, we’ll hop on a train and check out a nearby city. We'll visit the shops in Ghent or the ice sculpture display in Brugges. There's an ice rink set up in downtown Brussels. It's been more than 20 years since I ice skated. It’s a good week to try new restaurants and take that road we’ve never been down before.

Tomorrow they’re calling for snow.

Most of the Americans we know here are spending Christmas at ski resorts in Austria , but I’m loving the glorious stretch of nothingness stretched out before me. In a few days it may all be too much, but right now it’s like rolling over without even looking at the clock.

Life out of time, life in the moment. A great way to wind down the year.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 26, 2005

Going Home for Christmas

My brother Tom and his wife Darcy sent me a coffee table book for Christmas, a photographic journey through Rockbridge County, Virginia, produced by two photojournalists who built their careers in Washington, D.C., before moving to the mountains. Bruce Young and Jennifer Law Young managed to capture the subtle details that distinguish the County as well as the panoramic views it’s famous for.

Nestled in the Shenandoah Valley and guarded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, Rockbridge County is a fiercely beautiful place, rocky and pastoral, historic and rural, and Southern through and through. In Rockbridge County, time seems to stand still even as the clouds sweep over the mountains and the Maury River cuts through the rocks of Goshen Pass.

I wasn’t born in Rockbridge County, but I came of age there, living on a farm in the shadow of Jump Mountain, 17 miles from the nearest town, which had only 5,000 inhabitants. I went to school surrounded by people who had lived in the area for generations,  and while my mother never really forgave my father for transplanting the family to the rural South, I related to the County on a visceral level, bound to its wild beauty and serene vistas, the spirit that flowed through its rivers and creeks.

I was rooted in the sense of the place, the permanence of its rocky landmarks, the moodiness of the sky, the lushness of the hills, and the way the roads never took a direct route anywhere. I loved the honeysuckle twisting through the pasture fences, the black angus dotting the hillsides, the satisfying crunch of its dirt roads, the canopy of hardwood trees, the stately presence of the old brick colonials and the Southern charm of the ubiquitous white farmhouses.

Like the narrow roads winding through the countryside, I was captive to Rockbridge County ’s geography.  I was unable to casually pass through on my way to another life. Every bend in the road forced me to slow down, observe the world outside my window,  and consider what might lie ahead. 

When I left the County, I was only 18 and already engaged. My fiancé had been born half a world away to Belgians living in the Congo.  Later he lived in Algeria, Turkey, and Greece before settling in the U.S. and attending college in the County.  On our first date we went swimming in the Maury River, less than a year later he proposed at the same spot.  I married him when I was barely 20, honeymooned in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and followed him to Oklahoma.

Eight years later, I dragged him back to Virginia because I simply couldn’t live anywhere else. For 15 years we made our home half-way between Richmond and Washington, visiting friends and family in the County when we could. Then last March with conviction we didn’t know we had, we returned to his roots, moving to Brussels, Belgium.

Last night during the Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal church we attend here, the Rev. Kempton Baldridge talked about his favorite Christmas song, “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” A Southerner and former military chaplain who has lived in Belgium for years, his voice choked with emotion as he quoted the lyrics: “I’ll be home for Christmas/ You can count on me/ I’ll be home for Christmas/ If only in my dreams.”

Kempton talked about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph as expatriates, people forced to leave all that was familiar behind, first to go to Bethlehem, then in their flight to Egypt. He spoke of the three kings who left their home countries to search for something bigger than the kingdoms they knew. He preached about our longing for “home” in both the physical and spiritual sense, how we’re driven by a desire for a place to call our own, a place where we’re loved and accepted just as we are, a place we can be our best and truest selves, a place we can be forgiven, a place that brings us peace.

In the glow of the church’s candlelight, surrounded by my husband and children, I knew I was right where I belonged and at home in my life, but this morning when I unwrapped Tom and Darcy’s gift, I was reminded of the place I’d left behind more than 20 years ago: Rockbridge County,  forever home, no matter where I live.

© Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 25, 2005

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

The Things I Left Behind

In the months preceding our move abroad, my relationship with all that I owned changed dramatically. Anticipating an international move and a three-year stay in Belgium, I could look at nothing under our roof without considering, “What am I going to do with it?”

Should I:

• throw it away,
• give it to a friend,
• donate it to charity,
• sell it,
• send it to storage,
• have it shipped or
• find someone to keep it for me?

It had been 15 years since I’d last moved and being the type who likes everything to be neatly sorted and in labeled containers, I’d frequently gone through our belongings and hauled stuff out of the house. But this was different—I didn’t know what my new home would look like, how much storage I’d have, and what I would I would need in my new life.

The sorting process was as exhausting as it was endless. There were too many decisions to make, too many unknowns, and a lot of unexpected emotions unearthed. My past decluttering expeditions had focused on clothing and housewares—this one included art, photos, and my substantial collection of old letters.

I was forced to let go of the past and imagine a new future. I tried not to be overly sentimental but practical, and smart about what to do with my belongings, and yet I still made many mistakes--and learned a lot about my habits in the process.

I discovered I have an obscene amount of Tupperware. Who knew? I was blind to my weakness. My girlfriends should have staged an intervention because I was suckered in by every variation on the basic plastic storage container that Tupperware offered. Despite leaving some in storage, I brought far too much with me. It’s now providing luxury housing for spiders in the basement.

Back in the kitchen, I wish I’d brought my big slow cooker here and left some mugs behind. I brought inexpensive wine glasses with me but left my good crystal in the States—another regret.

In the U.S., I had three giant Rubbermaid boxes of gift wrap, accumulated over years of stocking up at clearance sales and school fundraisers. Not only was I equipped for every gift-giving occasion, but I could choose a wrap based on the gift recipient’s personality or interests. Alas, I left all my wrapping paper and supplies in storage in the U.S., reasoning I’d buy what I needed when I got to Belgium, a decision that proved completely unsuitable when the birthday party invitations started coming home and the holiday season arrived.

My children had enormous herds of stuffed animals, accumulated from birth on. They represented the love of friends, birthday happiness, souvenirs from their dad’s travels, the reward for enduring unpleasant medical procedures, and a passion for collecting all that’s sweet and fuzzy. I had the children select a few favorites, donated some to charity, and put the rest in storage. Not only do the children miss them, but I miss them too, a reaction that caught me completely off guard.

Fearful of my family photos being lost or damaged in shipment, I left nearly all of them behind. A mistake. Not only does our home feel hollow without them, but my children need them to refresh their memories of home and loved ones and life in America.

I jettisoned all manner of extra linens and brought only enough sheets, towels, and blankets for my family. Now that was a wise move! My choices on what books to bring and which to leave behind were on target.

In the realm of shopping, I stocked up on favorite toiletries, many of which I later discovered I can easily buy here. But I didn’t stockpile American-sized paper, file covers, and folders nor did we bring along a large supply of vacuum cleaner bags and basic car parts—a situation we’ve regretted over and over again.

I brought too much art and too many decorative objects with me, even though I gave a lot away and sent a bunch to storage. The placement of walls, windows, and radiators here limits what I can hang, and I’ve discovered I like a more streamlined look. The house breathes a little better with more blank walls. I like the overall lack of clutter.

I fully expected moving abroad to be a life-changing experience—learning about new cultures, customs, points of view. I didn’t realize how much the physical process of relocation would teach me about myself, my life style, and what was truly essential versus what I thought I couldn’t live without.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 22, 2005

Gifts that Keep on Giving

One of my favorite gifts ever arrived when I was in second grade. It was a Crissy doll, a toy I’d seen advertised during Saturday morning cartoons. Crissy was all about her hair, “It grows and grows, right down to her toes!” the ads exclaimed breathlessly.

Well, not quite. Crissy had a big hank of supplementary hair that emerged from an opening at the crown of her head. You could use a knob on her back to reel it into her head and shorten her do, or you could push in her “belly button” and give the hank of hair a gentle tug and it would go all the way down to her waist (not her toes, thank you very much!). It could then be blended into the rest of her hair and styled—the original hair extension concept!

She had auburn hair and big brown eyes, just like me. She wore a blue satin minidress and came with a big carrying case. I made her clothes, sewing simple things from my mom’s fabric scraps and crocheting her shawls and hats.

I kept Crissy forever. When my little girl got to be about five, I let her play with Crissy from time to time, hauling her out of the closet with great ceremony. Then last winter, I picked Crissy up and saw in horror that E-Grrrl had gotten a bit too enthusiastic cranking that knob on Crissy’s back and had sucked the big hank of hair all the way into Crissy’s body—never to be seen again. Damn. What was I to do? I had to send to Crissy to the Land of Forgotten Toys because I could not have her accompany us to Europe with bad hair and a gaping head wound.

Malibu Barbie, another favorite Christmas present from childhood, is enjoying her European vacation. She’s thinking of changing her name to Riviera Barbie. She arrived under the tree when I was about 9, wearing a powder blue swimsuit, big pink sunglasses, and carrying a yellow towel. Perfectly tanned, with long flowing blonde hair, she looks just as fabulous now as she did fresh out of the box.

Once in a while, I’ll pull her and Skipper out and E-Grrrl and I will dress them in the many outfits I’d collected for them when I was little. Cross-legged on the floor of the attic playroom, the past meets the present and I see my childhood self in the daughter who doesn’t physically resemble me in the least.

I hope she still remembers our play dates with Crissy and Barbie when she has crows’ feet, and perhaps children, of her own.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 21, 2005

Remembering Fallen Americans in Europe

Last Saturday, my husband and daughter traveled to Bastogne, Belgium to participate in a walk commemorating the Battle of the Bulge. More than 78,000 Americans soldiers died here in December 1944, defending Belgium from Germany’s final major offensive.

78,000 Americans slaughtered in one battle the week before Christmas.

It’s hard to even comprehend the magnitude of that number, let alone imagine what it was like for individual soldiers struggling in the bitter cold and fog or for their loved ones glued to radios at home, praying for good news before Christmas.

During a time when the U.S. government has come under fire from its allies in Europe, I wanted to let Americans at home know that whatever Belgians think of the tactics used in the “war on terror,” they have not forgotten those who fought on their behalf in World War II.

In addition to erecting a memorial to the soldiers who died in the Battle of the Bulge and sponsoring an annual commemorative walk through the battlefields, every year the people of Belgium donate a large native fir tree to the American Embassy to serve as its official Christmas tree. It is decorated and displayed prominently in the Embassy lobby, grown from the soil that saw so much blood and heartache and desperation.

“Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men.” Our ultimate Christmas wish.