"Don't get lost in the maze, Mummy..."

After 17 years, I resigned from my job.

Yeah, that sentence makes it sound profound, like I've decided to strike out on my own and tackle writing, mummyhood and the art of jam making while waving a triumphant middle finger to THE MAN. But it really isn't that romantic. Just a case of office politics, "business decisions" and a month-long shower in corporate crap.

I've had a pretty sweet deal: working from home with a team that was smart and well-regarded, in a job I liked and was good at. Then came the news: our work from home arrangement was being terminated. Crap.

The reasons management decided to cut our work from home programme still haven't been made transparent, but suffice it to say that I was the only one with a 2 hour commute, so the message to me was loud and clear. Ciao baby, and thanks for all the fish.

The powers that be were professional enough to allow me to keep my job until the end of August, which is more than they technically needed to, but the atmosphere had become so unhealthy that I knew I couldn't hang on that long. Hurt feelings and a bruised ego didn't help matters much, either. And when I summoned up my courage and voiced my opinions on the whole scenario to my bosses, it did nothing to improve an already unpleasant situation. It got harder and harder to breathe every time I logged in to work, so I gave my two weeks' notice and got the hell outta Dodge.

I took Jade to work with me on Friday, because I figured she should experience the place to which I've devoted the last 17 years of my professional life. I wanted her to know what my office looked like, meet the people who had been my friends and colleagues for so long, and get a taste of what Mummy did all day.

Jade received her security card necklace, eyed it with interest and announced, "Now I'm pretty just like Daddy!" (D wears a security card every day), making the security guard - one of my favourite faces in the office - grin.

As I guided my daughter down the labrynthine path to my department, she studied the neutral fabric walls, the stained carpets, the photos and posters and whiteboards that adorned the cubicles. She said hi to people I didn't even know, and waved her security card at them in case they doubted her right to be there.

When we finally reached the hotel office where I usually set up camp for my monthly visits, Jade's mouth dropped open. My crazy colleagues, following a time-honoured tradition on our team, had decorated my office both with photos of things I hated (gnarly man-feet, feet with rotting toenails) and things I loved (Second Cup logos, the dancing spiderman gif) plus balloons and streamers. I noticed two tiny potted roses, which I instantly knew were a quiet tribute to my little lost daughter; I lit up when I saw photos of my friends and I at office Christmas parties, my wedding, Hallowe'en contests. Jade was enchanted; my vision started to blur. They were sending me off with a heartfelt bang.

After Jade had visited my colleagues and the cafeteria, and done a few downward facing dogs in the aisle, I took her back through the cubes to the front door, where my sister was waiting. "Don't get lost in the maze, Mumma," my daughter warned me. Probably the best advice I'd get all day.

Back at my desk, I cracked open the boxes of doughnuts I'd brought from the Lucknow bakery and took a big breath. Bring it on, I thought, and sent an email to friends to let them know my corporate wake had begun.

The doughnuts began to disappear, and I said goodbye to people I'd worked with for almost two decades, answered questions (No, I wasn't going to take up farming; yes, I would be back to sell my jam), laughed at kooky memories, gave and received hugs, wiped tears and held back my own. I hate crying; I especially hate crying in the office. Tears just seem so incongruous with cubicles. So I sucked it up and laughed and joked instead.

My team had a final pita lunch together, which was equal bits hilarious and soggy. We talked about all the office episodes our little group had collected over the years: fibre pills, exploding juice cans, Second Cup runs, broken noses and first impressions. Our tradition of getting Pita Pit lunches to celebrate all things big and small seemed fitting, but when my friends brought out gifts and cards the tone of our little party changed. Goodbyes suck.

I wish I could say I got through the rest of the day without a sniffle, that I walked out of there with my head held high. But I didn't. A few careless remarks from my boss and two zero-hour embraces from beloved colleagues broke my resolve; the tears welled up, and I stumbled out of the maze and through the jaws of death one last time with red eyes and a heavy heart.

So here I am, on my second day of freedom, contemplating the months ahead and sighing over the years behind me. I'm giving myself permission to grieve, feel pissed off and a bit lonely. I'm also allowing myself to roll on the floor with the kids until 9 p.m., hang laundry in my underwear, drink coffee on the deck with the chipmunk and garden in my bare feet. I plan to laugh, swim, pick sweetcorn, build sandcastles and drink a lot of wine. I'm going to write and get jamming. I'm going to be happy, eventually.

And, if I'm honest with myself, I may just owe the company a great debt. I was too loyal to leave on my own, to nervous to jump off the edge into unemployment. When they asked me to resign, they also handed me an oyster. Whether I find any pearls inside is up to me.

A spoonful of dusk helps the medicine go down

For various reasons, my heart and soul have been pretty weary lately. Last night I was listlessly doing dishes, my hands busy while my head was mired in melancholy. A breeze blew in the kitchen window and ruffled my hair, a gentle hand telling me to stop what I was doing and go outside. So I did.

I snatched one of the kids' blankets off the floor, wrapped it around myself and plunked down in my favourite green lawn chair. It was dusk. The sun had barely set, and the sky painted itself in purple and navy above the treeline. Stars winked at me. Bats swooped down like burnt falling stars, crickets sang, leaves whispered. Somewhere below the hill, a dog barked as a motobike buzzed down the road. Somewhere beyond the cornfield, near the river, coyotes began to yip and whine their night song; somewhere in the falling darkness, every bitter thought floated out of my head.

Dusk had the power to do what exercise, wine, talking, writing, crying and sulking could not: it made me remember that I was part of a greater world, a small cog in a vast universe. My disappointment and hurt wouldn't break me, just as they wouldn't make more than a tiny ripple in the overall stream of my life. That's all this was: a ripple, a few circles made by a stone that would soon drift away. I would survive, and I would smile, and I would be happy again.

A spoonful of dusk helped me swallow a bitter pill.

In praise of...Crashing at Tanzi's

My work from home arrangement dictates that I must grace the "real" office (and by that, I mean the one where I can't show up braless wearing ratty track pants with paint splotches) every three weeks. It's a sweet deal. What makes it even sweeter is that my monthly trips to the city give me a great excuse to catch up with friends, and crash with my sister Tanzi.

Her latest pad is in a quaint part of Kitchener behind St. Mary's hospital. There are all sorts of old wartime "doll houses" and quiet, tree-lined streets. Although Tanzi's old place in Waterloo was beautiful and had easy access to all the down-town goodness, it didn't have an extra bedroom, so I didn't stay over. At her new place, I not only have my own giant bedroom, where Tanzi's naughty allergenic kitty Gatsby is forbidden to enter, I also have my own bathroom. Yeeha!

Hanging with Tanzi is always a treat. We often cozy up in her living room to share the news in between bites of take-out sushi. Or we go out for Thai. Or wings. If it's too late for supper, we drink wine and eat chips, sometimes in her big bed. That's the beauty of hanging out with my sister: we share similar vices.


After our evening excesses, I love how Tanz always tries to make me a healthy breakfast in the morning. She drinks these vile smoothies with spirulina or wheat grass or chlorophyll or some other gawdawful stuff that's supposed to be good for you, but they give me the chills. She doesn't know this, but the first one she ever made me got poured down the toilet after she left for work. Lord, it was nasty! Even Gatsby wouldn't touch it, and that cat rarely turns down an edible offering. Thankfully, my sister always has a bottle of Bailey's and buys decent coffee, so that makes up for her attempts at smoothie poisoning.


Can't wait to hit the city again soon and hang with my sistah, drink her wine and baileys and have some laughs.

In Praise of...Ruth

I've been blessed with many true, lovely friends over my lifetime, and I thought that in line with my In Praise Of blog entries, I should honour different friends on their birthdays. After all, who doesn't like to hear a few nifty things about themselves, especially on their birthday?

To kick off this little series, I'm gonna pay tribute to my dear friend Ruth, on what is today, her 30-something-th birthday.

Ruth is one of my insurance jockey buddies. We met about seven years ago at work, via a mutual co-worker who roped us into painting his apartment while he watched and complimented our artistic skills. At least he fed us pizza. Anyway, I do remember being struck by Ruth's big smile and weird enthusiasm for painting trim. I found myself attracted to her boundless energy, her organizational skills (she got the painting party working together efficiently - well, except for the guy we were painting for!) and her interesting paradox. From the outside, Ruth seemed like a squeaky clean innocent, all smiles and sweetness. For example, when she showed up at work one Hallowe'en dressed as a cheerleader in our company colours, no one was surprised. It was just so....Ruth. But once I got to know her, I came to realize that inside that perky girl lurks the naughtiest, most perverted sense of humour I've ever had the pleasure of being exposed to. She can come out with the raunchiest thing and look so cute and sweet while telling it you can hardly believe she really said it.

During the early days of the painful separation from my first husband, Ruth was one of the friends I clung to. Life had turned upside down for me. I felt unhealthy, unattractive and unmotivated to do much of anything. It was Ruth who coaxed me to get a gym membership; it was Ruth who went there with me twice a week after work and cheered on my panting, gasping, perspiring self to try the treadmills and ellipticals while she jogged along effortlessly beside me, a sleek thoroughbred coaxing along the tired old mare. It was Ruth who welcomed me into her home to try vegetarian dishes and play complex board games with her husband. She took me to parties, dragged me out shopping for new clothes, and told me I looked hot, even when I knew the bags under my eyes were the size of suitcases.

Ruth also had a knack for artfully moving conversations along when I was in danger of miring myself down in the unproductive mud of post-marital angst. She told me dirty jokes and made creatively disdainful remarks about my ex when I needed to hear them. She was a balm that helped heal my damaged self-image.


Most importantly, it was Ruth that got me laughing those deep, almost painful belly laughs that help us release festering anger, bitterness and tension. We still howl about the time she pressed a certain part of her anatomy up against my shower stall at the gym, and the time she wiped out on the sidewalk while demonstrating krunk moves. Ruth is the sexiest klutz I know.

And when the time came, she was so supportive of my burgeoning relationship with D. She never once told me I was dating too soon, or doled out any of the other well-meaning advice I received from other pals. She supported my choices and didn't judge, and in my opinion, that's the mark of a true, mature friend. Ruth was a gorgeous and fully involved bridesmaid at our wedding, even though it was the same day as her wedding anniversary and she was fighting a wretched cold (something she didn't tell me until she left the party at 1am).

Ruthie is the queen of scrapbooking, the mistress of domestic bliss. She sews her own Hallowe'en costumes, makes her own birthday and Christmas cards, and bakes hundreds of exquisite Christmas cookies from scratch. She completed a nursing degree while pregnant and working full time, and graduated in the top of her class.

And yet she's not overbearing, as so many A-type personality people can be. She's natural and gracious. I love her air of quiet confidence, and her nonchalance about her beautiful creations. Ruth is alawys the first one to applaud my efforts, and she's one of my biggest supporters when it comes to writing.

One of the best things about Ruth is that she's the type of person I can talk to about anything. And I mean ANYTHING. No subject is too taboo, or too boring. I think we've had conversations about everything under the sun. How cool is that?

But perhaps the most telling thing about our friendship is the storm it weathered back in 2008. When we got pregnant at the same time, we high-fived our good timing. Our babies would be born a month apart, and we'd be off for a whole blessed year together. It was going to be great having a friend to share all the highs and lows of pregnancy with. And then D and I found out we had to lose Rose.

This type of situation could have wrecked a lesser friendship, or been handled badly by either party. But Ruth treated me with compassion, honesty and dignity. She never tried to hide aspects of her pregnancy, but she didn't celebrate it in my face, either. She never, ever complained to me about any of the common miseries of pregnancy, even when her feet swelled up and her back went out. Ruthie was a class act.

It was Ruth and her husband who took us out for supper the night before we had to go to the hospital to deliver Rose; we stayed overnight at their place. And it wasn't weird, or uncomfortable. In fact, it was calming. I felt safe at Ruth's place.

I'll never forget the day she graduated from nursing college. I went with her to the ceremony, but we went out for gelato first. Ruth was eight months pregnant, and wore a stunning, form-fitting black dress, which I called her "Fat Audrey (Hepburn)" outfit. As we sat across from each other at the gelato shop, the conversation meandered somehow to my daughter Rose. We hadn't really talked about it much; I said something about how she had long legs like her father, and Ruth smiled at me and said, "I bet she was beautiful." That's when I dissolved into tears, something I had tried hard not to do in front of Ruth, not wanting to cast any shadows on her own pregnancy. Ruthie got up, sat down beside me and held me. It was strange and sad and beautiful, being comforted about the loss of my child while pressed up against a pregnant belly.

Since our friendship survived that rough patch, it seems only fitting that D and I bunked down at Ruth's when I went into labour with Jade. After my labour was deemed "false," we went back to Ruth's, and celebrated her birthday with her. We stayed overnight, and as luck would have it, "real" labour started in Ruth's guest bed at 2:45am!

We've since enjoyed the ups and downs of parenthood together. Our husbands get along well; our kids will grow up knowing and loving each other. Even though we're two hours away from each other and don't work in the same office any more, we've managed to keep up with phone calls, emails and regular visits. She's committed to the friendship, as am I, so I think we're in it for the long haul.

So Happy birthday, my dear "Bruce." I love you and I hope life continues to give you gifts of happiness and contentment. I am a richer person for knowing you.

Just whistle while I work...

Whew, it's been a couple of weeks since I've been on here. But I have excellent excuses: Jade's official birthday party was the last weekend in May, and I started work on the following Monday. Zoinks!

Since I only have to work for 5 weeks - from home! - to fulfill my EI requirements for the second maternity leave, I have nothing to complain about. At all. Really. Except...

a) I keep dozing off in front of the computer.
b) My little make-shift home office ranges in temperature from wilting, suffocating heat to icy, foot-numbing cold. And the windows don't open.
c) I get twinges of wistfulness when I hear Jade and her Auntie shrieking with laughter on the other side of the wall.

After being away from work for over a year, I thought I'd have trouble adjusting. But apart from the occasional computer-induced doziness, it feels as though I'd never left. Email, databases, toggling, internet sites, documentation strategies, meeting invites - nothing feels the least bit foreign. It's as though someone flicked my "insurance industry" switch back on and I'm plugged into the matrix again. My fingers tap across the keyboard like they could do it all on their own. Which is a good thing, because parts of my brain seem to have dissolved during the course of my maternity leave. We'll see what kind of quality of work I leave behind after 5 weeks.

At the very least, my co-workers seem glad to have me back and I'm happy for a little social interaction, albeit through email and our messaging system. We're having a big Italian lunch in the 'Loo next week so it should be a nice, goofy reunion where I can catch up on the office gossip and get hugs all around. I'm so very lucky to have excellent people to work with. Even if it's just for a month!

Jade's party was a blast. I concocted a chocolate banana bundt cake that was a hit with the adults, although my girl wasn't keen on it (D's horrified comment as I pulled it out of the oven: "Is that all there is???" But it was so rich and heavy we only needed slivers, so there was plenty to go around). Jade had been busy stuffing herself with raspberries and cheese all afternoon, so I wasn't offended when she had a tiny taste of cake and then majestically raised a hand to signal, "No more, thank you very much."

Doesn't she look darling in her birthday dress? D's cousin's personal care worker made it by hand when Jade was born and she grew into it just in time for her party.


We are making her a time capsule to open on her 10th (or 16th) birthday. All the guests contributed a small item; something to represent either themselves, or the year 2010. It should be good fun opening it up when the time comes, although I have to admit that it's KILLING me to not know what everything is! I'm one of those people who loves surprises, but secretly wants to know what's under the tree at Christmas. And yeah, I often read the last page of a book first.

One week of work down; four to go. Wish us luck!

You make me feel like bloggin'...(I wanna blog the night away)

Working at home has its advantages. Then again, I'm not working in my OWN home, so I am subject to the furnishings available in my brother-in-law's bungalow. For example, he has a great stereo, with cable FM, but his CD player only plays one CD at a time. I prefer to put about 6 in the mix and hit shuffle. But most of my CDs are buried in the depths of the garage at Someday Farm anyway. I don't have the heart to dig them out. Which means I am stuck listening to the radio most days.

I tried the CBC, my old standby for driving back and forth to Waterloo, but all the good natured talking distracted me. I found I started typing whatever the announcer was saying. Not conducive to workie. A couple of weeks ago, I decided I'd try a new station every day. I would go up the dial; whatever came in, that's what I would listen to. Turned out to be an interesting experiment, especially when you consider the effect different music has on one's ability to focus and do productive work.

My first stop on the dial was a country station. Now, I'm a self-professed hater of country music. Throughout my childhood, Dad subjected us to album after scratchy album of Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson et al, ad nauseum. But since moving up here and spending time with D, I've reluctantly begun to hate country music less. My older sister, who lived in the middle of bloody nowhere in Australia on a cattle property for 6 years, warned me it would happen. "Oh, eventually the songs will start making sense to you," she said. "You'll start nodding in agreement with songs about love and family and trucks." Frightening, and true.

I've also tried a classical station (slows my typing down, and I actually had to take a short nap over my lunch hour), a nasty R&B station (one can only listen to songs about 'bling' and 'booty' for so long) and one that seemed permanently trapped in the 70's. But today, oh glorious day, I seem to have hit radio gold: E-Z Rock.

Hey, don't get all judgy on me now. It's not as dreadful as it sounds. They don't repeat their songs during the day, the announcers are pleasant without being so chipper you want to shoot them, and it's causing a surge of childhood memories - particularly when they play the rolling-skating-at-New-Hamburg-arena tunes.

But the gold nugget in my E-Z rock day was when they played "You make me feel like dancing." Instantly, I was transported into the den of the house where I grew up: orange shag rug, big fireplace, soggy brown leather chairs, giant TV. And on the giant TV was Leo Sayer singing his funkadelic hit surrounded by various muppets. The muppets! What a great show. They don't make 'em like that anymore.

Here's the clip from UTube. http://www.searchthetube.com/wyreul5Cvsw/Leo_Sayer__the_muppets__You_make_me_feel_like_dancing

Even if you're too young/old to remember, just check out this clip - for the Afro, the bad lip-synching, Leo's spastic dance moves and the slightly surreal dancers wearing muppet heads. Long live Jim Henson. Oh, and long live E-Z Rock.