Category Archives: Personal growth

You get what you give

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Volunteering is awesome. Maybe it’s my non-profit background talking, but I think everyone wins when you join a committee, sit on a board, or commit to a weekly shift.

A group of people sits around a table

I snapped this photo at the last 2014 Festival du Loup Committee meeting.

I volunteer to support organizations that do work I find valuable. But when I sign up, I know I’ll also get to meet great people, gain valuable experience, learn new things, watch my impact over time, and (big picture) build up my community. Plus there’s that “I’m awesome!” high-fivesque feeling you get at the end of a great event, meeting or project.

There are downsides, of course. My mom taught me that committing to something means giving it your all. Pile a few volunteer roles together (I can’t help myself!) and the result is a packed schedule. When I’m tired, I’d just rather sit on my couch and eat Cheetos.

But in the end, the pros always outweigh the cons, orange puffed cornmeal snacks and all. Especially now that I’m giving back to my community – the place that shaped me before unleashing me on Toronto in my late teens. My recent causes include:

Le Festival du Loup: I’m Franco-Ontarian, and this event brings frenchies like me together for a weekend of live music, beer, dancing and gossip. The tunes are toe-tappingly good – sometimes square-dancingly good. This year’s festival is on July 18, 19 and 20 in Lafontaine. We’re currently looking for sponsors, recruiting artisans, and figuring out how to sell tickets online.

The Midland Cultural Centre: North Simcoe is a secret hub of artistic greatness. We’ve bred authors, painters, musicians and everything in between. The MCC means all those talented people finally have a place to hang out, and an outlet to share their work. If you haven’t been to Saturday Open Mic or visited Quest Gallery, you should. Or better yet, sign up to become a regular box office or event volunteer.

The Georgian’s Got Talent (or not) Benefit Concert: What better way for me to give back to my employer than to help with its annual talent show/benefit concert? I’ll be singing and playing – which, frankly, is terrifying. All proceeds support Georgian College students who need a financial boost to get through school. Performances are on March 20 and 21 and you can buy tickets through Bear Essentials.

There are so many great organizations to get involved with around here, it was really difficult to decide where to direct my occasionally flailing enthusiasm. Some of my other local favourites include La Clé, Shelter Now, Chigamik, Community Reach, Waypoint and United Way of Greater Simcoe County.

Wherever you are, you’ve no doubt got similarly awesome local non-profits just waiting for someone with your skills and talents. If you’ve got time, consider diving in and helping out – you won’t regret it.

My funny valentine

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Yesterday, I re-read my blog top to bottom. Leaned into it with magnifying glass, found a few typos, wished I’d said some things differently, swallowed a few reminders of my brashness.

See caption

JF and I at Fort Henry

I realized that not a single post paid homage to my partner, JF – the quiet, perfect person who makes me functional.

Ours isn’t a new or sparkly love. It’s kind of like our house – charming, old, beautiful, quirky, a little worn, comfortable. We work at it a lot. I’m drawn to it. It’s where I want to be most of the time.

JF fixes things, keeps me humble, and likes birds. He reminds me that I enjoy mopey folk music, makes me laugh, and raps about things like toast. He rubs my back when I’m sick and holds my hand when we walk together.

I’m a sentimental boob all of the time, but maybe that’s because I’ve got such a lovely person to be sentimental about. I’m grateful for him every day. Even when he leaves his dirty socks on the coffee table.

Embracing winter

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The crappy side of winter. Driving in this.

The crappy side of winter. Driving in this.

This winter feels about as long as high school. For all my happy thoughts about shovelling, I’m tired of having my hands freeze to gas pumps. I don’t want to buy any more sidewalk salt. And I simply refuse to get stuck driving 70 km/h on a barely snowy one-lane highway – or, as JF calls it, getting buick-ed.

The worst part is, I never had to deal with any of this shit when I lived in Toronto.

The constant biting winds have my (poor, overworked) optimism constantly rewinding back to when winter was awesome. Twenty years ago, I could do backward crosscuts, make ice forts, and spend whole days building snowwomen – my mom is a feminist, can you tell? – in our backyard. Today I can barely do up my snowpants.

Me and Alicia, in the early 90s. Yes, that is a one-piece neon snowsuit.

Me and Alicia, in the early 90s. Yes, that is a one-piece neon snowsuit.

Memories of epic childhood snowball fights and two other things are currently keeping me going:

      • The Olympics. Because they are an excellent reminder that some people actually like snow and ice.
      • My lovely friends. Because they keep booting my butt out into the fresh air.

Thank you to: Mireille for getting me to the skating rink, Danielle for loaning me her Krazy Karpet, Kyra for trekking through deep snow in Tiny Marsh with me, Happy and Sam for getting married in an ice palace, and JF for forcing me to use the snowshoes we got for Christmas two years ago.

Mireille, my skating buddy.

Mireille, my skating buddy.

Warding off the winter blues is tough. But it might be a lot easier if instead of just thinking about when winter was great, I actually did great winter things.

Maybe I’ll try curling, or maybe JF and I will build a massive igloo in the backyard. Either way, I am determined to kick February in its snowy, white ass.

Família

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An older woman sits on a deck

My grandma. Her name is Micaela and I was named after her.

Ask my Portuguese grandma how she’s doing and her response (delivered with a thick
accent) will almost always be one of the following:

  • Still alive,
  • Above ground, or
  • Fine.

Hardly cheerful, but certainly honest. I wish I had the license for brutal truth telling she currently carries in her giant, practical black purse.

When she was visiting her hometown of Algarvia a few years ago, she ran into an acquaintance on the way to church. He was bent over with old age and barely able to walk. She said to him: “You’re still alive? If I had your health I’d rather be dead.” He passed away later that week.

That kind of earnestness can be tough – especially when directed at me – but I wouldn’t trade my avò in for a hundred ladies of Fatima.

Until I was about 14, I’d go to her house in Perkinsfield every day after school with my sisters. She’d serve us bean soup, giblet stew, bacalhau or shake n’ bake – always with a side of homemade bread and practical advice, washed down with coca-cola.

Avò, my sister Alicia, and my cousins Priscilla and Nathanael. Oh, and a baby bathtub full of dough.

Avò, my sister Alicia, and my cousins Priscilla and Nathanael. Oh, and a baby bathtub full of dough.

After eating twice our weight in her immaculate kitchen we’d watch Sailor Moon from her floral couches and play backgammon with our uncle John (a.k.a. João). Then she’d bundle us up, kiss us on the head, and send us across the yard to our house so we could get ready for bed.

Avò always says that family is the most important thing. When I think about how much she’s done for me, it’s clear she lives by that affirmation.

Spending time with my grandma today reminds me of the deep tunnels my family has dug into my heart. Some memories are etched onto my brain forever, squished tight against some kind of giant, pulsing affection node.

Love like that can never hold a stain or wrinkle – kind of like her table linens. So even though I no longer eat giblet stew, I’m grateful to be able to drive 15 minutes to her place for a cup of tea and a story about the old country.

Me and my grandma, outside her house

I think we look alike, don’t you?

Could this be… routine?

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I like moving. I like the feeling of renewal it brings, enjoy sorting all of my stuff, and am energized by new hair dressers and bank branches. Relocating makes me re-think my day-to-day, and that’s valuable.

JF, on the other hand, loathes moving with every fibre of his practical body.  He hates it for the reasons I love it: change, challenge, newness. Packing boxes give him anxiety.

Though our opinions on moving are opposite, there is one thing we can agree on and that’s the beauty of settling into the post-move routine. For me, it’s a great reward for putting so much brain, heart and muscle energy into building a new life. For JF it’s “thank mother Mary, things are back to normal!”

Our keys always go in this bowl. It's the mail and key bowl.

Our keys always go in this bowl. It’s the mail and key bowl.

We’ve been in our home for five months and I’m pretty sure we just hit our stride two weeks ago. It took us that long to find our mechanic, our pharmacy and our preferred routes to work.  We’ve finally re-programmed our thermostat, de-coded all the buttons on our dryer, and met most of our neighbours. Our errand list has dwindled down to the usual get gas, get wine, get groceries.

But what I think really makes a routine a routine is that sense that there is a regular rhythm to the day. For me, it’s knowing that if I hit the snooze button at 7:02 a.m. I’ll get to work at 8:42 a.m.; putting my keys in the same bowl when I get home; having a favourite living room outlet to plug in my MacBook.

This is my fruit bowl. It's where the fruit lives. Always.

This is my fruit bowl. It’s where the fruit lives. Always.

The only problem with routine, really, is that it breeds complacency – the reverse of that feeling you get when moving. There are hundreds of pathways to self-betterment, and they can all be obstructed by Netflix.

We have about a bazillion projects to tackle in this house – holes to patch, walls to paint, trim to fix – but I notice them less and less. We know we want to re-finish our floors, replace some electrical, and blow the second floor bathroom to smithereens, but does any of that have to happen while there are still fresh episodes of Star Trek to watch?

I guess as long as I don’t wake up in 30 years and think: “that closet door has been broken since we moved in,” I’ll be alright. Perhaps we’ll move before then – toss the pieces of our lives up in the air and try to catch them again, or see where they land.

29 gifts

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Every January, my slightly-above-average whining abilities grow to superhuman, x-men mutant power strength.

This year’s self-pity key messages include: “Christmas is over,” “I’m exhausted,” “that wasn’t a real vacation,” “I’m sick,” “I’m overweight,” “our 113-year-old house is draughty,” “my arms aches from shovelling,” and the classic “there are three long months of winter to go.” Blurgh. Cough. Sigh.

When I was 12, my mom rarely let me spend more than 10 minutes being surly and grumbly. As soon as she heard a complaint or sniffle, she started singing this song:

So, with the grouch anthem bouncing around in my skull, I’ve decided that instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m going to:

  1. Focus on the positive. Like my friend Kristin, who keeps reminding me of life’s gifts.
  2. Cleanse. JF and I are officially off wheat, dairy, sugar, caffeine and booze for two weeks.
  3. Clean the house. I’m obsessively tidy, but the place hasn’t been scrubbed down since early December.
  4. Exercise. I’ve bought some purple shoes. Now I have to use them.
Purple, adidas running shoes - squeaky clean

My new, squeaky clean runners. Talk about incentive!

To start thinking positively, I’m emulating a former colleague. On her birthday, she makes a list of highlights from the year gone by – with one bullet for every year she’s been in the world. Here’s my new year take on her tradition.

In 2013 I…

  1. Finally achieved my dearest wish: slowing down and moving back to Simcoe County
  2. Discovered that for good friends, the road from Elmvale to Toronto (and vice-versa) isn’t so long
  3. Celebrated eight years with a handsome, kind and smart man
  4. Bought a big, beautiful, draughty house
  5. Cleared said house of wallpaper
  6. Watched the sun rise over the north rim of the Grand Canyon
  7. Accompanied one of my dearest friends down the aisle
  8. Gained a “new” car and travel buddy
  9. Celebrated my sister’s engagement to an amazing person
  10. Hiked to the highest point in Zion National Park in excellent company
  11. Had a great time making ugly clay bowls at the Gardiner Museum
  12. Joined a book club
  13. Performed with two great choirs – I even did a small solo
  14. Grew my hair long
  15. Explored Ontario on weekend trips with JF
  16. Planted a lilac tree in my own garden, to honour mémère
  17. Went on a wine and pizza-fuelled road trip with college friends
  18. Took a graphic design course at OCAD
  19. Took on some exciting new volunteer roles
  20. Found a great (and local!) job
  21. Started a blog
  22. Had my avo over for dinner for the first time ever
  23. Saw my dad finally find true love
  24. Rode the barf-inducing Polar Express at the Elmvale Fall Fair
  25. Hosted a few good parties
  26. Flew to New York with some great people
  27. Discovered lululemon tights
  28. Had the Rebelo cousins (age 8 to 25) over for the weekend
  29. Got and decorated my first Christmas tree

Reading this list banishes all of that whiny goop from my heart and reminds me that I really am tremendously, astoundingly lucky.

If you’ve got the early winter blues, I recommend blessing-counting. It works just as well as your granny promised.

Finishing the Christmas Marathon

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My romantic soul is always glad to see friends and family, admire sparkling snow and tinsel, sing carols, and sit by the fire. But even I’m about ready to bring this festive season to a close.

Since December15, I’ve taken part in over a dozen holiday gatherings with people I adore. They all featured jingling music, good laughs and games – plus cookies, alcohol, and (often) that addictive layered salsa and cheese dip that everyone’s mom seems to make.

I call this back-to-back line up of heart-warming, artery-clogging parties the Christmas Marathon. I start the race happily chugging along, but by about 2 p.m. on New Year’s Day, I’m crawling to the finish line, weighed down by holiday excess.

New Year’s Eve is my last hurrah – the final sprint. At this moment, I’m looking forward to visiting with dear friends and popping some champagne. I’m also exhausted to the core and battered by my annual Christmas virus – my body’s way of saying: “stop! stop! too much wine!”

As I pull on my rather tight party dress and pack Tobias’s boot with board games, booze and Benadryl, I’m as excited about the evening ahead as I am about the next day. With a bit of luck, I’ll spend tomorrow night sitting on my couch, eating kale, and remembering the joys of the festive season.

Happy New Year to all!

The Elmvale 15

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Over the last two weeks I’ve ingested a Toblerone, two bags of Kernels popcorn, three bags of chips, several handfuls of jujubes and at least three cups of red and green m&ms.

My pants don’t fit me, my belly jollily jiggles like Santa’s, and worst of all, I feel like a (vaguely) human-shaped lump of butter. I’m calling the weight I’ve gained the Elmvale 15.

These days, I blame holiday baking. I must have eaten a solid dozen cookies yesterday. And today I had two chocolate-covered, tree-shaped sugar cookies for breakfast.

Evil Christmas cookies.

Evil Christmas cookies.

Other malefactors include: wine, the Elmvale bakery’s boston cream doughnuts, the cafeteria at work, my enabler partner JF, and Tobias.

Who knew my little blue Honda would keep me off my feet so constantly? The other day I drove from our house to the post office – just over 200 meters. Brutal.

I guess there was an advantage to the TTC’s suckiness after all; it forced me to get off my ass and walk.

Which brings me to the real culprit: slothfulness. Remember when I pledged to exercise regularly in July? Well, the closest I came to a fitness routine was the occasional leisurely stroll through Tiny Marsh, back when Simcoe County wasn’t coated in ice.

I often say I don’t have time, but the truth is that JF and I have somehow managed to watch two full seasons of the original Star Trek since October. Imagine how healthy I would be if I had spent those 50 or so hours running, lifting weights and eating kale – I’d look like 80s Cindy Crawford!

All of this to say I’ve become the dreaded Flabby Lefaive. And after my usual mulled-wine-and-sugar-induced January hangover, I’m going to do something about it. For real. Starting with a cleanse.

I would, after all, like to live long and prosper.

Shovelling, shovelling

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When you take what my colleague Doug calls the terminal moraine (the cement-like, billion pound, dirty brown mound left daily by the snow plough) out of the equation, there are some great things about shovelling the driveway:

1)     I get to hang out with JF. Because there is no way I’m dealing with that shit alone.

2)     It’s exercise. Mostly for my back, which hurts for many hours afterward.

3)     I get my vitamin D. If it isn’t after 4:30 p.m., which so far is never.

JF, hard at work this evening

JF, hard at work this evening

4)     It reminds me that I chose to leave my maintenance-free apartment in Toronto in favour of “less stressful” country living.

5)     My car doesn’t get stuck when I leave. Most of the time.

6)     I’m finally using the sorels and down coat I spent so much money on when I didn’t need them living in Toronto.

7)     It improves our relationship with our neighbours. If only they would start returning the favour and shovel our side once in awhile.

8)     To most of Elmvale, it looks like we have our shit together.

9)     It’s helped us figure out which house improvements to invest in this coming spring: paving our driveway (shoveling gravel sucks), installing a new automatic garage door, flattening out our paving stones, and more!

10)   When it’s over, we get to throw all our wet clothes in the dryer and put our pyjamas on. That part is truly lovely.

The Paint Fairy

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Anyone who has ever read A Little Princess remembers the happy moment when the kind neighbour starts turning Sara Crewe’s cold attic into a cozy haven. She gets back after a day’s hard labour to find warm slippers, a comfy chair, and a hot dinner.

Well, JF and I have our own special benefactor: my amazing (generous, funny, smart) aunt JoAnne, a.k.a. the Paint Fairy.

The Paint Fairy comes into our house while we’re at work and makes magical things happen. First, she made our ugly purple stairs a more dignified black.

Left: purple city. Right: dignified black

Left: purple city. Right: dignified black

Then, she swapped our grimy yellow doors for neutral white ones.

Left: Yellow doors, white walls. Right: white doors, white walls.

Left: Yellow doors, white walls. Right: white doors, white walls.

She never drips, does as many coats as it takes, cleans everything up, and leaves nice notes on the kitchen table.

She also (I suspect) does far more than she lets on. Something tells me all the trim in the hallway is looking fresher than before, and I’m pretty sure those exposed pipes were a dirty brown.

The Paint Fairy’s gifts – time and energy – are infinitely better than money under my pillow or presents under my tree, because they make my too looooong to do list that much shorter. And they instantly put me in a good mood when I get home.

Because she won’t let me thank her with money or presents (she’s granted me dinner at our place… pretty sure she’s never sampled my cooking) I want to thank her here.

Merci, ma tante, pour ton merveilleux cadeau. Je t’aime.

If there were more paint fairies out there, the world would be a happier place.