con·stant

adj.

1. Continually occurring; persistent.

2. Regularly recurring: plagued by constant interruptions.

3. Unchanging in nature, value, or extent; invariable.

4. Steadfast in purpose, loyalty, or affection; faithful.

Family. Dave and the kids. Being with them, living with them, having and holding and loving them; living out this life with them.

Friends. My extended family; the people I can be completely, utterly, unabashedly me around. The ones I love to fucking pieces.

Coffee. Love it to fucking pieces, too.

Books, blogs, magazines, newspapers, web sites. Consuming the written word; it’s a want, need, love.

Writing. (Like, duh.)

My animals: my sleek black cat Mary Jane, and my brown and white spotted dog Foxy Brown. I do love them dearly, although they both have their own special ways of annoying the shit out of me on a somewhat regular basis.

Music. Every day, in any way.

My memories of my grandmother. I carry them with me, always.

The sun and the moon and the wind and the stars. The great outdoors. Trees, flowers, earth; dirt ‘neath my feet and in the air. Breezes and rainbows and wild, unhinged storms; mother nature.

The Internet. The Internet, for fuckin’ sure.

Love. Laughter. Loyalty.

Watching Wheel of Fortune with Julia.

Slipping in beside my kids at night to watch them sleep and drink in the sweet smell of their hair, the sound of their soft, even breath.

Missing my mother; grieving for her, for our relationship, what it was and what it could have been. For the part of my soul that I lost when she died, and the young, scared girl I was then. Wanting my mother and not being able to have her; it’s constant.

My husband: endearing, yet awfully annoying at times, what with the burping and the farting, the dirty socks that never seem to make it past the floor beside the hamper. And the romance, oh, the romance: “Hey babe, it looks like you could use a swift dick in the ass”; "I fart because I love you." Loving him, being loved by him. The two of us, doing this life thing together.

These are some of my constants…what are some of yours?

11 Comments | In: life, in general | | #

When I was in grade three, my teacher told me that I had a crooked smile.

In front of the entire class.

She was going through our school year portraits one by one, holding them up and panning them slowly for us to see. When she picked up my picture, put my wispy blonde hair and wide, gap-toothed grin on display for the class, she laughed first,

and then pointed out my crooked smile.

I will never forget it, for as long as I live. I was completely and utterly mortified.

I hate looking at pictures of myself. I hate having my picture taken even more, something I think has a lot to do with that moment back in the third grade. It was the first time I can remember being distinctly singled out in front of my peers by an adult, a figure of authority; someone I was supposed to respect. Since then I’ve always worried about my smile, what it will look like in a picture; what I will look like. When there’s a camera on me I don't know what do with myself, how to smile so I don’t wind up looking like a spaz, or a drunk, or a combination of the two. Most of the time I do this closed-mouthed, half-smile thing that, in my mind, looks cute – maybe a little pixie-ish, even – but in print is nothing more than a straight-up smirk.

A lot of the time I cover my mouth when I know a picture of me is being taken. It’s a knee jerk reaction; a reflex perfected by years of deep-rooted insecurity. Dave likes to take pictures with his iPhone – random, in-the-moment shots – and when I catch him out of the corner of my eye, holding his phone up, framing my face, more often than not, I cover my mouth. I don’t think about it, I just do it – it's like I'm back in grade three and my teacher is laughing at my picture in front of everyone and I feel very small and insignificant, and my instinct is to react:

hide your crooked smile.

34 Comments | In: back in tha day, life, in general | | #

Scene: The kids and I are driving somewhere in my car when a text message comes in on my phone, which is in my purse, in backseat with the kids.

“Julia, can you reach my purse?” I ask. She says yes, so I ask her to get my cell phone and tell me who the message is from.

I hear her fumbling around in my purse. “I’ve got it,” she announces triumphantly.

“Can you read who the message is from?”

“Sure,” she says. “St…st-uh…stud…stud-lee? Studly?”

From front seat, I roll my eyes and shift in to third.

“Studly, Mummy,” she shouts. “It’s from Studly. Studly!”

I nod. “Yup, okay. Thanks.”

There is a pause. Then, “Do you know who that is?”

I nod again. “I do, indeed.”

“Who is it?”

“That’s Daddy, honey,” I say with a sigh.

There is another pause, and I brace myself for the question that I know my daughter will ask next:

“Mum? What’s studly mean?”

End scene.

19 Comments | In: life with dave, life with julia, odds n' ends, sound bytes | | #