Community

I wore a dress this weekend. I rarely wear dresses. Dresses, in my world, are reserved for funerals and the odd wedding. Of course, there are the muumuus I often wear in the summer while my husband mutters about how he never thought he'd be married to Mrs. Roper, but I digress.

I do love a good muumuu though. The great thing about a muumuu is you never need to shave your legs. 

Basically, I just wrote 71 words to tell y'all I shaved my legs this weekend, voluntarily. 

Blogging done right.

I shaved my legs and wore a dress and I even applied some eye shadow because I was nominated for an award at The Edmonton New Media awards. Otherwise known as The Yeggies.

My eye shadow with the inimitable Kikki Planet.

I didn't really know what to expect, as I've never actually attended an award ceremony for anyone over the age of 17, but I figured a good place to start would be to pretend I don't weave my online words while sitting in alone in my kitchen, with my hair uncombed while wearing a ripped and stained tank top, no bra and my husband's boxer shorts. Which I do. Often. Like perhaps RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT.

It turns out shaving my legs was the right call to make. 

The show was lovely, the host funny, the organizer rock stars. The award nominees and winners were all truly talented people who each showcased the spirit and passion which makes Edmonton and area so very special. Cliched or not, it really was an honor just to be nominated.

I sat in that audience, surrounded by friends I'd made over the years, through my blog and twitter and Facebook and I smiled at people I'd just been introduced to and I marveled at how very far I've come in the seven years since I went online for the very first time.

How I stumbled into a community that I never knew existed when all I was really looking for was a way to find myself and survive the death of my son. Every online interaction I've made over the years has been like finding one piece of a new puzzle I've needed to put together to make myself whole, and for a brief shining moment on a Saturday night, my online community walked out of the mists of the Ethernet and surrounded me in the flesh.

I felt grateful and amazed to be part of such a vibrant community. 

Thank you Natasha, for making me cry in public, once more.

Winning an award and being recognized by your peers is always a lovely feeling. Absolutely. But that night, it wasn't about the award for me. It was about how I was a broken woman on the edge of a precipice, lost and alone, and found myself in front of a crowd of people who, through clicks, comments and virtual hugs, propped me up when I was at my weakest and held my hand until I could breathe on my own. 

It was about being part of a community that inspires me to try harder and be better and constantly reminds me what is important in life and what is not. 

It's about being something other than the reflection of the broken woman I see when I look in the mirror. 

I didn't know what to say at that moment, so I just said thanks.  

They like me! They really like me!

But I meant it. Thank you for this honor and thank you for all the support over the years, both those in the Edmonton community, my hometown, and those around the world. It means a lot.

I'm really happy to be part of this community, both offline and in person.

I'm really glad I shaved my legs for you.

A special thanks to the Yeggies organizing committee, the sponsors and most especially, Jen Banks for being my date on top of all your other duties. 

Blogging Bravely

I've written a blog post every day this week and deleted all but one of them.

I've written about the public breakdown I had after Knox's wheelchair collapsed in the middle of the street and no one offered to help me fix it. I've written about how some arsehole didn't hold the door open as he walked through it and it almost broke Knox's feet when the door slammed on him.

I wrote about blogging conferences and professional jealousies.

I wrote about tax season.

I just wrote a post about how the school phoned wanting my email so the principal could email me. How I have sat here for hours now, refreshing my email all the while imagining horrible scenarios involving my children and how I'm going to be forced to homeschool them like it or not. And still, NO EMAIL. The curiosity, it's killing me.

Everything I write, I delete.

I don't know how to press publish anymore.

It feels like everything worthy of being said is being said by others and being said better than I ever could. 

I'm blog-blocking myself. 

It's like I've forgotten how to blog honestly, the way I used to, because I'm paralysed by who will read it.

Years of being judged by my inlaws, my community, even some of my family, it's all scarred me to the point I don't know how to say what I want to say anymore. 

Blogging comes with a price. You may not have to pay it immediately, but it's there. I've paid my price, had my pound of flesh cut from my body. I've forgotten how to blog bravely.

But I still want to.

I'm still here. 

Blogging and deleting. Struggling to find the right way to write the words that I need to say. Bravely sharing big important truthes we will all be better for having read.

That's the problem. 

I have no big important truth to share. 

Not today anyways.

Oh wait. I have one truth to share:

Big dogs take big poops and I hate picking up poop.

Wait. That's not it.

My toe hair is so long it catches on my sheets and pulls a bit and it hurts. I don't want to be the woman who has to shave her toe hair. How feminine is that?

Sorry. That's not it either.

There is a dead skunk just on the other side of the road from my driveway and I really kind of want to poke at it with a stick.

That's just gross. I think there must be something wrong with me.

Oh, I know! 

I LOVE going to the local car wash. It's one of those wand wash places where you blast the dirt off your car manually. I feel like a GOD when I am blasting my car clean. I feel productive. Strong. And slightly gritty because I haven't quite figured out the right ratio from car to wand distance. Blow back is a bitch. BUT SO FUN.

I should delete this post. It's random and uninteresting.

Wait. It's kind of like life. Nonsensical but with a lot of blow back.

Starts blog post about the therapeutic brilliance of personal blogging.

Deletes said post.

Meh. You can't hit a home run every time you swing at a ball. At least now you know why I don't publish more often. You're welcome.

Art is Pain

I spent the day in a high school auditorium yesterday watching one act plays while wishing for a merciful death.

It wasn't exactly how I thought I'd be spending my time.

When I agreed to attend the festival I told myself this was a chance to relive my glory days as a theatre geek while celebrating my daughter's triumphs in her drama program.  

I was wrong.

I should have realized some memories are shinier when they are coated in dust and haven't seen the glare of daylight in years.

As I took a seat at the end of a row, I ignored the kids around me who all looked vaguely horrified to have their space intruded on by an 'old' person. 

I'm young. I'm hip. I am not the oldest person in this room, I told myself as I nervously twirled my chin whisker. 

I was the oldest person in my row but whatever. My brother-in-law sat right behind me and he's like a decade older. 

Then the house lights dimmed and the adjudicator took the stage, welcomed the audience and introduced the first play.

It was the play my daughter and niece were in! 

I was so excited.

There's my niece! She looks great! 

Ha ha! This play is so funny!

A kid in a wheelchair playing a zany grandmother!

Oh! There's Ken! Holy cow. Her cheek bones are so sharp she could cut glass with them.

She's a twin! Um she's a little creepy.

Holy cow, I may have nightmares over my creepy kid. Thanks Ken.

HAHA. FUNNY NIECE.

Wait, what? Oh! I GET IT.

HAHAHAH.

Oh, that's a little dark. 

Suicide jokes. Bomb shelters. Starvation. Woah.

Oh! But there's a game of charades and someone is eating kleenex! I'll laugh!

Wow my kid does creepy evil twin really well. Weird.

It's over? That's how it ended? Really? Who cares! Well done kids! Applause! That's right. Take your bow! It was a dark subject with a tough theme and you made it awesome. Suck on that one act festival! My kids rock! 

The house lights came on and the adjudicator walked out and introduced the next one act. 

The lights dimmed.

Please don't be more awesome than my kid's play.

A smaller cast. My girls were way cuter. 

Oh, they're singing.

What? This makes no sense.

Oh no.

Oh crap. 

Seriously? A one act play about the guilt a mother feels when her kid suddenly dies? Are you freaking kidding me?

Wow. They're good. 

I mean, I think they're good. I'm all conflicted and reliving the guilt and horror of when my kid died. THIS IS NOT FUN.

First a play about being locked in a bomb shelter and starving to death and now this?

What the hell is wrong with kids these days?

I want to look away but dang, those kids are really good.

I hate this play but wow.

Could this get any bleaker?

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Oh thank God. It's over.

I will conceed they were really good. But my daughter and niece were way cuter. Who would have thought bomb shelter insanity was funnier than a child's sudden death.

HAHAH. Twitch.

Oh, here we go. There's the adjudicator. Last play of the afternoon. This is it. 

Clever set. I like it. 

Whoever that kid is playing the soldier, he totally reminds me of my brother.

No.

NOOO.

What is wrong with kids these days? Another play about death?

THEY ARE CANNIBALS?

OHMYGODHEISEATINGPEOPLEMEAT.

Is that? Are you kidding me? A BABY? In a BOX? 

I can't take much more of this dystopian post apocalyptic themed play.

DONT EAT THE MEAT.

I have to pee. 

SHE IS STABBING HIM TO DEATH WITH A RUBBER KNIFE.

Crap. I can't leave. My kid's teacher will see me walk out if I do.

This couldn't get any bleaker if they tried.

ANOTHER BABY IN A BOX?

WHY ARE TEENAGERS THESE DAYS SO DARK AND ANGSTY?

This is all Justin Bieber's fault.

I think it's ending. 

Please be ending.

Oh thank the baby jeebus, it's over.

WHAT? FAKE ENDING? IT ISN'T OVER?

NOOOOOO.

I don't know if I can hold my old lady bladder for much longer.

I will clap the hardest and cheer the loudest if this will just end.

My brother-in-law just finger shot himself in the head. Good to know it's not just me. THIS PLAY IS UNENDING.

It's done! It's done!

I can totally clap and cheer as I waddle to the bathroom. It's not rude.

Oh no. The adjudicator. I forgot about him. I can hold it a few minutes more. I want to hear what he has to say about my kid.

No! Don't do reverse order! GAH.

Yes yes. They were all dark themed and dramatic.

Yes they were exceptional actors, blah blah blah.

WHO CARES ABOUT THE TECHIES! Sorry techies, I don't mean that. I just really have to pee.

Pay attention Tanis, he's talking about your kid's play now.

Oh! He liked the twins! He liked her! He really liked her.

That's it? He prattles on and on about the other plays and that's all he says about my kid's play?

Lame. Merciful gods, he's done.

Yes, yes, cheers and applause. Move kid! OLD LADY BLADDER EMERGENCY!

THERE IS NO TOILET PAPER IN THIS STALL.

I am stuck in high school hell.

I am too old for this. 

I hate one act play festivals. How did I ever think this was fun?

What? That's it? No more plays for the afternoon? I can leave?

FREEDOM.

Some high school experiences are best left trapped in the boxes of your memory. Much like those poor soon-to-be cannibalized babies on stage.