Did you kiss my door...

...and if you did, were you saying goodbye or hello?

We have had various people come to visit over the past few weeks and only yesterday discovered that somebody (with a very nice shade of lipstick) has kissed our door. I know that I really should wash it off but I think it's kind of cute.

It reminds me of the notes we would pass around in highschool (when we were supposed to be listening to mr. so-and-so's lecture on Roman Civilizations) signed with a kiss and an xoxo.

I wonder if people will arrive at our front door, see the lipstick mark, smile, and know that we are loved?

(Or will they just think that we have run out of windex?)

Let's do the Log Driver's Waltz Baby...

When I was younger I watched a lot of TV. In fact for a little while I even had a TV in my room (until my first grade teacher told my mom that I was watching The Barney Miller Show. and staying up past 11 on school nights)
The funny thing is that even though I cancelled my cable subscription years ago I get all sentimental when I remember some of the old shows I used to watch...
In between shows the CBC would sometimes slip in humorous cartoons by various Canadian animators. Recently, in a fit of nostalgia, I ordered one of those animations; The Log Driver's Waltz from the National Film Board of Canada. It is part of an anthology of short animations that includes The Cat Came Back and The Sweater. It is so neat to own this video. I have watched it with my husband, my kids, my mother, my stepfather... I have even printed sheet music off the internet because (even though I am tone deaf and can't play an instrument) I am going to learn it so that I can play the song around the campfire this summer.

I am a Potted-Plant-Girl!

There are people who are rooted into the soil they stand on. Commitments to work, school, friends and family hold them to the ground. Like a tree that will not be uprooted in fierce winds these people hold fast to their homes. Their needles fall, turn to seed. New trees are born from the same soil. The land is fertile and a forest springs forth from the ground; a forest of familiar faces and familiar commitments. We have lived in this forest for a long time, but have not planted ourselves in it.

I am potted plant girl but I am ready to be a tree.

Is this ironic considering the changes that are taking place in our lives, or is it natural for a potted plant girl to find that somehow there are roots that have inadvertantly escaped from the pot and embedded themselves in the soil? To find out that she is not a potted plant girl after all?

My mom's cheesecake always turns out... and there's a reason for that!

Sunday. 6pm.
I am in the kitchen with the makings of a cheesecake spread across the counter, but need some advice from an expert.

"bring-a-ling-a-ling... bring-a-ling-a-ling"
"Hi Mom... I need some help with this cheesecake I'm making"
"OK Sure." she says, and knowing how my mother likes to have everything in place before she starts a new week I imagine that she is just settling down from a busy Sunday afternoon of cooking and cleaning. "What are you making cheesecake for?"
"We're getting together with our household group from church tonight"
I hear an abrupt intake of breath "You're making it for tonight and you're calling me now!" I can hear the frustration in her voice. "What time do you have to be there?"
"7:30" I say with confidence, "but Mom there's lots of time! It only takes an hour to bake." I am familiar with her exasperation but feel quite sure that my cheesecake will turn out wonderfully.
"Oh, Jennifer" she sighs, "you do things so different from me. I would have made it first thing this morning. Now it will never be done on time!"
"Mom, it sounds like you're getting mad!"
"No" she says, "but yes... it drives me crazy how you are always late. I'm not even going to be eating it and it frustrates me. I want you to bring a nice cheesecake when you go out. I want you to be on time!"
"I am not always late" I say, defensive.

7:30 pm. I arrive at my friends house. So far the cheesecake looks pretty good. I feel smug. Wait til I tell my mom how wrong she was!
8pm. I cut the cheesecake. It falls apart in the spatula. My friends are gracious. We call it cheesecake custard. We laugh and feel grateful that it tastes so much better than it looks.

The next day. Early Evening. My mom phones. She phones for the sole purpose of finding out how my cheesecake turned out. I consider lying. I can't lie. I admit sheepishly...
"Yes mom, once again... you were right."