Carole-Ann Vance

There was a day recently in which I wandered rather scattered through the hours of my morning …more so than normal.

My writing lay a scribbled mess in the back room where I’d left the television on hoping Dr. Phil would quietly instill wisdom to my words. In the dining room, my clay sculptures remained in frozen limbo, in the ‘work in progress’ limbo that is.  And me, well, I was convinced the search for my Muse lay within the dish soap bubbles tucked down within the kitchen sink.  It seems, when all else fails with creativity, one is driven to housework, go figure.

My mind was bouncing betwixt and between my writing, and my sculptures, doing very little with either I might add, but was also weakly grabbing at some music and chatter from the radio.  I heard the radio announcer proclaim how ‘dangerous Spanx were’.  Spanx, for the uninformed, being the marvelous women’s undergarment designed by, Sara Blakely, that magically eliminates, for awhile, the unsightly bulges that arrive uninvited upon women’s belly and butt.

“Spanx—it’s all hidden and squashed!”—Sienna Miller

I nodded in complete agreement to the news, for although Spanx did indeed work for those important nights out, they were in fact dangerous. Just thinking about the struggle women go through pulling on the constricting material, the wrestling that takes place in the attempt to push all jiggly bits into the Spanx package, not to mention the muscles required and the determination necessary to overcome the natural fall of the body, it’s not for the weak I tell you.

I blew at the soap bubbles searching for any hidden Muse while pops of past memories reminded me of the anguish of bathroom trips while wearing Spanx.  I shuddered.

The radio picked that moment to inform me that Spanx were, in fact, poisonous.

Poisonous? Say what?  I released the drain on the sink wickedly saying goodbye to any Muse that preferred a watery exit as opposed to any partnership with me. Hey, I knew Spanx were vicious, but poisonous, that seemed rather far fetched.  Even if my imagination was on point, which it wasn’t, there was no way I could twist and turn the Spanx towards poison.

I straightened, shaking off any thoughts of my Muse hiding in the bubbles at the bottom of the sink and targeted my full attention to the radio.

The clouds lifted finally from my mind and I realized they were talking about snakes!  Snakes!

Hahahahahahaha

This foggy error on my part kept me laughing so hard, I just had to leave the house and head immediately for a latte at Chapters.  Inspiration could be found there, I was sure of it!

So, what did I learn from this event:

1/. Sometimes I do indeed daydream far too much, which can be dangerous, as it causes the intake of scrambled information.

2/. I seem to have a buried fear of Spanx.

3/. I spend an awful lot of time in search of inspiration (aka searching for my Muse) instead of actually doing work.

4/. I have issues, a lot of issues (but I think I will learn to embrace them!)

Happy New Years to all!  May 2019 be a peaceful, inspirational year!

I decided recently that the worry that woke me in the morning, that tagged along with me on my travels to work, and the worry that sat with me as I readied myself for bed at days end, was part and parcel of an elite initiation into my senior years.

That’s what I thought, for quite awhile actually.  But not too long ago, I was going through my old jewelry box and dug out my charm bracelet from the vintage ’70’s.  Tucked amongst some travel charms, near some love charms was a tiny little worry bird.  What? I thought.  I was 17/18 years old when I wore this bracelet.  I know quite well that worry was part of my make -up, my father seemed to me the close second cousin to Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, but I didn’t think worry was a close friend of mine.  The worry bird stated otherwise.

Be safe!  Enjoy!  Eat lots of chocolates, please!

The other day I was doing my usual, sitting in my car wasting precious time stuck in the never-ending daily commute from work, struggling like everybody else to make it to the finish line, that being the lovely home front.

As with most days, it was a steady stream of cars stretching far behind and before me, all of us headed in the same direction, all inching slowly towards the exit to the highway that seemed seriously eons away.

Stop and start, stop and start.  It’s a game that I do not enjoy playing.

“I can’t do this, I can’t do this”, I muttered again and again.  I could feel the tension as it tightened my back.

As we inched along, I tried to stop my restlessness, tried not to think about the minutes I wasted everyday stuck in traffic to and from work.  I turned up the radio, sang along with a couple of songs, and forced my fingers to stop drumming impatiently on the top of the steering wheel.   Just ahead, to the right of my car, on the very edge of the sidewalk,  I spotted an older gentleman standing with a young child in a stroller beside him.  They were separated from the traffic by a safety barricade similar to the construction on a small bridge.  The child, a little girl, sat busily working away on a red soother in her mouth as she watched the slow-moving traffic with fascination.  The gentleman, obviously her grandfather, pointed first one way then the other, and she turned to obediently to follow his gaze, the soother giving her an open mouthed ‘Oh’ expression on her little face.  You could tell without a doubt that she thought she was at the most exciting event of her day!

Every few minutes they waved at each car that passed them by.  Some in the car waved, some did not.  I leaned forward, eager now not for speed to reach the highway, but for the chance to draw closer to this little audience of two.  For a moment, I felt part of not the dirty grind of commuting, but of the flash and fun of an impromptu parade.

I was in a parade!  I sat taller, I relaxed and smiled, and I waved like a mad woman at the crowd of two waving enthusiastically from the sidewalk.

And there it was, I’d viewed the line of traffic as the necessary evil of my work day, while another saw only a parade of lights and colours.  It’s all in how you look at life, isn’t it?

…more to follow, isn’t that what aging is, simply more and more changes to follow?

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?

—Pablo Picasso

Mirror, mirror on the wall, in my purse, in the car, who is the truest of them all?

We like to look our best, fact is our appearance is the first impression we present to others.  But do we see ourselves, visually, as others do?  Or is it similar to when we listen to our voice on a recording, or on cell phone videos, where when introduced to our voice we screech out in alarm: “I do NOT sound like that!”

On a fairly regular day, I can take a peek into my ensuite bathroom mirror and proclaim ‘okay, not bad, you’re ready to go’, then I can take another boo at self in the main level bathroom mirror and recant with ‘hmmm, maybe early to bed is indeed the rule to follow’.  Understandably, lighting does play a big part in the whole picture, but in desperation I will go for a third opinion and will try the hall mirror where I find myself quickly back with, ‘you’re good to go.’

So, it makes me wonder, how do I appear to others?  And do I really want to know?

There are times when I need a lot of opinions, and on those days, I realize exactly how many mirrors I have scattered through out the house.  Let’s face it, I’m looking for only the best opinion, so I may need them all!

Oh, and then there’s the rear-view mirror check in the car…before leaving for work, and before entering the work place…have to admit, I believe this mirror is the one that speaks only the truth!  Maybe I should get rid of all the other mirrors?

Can you guess?  Give up?  Frustration, that’s what they have in common, frustration!  At least for me!

No matter how carefully I pull the saran wrap from the box, no matter how gently I place it snug against the sharp edge of the box, it still comes off ripped, and ragged, with pieces suddenly deformed and useless, nothing but an embarrassing mess clinging together!  I seriously don’t get it.  It’s not like it’s a puzzle, cuz honestly, I can last maybe, if I’m lucky, two seconds on that endeavor.  That particular hobby is a close runner to its cousin, cross word puzzles…that one I might last longer, but only if participating in a group.  Maybe.

But, the saran wrap, seriously?  How hard can it be?  Sadly, there is a possibility this is a genetic fault…sorry my sons, here’s another wave in the genetic pool for you!

Now, Tupperware, there’s an interesting one.  So useful, it is true, but try catching them in storage.  No matter how neatly you may stack them, pile them, even harness them, as soon as that cupboard door opens, they become the tumbling panda bears of the kitchen!  One piece knocks into another, and another, and, yes, another, and before you know it, you have an avalanche of tumbling, burping plastic.   There is naught for you to do but slam that cupboard door closed and reach for the easy and friendly sandwich bag.

Maybe that is why the saran wrap and the Tupperware-ish containers are always assigned space in the kitchen close together…ya think?