[rIAm looks under some papers next to her]

rIAm: here it is! it was hiding underneath the fat overhanging from my thigh.

jft: looks like it’s still in one piece!

rIAm: why do you reinforce my fat?

jft: because it needs scaffolding to support it… and if I didn’t use scaffolding then I would need something like rebar to support it…

rIAm: [...]

To this day, my grandparents produce the least amount of garbage of anyone I know. They compost everything organic, which makes for wonderful soil for their amazing vegetable garden in the summer. They keep and re-use every piece of string, ribbon and piece of wrapping paper. They wash and re-use every can, glass jar and plastic container and bag. They do actually own things like plastic wrap and foil, but I am quite certain sheets of those items are washed and re-used as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if the boxes of food wrap they do own have lasted them several years.

This re-using habit has to some degree been passed along to my parents and now me, living in sin in Chicago. Like my parents, I re-use large yogurt containers and pickle jars to store my used frying oil. On both sides of the border, we keep takeout containers because they make great vessels to give away extra soup and other leftovers to friends, and then I don’t have to worry about asking for my container back. And like my mom, I also wash and re-use re-sealable storage bags, what I more commonly call Ziploc ™ bags even though it may not always be a Ziploc ™ brand bag. This is much like people say Kleenex™ for facial tissue, Post-it® for sticky notes and Velcro™ for, uh, hook and loop fasteners. Because that’s what I call Velcro when I want to avoid using the trademarked name.

It has occurred to me on occasion that if my family and me were to suddenly stop the practice of saving plastic yogurt and take-out food containers, plastic storage bags and all sorts of other items one would never find naturally occurring in nature, our respective landfills would probably have to close after the garbage delivery from our homes. Or maybe, we could start our own aluminum factory. We keep and re-use that much plastic, aluminum and stuff that other people fill their landfills, or blue boxes that get diverted to landfills, with.

Although I’ve carried on the practice of washing Ziploc™ bags here in Chicago, I have to confess I am not as diligent as my mother and grandmothers about drying the bags as soon as I am done washing them. I have an aversion to drying things in the drain board (we’ll save the reasons why for another post or therapy session), unless I am trying to be a proper dinner guest who pitches in to clean up after a meal. In my home, I put the washed but wet bags over items, such as bottles, on which the bags can hang open from and dry over a period of a couple days BECAUSE I CAN. Once the bags are dry, I am happy to squish them into the second drawer of our kitchen cart where we store them.

It’s important for me to digress here and tell you about this kitchen cart because it is the mother of all kitchen carts. It was purchased from JC Penney when we figured out we’d be moving into the apartment we are currently renting. The lack of kitchen counter and cupboard space compelled us to get something so we can indulge in our love of chopping, prepping and mixing things. It’s been, by far, our favourite large size and higher-priced investment. I am sure it is something we’ll keep even after we move out and move on. I probably don’t wipe down the stainless steel top as lovingly as I should but I do very much enjoy having and using the mother of all kitchen carts.

Last night I was putting some dishes in the dishwasher and tidying up in the kitchen, when I noticed the bottom (fourth) drawer of our lovely kitchen cart was slightly open.

I’m a little freaked out by drawers or cupboards left open. This is not because I have an obsessive compulsive disorder but because open drawers and cupboard doors mean either
a) I might bang my shin or head on the cupboard or drawer because I don’t expect it to be sticking out or open, OR
b) The monsters and creepy things that hide in there might get out at night and come get me. Seriously. This fear is a carry over from my childhood that I just can’t seem to shake. We all got our things that freak us out, OK? So don’t judge my thing and I won’t judge yours.

So to prevent any bruised shins or monsters from climbing out while I was sleeping, I leaned down to close the deeper and larger bottom drawer of our kitchen cart only to discover it wouldn’t close all the way. We keep an assortment of baking tools and cooking utensils in that drawer so I figured one of those must not be all the way in the drawer. I moved things around and tried closing the drawer again. It still popped out about two centimetres from where it should be.

At this point I realized the drawer was bouncing out whenever I tried to close it all the way. This “soft” resistance made me realize something, well, soft must be preventing the drawer from closing. I noticed the Ziploc™ bag we keep our sifter in (re-sealable bags are good for more than just food!) was poking out so I folded the bag more tightly around the sifter and pressed it down well below the top of the drawer thinking this would resolve the problem. But still no luck on the drawer staying closed.

Then it occurred to me: perhaps something had slipped out and was behind or underneath the drawer tracks. I couldn’t imagine what it might be but it wasn’t unfeasible since I had had this happen to me before with the chest of drawers I keep clothing in. I am sure you’ve experienced this. Usually the culprit is a piece of clothing that has been skimmed off the top of an overstuffed drawer. It lodges itself in the back of your drawers preventing them from closing all the way. The exercise of pulling out clothing drawers to retrieve jammed items often leads me to find clothes or underwear or socks I thought I had lost or given away. That’s always a nice treat.

So I pulled out the bottom drawer of our kitchen cart and there to my great and wonderful surprise was a plethora of re-sealable storage bags, some of which you will be happy to know were Ziploc™ brand. I started pulling them out, delighted with how many kept coming. I noted most were the large size bags we put, well, large items or quantities in, and some were the smaller size, the ones you can fit a big block cheese or sandwich in.

As you might recall, I mentioned that we store the washed Ziploc™ bags in the second of four drawers in our kitchen cart, this second drawer being a much shallower drawer, compared to the deep one I had been fighting to close (you can see the size difference here). It had occurred to me in the past that it seemed like the many bags I had stuffed in that second drawer always seemed to be used up whenever I went to retrieve one. I always attributed it to j. using the bags or me not realizing how many I had already used.

No, instead our washed re-sealable storage bags have been collecting below the bottom drawer of our kitchen to a point where we had amassed 21 of them.

j. was asleep on the sofa when I bounded in to tell him of my discovery. I, of course, woke him up to tell him the story of our fascinating hidden re-sealable storage bag collection. Ironically, it turned out he had been thinking all this time that I had been using the bags that seemed to so quickly disappear from the second drawer.

This morning I thumbed through the pile of bags I’d left for myself on the counter to admire. I like my quirky habit of washing bags that I learned from two generations of my family. j. has now started washing bags and proudly announces to me when he has washed bags that are in the sink. I think he does it because when he’s washing other things the bags usually get sucked into but not through the drain, causing the sink to fill up with dirty dish water. But at least he’s proud to be doing it! I’ll take all the small domestic victories I can get.

I looked at the space in our second drawer where we usually stuff our washed bags. How could I have thought that space was big enough to store all these slippy and slide-y bags? We certainly won’t need to buy any new re-sealble storage bags for a while, but I will definitely have to get creative with where I store them so I don’t lose track of so many again. Better creatively stored than in the landfill, I say.

Something about being in Wisconsin in general, in Superior and by Lake Superior specifically, moves me, but I can’t quite yet put my finger on why I like it so much. I am hopeful grandma I. will be recounting more stories about family members and family history about j.’s dad side of the family. She gave us quite vivid accounts on our last visit over the July 4th weekend. I think no matter who it is, I love to hear people’s reminesces about family history, but perhaps it is more poignant and captivating when it’s the family history of your future husband.

We’ll be in Superior until Saturday, when we head back, I hope, with a detour to The Farm, Uncle B. and D.’s place on County Road J, close to Spooner, Wisconsin. I’m not sure why but everytime I hear or read “Spooner” it makes me chuckle. And chatting it up with Uncle B. and D. is always good for a few extra chuckles when they talk about “fishin’ in the crick” or a lumbering bear sighting. Being with them is also always good for a dose of family history about j.’s mom’s side of the family.

Although heading to Superior for Thanksgiving is not what j.’s family usually does for Thanksgiving — usually they are eating a homemade feast with j.’s dad’s extended family here in Chicagoland — I must admit this holiday is by far my favourite American tradition, both for the food and for being with family. Someone pointed out to me at a previous American Thanksgiving dinner gathering that it’s the only time of year where pretty much every American family is sitting down to about the same meal on the same day. And I add to that, there are no religious underpinnings that drive people to do this, just a desire to gather with loved ones and to be thankful for all we have.

* I still can’t help refering to it as American Thanksgiving, probably because it’s how I distinguish it from the version of Thanksgiving which we celebrate in Canada in October. I certainly will have to continue refering to it as such to avoid confusion when speaking with Canadian relatives and friends, and perhaps one day, my children.

But the nausea has become unbearable and now the spinning sensation when I try to read my screen is just adding to the fun.

No, I am not pregnant. I am taking antibiotics whose side effects include headache and nausea.

You see, I went to the doctor seeking relief from the continual pounding headaches (which were in turn causing nausea) I had been experiencing for two weeks. Turns out I have sinusitis. So the headaches that felt like I was diving in 10 metres of water with a cold (trust me, i’ve done it, it’s not a pleasant feeling) were replaced by taking drugs that cause a sensation I can only liken to the worst seasickness I ever experienced (which was somewhere in the Red Sea). The only problem is there is nothing to throw up. It’s just constant nausea. Constant. Unrelenting. Nausea.

I won’t even get into how disappointed I am to be going through another round of antibiotics, the second in one year.

Yesterday, I was so fed up with the nausea and sitting at my desk willing myself to RISE ABOVE THE NAUSEA, I did a Google search for “nausea remedies.”

MotherNature.com told me what I had learned from my mother but had momentarily forgotten due to being in a nauseous haze: flat ginger ale.

The entry on nausea remedies says:

Make it flat. “My mom used to give me 7-Up,” Dr. Warren says. Other moms gave cola or ginger ale. Since our experts advise against cold beverages and carbonated ones, do as Stephen Bezruchka, M.D., an emergency physician at Providence Medical Center in Seattle, Washington, suggests. Let carbonated drinks stand until flat and lukewarm.

This is perfect. Ginger ale is my favourite kind of pop. And with any pop, I always prefer it flat. No really, I do. I’ve always insisted pop makers were missing a huge market of people who prefer their pop flat. In addition, I think if more people had the option of purchasing flat pop, they’d get into it. Think about it: Why do people like carbonation anyway? It tickles your throat, bloats your stomach and burps out your mouth and nose.

So…

There are currently two cans of Seagrams ginger ale open on my desk, and if I listen close I can hear the fizz bubbles popping. I know, I know, you are wondering why I don’t have Canada Dry. Sue me. I bought what was on sale. Just because it says “Canada” on it doesn’t mean I have to own it and put it on display.

I couldn’t wait all morning for the ginger ale to go flat so I already started sipping from one can. The bit of fizz still in there is making me burp, which actually feels good, like I am momentarily eliminating the feeling that I am going to hurl.

As for the effectiveness of the ginger ale itself, truth be told my nausea is only relieved during the few moments the ginger ale goes into my mouth, down my throat and reaches the acid pit that is my stomach. So I am taking a lot of sips. And soon, a pee break.

Three more days of antibiotics to go. I shall miss the excuse to drink so much of you, oh yummy- in-my-tummy ginger ale.

I have drafts of posts saved. I have ideas for posts come to me EVERY SINGLE DAY. I am inspired at least once a day to write a few words and send you to crazy places like this and this. But somehow I fail to get any of it posted.

It’s easy to point at my current life activities and say a large part of it is lack of time. Let us review. I am currently:

• working full-time (and the last month of work has been the busiest for me out of the whole year)
• taking classes for my master’s degree (and as it turns out this was as a full-time student, unbeknownst to me and j.)
• planning a wedding
• having a life here in Chicago*

(*Having a life does not include things like doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom, making dinner and all the rest of that fun domestic stuff you finally realize was so not part of the equation when you were living with your parents.)

Really, though this list of look-at-me-I’m-busy is just a cover. The reality is sometimes I get scared about putting my writing — my ideas, my feelings, even sharing a funny or remarkable link — out there. But it goes deeper than that.

The other reality is that what I call my “compulsion” to write just isn’t there. And as crazy as it sounds, that is even scarier to contend with than putting my writing out there. It’s scary because it’s something I have experienced so viscerally. To not feel it anymore I can only think to compare to losing a close companion or a limb. Yeah, it’s a little hard to put into words.

Between when I was about 12 to some point when I was in my early 20s the compulsion to write was a force like nothing I had ever experienced. I don’t know whether to call it an instinct, or a drive, or even a psychotic episode. All I know is, when the compulsion came over me, I HAD TO WRITE and everything else I was doing at the time the compulsion arose was set aside so I could answer the compulsion’s call. Sometimes that call felt like someone else was driving my pen across the page and sometimes I just had stuff on my mind, a moment I wanted to record or some ideas I thought interesting enough to get down on paper.

“My pen across the page…to get down on paper…” It seems that is the difference between then and what I am trying to do now on the Internet.

I am no longer holding a pen to write, something that I grasped but that also felt like a part of my hand, no matter what writing instrument I was using. If I think about it more carefully there is a lot more going on that affected my lack of compulsion: the depression I went through at various times in my early 20s, the shit relationship I went through and extricated myself from, how much more time I spent online after I returned from Egypt in 2001 and how as I spent more time online I found reasons to ignore the compulsion. The Internet was and still is for me epitome of the idea “You can’t imagine what you can imagine.” But somehow in revelling in all the Internet has to offer, I failed to notice what my compulsion had to offer.

I can’t also forget or deny that I figured out early on that writing was a way for me to deal with the depression, self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy I experienced so deeply in my teens and early 20s. I still have my doubting and down moments, but I can honestly say I am much happier in all aspects of my life. So maybe occuring in parallel with more time online, writing email and instant messaging, was less time being depressed and hence less of a need to make sense of things by writing.

But let’s not get pessimistic about my lack of compulsion or overanalyze things here (too late, I know). I haven’t lost the compulsion completely. It still makes its presence known, even if it seems with less frequency, or with less gripping strength as my pen-in-hand days in my teens and early 20s. The compulsion did arise on my early morning brown line L ride on Oct. 7 and helped me fill about four pages of the hard-back journal I started in Egypt. That would be book number seven of the journals I have been keeping count of since my early teens. I am still hoping for another round of compulsion to fill the final few pages of number seven and pick up the journal that is waiting to be number eight.

And there it is again. I am still stuck on paper and pen. It would seem after reviewing this entry that I have not yet figured out how to make the transition from pen-and-paper journal to web log of life by typing frantically.

The rules have changed but I’ve been left somewhere in between. Still yearning to write as a way to record, make peace and play with words but still unsure how to make it happen in a place where I can’t see the ink bleed, run my hand across the smooth paper, hear the binding crack and stretch as I open my current journal book and even taste the people, places and things I am writing about because they are right in front of me.

The screen is right here in front of me and I’ve corrected all the errors as they appear. My eyes are seeing spots and my wrist hurts. And the migraine that has been building has just exploded like a super nova.

I’ll keep you posted on where I go with this…

I’ve never imagined this reality because I’ve spent so much time on my perch in Canada watching events like the attacks of Sept.11, 2001 unfold from a distance, and then critizing this country when I didn’t agree with its politics on one hand and admiring it when I found personal heros amongst its citizens. And let’s not forget all the great deals I’ve unearthed on cross-border shopping trips and the memorable family vacations I’ve had here.

But now I live here. The taxes that come out of my paycheque go to the American government, the money I spend supports the economy of Chicago, Illinois, and the United States, first and foremost. So even though I watched Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath unfold while visiting Toronto last week, my perch has changed.

Now that I live here, I must admit, my love-hate relationship with America has only intensified. Hate, however, feels like the wrong word; it’s unfortunately the word that goes hand-in-hand with that expression. I may still rant about how things are in America, but because I have found so much love here — so much to love and so much that reflects that love right back at me — hate feels like a betrayal of that love. Maybe it’s more like disappoinment, confusion, doubt… All I know for certain is that it is much more intense than whatever I felt from that perch in Canada.

Right now, I don’t feel love or hate. I just feel grim since Hurricane Katrina hit the south. I feel uncertain about what will become of this country. And let’s face it, it is a great country, despite its faults and despite how sometimes it may make my blood boil. I won’t list all the things that I think make America great. That’s for each person to discover, if they care to, just as we spend time discovering what makes other nations and their citizens great people, worth our compassion, worth a helping hand, worth a friendly smile. Hating America, hating any country and its citizens, serves no purpose but to displace love from the hater.

I don’t deny I will be ranting soon enough about something W says or does in the remainder of his term. But instead of wasting my time hating him and the American government, I will spend time finding out more things that make America a great land. And I will do the same with Canada from my perch here in Chicago and then when I am living in Toronto again. I will do this so when my children question their Canadian mother and American father about America and Canada, we can share with them what we’ve witnessed and what we know, and they can then decide what is great and what needs their skills and contributions to make better and great again.