Guilt is a funny ol' thing.
It's supposed to be there to let us know when we've done something wrong, right? My friend asked me the other day if I thought guilt was from God. She'd heard a Christian speaker say that it is not. I think it's probably like everything else in this fallen world - created by God for a good purpose, and then messed up by the Enemy. And us.
My other friend and I were also discussing how we live in a perpetual state of guilt - a hamster wheel of guilt over things done or not done, guilt over inner attitudes, and then the guilt of just being ever so bad. And then guilt over feeling so guilty. I'm thinking we've both gotten our God-given Guilt Mechanisms a little tightly tuned. Here's a list of the top ten things I feel weekly, if not daily, guilt about, in no particular order:
1)not getting enough work done! Oh the slovenliness!
2)eating too much
3)not phoning family members often enough
4)not making my kids clean up their rooms (the slovenliness passes to the next generation!)
5)reading my book(s)
6)staying up too late watching a movie
7)procrastinating
8)thinking nasty things (usually vile swear words like "bloody" or "bugger", or rehearsals for imaginary arguments)
9)feeling unreasonable guilt
10)something to do with the kids' school work.
Now, I can almost hear certain peoples' opinions about my list - a)"I feel guilty about those things too!" b)"You should absolutely feel guilty for those things! Shame on you!" c)"Oh for crying out loud! There is nothing wrong with any of those things! Stop feeling guilty!"
There must be a balance in there somewhere. I mean, most of those things that I feel guilt for NOT having done, the reason I've not done them is because I hate doing them so much that it outweighs the discomfort of the guilt. Not all, but most. Like the housework. Man I hate housework. I wonder how I got myself into a life comprised of so much sweepingwashingdustingdryingwipingcleaningscrubbingpolishingfoldingtidyingmoppingvacuuming... Ah, the things they don't tell you in guidance councelling in high school. And when I feel bad for eating something, it's because I'll feel far more SAD if I don't eat it. Like a huge bowl of popcorn when I'm distressed. Comfort food to the tenth power. But then that guilt certainly removes a certain percentage of the pleasure factor.
And maybe that's part of it - the Enemy assuages us with inappropriate guilt in order to stop Joy. Case in point, just now I gave my purring lap cat an extra cuddle, thought how nice to be sitting in my comfy robe, drinking excellent coffee, being creative, with a happy purring cat-on-lap, and into my head came screaming "For Shame! Look at the dirty dishes!!" and the joy ran sobbing away. (Also, the cat-from-Satan sensed this interplay, bit me, and also ran leaving a cloud of shed hair.)
Speaking of guilt, there are certain things that I probably should feel guilty about, but don't. Like shooting cute furry animals. Even shooting animals I'm not supposed to. Thankfully Hubbykins is also affectionately known as The Legal Beagle, so he keeps me on the straight and narrow, meaning our deepfreeze is nearly empty instead of filled with tender whitetail doe meat and fawn chops. Of course, that annoys me, which then fills me with guilt over being annoyed that I'm prevented from breaking provincial law. Now I'm hungry and guilty. And annoyed.
See what I mean about the hamster wheel?
So, does anyone have an answer to this dilemma? Is there a solution? Should I simply obey the guilt, and magically find fulfillment in these mundane tasks that I avoid? Or, if I was able to do or undo every guilt-causing thing on my top ten list, would I just find more things to feel guilty about? Perhaps there's a clear difference between Good and Bad Guilt, and I'm just missing it.
Well, I leave it up to you, my readers. Although, you've let me down sadly re. the perfect peeler. I'm still on that quest, with very little helpful input. I hope you all feel guilty for not stepping up to the plate there.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Invasion
Wintertime up here is deliciously quiet and serene. Birds will eat from our hands, snowshoe hares appear out of nowhere, and one catches fleeting glimpses of deer passing through the woods. A flying squirrel visits the "treat tree" that the kids and I decorate on the deck, using peanut-butter coated pine cones and popcorn balls.
So when spring comes, and all the little critters creep out of hibernation, it's always uplifting. Especially the chipmunks. Their timorous wee faces peer around the corners, tiny crabbed paws reaching up the doorframe as they see their reflections in the glass. This spring I saw one chipmunk bounding into the same spot over and over; investigation revealed a perfect hobbit-hole disappearing under the wild roses. I knew she would have a family in there, and decided that this would be the summer to tame the chipmunks.
I began the project some days ago. My first strategy was to simply wait until I saw the creatures on the deck, then slip out and place some peanuts in an open spot, so they'd see that I was The Provider of Nuts. I was never sure if the message was getting across, since the cat usually raced out the door as well, with intentions quite the opposite of mine.
Yesterday I watched, peanuts in pocket, as one bold chipmunk scrabbled around the patio door. He was a quick one - and probably one of the new youth of the season. He seemed to be everywhere at once! It was then revealed that there were in fact several young chipmunks scampering about the deck... it was a perfect opportunity! And Mike said "Tristan, go get the trap. We've gotta do something about these chipmunks! Stop feeding them!"
But I couldn't resist. Tristan geared up the live trap, and I sat down in the sun and broke up some peanuts into my hand. One little rodent in particular was very brave, and hungry, and as soon as I was still he started to creep forward. Before long he boldly snatched a peanut bit and shot away to nibble it in safety. He was soon back, and within half and hour he was confident enough to climb onto my lap and sit in my hand, shoving the morsels into his cheeks.
This was fine progress. I envisioned a passel of devoted chipmunks greeting me at the door, sitting on my shoulders as I weeded the flowerbeds, following me around like tiny clever dogs. I went about my day, hanging laundry, potting plants, digging holes...
Then Tristan caught one. In the live trap. This is the thing with humane traps - sure, you don't kill the prey, but what are ya gonna do with it? Two options - let it go, or kill it yourself. Preferrably without getting the live trap bloody. There was the little guy, racing wildly around inside the wire box, terrified. I instructed Tristan to take it to daddy. Daddy instructed Tristan to put it in a different cage, and he'd "relocate" it after work. So the kids dug our old birdcage out of storage, and proceeded to make Chippy comfy.
Chippy decided he was not comfy, and deftly leaped to the top of the cage, squeezed through an impossibly tiny hole, and escaped. Into our house. The cat was delighted.
Thus began the Chipmunk Rodeo. It came to involve 1 horrified chipmunk, 1 retarded cat, two children, two grown men, and one bemused spectator. Also several pieces of furniture, a butterfly net, and various magazines.
Round One: Chippy camps out under the couch. Cat guards couch. Chippy makes a break for the safety of the piano. Cat guards piano. Repeat ad naseum.
Round Two: Kids attempt poking Chippy to chase him out the open door. Cat impedes progress by racing about, getting poked and meowing loudly. Everyone argues about where Chippy actually is.
Round Three: Hubby solves the mystery of Chippy's whereabouts by pulling out the couch. Chippy dashes behind desk. Hubby pulls out desk. Chippy hides behind curtains. Hubby ties up curtains. We skip intermission and proceed directly to Round Four
in which Chippy leads the entire family in a wild parade throughout the house. Avoiding both open doors, of course. Parade runs as follows:
Chippy. Sometimes emitting a series of angry chirps.
Cat. Who could've caught Chippy multiple times, but prefers to trot with her nose a few inches above her prey. Succeeding merely in getting stepped on.
Hubby. Wielding green plastic butterfly net.
Two kids. Giggling like mad.
Tim. Our current building project employee - also family friend, fishing and hunting and mechanic pal for Hubby. Also giggling like mad.
Me.
And every time we get Chippy cornered, Tim is all ready to shoo him out the door with a magazine, until he makes a break for it and rushes over Tim's foot, which provokes a high-pitched squeal and an interesting little dance. The period of time spent in Tristan's bedroom was a highlight - Chippy found many good hiding places and tunnels amongst the Lego ships, sleeping bags, books and clothing strewn about. Cat was highly motivated by this time - to get a closer look. Everyone was shouting and laughing and I was aware, once again, that people acheive an interesting state of eccentricity when trapped on a mountain with limited influence from civilization.
In the end, Chippy made it out the door and gasped with relief that he was still alive and not in Chipmunk Hell as he'd suspected. We all fell about, laughing and reliving the episode. The live trap is put away, and I'm doubting I'll ever tame that particular chipmunk.
It goes to show you, though, how quickly our fickle emotions can turn. One minute a chipmunk is cute, then an annoyance, then funny... when I see a little critter sitting up, nibbling dandylion seeds it's adorable - when it's digging up my nasturtium seeds I'm ready to get out the .22.
Speaking of which, I think I'll go put netting over the strawberries!
So when spring comes, and all the little critters creep out of hibernation, it's always uplifting. Especially the chipmunks. Their timorous wee faces peer around the corners, tiny crabbed paws reaching up the doorframe as they see their reflections in the glass. This spring I saw one chipmunk bounding into the same spot over and over; investigation revealed a perfect hobbit-hole disappearing under the wild roses. I knew she would have a family in there, and decided that this would be the summer to tame the chipmunks.
I began the project some days ago. My first strategy was to simply wait until I saw the creatures on the deck, then slip out and place some peanuts in an open spot, so they'd see that I was The Provider of Nuts. I was never sure if the message was getting across, since the cat usually raced out the door as well, with intentions quite the opposite of mine.
Yesterday I watched, peanuts in pocket, as one bold chipmunk scrabbled around the patio door. He was a quick one - and probably one of the new youth of the season. He seemed to be everywhere at once! It was then revealed that there were in fact several young chipmunks scampering about the deck... it was a perfect opportunity! And Mike said "Tristan, go get the trap. We've gotta do something about these chipmunks! Stop feeding them!"
But I couldn't resist. Tristan geared up the live trap, and I sat down in the sun and broke up some peanuts into my hand. One little rodent in particular was very brave, and hungry, and as soon as I was still he started to creep forward. Before long he boldly snatched a peanut bit and shot away to nibble it in safety. He was soon back, and within half and hour he was confident enough to climb onto my lap and sit in my hand, shoving the morsels into his cheeks.
This was fine progress. I envisioned a passel of devoted chipmunks greeting me at the door, sitting on my shoulders as I weeded the flowerbeds, following me around like tiny clever dogs. I went about my day, hanging laundry, potting plants, digging holes...
Then Tristan caught one. In the live trap. This is the thing with humane traps - sure, you don't kill the prey, but what are ya gonna do with it? Two options - let it go, or kill it yourself. Preferrably without getting the live trap bloody. There was the little guy, racing wildly around inside the wire box, terrified. I instructed Tristan to take it to daddy. Daddy instructed Tristan to put it in a different cage, and he'd "relocate" it after work. So the kids dug our old birdcage out of storage, and proceeded to make Chippy comfy.
Chippy decided he was not comfy, and deftly leaped to the top of the cage, squeezed through an impossibly tiny hole, and escaped. Into our house. The cat was delighted.
Thus began the Chipmunk Rodeo. It came to involve 1 horrified chipmunk, 1 retarded cat, two children, two grown men, and one bemused spectator. Also several pieces of furniture, a butterfly net, and various magazines.
Round One: Chippy camps out under the couch. Cat guards couch. Chippy makes a break for the safety of the piano. Cat guards piano. Repeat ad naseum.
Round Two: Kids attempt poking Chippy to chase him out the open door. Cat impedes progress by racing about, getting poked and meowing loudly. Everyone argues about where Chippy actually is.
Round Three: Hubby solves the mystery of Chippy's whereabouts by pulling out the couch. Chippy dashes behind desk. Hubby pulls out desk. Chippy hides behind curtains. Hubby ties up curtains. We skip intermission and proceed directly to Round Four
in which Chippy leads the entire family in a wild parade throughout the house. Avoiding both open doors, of course. Parade runs as follows:
Chippy. Sometimes emitting a series of angry chirps.
Cat. Who could've caught Chippy multiple times, but prefers to trot with her nose a few inches above her prey. Succeeding merely in getting stepped on.
Hubby. Wielding green plastic butterfly net.
Two kids. Giggling like mad.
Tim. Our current building project employee - also family friend, fishing and hunting and mechanic pal for Hubby. Also giggling like mad.
Me.
And every time we get Chippy cornered, Tim is all ready to shoo him out the door with a magazine, until he makes a break for it and rushes over Tim's foot, which provokes a high-pitched squeal and an interesting little dance. The period of time spent in Tristan's bedroom was a highlight - Chippy found many good hiding places and tunnels amongst the Lego ships, sleeping bags, books and clothing strewn about. Cat was highly motivated by this time - to get a closer look. Everyone was shouting and laughing and I was aware, once again, that people acheive an interesting state of eccentricity when trapped on a mountain with limited influence from civilization.
In the end, Chippy made it out the door and gasped with relief that he was still alive and not in Chipmunk Hell as he'd suspected. We all fell about, laughing and reliving the episode. The live trap is put away, and I'm doubting I'll ever tame that particular chipmunk.
It goes to show you, though, how quickly our fickle emotions can turn. One minute a chipmunk is cute, then an annoyance, then funny... when I see a little critter sitting up, nibbling dandylion seeds it's adorable - when it's digging up my nasturtium seeds I'm ready to get out the .22.
Speaking of which, I think I'll go put netting over the strawberries!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Trunk - Window to the Soul
On Saturday I was cramming things in the trunk of our car after a graduation party.
See, our beloved Suburban is currently resting on blocks, looking sheepish as her underparts are painted. A bit like a dog when you wash around its tail. Hubbykins is certain She'll have her repairs completed by the end of the month. You know, in his Spare Time. Snort.
The building project drags on up here at the lake. It's become a bit more complicated, working around 80 schoolkids who have a tendency to rush blindly in front of the tractor. Seems like every bit of the project needs just a little more work to be completed... some of it will be done in the next week, some of it in the next year. Hopefully. The government money has been pretty much spent, which means the useful members of the work crew are too expensive to keep on, so it's all on the Propery Manager. (slashplumberslashelectricianslashpropanefitterslashdrywallerslashpainterslashchainsawoperatorslashetcetcetc)
(aka Hubbykins)
ANYway, until the 'burban is road-worthy once again, we're driving a ridiculously small and inappropriate car. Inappropriate in that it doesn't know enough to lift up its skirts when we cross the mud. As in it drags its rusty bumper all along our boulder-paved road. Right now there's something wrong with the anti-lock brakes, so when one approaches a stop and applies the brake, the rear passenger wheel suddenly locks up, then lets go, then locks up... accompanied by a highly disconcerting KER THUNK KER THUNK which, judging by the concerned rubbernecking of other motorists, is probably also noisy OUTside the car.
So, I was putting things in the trunk of the car on Saturday, after a graduation party. It seems to be a very small trunk, after having a Suburban all this time. Glorious Suburban who happily swallows up whatever you decide to stow in her hindquarters. I actually had comments from strangers in the Superstore parking lot yesterday: "How are you going to fit all that in THERE?" I replied "Oh, I'll get this in alright, I'm not sure where I'll put the kids though!" It was suggested that I leave the kids behind. That would make the groceries go farther...
ANYway, on Saturday, after the graduation party, I was putting things in the trunk of the car. And it struck me that there was certainly an odd assortment of possessions in there:
potting soil - not in a bag, but spilled in the corner
a giant glass jar with spigot (had been used for the party)
umbrella
two large boxes of assorted craft supplies
a crock pot
empty mixing bowl
guitar (this ended up in the back seat eventually)
church bulletin and assorted photocopied music
plastic case of tools of some sort
Any stranger could've looked in that trunk and realised that the driver of the car is obviously
into gardening
a cook and party guru
a musician
a church-goer
also probably messy (spilled dirt), sharing (the cooking stuff was all empty, after all), likes to be prepared (well, between the four of us we are sometimes prepared), and usually drives a much bigger vehicle.
It got me thinking about the psychology behind the Car Trunk. We toss everything we need, buy, sell, borrow in there, and close it up, and figure no-one will notice stuff. All that stuff reveals what we like, what we do, where we go - who we are.
I picture the hatch of my mom's car in PEI: water bottles (you'll get a headache and be cranky if you're dehydrated), beach towel (in case of stopping at the shore after work), library books, beach glass, sand, blanket, raincoat... these are just the things that are always there, at any given time one may also find snacks, antiques, plants, gardening tools...
Or my car in high school: blanket, candles, the shoes I can't find, jacket, face paints, a crepe hair mustache, window paints, spray paint (hey, I only did graffiti once, and it was to cover up a really ugly tag!), old essays, books...
The thing I really wonder about is people with empty trunks. Empty and clean. What does that mean??
I think if people are dating, or meeting someone new, they should just ask to check out the car trunk. You might think you were dating a perfectly normal guy, then discover a bunch of sci-fi comic books, a shovel, assorted computer parts and a can of spray-cheese in his hatchback. Or you're meeting a nice couple at church, think you've got lots in common with them, but then notice a dog collar, a spider-web bungee cord net, tree-planting spade, milk crate of engine oil, picnic blanket, box of used clothes, empty 30.30 cartridges, bag of ski pants and mittens, bottle of BBQ sauce, 30.30 wrapped up in a Blue Lake jacket...
Well, maybe it's best not to judge a book by its cover. Or a person by their trunk.
See, our beloved Suburban is currently resting on blocks, looking sheepish as her underparts are painted. A bit like a dog when you wash around its tail. Hubbykins is certain She'll have her repairs completed by the end of the month. You know, in his Spare Time. Snort.
The building project drags on up here at the lake. It's become a bit more complicated, working around 80 schoolkids who have a tendency to rush blindly in front of the tractor. Seems like every bit of the project needs just a little more work to be completed... some of it will be done in the next week, some of it in the next year. Hopefully. The government money has been pretty much spent, which means the useful members of the work crew are too expensive to keep on, so it's all on the Propery Manager. (slashplumberslashelectricianslashpropanefitterslashdrywallerslashpainterslashchainsawoperatorslashetcetcetc)
(aka Hubbykins)
ANYway, until the 'burban is road-worthy once again, we're driving a ridiculously small and inappropriate car. Inappropriate in that it doesn't know enough to lift up its skirts when we cross the mud. As in it drags its rusty bumper all along our boulder-paved road. Right now there's something wrong with the anti-lock brakes, so when one approaches a stop and applies the brake, the rear passenger wheel suddenly locks up, then lets go, then locks up... accompanied by a highly disconcerting KER THUNK KER THUNK which, judging by the concerned rubbernecking of other motorists, is probably also noisy OUTside the car.
So, I was putting things in the trunk of the car on Saturday, after a graduation party. It seems to be a very small trunk, after having a Suburban all this time. Glorious Suburban who happily swallows up whatever you decide to stow in her hindquarters. I actually had comments from strangers in the Superstore parking lot yesterday: "How are you going to fit all that in THERE?" I replied "Oh, I'll get this in alright, I'm not sure where I'll put the kids though!" It was suggested that I leave the kids behind. That would make the groceries go farther...
ANYway, on Saturday, after the graduation party, I was putting things in the trunk of the car. And it struck me that there was certainly an odd assortment of possessions in there:
potting soil - not in a bag, but spilled in the corner
a giant glass jar with spigot (had been used for the party)
umbrella
two large boxes of assorted craft supplies
a crock pot
empty mixing bowl
guitar (this ended up in the back seat eventually)
church bulletin and assorted photocopied music
plastic case of tools of some sort
Any stranger could've looked in that trunk and realised that the driver of the car is obviously
into gardening
a cook and party guru
a musician
a church-goer
also probably messy (spilled dirt), sharing (the cooking stuff was all empty, after all), likes to be prepared (well, between the four of us we are sometimes prepared), and usually drives a much bigger vehicle.
It got me thinking about the psychology behind the Car Trunk. We toss everything we need, buy, sell, borrow in there, and close it up, and figure no-one will notice stuff. All that stuff reveals what we like, what we do, where we go - who we are.
I picture the hatch of my mom's car in PEI: water bottles (you'll get a headache and be cranky if you're dehydrated), beach towel (in case of stopping at the shore after work), library books, beach glass, sand, blanket, raincoat... these are just the things that are always there, at any given time one may also find snacks, antiques, plants, gardening tools...
Or my car in high school: blanket, candles, the shoes I can't find, jacket, face paints, a crepe hair mustache, window paints, spray paint (hey, I only did graffiti once, and it was to cover up a really ugly tag!), old essays, books...
The thing I really wonder about is people with empty trunks. Empty and clean. What does that mean??
I think if people are dating, or meeting someone new, they should just ask to check out the car trunk. You might think you were dating a perfectly normal guy, then discover a bunch of sci-fi comic books, a shovel, assorted computer parts and a can of spray-cheese in his hatchback. Or you're meeting a nice couple at church, think you've got lots in common with them, but then notice a dog collar, a spider-web bungee cord net, tree-planting spade, milk crate of engine oil, picnic blanket, box of used clothes, empty 30.30 cartridges, bag of ski pants and mittens, bottle of BBQ sauce, 30.30 wrapped up in a Blue Lake jacket...
Well, maybe it's best not to judge a book by its cover. Or a person by their trunk.
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