Notes from the Blue House

 You ever stare at a blank page and have no idea where to start? The emptiness lending itself to so much possibility that it's paralysing? I have so much to say and it's been so long. It feels like I have a plate of spaghetti in my mind and I need to tell you about each and every strand of pasta but it's all just such a saucy mess and I don't know where to start picking at it. Which piece of this slippery mess should I extricate and hold up for you and say "See this one? This one is important because...." ? You see, I've been feeling like a bit of a mess.  Actually if I'm honest, and I've promised myself  I won't be anything else, I've always been messy in different ways and at varying levels of fucked-uped-ness. Hey, that's probably true for you too.We're all walking around in these meatsacks on this giant rock, trying to have experiences that really mean something. I turned 40 last June, I'm considered to be mid-life at this

In 1986, I lusted after a doll named Cricket. I begged, I pleaded, I whined. This doll was the shit. You put a cassette tape into her back, and she would talk. Her lips moved, her eyes rolled around in their sockets and her face was permanently cheery. I know now that my parents debated, agonized over the purchase of the doll as it was a hefty $98 and by 1986 standards that was certainly an investment for a child's toy. Roll forward to Christmas 1986 and I unwrap THE gift, a brand-spanking new Cricket doll of my very own, dressed in a striped sweater. She was perfection, until she was out of the box. Once the cassette tape clicked into her back and she began to talk, 5 year old me realized, in a fraction of a second, that she was terrifying. She was creepy as hell and I instantly thought that Santa must not know me after all. Or maybe he was hammered. My parents beamed at me, thrilled to see me finally holding Cricket on my lap. Of course, I can't recall my exact reaction but

This one isn't easy to talk about. It's not funny, it's not charming or endearing but there's a chance that you'll get it and then you'll know you're not the only one....and so will I. I've known for many years that mental health issues have reared their ugly heads in my family history. I've known that depression, anxiety and addictions have laced their way through generations of my family but that knowledge has always been something I kept at arms length. "Oh, that's a sad history, good thing it's not my personal story. Good thing that won't happen to me." Aside from spending a week under the duvet after a high school boyfriend dumped me, I have enjoyed a pretty stable and resilient mind. All through my 20's, I navigated all the joy and stresses that a new marriage, new home, new career and new found motherhood brought me without falling apart. I never saw it coming, that black blanket that would wrap itself over my sho

I am swimming with strong, vigorous strokes, cool water all around me. I'm flying through the clear water, like a human torpedo, which is funny because I'm really only capable of a leisurely breast stroke. The crowd is screaming and clapping while I glide along my lane and then a hand pushes on my upper back. It pushes again, shaking me. "Suzie...Suz...the dog wants something. He's downstairs." "hm? wha? I'm winning." "Suz.Berkley wants something" Shit. Now, I'm awake. "Well, he's not breastfed! Why am I awake for this?" I calmly  asked. "I got up with him 2 hours ago." "Really? Maybe he's got the trots, maybe he's really sick!" "Nah, I just took him by the collar and brought him back to bed" I roll out of bed, step on a f**king lego piece, and head for the stairs. I find Berk in the laundry room, growling and groaning at his bone-dry water dish. I fill it for him and

Someone told me once that if you can read, you can sew. Liar. I promise you I can read, I can not, however, sew. Before Christmas, I took a sewing class and came home all puffed up, showing off my brand new pillowcase. Look! It's got a decorative trim! I'm amazing! I might start whipping up all kinds of cute and creative wares, I might get a booth at Farmer's markets and sell out of my stuff every week! No, every day! I might need to hire people! I might need a factory! I might be featured in Canadian Living! I mean, look at this pillowcase-it has puppies on it! Everyone likes puppies. When level 2 was offered, I signed up, ready to continue on my path of creative awakening and success. Before the first class had started, it was evident that I actually suck at this. We were asked to lay and cut our pattern before showing up on the first week; I unfolded the tissue paper pattern and stared at it. What in the what? I turned it every which way and it still didn't make a li

In October 2014 we bought a swoon-worthy house. With 4 bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen and a massive yard, we were pretty excited. We signed on the dotted line and held our breath for the home inspection. While waiting, I proudly sent photos of the shiny new place to our friends and family. Then the home inspection happened. It wasn't good. In fact, it was disastrous. The chimney was leaning away from the house. The basement was chronically wet and was furiously running 2 massive sump pumps without success. The entire thing needed to be rewired and only half of the windows were even functional. We had bought the Fergie Duhamel of houses, it only looked stellar because of all of the "make-up" slapped on it. At one point, our trustworthy home inspector pulled us aside and said "Guys, everything you like about this place was just done to make it look better, there's a lot of trouble here". Feeling like I'd been kicked in the guts by an angry mule, I left to get