As many of you know by now, I am a woman of extremes. One day I’m letting it go, and the next, today, I’m reining it in. What is up with my karma, Gorgeouses? I have some major, major karma to deal with. I mean, obviously, it could be worse — like, Oedipus (dude had some bad Karma), Anne Boleyn or George Costanza…. But this is definitely a karmic situation. And I’m not talking this Situation, for the record….

Looove. Seriously. Not in a Clive Owen kind of way.

I just struggle. I really struggle with the day-to-day stuff. My problem is that I just want to do whatever I want. Period. I struggle between my intense desire to do whatever I want and my severe desire to live an ideal life. I get completely overwhelmed by the idea that there may be a balance between these two extremes — freedom and restriction — but, I know, there is freedom in restriction, and that there is so, so much restriction in, erm, gluttony….

Woahh, this is getting to heady for us.

Take my puppy Betty White, for example. She knows exactly what she wants or needs to do. She’s perfect at it if you think about it — running in the yard, eating when she’s hungry, attacking me with kisses while I’m driving…. She’s definitely one of my idols when it comes to my karmic situation. Not this Situation, for the record….

Looove. Seriously. Not in a Javier Bardem kind of way.

Before we continue our very important conversation here, can we talk about Mr. Bardem’s serious hotness in Eat, Pray, Love for a second? Omigosh, SWOON. Hold on a sec, here….

Paaaaaaauuuuuse………

Sure, I’m one lucky woman. Not as lucky as Julia Roberts, who got to spoon Javier Bardem….

But she did it. Or, her character, Elizabeth Gilbert did it, or at least wrote the book about it. Elizabeth Gilbert — the same woman who reminds me that no woman, none of us, really knows what she’s doing these days. We have oodles of choices, and, having no oodles-of-choices predecessors, we struggle with what to do with these oodles. Here, let her say it herself….

No wonder, amid a sea of Eat, Pray, Love haters (I know you’re out there), I love Elizabeth Gilbert. She and I are, like, the same person: neurotic and struggling among the extremes of pleasure, restriction and relationships, and we are a wee bit obsessed with yoga, writing and eating. Fast forward to the last few minutes of the video….

Oh, heady again.

…When all I meant to write about was Betty White at the dinner table….

(Underbite.) She’s out of control!

(Tongue. Also chili.)

And he! He stole my favourite lip gloss!

(Bottom-teeth gap.)

And this. Between me and my macbook….

(Withkerth.) — You have to say that one out loud to understand it.

Out of control. Or, in Canadian speak, OOT of control. I’m starting to talk like that, Gorgeouses. For real life, eh? (“For real life” is actually Monkey speak for “For real” — FYI.)

Sighh. Anyway, I think I’m going on a diet (ish). And I’m doing Ashtanga yoga again — an hour or so every day but Saturdays and moon days.  Because it’s one or the other for me. I just feel like there’s freedom in it. In not having to choose all the time…. Dammit.

One day I’ll write the book on my karmic roller-coaster journey among extremes. And I’ll call it Dogs at the Dinner Table. It has a ring to it, right? On the cover, a picture of me and Betty White in downward-facing dog pose…. You can read it on your Kobos (my latest obsession. see twitter).

While, yes, this blog remains a priority for me, I can’t really blog tonight because I’m busy exchanging “voice notes” with my sister via blackberry. Newly discovered. Have you tried it? We’re mostly swearing back and forth at each other. I feel a little like a child with her very first walkie-talkie. Only my sister and I are both over 30….

When we were little we tried to make a language out of knocking on our bedroom walls after bedtime. I think we got from 1 to 6 knocks. For the life of me, I can’t remember what any of those knocks signified.

I hope my latest voice note worked. I said: “You’re a nerd. G’night. F** off.” Hold on a sec. Let me check.

I think it worked. Oh, there she is. Dara and I — the only two people on the planet who don’t own iPhones. And so we send each other voice notes. She better not get an iPhone, or I’ll have no one to voice note with.

At least for now, I don’t DO iPhones. But, I said the same thing about Facebook not long ago, didn’t I…? “I WILL NEVER!!!!!11″ I’m not a hypocrite. Just a pushover. Still, I don’t know about the iPhone with these thumbs of mine — which, I hereby declare, from now on are to be called “Megan Fox” thumbs instead of “toe thumbs.”

…Just noticing the funky toe thumb-lengthening diagonal-nail-polish trick she’s done there. Hmmm….

I’m going to bed. Well, I have one more Celebrity blog post to write, and THEN I’m going to bed.

Truth is, I’m writing like a dog for work. Like THIS:

Her underbite’s so big she can’t kiss you without scraping you with her buck canines…. It’s awesome.

I love all this writing I get to do for work, but I admit I’m drained. With all the Junior Kindergarten and Preschool end-of-the-year parties, the running running running, grocery shopping ONCE a week (what IS that?!), I’m drained. Drained of ability to string words together in intelligible sentences past 10pm. Remember when I used to blog at 3AM? The days FROM HELL when Rascal was a baby and the Monkey was just over two? OMG. Well, that’s physically impossible now. I guess that’s what happens when you’re 35…….., and, in all fairness to myself, ahem, when you’re all-of-a-sudden working again AND taking care of the kids in the afternoon, AND then working nights, and eating like crap, you’re entitled. No?

So I’m going to go easy on myself tonight. I WILL not edit this post after I press publish. I’ll let it go. Into the amazing infinite non-space that is the Internet. Goodbye, post. Hello voice notes. Gotta go. mysisterCANNOThavethelastwordBYE!

LOVE! xo Haley-O

Once we have reached the desired end, we think, we will turn back to purify and consecrate the means. Once the war we’re fighting for peace is won, then the generals will become saints, the burned children will proclaim in the heaven that their suffering is well repaid, the poisoned forests will turn green again. Once we have peace, we say, or abundance or justice or truth, or comfort, everything will be right. Well, it’s an old dream.

It’s a vicious illusion. For the discipline of ends is no discipline at all. The end is preserved in the means; a desirable end may forever perish in the wrong means. Hope lives in the means, not in the end. Art does not survive in its revelations, or agriculture in its products, or craftsmanship in its artifacts, or civilization in its monuments, or faith in its relics.

– Wendell Berry

Forgive me, Gorgeouses, for I hath ingested NO CHAI LATTES in two whole days. In fact, I have not had a stitch of sugar, nor a drop of caffeine.

Forgive me, Gorgeouses, for I hath exhaustion, anger and frustration — all the usual “evil” emotions that come-out-come-out with detoxification, with withdrawal.

Forgive me, Gorgeouses, for I hath posted LONG QUOTE (above) that I totally want you to read. It came to me today via iPod, via him, as usual. Which wouldn’t be such a big deal, if I didn’t ALSO get an email from her with a similar message — reminding me not to focus so much on “goals,” dietary and otherwise, but instead to make “one self-supportive choice at a time”:

What prevents you from doing things for yourself is not a lack of goals or intentions as you probably know. What would it be like to simply be kind to yourself? To rest, to eat nourishing food, to take your body out for some fresh air and movement, to allow yourself to feel your emotions, to make space for quiet time, to pray…? To trust that wholeness is already here, and not something you have to create or find? (Email, Caroline Dupont)

To think, I’d get such similar messages in two days — two days sans chai latte. So I’m DONE with GOALS, the “old dream,” “vicious illusion.” We are now, officially, all about the means (even though this, too, can become a goal if taken too seriously). It’s like a total sea change for someone as goal-oriented as I am — my entire life.

One self-supporting choice at a time.

Am I wrong? Or, could many of us use this beautiful, sage reminder?

Tomorrow is Josh and my 7th wedding anniversary. SEVENTH. Will I have a chai latte? Probably. Because if I don’t, I might be as miserable as I was today….

Or I may make the ostensibly more self-supporting choice and have a cleansing swamp smoothie…. Or or OR…, maybe for tomorrow — my SEVENTH anniversary — cake and chai lattes are self-supporting, and definitely spouse-supporting, choices?

For our anniversary tomorrow, Josh and I are taking a staycation. My parents are bravely taking the kids all day and overnight, AND they set us up in a five-star hotel in the heart of downtown Toronto — breakfast and a “special package” included! We are going to relax, enjoy, savour, indulge, hold hands, see ALICE IN WONDERLAND in 3D….

So, anyway, yes, I’m taking all the sage advice that came barreling in, welcomed, these past couple of days.  I’m thinking about my exhausting, habitual, annoying goal-making — a habit that’s even stronger, to think, than the chai latte. Without creating another goal, I’m going to simply recognize this goal-making energy, the striving, reaching, the insatiable aiming high, and to gently rein it in, rein myself back….

Kind of like this blog….

Forgive me Gorgeouses, for I don’t always know why I blog here. And I do think about this often. I don’t know where this blog’s going, for how long, to what end…. And that’s finally okay. I may lose readers and gain readers, as the game goes. Yet I plow on. To no end. With no goal.

And, so, I. I put away the arrows. I stand on this ground. Being with what’s here. Like it, or not.

Love!

xo Haley-O

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Rascal’s sitting glued to me. I normally don’t open my computer much when he’s around. Especially since Florida. I’d made a pact with myself to limit work time to when the nanny’s here (4 mornings a week) and after the kids go to bed. But, he’s happy here sucking on his organic cherry lollipop. And we’re both sick. And the Monkey’s sick.

And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the large man who sat on top of beside me on the plane to Florida coughing into his FIST the whole way there. I knew I was done for when I noticed the fist. I mean, GOSH, when you cough into your FIST on a plane, where do you THINK your germs are going? Straight to me, and the other lucky person sitting under your other elbow and butt cheek. She, too, probably spent her vacation flummoxed by a mysterious rash that made her feel like she was dipped in acid. She, too, probably barfed all the way home from Disney World to West Palm Beach. And she, too, probably spent nights trying to swallow through spike-covered knives in her throat. And she, too, is probably still trying to recover, feverish, eyes burning, fingers aching while trying to type some semblance of a blog post. Although I’m not sure she has a son who’s also sick and sticking to her like glue all night long, or that she has a blog — but doesn’t everyone have a blog these days? — or, okay, she’s trying to facebook…. Facebooking. “Facebook”‘s a verb, now, right?

Not that I have anything against large people, OF COURSE. I mean, that guy on the plane, who boomeranged his virus off his fist and into my throat, wasn’t even really obese or anything, per se. He was just obscenely big boned — which is okay, and probably a good thing for a guy in any other situation. But, he wasn’t very friendly. He didn’t laugh at my jokes, or at the Rascal’s hand when it mysteriously appeared between the two seats in front of us, vroom-vrooming a new Thomas the Train that It’sgrandma and Papa’shere picked up at Target. I mean, GOSH.

So, now Minden’s sitting on my lap purring — well, he’s been on my lap this whole time, but I’ve only just noticed this because I’m so used to it. It’s OLD HAT. Yes, I’ve been sandwiched (in an awkward way) between Rascal and Minden this whole time. Rascal’s just discovered Minden’s shoulder blade, and now he loves bones:

“Mama, I yuf bones! I yuf bones! Mama, I wan wadah, I wan wadah, I wan wadah. I yuf bones. I wan wadah. NOW MAMA, I MADAH YOU!” (Trans. “I love bones”; “Mama, I want water!”; “Now, Mama, I’m mad at you.”)

He wants water and he wants it now. Good thing I can type without looking at the keyboard OR screen because he’s got my chin in his little hands now. He wants “wadah” and he wants it NOW. And I’m still typing.

After I get him his water, I’ll take him for a bath. He’ll get a book and go to bed — the new egg-shaped humidifier (which the Rascal thinks is making tea, as in “Make? Tea? Mama?”) humming. And then at 12 or 1am, he’ll scream the unbearable scream for me. And I’ll bring him to my bed, and he’ll lie glued on top of me for the rest of the night, like the large man on the airplane, and, alas, if it’s anything like last night, he’ll be coughing directly into my throat. But I won’t mind.

xo Haley-O

With the advent of twitter lists (which I doubt I’ll ever get around to making myself because I hardly have time to write to-do or shopping lists let alone SEVERAL lists dividing my friends into groups — high school much? — and unintentionally snubbing them, which is bound to happen)…what was I saying? I forget because I got distracted by Whitney and Jay’s conversation on this eve’s rerun of MTV’s The City….

That picture is so last year, like, when Jay and Whitney were still together. But I didn’t have time to find any current pics of them. But I DID have time to watch THIS WEEK’s episode just now. And I just want to say that, if Elle Magazine wants to interview bloggers — because, as Joe Zee (Elle‘s creative director) puts it, “blogs are the places where news is breaking right now” — they should come TO ME, and my SLIPPERS…. Remember these?

Still wearing ‘em! There’s nothing these two less famous bloggers have that I don’t, right? I blog in my pajamas, too, and shop with my mother…? No? Yes? Elle?

If I don’t get into Elle Magazine, can I at least get on X-WEIGHTED? I need to lose these last 15. Or maybe I’ll just curl up on my couch with my Puffins and make twitter lists, instead. It’s safer here in my comfort zone…. Except right now. Because Josh just made clam chowder, and it STINKS in here.

So, I do have a little list JUST for this blog because my poor blog gets pushed aside so often these days for other more “pressing” things, and this really shouldn’t be, really saddens me, really has to stop because I love blogging…, and if one more thing goes to sh*t because I’m working too much, then something’s got to give. Because DOGGONE IT, I’m important.

So my list, ahem.

1. I love the way Rascal says “banana” — “badanan,” as in, “MO BADANAN, MAMA! MO BADANAN.”

2. Rascal eats too many badanans.

3. The Monkey is addicted to hugging. In the middle of the Swine Flu pandemic, she’s hugging strangers (not that it really matters because Swine Flu is air born).

4. I had Kabocha squash for dinner.

5. Rascal can count to two now. It’s official: “One, Doo, ONE!”

6. Monkey is obsessed with drawing me without a body because, apparently, “it’s too hard” to draw my body….

7. WHICH I choose to take as a compliment, because why not and DOGGONE IT!

8. I’m the disembodied turbaned head on the far left of the drawing — next to me is the artiste herself, her brother, and a caterpillar.

8. I am NOT too old to love The City, OR The Hills….

9. I also love the Glee, The Office, The Tudors, So You Think You Can Dance and Survivor.

10. I did watch V, but I will never watch it again.

11. Just like I will never watch Fringe again.

12. Or the Y&R, which I quit a month ago, WHICH should be a post in itself because it’s a big f-ing deal.

13. I want Russell to win Survivor.

14. I can’t end on #13 not because it’s “bad luck” but because it’s just a weird number to end on.

15. #15 is a better number to end on than #14.

16. I always go for the odd numbers.

17. OCD.

18. But, #18 is an ideal number to end LISTS on.

19. Even though it’s an odd number.

20. I think I’m into even now.