blogthecat

On messiness

Hello, November 9. You, this morning, are not as sparkly as I intended you to be! You were supposed to be Fresh, Clean, Exciting, and Inspiring. What happened?

I guess yesterday happened: I didn't do all the things I said I would commit to in my last post. Exercise especially. And I got frustrated last night because I was trying hard to make my family happy and they were too tired and so grumpy. I very much wanted them not to be grumpy and I think I was was looking for some gratification from being a "good" mom.

But luckily, November 9, I am writing to you and so I get to think about that need last night. No one was actually asking me to be a good mom. No one was questioning whether I was a good mom. But I needed validation because I've been feeling shitty about myself. What could I have done instead of washing floors, doing laundry, ordering everyone's favourite pizza, and obeying Georgia who wanted to watch The Aristocats (which I love but have seen about 40 times)? I could have done 15 minutes of gentle exercise (it has to be gentle at the moment because I am dreading it and I know slow is the way to go when I'm feeling like that). I could have progressed in my reading of The Strangers – or not, because I am not loving it yet after 100 pages or so. I could have instead picked up the copy of State of Terror my mom lent me. I have read a couple of pages and it seems almost shockingly obvious but also maybe fun and easy – I could use a read like that.

Interesting, just there: I felt an urge to offset my non-love of The Strangers with the fact that I loved Vermette's last book, The Break. I did not like saying that I was having trouble getting into her latest. But that is not an awful thing to say, actually. And I can assure you that Katherena Vermette is not reading this blog and so there is 0% chance I will offend anyone. The very chance, however, was rattling. Good to know. Something to think about.

The need to be liked: such a trap and I'm sure it's not only me who falls into it. A couple of days ago I read this fascinating profile by Eve Wiseman in The Guardian of comedian Kathryn Ryan, who does not give the tiniest fuck about what anyone thinks. Wiseman writes,

"There are moments during our conversation, while [Ryan's] tiny dogs snore gently on my lap and her large cat (she’s called Sara Pascoe) prowls across the kitchen, that I find myself speechless. Not at what Ryan says so much, but with a sweet and awe-filled shock at how little she cares about what people think of her. Trolls, hecklers, critics, people who reel at the way she paints a picture of single motherhood in pastels and glitter rather than concentrating on exhaustion or shame. We keep coming back to this, the 'audacity' of it, and she shrugs. 'If I’m entertaining people then I don’t mind what Linda from Leeds wants to write about me in her blog.' I wait. 'I think it’s unrealistic to hope that everyone’s going to like you or even that everyone is kind. Many people are unkind, lots of people love to take offence. Lots of people are wrong, and that’s fine with me.'”

It's a great profile and here's the link to it.

As much as November 8 sort of confused me (I wanted it to be about breaking perfection but then I realized just writing about it made me even more goal-oriented and crushed when I didn't achieve what I wanted to), there were many moments I loved. First of all it turns out that it's helpful to write here and realize what I'm thinking. I don't really know what I'm thinking a lot of the time unless I write it, and I can get muddled and uncertain as a result. Second, I sent my post yesterday to my parents, who are so supportive of me when I go through a crappy mental health period. This is what my dad wrote back to me. The context is that I dropped off some yummy Nicastro meatballs at their house on Sunday. His nickname for me is Kinks. This is not weird. It comes from "Kiley Kinks." It's cute I tell you! Anyway:

"Kinks,

I don't know how to comment without joining Facebook or one of the others, but I do know three little things that made my day today:

1. Meatballs
2. Meatballs
3. Meatballs"

That email says a lot about how good a writer my dad is. One word, repeated three times, to express gratitude for me being thoughtful and him appreciating it, and subliminally, just a nod to where we are in our relationship (very good). "Meatballs." Anything else would have been too much. I'll post some of my dad's other writing here soon.

Speaking of writing, here is the very neat thing I discovered today and learned from (one of my daily goals). It's Angie Abdou interviewing one of my favourite writers, Michael Winter. He has excellent advice, and Angie is a great interviewer.

(PS: If your kids are in hockey, which in Canada is a highly weird sport for kids to be in because it can be so fraught and fun and frankly dangerous, Angie's Home Ice is a must-read.)

Ok that's going to do it. Except for my intention I was supposed to think about for 10 minutes this morning. I intended to write and I did.

 

 

Maybe small things are bigger than I think

Every so often I get sick – my mental health goes down the tubes. When it does, everything is a fight. Waking up, interacting with my family, going out, seeing friends, eating, working ... well, everything. I may eventually write about what kind of mental health issues I sometimes face, but not now, I'm not ready for that. What I will say is that the plunge into darkness always begins with perfectionism and a sense that my whole life is wrong and must be immediately corrected with massive changes. The last time I wrote here, back in the spring, I mentioned this battle with perfectionism – I feel upset that it keeps coming back and sinking me, a couple of times a year usually, but for weeks.

Even as I write this post, I feel annoyed with myself that I am using commas where some other structure would be better, that I am using general words instead of specific ones. But I am going to plow on, because that's actually the healthy thing to do. I once took a brilliant creative writing class focused on how to write a novel, and holy smokes did I ever write a great three pages. Then I spent hours and hours revising those three pages. The writing got worse – forced and tortured into a state of stilted awfulness. Nothing sprang from the pages anymore and I gave up. I just gave up. Sad but true, and emblematic of the reason I am dedicating this blog for the rest of November 2021 to making things less sad.

It's November 8, not November 1 as I would like it to be. I would like my fresh start to begin crisply on the first of the month. But too bad! There is nothing to do but begin now, and maybe it is a sign from the universe that beginning late is in fact the point here.

What am I beginning? The caution here is that it can't be big. I can't change everything in one month (less than one month). But I can change some habits. I can explore how doing a few things differently might alter how I feel about myself and make life feel more fulfilling and exciting.

Here are some commitments I hope to follow through on:

• No more sleeping in unless it's for a nurturing rather than avoiding-the-day kind of reason.
• 10 minutes in the morning of composing an intention for the day and what I want from it.
• As much herbal tea as coffee and beer. And water. I need to drink a ton more water than I usually do.
• One decision/gesture/conversation/moment a day that makes someone else feel great.
• 15 minutes a day of exercise and 5,000 steps.
• 20 minutes a day of writing here or elsewhere.
• Some special hours with my parents every week.
• An exploration of something I find interesting every day, whether it's a word, concept, book, or whatever.
• Not worrying about my writing wherever it happens. Let it just be okay rather than perfect.
• Asking my husband to play Scrabble with me, go for a walk, or watch a show every day.
• Handwriting a letter every week to a friend.
• Playing the lottery at least twice a week because I would be very good at being a millionaire.

Okay so it's 1:12 pm on Monday, November 8. So far today I have:

• Not worked. That's okay because this post, and the thinking leading up to it, is important.
• Sent a surprise package of two books to special people. I think they will love them!
• Talked to an amazing friend I haven't spoken with for far too long. She's pregnant! Such wonderful news.
• Received the Coal and Canary candle I have been so excited about. It smells just as good as I hoped it would.
• Written this post. And not edited it.

If I hadn't written about these small accomplishments/enjoyments here, I would have forgotten them. I would not have grasped how much better they made my day. And I would not have been as thankful for being alive on November 8, 2021. Thank you for this day, universe (and whoever/whatever is in charge up there!).

See you tomorrow, Blogthecat.ca. I look forward to it!

k.

 

 

My happy birthday bruise

I had every intention to welcome my 50th birthday with bells on. Aging gracefully is the most wonderful idea and everything about it makes sense, including the truism that if you never turn 50, well, you never turn 50. My life is ridiculously lucky, especially because of my family here in Ottawa, in other parts of Canada, and in California. I have a dream job as a self-employed writer and content strategist and as much as everything sucks about this pandemic, writing about the economic and social effects of the crisis has been interesting, and my work promoting Canadian books has taken on new meaning. I love my friends and colleagues who live near and far.

So much to celebrate, so little to hold me back from appreciating my new milestone.

But. I am also a perfectionist, and anyone who truly knows what perfectionism is knows that it is a freaking massive drag. It can be crippling. It’s not about being A-type and achieving fabulous heights of success. It’s about being so hard on yourself and doubtful of your talents and worth that it is hard to push through anything to achieve all the “shoulds” that run rampant through your brain. About setting standards so high that it is impossible to meet them, ensuring the continuation of the vicious cycle of wanting to do things but stopping yourself from doing them because they won’t be good enough.

I’ve fought and sought help for perfectionism for years, and there are times that I’m relatively successful at pushing the “not enough” inner voice down for long enough that it exerts a heavenly small influence on my life. And before this all seems like so much doom and gloom, I should note that I’m constantly grateful for everything I have and I do know that I’m nice and smart and even funny. My kids remind me of that, as does my beautiful husband, as do my mom and dad and brother and sister-in-law and friends and … so yeah, I get lots of help in remembering my worth.

Turning 50, though, eesh. I knew what I needed to do by March 20. Get fitter than ever, get to my pre-kids weight, eradicate wrinkles, write the book I’ve always wanted to, pay off all debt, fix our front steps, revamp my wardrobe, push my career to new levels. It was time, goddammit, to get successful.

I had a couple of months, I figured, when the “shoulds” started ramping up in January. I focused my mind on them, maybe believing that the more I paid attention to them, the more they might move over to the mythical "accomplished" file. In the meantime, inner peace and satisfaction? Out the window. Living in the moment? Ha.

By the time my birthday rolled around, I was a mess. A hermit. A ball of anxiety and depression.

Thankfully, things began to turn around a week or so before the Day Where I Would Finally Be Perfect. And my birthday was brilliant, full of bouquets, calls, cards, decorations, sunny walks, thoughtful presents,  gourmet dinner, and best family and friends ever. I could never have imagined anything better, even if we hadn’t been in a pandemic that never feels like it's never going to end.

But it was nearly a month later, this past weekend, when I got the birthday present I needed.

Oliver has become suddenly obsessed with playing baseball, and I grew up in a baseball-obsessed family (my dad wrote two books about the game and going to Florida for Expos spring training was a major part of our annual rhythm for a while). I am slow as molasses, but I can still hit well enough and I have an arm. This past week I went several times with O to the baseball diamond near our house and we alternated pitching and hitting, mostly with him at bat. It felt incredible, with no one around and a few at-bats where each of us smacked one off the sweet spot. That sound, ooh that soft, sunshiny, delicious sound, all the more rewarding because it can be elusive.

On Sunday afternoon, we were joined by Craig and Georgia as well as my parents, whom we have seen far too little in the past few months under lockdown. My dad went to the outfield; Craig made sure our dog, Blue, stayed clear of trouble; and Georgia and my mom chatted near the bench. O assumed his position at the plate, and I, per usual (because my throw is rusty and he’s only started playing this month), walked over to my spot a few inches off the pitcher’s mound – closer to the plate and the wooden bat and the nearly 13-year-old boy who has a super hard hockey shot than perhaps was wise.

My next pitch was perfect. Perfect, I tell you ;-) And Oliver met it with gusto, cracking a clean line drive that found me in about 1.2 seconds. I did not get that glove anywhere where it needed to be. So the ball whacked me hard on my right leg, a few inches over my knee (THANK GOD).

Here is my bruise, a few days post-whack.

 

I look at it and think that in the early days of my being 50, we got my parents out on a sunny day in the pandemic to join us in baseball, my dad’s favourite sport. Georgia and my mom made up silly rhymes, with Craig watching over them and Blue to ward off any potential foul balls (and G had a few triumphant hits herself). I got my bruise from pitching to my phenomenal son who still loves to play with me and chat with me and who’s doing all he can do to stay active in this ever-more difficult lockdown. We are healthy, and my parents have received their first vaccine shot. My bruise is ugly and sore on my pale, winter skin, and I enjoy checking on it to see if it’s getting more hideous.

It’s my 50 bruise and I needed a good whack.

One moment

I posted a picture of Georgia and Jesse the Most Perfect Cat yesterday on Instagram and wrote underneath:

“It takes very little to feel happy, once you recognize a moment for all that’s in it.”

(Of course I was talking about good, if "ordinary," moments.)

Instagram isn’t the place to write more than that, which is why I’m writing here. I want to unpack the idea a little further: a moment, and what’s in it.

In this moment, there is a girl on a couch. Georgia. She is eight, a little small in stature but huge in personality. She is my girl, strong, funny, and loving.

A few hours before the moment, Georgia found out that I was the tooth fairy. I had been tired the night before and the cursive I used in the letter to be tucked under her pillow looked very much like my cursive – not spidery and looping enough to be the feather-light tooth fairy’s. In the morning, her brother called it out and I confessed. A fleeting look of sadness passed across Georgia’s face as she thought about the news, and this made me sad, too. We will miss the tooth fairy.

Georgia's teeth are coming out and coming in all at once, and not exactly in ideal formation. But she is confident, at eight, and this makes me so happy, her not worrying about crooked teeth. Teeth can be straightened someday, whereas confidence is difficult to get back once you’ve lost it.

Georgia’s hair is blonde and chin-length, lopped off to match her beloved cousin’s bob during a magical trip to California this past winter. There is no more terrible tangle at the back of her head that caused us so much grief and tears when she had it long. That tangle caused many moments – moments of me chasing her around the downstairs with a brush shrieking that I was gentle, GENTLE SO COME HERE! – that did not make us happy. So we are fans of the new hair.

I am beyond grateful to be the mom of the girl in the picture. Once, when she was 35 weeks old and inside my tummy, it was touch and go as to how well things were going to go for us. I had a spinal surgery and C-section in one fell swoop, five weeks early, and my baby was okay. She is a miracle.

In the picture, Jesse is warming Georgia’s body and enjoying a good chin scratch. He has the softest fur. I know it’s usually dogs and horses that are trained to be therapy animals, but if ever there was a cat who was a therapy cat, Jesse is that creature. He knows when we are sick or distressed. He plants himself on our chests and nuzzles our faces, and at night, his favourite place to sleep is on the kids’ pillows, cradling the tops of their heads. We love when Jesse sleeps, because then we get to hear his long, sonorous snoring. He sounds like an old man.

The moment was so peaceful. Georgia stretched out after school on our dove grey couch, head on faux-fur pillow, comfy in the loose denim pants I got her a few weeks ago. She loves loose things. And no dresses anymore, nor leggings. Flowy style like me. I am grateful that she still wants to emulate my style. This too shall pass.

After school the kids come home and the school day falls off them, all except the really good parts. Because school is sometimes fun and sometimes it’s just a lot – a lot of having to be good, of navigating friends and kids who don’t yet know how to be friends.

This moment had a lot in it, as it turns out.

On doing very little

A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday or Wednesday night after a long workday, I made this meal for our family: fusilli with roasted garlic, cauliflower, and red peppers; spinach; a couple of tablespoons of diced tomatoes; and oregano and basil. All topped with goat cheese and pine nuts (because we're not animals!)

But it wasn't enough. We needed a side, so I made a Caprese salad with heirloom tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, and fresh basil. Did Craig and the kids like it? Yes they did. But there was this:

• One hour of me cooking, following a chunk of time the day before roasting vegetables;
• A good 45 minutes cleaning everything up.

A bit nuts.

This sort of thing isn't unusual at our house – the weeknight gourmet meal – because I love to cook, and also because I feel a deep compulsion to try to make dinners both healthy and yum. Do you hear echoes of the '50s? Then, too, moms poured untold hours into canned-tomato-soup–based cakes and gelatin-bound meat, vegetable, or fruit salads. Not just the '50s, either. Boeuf Bourguignon in the '60s. Quiche in the '70s. Lasagne in the '80s. And so on.

I came to question all this when I got slammed with the flu this past Monday. SLAMMED. (It was so brutal that I feel the urge to list all my symptoms and pain here now, but don't worry, I am stopping myself.)

Out went the elaborate meals, and in came the pizza, frozen enchiladas, and instant ramen. In came the warm cats to my bed to cuddle, and the husband bringing mugs of chai tea. In came the most wonderful afternoons with my kids. Like, amazing. Lots of movies. Lots of them reading and doing hobbies in my room while I lay prone under heaps of extra blankets for my chills.

I made one dinner: a veggie burger for O (Georgia and Craig were out). I was so foggy that I forgot tomatoes, avocado, pickles, and onion. There was just bun, burger, ketchup, mayo, and relish - an abomination. O bit into the burger and said, "Hmm – it doesn't  taste like it usually does ... and it's so thin!" We both looked aghast, and then we started laughing like fools. My cooking failure was so much fun, such a curious bonding moment. "Mom," said Oliver tentatively, "I have really been liking this week with you sick – is that bad?"

After the meal, he poured me a bubbly water and led me upstairs to my bed, letting me whine all the way. He brought in his book of hockey cards and got to work sorting its pages. I crawled deep into the covers and was happy.

My life slowed right down this week, and while I would NEVER wish for the merciless waves of excruciating aches and wretchedness (that I endured so stoically, as you can imagine), I sure did become a fan of frozen and canned dinners. And not once did my family ask for anything better.

Annnd ... now I have a craving for BBQ'd baloney!

 

Growing up was not always easy

I recently wrote about my parents' flair for mixing high art and folk art, but it wasn't always this way. There were many bumps along the road.

As young hipsters who came of age in the early sixties, my parents went through the requisite period of naked art. This period coincided with my childhood and really got horrible when my brother and I were teens. There was a nude to be found on every floor of our house. It was not always easy to invite friends over when you knew they would see the enormous painting in our living room of Red-Haired Lady. Ghostly pale, ample-hipped, lovely-boobed, and vagina-ed. Head too small for body. Cruella-de-Vil-ish. Crimson. Just imagine being 13 with that one taking up a whole wall in your living room.

Status: Still in their house, but banished to the basement thank god.

Then there was the dining room, with its Nigerian Ibeje statues. To them: high art. To us: more naked people. More than naked, erect. Conical boobs and rod-straight penises sticking out from their bodies, just hanging out with us while we ate. Now in this case, I cannot say we wanted them gone (and thank goodness they’re not gone, because they’re really valuable). We called them “the guys.” They provided hours of entertainment, and we’d arrange them in poses to best highlight their appendages.

Status: Now commanding an entire side table in the dining room, still joining us for dinners and delighting the newest generation of kids. "Guy" pictured here is one of the more discreet in the collection.

Perhaps most egregious was "Angelica." You’d bring your friends up to the third floor and there she was, staring down from the walls on the staircase, just holding her wolf mask over her face as one does, very serious and of course buck naked. Why, we would ask, why do we need to have such mortifying things?

Status: Still in their house, on stairs leading up to attic, still just terrible.

There was little to do but suffer. Mercifully it was also the time of Corey Hart's Never Surrender. Haywire's Black and Blue (Sandra Woodbridge!). John Waite's Missing You. To these artists I owe a great debt. It is possible my brother chose different sources of solace, though I can't imagine why.

Blurry but still highly watchable videos attached for your viewing pleasure.

 

 

Strange art

I love folk art. Mostly it’s the eyes. One’s bigger, or missing, or just crazy. Or the face: confused, stunned, snaggle-toothed – it doesn’t matter so long as it’s not quite right in the context in which it appears. Something’s got to be slightly off or funny, some element of life as we know it somehow turned upside down.

My parents instilled this fascination. They mix bizarre animals into their collection of artifacts from all over the world, and these creatures, in their weirdness, highlight the more classically stunning pieces in their house. Every time I go to there, I find myself walking up to at least one nutty character and admiring it anew. Here's dog on sheep, which hangs quietly and brilliantly in their dining room.

Dog on sheep.

And from Ukraine: 

My parents gave us crane, one of my favourite things in our house.

 

And I got us this rat, by Ottawa artist Gwendolyn Best.

One of the things I like best about some folk art is that it looks as if it might have been done by a child. Get the eyes and silliness right, and you might have created something fun. That's all I aspire to in my paintings and drawings, and I've spent countless hours just playing, not having to do anything perfect. The kids join in more often than not (with Gwendolyn Best, too!) and we spend time together that way. Here are some of our creatures.

People, people

I participated this weekend in the Women's March, like more than a million other people. I went with my mom, my daughter, and good friends, and I met other friends along the way. Marching was an incredible feeling, amplified by the growing understanding that we were part of the largest protest march ever in the world. It also felt different than I thought it might.

Before the march, I was working with a literal interpretation of the word "protest": "a statement or action expressing disapproval or objection to something." In that definition is a strong sense of the negative, because disapproval is the opposite of warm words like "support," and "for," and other such words that make you feel strong and powerful. I felt fine with that notion of protest, because I do strongly disapprove of and object to Trump and think he is dangerously mad.

But along the way, as cars blared their horns in solidarity and drivers cheered out of cars stopped for the procession; as hairdressers and baristas who couldn't march because of work stood at their windows with their hands in the air, clapping and chanting along with us; as friends met up with other friends and hugged each other for far longer than usual; as strangers squeezed up against each other and shared their stories; as happy tears welled from beautiful eyes; as tiny kids sitting on their parents' shoulders waved hand-drawn posters in the air; and so much more, I understood that this march was about more than protest.

It was also about recognition. Recognition of our universality and of how many good people with fierce and loving hearts exist in the world, and also recognition of ourselves as political citizens with voices. In many ways North Americans have become consumers more than citizens, which is reflected in depressing voting behaviour statistics and created, in part, by privileged classes having everything they need in a material sense (but still wanting more) and by poorer classes not having everything they need and being too busy trying to get what they need to be politically active. When we act as consumers more than citizens, it breaks down the potential for us to feel connected as people, because there is only so far a shared love of Pokeman Go or slow-cookers can take you emotionally. By contrast, a sense of shared values and what we want our country to stand for? A conviction that we need to save our world before global warming destroys it? A knowledge that human and women's rights could be dismantled by one terrifying man? These pressing concerns have awakened that dormant sense of ourselves as citizens, and they have also compelled us to peek out of our social media bubbles and look at each other right in the face.

I was talking with my brother last night (he marched with his family in San Francisco) and he told me about his favourite protest sign: "It's so bad, even the introverts are here." We both laughed and then shared our observations of our respective marches. He noticed people just being aware of each other. Looking at each other. Making eye contact. Being shy, then less so. And smiling. I saw the same sort of thing, this kind of astonishment and wonder at seeing so many real people all in one place and at being able to be with them so easily. My brother noted how surprised he was to see people he never thought he would see marching. How many different people there were, from all walks of life, marching. And how powerful it was, how strong we felt. How many children there were, how much we love them and how glad we were that they participated in this march with us and with all the other children there.

People ask what effect the Women's March on Washington, and all the sister marches, will really have, whether it will actually change anything. This article makes a compelling case for why it will, because there is no way the political class in the US – including both Democrats and Republicans – can ignore how quickly and massively their citizens can respond to threats to the American democracy. I want to believe this, and as I say, the argument is compelling. But what I know for sure is this: we felt our power on Saturday, and we did so in an incredibly supportive and loving environment where everyone was cheering for everyone else, for all the good in the world. We will not let go of that. We are awake and ready, and that is what has changed and keeping awake is our only hope. I think we know that now.

So what next? This is the very urgent question we're left with.

 

Throwing pillows

This weekend I became suddenly, intensely obsessed with throw pillows. We had our house painted last month, and it was a big event because we have never spent thousands of dollars on house improvements the way you are meant to if you are a house-owning adult. It felt incredibly grown-up, and I do love the colours. But I also think it spurred this weekend's alarming focus on throw pillows.

Here is the thing: I went to IKEA twice in one weekend. IKEA, on the weekend, twice. For throw-pillow issues (size, colour, texture ... I was getting everything wrong and I was determined to fix my mistakes).

For some people a weekend of throw pillows is not a crime (though daily IKEA visits are wrong for everyone). These are aesthetically-minded people who do beautiful projects in their houses, who decorate and build as a form of art. They are creative people and this is the way they express their vision and how they play. But that's not how I'm creative, I wasn't playing, and that was the problem.

I was stressing about the fact that we have very terrible furniture in our living room that we won't replace for a while because we blew this year's house-related cash on getting the house painted. I needed a quick fix, a colour hit to distract the eye from, well, cat-and-kids-mangled couch, chair, and rug (okay, and plants—the cats chew our plants like salad). I did okay—red and orange and fuchsia can't help but make you feel cheery—but I was uncomfortably aware of how I had needed to attend to the living room in order to be a proper grown-up.

On my second trip to IKEA I carted the kids with me, and by the end I was having fun ... because we got to the candle area with all its cheap, artificial-smelling $2 bits of wax in glass. We ran around sniffing them all and the kids loved each scent so desperately that we had to bring four candles home. We drove back in the car with Ben Harper's Fight for Your Mind blasting and the kids making fun of me for singing "Another Lonely Day" with earnest passion. (I am really good at this song but they aren't aware of it yet.)

Today I am burning Berry Blast (so gross) beside me as I type and I may try to resuscitate poor plant because it looks so pitiful and is calling out to me to stop its torture. It may not make it, let's be serious, but later I will listen to another song I love and give myself an hour to work away at a creative writing class that is sooooo good and the throw pillows will be there but not quite so demanding. When evening comes I will think about the lemongrass and kaffir lime leaves I have in the fridge and what awesome creation can spring from them. Play.

 

 

 

 

The Superfan

I watched a movie this week that bowled me over: The Lunchbox. It's a story about love and loss—and hope—brilliantly hinged on the lunchbox delivery system in India.

Beautiful Ila (played by Nimrat Kaur) is neglected in her marriage, and in an effort to win back her husband, every morning she makes up a delicious lunchbox that is supposed to make its way to him at his office. Somehow the normally unimpeachable delivery system goes awry and the lunchbox goes instead to a lonely, slightly older accounts manager in a government department, Saajan (Irrfan Khan). Ila's cooking is sublime, and every lunch provides Saajan with a glimmer of pleasure in his otherwise dreary day. Eventually Ila and Sajaan begin to correspond via notes tucked into the lunchbox, and what unfolds then somehow captures a dizzying array of ideas: the way grief can linger far beyond its initial blow, the slow but devastating effects of isolation, the freeing release of finding a kindred spirit, the uncharted waters of love—how many ways we can fall in love, and how different every love is.

I have covered only a fraction of the themes in the movie. The Lunchbox invites us in to India's class system to the huge bets put on its IT sector; to the changing culture in its busiest cities as tradition gives way to unrelenting modernity—leaving so many looking in helplessly from the outside; from the streets, steamy kitchens, and tiny stores that feed the lucky and employ those who never will be.

I LOVED THIS FILM. IT IS ONE OF MY FAVOURITE MOVIES EVER.

That capitalization, that bold, is how I speak about the movie to my friends, too. At my son's hockey practice last night, I bent the ears of every single parent I knew to tell them about the film, to insist that they watch it. "You HAVE to," I said, "You will love it as much as I do." I will figure out other ways of shouting out my devotion, too, over the coming days and weeks, because I can't stop thinking about this movie and needing everyone I know to watch it.

Consider that passion, that need. That intense desire to share, to recommend. Think about the 50 or more people who I will have cornered (yes, I will get physical!) to tell about the film. Of that 50:

• Maybe 15 will have already seen it. They will be reminded of their feelings about the film, and this may jog their minds the next time anyone asks them, "Seen any good movies lately?"
• Maybe 10 will have never heard of it, and now they really, really will have (!).
• Maybe 20 will have heard about it, and my fervent case for watching the film will convince them to check it out more seriously.
• And maybe, just maybe, I''ll get 10 people to watch it.

Also: I will enjoy spreading the word about the film. I will because it means something personal to me—The Lunchbox touched me and I obviously feel that it says something about the world, about our relationships in it, that I want to be connected to, to share with others.

At this point, I would like to claim the title of a superfan. There are legions of us, and we trumpet the books, films, TV shows, restaurants, and brands that we adore.

We are important, because we are the ultimate word-of-mouth ambassadors. Brands know we are, but some do better than others at leveraging our passion.

It doesn't take much, either, to get a little boost from us. After watching The Lunchbox, I tweeted my love for the film and its stars, without even a hashtag—and its production company, Dar Motion Pictures, did the following:

• Found my tweet;
• Favourited my tweet;
• Retweeted my tweet;
• Replied to my tweet, thanked me, and asked me to tell them what my favourite scene in the movie was—while making sure to allow enough space to include #TheLunchbox.

My response? A blush of pleasure. A quick reply, no two. In the first I mentioned my favourite scene. After tweeting it I realized it was not enough to mention just one favourite scene—I needed at least one more, and good heavens, I had forgotten to include the hashtag in my first tweet. So the second tweet, good and hashtagged, made me feel better, like I had done a better service for the film.

BUT IT WAS NOT ENOUGH!

Look at this blog post. Dar Motion Pictures' savvy response to my tweet prompted this blog post.

This all makes me think, and not just because I could watch Saajan slowly inspect each lunchbox and savour the first, life-changing bites of Ila's creations forever. It makes me think because not only am I a superfan, I am involved in an industry (publishing) that can so leverage our species. Some of us are doing better than others at that (I could certainly improve in my work).

Can you believe what one movie can do? Not just a movie—a treasure trove of marketing insights!

Also:

THE LUNCHBOX: WATCH IT!

 

Here's a trailer: