Wednesday, November 30, 2005

He's Got My Business

I went to the garage today to replace the summer tires on my car to winter ones. When I dropped the car off, I asked Rick, the garage owner of Toronto Motors on Vaughan Road, how much the tire exchange would cost. He said it's $20 per tire plus $5 to do the valve, so it will be $100 total.

When I came home, I talked to The Man who said, it shouldn't be that much. While he couldn't remember how much it was when he brought the car in last year, he didn't think it was $100.

When I picked the car up, Rick said, I thought we had to put the tires on the rim first. But your winter tires are already on the rim so it cuts down the cost three times. It's $25 to change the tires. Plus $5 because we found a little tear in one of the tires and we repaired it and positioned it so when we inflated the tire, the rubber would expand to seal the tear. Otherwise, you would get a slow leak over the winter.

Rick will be my new mechanic from now on.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Guest Spot #4 on the Jerry Show

Guest 1: I told you not to do it but no, you wouldn't listen.

Guest 2: How was I gonna know they'd do that?

Jerry: So despite warnings from guest 1, you knowingly sprayed them with STP?

Guest 2: Yeah but I didn't know they'd mutate, did I?

Guest 1: That's 'cause you never listern. I told you they were from outta space.

Guest 2: Well I didn't see no *bleep* space ship and you're no *bleep* astronaut.

Jerry: But it's true that you created mutant termites.

Guest 1: Hundred and hundreds of them. In his basement.

Guest 2: I hope they suck your brains out.

Maybe this is more a National Enquirer item.

Monday, November 28, 2005

My Jerry Springer-like Life

I bet Shakespeare would have had a good time with Jerry Springer. Maybe the Greek gods would have gone to their party. I have to tie Jerry to literary classics, otherwise, current events would make me, well, just a Jerry creature. This is what could happen on his show:

Guest Spot #1

Guest 1: It's my life, I marry who I want.

Guest 2: He's all wrong for you.

Jerry: Guest 1 is saying you have no business interferring with who she marries. Why do you interfere?

Guest 2: 'Cause she don't know what's good for her. She's lost her mind. He's warped her. He's got all kinds of problems and she ain't paying no attention to them.

Guest 1: I'm the one who's marrying him, not you. Stay out.

Jerry: Guest 2 says she's looking out for you, that he's not suitable for you. Do you think that's true?

Guest 1: Fuck off, Jerry.


Guest Spot #2

Guest 1: What? You'd rather make your mother sick and see her die than to see your brother's family spend time with her?

Guest 2: She's my mother too. Why should his family spend time with her and not mine?

Guest 1: Because you're not here. You're just making a fuss because you're jealous that your mother might love your brother more than you.

Jerry: Is that true? Would you rather see your mother dead than to know she loves your brother more than you?

Guest 2: No. Because she don't love my brother more. She loves me more.


Guest Spot #3

Jerry: Let me get this straight. You want him to quit school because he's not doing well in it.

Guest 1: That's right. He's fooling around wasting time and failing anyway so why's he in school? He should get a job. The newspaper will hire him to deliver flyers for the rest of his life.

Jerry: How do you feel about being a newspaper delivery boy till you're 60?

Guest 2: If my friends are doing that too, then I guess that's okay.

Recent events never unfolded this way of course, it just felt like they did.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Speed

I had my first highway driving lesson today. I am a seasoned driver, for over 25 years. But for 20 years, I have not driven on the highway. It's time to re-acquire that mobility.

My brother, a former driving instructor, took me out. We went on and off the highway a few times and finally sped our way into Bowmanville, where we stopped for coffee.

I am an excellent crisis manager. Thrown suddenly into a crisis, I generally do well and even take over leadership of a situation. But when I stop, my latent reaction kicks in. That's when I collapse, crack up, or crawl under the bed and quiver.

So when we stopped for coffee in Bomanville, I felt my fear.

The highway speed limit is 100. But staying with the flow of traffic means going 120, often faster, and still cars pass you on the left. Changing lanes? Not so bad when there are few cars, but paralyzing at that speed when cars are everywhere. Mirror, blindspot, signal, mirror, blindspot. I didn't always do that. I nearly hit a car. Bro said we were never in danger, he was in control the whole time and would have grabbed the steering wheel if I hadn't swerved back. Unlike city driving, where you have many opportunities to stop at lights or pull over to a curb, you can't stop for a breather on the highway. You can, but you have to maneuver your way to an off ramp and look for a safe spot somewhere in a strange town.

But bro's a pro. He said, It's just practice. He saw when I was gripping tightly on the steering wheel, even through my gloves. I wonder if he saw the sweat in my hands. He knew when I was holding my breath and told me to take a deep one. He read my mind and offered words of encouragement when I thought, God, my life is in your hands.

But in that coffee shop, my heart palpitated more than when I was driving. The adrenaline kicked in and I couldn't sit down for a long time. I grew fearful remembering how fast I was going on the highway. The mere thought of keeping with traffic at 120 made me panic. I felt a few bouts of lightheadedness and wondered if I was coming down with something. I was exhausted. I thought I would have a breakdown if I got back on the highway again. So bro drove us back, with me deep breathing discreetly on the passenger side.

I document this to get my fear out of me. Even now, as I relive the experience, the room spun a little, my heart rate just picked up, and I'm having trouble breathing. But I am visualizing my competence and driving smoothly on the highway. Cars are all around me, but I handle the car safely. Mirror, blindspot, oop, car. Mirror, blindspot, signal, mirror, blindspot, I just made a lane change without slowing down. I'm good.

Saturday, November 26, 2005

On The Street Where I Live - 6

The Wealthy Bag Lady

At the bottom of our street is an abandoned house. I never realized the house was abandoned until recently because the front yard is mowed once in a while. Word on the street is, the house belongs to a wealthy bag lady. She has something like $3 million in assets. But she suffers from mental illness and has chosen to live on the street. Some long-time residens of our street say they see this woman downtown sometimes, pushing her buggy of blankets and clothes, asking for handouts at street corners.

This summer, a neighbour was walking by the house when she looked up into the second floor window. Four eyes blinked back at her. She gave a little gasp and hurried home to phone the city. The city came to investigate. The workmen scooted the raccoons out and boarded the house up. They said they have not been able to collect property tax on the house for many years, but they were not in a position to confiscate the house. So the house sits there now, windows and doors boarded up. I found out the house's next door neighbour has been mowing the front yard. That way, the next door neighbour wouldn't have to look at neglect and shamble when they walk by each day.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Why I Love The Hood

The thing I love about shopping at the No Frills in this neighbourhood is the camaraderie between the older Italian shoppers and me.

Yesterday afternoon, I was shopping for a few items. I grabbed a clear plastic bag and walked up to the green beans where an older Italian woman was staring hesitantly at the produce. The beans look sickly and withered to me.

I said, "Do they look good to you?"

She answered, "Not really."

An old man came out of no where, ran a a few beans through his fingers and chuckled, "They look like they were picked last year," shaking his head.

I said, "I'll have to buy broccoli instead then."

The woman said, "They look better. But I need beans for tonight."

So I went off to get my broccoli, she reluctantly picked through the green beans, and the old man went back to examining the green peppers.

The Man in Yemen had asked me to send him a chunk of parmesan. So I stood in front of the cheese case looking at the chunks of cheese. I picked up one that could have been parmesan. But there was just a label with the manufacturer name, expiry date and price on it. There was no clear indication it was parmesan. I said to the stock boy near me, "Is this parmesan?"

Suddenly, three old Italian men surrounded me, saying,

"No, no way. That's not parmesan. This is parmesan." They showed me the parmesan, which said parmesan on the wrapper. One of them said,

"You want a big piece or small piece?"

I said, "A big piece."

Big mistake. I won't detail the banter that ensued between these old men at my expense. It was short but fun. Made me feel at one with my neighbours.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

To The Lighthouse, To Sleep

I hate reading Virginia Woolf.

For my book club, I am reading To The Lighthouse. I read this book in university. Did an essay on it even. But I have no recollection of what the book's about. And no wonder. I need a translator. I need some action to keep me awake. It is an annoying book obsessive in minutiae.

Oh sure, there are literary techniques at play - the utterance of a phrase that sets off different reactions in various characters, revealing aspects of human nature, a phrase becomes the common element that strings the characters together, there are observations that detail the supposed richness of the inner life, there is the slow tracing of the passage of time, the setting and speech that evoke the social milieu of Woolf's intellengentsia at the turn of the last century.

Stream of consciousness writing is necessarily flighty writing. You drift from one character's mind to the next in a continuous stream. Yeah, yeah, if you paid caffeinated attention, you pick up cues about the characters' personalities. You get a glimpse into each character's nature, views about life, relationship with other characters. But you know, I don't care about the characters and their petty concerns. I don't want to know the minutiae of their self-important observations. The details bore me, the characters frustrate me, the narrative obstructs me, the tone and language baffle me.

I was once fascinated by Woolf, a female writer who captured all of the above and more, despite her ongoing depression and the condescension toward feminist expression of the time. I had trouble accepting that a woman of her talent would kill herself. But now I think, god, if I were that obsessive with petty details, I'd kill myself too.

I once found her work artistry exemplified, her insight into the mind and its vacillations brilliant. But now her writing just bugs me. I wonder if that's a function of aging. I have no patience for my own brooding, nevermind someone else's, and a fictional someone at that.

Yet, I loved The Hours, the movie based on Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. Right, that's because The Hours is Mrs. Dalloway translated, moved to a different medium, the theme updated and applied in more relevant contexts. Fine, she's still brilliant. I just hate reading her.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Different Strokes

A few days ago, I had a chance to get some brand new, brand name skis for The Boy, cheap. At 75% off. I was tempted. But in the end, I declined.

I couldn't see the practical value of The Boy owning skis right now. As I am cleaning out the house and shed, and calling in charity agencies to cart away our excess clutter, I didn't want to have skis around that I have to polish and store. Not when The Boy has not committed to ski lessons this year.

But that got me to thinking that I may have different values than most of my fellow pilgrims on the road of life. Given that we live in a consumer-oriented society where acquisition of goods is a common goal, I think it's unusual to turn down a bargain. And this is not the first "deal" I rejected.

One Christmas, my brother-in-law offered The Boy the newest Play Station system on the market. I was adamant in refusing it. Instead, I accepted for The Boy a scooter, which gets him moving around, outside.

I reasoned that The Boy had enough computerized and electronic gadgetry to sabotage his time and keep him nerdy. I didn't need one more thing to yell at him about. I didn't want to support a system where acquisition of the latest fad game is a way of life. I did agree that every six months or so, I would take him and a friend to the then Playdium, where for $25 each, they could play video and arcade games for half a day.

A friend said at the time, three visits to Playdium would cost me $150. That would pay for the Play Station and more. It didn't make economic sense for me to choose Playdium over a home system. I said, Over the long term, it would cost me monetarily. But that's my investment in family harmony. For the sake of our family unity - elimination of causes that make me yell at The Boy and spending more time together, it was a bargain.

To reduce distraction and open up opportunities for quality time, The Man and I discontinued our cable service several years back. We realized we were spending more time with the TV than with each other. Oh The Boy complains of being deprived, but that hasn't stopped him from knowing about all the reality shows on TV, and this year, from introducing his cabled and satellited friends to The Family Guy, Lost, Alias, The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives.

Nor has he ever been in the dark about Play Station and Nintendo games. Nor does he lack skiing skills. So do we really need to own anything? I think I hear the Nomads calling from their caravans.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Different Folks

While having dinner with some friends this week, I realized this couple understood why The Man went to Yemen. In an e-mail, The Man said to his friend, at Christmas he may go to Uganda, the land of his birth. The friend said to me, It's in his blood, the need to pursue romantic ideas.

When I think about it, I believe most of our friends and family don't understand why The Man went to Yemen. For as long as I have known him, The Man has wanted to work abroad. He kept applying to jobs at the UN. His parents were working in Uganda when The Man was born. His brother worked in Saudi Arabia for a year. At retirement, his father tried to go to Oman, but it didn't pan out.

When a friend of The Man's got into the UN in 1990, The Man looked for opportunities there too. Wait a sec, I said at the time, I'm about to give birth. Why do you want to leave? He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't help putting in an application all the same. He's put in a few more in the last few years.

But this year, the opportunity came up. He had just finished his MBA. He had been talking with two UN agencies. Yemen panned out first.

But The Man had concerns too: He's not a young buck any more, how could he leave his family, and what will he come back to? In the end, I wanted him to go, knowing I would miss him like crazy. Because if he didn't go now when the opportunity was here, when would he go? He has a vision of us living abroad, travelling to different cultures and learning to speak different languages. My vision is that we would do that, and we would also be doing work that brings greater meaning and satisfaction. If things work out, his going to Yemen brings us one step closer to realizing these visions. And if Yemen doesn't work out, he would come back that much more enriched, and just imagine the stories he has to tell, as his mother would say. And besides, I needed time to sort out my own issues.

So The Man turned down two job offers and put other contacts on hold to go to Yemen.

Already, he's picking up Arabic. Right this minute, I think he's attending the 9th European Film Festival at the Yemen Culture Centre. Free admission, says the poster.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Fluffy Thighs

If you stand far enough back from a mirror, you can see most of your body. For that reason, I am often glad we live in a small house and I can't stand too far back from any mirror to look at my entire body.

But if you are out shopping for pants and you look at yourself in the full length mirror in the change room, you see yourself with your new pants on, and without any pants on.

When women get to a certain age or a certain weight, they complain of thigh rub. At first, your pants go swish-swish-swish as you walk. Then you get distraught once you figure out what's making that noise.

But when you unexpectly see yourself in the mirror, as when you have no pants on in the change room, and you see a fluffy fold of dimply, doughy flesh attached to the inner thigh of each leg, you get scared, really scared. Your first thought is, Oh my god, whose legs are those? Who's taken over my body? Your second thought is, Oh no, I have some weird disease.

When it sinks in that those fluffy thighs belong to you, you get depressed and angry. How could nature allow such grotesque things to happen, to you?

I'm not saying I have rubbing fluffy thighs. I'm just saying that's probably what would happen if one discovered fluffy thighs on oneself.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Teen Voices

The Boy is 15. Most of his friends are also 15. He is a young 15-year-old. His friends are also young. This is the highest compliment I can pay a teenager, saying they are young. The Boy and his friends are highly intelligent, responsible, independent, good natured and good humoured, comfortable with themselves, and coddled enough that they delight in being young and carefree. They have no fear about growing up, they enjoy being their age and living in the present, without pressuring each other to grow up too fast, they indulge in fairly innocent pursuits. It is my great delight and privilege to spend time with them, which they don't mind either, sitting around, talking and laughing with a mom or two.

Except when The Boy gets phone calls. Because they are confident teenagers in that in-between stage, most of them have articulate, steady voices, but still voices on the high side, and ever so polite. Some of them sound like women. People often say The Boy sounds like me.

This morning, someone phoned. The Boy was still asleep, so I picked up the call. A voice at the other end asked for The Boy. Because The Boy is involved in several school activities, I really thought it was one of The Boy's teachers calling. I said,

"The Boy isn't available right now. Is there something I can help you with?"

"No thank you. I would like to speak to The Boy himself."

"Can I let him know who's calling then?"

"Sure, it's Friend. I want to see if we can get together for Warhammer today."

I paused. In a split second, my mind went, What the? Why does this woman want to play Warhammer with my boy. Oh, right, it's Boy's Friend, not strange lady. I've met this Friend before, I just have never spoken to him on the phone.

I resumed my poise (I usually have one) and said, "Okay, I'll let him know you phoned. Thanks for calling."

That was weird.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Dancing Dames

Last week, I joined a dance class with a friend. The classes are a kind of earth mother chakra healing thing.

In class, we were each given a red sash. It is for us to wear, to remind us that the first chakra - the foundation of our being, is red. This chakra corresponds to our sense of survival, our grounding. It brings us health, prosperity and security. Sure, I can work on that.

The instructor, an attractive young woman, told us to curl up into a ball, stick our bums in the air, and breath through our bum hole.

Since that class, my friend says she has trouble getting that image out of her head. Me neither. But not from an overactive imagination. It was from an overactive stomach. I was an embarrassment of riches that night. It took everything out of me to let air pass, silently. I am not sure I enjoyed the class, I was so focused on not drawing attention to myself that way.

And the young women in class, they hopped, skipped and bounced. I don't bounce. Because bouncing produces noise that way when you have a reactive stomach. Try it. My survival instinct was in tact though. I survived the class and no one was any wiser to my situation.

I didn't make it to this week's class. The chakra worked on was orange. It represents our emotions and sexuality. I wonder if I would have been laughing, crying or writhing on the floor.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

It's Ear Wax

I am reading a book called Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. It was written in 1937. Despite its American tone and penchant for making absolute statements, I can't get over this book. Every self-help book I have come across on any subject is based on this book, including topics on vibration and development of the sixth sense.

One of the things Hill says is, people do and think what they are used to (plus a whole lot more about how to change what you don't like in your life). So true.

My mother phoned last night in a shrill and panic demanding to know why her ear was plugged up.

I thought about it and said, "Maybe you are coming down with a cold. When I get sick, I get buzzing in my ear and I experience dizziness. Is your ear swollen? No. Do you have a headache? No. Are you dizzy? No. Then let's wait and see what happens in the morning. Sometimes these things go away by themselves. The Boy sometimes complains of his ears burning and in the morning, he's fine." I had this exchange with her because those are the ear experiences I've had.

My friend, who was with me, said, "Maybe it's ear wax." That's what she's familiar with.

When my mother consulted with my sister the doctor, my sister told her about the kinds of brain cancer that could cause a plugged ear sensation. She works with cancer patients. That's what she's familiar with. Mom said that had her worried all night, and I'm not going to consult with my sister about any of my illnesses again.

In the morning, my mother phoned back to say her ear is fine. She took a cotton swab and cleaned out her ear. Now she's back to normal. I suggested she ask her doctor to drain her ear next time she sees him. She's good with that and I am glad my friend was right.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Catholic Schools

This week, local media reported that 16 students at James Cardinal McGuigan Catholic Secondary School in North York were arrested for sexually assaulting a 14-year-old girl over a period of 18 months.

When this story came out, I was outraged that gang assault and harrassment should happen at all, that the school where it took place should be a Catholic one at that. I am biased against our Catholic school system. I have little faith in the system's ability to cultivate responsible citizens, all the while incurring favourable tax benefits. When I see teenagers conducting themselves destructively, they are invariably in a group, wearing Catholic school uniforms.

For example, near where we live is a Catholic high school. Often, when I am on the streetcar and the crowded streetcar pulls in at the stop where the school is, male students in uniform bang on the streetcar and shake it, because they aren't able to get on. They damage public property and put the lives of passenger at risk by being so unruly.

Just north of The Boy's high school is also a Catholic high school. Once, riding down the bus to get to his school, the bus was assaulted by students from this school throwing snow balls at it. A snow ball hit the driver. He stopped and called for reinforcement.

A large group of students from the same school went down to The Boys' school and harrassed some boys there, trying to start a gay-bashing. The Boys' school had a lock down that afternoon and called in the police. Were they crazy or just stupid? Did they think staff at The Boy's school would not notice? Was it because at their Catholic school, they are used to teachers turning a blind eye to student conduct after 3:oo PM?

And then there are those Catholic priests convicted of sexually molesting boys in their charge.

The news yesterday reported the accused students from James Cardinal McGuigan were in court and were granted bail and released on $1,500 each. But one of the accused's sister said, "I didn't see one white person (at the police station). All these black parents were there, puzzled." Another parent was quoted as saying, "All the accused are black while the victim is white. This is an injustice."

There was more information about the parents suspecting the charges were trumped-up. The process for arresting the students and informing the parents was not fair. One parent called for the black community to stand together to fight this.

This has suddenly become a race issue.

But what about the original charge? Did these students sexually bully and assault someone regardless of their race?

And why are Catholic school students so prone to gang misconduct? What are Catholic schools teaching their students? It's true, I've already condemned these students. I judge them not because they are black. I judge them because they are products of the Catholic school system.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Telltale Signs

At the supermarket check out yesterday, I saw a man ring through:

- 3 boxes of Hungry Man 1 lb dinners
- 1 package of spaghetti
- 1 jar spaghetti sauce
- 1 bottle mouth wash
- 1 bag apples
- 2 boxes of Kitty Klump (cat litter)

Think he was single? I think he was single.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Excuse Me, I Voiped!

So skype me already.

I used the voice over internet protocol (VOIP) technology and talked to The Man using my computer.

It is the most amazing thing. I bought a USB headset with a mike and downloaded the free Skype software. The Man did the same. We each created a user name in Skype. We made sure we were at the computer at the same time, with Skype launched.

On the Skype screen, The Man clicked Find and typed in my Skype user name. When it came up, he clicked Call.

At my end, the computer, the computer! rang. Okay, it was the Skype software ringing. Connection was made via the Internet. I clicked Answer, and The Man and I talked! For free.

His voice was an octave or three lower. Or maybe that's computer-altered voice. But he came through the computer's speaker. I could have broadcasted our conversation. But I needed the mike to be able to talk to him. There was no tinny echo nor the one-second time lag that phone calls seem to have. I will try talking and e-mailing at the same time next time.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Gravedigging

Today, we marked the one year passing of my father, according to the lunar calendar.

In the morning, my brothers, sister and I accompanied our mother to lay flower at my father's grave and to bow in remembrance and respect. The Chinese call it "han san" - literally, walk the mountain.

My sister and I brought pots of poinsettas and gerberas. When we got to the site, we were disconcerted to see a shovel lying on the grave. My brother was already there. He had just finished planting a small pine tree beside the grave stone. My other brother and mother then arrived, carrying pots of chrysanthemums.

On seeing the shovel, my mother said, "Let's plant the mums. That way, they will grow back in the spring." She picked up the shovel and started digging at the front of the grave stone. She is 69. We four able-bodied, adult children stood by and watched, somewhat taken aback. At least my brother dug beside the grave stone, not on top of where dad's buried. A few scoops of earth later, I couldn't stand it any more. I said, "Let me do this for you," and took the shovel from my mother.

I dug a hole about eight inches deep and wide enough to squish in four pots of chrysanthemums. We removed the plants from their pots and put them into the earth. My mother shovelled the soil to cover the roots. But it was difficult getting the soil in behind the plants against the grave stone. So I knelt down and used my hands to scoop in the earth.

My sister walked away, feeling nauseated.

When I finished, I thought, my dad would have done that - taken the shovel from my mom and patted the earth back in place with his hand. Still, my stomach churned and I too felt queasy, knowing I had just dug at my father's grave, with my bare hands at that.

But it was something my mother wanted done. I think dad too would have wanted to plant the flowers - to make them last longer. Sometimes, I think I would have made a better son than a daughter, because I answer the call. In Imperial China, when a man is drafted into service, his son could take his place if he was sick or too old. I think I would have gone to war for my father. Maybe I am like Mulan, the woman who disguised herself as a man to take her father's place in the army. Maybe it's not that I would have made a good son. It's more that I am a daughter who answers the call.

I like that the first anniversary of my father's passing fell on today, November 11. It's Remembrance Day. It is also The Man's grandfather's birthday. I found his grave and left poinsettas there. An hour away from us, there is a memorial service for my brother-in-law's grandfather, who passed away a few weeks ago. My dad is in good company today.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Night Dishes

I don't understand the dishes in our sink.

I'm a late-to-bed-early-to-riser. The Man went to bed late, but he slept in on weekends. The Boy wants to go to bed later but goes around 11:00 p.m. under protest. I don't know what time he actually falls asleep.

All this is to say, we go to bed at different times. I know that for each of us, just before bedtime, we have a drink of water, juice or tea. That should only be three cups left on the kitchen counter overnight. And even when we have an overnight guest, we should have only four glasses out on the counter or in the sink overnight.

But something must happen in the middle of the night that none of us are aware of or remember. Often, in the morning, I find a sinkful of used dishes, pots and pans sitting on the counter. I don't remember us being that thirsty or hungry at night. But we must've partaken of sustenance or had a party or something.

This week, The Man is still away, The Boy is in New York, I have no house guests. I only have myself to account for. I still find the same sinkful of dishes in the morning.

Am I eating that much in the middle of the night? Am I really not doing the dinner dishes? Are they in fact breakfast dishes? What kind of habit do I have that I am not noticing?

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

On The Street Where I Live - 5

Transformation

Up at the north end on our side of the street sat a dark, decrepit, fenced in house for many years. Dead trees and dry hedges stood against the rusted and crumpled wire fence to seal this house from the nosy. The kids called this the haunted house. If you peeked through the dead foilage anyway, you see the house was made of fallen steps, chipped brick and broken windows. The house looked old, dirty and neglected. You'd think someone smeared wet clay and mud all over the house and windows then left it to dry. But full green garbage bags sat on the sidewalk in front of the house on garbage days. Sure signs of human habitation.

A few years back, some neighbours and I organized an annual street party. We notified all the neighbours of the date and set to making it happen. For three years in a row, we received nasty notes from the haunted house, accusing us of being homophobic. Huh? What, how, why did they say that? Who were these people? Turns out the date we chose for our street party - Saturday of the Summer Solstice, always coincided with Gay Pride Day so the residents of this house had to attend the parade and could not take part in the street party. They told us this in the last note they sent us. Yet, I wonder why in previous years they did not volunteer to be on our planning committee to help set the date for the street party since we put out a call for volunteers six months in advance. And are we not faced with choices everyday? They chose the parade over the street party. Why not enjoy that instead of complain?

This year, the house was suddenly cleared of debris. The dead trees and plants were taken away. The house was repaired and cleaned. New plants were put in. Over this past year, the house has been transformed. It now stands bright and beautiful with no fences. Baskets of fruit and flowers often sit at the door, beckoning passersby to knock. I still don't know who lives there.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Our Halloween Pumpkins

Click on the picture and you get a closer look.


True Story...
On Halloween day, my sister-in-law was listening to CBC Radio One. The host asked listeners to call in with unusual plans for Halloween.

My SIL's husband was away and she wanted to take her children trick-or-treating, but she didn't want to disappoint kids who came to her door. So she gave her candies to her neighbour at 109, and carved the pumpkin below, directing kids next door where they could obtain her treats.

She thought that was an unusual thing to do, so she wrote an e-mail to the radio station. Two minutes later, they were reading her e-mail on the radio and talking about her Halloween plans!

Mud Brown

I received a meme from someone the other day. One of the questions on it was, If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?

I felt for my colour for a moment and decided, mud brown. In fact, I am mud brown most of the time. It's true I wasn't feeling particularly cheerful at that moment. But that's not why I am mud brown.

I took a drawing course this Spring with the wonderful Barbara Klunder, artist, designer, and creator of the Klunder fonts. I like drawing on kraft paper (sandwich bag paper) because the paper is textured and forgiving. I make lots of mistakes. To work mistakes into master pieces, Barbara held up two colours and said, If you can find these colours on their own, buy them. These are the secret colours that masters use to give oomph to their work.

The colours were forest green and mud brown.

Mud brown is not dark or chocolate brown. It is that clayish brown, like dried mud. On its own, it looks dull and innocuous. But it holds the power to transform its surroundings. If you've made your drawing too dark, mud brown lightens it. If you've made your drawing too light, mud brown give it contrast, tone and grounds it. Mud brown neutralizes and balances, bringing wholeness and harmony to a drawing. Mud brown is a high functioning colour, gold to an artist. I am mud brown.

And the person who sent me the meme, she's forest green.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Handicap

I can't read anything any more without eyeglasses. In the car, I often get The Boy to look at maps and tell me which way to go because I can't see the tiny print. Because I've been doing a lot of reading lately, I've been wearing my glasses more. I feel somewhat handicapped.

I am reminded of a young woman who was also "handicapped".

Years ago, a family friend from France came to visit. One of the reasons this man came to Toronto was to look for an au pair opportunity for his 17-year-old daughter. He was concerned about her welfare.

His family was fairly comfortable and all his children had post-secondary education, so I asked him what was particularly worrying about this daughter. He said,

"She's the youngest and she's trying to grow up in a hurry. She's handicapped."

"You mean she has a physical handicap or you feel her situation is handicapped."

"No, she is physically handicapped. Here, take a look." He pulled out a photograph of her from his wallet.

The girl in the photograph was stunningly beautiful and glamorous. In fact, I wondered if the photograph was a mere school photo or part of a professionally prepared modelling portfolio.

I said, "What's her handicap?'

He said, "Well you see she's very beautiful, no?"

"Yes."

"She knows that and wants to be a model. See her lips, they are very full."

"Yes."

"The boys like that."

"So...?"

"So she spends all her time with boys, clothes and makeup, and not on school. I need to get her away from France to do something more wholesome, where there are no boys to distract her."

Not ever having had the problem of his daughter, I could not suggest a remedy for her handicap.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Am I My Mother-in-law?

I rented a steam carpet cleaner and spent the last two days steam cleaning all the rugs and chairs in the house. The amazing thing was, with each change of water, I saw a thick wad of dirt at the bottom of the pail. That's dirt that came off the chairs and couches that I sit on everyday.

But if that's not disturbing enough, my mother-in-law, kind soul that she is, has phoned me a few times since The Man left for Yemen, to inquire after The Boy and I. Each time, she asks,

"Are you cleaning everything in the house?"

And I've answered, "Why, yes I am. In fact, I just rented a steam carpet cleaner..." And I tell her about my plans to clean up other things, like the back yard.

She says, "Mhmm, mhmm, that's good. It's important to keep busy and tidy." She says this as if it's a totally normal thing for a woman to clean house in the middle of the day, everyday. When I should be going to the gym. When I should be looking for a job. When I should be taking classes towards my M.A. So...did The Man end up marrying his mother after all?

I think not quite. Despite all the cleaning, the house doesn't look any cleaner. Until I recover from the exhaustion of all the cleaning and put back the things I moved aside to steam clean, the house is in greater disarray. My mother-in-law would never have allowed that.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

On The Street Where I Live - 4

The Daily Tryst

Near the top of our street lived a young Oriental couple. I was friendly with their next door neighbour.

The years that my friend lived there, she stayed home to look after her young children. Her complaint was that almost everyday in the middle of the afternoon, she could hear the young couple next door having sex, loudly. Our street is home to mostly little semi-detached houses. My friend's is one of them. The first time she heard the sex sounds, she went outside to look around. She saw the couple through the front window, naked, groping each other, which made her run back inside quickly to stop her children from coming out to the porch. It was awkward because her children asked a few times, What's that noise? Why is someone screaming? My friend started to time her children's nap to the neighbour's daily trysts so the children wouldn't ask about the activities next door.

The sexing couple has since moved away. My friend has also moved away when their children got bigger.