That's What I'm Talking About

It's the weather. This warm sunny weather fools us into thinking it's summer and makes us all act a little crazy.

You'd never know that I am old enough to be someone's grandmother, if my life had taken a different turn. True. Years ago, I took a course at the university and in class was a 34-year-old woman. She proudly announced she had just became a grandmother. A grandmother at 34! Hey, I'm old enough to be someone's great-grandmother! So given my age, you'd never have guessed I would be so excited to be going to the Ricky Martin concert on Monday. He's just the cutest and sexiest man, gay or not.

Yesterday, The Boy came home from a sleepover. Around 1 pm, he said, I'm hungry. I suggested we go to Boom, a neighbourhood breakfast eatery that recently opened up. He said, What's Boom? I am quite sure I told him it was a restaurant and that we would leave soon as I changed into a fresh shirt. But according to him, I jumped around and chanted Boom, Boom, Boom, without answering him. Which made him mad as he had no idea what was going on. And we got into an argument, with him accusing me of prancing about in my own world and ignoring him, and me saying I have no idea what he was talking about. How could we be so far apart in our interpretation of a simple exchange?

Today, as I went about my house chores, The Man stayed outside building a box, The Boy sat in front of the computer doing his homework. It was a marvelous day. Our next door neighbour was working out in the back yard as well. We invited them over for a burger at dinner time. Another neighbour from up the street knocked on our door. She was walking home with some groceries and stopped by to borrow a ladder. When The Man and I rested in the backyard a bit, we overheard a neighbour from behind calling out to another neighbour a few houses down. We heard "Hello, hello there! How was your winter?" Then the two of them chatted about their gardening. That's why we live where we do. It's so great to have the neighbours out and see all of us connecting in different ways.

So in this even, happy rhythm of life, it occurred to me I had not jumped around and shouted Boom Boom Boom when The Boy said he was hungry. I jumped around and screamed Ricky Ricky Ricky when I found out I would be seeing Ricky Martin. So I asked The Boy if that could have been the case. He seemed taken aback, not sure whether I was right or not. Slowly, he acknowledged, Maybe.

It's this weather melding our memories as we settle into an unfurling of winter promises hatching on warm days and flowing into new beginnings.

Little Miracles

It's hard not to acknowledge the miracles in my life sometimes.

We spent last night with a furniture builder to design a wall unit for The Boy's room. I was hoping to build the thing for about $2,000, but I could scrimp for the next two months and go as high as $2,500.

I liked the woman very much. It was clear we were on the same wavelength about the functionality and look of the unit. But she provided a quote of $4,000. We negotiated and made changes to the material to lower the price a bit. Then she said many of her customers are asking for similar units because they all seem to have teenagers these days. So if we allow her to take photographs of the finished unit for promotional purposes, she would do the unit for us for $3,000.

I said I would call her in the morning to let her know.

This morning, The Man received his tax refund. He received $500 more than expected. Wow, what timing. So I phoned the furniture builder with a go-ahead for the wall unit.

Either someone is looking out for us or The Boy is one lucky guy. Thank you very much.

Sleeping With The Enemy

Until recently, my sleep gear has been a t-shirt and track pants. I am not one to get fancy and fussy. In my younger days, I could not relate to women who did their hair and fussed about how they looked when they went to bed. For god sake, neither you nor anyone else see you when you are sleeping. These were not the women I connected with.

But for the last year or so, undenial changes to my body and my circadian rhythm - I sleep poorly, my periods are shorter - suggest I have entered perimenopause.

The most drastic change has been an increase in body temperature. Not hot flashes. I am just generally warmer than everyone else in the room. I insist on lowering the heat and opening windows while The Man and The Boy shiver in sweaters and socks. When my mother comes for dinner, I strip down to my tank top and turn up the heat so she would take her coat off.

Being such a hot woman, I wake up several times a night from sweating. I can no longer sleep in my track pants. This sent me to the stores looking for lighter sleepwear. Fortunately, a Joe Fresh opened in the hood this year. I love Joe.

They sell stylish, casual cotton clothing. Cheap. Really cheap. Most of all, they have a good selection of sleepwear with clean, simple lines in soft colours. None of the bold patterned, cutesy, garish gear of department stores. This past winter, I picked up some moccasin slippers. Warm without my feet shouting at me. Last week, I picked up a pair of pink silk slippers. Very nice. Looking pretty under my new pink pajama bottons.

I didn't mind that there were 70-year-old ladies buying the same clothes as me. In fact, I picked up several pairs of pajamas with short, capri and long bottoms, and we giggled at each other about how reasonably priced the store was.

I gotta to say, not only am I comfortable sleeping in my new pajamas, I feel darn feminine. I now go to bed and sink into sleep. Yes, my bed is a place of rest, not a battleground. I don't have to be ready to out run anyone there. I don't need my t-shirts and track pants any more. Why did I ever scoff at pretty pajamas?

Topsy-Turvy

I was thinking how like the Mad Hatter women are - madly donning different hats to fulfill our many obligations. We've gone crazy even as we are hosting tea parties.

One of the hats I thought I was wearing with pride, or at least a sense of accomplishment and that I am fulfilling my duty in taking care of my family, is that of the housekeeper. I thought I kept a pretty clean house.

Today, we are getting our ducts cleaned. The Man initiated this cleaning because I've had a cough for at least six months now, and after trying all kinds of medication, the cough won't go away.

The duct cleaning guys are in the house now, piping into the house with their suction hoses and vacuum truck. It's noisy. And embarrassing. They've moved some furniture around to gain access to the furnace. I had no idea how much dirt, dust and debris could collect along the edge of the wall where a dresser has been sitting. I've never thought to vacuum around the furnace.

As I hear things being sucked out of the ducts, the workmen are saying to me, "Hear that? There are rocks in your ducts." Rocks? Must be drywall pieces The Man left here and there when he does repairs around the house.

Worse, these guys are pointing out all the fire hazards in my house! From our plastic dryer exhaust vent (should be metal, the plastic is coated to burst into flames) to the dresser in front of the furnace (should leave at least 2 ft clear because that's how far fire jumps if the furnace bursts into flame).

So while the workmen were here, they sold me on cleaning the furnace and the air conditioner, and sanitizing the ducts. I had the works done. The house is visibly messy now. I need to clean up after they leave. I need make dinner soon. I have research to do. I haven't had lunch yet. I feel like a mad woman trapped inside a hat box.

The Boy's Chicago

The Boy's back. If you asked him and Butterfly Boy how each aspect of the trip was, all you'd get are complaints.

How was the food?
It sucked. We ate at really sucky places. Even that pizza place the whole school went to. They try to make the place cool but their food was awful. One day, three girls in different rooms who don't even hang out all got sick together. They were throwing up all over the place. It was the food.

How was the dinner and dance cruise?
So lame. Dinner was some dried up fish biscuit. The dance took place in the lobby, where there was also a father-and-daughter girl guide dance, and a middle school kids dance. No one danced.

How were your performances, at the school and at the university? You know, the reason you went to Chicago?
That was just an excuse for the trip. At the university, they taught us one song and there were four non-playing parts. Mine was one of them. At the school, the kids weren't interested in us playing. They just liked that we were the reason they got out of class.

Anyone get in trouble?
Some kids got caught smoking pot. They were withdrawn from all the activities and had to hang out with one of chaperons, who happened to be a really cool parent. She took them sight-seeing and bought them dinners at great restaurants.

Was there anything you were disappointed in in particular?
Since we at the museum already, I wanted to see four things: American Gothic, The Diner, some Picasso's, and Starry Night. I asked where American Gothic was and they pointed the way, so check. I asked about The Diner. They said it was on loan. I asked about Picasso. They said, Right now, there is a special Picasso exhibit on. It's $18 to go in to see the Picasso exhibit. I asked about Starry Night. They said it was hung in the Picasso wing. I said, Starry Night is not a Picasso. They said, That's just where we're hanging it for now. So I saw only one of four things I wanted to see. I felt so gypped.

What was the Magnificent Mile like?
The Boy: It's kind of like Yorkville. Wasn't very interesting.

Butterfly Boy: I made the mistake of going shopping with like five girls. They spent the whole time in a lingerie shop.

- You didn't find that interesting?

- Sure, for the first hour. But not for four hours. I tried everything on but nothing really fit.

Butterfly Boy is good natured that way.

Overall then, it was a pretty bad trip, eh?
No, it was excellent. We had so much fun and did so many things. Everyone we met were so nice and friendly.

For example, the day after the kids got caught smoking pot, we went to the Sears Tower. When we got to the top, we stumbled around and circled Mr. A and said, Oh my god, we're so high. He said very slowly, What do you mean? We said, Look, look how high up we are right now. It was so funny. Later, Mr. A gave Butterfly Boy $1 and said, Go get me some water. BB said, Do I get a tip? He said, Yeah, tell you what, don't ever wear brown and white together. That's what BB was wearing. He's a funny teacher.

After we did the school performance, they gave us soggy pizza and tons of pop. We took all the pop back to the hotel with us and ordered a mini fridge. We got the last fridge in the hotel. There were always at least 10 people in our room and the phone never stopped ringing. We were party central.

We were in the elevator with some middle school kids from another school. One kid made a farting sound with his hands. A girl said, Ew Adam, that's so gross. So we jumped in and said, Yeah Adman, that's just so gross. After that, every time we saw that kid, we'd go, There goes that crazy Adam doing crazy things. He and his friends just laughed.

And The Boy told me this charming story:

We went to Millennium Park. Alex, Cassandra and I walked under The Bean, a huge glass bean-shaped thing that reflects the city back. We laid down on the ground to look up at The Bean and to see our reflections. This little toddler, she could barely walk and only made gurgling sounds, came up to us. When she saw us lie down, she laid down beside me. So the four of us just laid there staring up at our reflections and made gurgling sounds. Her mom came up and took a picture of us. It was very cute.

And so here're some stock photos of Chicago's Bean.

Up To No Good

In our hood, there are several groups that have aligned themselves with our ward's scummy city councillor. The City recently concluded a criminal investigation on Scummy. There was no paper trail to tie him to illegal activities like money laundering and racketeering, but the charity organization that's behind him got its charity licence suspended till they clean up their financial filings.

These groups support Scummy because he uses what influence he has with city staff to help them advance their self interest, such as not paying taxes and getting special permits to do things to their houses that City bylaws don't allow. Even though these groups represent self interest and don't let others into their groups, they tell the City they are the voice of the community.

So we decided to fight fire with fire. Last night, I was invited to attend the formation of our own community group. We call ourselves Ward Watch. We are watching the political activities in our ward, which group is saying what, and issuing a newsletter to let everyone know.

And we decided to adopt the undemocratic model for our group. New members may join by invitation only. We talked about how not to let our enemies crash our meetings. We kidded about having an initiation process for joining our secret society. We joked about developing secret handshakes and wearing hoods to attend meetings.

After all is said and done, we really are just a like-minded group of people with the common interest of making sure the arts is incorporated into our community and that our politicians' activities are open and transparent.

Except for one person, who said, in the interest of being transparent, I want to let you know that my goal in joining this group is to see Scummy put in jail. At least her vendetta is out in the open.

I am going to steer us to operate more like freemasons rather than the Klan.

Boy Gets Ready

The Boy is packing tonight for his Chicago school trip. This is the first trip ever that he's packing for himself. Sure, I did the laundry and we sat down and made a list of things he needs to take. But after that, he's been on his own. Of course, top of his list are all the electronic things he needs for diversion on the bus ride. So he dictates while I write:

- iPod, iTrip, iBeam, iThink, iAm. Can you put a "therefore" between the last two items?

Then he tells me this joke, his current favourite:

Descartes went into a bar. The bartender said to him, Will you have a drink? Descartes said, I think not. Then poof. He disappears.

As he's gathering his things, I said to him,

- Did you know that I am a Fanjaya?

- Oh my god. How do you think that makes me feel to learn my mother is a Fanjaya? How can I leave for Chicago knowing this? Why would I want to come back?

- Sanjaya is a sweetheart. I want him to win.

- I hate him. He's ruining the show.

- You look kind of like him, especially when you have long hair.

- Ahhhhh....

My Boy ran away and I haven't seen him since. Oh, oh. I hear him. He's hauling his bag out of his room. Let's see what other reactions I can get out of him.

Feed The Body Or Feed The Soul?

The Man surprised me this weekend with a proposal to attend The Blind Boys of Alabama concert. He made the suggestion because he knows I like gospel music and thought I would enjoy the group. I heard the Blind Boys sing once on the radio, but I knew nothing about them, like, are they really blind, and are they really from Alabama.

The only thing was, this weekend we bought The Boy a new suit for his Chicago trip this Wednesday. He had ripped the knee irreparably on the pants of the last new suit I bought him. While at the shop, he picked up a few more things that he needed. I had also bought shoes that I didn't need. We just didn't have any more money in our budget for a concert and dinner. It was either the concert or dinner. What to do?

We stretched our budget and went for the concert. The Blind Boys were fabulous. For one thing, some of them have been singing for 60 years. Four of the seven musicians are indeed blind, and they must have honed their vocals to compensate for the loss of sight. They had really good pipes. I couldn't tell by their singing voices some of them were in their 70's.

It wasn't exactly the kind of gospel music I expected. The Blind Boys made their music more ruckus in spirit and soul. They obviously enjoyed singing to an audience. Then sometimes, it looked like they didn't care whether there was an audience or not, they were having such a good time. There was more interaction and showmanship between the blind singers than between sighted musicians I've seen. It was a spectacular concert. Sure, I'd convert.

After, The Man and I came home and made bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches at midnight. It was kind of romantic. And so the soul got fed twice.

The Gambling Joint

I started Kung Fu lessons about a month ago. The Kung Fu studio is just down the street, beside the Blockbuster and above a drapery shop. The instructor and his wife live in the hood. They seem like nice people. They are certainly enthusiastic about helping people get fit. They are open every night till about 9 pm, so I thought I found myself a work out studio to practise my form and movements.

Today, on the way home, a neighbour invited me in for tea. He brought out some cards and we played poker. I told him I had just come from the Kung Fu studio down the street. He said,

- Oh, that gambling joint.

- What do you mean?

- They play poker there every Wednesday night.

- Get out. I can't believe that. It's a Kung Fu studio. Where do they play?

So he described the studio exactly and said they played in the sitting room.

- Who organizes the gambling? I queried.

- The owner of the Kung Fu studio. I forget his name.

- Big C?

- That's it.

- I can't believe that. Is that how he keeps the studio alive?

- I don't think so. I've been there three times and I've never seen him win.

So my neighbour described how the gambling works. Turns out it's just a harmless game of neighbourhood guys getting together to play for fun. You put $20 in the pot when you enter and the winners share the pot. That means you never lose more than $20. There are about 15 people who go regularly, but only about 6 to 8 show up each week.

So it's not a big gambling ring. But that Kung Fu master of mine, living the seedy life behind his students' back.

The Circle Of Life

A friend spent two weeks in South Africa with her family recently. The purpose of the trip was to visit her mother-in-law and her husband's family. This was the first family reunion for her husband since his father passed away last year.

It was an important trip for Friend, as she was concerned that her husband had not grieved for his father. She thought he would cry when reunited with his family. Over the course of the trip, Friend encouraged her husband and mother-in-law to spend mother and son time together. She thought they would help each other grieve and heal.

Instead, what she saw always was chit-chatting, sometimes sadness, but not much more.

On the last day of their trip, she was troubled, thinking that an opportunity for grieving and healing was lost. It had rained for most of the day, so towards the late afternoon, when the rain cleared and the sun came out, she, her husband and son went for a last stroll on the beach. Her husband and son ran ahead.

As she came around a large rock, she looked up. There was a rainbow in the sky stretching from one end of the beach to the other. The whole rainbow was in her view. She was so awestruck by the beauty of it that she gasped and threw her arms up. In that instant, she felt her body connected to the rainbow, as if she was holding each end of the rainbow in her outstretched hands. Through her arms, the rainbow formed a complete circle. Inside that circle, she saw her husband and son playing in the sand ahead. She then understood this was the circle of life. Her father-in-law may be gone, but life continues through his son and grandson. She was instrumental to the continuation of this circle and was there to bear witness to it.

This moment of clarity and transcendence passed. She felt it was okay that her husband didn't cry. Later, her husband told her he was not one to wail with emotion; his grief was private, silent and dignified. She felt that was just fine too.

Anatomy Of A Bird

For Easter, I made a small turkey and invited my mother for dinner. It was an easy meal to prepare. Once you stick the bird in the oven, you can go away and do other things. There were just four of us, so the whole meal was very relaxed.

The bird turned out beautifully. As The Man carved the turkey, I put out the asparagus, the salad, and the yams. The Man put some turkey on each plate and put the plate in front of each dinner companion. Walking by, I noticed he hadn't served the stuffing. I said,

- Can you serve the stuffing too. I made stuffing.

- Where's the stuffing?

- In the cavity.

So he put a spoon into the cavity and dug out the stuffing. After two plates, he said,

- Is that all you made? We're out.

- Impossible.

I saw the small amounts of stuffing on the two plates. How could we be out? I looked at the bird. The Man was scooping out stuffing from the neck cavity.

- You went in the wrong end.

- Huh?

He turned the bird around, tested the spoon in the large cavity to see what I meant. I know we were both trying to stifle our laugh, not wanting to say anything risque in front of my mother and our son. So many jokes to make, so few opportunities to make them.

Later, The Boy wanted a little more turkey. He said,

- Dad, can I have a wing please.

The Man tried to yank off a thigh. Putting his fork on the wing, The Boy said,

- No, this is the part I want.

So The man struggled with that instead, gingerly, as if he's trying to figure where to cut.

It dawned on me that maybe The Man's been serious every time he said, Where do I start? before carving. He really may not know the anatomy of a bird. Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. He doesn't eat chicken in any other form but the skinless, boneless, breast fillet. So this may have been the first time he's ever tried to tackle a whole bird by himself.

Ouch

Now I've done it. I've been so obsessed with taking my blood pressure, I've gone and injured my right arm.

My arm's been feeling numb the last few days. It started with an ache in my forearm that felt like a sore muscle. The ache travels up my shoulder. Sometimes if I cough or strain, I feel a tug all the way from my shoulder, down to my arm, and down to my hip. It's an ache that dissolves into a numbness. I've stretched and rested my arm for a couple of days.

Yesterday, I took my blood pressure again. Soon as the arm band started to tighten up, my forearm started to ache, and my whole arm started to throb. The throbbing dissolved into numbness that spread down one side of my body. I took the belt off and that's how I realized my arm injury came from the blood pressure monitor.

It feels like a nerve has been damaged. From the arm band tightening on my vein and nearby nerves, I guess. What more proof do I need that the internal workings of our bodies are all connected.

Old People Singing

Once in a while, I really need to get away from our daily routine and do something enjoyable by myself. This being Easter weekend, I wanted to do something to mark the holiday, but not something overtly religious. The more I read about the roots of Christianity, the less trust I have in the Church and its dogmas.

So in this mood, I came across an invitation to the Toronto Chamber Choir doing Francesco Cavalli's Requiem at a church. My favourite thing to do in Europe was to casually stroll into a church and stumble upon a concert. That happened all the time, which made me think church concerts were frequent, casual occurrences. I have been looking for church concerts in Toronto. They exist, but they are often accompanied by a full-fledge mass service, or they are very expensive. I have no desire for either.

A choral concert of a requiem in a church on Easter weekend. That sounded perfect. As long as there was no church service attached. Though I wouldn't put it pass those sneaky Catholics if they tricked me into paying for a concert, then giving me a mass instead. But I have to have faith in something. I have faith in the reputation of the Toronto Chamber Choir, though I have never seen them live.

So for the evening, we got into the car, drove to a restaurant near the church, had a quick bite, then The Man and The Boy went to see a movie while I headed off to the concert.

It was a good concert. No mass, just singing. The thing I couldn't get over when I looked at the choir, was that 80 per cent of the members had white hair. They were mostly men and women well into their fifties. Which answered my curiosity about why the choir, as controlled and pleasant sounding as they were, didn't hit any high notes. They were definitely alto and deeper singers all of them.

There were two young women, maybe in their twenties. Turned out they were soprano soloists. There was also a woman, maybe in her late thirties. She was the mezzo soprano soloist. There was a young boy who turned pages for the pianist. The two instrumentalists were young men. And I think that may have been it for young people. Everyone else was a senior citizen.

Which is quite impressive.

Chasing Our Tails

After Dad passed away, Mom gave a few things to me for safekeeping - Dad's death certificate, a cheque book, a bank card, a little brown vial with something inside. I put all her things in a plastic case and put the package away.

The week, Mom and I finally went to the lawyer's office to remove Dad's name from the registration of the house. To do so, the lawyer requires a copy of the death certificate and the deed to the house. When I arrived at mom's, she handed me two folders and said,

- Which of these contain the death certificate?

Puzzled by her request, I looked through the folders to find an invoice for the funeral, a 2004 property tax bill for the house, and lots of promotional material for the funeral home we used, offering services we never used. I explained the items in the folders to mom and told her I had the certificate at home. She said,

- Then why was I guarding these so well? When did I give you the certificate?

- When we went to the bank to remove Dad's name from your accounts.

So we went back to my house. I opened the plastic case, looked through the papers, shook the little vial, found the certificate, and took it out. Then we went to the bank to get the deed to the house from her safety deposit box. At the bank, she said,

- One of the keys to my safety deposit box is missing. Can you find out if we can get another spare?

I inquired. Quick as a flash, they had a woman who spoke Chinese direct mom and I to her desk. She took away mom's old key, changed the lock on mom's safety deposit box, gave her two new keys, and charged $15 to mom's account. She said,

- You should never keep the two keys together in case you lose them. If you lose both, it will cost $150. For safekeeping, maybe you should give one to your daughter.

So mom did.

I brought the key home to put in the plastic case I had for her. Looking through the case, I noticed the little brown vial again. I've never looked at this vial. I picked it up and looked at it. The vial was labelled "safety deposit box" with the box number, in Dad's handwriting. There was the key to the old lock inside it.

I shook my head, took the old key out, put it in the garbage, took the new key out of my wallet, and put it in the vial. Then I phoned Mom to tell her about the discovery.

I could feel her shaking her head. She said,

- Well, we just threw away $15.

We sort of had a laugh about it. But I wondered about Mom not remembering she had given me Dad's death certificate and the key to her safety deposit box. I wondered about me accepting things from Mom for safekeeping without knowing what I accepted. But most of all, I detected in Mom's tone a note of resignation and loneliness, as if she were thinking we wouldn't have these blunders and extra costs if Dad hadn't died.

The Easter Bunny

It was 10:30 Wednesday night before Good Friday. The Boy asked me to take him to Kinko's to get a package of red card stock for student council to print out invitations to an event they are organizing.

We drove along Tyrell. As we neared the park, a little animal was running away ahead of us. I slowed down. The animal had light brown and white fur. It did not scurry and dart the way squirrels do, it was not limber and fast the way cats are, it was kind of skipping and hopping. We got closer. We saw a white cotton tail.

It made it to the lawn under a tree, it sat up to watch us and waited for us to pass. We slowed down to take a good long look. We saw long ears perched on a head. It was definitely a rabbit. We drove by without alarming the rabbit.

- What's a rabbit doing out at night? said The Boy.

- That's your Easter Bunny, Boy, I said.

The Boy smiled and didn't say anything. I knew a part of him was dissing me for saying that, but a part of him appreciated that I said it. Regardless, he was glad we were alone in the car when none of his friends were around. I actually don't think any of his friends would have minded. In fact, I think they would have appreciated it too.

It was still a bonding moment of sorts with The Boy.

Shorts And A Cup Of Coffee

We woke up this morning and The Boy let out, Oh my god! What the?

For a few days in the last two weeks, he's worn shorts to school. That's how warm it's been. I've been walking around with a t-shirt, light jacket, and scarf for effect. Then this morning, we woke up to snow on the ground. I have an urge to tell the weather guy upstairs to quit fooling around. I don't have my snow tires on any more.

So I sat down and made myself coffee, in my new electric kettle. I can't believe I hadn't done it earlier. In the 20 years of living in this house, I've burned 4 kettles. I put water in the kettle, put it on the stove and walk away. I don't like the whistling sound the kettle makes when the water boils so I lift the lid off the kettle spout. Then I don't know how long later, I hear crackling, and eventually, I smell something burning, like scorched metal. I scratch my head wondering where that smell is coming from. I look outside.

Eventually, when I wander into the kitchen again, I see a black kettle on the stove where my aluminum one should have been. I gasp and turn the stove off.

So last week, when I burned the kettle, I puzzled about a solution with a neighbour on the phone. She said, Electric kettle, electric kettle.

I got one this week. My god, it boils water fast and quiet. No loud whirling and churling whooshes that come out of my old microwave. It stops automatically when the water boils. It takes up less space than the stove-top kettle. I've gained a burner for cooking. It was such an easy and feel-good solution. It is like being on Prozac after the first few days. Why isn't everyone on it?

Sympathetic Deaths

I don't really know what happened. But this is my version of the events:

Because I couldn't handle the dozens and dozens of baby fish that seemed to be birthing every week from my two female fish, I separated the males and females. The Female Black Molly died within a week. She died of a broken heart.

After the Female Red Platy gave her multiple immaculate births, she died. She died of exhaustion and a latent broken heart.

By this time, the sole surviving Baby Black Molly and a Baby Red Platy have grown large enough, so I put them into the adult male tank. The babies relayed the deaths of their mothers to the adult fish.

Within two days, one of the Male Red Platy started dying. He was the one most attached to the Female Red Platy. I returned the babies and the Adult Black Molly to the large tank with the other babies in case of infection. Despite my treatments, this morning, I saw the sick Male Red Platy swim around a bit with his friend, the Other Male Red Platy. For a sec there, I thought he had recovered.

But shortly after that, he buried himself into a shell and died. I guess he was saying goodbye to his friend. At the same time, the Male Black Molly, who had been living in the big tank for two days and seemed so healthy, suddenly flipped over on his side. He looked sick. Maybe he's been infected after all I thought. So I put him back in the male tank where the water has been treated. But so far, he has been burrowing into crevices, flapping his dorsal fin as if breathing his last.

He is dying of a broken heart. He had heard from the Baby Black Molly that the mother molly had died, and he had checked out the tank to verify her absence. Now, his Adult Red Platy friend in the other tank sent him a goodbye message. So he flipped over and started to die in sympathy. I am most sorry to lose him - he was most good natured.

The remaining Male Red Platy looks puzzled, swimming about on his own. I am afraid to add him to the large tank with the babies in case he too carries infection. But I fear he will die unexpected because all his friends have gone.

Belted

When The Man visited Texas years ago, he brought back some cowboy belts. Over the years, two of them are quite worn out. They would have come apart any minute at the stretch where the buckle needle slips into the eye.

The Man and I had the same thought. You glue and sew a piece of leather on the back of the belt where the broken eye is, then punch new eyes through the leather patch. Maybe we can get it done for $10 per belt.

Down the street is a leather repair shop. The owner puts a sign up that says "A guy who fixes leather." So into this shop I went with my two belts looking for a repair job. The owner looked at my belts and said,

- This one I can cut off the end, put in a new piece and try to save the belt tip. If I can't, then your belt won't have the silver tip at the end. It'll cost about $75. I charge $50 an hour. This job will take about one and a half hours.

This other one is irreparable. It's one continuous belt and I would have to replace the whole belt.

- I'm sure we didn't pay $75 for this belt.

- You would have paid between $75 and $100 for it.

- We must've bought in on sale.

- Well then, the repair will cost more than your original price of the belt.

- Can't you just patch them with a piece of leather at the back?

- That'd be shoddy work. I win awards for my repairs. I don't do that.

- I can't pay $75 for a repair.

- You shouldn't. It wouldn't be worth it.

So I left the shop. And I realized, despite how low-keyed he tried to present himself, his is a high-end repair shop. So I kept the belts in the car in case I find a shop that will fix the belts cheap. One day, The Man found a shoe repair. The shoe repair charged $12 to do what we wanted. Yesterday, The Man picked up the repaired belts. Both belts have been fixed, almost seamlessly, a much better repair than I could have imagined. For $12.

I just need something to hold up my pants. I don't want to wear award-winning repair on my waist.