Sometimes you just want to box his ear.
We've arranged for someone to supervise the exam in France for his English online course. This is a course he's chosen to take not because he's making up for a failed course, but because he wants to do it now so he can have a spare in the Fall. Which he will use to socialize, I have no doubt.
The Boy's teacher has approved the lawyer that our Exchange family has recommended. In return, the lawyer has asked for a small souvenir of Canada or Toronto, like a small bottle of maple syrup or a small serving of pancakes. That sent me scrambling for gifts of maple syrup, pancake mix, wild rice, Montreal steak and chicken spices - all wrapped in a President's Choice green shopping bag because they use recyclable shopping bags in France.
Not just one parcel for the lawyer, but also one for the Exchange's father's family, and one for his mother's family. His parents are divorced and The Boy will stay with the father for two and a half weeks, then the mother for the last week, where he will take his exam. And Canadian novels for the mutual friend who introduced our two families for the exchange.
There was last minute shopping for footwear and underwear for The Boy. His friends kept phoning, text messaging, sending e-mails, chats on Facebook, and he kept making visits all over town to say goodbye. I've transferred all my cash to The Boy's account. He's received gifts of Euros from Sis and Mom. Everyone is excited for him. I am helping him pack.
I asked him, "How do you feel about going to France for almost a month without us?"
He said, "I feel impassive."
That's where the box on the ear comes in.
I suppose this is a step up from a few days ago when he said, "I don't want to go. I don't know why you're making me go. I'd rather be with my friends and do my online course."
Which was sort of a step up from two weeks ago when he said, "I am not going to France. I can't go. It interferes with my life. I only said yes to going because at the time, I didn't have plans for the summer and I was just indulging you and dad."
I told him recently I think he's a spoiled brat. He reminded me that unlike a neighbour's 13-year-old son who graduated from Grade 8, he never asked for a limousine to take him to his friend's party a few streets away, and when the mom said no, he screamed, "You ruined my life. I hate you." True, The Boy has never asked for a limousine and has never shouted that at me. Because he would get a box on the ear for sure.
The most we hope for now is he gets along with the Exchange, and he has a safe, fun time. Sometimes parents force their kids to do things they don't want to. Years later, the kids remember what a wonderful, meaningful and life-changing experience they had and are glad their parents forced them to do it. I hope this will be one of those experiences for The Boy. He leaves tonight and I miss him already.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Fathers And Sons
I think I made Dr. Noggins cry. He asked what I thought triggered my sadness.
I told him about the phone call we received the first week in January five years ago. It was from one of the teachers at The Boy's old day care, which we left when he went to grade 1. We hadn't been in touch with any of the teachers, parents, or kids from that day care for the six years since The Boy left.
When The Boy was there, he was best buddies with three other kids. The four of them were a little gang that delighted the teachers even as the boys ripped their room apart.
On this morning, the teacher, Jan, was crying. She told us that one of the boys in The Boy's gang, Ry, had died. He lost his battle to a brain tumour which was discovered two years earlier.
The Boy, The Man and I went to the funeral. It was a sad funeral for sure, because children aren't supposed to die and we were not able to bring Ry back. The image I took away that day was of all the fathers clutching their 11-year-old sons as if to keep the sons by their sides so they wouldn't die. Most of the fathers were crying, or trying hard not to.
The parents at the service didn't talk to each other, most of us were strangers after all, and the funeral was not a social, get-to-know-you gathering. But you could feel in the air we felt the same thing - tremendous sorrow for Ry's parents, relieved our own sons were with us, but knowing this tragedy could have happened to any of us.
As I told this to Dr. Noggins, his eyes welled up. He said, That was very poignant. I told him that may have been the beginning of my sadness.
I told him about the phone call we received the first week in January five years ago. It was from one of the teachers at The Boy's old day care, which we left when he went to grade 1. We hadn't been in touch with any of the teachers, parents, or kids from that day care for the six years since The Boy left.
When The Boy was there, he was best buddies with three other kids. The four of them were a little gang that delighted the teachers even as the boys ripped their room apart.
On this morning, the teacher, Jan, was crying. She told us that one of the boys in The Boy's gang, Ry, had died. He lost his battle to a brain tumour which was discovered two years earlier.
The Boy, The Man and I went to the funeral. It was a sad funeral for sure, because children aren't supposed to die and we were not able to bring Ry back. The image I took away that day was of all the fathers clutching their 11-year-old sons as if to keep the sons by their sides so they wouldn't die. Most of the fathers were crying, or trying hard not to.
The parents at the service didn't talk to each other, most of us were strangers after all, and the funeral was not a social, get-to-know-you gathering. But you could feel in the air we felt the same thing - tremendous sorrow for Ry's parents, relieved our own sons were with us, but knowing this tragedy could have happened to any of us.
As I told this to Dr. Noggins, his eyes welled up. He said, That was very poignant. I told him that may have been the beginning of my sadness.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Wailing Dance
I am convinced that fish have a language and rituals of their own. I believe they communicate in ways we just don't understand.
Alf, the largest of my black mollies, died today. Last night, after I fed them, all the fish looked fine. Then suddenly, Alf stopped swimming. He just sat at the bottom of the tank panting. Jack Spratt and Tommy, but especial Jack, kept nudging his bottom, as if to get him to swim again. Then all the fish, including the penguin tetras, gathered around Alf. Clearly, something was up. It looked like the penguin tetras were either protecting Alf, bidding him farewell, or waiting for him to die so they could eat him.
But a few minutes later, all the fish dashed around the tank in a mad dance. It must've been their way of wailing and mourning the loss of their friend, because even though I didn't know it at the time, the fish must've known Alf would not recover. The wailing dance lasted a good five minutes. After that, all the fish pretty much left Alf alone, except Jack, who tried to nudge him to swim once in a while.
This morning, Alf was dead. The other fish resumed their regular swimming and chasing each other. No one tried to eat him.
More than any other fish deaths, and I've had many, I think Alf died of old age. He always struck me as an old fish.
Alf, the largest of my black mollies, died today. Last night, after I fed them, all the fish looked fine. Then suddenly, Alf stopped swimming. He just sat at the bottom of the tank panting. Jack Spratt and Tommy, but especial Jack, kept nudging his bottom, as if to get him to swim again. Then all the fish, including the penguin tetras, gathered around Alf. Clearly, something was up. It looked like the penguin tetras were either protecting Alf, bidding him farewell, or waiting for him to die so they could eat him.
But a few minutes later, all the fish dashed around the tank in a mad dance. It must've been their way of wailing and mourning the loss of their friend, because even though I didn't know it at the time, the fish must've known Alf would not recover. The wailing dance lasted a good five minutes. After that, all the fish pretty much left Alf alone, except Jack, who tried to nudge him to swim once in a while.
This morning, Alf was dead. The other fish resumed their regular swimming and chasing each other. No one tried to eat him.
More than any other fish deaths, and I've had many, I think Alf died of old age. He always struck me as an old fish.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Red Wall Of Roseneath
This is a fence in our backyard. It's now called Red Wall. I make every visitor to our house look at it before they leave.
The fence is hung with potted red petunias and impatiens. I've been working on this for a few weeks and it feels great to see the wall come to life with red blooms!
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Teenage Mutant Muscians
It wasn't just Journey tunes the boys played at the kung fu studio, they did some Beatles and some other rock songs I recognized but don't know the names of.
I marvel at how musically versatile the boys are. For example, The Boy plays drums, and apparently keyboard. He also sang a duet with Butterfly Boy! Butterfly Boy sings, and he drummed a bit and played the guitar! Genius was brought in to play drums, but lo and behold, there he was playing guitar and sang a solo!
The boys took on different roles because aside from doing their prepared songs, they were jamming with my kung fu master and his band. Men in their late 40's playing with the boys. Genius said, "That's the older generation playing with us young 'uns." It was amazing how they just needed to exchange a few words about chords and keys and everyone was off playing songs they've never played before. The world of musicians is becoming more and more of a mystery to me.
I said to one of the old generation musicians, "Are you surprised that the boys know all these old songs?"
He said, "Yes and no. When I was young, I played songs from before my time. They're doing the same thing. I am surprised at how good they are."
Later, I said to the boys, "You have to continue playing together and add to your repetoire."
The Boy said, "We're just a cover band. It'd be different if we did our own material."
"You're teenagers. Everyone starts out doing cover. Then you evolve from there to your own thing. It just means spending time writing music instead of going to parties and having sleepovers."
There was a sudden silence in the back seat of the car. I could feel the boys exchanging looks. Then a guffaw and heckle at the very suggestion. So yes, yes, a big invitation to everyone to their CD launch, if they can take time out from socializing to write their own songs.
Thing is, these boys look young and act younger, especially The Boy. For example, when he went to the CN Tower with his friends, he walked up to the cashier and said, "One please." The cashier issued him a Child ticket. Child is for kids 12 and under. The cashier must've thought they were a bunch of 12- and 13-year-olds. I often think that when I see them together, even though one of them just got his driver's licence, and one just finished high school. Mutants, all of them.
I marvel at how musically versatile the boys are. For example, The Boy plays drums, and apparently keyboard. He also sang a duet with Butterfly Boy! Butterfly Boy sings, and he drummed a bit and played the guitar! Genius was brought in to play drums, but lo and behold, there he was playing guitar and sang a solo!
The boys took on different roles because aside from doing their prepared songs, they were jamming with my kung fu master and his band. Men in their late 40's playing with the boys. Genius said, "That's the older generation playing with us young 'uns." It was amazing how they just needed to exchange a few words about chords and keys and everyone was off playing songs they've never played before. The world of musicians is becoming more and more of a mystery to me.
I said to one of the old generation musicians, "Are you surprised that the boys know all these old songs?"
He said, "Yes and no. When I was young, I played songs from before my time. They're doing the same thing. I am surprised at how good they are."
Later, I said to the boys, "You have to continue playing together and add to your repetoire."
The Boy said, "We're just a cover band. It'd be different if we did our own material."
"You're teenagers. Everyone starts out doing cover. Then you evolve from there to your own thing. It just means spending time writing music instead of going to parties and having sleepovers."
There was a sudden silence in the back seat of the car. I could feel the boys exchanging looks. Then a guffaw and heckle at the very suggestion. So yes, yes, a big invitation to everyone to their CD launch, if they can take time out from socializing to write their own songs.
Thing is, these boys look young and act younger, especially The Boy. For example, when he went to the CN Tower with his friends, he walked up to the cashier and said, "One please." The cashier issued him a Child ticket. Child is for kids 12 and under. The cashier must've thought they were a bunch of 12- and 13-year-olds. I often think that when I see them together, even though one of them just got his driver's licence, and one just finished high school. Mutants, all of them.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
On With The Show
I am almost crying with gratitude because I hear live music playing in my basement again. Since his Jazzberries days, when The Boy was 13, he has not had a band. Now, he's gathered some friends and they do rock songs, just like he's always wanted to. Apparently, they're called Asteroid M Goes To The Zoo. I know, I have no idea what it means.
Even though he's a drummer, The Boy has decided he would do keyboard in this band. I didn't even know he could play piano so well. They have agreed to grace my kung fu studio and perform at tonight's fundraiser. So now, they are rehearsing in the basement.
But these are 16-year-old boys. Three of the members couldn't make it to this gig. One had to go to the cottage with his family, one lives in Oakville and had spent all his allowance so couldn't afford the Go Train ride to TO this weekend, and one had all four of his wisdom teeth out a couple of days ago and didn't think that would affect him at all, and now of course he's too drugged up with painkillers to play.
Still, with just the keyboard, drums and vocals, they sound great! I don't say this because I am the mother. I say this because I am amazed at the quality and maturity of their sound. The fact that they are high school music majors must make a difference. I wish I could record them and load their sound here.
Even though he's a drummer, The Boy has decided he would do keyboard in this band. I didn't even know he could play piano so well. They have agreed to grace my kung fu studio and perform at tonight's fundraiser. So now, they are rehearsing in the basement.
But these are 16-year-old boys. Three of the members couldn't make it to this gig. One had to go to the cottage with his family, one lives in Oakville and had spent all his allowance so couldn't afford the Go Train ride to TO this weekend, and one had all four of his wisdom teeth out a couple of days ago and didn't think that would affect him at all, and now of course he's too drugged up with painkillers to play.
Still, with just the keyboard, drums and vocals, they sound great! I don't say this because I am the mother. I say this because I am amazed at the quality and maturity of their sound. The fact that they are high school music majors must make a difference. I wish I could record them and load their sound here.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Hazards Of A Communal Kitchen
I've been spending time in an elementary school helping my friend produce two newsletters—one for the school, one for her class.
This morning, we went for coffee in the staff kitchen. I looked for a mug. There were several washed ones in the dish rack on the counter. I examined each and rejected them all. They either had rings inside, or dried coffee at the bottom, or lipstick stains on the rim. So in this kitchen, by washed, they mean rinsed. I washed, really washed one clean to use for my coffee.
My friend has her own mug. She poured the coffee into the mugs while I looked for cream in the staff fridge. The fridge was just like any communal fridge you might see in an office. Staff put their lunches and other food needs in there to keep cool. My friend takes her coffee black so she doesn't keep milk or cream in the fridge. There were several unmarked glass containers of milk in the fridge. I rooted in there for a store-bought cream carton.
"Oh, just use whatever you like and don't worry whose it is," said my friend.
It wasn't that I was concerned about stealing someone's food. I know that's a sore issue in communal kitchens. It was more that I knew one of the teachers recently had a baby and I don't know if she's still lactating. I really didn't want to put her expressed breast milk in my coffee.
At the far end of the kitchen sat a new looking couch. It looked so inviting I took my coffee over and sat down. Either I really am very heavy or the couch seat had zero support. I expected to sit thigh high, but I sank knee deep, spilling my coffee all over me and the new looking couch.
Now I remember why I never went into staff kitchens when I worked. I don't trust them.
This morning, we went for coffee in the staff kitchen. I looked for a mug. There were several washed ones in the dish rack on the counter. I examined each and rejected them all. They either had rings inside, or dried coffee at the bottom, or lipstick stains on the rim. So in this kitchen, by washed, they mean rinsed. I washed, really washed one clean to use for my coffee.
My friend has her own mug. She poured the coffee into the mugs while I looked for cream in the staff fridge. The fridge was just like any communal fridge you might see in an office. Staff put their lunches and other food needs in there to keep cool. My friend takes her coffee black so she doesn't keep milk or cream in the fridge. There were several unmarked glass containers of milk in the fridge. I rooted in there for a store-bought cream carton.
"Oh, just use whatever you like and don't worry whose it is," said my friend.
It wasn't that I was concerned about stealing someone's food. I know that's a sore issue in communal kitchens. It was more that I knew one of the teachers recently had a baby and I don't know if she's still lactating. I really didn't want to put her expressed breast milk in my coffee.
At the far end of the kitchen sat a new looking couch. It looked so inviting I took my coffee over and sat down. Either I really am very heavy or the couch seat had zero support. I expected to sit thigh high, but I sank knee deep, spilling my coffee all over me and the new looking couch.
Now I remember why I never went into staff kitchens when I worked. I don't trust them.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Jack's Army
I sit and watch my fish all the time. They really do lower my blood pressure. The little black molly I have, I've raised him and watched him grow. I've named him Jack Spratt.
My red platys are all sick and some dying of a mysterious illness. They sit at the bottom of the tank or hover in a corner near the water surface. I've moved them into a sick tank. That mean Jack is alone in a 20-gallon tank with two penguin tetras, one of whom keeps chasing him. To keep Jack company and build his army, I bought two more male black mollys.
When I floated the new fish in the tank, Jack couldn't wait for them to join him. They are both bigger than Jack. He fluttered around their bag the whole time they floated, rubbing noses with them. Once I released the new black mollys, the three of them hung out immediately as if they've known each other all their lives.
But still, the new fish wanted to get acquainted with their new home. Jack was impatient with that. He kept nipping at them, nudging them, chasing them, and spinning around them as if to say, C'mon, let's play. I don't speak Fish, but if I did, I'd say Jack was delighted, flapping his little fins with excitement like a panting puppy. He's taken to mimicking the older fish flaring his dorsal fin.
I've named one of the new mollys Tommy. The larger one is Alf. They are Jack's friends and protectors now. I've seen the bigger fish intercept and chase the penguin tetra when he charges at Jack. But sometimes, Alf, being the biggest one, chases Tommy and Jack, especially during feeding time. That's also when the penguin tetras chase each other. I guess it's an instinctive thing and all civility are shot, fighting for your share of the pie.
Other times, the mollys ignore the penguin tetra no matter who he tries to chase. He keeps butting in when the mollys circle each other to see what they are up to. Then it dawns on me. The fish may not be chasing each other in aggression. These are all male fish. That's how they play. The penguin tetra just wants in on the game. Or not. He could be just an aggressive, territorial male, because the other penguin tetra, which could be a female, is rather peaceful and live side by side with the mollys just swimmingly.
I have not named the penguin tetras because for a long time, I could not tell the two apart. Now, the calm one is slightly bigger than the rambunctious one. But it only matters to me that Jack Spratt has his own little army now because I love Jack.
My red platys are all sick and some dying of a mysterious illness. They sit at the bottom of the tank or hover in a corner near the water surface. I've moved them into a sick tank. That mean Jack is alone in a 20-gallon tank with two penguin tetras, one of whom keeps chasing him. To keep Jack company and build his army, I bought two more male black mollys.
When I floated the new fish in the tank, Jack couldn't wait for them to join him. They are both bigger than Jack. He fluttered around their bag the whole time they floated, rubbing noses with them. Once I released the new black mollys, the three of them hung out immediately as if they've known each other all their lives.
But still, the new fish wanted to get acquainted with their new home. Jack was impatient with that. He kept nipping at them, nudging them, chasing them, and spinning around them as if to say, C'mon, let's play. I don't speak Fish, but if I did, I'd say Jack was delighted, flapping his little fins with excitement like a panting puppy. He's taken to mimicking the older fish flaring his dorsal fin.
I've named one of the new mollys Tommy. The larger one is Alf. They are Jack's friends and protectors now. I've seen the bigger fish intercept and chase the penguin tetra when he charges at Jack. But sometimes, Alf, being the biggest one, chases Tommy and Jack, especially during feeding time. That's also when the penguin tetras chase each other. I guess it's an instinctive thing and all civility are shot, fighting for your share of the pie.
Other times, the mollys ignore the penguin tetra no matter who he tries to chase. He keeps butting in when the mollys circle each other to see what they are up to. Then it dawns on me. The fish may not be chasing each other in aggression. These are all male fish. That's how they play. The penguin tetra just wants in on the game. Or not. He could be just an aggressive, territorial male, because the other penguin tetra, which could be a female, is rather peaceful and live side by side with the mollys just swimmingly.
I have not named the penguin tetras because for a long time, I could not tell the two apart. Now, the calm one is slightly bigger than the rambunctious one. But it only matters to me that Jack Spratt has his own little army now because I love Jack.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Wandering Mind
I am absolutely loving the book Eat, Pray, Love. There is a part where the author is in India and she describes the internal dialogues that take place when she tries to meditate. I know well what she means. Only, my internal dialogues aren't as conversational. They are more flitting and vacuous.
For example, today, I tried to meditate. These were my thoughts during the attempt:
- Just pay attention to your breathing and block everything else out. In, out, in, out, breath naturally, don't control your breathing. Watch the natural rhythm of your breathing...
- I wonder if I should come up with a chant. That's what Liz Gilbert did in the book.
- Think about that later. Righ now, in, out, in, out....
- Maybe I should turn the fan on. I'd be more comfortable that way. It's kind of hot in this room.
- In, out, in, out...
- I could save time if I put on a facial mask. I could meditate and do a facial at the same time.
- Good idea. Bet having facial mud on would give my skin a tight sensation which would help me concentrate on me while I am meditating.
- Wonder if The Man sold any of his stuff at his brother's garage sale.
- Wonder if The Boy made money being a helper. Maybe I wouldn't have to give him so much next week if he's got money of his own to spend.
- I really should go down to No Frills. They've put their garden stuff on sale now. I need red impatiens to finish my art project on the fence. I should get them before they are sold out.
- What's with that? It's not even July and they put their garden stuff on sale.
- Whoa, whoa, I am wandering. Deep breath in, now out. In out in out...breath naturally....
- There's nothing natural about watching myself breath.
- Shut up and clear your mind.
- I need a drink of water.
- Maybe I need to pee instead.
- Which is it?
- Both. I need to do both.
- Geez, what kind of an old lady am I to need to do both at the same time. Maybe my body is screwed up.
- No no, my blood pressure was great this morning. 114/74.
- Is that too low? That's a morning reading. Bro said blood pressure readings are highest in the morning.
- Meditating, watching fish, gardening all help to lower my blood pressure.
- Only I'm not meditating right now, am I?
- No, I am wandering all over the place.
I confess I don't have deep profound thoughts while trying to meditate. In fact, I quite feel like an air-headed bimbo. They say the real you surface when you clear your mind. I wonder if the real me is the bimbo, or is the bimbo trying to get in the way of clearing my mind.
No enlightenment for me today.
For example, today, I tried to meditate. These were my thoughts during the attempt:
- Just pay attention to your breathing and block everything else out. In, out, in, out, breath naturally, don't control your breathing. Watch the natural rhythm of your breathing...
- I wonder if I should come up with a chant. That's what Liz Gilbert did in the book.
- Think about that later. Righ now, in, out, in, out....
- Maybe I should turn the fan on. I'd be more comfortable that way. It's kind of hot in this room.
- In, out, in, out...
- I could save time if I put on a facial mask. I could meditate and do a facial at the same time.
- Good idea. Bet having facial mud on would give my skin a tight sensation which would help me concentrate on me while I am meditating.
- Wonder if The Man sold any of his stuff at his brother's garage sale.
- Wonder if The Boy made money being a helper. Maybe I wouldn't have to give him so much next week if he's got money of his own to spend.
- I really should go down to No Frills. They've put their garden stuff on sale now. I need red impatiens to finish my art project on the fence. I should get them before they are sold out.
- What's with that? It's not even July and they put their garden stuff on sale.
- Whoa, whoa, I am wandering. Deep breath in, now out. In out in out...breath naturally....
- There's nothing natural about watching myself breath.
- Shut up and clear your mind.
- I need a drink of water.
- Maybe I need to pee instead.
- Which is it?
- Both. I need to do both.
- Geez, what kind of an old lady am I to need to do both at the same time. Maybe my body is screwed up.
- No no, my blood pressure was great this morning. 114/74.
- Is that too low? That's a morning reading. Bro said blood pressure readings are highest in the morning.
- Meditating, watching fish, gardening all help to lower my blood pressure.
- Only I'm not meditating right now, am I?
- No, I am wandering all over the place.
I confess I don't have deep profound thoughts while trying to meditate. In fact, I quite feel like an air-headed bimbo. They say the real you surface when you clear your mind. I wonder if the real me is the bimbo, or is the bimbo trying to get in the way of clearing my mind.
No enlightenment for me today.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Evening With Family
The Boy is in exams right now. He wrote his first yesterday. "Do well," I said before he left the house.
"Mom," he said, "It's Biology. I want to do well in the exam. That's the only way I will pass the course."
Arrrgh. Party boy, border-line delinquent, and president of the student council. But it was Butterfly Boy's birthday so I gave The Boy some money and asked him to take Butterfly Boy to lunch after the exam. A group of them were going with Butterfly Boy to visit the CN Tower for his birthday.
When I got home from running errands in the afternoon, The Boy phoned. He said, "Mom, guess where I am!"
"Where?"
"I'm at the top the CN Tower. It's so cool. We're standing here looking down at the city and there's nothing between me and the ground below but these wires in front of me. If they break, we'd all fall smashing to the ground!"
"Well I hope they don't break and you boys don't jump."
"Okay, we won't. It's so great up here, the exam went well and I am having such a great day, I just wanted to phone to say hi. I'll see you at the dentist later. Love you."
Awww. The little prince, apple of my eye, got me twisted around his little pinky.
I met him at the dentist's office an hour later and got him set up with antibiotics in case his wisdom teeth act up in France. He's having oral surgery to remove all four of his wisdoms at the end of August. Will he turn into a dumb-ass after (vs. being a smart-ass now)?
We took my box to Dufferin Mall, where they really have an official Fido outlet, to exchange my cell phone for one that works. While in the mall, we got The Boy a shirt, some socks, and an over-sized red bath towel just because the towel was red and it was there.
The Boy got home to a flurry of phone calls with his friends. The sleepover that was planned at our house had been moved to Butterfly Boy's so his parents can do a birthday cake for him.
The Boy graced us with his company for dinner and I quickly put together some leftovers. A friend and I had been exchanging phone messages for a few days now and finally, tonight, we connected. We made plans for me to go into her school to put together their year-end school newsletter. I was relieved that got settled as the school year ends in two weeks.
The Man and I then drove across town to the Beaches to drop The Boy off at Butterfly Boy's.
Queen Street at the Beaches was bustling. Lots of shops and restaurants wanting your business and throngs and throngs of people wanting to give it to them. I love that about the Beaches. Driving along, The Man spied a discount store with racks and racks of jackets on offer. He pulled over, elbowed his way into the store and bought a Perry Ellis sports jacket for $60, marked down from $250, the sign said.
We stopped for coffee at the Tango Palace. Who knows why it's called that. They only serve coffee and cookies and there is certainly no room for tangoing. Over coffee in their patio and the cool breeze, I closed my eyes and gave thanks to a good evening, then I demanded The Man go back to the counter to get me a giant shortbread cookie with embedded chocolate chunks. It was very good.
"Mom," he said, "It's Biology. I want to do well in the exam. That's the only way I will pass the course."
Arrrgh. Party boy, border-line delinquent, and president of the student council. But it was Butterfly Boy's birthday so I gave The Boy some money and asked him to take Butterfly Boy to lunch after the exam. A group of them were going with Butterfly Boy to visit the CN Tower for his birthday.
When I got home from running errands in the afternoon, The Boy phoned. He said, "Mom, guess where I am!"
"Where?"
"I'm at the top the CN Tower. It's so cool. We're standing here looking down at the city and there's nothing between me and the ground below but these wires in front of me. If they break, we'd all fall smashing to the ground!"
"Well I hope they don't break and you boys don't jump."
"Okay, we won't. It's so great up here, the exam went well and I am having such a great day, I just wanted to phone to say hi. I'll see you at the dentist later. Love you."
Awww. The little prince, apple of my eye, got me twisted around his little pinky.
I met him at the dentist's office an hour later and got him set up with antibiotics in case his wisdom teeth act up in France. He's having oral surgery to remove all four of his wisdoms at the end of August. Will he turn into a dumb-ass after (vs. being a smart-ass now)?
We took my box to Dufferin Mall, where they really have an official Fido outlet, to exchange my cell phone for one that works. While in the mall, we got The Boy a shirt, some socks, and an over-sized red bath towel just because the towel was red and it was there.
The Boy got home to a flurry of phone calls with his friends. The sleepover that was planned at our house had been moved to Butterfly Boy's so his parents can do a birthday cake for him.
The Boy graced us with his company for dinner and I quickly put together some leftovers. A friend and I had been exchanging phone messages for a few days now and finally, tonight, we connected. We made plans for me to go into her school to put together their year-end school newsletter. I was relieved that got settled as the school year ends in two weeks.
The Man and I then drove across town to the Beaches to drop The Boy off at Butterfly Boy's.
Queen Street at the Beaches was bustling. Lots of shops and restaurants wanting your business and throngs and throngs of people wanting to give it to them. I love that about the Beaches. Driving along, The Man spied a discount store with racks and racks of jackets on offer. He pulled over, elbowed his way into the store and bought a Perry Ellis sports jacket for $60, marked down from $250, the sign said.
We stopped for coffee at the Tango Palace. Who knows why it's called that. They only serve coffee and cookies and there is certainly no room for tangoing. Over coffee in their patio and the cool breeze, I closed my eyes and gave thanks to a good evening, then I demanded The Man go back to the counter to get me a giant shortbread cookie with embedded chocolate chunks. It was very good.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Afternoon With A Box
The oppressive heat loosened its choke hold on us, at least for one day. I took advantage of this reprieve to run errands. I had thought of inviting a friend to join me for lunch, but something in this sudden cool air made me want to spend the day wandering the town on my own. I wanted to take in the street activities of a summer Thursday afternoon, even though technically, it's not quite summer.
I made my way to College and Bathurst, clutching a small box. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in a store window, I looked like I could have been carrying a bomb. A cleanly packaged bomb, but it could still go off and hurt you. I was actually looking for a cell phone store in the area, which I thought was a Fido outlet. I was wrong. The pretty young woman in the store pleasantly told me I might have to go to Chinatown to find an official Fido store. Back out on the street, I debated which was more important at that moment: finding the Fido store or having lunch.
Mars beckoned from just a few shops away. I always have their corned beef hash. I made my way towards it but noticed there were vacant seats at the patio of Aunties and Uncles, where all their rickety bench tables wore red and white checkered plastic covers, held down by plastic clips to prevent flight. People rave about the food at Aunties and Uncles. I went there once and it was okay. But not good enough to warrant the hour-long weekend lineups to get into a hole in a wall just to receive brusque service on chipped plates. In fact, I quite hate lining up to pay for food.
But this afternoon was different. The sidewalk patio was free and there was no lineup. Mars could wait. I was willing to give Aunties and Uncles another try. I took a seat and ordered scrambled eggs and bacon with potato salad from a hurrying waiter trying to contain his snarling. I suppose if I had to work on such a beautiful day, I'd be quite pissed off too.
As I waited for my food, I saw merry school children jauntily making their way up Lippincott, skipping and a hopping, n'er a care in the world. No doubt they were disgorged from the nearby schools and were headed home for lunch. Some sucked on giant, blue, orange or white freezies while others munched on mystery foods as they walked across my field of vision two by two, three by three, and sometimes a whole herd of them of varying heights clustered together, trying to not spill off the sidewalk.
And then one lone old man came along, hunched over his cane at 110 degrees. He was still wearing his winter blue vinyl coat with several tears in the back. It was painful watching him. With all his might, he lifted his cane with his right arm and planted it a few feet in front of him. Steadying his balance, he inched toward his cane with ten to twelve little shuffles. Then he lifted his cane and planted it a few feet in front of him again and start his shuffling all over. Every second or third cycle, he'd grab for the fence with his left hand to steady his body. I had an urge to run out and buy him a walker. But it was good to see none of the groups of school children swarmed him to trip him up or knock him down.
Then suddenly, plunked in front of me was my food. That's probably how they chip their dishes. To tell the truth, and as much as I hate to admit it, the food was good. The scrambled eggs creamy yellow and fluffy, the bacon crisped just so and generous, the potato salad tangy and moist. It's just that I still didn't know whether my waiter could do anything else with his voice but grunt.
The wind picked up, more people came in and sat down. In one corner, a lone woman sat with her papers spread out, arms holding down the pages, deep in discussion on the cell phone. At the table next to her, a woman was also on her cell phone, laughing and guffawing as if she was in a room by herself. In front of her was a woman in her late fifties lunching with a young man in his twenties. They looked like mother and son with the same long nose and chin. Except she kept holding his hand and he seemed self-conscious and too shy to reciprocate affection.
Beside me, a young man was telling his cell phone companion about his current favourite video game: Guitar Hero. I understood what he was saying, Guitar Hero also being The Boy's current favourite. I suppose that's one way to invite someone to lunch. You sit at a restaurant, phone your friend and talk to them while you are eating. Why, that's a virtual date. And if you were really keen on a guy but too shy to ask him out, you could phone him while you are at the restaurant and he wouldn't even have to know he was on your virtual date.
Behind me, two women with young children and a stroller waited for their lunch. I heard one woman say to the little boy, "Let's put her away and look at her again later. She's napping right now," referring to the sleeping infant in the stroller.
I finished my lunch and gathered all my things to leave, including my box. I walked along College where a meter-man in his police uniform was checking into car windows for parking receipts. Those government goons who bully the unwary, those city-paid vultures who prey on the distracted, those taxpayer-sponsored parasites who feast on the distraught in front of hospitals. I cursed the meter-man under my breath, wondering if he thought I was carrying a bomb, and made my way home.
I made my way to College and Bathurst, clutching a small box. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in a store window, I looked like I could have been carrying a bomb. A cleanly packaged bomb, but it could still go off and hurt you. I was actually looking for a cell phone store in the area, which I thought was a Fido outlet. I was wrong. The pretty young woman in the store pleasantly told me I might have to go to Chinatown to find an official Fido store. Back out on the street, I debated which was more important at that moment: finding the Fido store or having lunch.
Mars beckoned from just a few shops away. I always have their corned beef hash. I made my way towards it but noticed there were vacant seats at the patio of Aunties and Uncles, where all their rickety bench tables wore red and white checkered plastic covers, held down by plastic clips to prevent flight. People rave about the food at Aunties and Uncles. I went there once and it was okay. But not good enough to warrant the hour-long weekend lineups to get into a hole in a wall just to receive brusque service on chipped plates. In fact, I quite hate lining up to pay for food.
But this afternoon was different. The sidewalk patio was free and there was no lineup. Mars could wait. I was willing to give Aunties and Uncles another try. I took a seat and ordered scrambled eggs and bacon with potato salad from a hurrying waiter trying to contain his snarling. I suppose if I had to work on such a beautiful day, I'd be quite pissed off too.
As I waited for my food, I saw merry school children jauntily making their way up Lippincott, skipping and a hopping, n'er a care in the world. No doubt they were disgorged from the nearby schools and were headed home for lunch. Some sucked on giant, blue, orange or white freezies while others munched on mystery foods as they walked across my field of vision two by two, three by three, and sometimes a whole herd of them of varying heights clustered together, trying to not spill off the sidewalk.
And then one lone old man came along, hunched over his cane at 110 degrees. He was still wearing his winter blue vinyl coat with several tears in the back. It was painful watching him. With all his might, he lifted his cane with his right arm and planted it a few feet in front of him. Steadying his balance, he inched toward his cane with ten to twelve little shuffles. Then he lifted his cane and planted it a few feet in front of him again and start his shuffling all over. Every second or third cycle, he'd grab for the fence with his left hand to steady his body. I had an urge to run out and buy him a walker. But it was good to see none of the groups of school children swarmed him to trip him up or knock him down.
Then suddenly, plunked in front of me was my food. That's probably how they chip their dishes. To tell the truth, and as much as I hate to admit it, the food was good. The scrambled eggs creamy yellow and fluffy, the bacon crisped just so and generous, the potato salad tangy and moist. It's just that I still didn't know whether my waiter could do anything else with his voice but grunt.
The wind picked up, more people came in and sat down. In one corner, a lone woman sat with her papers spread out, arms holding down the pages, deep in discussion on the cell phone. At the table next to her, a woman was also on her cell phone, laughing and guffawing as if she was in a room by herself. In front of her was a woman in her late fifties lunching with a young man in his twenties. They looked like mother and son with the same long nose and chin. Except she kept holding his hand and he seemed self-conscious and too shy to reciprocate affection.
Beside me, a young man was telling his cell phone companion about his current favourite video game: Guitar Hero. I understood what he was saying, Guitar Hero also being The Boy's current favourite. I suppose that's one way to invite someone to lunch. You sit at a restaurant, phone your friend and talk to them while you are eating. Why, that's a virtual date. And if you were really keen on a guy but too shy to ask him out, you could phone him while you are at the restaurant and he wouldn't even have to know he was on your virtual date.
Behind me, two women with young children and a stroller waited for their lunch. I heard one woman say to the little boy, "Let's put her away and look at her again later. She's napping right now," referring to the sleeping infant in the stroller.
I finished my lunch and gathered all my things to leave, including my box. I walked along College where a meter-man in his police uniform was checking into car windows for parking receipts. Those government goons who bully the unwary, those city-paid vultures who prey on the distracted, those taxpayer-sponsored parasites who feast on the distraught in front of hospitals. I cursed the meter-man under my breath, wondering if he thought I was carrying a bomb, and made my way home.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Nothing Virtual About This
The muggy heat weighs me down. So it was a relief feeling the evening breeze in the shade under a tree, waiting for The Boy to register for summer virtual school.
Summer school these days isn't the same as summer school in my day. Back then, you go to summer school because you flunked out. Your summer school classmates were either the cigarette dangling on the lip, motorcycle riding type too busy being aloof with drugs and rock and roll to do well in school, or the new immigrant kids who can't speak English, geek-clad in polyester plaid, and socially awkward, and therefore failed their courses because the teachers didn't understand them.
As I watched the kids going into the school to register, I see they are wholesome keeners, all of them. Individuals who are well supported at home. The immigrants, whole families of sisters chaperoned by their mothers, flowed their saris proudly while their dads waited in minivans and SUVs. No Heathers here, though some definite Pointdexters. Two girls skidded up to the school steps on their skate boards.
There were many parents on the lawn and school grounds waiting with me. This is a school that kids can only get to by car because it is located at the god-forsaken country of The East Mall and Burnamthorpe.
The Boy is keen to do the five-week grade 12 English course this summer. He is not in pursuit of excellence. He just wants a spare in the Fall. Only, he'll be in France for three of the five weeks and can't count on internet access. Plus, there will be an exam on July 18 but he doesn't get back to Toronto till July 25.
I think he should focus on France and do English as a regular course in the Fall. This suggestion riles him. He doesn't want to go to France now. He said he never wanted to go but agreed only to indulge his parents. I think he will grow up to vote Republican if he can, and focus on the acquisition of material things. How did he get this way?
The teachers we spoke to said he can hand in all his assignments early. He will need to find a school in France that will agree to act as his supervisor for the exam. And he needs to factor in courier time because he needs to have written the exam and have it delivered to his teacher in Toronto by July 18.
This is not a virtual quagmire; it is real. Now to figure a way through it.
Summer school these days isn't the same as summer school in my day. Back then, you go to summer school because you flunked out. Your summer school classmates were either the cigarette dangling on the lip, motorcycle riding type too busy being aloof with drugs and rock and roll to do well in school, or the new immigrant kids who can't speak English, geek-clad in polyester plaid, and socially awkward, and therefore failed their courses because the teachers didn't understand them.
As I watched the kids going into the school to register, I see they are wholesome keeners, all of them. Individuals who are well supported at home. The immigrants, whole families of sisters chaperoned by their mothers, flowed their saris proudly while their dads waited in minivans and SUVs. No Heathers here, though some definite Pointdexters. Two girls skidded up to the school steps on their skate boards.
There were many parents on the lawn and school grounds waiting with me. This is a school that kids can only get to by car because it is located at the god-forsaken country of The East Mall and Burnamthorpe.
The Boy is keen to do the five-week grade 12 English course this summer. He is not in pursuit of excellence. He just wants a spare in the Fall. Only, he'll be in France for three of the five weeks and can't count on internet access. Plus, there will be an exam on July 18 but he doesn't get back to Toronto till July 25.
I think he should focus on France and do English as a regular course in the Fall. This suggestion riles him. He doesn't want to go to France now. He said he never wanted to go but agreed only to indulge his parents. I think he will grow up to vote Republican if he can, and focus on the acquisition of material things. How did he get this way?
The teachers we spoke to said he can hand in all his assignments early. He will need to find a school in France that will agree to act as his supervisor for the exam. And he needs to factor in courier time because he needs to have written the exam and have it delivered to his teacher in Toronto by July 18.
This is not a virtual quagmire; it is real. Now to figure a way through it.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Save A Penny
I bought a coffee and chocolate croissant yesterday (I know, I know...). The total came to $2.51. I said to the cashier, "I'll give you a penny." So I gave her $20.01.
She gave me back $17.51 change. I said, "No, I gave you the penny."
She checked the change and did the math again. "Oh," she said, "Right. But it's only a penny. It's not like it's a dollar and I'll be short and have to make up for it."
I said, "Well, but it's good for us to practise for the day you're a dollar short."
"I suppose."
Of course it's not the penny. It's the practice of being accurate, It's my rejection of throwing things away unnecessarily. It's respect for the seemingly insignificant details of our lives.
In the last couple of weeks, I've picked up quite a few pennies off the street. Pennies must be a recurring theme in this phase of my life. I treat them as lucky pennies. I make a wish and throw them into the next fountain I see, though sometimes I don't see a fountain for days and I probably ended up spending the penny, like on a coffee and chocolate croissant.
But you know what I wish for most often aside from health, wealth, happiness and world peace? I wish for really great books to come my way. And I just found one. I can't put it down. It's called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.
Gilbert writes with great wit and humour as she talks about life after divorce and how she set out to "examine three different aspectrs of her nature, set against the backdrop of three different cultures: pleasure in Italy, devotion in India, and on the Indonesian island of Bali, a balance between worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence."
Look, this book is hot on the book club circuit. This one's for you, Sil.
She gave me back $17.51 change. I said, "No, I gave you the penny."
She checked the change and did the math again. "Oh," she said, "Right. But it's only a penny. It's not like it's a dollar and I'll be short and have to make up for it."
I said, "Well, but it's good for us to practise for the day you're a dollar short."
"I suppose."
Of course it's not the penny. It's the practice of being accurate, It's my rejection of throwing things away unnecessarily. It's respect for the seemingly insignificant details of our lives.
In the last couple of weeks, I've picked up quite a few pennies off the street. Pennies must be a recurring theme in this phase of my life. I treat them as lucky pennies. I make a wish and throw them into the next fountain I see, though sometimes I don't see a fountain for days and I probably ended up spending the penny, like on a coffee and chocolate croissant.
But you know what I wish for most often aside from health, wealth, happiness and world peace? I wish for really great books to come my way. And I just found one. I can't put it down. It's called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.
Gilbert writes with great wit and humour as she talks about life after divorce and how she set out to "examine three different aspectrs of her nature, set against the backdrop of three different cultures: pleasure in Italy, devotion in India, and on the Indonesian island of Bali, a balance between worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence."
Look, this book is hot on the book club circuit. This one's for you, Sil.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Disciplined...Not
So many rounds of good eats lately, and so much pleasant company. First, there was dinner with my Fab5 friends. Yup, there are five of us, and we are fabulous. Then there was an impromptu dinner with the family and mom. The Man brought her home one night unexpectedly so we all went out for dinner. And tonight, I am making dinner for my brother-in-law's family.
I'm pleased with myself. I have shown tremendous restraint and discipline so far. Not once did I overeat and through it all, I have kept my blood pressure under 140/90. In fact, most of the time, I come in under 130/80. Last night, I even had a reading of 113/72.
All this is to say this self-restraint is new to me and I rock.
After dinner...
I am so ashamed of myself. I had been so good. Then tonight after dinner, I had two Hagen Daaz ice cream bars. Bro said, Two? One is not bad enough?
He is so right. And now I can't sleep because I am so unnecessarily full. I wonder why being lactose intolerant doesn't scare me away from ice cream. I guess I'm like those people with emphysema who won't stop smoking.
Well. This is like all those predictions out there about celebrities who go into rehab. They always relapse and it takes a few tries. The ice cream tonight was just a relapse.
But the good thing is, the house is clean again. I like having people over for dinner because The Man, The Boy and I all do our part to clean the house, tidy the garden and prepare the food. We are a good team. Over a leisurely visit and dinner, I had a chance to catch up with my brother-in-law's family. I also made further plans for The Boy and The Exchange when they get to Toronto. And I finished two books tonight.
So. So I am not going to beat myself up any more. And I look forward to more gardening tomorrow so I can sweat out the damage of the ice cream.
Middle of the night...
Oh god, I am so silly. I can't sleep because sister-in-law made coffee after dinner. Because I don't have a coffee scoop, she couldn't measure out the right amount of coffee. Her estimate was way, way off and she made the coffee ultra strong. Even though I watered mine down three times, I still felt it was too strong. That's more likely the reason I'm wide awake in the middle of the night. Stupid coffee.
I'm pleased with myself. I have shown tremendous restraint and discipline so far. Not once did I overeat and through it all, I have kept my blood pressure under 140/90. In fact, most of the time, I come in under 130/80. Last night, I even had a reading of 113/72.
All this is to say this self-restraint is new to me and I rock.
After dinner...
I am so ashamed of myself. I had been so good. Then tonight after dinner, I had two Hagen Daaz ice cream bars. Bro said, Two? One is not bad enough?
He is so right. And now I can't sleep because I am so unnecessarily full. I wonder why being lactose intolerant doesn't scare me away from ice cream. I guess I'm like those people with emphysema who won't stop smoking.
Well. This is like all those predictions out there about celebrities who go into rehab. They always relapse and it takes a few tries. The ice cream tonight was just a relapse.
But the good thing is, the house is clean again. I like having people over for dinner because The Man, The Boy and I all do our part to clean the house, tidy the garden and prepare the food. We are a good team. Over a leisurely visit and dinner, I had a chance to catch up with my brother-in-law's family. I also made further plans for The Boy and The Exchange when they get to Toronto. And I finished two books tonight.
So. So I am not going to beat myself up any more. And I look forward to more gardening tomorrow so I can sweat out the damage of the ice cream.
Middle of the night...
Oh god, I am so silly. I can't sleep because sister-in-law made coffee after dinner. Because I don't have a coffee scoop, she couldn't measure out the right amount of coffee. Her estimate was way, way off and she made the coffee ultra strong. Even though I watered mine down three times, I still felt it was too strong. That's more likely the reason I'm wide awake in the middle of the night. Stupid coffee.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Why The Crazy Cook Will Never Be A Chef
Last week, Mom asked Uncle to buy her four racks of spareribs. Aunt asked what she was doing with so many ribs. She said she liked the way I make spareribs and wanted me to cook them for her. Uncle agreed. He's had my spareribs and he likes them too. So he e-mailed me for the recipe.
I phoned him and had this crazy conversation with Aunt.
Aunt: "How do you make your spareribs? Your Mom and Uncle say they are the best."
Me: "I think the trick is to boil them first. You cut up the ribs in single pieces and put them in a pot. Add just enough water to cover the ribs and bring to a boil. Then you simmer the pot for about 35 minutes."
"You cut them up into single ribs? Do you still grill them after?"
"Yes."
"Oh no, that's too much work cutting up the ribs. And it's not necessary to boil them first. You just need to put the whole rack on the grill and use low heat."
"You can do that, but the meat doesn't fall off the bone when you cook it that way."
"How do you grill them?"
"I mix different BBQ sauces. I make sure one of the sauces is a hickory smoke sauce, and sometimes I buy liquid smoke to add to the sauce."
"But I like hoisin sauce. It's sweeter and it glazes easily."
"You can use that sauce too."
"But Uncle likes your ribs better. They're not burnt."
"Well, because I boil them, the meat is already cooked when they go on the grill. You put them on the grill to add flavour and texture with a bit of charring. Grilling is finished when you see the sauce glaze over and char marks start to appear on the ribs. It takes just a few minutes."
"You have to stand there and watch over it? That takes too much time. I just leave the rack on the grill and go away. No boiling, not necessary to cook twice."
"That's one way to cook them."
"I'll do it my way. But how do you make yours taste so good?"
I phoned him and had this crazy conversation with Aunt.
Aunt: "How do you make your spareribs? Your Mom and Uncle say they are the best."
Me: "I think the trick is to boil them first. You cut up the ribs in single pieces and put them in a pot. Add just enough water to cover the ribs and bring to a boil. Then you simmer the pot for about 35 minutes."
"You cut them up into single ribs? Do you still grill them after?"
"Yes."
"Oh no, that's too much work cutting up the ribs. And it's not necessary to boil them first. You just need to put the whole rack on the grill and use low heat."
"You can do that, but the meat doesn't fall off the bone when you cook it that way."
"How do you grill them?"
"I mix different BBQ sauces. I make sure one of the sauces is a hickory smoke sauce, and sometimes I buy liquid smoke to add to the sauce."
"But I like hoisin sauce. It's sweeter and it glazes easily."
"You can use that sauce too."
"But Uncle likes your ribs better. They're not burnt."
"Well, because I boil them, the meat is already cooked when they go on the grill. You put them on the grill to add flavour and texture with a bit of charring. Grilling is finished when you see the sauce glaze over and char marks start to appear on the ribs. It takes just a few minutes."
"You have to stand there and watch over it? That takes too much time. I just leave the rack on the grill and go away. No boiling, not necessary to cook twice."
"That's one way to cook them."
"I'll do it my way. But how do you make yours taste so good?"
Monday, June 04, 2007
Old Man
One of the signs of old age is paranoia. As people get older, they get more suspicious and think people are out to get them. The mother of a friend of ours believes people are coming into her house at night and stealing thousands and thousands of dollars from her, never mind that she doesn't keep thousands and thousands of dollars in the house.
The Man, I'm afraid, is also headed that way. Lately, he's been accusing people of doing things intentionally to bother him (such as how they drive), and he thinks people are trying to rip us off in almost every exchange we have when purchasing a service.
I am most distraught about this. In my mind, The Man is that energetic, optimistic, passionate, easy-going, confident, and generous 25-year-old young man I fell in love with. What is he now? On good days, a white-haired, beer-bellied, affectionate Old Man. On bad days, a disgruntled, smelly Old Goat, too rigid in his ways and too-easily irritated.
Me, I've put on weight too and I have lost the ability to concentrate. I have multiple ailments, minor as they are, except for the cough, which has improved much lately. It's my experience with this cough that has opened my eyes to homeopathy.
I tried many remedies for my cough. Maybe they all worked, maybe none of them did and I got better over time. One thing I do know is that when I drink ginger tea (I cut up three inches of ginger and simmer in 8 cups of boiling water for 20 minutes), I don't cough as much. When I didn't drink the brew for a few days while staying with the kids, my cough got worse. Once home, I started the brew again and last night, I didn't cough once.
While seeking treatment for my cough, I stumbled upon a book called Eating Alive by John Matsen. It sure makes sense what he says, that our body prefers to be in a state of homeostasis, a balanced state where it knows how to heal itself of illnesses. We interfere with this balance when we insist on eating bad foods.
The book explains how our digestive system works, the roles that our various organs play to help with digestion, and what bad foods to avoid. Are we surprised at all when he says don't eat food that's been over processed, eat slowly and chew your food well?
Most of all, the book suggests that if you treat your body right and maintain good digestion, you can reverse a lot of the diseases that modern medicine can't fight, such as cancer, depression, mood swings, arthritis and premature aging. It's true that the Old Man wolfs down his food and eats way too much bread.
I am going to try to get The Man back and get me better with a homeopathic approach. I don't like the sickly me I've become, nor the Old Goat I'm living with.
The Man, I'm afraid, is also headed that way. Lately, he's been accusing people of doing things intentionally to bother him (such as how they drive), and he thinks people are trying to rip us off in almost every exchange we have when purchasing a service.
I am most distraught about this. In my mind, The Man is that energetic, optimistic, passionate, easy-going, confident, and generous 25-year-old young man I fell in love with. What is he now? On good days, a white-haired, beer-bellied, affectionate Old Man. On bad days, a disgruntled, smelly Old Goat, too rigid in his ways and too-easily irritated.
Me, I've put on weight too and I have lost the ability to concentrate. I have multiple ailments, minor as they are, except for the cough, which has improved much lately. It's my experience with this cough that has opened my eyes to homeopathy.
I tried many remedies for my cough. Maybe they all worked, maybe none of them did and I got better over time. One thing I do know is that when I drink ginger tea (I cut up three inches of ginger and simmer in 8 cups of boiling water for 20 minutes), I don't cough as much. When I didn't drink the brew for a few days while staying with the kids, my cough got worse. Once home, I started the brew again and last night, I didn't cough once.
While seeking treatment for my cough, I stumbled upon a book called Eating Alive by John Matsen. It sure makes sense what he says, that our body prefers to be in a state of homeostasis, a balanced state where it knows how to heal itself of illnesses. We interfere with this balance when we insist on eating bad foods.
The book explains how our digestive system works, the roles that our various organs play to help with digestion, and what bad foods to avoid. Are we surprised at all when he says don't eat food that's been over processed, eat slowly and chew your food well?
Most of all, the book suggests that if you treat your body right and maintain good digestion, you can reverse a lot of the diseases that modern medicine can't fight, such as cancer, depression, mood swings, arthritis and premature aging. It's true that the Old Man wolfs down his food and eats way too much bread.
I am going to try to get The Man back and get me better with a homeopathic approach. I don't like the sickly me I've become, nor the Old Goat I'm living with.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Bull In A China Shop
Literally.
Since I've been home, I've broken a salad bowl, a wineglass and a large tumbler. I've burned my hand cooking and nearly sliced a finger starting up some antique fans The Man keeps in the basement.
Like most things, I blame the weather. I don't know if the heat and humidity of the past few days unbalances me, or if it's really resentment directed at the fact that we are getting heat and humidity at the beginning of June. But thank god all that abated today.
I opened the windows this morning to cool air. Still damp, and it's going to rain for the next three days. But cool and refreshing. Early this morning, I went out in the garden to put in some more plants so when the rain comes, they will get a really good soaking.
All would have been well if I hadn't ruined two changes of clothes. What was I thinking, wearing good clothes to do gardening? To be fair, I wasn't thinking of gardening when I got dressed this morning. After putting in a few plants, I was puzzled as to why my clothes were dirty. So I changed into a second set of good clothes. Soiling this second set was inexcusable. Only when I rested the watering can on my leg and saw the dirt on my pants did I realize what I was doing. So into the house again for shorts and a t-shirt.
The Boy is off to see Pirates of the Caribbean, The Man is still in Port Hope, which leaves me a few hours to obsess over cleaning the house and prettifying the garden to beat the rain.
Since I've been home, I've broken a salad bowl, a wineglass and a large tumbler. I've burned my hand cooking and nearly sliced a finger starting up some antique fans The Man keeps in the basement.
Like most things, I blame the weather. I don't know if the heat and humidity of the past few days unbalances me, or if it's really resentment directed at the fact that we are getting heat and humidity at the beginning of June. But thank god all that abated today.
I opened the windows this morning to cool air. Still damp, and it's going to rain for the next three days. But cool and refreshing. Early this morning, I went out in the garden to put in some more plants so when the rain comes, they will get a really good soaking.
All would have been well if I hadn't ruined two changes of clothes. What was I thinking, wearing good clothes to do gardening? To be fair, I wasn't thinking of gardening when I got dressed this morning. After putting in a few plants, I was puzzled as to why my clothes were dirty. So I changed into a second set of good clothes. Soiling this second set was inexcusable. Only when I rested the watering can on my leg and saw the dirt on my pants did I realize what I was doing. So into the house again for shorts and a t-shirt.
The Boy is off to see Pirates of the Caribbean, The Man is still in Port Hope, which leaves me a few hours to obsess over cleaning the house and prettifying the garden to beat the rain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
