Messy

I have to submit stool samples to my doctor for testing. We want to eliminate (I hope) blood loss in stools as a cause for my chronic anemia. I have to collect samples from three different days, but all within seven days. That assumes a lot. And even though it's my own samples I'm working with, it is not a pleasant job.

First, you have to prepare yourself so your samples yield useable results. In my case, despite my need to take iron pills, I have to stay off the iron for at least one week before I can start collecting. They don't want the result discoloured by iron. And I can't overdo on vitamin C, eat red meat or take medication for three days prior to and during sample collection.

Secondly, the collection process assumes you are productive enough to yield three samples a week. They advise you to eat lots of vegetables and whole grains before and during the collection period.

Most disturbing of all, they don't want you to drop your sample in the water but they don't provide collection containers. So where are you supposed to collect the stuff? Not to mention you have to discard the sample after without splashing all over the place.

They give you three sticks. Each day, you use one to smear the sample from two different areas onto a section of a card, close the card, then put the card in a plastic envelope. The next time, I use the same card, but a different section. Where should I keep this card between samples? I can't leave it lying around, I don't want to put it in my drawer.

The sample kit includes an envelope, so you can mail in your collection! Am I the only one having trouble with that idea? Oh sure, it would serve a mail thief right. But at the post office, it would get stacked right next to love letters sprayed with perfume, it would go right between birth announcements and wedding invitations. It just doesn't seem right.

This is a highly user-unfriendly procedure that has got me all flummoxed and spatzy. More so because in my gut, I know I'm not losing blood that way. And I can't get anyone else to do this for me. I'm getting a headache and my shoulder is hunching up just thinking I have to do this again.

I Wished It

I've had a rough few days that left me feeling scattered and fractured. I felt unwhole coming home to a messy house, remembering The Man is half a world away, and The Boy couldn't wait to get over to his friend's for a sleepover, which I drove him to because it was 10:00 p.m.

Coming home for the second time tonight, I remember hearing earlier about a freak landslide today in al-Dhafir, 20 km south west of Sana'a. But The Man should be far away from Sana'a by now. He's taken a few days out to visit a bit of ahem, rural Yemen. No, he should be out of landslide's way and into the heart of kidnap country instead. I wished I could talk to The Man, just to hear his voice, know he is alright, tell him how I was feeling.

No sooner did I walk into the house when the phone rang. It was The Man! Why was he phoning? It's 6:00 a.m. there. He was calling from Mukulla, the first stop of his trip. He got up early to catch a ride to the next destination, Shabim. While he was up and waiting, he thought he'd phone.

He's okay. He sounded happy. We talked. No, I ranted and vented and told him every minutiae of my last few days. I used up all the time he had on his phone card, which he just loaded to the max available. And I feel better now.

Sexism or Being Practical?

On the train to Port Hope today, I noticed the whole car was mostly full of white haired people. I sat behind two elderly women, probably in their 70's, each travelling alone. They were showing each other photographs of their grandchildren. As the train started, an attendant showed the passenger sitting beside the emergency escape window how to open the window. The passenger was a middle-aged man.

One elderly woman said to the other, "It's nice they are showing a man how to do that. If we get in trouble, he'll push out the window for sure."

I strained a bit to see if she was being sarcastic. But I don't think so. Both women were nodding their heads as if they felt more secure now that a man would be in charge of the escape window.

I reflected on what the woman said. Was she expressing aged sexism - that life is better when a man is in charge, or was she expressing the practical wisdom of experience - that it's easier for a muscular man to kick open a window? I think I could have kicked open that window. But I would not have wanted to deal with the fear and panic that the seniors on the train may have showed. If they feel safer with a man, who am I to make them uncomfortable? I don't ever want a train emergency to occur just to prove I can so kick down a window.

Maybe it's an issue of division of labour. We each do what we're best at. If someone close to the escape window had kicked it down, I probably would have stood at the window to make sure people filed out in an organized way. Someone else may have tried to calm the panicky ones.

And an issue of what approach works best. A muscular man might have kicked down a window with sheer force. I might have been more strategic - kick down the window where it's meant to be kicked down.

Everyday Is A Holiday

Christmas and the big meals are over, yet the holiday season continues.

Hanukkah is in full swing, Kwanzaa just started, New Years is coming up, followed by Orthodox Christmas on January 7, and Chinese New Year on January 29. These are only holidays I am aware of.

If you look at the Earth Calendar, just about everyday is a special day somewhere in the world. Even January 8, when the USA marks the King's birthday. That's King Elvis.

But what the heck is Trivia Day and National Clean Off Your Desk Day, and Maintenance Day, and Rubber Eraser Day? These are all American special days.

Only in Canada and the US do we mark Groundhog Day. I guess it's because we have the kind of winter that makes us eager for spring. I mean, you don't find Finland and Norway celebrating Groundhog Day and they get plenty of snow too.

Sweden does celebrate Fat Tuesday. Somehow, I don't think of northern climes celebrating Mardi Gras. Australia does Clean Up while it Prays on the same day.

But did you know that on March 20, the whole world is celebrating World Frog Day?

May 1 is Labour Day in just about every country in the world except Canada and the US. I wonder why we've chosen to celebrate labour in September instead of with the rest of the world.

I guess the special occasions a country chooses to celebrate is an expression of that country's history, culture, climate and personality.

My favourite days? I like the Hero Days that many countries celebrate. And I like March 24 and September 25, The Man and The Boy's birthdays respectively. But I have to stick with the tried and true holidays. Despite the frenzy and the commericialism, I like Christmas. I like that everyone is off work and school at the same time, that we make a point of seeing friends and family and spending time together.

Boxing Day with Turducken

See also:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


I had leftover Alaskan king crab legs and fruit for breakfast today. Nothing much after that. This is to make sure I kept my appetite for the turducken tonight.

My sister-in-law and her family arrived in the afternoon. Our neighbours with young children were also home, so I invited them as well. We were six adults and five children at dinner. I made a cauliflower soup and a salad to accompany the leftover pickled beets, chambord carrots, and mushroom strudel. And of course the half turducken.

The turducken birds at purchase weighed:

turkey - 17.5 lbs
duck - 5 lbs
chicken 3 lbs

That's 25.5 lbs of birds before deboning. Let's say after deboning, we had 20 lbs of meat. Half of that is 10 lbs. That's the amount of meat we had tonight from the half turducken, plus stuffing. We managed to eat about half of that. That means I still have a quarter turducken in the fridge!

So how does the turducken taste? Meh.

It's not that it was bad. It was good. But not great. I think what makes a roast bird enjoyable are the stuffing and gravy. Mine were okay. The meat was tender but it lacked inherent flavour. I guess nothing quite compares to the free-range turkey I made a few years ago.

Would I do a turducken again? Yes. It was relatively easy. Not much more work than a turkey. But I would want to be more selective about the birds. Go free-range or go home. As our friend said tonight, a turducken is great food for a large group. I think it is more a conversational dish that holds the promise of sumptiousness.

But the evening itself was a blast. Generally good food and great company. I love my neighbours and brother-in-law (BIL) because they are so not shy about new food combinations. And so not shy about showing off their talents. BIL brought his new guitar and amplifier. Neighbour went home to get his guitar and amp. The Boy set up his drums. They jammed. I recognized The Wait and I think Brown Eye Girl. This was an unexpected gift, to hear them play.

The Boy loves board games. He's beaten me at every game so far. Tonight, he had his fill of gaming with so many willing partners. At one point, we even played Boggle when The Boy wasn't looking. He was quick to catch us and joined in.

Everyone has gone home now. Turducken and I have gone through a lot together. What will be my next culinary challenge?

Christmas Eve with Turducken

See also:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


What did the turducken taste like? I don't know. My kin treats family gatherings as mass feeds. There was so much food on Christmas Eve, we could have fed the whole street with variety, quality, and quantity. But mostly quantity.

During the day, for munching while playing mah jongg, there were pastries and buns with meat filling, crunchy shrimp crackers, tasty dried cuttlefish, spicy beef jerky and fruit. A neighbour came by. I was grateful he agreed to take some meat-filled buns with him.

For dinner, we had a buffet of sinful indulgences, a red district of inviting oral pleasures vying for attention, a contrasting array of edible colours and food debauchery only as Stanley Kubrick and Fellini could have imagined. You know you'll be taken to excess if you touched, yet you couldn't help yourself.

There were giant platters of crispy deep fried spring rolls and samosas, sweet and luscious Alaskan king crab legs, plump shrimp cocktail, homemade spinokopita in phyllo pastry, delectable sushi... are we at the main course yet? No. There was a beautiful fresh salad brimming over, pickled beets, chambord carrots, mushroom strudel in puff pastry, and piled high mashed potatoes. Of course the sumptious turducken with stuffing.

For dessert, we had two fruit pies, assorted fruit with rich chocolate fondue, and lots and lots of chocolates. We served sparkling wine, regular wine, pop, water and coffee.

Thing is, came dinner time, I wasn't all that hungry, having munch away at different things during the day. All the food kind of blended together for me and I could no longer distinguish one taste or texture from another. Dinner guests complimented on the moist, tender and flavourfulness of the turducken, but I wouldn't know. My mother said, We must make our turkeys this way from now on.

I guess it makes sense that the duck and chicken would be tender. But the turkey apparently was also moist despite being exposed in the oven for over eight hours. I guess it's the low temperature the whole thing was cooked in. Because there was so much food, we only ate half the turducken, leaving an entire half untouched.

The butcher said when serving the turducken, you cut the bird in half, then slice across the half bird as if you were carving a roast to get all three birds and the stuffing in the same slice. It didn't quite work out that way. The turkey breast was quite large. The first few slices were of turkey only. But you could easily share the duck and chicken from later slices.

Here's a picture of the half bird, consisting of these layers:

- turkey (white meat at top)
- sausage stuffing
- duck (the dark meat in middle)
- corn meal stuffing
- chicken (bottom)
- sausage stuffing



The good thing is, my sister-in-law had planned to spend Boxing Day with us. We were going to have dinner out. But now we've decided to stay in. Tonight, I will get to taste the turducken without the scrumptious taste and distraction of competing offerings.

Fish Non-Recovery

Today, Legolas lost his battle. He died tonight after valiant efforts to stay upright. He was a beautiful betta and brought happiness to us in different ways. He will be missed.

Fun with Turducken

See also:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


It's Christmas morning here. The Boy and I have exchanged presents. He did all his shopping by himself this year, and he was an incredible help before and throughout dinner last night. I was amazed. And in awe, watching The Boy turn into Young Man. He even presented me with a bouquet of fresh flowers just before dinner.

The turducken cooked at 225F from 7:35 a.m. to 4:15 p.m. Half way through, I put a lid on the roasting pan to prevent it from burning. When I took the bird out of the oven to rest before serving, I noticed the bottom of the bird was sitting in pan juice. I had read instructions to drain the dripping midway through cooking but forgot to do it. So Sis-in-law (SIL) and I drained the pan. We put a saucepan in the sink and poured the juice into it. SIL had to hold on to the bird so it wouldn't fall. When the tilt of the pour angle became too awkward, Bro took over holding back the turducken. The roasting pan must've collect eight cups of dripping.

I wanted to make gravy in the roasting pan so I could scrape up the burnt fat and charred crud that give gravy such a nice flavour. I wanted to transfer the bird to another roasting pan so it can finish draining. SIL found it difficult to lifted the bird on its own, so she lifted the bird with the wire rack under it.

By 6:00, everyone had arrived. There were 18 of us, though five were kids under 10. We were now ready to transfer the turducken onto a serving platter. That meant moving the turducken off its wire rack and onto the platter. The bird felt wobbly, it had no backbone. SIL grasped the bird on its sides, I held it in tact at the bottom, and Sis pushed down the rack so it wouldn't come off the pan with the bird. It took three of us to transfer the spineless bird to a serving platter.

When garnished, the turkey looked almost normal. You would never know it's pregnant with duck and chicken. And stuffing.

Fish Recovery: Day 4

The Boy and I went out to dinner with neighbours last night. When we got back, the top half of Legolas' tail had fallen off at where the tail starts. I hope he was not in too much pain. That must've been why he was listing against the side of the pail, almost flopped on his side for most of yesterday. Each time I looked at him last night, he was in a different spot in the pail. Though inactive, he's moving about a bit. He sits upright in the water now. I think a small piece of fin is about to fall off as well.

This morning, his fin looks more ragged and frayed. I debated if I really should wait seven days before changing his water. There are too many rotted fin bits in there right now. Tonight, I changed his water.

I realize I've been peering into his hospital pail with trepidation every time, for fear of finding him dead in there. I administered the usual amount of medicine in the clean water (conditioned and salted, then medicated). I fear the worst for Legolas.

Adventure With Turducken

See also:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


Our family is having our Christmas meal today, Christmas Eve.

I checked Chef Paul Prudhomme's site. He's attributed with having come up with the first turducken. He gives 8 hours as cooking time for a turducken at 225F, for birds the size of the ones I bought. That's better. The trick however, is to check the bird's internal temperature with a thermometer. But I find those readings often unreliable. There is always hacking a hole in the bird to see if it's still pink inside.

I aimed to put the turducken in the oven by 7:00 a.m., pull it out by 3:00 p.m., let it sit for an hour, and serve by 4:00.

I stayed up till 2:00 a.m. making the two stuffings I plan to use. Prudhomme suggests using three stuffings, a different one on top of each bird. But I will use two.

Already, the morning started late. I jumped out of bed at 7:00 and got the turducken in the oven by 7:35. Only half an hour late. I will still be able to serve dinner by 5:00.

As I spread the birds and check what's in the bone bag, I see that the leg meats are on the birds. Only the bones have been removed and put in the bag. The chicken however, kept its wings. I guess it's too small to debone.

I am using my new digital camera. It's my Christmas present from The Man, who had it shipped to me this week. Gotta love that internet shopping, and The Man. New camera, new food, new time to be so active in the morning... I lost the first few photographs learning how to use the camera. Nevertheless, I managed the important ones.

1. Spread turkey with sausage stuffing spread across.


2. Spread duck with corn meal stuffing on top of the turkey.


3. Spread chicken with sausage stuffing on top of the duck.


4. The turducken trussed up.


5. The turducken flipped over breast side up in the roasting pan.


We shall see how it all tastes in about nine hours.

Fish Recovery: Day 3

No noticeable improvement. Legolas, my elfin prince, slumps at the bottom of the pail, against the side. When I come near to stir the water, he lifts his head, as if saying to me, I'm sick. Sometimes, he is upright, then he goes back to the side of pail and crashes. There are more shreds of fin and tail in the pail than yesterday. I've dropped two pellets of food in the water. He is still not eating.

Open Faucet

This is how I found out that my friend is incontinent. A few years ago, we went to a fundraiser dinner. It was a hot summer night so after dinner, I took my shoes off to do the two step with her. After a while, my friend said,

"I'm going to the washroom. I need to clean up."

"I'll come with you. Someone just spilled pop or water on the floor. I'm stepping all over it."

In the washroom, she used the cubicle and I rinsed my feet in the sink. She said,

"That wasn't pop on the floor."

"It was weird. I was dancing on a dry floor and the next thing I know, it's wet."

"That was me."

"I didn't even notice you holding water the whole time we were dancing."

"I wasn't. I've had a problem with bladder control for a few years now. I peed the floor."

"You mean I was dancing in your pee?"

This week, I have a cough and fever. When I cough, I wet myself. I was telling The Man this. He laughed and said,

"You're spoiling my fantasy of the idealized you."

I can't live on fantasy right now. I need to be grounded in reality to deal with my problem. So I talked to my incontinent friend. She said she now wears a pad full time. She's younger than me.

My mother is also incontinent but she's in denial. She can't hold it. When she has to go, she has to go. She says she won't drink water before she goes out, and wherever she goes, she'll be near a washroom, so no problem. Except a couple of weeks ago when she went out and on the way home she had to go, so it came whether she was ready or not, and she had to crouch in a neighbour's hedge to finish her stream, then went swish swish swish home to clean up.

I am only at the stage where I spill when I cough and sneeze. But I hate being old enough to acknowledge incontinence is not just the subject of Depends jokes any more. I wonder if there is a dignified perspective on this problem.

Pride of Turducken

See:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


I got my turducken this afternoon.

At the poultry shop this morning, after talking with several assistants, they pointed me to the butcher who does the deboning. The fresh ducks hadn't arrived yet. They were waiting for the birds to come in at noon. So I chose my chicken, a small 3 lb bird, and the turkey, a 17.5 lb bird. The butcher deboned them while I did the rest of my shopping in the market.

When I came back at 12:10, I asked a man carting boxes around if the ducks had come in. He pointed to the glass case. The ducks looked huge, not the 5 lb bird the butcher said they would be. I asked him to find me a duck. He said, "Already did it."

A woman pulled out a duck from somewhere and weighed it. It was just under 5 lbs. The butcher deboned that and set the whole thing on his table. He called to his fellow butchers and said, "See this? It's a turkey, with a duck inside, with a chicken inside, all debone. It all in one now." The other cutters and choppers all nodded and muttered their appreciation of the butcher's work.

The turducken had no legs. The butcher said, "It's all meat here. When you serve this, you cut across to get all three kinds of meat. The legs will be in the way if I don't take them out. Takes less time to cook." He then wrapped up the turducken in a bag, and in a separate much larger bag, he put in the bones for soup.

As he carried the two bags to the cash, he stopped at every staff and customer to point out he had prepared a turducken. At least four other customers followed us to the cash. He explained what he had done, "This is a turkey with a duck inside, with a chicken inside. They're all one now. All deboned."

The customers oohed and aahed. To my surprise, two of the women piped up and said, "You're doing one of those? Did you hear the program on CBC? Did you see it on Breakfast television? How exciting." The butcher beamed with pride. We had quite a ruckus talking about how to prepare and cook the birds.

"It'll take 12 hours to cook," said one of the women.

12 hours? I read it takes nine. I guess it depends on the size of the birds. But to be safe, let's say 10 hours. I want to serve the turducken at 4:00 pm. So it has to come out of the oven at 3:30 to sit for 30 minutes. That means I have to put the bird in the oven at 5:30 a.m.

Oh my god.

Fish Recovery: Day 2

Put the required medication in the water. He's still not eating and seems more lethargic. He just sit at the bottom of the pail, body tilted a bit. When I stir the water to see if he's dead, he swims up for air. I went out in the afternoon and thought he could drown if left unattended for an extended time. He could fall asleep and forget to come up for air. We'll see what happens overnight. I am relieved to read on several sites that sick bettas could live for two weeks without food.

Sick Fish

My Fish has stopped eating. Yes, it's my Fish now. I have grown fond of him. It's turned whitish and sits at the bottom of the tank, fins clumped up. When it comes up for air, its fins are scraggly and frayed. I see little shreds of fin floating in the tank. The Fish looks very sad. I researched his condition on the internet. I think he's got fin rot, which can make him pale, inactive, and not eat while his fins rot away.

Fin rot comes from dirty water and overfeeding. And I thought I was so careful to change his water every few days. But it's true I've been very lax about cleaning his water since I put a new filter in. Can't trust a stupid motor to do my job. But then the pet shop boy I talked today said bettas get sick in the winter for some reason. He gets no questions about bettas in the summer, but come winter, everyone is coming in looking for treatment.

One pet shop boy told me I need to condition The Fish's water to get rid of the chlorine. Chlorine in tap water could be burning him and causing stress. I have never conditioned The Fish's water. Someone had told me I only need to let water sit overnight and the chlorine will evaporate. I read yesterday that I need to add aquarium salt each time i change water. The salt calms The Fish and protects The Fish's skin and scales. I have never used aquarium salt either.

So I went and bought water conditioner, aquarium salt, and something called BettaFix Remedy, which kills bateria and fungus that cause fin and tail rot, among other things, and promises to promote healing. I moved The Fish to a hospital bowl. It's a one-gallon bucket, which will require less water conditioner and remedy drops.

Already, I have OD'd on the conditioner and medicine because I miscalculated the conversion of imperial measurement instructions to metric volume. But that's okay, because I'm told you can't really OD on the water conditioner. You just waste the conditioner. And the medication? I just OD'd a little bit because I was cautious to under-medicate with the first treatment. Thank goodness I got the salt right, but only because I used a teaspoon for measuring instead of a tablespoon, the way the instructions asked you to.

So now I wait. It's a 7-day treatment. I need to medicate each day. And on the seventh day, I change the water. I read on someone's web site where she chronicled her betta's recovery, it took five days before she saw signs of improvement. I hope The Fish will be speedier.

I will also chronicle The Fish's recovery. Day 1: No change so far.

A Different Way of Life

Our friend Kat just got back from Yemen. Her job was to gather information so she can write a report on the effectiveness of some educational programs in different regions of the country. She has collected some fascinating stories.

For example, here is a photograph of some female teachers outside their school.



They keep the veil on while teaching primary school kids. In the West, we know that communication is 90% facial expression and body language. How do these children learn when 90% of the signals they receive are hidden? But most communities and many teachers are not comfortable being in public without the veil.

In the markets of old Sana'a, many vendors stock backless, spaghetti strap dresses with low cuts. Who buys these? Apparently, the veiled women. Under their veils, they are scantily dressed, fully made up and manicured. You see this when women retreat to the women's quarters, away from the men. There, they take off their black veils and gowns to reveal glamour rivalling any Hollywood starlet.

---

Here are some older girls who want to go to school, but they can't. Schools generally don't accommodate older girls in the classroom. The Man tells me one reason is there aren't enough female teachers so when girls get to a certain age, their parents pull them out of school.



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There are regional differences in the veil. In more remote villages, only women's faces are hidden.



But look how colourful they are.

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Here is a camel waiting outside a shop while its owner, still holding on to the camel's rope, goes inside the shop for tobacco.



---

In hot climates, men do the practical thing. They wear scarves for relief. Men in skirts. Not an issue.

Gym Warriors

Yesterday, lying prone on the stomach crunch bench resting between sit ups, I chanced a glance at a young man doing vertical pushups in mid air. I don't even know what the apparatus is called. The man, in his twenties, was suspended in mid air with only his hands supporting his full weight off the ground.

He did a set of push ups, bending at the elbows.

Then he grasped a large free weight between his legs and repeated the push ups.

I was so astounded by this feat that when he stopped, I went up to check the weight. It was 45 lbs. I cannot lift a 45 lb weight with such swiftness in any manner even standing on firm ground.

When he walked, this man had a squat look to him. I am sure if you picked him up and shook him, no part of him would jiggle.

Then I spied an older, top-heavy man in his 60's. His face was quite wrinkled, his short hair all white. He had a large chest and massive biceps and triceps. Grotesquely so.

He also had a paunch, but it was packaged age rather than slothful blubber. Surprisingly, his thin bird legs supported everything on top. I think he would not topple over if you pushed him. Every time I looked at him, I thought of the letter Y, bubbles around the V.

Then I thought of Curly, the music director at a local church, who talked to me about plumbing when I ran into him on his way to the gym one day. He takes the public transit to the gym everyday! Curly wears baggy clothes and always strikes me as disorganized. It's probably his flouncing white hair. But when I learned he's a secret gym warrior, I noticed he indeed was very fit. That day, he inspired my recent foray back into the gym.

And then there's my friend's husband, Red, who wakes up at 4:00 to go to the gym. That is dedication. Red is slim, lithe, and fit, with a flat abdomen. I bet he has a smaller waist than I do. He wouldn't jiggle either if you shook him. He's my role model. I want to not jiggle like him.

I guess I better go to the gym now, it's way past 4:00 a.m.

My Romantic Hero

You think Ashlee Simpson can't sing? That's because she sounds like she took singing lessons from Neil Young. There's a guy who can't sing if his life depended on it. Yet, how did he become so respected an artist? Not for his singing.

It's for his song writing. I saw Neil Young perform on Saturday Night Live! last night. Despite my stomach tightening up as he sang, I recognized the song he did as beautiful, even though I don't know the song. And in its own weird way, the song was beautiful because it required a thin, vulnerable voice, only as Neil Young can sing it. His is not particularly a pleasant voice - it's nasally and grating even, and he has limited range. But the fact he can hold a note without quivering suggests strength, in an underdog Canadian kind of way.

One of my favourite songs is Young's Harvest Moon. I downloaded different versions of that song. I can't stand them. Yet, I love Young's original. Not because I'm used to it, but because he evokes a tenderness in the autumn air with that whiny voice, and despite the vulnerability of passing feelings in the changing season, he grounds us with hope (the offering of unencumbered love) and clarity (the harpsicord-like notes in the song). It's the feeling of renewed bounty and hope as only can be found under a harvest moon.

I think Neil Young is my romantic hero. One of them anyway.

Granpa Simpson Rant

I marvel at how the days fly by, and I can't account for what I've done.

Today for example. I've slept badly the whole week, so I was glad it was Saturday, which means I can sleep in. But you can do that everyday, you say, it's not like you have a job to go to. True. But I don't sleep in everyday. I get up at 7:30 to get The Boy breakfasted and out the door to school. Then I tidy up the house a bit. Then I fuss and fret. That takes a long time, and it's exhausting, the fussing and fretting.

And I ruminate about why my whole body hurts. My muscles must be really under-used and dumb. Yesterday, all my stomach muscles started hurting. I had trouble bending over. And if I coughed, well I have to hold on to the phone with 911 dialed and my finger on the Send key. It's because I went to the gym three days ago and did stomach crunches for the first time. My muscles don't hurt the next day. They hurt three days later. It takes that long for them to realize they've been strained.

And I go to the bathroom a lot. When I was young, I only went once a day if that. Now I go every hour. Where does all that water come from? Maybe I should stop drinking so much tea.

Jeez, It's 10:30. I forgot I had a birthday party to go to tonight. Wonder if it's too late to show up. It's my friend's 50th. Ah, forget it, she can turn 50 again next year if she wants.

But I did re-arrange the furniture today to make room for the Christmas tree, which I forgot to get tonight. I mean, why did I move the furniture if I wasn't going to getting the tree?

I'm doing a good take on a Granpa Simpson rant or what?

The Bane of Social Niceties

There are friends whose company I enjoy very much. Sometimes, we don't say or do much together, but I know when we are together, there is an equal exchange of some kind. We share common interests and the ability to pursue these interests. We only get together once in a while but I wish I could see them more often. I am genuinely interested in their welfare.

Then there are people I don't want to spend any time with at all. But when I see these people, I am super friendly to them, as if I am compensating for the fact I don't like them. We even joke and banter, to the point I create the illusion I enjoy their company, so they invite me to their house or to do things together. I cringe at these invitations. I make excuses to not go, but at some point, you say yes if you don't want to continuously offend or be seen as the snob you really are.

So this afternoon, I accepted one of those "I-don't-want-to-go" invitations. The woman is open and warm, upright and decent. We got friendly when our sons were better friends. But I've always known we have nothing in common, not intellectually, not in terms of interests and ability, not in terms of worldview and political outlook.

My take on our acquaintance is this: She seeks me out when she needs something from me. Because of what I can do for her, and that I am mostly inoffensive, she wants to befriend me. I find her trite and helpless, not very smart, but oh so smug. And if I were her son, I would find life oppressive.

As she prattled on during our visit, I found myself thinking - I am so bored, I don't care about what she's saying, I have no interest in her life, oh god can she just get a life - just to keep my mind from going numb. So I forced myself to be civil by saying out loud, Mhmm, Oh really? Is that right? Then what happened? Once I heard myself say, Yes, that's wonderful! to an unknown topic.

Why do I do this? Is it really so important to not offend? Am I being done in by my own social nicety? Maybe I do this because I suspect that deep down, I am really a snobby, cold bitch, but to disprove that, I feign interest in petty dullards. Maybe I just want to keep an eye on what lower life forms are like, lest I unwittingly become one. God, too late. I've become one of them. How petty and self-absorbed is this line of thinking. Virginia, where are you? Take me to a different consciousness.

On The Street Where I Live - 7

Our street is buried in snow again this morning. As are all streets in southern Ontario I imagine. Neighbours are digging their cars out, which reminds me of a more sensational kind of burial.

The Abandoned Car

Several years ago, a light blue sedan was parked in front of my neighbour's house across the street and down a bit. We walked by this car every day for over a week. It was parked there day and night, unmoved. It started to collect parking tickets for parking overnight without a permit. Once, I looked in and saw a child's car seat and some blankets in the back. Ours is a family-friendly street, so it's not unusual for cars to have child seats and blankets inside them.

My friend, whose house the car was parked in front of, said sometimes she leaned on the car while talking to neighbours outside.

I guess at some point, the parking officer decided ten parking tickets on the car was enough. One morning, he brought in a tow truck to take the car away. When the car was lifted, they noticed a bad smell. Immediately, they called in the police and sealed off the street. My son came home for lunch and the police wouldn't let him pass. I had to go down the street to intercede so the police would let him through.

In the afternoon, several TV stations came to film the car. When the police took the car away, the reporters told us they found a body inside it. There was to be a murder investigation. Later, after the police were gone, some neighbours and I stood near where the car was parked to talk about what happened. Even with the car gone, I could still detect a stench like nothing I had ever smelled before. I didn't stay long in that gathering.

That night, we saw the news reports on TV. In the newspapers the next day, there were articles about the body they found in the abandoned car on our street. The body belonged to a Vietnamese man in his thirties from the Niagara region. He had a wife and a son. His family reported him missing a few days ago. That's all we knew about it.

For the next two weeks, I tried to follow the case but there were no more reports available. I guess I wasn't interested enough to dig up more information. It creeps me out that someone killed, and thought it fit to leave the body in the back seat of a car, cover it up with blankets and abandon the car on our street. And that we had all walked by the car, peered into it, made fun of the tickets it was collecting, and never suspected a thing.

Soundless in TO

One of the machines I use at the gym is the treadmill. The gym has TV's attached to these machines so you don't notice the seconds and minutes ticking by as you walk.

The last time I was there, I watched a cooking show. A woman made chicken breasts stuffed with feta and some kind of herb, then she did a quick sauce and poured it over the chicken. I was so impressed with the easiness and presentation of the dish I am making it for my friends next week. Today, I saw a show where a professional organizer decluttered and reorganized a man's office. I am thinking I might give The Man's home office a similar treatment.

But the thing about watching these shows is, I don't bring headphones. So I have to watch them without sound. These shows are very visual. If my chicken breasts come off well and I manage to declutter the office, I will want to watch all shows with no sound. Because maybe you get a better show that way. Except for the news, I guess. And comedy shows that rely on jokes. And music performances.

Nattering

My iBook was almost out of RAM. So I looked into getting more. They said I'd have to buy either a 256 RAM for $348 or 520 RAM for $550 to replace the mere 128 I have. After that, I'd have a 128 RAM sitting outside my iBook doing nothing. So I thought, what's using up all my RAM? It's my music of course. So I burned most of my songs to disk and now I am back up to over 2 Gigs on my computer. See. More computer is not the solution.

The Boy and I have launched on a secret project. I am excited about it. It's a mother and son thing. But The Boy and I have a pact. We won't talk about it till it's done. But it's so hard for me to keep a secret. I told The Man we have this secret. But every time I try to tell it to him, he won't listen - la la la la la how're the Blue Jays doing?

I am the new Anita Bryant, orange juice lady, minus the beauty pageant and anti-gay thing. Our local high school sells crates and crates of oranges as a fundraiser at Christmas. I bought a small box of 50 last year. They were the sweetest juicers I have ever had. This year, I was keen to get another box. It arrived today. The deceptively derelict looking oranges are even better than last year's. I shall be bringing freshly squeezed orange juice wherever I go, I shall serve freshly squeezed orange to whoever steps through my door. And on Christmas morning, The Boy and I will have freshly squeezed orange juice and oysters for breakfast. That will be our Christmas ritual.

At our Christmas dinner, we shall sing. My four-year-old neice was sick today so I stayed with her. She told me princesses are her favourite thing in the world. I asked if her best buddy, Lily, also likes princesses. She said, "No. Lily likes Bob Marley things. I don't even know what Bob Marleys are." Later, she broke into song, singing Three Little Birds. I said, "That's a Bob Marley song." She said, "Okay, let's sing it." We managed little bits of the song. So we made a plan. At our Christmas dinner, we will sing. We will sing three songs: Three Little Birds, Let it Snow and Jingle Bell Rock. Now I have to get The Boy to learn them on keyboard.

A Different Kind of Boy Band

I was so smitten with Wookie's guinea pig tricks that I suggested to my book club friends we send Wookie fan mail, for example, a Christmas card with women's panties on it. One of the bookies said she didn't get the connection between women's panties and Wookie. That's just her. But Il Divo gets it.

One of the members of Il Divo said his personal goal is to paste a whole wall of his house with knickers from beautiful girls who threw theirs on stage.

Il Divo is a new kind of boy band. Some smart music producer meshed the idea of the boy band and the success of The Three Tenors and came up with Il Divo. There were auditions to find the singers. The result is four really good looking men in their thirties, trained in opera. I mean, they are really good looking. I know, it's the white shirts and suits they wear, and the photographer knows how to pose them. I bet being photogenic was a crtieria for getting into the band. Works for me. I mean, just look at them.



And they really can sing too, unlike the Spice Girls.

Their website says they "bring opera to the mainstream". Their first album, Il Divo, "sold over 5 million copies - smashing Led Zeppelin’s 25 year-old record of being the only band to achieve a number 1 album without a single release!" The boys do operatic renditions of pop songs, and do a darn good job of it too. They even make Feelings listenable, no pleasurable.

So I spent most of the day oggling their photos, downloading songs from their three CDs, sorting them and burning them to disk. Yeah, I'd make a bad john. Cute as they are, I still don't want to pay money for the pleasure they bring.

Salvaging the Day in a Discombobulated Way

I woke up at 7:30 a.m. I wake up everyday at 7:30 because the alarm in The Boy's room goes off everyday at 7:30, even on weekends, even when he's sleeping in the basement because the camping mattress is already inflated and he stays up to watch Saturday Night Live! leaving me on the second floor, on Sunday, to hear his alarm go off.

I am woozy and groggy still, three hours later. I've already cancelled my driving lesson with Bro. I must've had a late night last night and sleep interrupted is a very bad thing. I need coffee.

Morning breath out, coffee breath in. Forget the cappucino from now on. It's intant coffee with whipped cream for me. Also had canned cherries and whipped cream wrapped in a crepe for breakfast. The Boy had a BLT. I wonder if that's what they eat and drink in trailer parks. When I finish my mint tea (it calms me and helps me get over the lactose thing), I will go out and romp in the snow, mail a love card to Wookie. The Boy has homework and a date with Yemen. I am getting ready for a hag rehearsal tonight. While I cackle, I will stew oxtail in my cauldron.

Where Do Old Dancers Go?

The Artist's Way says you should have a date with yourself as a special treat once a week. It's part of self-nurturing. I have a hard time coming up with something I want to do by myself. Until today. I noticed a film called Ballets Russes opened today. But I had also planned to go to the gym. Go to the gym, movie, gym, movie, gym...

I like going to the cinema in the middle of the day. There are never line ups. You can arrive five minutes before the film starts and still get a good seat. You can fold the film into other excursions and not have to devote a whole evening to the movie. It's so civil. But I suppose you're bound to get a good seat at any screening of Ballets Russes. No one I know would care to see it for instance.

I like ballet because of the ephemeral nature of the dance. Many things in life are fleeting. But ballet captures that mood best for me, because the dance is no accident. It is an artistic rendering of the right bodies, the right movements, the right costumes, the right setting, the right music. Perfection comes together for a moment, then it's gone. It is the "moment" we chase.

So in the film, the star faded long ago for all the main characters. They are the former dancers of the Russian ballet, now in their 80's and 90's. The film consists of old footage and interviews with these dancers, who were in their prime in the 1930's and 1940's, when they were in their teens! Some of them worked with Serge Diaghilev, who brought in Balanchine, Picasso, Matisse, and Stravinsky to produce his ballets. After Diaghliev died, new artistic directors took over and brought on new dancers. This film is about a dancer's life back then and the conflicts between artistic visions. Well, maybe power struggles between egos.

Balanchine went off and started the New York City Ballet. Ballet as we know it today came from these dancers and their choreographers. Most of these dancers are still actively involved in dance today, either teaching in their own studios, as dance professor emeritus of this or that university or playing character roles with ballet companies. As one of them said, What would you have me do? Sell books? Sell fruit?

In their ripe age, they are still taking swipes at each other. They are prima donnas, all of them, men and women. Oh but the life that still dances in their eyes!

Oh The Weather Outside Is Frightful

The reason Canadians are not fatter than Americans is because for six months of the year, Canadians have to dig themselves out from the snow every morning before they can leave the house. Even in the city, you have to carve a path from your front door to the curb, then you clean off the car, and shovel the sidewalk. That's a half hour of physical work before your day begins.

So you get to say hi to your neighbours, all with shovel in hand shaking their heads, grumbling, Canada, eh?, and you look up and down the street and notice your view is framed by the white arches of the maple trees, and you hear mothers calling out to their children as they leave the house, You got your gloves, lunch?, and you marvel at the persistent who still ride their bikes to work in 8 cm of snow, and you think, Wow, it's like a different life form emerges the morning after the snow.

Well, I'm watching all this from my window. I actually haven't been outside yet, because I'm one of the wimpy ones inside lamenting, My god, do we live in the city or are we in the wilderness? I suppose I should go now and dig us out. Othewise, I won't be able to pick The Boy up from his concert tonight. He has already trundled off to school in his dad's boots.

Fuck, if it weren't for the visual beauty of the snow, that I could really use some exercise, and I have a legal obligation to clear my sidewalk of snow, I'd get back in bed and pull the covers over my head.

Everyday Miracles

I had a cat when I was a teenager. I saw it give birth one day. I thought I was watching a miracle unfold, seeing life come into being. Another time, I found a baby bird in the backyard. I kept it in a shoe box with a towel and fed it bread dipped with milk. I even made my brothers dig up worms for it. A week or so later, I put the bird up on a tree branch and it flew away. I felt honoured and humbled that even insignificant me had the opportunity to help a bird become itself.

I think we feel the awe of nature when we see life assert itself before us, when we see nature's creatures grow into what they are meant to be. There's a process that unfolds whether we pay attention or not. But if we choose to take part, we feel at one with nature. We help nature come into itself and we feel renewed because we've surrendered to a higher calling.

We often feel that way about kids, especially our own. We want to protect them, so they can grow into what they are, free from harm. We want to guide them, be the first to introduce them to what they will eventually encounter, so we feel we have taken part in their growth and our renewal. We make allowances for their stumbles, help them get back up and try again because our higher calling is generous and nurturing that way. Who knew we had it in us to do these things?

I was at the cemetery earlier today. It would have been my father's 80th birthday. Mom said we would've had a big bash. Dad would've been so proud. Mom and I hung wreaths of red silk flowers, one for my dad, one for my grandmother.

Later in the day, we went to The Boy's school concert. Oh he and his friends, bustling with dance, bursting with song, brimming with life. I have the great privilege of being The Boy's mother and play host to his friends when they come over.

Dad. The Boy. The Man. Melancholia. Reflections. Joy. The Boy wouldn't be here if my dad wasn't. The circle of life is full of everyday miracles.

Kids Who Sing and Dance

It's concert time at most schools this week. The pre-Christmas show. To show parents what their kids have been doing for the first three months of school.

Unless your kid goes to an arts high school. Then it's performance time year round. The kids are always rehearsing in the hallway. Makes me giddy when I walk through The Boy's school, to see how uninhibited these teens are.

The Boy is a band major. He plays percussion. I'm told kids usually stick to their own kind. That is, drama students hang out with drama students only, visual art students hang out with visual art students only. For whatever reason, The Boy's best buddies are musical theatre majors. They have big personalities. They are lively and easy going. They sing and dance. They love to please. They love to be loved. At the parent-teacher interviews last week, most teachers think The Boy is a musical theatre major. It's because he has that energetic, fun, noisy and easily distractible personality, just like musical theatre students.

When his friends see me, the boys leap and prance down the hall to greet me and make a deep bow, the girls hug me and kiss me. They say, Watch, watch how we do this. And they practise their dance steps for me, break out in chorus to hone that tune. I comment how I like their dance shoes. They show me the different kinds they wear and tell me where I can get some. I'm discussing shopping in a school hallway with teenagers. I am in awe of them.

This year, The Boy joined the choir. He is among a handful of non-musical theatre students who joined. He and a friend came home from their first performance tonight bouncing off the wall. They came into the house singing, clapping and laughing. They can't tell me what happened at the concert. They can only say things like, Oh that was so much fun. Oh it was so great. Oh that was just the best.

I can't wait to see the show tomorrow night. The Boy is in the orchestra and choir. One of his friends has a singing solo. Another one has a dance solo.

I am so lucky I get to hang out with these teens.

Funny Fish

The Fish doesn't seem to be eating as much. He takes only a few pellets of food each day, but he doesn't seem enthusiastic lately. He swims around, but mostly he is camouflaged in the fake plant. There may be a tear in his fin. Often, he wedges himself into the plant, then struggles to get out. Sometimes I think he's saying, Uhn, uhn, help me, the way a child purposely gets stuck on a ledge or in a box and can't get out, then calls for attention.

I have a tube heater in his tank. It rests vertically in the water. The Fish wraps himself around the tube and slides to the bottom, like a stripper wrapping herself around a pole, like a fireman sliding down and landing on his feet. He also wraps himself around the electronic filter, despite the humming and slides down that.

I've seen him in hyperdive, plummet straight down to the bottom of the tank, only to rattle the pebbles, and swoop up again.

And then there are times he sits on a leaf, eyes closed, proving that fish do have eyelids. It doesn't matter what I do, how noisy I am, he stays fast asleep. When he does wake up, he "stumbles" about the tank, coming to alertness. When he sits at the bottom of the tank, he fans out his sheets of Betta tail and fins under the leaves, fluttering his little pectorals, as if he's taking in the breeze. Sometimes, he looks like he's just flopped down on his side at the bottom of the tank.

I can't tell if he's happy or if I've just projected happiness onto him in the past.

Jerry Garcia's Teddy Bear's Picnic

I came across Jerry Garcia's rendition of Teddy Bears' Picnic today. It evoked really bad false memories.

Growing up, I know we had an album that contained the Teddy's Bears Picnic. I don't think I bought the album. But I don't remember not liking the song.

The way Jerry sang it though, was scary. It's the slow, dark thumping music and Jerry's twang warning against going into the woods, but if you go, better wear a disguise. 'Cause you're gonna run into every bear there ever was, gathered for a picnic. Oh no, what are they eating? You. They are looking to eat those who stole into the forest when told they shouldn't! Jeez.

I don't believe Jerry when he says they became tired little teddy bears needing their mommies. I mean, that's like kids turning evil when they're alone and pretending to be innocent when adults are around.

Okay, I made up the part about the bears eating people. But that's what Jerry made me remember, the way he sang that song.

In Pursuit of Turducken

See:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


A turducken is a set of three deboned whole birds - a turkey stuff with a small duck, stuffed with a smaller chicken. In between each bird is a layer of stuffing. Apparently, it's an American specialty, originating from the deep south.

That's what I want to make this Christmas.

I described this dish to some friends yesterday. In unison, they went, Eewww, raising objections like, But the duck and chicken skins inside the turkey would be rubbery, But the duck fat is really really fattening, Why do you need three birds at Christmas? All good concerns. None of which entered my consciousness when I heard about the concept.

I have called several butchers to see how they can make the assembly of the birds easier for me. To my surprise, every butchers I spoke to knew what a turducken is. When I described what I wanted to a young man, assuming he was too young to know anything, he came back with, You're talking about a turducken. I guess turducken is common butcher parlance these days.

The three birds can cost up to $150, if you don't want to do any work. One butcher will do everything for you, including the stuffing. You just place the order over the phone, pick up the assembled package, go home and stick it in the oven. But I don't like that. Why not go all the way and get Swiss Chalet take out? I want do make my own stuffing. I want to choose the birds and handle them, but not too much. It's the dirty work of deboning the birds I want to get rid of.

I have found a butcher who will meet my needs. This butcher is in our former immigrant, former bohemian, currently chic Kensington Market. I go in to choose the birds. They debone them while I wait. That way, I can still make my own stuffing to go between the birds and tie up the ensemble myself. I calculate the whole thing will cost about $75. Now I just wait till Christmas week and hope that butcher has all the birds in stock. Fuck the fat.

Wookie Tricks

Wookie is a long-haired tan and white guinea pig. He belongs to Friend, from my book club.

The last time our book club met at Friend's house, Friend tried to show us guinea pig tricks. She claimed that Wookie could spin, jump, play the piano, play the guitar, pirouette, and somersault. When she tried to get Wookie to do the tricks, he wouldn't cooperate. He either wandered off or sat like a clump on the carpet. Kind of like Michigan J, the singing frog that does not perform in public. We doubted that Wookie was capable of doing much more than mimic a furry slipper.

As the book club prepared for a return to Friend's house, Friend promised more Wookie tricks. She said Wookie would redeem himself and she will be vindicated. To ensure this happens, she engaged the services of her husband, Wookie's real trainer.

The book club met last night at Friend's. Her husband, a musician, had a gig and couldn't join us. But the Wookie show must go on. Friend gathered us in her living room and said, You will now be amazed by our talented Wookie's repetoire of musical and acrobatic tricks. But Wookie was not in the room. Friend turned on the TV.

She had videotaped Wookie's performance for us! There was her husband on the screen, holding Wookie in his arms. He introduced Wookie as a wonderment of nature and referred to the ladies of the book club as "ye of little faith". Friend's daughter edited the film to include credits, trick names and most of all, music. Then Wookie set to work.

He walked up to a spinning wheel and spinned it, twice. He jumped over his trainer's arm. To make sure we didn't think it was a camera trick, he jumped over the arm back and forth, several times. He played the keyboard with his paws and plucked guitar strings with his teeth to produce short tunes of his own composition. It was fantastic!

The women hooted and hollered, screamed and shrieked with delight. I have never laughed so hard in my life. There must be a TV station out there with a call for animal trick submissions.

Gluttony Interrupted, Resumed

The Players:

Sis - my sister
Bro - my brother
Sil - my sister-in-law married to Bro
Bro Bro - my other brother (because there is twice as much of him)
Sil Sil - my sister-in-law marrried to Bro Bro

It was Sis' 40th birthday yesterday. We had a little family dinner at Roseneath for her. Bro's idea was to give her a large plate of Alaskan King Crab legs so she could eat to her heart's content. We would just sit there and watch.

So for dinner, Bro provided the crab legs, two bags full, something like five pounds of it. I served filet mignon (it's rude to sit there and watch someone eat, the rest of us had to do something), salad, broccoli and baked potatoes. Sil Sil brought a giant platter of sushi. Bro Bro joined us after work with Dufflet's toasted almond merignue cake. We had Fat Bastard wine because of something Bro said. The big bang of the night was Sil Sil's bouquet of 40 pink roses for Sis.

But there were many little bangs throughout the evening.

When Bro, the master crab leg preparer arrived, Sis started into the crab legs, in the kitchen, as I was finishing the filet mignons. Everyone crowded around and each got a piece. Very crowded. I don't know, something reminded me I had steaks under the broiler. I dropped my crab leg and turned the broiler off. One must never overcook filet mignon. Fortunately, they were charred just right. I flipped them over and put them back under the broiler.

But both smoke detectors in the house had come on. Deafening beeps. So mom closed the kitchen door and opened the front door to air the house. I chased the smoke out with a towel. Mom put her parka on. I resumed eating my crab leg in the kitchen.

The timing was pretty good for turning the steaks. I managed a few rare ones, a few medium. But each time I opened the oven door, the smoke detectors came on. More deafening beeping. More chasing smoke out with towel.

Sil wanted her steak well done. Hers stayed under the broiler longer. By this times, the kids had come running up from the basement and into the crowded kitchen. Very distracting. When I remembered the last steak in the oven, I threw down my crab leg again and opened the oven door. The steak was on fire inside the oven! Out, out, out, I made everyone get out of the kitchen and saved the steak.

The smoke detectors screamed again, but for the last time. Sil and I removed them from the ceiling. Very smart.

We were supping merrily along when Bro Bro decided to tell us about his day. He had been to a viewing earlier, in a funeral home. He started comparing the makeup work done on that body to the work done on Dad. We are a clan of highly imaginative and suggestible people. Bro in particular has this thing about death. In mid bite, Bro lost his appetite. I thought Bro would kill Bro Bro.

But we're also a clan of forgiving, forgetful food people. A few minutes later, we were all back at the table, happily eating again.

The crab legs were great as always. But the filet mignons were fabulous. Even the younger kids, who had supped early, had some. The sushi platter was an unexpected addition; it got eaten all up. After serving the toasted almond meringue birthday cake to everyone, there was still a large wedge left over. But you know, sitting there around the table, chatting and drinking our diet teas, Bro Bro and I finished it off.

Sis said she's glad to be 40. She said she felt womanly and substantial, as she waddled out the door. I'm sure she meant she felt like a woman of substance. Whatever. We were all more subtantial last night than we were the night before.

This morning, I'm listening to Eartha Kitt sing C'est Si Bon. Her voice is raspy and sultry, light and playful. Not like the way I feel at all. Maybe I can find a song called, C'est Trop Bon, Gloutons. And I can't find the smoke detectors to put back on the ceiling.

He's Got My Business

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

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

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

Rick will be my new mechanic from now on.

Guest Spot #4 on the Jerry Show

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest 2: I hope they suck your brains out.

Maybe this is more a National Enquirer item.

My Jerry Springer-like Life

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

Guest Spot #1

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

Guest 2: He's all wrong for you.

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

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

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

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

Guest 1: Fuck off, Jerry.


Guest Spot #2

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

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

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

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

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


Guest Spot #3

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

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

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

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

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

Speed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Street Where I Live - 6

The Wealthy Bag Lady

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

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

Why I Love The Hood

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

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

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

She answered, "Not really."

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, three old Italian men surrounded me, saying,

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

"You want a big piece or small piece?"

I said, "A big piece."

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

To The Lighthouse, To Sleep

I hate reading Virginia Woolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Different Strokes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Different Folks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fluffy Thighs

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teen Voices

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was weird.

Dancing Dames

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Ear Wax

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catholic Schools

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This has suddenly become a race issue.

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

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

Telltale Signs

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

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

Think he was single? I think he was single.

Excuse Me, I Voiped!

So skype me already.

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

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

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

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

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