It's All Tricks

The Boy came home today with red spots all over his face, neck and hands. He drew them on himself. That was his Halloween costume - a guy with chicken pox. He really had me there for a moment.

The Boy is 15. He can pass for 12, because he's cute like that. Tonight, he wanted to go trick-or-treating badly, but he didn't want to go by himself. His friends had abandoned the practice years ago. He went over to a neighbour's and discovered they had a dilemma. One parent had to stay home to hand out candies, the other had to take the girls out trick-or-treating. The girls didn't want to go with their 5-year-old brother because he's too slow. 5-year-old didn't want to go with them because they're girls. So The Boy offered his services. He came running home to beef up his costume. I put a night shirt on him, touched up the red dots on his face and hands, and gave him a pillow case for candies. He was so happy to go off with 5-year-old, 5-year-old was so happy to go with him, and neighbour was so happy The Boy came to the rescue.

We received a lot of compliments on our pumpkins tonight from trick-or-treaters. These are kids paying the compliments. The Boy carved a Leafs flag with Toronto Maple Leafs written in the leaf. I put stars on mine. It was the Leafs and Martha Stewart flanking our front steps. But once I lit the pumpkins and put them outside, I realized we didn't have a scary theme at all, unless you count the Leafs losing to the Sens 8-0 on Saturday scary.

No one's ever commented on our Save Our Trees - No Flyers Please sign before. But this year, about 10 kids must have asked me why we have that sign, or I hear them walking away and saying "Look, a Save Our Trees sign". I wonder what's being taught in elementary schools these days.

One kid, a teenager actually, came as Edward Scissorhands. He cut out cardboard for scissor hands, wrapped them in foil, and taped them to his hands. He had the makeup and the suit. He looked fantastic. I vote his the best costume of the night. His two friends I think dressed as characters from The Matrix.

Another kid came in a monster costume with a bunch of ninjas and ghouls. I handed out the candies and as he was leaving, he called back, "I shovelled your walk last winter." I said, "You doing it again this year?" He said, "Yeah." I said, "You still gonna charge $15?" The parents around laughed. You had to be there.

I often can't tell what many of the costumes were. Over the years, I've developed this as my standard line: My, don't you look scary/cute/interesting. Happy Halloween!

The demographics in the hood has changed. Not a lot of kids out these last two years. This year, they didn't start coming around till 6:30 (it used to start as early as 6:00) and by 8:00, it was mostly over (it went till 9:00 in past years). At 7:30, I started giving out 3 pieces of candies instead of 2. We're still going to have so much left, not to mention what The Boy will bring back.

What was it that I heard on the radio today? It's okay to eat all the leftover candies because winter's coming and you need the extra layers of blubber to keep warm.

So Much To Work With...

I have a writing project on the go. It's called Drop Kick Me Jesus Through The Goalposts of Life. I'm trying to hone me some self-discipline by writing and exorcising my inner trailer trash tramp. I want to get her out of me and take a closer look at what she's about, because sometimes she gets in my way. I don't know how. She just does.

I want to take an idea and develop a story around it from beginning to end, just to see if I can do it. It's great fun so far. But looking for other ideas to feed my story, I googled my story title. Look at what's out there.

These are real country and western song titles. Such rich fodder...

• Get Your Biscuits In The Oven And Your Buns In The Bed
• Drop Kick Me, Jesus, Through The Goalposts Of Life
• Get Your Tongue Outta My Mouth 'Cause I'm Kissing You Goodbye
• Her Teeth Were Stained, But Her Heart Was Pure
• How Can I Miss You If You Won't Go Away?
• How Can You Believe Me When I Say I Love You When You Know I've Been A Liar All My Life?
• I Changed Her Oil, She Changed My Life
• I Don't Know Whether To Kill Myself Or Go Bowling
• I Fell In A Pile Of You And Got Love All Over Me
• I Flushed You From The Toilets Of My Heart .
• I Keep Forgettin' I Forgot About You
• I Wanna Whip Your Cow
• I Would Have Wrote You A Letter, But I Couldn't Spell Yuck
• I Wouldn't Take Her To A Dawg Fight, Cause I'm Afraid She'd Win
• I'd Rather Have A Bottle In Front Of Me Than A Frontal Lobotomy
• I'm Just A Bug On The Windshield Of Life
• I'm The Only Hell Mama Ever Raised
• I've Been Flushed From The Bathroom Of Your Heart
• I've Got The Hungries For Your Love And I'm Waiting In Your Welfare Line
• If I Can't Be Number One In Your Life, Then Number Two On You
• If Love Were Oil, I'd Be A Quart Low
• If My Nose Were Full of Nickels, I'd Blow It All On You
• If You Don't Leave Me Alone, I'll Go And Find Someone Else Who Will
• If You Leave Me, Can I Come Too?
• Mama Get The Hammer (There's A Fly On Papa's Head)
• My Every Day Silver Is Plastic
• My John Deere Was Breaking Your Field, While Your Dear John Was Breaking My Heart
• My Wife Ran Off With My Best Friend, And I Sure Do Miss Him
• Oh, I've Got Hair Oil On My Ears And My Glasses Are Slipping Down, But Baby I Can See Through You
• Pardon Me, I've Got Someone To Kill
• She Got The Gold Mine And I Got The Shaft
• She Got The Ring And I Got The Finger
• She Made Toothpicks Out Of The Timber Of My Heart
• She's Got Freckles On Her, But She's Pretty
• Thank God And Greyhound She's Gone
• They May Put Me In Prison, But They Can't Stop My Face From Breakin' Out
• Velcro Arms, Teflon Heart
• When You Leave Walk Out Backwards, So I'll Think You're Walking In
• You Can't Have Your Kate And Edith Too
• You Can't Roller Skate In A Buffalo Herd
• You Done Tore Out My Heart And Stomped That Sucker Flat
• You Were Only A Splinter As I Slid Down The Bannister Of Life
• You're The Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly

On The Street Where I Live - 3

The Crazed

Further up the street lived a young man and his mother. He was apparently schizophrenic. Every couple of years, he'd take a gun and try to shoot out the electrical transformer at the top of the hydro pole in front of his house. He claimed there was a camera there spying on him. That's when his mother phoned the police and they'd take him to the hospital, but not before the son and mother make a scene on their front lawn, drawing all the neighbours out to watch.

The son would point the gun, throw thing, and shout at the pole. The mother cried and screamed, begging her son to stop. She woud tell the neighours to not mind her son as he only got paranoid when he was off his meds. Neighbours would try to calm her, get her away from the house until the police and ambulance took the son away.

But the last time it happened, the mother obtained a restraining order against her son. We don't know where he is now and the mother doesn't talk about it. Some neighbours say he now lives in an institution where he receives full time care.

Italians Are So Humane!

Look what I found this morning!

Rome bans 'cruel' goldfish bowls
Last Updated Wed, 26 Oct 2005 11:05:20 EDT
CBC News



Round goldfish bowls are out and daily dog walks are in for all law-abiding citizens of Rome.

City councillors in the Italian capital voted on Tuesday to ban spherical goldfish bowls, saying it's in the best interest of the fish.

Rome's daily newspaper Il Messaggero reported that round bowls cause fish to go blind. Animal activists call the bowls cruel, while fish experts say the bowls don't provide enough oxygen.

The bylaw also prohibits giving away goldfish or other animals as prizes.

"The civilization of a city can also be measured by this," city councillor Monica Cirinna told the newspaper.

Rome also followed in the footsteps of the northern Italian city of Turin, making it the law for dog owners to exercise their dogs daily. Failure to comply could cost dog owners a fine of $700.

The Roman bylaw also prevents animal owners from clipping dogs' tails or trimming cats' claws for visual appeal or leaving animals in hot vehicles or store windows. It also offers legal protection to people who feed colonies of cats.

Betta Better

Back in June, we decided to keep pet fish. All the fish I chose have since died. The Man however, had chosen a red and blue Betta. I have never been fond of these fish. I think they are ugly and they look depressed. I also hate how the pet stores keep the fish in a tiny cup, claiming the fish likes it that way.

When we got the The Fish home, we tried out several containers to house it. I didn't like any of them. They seemed too small. I hated the idea of The Fish trapped in a confined space. It looked so miserable, with droopy fins and no room to turn around. I went to another pet store to ask what size container a Betta should have. The staff there very convincingly told me male Bettas must be kept alone in a small container that mimics their natural habitat. This is a territorial fish that likes to stay in one place. If you put it in a large aquarium, the fish will only swim in a fixed spot.

But surely, "fixed" doesn't mean the size of a tea cup, I argued. Yup, that's what they like, said the fish people.

So I went on the internet and researched how to care for Bettas. Lo and behold! Several sites said the pet stores are wrong. Pet shops care about stocking fish and shelf space, not fish happiness. The sites recommended at least a one-gallon container for a Betta. One site even said a 10 gallon tank. Well, I happen to have a 3 gallon tank that my expired swimmers bequeathed to The Fish. So that's what I used. And you know, The Fish seemed much happier in that tank. It swam around the whole tank checking out the big plant I put in it, using the plant as a hideout. The Fish is full of curiosity too. Every time I put the pump in to change some water, it swims up to the hose to investigate.

Since The Man left for Yemen, I am the only one looking after The Fish. The Boy has no interest. When I introduced a filter and heater a week ago, it explored the two new pieces of equipment endlessly, wrapping its body and fins around them. I visit more regularly. Sometimes it sleeps nestled into the plant and doesn't move. But for the evening visit, we have a routine. I come into the room, make noise, and shine a light on it. It swims away from the plant, stretches around the tank, and swims to the surface. It looks at me expectantly, blows an air bubble as if blowing me a kiss, and waits for me to drop the food pellets. The Fish and I are communing.

Shopping Carts

One of my pet peeves is when women (I only see women do this) unload their groceries from a shopping cart and leave the cart in the middle of the parking lot instead of wheeling it back to the cart coral. I asked a woman once why she did that. She said, They have people who come around to take it away. I said, But what about the cart blocking a parking spot? She just walked away.

Today, I did my groceries, and pushing my cart back to the cart coral, I saw a women empty her bags into her SUV, got into it and left the cart. She didn't put the cart back even though she was right across from the cart coral. It would have taken her, what, five steps. Now, the cart was left almost right behind her SUV so that when she backed up, she would hit it. I had a moral dilemma right there in that parking lot pushing my cart and watching this woman not push hers five steps into the coral. Do I tell her or don't I?

I hesitated too long. She backed into her cart. But the thing is, her SUV was such a monster that it didn't matter. She hadn't notice, despite the fact that her SUV had knocked the cart away. And to tell the truth, I was a little surprised and disappointed there was no damage on her car or awareness on her part. But not as surprised as I was when an older, distinguished looking man, maybe in his sixties, who had just returned his cart, strode up to the woman's cart, and called after her, "Hey, you forgot something."

The woman didn't hear that either, so well ensconced was she in her dome of SUV with the windows closed. The man shouted, "Bitch." Then he pushed her cart back into the coral.

I looked at the man, he looked at me. The silence between us was pregnant - me marvelling at what he just did, he wondering if I was offended by him calling her a bitch. Then he decided he didn't care; he had done the right thing. I decided as much as I admired what he did, I actually don't condone name calling like that. So we looked away and each went our own way.

Still, a part of me thinks, this man and I, we could have got people to clean up their act and ruled the parking lot.

On The Street Where I Live - 2

In addition to the enchantment of the canopy and arches formed by red maples, our street is also full of human activity.

The Holdup Men

For example, right across from us lives a family of many. The year that we moved in, we saw a police car visit that house often. By spring, I had gotten to know the neighbours a bit. The gossip was, two brothers were under house arrest there. They had attempted to rob a Brinks truck. Sure enough, a month or so later, in our city magazine, there was a story about these brothers with their photograph splashed on the pages. One neighbour in particular swore that photo was of the boys. I was not able to churn the gossip mill to spin even more scandilicous rumour because I had never seen those brothers in person. I should learn from a friend of mine. He maintains that fact has no place in gossip. Spread what you speculate and opine far and wide to fuel more speculation and opinions, otherwise, it's just not good gossip.

The Swap
And in that house, they have a strange living arrangement still to this day. The owner, who must be in his eighties now, lives there most of the year with his second wife. In the summer, the second wife moves out. The man's divorced first wife flies in from Italy and moves in. Apparently, that's their custodial arrangement. The summer was her time to see her children. Only, the children have been adults for as long as we've lived here. I've even seen a few weddings for the "children" of that house. But that summer changeover continues to this day.

The Parking Lot
That same house used to own at least six cars and trucks. Some were just rusty metal in the shape of a car, sitting there for months on end, others covered in plastic. They were using our street as a storage depot. They crowded two, sometimes three cars on their parking pad and took up more than their share of parking spots on the street. The Man complained to the city about all the cars in front of their house. Sure enough, bylaw officers agreed with The Man - they are not allowed to litter the front of their house and the street with broken cars and trucks. They are only allowed one car on their parking pad and they could get at most two parking stickers for the street. The city made them convert one side of their parking pad into a box garden. They had to build a planter on there so they can't use it for parking. One year, they took the planter away. The city came and blocked access to their driveway. Now, they don't have as many cars. Some of the married children have moved away. At least one has bought a house down the street and is parking his cars there instead.

The Tow Truck
And then there is the handicapped sticker on the tow truck. One of the sons from that same house, maybe one of the Brinks robbers, belonged to the lowest of the low sub-specifies of wasted lives. He drove a tow truck. And if that wasn't bad enough, he parked the truck on the street, in front of our house and kept the radio on at night in case he got a call, while he sat inside the house, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. In the middle of the night, we were often awoken by electronic voices from the truck radio. But just in case we found that acceptable, the tow truck driver also put his father's handicapped sticker on the tow truck so that he could park it anywhere on the street, including in front of our drive so we couldn't get out in the morning.

The Man had been at war with this tow truck for years. He called the police many times on grounds that a tow truck cannot be parked on a residential street overnight, and that a person cannot be a tow truck operator and handicapped at the same time. Because of The Man's persistence, he stimulated action at city hall to crack down on abuse of handicap stickers and the tow truck received parking tickets despite the handicap sticker. As soon as the tow truck parked on the street, The Man would call the police. One time, the tow truck driver's sister, wife or mother came out of their house, crying, shouting and pointing at our house because the police made him drive the tow truck away. "It's them. They always call the police when he comes. He's just parking his truck. He has to earn a living too." What about us getting sleep at night and being able to drive out of our drive way to get to work in the morning? Last I heard, the city took away their handicap sticker. In the last few months, the tow truck hadn't come around. I heard the son had a fight with his father.

My Mother The Lush

I went to my mother's a couple of nights ago to take her to dinner. She has this habit of inviting me out for a meal or accepting my dinner invitation, but eats at home before she goes out with me. On this occasion, I told her not to eat first, that I'd be at her house to pick her up for dinner at 5:30.

I arrived at her house at 5:15. What did I see? There was my mother, watching TV, with a shot glass of port in one hand and a paring knife in the other. In front of her was the bottle of port. An excellent vintage apparently. My brother brought it back for her on his recent trip to Portugal. She confesses to quite liking this brew. She likes alcohol and partakes whenever she can. I don't know how she does it. I thought most Chinese people have a mutated enzyme that makes it difficult to metabolize alcohol. I guess she's not one of them.

In front of her on a plate was also a chunk of salami. She bought this from a wine country outing she went on with a seniors' club. She was chipping away at the chunk of salami with her paring knife. She made me try some. I have to admit, this salami was indeed fragrant and delicious. She said she was just having a light snack before dinner because she was hungry. But her bottle of port was half drank and the chunk of salami was much smaller than what the wrapping could encase.

So that's what my mother does when I'm not looking. Her version of watching TV and eating bon-bons. Good on her. But really, what's with her eating before dinner?

On The Street Where I Live - 1

I was walking down the street the other day and noted that in the last few years, some neighbours have moved and gone. With the recent sales activities on our street, I wonder if I will still know who lives in which house and what makes each neighbour unique. And I wondered if the changing face of our street will change its flavour - that mix of working class and upwardly mobile, that blend of ghetto slum and gentrification, that stew of bustling nosiness and sterile hellos. So I decided to document what I know of my street.


Our little street has over 100 houses. It is the only tree-lined street in the neighbourhood. I mean truly tree-lined. The first time I walked on this street, I came to look at a house - our house. The house was okay. Most of the houses on the street are similarly built - small, three-bedroom, semi-detached, brick structures. Our house felt solid, it had potential, so we bought it. But it was the street of trees that captivated me.

The Canopy
It was Autumn 1988. As we drove towards the house, I noticed giant red maple trees flanking both sides of the street. The trees were all the same size, which meant they were planted around the same time. They framed the view out our car window with a canopy of orange and yellow leaves, as if channelling us down the avenue to our house. When we stopped in front of the house, I got out of the car and walked up and down the street, in awe of the tent of leaves waving above us.

The Arches
That first winter in our new home, we were hit with a giant snow storm. I woke up one morning to find white outside. The ground was all covered in white, the plants, bushes and trees were covered in white. From our front porch, the maple trees seemed to reach out into the middle of the street with their white branches, forming row upon rows of white arches over the road. I thought, this is what's meant by a winter wonderland. Since that winter, after every snow fall, I look for the white arches the way people look for a rainbow after it rains. I am always disappointed if the snow hadn't been heavy enough for the arches to form.

Cultural References

I made a CD of Engelbert Humperdinck songs. As I listen to it, I think, these songs have mass appeal because we appreciate the cultural references and sentiments in them. Like when he sings Winter World of Love, he croons,

My love, the days are colder.
So, let me take your hand
And lead you through a snow white land.

I think, yes, winter's coming, it's colder out, but Engelbert promises me an adventure exploring the pureness of love. And he reinforces that idea with:

I see the firelight in your eyes.
Come kiss me now, before it dies.
We'll find a winter world of love,
'Cause love is warmer in December.

Yeah, it can be darn cozy in December despite the snow when love is reciprocated.

I think this because, I know how mean the days can be when it's cold, and December is usually pretty cold. And I accept that one-on-one affection is a desirable goal of our culture.

For a different experience, I tried reading a poem by Rumi, a Persian poet around 1230. It goes like this:

"NOONE" says it better:

What is the mi'raj* of the heavens?
Non-existence.
The religion and creed of the lovers is non-existence.

*mi'raj according to Islamic tradition is the ascend of Muhammad to heavens from the Al Aksa mosque in Jerusalem.

See. Nothing. I don't get it.

Next, I tried the Gulistan of Sa'di. Gulistan mean rose garden in Persian. Sa'di is Sheikh Muslih-uddin Sa'di Shirazi. The Gulistan is a series of maxims and admonitions. Each story represents a flower in Shirazi's garden. I go to the chapter called Love and Youth. I see this story:

It is said that a gentleman possessed a slave of exquisite beauty, whom he regarded with love and affection. He nevertheless said to a friend: ‘Would that this slave of mine, with all the beauty and good qualities he possesses, had not a long and uncivil tongue!’ He replied: ‘Brother, do not expect service, after professing friendship; because when relations between lover and beloved come in, the relations between master and servant are superseded’:

When a master with a fairy-faced slave
Begins to play and to laugh
What wonder if the latter coquets like the master
And the gentleman bears it like a slave?
A slave is to draw water and make bricks.
A pampered slave will strike with the fist.

The story warns against being too friendly with a slave. I agree one shouldn't be over friendly with one's employees or have sex with them, but this story doesn't move me. It's not that I don't own a slave and therefore can't relate. It's more that I reject assigning different social status to people. I reject the notion that if someone is friendly to a worker, the worker necessarily takes advantage and becomes abusive. In fact, I think it's one's professional responsibility to be cordial and respectful with one's coworkers and employees.

See. Different cultural references and experiences.

Now, The Man has been in Yemen for one week. Since he landed, we've exchanged e-mails everyday, and had a long phone chat. Aside from exchanges of affection, The Man has offered few observations of his new life. He is trying to adjust and find his place. And it has only been one week. He noted that:

the challenge is getting around because of language and distance and the sheer bizarreness of the country.

Without the language and with limited mobility, Yemeni culture must strike The Man as bizarre. He doesn't know the cultural references, religious significance and climatic reasons for how and why things are the way they are. Within this host culture, The Man is also trying to acclimatize to the work culture of UNICEF - new people, new work, new way of working.

I miss him, and I feel for him. I feel displaced, like I'm not able to do my job. Because I am not by his side helping him figure things out.

Swooning at the Gambling Joint

Casino Rama is a gambling joint in Orillia. My mother goes there once a month to play the slot machines. It's a social outing for her. She's a conservative player though. She usually sets her limit at $20. When she spends that, she walks away. But not so her friends, some of whom go to the casino as often as once a week, and they put down anywhere from $200 to $500 playing various games each time.

The casino provides a bussing service to pick up and drive back all the seniors who go the casino. To entice their participation, the casino also issues vouchers for free meals and free hotel stays, depending on how much you've spent. And while you are playing, wait staff bring you food and drink, free. The casino still makes money despite giving these services away, or more accurately, they make money because they give away these freebies. Let's say they give someone a bus ride ($20), a free meal ($20), a free show ($30), free snacks ($10) and a bed ($100). That's $150 of freebies. But to earn that, a player needs to have spent over $2000, tracked on a members card the casino issues.

It's easy to spend $200 or more in one night. I was at the casino last night, and in 5 minutes, I blew $20 on a slot machine. Imagine those people who sit in front of a machine for three hours. I've stood there and watched as people plunk down a $50 bill a go at Black Jacks. I bet it's easy to spend a few of thousand in a night. Those free services the casino offers? Insignificant grains of sand on a coastal beach.

But the enticing thing about this casino for me is their entertainment centre. They bring in big name acts from yesterday, at very reasonable prices. I've seen Herman's Hermits there. Last night, I went to see Engelbert Humperdinck.

Engelbert is a true showman. He looks marvelous. No doubt, the good life, face lifts, tummy tucks and a large support team help keep him well-preserved. But the things he needs to work at himself to keep in shape are his voice and physical fitness. At 70 (he was born May 2, 1936), he still belts out songs in a strong, clear baritone. He can also gyrate and spin on stage like he did years ago. You have no doubt he is still a sex symbol. Wow. And when he sings those corny love songs, he makes me swoon like I never did when I listened to him on the radio years ago.

I have come to appreciate crooners much more in the last few years. I also listen to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Mel Torme, Tony Bennett, Bing Crosby, Bobby Darin, Eddie Arnold, Elvis Presley. Even Skeeter Davis. They are all gone now. The way they sang captured a simpler time, spontaneous sentiments, and honourable intentions - a way of life we've forgotten could exist. No wonder Michel Buble, Harry Connick Jr., and Matt Dusk have become so popular.

I am making it my mission to see as many old time crooners as I can before they croak. I have Paul Anka, Wayne Newton and Tom Jones on my list.

Bringing Yemen Closer

This separation from The Man is a little harder to take than the others. Maybe knowing the absence is for six months makes me anxious. Maybe it's because I don't have a new routine yet. But I feel better now that I have talked to The Man on the phone for almost two hours today.

It was Wednesday night there, he had just finished work. He's been invited to a dinner party tonight at the home of the chief regional security coordinator, who lives across from the British Embassy. This is why he is in Yemen, to get dinner invitations like this. Tomorrow, a co-worker will go with him to look at apartments in an area called Al-Hal. He may rent there because it's a newer area and the apartments are cleaner. Most foreigners live in this area. It is supposed to be safer.

Weekends in the Middle East are Thursdays and Fridays. The work week starts Saturday. To conduct business between North America and the Middle East, Thursdays to Sundays are basically out. That leaves Monday to Wednesday to communicate. But you have to coordinate the time so that both sides are still operating during business hours.

That's almost impossible. Our work day is 9 to 5 (4 to midnight their time). Their work day is 7:30 to 3:30 (12:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. our time). Unless you are keen to communicate outside of business hours on both sides, there is no opportunity to talk. No wonder such a wide gulf of misunderstanding exists between North America and the Middle East. What was that appointment George Bush made where the head of intelligence services in the Middle East speaks no Arabic?

Well, The Man is not going to be like that. He and a co-worker have enrolled in Arabic classes.

UNICEF occupies at least three floors of a building where The Man works. On his floor, he believes he may be the only white person. Two-thirds of the staff are local Yemeni. All the women have their heads veiled, some are even in burqa. The day is dotted with prayer sessions. He went into someone's office to ask for something and saw her in prayer, so he tiptoed back out.

He's not found the food at the hotel comforting. It's the month of Ramadan there. No one at the office eats during the day so it's not like he can say, Let's go grab a sandwich, at lunch.

The most disconcerting fact is that all Yemeni men carry guns as a status symbol. He often hears gun shots during the day. During the day, he concentration is broken by calls to prayer. At night, his sleep is punctured by rattling gunfire. He has been told to stay away from the window when he hears gunfire. And Yemen is a safe country. All his co-workers say so. Ah that's just someone shooting off a gun, just ignore it and stay away from the window.

He takes a cab to and from work. The cost is about $2 a ride. He does this so he won't get lost. The walk might take an hour. He's met a driver who loves Kenny Rogers and plays him in his car. The driver was glad to learn from The Man that Neil Young is Canadian.

On the work front, he is preparing his first deliverable - a timeline of what he will do. He will be conducting interviews with various people. Later, he will go into rural areas to conduct more interviews. He thinks once he gets going, the six months will go fast.

As for me, time drags right now. I had no idea how much I structured my day around The Man. Quite a revelation really. But I will take it easy, do the things that nurture me and come up with some goals of what I will do over the next phase of my life.

When Morning Comes

I woke up this morning to find two messages: one e-mail from The Man, the other a voice message from Kiki. I wondered last night how her return home went.

The Man's flight to Yemen was uneventful. A hotel rep met him in Dubai. A driver from the office was sent to meet him at the Sana'a airport, but missed him. He took a cab, checked into a hotel, then phoned the office. The driver picked him up to take him the office to meet everyone, then back to the hotel, where he had a 12 hour sleep, interrupted by a flapping flag outside the window and calls to worship. He has arrived during the month of Ramadan. That means a shortened work day - 10 to 2 instead of 7 to 3. Maybe that is a gentle way to acclimatize to the new work and culture. Already, they've picked out a few apartments for Man to see if he wants to rent any of them for his six month stay.

The marvels of technology. Kiki sounded like she was phoning from down the street. Her flight home too was uneventful. After she left, I realized how fortuitously timed her visit to us was. She steered me to The Artist's Way, demonstrated how an artist spends her time, pointed me to liquid iron, gave The Man invaluable advice about travel procedures and what to expect at border crossings, saw me through The Man's departure. I wonder what she got out of her trip.

She probably felt taken care of, she made connections for her work, she spoke at conferences, she established an international credential in New York, she met her half sister, she had fun with us. I hope she felt at home and welcomed. That's what I want to think anyway.

And now, the hours, the days stretch out before me like endless blank pages, and me with writer's block. Good thing Kiki left me the legacy of The Artist's Way. I have to find that book.

Christmas on Thanksgiving

Sometimes, getting an e-mail is like opening a Christmas present.

I have The Man's flight itinerary. I knew he had 10 hours in London, and six hours in Dubai. I kept hoping I would hear from him. I didn't. I knew he would arrive in Sana'a 8:35 a.m. Monday, local time. He is seven hours ahead of us there. I wondered if he would try to make contact upon arrival. I wondered how his flight went, whether there were incidents with any of the connections, and what about being jet lagged.

I woke up this morning and rushed to check my e-mail. 8:00 a.m. in Toronto means 3:00 p.m. in Sana'a. I've customized a world clock on my computer to tell me this. He surely must have arrived and had time to... what? Sleep? Contact the UNICEF office? Walk around town to take it all in?

Kiki and I browsed pictures of Sana'a the last night she was here. The old part of the city looks like it's made of gingerbread houses. Like this:


The buildings are used like this:



I was excited to see in my e-mail box a message from The Man! His note was time stamped 3:16 a.m. Indeed, he said was 10:14 a.m. there when he started his e-mail. He was writing from the hotel's business centre. Yemen is like Mars, dry and dusty. The office is sending a car around to pick him up at noon. More later.

That was it. But what a rush!

Poetic Resonance

In the morning, The Man received confirmation of his flight itinerary from Yemen. They confirmed flight time of today and all the connection flights to Sanaa. A bit of lag there, Yemen.

The three of us - me, The Man, The Boy - went downtown to get photographic material for Boy. Then we went to St. Lawrence Market to get some lunch.

I love the market. The meat counters sell the most delicious breakfast sausages I have ever had anywhere. Not the salty limp stuff you get at the supermarkets. These are wholesome fresh links. No preservatives. Tastes so much better. I also bought little bits of this and that for Thanksgiving and for our fridge. I will go back and get filet mignon later in the month. $4.50 for an 8 oz piece - I think that's a good deal.

We came home and The Man did some errands, made some final phone calls. I saw him clean and put a way a screen. He told me he did that so I wouldn't have to. I don't know what screen he means.

At 3:30, all three of us walked down the street - me beside Man on the sidewalk, Boy on his electric scooter with Man's carryon backpack on his back. Boy had sneaked a bottle of Jones vanilla soda in the pack. I don't know if they will let Man take glass on the plane. But I guess they will scan his pack and get him to pull it out. We walked down to the No Frills parking lot. We bid our final farewells and Man got into a cab for the airport. Boy and I went to get groceries for Thanksgiving at No Frills.

I know it sounds sad that we made a seemingly casual no frills goodbye in a No Frills parking lot. But it felt poignant and right. The afternoon was bright and cool. It could have been spring or autumn. The Man hopped into a cab without fanfare. He could have been going downtown or to Yemen. It was sad, but romantic and simple too, like cosying up to watch movies and have pizza and beer on New Year's Eve instead of getting all caught up in grand affairs. The Man wanted the three of us together. I think he wanted to walk away quietly without disturbance, preserving the life as he knows it for his return. I wanted to continue our lives as normally as possible in his absence. We got that. It felt right that the goodbye should take place with the usual activities from our life around us.

Departure Practice Run

We got The Man ready for his flight to Yemen today. Since I don't drive on highways, our plan was for The Man to drive to the airport, Kiki would drive back. At 3:00, we set out. But we were all back home by 5:00! Turns out The Man doesn't fly out till tomorrow.

On the Monday, Yemen emailed The Man to say we've couriered you plane tickets, you leave Wednesday. The Man objected and asked to leave Friday. They emailed back saying okay, we've change your flight. On Tuesday, their travel agent sent a confirmation email with the rescheduled flight info. On Wednesday, the plane tickets issued Monday arrived. They carry the wrong travel date, but we knew that. The Man got a travel agent in Toronto to confirm he could use the tickets he received.

When we got to the airport today, British Airway said, Yes, you're flying with us, but not till tomorrow! The Man pulled out the email from the travel agent, and there it was: Departure October 8, 6:45!!

Man is embarrassed now because he didn't check the details from the travel agent. He just believed Yemen when they said yes to his request for Friday. Definite problem in Yemen with specifics and follow through. Definite problem with The Man and details. But no big loss. We had an excellent send off Thursday night when the good weather held (the cold came in when the party ended), today we had a nice dinner, tomorrow we get to spend another day together, and it was a good practice run. The Man will take a cab tomorrow.

The Eclipse

Kiki, who's staying with us, said there was an eclipse Sunday night. This eclipse reconnects... communication and long-lost relatives.

Preparation

On Monday, The Man certainly received communication from Yemen. He leaves Friday. Much needed to be done to get him ready.

Yesterday, I bought his travel medical insurance. I confirmed with OHIP he doesn't need to extend his OHIP coverage. I found out what to do to extend OHIP and the medical insurance if his assignment is extended beyond six months. We found out what he had to do to obtain a visa for Yemen. Would you believe you can just pick it up at the airport when you land? That was a lot of phone time. And The Man still found time to drive his cousin Kiki downtown to pick up a rental car.

The Reunion

Yesterday, Kiki met Liki.

Kiki was visiting her aunt in P.H. and took the 1 PM train back to T.O. to meet her long-lost half sister, Liki. The night before, they arranged on the phone they would touch base when both have settled back in T.O.

Now Liki happened to have booked a ride on the 1 PM train to T.O. from Ottawa a few days before. When the train pulled into P.H. at noon, Liki thought, Since Kiki is going into T.O. from P.H. about now, I wonder if Kiki would be boarding this train. So she inquired of the conductor, who helped her locate the P.H. car. He checked the ticket stubs he collected and sure enough, there was a ticket bearing a last name that was the same as Kiki's. They went to that seat and asked, Are you Kiki?

That's how Liki found Kiki on the train.

They shared a cab to my place to drop Kiki off, then Liki went to her cousin's in Riverdale. Meanwhile, Kiki rented a car so they could drive to Guelph to meet Liki's children. Liki returned to our house at 4:00 to meet Kiki. After a short visit, The Man and I drove them downtown to pick up their rental car. By the time Kiki and Liki drove out of the car rental agency, it was close to 5:00.

Liki drove since Kiki was not used to driving on the right side of the road. But Liki and Kiki did not make it to Guelph till 9:45. They were stuck on the Gardiner till 7:00. They got into a minor accident when their car hit the one in front. They got lost and drove to Hamilton, twice.

But Kiki enjoyed meeting Liki's children. The daughter is 21, petite, and a chatterer. She is studying Veterinarian Science. She has Kiki's family look. The son looks nothing like his sister. Kiki's jaws dropped when she saw him. He is an Adonis. The silent type too. He is 20 and studying Physics.

Back To The Man

Today, The Man got vaccinated, he picked up medical supplies and stationery supplies, and he bought a few pieces of clothing.

We cobbled together a gathering for Thursday night. I've asked that family and friends drop by to wish him well. I'm exhausted from cooking three batches of chili tonight. That's what we're serving tomorrow. Chili and salad. The Man has started packing. I can't bear to watch.

Twists and Turns

The last few years, The Man and I tried to make a go at freelancing. We are communication consultants. We do excellent work, but we are not particular good at selling ourselves. So our employment has been unsteady. Granted, we have also been busy with other life-changes and extended-family care. And in the last two years, The Man obtained an MBA.

Since April this year, The Man has been trying to land a full time job. Since June, I too have been trying to find full time work. Just to make sure things unfold in our favour, we even consulted a Feng Shui master at the end of June to ensure our home is aligned so that we are protected from harm and we receive good flow in our career sector.

For The Man, it has been difficult. Despite sending out resumes and networking with people, there have been few bites. It has been difficult for me too. I had trouble even putting together my resume. But I attended some job search workshops to get my head in work mode. I've been reading about how to find a job. I even applied for a few jobs just to get in the practice. But I can't say that I've tried in earnest. Summer with the hot sun, humidity and vacation plans made focusing very difficult for my already challenged attention span.

In August, several things began to happen. The Man had several leads. Over the course of a few weeks, he was offered at least two jobs - one in Toronto, the other in Yemen. A couple other leads went nowhere. Another one is still waiting to be panned out.

He turned down the offer in Toronto. The job wasn't suitable. But he was very interested in the offer from Yemen. After various communications, he agreed to go to Yemen for UNICEF. We waited for the contract, and suddenly, they sent him an e-mail on Monday saying he should board a flight for Yemen on Wednesday! Well we are just not ready. He got them to change the flight for Friday. Still, he's leaving for Yemen this week! I am scrambling about putting together a little send off for him. And I have this dumb cold and cough happening.

As for my work, a job landed in my laps at the end of August. But it was the job from hell. Everything about it was wrong. I left after two weeks. That was the period of The Horror. I still shant talk about that. But with The Man leaving, I will be single-mothering The Boy. And I will have no more excuses to not focus on obtaining work. The Man has done his part. Now it's my turn. I'm scared.

Close Quarters

I'm sitting here and I hear thudding in the street. Maybe more like pounding. It's like someone down the street has a giant hammer and is pounding the sidewalk with it. I went outside to look, but I don't see anything happening. Maybe it's the street behind us. Or maybe someone is renovating inside a house and the pounding is coming through all the walls.

It's amazing, isn't it, that we live in such close quarters in the city, we can't fart without someone three houses away saying, What was that?

But here's the interesting thing. These tiny clustered brick houses we live in? They are worth a bundle. We bought our house in 1988 for the hefty price of $198,000. That was apparently a good price. The average cost of a house in Toronto at the time was $250,000. Our street has always been undervalued for some reason.

This summer, several houses on our street sold. They all fetched over $350,000. One bungalow listed for $356,000 and sold for $458,000. Wow. Last week, a house almost identical to ours in structure sold for $370,000. The agents were so pleased, they came around to tell everyone on the street. We invited them in to our house to look around. They ooh'ed and aah'ed over our house. They said our house is in even better condition than the one they just sold. We agree. So we could probably fetch at least $370,000 for our house too.

Then the agents told us the reason our street is undervalued is because no one sells on this street. When there is no turnover, prices remain low. Apparently, the hidden knowledge among real estate agents is, our street is an undervalued gem. It is the nicest street in this pocket of the neighbourhood. It is tree-lined and quiet (hah, if they only knew). Most people who buy onto this street stay put. This is true. Very few people have moved out since we arrived. Well, without the turnover, houses on this street don't have the chance to increase in value. I take this to mean the same ethnic families have lived in these houses so the street doesn't get gentrified. Gentrification sells.

The last four houses that sold certainly were prepped to be showcase homes. And did they ever show. That's how they got these incredible prices. Really, these are tiny three-bedroom houses. Like the giant homes north of us, they too get more money if they show well. One agent said to me recently, do your house up so prospective buyers can imagine themselves having sex in it. Is there nothing that sex can't sell? I have to start paying attention to what makes a house sexy so we'll be ready if we ever sell.