Excess

I guess I didn't know when to stop.

I've been feeling tired. Yesterday, I wondered how I would get through the visit to SIL's in Hamilton, go out with friends on New Year's Eve, and host another party for my neighbours next week. Then I checked my horoscope. The silly thing said during this holiday season, I am prone to excess socializing, and that while I should enjoy myself, I should try not to overdo it so as not to over tax my health.

Excess? That's what I've been feeling. I'm ending the year with excess socializing.

I am glad I am also a procrastinator. That party for my neighbours? I actually haven't confirmed the date with them yet. I am relieved about that now. I think I will delay that party for a few weeks and not try to cram it in during the school break. It's also nice to get together for no reason in the middle of winter.

One Wakeful Moment

I remember an episode of Barney Miller years ago where Barney tried to support one of his officers through a difficult time. I noted how simple the exchange was and thought maybe men really do have a different way of communicating.

I think the exchange went something like this. The officer stayed late at work and Barney was surprised to see him still there. Knowing he was going through a difficult time, Barney said, "You okay?" The officer said, "Yeah." Barney said, "Umm, you want to grab a beer?" The office thought for a split sec and said, "Some other time." Barney gets his coat to leave, turns around and said, "Don't stay too late." The officer nods. As Barney is about to close the door, the officer calls out, "Hey Barney..." Barney stops and looks back. The officer said, "Thanks."

That was it. On the surface, an exchange that could have happened every night as fellow co-workers said goodnight to each other. Yet it was understood that exchange was meaningful to both Barney and the officer, and they would have no need to talk about it again. I've seen The Man communicate with his friends in similar, subtle ways. No show of emotion, condescension, or embarrassment. An intention of support that folded naturally in the unfolding of the day.

At my dinner party last night, I had a similar exchange with my friend who lost her husband. I asked her how her Christmas was. She said the usual, It was nice, spent it with extended family, had sleepovers. Then she said, I had this week off. After all the busyness of Christmas, I had time to go for coffee and do nothing. I guess I've intentionally kept busy. But with nothing to do, I felt Husband's absence.

I said, I thought about you often this Christmas. I know what a big event Christmas has been for you. You have the tree-trimming party and Husband and his band sing. I wondered how you were doing.

Then we were interrupted by new arrivals. After greeting my guests. I turned back to her, gave her a hug, and said, I'm glad you're here.

After that, we joked about this and that for the rest of the night as if we didn't have that exchange.

The Meals That Bind Us

It's not Thanksgiving, but there are a few things I am thankful for right now.

My mother-in-law made it out of the hospital and home for Christmas. We even visited her in Port Hope yesterday. She is weak and tires easily, but she is back to her old commanding self, which caused The Man to come home with a shoulder stress ache! She is a formidable woman that way.

Despite that, we had a nice visit because The Man loves his mom and I was let loose in the kitchen! At one point, I said to him, "Don't let your mother come into the kitchen. She will suffer great emotional stress if she sees how I am cooking." After dinner, I cleaned up and put everything away. She might have suspected, but she never saw the chaos in her kitchen. Yup, I spared her another hospitalization.

I am thankful for good friends. We had a splendid Boxing Day dinner with good friends. No one complained about the food despite my fudging with the recipes and coming up with dishes I will never be able to replicate. I enjoy the company of these friends, and I especially like how easily the adults talk to the teenagers to make them feel included and at ease. The Boy even managed to get everyone involved in a few games of Scatergories, much to his delight.

I am planning for tomorrow night's dinner with my book club and their families. This group of women and their spouses are a challenge to cook for. We can only serve gluten-free, lactose-free, seafood-free food. And no nuts or peaches. We can only drink sulphite-free wine, which we have determines is Australian wine. So what do you eat, The Boy asked. Meat and vegetables, in their most basic presentations.

But tomorrow, there is an added twist. Two of the guests are vegetarians. You know how difficult it is to cook vegetarian without wheat or dairy? Still, I'm up to the challenge. Wonder what I'll come up with.

A Christmas In Etobicoke

The excess gene runs deep in Bro. For Christmas lunch at his house, there were at least 30 of us. I couldn't keep track because there are four areas in his house where people could lose themselves without ever running into each other.

When we arrived, Bro Bro and his family were off on an adventure all their own. No sooner had they got to the house when he received a phone call from his home alarm company. His back door had been broken into. Bro Bro rushed home to find it was a false alarm. There was no forced entry, nothing missing, no evidence of anyone having been in or near his house while he was away. It was probably a cross wiring, or a disgruntled employee at the home alarm company playing reindeer games with their customers. But the anxiety of theft and robbery had shaken BroBroWife so much she had to stay home to rest and miss the party. The others came back to Bro's, and the kids especially, had a good time.

For lunch, we had shrimp cocktail, a 23 lb turkey, a 12 lb capon, stuffing, stewed beef with mushroom sauce, sausages, bbq pork, baked cod fish, grilled chicken wings, at least two salads, don't know how many vegetables, mashed potatoes, baked yams, and other things that barely registered in my mind and are now lost in my stomach. This was followed by platters and platters of crab legs.

In this haze of feeding, my mother discovered Dubonnet, which she now calls her drink of choice. She scribbled the name and brand on a piece of paper so she can buy it herself at the liquor store later.

Too intoxicated with food. I don't remember dessert. I know I was told about a cheese cake, a Christmas log and a flan pudding. There could have been more items on the table though my mind refused to register them again and my stomach held me down to the couch so I couldn't get to the dessert table.

Bro and BroWife organized games for adults and kids, with prizes. In the sun room, the kids decorated gingerbread houses. I was too comatose with food to join them.

Later, The Boy won the word de-scramble game, finishing way ahead of Sis, who came in second. I finished third.

BroWife's cousin won the Bingo game.

Sis and I were hopeless at foozball. Our opponents, Kid1, the scampy 7-year-old son of Sis, and his foozball partner, were leading by 7 points before I realized we were red, not yellow, or was that yellow, and not red. We were first to get kicked out. Yeah, first. Kid1 and his partner went on to win the tournament.

There were presents for the kids too. Too much of course. But I give the kids credit for being well behaved and sharing generously. I am blessed to have really smart, cute, quirky nieces and nephews. They are unique individuals, every one of them, and so much fun to be with. I like to think they model themselves after The Boy. They worship him enough.

We finished lunch after 8 pm. I don't know when we actually left Bro's house. I know we came home with leftovers that overflowed our fridge. I am serving the untouched flan pudding tonight to friends.

Christmas Morning

We have a few Christmas "traditions". When I get up, I put on Christmas music. I start out with choral music, usually The King's College Choir's CD O come All Ye Faithful. I move onto Messiah, then other CDs as the mood fits, though it's usually Ella Fitzgerald or other Christmas compilations.

For breakfast, I make freshly squeezed orange juice. The Man shucks oysters. The Boy opens his stocking. In the toe of each stocking, I always put a tangerine. We open presents, then we have breakfast.

I always have a gag gift for The Boy. One year, we saw a Shoppers Drug Mart commercial where a boy in the commercial unwrapped a package of toilet paper and hugged it. The Boy laughed and laughed at the silliness of the gift. That year, I gave the boy a package of toilet paper. He loved it. So I did it again the next two years. But this year, my gag gift is money, wrapped in many envelopes that he has to open one by one. He loved unwrapping that too.

This year, we went to Bro's for lunch. It's his custom to incorporate our Christmas meal with his wife's side of the family when it's his turn to host. A few days ago, he warned: Lunch starts at 2 pm sharp. You must arrive before 2 pm. I can't emphasize enough the importance of this.

The Man said: Are we having a fascist lunch? Let's get there at 1:55 and phone him from down the street and ask if there's a Tim Horton's near his house, then tell him we're going to stop for coffee first so we'll be there in an hour.

Don't screw with my Bro, I told The Man, He's going to a lot of work to put this lunch on.

So this morning, The Man did a very funny monologue that had The Boy and me laughing on the couch. He said, I'll phone Bro and say...

...Hey Bro, listen, you know how people wear watches to tell time? In our family, we wear watches just for show. The watches don't work. So if you are expecting us at 2 pm, I'm afraid you're not going to get that gift. Yeah, I know it's 2:30. That's why I'm calling you, so we don't keep you wondering.

...And the other thing is, there are two kinds of time in the world - Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. We run on The Man Time. You've never heard of it? Let me tell you about it. Bro, Bro? If you stop laughing, I will tell you. Sylph, he's laughing at us. Sylph, listen to him. What? He's crying? Bro, Bro?

...Oh hi ya, BroWife. Is Bro okay? He's very emotional, isn't he? So listen, I was just telling Bro about the difference between Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. What? Yeah, I know it's 3:30 and you still have to serve lunch. BroWife, BroWife?

And it went on like that. Of course he didn't phone Bro like that. When we got to Bro's house, The Man said, Give me the phone, I want to call him. He phoned Bro and said,

Hi, what number are you on Margrath again? (Margrath is where Bro lived a few years ago). Berrypost? You moved? I see. So listen, we're going to be about a half hour late. It's about that from Margrath to Berrypost? Okay, we'll see you then.

Then we got out of the car and walked into Bro's house chuckling.

May Yours Be Merry And Warm!

Bah Humbug And Grinchitude

It's only Christmas Eve and I have already gained weight. Bah humbug.

I have no attachment to the religious significance of Christmas and I absolutely detest the commercial presence of it. Despite that, I go through the motions of sending out cards, buying presents, and putting up Christmas decorations. I rationalize that at least I am keeping alive the romantic tradition of hand-delivered mail in this age of the internet; that once a year, I could bring myself to fit in to the common sentiment of gift-giving as an expression of love and not a frenzied feeding into the material consumption of people who already have everything; that once a year, the house could be dressed up to satisfy nostalgic yearnings of times never experienced.

I do these things because doing them once a year wouldn't kill me and it makes so many people happy. And besides, I really do like the social gatherings. I like that we give ourselves reason to see family and friends. I like that we make an issue of getting together and sharing a meal because god knows we don't have enough rites and rituals in our secular lives to express joys and grief and mark the passage of time.

So it's a trade-off of sorts. I conform, I get to see family and friends.

But I fell short this year on decorating the house. I didn't want a tree. We have no room for it now that I have a 20-gallon aquarium where the tree could stand. I don't want to clutter up the house.

I don't want lights outside and fake greenery inside. Lights should be used to see things inside and the outdoors should stay outdoor. I want to conserve electricity to avoid declaring war on other countries for energy and to preserve the earth. And besides, I am offended by the gaudy, multi-coloured lights that my immediate neighbours put up around their houses. They hurt my eyes and sensibility every time I go outside.

I have a wreath on our front door and I have put scotch pine branches in my flower barrel, topped it with red branches rising from the middle, and scattered red and orange mini gourds in it. It is charming, subtle and festive enough.

Then last night, the subject of getting a tree came up. The Man and The Boy are disappointed we didn't have one, that the house is not decorated. The Boy wants me to get rid of my fish so we can put a tree there. I am offended. I have never told him the real reason why we keep fish. That's the subject of another post.

We got into a discussion about my needs versus their desires. They have shown no interest in decorating for Christmas so far, so why should I decorate the house when I also have no interest in doing it? What would I be doing it for? I don't know how our conversation deteriorated. It ended when all three of us got up and left the room.

And in the corner of the dining where I parked my life, I remembered The Man was in Yemen last Christmas and he was looking forward to a real Christmas this year. With him working in an office right now and his mother in the hospital, Christmas preparation has not been a priority. The Boy had been doing homework and trying to produce quality work right up to Thursday night. It's his job as a teenager to scoff at everything that he used to like. Is it not my job then to prepare Christmas for them, to provide structure and ritual for The Boy to scoff at and feel safe and secure in? I am the partner and mother after all. I felt mighty ashamed.

So after dinner, I said, "I am going out to get a tree. We need one."

Our tree supplier on St. Clair said, "You're late in getting a tree this year." And he helped me choose a slender but full tree so it wouldn't take up too much room, but a tall one so it doesn't look small. Then he trimmed the tree and said, "You only get to use the tree for two days. I put them on sale today. Half price."

I came home with the tree and The Man found a place beside the couch for it. It takes up no room at all and we only have to move the couch and carpet a few inches. I said to The Boy, "Will you help me decorate the tree tomorrow?"

He said, "Sure."

It's light out now this morning. I have gone into the shed and pulled out our boxes of decorations. We will be busy today.

Big Girl Pants

I am so embarrassed.

I've been very comfortable in my size 12 pants. Then the last week or so, I've been having lower back hip pains. Sometimes it hurt so much I had trouble walking. Then yesterday at the Gap, I saw some pants on sale for $19, but they only had size 14. So I thought, what the heck, these are loose fitting pants, a little bigger won't hurt. I bought them without even bothering to try them on.

This morning, I put on my new pants. They fit perfectly. Not big at all. And darn it all if my hip pain didn't go away.

My hips were hurting because my pants were too tight? You know what they say, Big belly, big pants.

Haggery

This is our hag choir at the Kensington Festival of Lights to mark the Winter Solstice tonight. Such a fun, pagan thing to do. I am in there somewhere.

We sing three songs over and over again: O Sole Mio, That's Amore, and La Vie En Rose. We are usually accompanied by the accordianist from Blue Rodeo, but this year, he was in France studying something or other. So we got some other guy who tried to lead us and stifle our inner hags. He wanted to make real music instead of hag music. I don't want him back next year.

Imagine. Ten thousand people come through in the hour long parade just to see us.

Sis And I

Mom and I picked Sis up at the hospital to go to lunch. I told Mom that is the cancer hospital where dad received treatment.

Mom asked Sis: You are working with cancer patients now? You are no longer working with crazy people?

Me: She works with crazy people who have cancer.

Mom: How can you be crazy and have cancer at the same time?

Sis: Crazy people also get cancer.

Me: Not just anyone gets to see her, you know. She's very specialized. You have to be both crazy and have cancer before they let you in to see her.

Mom: How many of those people can there be, both crazy and have cancer?

Sis: Quite a lot. Some people get cancer first, then turn crazy.

Sis and I can be very bad to mom.

We went to a new fangled place on Harbord Street for lunch. The restaurant is called Dessert Trends. The entrance had an abundant display of fantasy cakes. The place looked every bit a chic eatery with designer people. In fact, one table behind us sat six elderly women all dressed in red and black. The host was overly apologetic that we had to wait for a table. I suspect despite the sophisticated decor of the place, they were really running a diner and wanted everything to be fast fast fast.

We ordered three lunches off their specials for the day. I had a calamari salad, Sis had a scallops and green onions pancake, mom had tilapia with palm hearts. The host brought the three meals to us separately, five minutes apart, each time tentatively placing the plate on the table as if they expected us to reject it. The food was not bad, it just didn't match the expectation the restaurant decor had set me up to expect.

But that didn't stop Sis and I from ordering more food. For dessert, we shared a maple bacon sandwich smothered with fried red onions. Sis and I are pigs when we are together, and we blew the chance to eat real dessert, evidently the reason the restaurant is called Dessert Trends.

Scat, Cat

A grey cat is in the backyard. It has a white patch on its chest. It's got its winter coat on, all poofy and thick. It sits on the retaining wall staring into the window at me. We've locked eyes. It now bounds across the yard and up to the window sill to meet me as if we have a date. It nudges its nose into the window screen. It wears a collar so it is not a stray. But it is giving me the creeps.

"What do you want?" I call to it.

"Meow," it says and rubs its face against the mesh. How cliche. Can't it say anything else?

"Don't stare at me. I don't like it."

It rubs its face into the mesh some more and sits up. "Whrrrrl," it says. It sounds like a gargle.

"No, I am not coming out and you are not coming in."

It looks around. I ignore it. It bumps its nose into the window pane. I tap the window. It jumps down to the ground.

"Go home."

It stretches and tries to scratch the flagstone.

"Go on. Go home."

It runs under our fence to the next yard.

What was that about?

Jolted

Since the birth of The Boy, I have not been able to stomach violent, horror, or suspense movies. It's like I'm already in the trenches warding off bad vibes and trying to create a loving, harmonious, and trusting world for The Boy to grow up in. I don't need reminders of how bad life can get, exposed to me as if I didn't know about it.

If I choose to escape my chaotic world of social, moral and family responsibilities to a manufactured world of celluloid fantasy, I want that world to be orderly, clean and happy. I want it to be a great escape of pleasure and inspiration, not a borrowing of horrific sensationalism for the bored of mind.

Since my mommy-brain, my attention span has also shrunk, so much so that I can hardly sit through a movie or read a book. And I am one of those people who used to buy a festival pass and take my vacation in September during the Toronto International Film Festival. No more since The Boy. Now I hardly watch movies. During his younger years, if I watched a movie or read a book, it was usually a Boy flick or kid lit.

So for the first time in a long time this weekend, The Man and I found ourselves alone on a Saturday night. He suggested a movie. I said Brad Pitt. We went to see Babel. I had no idea what the movie was about, except that Brad is in it. I got a shocking dose of the horrific. The movie was well made enough, with beautiful cinematography. But the story was contrived and cruel. It's one of those movies I can no longer stomach and there I was sitting through it like I was on a bad date.

Then when we got home, we received a call from my brother-in-law that my mother-in-law had gone into Emergency. We fled down to the hospital. MIL has emphysema and a history of hospitalization due to respiratory ailments. The Man was mighty worried and commandeered the care of his mother.

In the end, the respirologist determined that she had an asthma attack, this time triggered by cat allergy. Though with each respiratory attack and her recovery taking longer each time, he did not consider her in immediate danger. MIL has spent two nights now in the hospital so far. More tests are being done to eliminate pulmonary complications.

While The Man is again concerned about MIL's long-term care, I watch the hospital episode unfold with unease, reliving my own horror and whispering to each of his brothers not to leave their mother's side at all while she's in this hospital and not to depend on the nurses to know how to care for her comfort.

This was the same Emergency my grandmother went into a few years ago when she had a bout of low blood sugar due to Diabetes. While in Emergency, she fell and broke her hip going to the washroom, with a nurse by her side. The nurse said after she's sure it was nothing despite Granny's complaint of severe pain and that one of her legs was suddenly longer than the other. Sis demanded an X-ray, which confirmed a fractured hip, necessitating hip surgery on my 87-year-old grandmother.

The slowness of MIL's lung recovery while in hospital? That triggers a different set of memories of my father, who never recovered from his lung failure.

All this is to say, see why I don't like watching intense movies of human indignity? I feel like I live with enough of it, always on edge, braced for the worst to happen.

Maybe I just stick to watching pre-schooler cartoons from now on.

Things Have A Way Of Working Out

The Man's family had their Christmas gathering last night. It was not easy to get everyone together. The Boy had to negotiate with his band teacher to show up for his school concert just before the orchestra went on, which was at 9:45. That meant he could join us for dinner at 7:00, then get into a cab at 8:45 to get to the school by 9:30, with a few minutes to spare just in case. BRIL1's family cancelled their ballet plans in order to join us. SIL sped in from Hamilton with kids in tow on a Friday night. BRIL2 had to pick up MIL from Port Hope.

The Man initially booked the restaurant for 10 for dinner, 14 for dessert. Mid-week, he phoned back to change that to 14 for dinner. But that message never got passed to the Friday night staff. We arrived at 7:00 to discover a couple dining in the room where we were. The long table was set for 10.

The poor waitress. The Man fretted and strutted about. I said, That's okay, because SIL and the kids will be late. By the time they get here, that table will be finished. But that didn't sooth The Man. He was just annoyed the restaurant didn't pass on the change in dinner plans.

But you know, everything worked out. Because everyone was late. BRIL1's family arrived at 7:30 just as the dining couple was leaving. When BRIL2 and MIL arrived, they never even knew about the couple. SIL didn't get in till 8:30. The Boy left at 9:00. We finished dinner at 10:45.

The fantastic waitress. She was good-humoured and graceful. She kept our orders straight, brought out The Boy's dinner first even though I forgot to tell her he needed to leave early until 20 minutes before he had to leave, made drink recommendations, and told jokes.

It was the experience of the evening that was different for everyone. I'm sure the waitress just let things play out without stressing much about things she can't change. She was busy enough. The Man fretted and fumed. I'm on the waitress' side, though if I had made the arrangements and the restaurant got it wrong, I am sure I would have been more put out. Or maybe not. After all, The Boy was on a schedule and I was pretty calm and confident he would eat and get back to school on time, regardless of what happened at dinner.

Maybe it's a matter of focus. I was out for a good time and to make sure The Boy got back to school on time so my fun and mom metres were triggered and active. The Man wanted to make sure the reservation worked out for his family; the effectiveness of his planning and organizational skills were being tested. Others were challenged just to make it to the restaurant not too late. But over dinner, there was no fuss, no muss, no clean up. It was great.

Holy Moly

Do I not know how to read fish or what? Evidently, I am totally clued out, possibly gone awry by ascribing human characteristics to two-inch fish.

This morning, I saw at least four new infant platys darting about in the tank. That means there are probably more of them here and there. She got pregnant immediately after birth last time? She didn't look big, not huge like the last pregnancy. I didn't even think she was pregnant though she has been eating a lot. She's been hiding because she was preparing for birth. And I almost flushed her away.

She's still hiding. She may still be birthing. Or she's resting. That's a lot of stress for her in the last while.

Are My Fish Pining Away?

After two births each by my black molly and red platy, I now have over 20 fish in my aquarium. I decided I didn't want any more births, so two weeks after the last births, I separated the male and female fish. I kept the two females - one black molly, one red platy - in the 20 gallon tank with the babies. I moved the males - 1 black molly, two red platys - to a 5 gallon tank.

Immediately, all five fish went into withdrawal and hid for a couple of days. I guessed they missed each other, but I thought they'd adjust, especially because they were eating well. Slowly, they started swimming about again. It's been a week now and I thought they looked okay.

Yesterday, the black molly started to bury herself into the rocks and seemed to have trouble breathing or staying upright. By evening, she was dead. I waited a few more hours to see she would revive. When I nudged her, she was lifeless, her eyes closed. I removed her from the tank and flushed her to the watery grave in the deep blue sea.

This morning, my red platy had wedged herself into a plant. Her eyes were still open but she missed the morning feeding. She looked dead too as she did not move when I rubbed the side of the tank.

The black male molly is having trouble swimming in his tank.

I am puzzled by what's happening to my fish. Are they dying of loneliness for their mates? Were they old fish when I bought them and it's just time to go? The female molly had always had periods when she'd sit at the bottom of the tank and wait. The male molly has had trouble swimming but would recover after a couple of days. The red platy has always hid. I thought it was because two males were too much for her. Maybe it's the added stress of the separation.

Just now, I was about to remove the red platy from the tank too. But I couldn't find her. She had moved to another spot. So she's not dead yet. Just hidding again, maybe this time from the shock of her friend dying. And did I prematurely flush her friend away?

So I am thinking, Do fish have memories and feelings? I google the idea. Sure enough, there are articles written that claim they do, that fish can be trained to have certain behaviours. I wonder how long a memory retention they have.

I feel so bad now, because I am intuiting that fish have feelings and may even be highly sensitive. I don't want to bring the fish back together. I don't know if the red platy in hiding is sick with disease, and if she is not, I still don't want any more babies. I have turned into their cruel goddess.

The Politics Behind The Politics

I went to the volunteer thank you party for MyCandidate last night. One thing I've wondered about during the campaign was why the mayor did not endorse MyCandidate. So last night, the story came out.

A long-time councillor and the deputy mayor, Shorty, put his endorsement behind Rival. Because of that, the mayor didn't want to appear at odds with his deputy mayor so he withheld his endorsement of MyCandidate. Why did Shorty endorse Rival? Well.

For one thing, they are related by marriage somewhere. And they have business dealings with each other. But mostly, it's because they went to school together. Shorty has always been such a small guy that he used to get beaten up at school. Rival was his friend. So Rival always stuck up for him and fought his fights. Kind of like the lug behind the wimp to deter the bullies.

Now, I also went to high school with Shorty. He was in grade 13 the year I was in grade 9. He was the student council president that year. So I am guessing the beating up of Shorty didn't happen in high school. It must've happened in primary school. Because of that indebtedness, Shorty endorsed Rival.

How do you like that?

Power Outage

Walking home along St. Clair today, two police cruisers blared their sirens and blazed through red lights. When I turned up to No Frills, there were the two police cruisers, sitting in the parking lot. Four officers were out, talking to about 8 men in No Frills uniforms, plus several other men of of various heights and ages.

I tried to go into No Frills to pick up groceries for dinner. A woman said to me, "They are closed. They may open again in a couple of hours. They said there is a power outage." Indeed, the supermarket was dimmed inside and on the door was a hastily scrawled note, "Closed Due To Power Outage".

Power outage? No one else on St. Clair was having power problems. I live up the street and I didn't have a power outage when I got home.

But then I suppose if half your staff is out in the parking lot talking to the police, that's a sort of power outage. They didn't actually say it was electrical power they were out with. I hadn't thought to use power outage to blanket anything. You know, like wardrobe malfunction, or irreconcilable differences.

So the next time I don't want to do the dishes, I'll leave them in the sink and say, I had a power outage. Or if I'm seeing my doctor and can't quite pinpoint how I'm feeling, I'll say, I'm having a kind of power outage. Or if I don't feel like having sex, I'll say to The Man, Sorry dear, I'm having a power outage tonight.

Works for me.

The Job At Hand

My friend attended a workshop on the hand job recently. Yup. A workshop on how to pleasure a man with your hands. She went because she and her friends were having dinner and one of them, a younger woman of 30, said she had signed up for the workshop. The other women, in their 50's and 60's, said, What's there to learn? Let's all sign up and find out about it. So they did. All five of them.

After the workshop, my friend said there is much to learn and remember. And you aren't likely to do it well unless you practise. So for women without a steady partner, they can purchase a silicone model of an excited male member. Friend didn't buy one. She didn't want to be good at it; she just wondered what there was to it.

Over dinner with her last week, Friend tried to demonstrate the techniques. First she used a knife. But I wasn't getting it. A knife is too thin. Then she rolled up the napkin. But it kept coming apart and it's hard to demonstrate in a restaurant without drawing the attention of the waiter and other patrons. So she did it under the table where I couldn't see very well.

Maybe we did look like two women huddling under the table with a napkin, because the waiter thought we had spilled something. When we placed the twisted napkin on the table, he brought us a new one. As he picked up the twisted one, he noted, Oh, it's not wet.

Batik demonstration, I blurted.

He left us with the new napkin anyway.

Curious about the techniques, I googled the topic at home and found a site that demonstrated the techniques with little QuickTime clips. A perky, young, stacked woman did the demonstration with a huge silicone model. I think it wouldn't matter what she did, a man would enjoy being handled by her.

So now, I have heard about the techniques, I have seen the demonstrations, I just need to practise. If I want to be good at it. But you know, I don't have to be good at everything I do.

Here's the site if you are interested.

The Fine Art of Disingenuousness

I wanted to invite my book club for dinner over the holidays. My initial thoughts were, just the book club members and their spouses, we'd have a sit down dinner, it'll be nice.

Then I thought, What about my friend whose husband died suddenly last Spring? Will she feel comfortable at the table if everyone brings their husbands? Maybe I shouldn't invite her. But I don't want to exclude her just because of a family tragedy. What's the right thing to do? I would like to be honest with her. But how, without coming across as condescending or inconsiderate?

And what about my good friend and some time book club member who is single right now? I never have a party without her.

Knowing that we all have teenage or young adult children, and knowing they are unlikely to go to a party with their parents, this is what I did. I phoned everyone to throw around a few dates and make a verbal invitation. With my widowed friend, this was our exchange:

Me - I'd like to invite the book club and their families over for dinner so I want to narrow down a date.

Friend - What a great idea.

Me - Are you here these dates?

Friend - Yup, we're here.

Me - Think your kids will want to come?

Friend - I don't know. I can make them, especially if others are bringing theirs. If not, I won't make them.

Me - I don't know either. Teenagers are unpredictable. The women might just bring their spouses.

Friend - That's okay. I'm in.

Me - Well, I'll send an e-mail invitation then to confirm the date.

I think that went well. Or was it obvious what I was fielding? But the important thing is, the invitation has been extended, we touched on the issue, and my friend is okay to come for dinner.

Now that I've talked to everyone, it turns out they can all come. I think this dinner party is meant to happen.

The Mindlessness Of Being

On Thursday, Sis sent a note to inquire about restaurant choices as she and Girlfriend were going out to dinner on Friday. On Friday at 6 pm, Sis phoned asking if I would go shopping with her for a party dress. I had plans for the evening. But before hanging up, I said, Hey, aren't you going out with Girlfriend tonight? She gasped and said she had completely forgotten about it. So she hooked up with her friend, went shopping, and had dinner. It worked out.

All of last week, we've been searching the house for The Man's keys. The missing keys caused quite a change in our activities as The Man and I had to share my set of keys to the car and house. He searched everywhere in the house, in the car, in the shed, even the office where he now works and inquired at building security to see if anyone turned in a set of lost keys. I looked in all my purses and coats.

Then while making dinner one night, I stopped for no reason. I walked to my ski jacket, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out his keys. I am sure I had checked in that coat before and I don't know what made me go straight to that coat at that moment. It was as if someone whispered in my ear to look there now. The Man didn't get upset; he was just glad to have his keys back. So it worked out.

For the last few weeks, The Man consulted with everyone in his extended family to arrive at a date and restaurant for a family get together. Many e-mails and phone calls later, they settled on Friday, December 15 when most family members could make it.

This week, I made a doctor's appointment for The Boy for next week. The Boy told me he couldn't go at the appointed time as he would be in rehearsal. The orchestra is performing the evenings of December 13, 14, and 15. Then he looked up at me and said, What day is that family dinner again?

Now he is trying to see if he can get out of performing Friday. I will have to talk to his band teacher. Or he will miss the family dinner. I wonder how that will work out.

My Inner Core

I felt it. I felt my inner core.

In the three months I've been doing pilates, I had no real idea what the instructor - a young, slim and graceful ballerina - was getting at when she talked about targetting muscles that strengthen your inner core. What inner core? She kept saying, These exercises are helping with your inner core even if you don't feel it.

So in class last night, lying on top of a foam roller, I followed her usual instructions and pressed down on my navel, and made my back ribs heavy. I lifted my arms, then my legs, one at a time. After a few tries, when I found that spot where I could hold my centre, I balanced on my back, lying on a round foam cylinder, without touching the floor!

The instructor said, If you can do that, you've found your inner core.

So that's what it feels like. It's a tightening of the innards. And your balance stems out from there to your hands and feet. I've been relying on my arms and legs to hold me up. If you've tapped into your inner core, you're like that graceful hawk, gliding across the sky and changing directions with unmoving spread wings. But I've been that penguin, flapping and flopping about on slippery ice.

After the foam roller exercise, the instructor said to turn over to your front and onto your hands and knees. And she did it in one silent, light flip, from lying on her back to the cat arch position, lithe ballerina that she is. I rolled over, landed on my tummy, stuck my butt up in the air, then scrambled my hands and knees together to make the camel hump, with hog-at-slaughter grunts to boot.

So I have more work to do to finesse my inner core. But it's so good to know I have one.

December

We came tumbling into December. I can't believe Christmas is three weeks away. This is shaping up to be a very social season. I'm glad, because I think I am in some kind of doldrums that I can't get out of by myself.

The Man has started a gig with a client that requires him to be in the office for a few weeks. Why, that's like having a regular job. I'm home by myself all day, wondering why I'm not working. I can't focus on drawing, reading, writing, or meditation. I can't be distracted just because The Man is not home. Something else is going on with me but I don't know what it is.

My meditation guide tells me to be gentle and encouraging to myself when I meditate. If my mind wanders, as it often does, I should gently bring myself back, not get mad at myself. I don't think I'm getting mad at myself. I keep tasting salty tears in my mouth. Some emotion is overwhelming me but I don't know the cause of it. I'm told meditation does that to you - sometimes an emotion just takes over. I'm supposed to accept it and just let it pass.

The Boy, that ingrate, is forever asking for spending money. Every time we talk, we get into an argument about him not doing his homework. His report card came home last week. He received 90's in three courses, 80's in two, 70's in one, a pass in one, and a failure in one. He 's never failed a course before. But because of the 90's and 80's, his average is 76, which is the highest he's ever got on a report card. How do you whip a guy who performs like that?

But at least I made a great dinner tonight. Ham and cheese in chicken thigh, or chicken cordon bleu, and a great salad dressing that warrants repeating. Right. I'm going to get depressed and fat. Yes, thank god it's going to be a social month. I may still get fat, but not likely depressed.

Working It

A while ago, Sis wanted to look for love online. She signed up on a couple of online dating web sites. So I signed up too, just to see how the system works. I made The Man sign up to see if we matched each other. When we called up each other's ID to compare, our scores indicated we were 80% compatible, but the data bank never matched us up. So I'm not sure how an electronic matching-making system works.

l have not visited these sites since that initial period. I know one of the sites had killed my ID from disuse. The other site has never found a match for me. I guess that makes me a difficult woman.

Now, more than a year later, I received six flags yesterday that the site has found matches for me. I logged in to the site and there were in fact 10 matches. I guess I hadn't noticed the other flags when they came. All these nameless and faceless men waiting to meet me.

Curious, I read the profile on each "match". Among them was an engineer, a math teacher, a self-employed person, a beauty salon and spa owner, a graphic designer, a philosopher, plus a TTC driver in Toronto. What did we have in common? From what I could see, we don't want any more children, we are not overly religious, we like the arts, we like the outdoors. If I go by the self descriptions, they are all nurturing and listen well, traits that are not attached to my profile. I guess someone's gotta give, and someone's gotta soak it up.

Two of the matches had already opted to end communication with me, citing the reason as "distance is too far to make it work". One also added "I don't see any chemistry." I am offended by this one, oh he who remains nameless and faceless, as do I.

So now, do I indicate I don't want to initiate communication and make these men looking for love feel rejected, or do I let the system time me out due to lack of response. What I opt to is an indication of a personality trait - am I a people person considerate of others' feelings, or do I grab the bull by the horns and direct my own destiny?

I will ignore the messages as if I hadn't seen them. After all, I'm not looking for new love. I can barely manage the current one. In fact, I'll go in and kill my profile.

I see. That's why I received flags. I can't kill my profile. Then I have to ignore the flags.

Strangers In The Tunnel

In the subway the other day, I was walking behind two women, each pushing a stroller. They had some parcels and a child walking beside them. We got to the stairs. One woman put the child's hand on the railing and told her to walk down slowly. Then the two women each adjusted their bags, picked up their strollers, and made their way down the stairs. Because there were two of them, they took up the whole stairwell.

Another woman came up beside me. We walked behind the women with strollers quietly, each of us braced to catch them if they stumble.

Then a man came rushing up from behind. He pushed his way past us and saw the holdup was the women with strollers. As he pushed his way pass them, the two women stopped, waited for him to pass before continuing. Then the man realized what he had just done, so he turned around, put his hand on one of the stroller and said, "Do you need any help?"

The woman said, "No, no thanks. I can manage."

The man refused to let go of the stroller and tried to drag it and the woman down the stairs, no doubt trying to atone for his sin. The woman was too polite to protest, so she adjusted her balance to accommodate the man's "help".

But I couldn't stand it. I said to the man, "You've never carried a stroller down the stairs, have you? You make her lose her balance by pulling on the stroller like that."

By this time, everyone made it to the bottom of the stairs. The man turned and went away. He looked back at us, smirking, either to cover up his embarrassment or he really thought he had helped despite what I said.

I walked away too and glared at him. I wanted to tell him to carry a few strollers down the subway staris before budding in to ease his own conscience. Women who bring their strollers into the subway have got it figured out. They have their parcels, kids and balance all fine tuned. You lay a hand on them during the descent and you could tip the delicate balance cause some real damage. I wanted to tell that to the man.

But as we all walked further away from each other, the urge to lecture dissipated, and I left us all to stew some more in the befuddlement of subway etiquette.

The Hotness

Driving home the other day, I saw two of The Boy's former friends. These boys' parents and I are also friends in the neighbourhood. I've been seeing these two boys for years. They are usually together, on their skateboards.

The last time I ran into them, I was walking. They are always friendly and polite with me, inquiring after The Boy, telling me what they and their families are up to. I always thought, nice kids, gonna be real good looking one day.

That day has arrived.

So there I saw them again, after almost a year, still skating on the sidewalk. But they were different. They weren't boys. They were young men. Really good looking ones. Cool and wholesome, one after the other, minding their own business, skateboarding to wherever they were going. They looked like young gods, whizzing by my car window, tall and lean, with spendid hair, mischievious grins, sculpted arms and straight backs.

When I was in high school, they would have been the kind of boys I'd stare at, hoping against hope that they would look my way too. I wondered who the lucky girls are who get to go out with them. I wondered if they still play soccer. I thought about the young gardener and Gabrielle on Desperate Housewives. Then I slapped myself. They are my friends' children.

How We've Changed

There was a time when giving a present of a household appliance to your wife was the most insensitive thing a husband can do. What am I thinking of... The Honeymooners, Jetsons, Flintstones? The picture in my mind is of a husband giving the wife a blender for her birthday and she hits him over the head with it.

I guess back then, in the sixties and seventies, to show your wife appreciation and recognition as a woman, a husband would give jewellery, lingerie, trips away - the exciting and glamorous things a wife supposed was missing out on at home.

When I looked at the gifts one can get online today, I saw mostly household appliances - coffee makers, waffle irons, toaster ovens, irons, even washers and dryers. So here's the question. Are marketers trying to sell us stuff by telling us it's okay to give household appliances to a spouse for a present? Or have our values and needs changed so much that we now really appreciate household appliances?

Because family time is so precious now, maybe we want homey stuff that improve the quality of time we spend at home as a family. Kind of like getting married or moving into a new home. You give and get items that say togetherness, at home safe and sound, doing homey things like getting nourished and cleaned.

Which makes me look at The Boy. When we had our Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks ago, we set separate tables for adults and children. I set a place for The Boy at both tables so he could hop between his young cousins and the adults. But I forgot to tell him I had set a place for him at the adult table. After dinner, he said he was miffed that he had been treated as a child.

This weekend, when we set the table for another dinner party, we had everyone sit at the same table. After dinner, the younger kids ran off to do their own thing. The Boy, who enjoys being with his young cousins and friends, stayed mostly at the table with us, removing dishes and taking part in the conversation. Sometimes, he went away to set up games for the younger kids, then he'd come back to the table.

The next day, I told him it was a pleasure having him with us after dinner. He didn't know what I was talking about; he was just doing what felt natural and hadn't noticed he was spending more time with the adults. I left it at that.

But I remember The Boy's older girl cousins, who are in their twenties now. They used to play with younger kids until they turned 13 or 14. Then they starting preferring adult company and gradually hardly spent any time with younger kids. No denying it. The Boy is changing.

The Practice Of Being Awake

After months of planning and waiting, I finally made it to an all day meditation retreat. These all day sessions take place about every two months. The timing for this month's was right so I went to it.

I gotta to be honest. There is something disquieting about these silent retreats. I am not comfortable being with a group of 40 where we all sit in silence and not make eye contact. When we do walking meditations, we walk in a straight line, back and forth, very slowly, like we are zombies.

But do I feel better for doing the meditations? I think I do, though I can't be sure. I know that my mind races so I am not exactly meditating. I know I fall asleep a few times during each session. When a session is over, I don't feel any more at peace or at one with myself. I feel rested, like I had a good nap.

Most of the time, I am not in my body. It's a practised art, keeping your attention in your body so you can live in the moment. Your body is soft but alert, your eyes are closed but you are awake. My mind wanders and I can't get used to meditating on my own, but I have to be mindful not to laugh when I am with the group.

Most of the participants today talked about their pain, real physical pain that is debilitating. I guess I am uncomfortable with the self-absorption of the meditation, and that you intentionally put time aside to do nothing. I can't get rid of the habit of measuring time and our usefulness by our productivity.

Still, I try to practise on my own and attend the day long sessions because the centre I go to is funded by the hospital. The clinic and its associates at Harvard and M.I.T. are providing scientific research that prove the ancient techniques of Buddhist meditation and metta, the art of wishing others well, really do improve health, well-being, and healing. I feel there is something for me both in the meditation and philosophy of the Buddha, even if I don't quite get it. Maybe I'll get better with practice.

One Fine Evening

The only bad thing about being stoned is that when The Boy phoned from his party to check in tonight, The Man said to him, Don't do drugs.

Then The Man's friends came over. A sort of reunion of three childhood buddies. Soon, one takes out a bag of marijuana, the other takes out rolling paper, and before you know it, the house becomes a party.

I had gone upstairs to read after dinner. I could hear them talking and hooting. I could smell burning weed wafting upstairs and thought thank god The Boy isn't home. I wanted to get ready for bed so I went downstairs to say goodnight.

I met The Man in the kitchen. His eyes were red and he looked sleepy. I said, "Hey babe, you feeling sexy?"

He started giggling so I left him to it and went into the dining room to say goodnight to his friends. I don't know how we started talking about the grow-ops that's been in the news. One thing led to another and Tall Friend said, "Might as well light that up, you're talking about the stuff."

Hefty Friend handed me a half joint and said, "Here you go."

"Don't mind if I do," I said to myself and took the joint. I lit it up and sucked. I inhaled. It's been 20 years since I smoked a joint. It's still dry on the mouth and lips. It hits me within minutes.

As Tall Friend was talking to me from across the table, his voice grew louder. Hefty Friend too seemed to be shouting. The Man joined in with equal sonority. I marvelled at their effortless emission of thunderous voices with such relaxed faces and droopy eyes. I could barely keep my eyes open.

I went into the kitchen for some tea. The Man was there again. He was munching on crackers. He looked at me and started giggling again so I asked him for peanut butter. He started choking so I patted a kiss on his nose and left him to it.

I can barely walk straight, I feel woozy and I may be having trouble breathing. Maybe I want to vomit. I am so surprised it's past 1:30 a.m. Didn't we start dinner at 7:00? I am going to bed. If I don't blog for more than a week, check to see if our bodies are decomposing. Please take care of The Boy.

Crowded House

Last week, I acquired a 20 gallon tank for my fish. I had 3 adult platys with 2 babies, and 2 adult black mollys with 3 babies. The black molly actually gave birth first, followed by the red platy a week later. I moved the fish to a bigger tank because I could see the 5 gallon tank they were in will be too crowded for the adults and the surviving babies.

A few days ago, the red platy gave birth again, beating the black molly this time. She had a whole bunch of infant fish. They have not developed colour yet so they flit about the tank like little white specks. I counted at least 12. Strangely, the adult fish are not eating them. I wonder how many would survive and what to do with them.

Last night, the black molly gave birth too. I see 6 this morning. They are big at birth. They look about 2 weeks old, almost as big as the baby red platys from the last birth. They must have been born late so they got big in the mother fish.

It is definitely a crowded tank now.

The stupid fish will be giving birth every month or so. Already, the crazy male platys are chasing the female around to impregnate her again. Why did I get livebearers? What am I going to do with all the fish? What do other people do with them? Drown them? Flush them down the toilet? Fry up the fry?

Who wants fish?

Checking In

The Boy pulled his first all night last night. He had an essay due today. He'd been working on it for a couple of weeks. But due to wanting skills in time management, he was behind in his work and he forgot he had a concert performance last night. I asked him whether he could get extra tiime for the essay because of the performance. Surprisingly, he said, "I can't really ask for more time. The essay was assigned a few weeks ago. I could have planned better for it. I'll get it done. School doesn't start till 10 tomorrow."

I stayed up as late as I could but I conked out before midnight. The Man stayed up a bit longer. At 3 am, when I got up to use the washroom, I heard The Boy still pounding away at the computer.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the Libera Boys Choir on the radio. This is the renamed St. Philips Boys Choir. So in the still of the house this morning, I downloaded some songs and drew up my Christmas list to include the choir. Then I put on Il Divo as I feed my fish and tidy up the house.

It's these quiet mornings I cherish, knowing The Boy and The Man are safely tucked in their beds. I feel like I am watching over their sleep to safeguard them. I sip my coffee, look around the house, and say to myself, There are things I still want to do, but I've done well so far.

When The Boy got up, I drove him to the subway. I made him admire my Christmas array of greens outside the house. In the car, he told me about the good grades he's received lately for tests and assignments - 95 for music theory, 90 in math. He hadn't expected to do so well as he doesn't like the teachers, but he's not complaining.

Driving back to the house, the sun is brilliant, there is little traffic on the road. My life is good. I guess angel voices in the morning makes you appreciate everything more.

Deal Or No Deal?

It's a funny hood I live in. I try to shop local but shopkeepers don't seem to want my business.

I keep trying to buy fish paraphernalia. But the pet store on St. Clair that specializes in aquariums either doesn't have what I want in stock, or their stock just arrived and yes, they have what I want but they can't find it. After a few attempts to get my supplies from them, I gave up and went to the mall.

For the last two days, I've been trying to order flowers to send to a friend. The local florist was closed yesterday in the middle of the afternoon. I went again today. The shop was still closed, the mail had been hung on the door handle, a co-op student was outside waiting to get in to work. She told me the shop opens at noon and the owner should show up any minute. It was 1 pm. Later, I phoned them and was assured they were open. I went in again and browsed around for five minutes. I went through the flowers in their fridge, didn't like them, and left. There was no staff or anyone in the store the whole time. They left the shop open but unattended.

So I went home, picked up a vase, and headed to the local supermarket's garden centre. I consulted with the staff, who helpfully recommended flowers that suited the size and height of the vase I brought, worked with me to select the colour scheme, and told me how to arrange the flowers. I asked them to put the flowers in the vase. They said,

"If we do that, we have to charge you 25% more for the flowers."

"Because I want you to put the flowers in the vase instead of wrapping them? I am saving you the labour and wrapping material and you want to charge me more?"

"Yes. Because we have to charge for flower arranging."

"You don't have to arrange the flowers. You've already told me how to do that. I'll arrange them when I get home. I just want to put the flowers in the vase so I don't have so much garbage."

"We still have to charge 25% extra. We can't sell you flowers in your vase."

"Fine. Wrap up the flowers so I can throw the paper out when I get home."

I also started buying Christmas greenery for the house exterior today. I rejected the expensive prepared urns and wreaths at the garden centre and opted for cheaper green stuff at the local Chinese grocery store. I bought two swags of pine and a bunch of red branches. As I am paying for them, the shopowner said,

"You shouldn't be buying these, you know."

"Oh?"

"You should grow them. Then you can just cut them from your tree instead of spending money on them."

"I won't be able to grow a tree in time for Christmas."

"Put these in water and see if you can grow from these. And these red branches? If you put them in water, they grow white leaves. Grow them for next year."

Maybe my money's no good in this hood.

Love And Faith

Over dinner with Outrageous this weekend, we got to talking about the crushes we have as married women. I often fall in love when I am happiest with myself and my marriage. My wandering eye was never because of anything wanting in The Man. But my crushes were passionate nonetheless, though existing solely as one-sided affairs on my part.

My first grand affair was when I went back to work after The Boy was born. The director in charge of the area I worked in had a playful air about him. I found myself looking forward to going to work just to see him. I found out where he lived. I envied his wife when he said they often play tennis together. At one point, I believed my marriage would be in trouble if he asked me out. Of course he never did. Not only was he married, he had two teenage children. And I never gave the air that I was available. In fact, part of the attraction for me was his dedication to his family. But these things didn't stop me from fantasizing about being swept up in his arms and us getting to know each other better. Eventually, I left my job for a better offer, my heart broke, but I was relieved too to have been released from an impossible entanglement that never happened. Not that I had ever exchanged more than a few sentences with him in the year we worked together.

The next time I realized I was smitten was when The Boy took skiing lessons at age six. His ski instructor was about 22. I'm not sure he was good looking, but he was good natured and had a good sense of humour. He liked The Boy and joked with him often. Back then, I was like a puppy, panting after whoever was nice to The Boy. I was falling for a lot of young men who had dealings with The Boy. For sure I didn't want to pursue anything with the ski instruction, ever so aware he saw me as an older woman with a family, which required him to behave politely and respectfully towards me. How much more matronly can a woman be made to feel than that? But nevertheless, I liked being around the ski instruction when he kidded The Boy.

When The Boy was in grade four, I fell in love with his teacher. All the boys in the class liked him, he was fun, into technology and environmental concerns. At our second teacher-parent meeting, he told me that even though The Boy had been tagged gifted by the school board, he didn't know what was so special about The Boy. The Boy wasn't getting good grades, his work was messy, he got in trouble all the time for distracting the class. This man was not appreciating my boy. My passion for him died right there and then, as suddenly as it had surfaced. After that, I didn't care much for his opinions about anything and kept an eye on him to make sure he was not disadvantaging The Boy in any way with his ignorance.

The last significant crush I had was a few years ago. He was a younger man and not my type. Oh he wore the rock star long hair. But he also wore polyester shirts and bell bottoms, often looking like a throw back to the 70's, like a geeky guy from behind the Iron Curtain trying to look cool. I wasn't interested. But he felt otherwise. I mean, I felt him staring at me all the time. Every time I looked over, he had that smitten smile. I felt him trying to walk pass me, looking over at me, looking for reasons to talk to people around me so I could hear him. When I talked to him, he was awkward and fumbling.

Slowly, I found myself reciprocating the attention. I started staring at him and looking forward to him coming my way. I blushed when he walked by and my heart fluttered every time I saw him. When he went on vacation, I missed him. What was with that? Still, we had few opportunities to talk to each other. Our projects never overlapped and we didn't sit near each other. It was the tension in the air that I felt.

There was no doubt I would not pursue anything with him. But I wondered why I was acting like I was in love. I had a good long think about this one. I decided this was a vanity kind of crush. I liked him admiring me. I was flattered. So I decided to be gracious and just be thankful someone's existence was making me feel so good about myself. My contract ended, I left the company, and that was it.

What was it that Jimmy Carter said? I have never been unfaithful, but in my heart, I have sinned many times.

I don't know if I ever told The Man about my crushes. I probably said in the most casual way, Yeah I love men, I fall in love with them all the time. And The Man being The Man probably said, Yeah I notice lots of attractive women too. But I do know that I don't pursue my crushes because when I weigh my priorities, The Man and The Boy are at the top. My attachment to The Man is real and he's pretty hot. And we have that marriage vow thing. I keep my promises.

The Bizarre

And then there is Rival.

Rival is another bizarre matter altogether. At the all-candidates debates, he told the audience, "Problems? What problems? Toronto has no problems. When I am elected, I will give everyone ice cream and we will dance in front of the church. That will fix everyone's problems."

When Incumbent accused MyCandidate of a smear campaign, Rival said, "She knew about this problem and didn't say anything till now? She should go to jail." Nevermind that everyone suspected misconduct but could provide no proof, nevermind that MyCandidate did not conduct a smear campaign. Let's shoot the messenger, but if she's not the messenger, let's shoot her because she knows the messenger. But by all means, let the criminal free.

When asked what could be done in the ward to re-engage youth, he said, "Send them to my garage and I will train them to be mechanics. The youth get in trouble because they are lazy. If they want a trade, I will train them." Right, he will take care of the youth problem single-handedly and turn them all into car mechanics.

And he said other things like, Vote for me and I will make you millionaires the way I made myself a millionaire. Vote for me and what you want is what you get. Vote for me and I will give you the money that is marked for councillors' salary increase. You do what you want with it.

Where's the vision for making a better community? He also owns many properties in the ward. He was quoted once as saying the reason he wanted to run for council was because he wanted to know what contracts are coming up.

But he thinks he's running for office in a small European village, not the large, most culturally diverse ward in Canada. The man lives on his own planet. Thank god he came in a distant third. Yet, this man was appointed interim councillor when the last councillor stepped down mid-term. He held office for nine months. Incumbent worked for him at that time. As the appointed interim councillor, he was not allowed to run, so he made a large donation to Incumbent's campaign.

This all in addition to Rival and Incumbent attacking MyCandidate for being a woman, for abandoning her children to run for office, for not working to pay her bills. They are so in cahoots.

The Man says if you wrote a TV series about the shenanigans of The Crooked and The Bizarre, studios would reject it for being too cliched. They are quite surreal.

Yes, it was important I backed MyCandidate.

The Crooked

Now that the election is over, I can detail the peccadillos of Incumbent and Rival. Not that I couldn't talk about them before. It's just that I wanted to focus on MyCandidate's positive qualities rather than the opponents' negative ones.

Incumbent, aside from having held office and been in City Hall for 27 years, has done nothing for us. He rides on our ward's immigrant loyalty to the Liberal Party. And that he arranged for personal, dedicated parking spots in front of the houses of some people by getting them handicap permits, whether they were handicapped or not.

During his time, he's collected 30 properties, made a sweet deal with a chartiy to fund his office, extorted payments for facilitating restaurant licences and home expansion permits, got his assistant pregnant, got thrown out of the house by his wife.

He rarely shows up for council meetings, and when he does, he votes against the community. He voted against the streetcar right of way, he voted to cut millions in funding to our ward, and he almost lost our park to developers either because he wasn't paying attention or because he was expecting a kick-back.

He tried to channel millions to create 17 parking spots for a little business strip instead of fighting to use the space for a community centre. He takes credit for things that council does by masking his election literature with "We did this...", the "we" being city council even though he voted against the project.

When asked if he would post his donations and expenses for the election, he said to the audience, Yes, I will do that. When asked in private when he would post the information, he said, Whenever I damn well feel like it. He has yet to post the information. That's because he doesn't want to show he accepts funding from developer and businesses.

He doesn't even live in the ward. He's proven useless to the community over and over again.

Still The One

Both The Man and Bro echoed similar thoughts: we backed losers.

Not at all. Not in the case of MyCandidate. Elections are not about whether we picked a winner or loser. It's about whether you've backed the right ideals, whether you've set the right motions in gear for higher social good, whatever that good means to you.

I still believe MyCandidate is the best woman for our ward. Her vision for our city and our community best reflect mine. We want to build a cooperative community where we look out for each other, have access to services that improve our quality of life, revitalize our streetscape so we can reclaim our streets, engage our youth and elderly in life activities where they feel purposeful.

These are our goals whether MyCandidate holds office or not. She could have facilitated our goals if she won a seat on city council. But we don't give up because she doesn't hold office.

Would I still have worked for MyCandidate if I knew she would lose? Yes, I would have. I might even have worked harder.

The Loss

MyCandidate lost by 281 votes. Rival trailed a distant third. That means Incumbent is Incumbent again.

In the 2003 election, MyCandidate lost by over 800 votes. She's made progress this time. I still say it's not her or that we didn't work hard enough. It's more that the Liberal stronghold in our ward is hard to shake. But MyCandidate sure made a good crack. And that the demography in our ward consists of older European immigrants who want to vote for an older European man. There are still people in our ward who have trouble accepting that an attractive, intelligent mother should hold office.

Nor are votes related to community issues in our ward. Prove: Incumbent's supporters said they were against the TTC St. Clair right of way. Incumbent ran hand in hand with Jane Pitfield. They supported each other and took on each other's colours for their signs. Pitfield said she would stop the TTC right of way on St. Clair from advancing if she got elected. Yet, the poll results I saw showed voters voted overwhelmingly for David Miller, and marginally for Incumbent. These older voters gave their vote to the men they are familiar with.

And then there is the low voter turnout.

I wouldn't put it past Incumbent to pay people to vote for him.

So he's is back in.

He won despite the Star calling him ineffective, the Globe saying he's the most dispensible politician on council and people would know that if he attended council meetings more often.

Next time, MyCandidate will win. The fact she's an unknown and has had so much support means people are unhappy with Incumbent. The demographics in our ward will have changed as more progressive thinking, younger families move in. We also need to give people a reason to come out to vote.

But for now, things stay the same.

Election Eve

The municipal elections are tomorrow. I am scheduled to help set up at the celebration hall, then go to a poll and be a scrutineer. We are braced for victory, though we can't be too optimistic about the election outcome.

I found out today that both Incumbent and Rival use paid volunteers. There are organizations that contract out students and people learning to speak English to deliver campaign literature for low low wages. They are paid by the number of pamphlets delivered so they are actually working below the minimum wage. It's cheap labour for the politicians, there's pocket money for the workers, and no laws are broken.

MyCandidate has not had to resort to paying for labour. That tells us her volunteer base, and therefore her support, is larger than both Incumbent and Rival. So I am optimistic that she will win.

But it's hard to say. Who know what dirty tricks the others will be up to. As scrutineer, I will be looking for unusual goings on, like people voting more than once, like the same person accompanying many voters to the voting booth on the pretext the voter can't read.

Yet, we could be on the verge of a great dawning.

Vampant

Not having cable means I don't watch a lot of the home shows that are a precursor to the cursed reality shows so vampant today. Like that? Vampant: vapid and rampant, vamp-like in appeal, vampire-like in that the thing sucks your soul. I just made it up.

But when I am not home, I get to tune in to a show or two. So tonight, I watched something called Relocation, where two people helped a young man in London, England give up the bustle of the city to buy a seaside property and a crash pad in town. Viewers follow the hosts as they show housing finds to the man. Those seaside properties in Margate, England were all beautiful. So were the crash pads in London.

I'm thinking, how does this designer guy do it, buying two properties like that? It seemed so easy. He's 37 and had $330,000 pounds to work with. He gave the show hosts a list of requirements - original features, fire places, tall ceilings, bright, studio use. The hosts managed to find him two properties under budget.

We don't know what other assets this guy has. We don't know where his funding comes from. Does he really live in a different stratosphere than I do or did the program show a lifestyle many aspire to but few can actually afford. And I'm thinking, it's no different from fashion and beauty ads. The model is always skinny with flawless skin. We don't know how the model got that way. But looking at the ad, we all think we want to be that model, living the lifestyle the ads suggest while posing in that way.

Is that what mass marketing is about? Persuading us how we could be different than what we are? I guess it's just not entertaining and people don't want to spend their money if marketers show us it's discipline, hard work and sometimes luck and circumstance that get us what we want.

Despite that, would I like to have a seaside property and a crash pad in town, be young and skinny with flawless skin? In a New York second.

Secret Vices

Here I thought my secret vices were truly my secrets. But The Man just sent me an article that the Globe and Mail picked up from Associated Press about my favourite celebrity gossip blogger, Perez Hilton. How did he know?

I read about the break up and hook up of Brad, Jennifer and Angelina, and saw all the photographs of the baby Brangelina, relished in all details of crazy Tom and zombie Katie, and devoured the photographs of their gorgeous baby, Suri. And now I can't get enough of the divorce about Britney and FedEx, formerly K-Fed. It's just such dirty fun.

The other celebrity gossip sites I go to? The main ones are:

• Pink Is The New Blog
• Dlisted
• I Don't Like You In That Way
• Go Fug Yourself

They are all trashy, but I think these may be the trashiest, but still coherent.

And I really like Spam meat. I buy a can once in a while. The Man and The Boy won't go near the stuff. Snobs. That means I get to eat the whole can, which I did this week. Sure, you feel sick after, but it's really good eating, like chips, only fattier.

I collect books on housekeeping. Sure it's a vice. That's like buying all kinds of exercise equipment without actually using them. I mean, owning the equipment doesn't get you fit. What more can you do with a house that my first book on housekeeping doesn't already cover? The rest of the books are just variations on the same theme. I know, buying housekeeping books doesn't make my house any cleaner either. Martha Stewart has a new one out - Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook. I want it.

But at least I am not on drugs. Oh I am. I don't drink. Not often. And I don't smoke. Not regularly. I am overweight and unemployed. Shaddup and stop writing. Stop writing already and don't act like a crazy person.

Being On Drugs

I told some friends recently that I was on Prozac. Two of them have since inquired about how I am doing, because they now know I take an antidepressant. The reason they are concerned, they say, is I don't seem the type that needs to be medicated. I always seem so light-hearted and so put together.

I am not sure what to say. I never thought I was the type to be on antidepressant either. But then I never thought I'd be overweight, or not working, or have a spud I adore, or have a husband I continuously feel smitten with, or that my father would die, or accept my crappy childhood as another rite of passage.

Since I've been on Prozac, I've been reading a bit more about what antidepressants do. Apparently, a lot more than treat depression. For one thing, it treats neuropathic pain. I am not debilitated by my shoulder pain, neck pain and headaches any more. There were days I would writhe in pain and not be able to move or think. Not having to suffer this any more is worth being on Prozac for. I still get the pains, but not as often, not often at all. And when I do get them, I can almost pinpoint a cause.

I still feel sad, anxious, angry or lost about the things I used to feel sad, anxious, angry or lost about. But I am getting closer to these things, to accept them, experience them and process them instead of putting them at bay and emoting in the fog. I have not had bouts of inexplicable tears where I feel so sad I just lie there and cry. After which I would ask, What was that about? I haven't done that once since I started Prozac.

In fact, many days, I feel energetic and optimistic.

I met one of my brothers' batminton partners a couple of weeks ago. She phoned today and we're having lunch this week. I never thought I'd be so easy-going and sociable either.

I don't think Prozac makes me more outgoing. I think it lets me be more me. At the least, it helps me cope with whatever hurdle I need to get over in this segment of life.

The Waking Hour

I am sitting in the dark, reading, with a spot light on my book. The Man is upstairs, working, with the door closed. It's gone dark out. We have not turned on the lights.

Then The Boy walks in the front door from school. He says, Hey parents! and flicks on the living room lights. I get up and turn on the kitchen light. I see a sinkful of dishes and turn on the light above the counter so I can do the dishes. The Man comes downstairs. I turn on the hall light so he can see. He turns on the radio in the kitchen. The Boy is singing to himself, opening a parcel that arrived for him earlier. The phone rings. It's for The Boy. He turns on the TV. The Man and I talk about what to make for dinner.

I guess often, the house comes alive when The Boy gets home.

The Couple That Cooks Together

Some years ago, when my friend was having trouble in his marriage, he confided that one of the things he had fantasized doing with his wife was cook with her as they prepare for a dinner party. They'd be drinking wine as they cook, there'd be music in the background, friends would be gathered around the kitchen island. That never materialized. They had different friends, his wife didn't like to cook, their apartment wasn't big enough. The few times they tried to cook together, they got into huge fights as one tried to tell the other what to do.

I think one of the reasons The Man and I are still together is because we've worked out a way to work in the kitchen together. It's true that you can't have two chefs in the kitchen. So we've learned to recognize when to yield to the other and how to share space and utensils. Often, one of us is sous chef. That is, one cooks whiles the other chops or cleans up so the kitchen counter and sink are not so messy to work with.

When I delegate a dish to The Man to prepare, he gets to do whatever he wants with it and incorporates whatever twists he feels in the mood for. Sometimes we work on different dishes at the same time so we don't have to time our steps to each other.

Tonight, we prepared a great dinner for my mother's birthday. It was fun cooking together. I hadn't noticed how often The Man and I actually cook together. Which is what made me think about what my friend said about his marriage. I wonder if they've worked out a way to cook together and stay together. When it's easy going, I overlook the flaws of the meal, the marriage, and ourselves. I hope they're more relaxed so they can overlook their flaws too.

Business Uncultured

I have been trying to return to my gym, after an absence of...months and months. The gym has been taking a membership fee from my bank each month. When I went to the gym this week, the gym is not there any more. The building is covered up and underconstruction. I don't remember receiving communication from the gym that they were closing down.

In the last few days, I've been phoning the gym's corporate head office and have not been able to reach anyone, not their customer service line, their media line, nor their advertising line. They all ask you to leave a message. I left one on their members line. No one has called me back.

Finally, I called another club belonging to the same chain of gyms. They said my gym had been closed for at least three months. But a lot of the members from my old gym now go to theirs. They accept these members without problem, without additional fees. I just show up and show my membership card.

Do I feel better now? I am not sure. Why didn't my gym tell me they were closing down and that I could transfer my membership to another gym in the chain? Why isn't head office phoning me back? Theirs is a bad business practice, as if there isn't already a history of gyms shutting down and walking away with their members' money.

But now I can use another gym that's inside a mall and has free parking. I am pissed off that I'm all out of excuses for not going to the gym. I don't want to give my money to an organization that is so negligent in its communication to members. But I am only paying $15 a month, and I hadn't been going, so what does it matter whether I not go to the gym downtown, or not go to the one in the mall, as long as I have available access to one? It's feels like I'm facing some kind of personal dilemma. Oh god, I'm so slovenly.

Final Debate

We went to the final all-candidates debate for city council in our ward tonight. MyCandidate was spectacular. She was clear, specific, and articulated her vision for our ward and our city well. Incumbent was sleazy and defensive, never addressing any questions directly. Rival still lives on his own planet.

Towards the end, Incumbent's husky supporters came in. They wagged their fingers at MyCandidate and said, We're gonna get you.

As soon as the debate ended, MyCandidate's people whisked her out quickly. I had no doubt the husky ones were there to start a riot with the intent of injuring MyCandidate.

The Man and I did something rare during the debate. We heckled Incumbent. Not intentionally. Only when he went on and on yet still managed not to answer the question. We shouted, Time, time, which was meant for the moderator to cut off Incumbent's rambling.

Now that debates are over, canvassing will be more intense. We have an all-women canvass on Sunday. This is in response to Rival and Incumbent attacking MyCandidate with, Are you neglecting your children by running for office? If you do all the work you claim to do as a volunteer, how do you pay your bills? That she has a husband who works, that she has a supportive mother and mother-in-law, and that she's building a better community for her children to grow up in aside, we are living in the 21st Century. Why are those questions still being raised in a metropolis like Toronto?

Truly, Rival and Incumbent live with impoverished mindsets from the last century.

Ghost Of Yesterday

This weekend, I went to an awards banquet. I was invited because the organizers wanted to recruit me as a volunteer on their board.

The award recognizes the achievement of youth in four categories: academics, athletics, community services, and the arts. Each category is sponsored by an organization.

My friend and I arrived at the restaurant and were shown to our table. Who should be the first person I notice in the room but Cheerleader. I never actually knew Cheerleader. She was at least two grades ahead of me in school. But as a girl and teenager, I ran into her everywhere, in and out of school. She was one of those privileged kids who excelled at many things. She played music, won academic awards, was captain of the cheerleading team and star gymnast in high school. In fact, she graduated as the prom queen. The last I heard, she was training to represent Canada in the Olympics.

Not that she's ever said anything unkind to me, but she was one of those people who always made me feel inadequate, inferior and insecure. She was the princess inside the castle while I was the waif out in the rain with over-sized sandals and a coat too thin, too long and too tattered. When high school ended, I thought I had got rid of her and the cruel reminder that I could never measure up.

Seeing her from across the room this weekend was a surprise. Wouldn't you know her family is a sponsor of one of the awards, and she's related to the woman the awards are named after. What was more shocking was the chill of old feelings resurfacing. No, flooding, old feelings came flooding back. Out of nowhere, I suddenly felt like kitchen scrap staring at the wedding cake.

Oh she's older, but still vibrant. She's still slim. I've gained weight. She won two raffle prizes. I didn't win any. Her husband is one of the producers of CSI. Mine is, well mine is a fine man who does development and advocacy work, and I really like him and we have fun together.

But I was unprepared to be hit so hard with 30-year-old feelings upon entering a room. My first impulse was, I need to leave. Despite that, the good news is that I responded instead with the maturity of life. I let the feelings pass, then settled down to enjoy our dinner and applaud the young people who won awards.

And after dinner, my friend and I each lugged home a case of beer - twelve 710 ml cans! - under our arms, well, because they were selling them cheap and my friend was willing to lend me money.

Nasty, Nasty

The race for city council in our ward just got ugly.

A former supporter of Incumbent is supporting MyCandidate this time. At a public debate last week, he asked for the financial reporting of a public charity that Incumbent is a director of, co-signed a mortgage for the purchase of a building and now has his community office there, and which only spends 15% of its revenue on community projects. The only traceable charitable donation was $100 to the Cancer Society. Their revenue from bingo was over $60,000.

This man used to an executive member of the charity, but because he was disillusioned by the conduct of his fellow board members, he resigned and switched support in this election.

The newspaper picked up this story and plastered the article on its front page the day of the all candidates debate this week.

This debate was organized by the local government-funded area improvement group that likes to keep its meetings secret to keep the public out. The chair bashed the mayor for not taking part in the debate. Not exactly an impartial host.

Questions from the floor were raised about Incumbent's involvement with the charity organization. He refused to answer questions and accused MyCandidate of being behind a smear campaign.

The next day, the newspaper reported on the debate and quoted Incumbent's accusation. In the streets, we saw many of MyCandidate's signs with her face spray painted black, those of another rival were knocked down. But Incumbent's signs remained intact.

As I travelled around with MyCandidate, she said, My signs are staying up because they are expensive. We are reporting every expense and people need to see the work of Incumbent's supporters.

At MyCandidate's office, a volunteer was training someone to do phone canvassing. I heard her tell the trainee, Do not accept money donations from businesses or unions. If they want to help, they can volunteer time. We need to keep this campaign clean and not create any expectation of indebtedness. We only accept money donations from individuals.

A woman at one of the doors we knocked on attacked MyCandidate for running for office when she has children at home. Her attack was thorough and hostile. MyCandidate held up and offered reasons for why she's running, though I would have liked to pull her away sooner. But it took a while for MyCandidate to realize the attack was rehearsed. I wasn't at the door with her at the time. So now I vow to stay with MyCandidate at the door when I canvass with her.

Emo Mom

The Boy wants to dress up as an emo kid for his school Halloween dance. An emo kid? What's that? I looked up pictures of emo kids on the net.

For one thing, they wear mostly black - black cap, black T-shirt, a black hoodie, jeans, running shoes. I said to The Boy, "How's that different from what you usually wear, except your clothes are mostly red?"

"No, mom. It's not a baseball cap they wear, it's a cap with a rounder hat part. They usually have the name of some obscure band on their T-shirt, and their jeans are skinny. And they wear black nail polish and eyeliner."

"You mean they're like boy goths?"

"Kind of. But they're emotional and make a big deal about it."

"How so?"

"They mope around acting all depressed. And they talk with their chin jutted out. After school, they write in their MySpace blog stuff like, 'I was so depressed today, I could've killed myself. My mom won't give me my new cell phone till tomorrow 'cause that's when my birthday is. God, I could've died waiting for tomorrow so I made sure my mom and dad were home and I came downstairs and I tripped so I really fell. Then I wanted to kill myself even more. So I'm going to listen to my hardcore band, Simple Plan, so I can feel better.'"

"I get it. They're drama queens in goth. So if I'm an emo mom, I would say things like, 'You didn't even touch your dinner and I microwaved it myself. I'm so stressed out I could die. I'm going to listen to my funk rock music, The Lemon Sisters, so I can feel better.'"

"You can't be an emo mom. They don't exist."

"But I think I'd like to try being an emo mom for a while. Maybe I can start a new trend."

"You frustrate me."

But before I did that, I helped The Boy get his outfit together. I mean, like, I sewed his jean legs to make them skinny and I bought him a round cap and I even bought black nail polish for him and everything. He never even said thank you. I think he just takes me for granted. I'm so depressed I could just kill myself. I'm going to listen to my meditation tapes so I can feel better.

It's The Weather

I get anxious when it's too sunny and the light is blazing outside. I feel everyone must be doing exciting and meaningful things in the sun and I am missing out. But if I force myself outside and get warm, I feel better, glad to be alive.

When it's a bit overcast, I feel the environment is automatically more in sync with me. It must be because of my fundamentally melancholic nature. However, I don't like it cold, wet and windy out. That's when I feel like a homeless waif, out in the cold, with nowhere to go. A restlessness comes over me and I feel I need to build shelter, gather food, make friends, have a family, before it's too late.

So often the weather determines our mood. It is no wonder the weather is the topic of choice when you greet someone, as in "Nice day we're having, eh?", akin to the Chinese greeting, "Have you eaten?" when talking to a complete stranger. We acknowledge what's important to us.

It's been a wet, cold and overcast October. We've had the furnace on since the beginning of the month, I've been wearing my winter coat and muckers. When I look out the window, I see yellow and red leaves all around. I am busy cementing relationships, championing my Candidate, making sure dinner is on the table not too late. It's the weather that's driving my current bout of activity even as I am feeling kind of forlorn. And in its own strange way, I feel kind of at home.

Our Imperfections

Despite all our life and work experience, we are always beings in the making, trying to better ourselves in the arenas that matter to us. Or even in frivolous areas, like watching fish grow.

The Man has hired a coach to help him hone his interviewing techniques. He's interviewed and hired staff before. But now that he's on the other side, he doesn't always present himself as someone you'd want to work with. He's also talking to friends who have HR and interviewing experience to get a better grip on how to prepare himself for job interviews.

I am forever trying to perfect my cooking recipes. A while back, I churned out a batch of cranberry muffins every few days. This week, I've turned to chocolate chip cookies. But the overriding area of concern for me is how to better the society in which we live.

There is the governments we elect who should act as leaders and put in place the structures and infrastructures for us to lead peaceful, ethical, connected lives. But the details of a quality life are up to the individual.

When I went canvassing with my Candidate, we knocked on a door where an elderly woman speaking Portuguese only told Candidate that one morning, she woke up and found a huge Incumbent's campaign sign on her front lawn. Her next door neighbour, also an elderly woman who spoke no English, had the same sign appear on her fence. Because the signs belong to an elected official, they were afraid they'd be tampering with city property if they removed them. Fortunately for Candidate, she speaks four languages fluently, Portuguese being one of them.

Incumbent's behaviour is grossly unethical, targetting little old ladies who spoke no English and putting his signs on their property without permission. Yet, incumbent was elected because he and most of the people in this ward share the same language of origin.

I am glad to be knocking on doors to flush out these misconducts, one house at a time.

But here's my big dream to correct our world. I want to set up a community kitchen where women come and cook, share recipes and cooking techniques, talk about their day, and bring home nourishing meals to their families. Not a kitchen for the financially impoverished, but a kitchen for the spiritually downtrodden, even if the condition is temporary.

Once the kitchen gets going, we could even launch a business line of frozen meals to keep the kitchen self-sustaining and pay wages to women who want to be full-time moms and have a bit of pocket money on the side.

Services for the economically poor exist, though I know of no gatherings for women where they can share their experiences while doing something productive. There are cooking courses, but they are classroom lessons. But to actually engage women in the active art of creation where they can mend their souls and provide nourishment for their family? I know of no such program.

It's the start up that costs money and energy. Funding agencies don't fund capital purchases, nor give to women whose impoverishment are not visible. And I can't count on my energy right now. There are days I am focussed and raring to go. Then there are days like today when my lower back hurts so much I can barely walk.

For now, my community kitchen is just a yearning. If I don't win the lottery, regulate my energy, or get my head screwed on right, I hope someone else will take this idea and make this service to women happen.

The Reds Appear

Not only do I have three black baby mollys, I saw a baby red platy dart around today. It is even smaller than the baby mollys. The little bugger is fast.

This is my hypothesis. I noticed lately the adult fish have been pooping a lot. Strands and strands of poop. I think they've been eating the baby fish. That's what they've been pooping out. The babies that have escaped being dinner are fast swimmers. They survived because they are the fittest.

Principles of life enacted in my tank.