I loved that Newfoundland and Labrador declared Friday afternoon a holiday so everyone can watch Brad Gushue's rink go for gold at the Olympics. The province gets pounded with snow storms and hurricanes all the time, like the snow storm this weekend. Half the year, they are fighting the elements just to survive. Maybe that's why they have their priority and pace of life right. Hometown sons doing good is a good reason to shut down the province in celebration.
Wonder what Manitoba will do for Cindy Klassen. She's won five medals in these Games, plus a sixth medal in 2002. How will Canada honour her?
I also loved that it's the women who won most of the medals. Of the 24, 16 were won by women. That's two-thirds of the medals.
Canada's Olympic Committee credits these Games' excellence to their improved program to train athletes. I suppose they do get some credit for providing the training structure. But I think it's more that we have outspoken anti-dopers who want to prove the winning edge involves training, discipline, talent, and support, not drugs.
We can all be very proud Canadians today. This is what Stephen Harper said about our Olympians:
"Throughout the Games, you have proudly displayed our national colours and have been outstanding ambassadors for both sports and our country, through your dignity, respect and dedication."
Nice he issued those words, but obviously the work of a PR writer, because of idea of behaving with dignity, respect and dedication abroad is foreign to Harper.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Past Performance Not Indicative of Future Results
The Boy's school grades say nothing about his intelligence. In our secret project, he's doing so much better than me. Every week, he's singled out and people say, He's so smart. We've had a few quizzes. He's scored better than me in every one. Today's was the worst. On the way home, he said to me,
"Hey mom, I have a serious question to ask you."
"What?"
"What does it feel like to get 76 on a quiz? I wouldn't know. I've only ever gotten 90's."
Maybe a knock on his ear would empty some of his sauciness.
Last month, we did manage to get The Boy a new suit. I'm almost sure this new suit is machine washable. That's to let you know how "reasonably priced" the suit was. He's now got one and a half black suits, the half suit being the jacket from the old suit, of which he lost the pants to last year on the subway. He likes this half suit jacket, which he now calls his blazer.
Tonight, he wore his black blazer over his black Led Zeppelin T-shirt and jeans to go to a birthday party.
"Whoa, what's this?" I said.
"Mom, I look good like this," he said.
Indeed, he did. When did he start to dress for a party? When did he start liking black? This is the same guy who wouldn't go clothes shopping with me. Who tells me to get whatever as long as it's red.
Who's at the party tonight? The usual gang. That is, the six to eight of them who socialize at school. Birthday Girl's father is making hamburgers and they are watching movies. When I drove him to her house, he said,
"Where can I get some flowers?"
"Flowers?"
"I don't have a present for her so I thought I'd get her some flowers."
Down from her house was a place that sold flowers. I dropped him off at the corner. He went to get the flowers and to make his own way to her house from there. This is the guy who said of the flowers The Man sent me, "Yeah, I guess flowers are okay. But they die, and then what?"
Am I reading too much into all this? His leave-taking tonight played out casually, naturally, innocently. No weirdness whatsoever. I thought nothing of it at the time. It's only now that I am home alone and I catch the thoughts that drift across that I suddenly ask, is there a transformation taking place before my eyes?
"Hey mom, I have a serious question to ask you."
"What?"
"What does it feel like to get 76 on a quiz? I wouldn't know. I've only ever gotten 90's."
Maybe a knock on his ear would empty some of his sauciness.
Last month, we did manage to get The Boy a new suit. I'm almost sure this new suit is machine washable. That's to let you know how "reasonably priced" the suit was. He's now got one and a half black suits, the half suit being the jacket from the old suit, of which he lost the pants to last year on the subway. He likes this half suit jacket, which he now calls his blazer.
Tonight, he wore his black blazer over his black Led Zeppelin T-shirt and jeans to go to a birthday party.
"Whoa, what's this?" I said.
"Mom, I look good like this," he said.
Indeed, he did. When did he start to dress for a party? When did he start liking black? This is the same guy who wouldn't go clothes shopping with me. Who tells me to get whatever as long as it's red.
Who's at the party tonight? The usual gang. That is, the six to eight of them who socialize at school. Birthday Girl's father is making hamburgers and they are watching movies. When I drove him to her house, he said,
"Where can I get some flowers?"
"Flowers?"
"I don't have a present for her so I thought I'd get her some flowers."
Down from her house was a place that sold flowers. I dropped him off at the corner. He went to get the flowers and to make his own way to her house from there. This is the guy who said of the flowers The Man sent me, "Yeah, I guess flowers are okay. But they die, and then what?"
Am I reading too much into all this? His leave-taking tonight played out casually, naturally, innocently. No weirdness whatsoever. I thought nothing of it at the time. It's only now that I am home alone and I catch the thoughts that drift across that I suddenly ask, is there a transformation taking place before my eyes?
Friday, February 24, 2006
My Surreal Night
Everything seemed surreal tonight.
I've been housebound for two days now. The Boy has been sick. He's whiny when he's sick. He calls out, "Mommy?" when he enters a room and I am not in it. If I don't answer right away, he gets scared. "I want reassurance," he says. You'd think he was five and not fifteen. I take a deep breath and say calmly, "Stop scaring yourself. I'm meditating."
He recovered from his fever somewhat this afternoon and at 6:00, I stepped out of the house, with him in tow, to meet my mother for dinner. I get some fresh air and do my duty as a daughter at the same time.
Out of the house, I felt I had suddenly become a surface dweller after years in subterranean existence. Or maybe it's because the air was warm. Or I was hungry. The light outside seemed diffused. I was on auto pilot, cutting through the air and light as I drove. The Boy was quietly focused, obdurate in his insistence that I take him to HMV. I did not.
We ate a hurried dinner, with The Boy whining alternatedly, Can we go now? and Can I go to HMV?
Coming home, we were bumper-to-bumper on a road that was usually light in traffic that time of night. Headlights and taillights all around me. Shadows and bright lights swirled. The steering wheel felt loose. The brakes felt looser. Fatigue overwhelmed me. Everywhere, parked cars where they shouldn't be, blocking traffic. Uniformed men standing in the middle of the road talking to stopped cars. We were driving by a funeral home, brightly lit within, no doubt hosting a viewing. How easy it would be right now for me to get into a car accident, I thought.
But I opened the car window to fill my lungs with the cold night. The Boy beside me, lost in his own thoughts. Past the funeral home, we get past the bottleneck in traffic. I make my way home without incident. I did not enjoy that drive one bit.
I've been housebound for two days now. The Boy has been sick. He's whiny when he's sick. He calls out, "Mommy?" when he enters a room and I am not in it. If I don't answer right away, he gets scared. "I want reassurance," he says. You'd think he was five and not fifteen. I take a deep breath and say calmly, "Stop scaring yourself. I'm meditating."
He recovered from his fever somewhat this afternoon and at 6:00, I stepped out of the house, with him in tow, to meet my mother for dinner. I get some fresh air and do my duty as a daughter at the same time.
Out of the house, I felt I had suddenly become a surface dweller after years in subterranean existence. Or maybe it's because the air was warm. Or I was hungry. The light outside seemed diffused. I was on auto pilot, cutting through the air and light as I drove. The Boy was quietly focused, obdurate in his insistence that I take him to HMV. I did not.
We ate a hurried dinner, with The Boy whining alternatedly, Can we go now? and Can I go to HMV?
Coming home, we were bumper-to-bumper on a road that was usually light in traffic that time of night. Headlights and taillights all around me. Shadows and bright lights swirled. The steering wheel felt loose. The brakes felt looser. Fatigue overwhelmed me. Everywhere, parked cars where they shouldn't be, blocking traffic. Uniformed men standing in the middle of the road talking to stopped cars. We were driving by a funeral home, brightly lit within, no doubt hosting a viewing. How easy it would be right now for me to get into a car accident, I thought.
But I opened the car window to fill my lungs with the cold night. The Boy beside me, lost in his own thoughts. Past the funeral home, we get past the bottleneck in traffic. I make my way home without incident. I did not enjoy that drive one bit.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Was I Nuts?
What the heck came over me? I started to suggest to The Man it may be okay if he had a girlfriend while he was away. I was thinking, the guy's lonely, I'm fine here, it'd only be temporary. Thank god The Man had the good sense and decency to say no thanks. What was I thinking? I am so not okay with him having a girlfriend.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Thud. And Thunder.
Bummer. I learned yesterday The Man probably won't come home in April. His contract has been extended for two months without a trip home. So unless something else comes up, I will be a celibate, single mom for a few more months.
Being a working, single mom isn't easy. But I'm not really that. I can imagine though. If I had to work today, my day wouldn't have unfolded the way it did. I wonder if someone isn't looking out for me and my services are required in ways I don't understand.
Today for example, The Boy was sick. He came down with a high fever and I wanted to keep him home. He was insistent that he be at school. His school is competing in the Kiwanis Music Festival and his percussion role was key to the success of his orchestra's performance. He could not let the orchestra down.
I phoned his school and over the course of the morning, spoke to his band teacher twice. The teacher was in a panic that The Boy might not show up. We decided we would wait for his fever to break, I'd take him to the competition venue, he'd play for the ten minutes the school is up, then I'd take him home. I had to do this because in our family, we show up for life.
With the help of Sis the doctor, who happened to have the morning off, I doped The Boy up to enable him to play. And I was still able to render services to Sis in helping her select decorative items for her new home.
The Boy got to his venue early. An organizer was waiting at the door and said, "Are you the famous musician who's sick but is coming in just to perform for his school?" The Boy piped up, "That's me."
Because we arrived early, the school was allowed to performed early. At the same time, Sis received a call to go to work early. So we ran a small errand, picked up The Boy and drove Sis to work. The Boy and I even had a very nice lunch together before heading home.
In the weird way that things often come together in surprising ways, the day unfolded swimmingly.
Being a working, single mom isn't easy. But I'm not really that. I can imagine though. If I had to work today, my day wouldn't have unfolded the way it did. I wonder if someone isn't looking out for me and my services are required in ways I don't understand.
Today for example, The Boy was sick. He came down with a high fever and I wanted to keep him home. He was insistent that he be at school. His school is competing in the Kiwanis Music Festival and his percussion role was key to the success of his orchestra's performance. He could not let the orchestra down.
I phoned his school and over the course of the morning, spoke to his band teacher twice. The teacher was in a panic that The Boy might not show up. We decided we would wait for his fever to break, I'd take him to the competition venue, he'd play for the ten minutes the school is up, then I'd take him home. I had to do this because in our family, we show up for life.
With the help of Sis the doctor, who happened to have the morning off, I doped The Boy up to enable him to play. And I was still able to render services to Sis in helping her select decorative items for her new home.
The Boy got to his venue early. An organizer was waiting at the door and said, "Are you the famous musician who's sick but is coming in just to perform for his school?" The Boy piped up, "That's me."
Because we arrived early, the school was allowed to performed early. At the same time, Sis received a call to go to work early. So we ran a small errand, picked up The Boy and drove Sis to work. The Boy and I even had a very nice lunch together before heading home.
In the weird way that things often come together in surprising ways, the day unfolded swimmingly.
Monday, February 20, 2006
My George Kostanza Life
Some days, I do absolutely nothing and talk to no one. Today was not one of those days.
I had trouble getting out of bed. It took me a while to realize I was tired and anxious. Although this is only my third week on Prozac, already the feelings of tiredness and anxiety are almost foreign to me. I didn't quite recognize today's feelings. Dismissing them as a side effect of the drug, I plowed on.
At 10:00 am, I picked up this message from my mother: Sylph? Where are you? Why aren't you home? Did you know you are meeting me at noon? I'm home waiting for you.
Ignoring the message, I meditated following the instructions from my course. And you know, I felt better after, either in a real sense or because I felt relieved to have done my homework.
At 11:00 am, the phone rang again. This time, I picked up. It was my mother again: What? You are home? Why are you home? Why didn't you answer the phone when I called earlier? Are you coming down?
I made my way down to my mother's, where I met with the Rat Man. He was there to apply the second treatment of rat poison and seal the holes in my mother's house so her tenants would be rid of their mice problem. For some reason, all three tenants in the three apartments were home. This is a very different work world we live in, where young people in their twenties and thirties living on their own are home during the day. Yet, I know they work; they just don't work 9 to 5 shifts.
My uncle also met us, to meet the Rat Man. His restaurant property is infested with "rats as big as a boot" is what mom said.
While waiting for the Rat Man, Mother pulled out a wad of money from her pocket.
Mother to Uncle: Keep this for me, will you?
Uncle to Mother: No. Why don't you put it in the bank?
Mother: No. I don't trust banks.
Uncle: I want to give you back the money you gave me last time. I don't want to hold it for you.
Mother: Why not?
Uncle: What if something happened to you and I return all this money to your children? They will wonder whether I've kept some for myself.
Mother: So you don't pull it out. You just keep it.
Uncle: You already have a bank account. Just put it in the bank.
Mother: But I might need it. I want to fix the house in the summer.
Uncle: So withdraw the money in the summer.
Mother: I don't want the government to trace my money.
Uncle: Are you involved in the black market?
Mother: Of course not. But my tenants give me cash for rent. I don't want the government to know I'm depositing so much cash.
Me: Oh for godssake. There are lots of people much wealthier than you and the government pays no attention to them. Why would they go after you? It's legitimate rent money.
Mother: But it's cash.
Me: It's petty cash. A few hundred a month is not a lot.
Mother: It's a lot to me.
When the Rat Man arrived and Uncle explained about his rats...
What will you charge me, said Uncle to the Rat Man.
I can't tell you that till I see the property and determine what needs to be done, said the Rat Man to Uncle.
I can't give you the address to the restaurant because I don't want to promise the restaurant owners anything, said Uncle.
Then I can't give you a quote, said the Rat Man.
But Uncle gave the location.
So Rat Man will take a look see in the area, promising not to speak to anyone in the restaurant.
When the Rat Man left, we stood outside the house a bit. There were fire trucks and service trucks and trucks with drills at the street corner. Lights were flashing. A police cruiser sat cross-wise at the bottom of the street to seal it off. The smell of gas was in the air. An officer walked up to us and told us to go back inside, confirming there was a gas leak and it wasn't safe to be outside. Since we don't live in that house, we hurried away instead, leaving the tenants in the house to perish if they came out.
Mother to Uncle: Come to lunch with us.
Uncle to Mother: No, I've already eaten.
Mother to Uncle: You are here already. So just come for tea.
Uncle walking away from Mother: But I'd rather be home.
Mother walking after Uncle: Come keep us company.
Uncle running away from Mother: Stop following me.
Uncle runs across the street and down an alley way.
I pull Mother in a different direction.
Over lunch with my mother, I queried her about our Jewish connection. Somehow, I conveyed the story of Chinese Jews to her and the seven surnames given them by the Ming emperor. To my surprise, she rhymed off the seven surnames. She knew all about it. "Does that mean we're Jewish?" I asked. "I guess," she said with a shrug.
Then she went grocery shopping and I carted the stuff home for her like a good Yiddish mule. And like a good Jewish mother, she said, "How come I ask you so many times to get me taralli biscuits (dry, Italian egg biscuits shaped like a small doughnut) and you don't get me any? You know I like to eat them. I even promised Mrs. Nextdoor I would get her some. I told her my daughter lives right near the Italians and she will get us some. But no, you never get me any even after I ask so many times. Don't forget, you are coming here for dinner tomorrow night so you can bring me the biscuits. I want three packages."
So on the way home, I went in search of those damn biscuits. The three stores I went to were out. One of them had some but the biscuits were large thin rounds. I bought one package to see if she'll like them.
I got home at 3:00, exhausted and thinking I should do my yoga exercise to complete my meditation homework. But The Boy charged in, home early from school. "We had a short day today. Staff meeting. Why aren't you watching TV? Who's cheering for team Canada?" Then he bounced downstairs to catch the women's hockey team leading Sweden 2-0. We watched the game for half an hour. The Boy made some phone calls, then he was off. He's gone to Friend's house as Friend had to look after his sister and couldn't come over. Alone, I watched Canada's women win the country's third gold at these Olympics and I think how young, hopeful, preppy and white all the hockey players are, even though some of them are mothers with young kids.
I finally got down to my yoga, following instructions on the course CD. Half way through, the phone kept ringing.
From my mother: Will The Boy eat sweet and sour pork? If I make sweet and sour pork, will he eat it or will he only eat sweet and sour chicken?
From The Boy: Mom, Friend is having dinner now. What are we having for dinner? I need to know so I can decide where to have dinner. Call me back.
There was also a no message.
I did not pick up any of the calls, but my yoga wasn't quite as relaxing as I had hoped.
And my new cleaning supplies? I completely forgot about them. There is always tomorrow. But is it any wonder I am on Prozac and I take meditation classes?
I had trouble getting out of bed. It took me a while to realize I was tired and anxious. Although this is only my third week on Prozac, already the feelings of tiredness and anxiety are almost foreign to me. I didn't quite recognize today's feelings. Dismissing them as a side effect of the drug, I plowed on.
At 10:00 am, I picked up this message from my mother: Sylph? Where are you? Why aren't you home? Did you know you are meeting me at noon? I'm home waiting for you.
Ignoring the message, I meditated following the instructions from my course. And you know, I felt better after, either in a real sense or because I felt relieved to have done my homework.
At 11:00 am, the phone rang again. This time, I picked up. It was my mother again: What? You are home? Why are you home? Why didn't you answer the phone when I called earlier? Are you coming down?
I made my way down to my mother's, where I met with the Rat Man. He was there to apply the second treatment of rat poison and seal the holes in my mother's house so her tenants would be rid of their mice problem. For some reason, all three tenants in the three apartments were home. This is a very different work world we live in, where young people in their twenties and thirties living on their own are home during the day. Yet, I know they work; they just don't work 9 to 5 shifts.
My uncle also met us, to meet the Rat Man. His restaurant property is infested with "rats as big as a boot" is what mom said.
While waiting for the Rat Man, Mother pulled out a wad of money from her pocket.
Mother to Uncle: Keep this for me, will you?
Uncle to Mother: No. Why don't you put it in the bank?
Mother: No. I don't trust banks.
Uncle: I want to give you back the money you gave me last time. I don't want to hold it for you.
Mother: Why not?
Uncle: What if something happened to you and I return all this money to your children? They will wonder whether I've kept some for myself.
Mother: So you don't pull it out. You just keep it.
Uncle: You already have a bank account. Just put it in the bank.
Mother: But I might need it. I want to fix the house in the summer.
Uncle: So withdraw the money in the summer.
Mother: I don't want the government to trace my money.
Uncle: Are you involved in the black market?
Mother: Of course not. But my tenants give me cash for rent. I don't want the government to know I'm depositing so much cash.
Me: Oh for godssake. There are lots of people much wealthier than you and the government pays no attention to them. Why would they go after you? It's legitimate rent money.
Mother: But it's cash.
Me: It's petty cash. A few hundred a month is not a lot.
Mother: It's a lot to me.
When the Rat Man arrived and Uncle explained about his rats...
What will you charge me, said Uncle to the Rat Man.
I can't tell you that till I see the property and determine what needs to be done, said the Rat Man to Uncle.
I can't give you the address to the restaurant because I don't want to promise the restaurant owners anything, said Uncle.
Then I can't give you a quote, said the Rat Man.
But Uncle gave the location.
So Rat Man will take a look see in the area, promising not to speak to anyone in the restaurant.
When the Rat Man left, we stood outside the house a bit. There were fire trucks and service trucks and trucks with drills at the street corner. Lights were flashing. A police cruiser sat cross-wise at the bottom of the street to seal it off. The smell of gas was in the air. An officer walked up to us and told us to go back inside, confirming there was a gas leak and it wasn't safe to be outside. Since we don't live in that house, we hurried away instead, leaving the tenants in the house to perish if they came out.
Mother to Uncle: Come to lunch with us.
Uncle to Mother: No, I've already eaten.
Mother to Uncle: You are here already. So just come for tea.
Uncle walking away from Mother: But I'd rather be home.
Mother walking after Uncle: Come keep us company.
Uncle running away from Mother: Stop following me.
Uncle runs across the street and down an alley way.
I pull Mother in a different direction.
Over lunch with my mother, I queried her about our Jewish connection. Somehow, I conveyed the story of Chinese Jews to her and the seven surnames given them by the Ming emperor. To my surprise, she rhymed off the seven surnames. She knew all about it. "Does that mean we're Jewish?" I asked. "I guess," she said with a shrug.
Then she went grocery shopping and I carted the stuff home for her like a good Yiddish mule. And like a good Jewish mother, she said, "How come I ask you so many times to get me taralli biscuits (dry, Italian egg biscuits shaped like a small doughnut) and you don't get me any? You know I like to eat them. I even promised Mrs. Nextdoor I would get her some. I told her my daughter lives right near the Italians and she will get us some. But no, you never get me any even after I ask so many times. Don't forget, you are coming here for dinner tomorrow night so you can bring me the biscuits. I want three packages."
So on the way home, I went in search of those damn biscuits. The three stores I went to were out. One of them had some but the biscuits were large thin rounds. I bought one package to see if she'll like them.
I got home at 3:00, exhausted and thinking I should do my yoga exercise to complete my meditation homework. But The Boy charged in, home early from school. "We had a short day today. Staff meeting. Why aren't you watching TV? Who's cheering for team Canada?" Then he bounced downstairs to catch the women's hockey team leading Sweden 2-0. We watched the game for half an hour. The Boy made some phone calls, then he was off. He's gone to Friend's house as Friend had to look after his sister and couldn't come over. Alone, I watched Canada's women win the country's third gold at these Olympics and I think how young, hopeful, preppy and white all the hockey players are, even though some of them are mothers with young kids.
I finally got down to my yoga, following instructions on the course CD. Half way through, the phone kept ringing.
From my mother: Will The Boy eat sweet and sour pork? If I make sweet and sour pork, will he eat it or will he only eat sweet and sour chicken?
From The Boy: Mom, Friend is having dinner now. What are we having for dinner? I need to know so I can decide where to have dinner. Call me back.
There was also a no message.
I did not pick up any of the calls, but my yoga wasn't quite as relaxing as I had hoped.
And my new cleaning supplies? I completely forgot about them. There is always tomorrow. But is it any wonder I am on Prozac and I take meditation classes?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Mean Well But Lazy
The electrical power in our house has been going on and off this weekend. I know this because every time I come home or wake up, I have to reset all the clocks and re-record my phone message. This isn't so bad except when you get that close to appliances in the daylight, you see the blackened dust gathered in the crevices and the trails of dust worms wrapped around wires and the clusters of dust bunnies hovering in corners.
It bothers me because I consider myself a fairly regular housekeeper and I resent that despite my consistency, there are areas I consistently neglect to clean. Once I am aware of these areas, the more visible areas of disarray and soil in the house become that much more visible to me.
I have this week off. Okay, I have most weeks off. But this week I am off, then I work for three weeks for Bro Bro. I need to clean the house this week in an environmentally friendly way. On the weekend, I'm hosting a review session at the house for environmental project funding.
A friend of mine is an environmentalist. She's one of those people who go around downtown in the middle of the night picking up birds that smash into downtown's tall towers in mid-flight. Three years ago, she inherited some money. She set up an environmental foundation in honour of her parents. Each year, the foundation funds several projects up to $10,000 each.
Because I'm on the panel to review the funding requests this year, I've been paying more attention to environmental issues. I feel I need to put her money where my mouth is and incorporate more green practices in my routine. It's not that I am an over-consumer of natural resources. It's more that for the sake of convenience, I rely on commercial cleaning products. And I don't want the house to smell of ammonia when the group gathers on the weekend.
It's hard. Should I scrub the toilet with javex or baking soda only? Do I really need everything to be shiny white? And really, am I living in a cleaner space when the floor is vacuumed but but you see dust particles in the light? The housecleaning battle is an ongoing one. There are many homemade and commercial green cleaning product alternatives. I just hadn't bothered. I didn't realize I wasn't all that friendly in this area. Maybe it's because I don't like cleaning the house. And I'm lazy. And now I will have to give it more energy.
Tomorrow then, to the organic health store I go.
It bothers me because I consider myself a fairly regular housekeeper and I resent that despite my consistency, there are areas I consistently neglect to clean. Once I am aware of these areas, the more visible areas of disarray and soil in the house become that much more visible to me.
I have this week off. Okay, I have most weeks off. But this week I am off, then I work for three weeks for Bro Bro. I need to clean the house this week in an environmentally friendly way. On the weekend, I'm hosting a review session at the house for environmental project funding.
A friend of mine is an environmentalist. She's one of those people who go around downtown in the middle of the night picking up birds that smash into downtown's tall towers in mid-flight. Three years ago, she inherited some money. She set up an environmental foundation in honour of her parents. Each year, the foundation funds several projects up to $10,000 each.
Because I'm on the panel to review the funding requests this year, I've been paying more attention to environmental issues. I feel I need to put her money where my mouth is and incorporate more green practices in my routine. It's not that I am an over-consumer of natural resources. It's more that for the sake of convenience, I rely on commercial cleaning products. And I don't want the house to smell of ammonia when the group gathers on the weekend.
It's hard. Should I scrub the toilet with javex or baking soda only? Do I really need everything to be shiny white? And really, am I living in a cleaner space when the floor is vacuumed but but you see dust particles in the light? The housecleaning battle is an ongoing one. There are many homemade and commercial green cleaning product alternatives. I just hadn't bothered. I didn't realize I wasn't all that friendly in this area. Maybe it's because I don't like cleaning the house. And I'm lazy. And now I will have to give it more energy.
Tomorrow then, to the organic health store I go.
Six Degrees?
I spent last week working at Bro Bro's store. Here was a foreign environment for me. I have no connection to his business or customers. But this is the discovery I made.
Bro Bro said to me one day, "Two weeks after dad passed away, I found a copy of Chicken Soup For The Grieving Soul on my counter. I don't know who left it for me. I've been reading it once in a while. It makes me feel better."
Later that day, a customer of his came into the store. Bro Bro chatted with her. After, he told me she is the widow of a lawyer who died suddenly on the job working on a high profile case. The stress of the job killed him. Two months before that, her brother had also died suddenly. This happened just over a year ago.
"She must've left the book on the counter then," I said to Bro Bro. It was also just over a year ago that my father passed away.
When I got home, I told The Man about this customer of Bro Bro's because something about her story was familiar. The Man said, "That's because Friend is also a lawyer working for the same employer as the widow's husband. Friend had told us about his colleague dying on the job. In fact, Friend was on the phone with him when suddenly, the colleague went silent. Later, they found the colleague dead in his office."
Of all the gin joints the widow could have been a customer of... How coincidental is that, that I should meet the widow whose story I had heard, and who because she was grieving for her brother and husband, left a book that comforts Bro Bro?
Bro Bro said to me one day, "Two weeks after dad passed away, I found a copy of Chicken Soup For The Grieving Soul on my counter. I don't know who left it for me. I've been reading it once in a while. It makes me feel better."
Later that day, a customer of his came into the store. Bro Bro chatted with her. After, he told me she is the widow of a lawyer who died suddenly on the job working on a high profile case. The stress of the job killed him. Two months before that, her brother had also died suddenly. This happened just over a year ago.
"She must've left the book on the counter then," I said to Bro Bro. It was also just over a year ago that my father passed away.
When I got home, I told The Man about this customer of Bro Bro's because something about her story was familiar. The Man said, "That's because Friend is also a lawyer working for the same employer as the widow's husband. Friend had told us about his colleague dying on the job. In fact, Friend was on the phone with him when suddenly, the colleague went silent. Later, they found the colleague dead in his office."
Of all the gin joints the widow could have been a customer of... How coincidental is that, that I should meet the widow whose story I had heard, and who because she was grieving for her brother and husband, left a book that comforts Bro Bro?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
May Already Be Jewish
We had a banter about whether Bro should convert to Judaism. He thinks not, but it was strictly a foreskin conclusion.
The idea of a Chinese Jew is not so outlandish. Currently, there are a few hundred Chinese Jews in China. They are descendants of the Jews who went to China from Persia in the 8th Century. In 2000, China recognized them as an official ethnic group. There are now synagogues in Shanghai and Hong Kong.
As a young girl, I remember going into shops with my grandmother and buying a sweet, spongy candy. A few years ago, The Boy brought home some candy and told me it was halvah, a jewish candy. It was the same spongy candy I had as a girl. That's like the spongy candy inside a Crunchie bar.
My grandmother also took me to a bakery where we bought egg bread. The Chinese are not big bread eaters, but grandma for whatever reason, fed me egg bread. I found the egg bread in Loblaws a few years ago. It was challah.
Grandma also steamed whole chickens till they were tender and salted them. A Jewish friend told me once they also prepared chicken that way.
It's true that many cultures share common practices and food. So somehow, somewhere, grandma was introduced to halvah and challah, and someone taught her how to cook chicken. I can buy that.
But today, when I googled Chinese Jews, I see that a Ming Emperor had assigned seven surnames to the Chinese Jews - Ai, Lao, Jin, Li, Shi, Zhang and Zhao. To this day, Chinese Jews will only have one of these seven names. Wouldn't you know, two of these names belong in my family - one is my mother's maiden name, another is my father's name.
It may not be up to Bro whether he converts. Maybe we already carry Jewish blood in our vein.
The idea of a Chinese Jew is not so outlandish. Currently, there are a few hundred Chinese Jews in China. They are descendants of the Jews who went to China from Persia in the 8th Century. In 2000, China recognized them as an official ethnic group. There are now synagogues in Shanghai and Hong Kong.
As a young girl, I remember going into shops with my grandmother and buying a sweet, spongy candy. A few years ago, The Boy brought home some candy and told me it was halvah, a jewish candy. It was the same spongy candy I had as a girl. That's like the spongy candy inside a Crunchie bar.
My grandmother also took me to a bakery where we bought egg bread. The Chinese are not big bread eaters, but grandma for whatever reason, fed me egg bread. I found the egg bread in Loblaws a few years ago. It was challah.
Grandma also steamed whole chickens till they were tender and salted them. A Jewish friend told me once they also prepared chicken that way.
It's true that many cultures share common practices and food. So somehow, somewhere, grandma was introduced to halvah and challah, and someone taught her how to cook chicken. I can buy that.
But today, when I googled Chinese Jews, I see that a Ming Emperor had assigned seven surnames to the Chinese Jews - Ai, Lao, Jin, Li, Shi, Zhang and Zhao. To this day, Chinese Jews will only have one of these seven names. Wouldn't you know, two of these names belong in my family - one is my mother's maiden name, another is my father's name.
It may not be up to Bro whether he converts. Maybe we already carry Jewish blood in our vein.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Best Buddies
Bro Bro asked today if I had a best friend. I didn't have an immediate answer. It sure feels like I have a best friend, but I don't know who that is. Isn't there someone you pour out your soul to, Bro Bro asked.
I guess I share the most with The Man. He could be my best friend. But there are also a lot of things I don't share with him. I think it's not fair, and it would be unreasonable, to expect one person to be best friend, companion, provider, spouse, lover, father to The Boy, and love of my life. I wouldn't put this burden on him in the same way I wouldn't want him to see me as saint, friend and whore. I can be all of those, but not to the same person at the same time. I like me some variety.
And I am not sure I do a lot of soul pouring any more.
When you are young, you need friends to confide in, get feeback from and just bounce your thoughts and attitudes off as a self-discovery process. But as you age, you devise coping strategies as part of your life experience and skills. I can't think why I would want to burden my sandwich-generation friends with my peculiarities. That's what my therapist is for.
With my friends, we talk about what's happening in our lives. Not surprisingly, we share many concerns and experiences - from work, or the lack of, to our spouse, children, and parents, to who we are as women. We acknowledge and share our problems and happiness, we offer each other advice and support, we joke about ourselves, we ask after each other often, we get together to do things as often as our schedules permit. But we try not to get pre-occupied by our problems (because we have so many things to tend to) and we don't use each other as dumping grounds (because we know we each have enough going on).
I think there is an internal stability that comes with age. So now as mature women, when we break through and share a little more than usual, it's truly a precious moment.
I guess I share the most with The Man. He could be my best friend. But there are also a lot of things I don't share with him. I think it's not fair, and it would be unreasonable, to expect one person to be best friend, companion, provider, spouse, lover, father to The Boy, and love of my life. I wouldn't put this burden on him in the same way I wouldn't want him to see me as saint, friend and whore. I can be all of those, but not to the same person at the same time. I like me some variety.
And I am not sure I do a lot of soul pouring any more.
When you are young, you need friends to confide in, get feeback from and just bounce your thoughts and attitudes off as a self-discovery process. But as you age, you devise coping strategies as part of your life experience and skills. I can't think why I would want to burden my sandwich-generation friends with my peculiarities. That's what my therapist is for.
With my friends, we talk about what's happening in our lives. Not surprisingly, we share many concerns and experiences - from work, or the lack of, to our spouse, children, and parents, to who we are as women. We acknowledge and share our problems and happiness, we offer each other advice and support, we joke about ourselves, we ask after each other often, we get together to do things as often as our schedules permit. But we try not to get pre-occupied by our problems (because we have so many things to tend to) and we don't use each other as dumping grounds (because we know we each have enough going on).
I think there is an internal stability that comes with age. So now as mature women, when we break through and share a little more than usual, it's truly a precious moment.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
United Canada
Canada may be divided politically - what little division there is with all parties moving to the centre once they acquire some power. But there is nothing like the Olympic Games to bring us all tighter together. And it's the women who are doing it.
We've been cheering for the women's hockey team. How can we not when they start out the gate trouncing Italy (16-0) and Russia (12-0). Jennifer Heil, from Spruce Grove, Alberta, won the first gold for Canada. Cindy Klassen from Winnipeg, Manitoba won a bronze. Today, Beckie Scott and Sara Renner won silver for team sprint. Our best skiers come from Alberta. Our best skaters often come from Quebec. In fact, our Olympic athletes come from all corners of Canada to make us proud.
And when they don't do well, we cry with them. We don't say, Oh he didn't do well because he's from XYZ place. No, we cry because one of our own missed a beat or got injured, and after the disappointment, we're still proud of them for their effort and dedication.
Win or lose, we are one emotive union.
For that reason alone, the government needs to fund our Olympic teams more. Their performance on the international stage unite us as a people, regardless of our individual differences. I bet we would have less talk of Quebec separation, Western alienation, and urban-rural divide that require political solutions if we had well-funded national teams whose accomplishments and efforts give reason for Canada to celebrate and be celebrated.
Know what The Boy is planning? He wants to get up at 6:30 am to watch the men's hockey team's opening game. 6:30! See, we're with our national teams through thick and thin.
We've been cheering for the women's hockey team. How can we not when they start out the gate trouncing Italy (16-0) and Russia (12-0). Jennifer Heil, from Spruce Grove, Alberta, won the first gold for Canada. Cindy Klassen from Winnipeg, Manitoba won a bronze. Today, Beckie Scott and Sara Renner won silver for team sprint. Our best skiers come from Alberta. Our best skaters often come from Quebec. In fact, our Olympic athletes come from all corners of Canada to make us proud.
And when they don't do well, we cry with them. We don't say, Oh he didn't do well because he's from XYZ place. No, we cry because one of our own missed a beat or got injured, and after the disappointment, we're still proud of them for their effort and dedication.
Win or lose, we are one emotive union.
For that reason alone, the government needs to fund our Olympic teams more. Their performance on the international stage unite us as a people, regardless of our individual differences. I bet we would have less talk of Quebec separation, Western alienation, and urban-rural divide that require political solutions if we had well-funded national teams whose accomplishments and efforts give reason for Canada to celebrate and be celebrated.
Know what The Boy is planning? He wants to get up at 6:30 am to watch the men's hockey team's opening game. 6:30! See, we're with our national teams through thick and thin.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Twilight Zone
Sometimes, I get the feeling people follow me around to make life either inconvenient or interesting for me. Take tonight for example.
On the way home, I wanted to pick up three grocery items. I didn't need them, but I like having them in the house. As I walked by our local No Frills, I noticed there were no line ups. In fact, there were very few shoppers inside. So I went in to get my items.
I was in there for no more than five minutes. I walked to the cash and lo and behold, long line ups. Where did all these people come from? The express line had over 20 people queued up. The other cashiers each had at least two carts in queue.
I weighed my options. I decided to line up behind two medium-ishly loaded carts. I figured it would take just as long if not quicker than the express lane. I waited, my turn came, I paid. I looked over to the express lane. Lo and behold, there was no one there. In fact, all the carts at all the other cashiers had also cleared by this time. There were no line ups at any of the cashiers.
I mean really, what's with that?
On the way home, I wanted to pick up three grocery items. I didn't need them, but I like having them in the house. As I walked by our local No Frills, I noticed there were no line ups. In fact, there were very few shoppers inside. So I went in to get my items.
I was in there for no more than five minutes. I walked to the cash and lo and behold, long line ups. Where did all these people come from? The express line had over 20 people queued up. The other cashiers each had at least two carts in queue.
I weighed my options. I decided to line up behind two medium-ishly loaded carts. I figured it would take just as long if not quicker than the express lane. I waited, my turn came, I paid. I looked over to the express lane. Lo and behold, there was no one there. In fact, all the carts at all the other cashiers had also cleared by this time. There were no line ups at any of the cashiers.
I mean really, what's with that?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Divided Neighbours
The bruises on the cheek and a cut across the eyelid and nose on my Neighbour showed up the next day. She hadn't noticed, she was still so distraught. I pointed them out to her. After talking with her lawyer, she went to her doctor, who documented her injuries. Later, we took photographs of her cut and bruised cheek.
In these scrapes, there are no innocent parties. Turns out, the husband next door was stressed because they had a gas leak in the basement that was occupying the serviceman. In that case, could the husband not have moved his car so the service truck could parked in his spot instead of block the driveway?
Turns out too that Neighbour was more agitated than usual because exactly 53 weeks ago, her husband passed away. The last few weeks had been emotional for her and she was finding it difficult to have to present the award and talk about her husband's involvement in the theatre community. And now this man next door was refusing to ask the serviceman to move the truck that was preventing her from getting to the award ceremony.
Hindsight is of course more rational. Neighbour admits she shouldn't have hit the man on the head with the ice scraper. But she did so only after he hit her. What kind of a man is it that beats a woman up when she raises her voice at him? Why didn't he tell her he had a gas leak in his house instead of telling her she had enough room to back out of the driveway? I still fault him more. But unfortunately, the police don't see it that way. We'll see how this plays out in court.
In these scrapes, there are no innocent parties. Turns out, the husband next door was stressed because they had a gas leak in the basement that was occupying the serviceman. In that case, could the husband not have moved his car so the service truck could parked in his spot instead of block the driveway?
Turns out too that Neighbour was more agitated than usual because exactly 53 weeks ago, her husband passed away. The last few weeks had been emotional for her and she was finding it difficult to have to present the award and talk about her husband's involvement in the theatre community. And now this man next door was refusing to ask the serviceman to move the truck that was preventing her from getting to the award ceremony.
Hindsight is of course more rational. Neighbour admits she shouldn't have hit the man on the head with the ice scraper. But she did so only after he hit her. What kind of a man is it that beats a woman up when she raises her voice at him? Why didn't he tell her he had a gas leak in his house instead of telling her she had enough room to back out of the driveway? I still fault him more. But unfortunately, the police don't see it that way. We'll see how this plays out in court.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Double Double Toil and Trouble
Tonight, my neighbour got arrested for assault. This is what happened.
Her husband was an actor. He passed away last year. The television studio he was attached to asked her to present an award in his honour. As she prepared to leave the house, she noticed a Direct Energy van blocking the driveway. She got into her car and honked. The wife of the neighbour next door peeked out. Neighbour got out of her car and asked if the serviceman could move the van. The wife said, "Oh is it in your way? Just a minute."
Neighbour went back to her house to get the rest of her things. Five minutes later, she came out again to see the van still blocking the driveway. She scrape the snow off her car and before going back into the house, called on next door again. This time, the husband answered the door. He told her she could back her car out without the van being moved, that the serviceman was busy. Neighbour raised her voice, "No, there isn't enough room to back out."
The huband started yelling and swearing at her. He pushed her and punched her, then slammed the door on her. She stumbled back and nearly fell. She got angry and knocked on his door again. He opened the door and she hit him with the ice scraper she happened to have in her hand. He punched her two more times. The wife stood by and screamed, "Stop it." Then the husband grabbed Neighbour's purse, ran inside the house, and slammed the door again.
Neighbour banged on the door again and asked for her purse back. She saw it in his hand and grabbed it back. She said, "And now, I am going to call the police."
She did so, then phoned me to ask me to be with her when the police came. She was distraught. She had just been assaulted. Fifteen minutes later, the police had not arrived. She phoned again. She was now going to miss the award ceremony. She was frantic as she did not know how to get in touch with the awards organizers to let them know.
Finally, the police came. They went next door first. Fifteen minutes later, they came to see her. Already, their faces told me they were not on her side. They were responding to the call the husband next door placed, not to the calls Neighbour placed. She told them what happened. They said next door gave a completely different version of what happened.
What the police saw was, Neighbour claimed she was punched three times, but she had no bruised marks on her face. Husband next door had a big lump and a cut on his forehead from where Neighbour hit him with the ice scraper. There were also marks on his door from her banging on it with the ice scraper. So they arrested her and took her away.
After they put her in the cruiser, I said to the officer, "Why are you doing this to her?"
He said, "She assaulted her neighbour and damaged his property."
"What about him punching her?"
"It's his word against her word. The injury marks on are him. He has his wife as witness. She has nothing. And you've only got her side of the story."
"Can I go with her?"
"No."
"What if I followed you?"
"You can, but you won't be able to see her."
"Will she come home tonight?"
"Yes, but it'll be four or five hours."
I wasn't arrested, yet I was reeling and shaken. I can just imagine how my poor Neighbour felt. She talks a lot, but she's not a liar. She's gone through a lot in the last two years with her husband and inspite of that, she came out with a new career. Now she will get a record and it will affect her obtaining work in her area. I am on good terms with her because she's a straight shooter. She tells it like it is and I like that.
I can't believe the police treated her that way. She gave me some phone numbers so I can let her friends know what happend. She's just phoned me from the police station now. She was able to get in touch with her lawyer and she will be let out with a peace bond in a couple of hours. That means no bail is required. I will pick her up from the police station and take her to her friend's where she will spend the night.
Her husband was an actor. He passed away last year. The television studio he was attached to asked her to present an award in his honour. As she prepared to leave the house, she noticed a Direct Energy van blocking the driveway. She got into her car and honked. The wife of the neighbour next door peeked out. Neighbour got out of her car and asked if the serviceman could move the van. The wife said, "Oh is it in your way? Just a minute."
Neighbour went back to her house to get the rest of her things. Five minutes later, she came out again to see the van still blocking the driveway. She scrape the snow off her car and before going back into the house, called on next door again. This time, the husband answered the door. He told her she could back her car out without the van being moved, that the serviceman was busy. Neighbour raised her voice, "No, there isn't enough room to back out."
The huband started yelling and swearing at her. He pushed her and punched her, then slammed the door on her. She stumbled back and nearly fell. She got angry and knocked on his door again. He opened the door and she hit him with the ice scraper she happened to have in her hand. He punched her two more times. The wife stood by and screamed, "Stop it." Then the husband grabbed Neighbour's purse, ran inside the house, and slammed the door again.
Neighbour banged on the door again and asked for her purse back. She saw it in his hand and grabbed it back. She said, "And now, I am going to call the police."
She did so, then phoned me to ask me to be with her when the police came. She was distraught. She had just been assaulted. Fifteen minutes later, the police had not arrived. She phoned again. She was now going to miss the award ceremony. She was frantic as she did not know how to get in touch with the awards organizers to let them know.
Finally, the police came. They went next door first. Fifteen minutes later, they came to see her. Already, their faces told me they were not on her side. They were responding to the call the husband next door placed, not to the calls Neighbour placed. She told them what happened. They said next door gave a completely different version of what happened.
What the police saw was, Neighbour claimed she was punched three times, but she had no bruised marks on her face. Husband next door had a big lump and a cut on his forehead from where Neighbour hit him with the ice scraper. There were also marks on his door from her banging on it with the ice scraper. So they arrested her and took her away.
After they put her in the cruiser, I said to the officer, "Why are you doing this to her?"
He said, "She assaulted her neighbour and damaged his property."
"What about him punching her?"
"It's his word against her word. The injury marks on are him. He has his wife as witness. She has nothing. And you've only got her side of the story."
"Can I go with her?"
"No."
"What if I followed you?"
"You can, but you won't be able to see her."
"Will she come home tonight?"
"Yes, but it'll be four or five hours."
I wasn't arrested, yet I was reeling and shaken. I can just imagine how my poor Neighbour felt. She talks a lot, but she's not a liar. She's gone through a lot in the last two years with her husband and inspite of that, she came out with a new career. Now she will get a record and it will affect her obtaining work in her area. I am on good terms with her because she's a straight shooter. She tells it like it is and I like that.
I can't believe the police treated her that way. She gave me some phone numbers so I can let her friends know what happend. She's just phoned me from the police station now. She was able to get in touch with her lawyer and she will be let out with a peace bond in a couple of hours. That means no bail is required. I will pick her up from the police station and take her to her friend's where she will spend the night.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Stroke, Stroking My Ego
I spent the day at Bro Bro's pharmacy, training to be his assistant. I'll be helping out in that role while his real assistant is on vacation. When I answered the phone today, a man at the other end said, "What? Sylph? You're new. God, you have a radio voice."
Later, when his wife came in to pick up his prescription, she said, "Are you the one with the radio voice my husband spoke to?"
I couldn't help smile. He is not the first to tell me about my voice. Every year, someone tells me I should be on the radio. Not only that, every once in a while, a cashier or a cab driver would ask me, "Do you work on TV?"
Now, you'd think I am a good-looking, well-groomed woman who conducts herself with authority. And you'd be wrong.
When I am walking, most of the time, I have to remind myself to not waddle so obviously. Pick up, pick up your feet, tuck in your tummy and hold your head up. When I talk, I hear the thinning, shaking voice that comes with age. I remind myself to breath and think before talking.
Honestly, I don't really know what people mean when they compliment my voice or my countenance. Still, it thrills me a bit to think they see something in me I've missed.
Later, when his wife came in to pick up his prescription, she said, "Are you the one with the radio voice my husband spoke to?"
I couldn't help smile. He is not the first to tell me about my voice. Every year, someone tells me I should be on the radio. Not only that, every once in a while, a cashier or a cab driver would ask me, "Do you work on TV?"
Now, you'd think I am a good-looking, well-groomed woman who conducts herself with authority. And you'd be wrong.
When I am walking, most of the time, I have to remind myself to not waddle so obviously. Pick up, pick up your feet, tuck in your tummy and hold your head up. When I talk, I hear the thinning, shaking voice that comes with age. I remind myself to breath and think before talking.
Honestly, I don't really know what people mean when they compliment my voice or my countenance. Still, it thrills me a bit to think they see something in me I've missed.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Meditation
Michael Fortier now says he didn't want to run in the election and that's why he didn't run. Well then he shouldn't be holding office in cabinet. Can't he just reassure us he'll do a good job and leave it at that? How do you make an obscene gesture online? Something akin to thrusting a fisted forearm at someone.
Okay, I have to get off the subject of Harper's unsuitability as Canada's political head. My disillusionment in the man is causing ill health, the care of which he wants to privatize. Is he still on that? I can't afford private health care. It's our own undoing. My fellow Canadians elected him. Out, out, damn spot.
On a more thoughtful note, I started a meditation course last week. A mindfulness stress reduction program. It's a ten week commitment. Each day, on our own, we have to do a breathing exercise and a full body scan. Each week, when the class meets, we do a group body scan. No, no, we're not checking out each other's bodies.
We lie down together but each on our own mat, five across the room and six deep, kind of like fish mounted on a wall except we're on the floor. We follow the teacher's instructions to focus on and feel our own breathing. The idea is, when we calm down and pay attention to our body, we learn to live in the present moment. Supposedly, that helps us focus on the things that really matter in our lives and let us experience each moment in a more alive way. Or something like that. When I get there, I'll let you know.
The only thing is, most of the people in the class are coming from work. They are tired and stressed people with problems in their lives. That's why they are taking the class. What I know is, within the first five minutes of starting the body scan, different rythms of snoring rise from the floor. I can't help chuckling, which interferes with my concentration.
Yesterday, the woman beside me said, "Make sure you shake me if I fall asleep." But when she started snoring, I just didn't have the heart to wake her. She obviously needed her sleep. The teacher said, When you remove the noise and the busyness and you fall asleep, your body is telling you you are exhausted.
I guess so. But I have a different challenge when I relax. I don't want my body to make embarrassing explosive noises, which I know it wants to do. I wonder what my body is telling me.
Okay, I have to get off the subject of Harper's unsuitability as Canada's political head. My disillusionment in the man is causing ill health, the care of which he wants to privatize. Is he still on that? I can't afford private health care. It's our own undoing. My fellow Canadians elected him. Out, out, damn spot.
On a more thoughtful note, I started a meditation course last week. A mindfulness stress reduction program. It's a ten week commitment. Each day, on our own, we have to do a breathing exercise and a full body scan. Each week, when the class meets, we do a group body scan. No, no, we're not checking out each other's bodies.
We lie down together but each on our own mat, five across the room and six deep, kind of like fish mounted on a wall except we're on the floor. We follow the teacher's instructions to focus on and feel our own breathing. The idea is, when we calm down and pay attention to our body, we learn to live in the present moment. Supposedly, that helps us focus on the things that really matter in our lives and let us experience each moment in a more alive way. Or something like that. When I get there, I'll let you know.
The only thing is, most of the people in the class are coming from work. They are tired and stressed people with problems in their lives. That's why they are taking the class. What I know is, within the first five minutes of starting the body scan, different rythms of snoring rise from the floor. I can't help chuckling, which interferes with my concentration.
Yesterday, the woman beside me said, "Make sure you shake me if I fall asleep." But when she started snoring, I just didn't have the heart to wake her. She obviously needed her sleep. The teacher said, When you remove the noise and the busyness and you fall asleep, your body is telling you you are exhausted.
I guess so. But I have a different challenge when I relax. I don't want my body to make embarrassing explosive noises, which I know it wants to do. I wonder what my body is telling me.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Snake In Our Midst
So.
Harper belittled Belinda Stronach for crossing the floor, called Martin unethical for bringing her over, as if crossing the floor doesn't happen all the time. Good thing the CBC has a better memory than I do of what Harper said at the time:
The first day as Prime Minister, Harper brought in Liberal David Emmerson and made him international trade minister. I wonder why it's suddenly okay for Emmerson, elected as a Liberal and who panned the Conservatives three weeks ago, to now cross the floor, at Harper's invitation.
Harper is also rewarding his campaign chair, Michael Fortier, an unelected party member, with the minister of public works and government services portfolio. An unelected minister who doesn't sit in the house and isn't available to answer questions about what he's doing? Well, since he can't sit in the house, he'll have to sit in the senate. Oh, an appointed senator. Sure, Harper campaigned for an elected senate and against unelected ministers, but now:
he told reporters after the cabinet was sworn in.
Aside from being a cold fish, Harper is a calculating snake. He's barely Prime Minister and he's proving himself a hypocrite and liar. And we're paying for it all with our tax dollars. Now we need to see what the Opposition is made of. And whether its the NDP or Bloc who will crawl in bed with Harper.
I generally reject the attitude of dismissing all politicians as snakes and liars. But Harper is really lending support to that camp. Maybe he is exactly the kind of politician who gives politicians a bad name.
Harper belittled Belinda Stronach for crossing the floor, called Martin unethical for bringing her over, as if crossing the floor doesn't happen all the time. Good thing the CBC has a better memory than I do of what Harper said at the time:
We don't go out of our way to romance MPs to get them to cross the floor. Liberals will do anything to win.
We are trying to create a principled party where people act in a principled way, and obviously we're fairly cautious about encouraging party jumping, because that's the kind of thing that generates cynicism.
And frankly, when someone jumps, once you're not sure you can trust them the next time, so I would always handle that with an extraordinary degree of caution.
The first day as Prime Minister, Harper brought in Liberal David Emmerson and made him international trade minister. I wonder why it's suddenly okay for Emmerson, elected as a Liberal and who panned the Conservatives three weeks ago, to now cross the floor, at Harper's invitation.
Harper is also rewarding his campaign chair, Michael Fortier, an unelected party member, with the minister of public works and government services portfolio. An unelected minister who doesn't sit in the house and isn't available to answer questions about what he's doing? Well, since he can't sit in the house, he'll have to sit in the senate. Oh, an appointed senator. Sure, Harper campaigned for an elected senate and against unelected ministers, but now:
If you look carefully at what I said in the election campaign, I did leave open that possibility,
he told reporters after the cabinet was sworn in.
Aside from being a cold fish, Harper is a calculating snake. He's barely Prime Minister and he's proving himself a hypocrite and liar. And we're paying for it all with our tax dollars. Now we need to see what the Opposition is made of. And whether its the NDP or Bloc who will crawl in bed with Harper.
I generally reject the attitude of dismissing all politicians as snakes and liars. But Harper is really lending support to that camp. Maybe he is exactly the kind of politician who gives politicians a bad name.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Snip-Snip
I was at a birthday dinner last night. There were four couples, and me. We were eating steak and pasta. One of the men at the table is a neighbour of the host whom we met last year. At one point, he said he has three children. This is the snippet of conversation I remember.
Favourite Outrageous Friend, leaning into the table and waving her fork: Did you snip-snip?
Host's Neighbour, drinking his wine: After the last one I did.
Hostess, putting a forkful of salad in her mouth: I think all the men at this table have been snip-snipped.
All the wives looked around and nodded, including me, because I remember when each of the men got snipped.
Hostess, drinking her wine: We have to phone The Man to ask if he got snip-snipped.
Me, twirling pasta onto my fork: You don't have to phone him. I know if he got snip-snipped.
Hostess, putting a piece of steak in her mouth: So did he?
Me, wiping my mouth with a napkin: No, he doesn't do that stuff.
I resisted the urge to say, He's still complete and in tact.
Friend's Husband, in his best falsetto: We're all castrated men at this table.
Host's Neighbour: Hey, that makes us eunuchs.
Me: No, I think you actually have to remove stuff to qualify as eunuchs.
I love my friends because they are fun to be with and they're good talking snip-snip at the dinner table.
Favourite Outrageous Friend, leaning into the table and waving her fork: Did you snip-snip?
Host's Neighbour, drinking his wine: After the last one I did.
Hostess, putting a forkful of salad in her mouth: I think all the men at this table have been snip-snipped.
All the wives looked around and nodded, including me, because I remember when each of the men got snipped.
Hostess, drinking her wine: We have to phone The Man to ask if he got snip-snipped.
Me, twirling pasta onto my fork: You don't have to phone him. I know if he got snip-snipped.
Hostess, putting a piece of steak in her mouth: So did he?
Me, wiping my mouth with a napkin: No, he doesn't do that stuff.
I resisted the urge to say, He's still complete and in tact.
Friend's Husband, in his best falsetto: We're all castrated men at this table.
Host's Neighbour: Hey, that makes us eunuchs.
Me: No, I think you actually have to remove stuff to qualify as eunuchs.
I love my friends because they are fun to be with and they're good talking snip-snip at the dinner table.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Have You Eaten?
When the Chinese meet in the street, they greet each other with "Have you eaten?" If they run into each other in a restaurant, they ask the obvious, "Are you eating?" These are the equivalent of "How are you?"
I've always thought the food greeting was a peculiar Chinese slant on life - a direct inquiry into the fundamental sustainability of life rooted in an obsession with food in a culture of scarcity. After all, if you care enough to inquire after someone's well-being, you might as well get at the basics and establish that the first level of Maslovian needs has been satisfied - Have you been refuelled so you can live for another day? Akin to confirming, I see you are still alive.
And the restatement of the obvious? I thought that's because the Chinese are a practical people. They can only talk about what is immediately in front of them. Like toddlers learning to talk, they identify what they see, and maybe one day, it will lead to small talk.
Apparently, there's a bit more to it than that.
According to Dai Sijie, author and filmmaker of Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, and now of a second novel, Mr. Muo's Travelling Couch, it has to do with the phrasing of questions to maintain matrimonial stability and social harmony: never ask a question that might embarrass.
For example, if a husband is away for an extended time, the artful wife will, on his return home, throw herself at his feet and cry out in a long, drawn-out tone of a Chinese opera, "You have returned, your honour?"
Now I know why the Chinese say, Have you eaten? when they see each other. It is good form, a social grace. Good thing I have some time to practise the art of matrimonial stability. The Man will be home in a couple of months.
I've always thought the food greeting was a peculiar Chinese slant on life - a direct inquiry into the fundamental sustainability of life rooted in an obsession with food in a culture of scarcity. After all, if you care enough to inquire after someone's well-being, you might as well get at the basics and establish that the first level of Maslovian needs has been satisfied - Have you been refuelled so you can live for another day? Akin to confirming, I see you are still alive.
And the restatement of the obvious? I thought that's because the Chinese are a practical people. They can only talk about what is immediately in front of them. Like toddlers learning to talk, they identify what they see, and maybe one day, it will lead to small talk.
Apparently, there's a bit more to it than that.
According to Dai Sijie, author and filmmaker of Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, and now of a second novel, Mr. Muo's Travelling Couch, it has to do with the phrasing of questions to maintain matrimonial stability and social harmony: never ask a question that might embarrass.
For example, if a husband is away for an extended time, the artful wife will, on his return home, throw herself at his feet and cry out in a long, drawn-out tone of a Chinese opera, "You have returned, your honour?"
...never ask where he has been or what he has been up to. It is sufficient to establish the fact of his return in interrogative form, thereby attesting not only to your solicitude regarding his welfare, but also to the miraculous good fortune that has brougth him back to you.
...The same principle applies, more broadly, to social intercourse. When addressing someone over breakfast, do not ask what he is having, which might be cause for embarrassment if, for instance, the dish ordered betrays frugality or, worse, a want of means. Ask instead, "Are you eating?" and by this subtlety all will be well.
Now I know why the Chinese say, Have you eaten? when they see each other. It is good form, a social grace. Good thing I have some time to practise the art of matrimonial stability. The Man will be home in a couple of months.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
We Don't Go To The Dogs
I don't want you to think we live in a rough hewn street of crazies, raggamuffins, murder, and swat teams traipsing through. We have that, but to see us as only that would be a near-sighted and limited view. That'd be like looking at an oyster bed and seeing nubbly shells instead of the pearl inside each oyster.
Ours is a lively, vibrant, and flavourful street, manicured by Italians with the best intentions, brushed by artists with a flair for life, and honed by mothers who love their kids. And in between all that, the psychographic yuppies live amongst us with their yuppy gear and yuppy puppies.
On our street lives a Juno award winner, cultural strategist, and radio personality; there is the founder and artistic director of a children's theatre company; there is a filmmaker; there is a fusion artist of aboriginal, R&B, soul & reggae music; there are doctors, lawyers, architects, photographers, teachers, actors, musicians, photographers, writers, bankers, cashiers, IT managers, plumbers, and contractors; as well as other ordinary folk with less definable jobs.
Our neighbours volunteer on the local museum management board, the Sierra Club, the Toronto Arts Council, political parties and other community groups and agencies.
We have fought MacDonalds and won. We have championed a new park, a new library and a new city councillor. We have organized arts festivals, street parties, and yard sales. So let me get to the feel good stuff in our hood too. In future posts.
Ours is a lively, vibrant, and flavourful street, manicured by Italians with the best intentions, brushed by artists with a flair for life, and honed by mothers who love their kids. And in between all that, the psychographic yuppies live amongst us with their yuppy gear and yuppy puppies.
On our street lives a Juno award winner, cultural strategist, and radio personality; there is the founder and artistic director of a children's theatre company; there is a filmmaker; there is a fusion artist of aboriginal, R&B, soul & reggae music; there are doctors, lawyers, architects, photographers, teachers, actors, musicians, photographers, writers, bankers, cashiers, IT managers, plumbers, and contractors; as well as other ordinary folk with less definable jobs.
Our neighbours volunteer on the local museum management board, the Sierra Club, the Toronto Arts Council, political parties and other community groups and agencies.
We have fought MacDonalds and won. We have championed a new park, a new library and a new city councillor. We have organized arts festivals, street parties, and yard sales. So let me get to the feel good stuff in our hood too. In future posts.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
On The Street Where I Live - 9
The Drug Bust
The second time a swat team came through our street, I had just come home from doing the groceries. At the bottom of our street, there were police cars blocking access to the street. They weren't there an hour ago when I left the house. I pulled my car over and walked to a neighbour's house. He was out too wondering what was going on.
We stood in his front yard, which was slightly raised from the street and fenced in by a row of hedge. We looked over the hedge just in time to see a swat team of helmetted men in uniforms and guns running up the street, all with serious, determined looks on their faces.
I called out to a policeman at the end of the line, "What's happening?"
He said, "Can't tell you, m'am."
"Okay, but does it have to do with September 11?"
"No." He looked up at us. "Can you two stay closer to the house please. You are too exposed."
So we pasted ourselves against the wall of my neighbour's house to see the swat team once again position themselves around a house further up from us, behind trees, in between cars, and on top of a roof.
Two officers walked up to the house, again a tenanted house.
This house has had problems before. The previous tenant owned pit bulls that he let roam free on the street and into people's backyards. The police were called in several times. But they were always more sympathetic with the dog owners than the neighbours with young kids, saying, "The dogs won't attack if you don't bother them." But what about them straying uninvited into backyards where young kids are eating and playing? What about when they want food and the kids won't give it to them? Why are the neighbours forced to incorporate someone else's dogs into their lives? But I digress.
The dogs and their owners had moved out by this time. The new tenants obviously brought their own baggage.
From where we stood, we saw the officers bring a young man out. He had obviously just woke up. Incredible. A mild, good looking black man in his twenties, early thirties at most. You wouldn't think he was dangerous enough to warrant all that covert attention. The officers had the man spread his arms on the police cruiser and lean into it. Then they searched him and put him inside the car. Two others went into the house, I assume to search it.
Ten minutes later, they drove the man away. As if in reverse motion, the swat team came out of hiding, marched back down the street across our field of vision, and got into their cars. A straggling office walked behind them.
I couldn't resist. I ran out to the hedge and said, "Hey, are we safe now? Was he a terrorist?"
He smirked. "No, he's not a terrorist. You are as safe as you've always been." My neighbour and I looked at each other, amused by the lack of reassurance, almost flippant response from the officer.
"Can you talk about it now?" I persisted.
"No."
"Okay, that means he is a terrorist, and you're not talking because you don't want to scare us. Give us a hint what that was about or we won't be able to sleep at night."
"It was drug related." By this time, the officer had walked past us and could talk to us no more, to his relief I'm sure.
Our street gives tenants a bad name.
The second time a swat team came through our street, I had just come home from doing the groceries. At the bottom of our street, there were police cars blocking access to the street. They weren't there an hour ago when I left the house. I pulled my car over and walked to a neighbour's house. He was out too wondering what was going on.
We stood in his front yard, which was slightly raised from the street and fenced in by a row of hedge. We looked over the hedge just in time to see a swat team of helmetted men in uniforms and guns running up the street, all with serious, determined looks on their faces.
I called out to a policeman at the end of the line, "What's happening?"
He said, "Can't tell you, m'am."
"Okay, but does it have to do with September 11?"
"No." He looked up at us. "Can you two stay closer to the house please. You are too exposed."
So we pasted ourselves against the wall of my neighbour's house to see the swat team once again position themselves around a house further up from us, behind trees, in between cars, and on top of a roof.
Two officers walked up to the house, again a tenanted house.
This house has had problems before. The previous tenant owned pit bulls that he let roam free on the street and into people's backyards. The police were called in several times. But they were always more sympathetic with the dog owners than the neighbours with young kids, saying, "The dogs won't attack if you don't bother them." But what about them straying uninvited into backyards where young kids are eating and playing? What about when they want food and the kids won't give it to them? Why are the neighbours forced to incorporate someone else's dogs into their lives? But I digress.
The dogs and their owners had moved out by this time. The new tenants obviously brought their own baggage.
From where we stood, we saw the officers bring a young man out. He had obviously just woke up. Incredible. A mild, good looking black man in his twenties, early thirties at most. You wouldn't think he was dangerous enough to warrant all that covert attention. The officers had the man spread his arms on the police cruiser and lean into it. Then they searched him and put him inside the car. Two others went into the house, I assume to search it.
Ten minutes later, they drove the man away. As if in reverse motion, the swat team came out of hiding, marched back down the street across our field of vision, and got into their cars. A straggling office walked behind them.
I couldn't resist. I ran out to the hedge and said, "Hey, are we safe now? Was he a terrorist?"
He smirked. "No, he's not a terrorist. You are as safe as you've always been." My neighbour and I looked at each other, amused by the lack of reassurance, almost flippant response from the officer.
"Can you talk about it now?" I persisted.
"No."
"Okay, that means he is a terrorist, and you're not talking because you don't want to scare us. Give us a hint what that was about or we won't be able to sleep at night."
"It was drug related." By this time, the officer had walked past us and could talk to us no more, to his relief I'm sure.
Our street gives tenants a bad name.
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