About ten years ago, I overheard an office conversation with two heterosexual men in their thirties talking about the clothes they just bought. They were comparing style, colour, fabric, and price. Then they pulled out the shirts from their bags and showed them to each other. I turned to them and said - This is a conversation I can't imagine happening between two men, say five years ago.
They laughed and said - You just gotta get with the times.
Granted, both men were urban designer with designer girlfriends. Urban designers in generally are more finely tuned to the aesthetics of life and male urban designers in particular have their feminine side well developed. They were the first breed of metrosexuals.
Today, on the subway, a group of young people got on, slurping their Tim Horton ice cappuccinos. They were probably first year university students, though they could be mature looking high school kids. There was a girl with long, flowing blond hair, wearing purple ballet flats, black leggings, a pink baby-doll dress with flower prints, and a cropped white sweater over the dress. She looked cute. She was like an artsy Jessica Simpson. Her female friends were also cute, though not as eye-catching as her.
The boy that was with them had long, spiked greasy hair plastered to his head, looking like he was too shy to face the world, though that too could be a cultivated look. He did not look or sound effeminine. What caught my attention was the flow of their conversation.
Cute Girl - My nails are really small, especially on my toes. When I paint my toe pinky, it's just a red dot.
Friend - Why don't you get a pedicure.
Boy - How often do you go?
Cute Girl - I'm not paying someone to put a dot of polish on my toe.
Boy - When are you guys going to start wearing flip-flops?
The innaneness of the topic aside, when did toe polish and foot fashion leave the realm of women's private conversation to be a unisex subject, casually tossed out for discussion on the subway? What's in it for the boy? Do they talk about how often jock straps get laundered?
I get the sense he's the next generation of metrosexuals. Every subject is open, everyone talks about everything. There is no more mystique in the feminine. There is no more awe of the masculine.
Too bad I can't stand D. H. Lawrence right now. Some of his earthy sorting of the differences between men and women would bring back sensuality of the sexes and give flavour to the blandness of loquacious equality.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
How We Use Our Freedom
My neighbour, Tall, is launching a civil suit against her next door neighbour, Squat, for assault. This is in response to the police charging her with assault with a weapon. Her lawyer has advised her to shake hands with Squat and make up instead. But she doesn't want to. It irks her that he inconvenienced her, then hit her, and when she responded in kind, she was charged, and he got off scot free, as the poor victim even.
I understand her outrage. Squat behaved poorly and boorishly. But I am not sure I would spend my time, energy and money on getting even. She has already said if Squat and his wife were ever in trouble and knocked on her door for help, she would not help them. I am pretty sure that if my enemy knocked on my door for help, I would still help them, and use the opportunity to start afresh.
Then I came across a blog today called Baghdad Burning. The author was 24 when she started to document the effects of the war in Iraq on her and her family. she's been blogging for three years now as Riverbend. A UK publisher published her blog last year and is preparing a new publication of more recent posts.
I am touched by the observations Riverbend makes and by her ability to capture the moods and conflicts of her country in ruins. Here's a people fighting an internal war and external occupation. They are fighting for their freedom to be.
Our country is not at war. We are free. But in our own ways, we too are fighting each other for the freedom to be. The scale is not the same. But I can't help feel that we abuse our rights and freedom on petty concerns, as if we have nothing better to do with our freedom than to use it on self-indulgence. Like Bush fighting for oil in Iraq. So Americans can drive around in big cars and spend time watching reality TV.
I can't reconcile these discrepancies.
I understand her outrage. Squat behaved poorly and boorishly. But I am not sure I would spend my time, energy and money on getting even. She has already said if Squat and his wife were ever in trouble and knocked on her door for help, she would not help them. I am pretty sure that if my enemy knocked on my door for help, I would still help them, and use the opportunity to start afresh.
Then I came across a blog today called Baghdad Burning. The author was 24 when she started to document the effects of the war in Iraq on her and her family. she's been blogging for three years now as Riverbend. A UK publisher published her blog last year and is preparing a new publication of more recent posts.
I am touched by the observations Riverbend makes and by her ability to capture the moods and conflicts of her country in ruins. Here's a people fighting an internal war and external occupation. They are fighting for their freedom to be.
Our country is not at war. We are free. But in our own ways, we too are fighting each other for the freedom to be. The scale is not the same. But I can't help feel that we abuse our rights and freedom on petty concerns, as if we have nothing better to do with our freedom than to use it on self-indulgence. Like Bush fighting for oil in Iraq. So Americans can drive around in big cars and spend time watching reality TV.
I can't reconcile these discrepancies.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Credit Rich
I went into the bank the other day to cash a cheque. I opted to go to the teller instead of using the ABM because my cheque was in American funds and I wanted to make sure the equivalent in Canadian funds was deposited.
The teller looked up my record and asked why I wasn't taking advantage of all the credit I was eligible for. To which I said, because if I used the credit, I'd still have to pay back and I don't want to be loaded down with debt. She said, Just because you have the credit, doesn't mean you have to use it. Your credits have been pre-approved, you just need to accept them so you will have emergency funds if you ever need them. Doesn't cost you a thing unless you use the funds.
So she persuaded me to accept all the credits I was eligible for.
This is what I get for talking to people. I went into the bank hoping to cash a cheque and put $100 in my pocket. I walk out with the $100, plus a $30,000 limit on my credit card and a $10,000 line of credit. Great. Now I can buy a car on Visa.
Those banks are evil, giving people credit whether they want it or not, hoping they would use the credit and owe their lives to the bank. A more feeble-minded person than me would own that car by now, and a closetful of new clothes. Don't think I don't hear the call. It's times like this I am really grateful for two things - the practical Chinese mindset that tells me not to owe anyone money, and my own disorganized bungling way. I have never actually activated that credit card and I forgot to ask how to access my line of credit.
The teller looked up my record and asked why I wasn't taking advantage of all the credit I was eligible for. To which I said, because if I used the credit, I'd still have to pay back and I don't want to be loaded down with debt. She said, Just because you have the credit, doesn't mean you have to use it. Your credits have been pre-approved, you just need to accept them so you will have emergency funds if you ever need them. Doesn't cost you a thing unless you use the funds.
So she persuaded me to accept all the credits I was eligible for.
This is what I get for talking to people. I went into the bank hoping to cash a cheque and put $100 in my pocket. I walk out with the $100, plus a $30,000 limit on my credit card and a $10,000 line of credit. Great. Now I can buy a car on Visa.
Those banks are evil, giving people credit whether they want it or not, hoping they would use the credit and owe their lives to the bank. A more feeble-minded person than me would own that car by now, and a closetful of new clothes. Don't think I don't hear the call. It's times like this I am really grateful for two things - the practical Chinese mindset that tells me not to owe anyone money, and my own disorganized bungling way. I have never actually activated that credit card and I forgot to ask how to access my line of credit.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Bold Personality
My friend Booklust is a cartoonist. A few years ago, she decided to be a graphic artist and enrolled in a college program. At the end of the program, she was placed in a graphic studio as a co-op student.
One day, Bro came over and told me he'd met my friend Booklust, that she had raved about my cooking. I recall him telling me she was placed in his office as a co-op student and was working there for at least six months.
A few months ago, Booklust was interviewed by Rex Murphy on CBC radio on her love of books. So I said to Bro - Remember Booklust? She's going to be on CBC.
He said - Who?
I said - My friend Booklust who worked as a co-op student in your office a few years ago.
- Don't remember.
- Here's a photo of her on her blog. When you see her picture, you'll remember. She has a bold and noisy personality.
So Bro looked at Booklust's photo and didn't remember. He went to his boss, showed him the photo and Boss said - Don't remember her.
After Booklust's interview, she provided a link to her interview. I said to Bro - Listen to her interview, you'll recognize her voice.
So Bro listened and still didn't remember. He went to his boss, got him to listen to the interview and Boss said - Don't remember.
I said to Bro at the time - You guys really are getting old, aren't you? How can you not remember someone who worked with you for at least six months?
Last night, I had dinner with Booklust. She asked after Bro. I debated whether to tell her he doesn't remember her. Another friend said - Didn't you work in his office as a co-op student?
Booklust said - No. I worked in another company in the same building as him.
I said - How did you meet him?
She said - I saw him at the elevator one day and I remember you telling me his office is in the building. He looks so much like you I decided he's got to be your Bro. So I introduced myself and asked.
Ha. No wonder Bro and his boss don't remember Booklust working in their office. Bro's only met her that one time at the elevator. They're not getting old. I'm a bad listener. Yeah, Booklust and I had a good laugh over the story. Wonder how else I can set up Bro to make him think he's losing his mind.
One day, Bro came over and told me he'd met my friend Booklust, that she had raved about my cooking. I recall him telling me she was placed in his office as a co-op student and was working there for at least six months.
A few months ago, Booklust was interviewed by Rex Murphy on CBC radio on her love of books. So I said to Bro - Remember Booklust? She's going to be on CBC.
He said - Who?
I said - My friend Booklust who worked as a co-op student in your office a few years ago.
- Don't remember.
- Here's a photo of her on her blog. When you see her picture, you'll remember. She has a bold and noisy personality.
So Bro looked at Booklust's photo and didn't remember. He went to his boss, showed him the photo and Boss said - Don't remember her.
After Booklust's interview, she provided a link to her interview. I said to Bro - Listen to her interview, you'll recognize her voice.
So Bro listened and still didn't remember. He went to his boss, got him to listen to the interview and Boss said - Don't remember.
I said to Bro at the time - You guys really are getting old, aren't you? How can you not remember someone who worked with you for at least six months?
Last night, I had dinner with Booklust. She asked after Bro. I debated whether to tell her he doesn't remember her. Another friend said - Didn't you work in his office as a co-op student?
Booklust said - No. I worked in another company in the same building as him.
I said - How did you meet him?
She said - I saw him at the elevator one day and I remember you telling me his office is in the building. He looks so much like you I decided he's got to be your Bro. So I introduced myself and asked.
Ha. No wonder Bro and his boss don't remember Booklust working in their office. Bro's only met her that one time at the elevator. They're not getting old. I'm a bad listener. Yeah, Booklust and I had a good laugh over the story. Wonder how else I can set up Bro to make him think he's losing his mind.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Why I Shouldn't Spend Too Much Time By Myself
1. I think Assicons are funny.
2. When I run out of chocolate chip cookies, I run out to get some more.
3. When I run out of potato chips, I run out to get some more.
4. I pile today's dirty dishes on top of yesterday's.
5. I jump out of my skin when the birds chirp.
6. I break the power cord on the answering machine then put the plug back in place and pretend it's not broken hoping someone else will come long and fix it. Right now, that someone'd be The Boy.
7. I change my bedsheets at night because I forget I had changed them in the morning.
8. When The Boy's friends phone and he's not home, I chat to his friends about their day and what their family members are up to. The Boy tells me later not to do that again because he gets embarrassed. I object because how can he be embarrassed when he wasn't even there.
9. I walk everywhere as much as I can hoping to bump into people I know. When I bump into people I know and they say, Hey you're not working today, I say, That's right. I don't tell them I haven't worked in over a year. And I don't tell them about little gigs I've done. Then I feel guilty wondering if I've lied.
10. I drink at least six cups of mint tea a day and pee all day, then I convince myself I am incontinent.
2. When I run out of chocolate chip cookies, I run out to get some more.
3. When I run out of potato chips, I run out to get some more.
4. I pile today's dirty dishes on top of yesterday's.
5. I jump out of my skin when the birds chirp.
6. I break the power cord on the answering machine then put the plug back in place and pretend it's not broken hoping someone else will come long and fix it. Right now, that someone'd be The Boy.
7. I change my bedsheets at night because I forget I had changed them in the morning.
8. When The Boy's friends phone and he's not home, I chat to his friends about their day and what their family members are up to. The Boy tells me later not to do that again because he gets embarrassed. I object because how can he be embarrassed when he wasn't even there.
9. I walk everywhere as much as I can hoping to bump into people I know. When I bump into people I know and they say, Hey you're not working today, I say, That's right. I don't tell them I haven't worked in over a year. And I don't tell them about little gigs I've done. Then I feel guilty wondering if I've lied.
10. I drink at least six cups of mint tea a day and pee all day, then I convince myself I am incontinent.
So Goofy
I don't want to be one of these: (__!__) or these: (!)
The Boy is one of these: (_E=mc2_)
I use to work with a lot of these: (_zzz_)
I meet a lot of these: (_?_)
People should always do this: (_X_) and once in a while, do this: (_x_)
Here's how to decode:
(_!_) a regular ass
(__!__) a fat ass
(!) a tight ass
(_*_) a sore ass
{_!_} a swishy ass
(_o_) an ass that's been around
(_x_) kiss my ass
(_X_) leave my ass alone
(_zzz_) a tired ass
(_E=mc2_) a smart ass
(_$_) Money coming out of his ass
(_?_) Dumb Ass
I'm told these are called Assicons.
The Boy is one of these: (_E=mc2_)
I use to work with a lot of these: (_zzz_)
I meet a lot of these: (_?_)
People should always do this: (_X_) and once in a while, do this: (_x_)
Here's how to decode:
(_!_) a regular ass
(__!__) a fat ass
(!) a tight ass
(_*_) a sore ass
{_!_} a swishy ass
(_o_) an ass that's been around
(_x_) kiss my ass
(_X_) leave my ass alone
(_zzz_) a tired ass
(_E=mc2_) a smart ass
(_$_) Money coming out of his ass
(_?_) Dumb Ass
I'm told these are called Assicons.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
An Instance Of A Man Falling
On the streetcar one morning, a middle-aged man got on carrying a tote bag in one hand and a carrot in the other. He walked to the back of the streetcar where there was a seat, munching on his carrot. As he was about to sit down, the streetcar lurched forward, he went "Mmm...Mmm...Mmm" with a mouth full of carrots, bobbled a bit, then fell into the laps of the young man seated perpendicular to the seat he wanted.
His fall was predictable. What wasn't was the reaction of everyone around him, including the young man's. In that instant as he fell, the back of the streetcar gasped. Six pairs of arms behind the man reached towards him, hoping to catch him. The arms withdrew just as quickly when it was apparent none would reach him in time and that the young man who was to break the older man's fall had things under control.
A child of five sat next to the young man, and beside the child, his mother. The mother put her arm out in front of the child to protect him from the falling man. The child sat looking at the falling man, eyes blinking, mouth askew as if knowing his safety was in jeopardy.
The young man put his arms in front of him, at first to stop the man from falling, but when it was evident the man would land on him, he closed one arm around himself to brace the man's fall and to protect himself and put the other arm out to hold back the falling man so he wouldn't slide to the floor.
It all happened in an instant. Yet several reactions involving several people took place and changed within that split second. It's good to know people made an attempt to save and protect a falling man, including the young man who started out just sitting there with his headphones on, listening to his music and minding his business.
The fallen man got off the young man immediately and sat in the seat he was aiming for. Then he looked at the young man in the eye, padded him several times on the knee and thanked him. It was a sincere expression of gratitude from one stranger to another. The young man smiled and nodded, then went back to listening to his music. It was all over, as if nothing happened a minute ago that united ten people in the back of a streetcar.
His fall was predictable. What wasn't was the reaction of everyone around him, including the young man's. In that instant as he fell, the back of the streetcar gasped. Six pairs of arms behind the man reached towards him, hoping to catch him. The arms withdrew just as quickly when it was apparent none would reach him in time and that the young man who was to break the older man's fall had things under control.
A child of five sat next to the young man, and beside the child, his mother. The mother put her arm out in front of the child to protect him from the falling man. The child sat looking at the falling man, eyes blinking, mouth askew as if knowing his safety was in jeopardy.
The young man put his arms in front of him, at first to stop the man from falling, but when it was evident the man would land on him, he closed one arm around himself to brace the man's fall and to protect himself and put the other arm out to hold back the falling man so he wouldn't slide to the floor.
It all happened in an instant. Yet several reactions involving several people took place and changed within that split second. It's good to know people made an attempt to save and protect a falling man, including the young man who started out just sitting there with his headphones on, listening to his music and minding his business.
The fallen man got off the young man immediately and sat in the seat he was aiming for. Then he looked at the young man in the eye, padded him several times on the knee and thanked him. It was a sincere expression of gratitude from one stranger to another. The young man smiled and nodded, then went back to listening to his music. It was all over, as if nothing happened a minute ago that united ten people in the back of a streetcar.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Should Have Left Well Enough Alone
On Tuesday nights, when I go to meditation class, The Boy goes to mom's for dinner. Last night, when I picked him up after class, mom asked me to have lunch with her today. In light of how much I appreciated her last week, I agreed, thinking it'd be nice to spend a little time with her.
Mom is not an evil woman. She's just an unreasonable woman. She's fully entitled to her unreasonableness. I'm getting that way myself. But here's the thing. Our whole family has been combatting weight for as long as I can remember. We're not obese because we've been combatting the weight. But we can each shed ten or thirty pounds.
Recently, mom's doctor told her she has to lose weight, maybe twenty pounds. And her cholesterol is high. She was going to see her doctor after lunch today to confirm that.
For lunch then, she said, "I just want a light lunch, I'm not that hungry." I said, "That's great. I'm not that hungry either, so we'll eat light." Despite that, we over ordered, granted, inadvertently. We were sharing a noodles dish and we didn't know the BBQ beef wraps was such a huge platter.
I am trying to be mindful of my eating so I stopped eating when I started to feel full. We managed to eat half the noodles dish, but barely touched the beef wraps.
"That's all you're having?" mom said. Mom is a formidable foe when it comes to dieting. After much badgering from her, I managed one more mouthful. The whole time she was complaining about how full she was, she continued to eat, trying to finish up the dishes.
Finally, I said, "If you are full, why are you eating?"
"Can't waste the food. We paid for it. It's like throwing away money if we don't eat it up."
"Your doctor told you to lose weight and your cholesterol is high. Eating when you are already full will make that worse. You will have to pay for medication when you know the solution is to lose weight. You're throwing away money after wasted money."
"No, no, the government pays for the medication."
"You would rather abuse your body and take drugs than to waste food?" I was so tempted to tell her that the government doesn't pay for all her meds, that Bro Bro supplements her payments without telling her, that we all pay for it through our taxes.
But this is more the mom I am familiar with. Who was that helpful woman living at my house last week? Right, she did overfeed The Boy and left all kinds of groceries in my fridge. She's not an evil woman. She's just misapplying her talent. Those starving kids in Africa could use a few doses of her overfeeding.
Mom is not an evil woman. She's just an unreasonable woman. She's fully entitled to her unreasonableness. I'm getting that way myself. But here's the thing. Our whole family has been combatting weight for as long as I can remember. We're not obese because we've been combatting the weight. But we can each shed ten or thirty pounds.
Recently, mom's doctor told her she has to lose weight, maybe twenty pounds. And her cholesterol is high. She was going to see her doctor after lunch today to confirm that.
For lunch then, she said, "I just want a light lunch, I'm not that hungry." I said, "That's great. I'm not that hungry either, so we'll eat light." Despite that, we over ordered, granted, inadvertently. We were sharing a noodles dish and we didn't know the BBQ beef wraps was such a huge platter.
I am trying to be mindful of my eating so I stopped eating when I started to feel full. We managed to eat half the noodles dish, but barely touched the beef wraps.
"That's all you're having?" mom said. Mom is a formidable foe when it comes to dieting. After much badgering from her, I managed one more mouthful. The whole time she was complaining about how full she was, she continued to eat, trying to finish up the dishes.
Finally, I said, "If you are full, why are you eating?"
"Can't waste the food. We paid for it. It's like throwing away money if we don't eat it up."
"Your doctor told you to lose weight and your cholesterol is high. Eating when you are already full will make that worse. You will have to pay for medication when you know the solution is to lose weight. You're throwing away money after wasted money."
"No, no, the government pays for the medication."
"You would rather abuse your body and take drugs than to waste food?" I was so tempted to tell her that the government doesn't pay for all her meds, that Bro Bro supplements her payments without telling her, that we all pay for it through our taxes.
But this is more the mom I am familiar with. Who was that helpful woman living at my house last week? Right, she did overfeed The Boy and left all kinds of groceries in my fridge. She's not an evil woman. She's just misapplying her talent. Those starving kids in Africa could use a few doses of her overfeeding.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Bluffing
In university, there was a course in...I don't remember - psychology? organizational behaviour? that talked about people who took risks. It's the very foolish and disorganized or the very secure and organized people who subject themselves to the greatest risks in life.
That risk-taking personality translates into everyday behaviour too. Such as when you play a game of Scrabble. In the game, one of the ways to score higher is to have memorized all the two- and three-letter words so that when you place your word beside another word, you create two or more small words where the letters touch. These are the words that can rack up points.
When The Boy and I play, we push the limit all the time. We don't really know what two- and three-letter words are real and which are made up. When we bluff, we do a song and dance about what the word means, then say to the other, Are you challenging it? Then the other calculates whether he or she would get ahead with a challenge. It means we let a lot of garbage words go if by challenging, we don't get ahead. But when there is a third person in the game, the dynamics change.
Last night, my first bingo was scourged. Immediately, I came up with a second attempt at bingo with aground. Only, the a was attached to es, which formed the word aes. Is aes a word? I remember ae on a list of acceptable words. Surely you can pluralize it. The boy saw no advantage in challenging me for it. But not so Bril (my brother-in-law). He wouldn't have gained an advantage in challenging me either, but he did it for the principle of it. Imagine, the principle of it.
Wouldn't you know, aes is not a word in the Scrabble dictionary! You cannot pluralize ae because ae is an adjective meaning singular. Poppycock either way. It's dumb that it's actually a word in the Scrabble dictionary. I can't use ae in a sentence and the dictionary doesn't expand on its use. It's dumber that I didn't get my play. But it sure was fun trying to score a second bingo to rack up 80 points.
Oh I could have gone for a sure thing and used another word for fewer points. But what's the fun of that? The Boy understands. I wonder if we are foolish or secure. Maybe a bit of both. I see the same reckless streak in us. But only when the environment is fairly safe already.
That risk-taking personality translates into everyday behaviour too. Such as when you play a game of Scrabble. In the game, one of the ways to score higher is to have memorized all the two- and three-letter words so that when you place your word beside another word, you create two or more small words where the letters touch. These are the words that can rack up points.
When The Boy and I play, we push the limit all the time. We don't really know what two- and three-letter words are real and which are made up. When we bluff, we do a song and dance about what the word means, then say to the other, Are you challenging it? Then the other calculates whether he or she would get ahead with a challenge. It means we let a lot of garbage words go if by challenging, we don't get ahead. But when there is a third person in the game, the dynamics change.
Last night, my first bingo was scourged. Immediately, I came up with a second attempt at bingo with aground. Only, the a was attached to es, which formed the word aes. Is aes a word? I remember ae on a list of acceptable words. Surely you can pluralize it. The boy saw no advantage in challenging me for it. But not so Bril (my brother-in-law). He wouldn't have gained an advantage in challenging me either, but he did it for the principle of it. Imagine, the principle of it.
Wouldn't you know, aes is not a word in the Scrabble dictionary! You cannot pluralize ae because ae is an adjective meaning singular. Poppycock either way. It's dumb that it's actually a word in the Scrabble dictionary. I can't use ae in a sentence and the dictionary doesn't expand on its use. It's dumber that I didn't get my play. But it sure was fun trying to score a second bingo to rack up 80 points.
Oh I could have gone for a sure thing and used another word for fewer points. But what's the fun of that? The Boy understands. I wonder if we are foolish or secure. Maybe a bit of both. I see the same reckless streak in us. But only when the environment is fairly safe already.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Life On My Own
March break is over. The Boy has gone back to school. My work stint is over. I am trying to re-establish a home routine for myself.
But first, I have to clean the house. Not because I've been all that negligent in housekeeping while working for Bro Bro. It's more because the house feels like we hosted Warhammer camp the whole week, with several overnight stays. The last of the battles took place last night. I am now finding food, dishes, garbage and mysterious clothing things where they shouldn't be. The mess culminated this morning with The Boy running into the kitchen and discreetly slipping a container of moldy lunch on the counter and dashing back out.
I just picked up a whole load of dirty laundry off the floor of his room. And whose shoes are those? Did someone go home in his socks only?
I also have to get our car licence plate renewed today. But I have to bail out the renewal plate by paying all the parking fines accumulated over the year. That's almost $400 worth of parking fines The Man racked up. Not so bad this year because he was gone for part of the year. One year, he had to pay over $500 in parking fines to get rid of the warrant for his arrest before he could get the plate renewed.
And then there is the gym. Can I get in there and be back in time to make dinner before my brother-in-law comes over for dinner and Scrabble tonight? I better get going. I hear the bed calling me back in. Must fight the urge to stay in bed, watch TV and eat bon bons...
But first, I have to clean the house. Not because I've been all that negligent in housekeeping while working for Bro Bro. It's more because the house feels like we hosted Warhammer camp the whole week, with several overnight stays. The last of the battles took place last night. I am now finding food, dishes, garbage and mysterious clothing things where they shouldn't be. The mess culminated this morning with The Boy running into the kitchen and discreetly slipping a container of moldy lunch on the counter and dashing back out.
I just picked up a whole load of dirty laundry off the floor of his room. And whose shoes are those? Did someone go home in his socks only?
I also have to get our car licence plate renewed today. But I have to bail out the renewal plate by paying all the parking fines accumulated over the year. That's almost $400 worth of parking fines The Man racked up. Not so bad this year because he was gone for part of the year. One year, he had to pay over $500 in parking fines to get rid of the warrant for his arrest before he could get the plate renewed.
And then there is the gym. Can I get in there and be back in time to make dinner before my brother-in-law comes over for dinner and Scrabble tonight? I better get going. I hear the bed calling me back in. Must fight the urge to stay in bed, watch TV and eat bon bons...
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Age of Unreason
I often tell people the best thing about aging is, the older you get, the less you need to have a reason to be unreasonable, the more you can be cranky without apology.
I went to the Paul Rodgers and Queen concert this week with The Boy. It was a March break treat from The Man. The concert was great. White haired people on stage, white haired people in the audience, bringing the sound up a few notches. They did Queen songs and Paul Rodgers tunes. Rodgers is no Freddie, but he did a darn good take on Freddie's songs. They even did a tribute to Freddie, which thrilled everyone. Brian May and Roger Taylor had many solos. The only thing that hampered the experience were the two people in front of us.
Our seats were already up in the rafters, almost the last row of the section. The rows of seats are tiered down so you can see the stage without obstruction no matter where you are. Except if the two people in front of you stand up for the whole show. Then all you see is their bums in your face.
Because this young couple insisted on standing, the couple beside us found seats elsewhere. The row behind us kept shouting at them to sit down. We certainly couldn't see. With The Boy to look out for, my maternal instinct kicked in. I needed to fend our right to see. After a while, I said to the couple in front, "You guys need to sit down. The four of us behind you are moving to different seats and the row behind is shouting at you because you are blocking us. You can still see if you sit."
Swigging their beers, they said, "But it's a concert, man. You stand up."
"No, I want to sit to enjoy this."
"Why are you telling us to sit? Everyone else is standing."
"Everyone else is not standing in front of me and making the people behind move to other seats and yelling at you."
"Look there is that whole section standing up, why don't you tell them to sit down."
"I just want you to sit down."
"Blah blah blah objection objection..."
"Sit down."
"Blah blah blah objection objection..."
"Sit down."
"Blah blah blah objection objection..."
"Sit down."
After a few rounds of shouting, the usher came.
"Why is she telling us to sit when everyone else is standing?"
"Because you are sitting in front of me and I am evil and prickly."
The usher decided he couldn't stop anyone from standing in their seats, but he also knew we had the right to an unobstructed view. So he offered us different seats that were actually more centred. We enjoyed the show much more after that. In this section, we too stood up and clapped at the end of good songs, but during most of the performance, people remained seated.
Of course The Boy was horrified with embarrassment. I said I'm sorry you are embarrassed, but I found that rather therapeutic. Which supports what I feel about aging. The older you get, the less you need to put up with the thoughtlessness of young adults. I make allowances for minors though, because they can still learn. Aging is licence to be unreasonable and I love it.
But it also tells me I have a bit of a rage streak in me, just like my Bro (not to be confused with Bro Bro, who occupies twice the space that Bro does). Maybe it's in the genes. And we are such nice, mild mannered people otherwise. But I think it's more that I have found my voice and I am glad to have asserted my right to enjoy the show. With all my meditation and medication, I am working on better self acceptance. If I really am just a cranky, unreasonable boor, I am just going to have to accept that.
I went to the Paul Rodgers and Queen concert this week with The Boy. It was a March break treat from The Man. The concert was great. White haired people on stage, white haired people in the audience, bringing the sound up a few notches. They did Queen songs and Paul Rodgers tunes. Rodgers is no Freddie, but he did a darn good take on Freddie's songs. They even did a tribute to Freddie, which thrilled everyone. Brian May and Roger Taylor had many solos. The only thing that hampered the experience were the two people in front of us.
Our seats were already up in the rafters, almost the last row of the section. The rows of seats are tiered down so you can see the stage without obstruction no matter where you are. Except if the two people in front of you stand up for the whole show. Then all you see is their bums in your face.
Because this young couple insisted on standing, the couple beside us found seats elsewhere. The row behind us kept shouting at them to sit down. We certainly couldn't see. With The Boy to look out for, my maternal instinct kicked in. I needed to fend our right to see. After a while, I said to the couple in front, "You guys need to sit down. The four of us behind you are moving to different seats and the row behind is shouting at you because you are blocking us. You can still see if you sit."
Swigging their beers, they said, "But it's a concert, man. You stand up."
"No, I want to sit to enjoy this."
"Why are you telling us to sit? Everyone else is standing."
"Everyone else is not standing in front of me and making the people behind move to other seats and yelling at you."
"Look there is that whole section standing up, why don't you tell them to sit down."
"I just want you to sit down."
"Blah blah blah objection objection..."
"Sit down."
"Blah blah blah objection objection..."
"Sit down."
"Blah blah blah objection objection..."
"Sit down."
After a few rounds of shouting, the usher came.
"Why is she telling us to sit when everyone else is standing?"
"Because you are sitting in front of me and I am evil and prickly."
The usher decided he couldn't stop anyone from standing in their seats, but he also knew we had the right to an unobstructed view. So he offered us different seats that were actually more centred. We enjoyed the show much more after that. In this section, we too stood up and clapped at the end of good songs, but during most of the performance, people remained seated.
Of course The Boy was horrified with embarrassment. I said I'm sorry you are embarrassed, but I found that rather therapeutic. Which supports what I feel about aging. The older you get, the less you need to put up with the thoughtlessness of young adults. I make allowances for minors though, because they can still learn. Aging is licence to be unreasonable and I love it.
But it also tells me I have a bit of a rage streak in me, just like my Bro (not to be confused with Bro Bro, who occupies twice the space that Bro does). Maybe it's in the genes. And we are such nice, mild mannered people otherwise. But I think it's more that I have found my voice and I am glad to have asserted my right to enjoy the show. With all my meditation and medication, I am working on better self acceptance. If I really am just a cranky, unreasonable boor, I am just going to have to accept that.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Mommy Dearest
I am a lucky woman. I have a caring husband, a terrific son. I have wonderful siblings, nieces and nephews. I have great friends. And despite a tempetuous past with my parents, I was able to take care of my father somewhat before he passed away, and this week, I had the opportunity to appreciate my mother in a whole new way.
I often think of my mother as needy, that she needs looking after and that her purpose in life is to inflict guilt on her children and harrass them about how they live. But this week, with it being March break and me working, I am grateful she stayed with us. Although The Boy is 15 and capable of looking after himself, I feel more comfortable knowing there is an adult at home for him during the day whether he stays home or not. Because she was in the house, in fact, many of his friends came over. It's as though instinctively, these kids preferred to be in a house where there is an adult.
Now, it's not a perfect arrangement. For example, I was awakened one morning when she used the bathroom. I went back to sleep. The next thing I know, I woke up to find her lying on The Man's side of the bed. I said, "What? What are you doing here?" She said, "What? I am awake so I am just resting here a bit."
Another morning, she showered first. After I showered, I grabbed my towel to find it already wet. She had used my towel, putting away the one I left out for her because she saw no sense in wetting two towels.
One afternoon, she phoned me at the shop to say, It's 1:00 pm, The Boy and his friend haven't budged at all. What if they are dead? What should I do?
And she overfed The Boy everyday. He still says he won't need to eat for a few more days.
Other than that, there have been many benefits to having her here. Aside from peace of mind for me, she planned dinner just in time for my getting home. What a treat! And she stocked my fridge with groceries, and did the laundry and dishes everyday. I felt so comforted leaving the house and coming home knowing mom was home.
I know that mom is sometimes lonely. She wants to know she still plays a significant role in her children's lives, but we are so busy that we often don't include her in our plans. I am glad to have had the occasion for her to meet a real need in my life.
I felt so happy with her here that I asked her to live with us a few days each week. She smiled and said no, to both our relief. But I think she's glad I asked.
I often think of my mother as needy, that she needs looking after and that her purpose in life is to inflict guilt on her children and harrass them about how they live. But this week, with it being March break and me working, I am grateful she stayed with us. Although The Boy is 15 and capable of looking after himself, I feel more comfortable knowing there is an adult at home for him during the day whether he stays home or not. Because she was in the house, in fact, many of his friends came over. It's as though instinctively, these kids preferred to be in a house where there is an adult.
Now, it's not a perfect arrangement. For example, I was awakened one morning when she used the bathroom. I went back to sleep. The next thing I know, I woke up to find her lying on The Man's side of the bed. I said, "What? What are you doing here?" She said, "What? I am awake so I am just resting here a bit."
Another morning, she showered first. After I showered, I grabbed my towel to find it already wet. She had used my towel, putting away the one I left out for her because she saw no sense in wetting two towels.
One afternoon, she phoned me at the shop to say, It's 1:00 pm, The Boy and his friend haven't budged at all. What if they are dead? What should I do?
And she overfed The Boy everyday. He still says he won't need to eat for a few more days.
Other than that, there have been many benefits to having her here. Aside from peace of mind for me, she planned dinner just in time for my getting home. What a treat! And she stocked my fridge with groceries, and did the laundry and dishes everyday. I felt so comforted leaving the house and coming home knowing mom was home.
I know that mom is sometimes lonely. She wants to know she still plays a significant role in her children's lives, but we are so busy that we often don't include her in our plans. I am glad to have had the occasion for her to meet a real need in my life.
I felt so happy with her here that I asked her to live with us a few days each week. She smiled and said no, to both our relief. But I think she's glad I asked.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Taximan At It Again
Yesterday was my last day at Bro Bro's shop. It's been a fun stint. I enjoyed the structure to my day and I learned what a patient and generous man Bro Bro is. Not that I've ever thought him mean and petty, I've just never really defined his qualities.
One of these qualities is his mysterious relationship with Taximan. They were high school buddies. But their paths have been very different since, yet they remain fast friends. Bro Bro is a pharmacist with an MBA, he has a family and a house in the suburbs, he has a business, he has been a good son who has fulfilled his filial duty by incorporating his father in his business life in real, meaningful ways. Taximan ended his education after high school, he lives with his parents, he drives a taxi, part time. On the surface, they don't have much in common. I've always thought Taximan a friendly guy, but beyond that, I have not given him much thought because I don't see much of him. Until my stint with Bro Bro, that is.
Bro Bro and Taximan are easy-going fellas. Bro Bro is one of Taximan's clients. He does deliveries for Bro Bro, and over the years, he's learned to be Bro Bro's assistant so he fills in when needed. They have a business and personal relationship that is rooted in the comfort of a common, happy past. Most of all, they are always so themselves and naturally considerate of each other, and they have enviously simple needs.
Yesterday, Taximan said, "I'm out there everyday and can get whatever I want. But your Bro Bro's stuck in here all day everyday. I gotta bring the guy some variety." Unfortunately, that variety is often expressed in food. Maybe that's fortunately, given how much pleasure we derive from eating.
So for my last day, we decided to have Jamaican jerk food. I wanted jerk chicken and salad. Bro Bro wanted ox tail and a side of jerk pork. Taximan came in with everything as requested. Our meals sat on huge mounts of rice and beans, with spicy brown sauce slathered all over. Only, Taximan was having lasagna instead of jerk.
I said, "How come you're not having jerk?"
He said, "'I went to Zoulpy's for the salad because they make the best salads (they are certainly the freshest) and the woman said to me, 'Hey Taximan, we got fresh lasagna today. Want a piece?' So I said sure. Then I went to get the jerk for you guys."
"Do you eat whatever people tell you to eat?"
"I'm not fussy."
Then he offered me some of his lasagna. I had a taste but I said, "Lasagna, jerk, lasagna, jerk...I can't manage both."
He said, "What is it with women having to coordinate their food? Does this food match that food...? It's just food, you don't need to colour coordinate them or anything. They all end up in the same place after."
Because the shop was still open for business, we wolfed down lunch in 20 minutes. That's too fast for me. After, I was panting and sweating from eating. I said, "I feel like I've just done a marathon."
Taximan said, "Psh...A little bit of chicken and rice and you're sweating? You're not even in the same league."
At the time, I wanted to shout, I am so in the same league. How dare you slight me? Bring it on, I'll prove to you I can chow down as much as you and more. But that was only temporary insanity thinking, induced by eating spicy food too fast. Now that I am sitting in the quiet of my home, I am thinking, No, I don't want to go near that league. I don't want to be obese. I don't want to not taste my food. I don't want to belch with heartburn and indigestion. I don't want to be slovenly full time.
But it sure was fun being all that and eating with gusto each time Taximan visited.
One of these qualities is his mysterious relationship with Taximan. They were high school buddies. But their paths have been very different since, yet they remain fast friends. Bro Bro is a pharmacist with an MBA, he has a family and a house in the suburbs, he has a business, he has been a good son who has fulfilled his filial duty by incorporating his father in his business life in real, meaningful ways. Taximan ended his education after high school, he lives with his parents, he drives a taxi, part time. On the surface, they don't have much in common. I've always thought Taximan a friendly guy, but beyond that, I have not given him much thought because I don't see much of him. Until my stint with Bro Bro, that is.
Bro Bro and Taximan are easy-going fellas. Bro Bro is one of Taximan's clients. He does deliveries for Bro Bro, and over the years, he's learned to be Bro Bro's assistant so he fills in when needed. They have a business and personal relationship that is rooted in the comfort of a common, happy past. Most of all, they are always so themselves and naturally considerate of each other, and they have enviously simple needs.
Yesterday, Taximan said, "I'm out there everyday and can get whatever I want. But your Bro Bro's stuck in here all day everyday. I gotta bring the guy some variety." Unfortunately, that variety is often expressed in food. Maybe that's fortunately, given how much pleasure we derive from eating.
So for my last day, we decided to have Jamaican jerk food. I wanted jerk chicken and salad. Bro Bro wanted ox tail and a side of jerk pork. Taximan came in with everything as requested. Our meals sat on huge mounts of rice and beans, with spicy brown sauce slathered all over. Only, Taximan was having lasagna instead of jerk.
I said, "How come you're not having jerk?"
He said, "'I went to Zoulpy's for the salad because they make the best salads (they are certainly the freshest) and the woman said to me, 'Hey Taximan, we got fresh lasagna today. Want a piece?' So I said sure. Then I went to get the jerk for you guys."
"Do you eat whatever people tell you to eat?"
"I'm not fussy."
Then he offered me some of his lasagna. I had a taste but I said, "Lasagna, jerk, lasagna, jerk...I can't manage both."
He said, "What is it with women having to coordinate their food? Does this food match that food...? It's just food, you don't need to colour coordinate them or anything. They all end up in the same place after."
Because the shop was still open for business, we wolfed down lunch in 20 minutes. That's too fast for me. After, I was panting and sweating from eating. I said, "I feel like I've just done a marathon."
Taximan said, "Psh...A little bit of chicken and rice and you're sweating? You're not even in the same league."
At the time, I wanted to shout, I am so in the same league. How dare you slight me? Bring it on, I'll prove to you I can chow down as much as you and more. But that was only temporary insanity thinking, induced by eating spicy food too fast. Now that I am sitting in the quiet of my home, I am thinking, No, I don't want to go near that league. I don't want to be obese. I don't want to not taste my food. I don't want to belch with heartburn and indigestion. I don't want to be slovenly full time.
But it sure was fun being all that and eating with gusto each time Taximan visited.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Night Life
My mother woke up this morning, looked around and said, "Did you have a party after I went to bed?"
She goes to bed around 8 pm. She did last night anyway, having spent the whole day with her grandchildren, one of them being The Boy.
I phoned home after my meditation class last night, after she had gone to bed, and talked to The Boy. He asked me to bring home some Coke for Jock, who was spending the night, and some gingerale for him. Being mellower than usual, I said yes to everything. So I carted home a case of 8 Cokes and a case of 12 gingerales.
When I got in, a neighbour paid a visit and brought muffins. After, I left our tea cups in the kitchen sink overnight. Meanwhile, The Boy and Jock put all the pop in the fridge, deciding it was more important to have cold pop than cold milk, or cold chicken.
So what mom saw this morning was a fridge full of pop, a counter of muffins, milk and cooked chicken, a sinkful of cups, and one extra boy sleeping in in the basement. I would have thought there had been a party too.
She goes to bed around 8 pm. She did last night anyway, having spent the whole day with her grandchildren, one of them being The Boy.
I phoned home after my meditation class last night, after she had gone to bed, and talked to The Boy. He asked me to bring home some Coke for Jock, who was spending the night, and some gingerale for him. Being mellower than usual, I said yes to everything. So I carted home a case of 8 Cokes and a case of 12 gingerales.
When I got in, a neighbour paid a visit and brought muffins. After, I left our tea cups in the kitchen sink overnight. Meanwhile, The Boy and Jock put all the pop in the fridge, deciding it was more important to have cold pop than cold milk, or cold chicken.
So what mom saw this morning was a fridge full of pop, a counter of muffins, milk and cooked chicken, a sinkful of cups, and one extra boy sleeping in in the basement. I would have thought there had been a party too.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Look What I've Become
If I get hauled off to jail, I'll blame it on Bro Bro.
My doctor and I agreed I should experiment with the dosage for my Prozac to determine what dose works best. She's given me a one-month supply till our next visit. To let me play with the dose, she's prescribed 10 mg pills. I can take one pill, then move up to two, depending on how I feel. My gut feeling is I am better on 10 mg.
Only, a 10 mg pill is more expensive than a 20 mg pill. If I end up taking 20 mg of Prozac as two 10 mg pills, I am paying twice for my medication. So Bro Bro came up with an ingenius solution. He would give me the pills at 20 mg, plus empty capsules. All I have to do go home and divide the pills to turn them into 10 mg capsules. That way, I pay 54 cents for a 10 mg pill instead of $1.14, or worse, pay $2.28 for two 10 mg pills instead of $1.08 for one 20 mg pill. Follow me so far? Me neither, but at the time, Bro Bro got me convinced. You had to be there.
So I spend the evening pulling apart my medication pill by pill, spilling the white Prozac powder on a piece of paper, cutting the powder in two lines, then filling each line into an empty capsule to create two capsules from one.
This is a prescription drug. I have a prescription. My doctor recommended it and is working with me to find the right dose. Yet, I felt so stealthy, manipulating the drug, as if I had gone over to the dark side, called on my nefarious twin, invoked my inner Slim Shady - will you please stand up? Yeah, we're gonna have a problem here.
For one thing, my mother is staying with us for the week. I had to make sure neither she nor The Boy sees me. How would I explain cutting white powder into lines?
Thankfully, mom went to bed early. The Boy has been glued to the TV after an exhausting day of jamming. Mom snoozes, Boy tuned to the tube, I cut white powder. I know, it's so trailer park trashy.
My doctor and I agreed I should experiment with the dosage for my Prozac to determine what dose works best. She's given me a one-month supply till our next visit. To let me play with the dose, she's prescribed 10 mg pills. I can take one pill, then move up to two, depending on how I feel. My gut feeling is I am better on 10 mg.
Only, a 10 mg pill is more expensive than a 20 mg pill. If I end up taking 20 mg of Prozac as two 10 mg pills, I am paying twice for my medication. So Bro Bro came up with an ingenius solution. He would give me the pills at 20 mg, plus empty capsules. All I have to do go home and divide the pills to turn them into 10 mg capsules. That way, I pay 54 cents for a 10 mg pill instead of $1.14, or worse, pay $2.28 for two 10 mg pills instead of $1.08 for one 20 mg pill. Follow me so far? Me neither, but at the time, Bro Bro got me convinced. You had to be there.
So I spend the evening pulling apart my medication pill by pill, spilling the white Prozac powder on a piece of paper, cutting the powder in two lines, then filling each line into an empty capsule to create two capsules from one.
This is a prescription drug. I have a prescription. My doctor recommended it and is working with me to find the right dose. Yet, I felt so stealthy, manipulating the drug, as if I had gone over to the dark side, called on my nefarious twin, invoked my inner Slim Shady - will you please stand up? Yeah, we're gonna have a problem here.
For one thing, my mother is staying with us for the week. I had to make sure neither she nor The Boy sees me. How would I explain cutting white powder into lines?
Thankfully, mom went to bed early. The Boy has been glued to the TV after an exhausting day of jamming. Mom snoozes, Boy tuned to the tube, I cut white powder. I know, it's so trailer park trashy.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Leave It To Beaverish Valley
A commercial came on the radio yesterday urging moms to get a device for March break that lets their kids can watch as much videos as they want without getting in mom's way. The selling point? Aside from being out of mom's hair, the kids are safely ensconced in their homes in front of the TV where mom knows where they are. I can't tell you how disturbed I am with the commercial. Do we still wonder why obesity is on the rise? Do we have kids to keep them at arm's length?
The Boy and his friends are not exactly outdoorsy types. They get their share of video games and passive participation in fictional lives on TV. But these are also passionate, resourceful boys, and they are sociable. So I was somewhat gratified last night watching them prepare for their sleepover at the house.
In the middle of a heated Warhammer battle, Harry Potter started playing the keyboard. I loved hearing him trying to capture the mood of the action.
One of the boys, Cadet, decided to stay over last minute. He phoned his mom and said, "Mom, can I stay over? I gave my keys to Jock and Curly. They are coming over to get my stuff. Make sure you give them my X-Box." So Jock and Curly went off to his house to get his stuff because Cadet was too involved in a game and just couldn't go home.
Later, they realized they needed a piece of hardware that only Computer Geek has. They phoned him and The Boy and Jock set off again to bring it back.
I love that all the boys live within a 15-minute walk of each other. I love that they walk to each other's houses instead of ask for rides. I love that they make their imperfect plans and come up with ways to improvise. I love that they share the work to bring about the objective of having a sleepover together.
So despite all the temptations in the market to get kids to be inactive, and despite my having succumbed to some of those tactics in my time, I am glad The Boy has found a group of friends in the hood whose parents are okay with them trundling between each other's houses.
They're pretty great kids. But lest I think them too fabulous, this is what they did. They tracked mud all over the front porch and hall way. They put their empty Warhammer cases in the shower for some reason. When I turned on the shower this morning, the cases got wet. I asked them to remove the cases, which they did, dripping a trail of water across the bathroom floor and carpet. They stayed in their pajamas all day and refused to wash, continuing with their battles as if no sleep occurred between last night and this morning. They happily ate their food when I put it in front of them and even put all their dishes back in the kitchen, but the basement is a mess and I can't bear to look down there any more.
And it's after 9:30 the next night now. Some of them are still here! One has gone home and come back. He had to go home to do homework! It's March break. What homework? He said he didn't want to get the low marks he did last term. How low? The lowest was 79. He aims to get over 85 in everything. I understand this kid, but The Boy thinks he's an alien.
I've fed them two dinners, one breakfast and one lunch now. How much fabulousness can I take?
Ha. I hear The Boy telling them to go home now. He's realized he can still catch some of Desperate Housewives if they leave.
The Boy and his friends are not exactly outdoorsy types. They get their share of video games and passive participation in fictional lives on TV. But these are also passionate, resourceful boys, and they are sociable. So I was somewhat gratified last night watching them prepare for their sleepover at the house.
In the middle of a heated Warhammer battle, Harry Potter started playing the keyboard. I loved hearing him trying to capture the mood of the action.
One of the boys, Cadet, decided to stay over last minute. He phoned his mom and said, "Mom, can I stay over? I gave my keys to Jock and Curly. They are coming over to get my stuff. Make sure you give them my X-Box." So Jock and Curly went off to his house to get his stuff because Cadet was too involved in a game and just couldn't go home.
Later, they realized they needed a piece of hardware that only Computer Geek has. They phoned him and The Boy and Jock set off again to bring it back.
I love that all the boys live within a 15-minute walk of each other. I love that they walk to each other's houses instead of ask for rides. I love that they make their imperfect plans and come up with ways to improvise. I love that they share the work to bring about the objective of having a sleepover together.
So despite all the temptations in the market to get kids to be inactive, and despite my having succumbed to some of those tactics in my time, I am glad The Boy has found a group of friends in the hood whose parents are okay with them trundling between each other's houses.
They're pretty great kids. But lest I think them too fabulous, this is what they did. They tracked mud all over the front porch and hall way. They put their empty Warhammer cases in the shower for some reason. When I turned on the shower this morning, the cases got wet. I asked them to remove the cases, which they did, dripping a trail of water across the bathroom floor and carpet. They stayed in their pajamas all day and refused to wash, continuing with their battles as if no sleep occurred between last night and this morning. They happily ate their food when I put it in front of them and even put all their dishes back in the kitchen, but the basement is a mess and I can't bear to look down there any more.
And it's after 9:30 the next night now. Some of them are still here! One has gone home and come back. He had to go home to do homework! It's March break. What homework? He said he didn't want to get the low marks he did last term. How low? The lowest was 79. He aims to get over 85 in everything. I understand this kid, but The Boy thinks he's an alien.
I've fed them two dinners, one breakfast and one lunch now. How much fabulousness can I take?
Ha. I hear The Boy telling them to go home now. He's realized he can still catch some of Desperate Housewives if they leave.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Okay, I Believe
My meditation course had a "mini retreat" this week. On Friday, the class met at 3:00 pm and parted at 9:00 pm. Our instructions were, for the first five hours, do not speak, not to each other, not to ourselves. Do not make eye contact with each other. This meant keeping our eyes downcast at all times and fighting our natural urge to interact. But we get to note how many times in the five hours of silence we felt compelled to acknowledge each other. Then we get to talk about our experience in the last hour.
It started out with many people arriving late and all stressed out. I know this because each time someone ran in and thunked down in their seat, they said, "It was so stressful to get here." They had to take time off work, rush to the class, and the whole time, they are thinking what they could be doing with their time instead of spending it with these almost strangers.
For our time together, we did rotational yoga, sitting meditation, and walking meditation. The idea was to take time out to do nothing but be mindful of our every move, listen to the messages our bodies are sending to us, and be with any physical sensation or emotions that arise. In short, it's a problem discovery and healing process.
I had no idea what to expect. I'm not even sure I believed that my body had any message to send me. I guess I was wrong.
During one of the first meditations, I felt a warm, burning sensation in my innards. It dissolved into a kind of emptiness. The thought that surfaced was I wished The Man could meet me after the class. I felt his absence in my gut. Over the next several meditations, waves of sensation came over me. I identified one as feeling my father's absence, another as feeling my grandmother's absence. These are not surprises as I know I miss them. I just didn't know I was feeling their absence in my gut.
But you know what sensation was most pronounced? At one point, I kept having images of a schnitzel on a bun, laden with hot mustard and sourcrout. Every time I closed my eyes, there was the sandwich. I have not seen this sandwich for about 10 years. The Vienna Bakery, a cafe near where I used to work, made them. I had them for lunch often, when I was thinner and could chow down whatever's in front of me as good as the next guy.
At the end of that meditation, the instructor announced it was dinner break. Well, I'll be. I kept seeing this sandwich because I was hungry! Except I didn't know I was hungry, I was so focused on trying to figure out what the meditation exercises were about.
So I believe now. I believe there really is a relationship between how our bodies feel and what our minds think.
It started out with many people arriving late and all stressed out. I know this because each time someone ran in and thunked down in their seat, they said, "It was so stressful to get here." They had to take time off work, rush to the class, and the whole time, they are thinking what they could be doing with their time instead of spending it with these almost strangers.
For our time together, we did rotational yoga, sitting meditation, and walking meditation. The idea was to take time out to do nothing but be mindful of our every move, listen to the messages our bodies are sending to us, and be with any physical sensation or emotions that arise. In short, it's a problem discovery and healing process.
I had no idea what to expect. I'm not even sure I believed that my body had any message to send me. I guess I was wrong.
During one of the first meditations, I felt a warm, burning sensation in my innards. It dissolved into a kind of emptiness. The thought that surfaced was I wished The Man could meet me after the class. I felt his absence in my gut. Over the next several meditations, waves of sensation came over me. I identified one as feeling my father's absence, another as feeling my grandmother's absence. These are not surprises as I know I miss them. I just didn't know I was feeling their absence in my gut.
But you know what sensation was most pronounced? At one point, I kept having images of a schnitzel on a bun, laden with hot mustard and sourcrout. Every time I closed my eyes, there was the sandwich. I have not seen this sandwich for about 10 years. The Vienna Bakery, a cafe near where I used to work, made them. I had them for lunch often, when I was thinner and could chow down whatever's in front of me as good as the next guy.
At the end of that meditation, the instructor announced it was dinner break. Well, I'll be. I kept seeing this sandwich because I was hungry! Except I didn't know I was hungry, I was so focused on trying to figure out what the meditation exercises were about.
So I believe now. I believe there really is a relationship between how our bodies feel and what our minds think.
Boys In The House
The Boy and his friends are gathered at the house for an afternoon of Warhammer. There are five of them, all 14- and 15-year-olds. They are polite, a bit goofy, gathered for a good game, and ever so smart, each one of them. They are all just a little nerdy. One boy in particular should audition to be the next Harry Potter.
I am feeding them ribs and burgers for dinner. They have all turned down salad and vegetables. They want Coke, but we no longer stock that. They look crestfallen. One of them has volunteered to go get some.
Five young men in the house. I love their uniqueness. But you know, I'm just not feeling a whole lot of testosterone gathered here. I guess that's why I still refer to The Boy as The Boy.
I am feeding them ribs and burgers for dinner. They have all turned down salad and vegetables. They want Coke, but we no longer stock that. They look crestfallen. One of them has volunteered to go get some.
Five young men in the house. I love their uniqueness. But you know, I'm just not feeling a whole lot of testosterone gathered here. I guess that's why I still refer to The Boy as The Boy.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Memorable People
Many characters come through Bro Bro's shop. I think he's right that he gets all the rejects from the bigger pharmacies near by.
The memorable cases from yesterday:
Paris came in. Paris has two wives. Each week, he takes a bus to another city to be with Wife #2 for a few days. Paris doesn't work. He is supported by both women. But the thing about Paris is, he's a fat, ugly, greasy, badly dressed, brusque old guy with poor hygiene who walks with a limp. He's being held up by medication. How does a guy like that do it, get two women to support him at the same time? What's in it for them? Bro Bro said it's some kind of co-dependency thing they have. I guess I don't understand co-dependency.
Under some insurance plans, pharmacies are allowed to dispense only limited quantities of certain drugs at a time. But if the patient were to provide a written letter to a pharmacy stating the dates of an extended absence, then the pharmacy can exceed the limit and dispense the amount needed while the patient is away.
A woman was going away for an extended time and needed her meds. But she didn't want to state the date of her absence because she wasn't sure when she's coming back. She wanted Bro Bro give her the drugs in advance and bill her drug plan for them later, pretending the drugs were dispensed at the later date, even after he explained to her it was illegal. The nerve! There is a legitimate way to obtain her medication. Why would she want Bro Bro to break the law and put his business at risk? Bro Bro is a high performer in customized patient satisfaction. I'm glad he said no to this one.
An OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder) man lost his drug card. Over the course of two days, he must've phone 10 times to try to get a duplicate card faxed to the shop. Bro Bro was already on the case. But each time, OCD phoned to see if the fax had been sent, he said, "Please write on a piece of paper I've done my best from my end to sort this out. It's out of my hands now."
I told him one time, "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Bro Bro has already talked to your insurance company. They said they will fax a copy over. So it's okay, you don't have to worry about it any more."
He said, "But why? Why is it okay?"
I said, "Because sometimes you have to trust the process and trust what people say. We just have to be patient."
He said okay and hung up. But that didn't stop him from calling back five more times the next day.
My favourite is the beautiful dark-haired man who came in to pick up his prescription. He had a rugged face, warm blue eyes, and handsome smile. He was trim, well-dressed and polite. There was an aura of life and good humour about him. I know that my heart skipped a beat and my knees went weak a bit as I served him. But it was what Bro Bro said the next day that surprised me. He said, "Did you see that GQ guy who came in yesterday?"
I knew exactly who he meant. I said, "You noticed him?"
He said, "Yes, but I noticed more how you reacted to him. I saw the flush on your face." But then we determined that he was probably gay as he is a patient of a gay doctor in the building.
Still, it made me think. Sis had asked if I had fantasies of converting gay men. I don't. Looking at this gorgeous man confirmed that. I know I had a physical, probably sexual reaction to looking at him. But I hadn't thought sex with him at all. I thought what an esthetically pleasing man, I'm so glad he exists, not so different from the way I think about my charming and delightful four-year-old niece, or The Boy for that matter, or even the way The Boy describes his two youngest cousins: They make my heart smile. I reacted to exquisite beauty and nature's own perfection. Which made me think of The Man and how I wish he wasn't away.
The memorable cases from yesterday:
Paris came in. Paris has two wives. Each week, he takes a bus to another city to be with Wife #2 for a few days. Paris doesn't work. He is supported by both women. But the thing about Paris is, he's a fat, ugly, greasy, badly dressed, brusque old guy with poor hygiene who walks with a limp. He's being held up by medication. How does a guy like that do it, get two women to support him at the same time? What's in it for them? Bro Bro said it's some kind of co-dependency thing they have. I guess I don't understand co-dependency.
Under some insurance plans, pharmacies are allowed to dispense only limited quantities of certain drugs at a time. But if the patient were to provide a written letter to a pharmacy stating the dates of an extended absence, then the pharmacy can exceed the limit and dispense the amount needed while the patient is away.
A woman was going away for an extended time and needed her meds. But she didn't want to state the date of her absence because she wasn't sure when she's coming back. She wanted Bro Bro give her the drugs in advance and bill her drug plan for them later, pretending the drugs were dispensed at the later date, even after he explained to her it was illegal. The nerve! There is a legitimate way to obtain her medication. Why would she want Bro Bro to break the law and put his business at risk? Bro Bro is a high performer in customized patient satisfaction. I'm glad he said no to this one.
An OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder) man lost his drug card. Over the course of two days, he must've phone 10 times to try to get a duplicate card faxed to the shop. Bro Bro was already on the case. But each time, OCD phoned to see if the fax had been sent, he said, "Please write on a piece of paper I've done my best from my end to sort this out. It's out of my hands now."
I told him one time, "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Bro Bro has already talked to your insurance company. They said they will fax a copy over. So it's okay, you don't have to worry about it any more."
He said, "But why? Why is it okay?"
I said, "Because sometimes you have to trust the process and trust what people say. We just have to be patient."
He said okay and hung up. But that didn't stop him from calling back five more times the next day.
My favourite is the beautiful dark-haired man who came in to pick up his prescription. He had a rugged face, warm blue eyes, and handsome smile. He was trim, well-dressed and polite. There was an aura of life and good humour about him. I know that my heart skipped a beat and my knees went weak a bit as I served him. But it was what Bro Bro said the next day that surprised me. He said, "Did you see that GQ guy who came in yesterday?"
I knew exactly who he meant. I said, "You noticed him?"
He said, "Yes, but I noticed more how you reacted to him. I saw the flush on your face." But then we determined that he was probably gay as he is a patient of a gay doctor in the building.
Still, it made me think. Sis had asked if I had fantasies of converting gay men. I don't. Looking at this gorgeous man confirmed that. I know I had a physical, probably sexual reaction to looking at him. But I hadn't thought sex with him at all. I thought what an esthetically pleasing man, I'm so glad he exists, not so different from the way I think about my charming and delightful four-year-old niece, or The Boy for that matter, or even the way The Boy describes his two youngest cousins: They make my heart smile. I reacted to exquisite beauty and nature's own perfection. Which made me think of The Man and how I wish he wasn't away.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
The Next Adventure With Taximan
Bro Bro needed a delivery done today, so he called in Taximan. I don't know what came over me. I called out, "Pho, pho, pho!"
So Taximan went on his delivery and came back with three orders of pho noodles in styrofoam containers for us. The shop was abound with customers so Bro Bro and I tended to them while Taximan took out a giant green tupperware container resembling a bucket and emptied his noodles into it. Then he poured the steaming broth into the bucket on the top the noodles. He stirred the noodles in the broth and to my disgust, started eating out of the bucket.
When business calmed down, I was ready to eat my lunch. I opened one styrofoam container to see thin slices of tender rare beef on top rice noodles. I opened a second container to see three meatballs swimming in aromatic broth. I started to pour the broth on top of the noodles. Taximan and Bro Bro shouted in unison, "No!"
I stopped, then started again. They shouted again, "Don't!"
Taximan said, "Don't be an amateur." Then he handed me a green bucket just like the one he had. He said, "You gotta listen to the pros." So he guided me through emptying my noodles into the bucket and pouring the broth on top. Then I stirred the noodles and meat to mix in the broth. Bro Bro took out an identical green bucket and prepared his lunch the same way. Then the three of us stood at the counter, each eating at our own trough.
As disgusting as the whole thing sounds, there is an efficiency and practicality to the practice. The wide opening and tall sides really do prevent spillage. No spills when you stir, no spills while you eat, minimal mess to clean up after. When a customer walks in, you just put the whole thing aside to the counter, on a stool, on the floor, wherever, and return to it when you're ready to resume eating. No little pieces to move about and spill.
It was an experience.
So Taximan went on his delivery and came back with three orders of pho noodles in styrofoam containers for us. The shop was abound with customers so Bro Bro and I tended to them while Taximan took out a giant green tupperware container resembling a bucket and emptied his noodles into it. Then he poured the steaming broth into the bucket on the top the noodles. He stirred the noodles in the broth and to my disgust, started eating out of the bucket.
When business calmed down, I was ready to eat my lunch. I opened one styrofoam container to see thin slices of tender rare beef on top rice noodles. I opened a second container to see three meatballs swimming in aromatic broth. I started to pour the broth on top of the noodles. Taximan and Bro Bro shouted in unison, "No!"
I stopped, then started again. They shouted again, "Don't!"
Taximan said, "Don't be an amateur." Then he handed me a green bucket just like the one he had. He said, "You gotta listen to the pros." So he guided me through emptying my noodles into the bucket and pouring the broth on top. Then I stirred the noodles and meat to mix in the broth. Bro Bro took out an identical green bucket and prepared his lunch the same way. Then the three of us stood at the counter, each eating at our own trough.
As disgusting as the whole thing sounds, there is an efficiency and practicality to the practice. The wide opening and tall sides really do prevent spillage. No spills when you stir, no spills while you eat, minimal mess to clean up after. When a customer walks in, you just put the whole thing aside to the counter, on a stool, on the floor, wherever, and return to it when you're ready to resume eating. No little pieces to move about and spill.
It was an experience.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Focus
The last two days have been unsettling in a comforting kind of way.
At the shop yesterday, my mother showed up with food. We had food spread out on the counter and being in the way during a particularly busy period. When there was a lull, Bro Bro and mother engaged in some conversation that ended with Bro Bro doing a round of cholesterol testing on us, followed by a round of blood sugar testing, followed by blood pressure taking. I'm still kind of laughing about it a day later. I mean, who does that in their spare time?
Today, I opened a cupboard under the counter to put something away. The counter where the cupboard is juts out sharply to accommodate Bro Bro's keyboard. I am full of grace and litheness. I think of myself as being full of grace and litheness. I was so bent on putting things away, I didn't notice the jut on the counter and banged my forehead on it as I stooped down. I am now walking around with a horn on my forehead.
Our friend, Taximan came in today to relieve me. Because neither Bro Bro nor I had any food all day, he agreed to get us some. Taximan wanted Chester Fried Chicken. Bro Bro was concerned about his waist. I didn't want to go to meditation class on an empty stomach. Taximan made his case. I supported it. We decided to go with chicken.
Me - I just want one piece.
Bro Bro - Get us five pieces so you and I can have two each and Sylph will have one.
Me - What else do they have besides chicken?
Taximan - Eight pieces.
After Taximan left for the chicken, I said to Bro Bro - What do you think he'll come back with?
Bro Bro - He'll come with five pieces of chicken.
Me - Bet he'll come back with eight.
Taximan came back with eight pieces of fried chicken and we ate them hovered over garbage bins like hobos in a park.
At the shop yesterday, my mother showed up with food. We had food spread out on the counter and being in the way during a particularly busy period. When there was a lull, Bro Bro and mother engaged in some conversation that ended with Bro Bro doing a round of cholesterol testing on us, followed by a round of blood sugar testing, followed by blood pressure taking. I'm still kind of laughing about it a day later. I mean, who does that in their spare time?
Today, I opened a cupboard under the counter to put something away. The counter where the cupboard is juts out sharply to accommodate Bro Bro's keyboard. I am full of grace and litheness. I think of myself as being full of grace and litheness. I was so bent on putting things away, I didn't notice the jut on the counter and banged my forehead on it as I stooped down. I am now walking around with a horn on my forehead.
Our friend, Taximan came in today to relieve me. Because neither Bro Bro nor I had any food all day, he agreed to get us some. Taximan wanted Chester Fried Chicken. Bro Bro was concerned about his waist. I didn't want to go to meditation class on an empty stomach. Taximan made his case. I supported it. We decided to go with chicken.
Me - I just want one piece.
Bro Bro - Get us five pieces so you and I can have two each and Sylph will have one.
Me - What else do they have besides chicken?
Taximan - Eight pieces.
After Taximan left for the chicken, I said to Bro Bro - What do you think he'll come back with?
Bro Bro - He'll come with five pieces of chicken.
Me - Bet he'll come back with eight.
Taximan came back with eight pieces of fried chicken and we ate them hovered over garbage bins like hobos in a park.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
He Charms Me
The first time Friend met The Boy, Boy was three. She said at the time, Ah, he's got you wrapped around his little pinky. Sometimes I think that hasn't changed.
Of the new orange cranberry raspberry juice I bought this week, The Boy said, "Eww, that craspberry juice you bought is awful."
I love this note he left me one night:
Last night, I dropped him off to a classmate's house. The classmate and another friend are dance majors. They are both in a film and video course with The Boy. The three were supposed to re-enact and shoot a scene from The Fight Club. To do that, they went to a mall where there is a back alley beside a convenience store. Dancer's mom took them and waited in the parking lot watching them. They put their video camera on a tripod and The Boy walked around holding a Star Wars rocket blaster as his gun. As they went about their work, a van drove up. The driver looked at them with fear and suspicion. They waved to her and her children to reassure them everything was alright.
A little later, three police cruisers pulled up and surrounded the kids. Dancer's mom came running out of the car. Four officers got out of their cars. One of the officers was a neighbour of the Dancer. He knew both the Dancer and her mom. Dancer's mom explained what was happening. The officers laughed and said, "Don't worry, it was a misunderstanding. Happens all the time." Then they examined the rocket blaster The Boy was holding. One of them said, "It's pretty cool. Maybe I'll get one for my son."
The Boy doesn't lie. He was concerned when he told me about what happened. He asked me several times if I was okay with what happened. I assured him he's not in trouble even though the cops descended on him. The Dancers were apparently quite upset and sought the same reassurance from Dancer's mom.
Honestly, I think it was a funny story and I am relieved nothing bad happened. I am glad Dancer's mom was there. I am glad one of the cops happens to be their neighbour. Still, I wonder if the woman in the van would have called the police if The Boy was white.
Of the new orange cranberry raspberry juice I bought this week, The Boy said, "Eww, that craspberry juice you bought is awful."
I love this note he left me one night:
Dear mom,
I've gone to Friend's school play and will be back when the play is over. Dinner is in the fridge, you just have to make it.
Love,
Boy
Last night, I dropped him off to a classmate's house. The classmate and another friend are dance majors. They are both in a film and video course with The Boy. The three were supposed to re-enact and shoot a scene from The Fight Club. To do that, they went to a mall where there is a back alley beside a convenience store. Dancer's mom took them and waited in the parking lot watching them. They put their video camera on a tripod and The Boy walked around holding a Star Wars rocket blaster as his gun. As they went about their work, a van drove up. The driver looked at them with fear and suspicion. They waved to her and her children to reassure them everything was alright.
A little later, three police cruisers pulled up and surrounded the kids. Dancer's mom came running out of the car. Four officers got out of their cars. One of the officers was a neighbour of the Dancer. He knew both the Dancer and her mom. Dancer's mom explained what was happening. The officers laughed and said, "Don't worry, it was a misunderstanding. Happens all the time." Then they examined the rocket blaster The Boy was holding. One of them said, "It's pretty cool. Maybe I'll get one for my son."
The Boy doesn't lie. He was concerned when he told me about what happened. He asked me several times if I was okay with what happened. I assured him he's not in trouble even though the cops descended on him. The Dancers were apparently quite upset and sought the same reassurance from Dancer's mom.
Honestly, I think it was a funny story and I am relieved nothing bad happened. I am glad Dancer's mom was there. I am glad one of the cops happens to be their neighbour. Still, I wonder if the woman in the van would have called the police if The Boy was white.
Friday, March 03, 2006
A Porn Star Is Born
Not. So very not.
On the way home today, I bumped into someone I used to work with. Former Co-worker is gay. Once, he showed us photographs of him and his friends dressed up for Pride Day and for Halloween. He told us he had been in a gay porn film made in Toronto. In fact, when he left, it was to answer a lucrative offer from San Francisco to star in a gay porn film.
Today, our conversatiion went something like this:
"Is that you, Sylph?"
"Hey, Former Co-worker. How have you been?"
"Fine."
"You're back in Toronto?"
"Oh yeah. I've been back over a year."
"How did San Francisco go?"
"It was alright. But I missed Canada. Especially Montreal. So I came back."
"Did you make the film that you were supposed to?"
"I made several actually."
"Are you still making films?"
"No. I got tired of that. But I still get calls."
"It's good to have a back up career."
"You interested in doing films? They just left me a message wanting women."
"You're talking about gay skin flicks, right?"
"Yes."
"What do women do in these films?"
"They have sex, I guess. But this one I got called about is about a guy having sex with women, then discovers he's gay, then he has sex with men and realizes how much better it is."
"So I'd be like the before picture."
"Are you interested? You still have to audition."
"No, god, no, I don't want to do it. Are you going to do it?"
"No, I don't want to do that any more."
"But let say you were to do it, and I also got in, does that mean you and I would have sex together?"
"I guess it could work out like that. But don't worry sweetheart, it wouldn't be anything personal."
On the way home today, I bumped into someone I used to work with. Former Co-worker is gay. Once, he showed us photographs of him and his friends dressed up for Pride Day and for Halloween. He told us he had been in a gay porn film made in Toronto. In fact, when he left, it was to answer a lucrative offer from San Francisco to star in a gay porn film.
Today, our conversatiion went something like this:
"Is that you, Sylph?"
"Hey, Former Co-worker. How have you been?"
"Fine."
"You're back in Toronto?"
"Oh yeah. I've been back over a year."
"How did San Francisco go?"
"It was alright. But I missed Canada. Especially Montreal. So I came back."
"Did you make the film that you were supposed to?"
"I made several actually."
"Are you still making films?"
"No. I got tired of that. But I still get calls."
"It's good to have a back up career."
"You interested in doing films? They just left me a message wanting women."
"You're talking about gay skin flicks, right?"
"Yes."
"What do women do in these films?"
"They have sex, I guess. But this one I got called about is about a guy having sex with women, then discovers he's gay, then he has sex with men and realizes how much better it is."
"So I'd be like the before picture."
"Are you interested? You still have to audition."
"No, god, no, I don't want to do it. Are you going to do it?"
"No, I don't want to do that any more."
"But let say you were to do it, and I also got in, does that mean you and I would have sex together?"
"I guess it could work out like that. But don't worry sweetheart, it wouldn't be anything personal."
Thursday, March 02, 2006
What's The New Work Place Really Like?
In meditation class this week, a woman told me about a bad work experience she just had. Last month, she was hired by a company highly recommended by a colleague. When she was hired, her employer said they liked her qualifications, that they would train her in the company's product knowledge, and that they expect her to be fine in about six months.
She started her job, and from day 1, she felt life was not right. For one thing, no one talked to her. No one provided any kind of training. No one answered her e-mail requests for training. No one really told her what her job was. Everyone was too busy. She was becoming very unhappy. Then last week, they brought her into the board room and gave her her walking papers. She was relieved, but angry.
I have my own nasty story about the new work place. In fact, most people I know who re-entered the work force in the last few years have their own stories about entering a mean and hostile work environment. Has the work place really become that - mean and hostile?
Or is it really the corporate world that has become that, where only the bottom line matters?
What is the work place really like now for people in their forties who are changing careers or re-entering the work force? What's out there?
She started her job, and from day 1, she felt life was not right. For one thing, no one talked to her. No one provided any kind of training. No one answered her e-mail requests for training. No one really told her what her job was. Everyone was too busy. She was becoming very unhappy. Then last week, they brought her into the board room and gave her her walking papers. She was relieved, but angry.
I have my own nasty story about the new work place. In fact, most people I know who re-entered the work force in the last few years have their own stories about entering a mean and hostile work environment. Has the work place really become that - mean and hostile?
Or is it really the corporate world that has become that, where only the bottom line matters?
What is the work place really like now for people in their forties who are changing careers or re-entering the work force? What's out there?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
I Want A Wife
This work thing takes up a lot of time. My house is less kept, my laundry piles high, my dinner plans are very loose.
In my twenties, before I was married, when I only had myself to take care of, I worked, lived on my own, and did university part time. I remember wishing at the time I had a wife. Someone who takes care of my living environment. That is, someone who cooks, cleans, loves and admires me unconditionally, and leaves me free to pursue the creative side of life. Not a mother. That hasn't been my experience with my mother.
Then in my thirties, I got married and worked and had a child. I wished then too that I had a proper wife. I certainly wasn't one. I had to work and take care of my family. I wanted a wife to take care of me.
Now, I am just working for a few weeks for Bro Bro. It's nice being with him. The work is mindless, the environment friendly. I am not able to help him as much as his regular assistant, but I think he'd rather have me around than no one around. Or more accurately, he'd rather have me around than a really thick person who just don't get it. Still, as his friend said one day when he phoned, You're there to bond, aren't you?
Despite that, I miss the time I had to myself, even though I often complained my days were too unstructured. And because I'm not home during the day, I wish again I had a wife at home to take care of the house, The Boy and me, and who loves and admires me unconditionally. But most of all, to take care of the house and do the cooking and laundry. In short, someone who takes care of my living environment, leaving me free to pursue the more creative side of life.
Have my needs really not changed that much after all these years, or are there just some elemental wishes one has all the time regardless of one's age and circumstances in life?
In my twenties, before I was married, when I only had myself to take care of, I worked, lived on my own, and did university part time. I remember wishing at the time I had a wife. Someone who takes care of my living environment. That is, someone who cooks, cleans, loves and admires me unconditionally, and leaves me free to pursue the creative side of life. Not a mother. That hasn't been my experience with my mother.
Then in my thirties, I got married and worked and had a child. I wished then too that I had a proper wife. I certainly wasn't one. I had to work and take care of my family. I wanted a wife to take care of me.
Now, I am just working for a few weeks for Bro Bro. It's nice being with him. The work is mindless, the environment friendly. I am not able to help him as much as his regular assistant, but I think he'd rather have me around than no one around. Or more accurately, he'd rather have me around than a really thick person who just don't get it. Still, as his friend said one day when he phoned, You're there to bond, aren't you?
Despite that, I miss the time I had to myself, even though I often complained my days were too unstructured. And because I'm not home during the day, I wish again I had a wife at home to take care of the house, The Boy and me, and who loves and admires me unconditionally. But most of all, to take care of the house and do the cooking and laundry. In short, someone who takes care of my living environment, leaving me free to pursue the more creative side of life.
Have my needs really not changed that much after all these years, or are there just some elemental wishes one has all the time regardless of one's age and circumstances in life?
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