Each To His Own

We tried to catch the end of the Just For Laughs festival. We missed the free street performances, which ended July 23. But there are still some indoor shows on. We called for tickets for La Clique. Ah but they told us the show was sold out, and besides, it's entertainment for those 18 and up. Why? It's a burlesque show! No, they would not let The Boy in even if he is accompanied by his parents. Just as well. I don't want The Boy to think we make a point of lying about his age (as if he could pass for 18) and push and fight our way to get him in to see sex shows.

Well, there is the Outgames, the first althetic competition for gays. There is Twist Week - all night parties and a gay day at the beach. There is also Divers/Cite and Gay Pride Celebrations. Yup, we made it here for Pride Week! These three events take place in Gay Village. True, that's what it's called.

But our plans took a different twist. Last night, The Boy was watching a movie on his DVD player. He cupped the head of a halogen lamp into the front of a drawer to shade the light. I don't know why he didn't just turn the light off. The lamp burned a dark stained into the designer wood. This is The Man's cousin's designer loft. After her generous offer to let us stay here, the last thing we want is to burn her place down.

This morning, I got dropped off at the Botanical Garden while The Man and The Boy set out to find a solution to the burned drawer. No sense in all of us fretting in the heat. Good thing too. This excursion was one of the most satisfying and nourishing things I have ever done.

I am totally swept away by the different gardens and most impressed with the Chinese Garden. For one thing, I have never seen a real lotus. I never knew the flower grew on a stem way above water.





The Chinese Garden. It's called the Dream Lake Garden. The whole thing has the feel of the garden in Dream of Red Chamber. Long story.










I read that the Rose Garden was designed with the blind in mind. The designers wanted the blind to be able to walk through the garden following their nose only. I totally get it. At every turn, you are hit with a whiff of rose scent. Have I ever mentioned that I find the unscented flowers in supermarkets most unnatural?




I decided I like ferns, alot.


One of my favourite.

A Taste Of Quebec

I'm in Montreal right now.

We spent the night at The Man's cousin's in Hatley, an hour and a half outside of Montreal. Every time I go into one of these small towns, I think, Why am I not living in one. For one thing, when you drive around the bend, you see rolling hills and lush fields. In her one-acre backyard last night, golden finches were singing in the trees. She lives in a century old home and has decorated the place with old country furniture. You know, the kind of furniture you see in souvenir shops that look so charming and you wonder where you would put the piece in your house if you bought it. She's pulled that look together.

The cousin also owns a loft in Montreal, where we're staying till Monday. It is a beautifully designed and furnished place. Little wonder. She used to be an interior decorator.

I would make a poor tourist guide. We've been to Montreal before, yet I have no recollection of how the streets work and where things are. I see lots of construction in Old Montreal and directed The Man to drive the wrong way down a one way street until a bunch of people yelled, Hey wrong way. The Boy took the map from me after that. But I did get the map back from him later and put my eyeglasses on. And you know, everything looked so much clearer with no need to strain or squint at all.

We're gathering our wits at an internet cafe right now and devising a plan to take in more of Montreal.

And Away We Go

It really looks like we'll leave for PEI in the morning. 6 am. That's the plan anyway. I've had the delays I needed, now I just want to go and have fun.

A three-week outing, just the three of us. I am concerned about lack of energy, and the fact that every time I leave town, someone in my family ends up in Emergency. The Man thinks we need to build in alone time on the trip. Agreed. The Boy doesn't want too much historical tours and arguments. Agreed. We all aim to have a blast. Agreed.

I am leaving behind my mother, who is in the midst of an allergic reaction to her new cholestoral medication. What can I do for her when she's already in the capable care of Sis the doctor and Bro Bro the pharmacist? Maybe to accompany her to appointments if needed.

We leave The Boy's voiceover project. The studio has asked for our itinerary in case they need to fly out to meet us and do some more recording.

The Boy's friend, Jock, who has proven to be a most charming and articulate boy, will look after the house and plants for us. I have every confidence he will prove to be capable and responsible.

I leave two projects on hold. One to host a gathering to introduce our electoral candidate to our neighbours. We want her to unseat the current councillor at City Hall in November. The other to help promote and organize a dinner for an Asian scholarship.

I turned down an invitation to do an art course at the Haliburton School of the Arts because I'll be away.

Oh dear, I still sense some reluctance to go. I wonder why.

But maybe I'll get to visit internet cafes and write about my trip down east. Okay, let's go.

Cicada Moulting

As we gathered our things, preparing to decamp, Leiceshire Lilt took her pack off the tree and noticed a big brown bug drop. It landed on a black bag below the tree. She called out, Come see what a large bug!

We gathered around the thing and exclaimed, What an ugly bug. It had a huge head and four eyes. Bug Lady, who knew all about dragonflies, petted the bug's head. Then we made jokes about the bug being an alien.

The next time we looked at the bug, its head had separated into two. It was now a four-eyed, two-headed bug, one head on top of the other. That's when Bug Lady shrieked, This is not an alien, this bug is moulting.

We oohed and aahed around the bug. What is it? A giant cockroach? A junebug? Someone determined it was a cicada. Over the next two hours, we watched the bug's amazing process as it shed its old body and grew into a new one.

Here are the photographs Bug Lady took.

By the time we took the camera out and set it up, the bug had already come out half way. Note the tiny green things on its side.


Front view. It has come out some more.


Look how the green wings expand as it pushes itself out of its old body.


It is now mostly out.


It has fully detached from its old body and moves backwards.


It rests on its old body for a while. As it waits, its wings stretch.


See how its wings are almost full size and the bug's new shell is hardening.


A little while later, it walks over its over body and away...


...to inside the bag where it's protected. It hangs upside down, probably to let its wings dry and to wait for its new shell to harden some more.


Here's the discarded body.


Later, Bug Lady put it on the tree. See the camouflage.

The Good Rock

I had no idea how prophetic my last post was. The camping this weekend certainly was not wild.

We had checked the weather before departure - clear and hot all weekend. We rented canoes - $40 a day. We brought food - each person was assigned one meal. We were six women, geared for camping in the wilderness. The newcomers were very fine women of good humour and enthusiasm. I had nothing to worry about. Our destination: Rock Dunder, a property owned by a land trust near Kingston. This was a field visit of sorts. Rock Dunder is one of the projects that my friend's environmental fund gave money to earlier this year.

We arrived at the town dock in two cars. The director of the land trust told us our camp site is a 10-minute paddle from the dock, directly across from the first cottage. 10 minutes? cottage?

In fact, the paddle was no more than 5 minutes. From our site, we could see the dock, as well as four other cottages across the lake. The site had a huge rock that served as our patio. We sat on it often and dubbed it Siren Rock. The rock had marshy water on one side, and zebra musselled rocks and seaweeds on the other.

No sooner had we pitched our tents when motorized boats came screaming down the channel to the city dock, waterskiiers were towed by smaller crafts, and fishing trawlies wafted across the lake surface. I could see this was going to be an atypical camping trip. I mean, we were 5 minutes away from cars that could take us into restaurants in Kingston.

We went swimming. The water was warm, no, hot. It was like swimming in soup, it was hardly refreshing. Still, it's a giant bathtub I wouldn't have access to in the city.

Finally, we settled down to a hearty bowl of soup and saw this spectacular sky across from us.



How does it go? Red skies at night, sailors' delight?

The night was a disquiet one. Despite being deet-soaked and covered in netting, mosquitoes buzzed at my ears, making sleep under the open sky impossible. I finally crawled back into the tent where the buzzing stopped and I fell asleep to the sound of two frogs burping to each other, loons calling, and a large animal splashing in the water.

The next morning, the sky was overcast. We made french toast and coffee, packed our lunch, then headed out to climb Rock Dunder. We paddled an hour to the end of the bay and explored a cave. I had not brought my camera on this excursion so I have no pictures of the cave. But many before us had come to this same spot, climbed in, and wrote their names in huge letters across the cave. Brad had been there, so had Joannie, as had Kyle.

Then we went along the steep and weedy side of a moutain-like coast till we saw an orange tag tied to a tree. That was our entrance to the Rock. This was also the spot where we had our water mishap. Our budding Bug Lady fell in the water when we disembarked from the canoe. Ah but she was none the worse for wear. She simply said, A little water never hurt anyone.

Our Bird Song Lady walks with a cane. She hesitated about climbing the Rock. But we were there and she felt brave so she climbed the Rock all the way, reaching for a helping arm occasionally for balance.

At the top, we came out to an incredible field of large rocks, with blueberry, chokeberry and blackberry bushes growing in crevices. The vista looked down to the waters and trees of Whitefish Lake. This is what we had come for - to see this magnificent view from atop this rock.

Bug Lady and I pranced from boulder to boulder, peering over the edges to see whether the rock plunged down to your death or to the next rock. Soon, we realized we were the only two running around. The other four stood way back where the berry bushes grew, clustered together. Ha, they're afraid of heights, though neither Bug Lady nor I pointed that out to our companions.

We picked berries for breakfast, ate our lunch, then got back into the canoe. It rained for the rest of the day.

Back at camp, Bug Lady and Tree Hugger volunteered to go pump for drinking water in the rain. They took the filtration gear and set out in the canoe. Twenty minutes later they were back, with the 5-gallon jug filled with cold water. Wow, did they pump fast! No, they laughed. They saw some cottagers out on their dock so they simply paddled up and asked for water. The cottage owners were happy to help out as they receive water service from Kingston. Besides, how could they deny water to women in the rain.

All in all, it was a good trip, mostly because the company was great fun. Though we did comment that it wasn't exactly wilderness camping we were doing. It was more like spa camping. But next year, next year, we go to Killarney where only Northen Lights and flash lights may shine at night.

It's Not The Camping That's Wild

I am going away in the morning with two women I have never met before, again.

A few years ago, my sister-in-law asked if I wanted to go wilderness camping with her and some friends. I said yes. In the middle of the planning, she bowed out. But I stayed in. That meant I was going away for the weekend, to live in the bush, with women I didn't know. A few days before we left, these women revealed they were vegetarians. No protein and hanging out with vegetarians in the woods for a whole weekend? I had my doubts.

But I braved it out. Fortunately, these campers turned out to be excellent women - smart, funny, and easy-going, and not overly strict or preachy about their vegetarian ways. That year, I came home four pounds lighter! And I had fantastic fun with them.

So I've been camping with them each year since. I think this is our fourth year together. One year, I was partnered with a woman quite a bit older. She was a senior citizen. Oh you laugh, but I think she was a trooper, keeping up with the paddling and portaging. Okay, I did most of the paddling and lugging of stuff.

This year, there are some new campers. One of them has had a hip replacement and can't walk much. There are two women I don't know. They are picking me up in the morning. I will be driving with these strangers for a few hours and spending the weekend with them. I wonder if I should be worried.

A Birthday Walk

I had a birthday recently. The three of us went to a lobster dinner on Baldwin Street. Then we walked back and forth on Baldwin checking out the changes since we were last there.

But it wasn't the recent changes I saw. It was the long past I remembered. When our family first arrived in Canada, we landed in a house on McCaul Street, around the corner from Baldwin. Although I had been on Baldwin many times since we moved away, this was the first time I looked at the street with eyes from forty years ago.

The street didn't have all the shops it does now. In fact, most of the houses were residential. The apartment complex across the church wasn't there. The only store that was there was the variety store The Man walked in to get a newspaper. Same location, same business, different owners. The current owners are Oriental. Back then, the owners were white, the store without its stark fluorescent lights and much lively than it is now. It was our bread and milk store.

Dad was around of course, a young man of forty, with a wife and four young children. Each day, he gave me $1 to buy bread and milk - 25 cents for a loaf of white bread, and 75 cents for a gallon glass jug of milk. Oh the confusion and suspicion when the jug went to plastic.

We rented our house from a family who lived on Spadina, north of College. We lived on the ground floor - the four of us in the front room (the living room), my parents in the middle room (the dining room) and we cooked, ate, and did our homework in the kitchen. We rented the second floor to another family with six children, and the top floor to two university students.

In addition to renting out most of the house, dad held down two jobs to support us and make a go of it in Canada. He came home after 1 am every night. Often, mom waited up for him. He would sleep in during the day, getting up about 11 am to start work at noon at his cousin's grocery store as a delivery man, hauling sacks of rice over his shoulders to Chinese families.

Then at 5 pm, he'd go to the restaurant where he worked as a waiter till midnight.

At some point, he started coming home late. Sometimes, not till morning. Dad had joined a mah jongg club. A gambling joint. He said it was all very innocent. A men only club. He smoked, played mah jongg, sometimes cards. How mom and dad fought then. Mom didn't like being left on her own day and night. Dad said he needed to socialize, to unwind from the long day's labour. Sometimes dad lost a lot of money. Their fights got worse then.

But somehow, dad saved enough money to put a down payment on a house and we moved. Then we brought my grandmother and uncle to Canada. I wonder if dad's life had unfolded the way he had hoped. I wonder if in his wildest imagination he could have seen how his children would grow up. He told me a few months before he died that he was pleased with how we turned out.

It's funny that despite all the new shops and activities on Baldwin Street, it was my dad's absence I felt, remembering that he lived around the corner with us, forty years ago.

Butterfly Boy

That silly Boy and his friends. Butterfly Boy is one of my favourite.

The Boy made plans to spend the day with his friend, Handsome Dancer. But he hadn't okayed it with us first. The Man put a break on his plans and asked him to paint the front porch. The Boy did so without complaint and did an amazing job. Then The Man drove him to hook up with his friend.

Handsome Dancer was already at another friend's house. There, they watched some TV and ordered in Chinese for dinner. After, The Boy and Handsome Dancer went clear across town to visit Butterfly Boy. That's when The Boy phoned home to check in. He left a message on the answering machine telling me where he is, filling me in his plans for the evening and when he'd be home. At the end of his message, I heard Butterfly Boy say, I haven't talked to your mom for a long time. Let me talk to her. So he left me this message:

Hi Sylph. Hope you are having a good summer. It's good to see your whole family together again. I just want to say that your son is an amazing person. In fact, a masterpiece. So good job on that. We are very good friends. Okay, bye.

This message made me laugh, in a good way. On the one hand, I feel I had been Eddie Haskelled. But Butterfly Boy is a special kind of boy. For one thing, he hugs me every time he sees me. He's smart and funny. He has strict parents, almost as strict as me. He's a regular on one of the afterschool TV shows. I forget which one. I've never known him to be insincere. In fact, he strikes me as innocent and charming, happy to sing and dance, often just blurting out whatever's on his mind.

So I marvel at Butterfly Boy and admire his openness, forthrightness and spontaneity. I wonder whether he, The Boy and their friends are typical of today's teenagers. But if I had been Eddie Haskelled, I see why that approach incurs favour with a friend's parents. It certainly worked on me.

Sizzling

Greektown has its Taste of The Danforth, the Beaches has its jazz festival, even the Junction has its own street fair. We now have Salsa on St. Clair at our doorstep.

I just got back from the festival. Throngs and throngs of people, maybe wearing thongs under their clothes, in the street. Last year, without advertising, 200,000 people came through the two day festival. This year, there was extensive advertising, and the weather is hot, hot, hot. Who knows how many people the festival will draw. Tonight, these are the things that caught my eye:

- Latino women wear alluring clothes to the street festival. Slim or heavy, young or old, these women paint the nails on their hands and feet, coif their hair, put on makeup, and wear dresses that accentuate their every curve.

- Latino women really know how to move and shake their bodies in rhythm to the music, even when they are wearing high heel open-toe shoes.

- One slender woman with Bambi lashes and fauny waves had small tatooes on her arm, small of the back, and her right big toe. She stood proud and flirtatious. I wondered whether I had a lesbian streak in me.

- One young Latino man leaned on a fence wearing a black head band. He had beautiful clear skin and angelic features. His eyes held that faraway look, with passion simmering beneath. I wondered if I would be gay if I were a man.

- Most Latino men looked tough, with rugged jaw and rough skin. A couple of them stood by a wall sucking on their cigarettes, one wearing a sleeveless shirt, the other wearing a T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I get the sex appeal of the macho wife beater type now.

Bail Now

Married life is for the hardy - hard of heart and hard of mind.

In a good mood once, I proposed a road trip to PEI. I want to do this trip, but now I'm not sure I want to do it with my family. In my idyllic fantasy, I have us set out with the spirit of adventure, laughing in the car as we drive, camping under an incredible clear sky, taking in a B&B here and there, eating great seafood, doing lots of nature hikes, and swimming on the shores of Anne's land.

As soon as I close my eyes, I hear The Man complain about being uncomfortable in a tent, the hotel accommodation isn't luxurious enough, he just wants to sit at a cafe or see a movie instead of walking on another trail, he'll want to buy things we don't need. The Boy will complain he's bored, he's seen one tide come in, no need to see any more, and Halifax is just another hick town where life shouldn't exist in the first place.

I am dreading this trip with them. My head pounds, my shoulder pulses. My body is telling me bail now. I don't want two weeks of whining and complaining. And there are all these things we give up by going now. Everything tells me to delay the trip.

I really just want to laze somewhere with my girlfriends and do nothing right now.

Emptiness

The tree is gone. The plants I put in the hill this spring have been decimated. It looks a mess out there. We're bare backed.

How I hated that tree - the fact that it loomed large and threatening, that I always feared it falling on us whenever the wind blew, that it kept the whole yard from sun, that we had to landscape the backyard around it, that in the end it was such a hazard I had to pay to cut it down. Now that it's gone, I feel an emptiness in my heart, in my yard, and in my wallet.

The Man and I are grieving its loss and the attendant decimation of our yard. We feel bad that the tree cutters have damaged a mature dogwood in my neighbour's yard and humbled by our neighbour's gracious dismissal of the damage despite our offer to replace it.

I am perturbed and angry that Suspicious Opportunist's wife stood there and demanded we cut the tree clear off her yard. She says it's our tree therefore we need to cut it. But the law is on our side. Whatever growth extends to her side she has to deal with. If she wants to cut it, she can apply to the city for a permit and pay tree cutters to maintain her property. I have already paid the tree cutters extra to trim the tree back from her side and lift the branches off the phone wires, but I will not pay $1,000 extra to remove the whole limb just so leaves don't fall on her yard at all. Go live in an apartment.

This morning, I see clearly my neighour's house to the back, the hydro poles, and the phone lines. I feel exposed. I miss the shelter the tree provided. I never knew the hill where the tree stood received morning sun. If the shady plants I put in this spring grow back, they will die because of the new sun exposure.

I've now had a whole day to get used to the tree's absence. Every time I look out back, I see an abandoned warfield, without spoils of the war to bring home. Our yard gets more sun, but it's still shaded much of the day because of other trees around it. Things have dried up a bit from yesterday's all day downpour. I am going to leave this yard for a few weeks to see what grows back.

Neighbours On The Job

I'm waiting here this morning for the arborist to come take our Manitoba maple down. It's pouring rain out. I phoned the tree company to see if they will still work in the rain. They said yes, they would only cancel if there is lightning. I don't hear or see thunder and lightning yet.

The four neighbours affected by my tree cutting are the neighbours south of us (the Clampetts), the neighbour to the back (Crazy Dog Lady), and the neighbours whose property we must cross to access the extended tree branches (Cool Guy and Suspicious Opportunists).

If our tree falls, it would fall on the Clampetts' extension, and if their son, Burly, is sleeping in his bedroom, the collapse of his house might crush him. They have been very understanding and in fact, gave me the names and phone numbes of several tree service companies to help me get quotes. When I told them about the date scheduled to fell the tree, they said no problem, use their yard as we see fit.

Sure, they have an interest in ensuring safety to their people and property, but they could also have said, too bad, your problem, and if you trespass, we'll call the cops, and if we had gotten to that and required the city to issue forced access, well you know, that's how relations between neighbours deteriorate.

I was most concerned about talking to Crazy Dog Lady. She keeps dogs in the house. The dogs bark constantly. Once, The Man went to talk to her about the barking. She told him to fuck off and slammed the door in his face. I went to Crazy Dog Lady's house twice to talk to her, but each time, only the dogs came to the door with growls and snarls. Was I glad the door between us was locked.

But in the process, I met the other neighbours whose yards the tree cutters will need to cross. Cool Guy was very cool. He said he doesn't own his backyard. In times past, the previous owner of his house and the property next to it had wrangled strange deals at city hall so his backyard was sold off to the house next door.

The house next door is owned by Suspicious Opportunist. True, it's the previous owner that wrangled the purchase of the extra backyard, but this owner is just as opportunistic. I told him we may need to access his yard to cut the tree. He asked if we could cut part of the tree that also extends into his yard. I hadn't noticed this problem before. In fact, this branch also sits on phone wires and will cause bigger problems in a couple of years. I'll do it, but still, I wanted access, now he gets tree time too.

But it's his wife who creeps me out. She snoops around, glaring at us with suspicion every time we're out in the back. When I talked to her husband, she hid behind the laundry line on her balcony, giving us the evil eye, no doubt cursing me under her breath that we've done her wrong because we're the owners of a house that contains a tree that extends into her yard. They are practical Chinese people. I know the type. They want a concrete backyard with no maintenance and they believe trees near a house is the embodiment of evil spirits. Our feng shui practitioner told us that's what the Chinese believe.

Yesterday, still not having made contact with Crazy Dog Lady, I wrote a letter to let her know about our tree activities. To my great surprise, Crazy Dog Lady's daughter-in-law phoned me to thank me for taking action on this and letting them know what was happening. She too had noticed the tree problem and was going to try to contact us. So she was grateful and relieved we were looking after the problem already.

All in all, I am surprised by how cooperative and understanding everyone's been. I guess they all have an interest in keeping their properties safe, especially when I am paying for it. Still, I am glad they have not been obstructionists.

And now, the tree guys have arrived, in the rain. They are going ahead with the job. My god, they are young guys. Four of them. The lithe one in orange gear has climbed up the tree with a chain saw. The Man said they plan to work naked so I should gather all my girlfriends to our house. Ha ha.

Drunk

Some Chinese people can't hold their liquer. I'm one of those. I had a whoel beer tonight. Just a Sleezman. I'm full of dinner and sweat right now. I'm sitting here sweating and panting, trying to get myself together. I can't decise if I want to sleep, throw up or have desset.

In this state, i stare at my feet and wonder why they are so dry. / Yet they feel moist. They are swetaang tool. hope they dont' ssemll.

Man askes if there is pie. Of course ther's p;ie. Take it out of the oven and eat it. No, but he's waiting for me to get it out. It's a store boutgh bie for godsake. I put in the oven to warm up. it's not liek i baked it and have to do a presentation. or anything.

I'm busy right now.

ow come we have dinner guests on a tuesay nigt? Hey, I'm not the one who went to Yemen and came back looking for a party.

I wish i wasn't swetating. IT' liek swimming. I hate getting wet.

True Camouflage

I was up in Georgian Bay this weekend. One morning, I went for a hike and picked up a small butterfly in my camera. This butterfuly must be native to the area. I am astounded by its camouflage.

I saw it first in the leaves. Can you see it?


Here it is.


Then I followed it to the rock.


Here it is again.

It's A Mad Mad Street

St. Clair Avenue is full of people and cars right now. I've been hearing cars honking since getting home this evening at 6:30 pm. That's about an hour after Italy won the World Cup Soccer. The Boy and his friend couldn't resist the party. They went down to investigate.

They walked over to Dufferin and turned back. That's because that's as far as they could get. St. Clair was shut down from Bathurst to Lansdowne. That's a huge block of shut down. Still, some cars managed to get through. The street was packed - cars just idling and honking in the middle of the street going nowhere, people all walking towards Dufferin. There, everyone just stood around, as if waiting for something to happen. No one can see anything, no one can move. If you weren't already on St. Clair between Dufferin and Lansdowne when Italy won, you have no hope of getting on that strip of the street after the win.

On the way home from up north, there was a separate lane for cars carrying Italian flags on the highway. I surmise these are out-of-town Italians, rushing into Toronto once Italy's win was announced.

On my street, cars are parked on both sides. Many houses have huge flag banners up, mostly of Italy. Outside my door, I hear cars beeping up and down the street, people too head down to St. Clair, carrying Italian flags. Whole families of them, to do their shift as revellers while some make their way back, wearing Italy's blue soccer jersey. Little kids are running around waving flags and screaming, Vive Italia!

There's bean a constant drum beat coming from one of the houses, men and women carrying on loud conversations across the street at each other, in Italian.

And now, I hear sirens. Uh oh. Or maybe it's good that police is there to keep order.

I am so drained by my weekend I can't make my way down to St. Clair. I think it's because I'm sunburned and brain damaged.

The Butcher And The Duck

Stephen Harper is visiting George W. Bush to improve Canadian-American relations. cbc.ca has a backgrounder on this visit, plus a review of the relationships between Prime Minister and President of Canada-U.S. past.

I like CBC's backgrounders. They fill me in on what I've forgotten and what I never knew. But I am somewhat puzzled by the caption under the photographs of today's backgrounder.

I didn't think CBC put up opinions like this without being more specific. Who is the butcher? Which one is the duck? What's the dog meat? I don't for a minute think Harper incapable of being a butcher.

It's when CBC does things like this that they make me a fan for life.

Update:

Ah, but how quickly they change their mind. They've already revised their opinion and just inserted the leaders' names under the photographs. Oh well.

Those Sexy Boys

A friend and I were talking about the appeal of professional athletes. We agree that soccer players are the most desirable.

Physically, they are the most beautiful and graceful. They are trim, they have muscular legs, they run like the wind, and they all have this thing about their hair.

When the camera zooms in on them, you see them sweating, hair flinging, and they smile with good humour, knowing they did so foul even as they throw their arms saying, What? What did I do? And when they writhe on the ground after tripping over someone, you know they know that we know they are not hurt.

I like that players on opposing teams are camerades of the game. They extend an arm to help each other up when they are on the ground. When someone may truly be injured, opponents come to check them out and pat them on the back when they get up. When a team loses, you see the players are truly emoting. It tugs at a woman's heart to see a beautiful, sweating man cry.

Compare that to hockey players and football players (North American egg ball). You can't see what's under their bulky uniforms. And when you do see them, you see burly, toothless guys with cuts and black eyeliner on their faces. The real sport for hockey players is to hurt each other.

What about baseball players? Some of them are plain fat. When they are not, they are prissy.

And basketball players? They are so tall you feel like you are looking at a freak.

Tennis and golf? Prissy, prissy, prissy. Except when they act like bad boys, then they are just spoiled brats.

My friend is one of the organizers of the local soccer festival this year. I'm sure that for next year, we can come up with some kind of workshop for men on how to look yummy, like you are in the middle of a soccer game, even if you are not a player.

Puzzling Makeover

I am so stressed out the pain in my shoulder is back. I bought a new couch for the basement before The Man's return. The basement sofabed was a wreck. You can't sit on it without a piece of board under the seat, and you can't use the bed without falling through the mattress and getting stabbed by the wires on the bed frame. I was fine getting rid of it and bringing in a new sofabed.

But that wasn't enough for The Man. I don't know what's come over him. In a fit of negotiating, he talked a shop down on a discounted couch. In short, he got $600 off the couch and now, a new couch sits in the living room too. The Boy said, What does this couch do? I told him it's just a couch, it doesn't convert to anything. The Boy is not interested in sitting on it.

Only, I am reluctant to part with the old couch that was in the living room. It is 20 years old, it is spongy to sit on, it does look old and sad. But it was my first furniture purchase. It too is a sofabed; the bed has barely been used. This old couch now sits in the dining room, beside the dining room table. The room is a bit cramped and I feel like a refugee camping in someone's house. I have offered the couch to a friend who could use it at her cottage. But how to get the couch there?

Still, that wasn't enough for The Man. He has bought a new dining room table and chairs set. I've only seen pictures of this set and put my foot down. I don't want two dining room sets in the house. He's agreed to sell the one we have before bringing the new set in. The new set is a vintage set, custom made in the 1950's. It looks okay. I have no eye for used furniture. I just know he's getting rid of a set that we bought new in exchange for a used set. He promises it is narrower than what we have, which means it will fit in our dining room better.

I don't know why we need new furniture. I don't know how we'll pay for all these big purchases, cut the Manitoba maple, and go on vacation this summer. But I can't deny him his pleasure, especially when I'm not fussy about furniture. In the past, we've had too many fights over similar desires of purchase that resulted in drawn out cold wars and neither of us being happy.

In the long run, I benefit from his design decisions. That is, our history is that while I argue against his purchases and don't see a need for new things, I almost always end up enjoying the changes he makes more than he does.

I guess he is confident of a new contract next month. He said he works hard and needs to feel the security of beautiful possessions around him. I prefer the security of money in the bank. Meanwhile, I cringe with pain because that's my way of paying for his extravagances.

Whuppies 'R Us

Whuppies - white-haired urban professtionals are the new Yuppies, because they are no longer young. In fact, they have mellowed, in a nice way, and I like them much better now that they have ripened. Yuppies in their prime bothered me. They were too cocky, too preoccupied with material aquisition and the display of good taste. Fraser Crane, in a fit of annoyance, called them "trend-sucking dilettantes". But as whuppies, they wear their experience as confidence, not flaunt their success to boost confidence.

Yup, I like whuppies. Them and those soccer players I keep seeing on TV.

I went to my new favourite restaurant The Rushton last night. The place was full of whuppies, still trim of body and bright of mind. But I know it's their still bushy but white hair that I find sexy. It's like watching those soccer players - they are long and graceful and they move with the wind permanently in their hair.

I went to the restaurant with The Man and our neighbours, Architect and his Doctor wife. I know darn well Doctor and I dye our hair, and we look younger than our years. But Architect and The Man don't. I've walked by The Rushton often, seeing the gathering of whuppies in there and told myself, If I am lucky, I will season well like them, but I don't want to be one of them yet. But when I sat down at the table last night with my dinner companions, I looked around and thought, My god, my neighbour is one of them. What's more, I am married to one.

I hadn't counted on entering whuppydom so soon.