I guess I didn't know when to stop.
I've been feeling tired. Yesterday, I wondered how I would get through the visit to SIL's in Hamilton, go out with friends on New Year's Eve, and host another party for my neighbours next week. Then I checked my horoscope. The silly thing said during this holiday season, I am prone to excess socializing, and that while I should enjoy myself, I should try not to overdo it so as not to over tax my health.
Excess? That's what I've been feeling. I'm ending the year with excess socializing.
I am glad I am also a procrastinator. That party for my neighbours? I actually haven't confirmed the date with them yet. I am relieved about that now. I think I will delay that party for a few weeks and not try to cram it in during the school break. It's also nice to get together for no reason in the middle of winter.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
One Wakeful Moment
I remember an episode of Barney Miller years ago where Barney tried to support one of his officers through a difficult time. I noted how simple the exchange was and thought maybe men really do have a different way of communicating.
I think the exchange went something like this. The officer stayed late at work and Barney was surprised to see him still there. Knowing he was going through a difficult time, Barney said, "You okay?" The officer said, "Yeah." Barney said, "Umm, you want to grab a beer?" The office thought for a split sec and said, "Some other time." Barney gets his coat to leave, turns around and said, "Don't stay too late." The officer nods. As Barney is about to close the door, the officer calls out, "Hey Barney..." Barney stops and looks back. The officer said, "Thanks."
That was it. On the surface, an exchange that could have happened every night as fellow co-workers said goodnight to each other. Yet it was understood that exchange was meaningful to both Barney and the officer, and they would have no need to talk about it again. I've seen The Man communicate with his friends in similar, subtle ways. No show of emotion, condescension, or embarrassment. An intention of support that folded naturally in the unfolding of the day.
At my dinner party last night, I had a similar exchange with my friend who lost her husband. I asked her how her Christmas was. She said the usual, It was nice, spent it with extended family, had sleepovers. Then she said, I had this week off. After all the busyness of Christmas, I had time to go for coffee and do nothing. I guess I've intentionally kept busy. But with nothing to do, I felt Husband's absence.
I said, I thought about you often this Christmas. I know what a big event Christmas has been for you. You have the tree-trimming party and Husband and his band sing. I wondered how you were doing.
Then we were interrupted by new arrivals. After greeting my guests. I turned back to her, gave her a hug, and said, I'm glad you're here.
After that, we joked about this and that for the rest of the night as if we didn't have that exchange.
I think the exchange went something like this. The officer stayed late at work and Barney was surprised to see him still there. Knowing he was going through a difficult time, Barney said, "You okay?" The officer said, "Yeah." Barney said, "Umm, you want to grab a beer?" The office thought for a split sec and said, "Some other time." Barney gets his coat to leave, turns around and said, "Don't stay too late." The officer nods. As Barney is about to close the door, the officer calls out, "Hey Barney..." Barney stops and looks back. The officer said, "Thanks."
That was it. On the surface, an exchange that could have happened every night as fellow co-workers said goodnight to each other. Yet it was understood that exchange was meaningful to both Barney and the officer, and they would have no need to talk about it again. I've seen The Man communicate with his friends in similar, subtle ways. No show of emotion, condescension, or embarrassment. An intention of support that folded naturally in the unfolding of the day.
At my dinner party last night, I had a similar exchange with my friend who lost her husband. I asked her how her Christmas was. She said the usual, It was nice, spent it with extended family, had sleepovers. Then she said, I had this week off. After all the busyness of Christmas, I had time to go for coffee and do nothing. I guess I've intentionally kept busy. But with nothing to do, I felt Husband's absence.
I said, I thought about you often this Christmas. I know what a big event Christmas has been for you. You have the tree-trimming party and Husband and his band sing. I wondered how you were doing.
Then we were interrupted by new arrivals. After greeting my guests. I turned back to her, gave her a hug, and said, I'm glad you're here.
After that, we joked about this and that for the rest of the night as if we didn't have that exchange.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The Meals That Bind Us
It's not Thanksgiving, but there are a few things I am thankful for right now.
My mother-in-law made it out of the hospital and home for Christmas. We even visited her in Port Hope yesterday. She is weak and tires easily, but she is back to her old commanding self, which caused The Man to come home with a shoulder stress ache! She is a formidable woman that way.
Despite that, we had a nice visit because The Man loves his mom and I was let loose in the kitchen! At one point, I said to him, "Don't let your mother come into the kitchen. She will suffer great emotional stress if she sees how I am cooking." After dinner, I cleaned up and put everything away. She might have suspected, but she never saw the chaos in her kitchen. Yup, I spared her another hospitalization.
I am thankful for good friends. We had a splendid Boxing Day dinner with good friends. No one complained about the food despite my fudging with the recipes and coming up with dishes I will never be able to replicate. I enjoy the company of these friends, and I especially like how easily the adults talk to the teenagers to make them feel included and at ease. The Boy even managed to get everyone involved in a few games of Scatergories, much to his delight.
I am planning for tomorrow night's dinner with my book club and their families. This group of women and their spouses are a challenge to cook for. We can only serve gluten-free, lactose-free, seafood-free food. And no nuts or peaches. We can only drink sulphite-free wine, which we have determines is Australian wine. So what do you eat, The Boy asked. Meat and vegetables, in their most basic presentations.
But tomorrow, there is an added twist. Two of the guests are vegetarians. You know how difficult it is to cook vegetarian without wheat or dairy? Still, I'm up to the challenge. Wonder what I'll come up with.
My mother-in-law made it out of the hospital and home for Christmas. We even visited her in Port Hope yesterday. She is weak and tires easily, but she is back to her old commanding self, which caused The Man to come home with a shoulder stress ache! She is a formidable woman that way.
Despite that, we had a nice visit because The Man loves his mom and I was let loose in the kitchen! At one point, I said to him, "Don't let your mother come into the kitchen. She will suffer great emotional stress if she sees how I am cooking." After dinner, I cleaned up and put everything away. She might have suspected, but she never saw the chaos in her kitchen. Yup, I spared her another hospitalization.
I am thankful for good friends. We had a splendid Boxing Day dinner with good friends. No one complained about the food despite my fudging with the recipes and coming up with dishes I will never be able to replicate. I enjoy the company of these friends, and I especially like how easily the adults talk to the teenagers to make them feel included and at ease. The Boy even managed to get everyone involved in a few games of Scatergories, much to his delight.
I am planning for tomorrow night's dinner with my book club and their families. This group of women and their spouses are a challenge to cook for. We can only serve gluten-free, lactose-free, seafood-free food. And no nuts or peaches. We can only drink sulphite-free wine, which we have determines is Australian wine. So what do you eat, The Boy asked. Meat and vegetables, in their most basic presentations.
But tomorrow, there is an added twist. Two of the guests are vegetarians. You know how difficult it is to cook vegetarian without wheat or dairy? Still, I'm up to the challenge. Wonder what I'll come up with.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
A Christmas In Etobicoke
The excess gene runs deep in Bro. For Christmas lunch at his house, there were at least 30 of us. I couldn't keep track because there are four areas in his house where people could lose themselves without ever running into each other.
When we arrived, Bro Bro and his family were off on an adventure all their own. No sooner had they got to the house when he received a phone call from his home alarm company. His back door had been broken into. Bro Bro rushed home to find it was a false alarm. There was no forced entry, nothing missing, no evidence of anyone having been in or near his house while he was away. It was probably a cross wiring, or a disgruntled employee at the home alarm company playing reindeer games with their customers. But the anxiety of theft and robbery had shaken BroBroWife so much she had to stay home to rest and miss the party. The others came back to Bro's, and the kids especially, had a good time.
For lunch, we had shrimp cocktail, a 23 lb turkey, a 12 lb capon, stuffing, stewed beef with mushroom sauce, sausages, bbq pork, baked cod fish, grilled chicken wings, at least two salads, don't know how many vegetables, mashed potatoes, baked yams, and other things that barely registered in my mind and are now lost in my stomach. This was followed by platters and platters of crab legs.
In this haze of feeding, my mother discovered Dubonnet, which she now calls her drink of choice. She scribbled the name and brand on a piece of paper so she can buy it herself at the liquor store later.
Too intoxicated with food. I don't remember dessert. I know I was told about a cheese cake, a Christmas log and a flan pudding. There could have been more items on the table though my mind refused to register them again and my stomach held me down to the couch so I couldn't get to the dessert table.
Bro and BroWife organized games for adults and kids, with prizes. In the sun room, the kids decorated gingerbread houses. I was too comatose with food to join them.
Later, The Boy won the word de-scramble game, finishing way ahead of Sis, who came in second. I finished third.
BroWife's cousin won the Bingo game.
Sis and I were hopeless at foozball. Our opponents, Kid1, the scampy 7-year-old son of Sis, and his foozball partner, were leading by 7 points before I realized we were red, not yellow, or was that yellow, and not red. We were first to get kicked out. Yeah, first. Kid1 and his partner went on to win the tournament.
There were presents for the kids too. Too much of course. But I give the kids credit for being well behaved and sharing generously. I am blessed to have really smart, cute, quirky nieces and nephews. They are unique individuals, every one of them, and so much fun to be with. I like to think they model themselves after The Boy. They worship him enough.
We finished lunch after 8 pm. I don't know when we actually left Bro's house. I know we came home with leftovers that overflowed our fridge. I am serving the untouched flan pudding tonight to friends.
When we arrived, Bro Bro and his family were off on an adventure all their own. No sooner had they got to the house when he received a phone call from his home alarm company. His back door had been broken into. Bro Bro rushed home to find it was a false alarm. There was no forced entry, nothing missing, no evidence of anyone having been in or near his house while he was away. It was probably a cross wiring, or a disgruntled employee at the home alarm company playing reindeer games with their customers. But the anxiety of theft and robbery had shaken BroBroWife so much she had to stay home to rest and miss the party. The others came back to Bro's, and the kids especially, had a good time.
For lunch, we had shrimp cocktail, a 23 lb turkey, a 12 lb capon, stuffing, stewed beef with mushroom sauce, sausages, bbq pork, baked cod fish, grilled chicken wings, at least two salads, don't know how many vegetables, mashed potatoes, baked yams, and other things that barely registered in my mind and are now lost in my stomach. This was followed by platters and platters of crab legs.
In this haze of feeding, my mother discovered Dubonnet, which she now calls her drink of choice. She scribbled the name and brand on a piece of paper so she can buy it herself at the liquor store later.
Too intoxicated with food. I don't remember dessert. I know I was told about a cheese cake, a Christmas log and a flan pudding. There could have been more items on the table though my mind refused to register them again and my stomach held me down to the couch so I couldn't get to the dessert table.
Bro and BroWife organized games for adults and kids, with prizes. In the sun room, the kids decorated gingerbread houses. I was too comatose with food to join them.
Later, The Boy won the word de-scramble game, finishing way ahead of Sis, who came in second. I finished third.
BroWife's cousin won the Bingo game.
Sis and I were hopeless at foozball. Our opponents, Kid1, the scampy 7-year-old son of Sis, and his foozball partner, were leading by 7 points before I realized we were red, not yellow, or was that yellow, and not red. We were first to get kicked out. Yeah, first. Kid1 and his partner went on to win the tournament.
There were presents for the kids too. Too much of course. But I give the kids credit for being well behaved and sharing generously. I am blessed to have really smart, cute, quirky nieces and nephews. They are unique individuals, every one of them, and so much fun to be with. I like to think they model themselves after The Boy. They worship him enough.
We finished lunch after 8 pm. I don't know when we actually left Bro's house. I know we came home with leftovers that overflowed our fridge. I am serving the untouched flan pudding tonight to friends.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas Morning
We have a few Christmas "traditions". When I get up, I put on Christmas music. I start out with choral music, usually The King's College Choir's CD O come All Ye Faithful. I move onto Messiah, then other CDs as the mood fits, though it's usually Ella Fitzgerald or other Christmas compilations.
For breakfast, I make freshly squeezed orange juice. The Man shucks oysters. The Boy opens his stocking. In the toe of each stocking, I always put a tangerine. We open presents, then we have breakfast.
I always have a gag gift for The Boy. One year, we saw a Shoppers Drug Mart commercial where a boy in the commercial unwrapped a package of toilet paper and hugged it. The Boy laughed and laughed at the silliness of the gift. That year, I gave the boy a package of toilet paper. He loved it. So I did it again the next two years. But this year, my gag gift is money, wrapped in many envelopes that he has to open one by one. He loved unwrapping that too.
This year, we went to Bro's for lunch. It's his custom to incorporate our Christmas meal with his wife's side of the family when it's his turn to host. A few days ago, he warned: Lunch starts at 2 pm sharp. You must arrive before 2 pm. I can't emphasize enough the importance of this.
The Man said: Are we having a fascist lunch? Let's get there at 1:55 and phone him from down the street and ask if there's a Tim Horton's near his house, then tell him we're going to stop for coffee first so we'll be there in an hour.
Don't screw with my Bro, I told The Man, He's going to a lot of work to put this lunch on.
So this morning, The Man did a very funny monologue that had The Boy and me laughing on the couch. He said, I'll phone Bro and say...
...Hey Bro, listen, you know how people wear watches to tell time? In our family, we wear watches just for show. The watches don't work. So if you are expecting us at 2 pm, I'm afraid you're not going to get that gift. Yeah, I know it's 2:30. That's why I'm calling you, so we don't keep you wondering.
...And the other thing is, there are two kinds of time in the world - Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. We run on The Man Time. You've never heard of it? Let me tell you about it. Bro, Bro? If you stop laughing, I will tell you. Sylph, he's laughing at us. Sylph, listen to him. What? He's crying? Bro, Bro?
...Oh hi ya, BroWife. Is Bro okay? He's very emotional, isn't he? So listen, I was just telling Bro about the difference between Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. What? Yeah, I know it's 3:30 and you still have to serve lunch. BroWife, BroWife?
And it went on like that. Of course he didn't phone Bro like that. When we got to Bro's house, The Man said, Give me the phone, I want to call him. He phoned Bro and said,
Hi, what number are you on Margrath again? (Margrath is where Bro lived a few years ago). Berrypost? You moved? I see. So listen, we're going to be about a half hour late. It's about that from Margrath to Berrypost? Okay, we'll see you then.
Then we got out of the car and walked into Bro's house chuckling.
For breakfast, I make freshly squeezed orange juice. The Man shucks oysters. The Boy opens his stocking. In the toe of each stocking, I always put a tangerine. We open presents, then we have breakfast.
I always have a gag gift for The Boy. One year, we saw a Shoppers Drug Mart commercial where a boy in the commercial unwrapped a package of toilet paper and hugged it. The Boy laughed and laughed at the silliness of the gift. That year, I gave the boy a package of toilet paper. He loved it. So I did it again the next two years. But this year, my gag gift is money, wrapped in many envelopes that he has to open one by one. He loved unwrapping that too.
This year, we went to Bro's for lunch. It's his custom to incorporate our Christmas meal with his wife's side of the family when it's his turn to host. A few days ago, he warned: Lunch starts at 2 pm sharp. You must arrive before 2 pm. I can't emphasize enough the importance of this.
The Man said: Are we having a fascist lunch? Let's get there at 1:55 and phone him from down the street and ask if there's a Tim Horton's near his house, then tell him we're going to stop for coffee first so we'll be there in an hour.
Don't screw with my Bro, I told The Man, He's going to a lot of work to put this lunch on.
So this morning, The Man did a very funny monologue that had The Boy and me laughing on the couch. He said, I'll phone Bro and say...
...Hey Bro, listen, you know how people wear watches to tell time? In our family, we wear watches just for show. The watches don't work. So if you are expecting us at 2 pm, I'm afraid you're not going to get that gift. Yeah, I know it's 2:30. That's why I'm calling you, so we don't keep you wondering.
...And the other thing is, there are two kinds of time in the world - Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. We run on The Man Time. You've never heard of it? Let me tell you about it. Bro, Bro? If you stop laughing, I will tell you. Sylph, he's laughing at us. Sylph, listen to him. What? He's crying? Bro, Bro?
...Oh hi ya, BroWife. Is Bro okay? He's very emotional, isn't he? So listen, I was just telling Bro about the difference between Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. What? Yeah, I know it's 3:30 and you still have to serve lunch. BroWife, BroWife?
And it went on like that. Of course he didn't phone Bro like that. When we got to Bro's house, The Man said, Give me the phone, I want to call him. He phoned Bro and said,
Hi, what number are you on Margrath again? (Margrath is where Bro lived a few years ago). Berrypost? You moved? I see. So listen, we're going to be about a half hour late. It's about that from Margrath to Berrypost? Okay, we'll see you then.
Then we got out of the car and walked into Bro's house chuckling.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Bah Humbug And Grinchitude
It's only Christmas Eve and I have already gained weight. Bah humbug.
I have no attachment to the religious significance of Christmas and I absolutely detest the commercial presence of it. Despite that, I go through the motions of sending out cards, buying presents, and putting up Christmas decorations. I rationalize that at least I am keeping alive the romantic tradition of hand-delivered mail in this age of the internet; that once a year, I could bring myself to fit in to the common sentiment of gift-giving as an expression of love and not a frenzied feeding into the material consumption of people who already have everything; that once a year, the house could be dressed up to satisfy nostalgic yearnings of times never experienced.
I do these things because doing them once a year wouldn't kill me and it makes so many people happy. And besides, I really do like the social gatherings. I like that we give ourselves reason to see family and friends. I like that we make an issue of getting together and sharing a meal because god knows we don't have enough rites and rituals in our secular lives to express joys and grief and mark the passage of time.
So it's a trade-off of sorts. I conform, I get to see family and friends.
But I fell short this year on decorating the house. I didn't want a tree. We have no room for it now that I have a 20-gallon aquarium where the tree could stand. I don't want to clutter up the house.
I don't want lights outside and fake greenery inside. Lights should be used to see things inside and the outdoors should stay outdoor. I want to conserve electricity to avoid declaring war on other countries for energy and to preserve the earth. And besides, I am offended by the gaudy, multi-coloured lights that my immediate neighbours put up around their houses. They hurt my eyes and sensibility every time I go outside.
I have a wreath on our front door and I have put scotch pine branches in my flower barrel, topped it with red branches rising from the middle, and scattered red and orange mini gourds in it. It is charming, subtle and festive enough.
Then last night, the subject of getting a tree came up. The Man and The Boy are disappointed we didn't have one, that the house is not decorated. The Boy wants me to get rid of my fish so we can put a tree there. I am offended. I have never told him the real reason why we keep fish. That's the subject of another post.
We got into a discussion about my needs versus their desires. They have shown no interest in decorating for Christmas so far, so why should I decorate the house when I also have no interest in doing it? What would I be doing it for? I don't know how our conversation deteriorated. It ended when all three of us got up and left the room.
And in the corner of the dining where I parked my life, I remembered The Man was in Yemen last Christmas and he was looking forward to a real Christmas this year. With him working in an office right now and his mother in the hospital, Christmas preparation has not been a priority. The Boy had been doing homework and trying to produce quality work right up to Thursday night. It's his job as a teenager to scoff at everything that he used to like. Is it not my job then to prepare Christmas for them, to provide structure and ritual for The Boy to scoff at and feel safe and secure in? I am the partner and mother after all. I felt mighty ashamed.
So after dinner, I said, "I am going out to get a tree. We need one."
Our tree supplier on St. Clair said, "You're late in getting a tree this year." And he helped me choose a slender but full tree so it wouldn't take up too much room, but a tall one so it doesn't look small. Then he trimmed the tree and said, "You only get to use the tree for two days. I put them on sale today. Half price."
I came home with the tree and The Man found a place beside the couch for it. It takes up no room at all and we only have to move the couch and carpet a few inches. I said to The Boy, "Will you help me decorate the tree tomorrow?"
He said, "Sure."
It's light out now this morning. I have gone into the shed and pulled out our boxes of decorations. We will be busy today.
I have no attachment to the religious significance of Christmas and I absolutely detest the commercial presence of it. Despite that, I go through the motions of sending out cards, buying presents, and putting up Christmas decorations. I rationalize that at least I am keeping alive the romantic tradition of hand-delivered mail in this age of the internet; that once a year, I could bring myself to fit in to the common sentiment of gift-giving as an expression of love and not a frenzied feeding into the material consumption of people who already have everything; that once a year, the house could be dressed up to satisfy nostalgic yearnings of times never experienced.
I do these things because doing them once a year wouldn't kill me and it makes so many people happy. And besides, I really do like the social gatherings. I like that we give ourselves reason to see family and friends. I like that we make an issue of getting together and sharing a meal because god knows we don't have enough rites and rituals in our secular lives to express joys and grief and mark the passage of time.
So it's a trade-off of sorts. I conform, I get to see family and friends.
But I fell short this year on decorating the house. I didn't want a tree. We have no room for it now that I have a 20-gallon aquarium where the tree could stand. I don't want to clutter up the house.
I don't want lights outside and fake greenery inside. Lights should be used to see things inside and the outdoors should stay outdoor. I want to conserve electricity to avoid declaring war on other countries for energy and to preserve the earth. And besides, I am offended by the gaudy, multi-coloured lights that my immediate neighbours put up around their houses. They hurt my eyes and sensibility every time I go outside.
I have a wreath on our front door and I have put scotch pine branches in my flower barrel, topped it with red branches rising from the middle, and scattered red and orange mini gourds in it. It is charming, subtle and festive enough.
Then last night, the subject of getting a tree came up. The Man and The Boy are disappointed we didn't have one, that the house is not decorated. The Boy wants me to get rid of my fish so we can put a tree there. I am offended. I have never told him the real reason why we keep fish. That's the subject of another post.
We got into a discussion about my needs versus their desires. They have shown no interest in decorating for Christmas so far, so why should I decorate the house when I also have no interest in doing it? What would I be doing it for? I don't know how our conversation deteriorated. It ended when all three of us got up and left the room.
And in the corner of the dining where I parked my life, I remembered The Man was in Yemen last Christmas and he was looking forward to a real Christmas this year. With him working in an office right now and his mother in the hospital, Christmas preparation has not been a priority. The Boy had been doing homework and trying to produce quality work right up to Thursday night. It's his job as a teenager to scoff at everything that he used to like. Is it not my job then to prepare Christmas for them, to provide structure and ritual for The Boy to scoff at and feel safe and secure in? I am the partner and mother after all. I felt mighty ashamed.
So after dinner, I said, "I am going out to get a tree. We need one."
Our tree supplier on St. Clair said, "You're late in getting a tree this year." And he helped me choose a slender but full tree so it wouldn't take up too much room, but a tall one so it doesn't look small. Then he trimmed the tree and said, "You only get to use the tree for two days. I put them on sale today. Half price."
I came home with the tree and The Man found a place beside the couch for it. It takes up no room at all and we only have to move the couch and carpet a few inches. I said to The Boy, "Will you help me decorate the tree tomorrow?"
He said, "Sure."
It's light out now this morning. I have gone into the shed and pulled out our boxes of decorations. We will be busy today.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Big Girl Pants
I am so embarrassed.
I've been very comfortable in my size 12 pants. Then the last week or so, I've been having lower back hip pains. Sometimes it hurt so much I had trouble walking. Then yesterday at the Gap, I saw some pants on sale for $19, but they only had size 14. So I thought, what the heck, these are loose fitting pants, a little bigger won't hurt. I bought them without even bothering to try them on.
This morning, I put on my new pants. They fit perfectly. Not big at all. And darn it all if my hip pain didn't go away.
My hips were hurting because my pants were too tight? You know what they say, Big belly, big pants.
I've been very comfortable in my size 12 pants. Then the last week or so, I've been having lower back hip pains. Sometimes it hurt so much I had trouble walking. Then yesterday at the Gap, I saw some pants on sale for $19, but they only had size 14. So I thought, what the heck, these are loose fitting pants, a little bigger won't hurt. I bought them without even bothering to try them on.
This morning, I put on my new pants. They fit perfectly. Not big at all. And darn it all if my hip pain didn't go away.
My hips were hurting because my pants were too tight? You know what they say, Big belly, big pants.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Haggery
This is our hag choir at the Kensington Festival of Lights to mark the Winter Solstice tonight. Such a fun, pagan thing to do. I am in there somewhere.
We sing three songs over and over again: O Sole Mio, That's Amore, and La Vie En Rose. We are usually accompanied by the accordianist from Blue Rodeo, but this year, he was in France studying something or other. So we got some other guy who tried to lead us and stifle our inner hags. He wanted to make real music instead of hag music. I don't want him back next year.
Imagine. Ten thousand people come through in the hour long parade just to see us.
We sing three songs over and over again: O Sole Mio, That's Amore, and La Vie En Rose. We are usually accompanied by the accordianist from Blue Rodeo, but this year, he was in France studying something or other. So we got some other guy who tried to lead us and stifle our inner hags. He wanted to make real music instead of hag music. I don't want him back next year.
Imagine. Ten thousand people come through in the hour long parade just to see us.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Sis And I
Mom and I picked Sis up at the hospital to go to lunch. I told Mom that is the cancer hospital where dad received treatment.
Mom asked Sis: You are working with cancer patients now? You are no longer working with crazy people?
Me: She works with crazy people who have cancer.
Mom: How can you be crazy and have cancer at the same time?
Sis: Crazy people also get cancer.
Me: Not just anyone gets to see her, you know. She's very specialized. You have to be both crazy and have cancer before they let you in to see her.
Mom: How many of those people can there be, both crazy and have cancer?
Sis: Quite a lot. Some people get cancer first, then turn crazy.
Sis and I can be very bad to mom.
We went to a new fangled place on Harbord Street for lunch. The restaurant is called Dessert Trends. The entrance had an abundant display of fantasy cakes. The place looked every bit a chic eatery with designer people. In fact, one table behind us sat six elderly women all dressed in red and black. The host was overly apologetic that we had to wait for a table. I suspect despite the sophisticated decor of the place, they were really running a diner and wanted everything to be fast fast fast.
We ordered three lunches off their specials for the day. I had a calamari salad, Sis had a scallops and green onions pancake, mom had tilapia with palm hearts. The host brought the three meals to us separately, five minutes apart, each time tentatively placing the plate on the table as if they expected us to reject it. The food was not bad, it just didn't match the expectation the restaurant decor had set me up to expect.
But that didn't stop Sis and I from ordering more food. For dessert, we shared a maple bacon sandwich smothered with fried red onions. Sis and I are pigs when we are together, and we blew the chance to eat real dessert, evidently the reason the restaurant is called Dessert Trends.
Mom asked Sis: You are working with cancer patients now? You are no longer working with crazy people?
Me: She works with crazy people who have cancer.
Mom: How can you be crazy and have cancer at the same time?
Sis: Crazy people also get cancer.
Me: Not just anyone gets to see her, you know. She's very specialized. You have to be both crazy and have cancer before they let you in to see her.
Mom: How many of those people can there be, both crazy and have cancer?
Sis: Quite a lot. Some people get cancer first, then turn crazy.
Sis and I can be very bad to mom.
We went to a new fangled place on Harbord Street for lunch. The restaurant is called Dessert Trends. The entrance had an abundant display of fantasy cakes. The place looked every bit a chic eatery with designer people. In fact, one table behind us sat six elderly women all dressed in red and black. The host was overly apologetic that we had to wait for a table. I suspect despite the sophisticated decor of the place, they were really running a diner and wanted everything to be fast fast fast.
We ordered three lunches off their specials for the day. I had a calamari salad, Sis had a scallops and green onions pancake, mom had tilapia with palm hearts. The host brought the three meals to us separately, five minutes apart, each time tentatively placing the plate on the table as if they expected us to reject it. The food was not bad, it just didn't match the expectation the restaurant decor had set me up to expect.
But that didn't stop Sis and I from ordering more food. For dessert, we shared a maple bacon sandwich smothered with fried red onions. Sis and I are pigs when we are together, and we blew the chance to eat real dessert, evidently the reason the restaurant is called Dessert Trends.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Scat, Cat
A grey cat is in the backyard. It has a white patch on its chest. It's got its winter coat on, all poofy and thick. It sits on the retaining wall staring into the window at me. We've locked eyes. It now bounds across the yard and up to the window sill to meet me as if we have a date. It nudges its nose into the window screen. It wears a collar so it is not a stray. But it is giving me the creeps.
"What do you want?" I call to it.
"Meow," it says and rubs its face against the mesh. How cliche. Can't it say anything else?
"Don't stare at me. I don't like it."
It rubs its face into the mesh some more and sits up. "Whrrrrl," it says. It sounds like a gargle.
"No, I am not coming out and you are not coming in."
It looks around. I ignore it. It bumps its nose into the window pane. I tap the window. It jumps down to the ground.
"Go home."
It stretches and tries to scratch the flagstone.
"Go on. Go home."
It runs under our fence to the next yard.
What was that about?
"What do you want?" I call to it.
"Meow," it says and rubs its face against the mesh. How cliche. Can't it say anything else?
"Don't stare at me. I don't like it."
It rubs its face into the mesh some more and sits up. "Whrrrrl," it says. It sounds like a gargle.
"No, I am not coming out and you are not coming in."
It looks around. I ignore it. It bumps its nose into the window pane. I tap the window. It jumps down to the ground.
"Go home."
It stretches and tries to scratch the flagstone.
"Go on. Go home."
It runs under our fence to the next yard.
What was that about?
Monday, December 18, 2006
Jolted
Since the birth of The Boy, I have not been able to stomach violent, horror, or suspense movies. It's like I'm already in the trenches warding off bad vibes and trying to create a loving, harmonious, and trusting world for The Boy to grow up in. I don't need reminders of how bad life can get, exposed to me as if I didn't know about it.
If I choose to escape my chaotic world of social, moral and family responsibilities to a manufactured world of celluloid fantasy, I want that world to be orderly, clean and happy. I want it to be a great escape of pleasure and inspiration, not a borrowing of horrific sensationalism for the bored of mind.
Since my mommy-brain, my attention span has also shrunk, so much so that I can hardly sit through a movie or read a book. And I am one of those people who used to buy a festival pass and take my vacation in September during the Toronto International Film Festival. No more since The Boy. Now I hardly watch movies. During his younger years, if I watched a movie or read a book, it was usually a Boy flick or kid lit.
So for the first time in a long time this weekend, The Man and I found ourselves alone on a Saturday night. He suggested a movie. I said Brad Pitt. We went to see Babel. I had no idea what the movie was about, except that Brad is in it. I got a shocking dose of the horrific. The movie was well made enough, with beautiful cinematography. But the story was contrived and cruel. It's one of those movies I can no longer stomach and there I was sitting through it like I was on a bad date.
Then when we got home, we received a call from my brother-in-law that my mother-in-law had gone into Emergency. We fled down to the hospital. MIL has emphysema and a history of hospitalization due to respiratory ailments. The Man was mighty worried and commandeered the care of his mother.
In the end, the respirologist determined that she had an asthma attack, this time triggered by cat allergy. Though with each respiratory attack and her recovery taking longer each time, he did not consider her in immediate danger. MIL has spent two nights now in the hospital so far. More tests are being done to eliminate pulmonary complications.
While The Man is again concerned about MIL's long-term care, I watch the hospital episode unfold with unease, reliving my own horror and whispering to each of his brothers not to leave their mother's side at all while she's in this hospital and not to depend on the nurses to know how to care for her comfort.
This was the same Emergency my grandmother went into a few years ago when she had a bout of low blood sugar due to Diabetes. While in Emergency, she fell and broke her hip going to the washroom, with a nurse by her side. The nurse said after she's sure it was nothing despite Granny's complaint of severe pain and that one of her legs was suddenly longer than the other. Sis demanded an X-ray, which confirmed a fractured hip, necessitating hip surgery on my 87-year-old grandmother.
The slowness of MIL's lung recovery while in hospital? That triggers a different set of memories of my father, who never recovered from his lung failure.
All this is to say, see why I don't like watching intense movies of human indignity? I feel like I live with enough of it, always on edge, braced for the worst to happen.
Maybe I just stick to watching pre-schooler cartoons from now on.
If I choose to escape my chaotic world of social, moral and family responsibilities to a manufactured world of celluloid fantasy, I want that world to be orderly, clean and happy. I want it to be a great escape of pleasure and inspiration, not a borrowing of horrific sensationalism for the bored of mind.
Since my mommy-brain, my attention span has also shrunk, so much so that I can hardly sit through a movie or read a book. And I am one of those people who used to buy a festival pass and take my vacation in September during the Toronto International Film Festival. No more since The Boy. Now I hardly watch movies. During his younger years, if I watched a movie or read a book, it was usually a Boy flick or kid lit.
So for the first time in a long time this weekend, The Man and I found ourselves alone on a Saturday night. He suggested a movie. I said Brad Pitt. We went to see Babel. I had no idea what the movie was about, except that Brad is in it. I got a shocking dose of the horrific. The movie was well made enough, with beautiful cinematography. But the story was contrived and cruel. It's one of those movies I can no longer stomach and there I was sitting through it like I was on a bad date.
Then when we got home, we received a call from my brother-in-law that my mother-in-law had gone into Emergency. We fled down to the hospital. MIL has emphysema and a history of hospitalization due to respiratory ailments. The Man was mighty worried and commandeered the care of his mother.
In the end, the respirologist determined that she had an asthma attack, this time triggered by cat allergy. Though with each respiratory attack and her recovery taking longer each time, he did not consider her in immediate danger. MIL has spent two nights now in the hospital so far. More tests are being done to eliminate pulmonary complications.
While The Man is again concerned about MIL's long-term care, I watch the hospital episode unfold with unease, reliving my own horror and whispering to each of his brothers not to leave their mother's side at all while she's in this hospital and not to depend on the nurses to know how to care for her comfort.
This was the same Emergency my grandmother went into a few years ago when she had a bout of low blood sugar due to Diabetes. While in Emergency, she fell and broke her hip going to the washroom, with a nurse by her side. The nurse said after she's sure it was nothing despite Granny's complaint of severe pain and that one of her legs was suddenly longer than the other. Sis demanded an X-ray, which confirmed a fractured hip, necessitating hip surgery on my 87-year-old grandmother.
The slowness of MIL's lung recovery while in hospital? That triggers a different set of memories of my father, who never recovered from his lung failure.
All this is to say, see why I don't like watching intense movies of human indignity? I feel like I live with enough of it, always on edge, braced for the worst to happen.
Maybe I just stick to watching pre-schooler cartoons from now on.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Things Have A Way Of Working Out
The Man's family had their Christmas gathering last night. It was not easy to get everyone together. The Boy had to negotiate with his band teacher to show up for his school concert just before the orchestra went on, which was at 9:45. That meant he could join us for dinner at 7:00, then get into a cab at 8:45 to get to the school by 9:30, with a few minutes to spare just in case. BRIL1's family cancelled their ballet plans in order to join us. SIL sped in from Hamilton with kids in tow on a Friday night. BRIL2 had to pick up MIL from Port Hope.
The Man initially booked the restaurant for 10 for dinner, 14 for dessert. Mid-week, he phoned back to change that to 14 for dinner. But that message never got passed to the Friday night staff. We arrived at 7:00 to discover a couple dining in the room where we were. The long table was set for 10.
The poor waitress. The Man fretted and strutted about. I said, That's okay, because SIL and the kids will be late. By the time they get here, that table will be finished. But that didn't sooth The Man. He was just annoyed the restaurant didn't pass on the change in dinner plans.
But you know, everything worked out. Because everyone was late. BRIL1's family arrived at 7:30 just as the dining couple was leaving. When BRIL2 and MIL arrived, they never even knew about the couple. SIL didn't get in till 8:30. The Boy left at 9:00. We finished dinner at 10:45.
The fantastic waitress. She was good-humoured and graceful. She kept our orders straight, brought out The Boy's dinner first even though I forgot to tell her he needed to leave early until 20 minutes before he had to leave, made drink recommendations, and told jokes.
It was the experience of the evening that was different for everyone. I'm sure the waitress just let things play out without stressing much about things she can't change. She was busy enough. The Man fretted and fumed. I'm on the waitress' side, though if I had made the arrangements and the restaurant got it wrong, I am sure I would have been more put out. Or maybe not. After all, The Boy was on a schedule and I was pretty calm and confident he would eat and get back to school on time, regardless of what happened at dinner.
Maybe it's a matter of focus. I was out for a good time and to make sure The Boy got back to school on time so my fun and mom metres were triggered and active. The Man wanted to make sure the reservation worked out for his family; the effectiveness of his planning and organizational skills were being tested. Others were challenged just to make it to the restaurant not too late. But over dinner, there was no fuss, no muss, no clean up. It was great.
The Man initially booked the restaurant for 10 for dinner, 14 for dessert. Mid-week, he phoned back to change that to 14 for dinner. But that message never got passed to the Friday night staff. We arrived at 7:00 to discover a couple dining in the room where we were. The long table was set for 10.
The poor waitress. The Man fretted and strutted about. I said, That's okay, because SIL and the kids will be late. By the time they get here, that table will be finished. But that didn't sooth The Man. He was just annoyed the restaurant didn't pass on the change in dinner plans.
But you know, everything worked out. Because everyone was late. BRIL1's family arrived at 7:30 just as the dining couple was leaving. When BRIL2 and MIL arrived, they never even knew about the couple. SIL didn't get in till 8:30. The Boy left at 9:00. We finished dinner at 10:45.
The fantastic waitress. She was good-humoured and graceful. She kept our orders straight, brought out The Boy's dinner first even though I forgot to tell her he needed to leave early until 20 minutes before he had to leave, made drink recommendations, and told jokes.
It was the experience of the evening that was different for everyone. I'm sure the waitress just let things play out without stressing much about things she can't change. She was busy enough. The Man fretted and fumed. I'm on the waitress' side, though if I had made the arrangements and the restaurant got it wrong, I am sure I would have been more put out. Or maybe not. After all, The Boy was on a schedule and I was pretty calm and confident he would eat and get back to school on time, regardless of what happened at dinner.
Maybe it's a matter of focus. I was out for a good time and to make sure The Boy got back to school on time so my fun and mom metres were triggered and active. The Man wanted to make sure the reservation worked out for his family; the effectiveness of his planning and organizational skills were being tested. Others were challenged just to make it to the restaurant not too late. But over dinner, there was no fuss, no muss, no clean up. It was great.
Holy Moly
Do I not know how to read fish or what? Evidently, I am totally clued out, possibly gone awry by ascribing human characteristics to two-inch fish.
This morning, I saw at least four new infant platys darting about in the tank. That means there are probably more of them here and there. She got pregnant immediately after birth last time? She didn't look big, not huge like the last pregnancy. I didn't even think she was pregnant though she has been eating a lot. She's been hiding because she was preparing for birth. And I almost flushed her away.
She's still hiding. She may still be birthing. Or she's resting. That's a lot of stress for her in the last while.
This morning, I saw at least four new infant platys darting about in the tank. That means there are probably more of them here and there. She got pregnant immediately after birth last time? She didn't look big, not huge like the last pregnancy. I didn't even think she was pregnant though she has been eating a lot. She's been hiding because she was preparing for birth. And I almost flushed her away.
She's still hiding. She may still be birthing. Or she's resting. That's a lot of stress for her in the last while.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Are My Fish Pining Away?
After two births each by my black molly and red platy, I now have over 20 fish in my aquarium. I decided I didn't want any more births, so two weeks after the last births, I separated the male and female fish. I kept the two females - one black molly, one red platy - in the 20 gallon tank with the babies. I moved the males - 1 black molly, two red platys - to a 5 gallon tank.
Immediately, all five fish went into withdrawal and hid for a couple of days. I guessed they missed each other, but I thought they'd adjust, especially because they were eating well. Slowly, they started swimming about again. It's been a week now and I thought they looked okay.
Yesterday, the black molly started to bury herself into the rocks and seemed to have trouble breathing or staying upright. By evening, she was dead. I waited a few more hours to see she would revive. When I nudged her, she was lifeless, her eyes closed. I removed her from the tank and flushed her to the watery grave in the deep blue sea.
This morning, my red platy had wedged herself into a plant. Her eyes were still open but she missed the morning feeding. She looked dead too as she did not move when I rubbed the side of the tank.
The black male molly is having trouble swimming in his tank.
I am puzzled by what's happening to my fish. Are they dying of loneliness for their mates? Were they old fish when I bought them and it's just time to go? The female molly had always had periods when she'd sit at the bottom of the tank and wait. The male molly has had trouble swimming but would recover after a couple of days. The red platy has always hid. I thought it was because two males were too much for her. Maybe it's the added stress of the separation.
Just now, I was about to remove the red platy from the tank too. But I couldn't find her. She had moved to another spot. So she's not dead yet. Just hidding again, maybe this time from the shock of her friend dying. And did I prematurely flush her friend away?
So I am thinking, Do fish have memories and feelings? I google the idea. Sure enough, there are articles written that claim they do, that fish can be trained to have certain behaviours. I wonder how long a memory retention they have.
I feel so bad now, because I am intuiting that fish have feelings and may even be highly sensitive. I don't want to bring the fish back together. I don't know if the red platy in hiding is sick with disease, and if she is not, I still don't want any more babies. I have turned into their cruel goddess.
Immediately, all five fish went into withdrawal and hid for a couple of days. I guessed they missed each other, but I thought they'd adjust, especially because they were eating well. Slowly, they started swimming about again. It's been a week now and I thought they looked okay.
Yesterday, the black molly started to bury herself into the rocks and seemed to have trouble breathing or staying upright. By evening, she was dead. I waited a few more hours to see she would revive. When I nudged her, she was lifeless, her eyes closed. I removed her from the tank and flushed her to the watery grave in the deep blue sea.
This morning, my red platy had wedged herself into a plant. Her eyes were still open but she missed the morning feeding. She looked dead too as she did not move when I rubbed the side of the tank.
The black male molly is having trouble swimming in his tank.
I am puzzled by what's happening to my fish. Are they dying of loneliness for their mates? Were they old fish when I bought them and it's just time to go? The female molly had always had periods when she'd sit at the bottom of the tank and wait. The male molly has had trouble swimming but would recover after a couple of days. The red platy has always hid. I thought it was because two males were too much for her. Maybe it's the added stress of the separation.
Just now, I was about to remove the red platy from the tank too. But I couldn't find her. She had moved to another spot. So she's not dead yet. Just hidding again, maybe this time from the shock of her friend dying. And did I prematurely flush her friend away?
So I am thinking, Do fish have memories and feelings? I google the idea. Sure enough, there are articles written that claim they do, that fish can be trained to have certain behaviours. I wonder how long a memory retention they have.
I feel so bad now, because I am intuiting that fish have feelings and may even be highly sensitive. I don't want to bring the fish back together. I don't know if the red platy in hiding is sick with disease, and if she is not, I still don't want any more babies. I have turned into their cruel goddess.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Politics Behind The Politics
I went to the volunteer thank you party for MyCandidate last night. One thing I've wondered about during the campaign was why the mayor did not endorse MyCandidate. So last night, the story came out.
A long-time councillor and the deputy mayor, Shorty, put his endorsement behind Rival. Because of that, the mayor didn't want to appear at odds with his deputy mayor so he withheld his endorsement of MyCandidate. Why did Shorty endorse Rival? Well.
For one thing, they are related by marriage somewhere. And they have business dealings with each other. But mostly, it's because they went to school together. Shorty has always been such a small guy that he used to get beaten up at school. Rival was his friend. So Rival always stuck up for him and fought his fights. Kind of like the lug behind the wimp to deter the bullies.
Now, I also went to high school with Shorty. He was in grade 13 the year I was in grade 9. He was the student council president that year. So I am guessing the beating up of Shorty didn't happen in high school. It must've happened in primary school. Because of that indebtedness, Shorty endorsed Rival.
How do you like that?
A long-time councillor and the deputy mayor, Shorty, put his endorsement behind Rival. Because of that, the mayor didn't want to appear at odds with his deputy mayor so he withheld his endorsement of MyCandidate. Why did Shorty endorse Rival? Well.
For one thing, they are related by marriage somewhere. And they have business dealings with each other. But mostly, it's because they went to school together. Shorty has always been such a small guy that he used to get beaten up at school. Rival was his friend. So Rival always stuck up for him and fought his fights. Kind of like the lug behind the wimp to deter the bullies.
Now, I also went to high school with Shorty. He was in grade 13 the year I was in grade 9. He was the student council president that year. So I am guessing the beating up of Shorty didn't happen in high school. It must've happened in primary school. Because of that indebtedness, Shorty endorsed Rival.
How do you like that?
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Power Outage
Walking home along St. Clair today, two police cruisers blared their sirens and blazed through red lights. When I turned up to No Frills, there were the two police cruisers, sitting in the parking lot. Four officers were out, talking to about 8 men in No Frills uniforms, plus several other men of of various heights and ages.
I tried to go into No Frills to pick up groceries for dinner. A woman said to me, "They are closed. They may open again in a couple of hours. They said there is a power outage." Indeed, the supermarket was dimmed inside and on the door was a hastily scrawled note, "Closed Due To Power Outage".
Power outage? No one else on St. Clair was having power problems. I live up the street and I didn't have a power outage when I got home.
But then I suppose if half your staff is out in the parking lot talking to the police, that's a sort of power outage. They didn't actually say it was electrical power they were out with. I hadn't thought to use power outage to blanket anything. You know, like wardrobe malfunction, or irreconcilable differences.
So the next time I don't want to do the dishes, I'll leave them in the sink and say, I had a power outage. Or if I'm seeing my doctor and can't quite pinpoint how I'm feeling, I'll say, I'm having a kind of power outage. Or if I don't feel like having sex, I'll say to The Man, Sorry dear, I'm having a power outage tonight.
Works for me.
I tried to go into No Frills to pick up groceries for dinner. A woman said to me, "They are closed. They may open again in a couple of hours. They said there is a power outage." Indeed, the supermarket was dimmed inside and on the door was a hastily scrawled note, "Closed Due To Power Outage".
Power outage? No one else on St. Clair was having power problems. I live up the street and I didn't have a power outage when I got home.
But then I suppose if half your staff is out in the parking lot talking to the police, that's a sort of power outage. They didn't actually say it was electrical power they were out with. I hadn't thought to use power outage to blanket anything. You know, like wardrobe malfunction, or irreconcilable differences.
So the next time I don't want to do the dishes, I'll leave them in the sink and say, I had a power outage. Or if I'm seeing my doctor and can't quite pinpoint how I'm feeling, I'll say, I'm having a kind of power outage. Or if I don't feel like having sex, I'll say to The Man, Sorry dear, I'm having a power outage tonight.
Works for me.
Monday, December 11, 2006
The Job At Hand
My friend attended a workshop on the hand job recently. Yup. A workshop on how to pleasure a man with your hands. She went because she and her friends were having dinner and one of them, a younger woman of 30, said she had signed up for the workshop. The other women, in their 50's and 60's, said, What's there to learn? Let's all sign up and find out about it. So they did. All five of them.
After the workshop, my friend said there is much to learn and remember. And you aren't likely to do it well unless you practise. So for women without a steady partner, they can purchase a silicone model of an excited male member. Friend didn't buy one. She didn't want to be good at it; she just wondered what there was to it.
Over dinner with her last week, Friend tried to demonstrate the techniques. First she used a knife. But I wasn't getting it. A knife is too thin. Then she rolled up the napkin. But it kept coming apart and it's hard to demonstrate in a restaurant without drawing the attention of the waiter and other patrons. So she did it under the table where I couldn't see very well.
Maybe we did look like two women huddling under the table with a napkin, because the waiter thought we had spilled something. When we placed the twisted napkin on the table, he brought us a new one. As he picked up the twisted one, he noted, Oh, it's not wet.
Batik demonstration, I blurted.
He left us with the new napkin anyway.
Curious about the techniques, I googled the topic at home and found a site that demonstrated the techniques with little QuickTime clips. A perky, young, stacked woman did the demonstration with a huge silicone model. I think it wouldn't matter what she did, a man would enjoy being handled by her.
So now, I have heard about the techniques, I have seen the demonstrations, I just need to practise. If I want to be good at it. But you know, I don't have to be good at everything I do.
Here's the site if you are interested.
After the workshop, my friend said there is much to learn and remember. And you aren't likely to do it well unless you practise. So for women without a steady partner, they can purchase a silicone model of an excited male member. Friend didn't buy one. She didn't want to be good at it; she just wondered what there was to it.
Over dinner with her last week, Friend tried to demonstrate the techniques. First she used a knife. But I wasn't getting it. A knife is too thin. Then she rolled up the napkin. But it kept coming apart and it's hard to demonstrate in a restaurant without drawing the attention of the waiter and other patrons. So she did it under the table where I couldn't see very well.
Maybe we did look like two women huddling under the table with a napkin, because the waiter thought we had spilled something. When we placed the twisted napkin on the table, he brought us a new one. As he picked up the twisted one, he noted, Oh, it's not wet.
Batik demonstration, I blurted.
He left us with the new napkin anyway.
Curious about the techniques, I googled the topic at home and found a site that demonstrated the techniques with little QuickTime clips. A perky, young, stacked woman did the demonstration with a huge silicone model. I think it wouldn't matter what she did, a man would enjoy being handled by her.
So now, I have heard about the techniques, I have seen the demonstrations, I just need to practise. If I want to be good at it. But you know, I don't have to be good at everything I do.
Here's the site if you are interested.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
The Fine Art of Disingenuousness
I wanted to invite my book club for dinner over the holidays. My initial thoughts were, just the book club members and their spouses, we'd have a sit down dinner, it'll be nice.
Then I thought, What about my friend whose husband died suddenly last Spring? Will she feel comfortable at the table if everyone brings their husbands? Maybe I shouldn't invite her. But I don't want to exclude her just because of a family tragedy. What's the right thing to do? I would like to be honest with her. But how, without coming across as condescending or inconsiderate?
And what about my good friend and some time book club member who is single right now? I never have a party without her.
Knowing that we all have teenage or young adult children, and knowing they are unlikely to go to a party with their parents, this is what I did. I phoned everyone to throw around a few dates and make a verbal invitation. With my widowed friend, this was our exchange:
Me - I'd like to invite the book club and their families over for dinner so I want to narrow down a date.
Friend - What a great idea.
Me - Are you here these dates?
Friend - Yup, we're here.
Me - Think your kids will want to come?
Friend - I don't know. I can make them, especially if others are bringing theirs. If not, I won't make them.
Me - I don't know either. Teenagers are unpredictable. The women might just bring their spouses.
Friend - That's okay. I'm in.
Me - Well, I'll send an e-mail invitation then to confirm the date.
I think that went well. Or was it obvious what I was fielding? But the important thing is, the invitation has been extended, we touched on the issue, and my friend is okay to come for dinner.
Now that I've talked to everyone, it turns out they can all come. I think this dinner party is meant to happen.
Then I thought, What about my friend whose husband died suddenly last Spring? Will she feel comfortable at the table if everyone brings their husbands? Maybe I shouldn't invite her. But I don't want to exclude her just because of a family tragedy. What's the right thing to do? I would like to be honest with her. But how, without coming across as condescending or inconsiderate?
And what about my good friend and some time book club member who is single right now? I never have a party without her.
Knowing that we all have teenage or young adult children, and knowing they are unlikely to go to a party with their parents, this is what I did. I phoned everyone to throw around a few dates and make a verbal invitation. With my widowed friend, this was our exchange:
Me - I'd like to invite the book club and their families over for dinner so I want to narrow down a date.
Friend - What a great idea.
Me - Are you here these dates?
Friend - Yup, we're here.
Me - Think your kids will want to come?
Friend - I don't know. I can make them, especially if others are bringing theirs. If not, I won't make them.
Me - I don't know either. Teenagers are unpredictable. The women might just bring their spouses.
Friend - That's okay. I'm in.
Me - Well, I'll send an e-mail invitation then to confirm the date.
I think that went well. Or was it obvious what I was fielding? But the important thing is, the invitation has been extended, we touched on the issue, and my friend is okay to come for dinner.
Now that I've talked to everyone, it turns out they can all come. I think this dinner party is meant to happen.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Mindlessness Of Being
On Thursday, Sis sent a note to inquire about restaurant choices as she and Girlfriend were going out to dinner on Friday. On Friday at 6 pm, Sis phoned asking if I would go shopping with her for a party dress. I had plans for the evening. But before hanging up, I said, Hey, aren't you going out with Girlfriend tonight? She gasped and said she had completely forgotten about it. So she hooked up with her friend, went shopping, and had dinner. It worked out.
All of last week, we've been searching the house for The Man's keys. The missing keys caused quite a change in our activities as The Man and I had to share my set of keys to the car and house. He searched everywhere in the house, in the car, in the shed, even the office where he now works and inquired at building security to see if anyone turned in a set of lost keys. I looked in all my purses and coats.
Then while making dinner one night, I stopped for no reason. I walked to my ski jacket, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out his keys. I am sure I had checked in that coat before and I don't know what made me go straight to that coat at that moment. It was as if someone whispered in my ear to look there now. The Man didn't get upset; he was just glad to have his keys back. So it worked out.
For the last few weeks, The Man consulted with everyone in his extended family to arrive at a date and restaurant for a family get together. Many e-mails and phone calls later, they settled on Friday, December 15 when most family members could make it.
This week, I made a doctor's appointment for The Boy for next week. The Boy told me he couldn't go at the appointed time as he would be in rehearsal. The orchestra is performing the evenings of December 13, 14, and 15. Then he looked up at me and said, What day is that family dinner again?
Now he is trying to see if he can get out of performing Friday. I will have to talk to his band teacher. Or he will miss the family dinner. I wonder how that will work out.
All of last week, we've been searching the house for The Man's keys. The missing keys caused quite a change in our activities as The Man and I had to share my set of keys to the car and house. He searched everywhere in the house, in the car, in the shed, even the office where he now works and inquired at building security to see if anyone turned in a set of lost keys. I looked in all my purses and coats.
Then while making dinner one night, I stopped for no reason. I walked to my ski jacket, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out his keys. I am sure I had checked in that coat before and I don't know what made me go straight to that coat at that moment. It was as if someone whispered in my ear to look there now. The Man didn't get upset; he was just glad to have his keys back. So it worked out.
For the last few weeks, The Man consulted with everyone in his extended family to arrive at a date and restaurant for a family get together. Many e-mails and phone calls later, they settled on Friday, December 15 when most family members could make it.
This week, I made a doctor's appointment for The Boy for next week. The Boy told me he couldn't go at the appointed time as he would be in rehearsal. The orchestra is performing the evenings of December 13, 14, and 15. Then he looked up at me and said, What day is that family dinner again?
Now he is trying to see if he can get out of performing Friday. I will have to talk to his band teacher. Or he will miss the family dinner. I wonder how that will work out.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
My Inner Core
I felt it. I felt my inner core.
In the three months I've been doing pilates, I had no real idea what the instructor - a young, slim and graceful ballerina - was getting at when she talked about targetting muscles that strengthen your inner core. What inner core? She kept saying, These exercises are helping with your inner core even if you don't feel it.
So in class last night, lying on top of a foam roller, I followed her usual instructions and pressed down on my navel, and made my back ribs heavy. I lifted my arms, then my legs, one at a time. After a few tries, when I found that spot where I could hold my centre, I balanced on my back, lying on a round foam cylinder, without touching the floor!
The instructor said, If you can do that, you've found your inner core.
So that's what it feels like. It's a tightening of the innards. And your balance stems out from there to your hands and feet. I've been relying on my arms and legs to hold me up. If you've tapped into your inner core, you're like that graceful hawk, gliding across the sky and changing directions with unmoving spread wings. But I've been that penguin, flapping and flopping about on slippery ice.
After the foam roller exercise, the instructor said to turn over to your front and onto your hands and knees. And she did it in one silent, light flip, from lying on her back to the cat arch position, lithe ballerina that she is. I rolled over, landed on my tummy, stuck my butt up in the air, then scrambled my hands and knees together to make the camel hump, with hog-at-slaughter grunts to boot.
So I have more work to do to finesse my inner core. But it's so good to know I have one.
In the three months I've been doing pilates, I had no real idea what the instructor - a young, slim and graceful ballerina - was getting at when she talked about targetting muscles that strengthen your inner core. What inner core? She kept saying, These exercises are helping with your inner core even if you don't feel it.
So in class last night, lying on top of a foam roller, I followed her usual instructions and pressed down on my navel, and made my back ribs heavy. I lifted my arms, then my legs, one at a time. After a few tries, when I found that spot where I could hold my centre, I balanced on my back, lying on a round foam cylinder, without touching the floor!
The instructor said, If you can do that, you've found your inner core.
So that's what it feels like. It's a tightening of the innards. And your balance stems out from there to your hands and feet. I've been relying on my arms and legs to hold me up. If you've tapped into your inner core, you're like that graceful hawk, gliding across the sky and changing directions with unmoving spread wings. But I've been that penguin, flapping and flopping about on slippery ice.
After the foam roller exercise, the instructor said to turn over to your front and onto your hands and knees. And she did it in one silent, light flip, from lying on her back to the cat arch position, lithe ballerina that she is. I rolled over, landed on my tummy, stuck my butt up in the air, then scrambled my hands and knees together to make the camel hump, with hog-at-slaughter grunts to boot.
So I have more work to do to finesse my inner core. But it's so good to know I have one.
Monday, December 04, 2006
December
We came tumbling into December. I can't believe Christmas is three weeks away. This is shaping up to be a very social season. I'm glad, because I think I am in some kind of doldrums that I can't get out of by myself.
The Man has started a gig with a client that requires him to be in the office for a few weeks. Why, that's like having a regular job. I'm home by myself all day, wondering why I'm not working. I can't focus on drawing, reading, writing, or meditation. I can't be distracted just because The Man is not home. Something else is going on with me but I don't know what it is.
My meditation guide tells me to be gentle and encouraging to myself when I meditate. If my mind wanders, as it often does, I should gently bring myself back, not get mad at myself. I don't think I'm getting mad at myself. I keep tasting salty tears in my mouth. Some emotion is overwhelming me but I don't know the cause of it. I'm told meditation does that to you - sometimes an emotion just takes over. I'm supposed to accept it and just let it pass.
The Boy, that ingrate, is forever asking for spending money. Every time we talk, we get into an argument about him not doing his homework. His report card came home last week. He received 90's in three courses, 80's in two, 70's in one, a pass in one, and a failure in one. He 's never failed a course before. But because of the 90's and 80's, his average is 76, which is the highest he's ever got on a report card. How do you whip a guy who performs like that?
But at least I made a great dinner tonight. Ham and cheese in chicken thigh, or chicken cordon bleu, and a great salad dressing that warrants repeating. Right. I'm going to get depressed and fat. Yes, thank god it's going to be a social month. I may still get fat, but not likely depressed.
The Man has started a gig with a client that requires him to be in the office for a few weeks. Why, that's like having a regular job. I'm home by myself all day, wondering why I'm not working. I can't focus on drawing, reading, writing, or meditation. I can't be distracted just because The Man is not home. Something else is going on with me but I don't know what it is.
My meditation guide tells me to be gentle and encouraging to myself when I meditate. If my mind wanders, as it often does, I should gently bring myself back, not get mad at myself. I don't think I'm getting mad at myself. I keep tasting salty tears in my mouth. Some emotion is overwhelming me but I don't know the cause of it. I'm told meditation does that to you - sometimes an emotion just takes over. I'm supposed to accept it and just let it pass.
The Boy, that ingrate, is forever asking for spending money. Every time we talk, we get into an argument about him not doing his homework. His report card came home last week. He received 90's in three courses, 80's in two, 70's in one, a pass in one, and a failure in one. He 's never failed a course before. But because of the 90's and 80's, his average is 76, which is the highest he's ever got on a report card. How do you whip a guy who performs like that?
But at least I made a great dinner tonight. Ham and cheese in chicken thigh, or chicken cordon bleu, and a great salad dressing that warrants repeating. Right. I'm going to get depressed and fat. Yes, thank god it's going to be a social month. I may still get fat, but not likely depressed.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Working It
A while ago, Sis wanted to look for love online. She signed up on a couple of online dating web sites. So I signed up too, just to see how the system works. I made The Man sign up to see if we matched each other. When we called up each other's ID to compare, our scores indicated we were 80% compatible, but the data bank never matched us up. So I'm not sure how an electronic matching-making system works.
l have not visited these sites since that initial period. I know one of the sites had killed my ID from disuse. The other site has never found a match for me. I guess that makes me a difficult woman.
Now, more than a year later, I received six flags yesterday that the site has found matches for me. I logged in to the site and there were in fact 10 matches. I guess I hadn't noticed the other flags when they came. All these nameless and faceless men waiting to meet me.
Curious, I read the profile on each "match". Among them was an engineer, a math teacher, a self-employed person, a beauty salon and spa owner, a graphic designer, a philosopher, plus a TTC driver in Toronto. What did we have in common? From what I could see, we don't want any more children, we are not overly religious, we like the arts, we like the outdoors. If I go by the self descriptions, they are all nurturing and listen well, traits that are not attached to my profile. I guess someone's gotta give, and someone's gotta soak it up.
Two of the matches had already opted to end communication with me, citing the reason as "distance is too far to make it work". One also added "I don't see any chemistry." I am offended by this one, oh he who remains nameless and faceless, as do I.
So now, do I indicate I don't want to initiate communication and make these men looking for love feel rejected, or do I let the system time me out due to lack of response. What I opt to is an indication of a personality trait - am I a people person considerate of others' feelings, or do I grab the bull by the horns and direct my own destiny?
I will ignore the messages as if I hadn't seen them. After all, I'm not looking for new love. I can barely manage the current one. In fact, I'll go in and kill my profile.
I see. That's why I received flags. I can't kill my profile. Then I have to ignore the flags.
l have not visited these sites since that initial period. I know one of the sites had killed my ID from disuse. The other site has never found a match for me. I guess that makes me a difficult woman.
Now, more than a year later, I received six flags yesterday that the site has found matches for me. I logged in to the site and there were in fact 10 matches. I guess I hadn't noticed the other flags when they came. All these nameless and faceless men waiting to meet me.
Curious, I read the profile on each "match". Among them was an engineer, a math teacher, a self-employed person, a beauty salon and spa owner, a graphic designer, a philosopher, plus a TTC driver in Toronto. What did we have in common? From what I could see, we don't want any more children, we are not overly religious, we like the arts, we like the outdoors. If I go by the self descriptions, they are all nurturing and listen well, traits that are not attached to my profile. I guess someone's gotta give, and someone's gotta soak it up.
Two of the matches had already opted to end communication with me, citing the reason as "distance is too far to make it work". One also added "I don't see any chemistry." I am offended by this one, oh he who remains nameless and faceless, as do I.
So now, do I indicate I don't want to initiate communication and make these men looking for love feel rejected, or do I let the system time me out due to lack of response. What I opt to is an indication of a personality trait - am I a people person considerate of others' feelings, or do I grab the bull by the horns and direct my own destiny?
I will ignore the messages as if I hadn't seen them. After all, I'm not looking for new love. I can barely manage the current one. In fact, I'll go in and kill my profile.
I see. That's why I received flags. I can't kill my profile. Then I have to ignore the flags.
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