Dramarama

Sometimes, nothing happens in my life. Then a whole bunch of things happen that make me say, Whoa, whoa, let's stop it. But each time, I am glad people have been there to lessen the worst that could have happened.

On Boxing Day, my mother-in-law went into the hospital because of respiratory complications. She has COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease). She goes into the hospital almost every Christmas, probably because of the onset of cold weather, the stress of the holidays, and exposure to something she's allergic to. Thankfully, this year, Sil2 was with her when she had the attack and she was rushed into Emergency. She seems better now, though still weak and pale.

But The Man has been in a foul mood since visiting her. His foulness was palpable; it was in his tone, his voice, his body language. You could feel it just looking at him, and if you come too close, you plunge into a similar foulness without knowing why. It was like standing on gossamer. Move with too much pressure and you break the fabric and fall through, yet you can't stand still. He does not admit it, but I think it comes down to him feeling his mother values his siblings more than him.

This morning, as soon as I was out of bed, The Man received a call from a neighbour who's just cut her finger open. I said to The Man, "Why don't you get dressed so you can drive her to the hospital. I will go see her now." He agreed quickly. That's because he is not good at looking at blood or open wounds. So I ran over, still in my pajamas to find Carol, still in her pajamas, bleeding at the sink. She tried to catch a falling glass fish and it cut her finger.

We decided she should go to the hospital because the cut was through a vein in her finger and she had lost a lot of blood. She also started to sweat and had to sit down to avert fainting. Each time she came out of a sweat, she tried to put her house in order. Finally I said, "Stop cleaning your house while you are fainting and bleeding. Let's get you dressed." We dressed her and The Man took her to the doctor.

They came back within half an hour, having found a clinic that was open and was able to treat her. She then came and had some breakfast with us.

Meanwhile, we were expecting a visit from Sil. When Sil arrived, Carol took her leave. But I also had to get our packing done as we were preparing to leave by 2 PM to Deerhurst for one week. The Boy then told me the friends he invited to come with us were arriving at 3 PM. Ugh. Why 3 PM when we are leaving at 2:00? "Because I asked you the other day what time we were leaving and you said 4:00," he said. "I thought you were asking about going to Sis' on Boxing Day."

A flurry of phone calls later, The Boy got his friends to come earlier. They arrived shortly after 2:00. But between visiting The Man's mother for two days, The Man going out with friends last night, and the activities this morning, I hadn't bought the groceries for the week yet. I packed all the food we had in the fridge and freezer and hoped for the best.

As we tried to leave, now all packed up in the car, I suddenly remembered I hadn't made arrangements for someone to feed my fish while we were away. A few neighbours later, I found one who was going to be home all week. We had already given him a key to our house last year in case of trouble, so I didn't have to give up my key.

Finally, away we went. But we made four stops on the road for our two and a half ride to Deerhurst. The Man had to buy a pair of pants, we had to get lunch, the kids had to buy a game while The Man bought alcohol and I bought breakfast food, and lastly, we stopped for gas because we drove into a snow storm and our gas tank was almost empty. I cancelled dinner plans with friends because we were running very late.

But we did make it to Deerhurst. And it's nice here. Our unit looks out to the lake and we're comfortable. The kids love it. They've gone skiing. I laze about (as usual) and watch TV (which I never do). The Man reads his newspaper. We look forward to a good week.

I Gave It Big

I was full before the deep fried turkey made it to the table. It's hard to save your appetite for the main course when unplanned appetizers mysteriously pop up on our table of plenty.

Upon entering Sis' kitchen, a large, baked ham sat on the counter while Sis readied the mushroom gravy for the turkey. Awaiting on the dining room table was a beautifully prepared platter of fruit of many colours and textures. There were also three big slabs of pate with six kinds of crackers beside a warm, smooth, and pungent artichoke-cheese dip. Warm, red mussels smeared with citrus and cocktail sauce beckoned from their half shells. Chunks of crusty bread taunted from their bowl. None of this was planned. Unlike the humongous platter of crab legs and bigger half-table of sushi. I mean, at least crab legs and sushi were on the menu, just not their overwhelming quantity.

But the highlight of the meal was the deep fried turkey. Far in the back of the garden over the ice covered walkway were Bro and Waif, manning a propane-fed deep fryer. The deep fryer had to be at least 10 feet away from the house in case of mishap resulting in explosion. If this had happened, only Bro and Waif would have been broiled alive in boiling oil, the house would have been fine. The crispy-skinned turkey was sizzling in deep oil. French fries, stringed yams, and Scotch eggs waited their turn to soak in their bubbling bath of hot hot oil.

Bro and Waif cooked till it got dark, receiving visits from The Man, me, and other curious onlookers. When Uncle and his family arrived, everything was ready. A green salad, a papaya-avocado salad, green beans speckled with red pepper, garlic and thyme, mashed roasted squash with butter and brown sugar, cauliflower with buttered almonds, cranberry and sausage stuffing, chicken and shrimp fried noodles, and smoked turkey legs also made their way onto the dining table. Were they all part of the menu? It didn't matter any more at that point.

It was all good. I tried not to eat too much. I don't remember. I fell asleep on the couch at some point.

There is no lesson to this excess. But I am reminded of a song by Jane Siberry where the last part goes:

Take a lesson from the strangeness you feel
And know you'll never be the same
And find it in your heart to kneel down and say
I gave my love didn't I?
And I gave it big...sometimes
And I gave it in my own sweet time

Jane was singing about love, not food. But in our family, love and food, they are the same. I surrender.

Christmas Traditions

We just had a very fine dinner, The Man, The Boy, Mom and I. Without knowing it, we've been building our own Christmas traditions over the years. Each time, it's The Boy who signals a tradition to me with, Mom, you have to do it; it's tradition.

Our Christmas traditions unfold as follows:

In the morning, The Man gets out of bed first. He gives The Boy's stocking to him in bed. We stay in our pajamas and organize ourselves with coffee and juice. I put on Christmas music. The Man and I open our stockings while drinking our coffees.

In each of our stockings, I put a clementine in the toe. That's one of the traditions The Boy insists on. He says, It wouldn't be Christmas morning if I don't find a clementine there.

When The Boy comes downstairs, we open our presents. Each year, I give him a joke present. It's been a roll of toilet paper for a few years. He loves it. This year, I gave him a squeegie. He loved that too. At the end of the day, I say to him, Be honest, which was your favourite present? He makes like he's thinking and weighing his choices, then always says, It's the toilet paper. This year, it was the squeegie of course.

After the presents, we get breakfast on the table.

I make two small pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice. The Boy, still in his PJs, runs next door with a pitcher and a present for our neighbour. He comes back to set the table. Meanwhile, I heat up croissants and cut up melons. That's the tradition I insist on, having freshly squeezed orange juice, croissant, and melon in the morning.

This whole time, The Man shucks oysters. That's tradition The Man introduced for our family, having oysters for Christmas breakfast. We sit down content, eating our breakfast and examining some of our presents.

After breakfast, there is a flurry of activity as we shower and dress. A friend usually drops by. This year, a dear friend dropped off a Christmas pudding.

I make sure the turkey goes in the oven by 2 PM and cook the rest of the Christmas dinner. The Man and The Boy clean up the house and play with their presents. Around 3:30 PM, The Man goes to pick up Mom.

Even when it's just the four of us for dinner, I set the table with table cloth, table runner, linen placemats and napkins. There is lots of room around the table and no one is crammed. We are very relaxed.

In the late afternoon and early evening, we give mom her presents. There are also phone calls, both placed and received, as we connect with friends and family who aren't in the city.

After dinner, we laze about. The meal is effortless, abundant, and delicious, the clean up easy and unhurried. I like these Christmas dinners best.

Mom then goes to bed and I prepare food for the next day. That's when my side of the extended family get together and practise gluttony. I don't know if that's tradition or religion. Sometimes I think if my brothers, sister and I hated each other, we would still get together because a higher authority compels us to make pigs of ourselves. That higher authority would be Mom. That's how she raised us; being gluttons is part of our identity. We even keep a fat blog about it.

Abundance at the table is an understatement. Obscene excess is closer to the quantity of food we serve. Some years, we barely touch a quarter of what we put out. A few days later, I throw out a lot of the food from these obscene dinners. That is tradition. The line about the starving children in China doesn't work in our family. Mom and especially dad were those starving children in China. They escaped death by starvation. Now we have to compensate for them having gone hungry.

It's tradition that we rotate the hosting of Christmas dinner. Tomorrow, we are deep frying a turkey at Sis'. While the deep fryer is on, we will deep fry Scotch Eggs, French Fries, and Yam Frites. And I started out with such a simple menu plan. This is also tradition - each year, I make simple plans, then crazy takes over, and we end up with at least three times more food than we can eat.

I am part of that crazy. That too is tradition.

Merry Christmas One And All

And a white Christmas to Fryslan.

T'was The Day Before

It's Christmas Eve. I feel my brain has been in stasis. Not much going on up there. Then I stumbled upon Goggle Earth on the main computer.

Like a provincial dullard, I immediately tried to locate my house. But I had trouble. I just couldn't quite follow the topography. I found City Hall, but I couldn't follow the roads to my house. Everything looked too similar and I needed more locational cues. After 10 minutes, I wanted to give up.

Then The Boy came into the room. I swear, within 15 seconds, he found our house and zoomed in on it. Then he said, "The picture must have been taken in the summer. See all the leaves on the trees." I hadn't noticed. I was still looking for our red car parked in front of the house. "We were probably out and that's why our car is not there," he said.

How does he do it? He is so fast and things make so much sense to him. Was I once like that? I want to believe so. I want to believe he got some of his smarts from me.

Here are The Boy and his friends in the summer, conquering the sharks in downtown Toronto in their spare time. See how clean cut and fresh faced they all are!


Then here is me and my friends in our spare time.



I have not been able to get out of my befana persona since Winter Solstice. I communicate with other hags in character by e-mail and exchange photographs.

The consolation is, a fellow hag (he is a man-hag) Chris, said looking at the collage above, he thinks of us as goddesses. He is reminded of the story of Actaeon, a hunter in Greek mythology who stumbled upon Artemis bathing in the lake. Having seen the goddess naked, he is turned into a stag. His dogs then chase him down and maul him to death. The moral of the story is, you should never look into the face of an unmasked befana on the night of Winter Solstice. I made this moral up, but not the story. The Greek myth stands.

Does being a goddess console me for being a slow dolt most of the time? No. But it does make me feel I have good friends to go through life with.

The Hags Were Out

It's December 21. My sisters and I met again tonight. We get together once a year on Winter Solstice to sing to the sun and ask it to come back. We like the moon and all, but we also like how the sun makes us warm and helps us see.

Oh it was grand tonight. The moon shining on me. The sun itching to come back. So many people came to admire me and hear me sing.

Me and two of my sisters.


Me and a few more of my sisters singing our hearts out. That one with the red nose did try to push me off the stage. But I hit her on the head with my broom. Shove me, will she?


Me and my sisters serenading the sun together. They can't sing without me.

Just A Guy

I picked up The Man at the airport in the afternoon. It's good to have him back. On the way home, we passed by St. Clair and Keele. "Let's go into the Future Shop," he said.

I drove into the mall and parked. We browsed the store on the pretext of looking for a Christmas present for The Boy. Then The Man wouldn't leave. He just wanted to look at the electronic stuff and latest gadgets. "I don't get to see this stuff in Kabul," he said.

Oh yes, he's home. And he hasn't changed one bit.

Homemade is Best

I'm all giddy. The Man will be home Thursday afternoon. I am doing my best to clean up the house. But what I really wish for is a spare room I can just throw all my junk into. Who knew I was the messy one?

I've been sorting out my befana outfit. The hags gather to sing on Friday, the night of Winter Solstice. I've put away all my sewing and sketching. My homemade Christmas cards have not materialized this year so I resorted to store-bought ones. My attempt involved trying to glue foliage to card. Ah well, I will plan it better next year. But I have received four homemade cards so far this year. Aren't they beautiful?

My friend's daughters made this card. The drawing is of Murray, their dog. Inside, they wrote "Murry Christmas!"


My book club buddy, Lindsey, made this card. The church is a rubber stamp dipped in red paint and she's glued snowflakes to the card. She said at her cottage in the summer, they had nothing to do, so she and her daughters made Christmas cards.


This drawing is done by Kai, my 5-year-old neighbour next door. She has an amazing sense of colour and composition. Her mom has put many of her art work in the backyard and in the house. Her mom made colour photocopies of the drawing and pasted the copy onto a card.


This one is done by Carol, another neighbour. She makes cards each year. When you meet her, you'd never know she has the patience to do arts and crafts.


Instead of making cards, I layed out a newspaper for a friend's school and planned a light dinner of soup and salad, cheese and bread, for The Man's return. That's because they feed you lots on those multi-legged flights. My dinner will be homemade. I know when I got home from India, I craved home cooking and fresh vegetables.

So then. Clean house, check. Trimmed tree, check. Food, check. Groomed me, check. Yeah, I 'm ready for him to come home.

The Get Rich Secret

The library just notified me I haven't returned one of their books for six months now so they are considering it lost and I owe them $27.95.

The book is called Secrets Of The Millionaire Mind. Really? I don't remember reading such a book. I certainly don't possess any such secrets of the millionaire's mind. I thought I browsed the book in the library only. I don't remember taking it out. But I must have, and that's how they traced the book to me. I borrow lots of books.

But it strikes me wrong that I have to pay for a book called Secrets Of The Millionaire Mind when I don't remember the book. It feels like I am the victim of a conspiracy, that maybe the secret to getting rich is to play with people's minds, get them to pay you for things they can't prove they didn't get from you. And if they refuse, you punish them by barring them from doing something they enjoy, like borrow books to read.

That must be the secret.

Canada, Eh?

I consider myself an experienced Canadian. Yet, I inadvertently allowed myself to approach hypothermia yesterday.

In the morning, it was -11C out, -20C with the wind chill. I got into the car and idled it for a few minutes to warm the engine. I don't like to turn on the heat in the car till the engine gets going, otherwise you get gusts of cold air blowing at you. So I started on my errands.

Twenty minutes later, my toes had gone numb, I started to shiver. Forty minute later, I started to feel sleepy. I felt my heart beating unusually slow and I knew I was shutting down. That's when something clicked in my mind: I was cold and I hadn't had food all day. Funny how I felt cold but not hungry.

So I turned up the heat in the car full blast and within seconds, felt myself thawing. I stopped for lunch and felt so much better after, like I had waken up refreshed.

This morning, I have a burning sensation in my toes. But we're covered in 20 cm of snow and the white stuff is still coming down. I won't be out for long periods today, that's for sure.

Oh, I just noticed birds perched under our garden table, seeking shelter from the snow storm.

Shallow Relationship

Each Christmas, The Boy complains that I put up short, scraggly Christmas trees. I justify it by saying our house is small, we can't have a big tree. But subconsciously, maybe I had been choosing that neglected Charlie Brown tree.

This year, I decided to get a Christmas tree-looking tree. Without decorations, it already filled up our tree corner. I eye it suspiciously because the needles have started to fall. I've had to vacuum as soon as I put it up. It stands just a little tilted and I can't right it. I'm not sure I feel the piney smell that coniferous trees are supposed to have. I accuse it of not cooperating with me despite being good looking, but I admit, now that I have rearranged the furniture, its full tree-ness rather pleases me. It's just that I'm not sure I love it more than my spindly trees of Christmases past.

Is this sounding familiar? It's like having a handsome boyfriend who's high maintenance and not quite right for you. You do everything to accommodate him and he just doesn't behave. But you still kind of like to look at him, though you're not quite having fun with him.

So I decorate the tree, and it does look better and better. I just keep vacuuming and vacuuming its needles away. In the end, I am glad whether this is a good looking tree or a scraggly looking one, they all end up in the city compost after Christmas, mulched to indistinguishable bits that feed our spring and summer plants the following year.

Can't say the same for that handsome, useless boyfriend.

'Tis The Season

It's concert time at most schools. I went to The Boy's Festival Celebration concert last night. The show was wonderful as usual. The students are like that.

But the part I loved last night was not the formal part of the concert. It was The Boy in the school hallway with his friends before and after the concert.

When mom and I arrived, I espied The Boy and Butterfly Boy sitting in front of their lockers. The Boy was strumming his ukulele and Butterfly Boy was playing his guitar. Two other friends sat around them. The kids were singing! So I gave mom some coins. We walked by the kids and threw change into their guitar box. Soon, other parents were walking by and throwing change into their guitar box too.

Later, I bought some cookies and put them in the guitar box. The kids dived at the cookies and Butterfly Boy shouted, "Oh Sylph, I love you!" Can you imagine any teenager saying that to an adult in front of their friends?

After the concert, mom and I filed along the hall with all the other parents to get to the main lobby to wait for our kids. We were led there by Carol of the Bells playing on violin. Well, there was The Boy with his ukulele in the middle of four violinists. Three of them played the tune while The Boy strummed and one violin plucked their way through the song. Parents were already putting money in their violin case.

As the kids repeated their tune, two more kids came up and started scat singing with the music! They sang solos in the concert and they sounded fabulous now in this impromptu performance. Parents applauded and laughed to see how casually the kids grouped themselves for such good fun.

That's the thing about these kids. They love to perform and they have talent. And because they spend time doing what they love, they are easy going. Although teenagers often give their parents grief as they express their independence, I think The Boy and his friends also do pretty innocent, charming, and cool things sometimes.

All Smoothed Out

In my 20's, I worked with women who frequented beauty salons the way I ate ice cream - often and at different places. I never quite understood what these women, in their 20's, 30's and 40's, went on about. There was a lot of talk about eyebrow plucking, eyelash tinting, facials, waxing, bikini lines, shaving legs, manicures, and pedicures.

I've had this kind of work done three times in my life - a facial once and pedicures twice. I quite hated having someone come so close to handle my private places, and therefore, I have not been a user of salon services. My thinking was, just be your natural self and leave all that fixing up to when you get old. Otherwise, how will the older you be maintained if you are already high maintenance when you are young?

I guess it's maintenance time for me now.

In India, I had my eyebrows shaped by accident. True. I went in search of eye makeup and was directed to a beautician. I thought she wanted to apply makeup on me when she pointed me to her chair. I know, a lot got lost in translation.

So the woman cleaned my face and I kept pointed to my eyes, and she held out a thread, and the next thing I knew, she was flicking away at my eyebrow. I said, No no no. She said, A little, a little, look better. So I thought, Why not? I've never had this done before, so why not now in India? And besides, the eyebrows will grow back. The woman gave me nicely arched eyebrows that look darker than they normally do. It was fantastic.

Now It's been two months since my shaping. My eyebrows have indeed grown back to their usual patch of smear. So I booked an appointment with my sister-in-law's beautician.

Irene too found the curve to my brow and threaded, plucked, and tweezed her way to bring out their natural arch. In the end, I thought I looked pretty good. And that's when Irene said, "You may also want to consider removing facial hair next time."

"What facial hair?"

"Along your upper lip."

"My mustache?" I had wondered lately whether my mustache was visible to anyone but me.

"You could remove the hair there to look even smoother."

So I thought, Why not? First the brows, now the mustache. Why not?

She applied warm wax to my upper lip, patted a piece of paper over it, then without warning, RRRIP. Off came the mustache. And don't let anyone tell you it doesn't hurt. Not like giving birth, but it hurt. Then Irene threaded and tweezed again to clean the mustache area.

"No no," the receptionist said, "We don't call it 'mustache'. Women don't have mustaches. We call it 'upper lip' work."

"Ah. That's like code for 'get rid of my mustache.' "

"It's just salon vocabulary. Some women phone and say, 'I want my armpits done', we still know they mean their underarms."

I'll be darned. Salon talk. Who would have thunk it?

Contrasts

At least I didn't have Indian food again on Friday night. Nope. I had African food.

I went to a book launch and heard the contributors for an anthology on the empowerment of black women in Canada talk about their experiences as well as the experiences of their foremothers. The presenters organized African music and African food for the evening.

It was an eye opening evening, mainly because the contributors to the anthology were young women. I am sure some of them were only in their twenties. Yet, they have such insight into African culture and awareness of their place in history, so much so they can theorize about and articulate their awareness and write academic papers on the subject. These women also have incredible family support to pursue higher education. Some of them are executive directors of health services organizations for black women, lawyers who do international development work, some hold PHDs in feminist studies. Some brought their young children, husbands, and elderly mothers to the book launch. They all delight in the music of their culture.

Contrast this with my mother the next day.

- Tell your sister to quit her job. The work is too hard.

- Mom, she spent 20 years going to school so she can do the job she's doing. What do you mean the work is hard? She's not a physical labourer. She has the education, knowledge and experience to do her work.

- The hours are too long.

- She has chosen to work that way.

- Tell your brother to get a regular job at a pharmacy and close down his store.

- How would he benefit from that?

- So he wouldn't have to worry about if the business can survive.

- He works four days a week, he has great flexibility, he is his own boss, he makes a good living, he knows he can get a job at a pharmacy whenever he wants. Why should he shut down now?

- So he wouldn't have to worry about when he should shut down later.

I took her to a coffee shop that serves free trade, organic coffee and tried to explain the concepts to her. She didn't object to the ideas of free trade and organic food. But I could sense her weighing the cost of buying free trade and organic versus the much lower cost of mass production. Then I pointed at The Healthy Butcher, an organic meat shop, across the street.

- When shops like these come into an area, they attract people with money. Eventually, these shoppers move into the neighbourhood and the price of houses go up. Your house could be worth a lot more in a few years.

- I didn't want to sell Denison but I sold it because it's an old house and it's high maintenance.

- So take care of the one you're in now to protect its value.

- It's too much work and too expensive.

- Is everything about expediency and convenience and you just want to sit back, do nothing, and collect money?

- Yes.

I know people come from different upbringings and histories and have different leanings and purposes in life. But I can't help feeling a little envious of the black women with family encouragement and pride in their heritage. And I think of all the middle-class Indians I encountered who are trying to get out of a hand-to-mouth existence who expressed how lucky they thought we foreigners are.

That Dreaded Indian Food

I am not fond of Indian food. I didn't like it before India, I didn't like it during India, and I don't like it now that it's after India.

But almost everyone I know tells me they love Indian food. I was complaining to a friend recently about Indian food, about how it does nothing for me, and I don't get why so many Indian restaurants have sprouted up in our city and why everyone claims to like the one-taste-one-textured stuff. He said, "The problem obviously, is you have not had good Indian food. I am going to arrange a dinner and get take out from Banjara, my favourite Indian restaurant. In fact, I'll get my neighbour to come over too because he usually makes the food selections from that restaurant. He's Indian and he knows what good Indian food is and he knows what to order."

Even Bro agrees that Banjara makes excellent Indian food.

This week, I went to RJ's for dinner. When I arrived, all the food had been ordered and were keeping warm in the oven. His neighbour asked, "What is it you don't like about Indian food?"

I said, "It's that all the dishes are sauces in varying degrees of spiciness smothering either some vegetable or meat. I can't tell what's in the sauces and can't taste the difference between them. I just taste the spiciness, then it's over. I can't tell what kind of vegetable or meat I'm eating because the sauce takes over, and indeed, sometimes I can't tell if I'm eating meat or vegetable, or whether the food was meant to be shredded or if the food is overcooked and the food has gone to mush."

He said, "Well, yes, urr... yes, Indian food is pretty much how you describe it."

After dinner, someone else said, "Did you like food tonight?"

I said, "It wasn't bad. But here's what I realize. It's not memorable food. When you eat it, you get this immediate excitement on the tongue because of the spiciness. But there's no depth. The food doesn't leave you with a lingering good feel. You forget what it tastes like after and you have no desire to have it again. So you get kind of annoyed because you went through the whole trouble of putting up with the tongue assault and you get nothing out of it."

He thought about it and said, "That's actually true, it's not memorable food."

But I am not one to give up on food. This is food from a culture of over 1 billion people, one-sixth of the world's population, that I am annoyed with. So I bought a cook book - 1000 Great Indian Recipes. I thought if I made my own Indian food and could control the spices used, I would appreciate Indian food more.

Last night, my good friends came for dinner. I made butter chicken. I made it less spicy than the recipe suggested. It's true that with less tongue-biting spiciness, I could taste the subtle blend of the other ingredients in the sauce more. But the chicken itself was rather bland despite having marinaded in tandoori sauce for 24 hours. And after, I still thought, What's the fuss about Indian food?

Tonight, I am having dinner with Jill from the march in India. We had talked about going to the Indian Rice Factory. I am not sure I can do that now. One more try at Indian food, or quit before I actually hate the food?

Nasty Wakeup

The Boy is away for the night. Since I went to bed, thick snow covered the ground. I bought a new winter tire and won't have the set on the car till Monday. It means I can't drive the car in the snow till then.

At 4:30 am, the phone rang. I picked up and an accented male voice at the other end said, "I have your husband here. Can you come out with the money?"

You can imagine what went through my mind.

We exchanged a few 'Who are you? Where are you calling from? What number are you dialing? Who are you calling about?' from me, and 'Bring money to get your husband' from him.

I could sense the man was puzzled by my aggressive and urgent tone. He must've sensed my approaching panic. He finally summed up, "I'm calling from Royal Taxi. I'm in front of your house at Rogers and Dufferin. Is that your house? Your husband Hyber gave me your number. He's here. He said you would pay the fare."

I told him, "Hyber is not my husband. I don't know him. My house is not at Rogers and Dufferin. You have the wrong number."

Whew.

Project Planning

What I wouldn't have given for a project coordinator.

Last night, I primed my mother's basement stairs. I thought I was so prepared, listing and checking all my requirements with the sales people at Home Depot and purchasing every thing I needed in advance.

I was so clever, painting the stairs from the bottom up so I wouldn't be caught stuck in the basement with a wet staircase. But after a few steps, mom said, "Look, you've got paint on your pants." Indeed I had. Lots of paint. And on my t-shirt, hands, and arms too. These were my good clothes. I hadn't thought to bring painting clothes to change into.

So mom said, "Take your pants off. The paint is fresh, I can scrub them clean right now." So I did. When I was done painting, mom had got the paint off my pants and put them in a plastic bag because they were soaking wet. Then The Boy phoned looking for a ride home. I realized I was in a quandary.

I said to The Boy, "I am ready to leave so I could pick you up. There is only one problem: I have no pants on. I can't go inside to get you. You'll have to look out for me and come outside."

Well that was premature distress. Thank god for technology and the fact we now both have cell phones. The Boy said, "When you get here, call my cell and I'll come out." Then mom gave me a pair of her pajama bottoms so I at least had something to cover my legs with. That's how I picked up The Boy and came home.

Bread And Milk

At the end of the march in India, most of us prepared to go home, including the French couple who coordinated the foreigners and served as the international communications team. They had been in India for two years, with visits home every six months. The last six months had been extremely stressful as they negotiated with service providers and struggled with a non-Western sense of time and urgency to get things done.

Sam said to me on his last evening, "I can't decide which I want to do first when I get home - take a big bite into a chocolate croissant, or get a plain croissant and dip it into a cup of hot chocolate." Since then, I've been hankering to do something similar - dip a chocolate croissant into my coffee. Oh I had croissants and coffee in Kabul, but they weren't so much croissants as crescent shaped warm dough and the coffee was powdered instant.

This week, after my morning pilates class, I went into Pain Perdu, our local French cafe. I may not be French, but being in there was like coming home. When The Man took The Exchange there in the summer, The Exchange came back elated and exclaimed, "It was like holding a piece of France in my hands."

So I ordered a chocolate croissant and a bowl of cafe au lait, and I dipped the croissant in my coffee and took a bite. It was sublime. The croissant melted in my mouth, tapping awake forgotten taste buds before flowing down my stomach in a milky wash of warm, frothy coffee.

Thing is, I don't usually dip my croissant into my coffee. The idea of soggy bread doesn't appeal to me, and I am lactose intolerant so milky drinks literally don't sit well with me. But it was something about the way Sam said it, with that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and his girlfriend, Anais, beside him, saying, "Ahh..." as he said it, that made me want to dip my croissant into a warm milky bath.

Sam and I had had earlier conversations about how to treat Anais right. At that moment, I reminded him, "When you kiss Anais, make sure you cradle her head. That just sweeps a woman away." It's only now that I realize I had given kissing tips to a French man when he was talking about croissants and hot chocolate.

In North America, bread and milk are staples in many kitchens. But truly, it's the French who have elevated these staples to a gastronomical adventure of the most satisfying kind, tying food in with all the delightful sensual, friendly, and comfortable necessities of life.

Musical Interlude

Driving home from lunch one day, the radio announced a choral concert at a nearby church in the evening. I came home to look up the information gleaned from the announcement. Turned out it was a concert by Russia's Academy of Choral Art at St. Anne's Anglican Church on Gladstone. The choir would sing selections from Rachmaninov's Vespers. I don't know about Rachmaninov's Vespers, but Russian a cappella virtually down the road!

I phoned for a ticket and went. I love last minute choral concerts in churches. That's how one should listen to such music - stumble upon it as if called in by song, and that's where music ought to be played - in the place that the music is composed for, with god in attendance.

I acquired this preference in France and Italy. When I travelled all those years ago, I wandered many towns and city neighbourhoods on foot. Invariably, I ended up in a church at the end of the day. I was usually looking for a place to rest before heading back to the hotel. It always surprised me when I came upon a concert. I went it even if I was late.

Once in Dijon, while sitting in an almost empty church, people started coming in and setting up music stands. Before you know it, more people came in and sat down around me. Then musicians picked up their instruments and played. Someone handed me a program of the night's concert. It was Mozart and Bach. For the next two hours, I wondered if I was in heaven, and I was not a fan of classical music in those days.

So St. Anne's Church has a high dome in the middle. It has a colour scheme of pink, blue, and yellow, with harlequin patterns and florals painted around window frames and arches. Seated in a pew, we watched the choir enter the stage area. They were young! Not children, but none of the singers could have been more than 25-years-old. The men in black suits came in first and sang a few songs. Then the women in burgundy gowns filed in. All the men moved back and smiled, as if they now felt complete. They certainly looked less frightened.

I was not familiar with the music, but I know good voices when I hear them. Most people can. It is a gift to be able to play your voice like a well-tuned instrument. Most people can't. These young singers can. It stunned me when a young, beardless, thin man opens his mouth and out came a deep bass note. The man and the voice didn't go together. Or when a young woman started to sing and she barely opened her mouth, but a deep soothing alto song issued forth and I wondered where it came from.

The most fascinating musician was the conductor. He too was a thin young man of 30 at most. The program notes said he only graduated from the Moscow Academy of Choral Art as a choral conductor in 2004, and that he is currently a post-graduate student at the academy. It's always fun watching conductors because they are so theatrical. They stand tall, puff out their chest, wag their head, and wave their arms in jubilance when they want the song to get loud and strong, they curl up and writhe in pain when they want the song to be soft. Sometimes they mouth the song with the choir.

But this one, this one also hummed the opening notes for each part of the choir for each song. At first, I looked around to see who's providing the tuning notes. It took a few songs for me to realize it was the conductor. It was distracting. People who sat in the back must have thought so too. They looked around for the source of the humming every time.

But they sang brilliantly. Then I learned this same choir was singing at Roy Thomson Hall the next night with the Moscow Chamber Choir. But Roy Thomson Hall is not a church and going the next night required some planning, and I can't leave The Boy home alone two nights in a row now that I am not travelling. So I went home satisfied with what I fed my soul that night.

Goldilocks

Mom stayed over last night. I was still downstairs when she went to bed. She had had too much food for dinner so when she fell asleep, she had nightmares. She woke up around 11 pm and called downstairs for me.

Instead of getting back into bed in the spare room I set up for her, she crawled into my bed and slept on my side of the bed! She said she was going to do that, I told her not to. Was I annoyed when I was ready for bed and found her in my place. I slept in the guest room.

So this morning, I tried to tell her the story of Goldilocks and the bears and how one should not invite oneself over, eat the host's food, and sleep in the host's bed. But I couldn't get through the story. She wasn't interested and as I was telling it, I realized nothing bad actually happens to Goldilocks in the story. She got away with taking over the bears' house then ran away.

The Boy left his breakfast untouched, so mom ate it, took a shower, then I drove her home.

The Hardware Store

I am installing runners on the stairs at my mom's house. Now that she has tenants in her house, the stairs have become a high traffic area and the broadloom on the stairs have gotten tattered and uncleanable in places.

To remove the 20+ year-old wall-to-wall carpeting, it meant prying the weave out of corners, cutting between the rail rungs, ripping out the under-pad, pulling out all the nails and staples, without getting too soiled and choked up by the dirt uncovered, and without stabbing myself on the little wooden slats of nails that held down the carpeting. Then I had to bang and pry the wooden nail slats up, after which I had to use wood filler to repair the parts of the stairs that got damaged from the prying out of the wooden nail slats.

Then I have to install quarter round where there is a gap between floor and wall. I haven't decided if I'll re-stain and varnish.

I've never done any of this before, nor do I know how to install the runner. But I am sorting things out as I go and relying on the advice of the sales people at Home Depot.

So mom and I went to Home Depot to get the supplies we need today.

I was served by an attractive, delightful man who couldn't do math to help me figure out what length of stair runner I needed. But we worked together. That is, we each made our calculations separately, compared figures, then re-calculated together the ones that were different to arrive at an approximation of the length I needed. I didn't mind that he made mistakes in his math because each time he flashed a smile at me, I melted.

Then he directed me to another man for carpet nails. The nail man explained how many nails I needed for each step and where on the step to hammer in the nails. We calculated I would need almost 300 3/4 inch carpet nails for my job. But Home Depot only sells carpet nails in little boxes of 30. The nail man took me aside and said, Go to Dundas and Runnymede. There is a Rona Hardware there. No, not the one across the street. They sell nails by the pound at the other Rona. You will get what you need at a fraction of the cost here.

While I was being serviced this way, mom was scampering around the carpet area. She wanted a rug for her bed side. She liked a floral one that was actually very pretty. But she fretted and paced about because the rug cost $45. If she chose one that was the same pattern as the stair runner, it would only cost $18. So she muttered and complained about the difference in price.

Finally, I had to put a stop to her fretting. I said, In the blink of an eye, you gave The Boy $40 for no reason yesterday. Now you won't spend $27 extra on yourself to buy a rug for your bedroom that you will stand on each day? She said, But the one that costs less does the same job as the one that costs more. I said, But you like the one that costs more better.

In the end, she relented and took the floral one that she liked better.

At the check out, the cashier scanned our items and stopped at mom's rug. It's $45, she said to make we knew what we were getting into. Now mom piped up and said, Yes we know, but that's the one I want.

So she measured our quarter round and decided to charge us only for half of the wood. She said, They're different lengths so I'll just charge you for the longest ones.

Maybe there is something about two women bumbling about in a hardware store that makes people want to help us out. Maybe it was a Sunday and the store wasn't that busy. But gosh, I had a nice time in the hardware store today.

Is He or Isn't He?

This is The Man's dog in Kabul. He says it comes with the house he's rented but he keeps referring to it as "my dog". So the question about this dog is, is he or isn't he an Afghan Hound?

I think he is.

Compare him with these Afghan Hounds.

A groomed one.


Shaven ones.


Look at their pointy snouts and the woolly feet. The same.

Sis thinks The Man's dog is an Irish Wolfhound, like this one:


I don't think so. Look how round this dog's snout is.

What do you think? Is Scraggy up there an Afghan Hound? What do you think, Sil? Is Scraggy the Jacob of Kabul or what?

Still Adjusting

I am having a mild case of post-travel blues. The trip, especially the march, was so intense that I feel somewhat unanchored even though I'm home. That, and the jet lag I have yet to overcome. I am still falling asleep in the early evening and waking up in the middle of the night.

But apparently, what I am feeling is nothing compared to what Jill felt. She was so much more involved in the march and India than I was. It was good to talk to her today to share how we feel. To her credit, she has set up a small company where she will train non-profit organizations to set up infrastructure and do capacity building. And she's written 50 pages of the book she wants to do on the march and India's land issues.

I've also been in touch with two people I met on the march. I had promised to get back to them with some information. It's good to touch base with people from the march. I think we all needed the connection with each other to prove what we experienced was not a dream.

On the home front, it's been surprisingly busy. For one thing, I am ripping out the broadloom on the stairs at my mother's house, a job that will resume this weekend because it is surprisingly noisy. There are little slats of wood with nails hammered into each step to hold down the carpet. to pry these slats off the steps requires much banging. So I have to do it on the weekend when her tenants are out and not working from home.

I have resumed pilates. I love being back at it. My increased limberness and mobility probably saved me from a worse injury today. In the parking lot of Loblaws, I walked over the painted yellow arrows that direct cars to go straight, turn left, or turn right. Who knew these painted arrows are slippery when wet.

So this afternoon, I am home home nursing my swollen knee from falling in the parking lot. It's also the first opportunity I've had in a long time to sit, drink tea, and read.

Already, I need to regroup so I can start again to get back to normal.

Retail Therapy

At the end of the day yesterday, Lindsey said, Now you know you're no longer in India.

I went out with three friends to Sherway Gardens. Lindsey's sister-in-law works at The Gap and this is staff appreciation weekend. With a transferable coupon in hand, we got 30% off everything at The Gap, even on sale items. So we bought stuff. I was looking for a non-T-shirt. I bought a plaid shirt, a long down coat, socks, and handsome umbrellas. Lindsey's husband, Tony, even joined us for a bit as he was finishing work in the area, en route to another job.

When we passed by a store called Bombay, they too had a 30% off sale on everything. Sandra and Lindsey bought Christmas presents for their moms and I bought Christmas ornaments. Then Sandra went to Ikea for a foldout bed. It's Ikea. We bought things we didn't need. No, the only thing I needed was shelving liner.

I hate shopping, you understand, especially for clothes. Shopping is just not a thing I do for leisure. When I really need something, I dash into a store, find what I need, then dash out, all within 10 minutes. So yesterday was an unusual day, and it was highly enjoyable, though exhausting. Fulfilling the cliche, we shopped till we dropped.

And Lindsey was right. I am no longer in India. Bringing my mind home in a mall with retail therapy. Only in North America.

The Older We Get...

The Boy said, Hey let's have dinner out Friday night. I said I can't, because I have my book club meeting Friday night. He said, How can that be? You just got back from India and you've already got plans?

That's the thing about being an adult. You always have plans. You try to carry them out with focus and order. While you carry out those plans, you also try to live in the moment and appreciate what you are doing, what you are experiencing, observing life around you.

Versus being a child or a teenage. Kids live in the moment. While living in the moment, they try to make plans. Their plans are invariably fluid and last minute. Living in the moment, kids seem forgetful of responsibility and oblivious to life around them.

And what about when you get much older, like after you retire. Literature tells us there are at least two ways to be. You can be a curmudgeonly old coot, full of bitterness, anger, and rigidity. Or you can be lively and full of grace, self-accepting, generous, and forgiving. You can live in the moment and make plans at the same time, and not get upset if the plans fall to shits.

That's the kind of old woman I want to be. Because that's the mindset I need to have to trek the Himalayas. My Himalayan guide, uncomplicated Mohamed, said you have to be physically fit and mentally unburdened to do the Himalayas. If you were not physically fit, you just wouldn't be able to do the trek that requires climbing up and down the mountains, sweating during the day, and freezing in the night. If you were fit but mentally preoccupied, you would be wasting your trek because you would be too distracted to appreciate the effort you made to see the beauty of the lakes high up in the mountains and clouds.

The Man and I have talked about trekking the Himalayas in Nepal. Oh he's afraid of heights and I am afraid of success. But think what a project we have - get fit, grow more graceful, overcome fear. I don't think life will be boring for us even if he is in Kabul right now.

Home

My body is back in Toronto, but my mind is suspended somewhere between home and India. I hope it doesn't take too long to follow.

On the way home from the airport, the Toronto highways were traffic free, the air smogless, the roads quiet. The sky was slight cloudy, casting that muted light on everything. After Delhi, that calm felt a bit surreal, like we were the few remaining survivors post apocalypse.

It's mid-Autumn here. Today, we stomped on carpets of yellow wet leaves outside while bare branches poked through most trees. I wore my down-filled jacket. The Boy had already turned on the furnace. Half a world away where my travelling companions are, and where I was two short days ago, it's 30C, noisy and dusty. You haggle through every exchange, elbow your way to the head of a queue, and jump out of the way of cars, buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and dogs.

The strangest feeling was using the keys to access the different parts of my life, like putting a key into my front door - I wasn't sure which key to use, like putting a key into the car - I had to think twice before knowing which way to turn to ignite the engine.

I have been welcomed home by family and friends, I have shopped for groceries, I have made The Boy get a haircut, I have identified a stench in the kitchen as dead onions on a shelf and cleaned out that cupboard, I have cleaned out moldy food from the fridge, I have exchanged e-mails with some of the people I met, I have had dinner with Sis, I've scrubbed one of the bathrooms clean, and I went to Joe Fresh and bought a red hoodie. I have much to do to prepare the house for winter. The Boy has said several times, It's good to have you home although I had a great time while you were away.

Yes, I am home.

Taking Along Some Of The Wild

I am so glad I got in one more canoe trip to Algonquin before India. This was my first Fall wilderness camping trip in about 20 years.

The leaves are brilliant this year, stunningly so... All shades of red, pink, crimson, orange, and yellow. When you come around the bend in the road and a vista of trees on fire fill your car window, you can't help but gasp and stop in mid-sentence of whatever conversation you were having.

The first night of our trip was cold. It was so cold that by 10 p.m., we were all wearing hats, gloves, and winter jackets around the campfire. It was so cold that when you walked away from the campfire, you could see your breath, but when you get too close to the fire, you got smoke in your eyes. It was so cold that my friend insisted I take one of the two sleeping bags she brought up so I can keep warm. I had only brought a light one. She had a warm sleeping bag, plus her winter coat and a heavy wool sweater.

The weather was glorious all weekend, but too cold to swim. I only had to get my feet wet before the rest of my body objected. We canoed each day and on Sunday, we went on a 10 km hike over buried railroad tracks. You can almost hear the train coming as the path wend through forests and over a lake.

I feel invigorated and am ready to take on India. I invite you to come with me as I try to document my trip here:

The Road To Delhi

Hope to see you on the road.

Inside The Rain

Sometimes, when it's raining, if it's a light rain and the sun is out, you can look through the mist and see the rainbow.

Our timing is such that The Man just confirmed his next contract. He will be working in Kabul, Afghanistan. We debated whether he should accept the contract. All the information we have and the people we've talked to suggest Kabul is safe. The trouble is in Kandahar, with military personnel the target.

Still, I am just a bit nervous. Things can turn on a dime, especially where the Taliban is concerned.

But The Man has an opportunity to take part in the reconstruction of a country. He wants the experience, to be part of history. He wants to be an international consultant so that when we retire, we can experience different parts of the world with knowledge and purpose.

So I leave for India October 3, The Man leaves for Afghanistan October 4. These are heady times, as Sis says.

The Boy is delighted. He's ditched his parents at last. He says he's looking forward to managing on his own, like shop for groceries, cook, vacuum, do the laundry. He will likely have different friends stay with him.

For my peace of mind, I've arranged for him to spend the night at Bro's house every Sunday. That way, he's with family at least once a week. Sis has offered to have dinner with him once a week. Sil and friends have offered to check in on him often. He also has the option of calling on Mom, who is willing to come live with him if he wants. But he says he wants to try living on his own, as practice for university next year.

So can I see the rainbow yet? I think so. The Man gets to participate in rebuilding a country and firming up his international credentials as a communications strategist, I make my foray into international development work, explore the unknown, and lose weight in the process (I'll be so upset if I come back fatter), The Boy gets a taste of total freedom, independence, and responsibility. It's a grand adventure for all of us.

I think we will all come through fine and be better for it. We can do this because we are a secure family with strong extended family ties and a supportive network of friends.

It's raining a bit, but the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful rainbow inside this Autumn mist.

Seventeen

Seventeen years ago today, I had a date with Bro Bro for lunch. He was going to accompany me to my doctor's appointment, then we would go eat. I was nine months pregnant, due to give birth in two days.

The night before our luncheon, I got up as usual at 3 a.m. to use the washroom. I had been getting up at 3 a.m. for about 5 months by that time. On this night, I had the longest pee ever. I had no control over the stream. When it was finally done, I crawled back into bed and shook The Man awake. I said, "I think my water just broke."

He said, "Will it still be broken in the morning?"

"I guess."

"Let's deal with it then." Then he rolled over back to sleep.

Lying in bed, I tried to recall what my doctor told me about water breaking. I was pretty sure I was supposed to go to the hospital right away. But did my water break? I hadn't splattered all over the supermarket floor or soaked the bedding like I had read about women doing. I thought, maybe this baby is just extremely considerate and let me break my water during my pee. No, no, my water didn't break. Where's the mucus plug that was supposed to show two days before? I hadn't noticed being unplugged. So I went back to sleep despite muscles tightening around my back and abdomen.

At the doctor's office the next morning, I told him I was leaking. He examined a sample of my fluid and said, "This is text book amniotic fluid. I have never seen such perfect fluid." Then he called all the doctors, nurses, and medical trainees into his office so they can look into the microscope to see the perfect sample.

When done, he said to me, "Yes, your water broke and we need to check you into the hospital right away. You should have come in last night."

Bro Bro took me into the maternity ward then phoned The Man.

This is what I remember of that afternoon: I was dilating too slowly so the doctor prepared to induce labour. But before they could apply their induction procedure, I went into labour on my own. The contractions came fast and furious. The Man called for drugs twice. I received two epidural top ups. I watched the needle on the pain monitor go off the metre with each contraction.

Even drugged, my pain was piercing and excruciating. I remember thinking, if this is the olden days, I would be one of the statistics of women who died during childbirth. My doctor ordered me several times to open my eyes and push. I remember weighing which I wanted more - die right then or live to raise the baby.

Then suddenly, I felt two bumps glide through me and the pain stopped. I heard, It's a boy. They took away a thing covered in white. The doctor in residence continued pressing down on my abdomen. I said, "What happened? The pain stopped. Was that the baby? What are you doing? Is it over?"

He said, "That's the baby. They just want to make sure he's breathing properly. I am helping your placenta fall out."

Then I heard a baby cry in the room.

"What's that?" I said.

They placed on my chest this little thing with most of the white stuff wiped off. His eyes were wide open, looking around. I looked at him, trying to weigh which was more pronounced - my disbelief at his existence or my lack of feelings for him. "How come he's not wrinkly?" I asked no one in particular.

My doctor said, "He's beautifully smooth. He looks like a cesarean baby."

The resident was filling out a form. He said, "Check. Check. Birth...uneventful."

"Surely that was a huge event," I said, referring more to what I just went through than defence of the baby I didn't quite have feelings for.

"That means nothing bad happened to you or the baby during birth. Uneventful is good."

They took the baby away again to clean him up, weigh him, prick his heel, etc. When they brought the baby back to me, he was swaddled in blue flannel, with his arms tucked in. "He just got born, don't tie him up," I said to the nurse.

"That's so he can't scratch his face."

Then they wheeled us to our room. Lying on the stretcher, I looked closely at the baby beside me and thought, I could easily be a surrogate and bear a baby for someone. I have no feelings for him.

That night, I was wide away. At exactly 3 a.m. I heard a baby howl from the nursery. I don't know how I knew, but I knew that was my baby crying. Then I heard wheels being rolled down the hall and the baby's cry coming closer. I thought, that's my baby for sure and they are bringing him to me. The nurse came into my room, lifted the baby out of his bed, and put him beside me.

"I'll set you up so you can try to nurse him," she said.

The baby cried and cried on my bed. I soothed his furrowed brows with my finger and said, "Hey there baby. Hello and welcome to my world. If I run a few names by you, will you give me a sign which is yours?" It was an astonishing thing. The baby stopped crying when he heard my voice. The nurse froze for a moment to stare at us. He seemed to recognize my voice and looked around as if searching for me. I think that was the moment I felt the connection with him and called him son.

Happy 17th, son!

The Packing

I am packing for India. Yes, I have to pack now, so I know what size backpack to use and whether I need to buy a new one. There is little time to prepare. I am hosting my book club on September 28, leaving for a Fall canoe trip September 29, coming back October 1, gathering last minute things October 2, then getting on the plane to India October 3.

But as I pack, I wondered if Fryslan is still in Canada and how his trip went. Lo and behold, he has left a message. Thank you. Yes, next time, a cottage in Georgian Bay where scenes from Group of Seven paintings come alive, like these trees, taken at a friend's cottage this summer.



As I pack, I am also thinking, How will I benefit from this trip to India? And seriously, the answer is not profound. Top of mind is, I really hope I lose a lot of weight. I think the cost of enrolling in a fat farm for a month is much more than what I am paying for this trip. So I have simply found a more interesting and bang-for-the-buck way of forced weight loss.

How decadent this Western-speak is, so telling of the excess in our culture. Yet, I won't be guilted into giving away all my possessions on the march or to telemarketers looking for donations. Tricked into doing so maybe, but not knowingly and willingly hand over all in atonement for our society's sins. That is not my cross to bear.

As I pack, I think, will The Man and The Boy be alright in my absence? The Man is on the verge of confirming his next contract. What if it falls through? What if it's a go? What of it? Do I think I am so essential to their well-being or do I just want to matter?

And finally, as I pack, I wonder what The Exchange is doing. Should I tell him where I am going and ask him to join me? Will his mom let him? Ha ha, that is too funny. Or should I casually stop by France to see him on the way home? Oh that's funny too. And such naughty naughty thoughts. I'm no Steford Wife, that's for sure. More like a Desperate Housewife. Ok, I'll stop.

How my mind flits.

Looking For Heaven In Hell

My ear perked up this afternoon when I heard a commentator on the radio say...

If you put a woman in a fish costume and throw her in the water, you can choose to believe she's a woman in a fish costume or you can believe she's a mermaid. Most of us want something beyond us, something mysterious in our lives. So we always choose to believe she's a mermaid even though we know she's a woman in a fish costume. We would rather be full of wonder and awe.

Which made me think of the book I'm reading, Sarah Dunant's The Birth of Venus - Love and Death in Florence. A conversation between two characters went something like this...

...hell always holds more fascination than heaven...it is because we have all felt pain whereas it is harder for us to understand the sublime...The pain of hell reminds us of earthly pleasure.

I think it's true that we accept paintings of heaven readily whereas we stare at and study paintings of hell, sometimes mesmerized by the images of suffering and torment.

Later, I said to The Man, My going to India is a whimsical thing. I have no reason to go except I have never been and the opportunity is there. He said, Your going is not so much a flight of fancy as a leap of faith. It requires courage to go. You don't know what you will get out of it till you go.

It's true that I will have done something I've never done before and I may discover something I didn't know I needed to discover.

But India? Culture of female oppression in the heat and dust of corruption, over-population, and poverty. It will be like stepping into hell. Yet, I am going. It's almost a natural unfolding that is hurling me to India, a place I have never desired to visit. I think I am going to a portal of hell to look for wonder and awe. Maybe in the land where humanity brims over, I might get a peek at the sublime, or at least be reminded of the earthly pleasures I have.

Absurdity On Absurdity

Those damn bureaucrats. Their love of rules have supplanted common sense and judicious human interaction.

I applied for my Indian visa yesterday. The Indian Consulate's website is an overlay of texts. That is, their web master screwed up with the text display so several sets of information are displayed in the same space. I viewed the page on a Mac, then on a PC. Same thing. What instructions I could extract was confusing. One of the instructions was to send the application form in by mail or courier.

I went to deliver my application. At reception, a fat man was on the phone. A real courier got off the elevator and joined the wait. The man on the phone ignored us. His phone manners and tone suggested haughty arrogance. Ignorance and arrogance, a lethal combination that will bring a bad end. A woman then came into the reception cubicle. I pushed my envelope through the slot.

"Are you a courier?" she asked.

"I am delivering it."

"I can't accept this. You have to mail it in or courier it in."

"I am my own courier."

"I need to sign for it and have a tracking number."

"But I am delivering this so I know you have received it. I won't need to track it."

"I still need a tracking number to record it in my book."

"You need a number? Here, I can make one up for you right now and you can sign here to acknowledge receipt."

"Madam, we won't accept this from you," she shouted angrily and marched away to the far end of the cubicle to get away from me.

The courier submitted his package and the man on the phone signed for it. I started to cause a scene when a group of consulate staff came out. Perfect, I thought, I could create a really big scene. Then better judgement kicked in. They could tag me and deny me visa. Or they could grant me visa and make sure I meet up with an accident in India. And I would feel more exasperated if she still doesn't accept my delivery, after having done all that emoting and expended all that energy creating a scene. So I got into the elevator with the courier to go back down.

I asked the courier to deliver my envelope for me. He was sympathetic and offered to give me a blank way bill so The Man could pretend to be a courier to deliver my envelope. I wouldn't be able to go back and act like a courier because the woman at reception had already seen me. We had a good laugh over the ludicrousness of the consulate policy. After talking with him about how to fake being a courier, I decided I couldn't put him in a compromising position by using his way bill. So I offered to hire his service the proper way.

He placed a call to his company. After sorting out with the dispatcher I really did want my envelope picked up and dropped off at the same address, that the driver was already with me, that I really would pay for this one-hour service, she charged me $24 for the courier run. All this so the stupid woman at reception can stick to her policy and cover her ass. With bureaucracy like that, no wonder the poor have no property rights in India.

Now I am really mad at the Consulate-General of India in Toronto. It's not good to get me mad because I am not pure of heart. I don't like people and situations that bring out the worst in me and remind me just how petty and base I can be. (That's why I loved The Exchange; he brought out the best in me.) I wish ill on those who piss me off. Fie, fie and death to you, woman at reception. I am now even thinking of becoming a racist. This is not pretty.

Angels Trumpet

We have angel trumpets in the back yard. They are large, white, bell-shaped flowers that bloom for one day then wilt. The flowers are apparently poisonous. Cats and raccoons stay clear away and so should kids.

I like to attribute the appearances of a yellow finch and a chickadee, my all-time favourite birds, to the angel trumpets. I like to think the trumpets have called them into our garden. I like to think angels are guarding our house and watching over us.

I want to think this because I've just confirmed my flight to India. I leave October 3 and am booked to return October 31, with an option to extend my stay. My ticket is good for one year. Hmm, a year in India...

I'm told that on the road to Delhi, foreign guests will have handwashing access to water only. That's how I will brush my teeth, bathe, wash my hair, and wash my clothes. Washrooms may mean behind a rock. I will really have to keep up with those kegel exercises to reduce the need for washroom breaks. Good thing I am back in pilates this month. I can carry a small knapsack on the march. Will I fit in travel documents, books, clothing, extra shoes, toiletry, medication, skin care products, make up, and perfume? The temperature is expected to be between 28C and 30C during the 30 days of the march. No daily showers, eh?

I hope the road to Delhi will not be one of those places where angels fear to tread. In fact, I hope one of those angels with the trumpets leave the garden and follow me to India.

Politics Of My Own

The provincial election has started. In every election, I get recruited to help the NDP candidate in our ward. They must have my phone number in their book somewhere. You help out in one campaign and they pass your phone number to other NDP candidates for every election. I don't really mind. Though I have not always voted NDP, their stands and views are most closely aligned with mine.

In municipal elections, the candidate's party does not formally enter the race so it matters more how I feel about the candidate. In provincial and federal elections however, I do try to weigh the candidate and party politics.

When called to help out in this provincial election, I said yes even though I don't know the candidate and have never heard of him. I was a lazy ass that day. And I don't care for the incumbent, whose only "work" I have seen are chocolate bars slipped into the mail slot of households that put up Christmas lights. He has the poorest attendance record of all MPPs in legislature. Newspaper articles surface once in a while attaching him to a seedy house in Cuba where men and young boys come and go. He claims to have been in Cuba to learn Portuguese, one of the primary languages in our ward. Portuguese in Cuba? Apparently, that's where his teachers lives. I want him replaced.

I canvassed with the NDP candidate and attended his campaign launch party. He seems an affable and articulate man. I came home to do a bit more research on him. It was then that I discovered information on the other candidates in our ward for this election. One of them is the leader of the Green Party.

I vote Green often. The Man was director of communication for them a few years ago. I want to see the Green Party be a viable alternative in Canada because I believe a green, sustainable economy is better for our mental and physical health. So now I have given time to a party that I may not be voting for.

Or should I vote NDP because I have given them time and I like the candidate?

Come to think of it, does it not always come down to Green or NDP for me? Except that time I voted Liberal because I didn't want Harper in, and that other time I voted Liberal because I admired the woman candidate.

I am a political slut.

Sod Off, Boy

The Boy is going through a very unlikeable phase of teenhood. It's the taking for granted so much and showing appreciation for so little. He's rude and belligerent to me, negative in outlook, and contrary in nature. This is on top of all the whining and complaining he already does. He is no pleasure to be around.

I've stopped talking to him. No more bantering, joking around, inquiring about his day, anticipating his needs. When I want to tell him something, I take a deep breath and talk in a slow, controlled voice. I ignore his protests, snide comments and attempts to provoke me into a fit. I call him on his disrespectful behaviour then walk away. Don't engage, I remind myself. I don't care that I am being a mean mom.

A friend once told me that she went through a period of about three years where she didn't like her son at all. She started liking him again as he entered second year university, when he matured into a thoughtful, considerate young man.

I don't see evidence of that kind of man emerging in The Boy yet. He's just an irritating, selfish, narrow-minded whinger. Three years, eh?

Shelter From The Storm

Summer touched down and took off so quickly. I sit here looking out my back window and it's 12C out. Which made me think of the amazing weekend I had at a cottage recently with my friends. As timing would have it, that was the weekend The Man attended a Zen-Buddhist retreat, and The Boy attended the Virgin music festival on the island. See what independent lives we lead?

One of the finest moments of this weekend with friends was the four us sitting on the deck smoking and drinking. A fifth friend was inside the cottage reading. It started to rain. But that did not deter us from doing the smoking and drinking that needed to be done. We simply pushed our chairs against the wall of the cottage where the roof jutted out by about two feet.

Under this shallow shelter, we continued to smoke, drink and talk. It was a wonderful feeling of being protected even as we were exposed; the feeling of protection was strong because we were together.

We stuck it out this way for a while before retreating back into the cottage either out of hunger, or we finally succumbed to the gathering storm, or both. There is nothing like watching a storm with friends from the safety of a dry cottage, where plenty of good food await.

One Step From The March

It's not that I have nothing to write about. It's more that I am cocooning, trying to get myself together. I also have India on my mind.

It's a crazy last minute thought, so unlike the things I do that require months of planning. It's not the idea of going to India that's paralyzing me. I want to go. It's the speed of how things are unfolding and the real possibility that I may be going that frightens me. I am just not used to getting what I want, especially when it's a last minute whim.

It happened like this. A new friend and her husband have for years worked on land reform in India. They've been organizing a march of the landless that will take place this October. As founders and key organizers of this march, they've mobilized between 25,000 and 100,000 of India's poorest. The march takes place over 30 days, walking about 16 km a day. She returned to India this week for the pre-march set up.

But before she left, she asked me to join her, for either the whole or part of the march. Chief Phil Fontaine is going. Because they are so well organized, my food and shelter will be taken care of, as I will be a foreign guest. I just need to take care of my flight.

The Man tells me to go. He calls this low-picking fruit. That is, the fruit is easy to get, everything is set up for me. The experience can be tremendous and maybe life altering. I am tired of thinking about doing something but never doing it because of cost, mothering, and wifely concerns.

Already, I am calling on videography resources to advise me on how make a documentary of the march. Maybe sell the film to Vision TV or W after the march to recover the cost of the trip. Even if the film doesn't get produced, I still want to take part in the march. Think of all the weight I will lose.

I have applied for my passport and had photos taken for a visa. I can recruit help to take care of my home responsibilities. It's only for one month at most.

So I fumble with raising the funds for the trip. I am one phone call away from booking the flight.

So Wired

To prepare for The Exchange's arrival, The Man took apart his office and turned it into a bedroom.

That meant the computer, printer and router were relocated to the basement. It also meant all the connection cables he's put around the house for me to plug in with my laptop for internet access became defunct. For over a month now, we've only had online access via one computer.

The last time we saw Bro, The Boy lamented about the sad state of our 7-year-old Apple computers. This week, things happened quickly. Bro told us of a great deal for a brand new iMac. The Man decided he needed his own PC laptop for business.

Today, everything came together. Bro facilitated the purchase of a new iMac. The Man bought a new PC laptop. The Boy somehow set up the new iMac with wireless internet connection and he's online within 15 minutes of bringing the computer into the house. The Man fiddled with his new laptop and within an hour, he's also online with a wireless connection. That left me plugged in with the old computer.

I tell you, we spent the rest of the evening like a family of E.T.'s, each in front of our own computer, trying to reach out to the world beyond our house, looking for the way home.

We are so wired it's silly.

Can You Believe It?

Last summer, The Boy did the narration for a children's series called Roll Play. It's been airing since last September. We watched a few episodes but without cable, we have not seen most of the series.

Today, we received word from the producers that the show's been nominated for a Gemini for best preschool show! Can you believe it? We may get to attend the awards.

Here's a sample. Click the View Trailer options. He's the voice at the beginning telling kids to jump, not the singer.

Hello September!

So just like that, summer draws to an end.

It's been a glorious summer. I know, I know, it's my crush you say. But it's not just the crush. In fact, it's not The Exchange at all. It's what the crush was instrumental to. It helped me tap into that good place that makes me feel optimistic and that possibilities for happiness are endless. It is always how we look at things.

So here we sit at the cusp of Summer and Fall this weekend and The Boy, The Man and I are about to go off in three different directions, all of which will enrich our lives, keep us tight as a family, and give us tremendous freedom and independence.

The Boy has been ramping up for school. This year, he will be exploring university options. He will need to settle down and get his grades up.

The Man is pursuing some leads for his next assignment. This is always so full of promise and excitement, yet so wrought with frustration and anxiety.

Me, I am resolved to resume my art work, stay in shape, and obtain paid work, at least part time. Today, I am imagining my own secret hideaway: a farm with a stone house, a field of wild flowers on a hill, a river at the bottom of the hill. My studio is here and I come here to draw, paint, and write.

So let's see what unfolds.

End Of The Adventure

Oh I'm dying. Dying of a broken heart. The Exchange is gone, gone, gone out of my life. We put him on his flight home Saturday. His time with us was up and he had to go back to France. My life feels so empty and meaningless. How will I live without him?

There. I had to get that out of the way. The drama queen in me was itching to act up. But The Exchange has indeed left us. It was time for him to return to his real family. School starts in a week.

The Man said it feels like the end of an era. It does feel like the grand summer adventure is over. I don't know if The Boy has benefited from this summer's experience, but I've enjoyed every minute of The Exchange's stay with us. I am so grateful to have had this experience. I don't think The Man intended me to be the beneficiary of this exchange when he said yes to The Exchange's father.

This is what I know: we were enriched by this experience. How lucky we were that The Exchange and The Boy should have been so similar, yet complementarily different. We didn't get someone who was moody, into drugs and sex, slovenly, and uncommunicative. We got a perfect angel.

It was trying for The Boy to have a shadow for two months, especially the four weeks in Toronto. But he showed his mettle and emerged a gracious host. I think the main drawback for him was the camping in France. His resourcefulness was tested and he made a good experience out of a dull situation. I am still stunned he came back speaking French.

I was fortunate to have spent time with The Exchange, who evoked in me an appreciation of the precious and the potential for being. It's like being reminded that I have to embrace being in all its facets in order to appreciate the preciousness of beauty in all its aspects.

In sessions with Dr. Noggins, I puzzled about what seeing The Boy and The Exchange together has meant to me. It's a joyous unfolding to see these two boys explore their different languages and their personal commonality. It was their parents who facilitated the experience, with me being central to the process. All so unlike my own youth and the circumstances under which I left home.

So the crush aside, I am grateful to The Exchange for triggering several sessions of discussion with Dr. Noggins.

To use Kid2's metaphor, there is a string that attaches my heart to The Exchange's (and Kid2's and The Boy's) despite the ocean between us. It doesn't matter whether The Exchange is aware of this string. It matters that I know it's there, and that I send good will to The Exchange through this attachment.

So how did we spend our first day without The Exchange? Well, the first night, The Boy and I stayed up till 6 am waiting for The Exchange's phone call to say he's landed safely in Paris. We watched two seasons of Scrubs. Between episodes, I snoozed and learned to sing the Hawaiian rendition of Over The Rainbow. The Boy looked up chords and taught himself to play the ukelele. He can do Hey Jude and If You're Happy And You Know It. Now he takes the ukelele with him wherever he goes. He said at 6 am, "Mom, it's like the two of us had a party. It was fun hanging out with you."

The next day, The Man succumbed to the flu. The Boy and I slept in. No one stirred until 4 pm. That's because we had been invited to dinner at a friend's and we needed to get ready. How fortunate we were that the invitation was there to help us ease back into life without The Exchange.

It's still a mighty fine life.

The Competitive Spirit

A while ago, I had a marvelous conversation with The Boy's friend, Butterfly Boy. After, I told The Boy that of all his friends, Butterfly Boy is my favourite. Since then, The Boy has made several references to Butterfly Boy being my favourite, as if he's just a little jealous and in competition with Butterfly to retain his postion as the apple of my eye. Then he and The Exchange went to his friend's cottage.

When he got back, he said, "You know how Butterfly Boy is your favourite? Well, I am now Friend's mother's favourite."

"How did that come about? Did she tell you so?"

"Yeah, she said, 'Boy, you're my favourite.' It's because I'm so helpful and I make her laugh."

I can totally see that. If he weren't my son already, he would be my favourite. But I think it's funny that he wanted to be another mom's favourite.

Toronto, Still The Good

Well, if Fryslan is coming to Toronto, then what Fryslan wants, Fryslan gets.

I don't frequent five star restaurants. The two times I've been, I was disappointed. I mean, when I pay over $100 for a meal, I don't want mediocre food. So these are my favourite restaurants. I like them because they serve great food, they have good ambiance and they are affordable.

Lee Garden - 331 Spadina Avenue - My all time favourite Chinese restaurant after all these years. I have never had anything I didn't like at this restaurant. Their beef tenderloin with avocado and cashew, and shrimp with spicy eggplant are must haves.

Ferro - 769 St. Clair Avenue West - Trendy Italian restaurant. Always too noisy but I have loved everything on the menu. If it weren't for the noise, this would be my favourite restaurant. Their magic mushroom appetizer is a must have.

Le Paradis - 166 Bedford Road - French restaurant offering wholesome food with substance, frequented by the elderly Rosedale crowd looking for an inexpensive meal in a comfortable setting. This is one of The Man's favourite.

Thai Basil - 467 Bloor Street West - Exquisite Thai cuisine beyond the common pad thai and mango salad. I love their duck curry with grapes.

Salad King - 335 Yonge Street - Despite its name, this is actually a Thai restaurant right across from Ryerson University. It's a student eatery of good food at reasonable prices. You may have to share tables, but the tables are clean and chic. It's like they have a mass feeding system of quick and efficient service. It's an experience.

JTime - 394 Bloor Street West - The Boy's favourite Japanese restaurant. I like their spider roll, nagimi, and grilled salmon belly. I also like the items on their specials menu.

Oyster Boy - 872 Queen Street West - The Boy's favourite food is oyster. We come to this restaurant once a year on The Boy's birthday. We sit at the tables with the tall stools and order 5 dozen oysters, salad, chowder and fries. The meal costs the three of us over $200 but it's worth it. If you don't eat 5 dozen oysters, the meal could be considerably less.

I invite everyone to offer your favourite eating spots, and maybe special places here to help Fryslan and his wife enjoy Toronto all the more.

Little Things

The Boy and The Exchange are away at a cottage. Time to get tight with The Man again. He confesses to being jealous of The Exchange. I don't know why. It's not like I would actually touch the boy. The Man says he doesn't want to talk about it. He just says he doesn't like seeing me go ga-ga over the boy, and he would prefer I not talk to him so much.

That's crazy talk. I already know I cannot accommodate The Man's request. First, we are not in high school, and second, The Exchange is my son while he is in Canada. How can I not talk to my charge? Indulge my crush. It's such a small thing to ask.

Still, it's good to have some adult time with The Man. First thing we did, we smoked a joint last night. It pretty much knocked us out. As part of the recovery today, I slowly cleared out my basement "office". It's so unfair to keep referring to this space as my office. It's insulting to my work, when I work. This room is really our storage space.

So today, I cleared the room to put in more shelving. I am moving my closet down here and giving The Boy his closet back. The closet unit I bought is a complicated arrangement of wires and rods. I gave up on the instructions after the first read. I had no desire to rewrite them. Which does not bode well if I want to return to work as a technical writer.

Thankfully, The Man figured it out. I now have my own closet, for the first time in this house, after almost 20 years. I feel cleaner and more organized for the Fall now that my storage is in order. Funny how these little things make one feel so in control of one's life.

But it's always the little things. Little things said or not said, little things done or not done, that make or break relationships, that shape or unscramble our lives.

I was thinking tonight that if I had received a few words of encouragement from any of my university teachers, I might have chosen a totally different career path. If The Man hadn't done all the little things he did in the seventh year of our marriage, I might have moved on. If I hadn't off-handedly said yes to the community projects that came my way, I wouldn't have many of the friends I have today. If my friends and I hadn't exchanged little words of support, understanding, and laughter here and there over the years, I might be a very lonely woman today.

So here's to all the little things in our lives that we don't always pay attention to or are often not aware of. May we have many little things in our lives that make us feel joyously alive.