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.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
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:
Jane was singing about love, not food. But in our family, love and food, they are the same. I surrender.
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.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, December 17, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, December 14, 2007
'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.
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.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, December 07, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, December 02, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
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.
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.
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