My Haute Couture

The Man and I brought back articles of clothing from our travels. Three of these types were gifts for our families and friends. But we know little about these national costumes. So I did some research. Here are the four items we have, and one we don't have:

The Pakol

The pakol is a wool hat worn by Afghan men. It is a Sunni prayer hat. It has a rolled up rim and is worn like a flat beret with the rim across the forehead. That is so the rim acts as a cushion when the men hit their heads to the ground in prayer.

An Afghan man wearing a pakol.


My pakol at home.


The Patoo

The patoo is a large wool shawl or blanket that men wear. It measures about 54 inches by 102 inches (1.37 m X 2.6 m). It is an all purpose shawl to keep covered up and to keep warm, to wear in the city and when herding goats.

Here's an Afghan man wearing his patoo.


My patoo at home.


The Phiran

Kashmir is still part of northern India, though many Kashmiri would like it to be independent. The phiran is worn only in Kashmir. My host and guide on the houseboat called it a poncho. Almost every man or boy and some women in Kashmir wear one. It is like a Kashmiri's national uniform. I love how it drapes and sways and that the Kashmiri create a layered look with it.





My phiran at home.


The Salwar

The salwar are loose fitting, draw string cotton pants, usually with a matching kameez or tunic topic. The Indian word kameez must have from the French chemise, or chemise came from kameez, or they both came from the same root way back.

The salwar kameez (pants and shirt) was introduced to India by the Moghuls, which means the outfit is Muslim in origin. The ensemble is worn in South Asia by both men and women. In India, the women's version of this outfit is usually colourful and detailed with embroidery.

I bought the salwar only because being loose, they are easy to fit. The kameez on the other hand is trickier as it is more body forming. None fit me anyway. The idea of the salwar is, the pants are so loose around the legs that when the slightest wind blows, the fabric picks up the wind and cools the wearer.

The salwar kameez.


My salwar at home.


The Sari

Rich or poor, all women in India and most women in South Asia wear the sari. All the women on the march certainly wore one. There are several components to the sari: a skintight short-sleeve or sleeveless blouse, an underskirt or petticoat, and the sari skirt.



Wrapping the sari around you the right way is complicated business. You have to pleat and tuck the sari into your petticoat at the waist and hope it doesn't fall apart when you walk. The same piece of fabric is then pulled across your chest and draped over your shoulder. Sometimes, this same piece of fabric is pulled back over your head as a scarf. It is a very long piece of sari - 5.5 m to 8 m long, depending on how you wear it. Some women use safety pins to keep folds and tucks in place. But I wonder what they used before the safety pin was invented.

Each sari is custom made. You buy the sari set of fabric at a market vendor and the tailor makes it for you. I didn't get one despite the attractiveness of the colours. I have no occasion to wear a sari in Toronto. And if you don't wear it, then all you've got is a long long piece of colourful fabric. Hmm...maybe I should have...

That's How It Is

It is Wednesday. I am still eating leftovers from Sunday dinner. How can this be? I planned and made all the food, dinner was at my house, how come still so much leftover? Am I hard-wired to forever overdo food?

But let's not blame me. For one thing, there were ten of us for dinner. That silly mother of mine, she ate before she came over. Bro and Waif had a late lunch and a big one at that. Still, I thought everyone ate their share despite that.

Then there was dessert. I planned to serve our Christmas pudding. But Sis said she would bring a dessert, and Bro phoned to say he would also bring one. Not wanting to have too many desserts, I didn't steam the Christmas pudding.

But Sis arrived without dessert. Bro brought a pan of creme caramel, and corn bread. I decided to steam the Christmas pudding. Later, Sis went out to drop Big Young'Un off at the train station. Before heading back, she phoned to see if she should bring more dessert. I said no no no. But she offered chocolate peanut butter ice cream from Baskin Robbins. She was already at the ice cream shop. What could I do? Yes yes yes to chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

Meanwhile, The Boy brought out raspberry sherbert and chocolate ice cream for Kid1 and Kid2. Where did the raspberry sherbert come from? Oh I picked it up when I was out because I knew the kids were coming, said The Boy.

Then in walked Sis with chocolate peanut butter ice cream, pralines and cream ice cream, and 12 butter tarts, and an apple cake. And my Christmas pudding was ready. And Bro's creme caramel was delicious. And don't forget the organic chocolate animal crackers Waif insisted on bringing. Then Bro said, You could cut up the pineapple I brought. I didn't.

After dinner, everyone left. I sent six butter tarts, the apple cake, and animal crackers home with Sis. Mom took some food home. The Boy doesn't like leftovers and is not fond of the chicken or salmon I made.

So here I am on Wednesday, still eating leftovers.

Absence Of My Car

I've always maintained we don't need a car because we live in the city. Now that our car is billowing smoke from its exhaust, I cannot drive it any more. The mechanic said there is an oil leak into the engine. It's the burning of the oil that's causing the smoke and smell. It will cost over $2,000 to fix. Given the age of the car, we've decide not to fix the problem. We are in the market for a new car.

But once you're accustomed to the use of a car, it's hard to do without, even for a short time. Old habits are hard to kick. I stopped in the supermarket today to pick up a few things on the way home. You know how it is. Once you start shopping, you tend to load up. When I checked out, I had four heavy bags of groceries. That's when I remembered I hadn't brought my car. Ugh.

I stood outside the supermarket to catch a bus. But there was a large crowd and people were complaining. Two buses went by with "Out Of Service" signs. Apparently, there had been an accident further down the road and all buses and streetcars were stalled.

I looked for a cab. None was in sight.

I started to walk home, resenting very much that I had to lug home groceries, but mad at myself even more for forgetting I didn't have a car with me. When I got to the bottom of my street, of course buses and streetcars full of passengers whizzed by me.

As much as I try to support public transit, I am really peeved they are never available when I need them. I have learned not to trust them. So what can I do? I am a car person now.

Here And There

In Toronto, I am hot. That's because of my cold and fever, and my hot flashes. I go shopping, I see friends, I go out to dinner, I go to pilates classes, I go for walks, I track down The Boy around town because sometimes I don't know where he is and I want to give him heck for not telling me. Last night, I partook of Winter City, Toronto's winter festival of shows and restaurants. Lots of freedom. Though it's been cold out, it's very warm when we get indoors.

The weather in Kabul is the same as in Toronto: -5C during the day, -14C at night. Except central heating doesn't exist in Kabul.

The Man wears his coat and scarf in his office. He's bought a duvet for the cold nights. To reduce draft, he's asked his guards to seal the windows with plastic sheets. The pipes in his house froze so he's had to go to the UN compound to shower. Just when the guards got the pipes going again, his heater died. Tazi, my scraggly Afghan Hound, now sleeps in The Man's apartment because despite the lack of consistent heat, it is warmer there than in the basement.

Security alert has been higher since the bombing of the Serena Hotel. Foreign workers are discouraged from going out; they move around even less than before.

The weekly walking group The Man wanted to take part in is now on hold. To get some exercise, he has joined a yoga class even though he doesn't like the kind of yoga they do, but it's better than nothing. He even offers his house as a venue for the yoga class sometimes so no pattern of foreigners' movements can be established.

Socially, The Man and his friends meet for dinner at the UN compound. Sometimes, they go to his house to make dinner and to watch movies on his laptop.

Totally Solo

The Boy has been studying with his friends. Last night, he was preparing for his band performance exam at Henry's. I met them at a restaurant for dinner, then The Boy spent the night at Henry's where they continued practising their various percussion pieces for the exam.

I was home alone for the night. But before bed, I had a pot of green tea. Green tea has a higher caffeine content than coffee. I was an insomniac all night. I read my books and played on the computer till 5:00 a.m.!

Despite being a wreck today, I spent an enjoyable and productive day clearing out my drawers of garbage papers and organizing my files. But toward the end of the day, I was getting lonely.

In the early evening, The Boy came home. Immediately, he arranged with his friends to spend the evening together in celebration of the end of this round of exams. We had dinner and now, he's getting ready to go to Butterfly Boy's for the night.

Now, do I have a husband and son or not? Is all this alone time good for me? Is this how it would be if I were in jail and put in solitary confinement? Ooh, the drama queen is restless.

But what this bout of solitude makes me appreciate more are my mother and mother-in-law. I have to give them a lot of credit for keeping busy when the nest is empty and they became widows. And I am so very glad The Man has a social circle to have dinner with and watch movies with.

Maybe that's why I try to see my mother at least once a week. Because really, if I were in her shoes, I can easily imagine slipping away and disappearing if I don't make the effort to connect with others and if no one outside the house bothers to keep in touch with me.

I just invited mom and my siblings over for Sunday dinner.

Avoidance

I am like an old man, coughing and spitting up phlegm. At least I spit into a tissue and not on the ground. But I tell ya, the temptation is great to hold a contest with my neighbours to see who can spit the farthest.

Cold within and cold without. I am not having a good week. But here's this week's epiphany: whether I am sick or well, my activities don't change much. What I do day to day matters not a whole lot to anyone right now. My destiny is absolutely in my hands.

I asked my heart, How do I want to spend my time then? To my surprise, I answered, I want to draw, paint, and write. Then I was surprised that I was surprised.

Last night, I went down to the basement and looked for my drawing materials. I found my art books and art supplies. No exaggerating, my hands trembled and my heart fluttered when I picked up my sketch pad and supplies bag. I brought them upstairs and laid them out on the table.

Today, my supplies and I stare at each other every time I pass by. Settling down is not one of my strengths. Instead, I take out my new lithium battery powered cordless drill and examine the parts. I take out the vacuum cleaner and vacuum the house. I make oxtail stew and eat it. And now that I think of it, I have to do laundry and clean the window blinds. The blinds haven't been cleaned in months.

I know, avoidance.

Here I go then...

How We Heard About Heath

Around 5:00 pm today, The Boy and three of his friends were at the house. They talked of Moses, Budha, Socrates, Plato, John Stuart Mills, and John Locke. Hefty stuff. They were preparing for their Philosophy exam tomorrow.

It's been many years since I studied philosophy and religion. I can no longer remember the details and quotes attributed to these figures. For a while, I listened to the boys talk over my head, debating who stood for what. They were in very serious discussion, weighing the merits of various arguments and what they would put on paper to defend them if such and such an issue came up.

Then Butterfly Boy said, "It's gotta be true. I received two text messages just now about the same thing. Heath Ledger died."

"What?" All the boys ran upstairs to the computer to look for the news. I turned my laptop on in the dining room.

It's true. Heath Ledger died today. An overdose or suicide. The guy was only 28. After Brad Pitt, he was my favourite Hollywood guy. He was a better actor than Brad, taking on more risky roles and playing them with a dark bend. It's his innate sadness and vulnerability that comes through in every photograph and on the screen. I can't believe he's dead.

I hate it when young talent dies. Because of drugs at that.

I gave the boys lasagna and salad for dinner. Whey they finished, they cleared the table and put their dishes in the sink. They thanked me for the snacks and dinner. At 8:00, they left for home. Each of them hugged The Boy goodbye. I hope none of them will find life so overwhelming that they have to resort to drugs. May they always have good friends to turn to for comfort and support when their families aren't around.

That Darn Technology

Over lunch this afternoon, The Boy said, "Mom, I'm just looking out for you 'cause you said you were thinking of joining a singing group. I'm not saying you're a bad singer, it's just that other people will hear you.

"There's this woman who gets on the subway every morning at Dundas West and gets off at High Park. She's got her head phone on and listening to her music and singing along with her songs. She sounds awful. She sounds like a dying animal and everyone in the subway car stares at her and makes faces. But she just stares out at the door, oblivious to everyone around her.

"This morning, I was wakened by a similar screeching noise and I thought oh no, how did that woman from the subway get into my house? Then I realized it was you singing in your bedroom."

The Boy ran upstairs and came back down with his cell phone. He said, "Listen to this mom. I took the liberty of recording you so you could hear yourself."

He played the recording. It was definitely me making sounds off key, off pitch, mumbling, screeching, whimpering, and sounding like a dying animal.

He said, "I'm not saying you shouldn't sing, especially when you're alone in the house. It's just that you may want to consider not singing when there are other people around."

It was too funny.

Intolerance

Once, in my early twenties, I sat in the old Simpson's cafeteria to have coffee. I shared a table with an old woman. She smiled politely. I returned a polite smile. Then she launched into polite conversation with me. I don't remember the gist of the conversation but it was one of those I would rather not have had. The most memorable question she posed was, "And how do you like living in our country?"

In my younger days, I had little tolerance for ignorance and even less tact for dealing with it. Ill-versed in the Chinese culture, I had never thought of myself as anything but Canadian. I had little memory of living anywhere but in Toronto.

Her question offended me. I saw it as an attempt to distance me, a non-white, from Canada. Our country? She meant this was her country, not mine; I was the trespasser, the transient visiting her country and will be gone soon. So how do I like it while I am here? How grateful am I that Canada extended hospitality to me? Never mind that I vote, pay tax, abide by the laws, and contribute to the economy, just like a regular citizen.

I answered, "I like it fine. How do you like living in our country?"

She was offended. She mumbled a few things then we stopped talking. Which suited me fine.

It's only in retrospect that I realize how rude I had been, how intolerant. I hadn't been gracious and generous; I hadn't made it easy for her to learn about a visible minority. I felt it wasn't my responsibility to teach her anything.

After all these years, I don't know if I've devised any better strategy for dealing with people who draw my attention to our racial differences. I've learned more about what it means being Chinese. Or more precisely, what it means being Chinese in a large Canadian city. I take it for granted we all look different and carry our own unique cultural, social or familial heritage. I also think surely, in the 21st Century in Canada, identification by race alone is a thing of the past.

So I was quite surprised recently to meet someone who shortly upon being introduced, told me she once saw a Chinese mother and her young daughter at a cultural event. The mother was pointing things out to her daughter. Oh, that mother was doing a good thing exposing her daughter to new things. Imagine how much the daughter will learn, said my new acquaintance.

I didn't say anything in response to that. I've learned to hold my tongue. But I couldn't help thinking, What in fuck is this condescension about? Would you have told me about a white woman taking her daughter on an outing and how much that daughter would learn?

Yet, a part of me knows this new acquaintance was just trying to connect with me and therefore latched onto something she thought I might appreciate.

I don't know why I carry the believe that in social situations, racial and cultural lines are no longer prominent in the 21st Century. It's not like there is peace in the Middle East or Africa. If anything, racial, cultural, religious and economic differences are the causes of conflict and strife more than ever.

Maybe it's wishful thinking. I wish that we had evolved to a point where we accept differences as the norm, like accepting that the only constant is change.

Race-based comments don't come up in conversation with my friends. If anything, we simply partake in each other's cultural festivities because we are there. And maybe that's why my friends are my friends. But with people I don't know, people who don't live with the racial, cultural, social and economic diversity of downtown Toronto, maybe I just have to be more gracious and tolerant.

The Longest Relationships

At my doctor's office the other day, I described some of the things I was considering doing in the next few months. She said, "I like the sound of that. It's just right for a free spirit like you."

Free spirit? Isn't that a euphemism for someone who can't settle down, who can't hold a job, who doesn't fit in? I didn't know what to make of her comment. She must've seen that puzzlement on my face. She said, "I mean that in the good way. You don't care to conform and you don't like to be tied to a daily schedule. You bucked the system and you know the price you're paying for your freedom but you still value your freedom more."

This is my family doctor. I had no idea she remembers anything about me or that's how she sees me. Until recently, I only saw her once a year, if that. But maybe that's why I've been with her for over 25 years. She never makes negative comments about what I am. I've known her longer than I've known The Man. She delivered The Boy. I've seen her pregnant with all three of her children. Yet, ours has always been a doctor-patient relationship.

Come to think of it, this is also true of my dentist. I knew him when he was single, just starting out in his practice. Then he got married, moved offices, and adopted a daughter. Now his daughter is in university. But aside from this, I don't know much about him.

My doctor and my dentist, they are the two longest relationships I have outside of my birth family. My longest relationships are with health care providers. I wonder if that's true of other people, and whether we live in a society where professional relationships last longer than personal ones.

Different Sounds And Places

This weekend, I attended two music concerts. The first was a CD launch party at the Silver Dollar. The Silver Dollar. In my teen years, I saw a drunken woman sprawled on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Dollar. She had her skirt pulled up to her waist, exposing her nakedness for all to fear. She was peeing on the ground, lying down. The place has changed much since. It's still a dive, but so much cleaner.

My friend's daughter, Kate, just cut her first solo album. She's 23 and a trained opera singer. But as a young, hip, female, urbanite recording under an indy label, her music appeals mostly to young, hip, artsy women.

More precisely, her audience was mostly young lesbians, and us - her parents, aunts and uncles, and their friends. So you had on the dance floor and around the stage all these young androgynous couples hugging and being affectionate. And in the back, sitting around tables (because we're too tired to stand all night) were the old people in our fifties.

But these young women, they were something. They were delicate looking, glowing with the optimism of freedom and potential. Many dressed like newspaper boys with t-shirt, vest, and cap. Some wore plaid shirts over a white T. Some were in leather. Some sported the nerdy look with vest and eyeglasses. They were all slim, pretty, and mild-looking, kind of like David Cassidy,



or Zac Efron.


You know what I mean? They dressed up like pretty boys. My friend said they look like pixies. You can just imagine them going home to sleep under their lily pads.

Kate produces electronic music, singing over it with a strong, quivering voice. Whether you like her sound or not, you can't deny that she's a powerful singer and accomplished musician.

The next night, I went to a living room concert. The group was called The Undesirables. Two rough-looking guys singing country and blues in the living rooms of white-haired yuppies. They were highly entertaining and equally adept at very tender ballads.

To be sure, neither had a good voice, but when they sang together, their voices blended to produce strong, melodic, soulful tones. They knew this too, because they talked about how together, they sound so much better than either alone.

The concert took place in someone's home. The host had moved the furniture and brought in chairs to convert the living room and dining room into seating. The singers stayed at one end of room facing the audience of 30.

You still buy a ticket, but during intermission, the host provides coffee, cookies, and dessert. It's a grand idea, this living room concert, because no matter what the sound is, music is best live and served with food.

Boom Boom

The Man texted a message mid-morning to say he's fine despite the boom. What boom?

I had just left my doctor's office when I received the message. I hurried home to see if I could get more information. As I thought about what the message meant, I could feel my heart go up my throat and had to focus on keeping it in my chest as I drove.

I got online and googled Afghanistan news. Indeed, two hours ago, Reuters issued a story about suicide bombers in Kabul throwing hand grenades at the Serena hotel to get past security, then going inside to blow themselves up. Two hotel guards were killed and three foreigners were injured.

I have had coffee and cake at the Serena Hotel. The Man sometimes goes there for meals.

I sent a text message to The Man. He replied though he did not pick up when I phone him. At least he is fine.

Unfazed

We've dropped The Man off at the airport. Now I am home. Although the house has not been turned upside down due to his departure, I feel like I'm home to rein the day in. I miss The Man.

The Man told everyone his flight time was 11:55. Some friends invited us to dinner before his departure. Surprisingly, he accepted and was eager to be there. We planned to have an early dinner, then leave our friends at 9:30 to get to the airport by 10:00. These friends then rounded up several other friends for a send off dinner.

While The Man was out having lunch with another one of his friends, I wanted to check the status of his flight. That's when I looked at his ticket print-out, and just to verify what I saw was real, I went online to double-check. That's right, his flight time was not 11:55. It was 21:55. Which meant 9:55. But the boarding time was 20:55 (8:55).

This meant we had to be at the airport by 7:00.

When we got in touch with our friends to cancel dinner, they invited us over for coffee. That was gracious of them despite them having to notify our other friends.

But just to make matters more complicated, The Man phoned The Boy at school and said now that he's leaving earlier, could The Boy also see him off at the airport. The Boy was just going into orchestra rehearsal so we arranged to pick him up at the subway on the way to the airport, and that we would phone him with a 15 minute notice.

Which lead me to asking The Man for my cell phone. He gave it back, without battery. It meant I had to take the charger to our friends' and charge it there. Yes, we went over for coffee and electricity.

On the way to their house, I said to The Man jokingly, "You sure you have your plane ticket?"

He said, "Yes, but I'll make sure before we go into their house."

We parked. The Man looked for his ticket. "Hey, where's my briefcase?" he asked.

I said, "The last time I saw it, you put it on the armchair when we were putting our shoes on." So The Man went home to get it because not only did his briefcase contain his plane ticket, it also contained his computer, passport, and money. Meanwhile, I went into our friends' house to explain why I was arriving alone.

They are so gracious, they had a good chuckle, though they called him a goof. Some of our other friends came by anyway to say goodbye. We had a nice little visit, then we were off.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. But then The Boy was with us. When The Boy and I are together, we usually get it right despite our fights.

I am drinking mint tea now and planning out the next segment of my life. Surprisingly, my blood pressure is at an all-time low of 119/75. Am I dead and don't know it, or am I just so good at handling The Man I am unfazed by his unpredictability? I miss The Man.

My Favourite Friends

Our neighbour, Rick, came over for lunch the other day. The Man calls him "my brother from another mother", as he's been calling all his friends lately, but Rick was the original brother from another mother.

I said, If The Man can call Rick brother from another mother, then I can call Rick my husband from another marriage. Rick said he's tired of that job. He's been husband to many women, without any of the benefits of a real marriage. He just gets called on to help out, then he's sent home to his own bed.

But what does he expect? His wife helps to arrange some of these calls. So I said, You gotta convert to Islam so you can have four wives or you gotta get your wife out of the picture as broker. Rick is one of our favourite friends.

When we came home from Deerhurst, we drove into the driveway and were greeted by three bigger-than-life snowmen with arms spread wide, waving at the street. Our next door neighbours had build three snowmen on their front lawn and decorated each with branches from their Christmas tree. That meant while we were away, Toronto had a big snowfall.

This house belongs to Kai, my 5-year-old neighbour, and her parents. Her father, John, was our message therapist. Five years after we stopped going to him, he phoned one day and said, "Hi neighbour." The Boy now sometimes babysits Kai.

John and his wife, Caitlin, were the neighbours who fed my fish while we were away. A sign of their presence in our house is, one of my plants that had been growing bent over with the roots jutting up in the pot had been righted. It was replanted straight. John is the gardener in that family. He's given me many cuttings in the summer that have bloomed beautifully in the fall. I know it was John who righted my plant. John, Caitlin, and Kai are some of my favourite friends.

A few more doors over live Andy and Lucia and their three kids. They go camping with us each year. The Boy sometimes babysits their kids too. When they were last away, I went over each day to feed their fish. I still have their key.

Andy is a mumbler. That is, sometimes I have to get really close to hear what he's saying. But I love talking to Lucia. She is so much fun, smart, generous, and easy to talk to. I think it's because we share a similar sense of humour, we don't take ourselves too seriously, and we cut each other a lot of slack for saying stupid things without meaning it.

Lucia and I decided that because we don't originate from a WASPy culture but are married to men who do, we share a world view common to people who accept that generations of a clan can live in the same house or compound. That is, in addition to having a similar temperament, we have the same need for a tight, extended family, and we value independence and individuality at the same time.

We are going over to their place for dinner tonight. I expressed concern they would be cooking for us after work when they are already busy with three kids, so why don't they come to our place instead. Lucia said, "Don't be silly, I am just going to buy take-out chicken." We are that comfortable with each other. Andy and Lucia are some of my favourite friends.

Crap

Crap. I'm all choked up.

We got home tonight and I started to clean up. I also started to plan my menu for the week. That's the only resolution I've made this year, to lose real weight. One way to do that is to plan my meals.

But I get to the meals for Wednesday. And I remember that's the day The Man goes back to Kabul. Crap crap crap. It's like a planned death. Or a planned birth. You know on that significant day, life as you know it now will change.

I know I've been here before, but each time it's different. I know he'll be back, and honestly, he's getting just a bit on my nerves, but that's no reason to send him so far away to a conflict zone for such a long time.

I can only remind myself his going to Kabul is not about me. True, he goes partly for us, to provide for us. But it's also the first time in a long while since I've heard him talk about his work with such purpose and enthusiasm, joy even.

So I will hold on to that thought and focus on what I need to do here.

Frozen

My god, it's -17C in Huntsville right now. With the wind chill, it feels like -22C, so say the weather forecast. Tonight, we are expecting -25C.

Good thing we got in some skiing and tubing before this cold.

Today, The Boy's friends left. But a friend of The Man's, Bruce, joined us. It's good to see different friends through out the week. But the big decision I have to make is whether to sell our timeshare ownership at a huge loss.

The Boy refuses to go with us anywhere. We were lucky this week because two of his friends were willing to come up. The Man hates being at a resort. I don't know why. Something about it defining who he is and he is not a timeshare kind of guy. I say going to a resort is just one kind of vacation. It's a chance to hole up once a year and do nothing more than go for walks, go to the gym, go swimming, go skiing, and read. But maybe he is just looking for things to complain about.

After dinner, I was explaining to Bruce why I was thinking of getting rid of our timeshare. The Man jumped in and said, "Don't get rid of it. Why would you want to do that?" Huh? What's his attachment? I can't keep making arrangements for us to go on resort vacations only to have him complain about the accommodations being not good enough and The Boy whining about being away from his friends.

Maybe this is the part they enjoy: the three of them are playing Scategories in front of the TV. They can't beat The Boy. There is some fighting and blowing up movie on. They are laughing and being silly.

I am at an impasse with my decision, stuck, frozen in this deep freeze.

Happy New Year!

For New Year's Eve, we went to a friend's cottage north of Huntsville. Lindsey and Tony bought a cottage there this summer. Lindsey said she wanted to spend New Year's Eve in front of a bonfire by the lake at her cottage. It was a romantic idea and she invited us to join them.

We had an early dinner, then walked out to the middle of the frozen lake in the dark. It was stunning. We trekked over knee-deep snow. The Man wore snow shoes. As we got closer to the middle of the lake, Lindsey or Tony would say, It's about six inches deep here, or It's about knee deep here, or It's about waist deep here, and finally, If you walk out to that snow-covered boulder, it's about shoulder deep, but I wouldn't because the lake isn't frozen through yet.

Still, we were quite far from shore and all around the lake were lit cottages with their occupants preparing to ring in the new year. Lindsey's property looked like a Christmas card from where we stood - warm lights illuminating from a wooden cottage against a back drop of snow-covered trees. How I wished I had remembered my camera.

Then we trekked back across the ice to shore. Lindsey dug out the fire pit from the snow and Tony shovelled the snow to look for their firewood. The Man splintered wood to make kindling while I cleared the pit area for us to stand around. Across the lake, we heard a cottage of revellers waiting for the chime of midnight.

But we didn't know exactly when midnight would come. All our watches and cell phones were off from each other. There was a 10-minute span of when midnight might strike. We decided we'd go with one of the cell phones. Lindsey's daughters joined us. At 11:50, our bonfire was roaring. We brought out champagne and tall glasses and kept them cool in the snow. Lindsey turned off all the lights to the cottage. It was just us, the stars, the bonfire, and the lights from across the lake waiting for the new year. At 12:00 on the cell phone, we toasted to the new year. A couple of minutes later, we heard the cottage across the lake count down and at zero, they set off sparklers. So we toasted to the new year again. And just to make sure we didn't miss it, we counted down a third time and toasted to the new year.

It was snowing on the way back to the resort. It seemed we were the only car on the road. After a while, we saw flashing lights behind us. I said, "It must be an ambulance." The flashing lights came closer. I said, "Why doesn't it have its siren on? Better pull over and let it pass."

The Man pulled over on the shoulder. The flashing lights pulled up behind us. It was the OPP! The officer came up and asked when we last had alcohol, whether we had open alcohol in the car, and finally, asked to see The Man's driver's licence. I said, "Were we speeding?"

"No," said the officer. "You were going 70 in a 90 zone. We just wondered why."

The Man said, "It's snowing, it's late, there are no other cars on the road, we're not familiar with these roads, so we're just taking our time."

"You driving back to Toronto?"

"No, we're driving back to Deerhurst. We're here for the week."

I guess the officer determined The Man wasn't drunk and we didn't smell of alcohol, so he bid us a good night and we went on our way. In retrospect, we were pulled over for going too slow even though there were no cars on the road. That was a first for us. But it was a good tiding.

May this year bring you much good tidings and contentment.