Clowns To The Left Of Me, Jokers To The Right

It's a little weird being friends with a couple. You are always stuck in the middle.

Last week, the wife half of a couple confided to me that her husband seems clued out about the chores that need to be done around the house, so she's often angry with him. A few days later, the husband and I had lunch. He told me his wife must be going through menopause, because she's always so cranky. I bit my lip and tried to not take sides. Sheesh. Good thing they are not having affairs and confiding to me about them.

Recently, the wife of another couple and I talked about going to New York together, just for fun. When the husband found out, he objected, on the grounds he and his wife don't spend much time alone so why would she want to go to New York with me but not with him. Good point. She planned a trip to New York with him instead. I didn't mind. But sheesh again. I was almost the other woman, for her!

Then there is my pottery teacher. She makes beautiful, delicate ceramic things. But her assistant, now she makes beautiful, whimsical things. This year, she's making sea creature Christmas tree ornaments. I was so taken by her work I ordered four tree ornaments. Yet I have not bought anything my teacher made. Not that I think my pottery teacher minds. It's just that I would feel awkward if asked whose work I preferred.

Always is such delicate balance in my life. So it gave me the great idea to paint a balancing acrobat in the house. I want to render a sketch of this on my bedroom door.

Stoopid Fish

I had two penguin tetras in my tank. One is aggressive. The other one was just kind of wimpy. As they grew, the aggressive one got bigger. The wimpy one got sick. It floated about looking gaunt and was slow to get at the flakes at feeding time.

I decided to fatten it up. So I hand fed it. I dropped food right in front of it so it could get to the food before the other fish swarm in. Even then, sometimes it missed the food, it was so slow. Then I had the brilliant idea of netting it in the water and feeding it so it could take its time. After a few days, the fish looked better. It swam faster and got frisky.

So frisky that when I fed the fish today, it charged up to the food and did a flip. I felt water splash on my hand. I looked in the tank to watch the fish feed. But I couldn't see the formerly-wimpy penguin tetra. Where did it go? Then I heard little flaps on the floor. I looked down to see the stupid fish flapping about on the floor.

I tried to pick it up off the floor but couldn't hold onto its slippery tail. So I got a piece of paper, scooped it up, and flipped it back in the water. The poor thing floundered about for a while. It was in shock I was sure. Then I turned the light off to let it recover in its own time.

Only it didn't. When I looked into the tank a few hours later, the stupid fish was dead. It was a long fall to the floor from the tank. And it was out of the water for at least one minute. I hand fed that fish to make him well only to have him get flippant on me and tumble to his death.

Simple

I am a simple woman. It doesn't take much to make me happy.

The Boy showed me the web site where he downloads all his favorite TV shows, movies, and music. He set me up so I could do that too. I went to the music section and downloaded all the CDs by Libera, formerly the St. Philips Boys Choir. But lo and behold, the songs all come in wma format when downloaded. That means I have to click on each song to play in my Windows Media Player. I went online and search for a solution to discover a freeware called Switch that allows me to convert wma files to mp3 files on a Mac. Now I am converting these songs and importing them into iTune to allow for sequential playing of songs. I feel like some kind of technowiz. So delicious.

I enrolled in two weeks of full time French classes starting December 8. Eeek. The woman at registration even gave me information that could see The Boy (or me!) do a homestay in Montpellier to study French in true immersion. Not in Paris, she said, Too many distractions and English speakers about. So thoghtful.

I've been cooking up a storm, preparing meals for my friend's teenage son, and for The Boy and me. I bought more barley and made my soup. I freeze our food in individual portions so The Boy can nuke them whenever he likes. Now there's homemade food in the house whenever we want. So smart.

I got The Boy a three-month membership to a gym he asked for. Surprisingly, he goes at least every second day. He meets his friend there, they work out, he comes home. Fitness was not on his list when he took the year off. This week, he's been paying attention in Biology class. He came home to tell me the best breakfasts include protein, some carbs, and no added sugar. Hallelujah, The Boy sees the light!

Where's My Barley?

Today is Prince Charles' 60th birthday. The Globe article says he's still fresh, that he was often said to have a butterfly mind flitting from one thing to another but now that mind has coalesced, and that he's a poster boomer, an exemplar of his generation where 60 is the new 40.

Good on him. Across the pond here, I hope my mind coalesces some day. Right now, I can't be said to be blooming like Charlie. I'm kind of wilting.

A few weeks ago, I bought a bag of pearl barley and made some soup. I want to make the soup again. I've looked everywhere and cleaned out all my kitchen cupboards, but I can't find my bag of barley.

I sit in a chair to do my neck stretch exercises and The Boy thinks I've fallen a sleep. There's a bed upstairs if you are tire, mom, he said.

My head feels tight all the time because I put my hair up. I forget when I perch my reading glasses there. So I was pulling cushions out and throwing books in the air when The Boy asked what I was looking for. My glasses, I fumed. They're on your head, he said, then he crept away carefully as if I were contagious.

My knees hurt so much I can no longer kneel on them. I hate that I can hear my joints snap crackle and pop with every movement. That glucosamine I'm taking better kick in soon.

I look at the 18-, 19-year-old young men who pleased me so much last summer and say, Those are unkempt boys in need of a cuff on the ear. Where are their mothers?

I huddle on St. Clair with the old men who spit on the ground and swear at stray dogs. No I don't, not yet. But I feel like doing that sometimes. I know I'm whining. This is a whiny kind of day. I know I'll feel better if I can only find my barley and make my soup. I bought the mushrooms and carrots for it and all.

How Many Heart Attacks Can One Have In A Week?

Last weekend, I had dinner with some friends. One of the men is the guidance counsellor at The Boy's new, interim, alternative school. I asked him when the last day for withdrawing from school is, without penalty. He said next Monday.

That sparked a conversation between The Boy and me at home. Since he barely attends class, and he's not doing well in his courses, and he has already been accepted at U of T, why not make a firm decision to either stay in and do well or withdraw. Right now, he's just wasting time. The Boy agreed that was a sensible thing to do. But before withdrawing, he wanted to confirm with U of T his status, i.e. that he will be receiving information in the Spring for re-enrollment.

Well, good thing he checked. U of T told The Boy they had not approved his deferral request. Reason? When they offered him acceptance, it was based on his first term Grade 12 marks last year. He had over 80 in every course. The condition for acceptance was that he successfully completed Grade 12. So if he had attended university in September, he would have been in regardless of how he did the remainder of the year.

As it turned out, he graded poorly in two courses the remainder of the year. They dropped to the 50's. So when he submitted a request for deferral, the university looked at his final grades and said based on these marks, we cannot accept you for next year. A letter was supposedly sent to advise The Boy of this. He cannot recall whether he received such a letter. The only thing for sure is, right now, he has not been accepted to any university for September 2009.

What to do now? The admissions officer had The Boy's file in front of him and advised that the university would not accept him at the downtown campus based on his current grades. However, if he raised the two 50's to 80's, there is a high likelihood he will be re-accepted, if he re-applied.

I had several conniptions on learning of this turn of events. What kind of a slacker is he?

I helped The Boy formulate a plan. He went to school the next day and talked to his teachers. If he applied himself in this second term of this semester and handed in extra assignments, can he still pull in grades in the 80's. The teachers said yes. If he shows up for class and handed in all the assignments, he's sure he would get over 80. If the quality of his work falls short, they can talk about extra assignments then. That was easy.

I had planned a trip to Orlando at the end of November with Mom and Sis. The Boy wants to come. But school must be the priority, I countered. He said during that week, his school is also on a field trip. He had not signed up for it. That means there will be two days of no school that week, so he might as well come with us to Orlando. But he will still miss three days of school. So I asked him to check with the teacher what would be covered that week and what assignments are due.

Back to school The Boy went and talked to the teacher. Oh I don't plan that far, said the teacher. No problem, you go to Orlando and we'll do whatever we need to do to make sure you get caught up and get the grades you need. What kind of a teacher is this?

Then The Boy whipped out his mid-term report card. It was abysmal:

Course.......Boy's Grade......Course Median
History..........45.............. 37
Philosophy.......55...............40
Biology..........11...............54

I think I am more appalled by the course median than The Boy's grades. What kind of a school is this?

Too bad I don't drink, otherwise, this is where I would turn to alcohol to numb my nerves.

Red Dragon No More

The Red Dragon is truly dead. We finally hauled it to our neighbour's trusted mechanic for a second opinion. It has the things wrong with it that our first mechanic identified. Plus, because it had been sitting there for so long unused, the brakes are completely rusted. It will likely cost $5,000 to $7,000 to fix.

The mechanic said if I put all the fixes in, I won't get my money back. There is no guarantee how long the fixes will last. I won't be able to sell it for more than the fixes I put in. No one will buy the car as is because the fixes are so expensive. I suppose the good thing is, he's saying pretty much the same thing as our regular mechanic.

I said no to any fixes. Except I have promised my neighbour the snow tires from the car. After that, the mechanic will have the Red Dragon towed to a car graveyard.

What does this tell you? I am probably one of those people who keep dead bodies in the attic for a long time before finally letting it go.

Good bye, good bye to my dragon that took me all over the place for so long. Good bye.

Flittering Thoughts

The Man has left me again. With news of a Canadian reporter being captured and released near Kabul, I am more concerned than ever for his safety. Life goes on here and there. Here's to The Man, his safety and health, over there.

Speaking of which, The Man and I have a new health pact. When he comes home for Christmas, we will each have lost 10 lbs. That's the goal. Lose 10 lbs in 6 weeks. Easy, right?

Not when I ingest 730 calories at 10 PM because I was touched that The Boy was thoughtful enough to bring home a cinnabon for me at that time. Not when I sit eating pistachios late into the night because I can't put my book down, then wonder if I should reward myself with a snack at 2:30 AM because I finished the book.

The book was hard to put down. It's about a Canadian woman who trekked the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain. I feel like I did the 800 km walk with her. Just to make sure I really do it, I sent a friend a simple note: "Camino de Santiago. 800 km backpacking through Medieval towns in Spain. 1 month pilgrimage. Let's go."

Her reply came simply as, "I'm in." Spanish is definitely on my to-do list now.

Another friend won't be in. She's heading to France in two days. I have agreed to prepare meals for her teenage son and check in on him every few days.

I am trying to schedule in some intensive daily French classes. Everyday for two weeks, five hours a day. It's like French Immersion. Wouldn't it be neat if I weigh 10 lbs less and could speak French to The Man when he comes back?

My instructor thinks I have the potential. He said I catch on quicker than others in the class. That's because everything is a review for me I reminded him. Then he gave that French shrug that said, I offered my opinion but it's your life, you do as you please.

I am quite pleased that The Boy now wants to major in English literature in university. He found a list of Time Magazine's top 100 books ever. He's on a quest to read all the books on the list. But we also found out he may not have deferred university because of a procedural glitch. That means he will have to re-apply, with lower marks than last year, because he's just pretending to go to school right now. But that's another story.

New AGO

This weekend, the Art Gallery of Ontario opened its doors for the first time in two years to showcase its renovations.

The outside looks like an upside down glass canoe.


Inside the "canoe" part:




Not as grand, but reminds me of the National Gallery in Ottawa.


Also kind of borrows from the Museum of Civilization in Ottawa.

A New Breed

Valedictorians are a different breed from what they used to be. I remember them as serious students with good grades, but well-rounded enough to take part in and do well in sports and music. On stage, they deliver a predictable speech reminiscing the years in school, thanking teachers, and telling students they have a better future for having attended their school. The tone is usually dull with attempts at a few clean jokes.

The Boy's high school graduation ceremony was last night. Before school ended, the students voted on who they want for valedictorian. The girl they chose was a stand-up comic. In her farewell speech, she did the above, delivering the traditional valedictorian message as required. But her energetic and rambunctious delivery had the parents smiling and laughing, and the students cheering, thumping, hooting and hollering.

For sure, the snippets down memory lane were selective. But it was the way she did it. For example, she took out a piece of paper in the middle of speaking and said, "I have some apologies to make." She went through the list apologizing to each teacher for real and I presume imagined past offences. She got to the last teacher, hesitated a bit, and said, "Hm, no, I'm not sorry."

I guess it speaks to the nature of this high school and this generation of graduates: they are full of life and potential, but more so when they choose to major in the arts. You have no doubt they will be very fine citizens and very good to each other.

Bubbles

Sometimes, little things happen that make me wonder if life is a series of meaningless coincidences that you learn to take advantage of, or if it is full of free-floating bubbles bursting little miracles.

A few days ago, I visited a friend who had been in a car accident. She's fine and recovering at her sister's home. I wanted to bring her a bottle of wine. Not being a drinker, I didn't know what kind to get. I went into the liquor store, looked around mindlessly, and randomly picked up a bottle of New Zealand white wine. I don't even remember the name of it right now, but I was in and out of the store within five minutes.

When I gave her the bottle, she said, "How did you know this is my favourite wine?"

"Get out, you know this wine?"

"Yes, because it's my favourite. I just went to the liquor store and got a bottle. That's what I'm drinking right now." So she took the opened bottle out of the fridge to show me. Indeed, it was the same wine that I brought.

I am one of those slovenly laptop users who eat and drink by their computer. I replaced the key board on my last laptop twice. I opted not to replace the keyboard a third time when some of the keys started to fall off and I was left with little nubs to press into when I typed. I could see and feel food crumbs between the keys.

But now I have a new laptop. I didn't want it to suffer the same ailments of dirty board and unhinged keys. Yet, I can't not eat at my laptop. What to do?

Then for no reason, The Man and I walked into a computer store. I walked straight to the counter where a model of my laptop was on display. Only, on this model, there was a plastic cover over the keys to protect the board. I decided immediately I wanted that same cover for my laptop. I said to the salesman, "What's that? I want that cover. Why is it on the key board?"

He said, "It's to protect food and drink from spilling into your keyboard. And it doesn't interfere with use of the keys." How is it that such a keyboard cover should make itself known to me just when I needed one?

Then we went to a birthday dinner for my nephew, Kid1. The Man chose a book called The Dangerous Book For Boys for his present. I thought some of the suggestions in the book were perfect experiments for him. My niece, Kid2, saw the book and said, "I gave him the exact same book." Sis said indeed she had given him a pocket version of the same book. How is it that this little 7-year-old girl and The Man both arrived at the same conclusion this was the perfect book for Kid1?

I found out over dinner Kid1 is reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid. That was the other book I had in mind for him. I started reading it in the store, loved it, and knew he would like it too. I even engaged in discussion of the book with him a little, like offering that Rodrick is the wimpy kid's brother. Now that he has confirmed he likes the book, I will get the second installation for him for Christmas. A third comes out January 2009. So even if he somehow gets to the second volume before Christmas, I can still pre-order the third.

What's going on?

Brotherhood Of Beef

I was driving home this week and caught a show on the radio. The story went something like this...

...Tucker and I eat dinner out often these days. It's usually steak one night, a couple of hot dogs the next, a few pizzas the day after that. After a while, I felt that my diet may not be all that healthy. I was noticing grease stains in the shape of my body on the couch when I got off it. I couldn't smell my bad breath in the morning because of the grease on my skin.

That night, Tucker phoned. "Hey, where do you want to eat?"

"Um, um, I don't want to eat out."

"What? What's wrong? You mad at me?"

"No. I just don't feel like going out."

"Want me to take you to the doctor?"

"No, no. Look, to be honest, I think the way we've been eating just isn't healthy and I want to take a break."

"No, man. You love steak. Let's go have one and you'll feel better."

"I don't feel steaky right now."

"How about ribs then. You love ribs."

"That's the problem. Steak, ribs, hot dogs, pizzas, all the time. It's not healthy."

"What, you suddenly gone healthy on me or something. I thought we were the brotherhood of beef."

"The brotherhood...? Tucker, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? I looked in the mirror today. I didn't like what I saw. Did you know that I can lay in bed and use my stomach as a table for my laptop?"

"Cool."

"No, it's not cool. It's disgusting."

"Okay okay, why don't you come over and I'll cook for you. I'll even come pick you up."

"Tucker, you don't have food in the house."

"I'll stop by the supermarket and pick some up on the way over."

"Tucker, you don't know how to cook."

"I'll get fruit. All kinds of fruit stuff. I'll make you a fruit salad."

"You'd do that?"

"Yeah, yeah. And you know, we'll make it fun. I'll get some of those corn dogs with dough to use as chopsticks."

"Pogo sticks?"

"Yeah, we use them to eat the fruit salad and then we can eat the chopsticks after."

"Deep fried hot dogs with fruit salad? That defeats the purpose of having fruit salad."

"No, not defeat. It's a compromise."

I don't remember how the story ended. But it made me laugh and laugh in the car. My siblings and I have stopped noting our daily food intake; the job had not deterred us from overeating. We've given up on dieting. It was really funny to hear this story just when we've given up.

Foray Into Colour

Ha ha, my newest pottery collection! My current handiwork is only just a little wonky, not crazy wonky.


A shattered platter got pieced back together by nimble fingers. This is the recast using the old one as mould. New art work though.


Grape leaves on rectangular platter.


Smal salad bowl.

It's All Treats

We didn't get a lot of kids knocking on our door this Halloween. I hear them outside, but they're not knocking on the door. It's because we didn't bother with a pumpkin this year.

But of the ones who came, those toddlers in their little tiger, panda and mouse costumes were so cute. They can barely walk, but they beamed with big smiles, and they knew if they shout "Trick or Treat" at me, I'd give them chocolates. When The Boy received his first piece of candy at age two, he stood on the porch of someone's house in his little furry leopard costume with one floppy cat ear, peered into his bag, and shouted with glee and bewilderment, "Mom, I got one!" as if he'd unknowingly bagged a moose.

Halloween costumes haven't changed much over the years. Kids below waist high usually wear animal, princess, butterfly or fairy costumes. Their parents mean for them to be adorable. I know. In addition to the leopard suit, I also made a dragon costume for The Boy when he was four. These little ones are closely supervised, with adults watching from the curb. Sometimes parents come with the smaller ones to the door. Some of the parents wear costumes. I try to give parents candies too. They usually take them.

Kids about shoulder height get into superhero and Village People costumes. I know. The Boy went as Austin Powers at that age. They look at what I give them and provide commentary to other trick-or-treaters as they leave by shouting things like, "Cool, sour keys at that house," or "More chocolates." Some of them want to choose their own candies from my tray.

Older kids and teens get into the scarier stuff of Halloween. They smear red, white, and black paint on to mimic blood and bodily decay. The Boy went as a headless ghoul at that age. These older ones often don't say much. Some hide behind their masks and grunt, and I wonder if they really are teens or adults looking for candies. But I thank them for coming any way.

But it is at Halloween each year that I find out what's being peddled out there in popular culture. Tonight, I saw several girls wear shiny red skirted outfits with "EHS" on their chests. I asked one what that meant. She said she's a cheerleader from High School Musical. Of course. Zac and Vanessa what's their names.

This year, a pair of tall clowns in red polka dotted suits, frizzy wigs, red nose, and clown shoes came to the door. They were fabulous. A little thigh-high Pooh bear struggled to hold the screen open when I opened the front door. I said, "Whoa, is that you, Pooh?" He shouted back, "Yeah," in a most matter of fact way. His sister, a Mini Mouse, stood there and blinked at me with big eyes. So very cute. Some braver kids knocked on the door, then hid. When I open the door, they jumped out in front of me. That was a neat trick, but it's all a treat for me.