To The Lighthouse, To Sleep

I hate reading Virginia Woolf.

For my book club, I am reading To The Lighthouse. I read this book in university. Did an essay on it even. But I have no recollection of what the book's about. And no wonder. I need a translator. I need some action to keep me awake. It is an annoying book obsessive in minutiae.

Oh sure, there are literary techniques at play - the utterance of a phrase that sets off different reactions in various characters, revealing aspects of human nature, a phrase becomes the common element that strings the characters together, there are observations that detail the supposed richness of the inner life, there is the slow tracing of the passage of time, the setting and speech that evoke the social milieu of Woolf's intellengentsia at the turn of the last century.

Stream of consciousness writing is necessarily flighty writing. You drift from one character's mind to the next in a continuous stream. Yeah, yeah, if you paid caffeinated attention, you pick up cues about the characters' personalities. You get a glimpse into each character's nature, views about life, relationship with other characters. But you know, I don't care about the characters and their petty concerns. I don't want to know the minutiae of their self-important observations. The details bore me, the characters frustrate me, the narrative obstructs me, the tone and language baffle me.

I was once fascinated by Woolf, a female writer who captured all of the above and more, despite her ongoing depression and the condescension toward feminist expression of the time. I had trouble accepting that a woman of her talent would kill herself. But now I think, god, if I were that obsessive with petty details, I'd kill myself too.

I once found her work artistry exemplified, her insight into the mind and its vacillations brilliant. But now her writing just bugs me. I wonder if that's a function of aging. I have no patience for my own brooding, nevermind someone else's, and a fictional someone at that.

Yet, I loved The Hours, the movie based on Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. Right, that's because The Hours is Mrs. Dalloway translated, moved to a different medium, the theme updated and applied in more relevant contexts. Fine, she's still brilliant. I just hate reading her.

Different Strokes

A few days ago, I had a chance to get some brand new, brand name skis for The Boy, cheap. At 75% off. I was tempted. But in the end, I declined.

I couldn't see the practical value of The Boy owning skis right now. As I am cleaning out the house and shed, and calling in charity agencies to cart away our excess clutter, I didn't want to have skis around that I have to polish and store. Not when The Boy has not committed to ski lessons this year.

But that got me to thinking that I may have different values than most of my fellow pilgrims on the road of life. Given that we live in a consumer-oriented society where acquisition of goods is a common goal, I think it's unusual to turn down a bargain. And this is not the first "deal" I rejected.

One Christmas, my brother-in-law offered The Boy the newest Play Station system on the market. I was adamant in refusing it. Instead, I accepted for The Boy a scooter, which gets him moving around, outside.

I reasoned that The Boy had enough computerized and electronic gadgetry to sabotage his time and keep him nerdy. I didn't need one more thing to yell at him about. I didn't want to support a system where acquisition of the latest fad game is a way of life. I did agree that every six months or so, I would take him and a friend to the then Playdium, where for $25 each, they could play video and arcade games for half a day.

A friend said at the time, three visits to Playdium would cost me $150. That would pay for the Play Station and more. It didn't make economic sense for me to choose Playdium over a home system. I said, Over the long term, it would cost me monetarily. But that's my investment in family harmony. For the sake of our family unity - elimination of causes that make me yell at The Boy and spending more time together, it was a bargain.

To reduce distraction and open up opportunities for quality time, The Man and I discontinued our cable service several years back. We realized we were spending more time with the TV than with each other. Oh The Boy complains of being deprived, but that hasn't stopped him from knowing about all the reality shows on TV, and this year, from introducing his cabled and satellited friends to The Family Guy, Lost, Alias, The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives.

Nor has he ever been in the dark about Play Station and Nintendo games. Nor does he lack skiing skills. So do we really need to own anything? I think I hear the Nomads calling from their caravans.

Different Folks

While having dinner with some friends this week, I realized this couple understood why The Man went to Yemen. In an e-mail, The Man said to his friend, at Christmas he may go to Uganda, the land of his birth. The friend said to me, It's in his blood, the need to pursue romantic ideas.

When I think about it, I believe most of our friends and family don't understand why The Man went to Yemen. For as long as I have known him, The Man has wanted to work abroad. He kept applying to jobs at the UN. His parents were working in Uganda when The Man was born. His brother worked in Saudi Arabia for a year. At retirement, his father tried to go to Oman, but it didn't pan out.

When a friend of The Man's got into the UN in 1990, The Man looked for opportunities there too. Wait a sec, I said at the time, I'm about to give birth. Why do you want to leave? He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't help putting in an application all the same. He's put in a few more in the last few years.

But this year, the opportunity came up. He had just finished his MBA. He had been talking with two UN agencies. Yemen panned out first.

But The Man had concerns too: He's not a young buck any more, how could he leave his family, and what will he come back to? In the end, I wanted him to go, knowing I would miss him like crazy. Because if he didn't go now when the opportunity was here, when would he go? He has a vision of us living abroad, travelling to different cultures and learning to speak different languages. My vision is that we would do that, and we would also be doing work that brings greater meaning and satisfaction. If things work out, his going to Yemen brings us one step closer to realizing these visions. And if Yemen doesn't work out, he would come back that much more enriched, and just imagine the stories he has to tell, as his mother would say. And besides, I needed time to sort out my own issues.

So The Man turned down two job offers and put other contacts on hold to go to Yemen.

Already, he's picking up Arabic. Right this minute, I think he's attending the 9th European Film Festival at the Yemen Culture Centre. Free admission, says the poster.

Fluffy Thighs

If you stand far enough back from a mirror, you can see most of your body. For that reason, I am often glad we live in a small house and I can't stand too far back from any mirror to look at my entire body.

But if you are out shopping for pants and you look at yourself in the full length mirror in the change room, you see yourself with your new pants on, and without any pants on.

When women get to a certain age or a certain weight, they complain of thigh rub. At first, your pants go swish-swish-swish as you walk. Then you get distraught once you figure out what's making that noise.

But when you unexpectly see yourself in the mirror, as when you have no pants on in the change room, and you see a fluffy fold of dimply, doughy flesh attached to the inner thigh of each leg, you get scared, really scared. Your first thought is, Oh my god, whose legs are those? Who's taken over my body? Your second thought is, Oh no, I have some weird disease.

When it sinks in that those fluffy thighs belong to you, you get depressed and angry. How could nature allow such grotesque things to happen, to you?

I'm not saying I have rubbing fluffy thighs. I'm just saying that's probably what would happen if one discovered fluffy thighs on oneself.

Teen Voices

The Boy is 15. Most of his friends are also 15. He is a young 15-year-old. His friends are also young. This is the highest compliment I can pay a teenager, saying they are young. The Boy and his friends are highly intelligent, responsible, independent, good natured and good humoured, comfortable with themselves, and coddled enough that they delight in being young and carefree. They have no fear about growing up, they enjoy being their age and living in the present, without pressuring each other to grow up too fast, they indulge in fairly innocent pursuits. It is my great delight and privilege to spend time with them, which they don't mind either, sitting around, talking and laughing with a mom or two.

Except when The Boy gets phone calls. Because they are confident teenagers in that in-between stage, most of them have articulate, steady voices, but still voices on the high side, and ever so polite. Some of them sound like women. People often say The Boy sounds like me.

This morning, someone phoned. The Boy was still asleep, so I picked up the call. A voice at the other end asked for The Boy. Because The Boy is involved in several school activities, I really thought it was one of The Boy's teachers calling. I said,

"The Boy isn't available right now. Is there something I can help you with?"

"No thank you. I would like to speak to The Boy himself."

"Can I let him know who's calling then?"

"Sure, it's Friend. I want to see if we can get together for Warhammer today."

I paused. In a split second, my mind went, What the? Why does this woman want to play Warhammer with my boy. Oh, right, it's Boy's Friend, not strange lady. I've met this Friend before, I just have never spoken to him on the phone.

I resumed my poise (I usually have one) and said, "Okay, I'll let him know you phoned. Thanks for calling."

That was weird.

Dancing Dames

Last week, I joined a dance class with a friend. The classes are a kind of earth mother chakra healing thing.

In class, we were each given a red sash. It is for us to wear, to remind us that the first chakra - the foundation of our being, is red. This chakra corresponds to our sense of survival, our grounding. It brings us health, prosperity and security. Sure, I can work on that.

The instructor, an attractive young woman, told us to curl up into a ball, stick our bums in the air, and breath through our bum hole.

Since that class, my friend says she has trouble getting that image out of her head. Me neither. But not from an overactive imagination. It was from an overactive stomach. I was an embarrassment of riches that night. It took everything out of me to let air pass, silently. I am not sure I enjoyed the class, I was so focused on not drawing attention to myself that way.

And the young women in class, they hopped, skipped and bounced. I don't bounce. Because bouncing produces noise that way when you have a reactive stomach. Try it. My survival instinct was in tact though. I survived the class and no one was any wiser to my situation.

I didn't make it to this week's class. The chakra worked on was orange. It represents our emotions and sexuality. I wonder if I would have been laughing, crying or writhing on the floor.

It's Ear Wax

I am reading a book called Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. It was written in 1937. Despite its American tone and penchant for making absolute statements, I can't get over this book. Every self-help book I have come across on any subject is based on this book, including topics on vibration and development of the sixth sense.

One of the things Hill says is, people do and think what they are used to (plus a whole lot more about how to change what you don't like in your life). So true.

My mother phoned last night in a shrill and panic demanding to know why her ear was plugged up.

I thought about it and said, "Maybe you are coming down with a cold. When I get sick, I get buzzing in my ear and I experience dizziness. Is your ear swollen? No. Do you have a headache? No. Are you dizzy? No. Then let's wait and see what happens in the morning. Sometimes these things go away by themselves. The Boy sometimes complains of his ears burning and in the morning, he's fine." I had this exchange with her because those are the ear experiences I've had.

My friend, who was with me, said, "Maybe it's ear wax." That's what she's familiar with.

When my mother consulted with my sister the doctor, my sister told her about the kinds of brain cancer that could cause a plugged ear sensation. She works with cancer patients. That's what she's familiar with. Mom said that had her worried all night, and I'm not going to consult with my sister about any of my illnesses again.

In the morning, my mother phoned back to say her ear is fine. She took a cotton swab and cleaned out her ear. Now she's back to normal. I suggested she ask her doctor to drain her ear next time she sees him. She's good with that and I am glad my friend was right.

Catholic Schools

This week, local media reported that 16 students at James Cardinal McGuigan Catholic Secondary School in North York were arrested for sexually assaulting a 14-year-old girl over a period of 18 months.

When this story came out, I was outraged that gang assault and harrassment should happen at all, that the school where it took place should be a Catholic one at that. I am biased against our Catholic school system. I have little faith in the system's ability to cultivate responsible citizens, all the while incurring favourable tax benefits. When I see teenagers conducting themselves destructively, they are invariably in a group, wearing Catholic school uniforms.

For example, near where we live is a Catholic high school. Often, when I am on the streetcar and the crowded streetcar pulls in at the stop where the school is, male students in uniform bang on the streetcar and shake it, because they aren't able to get on. They damage public property and put the lives of passenger at risk by being so unruly.

Just north of The Boy's high school is also a Catholic high school. Once, riding down the bus to get to his school, the bus was assaulted by students from this school throwing snow balls at it. A snow ball hit the driver. He stopped and called for reinforcement.

A large group of students from the same school went down to The Boys' school and harrassed some boys there, trying to start a gay-bashing. The Boys' school had a lock down that afternoon and called in the police. Were they crazy or just stupid? Did they think staff at The Boy's school would not notice? Was it because at their Catholic school, they are used to teachers turning a blind eye to student conduct after 3:oo PM?

And then there are those Catholic priests convicted of sexually molesting boys in their charge.

The news yesterday reported the accused students from James Cardinal McGuigan were in court and were granted bail and released on $1,500 each. But one of the accused's sister said, "I didn't see one white person (at the police station). All these black parents were there, puzzled." Another parent was quoted as saying, "All the accused are black while the victim is white. This is an injustice."

There was more information about the parents suspecting the charges were trumped-up. The process for arresting the students and informing the parents was not fair. One parent called for the black community to stand together to fight this.

This has suddenly become a race issue.

But what about the original charge? Did these students sexually bully and assault someone regardless of their race?

And why are Catholic school students so prone to gang misconduct? What are Catholic schools teaching their students? It's true, I've already condemned these students. I judge them not because they are black. I judge them because they are products of the Catholic school system.

Telltale Signs

At the supermarket check out yesterday, I saw a man ring through:

- 3 boxes of Hungry Man 1 lb dinners
- 1 package of spaghetti
- 1 jar spaghetti sauce
- 1 bottle mouth wash
- 1 bag apples
- 2 boxes of Kitty Klump (cat litter)

Think he was single? I think he was single.

Excuse Me, I Voiped!

So skype me already.

I used the voice over internet protocol (VOIP) technology and talked to The Man using my computer.

It is the most amazing thing. I bought a USB headset with a mike and downloaded the free Skype software. The Man did the same. We each created a user name in Skype. We made sure we were at the computer at the same time, with Skype launched.

On the Skype screen, The Man clicked Find and typed in my Skype user name. When it came up, he clicked Call.

At my end, the computer, the computer! rang. Okay, it was the Skype software ringing. Connection was made via the Internet. I clicked Answer, and The Man and I talked! For free.

His voice was an octave or three lower. Or maybe that's computer-altered voice. But he came through the computer's speaker. I could have broadcasted our conversation. But I needed the mike to be able to talk to him. There was no tinny echo nor the one-second time lag that phone calls seem to have. I will try talking and e-mailing at the same time next time.

Gravedigging

Today, we marked the one year passing of my father, according to the lunar calendar.

In the morning, my brothers, sister and I accompanied our mother to lay flower at my father's grave and to bow in remembrance and respect. The Chinese call it "han san" - literally, walk the mountain.

My sister and I brought pots of poinsettas and gerberas. When we got to the site, we were disconcerted to see a shovel lying on the grave. My brother was already there. He had just finished planting a small pine tree beside the grave stone. My other brother and mother then arrived, carrying pots of chrysanthemums.

On seeing the shovel, my mother said, "Let's plant the mums. That way, they will grow back in the spring." She picked up the shovel and started digging at the front of the grave stone. She is 69. We four able-bodied, adult children stood by and watched, somewhat taken aback. At least my brother dug beside the grave stone, not on top of where dad's buried. A few scoops of earth later, I couldn't stand it any more. I said, "Let me do this for you," and took the shovel from my mother.

I dug a hole about eight inches deep and wide enough to squish in four pots of chrysanthemums. We removed the plants from their pots and put them into the earth. My mother shovelled the soil to cover the roots. But it was difficult getting the soil in behind the plants against the grave stone. So I knelt down and used my hands to scoop in the earth.

My sister walked away, feeling nauseated.

When I finished, I thought, my dad would have done that - taken the shovel from my mom and patted the earth back in place with his hand. Still, my stomach churned and I too felt queasy, knowing I had just dug at my father's grave, with my bare hands at that.

But it was something my mother wanted done. I think dad too would have wanted to plant the flowers - to make them last longer. Sometimes, I think I would have made a better son than a daughter, because I answer the call. In Imperial China, when a man is drafted into service, his son could take his place if he was sick or too old. I think I would have gone to war for my father. Maybe I am like Mulan, the woman who disguised herself as a man to take her father's place in the army. Maybe it's not that I would have made a good son. It's more that I am a daughter who answers the call.

I like that the first anniversary of my father's passing fell on today, November 11. It's Remembrance Day. It is also The Man's grandfather's birthday. I found his grave and left poinsettas there. An hour away from us, there is a memorial service for my brother-in-law's grandfather, who passed away a few weeks ago. My dad is in good company today.

Night Dishes

I don't understand the dishes in our sink.

I'm a late-to-bed-early-to-riser. The Man went to bed late, but he slept in on weekends. The Boy wants to go to bed later but goes around 11:00 p.m. under protest. I don't know what time he actually falls asleep.

All this is to say, we go to bed at different times. I know that for each of us, just before bedtime, we have a drink of water, juice or tea. That should only be three cups left on the kitchen counter overnight. And even when we have an overnight guest, we should have only four glasses out on the counter or in the sink overnight.

But something must happen in the middle of the night that none of us are aware of or remember. Often, in the morning, I find a sinkful of used dishes, pots and pans sitting on the counter. I don't remember us being that thirsty or hungry at night. But we must've partaken of sustenance or had a party or something.

This week, The Man is still away, The Boy is in New York, I have no house guests. I only have myself to account for. I still find the same sinkful of dishes in the morning.

Am I eating that much in the middle of the night? Am I really not doing the dinner dishes? Are they in fact breakfast dishes? What kind of habit do I have that I am not noticing?

On The Street Where I Live - 5

Transformation

Up at the north end on our side of the street sat a dark, decrepit, fenced in house for many years. Dead trees and dry hedges stood against the rusted and crumpled wire fence to seal this house from the nosy. The kids called this the haunted house. If you peeked through the dead foilage anyway, you see the house was made of fallen steps, chipped brick and broken windows. The house looked old, dirty and neglected. You'd think someone smeared wet clay and mud all over the house and windows then left it to dry. But full green garbage bags sat on the sidewalk in front of the house on garbage days. Sure signs of human habitation.

A few years back, some neighbours and I organized an annual street party. We notified all the neighbours of the date and set to making it happen. For three years in a row, we received nasty notes from the haunted house, accusing us of being homophobic. Huh? What, how, why did they say that? Who were these people? Turns out the date we chose for our street party - Saturday of the Summer Solstice, always coincided with Gay Pride Day so the residents of this house had to attend the parade and could not take part in the street party. They told us this in the last note they sent us. Yet, I wonder why in previous years they did not volunteer to be on our planning committee to help set the date for the street party since we put out a call for volunteers six months in advance. And are we not faced with choices everyday? They chose the parade over the street party. Why not enjoy that instead of complain?

This year, the house was suddenly cleared of debris. The dead trees and plants were taken away. The house was repaired and cleaned. New plants were put in. Over this past year, the house has been transformed. It now stands bright and beautiful with no fences. Baskets of fruit and flowers often sit at the door, beckoning passersby to knock. I still don't know who lives there.

Our Halloween Pumpkins

Click on the picture and you get a closer look.


True Story...
On Halloween day, my sister-in-law was listening to CBC Radio One. The host asked listeners to call in with unusual plans for Halloween.

My SIL's husband was away and she wanted to take her children trick-or-treating, but she didn't want to disappoint kids who came to her door. So she gave her candies to her neighbour at 109, and carved the pumpkin below, directing kids next door where they could obtain her treats.

She thought that was an unusual thing to do, so she wrote an e-mail to the radio station. Two minutes later, they were reading her e-mail on the radio and talking about her Halloween plans!

Mud Brown

I received a meme from someone the other day. One of the questions on it was, If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?

I felt for my colour for a moment and decided, mud brown. In fact, I am mud brown most of the time. It's true I wasn't feeling particularly cheerful at that moment. But that's not why I am mud brown.

I took a drawing course this Spring with the wonderful Barbara Klunder, artist, designer, and creator of the Klunder fonts. I like drawing on kraft paper (sandwich bag paper) because the paper is textured and forgiving. I make lots of mistakes. To work mistakes into master pieces, Barbara held up two colours and said, If you can find these colours on their own, buy them. These are the secret colours that masters use to give oomph to their work.

The colours were forest green and mud brown.

Mud brown is not dark or chocolate brown. It is that clayish brown, like dried mud. On its own, it looks dull and innocuous. But it holds the power to transform its surroundings. If you've made your drawing too dark, mud brown lightens it. If you've made your drawing too light, mud brown give it contrast, tone and grounds it. Mud brown neutralizes and balances, bringing wholeness and harmony to a drawing. Mud brown is a high functioning colour, gold to an artist. I am mud brown.

And the person who sent me the meme, she's forest green.

Handicap

I can't read anything any more without eyeglasses. In the car, I often get The Boy to look at maps and tell me which way to go because I can't see the tiny print. Because I've been doing a lot of reading lately, I've been wearing my glasses more. I feel somewhat handicapped.

I am reminded of a young woman who was also "handicapped".

Years ago, a family friend from France came to visit. One of the reasons this man came to Toronto was to look for an au pair opportunity for his 17-year-old daughter. He was concerned about her welfare.

His family was fairly comfortable and all his children had post-secondary education, so I asked him what was particularly worrying about this daughter. He said,

"She's the youngest and she's trying to grow up in a hurry. She's handicapped."

"You mean she has a physical handicap or you feel her situation is handicapped."

"No, she is physically handicapped. Here, take a look." He pulled out a photograph of her from his wallet.

The girl in the photograph was stunningly beautiful and glamorous. In fact, I wondered if the photograph was a mere school photo or part of a professionally prepared modelling portfolio.

I said, "What's her handicap?'

He said, "Well you see she's very beautiful, no?"

"Yes."

"She knows that and wants to be a model. See her lips, they are very full."

"Yes."

"The boys like that."

"So...?"

"So she spends all her time with boys, clothes and makeup, and not on school. I need to get her away from France to do something more wholesome, where there are no boys to distract her."

Not ever having had the problem of his daughter, I could not suggest a remedy for her handicap.

Am I My Mother-in-law?

I rented a steam carpet cleaner and spent the last two days steam cleaning all the rugs and chairs in the house. The amazing thing was, with each change of water, I saw a thick wad of dirt at the bottom of the pail. That's dirt that came off the chairs and couches that I sit on everyday.

But if that's not disturbing enough, my mother-in-law, kind soul that she is, has phoned me a few times since The Man left for Yemen, to inquire after The Boy and I. Each time, she asks,

"Are you cleaning everything in the house?"

And I've answered, "Why, yes I am. In fact, I just rented a steam carpet cleaner..." And I tell her about my plans to clean up other things, like the back yard.

She says, "Mhmm, mhmm, that's good. It's important to keep busy and tidy." She says this as if it's a totally normal thing for a woman to clean house in the middle of the day, everyday. When I should be going to the gym. When I should be looking for a job. When I should be taking classes towards my M.A. So...did The Man end up marrying his mother after all?

I think not quite. Despite all the cleaning, the house doesn't look any cleaner. Until I recover from the exhaustion of all the cleaning and put back the things I moved aside to steam clean, the house is in greater disarray. My mother-in-law would never have allowed that.

On The Street Where I Live - 4

The Daily Tryst

Near the top of our street lived a young Oriental couple. I was friendly with their next door neighbour.

The years that my friend lived there, she stayed home to look after her young children. Her complaint was that almost everyday in the middle of the afternoon, she could hear the young couple next door having sex, loudly. Our street is home to mostly little semi-detached houses. My friend's is one of them. The first time she heard the sex sounds, she went outside to look around. She saw the couple through the front window, naked, groping each other, which made her run back inside quickly to stop her children from coming out to the porch. It was awkward because her children asked a few times, What's that noise? Why is someone screaming? My friend started to time her children's nap to the neighbour's daily trysts so the children wouldn't ask about the activities next door.

The sexing couple has since moved away. My friend has also moved away when their children got bigger.

It's All Tricks

The Boy came home today with red spots all over his face, neck and hands. He drew them on himself. That was his Halloween costume - a guy with chicken pox. He really had me there for a moment.

The Boy is 15. He can pass for 12, because he's cute like that. Tonight, he wanted to go trick-or-treating badly, but he didn't want to go by himself. His friends had abandoned the practice years ago. He went over to a neighbour's and discovered they had a dilemma. One parent had to stay home to hand out candies, the other had to take the girls out trick-or-treating. The girls didn't want to go with their 5-year-old brother because he's too slow. 5-year-old didn't want to go with them because they're girls. So The Boy offered his services. He came running home to beef up his costume. I put a night shirt on him, touched up the red dots on his face and hands, and gave him a pillow case for candies. He was so happy to go off with 5-year-old, 5-year-old was so happy to go with him, and neighbour was so happy The Boy came to the rescue.

We received a lot of compliments on our pumpkins tonight from trick-or-treaters. These are kids paying the compliments. The Boy carved a Leafs flag with Toronto Maple Leafs written in the leaf. I put stars on mine. It was the Leafs and Martha Stewart flanking our front steps. But once I lit the pumpkins and put them outside, I realized we didn't have a scary theme at all, unless you count the Leafs losing to the Sens 8-0 on Saturday scary.

No one's ever commented on our Save Our Trees - No Flyers Please sign before. But this year, about 10 kids must have asked me why we have that sign, or I hear them walking away and saying "Look, a Save Our Trees sign". I wonder what's being taught in elementary schools these days.

One kid, a teenager actually, came as Edward Scissorhands. He cut out cardboard for scissor hands, wrapped them in foil, and taped them to his hands. He had the makeup and the suit. He looked fantastic. I vote his the best costume of the night. His two friends I think dressed as characters from The Matrix.

Another kid came in a monster costume with a bunch of ninjas and ghouls. I handed out the candies and as he was leaving, he called back, "I shovelled your walk last winter." I said, "You doing it again this year?" He said, "Yeah." I said, "You still gonna charge $15?" The parents around laughed. You had to be there.

I often can't tell what many of the costumes were. Over the years, I've developed this as my standard line: My, don't you look scary/cute/interesting. Happy Halloween!

The demographics in the hood has changed. Not a lot of kids out these last two years. This year, they didn't start coming around till 6:30 (it used to start as early as 6:00) and by 8:00, it was mostly over (it went till 9:00 in past years). At 7:30, I started giving out 3 pieces of candies instead of 2. We're still going to have so much left, not to mention what The Boy will bring back.

What was it that I heard on the radio today? It's okay to eat all the leftover candies because winter's coming and you need the extra layers of blubber to keep warm.

So Much To Work With...

I have a writing project on the go. It's called Drop Kick Me Jesus Through The Goalposts of Life. I'm trying to hone me some self-discipline by writing and exorcising my inner trailer trash tramp. I want to get her out of me and take a closer look at what she's about, because sometimes she gets in my way. I don't know how. She just does.

I want to take an idea and develop a story around it from beginning to end, just to see if I can do it. It's great fun so far. But looking for other ideas to feed my story, I googled my story title. Look at what's out there.

These are real country and western song titles. Such rich fodder...

• Get Your Biscuits In The Oven And Your Buns In The Bed
• Drop Kick Me, Jesus, Through The Goalposts Of Life
• Get Your Tongue Outta My Mouth 'Cause I'm Kissing You Goodbye
• Her Teeth Were Stained, But Her Heart Was Pure
• How Can I Miss You If You Won't Go Away?
• How Can You Believe Me When I Say I Love You When You Know I've Been A Liar All My Life?
• I Changed Her Oil, She Changed My Life
• I Don't Know Whether To Kill Myself Or Go Bowling
• I Fell In A Pile Of You And Got Love All Over Me
• I Flushed You From The Toilets Of My Heart .
• I Keep Forgettin' I Forgot About You
• I Wanna Whip Your Cow
• I Would Have Wrote You A Letter, But I Couldn't Spell Yuck
• I Wouldn't Take Her To A Dawg Fight, Cause I'm Afraid She'd Win
• I'd Rather Have A Bottle In Front Of Me Than A Frontal Lobotomy
• I'm Just A Bug On The Windshield Of Life
• I'm The Only Hell Mama Ever Raised
• I've Been Flushed From The Bathroom Of Your Heart
• I've Got The Hungries For Your Love And I'm Waiting In Your Welfare Line
• If I Can't Be Number One In Your Life, Then Number Two On You
• If Love Were Oil, I'd Be A Quart Low
• If My Nose Were Full of Nickels, I'd Blow It All On You
• If You Don't Leave Me Alone, I'll Go And Find Someone Else Who Will
• If You Leave Me, Can I Come Too?
• Mama Get The Hammer (There's A Fly On Papa's Head)
• My Every Day Silver Is Plastic
• My John Deere Was Breaking Your Field, While Your Dear John Was Breaking My Heart
• My Wife Ran Off With My Best Friend, And I Sure Do Miss Him
• Oh, I've Got Hair Oil On My Ears And My Glasses Are Slipping Down, But Baby I Can See Through You
• Pardon Me, I've Got Someone To Kill
• She Got The Gold Mine And I Got The Shaft
• She Got The Ring And I Got The Finger
• She Made Toothpicks Out Of The Timber Of My Heart
• She's Got Freckles On Her, But She's Pretty
• Thank God And Greyhound She's Gone
• They May Put Me In Prison, But They Can't Stop My Face From Breakin' Out
• Velcro Arms, Teflon Heart
• When You Leave Walk Out Backwards, So I'll Think You're Walking In
• You Can't Have Your Kate And Edith Too
• You Can't Roller Skate In A Buffalo Herd
• You Done Tore Out My Heart And Stomped That Sucker Flat
• You Were Only A Splinter As I Slid Down The Bannister Of Life
• You're The Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly

On The Street Where I Live - 3

The Crazed

Further up the street lived a young man and his mother. He was apparently schizophrenic. Every couple of years, he'd take a gun and try to shoot out the electrical transformer at the top of the hydro pole in front of his house. He claimed there was a camera there spying on him. That's when his mother phoned the police and they'd take him to the hospital, but not before the son and mother make a scene on their front lawn, drawing all the neighbours out to watch.

The son would point the gun, throw thing, and shout at the pole. The mother cried and screamed, begging her son to stop. She woud tell the neighours to not mind her son as he only got paranoid when he was off his meds. Neighbours would try to calm her, get her away from the house until the police and ambulance took the son away.

But the last time it happened, the mother obtained a restraining order against her son. We don't know where he is now and the mother doesn't talk about it. Some neighbours say he now lives in an institution where he receives full time care.

Italians Are So Humane!

Look what I found this morning!

Rome bans 'cruel' goldfish bowls
Last Updated Wed, 26 Oct 2005 11:05:20 EDT
CBC News



Round goldfish bowls are out and daily dog walks are in for all law-abiding citizens of Rome.

City councillors in the Italian capital voted on Tuesday to ban spherical goldfish bowls, saying it's in the best interest of the fish.

Rome's daily newspaper Il Messaggero reported that round bowls cause fish to go blind. Animal activists call the bowls cruel, while fish experts say the bowls don't provide enough oxygen.

The bylaw also prohibits giving away goldfish or other animals as prizes.

"The civilization of a city can also be measured by this," city councillor Monica Cirinna told the newspaper.

Rome also followed in the footsteps of the northern Italian city of Turin, making it the law for dog owners to exercise their dogs daily. Failure to comply could cost dog owners a fine of $700.

The Roman bylaw also prevents animal owners from clipping dogs' tails or trimming cats' claws for visual appeal or leaving animals in hot vehicles or store windows. It also offers legal protection to people who feed colonies of cats.

Betta Better

Back in June, we decided to keep pet fish. All the fish I chose have since died. The Man however, had chosen a red and blue Betta. I have never been fond of these fish. I think they are ugly and they look depressed. I also hate how the pet stores keep the fish in a tiny cup, claiming the fish likes it that way.

When we got the The Fish home, we tried out several containers to house it. I didn't like any of them. They seemed too small. I hated the idea of The Fish trapped in a confined space. It looked so miserable, with droopy fins and no room to turn around. I went to another pet store to ask what size container a Betta should have. The staff there very convincingly told me male Bettas must be kept alone in a small container that mimics their natural habitat. This is a territorial fish that likes to stay in one place. If you put it in a large aquarium, the fish will only swim in a fixed spot.

But surely, "fixed" doesn't mean the size of a tea cup, I argued. Yup, that's what they like, said the fish people.

So I went on the internet and researched how to care for Bettas. Lo and behold! Several sites said the pet stores are wrong. Pet shops care about stocking fish and shelf space, not fish happiness. The sites recommended at least a one-gallon container for a Betta. One site even said a 10 gallon tank. Well, I happen to have a 3 gallon tank that my expired swimmers bequeathed to The Fish. So that's what I used. And you know, The Fish seemed much happier in that tank. It swam around the whole tank checking out the big plant I put in it, using the plant as a hideout. The Fish is full of curiosity too. Every time I put the pump in to change some water, it swims up to the hose to investigate.

Since The Man left for Yemen, I am the only one looking after The Fish. The Boy has no interest. When I introduced a filter and heater a week ago, it explored the two new pieces of equipment endlessly, wrapping its body and fins around them. I visit more regularly. Sometimes it sleeps nestled into the plant and doesn't move. But for the evening visit, we have a routine. I come into the room, make noise, and shine a light on it. It swims away from the plant, stretches around the tank, and swims to the surface. It looks at me expectantly, blows an air bubble as if blowing me a kiss, and waits for me to drop the food pellets. The Fish and I are communing.

Shopping Carts

One of my pet peeves is when women (I only see women do this) unload their groceries from a shopping cart and leave the cart in the middle of the parking lot instead of wheeling it back to the cart coral. I asked a woman once why she did that. She said, They have people who come around to take it away. I said, But what about the cart blocking a parking spot? She just walked away.

Today, I did my groceries, and pushing my cart back to the cart coral, I saw a women empty her bags into her SUV, got into it and left the cart. She didn't put the cart back even though she was right across from the cart coral. It would have taken her, what, five steps. Now, the cart was left almost right behind her SUV so that when she backed up, she would hit it. I had a moral dilemma right there in that parking lot pushing my cart and watching this woman not push hers five steps into the coral. Do I tell her or don't I?

I hesitated too long. She backed into her cart. But the thing is, her SUV was such a monster that it didn't matter. She hadn't notice, despite the fact that her SUV had knocked the cart away. And to tell the truth, I was a little surprised and disappointed there was no damage on her car or awareness on her part. But not as surprised as I was when an older, distinguished looking man, maybe in his sixties, who had just returned his cart, strode up to the woman's cart, and called after her, "Hey, you forgot something."

The woman didn't hear that either, so well ensconced was she in her dome of SUV with the windows closed. The man shouted, "Bitch." Then he pushed her cart back into the coral.

I looked at the man, he looked at me. The silence between us was pregnant - me marvelling at what he just did, he wondering if I was offended by him calling her a bitch. Then he decided he didn't care; he had done the right thing. I decided as much as I admired what he did, I actually don't condone name calling like that. So we looked away and each went our own way.

Still, a part of me thinks, this man and I, we could have got people to clean up their act and ruled the parking lot.

On The Street Where I Live - 2

In addition to the enchantment of the canopy and arches formed by red maples, our street is also full of human activity.

The Holdup Men

For example, right across from us lives a family of many. The year that we moved in, we saw a police car visit that house often. By spring, I had gotten to know the neighbours a bit. The gossip was, two brothers were under house arrest there. They had attempted to rob a Brinks truck. Sure enough, a month or so later, in our city magazine, there was a story about these brothers with their photograph splashed on the pages. One neighbour in particular swore that photo was of the boys. I was not able to churn the gossip mill to spin even more scandilicous rumour because I had never seen those brothers in person. I should learn from a friend of mine. He maintains that fact has no place in gossip. Spread what you speculate and opine far and wide to fuel more speculation and opinions, otherwise, it's just not good gossip.

The Swap
And in that house, they have a strange living arrangement still to this day. The owner, who must be in his eighties now, lives there most of the year with his second wife. In the summer, the second wife moves out. The man's divorced first wife flies in from Italy and moves in. Apparently, that's their custodial arrangement. The summer was her time to see her children. Only, the children have been adults for as long as we've lived here. I've even seen a few weddings for the "children" of that house. But that summer changeover continues to this day.

The Parking Lot
That same house used to own at least six cars and trucks. Some were just rusty metal in the shape of a car, sitting there for months on end, others covered in plastic. They were using our street as a storage depot. They crowded two, sometimes three cars on their parking pad and took up more than their share of parking spots on the street. The Man complained to the city about all the cars in front of their house. Sure enough, bylaw officers agreed with The Man - they are not allowed to litter the front of their house and the street with broken cars and trucks. They are only allowed one car on their parking pad and they could get at most two parking stickers for the street. The city made them convert one side of their parking pad into a box garden. They had to build a planter on there so they can't use it for parking. One year, they took the planter away. The city came and blocked access to their driveway. Now, they don't have as many cars. Some of the married children have moved away. At least one has bought a house down the street and is parking his cars there instead.

The Tow Truck
And then there is the handicapped sticker on the tow truck. One of the sons from that same house, maybe one of the Brinks robbers, belonged to the lowest of the low sub-specifies of wasted lives. He drove a tow truck. And if that wasn't bad enough, he parked the truck on the street, in front of our house and kept the radio on at night in case he got a call, while he sat inside the house, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. In the middle of the night, we were often awoken by electronic voices from the truck radio. But just in case we found that acceptable, the tow truck driver also put his father's handicapped sticker on the tow truck so that he could park it anywhere on the street, including in front of our drive so we couldn't get out in the morning.

The Man had been at war with this tow truck for years. He called the police many times on grounds that a tow truck cannot be parked on a residential street overnight, and that a person cannot be a tow truck operator and handicapped at the same time. Because of The Man's persistence, he stimulated action at city hall to crack down on abuse of handicap stickers and the tow truck received parking tickets despite the handicap sticker. As soon as the tow truck parked on the street, The Man would call the police. One time, the tow truck driver's sister, wife or mother came out of their house, crying, shouting and pointing at our house because the police made him drive the tow truck away. "It's them. They always call the police when he comes. He's just parking his truck. He has to earn a living too." What about us getting sleep at night and being able to drive out of our drive way to get to work in the morning? Last I heard, the city took away their handicap sticker. In the last few months, the tow truck hadn't come around. I heard the son had a fight with his father.

My Mother The Lush

I went to my mother's a couple of nights ago to take her to dinner. She has this habit of inviting me out for a meal or accepting my dinner invitation, but eats at home before she goes out with me. On this occasion, I told her not to eat first, that I'd be at her house to pick her up for dinner at 5:30.

I arrived at her house at 5:15. What did I see? There was my mother, watching TV, with a shot glass of port in one hand and a paring knife in the other. In front of her was the bottle of port. An excellent vintage apparently. My brother brought it back for her on his recent trip to Portugal. She confesses to quite liking this brew. She likes alcohol and partakes whenever she can. I don't know how she does it. I thought most Chinese people have a mutated enzyme that makes it difficult to metabolize alcohol. I guess she's not one of them.

In front of her on a plate was also a chunk of salami. She bought this from a wine country outing she went on with a seniors' club. She was chipping away at the chunk of salami with her paring knife. She made me try some. I have to admit, this salami was indeed fragrant and delicious. She said she was just having a light snack before dinner because she was hungry. But her bottle of port was half drank and the chunk of salami was much smaller than what the wrapping could encase.

So that's what my mother does when I'm not looking. Her version of watching TV and eating bon-bons. Good on her. But really, what's with her eating before dinner?

On The Street Where I Live - 1

I was walking down the street the other day and noted that in the last few years, some neighbours have moved and gone. With the recent sales activities on our street, I wonder if I will still know who lives in which house and what makes each neighbour unique. And I wondered if the changing face of our street will change its flavour - that mix of working class and upwardly mobile, that blend of ghetto slum and gentrification, that stew of bustling nosiness and sterile hellos. So I decided to document what I know of my street.


Our little street has over 100 houses. It is the only tree-lined street in the neighbourhood. I mean truly tree-lined. The first time I walked on this street, I came to look at a house - our house. The house was okay. Most of the houses on the street are similarly built - small, three-bedroom, semi-detached, brick structures. Our house felt solid, it had potential, so we bought it. But it was the street of trees that captivated me.

The Canopy
It was Autumn 1988. As we drove towards the house, I noticed giant red maple trees flanking both sides of the street. The trees were all the same size, which meant they were planted around the same time. They framed the view out our car window with a canopy of orange and yellow leaves, as if channelling us down the avenue to our house. When we stopped in front of the house, I got out of the car and walked up and down the street, in awe of the tent of leaves waving above us.

The Arches
That first winter in our new home, we were hit with a giant snow storm. I woke up one morning to find white outside. The ground was all covered in white, the plants, bushes and trees were covered in white. From our front porch, the maple trees seemed to reach out into the middle of the street with their white branches, forming row upon rows of white arches over the road. I thought, this is what's meant by a winter wonderland. Since that winter, after every snow fall, I look for the white arches the way people look for a rainbow after it rains. I am always disappointed if the snow hadn't been heavy enough for the arches to form.

Cultural References

I made a CD of Engelbert Humperdinck songs. As I listen to it, I think, these songs have mass appeal because we appreciate the cultural references and sentiments in them. Like when he sings Winter World of Love, he croons,

My love, the days are colder.
So, let me take your hand
And lead you through a snow white land.

I think, yes, winter's coming, it's colder out, but Engelbert promises me an adventure exploring the pureness of love. And he reinforces that idea with:

I see the firelight in your eyes.
Come kiss me now, before it dies.
We'll find a winter world of love,
'Cause love is warmer in December.

Yeah, it can be darn cozy in December despite the snow when love is reciprocated.

I think this because, I know how mean the days can be when it's cold, and December is usually pretty cold. And I accept that one-on-one affection is a desirable goal of our culture.

For a different experience, I tried reading a poem by Rumi, a Persian poet around 1230. It goes like this:

"NOONE" says it better:

What is the mi'raj* of the heavens?
Non-existence.
The religion and creed of the lovers is non-existence.

*mi'raj according to Islamic tradition is the ascend of Muhammad to heavens from the Al Aksa mosque in Jerusalem.

See. Nothing. I don't get it.

Next, I tried the Gulistan of Sa'di. Gulistan mean rose garden in Persian. Sa'di is Sheikh Muslih-uddin Sa'di Shirazi. The Gulistan is a series of maxims and admonitions. Each story represents a flower in Shirazi's garden. I go to the chapter called Love and Youth. I see this story:

It is said that a gentleman possessed a slave of exquisite beauty, whom he regarded with love and affection. He nevertheless said to a friend: ‘Would that this slave of mine, with all the beauty and good qualities he possesses, had not a long and uncivil tongue!’ He replied: ‘Brother, do not expect service, after professing friendship; because when relations between lover and beloved come in, the relations between master and servant are superseded’:

When a master with a fairy-faced slave
Begins to play and to laugh
What wonder if the latter coquets like the master
And the gentleman bears it like a slave?
A slave is to draw water and make bricks.
A pampered slave will strike with the fist.

The story warns against being too friendly with a slave. I agree one shouldn't be over friendly with one's employees or have sex with them, but this story doesn't move me. It's not that I don't own a slave and therefore can't relate. It's more that I reject assigning different social status to people. I reject the notion that if someone is friendly to a worker, the worker necessarily takes advantage and becomes abusive. In fact, I think it's one's professional responsibility to be cordial and respectful with one's coworkers and employees.

See. Different cultural references and experiences.

Now, The Man has been in Yemen for one week. Since he landed, we've exchanged e-mails everyday, and had a long phone chat. Aside from exchanges of affection, The Man has offered few observations of his new life. He is trying to adjust and find his place. And it has only been one week. He noted that:

the challenge is getting around because of language and distance and the sheer bizarreness of the country.

Without the language and with limited mobility, Yemeni culture must strike The Man as bizarre. He doesn't know the cultural references, religious significance and climatic reasons for how and why things are the way they are. Within this host culture, The Man is also trying to acclimatize to the work culture of UNICEF - new people, new work, new way of working.

I miss him, and I feel for him. I feel displaced, like I'm not able to do my job. Because I am not by his side helping him figure things out.

Swooning at the Gambling Joint

Casino Rama is a gambling joint in Orillia. My mother goes there once a month to play the slot machines. It's a social outing for her. She's a conservative player though. She usually sets her limit at $20. When she spends that, she walks away. But not so her friends, some of whom go to the casino as often as once a week, and they put down anywhere from $200 to $500 playing various games each time.

The casino provides a bussing service to pick up and drive back all the seniors who go the casino. To entice their participation, the casino also issues vouchers for free meals and free hotel stays, depending on how much you've spent. And while you are playing, wait staff bring you food and drink, free. The casino still makes money despite giving these services away, or more accurately, they make money because they give away these freebies. Let's say they give someone a bus ride ($20), a free meal ($20), a free show ($30), free snacks ($10) and a bed ($100). That's $150 of freebies. But to earn that, a player needs to have spent over $2000, tracked on a members card the casino issues.

It's easy to spend $200 or more in one night. I was at the casino last night, and in 5 minutes, I blew $20 on a slot machine. Imagine those people who sit in front of a machine for three hours. I've stood there and watched as people plunk down a $50 bill a go at Black Jacks. I bet it's easy to spend a few of thousand in a night. Those free services the casino offers? Insignificant grains of sand on a coastal beach.

But the enticing thing about this casino for me is their entertainment centre. They bring in big name acts from yesterday, at very reasonable prices. I've seen Herman's Hermits there. Last night, I went to see Engelbert Humperdinck.

Engelbert is a true showman. He looks marvelous. No doubt, the good life, face lifts, tummy tucks and a large support team help keep him well-preserved. But the things he needs to work at himself to keep in shape are his voice and physical fitness. At 70 (he was born May 2, 1936), he still belts out songs in a strong, clear baritone. He can also gyrate and spin on stage like he did years ago. You have no doubt he is still a sex symbol. Wow. And when he sings those corny love songs, he makes me swoon like I never did when I listened to him on the radio years ago.

I have come to appreciate crooners much more in the last few years. I also listen to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Mel Torme, Tony Bennett, Bing Crosby, Bobby Darin, Eddie Arnold, Elvis Presley. Even Skeeter Davis. They are all gone now. The way they sang captured a simpler time, spontaneous sentiments, and honourable intentions - a way of life we've forgotten could exist. No wonder Michel Buble, Harry Connick Jr., and Matt Dusk have become so popular.

I am making it my mission to see as many old time crooners as I can before they croak. I have Paul Anka, Wayne Newton and Tom Jones on my list.

Bringing Yemen Closer

This separation from The Man is a little harder to take than the others. Maybe knowing the absence is for six months makes me anxious. Maybe it's because I don't have a new routine yet. But I feel better now that I have talked to The Man on the phone for almost two hours today.

It was Wednesday night there, he had just finished work. He's been invited to a dinner party tonight at the home of the chief regional security coordinator, who lives across from the British Embassy. This is why he is in Yemen, to get dinner invitations like this. Tomorrow, a co-worker will go with him to look at apartments in an area called Al-Hal. He may rent there because it's a newer area and the apartments are cleaner. Most foreigners live in this area. It is supposed to be safer.

Weekends in the Middle East are Thursdays and Fridays. The work week starts Saturday. To conduct business between North America and the Middle East, Thursdays to Sundays are basically out. That leaves Monday to Wednesday to communicate. But you have to coordinate the time so that both sides are still operating during business hours.

That's almost impossible. Our work day is 9 to 5 (4 to midnight their time). Their work day is 7:30 to 3:30 (12:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. our time). Unless you are keen to communicate outside of business hours on both sides, there is no opportunity to talk. No wonder such a wide gulf of misunderstanding exists between North America and the Middle East. What was that appointment George Bush made where the head of intelligence services in the Middle East speaks no Arabic?

Well, The Man is not going to be like that. He and a co-worker have enrolled in Arabic classes.

UNICEF occupies at least three floors of a building where The Man works. On his floor, he believes he may be the only white person. Two-thirds of the staff are local Yemeni. All the women have their heads veiled, some are even in burqa. The day is dotted with prayer sessions. He went into someone's office to ask for something and saw her in prayer, so he tiptoed back out.

He's not found the food at the hotel comforting. It's the month of Ramadan there. No one at the office eats during the day so it's not like he can say, Let's go grab a sandwich, at lunch.

The most disconcerting fact is that all Yemeni men carry guns as a status symbol. He often hears gun shots during the day. During the day, he concentration is broken by calls to prayer. At night, his sleep is punctured by rattling gunfire. He has been told to stay away from the window when he hears gunfire. And Yemen is a safe country. All his co-workers say so. Ah that's just someone shooting off a gun, just ignore it and stay away from the window.

He takes a cab to and from work. The cost is about $2 a ride. He does this so he won't get lost. The walk might take an hour. He's met a driver who loves Kenny Rogers and plays him in his car. The driver was glad to learn from The Man that Neil Young is Canadian.

On the work front, he is preparing his first deliverable - a timeline of what he will do. He will be conducting interviews with various people. Later, he will go into rural areas to conduct more interviews. He thinks once he gets going, the six months will go fast.

As for me, time drags right now. I had no idea how much I structured my day around The Man. Quite a revelation really. But I will take it easy, do the things that nurture me and come up with some goals of what I will do over the next phase of my life.

When Morning Comes

I woke up this morning to find two messages: one e-mail from The Man, the other a voice message from Kiki. I wondered last night how her return home went.

The Man's flight to Yemen was uneventful. A hotel rep met him in Dubai. A driver from the office was sent to meet him at the Sana'a airport, but missed him. He took a cab, checked into a hotel, then phoned the office. The driver picked him up to take him the office to meet everyone, then back to the hotel, where he had a 12 hour sleep, interrupted by a flapping flag outside the window and calls to worship. He has arrived during the month of Ramadan. That means a shortened work day - 10 to 2 instead of 7 to 3. Maybe that is a gentle way to acclimatize to the new work and culture. Already, they've picked out a few apartments for Man to see if he wants to rent any of them for his six month stay.

The marvels of technology. Kiki sounded like she was phoning from down the street. Her flight home too was uneventful. After she left, I realized how fortuitously timed her visit to us was. She steered me to The Artist's Way, demonstrated how an artist spends her time, pointed me to liquid iron, gave The Man invaluable advice about travel procedures and what to expect at border crossings, saw me through The Man's departure. I wonder what she got out of her trip.

She probably felt taken care of, she made connections for her work, she spoke at conferences, she established an international credential in New York, she met her half sister, she had fun with us. I hope she felt at home and welcomed. That's what I want to think anyway.

And now, the hours, the days stretch out before me like endless blank pages, and me with writer's block. Good thing Kiki left me the legacy of The Artist's Way. I have to find that book.

Christmas on Thanksgiving

Sometimes, getting an e-mail is like opening a Christmas present.

I have The Man's flight itinerary. I knew he had 10 hours in London, and six hours in Dubai. I kept hoping I would hear from him. I didn't. I knew he would arrive in Sana'a 8:35 a.m. Monday, local time. He is seven hours ahead of us there. I wondered if he would try to make contact upon arrival. I wondered how his flight went, whether there were incidents with any of the connections, and what about being jet lagged.

I woke up this morning and rushed to check my e-mail. 8:00 a.m. in Toronto means 3:00 p.m. in Sana'a. I've customized a world clock on my computer to tell me this. He surely must have arrived and had time to... what? Sleep? Contact the UNICEF office? Walk around town to take it all in?

Kiki and I browsed pictures of Sana'a the last night she was here. The old part of the city looks like it's made of gingerbread houses. Like this:


The buildings are used like this:



I was excited to see in my e-mail box a message from The Man! His note was time stamped 3:16 a.m. Indeed, he said was 10:14 a.m. there when he started his e-mail. He was writing from the hotel's business centre. Yemen is like Mars, dry and dusty. The office is sending a car around to pick him up at noon. More later.

That was it. But what a rush!

Poetic Resonance

In the morning, The Man received confirmation of his flight itinerary from Yemen. They confirmed flight time of today and all the connection flights to Sanaa. A bit of lag there, Yemen.

The three of us - me, The Man, The Boy - went downtown to get photographic material for Boy. Then we went to St. Lawrence Market to get some lunch.

I love the market. The meat counters sell the most delicious breakfast sausages I have ever had anywhere. Not the salty limp stuff you get at the supermarkets. These are wholesome fresh links. No preservatives. Tastes so much better. I also bought little bits of this and that for Thanksgiving and for our fridge. I will go back and get filet mignon later in the month. $4.50 for an 8 oz piece - I think that's a good deal.

We came home and The Man did some errands, made some final phone calls. I saw him clean and put a way a screen. He told me he did that so I wouldn't have to. I don't know what screen he means.

At 3:30, all three of us walked down the street - me beside Man on the sidewalk, Boy on his electric scooter with Man's carryon backpack on his back. Boy had sneaked a bottle of Jones vanilla soda in the pack. I don't know if they will let Man take glass on the plane. But I guess they will scan his pack and get him to pull it out. We walked down to the No Frills parking lot. We bid our final farewells and Man got into a cab for the airport. Boy and I went to get groceries for Thanksgiving at No Frills.

I know it sounds sad that we made a seemingly casual no frills goodbye in a No Frills parking lot. But it felt poignant and right. The afternoon was bright and cool. It could have been spring or autumn. The Man hopped into a cab without fanfare. He could have been going downtown or to Yemen. It was sad, but romantic and simple too, like cosying up to watch movies and have pizza and beer on New Year's Eve instead of getting all caught up in grand affairs. The Man wanted the three of us together. I think he wanted to walk away quietly without disturbance, preserving the life as he knows it for his return. I wanted to continue our lives as normally as possible in his absence. We got that. It felt right that the goodbye should take place with the usual activities from our life around us.

Departure Practice Run

We got The Man ready for his flight to Yemen today. Since I don't drive on highways, our plan was for The Man to drive to the airport, Kiki would drive back. At 3:00, we set out. But we were all back home by 5:00! Turns out The Man doesn't fly out till tomorrow.

On the Monday, Yemen emailed The Man to say we've couriered you plane tickets, you leave Wednesday. The Man objected and asked to leave Friday. They emailed back saying okay, we've change your flight. On Tuesday, their travel agent sent a confirmation email with the rescheduled flight info. On Wednesday, the plane tickets issued Monday arrived. They carry the wrong travel date, but we knew that. The Man got a travel agent in Toronto to confirm he could use the tickets he received.

When we got to the airport today, British Airway said, Yes, you're flying with us, but not till tomorrow! The Man pulled out the email from the travel agent, and there it was: Departure October 8, 6:45!!

Man is embarrassed now because he didn't check the details from the travel agent. He just believed Yemen when they said yes to his request for Friday. Definite problem in Yemen with specifics and follow through. Definite problem with The Man and details. But no big loss. We had an excellent send off Thursday night when the good weather held (the cold came in when the party ended), today we had a nice dinner, tomorrow we get to spend another day together, and it was a good practice run. The Man will take a cab tomorrow.

The Eclipse

Kiki, who's staying with us, said there was an eclipse Sunday night. This eclipse reconnects... communication and long-lost relatives.

Preparation

On Monday, The Man certainly received communication from Yemen. He leaves Friday. Much needed to be done to get him ready.

Yesterday, I bought his travel medical insurance. I confirmed with OHIP he doesn't need to extend his OHIP coverage. I found out what to do to extend OHIP and the medical insurance if his assignment is extended beyond six months. We found out what he had to do to obtain a visa for Yemen. Would you believe you can just pick it up at the airport when you land? That was a lot of phone time. And The Man still found time to drive his cousin Kiki downtown to pick up a rental car.

The Reunion

Yesterday, Kiki met Liki.

Kiki was visiting her aunt in P.H. and took the 1 PM train back to T.O. to meet her long-lost half sister, Liki. The night before, they arranged on the phone they would touch base when both have settled back in T.O.

Now Liki happened to have booked a ride on the 1 PM train to T.O. from Ottawa a few days before. When the train pulled into P.H. at noon, Liki thought, Since Kiki is going into T.O. from P.H. about now, I wonder if Kiki would be boarding this train. So she inquired of the conductor, who helped her locate the P.H. car. He checked the ticket stubs he collected and sure enough, there was a ticket bearing a last name that was the same as Kiki's. They went to that seat and asked, Are you Kiki?

That's how Liki found Kiki on the train.

They shared a cab to my place to drop Kiki off, then Liki went to her cousin's in Riverdale. Meanwhile, Kiki rented a car so they could drive to Guelph to meet Liki's children. Liki returned to our house at 4:00 to meet Kiki. After a short visit, The Man and I drove them downtown to pick up their rental car. By the time Kiki and Liki drove out of the car rental agency, it was close to 5:00.

Liki drove since Kiki was not used to driving on the right side of the road. But Liki and Kiki did not make it to Guelph till 9:45. They were stuck on the Gardiner till 7:00. They got into a minor accident when their car hit the one in front. They got lost and drove to Hamilton, twice.

But Kiki enjoyed meeting Liki's children. The daughter is 21, petite, and a chatterer. She is studying Veterinarian Science. She has Kiki's family look. The son looks nothing like his sister. Kiki's jaws dropped when she saw him. He is an Adonis. The silent type too. He is 20 and studying Physics.

Back To The Man

Today, The Man got vaccinated, he picked up medical supplies and stationery supplies, and he bought a few pieces of clothing.

We cobbled together a gathering for Thursday night. I've asked that family and friends drop by to wish him well. I'm exhausted from cooking three batches of chili tonight. That's what we're serving tomorrow. Chili and salad. The Man has started packing. I can't bear to watch.

Twists and Turns

The last few years, The Man and I tried to make a go at freelancing. We are communication consultants. We do excellent work, but we are not particular good at selling ourselves. So our employment has been unsteady. Granted, we have also been busy with other life-changes and extended-family care. And in the last two years, The Man obtained an MBA.

Since April this year, The Man has been trying to land a full time job. Since June, I too have been trying to find full time work. Just to make sure things unfold in our favour, we even consulted a Feng Shui master at the end of June to ensure our home is aligned so that we are protected from harm and we receive good flow in our career sector.

For The Man, it has been difficult. Despite sending out resumes and networking with people, there have been few bites. It has been difficult for me too. I had trouble even putting together my resume. But I attended some job search workshops to get my head in work mode. I've been reading about how to find a job. I even applied for a few jobs just to get in the practice. But I can't say that I've tried in earnest. Summer with the hot sun, humidity and vacation plans made focusing very difficult for my already challenged attention span.

In August, several things began to happen. The Man had several leads. Over the course of a few weeks, he was offered at least two jobs - one in Toronto, the other in Yemen. A couple other leads went nowhere. Another one is still waiting to be panned out.

He turned down the offer in Toronto. The job wasn't suitable. But he was very interested in the offer from Yemen. After various communications, he agreed to go to Yemen for UNICEF. We waited for the contract, and suddenly, they sent him an e-mail on Monday saying he should board a flight for Yemen on Wednesday! Well we are just not ready. He got them to change the flight for Friday. Still, he's leaving for Yemen this week! I am scrambling about putting together a little send off for him. And I have this dumb cold and cough happening.

As for my work, a job landed in my laps at the end of August. But it was the job from hell. Everything about it was wrong. I left after two weeks. That was the period of The Horror. I still shant talk about that. But with The Man leaving, I will be single-mothering The Boy. And I will have no more excuses to not focus on obtaining work. The Man has done his part. Now it's my turn. I'm scared.

Close Quarters

I'm sitting here and I hear thudding in the street. Maybe more like pounding. It's like someone down the street has a giant hammer and is pounding the sidewalk with it. I went outside to look, but I don't see anything happening. Maybe it's the street behind us. Or maybe someone is renovating inside a house and the pounding is coming through all the walls.

It's amazing, isn't it, that we live in such close quarters in the city, we can't fart without someone three houses away saying, What was that?

But here's the interesting thing. These tiny clustered brick houses we live in? They are worth a bundle. We bought our house in 1988 for the hefty price of $198,000. That was apparently a good price. The average cost of a house in Toronto at the time was $250,000. Our street has always been undervalued for some reason.

This summer, several houses on our street sold. They all fetched over $350,000. One bungalow listed for $356,000 and sold for $458,000. Wow. Last week, a house almost identical to ours in structure sold for $370,000. The agents were so pleased, they came around to tell everyone on the street. We invited them in to our house to look around. They ooh'ed and aah'ed over our house. They said our house is in even better condition than the one they just sold. We agree. So we could probably fetch at least $370,000 for our house too.

Then the agents told us the reason our street is undervalued is because no one sells on this street. When there is no turnover, prices remain low. Apparently, the hidden knowledge among real estate agents is, our street is an undervalued gem. It is the nicest street in this pocket of the neighbourhood. It is tree-lined and quiet (hah, if they only knew). Most people who buy onto this street stay put. This is true. Very few people have moved out since we arrived. Well, without the turnover, houses on this street don't have the chance to increase in value. I take this to mean the same ethnic families have lived in these houses so the street doesn't get gentrified. Gentrification sells.

The last four houses that sold certainly were prepped to be showcase homes. And did they ever show. That's how they got these incredible prices. Really, these are tiny three-bedroom houses. Like the giant homes north of us, they too get more money if they show well. One agent said to me recently, do your house up so prospective buyers can imagine themselves having sex in it. Is there nothing that sex can't sell? I have to start paying attention to what makes a house sexy so we'll be ready if we ever sell.

Cousin, Cousine

The Man's cousin, I'll call her Kiki, is staying with us while she's visiting Canada. Kiki's mother and Man's father are brother and sister, so that makes Man and Kiki first cousins.

In 1949, Kiki's mother, I'll call her Jiki, had a daughter out of wedlock. She gave the daughter up for adoption. In the mid-1980s, this daughter, let's call her Liki, found Jiki in Australia. Liki's adoptive father started a service in the 80s to help adopted children locate their birth parents. I guess that's how Liki found her birth mother.

At that time, Jiki communicated with Liki for about two years by mail. There was a phone call. But Jiki finally told Liki she didn't want to communicate any more. However, Jiki kept Liki's correspondence and filed them away. She was a geneologist after all.

Jiki passed away two years ago. Her daughters from her marriage, Siki and Kiki came to Canada to reconnect with their mother's family. Kiki is now on her third visit to us. The last two times Kiki visited, she wanted to look Liki up. But she never had the time or the required information to locate her, what with so many relatives to visit and all. This time, Kiki made a point of getting the needed info to find Liki. Tonight, Kiki found her.

Liki is Kiki's half sister. Because Liki is also Jiki's daughter, that makes her Man's first cousin as well. That means, the Boy has another second cousin. I'm just an outsider watching all this.

Liki is 56, divorced and lives in Ottawa. She has two children in their twenties who are attending university in Guelph. Kiki and Liki are talking about meeting each other, either in Ottawa or in TO. It will probably happen this week or next. Certainly before Kiki returns to Australia.

They have never met, yet came from the same mother. Are they really such strangers? Will they feel an instant bond? What parallels exist in their lives that were genetically determined?

This is all very exciting and heart-warming, watching new family ties form. Liki had sought out her birth mother 20 years ago when she was in a difficult phase of life. Kiki and Siki reconnected with their mother's family after she passed away. The continuation of that process now is the search for their half sister, Liki. Life, loss, death and rebirth. Loss and death make us want to forge new ties to reaffirm life.

Can't wait to see how their lives are reshaped.

Night Duty

The Boy just turned 15. He often acts 8. For his birthday weekend, he had two sleepovers, back to back. That means two nights of going to bed late. He ate junk food and drank Coke most of the time. Without being a party-pooper, what can a mother do?

On Monday, he refused the healthy meatball and vegetable soup I made for dinner. Instead, he ate Goldfish, chips and had more Coke. I am trying to treat him like a 15 year old. I warned him against such a diet. He scoffed at me, turned tail, and ensconced himself in the basement all evening to watch TV.

He is living in the basement for two weeks because we have a guest in the house who is using his bedroom. He doesn't mind giving up his bedroom because he loves sleeping in the basement anyway. That's where all his sleepovers take place. That's where the TV is.

So despite all my protests against his late nights and poor diet, and me trying not to lay down the heavy hand of the disciplinarian, I let him be, now that he's 15.

Last night, I had my regular insomnia night (happens at least once a week). At 2:30 a.m., I heard the bathroom vent in the basement come alive. When this vent is on, you can feel it vibrate throughout the house. Imagine it coming on suddenly in the middle of the night. That's why I heard it on the second floor, in my bedroom, with the door closed, beside the snoring Man.

I came down to the basement to investigate. The basement was filled with the stench of diarrhea. The Boy was not in bed. I called out to Boy in the bathroom. No answer. I went right up to the bathroom door where the stench got worse and called out in a loud day voice. No answer. He must be in the bathroom, I reasoned. Concerned, I tapped on the door and jiggled the door handle. Boy screamed and hollered in fear, as if I was the Boogeyman coming to get him. He confirmed he was sick but didn't need my help. Thank god for that, I said to myself, and went upstairs.

A few minutes later, he called to see where I was. I told him I was sitting in the living room upstairs. A few minutes after that, I heard flushing and running tap water, then he came upstairs. I fixed him with some water, juice, Tylenol for his sore throat, and he went back to bed. As I sat there, I think, He's sick because of lack of sleep and junk food. I have to stick to the law. He cannot have sleepovers back to back. I will have to figure out a way to curb his junk food intake and still have him be in control. Just then, he called out to me again. It was now 3:30 a.m.

Mom?

What is it? I shouted down to him in the middle of the night with two people sound asleep upstairs.

Can you come here?

I went to the top of the basement stairs holding my nose. Why? I called out.

Can you sit with me?

The poor boy, I thought. He's sick and he wants comfort. But god, I don't want to sit in that stench. He brought this on himself. I'm tired. I'm not going to sit with him, damn it.

No, I said, I'm not coming down, because I can't breath down there. How's that for being a devoted mother. But I'll stay up here till you fall asleep.

Oh, he said, disappointed.

I refrained from lecturing him, from saying, you brought this on yourself. Instead, I said, I'll check on you before I go back to bed.

Later, at 4:00 a.m., when the stench went away, I did check on him. He seemed okay. Yes, that was me at 4:00 a.m. in the basement bathroom disinfecting the toilet bowl, scrubbing the rim and wiping clean the seat so that in the morning, the Boy wouldn't freak out about the brown streaks all over the bowl and refuse to pee in it. Then I went to bed, feeling resentful.

The First Time

The first time I didn't have to go to school when September came was in 1982. I had dropped out of university and started a full-time job. It felt odd, being neither nor.

That summer, we had students in the office. By the end of August, they had all left, getting ready to start a new school year in their respective universities. I stayed in the office to assume what was my adult life, without school. I felt relieved I was spared the tedious grind of school, an area I had never done well in. But I didn't quite fit as a new working adult either. I eventually got used to working. But for many years, whenever September came, I looked to start something new.

All these years later, now with my own teenage son, I still look at September as a time of restart. Funny that. That the restart should be in the Fall rather than the Spring.

This year, I was hoping to start a new job. And yes, I was thinking I would go back to school! I did start a new job, for two weeks. It didn't work out. It was the first time in my life where I have been in an abusive environment. People talk about it, I could never quite relate. But now, I have first-hand experience. I don't want to talk about this experience right now, but it is forever etched in my life as The Horror.

But the return to school! My goodness, there are many exciting programs at the graduate level I can take, in different formats. My current interest is the University of Athabasca, where I can do a Master of Arts – Integrated Studies online. Once I do the two core courses, I can go into a stream of my choice. That is, I can take cluster courses in Adult Education (where I have a keen interest); Community Studies; Cultural Studies; Distance Educational Studies; Work, Organization and Leadership; Global Change; or Information Studies. I would be interested in any of these streams.

And what does one do with an MA in such areas? Who knows. For me, the MA is a vanity degree. I just want one. I am willing to earn it.

This is a graduate program, so the cost is high. About $12,000 for the program. So I need to nail that job to fund this. What's first about this? It's the first time I have ever wanted to go to school and feel I will enjoy the learning! What's with that?

Old Farts

For the past three months, I've had a shoulder/neck pain in the right shoulder. This is actually a pain I've had for over 25 years. I've been to a chiropractor and family doctor but to no avail. Thing is, the pain does not limit my mobility, and while I can point to the area because it feels hot and inflamed, no amount of drugs or massaging gets rid of it. It is a deep deep embedded pain that flares up during stressful periods or when I've been really really bad with my diet. I think this bout was triggered by really really bad eating and poor sleeping a few months ago. It feels like a torn muscle or really bad bruise.

So last week, The Man complained of a similar pain in his left shoulder.

A few night ago, The Man bought some Absorbine Jr. At bedtime, we rubbed the reeky stuff on each other. He lay on his side of the bed, me on mine, far far away from each other because we both stank. The rub provided some temporary relieve so that I heard The Boy get ready for bed but fell asleep before he finished. Don't know what happened to The Man.

I have envisioned evenings spent with The Man reading - him in his chair, me in my corner. I have imagined evenings of us going to dinner then going for a walk. I would like us to spend an evening listening to music and making a meal. But I have never imagined us spending an evening rubbing Absorbine Jr. on each other and not knowing when my son went to bed. Has this become my life?

Technology Circus

I get comments on my posts sometimes. I delete most of them. I don't think they are from real people. The comments carry generic messages like:

Hey great job on your blog. I'll definately be back. Meanwhile, check out my site ....

The link goes to site that want to sell you stuff. I guess there is no privacy in the blog world. But I feel so violated by this kind of spamming. How do they do that? Do they use a program to search weblog.com or technorati, come up with key words and automatcially pop in generic messages into blogs? Is commerce the motivation for invading people's blogs? Is there a blog spam protection software I can use?

Service providers come up with a technology that enables one activity, only to have people come up with a tertiary technology that abuses the primary activity, which necessitates the creation of a new technology to stop the abuse. Sure, necessity is the mother of invention. But this is like mother gone bad. Or are we all just part of a technology circus?

Down With Rain

I try to be a good citizen. I know that parts of our country has been in a drought for the whole growing season this year. Our part of the country has been baking in an oven for almost two months. Air conditioners rage in every house in the city. Hydro regulators have asked us to reduce electricity use to avoid over-burdening the system.

I do my part to reduce energy consumption because the production of electricy causes pollution and the use of electricity is expensive. So I do us a favour by limiting our use of electricity and saving us some money. For the past two months, I've done two main things: 1) I gauge the temperature outside and set our air conditioner just a few degrees lower so that the AC takes the edge off the humidity without making the house cold. 2) I don't use the dryer at all. I've had a clothes line in the backyard for two years now. I've only hung the white laundry out because the colours discolour in the sun. This summer, I moved the clothes line to a shady spot under the tree. Now I can hang up all my laundry outside to dry.

But you can never quite count on Mother Nature to do her part to get your laundry dried though. I hung up two loads of washing today. Wouldn't you know that by mid-morning, it started raining. I'm cool with that, I said to our cousin visiting from Australia, What's the worst that can happen? So my clothes get wet, but they will dry again. I'm good with that.

Later, the sun came back out, the clothes started to dry again. It's evening now. I am looking out the window. It's pouring rain. My laundry is still out on the lines.

Right now, there's a part of me saying, I do my part to conserve energy and protect the environment. Why isn't Mother Nature being more cooperative in getting my laundry dry? Damn, do I have to re-wash the laundry and put them in the dryer? What the hell is this?

Hardware and Chocolates

Know what Rona sells in addition to home improvement hardware? They sell chocolates. What's with that?

The chocolate bars carry the Rona label. These chocolates are stocked at the cash, like magazines, so when you check out, you go, Hey chocolates, I want one.

I asked the cashier, Why is Rona selling chocolate? She said, I don't know. But I got to thinking...Rona's TV commercials feature a woman, all glammed up, looking at a problem in her house and wondering how to fix it. Meanwhile, her husband sits there looking doltzy, at a worse loss than her. The voiceover says, Rona - you can do it, we can help. Rona's commercials target women. The whole store is set up so it's easier to find things, their staff is more willing to help, the place is less crowded, they sell decorative furnishing as well. Rona has a softer image than other hardware and home improvement centres. It makes sense they want to build on that softer image with chocolates. If women shop at Rona, as I did, it's a treat for them to find chocolate among the hardware, as I did.

Rona Home & Garden rivals Home Depot any day for me.

Hey Freddie, hey Armour

You eat my food, you wear my clothes, you sleep in my bed. You said you'd blog with me. But you're no show so far. What's with that?

HP Sauced

We pre-ordered Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince back in February. The Boy was keen to get it. The bookstore's promise was that by pre-ordering, we'd be the first to get the book and we'd get it at 40% off.

Closer to the book release date, I learned that many book sellers were hosting launch parties the night of July 15. All these pre-teens and adults were showing up at the parties in costumes. They even held contests for the best outfit. Yes, it's a good marketing ploy, yes, it gets pre-teens excited about reading. Except the book seller we ordered from was selling the book at 40% off on launch night, and you could pick up the book at 12:01 AM July 16, if you attended the party.

So why did we pre-order? We were not the first to get the book, we did not save extra money. True, I would not have gone to the launch party. And we did get the book on July 16 at 40% off. Still, I feel ripped off for some reason.

Note to self: Do not fall for book selling ploys again. (But I will. Because I don't have to go out at midnight, I still get the book on the day they say, at the discount they offered, plus a "magic card" that entitles the holder to a discount of $5 to $100 off the next purchase of $50 or more in books. Yea, yea, another marketing ploy.)

Second note to self: Good god, am I a competitive and petty consumer? (Yes I am.)

Plight of Misery

I took a little camping trip up the Bruce Peninsula this weekend. The whole weekend was warm and sunny. Even though we were camping, we took most of our meals in a restaurant because D forgot to pack the stove and lantern. I mean, not only could we not cook, but we also had to not cook in the dark. But that's an other story.

During one of our meals at an outdoor restaurant, this is what I witnessed:

A man and his family came in. Before he even sat down, he started adjusting the umbrella attached to the table in an effort to get some shade over the seats. I wondered why he didn't just go to one of the other tables that already had the umbrella bent and positioned to give shade. The umbrella didn't seem cooperative, so he asked the waitress to fix the umbrella. The waitress said the umbrella is probablly broken because there was tape around the adjustment mechanism, so she didn't touch the umbrella. She suggested he moved to a different table. The man's teenaged son however, was completely embarrassed by his father's struggle with the umbrella and refused to change tables. After some words with the father, he said, "If we move, let's move to that table that is in the shade. It doesn't have an umbrella." But the man said, "No, I want to sit here."

Not happy with the waitress' answer or his son's refusal to move to a table with an umbrella, the man flagged down a waiter, who happily adjusted the umbrella for him. The waiter said, "Just be careful, the wind may blow the umbrella about."

Sure enough, each time the wind came up, the umbrella spun on its adjustment pivot, knocking passersby in the head and allowing the full force of the sun to hit the man's table. He spent most of the time holding the umbrella steady with one hand. He looked most unhappy. His poor wife and son looked frustrated with the man.

So I was thinking...Why is this family out when they are so full of misery? Why didn't the man just go to a table in the shade? I don't know. I think this man came into the restaurant looking for reasons to be unhappy. What's with people like that?