Weaknesses

If I were on a job interview and the interviewer asked me what my major weakness was, I wouldn't know which of the following to choose:

1. Chocolate
I know chocolate is a weakness for many women. I had coffee with a neighbour this morning. Somehow, the subject of chocolate came up and she confessed she can't go a day without chocolate. I've gone for two weeks without now. The chocolaty melt-in-your-mouth feel is on my mind a lot.

2. Chocolate Digestives
I don't eat these cookies often, but when I do, I eat the whole package. I think the chocolate has a lot to do with my eating them, but the combination of the chocolate and digestive cookie creates a grittier kind of melt-in-your-mouth feel, equally as good as chocolate by itself. It's like a different texture of chocolate.

3. Spam
I don't understand people who don't like Spam. I am a big fan. I am such a big fan I own the T-shirt. It is one of my prized possessions.



In Japan, Spam is considered a delicacy. They fry up the Spam in slices and pair it with cheese. The Man and The Boy won't go near the stuff. It means every time I open a can, I have to eat the whole thing. But Spam is also one of those foods I can't eat just a little of, because of how the meat melts in your mouth. So I eat the whole can in one sitting. Which can make you awfully nauseous when you finish. Despite knowing that, I can't stop.

4. Not doing our taxes.
I wonder if I'll go to jail for not filing my taxes. I wonder if The Man will go to jail because I didn't file his taxes. We have not filed for 2005, and 2006 is coming up. I figure there's no hurry. I did a quick calculation last year and we don't owe. In fact, The Man is due a small refund. That is, if my quick calculation is right.

The Man is all nervous. A co-worker of his is being chased by Revenue Canada for not filing. But he owes. For seven years.

So now I have set myself the task of completing the taxes this week. At least the 2005 ones. But I am dawdling.

5. I dawdle
I am a procrastinator. I don't do anything unless there is an urgent deadline. Don't get me wrong. I do a great job when I finally do the task. But it takes forever to get me going, if I get going at all.

I hear that in an interview, you're supposed to name just one weakness, then turn it around to illustrate how you've learned to use the weakness to your advantage, or how you've devised a strategy to cope with your weakness. I think I can do that...yes, chocolate is my weakness, but I've learned to make wonderful chocolate desserts. Oh I can't stop eating Spam, but look at what a great collector of Spam memorabilia I am. True, I haven't filed my taxes, but I am contributing to the Canadian treasury by not collecting the interest that is due me. It's my gift to Canadians. Dawdling? I work well under pressure and am at my most creative when there is a crisis.

I wonder if that'll wash.

The Hit

In the supermarket today, things got a little crowded in one of the aisles. I waited with my cart till traffic cleared. A little old man, must've been 80-years-old, with a shopping basket in the crook of his arm, waved me through. I said thanks and pushed my cart to the frozen food section. I was looking for puff pastry.

Not seeing the pastry where I thought they were stocked, I pushed my cart along the whole frozen section to the ice creams, looking into each change of item. I walked by the little old man again. He stood back to let me pass. Still not finding the puff pastry, I made my way back, again passing the little old man.

This time, he said in a quaint little accent, "Hello, how are you?" He made a little bow. He was neatly dressed in Fred Astaire casual.

"Fine," I said, "Hope you are well too." I continued on my way.

When I turned around a little later, the little old man was staring at me. Which made me think, was he trying to hit on me? Is that the kind of hits I get now? Or did he think I was stalking him and he just wanted to confront his stalker?

I'm gonna say he was hitting on me. No doubt because of my Anna Nicole Smith-ness, minus the big boobs, the blond tresses, and the va-va-voom-ness. Yup. That's what he made me think of.

The Best Dives

We hooked up with some friends for dinner and a movie last night. We headed to a restaurant recommended by another friend, hoping for a quick bite. But the restaurant was too fancy for our liking. It was not a quick bite kind of place. You really ought to be dressed and spend the whole evening over dinner to get your money's worth.

So we opted to run across the street to a divy looking place called the Regal Beagle pub. I wasn't keen for it. It didn't look regal and I was worried it really might be more suited for beagles. But my friend said, "It's a pub. They'll have beer and pub food. And we can eat and run without feeling guilty." Sure, that's a good reason to go to a restaurant.

The first giveaway that this may not have been a good choice was there was no one inside the restaurant on a Saturday night, and the waitress barely spoke English. One of our friends ordered a vegetarian burger. They didn't have that as their new supplies hadn't come in. He opted for a grilled cheese and fries. When the sandwich arrived, his face fell. The thing really was a Kraft slice melted between white bread.

Two of us had burgers, The Man had a club house. The fare was plain but mostly edible. I guess this really was a university hang out and the important thing was cheap beer.

As we neared the end of our quick meal, a loud rhythmic pulse resounded throughout the restaurant. I didn't recognize it as a fire alarm. We looked around and asked each other what that sound was. A man sitting at the bar and writing in a ledger turned to us and said, "It's okay."

The waitress came later and conveyed that the alarm went off all the time but she wasn't able to convey why or when the sound would stop. But we thought it was time to go anyway so we got the cheque, used the washrooms and put on our coats. As I walked through the front door, I was met by five firemen, carrying hoses and axes, sauntering in slowly. Outside, there were two fire trucks and a police car flashing their lights.

I said to my friend, "Well, they sure weren't in a hurry. But that doesn't look like 'It's okay' ". The Man looked up at the building from the sidewalk. He said, "Hey, up there is the old Rochdale College", as if that explains why the fire alarm going off and no one caring, is a normal thing. Rochdale College - Toronto's student drug haven in the 60's and 70's.

I'm just going to stick to my gut instincts about restaurants and be more selective about the dives I go to.

Connectivity

Despite living in the big city, we seem to socialize in small circles. I am constantly amazed at how seemingly unrelated people are connected to each other.

Today, I met a friend to help her do some research. I haven't seen this friend for almost 10 years. Last year, I ran into her at The Boy's school. Turns out her children also go to the same school. After a few run-ins, we decided we should get together. But before we could arrange that, I ran into her again over the holidays at a friend's Christmas party.

We talked and caught up with each other a bit. And that's how I decided to do some volunteer work with her.

Today, as we talked and looked at some of the web sites where I will be gathering information, I noted that I knew some of the people who own the sites. Turns out she knew them as well. In fact, we know quite a number of the same people. Must be because we are part of the arts-books-cultural community.

And then there is my neighbour who is a contractor for house renovations. He did a job recently on a house in the east end. He said to me one day, Your Former Co-worker says hi. How does he know her? They were chatting and she asked where he lives, he told her, she said, do you know Sylph who also lives on that street.

And then there is The Man who was subcontracted to do work for an office I fled from in horror a couple of years ago.

Then there is The Boy whose best buddy's dad's best friend is the brother of a woman I used to be a good friend when we worked together.

Sometimes I feel my world is very small. No, The Man would say my family is very big.

She Did It Again!

Really, what gives here? My red platy gave birth again last night. This time, I see only two little infants in the tank, so far. This makes the third birth she's given, all about two weeks apart, after I removed the males.

What is the platy reproduction anatomy like? My guess is the eggs were all fertilized by the two males before I separated them. It's just taking her time to grow and birth them all. During gestation, the males' presence is not required. She must be finished by now, because I see her swimming about a bit more.

My Funk

I'm in a funk. The lack of structure is getting to me. The cold out there doesn't help either. It's not that I have nothing to do. Too much to do in fact. But I just don't feel like doing anything. I think I've been brooding for a couple of weeks now. Or maybe I'm just getting over my illness. It's funny how being sick makes you think the end of the world has come.

So to stop myself from being sucked into a vortex of despair, I've volunteered to do some work for my friend at the book and periodical council. I'll be doing research to help relaunch her web site. Another friend has also asked me to help her publish her school newspaper. I think I'll say yes to that as well.

But you know what I'm glad about? Despite my bad mood, things are going well for The Man and The Boy. The Man's work is going through a good phase and we are grateful for that.

The Boy. Well, The Boy is The Boy. He refuses to go to bed at night and gets up late. He's late for school almost everyday. I feel like I am fighting with him daily to get him moving.

At noon today, he phoned my cell to say he needed his suit because the school orchestra is having their photograph taken so could I bring his suit to school. At exactly the same time, the house phone rang. It was the school office saying he was late for first class, again. I had a bird.

I said no to The Boy. I told him he has to solve this one on his own as I am not going to go out of my way to accommodate him when he can't keep to his basic job of going to sleep and getting to school on time.

Half an hour later, he showed up at home, singing and in a great mood. He came back to get his suit. He said on leaving the school, he ran into the music teacher in charge of the pit orchestra. You have to be invited to be in the pit orchestra, which performs when the drama or musical theatre department puts on a play. He's been asking to be part of the orchestra since last year, but the teacher always give him a reason for why he can't be in it.

So running into this teacher outside the school, the teacher asked The Boy if he wanted to be in the pit orchestra. Their percussionist has a conflict of schedule and now the orchestra needs a replacement. The Boy was overjoyed to say yes. He produced a schedule of rehearsal dates. Now he'll be at school every Tuesday evening as well. Then he rambled on about how his band teacher had asked him to try out for a special ensemble, how he's stage managing a grade 12 musical production, and how he and Butterfly Boy are emceeing the school's talent night.

Despite my funk, I am glad The Boy isn't suffering by it.

Into The Deep

I went into the deep today. The deep freeze. I was on the Toronto Islands for a board meeting of my friend's environmental foundation. With the wind chill, it was -28C and I walked around like I was a polar bear.

We boarded the icebreaker raft at Toronto Harbour at 9:30 am. Half way to Ward's Island, the water became sheets of ice. I have never seen the waters of Lake Ontario like that before.



When we got to the other side, the raft had trouble docking. There was just too much ice for it to position for off-loading. The boat made three attempts to dock before letting us off.



It's hard to imagine in the summer, this is the same place people come in droves to cool down, take in dragon boat racing, and shriek with silliness going on rides.



By the end of the day, the dock at Ward's Island was no longer usable. A bus took us from the dock to Hanlon's Point to board the boat from there.

Despite the cold, there were still young people prancing about as if it was spring, with barely a shirt on, exposing their necks and with their thin coats flapping open. I have never been more glad that I own a parka. The elements rule every time.

A Continent Of Incontinents

Sis' fiance and his teenage son, Young'un, were at Bro's birthday dinner last night. The Man bowed out as the dinner was a last minute affair and he had already made plans to visit his mother.

After dinner, Fiance had the job of driving Mom, The Boy and me home. Out in front of the restaurant, I heard Fiance say he would get his car from the back of the restaurant. A bit later, I heard Young'un say he was going to meet his dad in the back. Mom, The Boy, and I stood around seeing Bro off, and seeing Sis tuck her kids into her car.

After a while, I saw Fiance's car drive up. He went into a parking spot near us. Uh oh. Young'un was not in the car with him. I went up to his car, put my hand on the handle and was about to open the door when Fiance jumped out of the car from his side. I stood up and said, "Did you see Young'un?"

The man looked at me leaning on the passenger side of his car. He was not Fiance at all. He was much older, but someone who drove the same colour car, had a similar built, and wore a similar coloured jacket as Fiance. "Oh, sorry, I made a mistake," I said, backing away.

"Did you want me to drive you somewhere?" he teased something to that effect.

"Oh, there she goes again, always trying to get into strange men's cars," called out Sis.

Oh well, no harm done, I made a mistake.

Along came a second car, also in a light colour. I wanted to wave it down, thinking, for sure this was Fiance. The Boy said, "No, no, don't wave at strange cars, mom." So I waited to make sure. Sure enough, the car contained a single driver who drove right by us.

Finally, a third car came by. This time, I recognized Fiance in the driver's seat, and Young'un in the car with him. When he pulled up beside us, I said to Young'un, "Look how you get me into all kinds of trouble."

The Boy told Young'un what happened and they had a good laugh. I don't mind that. I think teens like to know they are the cause of adults making fools of themselves and I was glad to be the instrument of their merriment.

But the bigger issue at the time was, where was mom? She had completely disappeared. Had she gone off with Bro? Or with Sis? I walked around the restaurant and could not find her. I decided to go back inside the restaurant. Maybe she had to use the washroom again. Sure enough, there she was, making her way back to us through the dining room.

I said, "You came back inside without telling anyone."

She chuckled, "It was too funny and I peed my pants. That man even wore a jacket the same colour as Fiance."

Oh, so she saw the whole episode too. But that proves my point. It was easy to make the mistake that I did. Not that I thought Young'un had been kidnapped. But it was a cold night and I didn't like the idea of him wandering in the dark looking for his father. But who knew mom would wet herself over that.

I Live, I Live!

I am so glad to be feeling better. Enough so that I went out for Bro's birthday dinner. Yes, Bro was there too.

This week, The Boy stayed home two days from school with a fever and cough. When he went back to school, I came down with the same thing. But these illnesses take me longer to recover. The Man is so afraid of catching illness from me that he perfunctorily pecked the air above my head when he left the house this morning. But the good thing is, hey, I've lost three pounds in three days! Love these illnesses.

Because of my incontinence, each time I coughed, I squirted. The coughing fits meant I had to really isolate that pelvic muscle and squeeze. I have no doubt I am squeezing the right muscle now for my kegel exercises.

And because I showered for the first time in three days, I feel squeaky clean and fresh. Can't wait till the morning to start my life again.

Chocolate Addiction

It's the morning after, I still feel nauseated. It's like a hangover. I overdosed on chocolate last night. I don't mean to sound so diva-ish, but chocolate addiction is real. Google "chocolate addiction" and see.

I eat chocolate bars in stacks. I eat chocolate covered anything. If something comes in a chocolate flavour, I will eat it, even those meal replacement diet bars. My favourite ice cream is chocolate peanut butter. I eat brownies only because there's chocolate in it.

I make chocolate runs late at night. I get really, really mad at The Man if he forgets or refuses to bring me back chocolate.

Once, I stood by a chocolate fountain all night and dipped, non-stop, wishing I could chug back the pool of melted chocolate the way people chug back beer. When no one was looking, I bent down and let the chocolate waves gush into my mouth. I got chocolate on my face, in my nose and in my hair and had to hide my mess and stifle my sputterings of chocolate as I ran for the washroom, but it was worth it.

It's not that I eat chocolate. It's more that I eat lots and lots of chocolate in one sitting, often. I am sure that if I stopped eating chocolate, I would lose weight.

So that's what I am going to do. I am going to not eat chocolate for a whole month starting today. My friend Outrageous has quit smoking. The Boy has quit drinking Coke, now into his second year. I can go without chocolate for one month. Cold turkey.

Oh no. Valentine's Day in February. Also my wedding anniversary. Okay, all the more reason I need to kick the chocolate habit now. It will be difficult and I will be tested. Mind over matter. My self-discipline challenged. No chocolate for one month.

Homes Of The Wanderer

I invited The Man's cousin to spend the weekend with us. I see her once every ten years or so. We must be sympatico in some way, because each time we meet, it's like I just saw her last week. We pick up almost exactly where we left off. Yet, we're so different. She's so out there, and dramatic, being part of the theatre community and all. Yet, we tread similar paths. When I met her this time, we discovered we have both been meditating. In fact, she's been doing it for the last ten years.

So she arrived downtown on Friday afternoon, we went to dinner, then we went to an all-day meditation retreat in the west end of the city on Saturday. On Sunday, we picked up The Boy at Butterfly Boy's at the east end of the city and dropped Cousin off at her friend's near him.

In our little jaunts around town, almost every street we turned down, Cousin pointed out, I used to live here. We must've passed at least four houses in different parts of town she's lived in. Cousin is quite the mover and wanderer. Our weekend together was like a trip into her past. Her former homes culminated in this experience of the familiar.

On Sunday morning, before we headed out to breakfast, I talked to The Boy, who had spent the night at Butterfly Boy's.

I said - What street is Butterfly Boy on again?

Boy - Here, Butterfly Boy will give you directions to get here.

Butterfly Boy - I live on W Street.

Me - W? What number again?

Cousin - W? I used to live there.

Me - Number XXX.

Cousin - I lived at XXX+4

Me - You lived four houses up from Butterfly Boy?

Cousin - Yes.

Me - Okay, Butterfly Boy, we'll there between 12:30 and 1:00.

BB - That's great. Perhaps you could stay for tea.

See why I love Butterfly Boy. How is it that a 16-year-old boy should invite his friend's mom in for tea. We made our way to Butterfly Boy's with no problem. But we had to decline the tea invitation as The Man wanted to attend a lecture on art theft at the museum. But geez, Cousin sure knows her way around town.

Dopey And Goofy

So, that's how it is. Despite their liveliness, their good manners, their good looks, they still have the brains of teenagers. Kind of at the dopey and goofy stage right now.

Last night, The Boy and his friends went out to the shed to bring in the air mattress and pump. It is a vinyl air mattress. In the subzero cold outside, the folded up mattress is frozen. But once they brought the thing inside the house, they tried to force it open. The solid vinyl cracked. Which means there is now a large split in the side of the mattress. But that did not deter the boys. They tried to pump it up and were disappointed it wouldn't inflate. What gives here?

So they brought in the second air mattress and were about to pry it open. I could hear them in the basement discussing how to do it so it wouldn't crack. I couldn't stand it, so I ran down and asked them to put the mattress near a heat vent so it would thaw by itself. I could see three light bulbs flash on over their heads at the same time as they looked up at me, nodded their heads, and mutter, Ah, brilliant, brilliant idea.

My Not-Yet Adopted Sons

It's a wonder I haven't adopted The Boy's friends for my own. Their school is holding auditions tomorrow for grade nine admission so there are no classes for them. The Boy invited Butterfly Boy and Handsome Dancer home for a sleepover.

The Boy and Butterfly Boy were already home when I got back. Shortly after, the phone rang. It was a collect call. The recording asked if we would accepted the charges. The Man said, Yes. Then in a hurried, muffled voice, Handsome Dancer said - I'm getting on the subway and will be there in a few minutes. Click.

Apparently, this is what the boys do to communicate. Because Handsome Dancer hadn't identified himself, we don't get charged for the call. I don't quite get this, because we said yes to the accepting the charges, and we don't mind paying for the call. But the boys said they don't want to burden their friends' parents with extra cost.

The Boy and Butterfly Boy then bundled up to go out. It's -14C out, -23C with the wind chill. But they insist on going out to meet Handsome Dancer at the bus stop. It's their duty they said, because it's dark out and Handsome Dancer is travelling alone.

As soon as he got in, Handsome Dancer phoned his mom to let her know he arrived at our house. As they prepared snacks in the kitchen, he said to me - So how are you guys? I haven't talked to you forever.

I said - We've been fine. How's school?

He said - We just did a call back (that's being called back for a second audition for a spring dance production).

- Think you'll get in?

- Hard to say. The teachers are so unpredictable. But it's still important to try out.

- You always get in. You've been in every show I've ever seen.

He gave me a big grin, and I marvelled again at how these boys strike up conversation with us and volunteer information about themselves.

Later, Butterfly Boy came upstairs, waving a glass emptied of chocolate milk and said - Do you mind if I have another drink?

Surprised that he's asking for permission first, I said - Well, just give me ten minutes so I can think about it.

We looked at each other smirking and I said - Yeah, yeah, just help yourself.

Then he said - And do you have any bourbon?

And we both laughed and he went to the fridge to get some more chocolate milk.

They are such nice boys, and so easy to talk to. The Man said, You don't know that they are not doing drugs, robbing banks, and killing cats when you are not with them.

True. I don't know that. But if they are doing those things, at least they would be polite while doing them.

Timelessness

I feel liberated. I am freed from the snare of Chin P'ing Mei. I finished the three inches of book, all 863 pages in 10 point print. The plum blossom has been plucked.

Yet, I feel unanchored, like I've been cast out of the cruel corruptions and petty fights of Ming Dynasty China, no longer privy to the secrets and trysts of Hsi Men's household and its inhabitants. Never mind that they all died at the end of the melodrama.

Day time soaps have nothing on these people and their intrigues for money, power, loyalty and sex.

In my world, there are not so much as secrets but known things that we choose not to say to each other. For example, sometimes I would like to go to my pilates class on my own and not have go with my two friends each time. My friends must feel the same way, but we don't tell each other that. Every once in a while, we somehow just show up to class by ourselves.

In my world, some things are not so different from 16th Century China. Fortunes are made and lost overnight depending on who supports you and who's against you. Ever worked for someone who is determined they don't want you in their office? Ever worked in a company where the director likes you and promotes you to all kinds of positions?

Everyone has their own rationales and reasons, and some people resort to deceit or self-delusional honesty to get what they want. Why else is Bush increasing forces in Iraq?

I guess that's why the Bible, Shakespeare, Dickens and Rumi are still so popular. There are just some universal truths about the human spirit and condition that transcend time and culture.

I am now going to tackle The Three Kingdoms and All Men Are Brothers. Which to read first? They are both waiting for me on my book shelf. Hey, when I am done with these, I will be like a Chinese scholar, having read all five classics.

Painted Flowers

For the past two weeks, I've been absorbed in a book called Chin P'ing Mei, literally meaning "metal vase plum blossom". It is a book of manners, where the writer describes in detail the social rituals and etiquette of births, marriages, ranks and promotions, death, justice, revenge and retribution, and bribery in ancient China. It is also the story of a wealthy merchant and his six wives and their sexual exploits. For that reason, the book was banned in China until the 20th Century. China touts four great works of classical literature. Chin P'ing Mei is often considered the fifth.

The main character, Hsi Men, sleeps regularly with his six wives, four of their maids, and two of their servant's wives. He keeps mistresses in town and visits brothels. In the book, these brothels are referred to as "houses of joy" or "flower gardens". The women who work in them are referred to as "painted flowers".

Last night, The Man brought home a bouquet of flowers for me. He's just like that. The flowers were brilliantly coloured. I have never seen flowers with a yellow centre and orange petals. Of particular interest were two clusters of fuchsia daisies with white stripes through them.

I trimmed the flowers and arranged them in a vase. When I finished, I noticed that my fingertips were fuchsia, the same colour as the unusual daisies. Hah. Real painted flowers.

A Blathering

I can't say that I enjoyed reading French Women Don't Get Fat. The gist of the book is, eat anything you want, but eat only one bite, and the author saying, I'm skinny because I'm French. I know, the title of the book kind of gave that away. But it's disconcerting to find that really is what she's saying.

But there is one thing in the book I liked. And that is eat nothing but leek soup for a whole weekend. Not vichyssoise. Just leeks cooked in water. I like this soup. I have this brilliant idea that I should try to eat this soup every weekend and not fuss too much about what I eat during the week. I guess it's this kind of lazy dieting that gained me 10 lbs over the holidays. Maybe I'll throw in some exercise if I have to. And the entertaining every weekend has got to stop. After next weekend.

The Boy came home last night after all. I dropped him off at Drummer Friend's for the night on Thursday. They were practising for their Friday exam. After the exam, he was going to hook up with Butterfly Boy and spend the night at his house in celebration of the end of exams. Friday night, I was hosting my book club meeting, The Man was having dinner with Architect. We were settled for the night.

During our book club dinner, The Boy checked in. He said he ended up at Singinggirl's where Butterfly Boy and others was spending the day. He wasn't sure if he was going to Butterfly Boy's for the night and may just come home. One of my friends said, So he's carrying his overnight pack around the city and looking for a place to crash?

I guess that's what in effect happened. But bless The Boy, he took my cell phone with him so I could get in touch with him, and he checks in regularly.

Over dinner, the book club members insist that every teenager by the time they reach 16, has tried smoking pot. I wasn't sure if The Boy had. So when he got home, I asked him. He said yes! He tried it last year. Whoa. Why am I so surprised? Neither The Man nor I made a fuss. Then The Boy said he and his friends are not smokers or drinkers, mainly because no one supplies drugs and alcohol and they are simply not into it. But there was an opportunity to try pot last year and he did out of curiosity. That was all.

I've been sleeping better the last few nights. I think the secret for me is separate blankets. Two bodies get really hot under a down duvet. I wake up from sweat a few times a night. Now I have my own silk padded comforter. It breathes. I sleep through the night.

Now I am being harassed to get ready to go to a restaurant supply store. I have no idea what The Man wants to get there. It's not like we operate a restaurant.

The Things I Do

The Boy is in exams this week. This morning, he ran off to his friend's to practise their drumming. Their band exam is tomorrow.

At 2 pm, he phoned. Neither he nor Friend has money, no one is home at Friend's, they have no instant food in the house, and they don't know how to nor do they want to cook. Not only that, but they want to have sushi at the restaurant we frequent. The restaurant is right by Friend's house so could I drive down to Friend's to give them money. This is after he closed his bedroom door and put up a sign that says "Off Limits, Mom!"

I said no, I can't come down, I am busy right now.

But these are young guys in their teen years, in need of more sleep and more mindless than the rest of the population. So I did my mom thing.

I phoned the restaurant and asked if they would take my Visa number and charge the boys' meal to it. They said yes. So that's how I fed the boys from a distance.

Abort, Abort Mission

Last night was one of those rare nights The Man and I both felt friendly at the same time. We were under the covers and friendly to a state of complete undress. The Man leaned over me.

Suddenly, The Boy burst into our room clutching his head, moaning, No...no. Then he plopped himself on our bed and pulled the covers over him.

It happened in a blink. In that second, The Man and I separated and I tucked the duvet around The Boy. Under the pretext of rearranging and fluffing up the duvet, I slipped my pajamas back on. The Man got up, pulled his pants on, and got some water for The Boy.

Then The Boy went back to his bed, leaving his bedroom door open.

The Man also left our door open in case The Boy has another nightmare. Then we settled back into bed eyes wide. He said, Let's just go to sleep. I said, Yes, let's. He fell asleep. I went downstairs and read for a couple of hours. I am exhausted this morning.

My Men

We went for coffee with our neighbour, Architect, today. When we are out together and we run into people we know, I sometimes tell them one is my husband, the other is my boyfriend.

Architect is always neatly groomed. I think he preens though he would never admit it. The Man generally looks good, though depending on his mood, he can look like a boorish jerk to sophisticated dandy. But when The Man and Architect go out together, they are often mistaken as gay men.

We walked along Queen Street today. I noticed other men looking at them. I stood back to take in the effect. Architect looked dashing, with a black leather jacket, jeans, and pointy cowboy boots. The Man looked intellectual and outdoorsy, with a thick red sweater, jeans, muckers, and hair flying in the wind. Two grey-haired, bearded men walking side by side, enjoying each other's company.

It made me laugh, and I had an urge to pimp them.

And how did I fit in with them? I didn't. I was invisible beside them, looking like I was not associated with them at all. And besides, I was feeling like the dog's breakfast that the cat spat out. Serves me right for not showering this morning.

Eyeing For A Daughter

Sometimes I wonder what The Boy will be like on a date. Thing is, he's smart and good looking, has wit and talent. At 16, he could pass for 13, so he's innocent looking too. Little kids adore him, older people find him charming. He's respectful but is driven by the need to have a good time and be cool.

When he spends time with male friends, he often books them back to back, giving nary a thought to homework, sleep or his parents. He thinks I'm strict because I insist he phones home regularly when he's out. But that's okay. He has friends whose parents require the same of them.

So yesterday, he went to Dancegirl 1's to study for Biology. That's the course he's not doing well in. Dancegirl 1 is a straight A student, got 96 in Biology. The Boy has picked a good partner to study with. Only, he made tentative plans to go from Dancegirl 1's straight to Singinggirl 1's after studying.

At 4 pm, Singinggirl 1 and her best friend, Singinggirl 2 phoned to confirm their plans. I told them I would pass on their message. Curly and Butterfly Boy also phoned to see what The Boy's doing. At 6 pm, The Boy phoned to say he's staying at Dancegirl 1's for dinner, then heading to her best friend's, Dancegirl 2, to continue studying. I relayed all his messages.

I know teenagers do things in groups, are casual about getting together, and change plans last minute. I know I see the convolution because I insist on knowing where The Boy is and who he's with.

But here's where the mother in me kicks in. I like Dancinggirl 1, even though I have never met her. I like that she's a dance major, I like that she gets good grades. I like that The Boy travels to the subway stop near her house and she and her mom pick him up. I like that Dancegirl's dad was going to surprise her mom with dinner by ordering in pizza and wings, over orders, and asks The Boy to stay. I like that he studies with the Dancegirls. I like that he phoned home when he left their house, that they drove him to the subway, and he got home by 11 pm as promised.

I now also know I am scrutinizing for daughter-in-law prospects.

Gruffy Guy

Last month, The Man and I tried out a new steakhouse on St. Clair. To promote the restaurant, the owners had a game where at the end of the meal, you get to pick a card. Each card represents an item on the menu. The Man won a 12 0z filet mignon, valued at $25.95.

Tonight, we went back to the restaurant for dinner so we could use up the voucher before it expires. At the restaurant, we ran into Gruffy Guy, a friend The Man knows in the hood. They met when they protested against McDonald's trying to put in a drive-thru at St. Clair and Christie.

Gruffy Guy is a long-haired, bearded, over-weight, old hippie. He played bass in the 70's with a band called Southern Comfort. Apparently, they were quite big in North America. But right now, he's doing odd jobs here and there, including being sound technician (he was the The Boy's sound man at Zemra and other community gigs when The Boy was with the Green Jazzberries), cleaner at the karate studio, cross-walk guard, among other things.

Apparently, he doesn't need money, he just wants to keep busy. He's gruffy l0oking and is always in a plaid shirt, jeans and construction boots. He wears a short pony tail and has frayed white hair. You'd never think he was more than a street sweeper. But he's articulate and funny when you talk to him.

He was having dinner at the steakhouse also, so he came to our table to chat. He told us about what he's been doing. In the course of our conversation, he said two things that made our jaws drop. He said,

.... I was jamming with Peter Noones. He lives in Mississauga. (Noones is the lead singer of the Herman's Hermits. The Man and I went all the way to Casino Rama to see him two years ago.)

... I went to Prince's house for a party the other night. (The Man inquired about how Prince decorates his house and we got a description of it.)

The things you find out about people in the hood.

What The?

It's too weird.

I separated my male and female fish a few weeks ago. Two weeks after that, my red platy gave birth. I thought, okay, she got pregnant before I separated her.

It's been two weeks now since she had the last birth. There were seven baby platys. The male platys have been living in a separate tank.

Today, I found four new infant platys in the tank. She gave birth again? Where did those platys come from? They are definitely not from the birth two weeks ago. They are much smaller than those fry.

Can a fish give birth two weeks apart for the same pregnancy? Was there an immaculate conception? What are the fish doing?

Imaginary Suffering

"I've been through a lot in life, and some of those things actually happened." - Mark Twain

I like this quote by Mark Twain. The idea resonates so well in all my discussions with Dr. Noggins.

Today, I started to talk to him about my nightmares and what they may be telling me about why I'm not working. One thing led to another, he asked me about my relationship with my grandmother, I told him about my rescue syndrome, he said he felt my saying I didn't want my grandmother to feel her efforts had been in vain was significant, I said I think my paralysis has to do with my believing my options are either being a failure or being a fraud and I don't want neither.

It was a complicated session.

I still can't sort out what we were talking about and how we came to talk about it. But now I wonder, how much of what we feel is real? Is anything real? Rather than gaining insight into myself, I think I understand better what Buddhists mean when they say everything is transient. We suffer when we form attachment to the illusion of permanence.

New Leaf?

I almost applied for a job last week as returning officer in our ward for Elections Canada. It's a part time gig with a 10 year appointment. But as the date of the deadline drew near, I started having nightmares each night. Nightmares of being overwhelmed, of coming up against mysterious obstacles in things I normally excel at doing, of things falling through my hand and disappearing, of not fitting in. Nightmares that woke me in the middle of the night with a pounding heart that won't let me go back to sleep.

I don't know what that's about. They stopped when I decided I wouldn't apply for the job. Maybe it's not the kind of work I want. So now, what then? I feel I am ready to get back to work.

Maybe I need to take a couple of steps back and go through the process of evaluating what kind of work I want to do and what kind of work environment I want to work in. That'll be my main task for January.

I confess now I look forward to school starting tomorrow and having the house back to myself during the day. I've spent all week trying to organize The Boy to attend appointments while he is out of school. The Man has gone into some snit where he pretends I don't live here. This is an untouchable mood for me and I've learned to leave him there.

So I can't wait to have them both out of the house during the day and see if I can make better use of my time this year.

Tonight, She Flies!

Tonight, la Befana flies! January 6 is her night.

La Befana is Italy's Christmas witch. The story goes that la Befana was a little old lady who lived in a little cottage in the woods. She was an exceptional housekeeper and knew it. She also had magic powers and could talk to the animals and birds in the forest. A very self-satisfied queen of the forest, she was.

One day, three men knocked on her door. They said they were lost, looking for the baby Jesus. La Befana didn't know where the baby was but invited the three men to spend the night at her cottage. Such a gracious hostess she was, and kept such a clean and charming home.

The next day, the three men resumed their journey and invited la Befana to join their search for the baby Jesus. But la Befana declined, saying she had too much work to do. After all, she had to clean up after her guests. The three wise men went on their way, la Befana cleaned up. She was a bit of a buffoon that way, hence her name, Befana.

Later, la Befana wondered if she had made the right choice. She decided she hadn't. This was her Epiphany. So she set off after the men in search of the baby Jesus. Alas, she could find no trace of the wise men. She decided she would look for the baby on her own. So she got on her broom and flew looking around.

La Befana flew down the chimney of every house where a child lived and left a present in the child's stocking, just in case that was the baby Jesus.

Over the years, her story evolved. She leaves behind candies and presents for children who had been good, and lumps of coal for children who had been bad.

That's right. La Befana is Italy's female Saint Nicholas, who was an old man with a walking stick and a sack before Coca Cola turned him into a jolly fat fellow in a red suit.

This year, our Befana hag choir was filmed by Omni TV during our preparation for Winter Solstice. Four of us were interviewed for an Italian news program. Tonight, being the night of la Befana, Omni TV aired the feature. I missed it. So Befana. But I am told I look great in it. I am told they dubbed me so Italian comes out of my mouth! I want to see whether they kept in the part where the interviewer called me the Chinese Befana.

Now we will use our magic to make the TV station to give us the news clip.

Being Strangers

It's been a week of people watching.

In a restaurant one day, I saw a tall man and a short girl get seated. At first, I thought they were father and daughter, the man was so much taller, the girl so short and young. But after they removed their coats, hats and scarves, there was no notable age differential on their faces, and seated, their height differential was unremarkable too. The father and daughter became a young couple in their twenties. The man was not old and bald, his head was fashionably shaven; the girl was not young, she was wearing a purple frilly scarf with a furry hat that I usually associate with little girls.

My bad. But evidently, I continued to stare and stare, because after a while, the man started to look self-conscious, like he knew he was being stared at, by me. It was that discomfort that made me realize why I was still staring at him. He looked like Paul Bernardo when Bernardo was arrested! Which explains why I was asking myself, Shouldn't he be in jail? Is she his next victim?

But no, of course it was not him. I forced myself to look away and wake up. It was just someone who looked like him. Maybe I was staring with guardedness, fear, curiosity, maybe even hostility. No wonder he looked uncomfortable.

The next person who caught my eye was in the subway. I still don't know if that person is male or female. What I saw was a tall, young, thin person with fragile features, close cropped hair, wearing a baggy parka, jeans and construction boots. S/he wore studs in both ears and had delicate hands, not indicative of gender these days. I looked for an Adam's apple. There wasn't one. I looked for breasts. There were none. I looked for feminine movements. None came. I looked for facial hair. I couldn't see any. Androgny never looked so real. No doubt I stared and stared at this person too and s/he might have noticed if s/he hadn't been so absorbed in affecting nonchalance.

Walking down the street one day, I saw a little guy wear a snug-fitting army jacket with the collar turned up, tight jeans, running shoes. He had a bit of a duck tail, if curly hair can be duck-tailed. With hands in his jean pockets, he swaggered! I swear the little guy was no more than ten-years-old.

And then there was the man I fell in love with. He was in a restaurant with two young boys. His sons maybe. He looked familiar. I kept staring at him, trying to decide if he's someone I used to work with, or if he's a TV anchor, now older. He's that well-groomed and handsome. Then he started to stare back. I know it's because I was staring at him and he was staring back to figure out why I was staring. It was very distracting and I could barely stay tuned to conversations with my companions. I decided I didn't know this man and I stared at him only because he was good looking.

His Own Person

This week, The Boy is applying for a new photo health card, a social insurance number, and a new passport. His identity is now completely separate from me.

Incredible.

Cleansing In The Rain

Those Japanese. They really know how to bring in the new year. They climb Mt. Fuji to greet the dawn. That means they climb a mountain in the middle of the night, in the dark, on the first night of the new year, to get to the summit by dawn.

Here at home, the Toronto Buddhist Church sends monks to Ontario Place where they literally ring in the new year. The monks and guests ring Ontario Place's giant bell 108 times before midnight to signify...

curbing the 108 bonno (mortal desires) which, according to Buddhist belief, torment humankind. It is hoped that with each reverberation the bad experiences, wrong deeds, and ill luck of the past year will be wiped away. Thus, tolling heralds the start of a prosperous and joyous New Year.

So that's where we wanted to end up on New Year's Eve - at Ontario Place, for the tolling of the bell at 11:30 pm.

But we didn't make it.

We started the evening with friends, 13 of us, at The Second City Bird Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest. That is, "bird flu", and the "cuckoo's nest" being the city. The show was good, all the better because we were watching it with friends. It ended with a glass of champagne and a toast to the new year. As a parting gift, the theatre gave each patron a pair of champagne flutes in a red box.

Outside the theatre, it was spitting, and it was only 9:30. Someone had the idea we should walk to Harbourfront anyway for exercise, then drive to Ontario Place after. So nine of us set out, one with skates, one with a knapsack of champagne and glasses just in case.

The spitting turned to pouring. The less stout of heart may complain about the rain and the less sturdy of foot may whine about being wet, but I liked it. I've always liked walking in the rain, though maybe not with my winter wool coat on, and certainly with rain boots. One of the women had sandals on. Few of us had hats. We were like university students roaming the streets at night, and if we knew a gang of our children walked across muddy lawns in the rain at night, we would certainly chide them for doing so.

On the way to Harbourfront, we invaded the CBC building to use their washrooms. That's what happens when most of your travelling companions are over 50. We surprised the security guard, who sized us up and down to determine if we were trouble. I said, "No, we're not hoodlums. We're just over 50." And my friend said, "And we need to use the washroom."

Despite walking under awnings and ducking under a bridge, we got soaked. But god, it was refreshing. The skating rink at Harbourfront has an organic shape. That is, it's not square. It's more...lakey, with a bend that wraps around a balcony where on dry days, you can sit, drink hot chocolate, look down at the skaters, and look out to the lake.

It was quite enchanting actually, to stand on that balcony, under shallow roof peaks and look across dark waters at night on New Year's Eve. Two party boats with strands of lights glided across our view like apparitions in a dream. I couldn't help think of the little mermaid listening to music from the boat where the prince was hosting a dance. But I knew it was probably tacky on those boats in the Toronto harbour and I was glad The Man was with me.

On this wet night, our sole skater strapped his skates on and went for a few spins. We cheered from the balcony. If there weren't so many of us complaining and The Man being hungry, I might have rented skates too and joined him. Might have.

The rain abated and we walked back to our cars, a brisker walk this time, in anticipation of the rain reasserting itself. We agreed to meet at one of the women's house to bring in the new year. The four of us who came in the same car drove off. But The Man demanded burger and fries so we stopped at the only place where we could find parking - not too far from the Wheatsheaf Tavern on Bathurst where I used to go for ice tea and wings after rock climbing.

It started to pour again and we scrambled into the tavern noisy and dripping. There were only a few people in there, looking like lonely dejected souls watching TV and waiting for the new year to pass. Do bars always look so cliche on new year's eve? I have never seen the Wheatsheaf so empty. But hey, their menu said on Sunday nights, except when there is a special event, wings are half price.

"Not tonight," said the waiter, who looked like Kevin Federline.

"It's 11:00. What special event do you have here?"

"It's New Year's Eve."

I ordered wings any way for old time's sake.

At 11:35, we settled the bill and ran through the rain again back to the car. Mindful of the time, we tumbled through our friend's front door at 11:55. Her husband poured us each a glass of sparkling and we toasted to the new year at midnight. One of the women opened the front door to let out the old year and let in the new.

Then we went home, picking up The Boy at his friend's on the way.

That's how we didn't make it to the bell tolling. But surely, the rain cleansed us just as much.

Happy New Year!

May your days be filled with good health, prosperity, beauty and wakeful joy!

Excess

I guess I didn't know when to stop.

I've been feeling tired. Yesterday, I wondered how I would get through the visit to SIL's in Hamilton, go out with friends on New Year's Eve, and host another party for my neighbours next week. Then I checked my horoscope. The silly thing said during this holiday season, I am prone to excess socializing, and that while I should enjoy myself, I should try not to overdo it so as not to over tax my health.

Excess? That's what I've been feeling. I'm ending the year with excess socializing.

I am glad I am also a procrastinator. That party for my neighbours? I actually haven't confirmed the date with them yet. I am relieved about that now. I think I will delay that party for a few weeks and not try to cram it in during the school break. It's also nice to get together for no reason in the middle of winter.

One Wakeful Moment

I remember an episode of Barney Miller years ago where Barney tried to support one of his officers through a difficult time. I noted how simple the exchange was and thought maybe men really do have a different way of communicating.

I think the exchange went something like this. The officer stayed late at work and Barney was surprised to see him still there. Knowing he was going through a difficult time, Barney said, "You okay?" The officer said, "Yeah." Barney said, "Umm, you want to grab a beer?" The office thought for a split sec and said, "Some other time." Barney gets his coat to leave, turns around and said, "Don't stay too late." The officer nods. As Barney is about to close the door, the officer calls out, "Hey Barney..." Barney stops and looks back. The officer said, "Thanks."

That was it. On the surface, an exchange that could have happened every night as fellow co-workers said goodnight to each other. Yet it was understood that exchange was meaningful to both Barney and the officer, and they would have no need to talk about it again. I've seen The Man communicate with his friends in similar, subtle ways. No show of emotion, condescension, or embarrassment. An intention of support that folded naturally in the unfolding of the day.

At my dinner party last night, I had a similar exchange with my friend who lost her husband. I asked her how her Christmas was. She said the usual, It was nice, spent it with extended family, had sleepovers. Then she said, I had this week off. After all the busyness of Christmas, I had time to go for coffee and do nothing. I guess I've intentionally kept busy. But with nothing to do, I felt Husband's absence.

I said, I thought about you often this Christmas. I know what a big event Christmas has been for you. You have the tree-trimming party and Husband and his band sing. I wondered how you were doing.

Then we were interrupted by new arrivals. After greeting my guests. I turned back to her, gave her a hug, and said, I'm glad you're here.

After that, we joked about this and that for the rest of the night as if we didn't have that exchange.

The Meals That Bind Us

It's not Thanksgiving, but there are a few things I am thankful for right now.

My mother-in-law made it out of the hospital and home for Christmas. We even visited her in Port Hope yesterday. She is weak and tires easily, but she is back to her old commanding self, which caused The Man to come home with a shoulder stress ache! She is a formidable woman that way.

Despite that, we had a nice visit because The Man loves his mom and I was let loose in the kitchen! At one point, I said to him, "Don't let your mother come into the kitchen. She will suffer great emotional stress if she sees how I am cooking." After dinner, I cleaned up and put everything away. She might have suspected, but she never saw the chaos in her kitchen. Yup, I spared her another hospitalization.

I am thankful for good friends. We had a splendid Boxing Day dinner with good friends. No one complained about the food despite my fudging with the recipes and coming up with dishes I will never be able to replicate. I enjoy the company of these friends, and I especially like how easily the adults talk to the teenagers to make them feel included and at ease. The Boy even managed to get everyone involved in a few games of Scatergories, much to his delight.

I am planning for tomorrow night's dinner with my book club and their families. This group of women and their spouses are a challenge to cook for. We can only serve gluten-free, lactose-free, seafood-free food. And no nuts or peaches. We can only drink sulphite-free wine, which we have determines is Australian wine. So what do you eat, The Boy asked. Meat and vegetables, in their most basic presentations.

But tomorrow, there is an added twist. Two of the guests are vegetarians. You know how difficult it is to cook vegetarian without wheat or dairy? Still, I'm up to the challenge. Wonder what I'll come up with.

A Christmas In Etobicoke

The excess gene runs deep in Bro. For Christmas lunch at his house, there were at least 30 of us. I couldn't keep track because there are four areas in his house where people could lose themselves without ever running into each other.

When we arrived, Bro Bro and his family were off on an adventure all their own. No sooner had they got to the house when he received a phone call from his home alarm company. His back door had been broken into. Bro Bro rushed home to find it was a false alarm. There was no forced entry, nothing missing, no evidence of anyone having been in or near his house while he was away. It was probably a cross wiring, or a disgruntled employee at the home alarm company playing reindeer games with their customers. But the anxiety of theft and robbery had shaken BroBroWife so much she had to stay home to rest and miss the party. The others came back to Bro's, and the kids especially, had a good time.

For lunch, we had shrimp cocktail, a 23 lb turkey, a 12 lb capon, stuffing, stewed beef with mushroom sauce, sausages, bbq pork, baked cod fish, grilled chicken wings, at least two salads, don't know how many vegetables, mashed potatoes, baked yams, and other things that barely registered in my mind and are now lost in my stomach. This was followed by platters and platters of crab legs.

In this haze of feeding, my mother discovered Dubonnet, which she now calls her drink of choice. She scribbled the name and brand on a piece of paper so she can buy it herself at the liquor store later.

Too intoxicated with food. I don't remember dessert. I know I was told about a cheese cake, a Christmas log and a flan pudding. There could have been more items on the table though my mind refused to register them again and my stomach held me down to the couch so I couldn't get to the dessert table.

Bro and BroWife organized games for adults and kids, with prizes. In the sun room, the kids decorated gingerbread houses. I was too comatose with food to join them.

Later, The Boy won the word de-scramble game, finishing way ahead of Sis, who came in second. I finished third.

BroWife's cousin won the Bingo game.

Sis and I were hopeless at foozball. Our opponents, Kid1, the scampy 7-year-old son of Sis, and his foozball partner, were leading by 7 points before I realized we were red, not yellow, or was that yellow, and not red. We were first to get kicked out. Yeah, first. Kid1 and his partner went on to win the tournament.

There were presents for the kids too. Too much of course. But I give the kids credit for being well behaved and sharing generously. I am blessed to have really smart, cute, quirky nieces and nephews. They are unique individuals, every one of them, and so much fun to be with. I like to think they model themselves after The Boy. They worship him enough.

We finished lunch after 8 pm. I don't know when we actually left Bro's house. I know we came home with leftovers that overflowed our fridge. I am serving the untouched flan pudding tonight to friends.

Christmas Morning

We have a few Christmas "traditions". When I get up, I put on Christmas music. I start out with choral music, usually The King's College Choir's CD O come All Ye Faithful. I move onto Messiah, then other CDs as the mood fits, though it's usually Ella Fitzgerald or other Christmas compilations.

For breakfast, I make freshly squeezed orange juice. The Man shucks oysters. The Boy opens his stocking. In the toe of each stocking, I always put a tangerine. We open presents, then we have breakfast.

I always have a gag gift for The Boy. One year, we saw a Shoppers Drug Mart commercial where a boy in the commercial unwrapped a package of toilet paper and hugged it. The Boy laughed and laughed at the silliness of the gift. That year, I gave the boy a package of toilet paper. He loved it. So I did it again the next two years. But this year, my gag gift is money, wrapped in many envelopes that he has to open one by one. He loved unwrapping that too.

This year, we went to Bro's for lunch. It's his custom to incorporate our Christmas meal with his wife's side of the family when it's his turn to host. A few days ago, he warned: Lunch starts at 2 pm sharp. You must arrive before 2 pm. I can't emphasize enough the importance of this.

The Man said: Are we having a fascist lunch? Let's get there at 1:55 and phone him from down the street and ask if there's a Tim Horton's near his house, then tell him we're going to stop for coffee first so we'll be there in an hour.

Don't screw with my Bro, I told The Man, He's going to a lot of work to put this lunch on.

So this morning, The Man did a very funny monologue that had The Boy and me laughing on the couch. He said, I'll phone Bro and say...

...Hey Bro, listen, you know how people wear watches to tell time? In our family, we wear watches just for show. The watches don't work. So if you are expecting us at 2 pm, I'm afraid you're not going to get that gift. Yeah, I know it's 2:30. That's why I'm calling you, so we don't keep you wondering.

...And the other thing is, there are two kinds of time in the world - Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. We run on The Man Time. You've never heard of it? Let me tell you about it. Bro, Bro? If you stop laughing, I will tell you. Sylph, he's laughing at us. Sylph, listen to him. What? He's crying? Bro, Bro?

...Oh hi ya, BroWife. Is Bro okay? He's very emotional, isn't he? So listen, I was just telling Bro about the difference between Greenwich Mean Time and The Man Time. What? Yeah, I know it's 3:30 and you still have to serve lunch. BroWife, BroWife?

And it went on like that. Of course he didn't phone Bro like that. When we got to Bro's house, The Man said, Give me the phone, I want to call him. He phoned Bro and said,

Hi, what number are you on Margrath again? (Margrath is where Bro lived a few years ago). Berrypost? You moved? I see. So listen, we're going to be about a half hour late. It's about that from Margrath to Berrypost? Okay, we'll see you then.

Then we got out of the car and walked into Bro's house chuckling.

May Yours Be Merry And Warm!

Bah Humbug And Grinchitude

It's only Christmas Eve and I have already gained weight. Bah humbug.

I have no attachment to the religious significance of Christmas and I absolutely detest the commercial presence of it. Despite that, I go through the motions of sending out cards, buying presents, and putting up Christmas decorations. I rationalize that at least I am keeping alive the romantic tradition of hand-delivered mail in this age of the internet; that once a year, I could bring myself to fit in to the common sentiment of gift-giving as an expression of love and not a frenzied feeding into the material consumption of people who already have everything; that once a year, the house could be dressed up to satisfy nostalgic yearnings of times never experienced.

I do these things because doing them once a year wouldn't kill me and it makes so many people happy. And besides, I really do like the social gatherings. I like that we give ourselves reason to see family and friends. I like that we make an issue of getting together and sharing a meal because god knows we don't have enough rites and rituals in our secular lives to express joys and grief and mark the passage of time.

So it's a trade-off of sorts. I conform, I get to see family and friends.

But I fell short this year on decorating the house. I didn't want a tree. We have no room for it now that I have a 20-gallon aquarium where the tree could stand. I don't want to clutter up the house.

I don't want lights outside and fake greenery inside. Lights should be used to see things inside and the outdoors should stay outdoor. I want to conserve electricity to avoid declaring war on other countries for energy and to preserve the earth. And besides, I am offended by the gaudy, multi-coloured lights that my immediate neighbours put up around their houses. They hurt my eyes and sensibility every time I go outside.

I have a wreath on our front door and I have put scotch pine branches in my flower barrel, topped it with red branches rising from the middle, and scattered red and orange mini gourds in it. It is charming, subtle and festive enough.

Then last night, the subject of getting a tree came up. The Man and The Boy are disappointed we didn't have one, that the house is not decorated. The Boy wants me to get rid of my fish so we can put a tree there. I am offended. I have never told him the real reason why we keep fish. That's the subject of another post.

We got into a discussion about my needs versus their desires. They have shown no interest in decorating for Christmas so far, so why should I decorate the house when I also have no interest in doing it? What would I be doing it for? I don't know how our conversation deteriorated. It ended when all three of us got up and left the room.

And in the corner of the dining where I parked my life, I remembered The Man was in Yemen last Christmas and he was looking forward to a real Christmas this year. With him working in an office right now and his mother in the hospital, Christmas preparation has not been a priority. The Boy had been doing homework and trying to produce quality work right up to Thursday night. It's his job as a teenager to scoff at everything that he used to like. Is it not my job then to prepare Christmas for them, to provide structure and ritual for The Boy to scoff at and feel safe and secure in? I am the partner and mother after all. I felt mighty ashamed.

So after dinner, I said, "I am going out to get a tree. We need one."

Our tree supplier on St. Clair said, "You're late in getting a tree this year." And he helped me choose a slender but full tree so it wouldn't take up too much room, but a tall one so it doesn't look small. Then he trimmed the tree and said, "You only get to use the tree for two days. I put them on sale today. Half price."

I came home with the tree and The Man found a place beside the couch for it. It takes up no room at all and we only have to move the couch and carpet a few inches. I said to The Boy, "Will you help me decorate the tree tomorrow?"

He said, "Sure."

It's light out now this morning. I have gone into the shed and pulled out our boxes of decorations. We will be busy today.

Big Girl Pants

I am so embarrassed.

I've been very comfortable in my size 12 pants. Then the last week or so, I've been having lower back hip pains. Sometimes it hurt so much I had trouble walking. Then yesterday at the Gap, I saw some pants on sale for $19, but they only had size 14. So I thought, what the heck, these are loose fitting pants, a little bigger won't hurt. I bought them without even bothering to try them on.

This morning, I put on my new pants. They fit perfectly. Not big at all. And darn it all if my hip pain didn't go away.

My hips were hurting because my pants were too tight? You know what they say, Big belly, big pants.

Haggery

This is our hag choir at the Kensington Festival of Lights to mark the Winter Solstice tonight. Such a fun, pagan thing to do. I am in there somewhere.

We sing three songs over and over again: O Sole Mio, That's Amore, and La Vie En Rose. We are usually accompanied by the accordianist from Blue Rodeo, but this year, he was in France studying something or other. So we got some other guy who tried to lead us and stifle our inner hags. He wanted to make real music instead of hag music. I don't want him back next year.

Imagine. Ten thousand people come through in the hour long parade just to see us.

Sis And I

Mom and I picked Sis up at the hospital to go to lunch. I told Mom that is the cancer hospital where dad received treatment.

Mom asked Sis: You are working with cancer patients now? You are no longer working with crazy people?

Me: She works with crazy people who have cancer.

Mom: How can you be crazy and have cancer at the same time?

Sis: Crazy people also get cancer.

Me: Not just anyone gets to see her, you know. She's very specialized. You have to be both crazy and have cancer before they let you in to see her.

Mom: How many of those people can there be, both crazy and have cancer?

Sis: Quite a lot. Some people get cancer first, then turn crazy.

Sis and I can be very bad to mom.

We went to a new fangled place on Harbord Street for lunch. The restaurant is called Dessert Trends. The entrance had an abundant display of fantasy cakes. The place looked every bit a chic eatery with designer people. In fact, one table behind us sat six elderly women all dressed in red and black. The host was overly apologetic that we had to wait for a table. I suspect despite the sophisticated decor of the place, they were really running a diner and wanted everything to be fast fast fast.

We ordered three lunches off their specials for the day. I had a calamari salad, Sis had a scallops and green onions pancake, mom had tilapia with palm hearts. The host brought the three meals to us separately, five minutes apart, each time tentatively placing the plate on the table as if they expected us to reject it. The food was not bad, it just didn't match the expectation the restaurant decor had set me up to expect.

But that didn't stop Sis and I from ordering more food. For dessert, we shared a maple bacon sandwich smothered with fried red onions. Sis and I are pigs when we are together, and we blew the chance to eat real dessert, evidently the reason the restaurant is called Dessert Trends.

Scat, Cat

A grey cat is in the backyard. It has a white patch on its chest. It's got its winter coat on, all poofy and thick. It sits on the retaining wall staring into the window at me. We've locked eyes. It now bounds across the yard and up to the window sill to meet me as if we have a date. It nudges its nose into the window screen. It wears a collar so it is not a stray. But it is giving me the creeps.

"What do you want?" I call to it.

"Meow," it says and rubs its face against the mesh. How cliche. Can't it say anything else?

"Don't stare at me. I don't like it."

It rubs its face into the mesh some more and sits up. "Whrrrrl," it says. It sounds like a gargle.

"No, I am not coming out and you are not coming in."

It looks around. I ignore it. It bumps its nose into the window pane. I tap the window. It jumps down to the ground.

"Go home."

It stretches and tries to scratch the flagstone.

"Go on. Go home."

It runs under our fence to the next yard.

What was that about?

Jolted

Since the birth of The Boy, I have not been able to stomach violent, horror, or suspense movies. It's like I'm already in the trenches warding off bad vibes and trying to create a loving, harmonious, and trusting world for The Boy to grow up in. I don't need reminders of how bad life can get, exposed to me as if I didn't know about it.

If I choose to escape my chaotic world of social, moral and family responsibilities to a manufactured world of celluloid fantasy, I want that world to be orderly, clean and happy. I want it to be a great escape of pleasure and inspiration, not a borrowing of horrific sensationalism for the bored of mind.

Since my mommy-brain, my attention span has also shrunk, so much so that I can hardly sit through a movie or read a book. And I am one of those people who used to buy a festival pass and take my vacation in September during the Toronto International Film Festival. No more since The Boy. Now I hardly watch movies. During his younger years, if I watched a movie or read a book, it was usually a Boy flick or kid lit.

So for the first time in a long time this weekend, The Man and I found ourselves alone on a Saturday night. He suggested a movie. I said Brad Pitt. We went to see Babel. I had no idea what the movie was about, except that Brad is in it. I got a shocking dose of the horrific. The movie was well made enough, with beautiful cinematography. But the story was contrived and cruel. It's one of those movies I can no longer stomach and there I was sitting through it like I was on a bad date.

Then when we got home, we received a call from my brother-in-law that my mother-in-law had gone into Emergency. We fled down to the hospital. MIL has emphysema and a history of hospitalization due to respiratory ailments. The Man was mighty worried and commandeered the care of his mother.

In the end, the respirologist determined that she had an asthma attack, this time triggered by cat allergy. Though with each respiratory attack and her recovery taking longer each time, he did not consider her in immediate danger. MIL has spent two nights now in the hospital so far. More tests are being done to eliminate pulmonary complications.

While The Man is again concerned about MIL's long-term care, I watch the hospital episode unfold with unease, reliving my own horror and whispering to each of his brothers not to leave their mother's side at all while she's in this hospital and not to depend on the nurses to know how to care for her comfort.

This was the same Emergency my grandmother went into a few years ago when she had a bout of low blood sugar due to Diabetes. While in Emergency, she fell and broke her hip going to the washroom, with a nurse by her side. The nurse said after she's sure it was nothing despite Granny's complaint of severe pain and that one of her legs was suddenly longer than the other. Sis demanded an X-ray, which confirmed a fractured hip, necessitating hip surgery on my 87-year-old grandmother.

The slowness of MIL's lung recovery while in hospital? That triggers a different set of memories of my father, who never recovered from his lung failure.

All this is to say, see why I don't like watching intense movies of human indignity? I feel like I live with enough of it, always on edge, braced for the worst to happen.

Maybe I just stick to watching pre-schooler cartoons from now on.

Things Have A Way Of Working Out

The Man's family had their Christmas gathering last night. It was not easy to get everyone together. The Boy had to negotiate with his band teacher to show up for his school concert just before the orchestra went on, which was at 9:45. That meant he could join us for dinner at 7:00, then get into a cab at 8:45 to get to the school by 9:30, with a few minutes to spare just in case. BRIL1's family cancelled their ballet plans in order to join us. SIL sped in from Hamilton with kids in tow on a Friday night. BRIL2 had to pick up MIL from Port Hope.

The Man initially booked the restaurant for 10 for dinner, 14 for dessert. Mid-week, he phoned back to change that to 14 for dinner. But that message never got passed to the Friday night staff. We arrived at 7:00 to discover a couple dining in the room where we were. The long table was set for 10.

The poor waitress. The Man fretted and strutted about. I said, That's okay, because SIL and the kids will be late. By the time they get here, that table will be finished. But that didn't sooth The Man. He was just annoyed the restaurant didn't pass on the change in dinner plans.

But you know, everything worked out. Because everyone was late. BRIL1's family arrived at 7:30 just as the dining couple was leaving. When BRIL2 and MIL arrived, they never even knew about the couple. SIL didn't get in till 8:30. The Boy left at 9:00. We finished dinner at 10:45.

The fantastic waitress. She was good-humoured and graceful. She kept our orders straight, brought out The Boy's dinner first even though I forgot to tell her he needed to leave early until 20 minutes before he had to leave, made drink recommendations, and told jokes.

It was the experience of the evening that was different for everyone. I'm sure the waitress just let things play out without stressing much about things she can't change. She was busy enough. The Man fretted and fumed. I'm on the waitress' side, though if I had made the arrangements and the restaurant got it wrong, I am sure I would have been more put out. Or maybe not. After all, The Boy was on a schedule and I was pretty calm and confident he would eat and get back to school on time, regardless of what happened at dinner.

Maybe it's a matter of focus. I was out for a good time and to make sure The Boy got back to school on time so my fun and mom metres were triggered and active. The Man wanted to make sure the reservation worked out for his family; the effectiveness of his planning and organizational skills were being tested. Others were challenged just to make it to the restaurant not too late. But over dinner, there was no fuss, no muss, no clean up. It was great.

Holy Moly

Do I not know how to read fish or what? Evidently, I am totally clued out, possibly gone awry by ascribing human characteristics to two-inch fish.

This morning, I saw at least four new infant platys darting about in the tank. That means there are probably more of them here and there. She got pregnant immediately after birth last time? She didn't look big, not huge like the last pregnancy. I didn't even think she was pregnant though she has been eating a lot. She's been hiding because she was preparing for birth. And I almost flushed her away.

She's still hiding. She may still be birthing. Or she's resting. That's a lot of stress for her in the last while.

Are My Fish Pining Away?

After two births each by my black molly and red platy, I now have over 20 fish in my aquarium. I decided I didn't want any more births, so two weeks after the last births, I separated the male and female fish. I kept the two females - one black molly, one red platy - in the 20 gallon tank with the babies. I moved the males - 1 black molly, two red platys - to a 5 gallon tank.

Immediately, all five fish went into withdrawal and hid for a couple of days. I guessed they missed each other, but I thought they'd adjust, especially because they were eating well. Slowly, they started swimming about again. It's been a week now and I thought they looked okay.

Yesterday, the black molly started to bury herself into the rocks and seemed to have trouble breathing or staying upright. By evening, she was dead. I waited a few more hours to see she would revive. When I nudged her, she was lifeless, her eyes closed. I removed her from the tank and flushed her to the watery grave in the deep blue sea.

This morning, my red platy had wedged herself into a plant. Her eyes were still open but she missed the morning feeding. She looked dead too as she did not move when I rubbed the side of the tank.

The black male molly is having trouble swimming in his tank.

I am puzzled by what's happening to my fish. Are they dying of loneliness for their mates? Were they old fish when I bought them and it's just time to go? The female molly had always had periods when she'd sit at the bottom of the tank and wait. The male molly has had trouble swimming but would recover after a couple of days. The red platy has always hid. I thought it was because two males were too much for her. Maybe it's the added stress of the separation.

Just now, I was about to remove the red platy from the tank too. But I couldn't find her. She had moved to another spot. So she's not dead yet. Just hidding again, maybe this time from the shock of her friend dying. And did I prematurely flush her friend away?

So I am thinking, Do fish have memories and feelings? I google the idea. Sure enough, there are articles written that claim they do, that fish can be trained to have certain behaviours. I wonder how long a memory retention they have.

I feel so bad now, because I am intuiting that fish have feelings and may even be highly sensitive. I don't want to bring the fish back together. I don't know if the red platy in hiding is sick with disease, and if she is not, I still don't want any more babies. I have turned into their cruel goddess.

The Politics Behind The Politics

I went to the volunteer thank you party for MyCandidate last night. One thing I've wondered about during the campaign was why the mayor did not endorse MyCandidate. So last night, the story came out.

A long-time councillor and the deputy mayor, Shorty, put his endorsement behind Rival. Because of that, the mayor didn't want to appear at odds with his deputy mayor so he withheld his endorsement of MyCandidate. Why did Shorty endorse Rival? Well.

For one thing, they are related by marriage somewhere. And they have business dealings with each other. But mostly, it's because they went to school together. Shorty has always been such a small guy that he used to get beaten up at school. Rival was his friend. So Rival always stuck up for him and fought his fights. Kind of like the lug behind the wimp to deter the bullies.

Now, I also went to high school with Shorty. He was in grade 13 the year I was in grade 9. He was the student council president that year. So I am guessing the beating up of Shorty didn't happen in high school. It must've happened in primary school. Because of that indebtedness, Shorty endorsed Rival.

How do you like that?

Power Outage

Walking home along St. Clair today, two police cruisers blared their sirens and blazed through red lights. When I turned up to No Frills, there were the two police cruisers, sitting in the parking lot. Four officers were out, talking to about 8 men in No Frills uniforms, plus several other men of of various heights and ages.

I tried to go into No Frills to pick up groceries for dinner. A woman said to me, "They are closed. They may open again in a couple of hours. They said there is a power outage." Indeed, the supermarket was dimmed inside and on the door was a hastily scrawled note, "Closed Due To Power Outage".

Power outage? No one else on St. Clair was having power problems. I live up the street and I didn't have a power outage when I got home.

But then I suppose if half your staff is out in the parking lot talking to the police, that's a sort of power outage. They didn't actually say it was electrical power they were out with. I hadn't thought to use power outage to blanket anything. You know, like wardrobe malfunction, or irreconcilable differences.

So the next time I don't want to do the dishes, I'll leave them in the sink and say, I had a power outage. Or if I'm seeing my doctor and can't quite pinpoint how I'm feeling, I'll say, I'm having a kind of power outage. Or if I don't feel like having sex, I'll say to The Man, Sorry dear, I'm having a power outage tonight.

Works for me.

The Job At Hand

My friend attended a workshop on the hand job recently. Yup. A workshop on how to pleasure a man with your hands. She went because she and her friends were having dinner and one of them, a younger woman of 30, said she had signed up for the workshop. The other women, in their 50's and 60's, said, What's there to learn? Let's all sign up and find out about it. So they did. All five of them.

After the workshop, my friend said there is much to learn and remember. And you aren't likely to do it well unless you practise. So for women without a steady partner, they can purchase a silicone model of an excited male member. Friend didn't buy one. She didn't want to be good at it; she just wondered what there was to it.

Over dinner with her last week, Friend tried to demonstrate the techniques. First she used a knife. But I wasn't getting it. A knife is too thin. Then she rolled up the napkin. But it kept coming apart and it's hard to demonstrate in a restaurant without drawing the attention of the waiter and other patrons. So she did it under the table where I couldn't see very well.

Maybe we did look like two women huddling under the table with a napkin, because the waiter thought we had spilled something. When we placed the twisted napkin on the table, he brought us a new one. As he picked up the twisted one, he noted, Oh, it's not wet.

Batik demonstration, I blurted.

He left us with the new napkin anyway.

Curious about the techniques, I googled the topic at home and found a site that demonstrated the techniques with little QuickTime clips. A perky, young, stacked woman did the demonstration with a huge silicone model. I think it wouldn't matter what she did, a man would enjoy being handled by her.

So now, I have heard about the techniques, I have seen the demonstrations, I just need to practise. If I want to be good at it. But you know, I don't have to be good at everything I do.

Here's the site if you are interested.

The Fine Art of Disingenuousness

I wanted to invite my book club for dinner over the holidays. My initial thoughts were, just the book club members and their spouses, we'd have a sit down dinner, it'll be nice.

Then I thought, What about my friend whose husband died suddenly last Spring? Will she feel comfortable at the table if everyone brings their husbands? Maybe I shouldn't invite her. But I don't want to exclude her just because of a family tragedy. What's the right thing to do? I would like to be honest with her. But how, without coming across as condescending or inconsiderate?

And what about my good friend and some time book club member who is single right now? I never have a party without her.

Knowing that we all have teenage or young adult children, and knowing they are unlikely to go to a party with their parents, this is what I did. I phoned everyone to throw around a few dates and make a verbal invitation. With my widowed friend, this was our exchange:

Me - I'd like to invite the book club and their families over for dinner so I want to narrow down a date.

Friend - What a great idea.

Me - Are you here these dates?

Friend - Yup, we're here.

Me - Think your kids will want to come?

Friend - I don't know. I can make them, especially if others are bringing theirs. If not, I won't make them.

Me - I don't know either. Teenagers are unpredictable. The women might just bring their spouses.

Friend - That's okay. I'm in.

Me - Well, I'll send an e-mail invitation then to confirm the date.

I think that went well. Or was it obvious what I was fielding? But the important thing is, the invitation has been extended, we touched on the issue, and my friend is okay to come for dinner.

Now that I've talked to everyone, it turns out they can all come. I think this dinner party is meant to happen.

The Mindlessness Of Being

On Thursday, Sis sent a note to inquire about restaurant choices as she and Girlfriend were going out to dinner on Friday. On Friday at 6 pm, Sis phoned asking if I would go shopping with her for a party dress. I had plans for the evening. But before hanging up, I said, Hey, aren't you going out with Girlfriend tonight? She gasped and said she had completely forgotten about it. So she hooked up with her friend, went shopping, and had dinner. It worked out.

All of last week, we've been searching the house for The Man's keys. The missing keys caused quite a change in our activities as The Man and I had to share my set of keys to the car and house. He searched everywhere in the house, in the car, in the shed, even the office where he now works and inquired at building security to see if anyone turned in a set of lost keys. I looked in all my purses and coats.

Then while making dinner one night, I stopped for no reason. I walked to my ski jacket, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out his keys. I am sure I had checked in that coat before and I don't know what made me go straight to that coat at that moment. It was as if someone whispered in my ear to look there now. The Man didn't get upset; he was just glad to have his keys back. So it worked out.

For the last few weeks, The Man consulted with everyone in his extended family to arrive at a date and restaurant for a family get together. Many e-mails and phone calls later, they settled on Friday, December 15 when most family members could make it.

This week, I made a doctor's appointment for The Boy for next week. The Boy told me he couldn't go at the appointed time as he would be in rehearsal. The orchestra is performing the evenings of December 13, 14, and 15. Then he looked up at me and said, What day is that family dinner again?

Now he is trying to see if he can get out of performing Friday. I will have to talk to his band teacher. Or he will miss the family dinner. I wonder how that will work out.

My Inner Core

I felt it. I felt my inner core.

In the three months I've been doing pilates, I had no real idea what the instructor - a young, slim and graceful ballerina - was getting at when she talked about targetting muscles that strengthen your inner core. What inner core? She kept saying, These exercises are helping with your inner core even if you don't feel it.

So in class last night, lying on top of a foam roller, I followed her usual instructions and pressed down on my navel, and made my back ribs heavy. I lifted my arms, then my legs, one at a time. After a few tries, when I found that spot where I could hold my centre, I balanced on my back, lying on a round foam cylinder, without touching the floor!

The instructor said, If you can do that, you've found your inner core.

So that's what it feels like. It's a tightening of the innards. And your balance stems out from there to your hands and feet. I've been relying on my arms and legs to hold me up. If you've tapped into your inner core, you're like that graceful hawk, gliding across the sky and changing directions with unmoving spread wings. But I've been that penguin, flapping and flopping about on slippery ice.

After the foam roller exercise, the instructor said to turn over to your front and onto your hands and knees. And she did it in one silent, light flip, from lying on her back to the cat arch position, lithe ballerina that she is. I rolled over, landed on my tummy, stuck my butt up in the air, then scrambled my hands and knees together to make the camel hump, with hog-at-slaughter grunts to boot.

So I have more work to do to finesse my inner core. But it's so good to know I have one.

December

We came tumbling into December. I can't believe Christmas is three weeks away. This is shaping up to be a very social season. I'm glad, because I think I am in some kind of doldrums that I can't get out of by myself.

The Man has started a gig with a client that requires him to be in the office for a few weeks. Why, that's like having a regular job. I'm home by myself all day, wondering why I'm not working. I can't focus on drawing, reading, writing, or meditation. I can't be distracted just because The Man is not home. Something else is going on with me but I don't know what it is.

My meditation guide tells me to be gentle and encouraging to myself when I meditate. If my mind wanders, as it often does, I should gently bring myself back, not get mad at myself. I don't think I'm getting mad at myself. I keep tasting salty tears in my mouth. Some emotion is overwhelming me but I don't know the cause of it. I'm told meditation does that to you - sometimes an emotion just takes over. I'm supposed to accept it and just let it pass.

The Boy, that ingrate, is forever asking for spending money. Every time we talk, we get into an argument about him not doing his homework. His report card came home last week. He received 90's in three courses, 80's in two, 70's in one, a pass in one, and a failure in one. He 's never failed a course before. But because of the 90's and 80's, his average is 76, which is the highest he's ever got on a report card. How do you whip a guy who performs like that?

But at least I made a great dinner tonight. Ham and cheese in chicken thigh, or chicken cordon bleu, and a great salad dressing that warrants repeating. Right. I'm going to get depressed and fat. Yes, thank god it's going to be a social month. I may still get fat, but not likely depressed.

Working It

A while ago, Sis wanted to look for love online. She signed up on a couple of online dating web sites. So I signed up too, just to see how the system works. I made The Man sign up to see if we matched each other. When we called up each other's ID to compare, our scores indicated we were 80% compatible, but the data bank never matched us up. So I'm not sure how an electronic matching-making system works.

l have not visited these sites since that initial period. I know one of the sites had killed my ID from disuse. The other site has never found a match for me. I guess that makes me a difficult woman.

Now, more than a year later, I received six flags yesterday that the site has found matches for me. I logged in to the site and there were in fact 10 matches. I guess I hadn't noticed the other flags when they came. All these nameless and faceless men waiting to meet me.

Curious, I read the profile on each "match". Among them was an engineer, a math teacher, a self-employed person, a beauty salon and spa owner, a graphic designer, a philosopher, plus a TTC driver in Toronto. What did we have in common? From what I could see, we don't want any more children, we are not overly religious, we like the arts, we like the outdoors. If I go by the self descriptions, they are all nurturing and listen well, traits that are not attached to my profile. I guess someone's gotta give, and someone's gotta soak it up.

Two of the matches had already opted to end communication with me, citing the reason as "distance is too far to make it work". One also added "I don't see any chemistry." I am offended by this one, oh he who remains nameless and faceless, as do I.

So now, do I indicate I don't want to initiate communication and make these men looking for love feel rejected, or do I let the system time me out due to lack of response. What I opt to is an indication of a personality trait - am I a people person considerate of others' feelings, or do I grab the bull by the horns and direct my own destiny?

I will ignore the messages as if I hadn't seen them. After all, I'm not looking for new love. I can barely manage the current one. In fact, I'll go in and kill my profile.

I see. That's why I received flags. I can't kill my profile. Then I have to ignore the flags.