The Kids

The most memorable part of dogsledding with The Boy, Sis, Kid1 - 7-year-old boy, and Kid2 - 5-year-old girl, was the ride home. The dogs and sleds were fun, but I gotta tell you about Kid1 and Kid2.

Kid1 is the smartest kid I know. Not witty, smart alecky - he can be, though he's usually more noisy and whiny - but truly smart, as in possessing higher intelligence than the average adult, interested in facts and science, possesses a large vocabulary, is an advanced reader, and is quick to see patterns and anticipate outcomes. For example, he and The Boy were playing tic-tac-toe. After the third square is filled in, Kid1 calls the game - he knows whether the game will end in a win for him, The Boy, or neither. He was always right.

Kid1 has a few close friends and an active imagination. I've had discussions of the powers and feats of Bionicals and Pokemons with him. He can be demanding, a good conversationalists when he's in the mood, likes structure, and is usually rational. But sometimes, he seems clued out as to how others feel. He is so focussed on knowledge that Sis sometimes wonders if he isn't a borderline Asperger. He's certainly been tested and is certified gifted.

I always imagine we're buddies. He's just a kid after all and sometimes, when we're out and he's having a good time, he hugs me for no reason.

Kid2, well Kid2 is a completely different kind of kid. She is perkiness, sweetness and grace incarnate. People make a fuss about how cute and engaging she is wherever she goes. Beauty, innocence and sweetness. Musical, intelligent, and thoughtful. She must've been an elfin fairy in a previous life. She certainly has a magical quality in this one.

Kid2 loves animals, likes to do things for herself, and contemplates larger issues of life. Once, she and The Man were in serious discussion for hours over how Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall. Did someone push him, and if so, who done it? They eliminated Sam I Am because he doesn't like eggs. They considered the Big Bad Wolf because he huffs and puffs and could have blown Humpty Dumpty off the wall. But no, he was after pigs and little girls, not eggs. It went on like that for a couple of visits.

Finally, at Christmas, Kid2 shyly approached The Man and told him that Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall by himself because in her book, there was a butterfly near Humpty Dumpty when he was sitting on the wall. He must've tried to catch the butterfly and fell off the wall by accident. See the desire for harmony and to not lay blame in her logic?

Kid2 is charismatic and fun to be with, good natured and good humoured. In her kindergarten class, everyone wants to be friends with her. She initiates conversations, is interested and interesting, observant. She tells you about her friends and what they did together, she tells you about her thoughts. She's great company, like The Boy. You just like being around her because you feel you are in the presence of joy and glee.

I think of her as a magical treasure. My job is to guard her and help her remain true to herself, help her realize that all the costumes and girlie things she loves are fun, but at the core, she is perfect as she is.

So imagine The Boy, Kid1 and Kid2 in the back seat of the car for an hour on the way back from dogsledding. They started singing. They sang and laughed the whole ride. The Boy was choir master. He got them to do harmonies, triads, and free form. He coordinated their solos. They sang in tune, off key, in sync, and off scale. They argued and made up. It was happy noise, and a part of me wished the car ride could go on forever.

A Night At The Cottage

The second night of our stay, Sis and her kids arrived. She didn't quietly drive in. She phoned from 5 minutes away to say she was stuck in the snow.

Sometimes, The Man annoys me because he doesn't take care of things. Other times, he surprises me by insisting on making sure things work out when I think there is no need. This was one of those times.

He and The Boy's friend were supposed to drive back to the city after dinner. But for whatever reason, he wanted to stay until Sis arrived. Why? I had asked. To make sure she gets in okay, he had said. Silly man, I had thought, the directions are so straight, what could go wrong?

Was I ever glad The Man was still around when Sis phoned. We drove out to find her on the long and winding dark road. On the way down, Sis phoned again to see where we were. I don't know what it was in our conversation that The Man picked up, but he said out of nowhere, She's north of us, and turned the car around.

Sure enough, Sis had shot past us in the dark, drove to the end of the road and into a skidoo trail where the path was unplowed. After several attempts to dig her out, dropping the kids off at the cottage to be looked after by The Boy, a visit to a nearby resort, phone calls to CAA, and The Man mistakenly going home with my cell phone and leaving me with no contact with the outside world, Sis drove in at midnight.

Sis had a glass of wine and settled in to watch School Of Rock with the kids. After she got the kids into bed, we watched season 4 of Scrubs till 4 am. The next day, Sis was none the worse for wear.

I saw first hand how stressful Sis' life must be, how she tries to go with the flow, do what she needs to, and accepts whatever help and pleasures come her way to reduce stress and enhance life. In many ways, much more accepting of and open to life than I am, much more Zen than I could ever pretend to be.

A Day At The Cottage

I went for a walk this morning to check out the lay of the land. I didn't walk on the shovelled roads. They were muddy. It looked more fun to stride across the snow fields. Now I know why more people haven't walked through the fields.

For one thing, I think we're in some kind of retirement community. I see old people and toddlers. Not that they're all over the place, but they're the only kind of people I've seen so far. I wonder if this is a haven for seniors and their grandkids. The grandparents take the kids so the parents can run off to the Caribbeans for some sun and sand.

The other thing is, when I walked across fields, I fell through the snow and had trouble climbing back out. When you are wedged in snow up to your thighs, it's hard to get out. You can sit down to lift your legs out but your bum breaks the snow surface and you fall in backwards. You reach sideways to get up but at every contact your body makes with the snow, you sink back in. I wonder if that's like being in quick sand, only it's cleaner in the snow and you know where the bottom is. Soon you've buried yourself in a snow trench and you feel silly because it's just a few steps to the road and you've flapped about like a fool for no reason.

I'm glad The Boy wasn't there to see me struggle with myself in the snow. That would have been one of those things that he cringes at in embarrassment. Instead, The Boy and his friend slept in till 2 pm. They stayed up till 5 am playing video games. I heard them using the washroom and tiptoeing to bed at that time.

No one drinks milk at our house. I've stopped buying the 3-bag sacks of milk. But I bought one this week and brought two bags up. It's only the first day, the boys are almost done with the milk. What's with that? Fresh air and snow makes you want to drink milk? No. It's because the boys snuck up Oreo cookies and they dipped the cookies into the milk all night while playing their games. I found the empty cookie bag on the kitchen counter this morning.

I confess it's really nice being here. The Man was working on his computer while I made clam chowder. We do the same thing at home, but it feels so much calmer here, away from our usual surrounding. I feel so focussed on whatever task at hand.

Severn Bridge

I am at a cottage in Severn Bridge for March break. This looks like a fabulous place, though I have only glimpsed at things through the dark. The cottage is new, cozy and well-serviced. I feel so bourgeois. Ah, you get to a certain age, and to hell with guilt and equity. I want to be comfortable and that's that.

This is not a remote cottage in the woods. It's a complex of individual cottages in a resort area. These cottages sit on a lake that never quite freezes in winter. We're told if we walk too far out in front of the cottage, we could fall into the waters of Sparrow Lake. Indeed, I can't tell where the snow ends and ice water starts.

Our cottage has a wrap-around porch. Part of it is enclosed. I can imagine how wonderful it's to sit there in summer or fall. In winter however, I wonder what there is to do in the area on the border of the Muskokas aside from skiing. I guess you go for walks on well shovelled paths.

Anyway, we're going to try dogsledding when Sis comes up. Then we'll go skiing when Sil comes up. Meanwhile, I read my books, drink tea, and take the blood pressure of everyone here. Yeah, I got a blood pressure machine with me. It's like what The Boy said to his friend... You want to play Video Game, Guitar Game, Get your blood pressure taken, or play War Game? Yeah, I'm going to stop strangers in front of the cottage to take their blood pressure. Soon as it gets light.

A Confederacy Of Rescuers

A while back, Sis drove her car into mom's drive where the snow was deep and got it stuck. I made fun of her - silly woman, trying to park a small car in thigh high snow.

Today, I parked my car in mom's drive also, but I was careful not to wedge myself in the deeper part of the snow so as not to get stuck. I left the back of the car jutting out onto the sidewalk. I was sure I would have no trouble backing out when it was time to leave.

Came time to leave. Well I'll be damned if instead of putting the car in reverse to back out, I didn't put the car in drive and rammed it deep into the snow. I got out and shovelled around and under the car. It became clear the problem was the snow was just too deep. The tires were just spinning.

I stood back to size up the situation. Mom called out across the street to an elderly neighbour walking by. He came to help. I asked him to back the car out while I pushed. Another man who was also passing by came running up to help. He said he was an expert at this sort of thing even though he looked like an alcoholic street person. But he was lucid and sober even as he smelled a bit of alcohol. Then mom's basement tenant came home and saw us trying to push the car so he came to help. It's now a community project.

Street Person did his thing, putting salt behind the front tires. Elderly Neighbour got behind the wheels. Basement Tenant, Street Person and I then pushed the car. Several attempts later, the car back into the street as I flopped on my belly in the snow like a fish. Elderly Neighbour waved goodbye and went home. Street Person asked for spare change. I was so grateful I gave him $5. He seemed surprised to get so much. Maybe he was only expecting coin change. I told him he could make this his business, rescuing cars from being stuck in the snow. He said he used to be a mechanic.

Basement Tenant then shovelled the drive. I helped him a bit but he made me stop. I didn't resist too much as I really had to get home. Mom stood there trying to make him stop shovelling because she said for the occasional times someone parks there, it's not worth shovelling. Tenant said he'd just clear the drive a bit so no one gets stuck next time.

Funny thing, getting stuck in the snow. It was a feel good experience.

No Pass To Passport

Because the U.S. administration requires that Canadians crossing their border must have a passport, the passport office in Ottawa is inundates with applications. If you mail your application in, it could take up to nine weeks to get a passport. That's the notice they've put on their web site. But if you bring the application in person to one of their offices, you will save some time, though they can't tell you how much. The Boy needs to be in Chicago April 16.

Yesterday, in the passport office line up, I overheard one of the service agents say to someone, applications received in person today will be mailed out March 27. So that's three weeks.

Only, you have to line up for half an hour to get your application form and documents screened before they give you a number so you can wait two hours to be served. I made it to the first check point. I was turned back. The Boy hadn't signed one of three areas on the application that required a signature. Bah.

There were three screeners at the reception desk. I said to one of them - When's the best time to come back to shorten the wait? All three of them turned their heads to look at me, then they burst out laughing. Guffawing, actually.

It makes no difference - one of them said, in a resigned tone of defeat.

Come at 7:15 - said another. I couldn't tell if he jerking me around.

But you open at 8:00 - I said.

Come at 7:15 and you may be one of the first - he said with tired eyes cast in the space just behind me. Then he buried his face in his hands and rubbed his head.

In the elevator back down to the street, the man in the line up ahead of me said - You have to come back too? He was breathing hard and sweat was running down his face. I thought he was going to have a heart attack in the elevator. I too was feeling kind of faint, and tired, maybe defeated. They were infectious up in that passport office.

So I stepped into a snack bar for tea and a muffin and phoned The Man to complain. How long will The Boy have to suffer the wrath of mom over this? he asked. No wrath. Because this is just life unfolding. This frustration will pass.

I am working up the energy to go to the passport office again today. The passport application, support documents and signatures are in order. Will I be worthy of being served today?

The Furs Fly

Crikey! -22C out. -33C with the wind chill. We're turning into Winnipeg or something? And it's windy. Some highways are closed, the CN Tower and other tall buildings are cordoned off for fear of falling ice.

But the great thing about the cold is, if you wrap yourself up warmly and take a walk, even just down to St. Clair, you really wake up, and come home appreciating what a warm house you live in even though you keep the thermostat at 20C like a good environmentally conscious, energy conserving citizen.

In the cold, I've been strutting around in my piece of faux fur that makes me look like a bag lady in training. You know that look - a bag lady wearing fur, maybe the last remnant of a better life past, sun hat flopping on her head, pushing a shopping cart, scraping the ground in rain boots as she walks.

I won't give up my muckers. They keep me warm and dry. I won't give up my purse, which The Boy calls my suitcase. My brown wool hat has a small brim, which looked very chic on the mannequin when I bought it, but on me it looks like a toque from afar. I don't mind. I am establishing a trend of retro casual chic for Canadian winters. I bought my faux fur because it reminded me of a piece my grandmother brought to Canada years ago.

Recently, I've run into two friends also sporting fur. I touched their coats. The furs were real! I was shocked. You'd never have associated them with dead animal skin. In a waiting room yesterday, I hung up my coat and noticed a sheepskin coat with fur collar next to mine. I touched the collar too. It too was real fur. I was appalled and moved my coat a few pegs away.

Once, coming home from a party, I shared a ride with a woman wearing a fur coat. I said to my friend, You sit next to her. She said no. And we jostled. Finally, I said to the fur lady, Where are you getting off? She named her destination and I said, Then you should sit in the front because you are getting off last. That makes no sense to me now but at the time, neither of us had to sit beside her.

I have an idea for PETA. They should endorse faux fur. Stylish and fun faux fur. They are almost as warm as the real thing, so I am told. PETA needs to walk around in faux fur to demonstrate the alternatives to real fur.

Look, Up In The Sky

Recently, there was a lunar eclipse. Apparently, the moon turned coppery. I didn't see it. I forgot on to look up. Maybe the eclipse was eclipsed by snow and rain in the city.

Then today, I stumbled on some photographs of Jupiter that the New Horizons spacecraft sent back to Earth last month. New Horizons is actually on its way to Pluto. It's passing by Jupiter and, you know, there was a photo op, so it took these pictures. Amazing pictures.

Jupiter


Jupiter's biggest moon, Ganymede


Positions of New Horizons, Jupiter and the moons


They call these Jupiter Flyby photos, because New Horizons is flying by Jupiter as it shoots them. A fly-by shooting, get it?

What's it like out in space? Is it a chaotic hurling of meteorites, whirling moons, and curling black holes? If you stand on Ganymede, Jupiter's biggest moon, will you be running every which way to avoid being pummelled by space debris or falling into one of the moon's craters?

I think some times we're really quite protected on Earth. Atmospherically, there are still more good days than bad. Inside our protective dome, we conduct the business of living. So engrossed are we by our day-to-days we become oblivious to the existence of the dome. We forget to take care of it, then deny there is anything to take care of.

Maybe that's how we lost god, our sense of the divine, our connection to the numinous. We are so centred on ourselves we think we are all there is.

When you stand back and look at it, the very existence of the internet and its ability to transmit data, photos, sound, and how available the transmissions are to us, is nothing short of a miracle. And now, photographs of Jupiter are being beamed back to us. Miracles all around.

The Way Of The Warrior

The Four-Fold Way says that to be a whole, balanced person, one needs to develop one's inner warrior, healer, visionary and teacher. In modern day context, warrior qualities are the qualities of a good leader. The warrior:

1. Shows up and chooses to be present. That is, if I am talking to someone but I am not focussed on the person I am talking to, instead I'm brooding about something that happened, or my mind is wandering to the things I should be doing, what I did, what I could do, etc., then I am not present. I am not really here with that person.
   
   
2. Honors and respects others. Honor is the capacity to confer respect to another person. Respect is the ability to take another look, rather than fixate on just one or two aspects of who we think we are. That means staying open and flexible toward ourselves and others.
   
   
3. Is consistent in word and action. The causes of misunderstanding are: not saying what we mean, and not doing what we say. When our words and action are consistent, we become trustworthy. The lack of such alignment renders us powerless and impotent.
   
   
4. Accepts limits and boundaries. Saying yes and no indicates what we are willing to do and what we are not willing to do. If we say yes when we really rather say no, we lose personal power and become victims. If we say no when we know the situation calls for yes, we become stingy or selfish. The warrior knows yes simply means an acknowledgment of a viewpoint and does not necessarily mean agreement, or that I like you. And that no simply honors a limit and boundary as to what one can or cannot do at this moment. Nothing personal.
   
   
5. Is responsible and disciplined. Being responsible - our ability to respond - means standing behind our actions and to be responsible for all that we do or don't do. Being disciplined is to be able to face life without haste, to be a disciple unto oneself, honouring our own rhythm, our step-by-step nature.
   
   
6. Is "in his/her medicine". Native people in the Americas say that if you fully express who you are, you are said to be "expressing your medicine". In other words, you are using your energy to empower yourself and others. Native people believe that we all possess "original medicine", or personal power, which is unique to everyone. No two people have the same set of talents and challenges. When we compare ourselves to others, it's a sign we don't believe we have original medicine.
   
   
7. Embodies "big medicine". The warrior knows to always be present, knows when the right timing is and what words and tone to use in communication, and lets others know what s/he stands for. The warrior is said to posses the three powers of presence, communication, and position. In other words, s/he embodies big medicine.
   

If we don't develop our warrior qualities, we live in the shadow where our true warrior qualities are waiting to be claimed. What are these shadow qualities and how to claim your inner warrior? We shall find out next time.

Let It Snow!

The snow outside is beautiful. The media is calling this an "icy storm". Not at all. This is the kind of snow I imagine for Christmas. The kind that sticks to your window pane like frosting and lace. It's what icing sugar tries to mimic.

The scenery outside is perfect: the moon shimmers off white lawns, tree branches glazed with vanilla icing, and the buried cars are round mounds of snow hills dotting the street. The sky has a pink glow, like the Northern Lights are just waiting back stage for their turn to make an appearance. Such excitement out there tonight.

We were caught in traffic as the snow came down this afternoon. The ride that normally takes 20 minutes took us over 2 hours. And that's because we knew which side roads to take to go around the traffic congestion to get home.

Once home I found our walk and drive cleared. New snow piles sprouted up from nowhere. The Boy did it. He shovelled the snow without being asked!

This is perfect packing snow. The temperature hovers just below zero. But the overnight forecast calls for freezing rain which will wash all the snow away. In the morning, we'll go slip sliding away down the streets if we aren't careful. But for tonight, the snow is a sight to behold.

Drama, Drama!

I've had nose bleeds almost every morning for about a month now. I sit there and blood drips out of my nose for no reason. I then pinch my nostril with tissue for a few moments and the blood stops.

Last week, the bleeding got worse. I started bleeding in the middle of the day. These took a long time to stop. Three nights ago, I started bleeding about 11 pm and the blood gushed. It was 3 am before the blood ceased.

Last night, my bleeding started about 4:30 pm. Despite my efforts with all the tricks from the internet on how to stop a nose bleed, the blood kept coming, gushing out of both nostrils and down my throat. At midnight, I said to The Man, I am going to Emergency. So he accompanied me.

From the outside, Emergency looked not busy. There were only a few people in the waiting room. I went through triage and registration all within 10 minutes. I even had the composure to size up two very beautiful young women - I couldn't decided if they were prostitutes, actresses, or just trendily dressed, with tied-back big hair and flawless make up to match.

But once I was brought into an examination room, that's when the wait started. I was in the Eyes, Nose, Throat, and Dentistry room. There was a woman from New York with an eye problem waiting in the room with me. The nurse put a nose clip on me and wrapped dressing under my nose.

In the hall sat a security guard, watching over James, who was tied to a stretcher. From inside the room, I heard James yell and scream, muttering incoherent threats at passersby. One minute I could hear the guard and a nurse hovering over James trying to calm him, and the next minute, heavy snoring was coming from the stretcher where James now stretched out, not so quietly.

When the guard took his break, he was replaced by another, who spent his whole time on a cell phone. Beside him hung a board with blue strips and metal clips. The Man said the board was a list of patients and the order in which they should be seen. After a while, I walked up to the board to see what number I was and had the following exchange with the guard:

Guard - Would you mind not looking at the board.

Me - Why?

- The board contains confidential patient information that you shouldn't be looking at.

- Then why is the board just hanging out in the open like that?

- It's for doctors to look at. So would you mind moving away from the board.

I went back into my examination room. From there, I saw The Man saunter up to the same board and stood in front of it. The guard started talking to him. I just knew they were having the same exchange I had earlier.

The woman with the eye problem held a cotton wad to her eye and kept saying she couldn't open her eye and was in excruciating pain. When the nurse came in at one point, they had this exchange:

Woman - Do you have anything I can take to ease the pain in my eye?

Nurse, stopped and thought for a moment - Yes, I have some anesthetic eye drops you can use. Lie back and I'll put them in.

- Will the drops affect my vision?

- What do you mean?

- Will I be able to use my eye? I want to see.

- Can you see now?

- No. But will I later?

- The drops will sting a little and blur your vision. It's temporary.

- Are you a nurse?

Sigh of frustration from the nurse and she takes a deep breath - Yes I am.

The nurse put the drops in the woman's eye. Within seconds, the woman exclaimed - The pain is gone and I can see. I can leave now.

Good thing her boyfriend talked her into staying, because when the anesthetic wore off, she started complaining again.

By the time the doctor came to see me, it was 4:00 am. I had been in Emergency for four hours. I had also stopped bleeding, though my dressing was soaked with blood. The doctor wanted to wait till my nose dried a bit more and ordered some blood work, which took another hour to come back.

The doctor decided it was time to clean me up. In her careful way, she scraped and padded, then pulled out a long, giant glob of congealed blood from my nostril! Then she cauterized the area she thought was the site of the bleeding. My nose immediately started to feel the burn.

She must have tapped the opening to my nostril with the cauterizing stick. The skin there bubbled and burned. Later, that area looked like a piece of grey booger was hanging from my nose. This morning, the wound looks like a mole, like Cindy Crawford's, only higher, right at the entrance to the nostril.

But I am not bleeding now. Though it does feel like someone's punched me in the nose. And I am operating on no sleep. I feel giddy all over.

Stifled

The last while has been one of those periods where I wish I truly am anonymous, that no one I know is reading my blog. So much to document and vent, but no can do, to respect privacy and honour trust. I wouldn't feel such conflict if by nature I weren't such a blabbermouth.

But I am going to honour my own need to be upright and trustworthy and shut the fuck up. Instead, I burrow into a book called The Four-Fold Path, where I learn to tap into my inner warrior, healer, visionary and teacher, all traits that need to be developed in order to be a balanced, peaceful person.

Reading the book makes me think that, well if I just develop these traits, I wouldn't need to see a psychiatrist. I will share the wisdom of this book. But right now I have to finish writing up a funding proposal for a Latin American group in the neighbourhood.

Am I Latin American? No. Why am I doing this? For something to do. But immediately after I said yes, I regretted it. Now I have to honour my commitment like the warrior I want to be.

Mornings In Paradise

Upon waking yesterday, I went down to the basement to discover clean laundry thrown on the floor in front of the washing machine. The arm rest had been taken off the couch and was lying on the floor. What gives? I called down The Boy for an explanation.

He said, Sorry about that. Friend and I moved the couch back from the TV and wanted more room on the couch to sit. Don't ever make my house look like it's been vandalized again, I told him.

This morning, after I made lunches for The Boy and The Man, The Man told me he was going to work from home. The Boy called from the basement where he was about to take his shower, Mom, mom, please come down. It's important.

I recognized that tone. No, I told him, You can get rid of the bug.

Mom, please come down.

I went down and he stood outside the bathroom pointing at a spider near the toilet. I told him, Take some paper towel, pick it up, then take it outside or flush it down the toilet. Then I went back upstairs. He let out a few primal screams.

After The Boy left for school, I started to make the beds, clean up and put the house back in order. The upstairs toilet was clogged. I went to use the basement toilet. It too was clogged. So that's what The Boy did with the little spider. I went back upstairs to get the plunger.

I said to The Man, I can't handle both toilets being plugged. You take care of the one up here.

He said, Impossible, it can't be clogged. That's because he was the last to use it and didn't flush so he wouldn't know it's clogged. I know his tell tale signs. But he took care of the problem.

I cleared the basement toilet.

Then I noticed a huge pile of clean laundry that needs to be folded and put away. The sink is full of dishes from the morning. I have research to do for my friend. I have to write grant applications for another friend. My body is sore from last night's pilates.

Ugh. This is when I want to reach for a chocolate. And there is some from Chinese New Year. I resist, drink coffee and stare at my fish instead.

Little Girls

I don't often have the opportunity to talk to little girls. When I do, it's always a treat. On Chinese New Year, I had the chance to talk to my 10-year-old niece. She's a noisy girl. Yet, when she enters into conversation with me, she is intelligent, focussed, and passionate. And ever so sweet. Plus, I find out things about her.

For example, her class did a mock election during a recent provincial by-election. Her teacher had the students run for mayor and councillors in class. Niece ran for mayor. She made a speech, which her teacher said was the most professional one of her class. She outlined the issues that she felt needed to be addressed in the city, like traffic, the environment, and poverty.

She didn't win. But she said that was okay. It was still a great experience, and she wants to be a lawyer when she grows up, so she can enter politics, because she wants to be prime minister of Canada!

The last time I talked to little girls was when I was rock climbing. A group of them came in for a birthday party. I asked them if they liked rock climbing. They were enthusiastic and rational. One girl said in a most innocent and matter-of-fact way, "I've never rock climbed before, but I was invited to come, so I wanted to give it a try. It's fun."

No fear, no attitude, as they sit on the cusp of adolescence. Gone is the cutesy whine. Just a confident willingness to give it a go before they hear the no-you-can'ts and no-you-shouldn'ts. Before the turbulent emotional teen years set in.

I love young girls because they are fresh-faced and bright-eyed, ever so open-minded. I wish they could hold on to this optimism and promise forever. I feel the urge to mold them, help them retain their confidence and centredness, show them how to get high on life without drugs, alcohol, make-up, and surgery, tell them girlfriends rule, teach them how not to let relationships with boys undermine their self-esteem.

Bro started querying Niece about her knowledge of the political parties. She wasn't sure about the facts. I said issues of names and fact can be learned in books and off the internet. That'll come in time. It's that quality of leadership to want to give voice to issues and her spirit of determination that needs to be mined.

I told Niece I will work on her campaign and vote for her. She said her teacher has also agreed to work on her campaign when she runs for office. This girl is already a winner.

The Cruel Joke

For Chinese New Year, I warned my neighbour of clacking noises coming from my house and arranged for Bro, mom, and Aunt to be at my house early for a day of mah jongg. The rest of the family would come for dinner, with Bro Bro bring most of the food.

Mom and Aunt arrived shortly after 9:30, carrying buns, cakes and fruit. Bro, who was bringing the maj jongg table and tiles, hadn't showed yet. Eventually, I got him on the cell. He's was 10 minutes away. But, he said, Tell mom I can't make it and watch her freak out.

I said, You tell her, and handed the phone to mom.

Bro and mom had their conversation. Mom's face fell. She said a few times, "Why didn't you tell us before? Now what're we going to do?"

When she hung up, she complained that Bro wouldn't make it till 2:30, that he's got a leaky basement he's got to tend to. Mom forgot about her coffee and went into salvage mode, trying to locate another mah jongg table and a set of tiles. Well, Aunt has table and tiles, but darned if she knew where they were. She thought the last time she saw them was when she brought them to Sis' for a day of mah jongg. But that was more than a year ago, before Sis moved.

I said, if Sis has them, they'd be in her shed amongst all the furniture she couldn't fit into her house. And besides, the gate to the shed is blocked by deep snow. You can't even access the shed right now.

But in desperation, mom tracked down Sis to see if just maybe she brought the table and tiles into the house. Sis said she has no recollection of seeing the table and tiles when she moved.

In the middle of their conversation, Bro arrived and brought in the table. Mom realized she'd been punked. She started laughing and ran to the washroom (her incontinence, you know). When she came out, she was still laughing. She came down the stairs and stood a few steps from the bottom. Talking to Bro, she said, "How can you lie with such earnestness in your voice?" She told him he will "die in an epileptic fit" (really, that's a term of endearment, said when mom is mock angry at someone).

Then we don't know what happened. She suddenly slid down the stairs. I caught her, but she was sitting on her ankle. She rested her foot and rubbed alcohol into it. She waited a long time before she could walk again. By the end of the day, her ankle had swelled up.

When Sis arrived, she said RICE - rest, ice, compression, elevation. Of course. I remember that from my first aid class. But I had forgotten. I think mainly because mom was still keen to get started with mah jongg and said a few times, "That was very funny. I paid for it with a fall, but it was worth it."

I think only Bro can make mom pee from laughing.

Happy Lunar New Year!

We certainly started the year off as piggies. We ate, drank and played mah jongg all day. Mom fell down the stairs from laughing too hard. I got to talk politics with my 10-year-old niece. Good fun, good fun.

Sentimentality Costs

I sit here looking out the window. In my line of vision are the roses The Man bought me for our anniversary. They are yellow roses flushed with red at the edges. I separated the bouquet, trimmed each rose, put them in their own individual glasses, and lined them up along the window sill. I change the water every day. The buds are opening up slowly. As the petals spread, they look like crisp chips...maybe candied wafers. They look edible, like they would burst with freshness sweet and light if I put the petals on my tongue.

I am thinking how lucky I am that The Man brings me flowers. Often for no reason.

Before The Man, my boyfriends didn't give me flowers. If they did, I don't remember.

When The Man started bringing me flowers, I dismissed the gesture at first as too formal, too ceremonious. He said at the time, No, it's an expression of affection. Then I dismissed it as being too intimate. You give flowers to the one you love, not to someone you're just having sex with.

But he kept bringing them anyway. I got used to it. I took it for granted that's what he does, that's his thing. Like staring out the window is my thing. It's nothing personal.

He's been bring me flowers for 20 years. During this time, I've grown to appreciate flowers. I give them to others. Sometimes, I even buy them for myself. As a buyer of flowers now, I realize how personal the giving of flowers is.

The flower is a temporal thing. It bloom for a short time then dies. But during its bud and bloom, when you can capture the thing in its most glorious state, you gift that to someone. That's the essence of the giving. And then there is the selection of colour, kind of bloom, type of complementary florals, shape of the arrangement. It's all very personal.

Then I read an article this week about the flower selling industry. Most of the flowers we buy in the city come from Columbia and Equador, grown by women slave labour. That's how producers keep the costs low. Flowers arrive by jet, drenched in pesticide. The farming and distribution of flowers devastate the earth.

How do you like that? How do you like having your sentiments exploited and negatively impact the earth? And here I was, with my simple complaint that so many flowers don't carry a scent any more.

The solution? Grow your own in summer. Buy organic and fair trade.

First, I tell them not to buy me chocolates. Now I have to ask The Man and The Boy not to buy me flowers any more. Unless they buy certified organic and fair trade. Nothing is simple any more. Sometimes, I think there is reason in my ogre-y ways.

We Keep On Linking

Back in December, I went to one of those Christmas home entertainment shows with a friend. It was one of those shows where you visit booths to see how you can spend more money over the holidays. Towards the end of the day, we rested at a table and sat on bar stools, drinking cocktails and watching flair bartenders do their act.

In the midst of the performance, two East Indian women walked around with trays offering samosas, flatbread and dips for people to sample. The food was good so we asked where we could buy them. The women pointed to their booth.

It was a Rubicon Exotic Juice booth. They were the suppliers of juices for the flair bartenders. On that specials day, they were selling litre-box juices at $1 each, 12 for $10. So my friend and I each bought the samosas and flatbread, and a 12-box case of juice. It was a really good deal to end a great day's outing.

This week, The Man gave away The Boy's desk online. A woman phoned for it. Her uncle, an East Indian man, came last night to pick it up. The Man helped him re-assemble the desk so they wouldn't have to figure out how to put together Ikea furniture. As he was leaving, the uncle said, "Let me get you some juice."

The Man and I looked at each other. Did he mean he wants to juice up his van first, as in start it before we load the desk?

Nope. The uncle came back with a bag of Rubicon juice boxes. I noticed his van had the Rubicon Exotic Juice sign painted on it. I said, "Hey I bought lots of that juice a while back. We're still drinking them."

He said, "I work for them."

"I went to the Christmas entertainment show in Mississauga and bought the juice, and some Indian food items and dip."

"I worked at that show. My niece worked there as well. This desk is for her son."

"Did she bring food around for people to sample?"

"Probably."

"When I bought the juice, I was served by a man. Maybe that was you."

"So you are my client also."

Is that not wild?

Our Nest

To tell the truth, it was very nice having my boys home on Valentine's Day. We were snowed in.

The Man worked from home, ensconced in his office all day. The Boy fell asleep again in the basement and didn't get up till the afternoon when I made him go shovel the snow. I puttered around as usual, did the laundry, and cleaned under the kitchen sink.

I know, on the surface, it couldn't have been a more mundane day. But I love days like this. I know my family is safe with me, each person doing his own thing. I like days that unfold naturally in an even pace of living. I like feeling the extraordinary in the ordinary.

In the evening, when we've all done with our work or rest, The Man and The Boy went out and brought back dinner and an orchid for me. We had pizza and wings. Then The Boy went babysitting, The Man watched Lost, and I went back to reading The Kite Runner. Ours was a very pleasant nest on Valentine's Day. Hope yours was too.

Obstructionist

Sometimes, there are things you can't control, so you don't try. And then there are times you realize you must step in to avert disaster so you do it, even if it means bringing out the inner bitch.

The Man wants to revamp The Boy's room. The room has been the same since The Boy was 18 months old. It's time to turn his room into that of a young man's. The Boy doesn't mind. He sorely needs better shelving and storage space, and he wants a new bed.

The Man is determined to get rid of everything - the bed, the desk, the bookshelves, and the dresser. He wants to buy an antique dresser that stretches three quarters the length of one wall below the window, then install open shelves above the dresser on both sides of the window. That way, The Boy's room will contain storage along one wall and a bed, and that's all. He doesn't need a desk because he uses his desk for storage only anyway.

So we got a new bed. The Boy loves his new bed. It's a double, and it's really, really comfortable.

Then The Man made the The Boy pack up his things in boxes so he could get rid of the desk. I cringed, because now The Boy will live among boxes. So here's where I become an obstructionist.

We already bought a new bed. I don't want to spend any more money on things that aren't urgently needed and will make the house a mess. So why don't we keep the desk for now. Too late, The Man has put The Boy's desk on Craigslist and someone is coming to get it. Except the person hasn't come, for two days now. She just keeps phoning to postpone the pickup. I have a desk in the living room and boxes all over the place. On the weekend, I am hosting Chinese New Year mah jongg and will need our space back.

I have put my foot down. The Man is not allowed to spend any more money. I don't want an antique dresser that sits too high to the window and doesn't extend all the way across the wall. We won't be able to move the unit into The Boy's room anyway. I want to custom build low drawers that serve as a window seat. I don't want to get rid of the book shelves and dresser till we have the money to build the drawers and shelves for The Boy. I can tolerate living with a few boxes. I won't have The Boy living only out of boxes.

I am going to move out with The Boy if The Man brings in any more furniture we don't need and can't afford, or gets rid of more of The Boy's things. I pride myself on how uncluttered I keep my small house. I don't want to have to wend my way around boxes.

What, it's Valentine's Day? Well then, I'm glad The Boy has a really really comfy bed to sleep in.

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!