Up To No Good

In our hood, there are several groups that have aligned themselves with our ward's scummy city councillor. The City recently concluded a criminal investigation on Scummy. There was no paper trail to tie him to illegal activities like money laundering and racketeering, but the charity organization that's behind him got its charity licence suspended till they clean up their financial filings.

These groups support Scummy because he uses what influence he has with city staff to help them advance their self interest, such as not paying taxes and getting special permits to do things to their houses that City bylaws don't allow. Even though these groups represent self interest and don't let others into their groups, they tell the City they are the voice of the community.

So we decided to fight fire with fire. Last night, I was invited to attend the formation of our own community group. We call ourselves Ward Watch. We are watching the political activities in our ward, which group is saying what, and issuing a newsletter to let everyone know.

And we decided to adopt the undemocratic model for our group. New members may join by invitation only. We talked about how not to let our enemies crash our meetings. We kidded about having an initiation process for joining our secret society. We joked about developing secret handshakes and wearing hoods to attend meetings.

After all is said and done, we really are just a like-minded group of people with the common interest of making sure the arts is incorporated into our community and that our politicians' activities are open and transparent.

Except for one person, who said, in the interest of being transparent, I want to let you know that my goal in joining this group is to see Scummy put in jail. At least her vendetta is out in the open.

I am going to steer us to operate more like freemasons rather than the Klan.

Boy Gets Ready

The Boy is packing tonight for his Chicago school trip. This is the first trip ever that he's packing for himself. Sure, I did the laundry and we sat down and made a list of things he needs to take. But after that, he's been on his own. Of course, top of his list are all the electronic things he needs for diversion on the bus ride. So he dictates while I write:

- iPod, iTrip, iBeam, iThink, iAm. Can you put a "therefore" between the last two items?

Then he tells me this joke, his current favourite:

Descartes went into a bar. The bartender said to him, Will you have a drink? Descartes said, I think not. Then poof. He disappears.

As he's gathering his things, I said to him,

- Did you know that I am a Fanjaya?

- Oh my god. How do you think that makes me feel to learn my mother is a Fanjaya? How can I leave for Chicago knowing this? Why would I want to come back?

- Sanjaya is a sweetheart. I want him to win.

- I hate him. He's ruining the show.

- You look kind of like him, especially when you have long hair.

- Ahhhhh....

My Boy ran away and I haven't seen him since. Oh, oh. I hear him. He's hauling his bag out of his room. Let's see what other reactions I can get out of him.

Feed The Body Or Feed The Soul?

The Man surprised me this weekend with a proposal to attend The Blind Boys of Alabama concert. He made the suggestion because he knows I like gospel music and thought I would enjoy the group. I heard the Blind Boys sing once on the radio, but I knew nothing about them, like, are they really blind, and are they really from Alabama.

The only thing was, this weekend we bought The Boy a new suit for his Chicago trip this Wednesday. He had ripped the knee irreparably on the pants of the last new suit I bought him. While at the shop, he picked up a few more things that he needed. I had also bought shoes that I didn't need. We just didn't have any more money in our budget for a concert and dinner. It was either the concert or dinner. What to do?

We stretched our budget and went for the concert. The Blind Boys were fabulous. For one thing, some of them have been singing for 60 years. Four of the seven musicians are indeed blind, and they must have honed their vocals to compensate for the loss of sight. They had really good pipes. I couldn't tell by their singing voices some of them were in their 70's.

It wasn't exactly the kind of gospel music I expected. The Blind Boys made their music more ruckus in spirit and soul. They obviously enjoyed singing to an audience. Then sometimes, it looked like they didn't care whether there was an audience or not, they were having such a good time. There was more interaction and showmanship between the blind singers than between sighted musicians I've seen. It was a spectacular concert. Sure, I'd convert.

After, The Man and I came home and made bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches at midnight. It was kind of romantic. And so the soul got fed twice.

The Gambling Joint

I started Kung Fu lessons about a month ago. The Kung Fu studio is just down the street, beside the Blockbuster and above a drapery shop. The instructor and his wife live in the hood. They seem like nice people. They are certainly enthusiastic about helping people get fit. They are open every night till about 9 pm, so I thought I found myself a work out studio to practise my form and movements.

Today, on the way home, a neighbour invited me in for tea. He brought out some cards and we played poker. I told him I had just come from the Kung Fu studio down the street. He said,

- Oh, that gambling joint.

- What do you mean?

- They play poker there every Wednesday night.

- Get out. I can't believe that. It's a Kung Fu studio. Where do they play?

So he described the studio exactly and said they played in the sitting room.

- Who organizes the gambling? I queried.

- The owner of the Kung Fu studio. I forget his name.

- Big C?

- That's it.

- I can't believe that. Is that how he keeps the studio alive?

- I don't think so. I've been there three times and I've never seen him win.

So my neighbour described how the gambling works. Turns out it's just a harmless game of neighbourhood guys getting together to play for fun. You put $20 in the pot when you enter and the winners share the pot. That means you never lose more than $20. There are about 15 people who go regularly, but only about 6 to 8 show up each week.

So it's not a big gambling ring. But that Kung Fu master of mine, living the seedy life behind his students' back.

The Circle Of Life

A friend spent two weeks in South Africa with her family recently. The purpose of the trip was to visit her mother-in-law and her husband's family. This was the first family reunion for her husband since his father passed away last year.

It was an important trip for Friend, as she was concerned that her husband had not grieved for his father. She thought he would cry when reunited with his family. Over the course of the trip, Friend encouraged her husband and mother-in-law to spend mother and son time together. She thought they would help each other grieve and heal.

Instead, what she saw always was chit-chatting, sometimes sadness, but not much more.

On the last day of their trip, she was troubled, thinking that an opportunity for grieving and healing was lost. It had rained for most of the day, so towards the late afternoon, when the rain cleared and the sun came out, she, her husband and son went for a last stroll on the beach. Her husband and son ran ahead.

As she came around a large rock, she looked up. There was a rainbow in the sky stretching from one end of the beach to the other. The whole rainbow was in her view. She was so awestruck by the beauty of it that she gasped and threw her arms up. In that instant, she felt her body connected to the rainbow, as if she was holding each end of the rainbow in her outstretched hands. Through her arms, the rainbow formed a complete circle. Inside that circle, she saw her husband and son playing in the sand ahead. She then understood this was the circle of life. Her father-in-law may be gone, but life continues through his son and grandson. She was instrumental to the continuation of this circle and was there to bear witness to it.

This moment of clarity and transcendence passed. She felt it was okay that her husband didn't cry. Later, her husband told her he was not one to wail with emotion; his grief was private, silent and dignified. She felt that was just fine too.

Anatomy Of A Bird

For Easter, I made a small turkey and invited my mother for dinner. It was an easy meal to prepare. Once you stick the bird in the oven, you can go away and do other things. There were just four of us, so the whole meal was very relaxed.

The bird turned out beautifully. As The Man carved the turkey, I put out the asparagus, the salad, and the yams. The Man put some turkey on each plate and put the plate in front of each dinner companion. Walking by, I noticed he hadn't served the stuffing. I said,

- Can you serve the stuffing too. I made stuffing.

- Where's the stuffing?

- In the cavity.

So he put a spoon into the cavity and dug out the stuffing. After two plates, he said,

- Is that all you made? We're out.

- Impossible.

I saw the small amounts of stuffing on the two plates. How could we be out? I looked at the bird. The Man was scooping out stuffing from the neck cavity.

- You went in the wrong end.

- Huh?

He turned the bird around, tested the spoon in the large cavity to see what I meant. I know we were both trying to stifle our laugh, not wanting to say anything risque in front of my mother and our son. So many jokes to make, so few opportunities to make them.

Later, The Boy wanted a little more turkey. He said,

- Dad, can I have a wing please.

The Man tried to yank off a thigh. Putting his fork on the wing, The Boy said,

- No, this is the part I want.

So The man struggled with that instead, gingerly, as if he's trying to figure where to cut.

It dawned on me that maybe The Man's been serious every time he said, Where do I start? before carving. He really may not know the anatomy of a bird. Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. He doesn't eat chicken in any other form but the skinless, boneless, breast fillet. So this may have been the first time he's ever tried to tackle a whole bird by himself.

Ouch

Now I've done it. I've been so obsessed with taking my blood pressure, I've gone and injured my right arm.

My arm's been feeling numb the last few days. It started with an ache in my forearm that felt like a sore muscle. The ache travels up my shoulder. Sometimes if I cough or strain, I feel a tug all the way from my shoulder, down to my arm, and down to my hip. It's an ache that dissolves into a numbness. I've stretched and rested my arm for a couple of days.

Yesterday, I took my blood pressure again. Soon as the arm band started to tighten up, my forearm started to ache, and my whole arm started to throb. The throbbing dissolved into numbness that spread down one side of my body. I took the belt off and that's how I realized my arm injury came from the blood pressure monitor.

It feels like a nerve has been damaged. From the arm band tightening on my vein and nearby nerves, I guess. What more proof do I need that the internal workings of our bodies are all connected.

Old People Singing

Once in a while, I really need to get away from our daily routine and do something enjoyable by myself. This being Easter weekend, I wanted to do something to mark the holiday, but not something overtly religious. The more I read about the roots of Christianity, the less trust I have in the Church and its dogmas.

So in this mood, I came across an invitation to the Toronto Chamber Choir doing Francesco Cavalli's Requiem at a church. My favourite thing to do in Europe was to casually stroll into a church and stumble upon a concert. That happened all the time, which made me think church concerts were frequent, casual occurrences. I have been looking for church concerts in Toronto. They exist, but they are often accompanied by a full-fledge mass service, or they are very expensive. I have no desire for either.

A choral concert of a requiem in a church on Easter weekend. That sounded perfect. As long as there was no church service attached. Though I wouldn't put it pass those sneaky Catholics if they tricked me into paying for a concert, then giving me a mass instead. But I have to have faith in something. I have faith in the reputation of the Toronto Chamber Choir, though I have never seen them live.

So for the evening, we got into the car, drove to a restaurant near the church, had a quick bite, then The Man and The Boy went to see a movie while I headed off to the concert.

It was a good concert. No mass, just singing. The thing I couldn't get over when I looked at the choir, was that 80 per cent of the members had white hair. They were mostly men and women well into their fifties. Which answered my curiosity about why the choir, as controlled and pleasant sounding as they were, didn't hit any high notes. They were definitely alto and deeper singers all of them.

There were two young women, maybe in their twenties. Turned out they were soprano soloists. There was also a woman, maybe in her late thirties. She was the mezzo soprano soloist. There was a young boy who turned pages for the pianist. The two instrumentalists were young men. And I think that may have been it for young people. Everyone else was a senior citizen.

Which is quite impressive.

Chasing Our Tails

After Dad passed away, Mom gave a few things to me for safekeeping - Dad's death certificate, a cheque book, a bank card, a little brown vial with something inside. I put all her things in a plastic case and put the package away.

The week, Mom and I finally went to the lawyer's office to remove Dad's name from the registration of the house. To do so, the lawyer requires a copy of the death certificate and the deed to the house. When I arrived at mom's, she handed me two folders and said,

- Which of these contain the death certificate?

Puzzled by her request, I looked through the folders to find an invoice for the funeral, a 2004 property tax bill for the house, and lots of promotional material for the funeral home we used, offering services we never used. I explained the items in the folders to mom and told her I had the certificate at home. She said,

- Then why was I guarding these so well? When did I give you the certificate?

- When we went to the bank to remove Dad's name from your accounts.

So we went back to my house. I opened the plastic case, looked through the papers, shook the little vial, found the certificate, and took it out. Then we went to the bank to get the deed to the house from her safety deposit box. At the bank, she said,

- One of the keys to my safety deposit box is missing. Can you find out if we can get another spare?

I inquired. Quick as a flash, they had a woman who spoke Chinese direct mom and I to her desk. She took away mom's old key, changed the lock on mom's safety deposit box, gave her two new keys, and charged $15 to mom's account. She said,

- You should never keep the two keys together in case you lose them. If you lose both, it will cost $150. For safekeeping, maybe you should give one to your daughter.

So mom did.

I brought the key home to put in the plastic case I had for her. Looking through the case, I noticed the little brown vial again. I've never looked at this vial. I picked it up and looked at it. The vial was labelled "safety deposit box" with the box number, in Dad's handwriting. There was the key to the old lock inside it.

I shook my head, took the old key out, put it in the garbage, took the new key out of my wallet, and put it in the vial. Then I phoned Mom to tell her about the discovery.

I could feel her shaking her head. She said,

- Well, we just threw away $15.

We sort of had a laugh about it. But I wondered about Mom not remembering she had given me Dad's death certificate and the key to her safety deposit box. I wondered about me accepting things from Mom for safekeeping without knowing what I accepted. But most of all, I detected in Mom's tone a note of resignation and loneliness, as if she were thinking we wouldn't have these blunders and extra costs if Dad hadn't died.

The Easter Bunny

It was 10:30 Wednesday night before Good Friday. The Boy asked me to take him to Kinko's to get a package of red card stock for student council to print out invitations to an event they are organizing.

We drove along Tyrell. As we neared the park, a little animal was running away ahead of us. I slowed down. The animal had light brown and white fur. It did not scurry and dart the way squirrels do, it was not limber and fast the way cats are, it was kind of skipping and hopping. We got closer. We saw a white cotton tail.

It made it to the lawn under a tree, it sat up to watch us and waited for us to pass. We slowed down to take a good long look. We saw long ears perched on a head. It was definitely a rabbit. We drove by without alarming the rabbit.

- What's a rabbit doing out at night? said The Boy.

- That's your Easter Bunny, Boy, I said.

The Boy smiled and didn't say anything. I knew a part of him was dissing me for saying that, but a part of him appreciated that I said it. Regardless, he was glad we were alone in the car when none of his friends were around. I actually don't think any of his friends would have minded. In fact, I think they would have appreciated it too.

It was still a bonding moment of sorts with The Boy.

Shorts And A Cup Of Coffee

We woke up this morning and The Boy let out, Oh my god! What the?

For a few days in the last two weeks, he's worn shorts to school. That's how warm it's been. I've been walking around with a t-shirt, light jacket, and scarf for effect. Then this morning, we woke up to snow on the ground. I have an urge to tell the weather guy upstairs to quit fooling around. I don't have my snow tires on any more.

So I sat down and made myself coffee, in my new electric kettle. I can't believe I hadn't done it earlier. In the 20 years of living in this house, I've burned 4 kettles. I put water in the kettle, put it on the stove and walk away. I don't like the whistling sound the kettle makes when the water boils so I lift the lid off the kettle spout. Then I don't know how long later, I hear crackling, and eventually, I smell something burning, like scorched metal. I scratch my head wondering where that smell is coming from. I look outside.

Eventually, when I wander into the kitchen again, I see a black kettle on the stove where my aluminum one should have been. I gasp and turn the stove off.

So last week, when I burned the kettle, I puzzled about a solution with a neighbour on the phone. She said, Electric kettle, electric kettle.

I got one this week. My god, it boils water fast and quiet. No loud whirling and churling whooshes that come out of my old microwave. It stops automatically when the water boils. It takes up less space than the stove-top kettle. I've gained a burner for cooking. It was such an easy and feel-good solution. It is like being on Prozac after the first few days. Why isn't everyone on it?

Sympathetic Deaths

I don't really know what happened. But this is my version of the events:

Because I couldn't handle the dozens and dozens of baby fish that seemed to be birthing every week from my two female fish, I separated the males and females. The Female Black Molly died within a week. She died of a broken heart.

After the Female Red Platy gave her multiple immaculate births, she died. She died of exhaustion and a latent broken heart.

By this time, the sole surviving Baby Black Molly and a Baby Red Platy have grown large enough, so I put them into the adult male tank. The babies relayed the deaths of their mothers to the adult fish.

Within two days, one of the Male Red Platy started dying. He was the one most attached to the Female Red Platy. I returned the babies and the Adult Black Molly to the large tank with the other babies in case of infection. Despite my treatments, this morning, I saw the sick Male Red Platy swim around a bit with his friend, the Other Male Red Platy. For a sec there, I thought he had recovered.

But shortly after that, he buried himself into a shell and died. I guess he was saying goodbye to his friend. At the same time, the Male Black Molly, who had been living in the big tank for two days and seemed so healthy, suddenly flipped over on his side. He looked sick. Maybe he's been infected after all I thought. So I put him back in the male tank where the water has been treated. But so far, he has been burrowing into crevices, flapping his dorsal fin as if breathing his last.

He is dying of a broken heart. He had heard from the Baby Black Molly that the mother molly had died, and he had checked out the tank to verify her absence. Now, his Adult Red Platy friend in the other tank sent him a goodbye message. So he flipped over and started to die in sympathy. I am most sorry to lose him - he was most good natured.

The remaining Male Red Platy looks puzzled, swimming about on his own. I am afraid to add him to the large tank with the babies in case he too carries infection. But I fear he will die unexpected because all his friends have gone.

Belted

When The Man visited Texas years ago, he brought back some cowboy belts. Over the years, two of them are quite worn out. They would have come apart any minute at the stretch where the buckle needle slips into the eye.

The Man and I had the same thought. You glue and sew a piece of leather on the back of the belt where the broken eye is, then punch new eyes through the leather patch. Maybe we can get it done for $10 per belt.

Down the street is a leather repair shop. The owner puts a sign up that says "A guy who fixes leather." So into this shop I went with my two belts looking for a repair job. The owner looked at my belts and said,

- This one I can cut off the end, put in a new piece and try to save the belt tip. If I can't, then your belt won't have the silver tip at the end. It'll cost about $75. I charge $50 an hour. This job will take about one and a half hours.

This other one is irreparable. It's one continuous belt and I would have to replace the whole belt.

- I'm sure we didn't pay $75 for this belt.

- You would have paid between $75 and $100 for it.

- We must've bought in on sale.

- Well then, the repair will cost more than your original price of the belt.

- Can't you just patch them with a piece of leather at the back?

- That'd be shoddy work. I win awards for my repairs. I don't do that.

- I can't pay $75 for a repair.

- You shouldn't. It wouldn't be worth it.

So I left the shop. And I realized, despite how low-keyed he tried to present himself, his is a high-end repair shop. So I kept the belts in the car in case I find a shop that will fix the belts cheap. One day, The Man found a shoe repair. The shoe repair charged $12 to do what we wanted. Yesterday, The Man picked up the repaired belts. Both belts have been fixed, almost seamlessly, a much better repair than I could have imagined. For $12.

I just need something to hold up my pants. I don't want to wear award-winning repair on my waist.

Undisciplined

I blame myself for being so undisciplined. I have been writing a grant proposal for my Latin American friends. I had lots of time, but I dilly-dallied and fiddle-faddled. In retrospect, I was waiting for the adrenalin to hit so I could get going.

My delays mean I have not given my friends much time to review the application for their organization. The application is due tomorrow. It also meant I spilled my writing time into social time. We had planned some dinner parties this week. I felt squeezed, trying to cram in the writing and prepare for the dinner parties at the same time.

Despite that, I am quite impressed with my ability to capture the organization's activities. I have manipulated the copy to pull some heart strings. For example, one of the questions on the application asked:

How does your artistic programming engage and challenge your audience/program participants?

My answer:

Our messages and sentiments are universal. Regardless of an audience member's own culture of origin, anyone who has lived through oppression and fought for the rights to freedom and democracy will identify with our history and struggles. Because of their own experiences or because of a desire to tap into the richness of Canada's multicultural collective heritage, our audiences are sensitive to the issues explored in our art and programs, which include:

• the need to lament our loss, heal from our wounds, and put our woes into a perspective that allows us to rebuild in a new country without forgetting our past
• the internal struggle of personal identity and cultural identity while living in an adopted land
• the issues of balancing work, family, education, art creation and survival
• the search for hope, love, and inspiration

Our activities ensure that artists who want to express their issues find a voice, and those currently not engaged in creating art find their issues represented in the expressions of others.

Our history, our activities... as if I am part of the organization. I realized that in writing this application, I was writing as if I was running it. This was my fantasy organization. After, I had to go back into the file and delete all the detail that I made up. I don't want to be lying to the funders.

I am almost done with the application. Now to print it out and run hard copies over to my friends, by bike, because The Man has left town for the day. Woe is me for being so disorganized, easily distracted, and so undisciplined.

So Fishy

Recently, my red mother platy died. I knew she would after she gave birth. I don't know if she had an internal parasite or if it was a lack of will to live. She seemed afraid of her babies and hid from them all the time.

This week, I transferred a baby molly and a baby platy into the male tank. I don't know if these babies are male or female. But they are almost half the adult size, and I figure they would like some adult company, especially the mollys. I have only the one baby left (the others all died) and the male adult, kept in separate tanks. I thought they would like to know they are not alone. The two babies know each other, so they aren't going to a new home alone either.

So into the adult tank the babies go. It's a very interesting drama that played out the next couple of days with the addition of the baby fish into the tank. They are after all children of the adult males.

The baby molly was immediately drawn to the adult molly. It followed him around, nipped at him, and stuck close. The adult molly didn't seem to mind. The two male platys seemed more interested in checking out the baby platy. They circled each other a lot, but after a while, the adult platys lost interest in the baby and ignored it. How do the fish know they are the same kind?

I've suspected the adult platys are rather aggressive males, bullies even. I've seen them chase each other and twist their bodies into fight mode. What I hadn't expected was the platys taking an interest in the baby molly.

This morning, I saw the little black fish hiding behind the filter. Inches from it were both adult platys, hovering and waiting. More surprising was the adult molly. It kept swimming between the baby molly and the platys, as if trying to stop the platys from scaring the baby molly.

After a while, the baby molly swam out to follow the adult. Later, I found one of the platys sitting in the spot behind the filter where the baby molly was. Was it sitting there to stake out its territory just because the baby molly had been there? I've never seen the platy sit in that spot before.

Are these fishy social interactions really happening or am I ascribing dominance and defensive traits to fish? I could be spending too much time alone.

Perfection Is A Flaw

I made banana bread this morning. Sure, we had three ripe bananas in the house. I also did the laundry. Yup, there certainly was laundry to be done. I stood outside the house and inspected our roofs with our next door neighbour. We happened to be out there, taking the garbage out at the same time. I even exchanged e-mails with a couple of friends about a dinner we're having on Saturday. See, now I'm blogging.

The real reason I am doing all these things is because I am avoiding writing the grant application I agreed to do. This is the second one I'm doing for the Latin American group. I think I committed to doing three. This is like university all over again.

I know I can write up the damn thing and even do a great job if I just sit down and get to it. But I look for reasons to not sit down. Unlike The Man. He agrees to do something, he gets it done, often before the deadline.

Maybe the difference is, he cares about getting it done, I care about getting it perfect.

I don't want to waste my effort if I can't get it perfect, at least in the way I envision it to be, even knowing I can't get to that stage if I don't get started. But the need to be perfect at the first go immobilizes me. It's a kind of self-imposed paralysis that would resolve itself if I simply get going.

It's too circular. I'm not cut out for that kind of logic. I yield to distractions instead. Ooh, I can smell my banana bread being baked to perfection.

My Club

I like it when white-haired old guys say to me, Hey, you're 22, just like me. It shows good humour. I especially like it if the man is still handsome, vibrant and self-sufficient. That was our dogsled trainer, owner of the dogsled farm, who said that to me.

I like having that kind of thing said to me even when the old guy is a rubby in the street. Like today, when I walked by a dishevelled old panhandler, he called out, Hey, you legal to walk around by yourself? Got change?

I said, Okay, for that, I will give you all the change in my pocket. Which was over a dollar. Flattery works.

I feel like I am in collusion with these old guys. It feels like we're a club onto our own - a club of self-acceptance in spite of the falsity of their observation. It's a club for self-gratification through exaggeration and truth-bucking, because we've earned it.

I'm no Woody Allen after all, who wouldn't want to belong to a club that would have him as a member. I form my own clubs and draw up secret members. You just don't know what club you may belong to in my world.

The Cost Of Being Away

The Man spent the week in the city while The Boy and I were at the cottage. He was involved in projects at work he didn't want to be away from. I am a little shocked coming home. How can a grown man make such a mess in such a short time?

The shampoo and toothpaste he put at the top of the stairs and decided not to take to the cottage remained at the top of the stairs for a week. His worn shirts were piled in a corner in the bedroom. The bedsheets, well he didn't change them and I was too tired last night so they are now three weeks old. The bathroom sinks were full of gunk. Why sinks in both bathrooms?

He wanted to be helpful so he did the laundry. Now little fluffs of paper and lint are strewn all over the basement floor and piles of clean laundry are rolled up and stuffed here and there. I took out the piles I could see, refolded them, and put them away in their proper places. At least he didn't leave piles of dirty dishes in the kitchen, but my god, the rings around the sinks! And actually, I don't see that he's eaten any food from the fridge, so has he been living on take-outs? I don't want to know where the rings came from.

He did feed my fish. He overfed them in fact. The water in all three tanks were yellow, fish poop all over the place. Some of the fish got huge. I spent a good part of my return cycling the water and vacuuming the waste and excess food from the tanks.

The Boy has asked us never to include him in this type of vacation again. Whenever our guests left, he was bored out of his mind. There was nothing to do but watch TV. He would rather be with his friends, who would rather stay in the city and do city things. He was bored most of the time during our Maritime trip in the summer too. I think family vacations with The Boy are over. I was warned this would come.

And now, I have to clean the house and cycle the fish water some more, then get to work on more grant writing and web site development research. Ah well, I still enjoyed the week away.

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.