Wallow, Wallow

I am wallowing in misery because my cough persists. It robs me of sleep and I am tired, unfocused and discombobulated during the day. When I wretch, I pee my pants.

For temporary relief, I can take a cough syrup that contains a narcotic. Apparently, it's the most potent cough syrup around and if it doesn't stop your cough, nothing will. My doctor's concern is that while the narcotic stops the cough, it also puts you to sleep and is highly addictive, so she doesn't want me to take it all the time. She doesn't have to worry. While the medicine relieves my cough, it also keeps me wide awake and more alert than usual. Bro said the drug has a paradoxical effect on me - it does the opposite of what it's supposed to. So I can't take the drug and go to sleep and I can't take too much during the day because it's highly addictive. Bah.

In this state of self-pity, a friend phoned to see how I am doing. She told me a friend of hers had a cough like mine that lasted 18 months before the doctors figured out what was wrong. Turned out she had a cough that was common to street people, from the unhygenic environment of living in the street. She doesn't know how she got the cough. It took several courses of aggressive antibiotics before they got rid of it.

A street people cough? I may have a street people cough? Maybe it's my inner bag lady asserting herself. Regardless, I will talk to the respirologist about this possibility when I see him. But that's not for another month. I will ask him about the street people cough, not my being a bag lady.

Meanwhile, I have received reiki therapy to clear blockages to my healing energy. Do I really believe in this therapy? I felt nothing. The Man is urging acupuncture. Needles in my lungs? I guess when I am desperate enough. I have brewed mysterious Chinese herbs and drank willingly. I can't tell if that's helped.

And now I suck on lozenges and gulp down cough syrup with codeine, which does nothing but I take it to convince myself I am doing something to ease the hacking. I brew ginger tea and drink it with lemon and honey. I have had no appetite for a week. But you know what? I've lost 5 lbs! Woohoo! As long as my stomach is flat when I die and the undertaker doesn't say, My, this was a fat one.

Misery And Victory

I am wretched. My cough is violent and persistent. Despite a two-day relief from the hacking and a change in medication, the cough is back full force. I throw up from coughing day and night, my stomach hurts. I can barely stand up. I've cancelled social plans. I can barely concentrate on anything from lack of sleep.

In the midst of this misery, The Boy phoned to say he's staying over night at a friend's. The bunch of them are practising their band number. They are a Journey cover band but are preparing other songs too. They are rehearsing for a summer talent show.

In the middle of relaying his plans for the evening, he casually let drop, "And yeah, I was elected student council president today. But I am at school right now and I am only revealing a quarter of how excited I feel. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

Well. He did it. School council president. On Mother's Day, The Man took him to Port Hope to visit his grandmother (while I spent the afternoon with David Copperfield). He got his grandmother to help make buttons for his campaign. Earlier this week, I brought my mother over to do the same.

I marvel at all the family support he gets for his ventures, regardless of what it is - fundraising for the school, trips, personal collections of hot toys, games, videos and comic books, social plans, elections. He's living the childhood I never had and I am so glad.

Cop A Feel

There is nothing like watching a live magic show to either make you a believer or to make you realize cheap tricks are just that.

I talked Sis and Sil into spending Mother's Day with me. What do mothers do on Mother's Day when they want the day to be magical? They go see David Copperfield.

Oh David. If only you weren't so slimy in appearance, sleazy in speech, but slicker in your performance. His show is called Grand Illusion. I was grandly disillusioned.

You start to wonder what's up when he started talking. He sounded tired, rehearsed out, like he's done what he's about to do a thousand times and he's no longer interested, that he really doesn't buy into his own magic acts. But, the show must go on.

He tossed frisbees and balls into the audience to select "volunteers" at random. Only, sometimes he'd say, "You sir, can you pass the ball to the lady in front of you?" Then he'd select that lady to bring on stage as his volunteer. These volunteers were always long-haired, slim beauties. At the end of an act, they'd all gave him a peck on the cheek. All of them wanted to do that?

Sometimes, he brought "witnesses" on stage. These witnesses just walked on stage. Where did they come from? How were they selected? The impression he wanted to convey was, these were audience members selected in advance. I didn't buy it at all.

Like the young man he chose to watch over a drawing another audience member did. The young man just happened to wear a funny T-shirt and a pair of bright orange binoculars around his neck. I mean, hey, the volunteer came with his own prop. We were at a casino. What was the guy doing wearing a pair of orange binoculars? David made him turn around, put the binoculars on him, and got him to "watch" the drawing. Can you get more corny, David?

Then he set up an act where he would go through a steel door. A couple went to check out the door. David said, "Feel how solid the back side is." The man put his hand on the woman's behind to feel her bum. Right, like a husband would do that to his wife on stage! Then David went through the steel door behind a drape. Hey, The Boy did that too, when he was six.

Later, another "volunteer" effected to feel David's behind. To which he made some joke about "copping a feel." Get it? Copperfield, "cop a feel".

It got worse. He showed a video of a guy supposedly in Hawaii. The act was, David and a guest would transport themselves there and the audience can witness it all on the screen. C'mon. It's a video. Of things shot in advance. David fed his partner information that he gathered "spontaneously" from his "volunteers" to proof what we were watching on screen was live. But when the volunteers and witnesses are suspect, so is the information they generate. Try as I did to go along with his act, I couldn't get over the fact I was just watching a pre-taped video pretending an illusion. Pretty cheesy. The only magic was how he made so many eyes roll in the audience.

There were times I wondered, is that really David on stage? Why would he destroy his act like that, after building the reputation he has? I mean, cheap, cheesy and corny just don't cut it for me, man. I wanted so much to enter the illusion. Give me Ricky Martin.

But it was still fun spending time with Sis and Sil. We ate well. We fed the slot machines. It was all very maternal.

It's Hard Being Me

I went to see my family doctor today about my cough and for a change of medication. I made plans to meet mom at the herbalist after my doctors appointment so I can play witch again and brew some more medicine at home.

In the last two days, I said to my mother several times, "My doctor's appointment is at 11:15. If I am lucky, I will get to see her by 11:30. I should finish by noon so I will call you then. I'll call you around noon, but probably after."

At 11:55, I finished with my family doctor. I phoned home to check for messages. I picked up this message from mom:

Sylph, it's 11:30. Did you try to call me? Do you have your cell with you? I phoned you but your cell phone is not on. Do you have it with you? Why haven't you called me?

---

At the herbalist's, the translator said a few things to the doctor that made the doctor laugh. I don't speak Mandarin, but I understood some of what they were saying. I heard:

- Her mother has to accompany her because she's a "native born" and can't speak the language.

I said - I am not a native born. I was born in Hong Kong.

- These native borns don't speak Chinese.

I said - I speak Cantonese, and I understand what you are saying.

- She speaks a few words but doesn't understand the Chinese principles of medicine.

I had nothing to say because it was true.

- And besides, doesn't matter how old she is, she is always her mother's daughter. She'll be looking after her mother soon enough.

I said - I look after her now.

- She still needs her mother. ...Something something I really didn't understand.

I don't know if I was annoyed. The translator and herbalist didn't sound disrespectful. They were just talking and commenting on us. But I thought, damn, that's a cultural trait, talking about someone in front of them in a language they don't understand, as if they aren't there. Mom does this all the time. But both mom and I understood some of what they said. Still, not enough to be spoken to directly despite my interferences in their conversation.

---

After we saw the herbalist, mom said, "Where do you want to have lunch?"

I said, "I don't really need food right now."

"Well, you have to eat. You haven't had anything all day."

"I had breakfast this morning. I could eat now, but I don't want to go if you've already eaten."

"I had some oatmeal in the morning."

So we went to lunch. I ordered two dishes to share with her. The waitress brought the food. I dug in. Mom sat there watching me.

I said, "Here, you have this bowl of congee."

She said, "I'm not really hungry."

"But you wanted to come to lunch."

"So you could eat."

"You said you only had some oatmeal in the morning."

"Yes. Just before I left the house to meet you."

"If neither of us are hungry, why did you make us come to the restaurant?"

"Because you haven't eaten today."

"I ate. And do I look like I am at risk of dying from starvation? How can I lose weight if you keep tricking me into eating?"

"You still have to eat while you are losing weight."

Fishy Dreams

I got a pair of new fish! They are penguin tetras, supposedly peaceful, community fish. They have an amazing black stripe along the body that extends to the tip of the tail, making them look like they have a crooked tail.

I learned today that Sis has many fish dreams. I think she's dreaming about the things I do with fish, such as transferring fish from one tank to another, finding dead fish on the floor because they've jumped, and seeing fish float about in mid-air. I sit there and watch the fish in my tank and often think it's like they're in mid-air.

Then she told me about a dream she had where I arranged a family vacation for a cottage under water. To get inside it, you have to swim through the window. Sis didn't want to be there so she swam back to the top. I was pretty sure that was my dream. In the dream, I was puzzled as to why I would arrange for such a location where breathing was so difficult for us. I wanted to swim back to the top and not go back to the cottage, but I felt guilty that since I had arranged the vacation, I couldn't very well leave my family there while I took off for somewhere more enjoyable. So I stayed put, but the whole time, longed to be elsewhere.

Did Sis and I have the same dream? Or did she tell me about her dream once and I fixated on it in my daydream. Or did I have the dream and told Sis about it, so she borrowed my dream and adapted it for her own? I don't know.

I only know I have penguin tetras, that I bought them because I liked their name, and that the fish lady at the pet shop told me they were compatible with platys. I watch the penguin tetras interact with the platys in the tank. They are much faster swimmers. They eat food by catch the fish flakes as they fall to the bottom. They have bigger mouths than platys. If there were still small baby platys around, I have no doubt the penguin tetras would eat them. This is no dream.

Illness, Sin and Death

What hasn't happened this week?

My chronic night cough worsened. So much so that I threw up from coughing at night. The next morning, I woke up with a head cold. It's like my illness went to my head. There have been days I felt I was on my death bed.

Desperate for help and relieve, I turned to my mother, who steered me to a Chinese herbalist. The herbalist practises traditional Chinese medicine so she is referred to as the doctor. The herb store I went to kept their doctor in a back room. She looked kind enough but spoke only Mandarin and not a word of English. The shop manager translated.

The doctor took my pulse, looked at my tongue, looked me in the eye, then wrote out a script. One of the staff in the herb shop gathered the herbs from the various drawers and jars they had. Apparently, I suffer from too much dampness and too much yin. That is, I am too wet, dark and womanly. Comes from eating too many raw vegetables and drinking too much cold water. I need some hot stuff in me to rebalance my energy. And I likely have an allergy to something.

I don't know about the damp yin stuff, but I have no doubt I am allergic to something. Bro Bro diagnosed the same thing. He pointed at a new blood pressure medication I recently started as the culprit.

But as far as the herbalist is concerned, a rebalancing of my energy wouldn't hurt. So I went home with three packages of herbs to brew, one on each day. I make two cups of "tea" each morning, drink one in the morning, one at night.

Each package contains lots of dried leaves, twigs, almonds, tree bark and other unidentifiable dried vegetation. I add four cups of water, boil the pot down to one cup, then pour the cup of tea to put aside. Then I add three more cups of water to the pot containing the cooked herbs and reduce the water again to one cup. I mix the two cups and drink one, leaving the other for my night dose. I do this for three days.

And I gotta admit. As I brewed the tea, I wished for a cauldron, I wanted to wear a black cape, I wanted to stir, and I wanted to chant. I played out a sinister scene of medicine brewing in my head as I made my potion.

I've stopped taking my suspect blood pressure pill. Bro Bro said, "If you stop the drug, you could suddenly have a stroke." Let's see, stroke...cough my brains out and wet my pants several times a day...stroke...cough my brains out and wet my pants several times a day. It was a hard decision, but I am now a walking time bomb, at risk of having a stroke any minute.

Bro Bro faxed my doctor to suggest a change in medicine. But today I am producing phlegm. This is a different cough. If my cough is an allergic reaction, do I need to see the respirologist next month? And could I be allergic to Prozac? I need to talk to my doctor. At least the secretary was able to squeeze me in for Monday.

Today, being less hacky with my cough, I put my two platys into a bucket so I could clean out their aquarium. I filled the cleaned aquarium with water and started the pump to let the water cycle. Then I went out to dinner. When I got back, I noticed only one platy in the bucket. I looked around for the other one. I saw a dried red fish on the floor. The stupid fish had jumped out. He's always the trouble maker, this feisty one. Couldn't wait till I cycled the tank. I am angry at him, and hurt that he didn't trust me to provide for him. Now he's dead.

And now, I must take my narcotic cough syrup. I need my fix.

Be Well

I am trying to groove with this warm weather. Usually, when the sun is out and the air is warm, I get anxious. Not spring fever. But anxiety that comes from feeling life is passing me by.

But this spring, I am feeling rather optimistic. I am determined to landscape our backyard. I am determined to not go under like a vampire when it's bright and sunny out.

I have filled my calendar with impossible to keep all appointments of things I could do and places I could visit at certain hours if I find myself wondering what it's all about.

Today, I started planting again. I moved some ferns and bought some flowers for my containers. I booked The Boy's flight to France. Yup, he's going for just over three weeks for an exchange at the end of June, then come back with the boy from France. Our guest will spend one month with us. We will do group camping for one week, a wilderness camping trip for a weekend, a trip to Ottawa and Montreal, and a visit to Niagara Falls. The rest of the time I hope The Boy will introduce his exchange friend to his regular friends and hang out.

The Man roto-tilled our backyard because his friend did it and happened to have the roto-tiller available. Then he ran out and bought sod. I said, "Just because your friend is doing his backyard, you don't have to get grass-envy."

He said, "How will it be when we invite them over for a BBQ and they see the mess that is our backyard?"

I thought that's no reason to sod the backyard. But then, I don't have a better plan for landscaping yet and we do have the French exchange coming, so it wouldn't hurt to make the backyard more comfortable the easiest way possible. So sod it is. For now. Changes can be made later.

Night has fallen and The Man is out there sifting the soil in the dark. I don't know. He gets possessed with an idea so easily. Or he just likes mucking about in the dark.

Life's Like That

One day, mom noticed I had a new electric kettle. She said she wanted one too. The stove-top, no-rust kettle she was using had rusted. She was mad. I asked her how old the kettle was. She said, "I don't know...20, 30 years?" So I said, "Okay, let's all upgrade to the modern age."

The next time I was at Loblaw's, I bought her the kettle. But before I had a chance to give it to her, The Man and I chanced up Barrie way. On the way back, he stopped at a Home Depot. There, I saw a different model of electric kettle. One with a base. That means she could lift the kettle off the base to fill it at the tap without having to unplug the kettle. So I bought that kettle for her instead.

Back in the city, I gave her the kettle I bought in Barrie and returned the one I bought at Loblaw's. The next day, mom phoned and said, "This kettle doesn't work. The lid won't close and it doesn't shut off automatically. I've tried to boil water three times and it never shuts off. I have to manually flick the switch."

Well. This week, I brought mom with me to the Home Depot nearby to refund the kettle. She told me, "I don't want one with a base. I can never get the kettle to sit in it properly."

"Without the base, you will have to unplug the kettle every time you fill it."

"I would rather do that than try to make it sit in the base."

At the return desk, the woman examined the kettle. She fiddled with the lid, then with great force, pounded the lid into the kettle to make it close. She said, "It's new, that's why. I have the same kettle and the lid didn't quite fit at the beginning. But once you use it, the lid will close. The automatic shut-off switch won't work unless the lid is closed."

A man who was standing by waiting for a refund said, "That's right. There's a sensor attached to the lid and if the lid isn't closed, the shut-off won't work."

Mom took the kettle and tried to lift the lid off but couldn't. The waiting man took the kettle from mom and tried to pry the lid off. It wouldn't budge. The return desk woman took the kettle from him and with great force, pulled the lid open.

"There," she said, "You just have to do this a few times and it will be smoother." She forced the lid on and off a few times. Mom took the kettle and tried to pound the lid closed. She couldn't. The man beside her tried also. A few attempts later, he finally got the lid closed, but then he couldn't get it open again.

I said to the return lady, "This kettle is not going to work for us. Mom isn't going to the gym to build muscles in order to train the kettle to open and close. Besides, she doesn't like the base. We just want a refund."

So she gave us a refund.

Then I brought mom to Loblaw's and she chose the same model kettle I returned last week, one that you have to unplug to take to the sink. But before taking the box home, she took the kettle out, opened and closed the lid a few times, and satisfied with its construction, went to the cashier with it.

That Ricky

I told The Boy last night that his position as my favourite guy has been usurped by Ricky Martin...because oooh, that Ricky sure gyrates good. The Boy shrugged, deeming Ricky as mom's passing fancy and no real threat.

Ricky is a beautiful, beautiful man. According to AskMen.com, the question about Ricky is, which team is he on? I don't think so. It doesn't matter which team he bats for. He's an entertainer. He's delicious eye candy, with a physique and athleticism to aspire to regardless of which team you're on.

The question for me is, is he a better singer or dancer? I think he's a better dancer. I think he must have taken ballet classes. I wonder what it's like to have a crowd of 20,000 swoon at every move you make. Each time Ricky came out of the shadow, shook a hip, or raised an arm, the audience went crazy. And he knows how to move and pose.

His show is one of terrific choreography and multi-media visuals. Sometimes, he and his dancers looked like cheerleaders in white. It's that clean. Sure, his music has a nice latino beat that makes you want to shake your booty and made the pain in my arthritic thumb throbbed to the music, but really, it doesn't matter whether he has a good voice or whether you're into his music or not. The crowd was too loud and he sang mostly in Spanish so I didn't understand a single word any way. But I really like him performing barefoot.

At these concerts, it's always interesting to watch the audience. Ricky's audience is mostly women, from teens to mothers. Some women bring their whole family to see the show, which means children and grandparents in the audience. Some just bring their boyfriends. But it's the Ricky-wannabe men and teens who scream for Ricky the loudest.

Take the family in front of us for example. They stood for the whole concert. One of the men held up an 8 X 10 photograph of Ricky and kept waving it at the stage. The teen beside him just screamed and screamed. Her mother kept patting her back to calm her. I don't know who all the other members of their group was. I guess the aunts and uncles with their dates.

In my teen years, people lit up cigarette lighters at concerts. It was odd last night to see so many cell phones and digital cameras raised above people's heads, lit up in little white squares. This is the audience of the techno age.

No one stormed the stage, no one smoked pot, no one got out of control. Ushers even served beer. One even helped me find my coat after. Making people pay almost $100 for a ticket is one way to screen out the rowdy and unruly. For my part, I clapped, cheered and shook my booty. I hollered Ricky, Ricky. I blew him kisses at the end. It was fun and very civilized.

That's What I'm Talking About

It's the weather. This warm sunny weather fools us into thinking it's summer and makes us all act a little crazy.

You'd never know that I am old enough to be someone's grandmother, if my life had taken a different turn. True. Years ago, I took a course at the university and in class was a 34-year-old woman. She proudly announced she had just became a grandmother. A grandmother at 34! Hey, I'm old enough to be someone's great-grandmother! So given my age, you'd never have guessed I would be so excited to be going to the Ricky Martin concert on Monday. He's just the cutest and sexiest man, gay or not.

Yesterday, The Boy came home from a sleepover. Around 1 pm, he said, I'm hungry. I suggested we go to Boom, a neighbourhood breakfast eatery that recently opened up. He said, What's Boom? I am quite sure I told him it was a restaurant and that we would leave soon as I changed into a fresh shirt. But according to him, I jumped around and chanted Boom, Boom, Boom, without answering him. Which made him mad as he had no idea what was going on. And we got into an argument, with him accusing me of prancing about in my own world and ignoring him, and me saying I have no idea what he was talking about. How could we be so far apart in our interpretation of a simple exchange?

Today, as I went about my house chores, The Man stayed outside building a box, The Boy sat in front of the computer doing his homework. It was a marvelous day. Our next door neighbour was working out in the back yard as well. We invited them over for a burger at dinner time. Another neighbour from up the street knocked on our door. She was walking home with some groceries and stopped by to borrow a ladder. When The Man and I rested in the backyard a bit, we overheard a neighbour from behind calling out to another neighbour a few houses down. We heard "Hello, hello there! How was your winter?" Then the two of them chatted about their gardening. That's why we live where we do. It's so great to have the neighbours out and see all of us connecting in different ways.

So in this even, happy rhythm of life, it occurred to me I had not jumped around and shouted Boom Boom Boom when The Boy said he was hungry. I jumped around and screamed Ricky Ricky Ricky when I found out I would be seeing Ricky Martin. So I asked The Boy if that could have been the case. He seemed taken aback, not sure whether I was right or not. Slowly, he acknowledged, Maybe.

It's this weather melding our memories as we settle into an unfurling of winter promises hatching on warm days and flowing into new beginnings.

Little Miracles

It's hard not to acknowledge the miracles in my life sometimes.

We spent last night with a furniture builder to design a wall unit for The Boy's room. I was hoping to build the thing for about $2,000, but I could scrimp for the next two months and go as high as $2,500.

I liked the woman very much. It was clear we were on the same wavelength about the functionality and look of the unit. But she provided a quote of $4,000. We negotiated and made changes to the material to lower the price a bit. Then she said many of her customers are asking for similar units because they all seem to have teenagers these days. So if we allow her to take photographs of the finished unit for promotional purposes, she would do the unit for us for $3,000.

I said I would call her in the morning to let her know.

This morning, The Man received his tax refund. He received $500 more than expected. Wow, what timing. So I phoned the furniture builder with a go-ahead for the wall unit.

Either someone is looking out for us or The Boy is one lucky guy. Thank you very much.

Sleeping With The Enemy

Until recently, my sleep gear has been a t-shirt and track pants. I am not one to get fancy and fussy. In my younger days, I could not relate to women who did their hair and fussed about how they looked when they went to bed. For god sake, neither you nor anyone else see you when you are sleeping. These were not the women I connected with.

But for the last year or so, undenial changes to my body and my circadian rhythm - I sleep poorly, my periods are shorter - suggest I have entered perimenopause.

The most drastic change has been an increase in body temperature. Not hot flashes. I am just generally warmer than everyone else in the room. I insist on lowering the heat and opening windows while The Man and The Boy shiver in sweaters and socks. When my mother comes for dinner, I strip down to my tank top and turn up the heat so she would take her coat off.

Being such a hot woman, I wake up several times a night from sweating. I can no longer sleep in my track pants. This sent me to the stores looking for lighter sleepwear. Fortunately, a Joe Fresh opened in the hood this year. I love Joe.

They sell stylish, casual cotton clothing. Cheap. Really cheap. Most of all, they have a good selection of sleepwear with clean, simple lines in soft colours. None of the bold patterned, cutesy, garish gear of department stores. This past winter, I picked up some moccasin slippers. Warm without my feet shouting at me. Last week, I picked up a pair of pink silk slippers. Very nice. Looking pretty under my new pink pajama bottons.

I didn't mind that there were 70-year-old ladies buying the same clothes as me. In fact, I picked up several pairs of pajamas with short, capri and long bottoms, and we giggled at each other about how reasonably priced the store was.

I gotta to say, not only am I comfortable sleeping in my new pajamas, I feel darn feminine. I now go to bed and sink into sleep. Yes, my bed is a place of rest, not a battleground. I don't have to be ready to out run anyone there. I don't need my t-shirts and track pants any more. Why did I ever scoff at pretty pajamas?

Topsy-Turvy

I was thinking how like the Mad Hatter women are - madly donning different hats to fulfill our many obligations. We've gone crazy even as we are hosting tea parties.

One of the hats I thought I was wearing with pride, or at least a sense of accomplishment and that I am fulfilling my duty in taking care of my family, is that of the housekeeper. I thought I kept a pretty clean house.

Today, we are getting our ducts cleaned. The Man initiated this cleaning because I've had a cough for at least six months now, and after trying all kinds of medication, the cough won't go away.

The duct cleaning guys are in the house now, piping into the house with their suction hoses and vacuum truck. It's noisy. And embarrassing. They've moved some furniture around to gain access to the furnace. I had no idea how much dirt, dust and debris could collect along the edge of the wall where a dresser has been sitting. I've never thought to vacuum around the furnace.

As I hear things being sucked out of the ducts, the workmen are saying to me, "Hear that? There are rocks in your ducts." Rocks? Must be drywall pieces The Man left here and there when he does repairs around the house.

Worse, these guys are pointing out all the fire hazards in my house! From our plastic dryer exhaust vent (should be metal, the plastic is coated to burst into flames) to the dresser in front of the furnace (should leave at least 2 ft clear because that's how far fire jumps if the furnace bursts into flame).

So while the workmen were here, they sold me on cleaning the furnace and the air conditioner, and sanitizing the ducts. I had the works done. The house is visibly messy now. I need to clean up after they leave. I need make dinner soon. I have research to do. I haven't had lunch yet. I feel like a mad woman trapped inside a hat box.

The Boy's Chicago

The Boy's back. If you asked him and Butterfly Boy how each aspect of the trip was, all you'd get are complaints.

How was the food?
It sucked. We ate at really sucky places. Even that pizza place the whole school went to. They try to make the place cool but their food was awful. One day, three girls in different rooms who don't even hang out all got sick together. They were throwing up all over the place. It was the food.

How was the dinner and dance cruise?
So lame. Dinner was some dried up fish biscuit. The dance took place in the lobby, where there was also a father-and-daughter girl guide dance, and a middle school kids dance. No one danced.

How were your performances, at the school and at the university? You know, the reason you went to Chicago?
That was just an excuse for the trip. At the university, they taught us one song and there were four non-playing parts. Mine was one of them. At the school, the kids weren't interested in us playing. They just liked that we were the reason they got out of class.

Anyone get in trouble?
Some kids got caught smoking pot. They were withdrawn from all the activities and had to hang out with one of chaperons, who happened to be a really cool parent. She took them sight-seeing and bought them dinners at great restaurants.

Was there anything you were disappointed in in particular?
Since we at the museum already, I wanted to see four things: American Gothic, The Diner, some Picasso's, and Starry Night. I asked where American Gothic was and they pointed the way, so check. I asked about The Diner. They said it was on loan. I asked about Picasso. They said, Right now, there is a special Picasso exhibit on. It's $18 to go in to see the Picasso exhibit. I asked about Starry Night. They said it was hung in the Picasso wing. I said, Starry Night is not a Picasso. They said, That's just where we're hanging it for now. So I saw only one of four things I wanted to see. I felt so gypped.

What was the Magnificent Mile like?
The Boy: It's kind of like Yorkville. Wasn't very interesting.

Butterfly Boy: I made the mistake of going shopping with like five girls. They spent the whole time in a lingerie shop.

- You didn't find that interesting?

- Sure, for the first hour. But not for four hours. I tried everything on but nothing really fit.

Butterfly Boy is good natured that way.

Overall then, it was a pretty bad trip, eh?
No, it was excellent. We had so much fun and did so many things. Everyone we met were so nice and friendly.

For example, the day after the kids got caught smoking pot, we went to the Sears Tower. When we got to the top, we stumbled around and circled Mr. A and said, Oh my god, we're so high. He said very slowly, What do you mean? We said, Look, look how high up we are right now. It was so funny. Later, Mr. A gave Butterfly Boy $1 and said, Go get me some water. BB said, Do I get a tip? He said, Yeah, tell you what, don't ever wear brown and white together. That's what BB was wearing. He's a funny teacher.

After we did the school performance, they gave us soggy pizza and tons of pop. We took all the pop back to the hotel with us and ordered a mini fridge. We got the last fridge in the hotel. There were always at least 10 people in our room and the phone never stopped ringing. We were party central.

We were in the elevator with some middle school kids from another school. One kid made a farting sound with his hands. A girl said, Ew Adam, that's so gross. So we jumped in and said, Yeah Adman, that's just so gross. After that, every time we saw that kid, we'd go, There goes that crazy Adam doing crazy things. He and his friends just laughed.

And The Boy told me this charming story:

We went to Millennium Park. Alex, Cassandra and I walked under The Bean, a huge glass bean-shaped thing that reflects the city back. We laid down on the ground to look up at The Bean and to see our reflections. This little toddler, she could barely walk and only made gurgling sounds, came up to us. When she saw us lie down, she laid down beside me. So the four of us just laid there staring up at our reflections and made gurgling sounds. Her mom came up and took a picture of us. It was very cute.

And so here're some stock photos of Chicago's Bean.

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.