Wandering Mind

I am absolutely loving the book Eat, Pray, Love. There is a part where the author is in India and she describes the internal dialogues that take place when she tries to meditate. I know well what she means. Only, my internal dialogues aren't as conversational. They are more flitting and vacuous.

For example, today, I tried to meditate. These were my thoughts during the attempt:

- Just pay attention to your breathing and block everything else out. In, out, in, out, breath naturally, don't control your breathing. Watch the natural rhythm of your breathing...

- I wonder if I should come up with a chant. That's what Liz Gilbert did in the book.

- Think about that later. Righ now, in, out, in, out....

- Maybe I should turn the fan on. I'd be more comfortable that way. It's kind of hot in this room.

- In, out, in, out...

- I could save time if I put on a facial mask. I could meditate and do a facial at the same time.

- Good idea. Bet having facial mud on would give my skin a tight sensation which would help me concentrate on me while I am meditating.

- Wonder if The Man sold any of his stuff at his brother's garage sale.

- Wonder if The Boy made money being a helper. Maybe I wouldn't have to give him so much next week if he's got money of his own to spend.

- I really should go down to No Frills. They've put their garden stuff on sale now. I need red impatiens to finish my art project on the fence. I should get them before they are sold out.

- What's with that? It's not even July and they put their garden stuff on sale.

- Whoa, whoa, I am wandering. Deep breath in, now out. In out in out...breath naturally....

- There's nothing natural about watching myself breath.

- Shut up and clear your mind.

- I need a drink of water.

- Maybe I need to pee instead.

- Which is it?

- Both. I need to do both.

- Geez, what kind of an old lady am I to need to do both at the same time. Maybe my body is screwed up.

- No no, my blood pressure was great this morning. 114/74.

- Is that too low? That's a morning reading. Bro said blood pressure readings are highest in the morning.

- Meditating, watching fish, gardening all help to lower my blood pressure.

- Only I'm not meditating right now, am I?

- No, I am wandering all over the place.

I confess I don't have deep profound thoughts while trying to meditate. In fact, I quite feel like an air-headed bimbo. They say the real you surface when you clear your mind. I wonder if the real me is the bimbo, or is the bimbo trying to get in the way of clearing my mind.

No enlightenment for me today.

Evening With Family

The Boy is in exams right now. He wrote his first yesterday. "Do well," I said before he left the house.

"Mom," he said, "It's Biology. I want to do well in the exam. That's the only way I will pass the course."

Arrrgh. Party boy, border-line delinquent, and president of the student council. But it was Butterfly Boy's birthday so I gave The Boy some money and asked him to take Butterfly Boy to lunch after the exam. A group of them were going with Butterfly Boy to visit the CN Tower for his birthday.

When I got home from running errands in the afternoon, The Boy phoned. He said, "Mom, guess where I am!"

"Where?"

"I'm at the top the CN Tower. It's so cool. We're standing here looking down at the city and there's nothing between me and the ground below but these wires in front of me. If they break, we'd all fall smashing to the ground!"

"Well I hope they don't break and you boys don't jump."

"Okay, we won't. It's so great up here, the exam went well and I am having such a great day, I just wanted to phone to say hi. I'll see you at the dentist later. Love you."

Awww. The little prince, apple of my eye, got me twisted around his little pinky.

I met him at the dentist's office an hour later and got him set up with antibiotics in case his wisdom teeth act up in France. He's having oral surgery to remove all four of his wisdoms at the end of August. Will he turn into a dumb-ass after (vs. being a smart-ass now)?

We took my box to Dufferin Mall, where they really have an official Fido outlet, to exchange my cell phone for one that works. While in the mall, we got The Boy a shirt, some socks, and an over-sized red bath towel just because the towel was red and it was there.

The Boy got home to a flurry of phone calls with his friends. The sleepover that was planned at our house had been moved to Butterfly Boy's so his parents can do a birthday cake for him.

The Boy graced us with his company for dinner and I quickly put together some leftovers. A friend and I had been exchanging phone messages for a few days now and finally, tonight, we connected. We made plans for me to go into her school to put together their year-end school newsletter. I was relieved that got settled as the school year ends in two weeks.

The Man and I then drove across town to the Beaches to drop The Boy off at Butterfly Boy's.

Queen Street at the Beaches was bustling. Lots of shops and restaurants wanting your business and throngs and throngs of people wanting to give it to them. I love that about the Beaches. Driving along, The Man spied a discount store with racks and racks of jackets on offer. He pulled over, elbowed his way into the store and bought a Perry Ellis sports jacket for $60, marked down from $250, the sign said.

We stopped for coffee at the Tango Palace. Who knows why it's called that. They only serve coffee and cookies and there is certainly no room for tangoing. Over coffee in their patio and the cool breeze, I closed my eyes and gave thanks to a good evening, then I demanded The Man go back to the counter to get me a giant shortbread cookie with embedded chocolate chunks. It was very good.

Afternoon With A Box

The oppressive heat loosened its choke hold on us, at least for one day. I took advantage of this reprieve to run errands. I had thought of inviting a friend to join me for lunch, but something in this sudden cool air made me want to spend the day wandering the town on my own. I wanted to take in the street activities of a summer Thursday afternoon, even though technically, it's not quite summer.

I made my way to College and Bathurst, clutching a small box. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in a store window, I looked like I could have been carrying a bomb. A cleanly packaged bomb, but it could still go off and hurt you. I was actually looking for a cell phone store in the area, which I thought was a Fido outlet. I was wrong. The pretty young woman in the store pleasantly told me I might have to go to Chinatown to find an official Fido store. Back out on the street, I debated which was more important at that moment: finding the Fido store or having lunch.

Mars beckoned from just a few shops away. I always have their corned beef hash. I made my way towards it but noticed there were vacant seats at the patio of Aunties and Uncles, where all their rickety bench tables wore red and white checkered plastic covers, held down by plastic clips to prevent flight. People rave about the food at Aunties and Uncles. I went there once and it was okay. But not good enough to warrant the hour-long weekend lineups to get into a hole in a wall just to receive brusque service on chipped plates. In fact, I quite hate lining up to pay for food.

But this afternoon was different. The sidewalk patio was free and there was no lineup. Mars could wait. I was willing to give Aunties and Uncles another try. I took a seat and ordered scrambled eggs and bacon with potato salad from a hurrying waiter trying to contain his snarling. I suppose if I had to work on such a beautiful day, I'd be quite pissed off too.

As I waited for my food, I saw merry school children jauntily making their way up Lippincott, skipping and a hopping, n'er a care in the world. No doubt they were disgorged from the nearby schools and were headed home for lunch. Some sucked on giant, blue, orange or white freezies while others munched on mystery foods as they walked across my field of vision two by two, three by three, and sometimes a whole herd of them of varying heights clustered together, trying to not spill off the sidewalk.

And then one lone old man came along, hunched over his cane at 110 degrees. He was still wearing his winter blue vinyl coat with several tears in the back. It was painful watching him. With all his might, he lifted his cane with his right arm and planted it a few feet in front of him. Steadying his balance, he inched toward his cane with ten to twelve little shuffles. Then he lifted his cane and planted it a few feet in front of him again and start his shuffling all over. Every second or third cycle, he'd grab for the fence with his left hand to steady his body. I had an urge to run out and buy him a walker. But it was good to see none of the groups of school children swarmed him to trip him up or knock him down.

Then suddenly, plunked in front of me was my food. That's probably how they chip their dishes. To tell the truth, and as much as I hate to admit it, the food was good. The scrambled eggs creamy yellow and fluffy, the bacon crisped just so and generous, the potato salad tangy and moist. It's just that I still didn't know whether my waiter could do anything else with his voice but grunt.

The wind picked up, more people came in and sat down. In one corner, a lone woman sat with her papers spread out, arms holding down the pages, deep in discussion on the cell phone. At the table next to her, a woman was also on her cell phone, laughing and guffawing as if she was in a room by herself. In front of her was a woman in her late fifties lunching with a young man in his twenties. They looked like mother and son with the same long nose and chin. Except she kept holding his hand and he seemed self-conscious and too shy to reciprocate affection.

Beside me, a young man was telling his cell phone companion about his current favourite video game: Guitar Hero. I understood what he was saying, Guitar Hero also being The Boy's current favourite. I suppose that's one way to invite someone to lunch. You sit at a restaurant, phone your friend and talk to them while you are eating. Why, that's a virtual date. And if you were really keen on a guy but too shy to ask him out, you could phone him while you are at the restaurant and he wouldn't even have to know he was on your virtual date.

Behind me, two women with young children and a stroller waited for their lunch. I heard one woman say to the little boy, "Let's put her away and look at her again later. She's napping right now," referring to the sleeping infant in the stroller.

I finished my lunch and gathered all my things to leave, including my box. I walked along College where a meter-man in his police uniform was checking into car windows for parking receipts. Those government goons who bully the unwary, those city-paid vultures who prey on the distracted, those taxpayer-sponsored parasites who feast on the distraught in front of hospitals. I cursed the meter-man under my breath, wondering if he thought I was carrying a bomb, and made my way home.

Nothing Virtual About This

The muggy heat weighs me down. So it was a relief feeling the evening breeze in the shade under a tree, waiting for The Boy to register for summer virtual school.

Summer school these days isn't the same as summer school in my day. Back then, you go to summer school because you flunked out. Your summer school classmates were either the cigarette dangling on the lip, motorcycle riding type too busy being aloof with drugs and rock and roll to do well in school, or the new immigrant kids who can't speak English, geek-clad in polyester plaid, and socially awkward, and therefore failed their courses because the teachers didn't understand them.

As I watched the kids going into the school to register, I see they are wholesome keeners, all of them. Individuals who are well supported at home. The immigrants, whole families of sisters chaperoned by their mothers, flowed their saris proudly while their dads waited in minivans and SUVs. No Heathers here, though some definite Pointdexters. Two girls skidded up to the school steps on their skate boards.

There were many parents on the lawn and school grounds waiting with me. This is a school that kids can only get to by car because it is located at the god-forsaken country of The East Mall and Burnamthorpe.

The Boy is keen to do the five-week grade 12 English course this summer. He is not in pursuit of excellence. He just wants a spare in the Fall. Only, he'll be in France for three of the five weeks and can't count on internet access. Plus, there will be an exam on July 18 but he doesn't get back to Toronto till July 25.

I think he should focus on France and do English as a regular course in the Fall. This suggestion riles him. He doesn't want to go to France now. He said he never wanted to go but agreed only to indulge his parents. I think he will grow up to vote Republican if he can, and focus on the acquisition of material things. How did he get this way?

The teachers we spoke to said he can hand in all his assignments early. He will need to find a school in France that will agree to act as his supervisor for the exam. And he needs to factor in courier time because he needs to have written the exam and have it delivered to his teacher in Toronto by July 18.

This is not a virtual quagmire; it is real. Now to figure a way through it.

Save A Penny

I bought a coffee and chocolate croissant yesterday (I know, I know...). The total came to $2.51. I said to the cashier, "I'll give you a penny." So I gave her $20.01.

She gave me back $17.51 change. I said, "No, I gave you the penny."

She checked the change and did the math again. "Oh," she said, "Right. But it's only a penny. It's not like it's a dollar and I'll be short and have to make up for it."

I said, "Well, but it's good for us to practise for the day you're a dollar short."

"I suppose."

Of course it's not the penny. It's the practice of being accurate, It's my rejection of throwing things away unnecessarily. It's respect for the seemingly insignificant details of our lives.

In the last couple of weeks, I've picked up quite a few pennies off the street. Pennies must be a recurring theme in this phase of my life. I treat them as lucky pennies. I make a wish and throw them into the next fountain I see, though sometimes I don't see a fountain for days and I probably ended up spending the penny, like on a coffee and chocolate croissant.

But you know what I wish for most often aside from health, wealth, happiness and world peace? I wish for really great books to come my way. And I just found one. I can't put it down. It's called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

Gilbert writes with great wit and humour as she talks about life after divorce and how she set out to "examine three different aspectrs of her nature, set against the backdrop of three different cultures: pleasure in Italy, devotion in India, and on the Indonesian island of Bali, a balance between worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence."

Look, this book is hot on the book club circuit. This one's for you, Sil.

Disciplined...Not

So many rounds of good eats lately, and so much pleasant company. First, there was dinner with my Fab5 friends. Yup, there are five of us, and we are fabulous. Then there was an impromptu dinner with the family and mom. The Man brought her home one night unexpectedly so we all went out for dinner. And tonight, I am making dinner for my brother-in-law's family.

I'm pleased with myself. I have shown tremendous restraint and discipline so far. Not once did I overeat and through it all, I have kept my blood pressure under 140/90. In fact, most of the time, I come in under 130/80. Last night, I even had a reading of 113/72.

All this is to say this self-restraint is new to me and I rock.

After dinner...

I am so ashamed of myself. I had been so good. Then tonight after dinner, I had two Hagen Daaz ice cream bars. Bro said, Two? One is not bad enough?

He is so right. And now I can't sleep because I am so unnecessarily full. I wonder why being lactose intolerant doesn't scare me away from ice cream. I guess I'm like those people with emphysema who won't stop smoking.

Well. This is like all those predictions out there about celebrities who go into rehab. They always relapse and it takes a few tries. The ice cream tonight was just a relapse.

But the good thing is, the house is clean again. I like having people over for dinner because The Man, The Boy and I all do our part to clean the house, tidy the garden and prepare the food. We are a good team. Over a leisurely visit and dinner, I had a chance to catch up with my brother-in-law's family. I also made further plans for The Boy and The Exchange when they get to Toronto. And I finished two books tonight.

So. So I am not going to beat myself up any more. And I look forward to more gardening tomorrow so I can sweat out the damage of the ice cream.

Middle of the night...

Oh god, I am so silly. I can't sleep because sister-in-law made coffee after dinner. Because I don't have a coffee scoop, she couldn't measure out the right amount of coffee. Her estimate was way, way off and she made the coffee ultra strong. Even though I watered mine down three times, I still felt it was too strong. That's more likely the reason I'm wide awake in the middle of the night. Stupid coffee.

Why The Crazy Cook Will Never Be A Chef

Last week, Mom asked Uncle to buy her four racks of spareribs. Aunt asked what she was doing with so many ribs. She said she liked the way I make spareribs and wanted me to cook them for her. Uncle agreed. He's had my spareribs and he likes them too. So he e-mailed me for the recipe.

I phoned him and had this crazy conversation with Aunt.

Aunt: "How do you make your spareribs? Your Mom and Uncle say they are the best."

Me: "I think the trick is to boil them first. You cut up the ribs in single pieces and put them in a pot. Add just enough water to cover the ribs and bring to a boil. Then you simmer the pot for about 35 minutes."

"You cut them up into single ribs? Do you still grill them after?"

"Yes."

"Oh no, that's too much work cutting up the ribs. And it's not necessary to boil them first. You just need to put the whole rack on the grill and use low heat."

"You can do that, but the meat doesn't fall off the bone when you cook it that way."

"How do you grill them?"

"I mix different BBQ sauces. I make sure one of the sauces is a hickory smoke sauce, and sometimes I buy liquid smoke to add to the sauce."

"But I like hoisin sauce. It's sweeter and it glazes easily."

"You can use that sauce too."

"But Uncle likes your ribs better. They're not burnt."

"Well, because I boil them, the meat is already cooked when they go on the grill. You put them on the grill to add flavour and texture with a bit of charring. Grilling is finished when you see the sauce glaze over and char marks start to appear on the ribs. It takes just a few minutes."

"You have to stand there and watch over it? That takes too much time. I just leave the rack on the grill and go away. No boiling, not necessary to cook twice."

"That's one way to cook them."

"I'll do it my way. But how do you make yours taste so good?"

Old Man

One of the signs of old age is paranoia. As people get older, they get more suspicious and think people are out to get them. The mother of a friend of ours believes people are coming into her house at night and stealing thousands and thousands of dollars from her, never mind that she doesn't keep thousands and thousands of dollars in the house.

The Man, I'm afraid, is also headed that way. Lately, he's been accusing people of doing things intentionally to bother him (such as how they drive), and he thinks people are trying to rip us off in almost every exchange we have when purchasing a service.

I am most distraught about this. In my mind, The Man is that energetic, optimistic, passionate, easy-going, confident, and generous 25-year-old young man I fell in love with. What is he now? On good days, a white-haired, beer-bellied, affectionate Old Man. On bad days, a disgruntled, smelly Old Goat, too rigid in his ways and too-easily irritated.

Me, I've put on weight too and I have lost the ability to concentrate. I have multiple ailments, minor as they are, except for the cough, which has improved much lately. It's my experience with this cough that has opened my eyes to homeopathy.

I tried many remedies for my cough. Maybe they all worked, maybe none of them did and I got better over time. One thing I do know is that when I drink ginger tea (I cut up three inches of ginger and simmer in 8 cups of boiling water for 20 minutes), I don't cough as much. When I didn't drink the brew for a few days while staying with the kids, my cough got worse. Once home, I started the brew again and last night, I didn't cough once.

While seeking treatment for my cough, I stumbled upon a book called Eating Alive by John Matsen. It sure makes sense what he says, that our body prefers to be in a state of homeostasis, a balanced state where it knows how to heal itself of illnesses. We interfere with this balance when we insist on eating bad foods.

The book explains how our digestive system works, the roles that our various organs play to help with digestion, and what bad foods to avoid. Are we surprised at all when he says don't eat food that's been over processed, eat slowly and chew your food well?

Most of all, the book suggests that if you treat your body right and maintain good digestion, you can reverse a lot of the diseases that modern medicine can't fight, such as cancer, depression, mood swings, arthritis and premature aging. It's true that the Old Man wolfs down his food and eats way too much bread.

I am going to try to get The Man back and get me better with a homeopathic approach. I don't like the sickly me I've become, nor the Old Goat I'm living with.

Bull In A China Shop

Literally.

Since I've been home, I've broken a salad bowl, a wineglass and a large tumbler. I've burned my hand cooking and nearly sliced a finger starting up some antique fans The Man keeps in the basement.

Like most things, I blame the weather. I don't know if the heat and humidity of the past few days unbalances me, or if it's really resentment directed at the fact that we are getting heat and humidity at the beginning of June. But thank god all that abated today.

I opened the windows this morning to cool air. Still damp, and it's going to rain for the next three days. But cool and refreshing. Early this morning, I went out in the garden to put in some more plants so when the rain comes, they will get a really good soaking.

All would have been well if I hadn't ruined two changes of clothes. What was I thinking, wearing good clothes to do gardening? To be fair, I wasn't thinking of gardening when I got dressed this morning. After putting in a few plants, I was puzzled as to why my clothes were dirty. So I changed into a second set of good clothes. Soiling this second set was inexcusable. Only when I rested the watering can on my leg and saw the dirt on my pants did I realize what I was doing. So into the house again for shorts and a t-shirt.

The Boy is off to see Pirates of the Caribbean, The Man is still in Port Hope, which leaves me a few hours to obsess over cleaning the house and prettifying the garden to beat the rain.

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes, Part II

The kids' nanny is three months pregnant. This being her second pregnancy, she's already showing.

This morning, I got dressed in front of Kid2. I put on a smock like top that drapes over my girth. Kid2 looked at me wide eyed and hopeful, "Are you pregnant?"

I wanted so much to say, Yes, just to see her squeal with delight, but then I'd have to produce a baby some time down the line. So I had to deflate her and said, "No, this is just fat. But look what I can do." I sucked up my tummy and my pregnancy disappeared. She didn't know what to make of it so gave me a wry smile and went away.

Pregnant, eh? She's not the first to have thought that. As Bro Bro said once, it's quite flattering actually, that people still think I look young enough to be pregnant despite my ripe old age. But the kid thinks I look pregnant, eh? Hmmn.

And then there is Kid1. One of the words in Kid2's spelling exercise is spread. We've done the dictation and she gets the word right. Then we came across the word again in her reader. She struggled with it a bit. I said, "Spread. Remember, that's the same word on your spelling list."

She said, "Oh, I thought spread is like when you spread jam on bread."

"It's the same word. But here, it has a different meaning."

Kid1 butted in, "It's a homonym," and walked away.

Homonym? Is it a homonym? I have to look that up. I don't have that knowledge on the tip of my tongue. I'm home now and I looked it up. Kid1 was right. Words that sound the same and are spelled the same, but have different meanings are homonyms. What kind of a freak is he?

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

I don't know what Kid2 and I were doing. Talking probably. I remember her saying, They're friends, they're all friends. And I know she likes telling me about her friends and what they do together. I asked, "Are your friends the most important thing in the world to you?"

She gave me a quizzical look. "No," she said emphatically. "The most important thing in the world is my family."

"Oh. Who's your family?"

"My mom, my dad, Kid1, you."

"Ah. My family is the most important thing in the world to me too."

"And nature. Nature is important."

"Ah. Yes. Nature is also very important."

"And hope. Hope is also important."

"Right."

"My family, nature, and hope. Those are the most important things in the world," she summarized.

"Those are very important ideas. Did someone teach them to you?"

"Nope. I just decided that now."

I had to marvel. That's a five-year-old talking. Aren't family, nature and hope truly the things that still keep us whole and are our raison d'etre?

My Evil Influence

I've exerted my evil and introduced Kid1 and Kid2 to Insaniquarium!

Insaniquarium is a fish game. You feed the fish to make them grow. Once in a while, a monster comes out to attack the fish. As the fish get bigger, they lay coins that are worth more. The more money you collect, the more things you can buy, like more fish, better food, more food, weapons to fight off monsters, and pieces of an egg. When you get all three pieces of an egg, it hatches and you get a pet that helps you in the aquarium.

The kids' play style is telling of their personalities. Kid2, being a girlie five-year-old, just wants to buy baby fish. She hasn't figured out yet that you have to save money to buy food for them. She clicks away happily and somehow gets enough money to keep buying fish. Her tank is full of fish that she can't quite take care of.

For example, you can buy a carnivore that lays diamonds. But you have to feed it baby fish. That doesn't sit well with her. Yet, she keeps buying carnivores, then forgets to or doesn't want to feed it baby fish, so lets them turn green and die. She say of that, "Oh well, I didn't know how to save him so I just let him die. I can get another one later." For her, the more fish in the tank the merrier, and the baby fish are so cute! She has yet to advance to level 3.

Her brother, Kid1, being a smartass seven-year-old boy, figured out the game immediately and whips through to the advanced levels. When you feed the fish, you have to time the feedings. If you buy food when the fish just ate, the fish won't eat again. That's when he calls out, "Eat that food, you fish. It costs money, you know."

He's fearless and tries out things to see how they work. But he's also cautious. He never has more than two fish in the tank at a time. That way, his tank is clean and neat, and manageable. He really likes things manageable.

They notice different things. Kid1 can predict when the mother fish will give birth (its belly pulses). Kid2 insists on calling the mother fish a duck (it looks like one). No problem at all with the logic of a duck giving birth to fish.

I think Kid1 has learned as much about the game in one day as I have in the months I've played it. Either he's much smarter than I am or I take the Kid2 approach to my play. See how my evil has flushed out our true personalities.

Starting All Over

It's amazing how lack of sleep turns you into a grouch.

I came home from Sis' in the late morning. Because I had planned to come home, I hadn't brought much with me. I didn't have the car as The Man preferred that I stayed home to look after my own family so he insisted on keeping the car for errands. I didn't expect to have to share a bed with mom. With my cough still more active at night, I didn't want my hacking to wake everyone so I slept in the basement.

I didn't sleep well. This morning, I had no clothes to change into, no meds to take, no towel to pat dry.

I talked to The Man who told me the city workers had come back this morning to finish trimming the tree. They arrived after he left for work so The Boy had to deal with moving the car. But The Boy doesn't drive, and he didn't have a key so the neighbour couldn't move it either. Oh boy. I should have been home.

When Nanny came back from shopping, I asked her when she is leaving as I needed to go home for a spell. She kindly offered to take Niece for the whole day to free me up. Now that I am home, I fed my fish, got changed, took my meds, gathered a towel, a sheet, a blanket, and a change of clothes.

I see the tree has been trimmed a bit, but I won't worry about that any more.

A friend happened to phone. I told her what I am doing this week. She understands. There is a reason we age and move on to different phases of life. If I still harbour thoughts of becoming a mother by adoption, I think I have settled it now. I need to move on. I cannot revisit past phases of life too often.

Meanwhile, I feel fortified. I will clean up my own house a bit, then get back to my niece and nephew, with the car.

I'm A Stranger Here, Part II

This week, I'm looking after my nephew and niece at their home. Sis tricked me into doing this after telling me she has to attend a conference in France and no one is available to look after the kids, not even her fiance, who works in another city and would have too far to commute to take care of the kids. I had rearranged all my evening activities to do this for her. Then I found out in fact, they had both taken off for France together. I can't help feeling I've been tricked here under false pretenses.

I had planned to return home each day to tend to mine and my own family's needs but be with my nephew and niece in the evening, overnight, and in the morning. But this morning, Niece said she wasn't feeling well and can't go to school. Now I am spending the whole day with her and my appointments are shot. But she seems well enough playing with her nanny's daughter.

The nanny is here mornings only. As she arrived this morning, so did two other kids. These are Niece's friends. Sis has an arrangement with their parents that they share the nanny before school. Then the contractors came through. Suddenly, the house is a chaos of noise and I am not dressed.

But Nanny skilfully organizes everyone and I get myself cleaned up. After Nephew and the two friends leave for school, Nanny goes to buy groceries. This morning, she's leaving her daughter with me so Nanny's Daughter will keep Niece occupied and Nanny will return from her shopping sooner. But it still comes down to me now looking after Niece and Nanny's Daughter.

It's interesting watching the two little girls play. For one thing, they both have their finger and toe nails painted pink. They look like pre-teens already, these five-year-olds. Thank god the content of their talk is still that of five-year-olds. They sit nicely and draw pictures, telling each other what they are doing and why.

Niece is a princess. She talks in a soft voice, buys strawberries, ham and bread in their play shopping, she draws pictures of clouds and trees and rivers. Nanny's Daughter, well she keeps talking about building things. Her father-to-be is a builder. She calls out her shopping list of cheese, meat and rice, she draws a compass on her picture, sketches in people and houses and draws in directions of how to get from one place to another.

I ask them what they're doing. They both answer, "Drawing." What are you drawing, I ask. Niece tells me she's drawing a ship to look for treasures. Then she draws in a rain storm. Nanny's Daughter tells me she's drawing a map. Niece shrieks, Where's the treasure on your map? Nanny's Daughter says it's under Rockfall Land.

They've given names to the various places on their drawings. Niece will get off at Storm Hill so Nanny's Daughter needs to put a treasure there too. She will be attacked by Super Waves. Nanny's Daughter says you have to roll up the map and put it in Arabic Land. Somehow, they make their drawings and stories work. Then they tell me where all the imaginary treasures are hidden in the house so I don't inadvertently remove them.

Meanwhile, there are workers in the house, turning the attic into living space. There's banging going on, the girls are jumping around and singing. If I was a mother with young children, this could be a nice communal set up and support network; may even be pleasant. But I am not. My days of young kids are over and I have a different life to tend to. So Grrrrr and fie on all this. I want to go home.

I'm A Stranger Here

The world of teenage relationships is foreign to me. Friendships between boys and girls are so...so girlfriendy.

Last night, I woke up at 1:30 am to find The Boy on the phone in front of the computer. He hadn't been to bed yet. He was downloading music and talking to a friend at the same time. I walked into the room and he jumped.

"Jeez mom, you scared me," he said.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"I'm talking to C-girl."

"Why isn't C-girl in bed?"

"'Cause she's talking to me."

I left the room and he resumed his conversation with his friend. I don't know C-girl. I just know she's a girl at his school.

This afternoon, The Boy came home from a rehearsal and said, "I'm going to T-girl's to play my video game, then we're having a sleepover."

I went out for some groceries and came home to find a silver SUV in my front drive. The Man said, "He's got two girls upstairs." The Boy had his fastest rock music cranked up loud, shaking the house down. Then The Boy came down to look for snacks for the girls.

"Whose car is that in the drive?" I asked.

"T-girl and C-girl have come to pick me up."

"Whoa. They drive? I don't think I'm comfortable with you in a car with a teen driver."

"T-girl drives. She's a good driver. Her parents trust her and let her use their car." True enough. That silver SUV looked like a parent's car.

I took some pistachio nuts upstairs to the girls to meet them. Where were the girls? I found them nestled in the middle of The Boy's bed, fully clothed, with the duvet over their legs, curled up very comfortably eating The Boy's cereal out of the box. It would have been normal if The Boy was The Girl.

Is that what girls do these days when they visit a boy? They go into his bedroom and get in his bed? Sylph, don't be a square, I cautioned, Don't embarrass The Boy. They seemed like nice girls. They looked me in the eye and said hello. Then I left them.

When they took their leave, they came to the backyard where The Man and I were to say goodbye. The Boy had his video games and an overnight bag packed up. There would be several people at T-girl's house and they would play video games, watch movies, and go to sleep.

I don't know what to make of all this. A part of me objects to teen boys and girls spending the night together. But there is something so happy, innocent and direct about these kids that I don't think they are secretly having group sex.

I remember a friend who outfitted her house so that there are two large rooms in the basement. It's for their teenagers and their friends to hang out. The girls sleep in one room, the boys in the other.

I remember The Boy telling me he wished our house was bigger so he could have his male and female friends over for the night.

So I think they are upfront about what they are doing. And besides, I trust The Boy.

But all this is so strange to me and I don't know the rules.

The Trimming

Last summer, a crew of city workers came on to our street and dug up all the front yards. They were installing new gas meters for the city. But there was so much digging I thought they were doing more than just putting in gas pipes.

So I asked one of the elderly workers about it. He said, "I'm putting in beer pipes for you. That way, you'll be connected to the brewery and can get beer directly from your tap." Clever man. I instantly forgave him for all the disruption and mess.

This week, two city workers came in a noisy truck to trim the trees on our street. They were rugged grandfatherly types, meticulous about their work, and took obviously pride in their efficiency. They swept up the street and tidied up a yard before moving on to the next. Once they leave your property, you'd never know they had been there, except your tree had been pruned.

When they reached my house, I noticed they had trimmed only one side. They were already sweeping up and shredding the branches. I went out to talk to them.

Because the shredding machine was on, they removed their ear phones to hear me as I leaned in close, almost rubbing foreheads with one of them.

"Will you be trimming any on this side?" I shouted.

"We will do that tomorrow. Because of the time, we have to clean up and get back to the office."

"It's not even 2 o'clock yet."

"We finish at 3:00. But we started at 7:00."

"Ah. I would appreciate it then if tomorrow you could trim up here so I don't get so much bird poop on my car all the time." I cupped my hand around his ear and my mouth so he could hear me above the buzzing truck shredder. I was so close to the man I had my arm around his neck and patted him on the shoulder when I finished.

"Okay. We'll take care of your bird poop problem tomorrow." He said with a big grin, a wink, and a pat on my back.

How did we get so friendly? Muscular, older city workers with trucks. You gotta love them. Only, they are all liars, all of them. It's been two days and they haven't come back to finish the job.

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.