Face Of Another

During the school year, The Exchange lives with his mother and maternal grandmother in a town near the Spanish border. His grandmother is elderly and a little confused, he said. Somehow, she got it in her head that The Boy would understand her better if she spoke to him in Spanish. I asked if she thought The Boy was Spaniard. He's been mistaken for that before. The Exchange said no, she's just old and confuses the two languages since they are both foreign languages to her.

Then I asked The Boy if he's picked up any Spanish as a result of the grandmother speaking to him. He seemed surprised, not having clued in until now that's what the grandmother had been using.

The Boy told me The Exchange's mother speaks excellent English. I asked The Exchange how she learned. He said, "In school."

"But she speaks it so well."

"No, she doesn't. She just likes to speak English so she tried to speak it all the time to The Boy."

Well that explains why she didn't understand me in the two phone conversations we had.

Then The Exchange dropped a good one. He said his paternal grandfather was Cambodian. You would never know looking at him with his light complexion, hazel eyes, tall nose and wavy brown hair. In fact, he looks quite like Frodo in Lord Of The Rings.

In the one photograph of his father we have, the father doesn't look Cambodian either. But The Exchange said his half brother, who is 6-years-old, has Asiatic features. The Boy agreed.

I suppose it's possible. Looking at Kid2, you would never know that she has Chinese blood, what with her blondish hair and round eyes.

I once had a friend who was blond with a Chinese surname. We were in grade six and she was a rough and tumble girl. Definitely not the hair-dying kind. She said her biological father was Chinese, though she had no Asiatic features. Her brother, however, was very oriental looking.

The Boy had a pretty friend once who had curly dark hair with hazel eyes. I thought she was Italian. Lo and behold, her father is black and her mother white Russian.

There is no predicting what bi-racial kids look like. You just accept that they have an exquisite genetic blend.

French Kissing

I like the French custom of children kissing their mothers every morning, one peck on each cheek. I mentioned this to The Boy and he immediately gave me two pecks. He said he doesn't object to this custom.

I used to kiss him every morning. But I stopped when he declared his independence and we started keeping different schedules.

I am working on The Man kissing me in the morning and at night. Once upon a time, he did that. But then along the way, he stopped. Probably because we started going to bed at different times, and sometimes slept in different rooms, and we wake up at different times. To be fair, he kisses me often enough. It's just that I often recoil in horror because of his bad breath. So what I'm really working on is getting him to improve his breath so I can enjoy his kisses.

But as for the morning kiss, I want to institute that custom in our house. I see Exchange, The Boy, and The Man lining up to kiss me each morning as the start to their day. Yes. I like this custom.

I wonder if French teens kiss their mothers good night.

Nice Young Spacemen

I am sure they are not all innocence and charm. But lately, all the young teen boys I've met are such nice boys.

A while ago, a 16-year-old came to dinner. His mother brought him because she thought The Boy might like to meet him. This 16-year-old was articulate, charming, polite and worldly, with a sense of humour to boot. He's looking forward to getting together with The Boy.

Our Exchange is also like that. I like that he kisses me in the morning (that's what the French do apparently), and when he hears me run the sink, he offers to help me with the dishes. He's soft-spoken, likes music, and stumbles through his English in a most easy, unapologetic way. He's trying to read Harry Potter in English. Takes a long time in English, he says, reading only 100 pages a day. Still, he's way ahead of me. I seem to be stuck at page 14.

Yet, there's a benign, spaced-out-ness with these boys. It's like they are constantly wide-eyed with wonder, willing to adapt and take in whatever comes their way, with easy-going personalities. Maybe it's because these boys have travelled and they treat me with the reverential respect that well-brought up young men give to their friends' parents. I wonder if The Boy comes across to other parents like that, despite being so difficult and complaining at home.

The Boy tells me his friends are eager to meet Exchange. That's so social of them. I can hear Bro say, I don't want to meet him, what's he got to do with me? Maybe I'm just really lucky that The Boy is a good guy and attracts friends eager to participate in life.

Earth, Wind, Water, and Fire

This year, more than in past years, I felt all elements of nature alive and in balance at our camping site in Killarney. The six of us pitched our tents high on a rock, with the blue sky above us, the lake below us, the wind blowing through the trees, and at night, we lit a bonfire and stared at the stars.

I skinny-dipped in the lake, in broad daylight! because there was little traffic passing by our site.

I got lost in the pitch black forest while visiting the thunder box at night. It's amazing how disoriented one can be when one can't see one's surroundings. Thankfully, I wasn't far from my tent mate and she guided me back with her flashlight when I called out for help.

I am convinced that mosquitoes hover around smoke fire at night to keep warm and look for feedings. When you step away from the fire and into the cooler air and night breeze, you can see the pests hovering those close to the fire, especially those under the white mosquito netting. It was like the net attracted the pests.

We paddled, hiked and ate tremendously well of vegetarian fare. That's one of the things I love about this annual trip: I come home healthier and I incorporate more meatless dishes in my family's meals.

My favourite part of this year's trip was nestling in the crook of the rock. There were several of these crooks high up on the rock that was the foundation for our campsite. It was earth's way to cradle me while the sun kept me warm, the wind kept me cool, and the water below kept me attentive.

Lying there on a lazy afternoon, happy feelings of childhood came flooding back, though I can't recall ever having nestled in a rock by the water in my childhood. It just felt like that feeling of contentment, being protected and carefree should be a childhood memory for everyone.

The House At Home

I just got back from a wilderness camping trip straight into tearing apart the computer room to convert it into a bedroom. The Boy and Exchange arrive this afternoon!

We are almost ready. Just some last minute cleaning and tidying.

Ours is a 3-bedroom house. The third bedroom has always been an office, or the computer room. I've always wanted it converted to a bedroom, for me, on days when I snore too loudly and when I need alone time. Now that we've done it, it feels natural to have the third room as a bedroom, as if the house is at home. How do I persuade The Man his office needs to be permanently in the basement?

For now, we will enjoy the house as is for at least one month.

WTF?

The Man invited someone to dinner, to catch up on things. The Man said, "If your brother in still in town, bring him too. I haven't seen him for ages."

The guest said, "As a matter of fact, he is."

The Man said, "Great."

"And my other brother is here."

"Well, bring him too."

"Okay. My son will probably join us, and my brother has two kids."

So from what I originally thought was two guests, we now have six. Then this morning, The Man sent an e-mail from work. There are actually eight of them coming.

WTF? Who are all these people?

The Girls, Part II

I visited the bra shop with the persuasive saleslady again. I took a friend there because I trust Bra Lady's judgement and Friend needed a new bra.

Upon entering the store, Bra Lady asked which of us needed a bra. I pointed at Friend and Friend pointed at me. Friend whispered, "She looks fierce. You have to get sized too if I am going to get one."

Bra Lady said, "One at a time." Then she measured me with her hands and eyes. "40F," she pronounced.

"40F? No, hold on. You gave me 40D last time. I've lost weight since. How can I be 40F now?"

"Different make." She pulled a bra off one of her shelves. "Try this. Trust me. I see you wearing Canadian bra that make you flat and too far apart." She pointed at my girls.

I went into the change room while she hunted for a bra for Friend.

The cups on my bra were huge. No way I could even fill half of them. I put it on. Lots of room up front. I peeked out from behind the change room curtain and said, "It's not going to work. It's way too big."

Bra Lady stood at the curtain and stuck her hand into the cubicle, reaching for inside my bra. She pulled the flesh up front to fill the cups. I felt so jello-y. But there was still too much loose fabric around the cup. I put my shirt over the bra and whoa! My breasts were pointing sky high like rockets ready to launch. "No, no, this won't work. They make me look fake. Too high, they're pointing too high."

"No, trust me. That's perfect. Why you want to look flat and saggy? This bra hold you in. Make you look like a woman."

"Do you have a wireless one?"

"Wireless? No, what you use to hold you up if no wire?"

"How about one that makes me less pointy?"

"You not look pointy. Good support."

"I can't, I feel too fake in this."

Bra Lady shrugged and said, "Up to you." I wondered if she knew she made a pun.

Then she tried to fit Friend. After sizing her up, Bra Lady pronounced, "36C."

"She's good," Friend said. Friend buys 34 bras but felt she really needed 36. But C cup?

Bra Lady gave Friend two bras to try on. Surprisingly, neither fit. One was too small, the other too big. Bra Lady shook her head. Then she said, "You need corset to keep this in," pointing at her mid-section.

Friend said, "You are probably right. But I am not going to get a corset. I am going to lose weight first."

So Bra Lady didn't make a sale. She was defeated by our girls.

The Girls

To better prepare myself for my pilates summer, I bought a second yoga top. It is lined across the chest and hug you skin tight so you don't have to worry about flapping bra straps.

I said to the cashier, "This is an exercise top, right?"

She said, "Yes. It's got this bra lining inside so you don't have to wear a bra. But I always wear my bra anyway when I exercise. Because when you're jumping about, the girls jump out if you don't hold them in."

I tried hard not to laugh. Her girls were not that big. So I said, "Well, you know your girls."

Then like a pervert, I started looking around the store at all the women to size up their girls. Oh really, if even she has trouble with her girls, imagine how out of control some of our girls are.

What Father Never Told Me

I brought Mom to Cobourg recently for a house and garden tour. After, we had dinner with my Mother-in-law. For a woman who claims to speak no English, Mom communicated well with Mother-in-law. Mom never needed a translator. It was Mother-in-law who asked for translation, I think not because she didn't understand Mom, but because she couldn't believe what Mom was saying.

So this is what I learned about Dad: he was engaged to another woman before Mom.

In the mid-1950's, Great-grandma (Mom's dad's mother) was living in Hong Kong. She rented a room in a building. In the same building lived a young woman and her mother. The young woman also had a rented room. Her mother rented a bed. (Those were the cramped housing conditions of the poor at the time. Apparently, it's not much different now.) This young woman was engaged to Dad.

They were engaged for three years. That was a long engagement back then. It was Dad who kept delaying the wedding. One of the reasons for the delay was, as a condition of marriage, the woman's mother required Dad to support her till death, and after death, to maintain her grave.

It meant he would have to tend her grave till the end of his days. Culturally, this was a common request. But Dad was a man of his words. He didn't want to do that and he didn't want to lie about it. I wonder if even then, he had thoughts of leaving Hong Kong some day. And he figured it was not worth it to get married only to gain two dependents for life. I think he must've really not liked the woman's mother.

Eventually, he broke off the engagement. In ancient China, arranged marriages were common. If a man backed out of an arranged marriage, even though he has never met the intended bride, it could cause such humiliation and irreparable damage to her reputation as an unwanted woman that jilted brides often committed suicide. Even though Hong Kong in the 50's was not ancient China, this turn of events must've have been devastating for Dad's fiancee.

But Mom came from a family of successful gold merchants. They know when to seize the opportunity. That's when Great-grandma said, but he's still a good man, and suggested to Dad that he meet her granddaughter, who was still in China, but was moving to Hong Kong soon. Dad was 29, he was eager to be married. Mom was 18, just the right age to be plucked. Accompanied by her mother and brother, Mom moved to Hong Kong and met Dad.

Within 6 months, they were married. When knowledge of their engagement spread, Dad's ex-fiancee phoned Dad to ask if he wanted her engagement ring back. Dad told her to sell the ring and buy something sweet for herself.

A year after Mom and Dad married, I came tumbling out of mom and into a whole new set of drama.

A Spur Of Enthusiasm

I've been monitoring my diet the last six weeks. This was necessitated by high blood pressure. I've lost almost 10 lbs. I can't be more delighted.

To capitalize on my good work, I purchased a summer membership to our local pilates studio. That means I can take an unlimited number of classes during the eight weeks of the summer. (This is disturbing, to see in writing that summer only lasts eight weeks.) But to make the membership worthwhile, I'd need to take at least three classes a week. More, to make up for the week I'll be away camping. So this week, I signed up for six classes. That's almost exercise every day.

I've had two classes so far this week. It feels great to be back at pilates after a three month absence. I missed it so. But today, I am hurting all over. How can I do this six times a week? Too late, I've signed up and paid.

Go Sylph go!

Just Fine

Though of course, all it takes is a phone call to know that the situation has changed. Apparently, The Boy is having a good time. He's borrowed triangle underwear for the pool. The camp ground owners like them. He and Exchange have made friends with some little kids at the camp ground.

They were making all kinds of noise and screaming when I talked to him. He even spoke to them in French, asking one of the kids if he was five or six. Sounds so natural.

Now I can go to pilates in peace.

A Reprieve, An Anxiety

Who knew that with The Boy away, I would have nothing to write about. It's almost like I've put my mind on a shelf. Not true of course, but there have been days it's felt like that.

The truth is, The Boy has been terribly homesick. I've talked to him almost everyday, and sending off e-mails and text messages. It's being so far away from home, it's not being able to communicate meaningfully with anyone, it's not having good food because really, you only get good food in France in restaurants and he isn't eating in restaurants with his host family. He's had little internet access so he's had to withdraw from the online course he was hoping to complete in France.

At least he likes the Exchange and the Exchange's 14-year-old cousin. He and the Exchange share similar taste in music and art. The Cousin is the regional break dance champion. Who knew villages in southern France have regional break dance champs.

He's been camping with the Exchange and the Cousin. They were driven to a family camp ground 20 minutes away from the Exchange's village and given two tents and sleeping bags, and that was it. The three were left at the camp ground overnight. While it was an adventure of sorts, they had absolutely nothing to do.

There was a swimming pool with a slide at the camp ground. But camp owners would't let The Boy use it without the proper swim wear. They only allow the triangle, Speedo type bathing suit, or you can even swim in a skin-hugging triangular underwear. But they did not like The Boy's bathing trunks nor his boxers. Too much like street clothes.

The Boy's asked that we arrange to send him back to Paris for a day or two to meet a friend of his, who will be in Paris for a week with her family. Maybe a bit of familiarity will help with the homesickness and improve the second half of his trip. I asked him to put me in touch with her parents first and we will talk about it, without promising anything. Then yesterday, I did not hear from The Boy at all. He has not even replied to my text message. Nor has he gotten in touch today. They may have moved to the Exchange's cottage, or things improved for The Boy and he has not had a chance to recharge his cell phone.

Or he's lost his cell phone.

I will phone tomorrow. I worry about him.

Off To A Good Start

After The Boy got on the plane, I came home to stay awake. I couldn't sleep, knowing he's travelling by himself, across an ocean to a place he's never been, to meet people he's never met, never talked to except in e-mails (The Man and I talked to Exchange Father by phone once), not even sure what they look like except for one photograph exchanged (The Man did a little video of us and uploaded it to YouTube for them).

That first night, I knew he landed in Paris at 3:30 am. I checked with the airline. That's 9:30 am in Paris. At 4:00 am, the Exchange Father phoned to say he's got The Boy and they are still at the airport. I was relieved to talk to them. The Boy sounded tired. All he managed to tell me was, it was fun on the plane travelling by himself.

I thanked Exchange Father for calling and told him I was going to call The Boy's cell in the next half hour. He said, "If I were in your place, knowing my son arrived safely would be more important than being awakened in the night." I said, "I have not gone to bed yet so you did not wake me."

The next day, we went about our activities and came home to this message:

Hey mom and dad. So um, what did you guys do today? Yes...mm hmm...well that's nice. Oh me? I went to the Arc de Triomphe and attended mass at Notre Dame. Talk to you later.

That saucy boy. We phoned the Exchange Father in Paris. It was 9:00 pm there. But The Boy had already gone to sleep. Exchange Father told us they had a great day. Walked along the Champs-Élysées, went for ice cream at Berthillon. The Boy loved the ice cream, paid attention to everything wide-eyed with interest, even asked questions about the history and architecture of what they saw. Really? Has he picked up the wrong boy at the airport after all?

They are staying with friends. The friends also have a 16-year-old son. So The Boy, Exchange, Friend's Son hung out together. "He speaks French very well," said Exchange Father. What? Since when? He almost failed French in Grade 9 and dropped the subject.

"And he's very outgoing, polite, and good natured. Funny too. He's a pleasure to be with." Well yes, he's usually all that.

We chatted and The Man was giddy over The Boy's experience. We feel assured he's safe and Exchange Father is a good man. Especially when The Man told him The Boy has money with him to pay for museum admissions, food, and transportation, and Exchange Father said, "No no. He is in France, I treat him like my son."

I went to bed at 9:30 pm last night, from not sleeping the night before. At 4:30 am, my cell phone gave off a loud shrill that woke me up. The Boy had text messaged:

Hey, im just hanging out at da Louvre ;)

There were The Man and I fumbling in the dark, not quite awake, not sure how to do text messaging. But we managed to send back this message:

Cool. Don't steal Mona. Call you later. Love you.

Before Departure

Sometimes you just want to box his ear.

We've arranged for someone to supervise the exam in France for his English online course. This is a course he's chosen to take not because he's making up for a failed course, but because he wants to do it now so he can have a spare in the Fall. Which he will use to socialize, I have no doubt.

The Boy's teacher has approved the lawyer that our Exchange family has recommended. In return, the lawyer has asked for a small souvenir of Canada or Toronto, like a small bottle of maple syrup or a small serving of pancakes. That sent me scrambling for gifts of maple syrup, pancake mix, wild rice, Montreal steak and chicken spices - all wrapped in a President's Choice green shopping bag because they use recyclable shopping bags in France.

Not just one parcel for the lawyer, but also one for the Exchange's father's family, and one for his mother's family. His parents are divorced and The Boy will stay with the father for two and a half weeks, then the mother for the last week, where he will take his exam. And Canadian novels for the mutual friend who introduced our two families for the exchange.

There was last minute shopping for footwear and underwear for The Boy. His friends kept phoning, text messaging, sending e-mails, chats on Facebook, and he kept making visits all over town to say goodbye. I've transferred all my cash to The Boy's account. He's received gifts of Euros from Sis and Mom. Everyone is excited for him. I am helping him pack.

I asked him, "How do you feel about going to France for almost a month without us?"

He said, "I feel impassive."

That's where the box on the ear comes in.

I suppose this is a step up from a few days ago when he said, "I don't want to go. I don't know why you're making me go. I'd rather be with my friends and do my online course."

Which was sort of a step up from two weeks ago when he said, "I am not going to France. I can't go. It interferes with my life. I only said yes to going because at the time, I didn't have plans for the summer and I was just indulging you and dad."

I told him recently I think he's a spoiled brat. He reminded me that unlike a neighbour's 13-year-old son who graduated from Grade 8, he never asked for a limousine to take him to his friend's party a few streets away, and when the mom said no, he screamed, "You ruined my life. I hate you." True, The Boy has never asked for a limousine and has never shouted that at me. Because he would get a box on the ear for sure.

The most we hope for now is he gets along with the Exchange, and he has a safe, fun time. Sometimes parents force their kids to do things they don't want to. Years later, the kids remember what a wonderful, meaningful and life-changing experience they had and are glad their parents forced them to do it. I hope this will be one of those experiences for The Boy. He leaves tonight and I miss him already.

Fathers And Sons

I think I made Dr. Noggins cry. He asked what I thought triggered my sadness.

I told him about the phone call we received the first week in January five years ago. It was from one of the teachers at The Boy's old day care, which we left when he went to grade 1. We hadn't been in touch with any of the teachers, parents, or kids from that day care for the six years since The Boy left.

When The Boy was there, he was best buddies with three other kids. The four of them were a little gang that delighted the teachers even as the boys ripped their room apart.

On this morning, the teacher, Jan, was crying. She told us that one of the boys in The Boy's gang, Ry, had died. He lost his battle to a brain tumour which was discovered two years earlier.

The Boy, The Man and I went to the funeral. It was a sad funeral for sure, because children aren't supposed to die and we were not able to bring Ry back. The image I took away that day was of all the fathers clutching their 11-year-old sons as if to keep the sons by their sides so they wouldn't die. Most of the fathers were crying, or trying hard not to.

The parents at the service didn't talk to each other, most of us were strangers after all, and the funeral was not a social, get-to-know-you gathering. But you could feel in the air we felt the same thing - tremendous sorrow for Ry's parents, relieved our own sons were with us, but knowing this tragedy could have happened to any of us.

As I told this to Dr. Noggins, his eyes welled up. He said, That was very poignant. I told him that may have been the beginning of my sadness.

Wailing Dance

I am convinced that fish have a language and rituals of their own. I believe they communicate in ways we just don't understand.

Alf, the largest of my black mollies, died today. Last night, after I fed them, all the fish looked fine. Then suddenly, Alf stopped swimming. He just sat at the bottom of the tank panting. Jack Spratt and Tommy, but especial Jack, kept nudging his bottom, as if to get him to swim again. Then all the fish, including the penguin tetras, gathered around Alf. Clearly, something was up. It looked like the penguin tetras were either protecting Alf, bidding him farewell, or waiting for him to die so they could eat him.

But a few minutes later, all the fish dashed around the tank in a mad dance. It must've been their way of wailing and mourning the loss of their friend, because even though I didn't know it at the time, the fish must've known Alf would not recover. The wailing dance lasted a good five minutes. After that, all the fish pretty much left Alf alone, except Jack, who tried to nudge him to swim once in a while.

This morning, Alf was dead. The other fish resumed their regular swimming and chasing each other. No one tried to eat him.

More than any other fish deaths, and I've had many, I think Alf died of old age. He always struck me as an old fish.

Red Wall Of Roseneath

This is a fence in our backyard. It's now called Red Wall. I make every visitor to our house look at it before they leave.

The fence is hung with potted red petunias and impatiens. I've been working on this for a few weeks and it feels great to see the wall come to life with red blooms!

Teenage Mutant Muscians

It wasn't just Journey tunes the boys played at the kung fu studio, they did some Beatles and some other rock songs I recognized but don't know the names of.

I marvel at how musically versatile the boys are. For example, The Boy plays drums, and apparently keyboard. He also sang a duet with Butterfly Boy! Butterfly Boy sings, and he drummed a bit and played the guitar! Genius was brought in to play drums, but lo and behold, there he was playing guitar and sang a solo!

The boys took on different roles because aside from doing their prepared songs, they were jamming with my kung fu master and his band. Men in their late 40's playing with the boys. Genius said, "That's the older generation playing with us young 'uns." It was amazing how they just needed to exchange a few words about chords and keys and everyone was off playing songs they've never played before. The world of musicians is becoming more and more of a mystery to me.

I said to one of the old generation musicians, "Are you surprised that the boys know all these old songs?"

He said, "Yes and no. When I was young, I played songs from before my time. They're doing the same thing. I am surprised at how good they are."

Later, I said to the boys, "You have to continue playing together and add to your repetoire."

The Boy said, "We're just a cover band. It'd be different if we did our own material."

"You're teenagers. Everyone starts out doing cover. Then you evolve from there to your own thing. It just means spending time writing music instead of going to parties and having sleepovers."

There was a sudden silence in the back seat of the car. I could feel the boys exchanging looks. Then a guffaw and heckle at the very suggestion. So yes, yes, a big invitation to everyone to their CD launch, if they can take time out from socializing to write their own songs.

Thing is, these boys look young and act younger, especially The Boy. For example, when he went to the CN Tower with his friends, he walked up to the cashier and said, "One please." The cashier issued him a Child ticket. Child is for kids 12 and under. The cashier must've thought they were a bunch of 12- and 13-year-olds. I often think that when I see them together, even though one of them just got his driver's licence, and one just finished high school. Mutants, all of them.

On With The Show

I am almost crying with gratitude because I hear live music playing in my basement again. Since his Jazzberries days, when The Boy was 13, he has not had a band. Now, he's gathered some friends and they do rock songs, just like he's always wanted to. Apparently, they're called Asteroid M Goes To The Zoo. I know, I have no idea what it means.

Even though he's a drummer, The Boy has decided he would do keyboard in this band. I didn't even know he could play piano so well. They have agreed to grace my kung fu studio and perform at tonight's fundraiser. So now, they are rehearsing in the basement.

But these are 16-year-old boys. Three of the members couldn't make it to this gig. One had to go to the cottage with his family, one lives in Oakville and had spent all his allowance so couldn't afford the Go Train ride to TO this weekend, and one had all four of his wisdom teeth out a couple of days ago and didn't think that would affect him at all, and now of course he's too drugged up with painkillers to play.

Still, with just the keyboard, drums and vocals, they sound great! I don't say this because I am the mother. I say this because I am amazed at the quality and maturity of their sound. The fact that they are high school music majors must make a difference. I wish I could record them and load their sound here.

Hazards Of A Communal Kitchen

I've been spending time in an elementary school helping my friend produce two newsletters—one for the school, one for her class.

This morning, we went for coffee in the staff kitchen. I looked for a mug. There were several washed ones in the dish rack on the counter. I examined each and rejected them all. They either had rings inside, or dried coffee at the bottom, or lipstick stains on the rim. So in this kitchen, by washed, they mean rinsed. I washed, really washed one clean to use for my coffee.

My friend has her own mug. She poured the coffee into the mugs while I looked for cream in the staff fridge. The fridge was just like any communal fridge you might see in an office. Staff put their lunches and other food needs in there to keep cool. My friend takes her coffee black so she doesn't keep milk or cream in the fridge. There were several unmarked glass containers of milk in the fridge. I rooted in there for a store-bought cream carton.

"Oh, just use whatever you like and don't worry whose it is," said my friend.

It wasn't that I was concerned about stealing someone's food. I know that's a sore issue in communal kitchens. It was more that I knew one of the teachers recently had a baby and I don't know if she's still lactating. I really didn't want to put her expressed breast milk in my coffee.

At the far end of the kitchen sat a new looking couch. It looked so inviting I took my coffee over and sat down. Either I really am very heavy or the couch seat had zero support. I expected to sit thigh high, but I sank knee deep, spilling my coffee all over me and the new looking couch.

Now I remember why I never went into staff kitchens when I worked. I don't trust them.

Jack's Army

I sit and watch my fish all the time. They really do lower my blood pressure. The little black molly I have, I've raised him and watched him grow. I've named him Jack Spratt.

My red platys are all sick and some dying of a mysterious illness. They sit at the bottom of the tank or hover in a corner near the water surface. I've moved them into a sick tank. That mean Jack is alone in a 20-gallon tank with two penguin tetras, one of whom keeps chasing him. To keep Jack company and build his army, I bought two more male black mollys.

When I floated the new fish in the tank, Jack couldn't wait for them to join him. They are both bigger than Jack. He fluttered around their bag the whole time they floated, rubbing noses with them. Once I released the new black mollys, the three of them hung out immediately as if they've known each other all their lives.

But still, the new fish wanted to get acquainted with their new home. Jack was impatient with that. He kept nipping at them, nudging them, chasing them, and spinning around them as if to say, C'mon, let's play. I don't speak Fish, but if I did, I'd say Jack was delighted, flapping his little fins with excitement like a panting puppy. He's taken to mimicking the older fish flaring his dorsal fin.

I've named one of the new mollys Tommy. The larger one is Alf. They are Jack's friends and protectors now. I've seen the bigger fish intercept and chase the penguin tetra when he charges at Jack. But sometimes, Alf, being the biggest one, chases Tommy and Jack, especially during feeding time. That's also when the penguin tetras chase each other. I guess it's an instinctive thing and all civility are shot, fighting for your share of the pie.

Other times, the mollys ignore the penguin tetra no matter who he tries to chase. He keeps butting in when the mollys circle each other to see what they are up to. Then it dawns on me. The fish may not be chasing each other in aggression. These are all male fish. That's how they play. The penguin tetra just wants in on the game. Or not. He could be just an aggressive, territorial male, because the other penguin tetra, which could be a female, is rather peaceful and live side by side with the mollys just swimmingly.

I have not named the penguin tetras because for a long time, I could not tell the two apart. Now, the calm one is slightly bigger than the rambunctious one. But it only matters to me that Jack Spratt has his own little army now because I love Jack.

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.