My Haute Couture

The Man and I brought back articles of clothing from our travels. Three of these types were gifts for our families and friends. But we know little about these national costumes. So I did some research. Here are the four items we have, and one we don't have:

The Pakol

The pakol is a wool hat worn by Afghan men. It is a Sunni prayer hat. It has a rolled up rim and is worn like a flat beret with the rim across the forehead. That is so the rim acts as a cushion when the men hit their heads to the ground in prayer.

An Afghan man wearing a pakol.


My pakol at home.


The Patoo

The patoo is a large wool shawl or blanket that men wear. It measures about 54 inches by 102 inches (1.37 m X 2.6 m). It is an all purpose shawl to keep covered up and to keep warm, to wear in the city and when herding goats.

Here's an Afghan man wearing his patoo.


My patoo at home.


The Phiran

Kashmir is still part of northern India, though many Kashmiri would like it to be independent. The phiran is worn only in Kashmir. My host and guide on the houseboat called it a poncho. Almost every man or boy and some women in Kashmir wear one. It is like a Kashmiri's national uniform. I love how it drapes and sways and that the Kashmiri create a layered look with it.





My phiran at home.


The Salwar

The salwar are loose fitting, draw string cotton pants, usually with a matching kameez or tunic topic. The Indian word kameez must have from the French chemise, or chemise came from kameez, or they both came from the same root way back.

The salwar kameez (pants and shirt) was introduced to India by the Moghuls, which means the outfit is Muslim in origin. The ensemble is worn in South Asia by both men and women. In India, the women's version of this outfit is usually colourful and detailed with embroidery.

I bought the salwar only because being loose, they are easy to fit. The kameez on the other hand is trickier as it is more body forming. None fit me anyway. The idea of the salwar is, the pants are so loose around the legs that when the slightest wind blows, the fabric picks up the wind and cools the wearer.

The salwar kameez.


My salwar at home.


The Sari

Rich or poor, all women in India and most women in South Asia wear the sari. All the women on the march certainly wore one. There are several components to the sari: a skintight short-sleeve or sleeveless blouse, an underskirt or petticoat, and the sari skirt.



Wrapping the sari around you the right way is complicated business. You have to pleat and tuck the sari into your petticoat at the waist and hope it doesn't fall apart when you walk. The same piece of fabric is then pulled across your chest and draped over your shoulder. Sometimes, this same piece of fabric is pulled back over your head as a scarf. It is a very long piece of sari - 5.5 m to 8 m long, depending on how you wear it. Some women use safety pins to keep folds and tucks in place. But I wonder what they used before the safety pin was invented.

Each sari is custom made. You buy the sari set of fabric at a market vendor and the tailor makes it for you. I didn't get one despite the attractiveness of the colours. I have no occasion to wear a sari in Toronto. And if you don't wear it, then all you've got is a long long piece of colourful fabric. Hmm...maybe I should have...

That's How It Is

It is Wednesday. I am still eating leftovers from Sunday dinner. How can this be? I planned and made all the food, dinner was at my house, how come still so much leftover? Am I hard-wired to forever overdo food?

But let's not blame me. For one thing, there were ten of us for dinner. That silly mother of mine, she ate before she came over. Bro and Waif had a late lunch and a big one at that. Still, I thought everyone ate their share despite that.

Then there was dessert. I planned to serve our Christmas pudding. But Sis said she would bring a dessert, and Bro phoned to say he would also bring one. Not wanting to have too many desserts, I didn't steam the Christmas pudding.

But Sis arrived without dessert. Bro brought a pan of creme caramel, and corn bread. I decided to steam the Christmas pudding. Later, Sis went out to drop Big Young'Un off at the train station. Before heading back, she phoned to see if she should bring more dessert. I said no no no. But she offered chocolate peanut butter ice cream from Baskin Robbins. She was already at the ice cream shop. What could I do? Yes yes yes to chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

Meanwhile, The Boy brought out raspberry sherbert and chocolate ice cream for Kid1 and Kid2. Where did the raspberry sherbert come from? Oh I picked it up when I was out because I knew the kids were coming, said The Boy.

Then in walked Sis with chocolate peanut butter ice cream, pralines and cream ice cream, and 12 butter tarts, and an apple cake. And my Christmas pudding was ready. And Bro's creme caramel was delicious. And don't forget the organic chocolate animal crackers Waif insisted on bringing. Then Bro said, You could cut up the pineapple I brought. I didn't.

After dinner, everyone left. I sent six butter tarts, the apple cake, and animal crackers home with Sis. Mom took some food home. The Boy doesn't like leftovers and is not fond of the chicken or salmon I made.

So here I am on Wednesday, still eating leftovers.

Absence Of My Car

I've always maintained we don't need a car because we live in the city. Now that our car is billowing smoke from its exhaust, I cannot drive it any more. The mechanic said there is an oil leak into the engine. It's the burning of the oil that's causing the smoke and smell. It will cost over $2,000 to fix. Given the age of the car, we've decide not to fix the problem. We are in the market for a new car.

But once you're accustomed to the use of a car, it's hard to do without, even for a short time. Old habits are hard to kick. I stopped in the supermarket today to pick up a few things on the way home. You know how it is. Once you start shopping, you tend to load up. When I checked out, I had four heavy bags of groceries. That's when I remembered I hadn't brought my car. Ugh.

I stood outside the supermarket to catch a bus. But there was a large crowd and people were complaining. Two buses went by with "Out Of Service" signs. Apparently, there had been an accident further down the road and all buses and streetcars were stalled.

I looked for a cab. None was in sight.

I started to walk home, resenting very much that I had to lug home groceries, but mad at myself even more for forgetting I didn't have a car with me. When I got to the bottom of my street, of course buses and streetcars full of passengers whizzed by me.

As much as I try to support public transit, I am really peeved they are never available when I need them. I have learned not to trust them. So what can I do? I am a car person now.

Here And There

In Toronto, I am hot. That's because of my cold and fever, and my hot flashes. I go shopping, I see friends, I go out to dinner, I go to pilates classes, I go for walks, I track down The Boy around town because sometimes I don't know where he is and I want to give him heck for not telling me. Last night, I partook of Winter City, Toronto's winter festival of shows and restaurants. Lots of freedom. Though it's been cold out, it's very warm when we get indoors.

The weather in Kabul is the same as in Toronto: -5C during the day, -14C at night. Except central heating doesn't exist in Kabul.

The Man wears his coat and scarf in his office. He's bought a duvet for the cold nights. To reduce draft, he's asked his guards to seal the windows with plastic sheets. The pipes in his house froze so he's had to go to the UN compound to shower. Just when the guards got the pipes going again, his heater died. Tazi, my scraggly Afghan Hound, now sleeps in The Man's apartment because despite the lack of consistent heat, it is warmer there than in the basement.

Security alert has been higher since the bombing of the Serena Hotel. Foreign workers are discouraged from going out; they move around even less than before.

The weekly walking group The Man wanted to take part in is now on hold. To get some exercise, he has joined a yoga class even though he doesn't like the kind of yoga they do, but it's better than nothing. He even offers his house as a venue for the yoga class sometimes so no pattern of foreigners' movements can be established.

Socially, The Man and his friends meet for dinner at the UN compound. Sometimes, they go to his house to make dinner and to watch movies on his laptop.

Totally Solo

The Boy has been studying with his friends. Last night, he was preparing for his band performance exam at Henry's. I met them at a restaurant for dinner, then The Boy spent the night at Henry's where they continued practising their various percussion pieces for the exam.

I was home alone for the night. But before bed, I had a pot of green tea. Green tea has a higher caffeine content than coffee. I was an insomniac all night. I read my books and played on the computer till 5:00 a.m.!

Despite being a wreck today, I spent an enjoyable and productive day clearing out my drawers of garbage papers and organizing my files. But toward the end of the day, I was getting lonely.

In the early evening, The Boy came home. Immediately, he arranged with his friends to spend the evening together in celebration of the end of this round of exams. We had dinner and now, he's getting ready to go to Butterfly Boy's for the night.

Now, do I have a husband and son or not? Is all this alone time good for me? Is this how it would be if I were in jail and put in solitary confinement? Ooh, the drama queen is restless.

But what this bout of solitude makes me appreciate more are my mother and mother-in-law. I have to give them a lot of credit for keeping busy when the nest is empty and they became widows. And I am so very glad The Man has a social circle to have dinner with and watch movies with.

Maybe that's why I try to see my mother at least once a week. Because really, if I were in her shoes, I can easily imagine slipping away and disappearing if I don't make the effort to connect with others and if no one outside the house bothers to keep in touch with me.

I just invited mom and my siblings over for Sunday dinner.

Avoidance

I am like an old man, coughing and spitting up phlegm. At least I spit into a tissue and not on the ground. But I tell ya, the temptation is great to hold a contest with my neighbours to see who can spit the farthest.

Cold within and cold without. I am not having a good week. But here's this week's epiphany: whether I am sick or well, my activities don't change much. What I do day to day matters not a whole lot to anyone right now. My destiny is absolutely in my hands.

I asked my heart, How do I want to spend my time then? To my surprise, I answered, I want to draw, paint, and write. Then I was surprised that I was surprised.

Last night, I went down to the basement and looked for my drawing materials. I found my art books and art supplies. No exaggerating, my hands trembled and my heart fluttered when I picked up my sketch pad and supplies bag. I brought them upstairs and laid them out on the table.

Today, my supplies and I stare at each other every time I pass by. Settling down is not one of my strengths. Instead, I take out my new lithium battery powered cordless drill and examine the parts. I take out the vacuum cleaner and vacuum the house. I make oxtail stew and eat it. And now that I think of it, I have to do laundry and clean the window blinds. The blinds haven't been cleaned in months.

I know, avoidance.

Here I go then...

How We Heard About Heath

Around 5:00 pm today, The Boy and three of his friends were at the house. They talked of Moses, Budha, Socrates, Plato, John Stuart Mills, and John Locke. Hefty stuff. They were preparing for their Philosophy exam tomorrow.

It's been many years since I studied philosophy and religion. I can no longer remember the details and quotes attributed to these figures. For a while, I listened to the boys talk over my head, debating who stood for what. They were in very serious discussion, weighing the merits of various arguments and what they would put on paper to defend them if such and such an issue came up.

Then Butterfly Boy said, "It's gotta be true. I received two text messages just now about the same thing. Heath Ledger died."

"What?" All the boys ran upstairs to the computer to look for the news. I turned my laptop on in the dining room.

It's true. Heath Ledger died today. An overdose or suicide. The guy was only 28. After Brad Pitt, he was my favourite Hollywood guy. He was a better actor than Brad, taking on more risky roles and playing them with a dark bend. It's his innate sadness and vulnerability that comes through in every photograph and on the screen. I can't believe he's dead.

I hate it when young talent dies. Because of drugs at that.

I gave the boys lasagna and salad for dinner. Whey they finished, they cleared the table and put their dishes in the sink. They thanked me for the snacks and dinner. At 8:00, they left for home. Each of them hugged The Boy goodbye. I hope none of them will find life so overwhelming that they have to resort to drugs. May they always have good friends to turn to for comfort and support when their families aren't around.

That Darn Technology

Over lunch this afternoon, The Boy said, "Mom, I'm just looking out for you 'cause you said you were thinking of joining a singing group. I'm not saying you're a bad singer, it's just that other people will hear you.

"There's this woman who gets on the subway every morning at Dundas West and gets off at High Park. She's got her head phone on and listening to her music and singing along with her songs. She sounds awful. She sounds like a dying animal and everyone in the subway car stares at her and makes faces. But she just stares out at the door, oblivious to everyone around her.

"This morning, I was wakened by a similar screeching noise and I thought oh no, how did that woman from the subway get into my house? Then I realized it was you singing in your bedroom."

The Boy ran upstairs and came back down with his cell phone. He said, "Listen to this mom. I took the liberty of recording you so you could hear yourself."

He played the recording. It was definitely me making sounds off key, off pitch, mumbling, screeching, whimpering, and sounding like a dying animal.

He said, "I'm not saying you shouldn't sing, especially when you're alone in the house. It's just that you may want to consider not singing when there are other people around."

It was too funny.

Intolerance

Once, in my early twenties, I sat in the old Simpson's cafeteria to have coffee. I shared a table with an old woman. She smiled politely. I returned a polite smile. Then she launched into polite conversation with me. I don't remember the gist of the conversation but it was one of those I would rather not have had. The most memorable question she posed was, "And how do you like living in our country?"

In my younger days, I had little tolerance for ignorance and even less tact for dealing with it. Ill-versed in the Chinese culture, I had never thought of myself as anything but Canadian. I had little memory of living anywhere but in Toronto.

Her question offended me. I saw it as an attempt to distance me, a non-white, from Canada. Our country? She meant this was her country, not mine; I was the trespasser, the transient visiting her country and will be gone soon. So how do I like it while I am here? How grateful am I that Canada extended hospitality to me? Never mind that I vote, pay tax, abide by the laws, and contribute to the economy, just like a regular citizen.

I answered, "I like it fine. How do you like living in our country?"

She was offended. She mumbled a few things then we stopped talking. Which suited me fine.

It's only in retrospect that I realize how rude I had been, how intolerant. I hadn't been gracious and generous; I hadn't made it easy for her to learn about a visible minority. I felt it wasn't my responsibility to teach her anything.

After all these years, I don't know if I've devised any better strategy for dealing with people who draw my attention to our racial differences. I've learned more about what it means being Chinese. Or more precisely, what it means being Chinese in a large Canadian city. I take it for granted we all look different and carry our own unique cultural, social or familial heritage. I also think surely, in the 21st Century in Canada, identification by race alone is a thing of the past.

So I was quite surprised recently to meet someone who shortly upon being introduced, told me she once saw a Chinese mother and her young daughter at a cultural event. The mother was pointing things out to her daughter. Oh, that mother was doing a good thing exposing her daughter to new things. Imagine how much the daughter will learn, said my new acquaintance.

I didn't say anything in response to that. I've learned to hold my tongue. But I couldn't help thinking, What in fuck is this condescension about? Would you have told me about a white woman taking her daughter on an outing and how much that daughter would learn?

Yet, a part of me knows this new acquaintance was just trying to connect with me and therefore latched onto something she thought I might appreciate.

I don't know why I carry the believe that in social situations, racial and cultural lines are no longer prominent in the 21st Century. It's not like there is peace in the Middle East or Africa. If anything, racial, cultural, religious and economic differences are the causes of conflict and strife more than ever.

Maybe it's wishful thinking. I wish that we had evolved to a point where we accept differences as the norm, like accepting that the only constant is change.

Race-based comments don't come up in conversation with my friends. If anything, we simply partake in each other's cultural festivities because we are there. And maybe that's why my friends are my friends. But with people I don't know, people who don't live with the racial, cultural, social and economic diversity of downtown Toronto, maybe I just have to be more gracious and tolerant.

The Longest Relationships

At my doctor's office the other day, I described some of the things I was considering doing in the next few months. She said, "I like the sound of that. It's just right for a free spirit like you."

Free spirit? Isn't that a euphemism for someone who can't settle down, who can't hold a job, who doesn't fit in? I didn't know what to make of her comment. She must've seen that puzzlement on my face. She said, "I mean that in the good way. You don't care to conform and you don't like to be tied to a daily schedule. You bucked the system and you know the price you're paying for your freedom but you still value your freedom more."

This is my family doctor. I had no idea she remembers anything about me or that's how she sees me. Until recently, I only saw her once a year, if that. But maybe that's why I've been with her for over 25 years. She never makes negative comments about what I am. I've known her longer than I've known The Man. She delivered The Boy. I've seen her pregnant with all three of her children. Yet, ours has always been a doctor-patient relationship.

Come to think of it, this is also true of my dentist. I knew him when he was single, just starting out in his practice. Then he got married, moved offices, and adopted a daughter. Now his daughter is in university. But aside from this, I don't know much about him.

My doctor and my dentist, they are the two longest relationships I have outside of my birth family. My longest relationships are with health care providers. I wonder if that's true of other people, and whether we live in a society where professional relationships last longer than personal ones.

Different Sounds And Places

This weekend, I attended two music concerts. The first was a CD launch party at the Silver Dollar. The Silver Dollar. In my teen years, I saw a drunken woman sprawled on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Dollar. She had her skirt pulled up to her waist, exposing her nakedness for all to fear. She was peeing on the ground, lying down. The place has changed much since. It's still a dive, but so much cleaner.

My friend's daughter, Kate, just cut her first solo album. She's 23 and a trained opera singer. But as a young, hip, female, urbanite recording under an indy label, her music appeals mostly to young, hip, artsy women.

More precisely, her audience was mostly young lesbians, and us - her parents, aunts and uncles, and their friends. So you had on the dance floor and around the stage all these young androgynous couples hugging and being affectionate. And in the back, sitting around tables (because we're too tired to stand all night) were the old people in our fifties.

But these young women, they were something. They were delicate looking, glowing with the optimism of freedom and potential. Many dressed like newspaper boys with t-shirt, vest, and cap. Some wore plaid shirts over a white T. Some were in leather. Some sported the nerdy look with vest and eyeglasses. They were all slim, pretty, and mild-looking, kind of like David Cassidy,



or Zac Efron.


You know what I mean? They dressed up like pretty boys. My friend said they look like pixies. You can just imagine them going home to sleep under their lily pads.

Kate produces electronic music, singing over it with a strong, quivering voice. Whether you like her sound or not, you can't deny that she's a powerful singer and accomplished musician.

The next night, I went to a living room concert. The group was called The Undesirables. Two rough-looking guys singing country and blues in the living rooms of white-haired yuppies. They were highly entertaining and equally adept at very tender ballads.

To be sure, neither had a good voice, but when they sang together, their voices blended to produce strong, melodic, soulful tones. They knew this too, because they talked about how together, they sound so much better than either alone.

The concert took place in someone's home. The host had moved the furniture and brought in chairs to convert the living room and dining room into seating. The singers stayed at one end of room facing the audience of 30.

You still buy a ticket, but during intermission, the host provides coffee, cookies, and dessert. It's a grand idea, this living room concert, because no matter what the sound is, music is best live and served with food.

Boom Boom

The Man texted a message mid-morning to say he's fine despite the boom. What boom?

I had just left my doctor's office when I received the message. I hurried home to see if I could get more information. As I thought about what the message meant, I could feel my heart go up my throat and had to focus on keeping it in my chest as I drove.

I got online and googled Afghanistan news. Indeed, two hours ago, Reuters issued a story about suicide bombers in Kabul throwing hand grenades at the Serena hotel to get past security, then going inside to blow themselves up. Two hotel guards were killed and three foreigners were injured.

I have had coffee and cake at the Serena Hotel. The Man sometimes goes there for meals.

I sent a text message to The Man. He replied though he did not pick up when I phone him. At least he is fine.

Unfazed

We've dropped The Man off at the airport. Now I am home. Although the house has not been turned upside down due to his departure, I feel like I'm home to rein the day in. I miss The Man.

The Man told everyone his flight time was 11:55. Some friends invited us to dinner before his departure. Surprisingly, he accepted and was eager to be there. We planned to have an early dinner, then leave our friends at 9:30 to get to the airport by 10:00. These friends then rounded up several other friends for a send off dinner.

While The Man was out having lunch with another one of his friends, I wanted to check the status of his flight. That's when I looked at his ticket print-out, and just to verify what I saw was real, I went online to double-check. That's right, his flight time was not 11:55. It was 21:55. Which meant 9:55. But the boarding time was 20:55 (8:55).

This meant we had to be at the airport by 7:00.

When we got in touch with our friends to cancel dinner, they invited us over for coffee. That was gracious of them despite them having to notify our other friends.

But just to make matters more complicated, The Man phoned The Boy at school and said now that he's leaving earlier, could The Boy also see him off at the airport. The Boy was just going into orchestra rehearsal so we arranged to pick him up at the subway on the way to the airport, and that we would phone him with a 15 minute notice.

Which lead me to asking The Man for my cell phone. He gave it back, without battery. It meant I had to take the charger to our friends' and charge it there. Yes, we went over for coffee and electricity.

On the way to their house, I said to The Man jokingly, "You sure you have your plane ticket?"

He said, "Yes, but I'll make sure before we go into their house."

We parked. The Man looked for his ticket. "Hey, where's my briefcase?" he asked.

I said, "The last time I saw it, you put it on the armchair when we were putting our shoes on." So The Man went home to get it because not only did his briefcase contain his plane ticket, it also contained his computer, passport, and money. Meanwhile, I went into our friends' house to explain why I was arriving alone.

They are so gracious, they had a good chuckle, though they called him a goof. Some of our other friends came by anyway to say goodbye. We had a nice little visit, then we were off.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. But then The Boy was with us. When The Boy and I are together, we usually get it right despite our fights.

I am drinking mint tea now and planning out the next segment of my life. Surprisingly, my blood pressure is at an all-time low of 119/75. Am I dead and don't know it, or am I just so good at handling The Man I am unfazed by his unpredictability? I miss The Man.

My Favourite Friends

Our neighbour, Rick, came over for lunch the other day. The Man calls him "my brother from another mother", as he's been calling all his friends lately, but Rick was the original brother from another mother.

I said, If The Man can call Rick brother from another mother, then I can call Rick my husband from another marriage. Rick said he's tired of that job. He's been husband to many women, without any of the benefits of a real marriage. He just gets called on to help out, then he's sent home to his own bed.

But what does he expect? His wife helps to arrange some of these calls. So I said, You gotta convert to Islam so you can have four wives or you gotta get your wife out of the picture as broker. Rick is one of our favourite friends.

When we came home from Deerhurst, we drove into the driveway and were greeted by three bigger-than-life snowmen with arms spread wide, waving at the street. Our next door neighbours had build three snowmen on their front lawn and decorated each with branches from their Christmas tree. That meant while we were away, Toronto had a big snowfall.

This house belongs to Kai, my 5-year-old neighbour, and her parents. Her father, John, was our message therapist. Five years after we stopped going to him, he phoned one day and said, "Hi neighbour." The Boy now sometimes babysits Kai.

John and his wife, Caitlin, were the neighbours who fed my fish while we were away. A sign of their presence in our house is, one of my plants that had been growing bent over with the roots jutting up in the pot had been righted. It was replanted straight. John is the gardener in that family. He's given me many cuttings in the summer that have bloomed beautifully in the fall. I know it was John who righted my plant. John, Caitlin, and Kai are some of my favourite friends.

A few more doors over live Andy and Lucia and their three kids. They go camping with us each year. The Boy sometimes babysits their kids too. When they were last away, I went over each day to feed their fish. I still have their key.

Andy is a mumbler. That is, sometimes I have to get really close to hear what he's saying. But I love talking to Lucia. She is so much fun, smart, generous, and easy to talk to. I think it's because we share a similar sense of humour, we don't take ourselves too seriously, and we cut each other a lot of slack for saying stupid things without meaning it.

Lucia and I decided that because we don't originate from a WASPy culture but are married to men who do, we share a world view common to people who accept that generations of a clan can live in the same house or compound. That is, in addition to having a similar temperament, we have the same need for a tight, extended family, and we value independence and individuality at the same time.

We are going over to their place for dinner tonight. I expressed concern they would be cooking for us after work when they are already busy with three kids, so why don't they come to our place instead. Lucia said, "Don't be silly, I am just going to buy take-out chicken." We are that comfortable with each other. Andy and Lucia are some of my favourite friends.

Crap

Crap. I'm all choked up.

We got home tonight and I started to clean up. I also started to plan my menu for the week. That's the only resolution I've made this year, to lose real weight. One way to do that is to plan my meals.

But I get to the meals for Wednesday. And I remember that's the day The Man goes back to Kabul. Crap crap crap. It's like a planned death. Or a planned birth. You know on that significant day, life as you know it now will change.

I know I've been here before, but each time it's different. I know he'll be back, and honestly, he's getting just a bit on my nerves, but that's no reason to send him so far away to a conflict zone for such a long time.

I can only remind myself his going to Kabul is not about me. True, he goes partly for us, to provide for us. But it's also the first time in a long while since I've heard him talk about his work with such purpose and enthusiasm, joy even.

So I will hold on to that thought and focus on what I need to do here.

Frozen

My god, it's -17C in Huntsville right now. With the wind chill, it feels like -22C, so say the weather forecast. Tonight, we are expecting -25C.

Good thing we got in some skiing and tubing before this cold.

Today, The Boy's friends left. But a friend of The Man's, Bruce, joined us. It's good to see different friends through out the week. But the big decision I have to make is whether to sell our timeshare ownership at a huge loss.

The Boy refuses to go with us anywhere. We were lucky this week because two of his friends were willing to come up. The Man hates being at a resort. I don't know why. Something about it defining who he is and he is not a timeshare kind of guy. I say going to a resort is just one kind of vacation. It's a chance to hole up once a year and do nothing more than go for walks, go to the gym, go swimming, go skiing, and read. But maybe he is just looking for things to complain about.

After dinner, I was explaining to Bruce why I was thinking of getting rid of our timeshare. The Man jumped in and said, "Don't get rid of it. Why would you want to do that?" Huh? What's his attachment? I can't keep making arrangements for us to go on resort vacations only to have him complain about the accommodations being not good enough and The Boy whining about being away from his friends.

Maybe this is the part they enjoy: the three of them are playing Scategories in front of the TV. They can't beat The Boy. There is some fighting and blowing up movie on. They are laughing and being silly.

I am at an impasse with my decision, stuck, frozen in this deep freeze.

Happy New Year!

For New Year's Eve, we went to a friend's cottage north of Huntsville. Lindsey and Tony bought a cottage there this summer. Lindsey said she wanted to spend New Year's Eve in front of a bonfire by the lake at her cottage. It was a romantic idea and she invited us to join them.

We had an early dinner, then walked out to the middle of the frozen lake in the dark. It was stunning. We trekked over knee-deep snow. The Man wore snow shoes. As we got closer to the middle of the lake, Lindsey or Tony would say, It's about six inches deep here, or It's about knee deep here, or It's about waist deep here, and finally, If you walk out to that snow-covered boulder, it's about shoulder deep, but I wouldn't because the lake isn't frozen through yet.

Still, we were quite far from shore and all around the lake were lit cottages with their occupants preparing to ring in the new year. Lindsey's property looked like a Christmas card from where we stood - warm lights illuminating from a wooden cottage against a back drop of snow-covered trees. How I wished I had remembered my camera.

Then we trekked back across the ice to shore. Lindsey dug out the fire pit from the snow and Tony shovelled the snow to look for their firewood. The Man splintered wood to make kindling while I cleared the pit area for us to stand around. Across the lake, we heard a cottage of revellers waiting for the chime of midnight.

But we didn't know exactly when midnight would come. All our watches and cell phones were off from each other. There was a 10-minute span of when midnight might strike. We decided we'd go with one of the cell phones. Lindsey's daughters joined us. At 11:50, our bonfire was roaring. We brought out champagne and tall glasses and kept them cool in the snow. Lindsey turned off all the lights to the cottage. It was just us, the stars, the bonfire, and the lights from across the lake waiting for the new year. At 12:00 on the cell phone, we toasted to the new year. A couple of minutes later, we heard the cottage across the lake count down and at zero, they set off sparklers. So we toasted to the new year again. And just to make sure we didn't miss it, we counted down a third time and toasted to the new year.

It was snowing on the way back to the resort. It seemed we were the only car on the road. After a while, we saw flashing lights behind us. I said, "It must be an ambulance." The flashing lights came closer. I said, "Why doesn't it have its siren on? Better pull over and let it pass."

The Man pulled over on the shoulder. The flashing lights pulled up behind us. It was the OPP! The officer came up and asked when we last had alcohol, whether we had open alcohol in the car, and finally, asked to see The Man's driver's licence. I said, "Were we speeding?"

"No," said the officer. "You were going 70 in a 90 zone. We just wondered why."

The Man said, "It's snowing, it's late, there are no other cars on the road, we're not familiar with these roads, so we're just taking our time."

"You driving back to Toronto?"

"No, we're driving back to Deerhurst. We're here for the week."

I guess the officer determined The Man wasn't drunk and we didn't smell of alcohol, so he bid us a good night and we went on our way. In retrospect, we were pulled over for going too slow even though there were no cars on the road. That was a first for us. But it was a good tiding.

May this year bring you much good tidings and contentment.

Dramarama

Sometimes, nothing happens in my life. Then a whole bunch of things happen that make me say, Whoa, whoa, let's stop it. But each time, I am glad people have been there to lessen the worst that could have happened.

On Boxing Day, my mother-in-law went into the hospital because of respiratory complications. She has COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease). She goes into the hospital almost every Christmas, probably because of the onset of cold weather, the stress of the holidays, and exposure to something she's allergic to. Thankfully, this year, Sil2 was with her when she had the attack and she was rushed into Emergency. She seems better now, though still weak and pale.

But The Man has been in a foul mood since visiting her. His foulness was palpable; it was in his tone, his voice, his body language. You could feel it just looking at him, and if you come too close, you plunge into a similar foulness without knowing why. It was like standing on gossamer. Move with too much pressure and you break the fabric and fall through, yet you can't stand still. He does not admit it, but I think it comes down to him feeling his mother values his siblings more than him.

This morning, as soon as I was out of bed, The Man received a call from a neighbour who's just cut her finger open. I said to The Man, "Why don't you get dressed so you can drive her to the hospital. I will go see her now." He agreed quickly. That's because he is not good at looking at blood or open wounds. So I ran over, still in my pajamas to find Carol, still in her pajamas, bleeding at the sink. She tried to catch a falling glass fish and it cut her finger.

We decided she should go to the hospital because the cut was through a vein in her finger and she had lost a lot of blood. She also started to sweat and had to sit down to avert fainting. Each time she came out of a sweat, she tried to put her house in order. Finally I said, "Stop cleaning your house while you are fainting and bleeding. Let's get you dressed." We dressed her and The Man took her to the doctor.

They came back within half an hour, having found a clinic that was open and was able to treat her. She then came and had some breakfast with us.

Meanwhile, we were expecting a visit from Sil. When Sil arrived, Carol took her leave. But I also had to get our packing done as we were preparing to leave by 2 PM to Deerhurst for one week. The Boy then told me the friends he invited to come with us were arriving at 3 PM. Ugh. Why 3 PM when we are leaving at 2:00? "Because I asked you the other day what time we were leaving and you said 4:00," he said. "I thought you were asking about going to Sis' on Boxing Day."

A flurry of phone calls later, The Boy got his friends to come earlier. They arrived shortly after 2:00. But between visiting The Man's mother for two days, The Man going out with friends last night, and the activities this morning, I hadn't bought the groceries for the week yet. I packed all the food we had in the fridge and freezer and hoped for the best.

As we tried to leave, now all packed up in the car, I suddenly remembered I hadn't made arrangements for someone to feed my fish while we were away. A few neighbours later, I found one who was going to be home all week. We had already given him a key to our house last year in case of trouble, so I didn't have to give up my key.

Finally, away we went. But we made four stops on the road for our two and a half ride to Deerhurst. The Man had to buy a pair of pants, we had to get lunch, the kids had to buy a game while The Man bought alcohol and I bought breakfast food, and lastly, we stopped for gas because we drove into a snow storm and our gas tank was almost empty. I cancelled dinner plans with friends because we were running very late.

But we did make it to Deerhurst. And it's nice here. Our unit looks out to the lake and we're comfortable. The kids love it. They've gone skiing. I laze about (as usual) and watch TV (which I never do). The Man reads his newspaper. We look forward to a good week.

I Gave It Big

I was full before the deep fried turkey made it to the table. It's hard to save your appetite for the main course when unplanned appetizers mysteriously pop up on our table of plenty.

Upon entering Sis' kitchen, a large, baked ham sat on the counter while Sis readied the mushroom gravy for the turkey. Awaiting on the dining room table was a beautifully prepared platter of fruit of many colours and textures. There were also three big slabs of pate with six kinds of crackers beside a warm, smooth, and pungent artichoke-cheese dip. Warm, red mussels smeared with citrus and cocktail sauce beckoned from their half shells. Chunks of crusty bread taunted from their bowl. None of this was planned. Unlike the humongous platter of crab legs and bigger half-table of sushi. I mean, at least crab legs and sushi were on the menu, just not their overwhelming quantity.

But the highlight of the meal was the deep fried turkey. Far in the back of the garden over the ice covered walkway were Bro and Waif, manning a propane-fed deep fryer. The deep fryer had to be at least 10 feet away from the house in case of mishap resulting in explosion. If this had happened, only Bro and Waif would have been broiled alive in boiling oil, the house would have been fine. The crispy-skinned turkey was sizzling in deep oil. French fries, stringed yams, and Scotch eggs waited their turn to soak in their bubbling bath of hot hot oil.

Bro and Waif cooked till it got dark, receiving visits from The Man, me, and other curious onlookers. When Uncle and his family arrived, everything was ready. A green salad, a papaya-avocado salad, green beans speckled with red pepper, garlic and thyme, mashed roasted squash with butter and brown sugar, cauliflower with buttered almonds, cranberry and sausage stuffing, chicken and shrimp fried noodles, and smoked turkey legs also made their way onto the dining table. Were they all part of the menu? It didn't matter any more at that point.

It was all good. I tried not to eat too much. I don't remember. I fell asleep on the couch at some point.

There is no lesson to this excess. But I am reminded of a song by Jane Siberry where the last part goes:

Take a lesson from the strangeness you feel
And know you'll never be the same
And find it in your heart to kneel down and say
I gave my love didn't I?
And I gave it big...sometimes
And I gave it in my own sweet time

Jane was singing about love, not food. But in our family, love and food, they are the same. I surrender.

Christmas Traditions

We just had a very fine dinner, The Man, The Boy, Mom and I. Without knowing it, we've been building our own Christmas traditions over the years. Each time, it's The Boy who signals a tradition to me with, Mom, you have to do it; it's tradition.

Our Christmas traditions unfold as follows:

In the morning, The Man gets out of bed first. He gives The Boy's stocking to him in bed. We stay in our pajamas and organize ourselves with coffee and juice. I put on Christmas music. The Man and I open our stockings while drinking our coffees.

In each of our stockings, I put a clementine in the toe. That's one of the traditions The Boy insists on. He says, It wouldn't be Christmas morning if I don't find a clementine there.

When The Boy comes downstairs, we open our presents. Each year, I give him a joke present. It's been a roll of toilet paper for a few years. He loves it. This year, I gave him a squeegie. He loved that too. At the end of the day, I say to him, Be honest, which was your favourite present? He makes like he's thinking and weighing his choices, then always says, It's the toilet paper. This year, it was the squeegie of course.

After the presents, we get breakfast on the table.

I make two small pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice. The Boy, still in his PJs, runs next door with a pitcher and a present for our neighbour. He comes back to set the table. Meanwhile, I heat up croissants and cut up melons. That's the tradition I insist on, having freshly squeezed orange juice, croissant, and melon in the morning.

This whole time, The Man shucks oysters. That's tradition The Man introduced for our family, having oysters for Christmas breakfast. We sit down content, eating our breakfast and examining some of our presents.

After breakfast, there is a flurry of activity as we shower and dress. A friend usually drops by. This year, a dear friend dropped off a Christmas pudding.

I make sure the turkey goes in the oven by 2 PM and cook the rest of the Christmas dinner. The Man and The Boy clean up the house and play with their presents. Around 3:30 PM, The Man goes to pick up Mom.

Even when it's just the four of us for dinner, I set the table with table cloth, table runner, linen placemats and napkins. There is lots of room around the table and no one is crammed. We are very relaxed.

In the late afternoon and early evening, we give mom her presents. There are also phone calls, both placed and received, as we connect with friends and family who aren't in the city.

After dinner, we laze about. The meal is effortless, abundant, and delicious, the clean up easy and unhurried. I like these Christmas dinners best.

Mom then goes to bed and I prepare food for the next day. That's when my side of the extended family get together and practise gluttony. I don't know if that's tradition or religion. Sometimes I think if my brothers, sister and I hated each other, we would still get together because a higher authority compels us to make pigs of ourselves. That higher authority would be Mom. That's how she raised us; being gluttons is part of our identity. We even keep a fat blog about it.

Abundance at the table is an understatement. Obscene excess is closer to the quantity of food we serve. Some years, we barely touch a quarter of what we put out. A few days later, I throw out a lot of the food from these obscene dinners. That is tradition. The line about the starving children in China doesn't work in our family. Mom and especially dad were those starving children in China. They escaped death by starvation. Now we have to compensate for them having gone hungry.

It's tradition that we rotate the hosting of Christmas dinner. Tomorrow, we are deep frying a turkey at Sis'. While the deep fryer is on, we will deep fry Scotch Eggs, French Fries, and Yam Frites. And I started out with such a simple menu plan. This is also tradition - each year, I make simple plans, then crazy takes over, and we end up with at least three times more food than we can eat.

I am part of that crazy. That too is tradition.

Merry Christmas One And All

And a white Christmas to Fryslan.

T'was The Day Before

It's Christmas Eve. I feel my brain has been in stasis. Not much going on up there. Then I stumbled upon Goggle Earth on the main computer.

Like a provincial dullard, I immediately tried to locate my house. But I had trouble. I just couldn't quite follow the topography. I found City Hall, but I couldn't follow the roads to my house. Everything looked too similar and I needed more locational cues. After 10 minutes, I wanted to give up.

Then The Boy came into the room. I swear, within 15 seconds, he found our house and zoomed in on it. Then he said, "The picture must have been taken in the summer. See all the leaves on the trees." I hadn't noticed. I was still looking for our red car parked in front of the house. "We were probably out and that's why our car is not there," he said.

How does he do it? He is so fast and things make so much sense to him. Was I once like that? I want to believe so. I want to believe he got some of his smarts from me.

Here are The Boy and his friends in the summer, conquering the sharks in downtown Toronto in their spare time. See how clean cut and fresh faced they all are!


Then here is me and my friends in our spare time.



I have not been able to get out of my befana persona since Winter Solstice. I communicate with other hags in character by e-mail and exchange photographs.

The consolation is, a fellow hag (he is a man-hag) Chris, said looking at the collage above, he thinks of us as goddesses. He is reminded of the story of Actaeon, a hunter in Greek mythology who stumbled upon Artemis bathing in the lake. Having seen the goddess naked, he is turned into a stag. His dogs then chase him down and maul him to death. The moral of the story is, you should never look into the face of an unmasked befana on the night of Winter Solstice. I made this moral up, but not the story. The Greek myth stands.

Does being a goddess console me for being a slow dolt most of the time? No. But it does make me feel I have good friends to go through life with.

The Hags Were Out

It's December 21. My sisters and I met again tonight. We get together once a year on Winter Solstice to sing to the sun and ask it to come back. We like the moon and all, but we also like how the sun makes us warm and helps us see.

Oh it was grand tonight. The moon shining on me. The sun itching to come back. So many people came to admire me and hear me sing.

Me and two of my sisters.


Me and a few more of my sisters singing our hearts out. That one with the red nose did try to push me off the stage. But I hit her on the head with my broom. Shove me, will she?


Me and my sisters serenading the sun together. They can't sing without me.

Just A Guy

I picked up The Man at the airport in the afternoon. It's good to have him back. On the way home, we passed by St. Clair and Keele. "Let's go into the Future Shop," he said.

I drove into the mall and parked. We browsed the store on the pretext of looking for a Christmas present for The Boy. Then The Man wouldn't leave. He just wanted to look at the electronic stuff and latest gadgets. "I don't get to see this stuff in Kabul," he said.

Oh yes, he's home. And he hasn't changed one bit.

Homemade is Best

I'm all giddy. The Man will be home Thursday afternoon. I am doing my best to clean up the house. But what I really wish for is a spare room I can just throw all my junk into. Who knew I was the messy one?

I've been sorting out my befana outfit. The hags gather to sing on Friday, the night of Winter Solstice. I've put away all my sewing and sketching. My homemade Christmas cards have not materialized this year so I resorted to store-bought ones. My attempt involved trying to glue foliage to card. Ah well, I will plan it better next year. But I have received four homemade cards so far this year. Aren't they beautiful?

My friend's daughters made this card. The drawing is of Murray, their dog. Inside, they wrote "Murry Christmas!"


My book club buddy, Lindsey, made this card. The church is a rubber stamp dipped in red paint and she's glued snowflakes to the card. She said at her cottage in the summer, they had nothing to do, so she and her daughters made Christmas cards.


This drawing is done by Kai, my 5-year-old neighbour next door. She has an amazing sense of colour and composition. Her mom has put many of her art work in the backyard and in the house. Her mom made colour photocopies of the drawing and pasted the copy onto a card.


This one is done by Carol, another neighbour. She makes cards each year. When you meet her, you'd never know she has the patience to do arts and crafts.


Instead of making cards, I layed out a newspaper for a friend's school and planned a light dinner of soup and salad, cheese and bread, for The Man's return. That's because they feed you lots on those multi-legged flights. My dinner will be homemade. I know when I got home from India, I craved home cooking and fresh vegetables.

So then. Clean house, check. Trimmed tree, check. Food, check. Groomed me, check. Yeah, I 'm ready for him to come home.

The Get Rich Secret

The library just notified me I haven't returned one of their books for six months now so they are considering it lost and I owe them $27.95.

The book is called Secrets Of The Millionaire Mind. Really? I don't remember reading such a book. I certainly don't possess any such secrets of the millionaire's mind. I thought I browsed the book in the library only. I don't remember taking it out. But I must have, and that's how they traced the book to me. I borrow lots of books.

But it strikes me wrong that I have to pay for a book called Secrets Of The Millionaire Mind when I don't remember the book. It feels like I am the victim of a conspiracy, that maybe the secret to getting rich is to play with people's minds, get them to pay you for things they can't prove they didn't get from you. And if they refuse, you punish them by barring them from doing something they enjoy, like borrow books to read.

That must be the secret.

Canada, Eh?

I consider myself an experienced Canadian. Yet, I inadvertently allowed myself to approach hypothermia yesterday.

In the morning, it was -11C out, -20C with the wind chill. I got into the car and idled it for a few minutes to warm the engine. I don't like to turn on the heat in the car till the engine gets going, otherwise you get gusts of cold air blowing at you. So I started on my errands.

Twenty minutes later, my toes had gone numb, I started to shiver. Forty minute later, I started to feel sleepy. I felt my heart beating unusually slow and I knew I was shutting down. That's when something clicked in my mind: I was cold and I hadn't had food all day. Funny how I felt cold but not hungry.

So I turned up the heat in the car full blast and within seconds, felt myself thawing. I stopped for lunch and felt so much better after, like I had waken up refreshed.

This morning, I have a burning sensation in my toes. But we're covered in 20 cm of snow and the white stuff is still coming down. I won't be out for long periods today, that's for sure.

Oh, I just noticed birds perched under our garden table, seeking shelter from the snow storm.

Shallow Relationship

Each Christmas, The Boy complains that I put up short, scraggly Christmas trees. I justify it by saying our house is small, we can't have a big tree. But subconsciously, maybe I had been choosing that neglected Charlie Brown tree.

This year, I decided to get a Christmas tree-looking tree. Without decorations, it already filled up our tree corner. I eye it suspiciously because the needles have started to fall. I've had to vacuum as soon as I put it up. It stands just a little tilted and I can't right it. I'm not sure I feel the piney smell that coniferous trees are supposed to have. I accuse it of not cooperating with me despite being good looking, but I admit, now that I have rearranged the furniture, its full tree-ness rather pleases me. It's just that I'm not sure I love it more than my spindly trees of Christmases past.

Is this sounding familiar? It's like having a handsome boyfriend who's high maintenance and not quite right for you. You do everything to accommodate him and he just doesn't behave. But you still kind of like to look at him, though you're not quite having fun with him.

So I decorate the tree, and it does look better and better. I just keep vacuuming and vacuuming its needles away. In the end, I am glad whether this is a good looking tree or a scraggly looking one, they all end up in the city compost after Christmas, mulched to indistinguishable bits that feed our spring and summer plants the following year.

Can't say the same for that handsome, useless boyfriend.

'Tis The Season

It's concert time at most schools. I went to The Boy's Festival Celebration concert last night. The show was wonderful as usual. The students are like that.

But the part I loved last night was not the formal part of the concert. It was The Boy in the school hallway with his friends before and after the concert.

When mom and I arrived, I espied The Boy and Butterfly Boy sitting in front of their lockers. The Boy was strumming his ukulele and Butterfly Boy was playing his guitar. Two other friends sat around them. The kids were singing! So I gave mom some coins. We walked by the kids and threw change into their guitar box. Soon, other parents were walking by and throwing change into their guitar box too.

Later, I bought some cookies and put them in the guitar box. The kids dived at the cookies and Butterfly Boy shouted, "Oh Sylph, I love you!" Can you imagine any teenager saying that to an adult in front of their friends?

After the concert, mom and I filed along the hall with all the other parents to get to the main lobby to wait for our kids. We were led there by Carol of the Bells playing on violin. Well, there was The Boy with his ukulele in the middle of four violinists. Three of them played the tune while The Boy strummed and one violin plucked their way through the song. Parents were already putting money in their violin case.

As the kids repeated their tune, two more kids came up and started scat singing with the music! They sang solos in the concert and they sounded fabulous now in this impromptu performance. Parents applauded and laughed to see how casually the kids grouped themselves for such good fun.

That's the thing about these kids. They love to perform and they have talent. And because they spend time doing what they love, they are easy going. Although teenagers often give their parents grief as they express their independence, I think The Boy and his friends also do pretty innocent, charming, and cool things sometimes.

All Smoothed Out

In my 20's, I worked with women who frequented beauty salons the way I ate ice cream - often and at different places. I never quite understood what these women, in their 20's, 30's and 40's, went on about. There was a lot of talk about eyebrow plucking, eyelash tinting, facials, waxing, bikini lines, shaving legs, manicures, and pedicures.

I've had this kind of work done three times in my life - a facial once and pedicures twice. I quite hated having someone come so close to handle my private places, and therefore, I have not been a user of salon services. My thinking was, just be your natural self and leave all that fixing up to when you get old. Otherwise, how will the older you be maintained if you are already high maintenance when you are young?

I guess it's maintenance time for me now.

In India, I had my eyebrows shaped by accident. True. I went in search of eye makeup and was directed to a beautician. I thought she wanted to apply makeup on me when she pointed me to her chair. I know, a lot got lost in translation.

So the woman cleaned my face and I kept pointed to my eyes, and she held out a thread, and the next thing I knew, she was flicking away at my eyebrow. I said, No no no. She said, A little, a little, look better. So I thought, Why not? I've never had this done before, so why not now in India? And besides, the eyebrows will grow back. The woman gave me nicely arched eyebrows that look darker than they normally do. It was fantastic.

Now It's been two months since my shaping. My eyebrows have indeed grown back to their usual patch of smear. So I booked an appointment with my sister-in-law's beautician.

Irene too found the curve to my brow and threaded, plucked, and tweezed her way to bring out their natural arch. In the end, I thought I looked pretty good. And that's when Irene said, "You may also want to consider removing facial hair next time."

"What facial hair?"

"Along your upper lip."

"My mustache?" I had wondered lately whether my mustache was visible to anyone but me.

"You could remove the hair there to look even smoother."

So I thought, Why not? First the brows, now the mustache. Why not?

She applied warm wax to my upper lip, patted a piece of paper over it, then without warning, RRRIP. Off came the mustache. And don't let anyone tell you it doesn't hurt. Not like giving birth, but it hurt. Then Irene threaded and tweezed again to clean the mustache area.

"No no," the receptionist said, "We don't call it 'mustache'. Women don't have mustaches. We call it 'upper lip' work."

"Ah. That's like code for 'get rid of my mustache.' "

"It's just salon vocabulary. Some women phone and say, 'I want my armpits done', we still know they mean their underarms."

I'll be darned. Salon talk. Who would have thunk it?

Contrasts

At least I didn't have Indian food again on Friday night. Nope. I had African food.

I went to a book launch and heard the contributors for an anthology on the empowerment of black women in Canada talk about their experiences as well as the experiences of their foremothers. The presenters organized African music and African food for the evening.

It was an eye opening evening, mainly because the contributors to the anthology were young women. I am sure some of them were only in their twenties. Yet, they have such insight into African culture and awareness of their place in history, so much so they can theorize about and articulate their awareness and write academic papers on the subject. These women also have incredible family support to pursue higher education. Some of them are executive directors of health services organizations for black women, lawyers who do international development work, some hold PHDs in feminist studies. Some brought their young children, husbands, and elderly mothers to the book launch. They all delight in the music of their culture.

Contrast this with my mother the next day.

- Tell your sister to quit her job. The work is too hard.

- Mom, she spent 20 years going to school so she can do the job she's doing. What do you mean the work is hard? She's not a physical labourer. She has the education, knowledge and experience to do her work.

- The hours are too long.

- She has chosen to work that way.

- Tell your brother to get a regular job at a pharmacy and close down his store.

- How would he benefit from that?

- So he wouldn't have to worry about if the business can survive.

- He works four days a week, he has great flexibility, he is his own boss, he makes a good living, he knows he can get a job at a pharmacy whenever he wants. Why should he shut down now?

- So he wouldn't have to worry about when he should shut down later.

I took her to a coffee shop that serves free trade, organic coffee and tried to explain the concepts to her. She didn't object to the ideas of free trade and organic food. But I could sense her weighing the cost of buying free trade and organic versus the much lower cost of mass production. Then I pointed at The Healthy Butcher, an organic meat shop, across the street.

- When shops like these come into an area, they attract people with money. Eventually, these shoppers move into the neighbourhood and the price of houses go up. Your house could be worth a lot more in a few years.

- I didn't want to sell Denison but I sold it because it's an old house and it's high maintenance.

- So take care of the one you're in now to protect its value.

- It's too much work and too expensive.

- Is everything about expediency and convenience and you just want to sit back, do nothing, and collect money?

- Yes.

I know people come from different upbringings and histories and have different leanings and purposes in life. But I can't help feeling a little envious of the black women with family encouragement and pride in their heritage. And I think of all the middle-class Indians I encountered who are trying to get out of a hand-to-mouth existence who expressed how lucky they thought we foreigners are.

That Dreaded Indian Food

I am not fond of Indian food. I didn't like it before India, I didn't like it during India, and I don't like it now that it's after India.

But almost everyone I know tells me they love Indian food. I was complaining to a friend recently about Indian food, about how it does nothing for me, and I don't get why so many Indian restaurants have sprouted up in our city and why everyone claims to like the one-taste-one-textured stuff. He said, "The problem obviously, is you have not had good Indian food. I am going to arrange a dinner and get take out from Banjara, my favourite Indian restaurant. In fact, I'll get my neighbour to come over too because he usually makes the food selections from that restaurant. He's Indian and he knows what good Indian food is and he knows what to order."

Even Bro agrees that Banjara makes excellent Indian food.

This week, I went to RJ's for dinner. When I arrived, all the food had been ordered and were keeping warm in the oven. His neighbour asked, "What is it you don't like about Indian food?"

I said, "It's that all the dishes are sauces in varying degrees of spiciness smothering either some vegetable or meat. I can't tell what's in the sauces and can't taste the difference between them. I just taste the spiciness, then it's over. I can't tell what kind of vegetable or meat I'm eating because the sauce takes over, and indeed, sometimes I can't tell if I'm eating meat or vegetable, or whether the food was meant to be shredded or if the food is overcooked and the food has gone to mush."

He said, "Well, yes, urr... yes, Indian food is pretty much how you describe it."

After dinner, someone else said, "Did you like food tonight?"

I said, "It wasn't bad. But here's what I realize. It's not memorable food. When you eat it, you get this immediate excitement on the tongue because of the spiciness. But there's no depth. The food doesn't leave you with a lingering good feel. You forget what it tastes like after and you have no desire to have it again. So you get kind of annoyed because you went through the whole trouble of putting up with the tongue assault and you get nothing out of it."

He thought about it and said, "That's actually true, it's not memorable food."

But I am not one to give up on food. This is food from a culture of over 1 billion people, one-sixth of the world's population, that I am annoyed with. So I bought a cook book - 1000 Great Indian Recipes. I thought if I made my own Indian food and could control the spices used, I would appreciate Indian food more.

Last night, my good friends came for dinner. I made butter chicken. I made it less spicy than the recipe suggested. It's true that with less tongue-biting spiciness, I could taste the subtle blend of the other ingredients in the sauce more. But the chicken itself was rather bland despite having marinaded in tandoori sauce for 24 hours. And after, I still thought, What's the fuss about Indian food?

Tonight, I am having dinner with Jill from the march in India. We had talked about going to the Indian Rice Factory. I am not sure I can do that now. One more try at Indian food, or quit before I actually hate the food?

Nasty Wakeup

The Boy is away for the night. Since I went to bed, thick snow covered the ground. I bought a new winter tire and won't have the set on the car till Monday. It means I can't drive the car in the snow till then.

At 4:30 am, the phone rang. I picked up and an accented male voice at the other end said, "I have your husband here. Can you come out with the money?"

You can imagine what went through my mind.

We exchanged a few 'Who are you? Where are you calling from? What number are you dialing? Who are you calling about?' from me, and 'Bring money to get your husband' from him.

I could sense the man was puzzled by my aggressive and urgent tone. He must've sensed my approaching panic. He finally summed up, "I'm calling from Royal Taxi. I'm in front of your house at Rogers and Dufferin. Is that your house? Your husband Hyber gave me your number. He's here. He said you would pay the fare."

I told him, "Hyber is not my husband. I don't know him. My house is not at Rogers and Dufferin. You have the wrong number."

Whew.

Project Planning

What I wouldn't have given for a project coordinator.

Last night, I primed my mother's basement stairs. I thought I was so prepared, listing and checking all my requirements with the sales people at Home Depot and purchasing every thing I needed in advance.

I was so clever, painting the stairs from the bottom up so I wouldn't be caught stuck in the basement with a wet staircase. But after a few steps, mom said, "Look, you've got paint on your pants." Indeed I had. Lots of paint. And on my t-shirt, hands, and arms too. These were my good clothes. I hadn't thought to bring painting clothes to change into.

So mom said, "Take your pants off. The paint is fresh, I can scrub them clean right now." So I did. When I was done painting, mom had got the paint off my pants and put them in a plastic bag because they were soaking wet. Then The Boy phoned looking for a ride home. I realized I was in a quandary.

I said to The Boy, "I am ready to leave so I could pick you up. There is only one problem: I have no pants on. I can't go inside to get you. You'll have to look out for me and come outside."

Well that was premature distress. Thank god for technology and the fact we now both have cell phones. The Boy said, "When you get here, call my cell and I'll come out." Then mom gave me a pair of her pajama bottoms so I at least had something to cover my legs with. That's how I picked up The Boy and came home.

Bread And Milk

At the end of the march in India, most of us prepared to go home, including the French couple who coordinated the foreigners and served as the international communications team. They had been in India for two years, with visits home every six months. The last six months had been extremely stressful as they negotiated with service providers and struggled with a non-Western sense of time and urgency to get things done.

Sam said to me on his last evening, "I can't decide which I want to do first when I get home - take a big bite into a chocolate croissant, or get a plain croissant and dip it into a cup of hot chocolate." Since then, I've been hankering to do something similar - dip a chocolate croissant into my coffee. Oh I had croissants and coffee in Kabul, but they weren't so much croissants as crescent shaped warm dough and the coffee was powdered instant.

This week, after my morning pilates class, I went into Pain Perdu, our local French cafe. I may not be French, but being in there was like coming home. When The Man took The Exchange there in the summer, The Exchange came back elated and exclaimed, "It was like holding a piece of France in my hands."

So I ordered a chocolate croissant and a bowl of cafe au lait, and I dipped the croissant in my coffee and took a bite. It was sublime. The croissant melted in my mouth, tapping awake forgotten taste buds before flowing down my stomach in a milky wash of warm, frothy coffee.

Thing is, I don't usually dip my croissant into my coffee. The idea of soggy bread doesn't appeal to me, and I am lactose intolerant so milky drinks literally don't sit well with me. But it was something about the way Sam said it, with that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and his girlfriend, Anais, beside him, saying, "Ahh..." as he said it, that made me want to dip my croissant into a warm milky bath.

Sam and I had had earlier conversations about how to treat Anais right. At that moment, I reminded him, "When you kiss Anais, make sure you cradle her head. That just sweeps a woman away." It's only now that I realize I had given kissing tips to a French man when he was talking about croissants and hot chocolate.

In North America, bread and milk are staples in many kitchens. But truly, it's the French who have elevated these staples to a gastronomical adventure of the most satisfying kind, tying food in with all the delightful sensual, friendly, and comfortable necessities of life.

Musical Interlude

Driving home from lunch one day, the radio announced a choral concert at a nearby church in the evening. I came home to look up the information gleaned from the announcement. Turned out it was a concert by Russia's Academy of Choral Art at St. Anne's Anglican Church on Gladstone. The choir would sing selections from Rachmaninov's Vespers. I don't know about Rachmaninov's Vespers, but Russian a cappella virtually down the road!

I phoned for a ticket and went. I love last minute choral concerts in churches. That's how one should listen to such music - stumble upon it as if called in by song, and that's where music ought to be played - in the place that the music is composed for, with god in attendance.

I acquired this preference in France and Italy. When I travelled all those years ago, I wandered many towns and city neighbourhoods on foot. Invariably, I ended up in a church at the end of the day. I was usually looking for a place to rest before heading back to the hotel. It always surprised me when I came upon a concert. I went it even if I was late.

Once in Dijon, while sitting in an almost empty church, people started coming in and setting up music stands. Before you know it, more people came in and sat down around me. Then musicians picked up their instruments and played. Someone handed me a program of the night's concert. It was Mozart and Bach. For the next two hours, I wondered if I was in heaven, and I was not a fan of classical music in those days.

So St. Anne's Church has a high dome in the middle. It has a colour scheme of pink, blue, and yellow, with harlequin patterns and florals painted around window frames and arches. Seated in a pew, we watched the choir enter the stage area. They were young! Not children, but none of the singers could have been more than 25-years-old. The men in black suits came in first and sang a few songs. Then the women in burgundy gowns filed in. All the men moved back and smiled, as if they now felt complete. They certainly looked less frightened.

I was not familiar with the music, but I know good voices when I hear them. Most people can. It is a gift to be able to play your voice like a well-tuned instrument. Most people can't. These young singers can. It stunned me when a young, beardless, thin man opens his mouth and out came a deep bass note. The man and the voice didn't go together. Or when a young woman started to sing and she barely opened her mouth, but a deep soothing alto song issued forth and I wondered where it came from.

The most fascinating musician was the conductor. He too was a thin young man of 30 at most. The program notes said he only graduated from the Moscow Academy of Choral Art as a choral conductor in 2004, and that he is currently a post-graduate student at the academy. It's always fun watching conductors because they are so theatrical. They stand tall, puff out their chest, wag their head, and wave their arms in jubilance when they want the song to get loud and strong, they curl up and writhe in pain when they want the song to be soft. Sometimes they mouth the song with the choir.

But this one, this one also hummed the opening notes for each part of the choir for each song. At first, I looked around to see who's providing the tuning notes. It took a few songs for me to realize it was the conductor. It was distracting. People who sat in the back must have thought so too. They looked around for the source of the humming every time.

But they sang brilliantly. Then I learned this same choir was singing at Roy Thomson Hall the next night with the Moscow Chamber Choir. But Roy Thomson Hall is not a church and going the next night required some planning, and I can't leave The Boy home alone two nights in a row now that I am not travelling. So I went home satisfied with what I fed my soul that night.

Goldilocks

Mom stayed over last night. I was still downstairs when she went to bed. She had had too much food for dinner so when she fell asleep, she had nightmares. She woke up around 11 pm and called downstairs for me.

Instead of getting back into bed in the spare room I set up for her, she crawled into my bed and slept on my side of the bed! She said she was going to do that, I told her not to. Was I annoyed when I was ready for bed and found her in my place. I slept in the guest room.

So this morning, I tried to tell her the story of Goldilocks and the bears and how one should not invite oneself over, eat the host's food, and sleep in the host's bed. But I couldn't get through the story. She wasn't interested and as I was telling it, I realized nothing bad actually happens to Goldilocks in the story. She got away with taking over the bears' house then ran away.

The Boy left his breakfast untouched, so mom ate it, took a shower, then I drove her home.

The Hardware Store

I am installing runners on the stairs at my mom's house. Now that she has tenants in her house, the stairs have become a high traffic area and the broadloom on the stairs have gotten tattered and uncleanable in places.

To remove the 20+ year-old wall-to-wall carpeting, it meant prying the weave out of corners, cutting between the rail rungs, ripping out the under-pad, pulling out all the nails and staples, without getting too soiled and choked up by the dirt uncovered, and without stabbing myself on the little wooden slats of nails that held down the carpeting. Then I had to bang and pry the wooden nail slats up, after which I had to use wood filler to repair the parts of the stairs that got damaged from the prying out of the wooden nail slats.

Then I have to install quarter round where there is a gap between floor and wall. I haven't decided if I'll re-stain and varnish.

I've never done any of this before, nor do I know how to install the runner. But I am sorting things out as I go and relying on the advice of the sales people at Home Depot.

So mom and I went to Home Depot to get the supplies we need today.

I was served by an attractive, delightful man who couldn't do math to help me figure out what length of stair runner I needed. But we worked together. That is, we each made our calculations separately, compared figures, then re-calculated together the ones that were different to arrive at an approximation of the length I needed. I didn't mind that he made mistakes in his math because each time he flashed a smile at me, I melted.

Then he directed me to another man for carpet nails. The nail man explained how many nails I needed for each step and where on the step to hammer in the nails. We calculated I would need almost 300 3/4 inch carpet nails for my job. But Home Depot only sells carpet nails in little boxes of 30. The nail man took me aside and said, Go to Dundas and Runnymede. There is a Rona Hardware there. No, not the one across the street. They sell nails by the pound at the other Rona. You will get what you need at a fraction of the cost here.

While I was being serviced this way, mom was scampering around the carpet area. She wanted a rug for her bed side. She liked a floral one that was actually very pretty. But she fretted and paced about because the rug cost $45. If she chose one that was the same pattern as the stair runner, it would only cost $18. So she muttered and complained about the difference in price.

Finally, I had to put a stop to her fretting. I said, In the blink of an eye, you gave The Boy $40 for no reason yesterday. Now you won't spend $27 extra on yourself to buy a rug for your bedroom that you will stand on each day? She said, But the one that costs less does the same job as the one that costs more. I said, But you like the one that costs more better.

In the end, she relented and took the floral one that she liked better.

At the check out, the cashier scanned our items and stopped at mom's rug. It's $45, she said to make we knew what we were getting into. Now mom piped up and said, Yes we know, but that's the one I want.

So she measured our quarter round and decided to charge us only for half of the wood. She said, They're different lengths so I'll just charge you for the longest ones.

Maybe there is something about two women bumbling about in a hardware store that makes people want to help us out. Maybe it was a Sunday and the store wasn't that busy. But gosh, I had a nice time in the hardware store today.

Is He or Isn't He?

This is The Man's dog in Kabul. He says it comes with the house he's rented but he keeps referring to it as "my dog". So the question about this dog is, is he or isn't he an Afghan Hound?

I think he is.

Compare him with these Afghan Hounds.

A groomed one.


Shaven ones.


Look at their pointy snouts and the woolly feet. The same.

Sis thinks The Man's dog is an Irish Wolfhound, like this one:


I don't think so. Look how round this dog's snout is.

What do you think? Is Scraggy up there an Afghan Hound? What do you think, Sil? Is Scraggy the Jacob of Kabul or what?

Still Adjusting

I am having a mild case of post-travel blues. The trip, especially the march, was so intense that I feel somewhat unanchored even though I'm home. That, and the jet lag I have yet to overcome. I am still falling asleep in the early evening and waking up in the middle of the night.

But apparently, what I am feeling is nothing compared to what Jill felt. She was so much more involved in the march and India than I was. It was good to talk to her today to share how we feel. To her credit, she has set up a small company where she will train non-profit organizations to set up infrastructure and do capacity building. And she's written 50 pages of the book she wants to do on the march and India's land issues.

I've also been in touch with two people I met on the march. I had promised to get back to them with some information. It's good to touch base with people from the march. I think we all needed the connection with each other to prove what we experienced was not a dream.

On the home front, it's been surprisingly busy. For one thing, I am ripping out the broadloom on the stairs at my mother's house, a job that will resume this weekend because it is surprisingly noisy. There are little slats of wood with nails hammered into each step to hold down the carpet. to pry these slats off the steps requires much banging. So I have to do it on the weekend when her tenants are out and not working from home.

I have resumed pilates. I love being back at it. My increased limberness and mobility probably saved me from a worse injury today. In the parking lot of Loblaws, I walked over the painted yellow arrows that direct cars to go straight, turn left, or turn right. Who knew these painted arrows are slippery when wet.

So this afternoon, I am home home nursing my swollen knee from falling in the parking lot. It's also the first opportunity I've had in a long time to sit, drink tea, and read.

Already, I need to regroup so I can start again to get back to normal.

Retail Therapy

At the end of the day yesterday, Lindsey said, Now you know you're no longer in India.

I went out with three friends to Sherway Gardens. Lindsey's sister-in-law works at The Gap and this is staff appreciation weekend. With a transferable coupon in hand, we got 30% off everything at The Gap, even on sale items. So we bought stuff. I was looking for a non-T-shirt. I bought a plaid shirt, a long down coat, socks, and handsome umbrellas. Lindsey's husband, Tony, even joined us for a bit as he was finishing work in the area, en route to another job.

When we passed by a store called Bombay, they too had a 30% off sale on everything. Sandra and Lindsey bought Christmas presents for their moms and I bought Christmas ornaments. Then Sandra went to Ikea for a foldout bed. It's Ikea. We bought things we didn't need. No, the only thing I needed was shelving liner.

I hate shopping, you understand, especially for clothes. Shopping is just not a thing I do for leisure. When I really need something, I dash into a store, find what I need, then dash out, all within 10 minutes. So yesterday was an unusual day, and it was highly enjoyable, though exhausting. Fulfilling the cliche, we shopped till we dropped.

And Lindsey was right. I am no longer in India. Bringing my mind home in a mall with retail therapy. Only in North America.

The Older We Get...

The Boy said, Hey let's have dinner out Friday night. I said I can't, because I have my book club meeting Friday night. He said, How can that be? You just got back from India and you've already got plans?

That's the thing about being an adult. You always have plans. You try to carry them out with focus and order. While you carry out those plans, you also try to live in the moment and appreciate what you are doing, what you are experiencing, observing life around you.

Versus being a child or a teenage. Kids live in the moment. While living in the moment, they try to make plans. Their plans are invariably fluid and last minute. Living in the moment, kids seem forgetful of responsibility and oblivious to life around them.

And what about when you get much older, like after you retire. Literature tells us there are at least two ways to be. You can be a curmudgeonly old coot, full of bitterness, anger, and rigidity. Or you can be lively and full of grace, self-accepting, generous, and forgiving. You can live in the moment and make plans at the same time, and not get upset if the plans fall to shits.

That's the kind of old woman I want to be. Because that's the mindset I need to have to trek the Himalayas. My Himalayan guide, uncomplicated Mohamed, said you have to be physically fit and mentally unburdened to do the Himalayas. If you were not physically fit, you just wouldn't be able to do the trek that requires climbing up and down the mountains, sweating during the day, and freezing in the night. If you were fit but mentally preoccupied, you would be wasting your trek because you would be too distracted to appreciate the effort you made to see the beauty of the lakes high up in the mountains and clouds.

The Man and I have talked about trekking the Himalayas in Nepal. Oh he's afraid of heights and I am afraid of success. But think what a project we have - get fit, grow more graceful, overcome fear. I don't think life will be boring for us even if he is in Kabul right now.

Home

My body is back in Toronto, but my mind is suspended somewhere between home and India. I hope it doesn't take too long to follow.

On the way home from the airport, the Toronto highways were traffic free, the air smogless, the roads quiet. The sky was slight cloudy, casting that muted light on everything. After Delhi, that calm felt a bit surreal, like we were the few remaining survivors post apocalypse.

It's mid-Autumn here. Today, we stomped on carpets of yellow wet leaves outside while bare branches poked through most trees. I wore my down-filled jacket. The Boy had already turned on the furnace. Half a world away where my travelling companions are, and where I was two short days ago, it's 30C, noisy and dusty. You haggle through every exchange, elbow your way to the head of a queue, and jump out of the way of cars, buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and dogs.

The strangest feeling was using the keys to access the different parts of my life, like putting a key into my front door - I wasn't sure which key to use, like putting a key into the car - I had to think twice before knowing which way to turn to ignite the engine.

I have been welcomed home by family and friends, I have shopped for groceries, I have made The Boy get a haircut, I have identified a stench in the kitchen as dead onions on a shelf and cleaned out that cupboard, I have cleaned out moldy food from the fridge, I have exchanged e-mails with some of the people I met, I have had dinner with Sis, I've scrubbed one of the bathrooms clean, and I went to Joe Fresh and bought a red hoodie. I have much to do to prepare the house for winter. The Boy has said several times, It's good to have you home although I had a great time while you were away.

Yes, I am home.