One of the guide books we found at the hotel calls Bali "morning of the world". The good thing is, The Man is lying on the bed with his headphones on, singing along with the Loving Spoonfuls. I call out for him to stop his wailing for fear of waking the neighbours. It's way past midnight. But he does not hear me. Too bad I don't have a tape recorder.
We arrived in Bali yesterday. It is just as hot and humid here as in Jakarta. People tell me this is the cold season. How can that be when the temperature is 28C and 100% humidity? We landed in Kuta and a car took us to Seminyak. The hotel we are in is a charming, rustic, clean villa with a swimming pool in the courtyard. Apparently, the owner of this hotel is Dutch. His wife stays in Bali to run the hotel while he drums up business back home. That explain why there are so many retired Dutch couples here, who stay for one to six months at the hotel.
We are two minutes from the Indian ocean. Frangipani trees with fragrant flowers are everywhere. The flowers are like a gift from the gods to Bali. People collect the flowers and put them in little dishes of water, tuck them in their hair, lay them on a window ledge, decorate the breakfast table. There is a refined sense of simplicity and elegance everywhere. I can hear years from now, people lamenting the days long gone when frangipani flowers covered the ground and scented the air.
This morning, we took a walk along the beach, turned up a road, and walked on the narrow, winding street. But every opening from this lane leads to a restaurant, gallery, spa, or beautiful resort, and even a paddy field. We visited a resort that was right out of the pages of Architectural Digest, at only $180 a night. Our hotel is only $25 a night, which includes airport transportation, daily cleaning, free remote internet access, and daily breakfast. But I digress.
Along the street, we came upon a spa that looked clean and had a wide front. We stopped to look at their services. Immediately, a woman came out to solicit us, persuading us that we really needed a massage. We went in and were rewarded with a one-hour massage each, in the same room. I objected to undressing in front of The Man and was immediately offered a separate room. But it wasn't The Man I objected to, it was the presence of strangers. The two masseuses left the room to give us privacy. Who knew I was so uptight? But I have decided I must have several massages before leaving Bali.
Then in rained and thundered the rest of the day. In this rain, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant H recommended. It is a gorgeous place, sitting in the middle of nowhere, facing the ocean. Too bad the food isn't better. But here too, the view is well worth the price of admission. We had missed the sunset because of the rain. The Man liked the restaurant so much we made reservations to come back for dinner tomorrow. It's his birthday.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Eat, Shop, Eat
The hotel is full of mostly Asian, probably Indonesian, guests. The staff is polite and subservient, reminiscent of service staff from the 50's I've seen in movies and on TV. They get out of your way when you walk by. The rooms are nicely furnished and comfortable, luxurious even. The Man has no complaints. I do. Inside the hotel room, I could be anywhere. If you told me I was in Boston, or Toronto, there would be nothing in the room to contradict that. I didn't travel 23 hours to not leave home.
I am happy to see H, The Man's friend and colleague from Kabul, still here. He's staying for an extra few days of vacation. The weather is hot and humid, hotter and more humid than Toronto. The rain comes sporadically to cool things down.
My first day in Jakarta started with a sumptuous breakfast at the hotel buffet. There was cranberry, celery, carrot, guava, tomato, and orange juice at the juice bar - all the juices you need to make your own cleansing tonic. There were the requisite breads, yogurt, bacon, sausage, potato, and eggs cooked to your liking, as well as a cold salad bar, and an array of rice, noodles, soups, and meats.
As a child in Hong Kong, I ate rice and meat for breakfast, so I assume a full meal of staples first thing in the morning is an East Asian tradition. But I have outgrown the ability to manage a heavy stomach so early, so I opted for mostly fruit and chocolate croissant! I tried out a new fruit. It has a soft yellow shell, with pitted translucent flesh inside that scoops out with a spoon, sweet and tart at the same time.
Then we went shopping, with H as our leader. I wanted to look for a piece of luggage with a lock to replace the 25-year-old falling at the seam vinyl bag that I brought. I got completely overwhelmed by the mall. I believe we visited only a small section of a 4-storey-10-building complex that so sold mostly electronics and pirated DVDs and computer software. The pirating industry thrives here, though competition is stiff. How do the locals decide where to make their purchase when in every shop, the products and prices are the same?
I didn't find a suitcase I liked. But I bought a 2-gig memory card and an extra battery for my camera, both for the ridiculous price of $50 tax included. To put things in perspective, my current memory card is 250 mb and I think I paid the discounted price of $79 plus tax at Future Shop two years ago.
We then went to the Jakarta harbour when many sailing ships parked, waiting to transport illegal timber and concrete across the waters. A guide appeared out of nowhere and walked us along the harbour, through some of the streets, and into a marine museum, where we saw a huge canoe.
Then we went to Cafe Batavia. Batavia is the old name for Jakarta. I love the Cafe Batavia. Inside, we went back in time to the 30's. It's all art deco - look, feel, staff, and service. Hotel staff in green uniforms cleaned walls and baseboards, dusted picture frames, swept and mopped the red teak floors. At the Churchill Bar upstairs, uninformed bartenders mixed drinks and poured concoctions beside large basins of arranged cut flowers.
Just for contrast, on the way home, we went to an upscale mall inside the Grand Hyatt hotel. This mall is a secret transporter. I stepped through the doors and I was immediately home. There was The Body Shop, L'Occitane, Zara, Marks and Spencer, and other Yorkdale-type shops in a Yorkdale-kind setting. Very nice and very meh, though I did find a new pair of sunglasses to replace the pair I brought. The arm that I kept gluing back on snapped again and given the glue guck that has accumulated at the joint, I abandoned my old shades in the waste basket of Le Meridien hotel. Very painful.
After some rest, we met H's friend, F, for dinner at the Lara Djonggrang restaurant, a high-end Indonesian eatery. The place is a winding spread of rooms. You choose which room you want to experience your dinner in. F suggested we order three dinner platters to sample food from different regions of Indonesia. It was good food, though when the different regions ended up on the same plate at the same time in front of me, I could not distinguish the unique tastes from each area, despite the banana leaf wraps and coconut flavouring. But that's okay. Here, the dining experience is as much about the atmosphere as the food and my dinner companions more than made up for the saucy and conflicting fare reminiscent of Indian cooking. And you know about my non-relationship with Indian food. I have to try harder not to let this bias interfere with my enjoyment of the food here, despite the obvious Indian influence.
After dinner, we went to the Lan Na Thai for drinks and coffee. The boys had drinks, I had coffee. And what coffee it was! Aromatic with presence and bite, a real coffee. It is what coffee should be. I can never accept brown water from Second Cup from now on.
I confess I think people must have thought I was a prostitute in this bar. I commented to F that Indonesian women are beautiful and hot. He said many of them are prostitutes. How would he know? And yes, the other women could have been just different versions of me for being in Jakarta with white male companions, and yes, I think they are prostitutes because they are young and beautiful and fashionable dressed and the men they are with hug them and kiss them. No wait, maybe no one thinks I am a prostitute after all.
H has spent much time in Indonesia and speaks Bahasa fluently. I noticed that each time we got into a taxi, the driver turned to me first, as if expecting me to talk. I look the part after all. But H issues the directions and I am clued out as to what they say and where we go. F currently lives in Jakarta. He too speaks fluent Bahasa. I marvel again at the remarkable life paths these men have taken that now enable them to speak at least three languages fluently: German, English, and Bahasa.
I like Jakarta. It is lush, green and opulent. Signs of poverty are almost imperceptible. It is a consumer's dream city. But I am not sure what else people do here. I asked F this. He said they eat, shop, eat. I've done that now. Let's move on.
I am happy to see H, The Man's friend and colleague from Kabul, still here. He's staying for an extra few days of vacation. The weather is hot and humid, hotter and more humid than Toronto. The rain comes sporadically to cool things down.
My first day in Jakarta started with a sumptuous breakfast at the hotel buffet. There was cranberry, celery, carrot, guava, tomato, and orange juice at the juice bar - all the juices you need to make your own cleansing tonic. There were the requisite breads, yogurt, bacon, sausage, potato, and eggs cooked to your liking, as well as a cold salad bar, and an array of rice, noodles, soups, and meats.
As a child in Hong Kong, I ate rice and meat for breakfast, so I assume a full meal of staples first thing in the morning is an East Asian tradition. But I have outgrown the ability to manage a heavy stomach so early, so I opted for mostly fruit and chocolate croissant! I tried out a new fruit. It has a soft yellow shell, with pitted translucent flesh inside that scoops out with a spoon, sweet and tart at the same time.
Then we went shopping, with H as our leader. I wanted to look for a piece of luggage with a lock to replace the 25-year-old falling at the seam vinyl bag that I brought. I got completely overwhelmed by the mall. I believe we visited only a small section of a 4-storey-10-building complex that so sold mostly electronics and pirated DVDs and computer software. The pirating industry thrives here, though competition is stiff. How do the locals decide where to make their purchase when in every shop, the products and prices are the same?
I didn't find a suitcase I liked. But I bought a 2-gig memory card and an extra battery for my camera, both for the ridiculous price of $50 tax included. To put things in perspective, my current memory card is 250 mb and I think I paid the discounted price of $79 plus tax at Future Shop two years ago.
We then went to the Jakarta harbour when many sailing ships parked, waiting to transport illegal timber and concrete across the waters. A guide appeared out of nowhere and walked us along the harbour, through some of the streets, and into a marine museum, where we saw a huge canoe.
Then we went to Cafe Batavia. Batavia is the old name for Jakarta. I love the Cafe Batavia. Inside, we went back in time to the 30's. It's all art deco - look, feel, staff, and service. Hotel staff in green uniforms cleaned walls and baseboards, dusted picture frames, swept and mopped the red teak floors. At the Churchill Bar upstairs, uninformed bartenders mixed drinks and poured concoctions beside large basins of arranged cut flowers.
Just for contrast, on the way home, we went to an upscale mall inside the Grand Hyatt hotel. This mall is a secret transporter. I stepped through the doors and I was immediately home. There was The Body Shop, L'Occitane, Zara, Marks and Spencer, and other Yorkdale-type shops in a Yorkdale-kind setting. Very nice and very meh, though I did find a new pair of sunglasses to replace the pair I brought. The arm that I kept gluing back on snapped again and given the glue guck that has accumulated at the joint, I abandoned my old shades in the waste basket of Le Meridien hotel. Very painful.
After some rest, we met H's friend, F, for dinner at the Lara Djonggrang restaurant, a high-end Indonesian eatery. The place is a winding spread of rooms. You choose which room you want to experience your dinner in. F suggested we order three dinner platters to sample food from different regions of Indonesia. It was good food, though when the different regions ended up on the same plate at the same time in front of me, I could not distinguish the unique tastes from each area, despite the banana leaf wraps and coconut flavouring. But that's okay. Here, the dining experience is as much about the atmosphere as the food and my dinner companions more than made up for the saucy and conflicting fare reminiscent of Indian cooking. And you know about my non-relationship with Indian food. I have to try harder not to let this bias interfere with my enjoyment of the food here, despite the obvious Indian influence.
After dinner, we went to the Lan Na Thai for drinks and coffee. The boys had drinks, I had coffee. And what coffee it was! Aromatic with presence and bite, a real coffee. It is what coffee should be. I can never accept brown water from Second Cup from now on.
I confess I think people must have thought I was a prostitute in this bar. I commented to F that Indonesian women are beautiful and hot. He said many of them are prostitutes. How would he know? And yes, the other women could have been just different versions of me for being in Jakarta with white male companions, and yes, I think they are prostitutes because they are young and beautiful and fashionable dressed and the men they are with hug them and kiss them. No wait, maybe no one thinks I am a prostitute after all.
H has spent much time in Indonesia and speaks Bahasa fluently. I noticed that each time we got into a taxi, the driver turned to me first, as if expecting me to talk. I look the part after all. But H issues the directions and I am clued out as to what they say and where we go. F currently lives in Jakarta. He too speaks fluent Bahasa. I marvel again at the remarkable life paths these men have taken that now enable them to speak at least three languages fluently: German, English, and Bahasa.
I like Jakarta. It is lush, green and opulent. Signs of poverty are almost imperceptible. It is a consumer's dream city. But I am not sure what else people do here. I asked F this. He said they eat, shop, eat. I've done that now. Let's move on.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Jakarta
I am at Le Meridien hotel in Jakarta tonight. The city looks beautiful at night. That is, it is a developed city without the dirt, rubble, and stench of New Delhi. On the way into the hotel, we and the taxi did get scanned. Security is visible as there uniformed soldiers in the street, though they seem to be visiting with each other more than guarding anything.
The road coming in from the airport was not crowded. That is, it seemed like a normal flow of traffic without chaos and congestion, given Jakarta is the second or third most populated city in the world. Apparently, it's Muslim new year this weekend and a lot of people are away. The Man says the roads can be congested even at 3:00 am.
It's so strange to meet The Man here, like we're both out of context. I think I haven't slept for 24 hours or more. It's 12:30 am Friday. If I go to sleep now, I may wake up like it's a normal day tomorrow and not suffer jet lag.
The road coming in from the airport was not crowded. That is, it seemed like a normal flow of traffic without chaos and congestion, given Jakarta is the second or third most populated city in the world. Apparently, it's Muslim new year this weekend and a lot of people are away. The Man says the roads can be congested even at 3:00 am.
It's so strange to meet The Man here, like we're both out of context. I think I haven't slept for 24 hours or more. It's 12:30 am Friday. If I go to sleep now, I may wake up like it's a normal day tomorrow and not suffer jet lag.
Coming And Going
Right now, my right foot is killing me. I bought a new pair of shoes for this trip to Indonesia. Comfort was paramount. I bought a pair of Hush Puppies. When I put them on before leaving home, I noticed my right shoe was tight. Thinking it would loosen up with wear, I went to the aiport in them. As my feet swelled during the 15 hour flight to Hong Kong, my right shoe grew tighter and tighter. I took off my shoe to examine it. To my horror, my right shoe was size 6.5. My left shoe was size 8. That stupid sales lady put two different sizes in my shoe box! Grr...
It's been so busy the last three weeks I didn't think I would get all my things together for Indonesia. But I stayed up to 1:30 am and was ready. Good thing too. I woke up at 4:30 am and said to myself, I don't have to get up till 5:00 since the taxi doesn't come till 6:00. I swear, 5 minutes later, a knock came at the door and I looked at the clock to see the time was 5:58. Ugh. A splash to wake up. No shower, no make up. Just dressed, grabbed my things, woke The Boy up to say goodbye, and ran into the taxi, all within 10 minutes.
The flight was grueling. 15 hours. The route was not across Canada as I thought, but over Europe and Asia.
I am now technically in Hong Kong, city of my birth. It's only the airport, but it looks very familiar. I think this airport looks just like the airport in New Delhi. But internet access is free, though they have a sign asking users to limit their time to 15 minutes on the computers. I exchanged some money to buy a bottle of water. Then I went into the smoking lounge. I know I sound like a smoker, but I am not. I just wanted to see the smoking lounge because from the escalator, I saw the smoking lounge was a room with frosted windows. But the room was fogged up with smoke. If I were a smoker, I wouldn't have to light a cigarette. Just take a few deep breaths in that room to get my nicotine fix.
Okay, maybe my 15 minutes are up. People are waiting to use the internet.
It's been so busy the last three weeks I didn't think I would get all my things together for Indonesia. But I stayed up to 1:30 am and was ready. Good thing too. I woke up at 4:30 am and said to myself, I don't have to get up till 5:00 since the taxi doesn't come till 6:00. I swear, 5 minutes later, a knock came at the door and I looked at the clock to see the time was 5:58. Ugh. A splash to wake up. No shower, no make up. Just dressed, grabbed my things, woke The Boy up to say goodbye, and ran into the taxi, all within 10 minutes.
The flight was grueling. 15 hours. The route was not across Canada as I thought, but over Europe and Asia.
I am now technically in Hong Kong, city of my birth. It's only the airport, but it looks very familiar. I think this airport looks just like the airport in New Delhi. But internet access is free, though they have a sign asking users to limit their time to 15 minutes on the computers. I exchanged some money to buy a bottle of water. Then I went into the smoking lounge. I know I sound like a smoker, but I am not. I just wanted to see the smoking lounge because from the escalator, I saw the smoking lounge was a room with frosted windows. But the room was fogged up with smoke. If I were a smoker, I wouldn't have to light a cigarette. Just take a few deep breaths in that room to get my nicotine fix.
Okay, maybe my 15 minutes are up. People are waiting to use the internet.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Straw
Now that I have stopped fuming, I can talk about this.
The Boy has many freedoms and privileges. With these privileges come responsibility. Sometimes, he doesn't follow through on his responsibilities and obligations. That's when I get angry and disappointed.
Getting to school on time, handing in homework, carrying out his chores around the house are ongoing battles. Once in while, he needs to do what I ask, just because I say so. On my part, I give him support and perks so he can do the things he wants and enjoy time with his friends.
This March break, he planned a trip to Montreal with friends. I asked for details of the plan, such as when he's leaving, how, where he wants to stay, then we can talk about a budget. He kept saying he will give me all that information. The day before departure, I still had nothing.
That day, I had also invited a friend home for dinner. I asked The Boy to be home for that dinner and reminded him three times in as many days. On the day of the dinner, I phoned him at 6:00 pm to ask him to bring dessert home. He was at a cafe with friends. He asked if he could stay till 9:00. I said no, he needed to be home by 7:00. He said fine.
My friend arrived. We waited till 8:30. The Boy did not show up. I decided we would eat without him. The Boy came in at 9:15 to join us.
After my friend left, I told The boy I was disappointed he hadn't come home like I asked him to. He said, "I asked you if I could come home at 9:00 and you denied me that."
"Right. So why didn't you come home on time?"
"I don't know. I didn't feel like it. What's the big deal?"
"You didn't feel like it because it wasn't important to you. Your not coming home was disrespectful and irresponsible. You didn't do what I asked despite all my reminders, despite saying you would be home, because you didn't feel like it, because you weren't gaining anything by it. You were being selfish. I am very disappointed."
Half an hour later, he said, "Mom, about that money you're supposed to give me for Montreal. Can I have it now because I'm leaving tomorrow."
"You have not given me any information on your trip. After tonight, I don't feel like supporting you in what you want."
He objected with, Then I am not going to download the photos from your camera to the computer. Everything for the trip is booked. My friend will hate you. You are going back on your word. You have to pay the hotel cancellation fee of $250.
I said, I am not paying for anything. I am not interested in your trip. Right now, I don't feel like supporting what you do because you don't support what I do. You can still go to Montreal, just don't expect any help from me. And now, I don't want to talk to you about Montreal any more.
He phoned The Man in Indonesia for help. I explained the situation to The Man, and added, The Boy never has consequences for his actions. Is that what you want for him? It's not that he missed dinner. That was just one thing in a long series of disrespectful and belligerent behaviour and attitude. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Maybe it's because The Man saw my point and remembered how difficult The Boy can be, maybe it's because he couldn't help The Boy from Indonesia anyway, maybe it's because he didn't want to piss me off and cause me to cancel my trip to Indonesia, but The Man supported me in my decision not to support The Boy.
The Boy balked, not believing his father would not rescue him from his evil mother. I want to phone Dad back, he said. You incur any long distance charges on your cell phone and I will cut it off, I said slowly and evenly. He tried to apologize. I said it was too late.
So. The Boy cancelled his trip to Montreal. Since then, he's been diligent in telling me where he is and what he's doing. Today, I asked him what he's doing about the hotel cancellation fee, then changed my mind about wanting to know, so I said, Never mind, I am sure you will figure it out. He said, The cancellation fee is $110, not $250. I will pay for most of it, I have enough.
Has The Boy learned anything? I hope he has learned that he can handle problems when they come up, though I don't know. I hope he will be more responsible and responsive to his mother from now on. He is singing upstairs.
Parents often are not sure of how to handle their teens and don't feel good about being tough on them. I certainly didn't feel good. But I am glad I was firm on my resolve. I am going to count on the good qualities in our mother-son relationship to carry us over this rough patch. I am amazed that all this went down without me doing any yelling or screaming.
The Boy has many freedoms and privileges. With these privileges come responsibility. Sometimes, he doesn't follow through on his responsibilities and obligations. That's when I get angry and disappointed.
Getting to school on time, handing in homework, carrying out his chores around the house are ongoing battles. Once in while, he needs to do what I ask, just because I say so. On my part, I give him support and perks so he can do the things he wants and enjoy time with his friends.
This March break, he planned a trip to Montreal with friends. I asked for details of the plan, such as when he's leaving, how, where he wants to stay, then we can talk about a budget. He kept saying he will give me all that information. The day before departure, I still had nothing.
That day, I had also invited a friend home for dinner. I asked The Boy to be home for that dinner and reminded him three times in as many days. On the day of the dinner, I phoned him at 6:00 pm to ask him to bring dessert home. He was at a cafe with friends. He asked if he could stay till 9:00. I said no, he needed to be home by 7:00. He said fine.
My friend arrived. We waited till 8:30. The Boy did not show up. I decided we would eat without him. The Boy came in at 9:15 to join us.
After my friend left, I told The boy I was disappointed he hadn't come home like I asked him to. He said, "I asked you if I could come home at 9:00 and you denied me that."
"Right. So why didn't you come home on time?"
"I don't know. I didn't feel like it. What's the big deal?"
"You didn't feel like it because it wasn't important to you. Your not coming home was disrespectful and irresponsible. You didn't do what I asked despite all my reminders, despite saying you would be home, because you didn't feel like it, because you weren't gaining anything by it. You were being selfish. I am very disappointed."
Half an hour later, he said, "Mom, about that money you're supposed to give me for Montreal. Can I have it now because I'm leaving tomorrow."
"You have not given me any information on your trip. After tonight, I don't feel like supporting you in what you want."
He objected with, Then I am not going to download the photos from your camera to the computer. Everything for the trip is booked. My friend will hate you. You are going back on your word. You have to pay the hotel cancellation fee of $250.
I said, I am not paying for anything. I am not interested in your trip. Right now, I don't feel like supporting what you do because you don't support what I do. You can still go to Montreal, just don't expect any help from me. And now, I don't want to talk to you about Montreal any more.
He phoned The Man in Indonesia for help. I explained the situation to The Man, and added, The Boy never has consequences for his actions. Is that what you want for him? It's not that he missed dinner. That was just one thing in a long series of disrespectful and belligerent behaviour and attitude. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Maybe it's because The Man saw my point and remembered how difficult The Boy can be, maybe it's because he couldn't help The Boy from Indonesia anyway, maybe it's because he didn't want to piss me off and cause me to cancel my trip to Indonesia, but The Man supported me in my decision not to support The Boy.
The Boy balked, not believing his father would not rescue him from his evil mother. I want to phone Dad back, he said. You incur any long distance charges on your cell phone and I will cut it off, I said slowly and evenly. He tried to apologize. I said it was too late.
So. The Boy cancelled his trip to Montreal. Since then, he's been diligent in telling me where he is and what he's doing. Today, I asked him what he's doing about the hotel cancellation fee, then changed my mind about wanting to know, so I said, Never mind, I am sure you will figure it out. He said, The cancellation fee is $110, not $250. I will pay for most of it, I have enough.
Has The Boy learned anything? I hope he has learned that he can handle problems when they come up, though I don't know. I hope he will be more responsible and responsive to his mother from now on. He is singing upstairs.
Parents often are not sure of how to handle their teens and don't feel good about being tough on them. I certainly didn't feel good. But I am glad I was firm on my resolve. I am going to count on the good qualities in our mother-son relationship to carry us over this rough patch. I am amazed that all this went down without me doing any yelling or screaming.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
We Came So Close!
Two days ago, the forecast called for up to 40 cm of snow to fall on the city over the next 36 hours. It was to be the biggest snow storm of the year. Going into the storm with 176.8 cm of snow so far this winter, we were poised to break the 1938-39 record of 207 cm and take up the mantle as the snowiest winter on record in Toronto.
We were so close. After two days, 25 cm of snow fell, accompanied by sub-zero temperatures and gusty, howling winds, making walking a strenuous effort, navigating around snow mounds and buried cars, an almost impossible task because you can't see more than a few feet in front of you. It was certainly the stormiest night of the year.
What did we do on this stormy night? We went out to dinner.
During the day, a valve from our hot water tank started leaking, soaking through part of our carpetted basement. Between mopping up the water and getting someone in to fix it, I was on the phone making dates for next week. I also dug my way out to the shed, twice, in the middle of the storm to look for tools and parts to fix a table. Finally, I ran outside to see if my neighbours had what I needed.
There they were, three of them, leaning on their shovels, exchanging street gossip. They all had snowy eyebrows and lashes, and a white helmet from the snow collected on their hats. I joined them, producing my table part to see if they had what I was looking for.
Bonnie said, "Jerry across the street could fix that for you. He would love to do it because he has nothing to do. But he probably can't get into his shed right now." We look across at Jerry's house and could see his shed through the driveway. He's never dug his way to his shed this winter. A field of snow was pressed against the shed doors, piling more than half way up the shed.
Andy said, "We're just getting ready to go to the hardware store so we'll take your part with us and get what you need."
"You are braving this weather?"
"Yeah, isn't it great? The perfect day to walked around snuggled up in a warm coat. Want to come?" said his wife, Lucia. I wanted to go, but I was also cleaning the house.
Then John said, "Anyone feel like going for steak down at D-Ganz for dinner?"
We all said, "Yes!"
So on their way to the hardware store, Andy and Lucia stopped by D-Ganz to book a table, and at 5:45, ten of us, with kids in tow, trooped down the street to the restaurant. John's wife, Caitlin, told us today was John's birthday and we were taking part in the dinner celebration. I told John I was honoured he chose to have his birthday dinner with us.
The small restaurant was full! In addition to us, there were two tables of sixes, and a table for two. All the tables in the restaurant were used up. The food presentation and quality of food had improved much since I was last there more than a year ago. Back then, the restaurant served inexpensive, good steak. But the menu, taste, and smell was Greek greasy spoon based.
But tonight, the salad contained mixed greens, grape tomatoes, and sweet onions in a subtle vinegrette, not the knife-cut iceberg lettuce smothered in oil, olives, feta, and bottled dressing of the year before. The steaks were still tender and charred just right, no need for HP sauce, and at $12.95 for an 8-oz New York cut, a real bargain. Niece said, Steak is one of my favourite foods.
Even the vegetables were done well. Strands of tender asparagus laced across glazed carrots and roasted potatoes. A far cry from the near mush boiled and greasy potato lumps of last year.
After dinner, we trudged back home across the No Frills parking lot against the wind and snow. I understand why people get lost in the snow now. We literally fought the weather. John and I stayed a bit behind, fumbling with our cigarettes. Ahead, you can see our group of adults and small kids wrapped tight in their coats, heads down, bodies bent, leaning into the wind, their bodies striking a perpendicular cut into the furious, slanting, slamming snow.
It was amazing. The moment we set foot on our street, we ran into neighbours going out for a walk or coming home from somewhere. We exchanged hellos as we made our way up the street. Then we stomped into John's house and collapsed into his armchairs and sofas, Lucia and I panting and feeling for our faces while Caitlin served us tea and dessert.
The Globe and Mail today said years from now, we will be able to tell our grandchildren how we survived that fierce snow storm of 2008. I will, because I trekked the snow the night of the big storm and had cake with friends.
We were so close. After two days, 25 cm of snow fell, accompanied by sub-zero temperatures and gusty, howling winds, making walking a strenuous effort, navigating around snow mounds and buried cars, an almost impossible task because you can't see more than a few feet in front of you. It was certainly the stormiest night of the year.
What did we do on this stormy night? We went out to dinner.
During the day, a valve from our hot water tank started leaking, soaking through part of our carpetted basement. Between mopping up the water and getting someone in to fix it, I was on the phone making dates for next week. I also dug my way out to the shed, twice, in the middle of the storm to look for tools and parts to fix a table. Finally, I ran outside to see if my neighbours had what I needed.
There they were, three of them, leaning on their shovels, exchanging street gossip. They all had snowy eyebrows and lashes, and a white helmet from the snow collected on their hats. I joined them, producing my table part to see if they had what I was looking for.
Bonnie said, "Jerry across the street could fix that for you. He would love to do it because he has nothing to do. But he probably can't get into his shed right now." We look across at Jerry's house and could see his shed through the driveway. He's never dug his way to his shed this winter. A field of snow was pressed against the shed doors, piling more than half way up the shed.
Andy said, "We're just getting ready to go to the hardware store so we'll take your part with us and get what you need."
"You are braving this weather?"
"Yeah, isn't it great? The perfect day to walked around snuggled up in a warm coat. Want to come?" said his wife, Lucia. I wanted to go, but I was also cleaning the house.
Then John said, "Anyone feel like going for steak down at D-Ganz for dinner?"
We all said, "Yes!"
So on their way to the hardware store, Andy and Lucia stopped by D-Ganz to book a table, and at 5:45, ten of us, with kids in tow, trooped down the street to the restaurant. John's wife, Caitlin, told us today was John's birthday and we were taking part in the dinner celebration. I told John I was honoured he chose to have his birthday dinner with us.
The small restaurant was full! In addition to us, there were two tables of sixes, and a table for two. All the tables in the restaurant were used up. The food presentation and quality of food had improved much since I was last there more than a year ago. Back then, the restaurant served inexpensive, good steak. But the menu, taste, and smell was Greek greasy spoon based.
But tonight, the salad contained mixed greens, grape tomatoes, and sweet onions in a subtle vinegrette, not the knife-cut iceberg lettuce smothered in oil, olives, feta, and bottled dressing of the year before. The steaks were still tender and charred just right, no need for HP sauce, and at $12.95 for an 8-oz New York cut, a real bargain. Niece said, Steak is one of my favourite foods.
Even the vegetables were done well. Strands of tender asparagus laced across glazed carrots and roasted potatoes. A far cry from the near mush boiled and greasy potato lumps of last year.
After dinner, we trudged back home across the No Frills parking lot against the wind and snow. I understand why people get lost in the snow now. We literally fought the weather. John and I stayed a bit behind, fumbling with our cigarettes. Ahead, you can see our group of adults and small kids wrapped tight in their coats, heads down, bodies bent, leaning into the wind, their bodies striking a perpendicular cut into the furious, slanting, slamming snow.
It was amazing. The moment we set foot on our street, we ran into neighbours going out for a walk or coming home from somewhere. We exchanged hellos as we made our way up the street. Then we stomped into John's house and collapsed into his armchairs and sofas, Lucia and I panting and feeling for our faces while Caitlin served us tea and dessert.
The Globe and Mail today said years from now, we will be able to tell our grandchildren how we survived that fierce snow storm of 2008. I will, because I trekked the snow the night of the big storm and had cake with friends.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Money Makes The World Go Around, Part 1
Last week, the titles in some financial stories in the Globe went like this:
TD profit tops $1-billion mark
Talisman profit hits $2.08-billion record for the year
Rogue wheat trader loses $141-million
CIBC swings to loss on C$3.38 billion in charges
and audaciously, just "$250-billion".
These guys fiddle with money in the millions and billions. The Man spends money in the thousands. Meanwhile, I try to balance our home budget in dollars and cents.
There is something surreal about the different scales of money that passes through our hands. At the million and billion level, corporations could rescue countries, correct a social ill, alleviate poverty, or improve community programs. But they don't. Most of money goes back to owners and investors. But companies with a socially conscious board or owners donate amounts in the thousands to causes that align with their values.
At the thousand level, The Man could take part in Afghanistan's internal economy of bakshis. But he doesn't. He helps build infrastructure in a war-torn country; as a capacity-builder, he trains his staff to acquire new skills and experience; and he provides employment to his staff.
At the dollars and cents level, I could watch TV and eat bonbons all day and night. But I don't. Except chocolate, which is an essential food group and should never be eaten with the distraction of the TV. I maintain the roof over our head, I keep us clothed and fed, and I try to engage our family in positive life experiences. At least those are the rudimentary goals.
TD profit tops $1-billion mark
Talisman profit hits $2.08-billion record for the year
Rogue wheat trader loses $141-million
CIBC swings to loss on C$3.38 billion in charges
and audaciously, just "$250-billion".
These guys fiddle with money in the millions and billions. The Man spends money in the thousands. Meanwhile, I try to balance our home budget in dollars and cents.
There is something surreal about the different scales of money that passes through our hands. At the million and billion level, corporations could rescue countries, correct a social ill, alleviate poverty, or improve community programs. But they don't. Most of money goes back to owners and investors. But companies with a socially conscious board or owners donate amounts in the thousands to causes that align with their values.
At the thousand level, The Man could take part in Afghanistan's internal economy of bakshis. But he doesn't. He helps build infrastructure in a war-torn country; as a capacity-builder, he trains his staff to acquire new skills and experience; and he provides employment to his staff.
At the dollars and cents level, I could watch TV and eat bonbons all day and night. But I don't. Except chocolate, which is an essential food group and should never be eaten with the distraction of the TV. I maintain the roof over our head, I keep us clothed and fed, and I try to engage our family in positive life experiences. At least those are the rudimentary goals.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
My Fat Gene
I had a boyfriend once who said, Every time I am with you, I get hungry and want to eat. Since then, several girlfriends have also said the same thing to me.
Last week, my 6-year-old niece, Kid2, phoned me up for a dessert date. She had to bring her whole family as chaperone, but it was worth it to spend time with her. After our cakes, she suddenly said to her mom, "I'm hungry. I want a ham and cheese sandwich."
The Boy's friends have told me several times, We get fed so well at your house and we eat more.
Now that Niece is staying with me, this is what's happening. On the day she arrived, she said she lost her appetite a few months ago and her weight dropped to 99 lbs. She's 5' 5". That means her BMI was 16.5. A serious case of being underweight. She's under doctor's orders to gain weight. Imagine that.
We've gone shopping a couple of times to stock the house with food she likes. She's concerned about inconveniencing me, the cost of things, and tells me she doesn't want me to buy things we don't normally use in the house. I tell her, If I don't want to buy food she likes, then why did I invite her to stay with me.
She cooks, does the dishes, does her laundry, offers to clean the house, teaches me teen lingo, goes to yoga and pilates classes with me, suggests we go to the Y gym for the day. In short, she is the daughter that The Boy isn't. But he is the best son, often enough. Last night, he even took her to a movie.
I see Niece is eating. She even had Thai food once when we were out. She eats several times a day, like me. Except her portions are much smaller than mine, and she doesn't eat vegetables but raw carrots and peas. Last night, she ate a Hungry Man dinner. I ate Cheetos. The Boy ate at his friend's a few doors up. It's a long story. Tonight, Niece will make chicken curry pasta. She phoned her mom for the recipe. She said, "I get hungry here. I am eating so much."
Seriously, I think being around me makes people hungry. It's my fat gene transmitting its power across the universe.
Last week, my 6-year-old niece, Kid2, phoned me up for a dessert date. She had to bring her whole family as chaperone, but it was worth it to spend time with her. After our cakes, she suddenly said to her mom, "I'm hungry. I want a ham and cheese sandwich."
The Boy's friends have told me several times, We get fed so well at your house and we eat more.
Now that Niece is staying with me, this is what's happening. On the day she arrived, she said she lost her appetite a few months ago and her weight dropped to 99 lbs. She's 5' 5". That means her BMI was 16.5. A serious case of being underweight. She's under doctor's orders to gain weight. Imagine that.
We've gone shopping a couple of times to stock the house with food she likes. She's concerned about inconveniencing me, the cost of things, and tells me she doesn't want me to buy things we don't normally use in the house. I tell her, If I don't want to buy food she likes, then why did I invite her to stay with me.
She cooks, does the dishes, does her laundry, offers to clean the house, teaches me teen lingo, goes to yoga and pilates classes with me, suggests we go to the Y gym for the day. In short, she is the daughter that The Boy isn't. But he is the best son, often enough. Last night, he even took her to a movie.
I see Niece is eating. She even had Thai food once when we were out. She eats several times a day, like me. Except her portions are much smaller than mine, and she doesn't eat vegetables but raw carrots and peas. Last night, she ate a Hungry Man dinner. I ate Cheetos. The Boy ate at his friend's a few doors up. It's a long story. Tonight, Niece will make chicken curry pasta. She phoned her mom for the recipe. She said, "I get hungry here. I am eating so much."
Seriously, I think being around me makes people hungry. It's my fat gene transmitting its power across the universe.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
My Provincial Life
I must lead a pretty spartan life where movie watching and video rental is concerned. The Boy, and even The Man in Afghanistan, watches many more movies than I do. My Niece is staying with me for two weeks. Even in the small town of Port Hope, she watches more movies than I do. Fairly sophisticated ones too.
After our outing one day this week, Niece and I stopped by our local Blockbuster to pick up some movies. I found a movie I didn't mind watching - Seven Swords, a Chinese epic that opened the 2005 Venice Film Festival. But I didn't know how to rent it. I said to Niece, "Psst, I want to watch this movie. What do I do? Do I take this box or the box behind it?"
"You take the one behind it. See, the one with the picture has no disks inside. The one behind is locked so people can't steal the disks inside."
"I don't think it worked like this last time I rented a movie."
"When was that?"
"Five, six year ago."
Niece glared at me, then walked away with a smirk.
At the check out, the cashier looked at my selection and said, "This movie is so sick."
"Really? What's wrong with it?"
"No, I mean, it's sick," he said with both thumbs up. Niece smiled, trying not to react. Then the cashier asked for my membership card.
"Don't you just need my name and phone number?"
"We may have once. But now we need to see your card. When did you last rent a movie from us?"
"Five, six years ago."
He stared at me to see if I was serious. Then he said, "Okay, let me check to see if you are still in our system." I wasn't. So he gave me a new membership card and we rented the movies.
Leaving the store, I realized it was probably more than five, six year ago. It's more like 15 years ago since I rented a movie from them. The last time I went in, I was with The Boy. He was two. He needed to use the bathroom...because he really had to go. I asked the store clerk for the washroom. He wouldn't let The Boy use it. I remember him saying, Our washroom is not for customer use. When I got home, I phoned the store manager and screamed at him. Since then, I have not rented from that store.
The cashier who served me this week was probably a wee toddler himself back then. The clerk who wouldn't let The Boy use the washroom is probably married now and has toddlers of his own. I sure hold a grudge for a long time. I decided to forgive and forget.
I've got the movie home for two days. I haven't watched it yet because I don't know how to use the DVD player. I have to wait till The Boy is home long enough to set me up.
After our outing one day this week, Niece and I stopped by our local Blockbuster to pick up some movies. I found a movie I didn't mind watching - Seven Swords, a Chinese epic that opened the 2005 Venice Film Festival. But I didn't know how to rent it. I said to Niece, "Psst, I want to watch this movie. What do I do? Do I take this box or the box behind it?"
"You take the one behind it. See, the one with the picture has no disks inside. The one behind is locked so people can't steal the disks inside."
"I don't think it worked like this last time I rented a movie."
"When was that?"
"Five, six year ago."
Niece glared at me, then walked away with a smirk.
At the check out, the cashier looked at my selection and said, "This movie is so sick."
"Really? What's wrong with it?"
"No, I mean, it's sick," he said with both thumbs up. Niece smiled, trying not to react. Then the cashier asked for my membership card.
"Don't you just need my name and phone number?"
"We may have once. But now we need to see your card. When did you last rent a movie from us?"
"Five, six years ago."
He stared at me to see if I was serious. Then he said, "Okay, let me check to see if you are still in our system." I wasn't. So he gave me a new membership card and we rented the movies.
Leaving the store, I realized it was probably more than five, six year ago. It's more like 15 years ago since I rented a movie from them. The last time I went in, I was with The Boy. He was two. He needed to use the bathroom...because he really had to go. I asked the store clerk for the washroom. He wouldn't let The Boy use it. I remember him saying, Our washroom is not for customer use. When I got home, I phoned the store manager and screamed at him. Since then, I have not rented from that store.
The cashier who served me this week was probably a wee toddler himself back then. The clerk who wouldn't let The Boy use the washroom is probably married now and has toddlers of his own. I sure hold a grudge for a long time. I decided to forgive and forget.
I've got the movie home for two days. I haven't watched it yet because I don't know how to use the DVD player. I have to wait till The Boy is home long enough to set me up.
Friday, February 29, 2008
The Leap
It's Leap Day. Some customs allow a woman to make a proposal of marriage to a man on this day and he must accept. If he declines, then he must buy the woman a gown or 12 pairs of gloves.
I wonder what it feels like to know your role as husband can be replaced by a dress or some gloves. No no, stop it, I'm not a man hater. In fact, my doctor tells me my testosterone level is on the high side so I am kind of man-like myself. The gift to a rejected woman is a consolation. But still, if I were a man, I would wonder how strong the woman's attachment to me is, if all it takes is a dress to console her for the absence of my company in her life.
I won't make a marriage proposal today. I'll wait four years to see if The Man is still working out then decide. The minute he slips though, Bam - the next Leap Year, I will either have a new husband or a new dress. So in lieu of a marriage proposal, I am making a leap of faith today.
I believe we will all be fine. The Man and I will enter our twilight years truly golden. The Boy will grow up to be a thoughtful, generous, upstanding, creative, and successful man. We will share many good times with our families and friends. These things will happen because we show up and put in the effort to make them happen.
I wonder what it feels like to know your role as husband can be replaced by a dress or some gloves. No no, stop it, I'm not a man hater. In fact, my doctor tells me my testosterone level is on the high side so I am kind of man-like myself. The gift to a rejected woman is a consolation. But still, if I were a man, I would wonder how strong the woman's attachment to me is, if all it takes is a dress to console her for the absence of my company in her life.
I won't make a marriage proposal today. I'll wait four years to see if The Man is still working out then decide. The minute he slips though, Bam - the next Leap Year, I will either have a new husband or a new dress. So in lieu of a marriage proposal, I am making a leap of faith today.
I believe we will all be fine. The Man and I will enter our twilight years truly golden. The Boy will grow up to be a thoughtful, generous, upstanding, creative, and successful man. We will share many good times with our families and friends. These things will happen because we show up and put in the effort to make them happen.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Cousins By The Dozens
The Man has many cousins. There are so many that once upon a time, one of his cousins hosted an annual party called Cousins By The Dozens, and I swear, hundreds of cousins showed up at his farm for this party each year.
The Man also makes many claims about having ancestors and cousins everywhere. For example, one of Oscar Wilde's lovers may have been an ancestor. I've learned to hold my face still as I mentally roll my eyes when he makes these claims now. But once in a while, a real cousin pops up. Like his cousin in Dubai, with whom he had dinner when he passed through Dubai en route home for Christmas and to whom I send five books last month. Or Jill, who I've never heard of but mysteriously showed up one day in Toronto. She and her husband organized the land reform march in India and that's how I ended up going to India.
So now, our Australian cousin (okay, she and her sister are The Man's cousins, but I consider them my cousins too because I'm like that) told The Man Barack Obama is a cousin! As if The Man needed more encouragement to aggrandize his kinship circuitry. Oh they're very distant cousin. They share a common ancestor somewhere way back.
A part of me is rolling my eyes. But there may also be some truth to this one. Australian Cousin's mother was a professional genealogist and wrote books on the subject. She charted her family tree. I don't think she would have gotten it wrong, though you never know.
Does my side of the family have cousins? Except for the current generation of young cousins, I only know of assholes, wife beaters, and adulterers. But The Boy's generation, there are lots of cousins. I like to think I have influence on the kind of adults these kids grow up to be. In fact, I should start planning cousins by the dozens parties for each side of the family so they'd have a place to reunite with their clan once they start their own families, and a hub of support to go through life with. A farm, my kingdom for a farm!
The Man also makes many claims about having ancestors and cousins everywhere. For example, one of Oscar Wilde's lovers may have been an ancestor. I've learned to hold my face still as I mentally roll my eyes when he makes these claims now. But once in a while, a real cousin pops up. Like his cousin in Dubai, with whom he had dinner when he passed through Dubai en route home for Christmas and to whom I send five books last month. Or Jill, who I've never heard of but mysteriously showed up one day in Toronto. She and her husband organized the land reform march in India and that's how I ended up going to India.
So now, our Australian cousin (okay, she and her sister are The Man's cousins, but I consider them my cousins too because I'm like that) told The Man Barack Obama is a cousin! As if The Man needed more encouragement to aggrandize his kinship circuitry. Oh they're very distant cousin. They share a common ancestor somewhere way back.
A part of me is rolling my eyes. But there may also be some truth to this one. Australian Cousin's mother was a professional genealogist and wrote books on the subject. She charted her family tree. I don't think she would have gotten it wrong, though you never know.
Does my side of the family have cousins? Except for the current generation of young cousins, I only know of assholes, wife beaters, and adulterers. But The Boy's generation, there are lots of cousins. I like to think I have influence on the kind of adults these kids grow up to be. In fact, I should start planning cousins by the dozens parties for each side of the family so they'd have a place to reunite with their clan once they start their own families, and a hub of support to go through life with. A farm, my kingdom for a farm!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
I Go
Of late, I've had a burst of energy.
I booked my flight to Indonesia. I am going to meet The Man in Jakarta in about three weeks. The Boy stays home.
I stopped making The Boy breakfast and lunch since he doesn't eat them anyway. Guilt be damned.
I finally made sheers for the dining room. They are unobtrusive, even with dragonflies on them. That is, they don't take over the room and provide just the right amount of filter when the sun blazes in late afternoon.
I made pillow shams for my bed and covered a huge canvas above the bed with fabric. Minimal sewing. Lots of glue gun. It's a change of scene for my bedroom. The Boy said my bed now looks like it doesn't belong in our house; it belongs in India. Ah, the Indian influence coming out. I was entertaining the idea my bed looks like it belongs inside a tent out in the desert in the Middle East.
I repaired a friend's wooden antique tables without experience in repairs or knowledge of antiques. I am returning the tables in better shape than even before the tables broke. Aside from re-attaching the table tops to the pedestal legs, the tables no longer wobble.
I re-arranged my kitchen cupboards, then dug my way through the knee-high snow in the backyard and into the shed to drag out things in storage. I throw out some of these things.
I am fearless. I feel creative and productive. I walk on the plane of colours, shades, textures, ideas and representations and call myself an artist.
I booked my flight to Indonesia. I am going to meet The Man in Jakarta in about three weeks. The Boy stays home.
I stopped making The Boy breakfast and lunch since he doesn't eat them anyway. Guilt be damned.
I finally made sheers for the dining room. They are unobtrusive, even with dragonflies on them. That is, they don't take over the room and provide just the right amount of filter when the sun blazes in late afternoon.
I made pillow shams for my bed and covered a huge canvas above the bed with fabric. Minimal sewing. Lots of glue gun. It's a change of scene for my bedroom. The Boy said my bed now looks like it doesn't belong in our house; it belongs in India. Ah, the Indian influence coming out. I was entertaining the idea my bed looks like it belongs inside a tent out in the desert in the Middle East.
I repaired a friend's wooden antique tables without experience in repairs or knowledge of antiques. I am returning the tables in better shape than even before the tables broke. Aside from re-attaching the table tops to the pedestal legs, the tables no longer wobble.
I re-arranged my kitchen cupboards, then dug my way through the knee-high snow in the backyard and into the shed to drag out things in storage. I throw out some of these things.
I am fearless. I feel creative and productive. I walk on the plane of colours, shades, textures, ideas and representations and call myself an artist.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Quack Quack
Even from afar, The Man makes me laugh like no one can. He phoned this morning to tell me this:
Tasi, my scraggy Afghan Hound, is an old dog. His housemate has been looking for a new home for her so she can live out her days well cared for. Last week, she found a family that lives outside Kabul. The family has lots of space for Tasi to run around in, they have other dogs to keep Tasi company, and these other dogs look well cared for. So Tasi is gone.
But The Man's house guards feel they need an animal on the premises. One morning, as he was leaving the house, the guards approached him.
"We want to get a guard duck. Will you pay for its food?" they asked,
"A guard duck?"
"Yes."
"Duck? Quack quack?"
"Yes, yes, quack quack."
"Sure," he said, thinking guard ducks must an Afghani thing.
The Man went off to his friend's for brunch. There, he saw his housemate and told her about their guards' request for a guard duck.
She said, "You mean a guard dog?"
"No, they said duck. Quack quack."
"Quack quack, woof woof, it's probably the same to them."
Meanwhile, one of the guards went to a nearby ravine and grabbed a stray puppy. When The Man got home, the guards said, "New dog," pointing at the puppy in the yard.
"I thought you were getting a duck."
"No, dog."
So now The Man has the responsibility of providing for the new dog. But here's the thing I'm wondering. Even if the guards really meant "duck", did The Man feel safe knowing a duck was going to guard his house? Maybe that's why I love being with The Man. He makes me laugh at all our foilables and imperfections. In the end, life is still pretty great.
Tasi, my scraggy Afghan Hound, is an old dog. His housemate has been looking for a new home for her so she can live out her days well cared for. Last week, she found a family that lives outside Kabul. The family has lots of space for Tasi to run around in, they have other dogs to keep Tasi company, and these other dogs look well cared for. So Tasi is gone.
But The Man's house guards feel they need an animal on the premises. One morning, as he was leaving the house, the guards approached him.
"We want to get a guard duck. Will you pay for its food?" they asked,
"A guard duck?"
"Yes."
"Duck? Quack quack?"
"Yes, yes, quack quack."
"Sure," he said, thinking guard ducks must an Afghani thing.
The Man went off to his friend's for brunch. There, he saw his housemate and told her about their guards' request for a guard duck.
She said, "You mean a guard dog?"
"No, they said duck. Quack quack."
"Quack quack, woof woof, it's probably the same to them."
Meanwhile, one of the guards went to a nearby ravine and grabbed a stray puppy. When The Man got home, the guards said, "New dog," pointing at the puppy in the yard.
"I thought you were getting a duck."
"No, dog."
So now The Man has the responsibility of providing for the new dog. But here's the thing I'm wondering. Even if the guards really meant "duck", did The Man feel safe knowing a duck was going to guard his house? Maybe that's why I love being with The Man. He makes me laugh at all our foilables and imperfections. In the end, life is still pretty great.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
In Someone Else's Boots
Lately, we've been losing ourselves. In the last three months, I've lost my white scarf somewhere. I've lost two knapsacks. How can I lose a knapsack? Two different ones, two different times.
But the funniest loss is when The Boy came home after the weekend's birthday gig. He came home in someone else's boots. He and his friends stayed behind to pack their equipment. When they left, everyone found their boots. The Boy couldn't find his. But there was one pair of brown boots left. They happen to fit The Boy, though a tad small. So we conclude someone had taken his boots by mistake.
It's been five days. You'd think the fellow who took The Boy's boots, or his parents, would have noticed by now. Thing is, the brown boots The Boy came home with are a better quality than the pair he owned. So you'd think the parents would object to this inadvertent trade and contact the Birthday Son to arrange a switch back.
Where are these people?
But the funniest loss is when The Boy came home after the weekend's birthday gig. He came home in someone else's boots. He and his friends stayed behind to pack their equipment. When they left, everyone found their boots. The Boy couldn't find his. But there was one pair of brown boots left. They happen to fit The Boy, though a tad small. So we conclude someone had taken his boots by mistake.
It's been five days. You'd think the fellow who took The Boy's boots, or his parents, would have noticed by now. Thing is, the brown boots The Boy came home with are a better quality than the pair he owned. So you'd think the parents would object to this inadvertent trade and contact the Birthday Son to arrange a switch back.
Where are these people?
Monday, February 18, 2008
Greatness
My sister-in-law just became a grandmother. Her daughter gave birth to a girl this weekend. Without undermining the family's joyous occasion, let me have an old fogey moment: I am good with being a great aunt, but I am not ready to be a great-aunt.
This senior nomenclature disconcerts me. There is a physical family generation between me and this newborn. Nothing makes me feel my age more than moving one generation closer to extinction. I didn't do anything to bring this on; this is life happening to you.
I've read that men feel their mortality when they have children. The Man certainly said so when The Boy was born. At the time, I said, Pish posh, I feel vibrantly alive, all powerful and potent, I am a giver of life and now I am going to mold this life. Despite The Man's expressed vulnerability, he turned out to be a great dad. Now it's my turn to feel my age.
I hope my niece feels vibrantly alive, that she has the power to shape her life and that of her daughter's. I hope she draws from the feisty, creative strength within to take care of herself and help her daughter navigate through life. I know, the baby was just born and this is a lot to pay attention to, both mother and baby are so young. But someone has to send wishes their way while they are awe-struck with their immediate needs. I found this poem and wishes for her:
This senior nomenclature disconcerts me. There is a physical family generation between me and this newborn. Nothing makes me feel my age more than moving one generation closer to extinction. I didn't do anything to bring this on; this is life happening to you.
I've read that men feel their mortality when they have children. The Man certainly said so when The Boy was born. At the time, I said, Pish posh, I feel vibrantly alive, all powerful and potent, I am a giver of life and now I am going to mold this life. Despite The Man's expressed vulnerability, he turned out to be a great dad. Now it's my turn to feel my age.
I hope my niece feels vibrantly alive, that she has the power to shape her life and that of her daughter's. I hope she draws from the feisty, creative strength within to take care of herself and help her daughter navigate through life. I know, the baby was just born and this is a lot to pay attention to, both mother and baby are so young. But someone has to send wishes their way while they are awe-struck with their immediate needs. I found this poem and wishes for her:
May you feel at home in your body with all its changes and the marks of its experiences.
May you get to know your baby as a person, shaping into an individual you both know and find mysterious.
May you continue to get to know yourself as a mother, shaping into someone who is both her old self and someone completely new.
May you find the time to care for yourself, for your own health and your own goals while you manage the complete responsibility of dependency.
May you sleep with dreams that refresh and calm you for the next day.
May you use your new power of mother love to reach out to the world and change it for the better.
May you have the confidence to speak your mind, act on your convictions and declare your intentions for your life and the planet your children will inherit.
May you be spared heartbreak and suffering in your heart, home and family.
May you discover a sense of newness in each moment in the life of your child and the adventure of parenting.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Freed, Freed For Now
With so much media and home attention on Afghanistan recently, I wasn't aware Kosovo was so close to seceding from Serbia. Today, the Republic of Kosovo declared itself an independent nation, making it the newest country in the world. Serbia and Russia object. Will another war erupt, or will Serbia and Kosovo be like China and Taiwan?
While the Kosovites (is that what they are now?) taste their new freedom today, our street is also being liberated. A city crew has come to remove the snow piles on our curbs. We lost a few parking spots to these hills. My neighbours and I say to each other, Where are we going to put it all if another snowfall comes?
The more immediate question is, where is the City going to put it all? For now, in front of our house. Here's the view from our front porch, looking across the street. That's our car in the foreground, still covered in snow.
Early this morning, the City crew knocked on doors to get people who are parked on the street to move their cars. The snow they dump in the middle of the street spills over onto the sidewalk.
Here's The Boy climbing the snow hill when he thought I wasn't looking.
Here comes the plow down our street.'
Here is the crew getting ready for a break.
When they have piled the snow high enough, new trucks comes in - a lifter and a carrier. The lifter scoops the snow from the pile, travels over to the carrier, and dumps the scoop of snow in.
When the green carrier is full, it drives away and another comes to take its place. All these years in the City, I've never seen a snow removal operation.
Apparently, this year's snow accumulation is close to the amount of snow we received in 1999, when Mayor Mel called in the Canadian army. This has certainly been the snowiest year since 1999. This clean up is costing the City about $25 million. Our annual snow removal budget is $65 million. We get about 125 cm of snow each year. Compared that to Montreal, a smaller city, which has a snow removal budget of $128 million. But then they get about 225 cm of snow a year.
In years, as in the past two years, when we get little snow, the snow removal budget has a surplus, which goes back into city coffers.
So for now, we feel free on our little street. Though I hear we are expect another 15 cm of snow this week.
While the Kosovites (is that what they are now?) taste their new freedom today, our street is also being liberated. A city crew has come to remove the snow piles on our curbs. We lost a few parking spots to these hills. My neighbours and I say to each other, Where are we going to put it all if another snowfall comes?
The more immediate question is, where is the City going to put it all? For now, in front of our house. Here's the view from our front porch, looking across the street. That's our car in the foreground, still covered in snow.
Early this morning, the City crew knocked on doors to get people who are parked on the street to move their cars. The snow they dump in the middle of the street spills over onto the sidewalk.
Here's The Boy climbing the snow hill when he thought I wasn't looking.
Here comes the plow down our street.'
Here is the crew getting ready for a break.
When they have piled the snow high enough, new trucks comes in - a lifter and a carrier. The lifter scoops the snow from the pile, travels over to the carrier, and dumps the scoop of snow in.
When the green carrier is full, it drives away and another comes to take its place. All these years in the City, I've never seen a snow removal operation.
Apparently, this year's snow accumulation is close to the amount of snow we received in 1999, when Mayor Mel called in the Canadian army. This has certainly been the snowiest year since 1999. This clean up is costing the City about $25 million. Our annual snow removal budget is $65 million. We get about 125 cm of snow each year. Compared that to Montreal, a smaller city, which has a snow removal budget of $128 million. But then they get about 225 cm of snow a year.
In years, as in the past two years, when we get little snow, the snow removal budget has a surplus, which goes back into city coffers.
So for now, we feel free on our little street. Though I hear we are expect another 15 cm of snow this week.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Boys In the Band
I know sometimes I paint a golden picture of The Boy and his friends. But it's hard not to. Take this weekend for instance.
The boys have a rock band now. They call themselves Asteroid M Goes To The Zoo. My Friend's son was turning 17 and wanted a big party. So Birthday Son asked The Boy and his band to play at his party.
The transportation of instruments and equipment involved several sets of parents. For my part, I rented a van, picked up the boys after school, and they loaded their stuff into the van.
As the boys moved about, Butterfly Boy noticed me in the driver's seat. He blew kisses at me through the van window. How is it he's not afraid of being teased by his friends for doing such things? How is it his friends don't tease him?
Once we got on the road, the boys talked about their teachers and the events that unfolded that day. Out of no where, Butterfly Boy said to me,
"Sylph, what do you think of Girlfriend?" She wasn't in the van with us, but she did go up to Deerhurst with us over the Christmas break.
"Wow, that is so girly," I said. "I only know girls and women who ask each other what they think of their boyfriends."
"Oh, oh that explains a lot of things," teased Ry, another boy in the van. "But he needs your approval."
"Yes, I need your approval," chirped Butterfly Boy.
What could I say? I answered truthfully, "I like her very much. I liked that she offered to help me at the cottage. She's a nice girl. But you wouldn't choose someone nasty."
Butterfly Boy beamed. Later, he asked, "How has it been with The Man away? Is it difficult being without him?"
He asked this in the natural flow of conversation. That is, the boys jumped from conversation to conversation as they put in some last minute singing practice and it felt natural that he should inquire after me as one of the topics of conversation.
When we got to the house where they were to play, the boys directed me to weave the unfamiliar van through the snowy troughs of the unplowed street into the snowy driveway to avoid the snow bank. They jumped out with energy and moved their equipment into the host's house with care, making sure they did not drag snow and mud into the house or damage their instruments. Then they offered to pay me for the van rental. I declined.
Now, compare them to the handful of guests who were already inside the house at the party. My boys went in first and said a cheerful hello to everyone they saw. The boys in the house barely acknowledged the new arrivals. When I went in to say hello, one grunted hello back. None offered to help. Some went upstairs to watch TV.
After the party, Friend told me she had a nice chat with The Boy and his friends. They are such nice boys, so outgoing and well-mannered, and they played beautifully, they were the highlight of the party, she enthused. I just knew that was the truth.
The next day, The Boy and his friend Drew went back to the party house to get their equipment. Birthday Son was also there with two of his friends. Everyone did what they had to do and Friend drove The Boy back. The Boy said, "Birthday Son is okay, but his friends are so glum. Throughout the ride home, I told Friend about what I'm doing at school, but the other kids said nothing. Even when Friend asked them questions, they didn't even say yes or no, they just grunted."
I don't know if The Boy and his friends are typical teenagers. I just know they are performing arts majors with extroverted personalities, so focused on their musicianship, so supported by their families, and I am so glad I sometimes get to spend time with them.
The boys have a rock band now. They call themselves Asteroid M Goes To The Zoo. My Friend's son was turning 17 and wanted a big party. So Birthday Son asked The Boy and his band to play at his party.
The transportation of instruments and equipment involved several sets of parents. For my part, I rented a van, picked up the boys after school, and they loaded their stuff into the van.
As the boys moved about, Butterfly Boy noticed me in the driver's seat. He blew kisses at me through the van window. How is it he's not afraid of being teased by his friends for doing such things? How is it his friends don't tease him?
Once we got on the road, the boys talked about their teachers and the events that unfolded that day. Out of no where, Butterfly Boy said to me,
"Sylph, what do you think of Girlfriend?" She wasn't in the van with us, but she did go up to Deerhurst with us over the Christmas break.
"Wow, that is so girly," I said. "I only know girls and women who ask each other what they think of their boyfriends."
"Oh, oh that explains a lot of things," teased Ry, another boy in the van. "But he needs your approval."
"Yes, I need your approval," chirped Butterfly Boy.
What could I say? I answered truthfully, "I like her very much. I liked that she offered to help me at the cottage. She's a nice girl. But you wouldn't choose someone nasty."
Butterfly Boy beamed. Later, he asked, "How has it been with The Man away? Is it difficult being without him?"
He asked this in the natural flow of conversation. That is, the boys jumped from conversation to conversation as they put in some last minute singing practice and it felt natural that he should inquire after me as one of the topics of conversation.
When we got to the house where they were to play, the boys directed me to weave the unfamiliar van through the snowy troughs of the unplowed street into the snowy driveway to avoid the snow bank. They jumped out with energy and moved their equipment into the host's house with care, making sure they did not drag snow and mud into the house or damage their instruments. Then they offered to pay me for the van rental. I declined.
Now, compare them to the handful of guests who were already inside the house at the party. My boys went in first and said a cheerful hello to everyone they saw. The boys in the house barely acknowledged the new arrivals. When I went in to say hello, one grunted hello back. None offered to help. Some went upstairs to watch TV.
After the party, Friend told me she had a nice chat with The Boy and his friends. They are such nice boys, so outgoing and well-mannered, and they played beautifully, they were the highlight of the party, she enthused. I just knew that was the truth.
The next day, The Boy and his friend Drew went back to the party house to get their equipment. Birthday Son was also there with two of his friends. Everyone did what they had to do and Friend drove The Boy back. The Boy said, "Birthday Son is okay, but his friends are so glum. Throughout the ride home, I told Friend about what I'm doing at school, but the other kids said nothing. Even when Friend asked them questions, they didn't even say yes or no, they just grunted."
I don't know if The Boy and his friends are typical teenagers. I just know they are performing arts majors with extroverted personalities, so focused on their musicianship, so supported by their families, and I am so glad I sometimes get to spend time with them.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Dangers Of Travel
I ran into a friend at lunch today. He introduced me to the friend he was having lunch with. They joined me at my table. New Acquaintance talked about what he saw in Cabo, I added my two cents about Kabul, and we carried on the conversation comparing notes. Friend looked at us, from one to the other, and back again.
Then he burst out laughing. "You're talking about Cabo, Mexico, and you're talking about Kabul, Afghanistan, aren't you?"
The three of us looked at each other as the truth of what he said registered. No wonder New Acquaintance said he didn't know the Taliban had been in Cabo.
In December, the Australia government updated their travel advisory. It now contains an "Exercise Caution" advisory about Canada. It lists Chile, South Korea, and Latvia as safer than Canada. Why? Apparently, bush and forest fire "can occur any time in Canada." In addition, "heavy snowfalls and ice" can make driving dangerous, and our "wind-chill factor can also create dangerously cold outdoor conditions."
Areas of Canada are also subject to earthquakes, avalanches, and tornadoes.
Not only that. The Australian government warns their people, "We advise you to exercise caution and monitor developments that might affect your safety in Canada because of the risk of terrorist attack."
Gosh, I'm now so scared living in Canada I'm thinking of immigrating. Maybe to Chile, South Korea, or Latvia.
Then he burst out laughing. "You're talking about Cabo, Mexico, and you're talking about Kabul, Afghanistan, aren't you?"
The three of us looked at each other as the truth of what he said registered. No wonder New Acquaintance said he didn't know the Taliban had been in Cabo.
In December, the Australia government updated their travel advisory. It now contains an "Exercise Caution" advisory about Canada. It lists Chile, South Korea, and Latvia as safer than Canada. Why? Apparently, bush and forest fire "can occur any time in Canada." In addition, "heavy snowfalls and ice" can make driving dangerous, and our "wind-chill factor can also create dangerously cold outdoor conditions."
Areas of Canada are also subject to earthquakes, avalanches, and tornadoes.
Not only that. The Australian government warns their people, "We advise you to exercise caution and monitor developments that might affect your safety in Canada because of the risk of terrorist attack."
Gosh, I'm now so scared living in Canada I'm thinking of immigrating. Maybe to Chile, South Korea, or Latvia.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Game
For me, Chinese New Year is about mah jong - the Chinese tile game played as a form of gambling. No, not just the gambling. It's the bonding while playing the game.
To be sure, the object of the game is to win money from the others at the table. Mah jong is a game of skill, luck, and concentration. One of the strategies is to try to psych out your fellow players before and during the game, especially if you know what their game weakness is. This strategy is an art and a game in itself. The method is witty puns and jovial banter. Much carelessness during the game ensue if you are distracted by the bantering. These often invoke hilarity, sometimes with much shouting and hooting.
Before our game even started on New Year, Aunt said over breakfast, "Oh Sylph, I brought watermelon seeds to eat during the game because I will have lots of time between turns waiting for you to go." She was implying I am slow at the game, a sign of inexperience or dullness of mind, and therefore a weakness.
"Oh Auntie," I said in the kindest way, "It's not whether one is fast or slow. What matters is that I win all your money today."
"Won't you be thrilled if that were to happen. You dream big, Daughter," chimed in Mom. "How much money did you bring to lose?"
"None. I don't need to bring any. One puts money in one's pocket when one wins. I won't need to take any out," I said.
When someone wins a hand, it's called taking or eating the hand. Aunt said, "Have some more food, Sylph, so you are full before we start. That way, you won't have to eat anything during the game." Clever she is.
So the banter goes on in this vein.
I did quite well at the beginning, taking every second or third hand in small winnings. But my first falter came when I realized half way through a hand I was short a tile. You need to build a winning hand with 14 tiles and I only had 13. That meant I had no chance of winning the hand we were playing and my strategy was then to prevent others from winning big by putting out tiles no one wants.
But my second mistake came when I tried to win with an incomplete hand. That is, I had 14 tiles, but I hadn't accumulated the tiles in a winning combination. I just thought I had. That was a big mistake. You get penalized as if you had cheated someone out of a big win. I had to pay everyone as if they won a full-house round. I accused Aunt of making up rules as we play. Being penalized for ruining a hand was not a rule I was aware of.
After this, my game went to hell. I kept putting out the tile for someone else's win. The person who feeds the winning tile to someone pays double to the winner. At one point, I was sure I had lost over $50. But then Bro Bro and his family arrived with 20? 100? 1000? dishes of food for dinner. And Uncle arrived with his children. And Bro Bro and Uncle filled in for Bro so he could tend to hosting duties. That must've changed the game dynamic at the table.
I sensed my luck change. At one point, I stopped all talking in the room to focus on winning an 8-fold hand, the largest hand one can win, only to be beaten by Bro Bro's chicken win, the smallest hand one can win. Despite that tease, by the end of the evening, I had won back most of my money. Aunt calculated I only lost about $9.
Which was a darn good price for a great day of fabulous entertainment and bonding.
To be sure, the object of the game is to win money from the others at the table. Mah jong is a game of skill, luck, and concentration. One of the strategies is to try to psych out your fellow players before and during the game, especially if you know what their game weakness is. This strategy is an art and a game in itself. The method is witty puns and jovial banter. Much carelessness during the game ensue if you are distracted by the bantering. These often invoke hilarity, sometimes with much shouting and hooting.
Before our game even started on New Year, Aunt said over breakfast, "Oh Sylph, I brought watermelon seeds to eat during the game because I will have lots of time between turns waiting for you to go." She was implying I am slow at the game, a sign of inexperience or dullness of mind, and therefore a weakness.
"Oh Auntie," I said in the kindest way, "It's not whether one is fast or slow. What matters is that I win all your money today."
"Won't you be thrilled if that were to happen. You dream big, Daughter," chimed in Mom. "How much money did you bring to lose?"
"None. I don't need to bring any. One puts money in one's pocket when one wins. I won't need to take any out," I said.
When someone wins a hand, it's called taking or eating the hand. Aunt said, "Have some more food, Sylph, so you are full before we start. That way, you won't have to eat anything during the game." Clever she is.
So the banter goes on in this vein.
I did quite well at the beginning, taking every second or third hand in small winnings. But my first falter came when I realized half way through a hand I was short a tile. You need to build a winning hand with 14 tiles and I only had 13. That meant I had no chance of winning the hand we were playing and my strategy was then to prevent others from winning big by putting out tiles no one wants.
But my second mistake came when I tried to win with an incomplete hand. That is, I had 14 tiles, but I hadn't accumulated the tiles in a winning combination. I just thought I had. That was a big mistake. You get penalized as if you had cheated someone out of a big win. I had to pay everyone as if they won a full-house round. I accused Aunt of making up rules as we play. Being penalized for ruining a hand was not a rule I was aware of.
After this, my game went to hell. I kept putting out the tile for someone else's win. The person who feeds the winning tile to someone pays double to the winner. At one point, I was sure I had lost over $50. But then Bro Bro and his family arrived with 20? 100? 1000? dishes of food for dinner. And Uncle arrived with his children. And Bro Bro and Uncle filled in for Bro so he could tend to hosting duties. That must've changed the game dynamic at the table.
I sensed my luck change. At one point, I stopped all talking in the room to focus on winning an 8-fold hand, the largest hand one can win, only to be beaten by Bro Bro's chicken win, the smallest hand one can win. Despite that tease, by the end of the evening, I had won back most of my money. Aunt calculated I only lost about $9.
Which was a darn good price for a great day of fabulous entertainment and bonding.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Bringing In The New Year
Chinese New Year lasts a whole month. Families pick a day within the new year month to gather and formally ring in the new year together. Our family gathered at Bro's today.
When we meet, we are supposed to wear new clothes for the day, but we've abandoned this practice. It's no longer special to wear a new outfit when we acquire new clothing year round these days. But we still exchange new year wishes, give each other special new year food, play mah jong, and share a big meal. As if we really need an excuse to eat a big meal together.
The most common new year's greeting is Gong hai fat choy - May prosperity be yours. Other greetings including wishing each other a healthy and ailment-free year, safety going in and out of the house, smooth sailing in business, and simply a happy new year.
I can't say that I like new year food. They are often not tasty. The food items are chosen because they are homophones of lucky terms or phrases in Chinese or because they are symbolic of desirable things in life. Different regions in China may have different new year food because they speak different dialects.
For example, tangerines or kumquats (literally gold luck) are popular, because they are brightly coloured like red (a good luck colour), come with leaves (a sign of fertility), and look like ingots of gold (which means prosperity). But ox tongue is also popular, because tongue sounds like the word smooth in Cantonese. There are also nuts, seeds, and sugared dried fruit that show up around new year because of the eponymous good fortune they bring.
The one food I regret we no longer make are deep fried pastries filled with crushed peanuts and sugar. They are labour-intensive to make. I remember long ago, mom, granny, and their friends sometimes gathering for a day just to make them. I helped by rolling out the dough or putting filling in the pastry and nipping the edges with water to ensure they don't come apart during deep frying. They are crescent shaped, like gold nuggets in ancient China, deep fried to a crisp golden brown, and filled with crunchy sweetness. See why it's a new year favourite? I have extracted a promise from mom to make them with me this month.
Married couples give children and single adults lai see - lucky money in red envelopes. There is a whole protocol involved in the giving of lai see. When I was young, mom's and dad's friends used to say to me, It's candy money, when they gave me lai see. As a young adult, that changed to, It's beer money. Since I married, I have not received lai see from anyone but my parents and grandmother. You always give to your children whether they are married or not. At some juncture in life, adult children start to give lai see to their elders as a sign of respect.
You invoke luck by giving lai see, the recipient receives luck by accepting lai see. I made sure I gave out lots of lai see this year and accepted one from mom. I even had the gall to ask Aunt for a lai see. She didn't give me one because the lai see protocol doesn't allow her to give me one. But sometimes, you still have to ask good fortune to come your way, I say.
When we meet, we are supposed to wear new clothes for the day, but we've abandoned this practice. It's no longer special to wear a new outfit when we acquire new clothing year round these days. But we still exchange new year wishes, give each other special new year food, play mah jong, and share a big meal. As if we really need an excuse to eat a big meal together.
The most common new year's greeting is Gong hai fat choy - May prosperity be yours. Other greetings including wishing each other a healthy and ailment-free year, safety going in and out of the house, smooth sailing in business, and simply a happy new year.
I can't say that I like new year food. They are often not tasty. The food items are chosen because they are homophones of lucky terms or phrases in Chinese or because they are symbolic of desirable things in life. Different regions in China may have different new year food because they speak different dialects.
For example, tangerines or kumquats (literally gold luck) are popular, because they are brightly coloured like red (a good luck colour), come with leaves (a sign of fertility), and look like ingots of gold (which means prosperity). But ox tongue is also popular, because tongue sounds like the word smooth in Cantonese. There are also nuts, seeds, and sugared dried fruit that show up around new year because of the eponymous good fortune they bring.
The one food I regret we no longer make are deep fried pastries filled with crushed peanuts and sugar. They are labour-intensive to make. I remember long ago, mom, granny, and their friends sometimes gathering for a day just to make them. I helped by rolling out the dough or putting filling in the pastry and nipping the edges with water to ensure they don't come apart during deep frying. They are crescent shaped, like gold nuggets in ancient China, deep fried to a crisp golden brown, and filled with crunchy sweetness. See why it's a new year favourite? I have extracted a promise from mom to make them with me this month.
Married couples give children and single adults lai see - lucky money in red envelopes. There is a whole protocol involved in the giving of lai see. When I was young, mom's and dad's friends used to say to me, It's candy money, when they gave me lai see. As a young adult, that changed to, It's beer money. Since I married, I have not received lai see from anyone but my parents and grandmother. You always give to your children whether they are married or not. At some juncture in life, adult children start to give lai see to their elders as a sign of respect.
You invoke luck by giving lai see, the recipient receives luck by accepting lai see. I made sure I gave out lots of lai see this year and accepted one from mom. I even had the gall to ask Aunt for a lai see. She didn't give me one because the lai see protocol doesn't allow her to give me one. But sometimes, you still have to ask good fortune to come your way, I say.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
We're Under Cover
Those are the poor cedar trees in my backyard this morning. And my poor clothes line.
We've had back to back snow storms in the last two days. The snow gods must've had quite a party, shaking down 50 cm of fluffy confetti on us. For a few brief moments last night, there was even thunder and lightning, with snow, not rain! Wonder what they were celebrating.
The cedar trees in my backyard form a fence between our neighbour's backyard and ours. But it's looking like the trees may topple. If they do, I will need to replace them. Despite the grim prospect of the work involved, I actually delight in the thought of having younger trees that I can train and shape.
The ones there now were neglected for ten years before I realized they needed a trim. By then, the branches took up almost half the backyard and needles no longer grew close to the tree trunk. Each year, I trim some of the branches hoping to reclaim some of the yard space.
And here is our street covered in snow. In summer, when the red maple trees are full of leaves, they form a canopy of breezy shade over the street. But after a snow storm, they form a canopy of icicles over us. I like our street best looking like this.
And here are our neighbours out shovelling the snow off the sidewalk after work yesterday. The Boy wouldn't let me take his photograph so I took one of the neighbours instead.
After a snowfall, when all the neighbours come out to do the same thing, there is such a festive feel in the air. It's like we're having a street party. I get to talk to people I haven't seen since...since the last snow storm.
And hey, Happy Lunar New Year!
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
My Compatriots
In the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the bride's father had a fix for everything: Windex. Got a dirty table? Use Windex. Got a cut on your finger? Spray it with Windex.
My father also had his own fix-all. Have trouble breathing? Do tai chi to expand lung capacity. Fat? Do tai chi to sweat it out. Got a mortgage problem? Do tai chi to get clearer thinking. In fact, he articulated clearly to me one day: The Middle East would not be trying to kill each other if everyone there just took up tai chi. In his random logic, he was right.
Dad tried to teach me tai chi. But I rejected it. I didn't want to exercise with white-haired people in their 80's.
But today, I signed up for a tai chi class. I've been trying to go for six months. But the timing was never quite right. Today, I made it to class. The class is taught by two retired women in their sixties. There are four students in class. Three are senior citizens. How do I know? They all asked for the senior's discount. Two have physical ailments.
Hank, he must be close to 70, has trouble walking. When he entered the office, he collapsed into a chair by the door. The instructor gasped and said, "Oh, he fell." Hank said, "Yeah, but good thing this chair was here." This is the second time he's taking this beginner's course. I can barely understand him as he talks with a heavy British brogue.
Marilyn came in slowly with a cane. Osteoporosis, she said.
Cynthia seems okay so far. I have knee problems, she said. But so do I. After a few years away from tai chi, she has returned to start at the beginning.
They all seem like very nice people. I had to smile. I am exercising with retirees after all. Dad would have been proud.
My father also had his own fix-all. Have trouble breathing? Do tai chi to expand lung capacity. Fat? Do tai chi to sweat it out. Got a mortgage problem? Do tai chi to get clearer thinking. In fact, he articulated clearly to me one day: The Middle East would not be trying to kill each other if everyone there just took up tai chi. In his random logic, he was right.
Dad tried to teach me tai chi. But I rejected it. I didn't want to exercise with white-haired people in their 80's.
But today, I signed up for a tai chi class. I've been trying to go for six months. But the timing was never quite right. Today, I made it to class. The class is taught by two retired women in their sixties. There are four students in class. Three are senior citizens. How do I know? They all asked for the senior's discount. Two have physical ailments.
Hank, he must be close to 70, has trouble walking. When he entered the office, he collapsed into a chair by the door. The instructor gasped and said, "Oh, he fell." Hank said, "Yeah, but good thing this chair was here." This is the second time he's taking this beginner's course. I can barely understand him as he talks with a heavy British brogue.
Marilyn came in slowly with a cane. Osteoporosis, she said.
Cynthia seems okay so far. I have knee problems, she said. But so do I. After a few years away from tai chi, she has returned to start at the beginning.
They all seem like very nice people. I had to smile. I am exercising with retirees after all. Dad would have been proud.
Monday, February 04, 2008
No Thanks
I dislike telemarketers. I dislike even more telemarketers who trick you into giving them your phone number by having you fill out something under false pretenses just so they can get your phone number.
But I often feel sorry for the caller because they have to make a living by phoning people who don't want to hear from them. I try not to be rude but I am often not successful. It's like they set me up to fail.
This is the phone call I received this morning.
- Hello. Is this Mr. or Mrs. Sylph? Hello? Hello?
- Yes.
- My name is ...unintelligible... I am the vice president of ...mumble mumble... Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- I have here a hand-written coupon with your name on it. Do you live at ...mumble mumble..? Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- Hello? Yes. Do you remember filling out a form on June 17, 2007 at a shopping mall or ...unintelligible..? Hello? Hello?
- No, I don't remember doing such a thing.
- Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- No? I don't blame you. It was a long time ago. Hello?
- Yes?
- If you asked me if I remember doing something from June, I probably won't remember either. Hello?
- What are you calling about?
- Our company has been operating in the States for seven years. We are now expanding into Canada. Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- We are now in Canada and we are located in Woodbridge. Hello?
- Yes?
- So I am calling to offer you a promotional gift. Your name was selected. Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- All you have to do is...
- What does your company do?
- We offer vacation ...mumble mumble...
- Vacation? No no, I'm not interested in vacation scams.
- Hello? Hello?
- No thanks. Good bye.
If I am going to get scammed, I want it at least to be a good experience. I want to know what technique is being employed, I want admire the cleverness of the maneuver, I want to delight in the audacity and eloquence of the delivery. To satisfy this appetite, I always let telemarketers go on for longer than necessary.
But that was a pretty bad pitch on his part. I couldn't understand him. His cell phone didn't seem to work for him. I had to ask him what he was calling about and what his company did. He made me do a lot of work. All that so he could scam me? No thanks.
But I often feel sorry for the caller because they have to make a living by phoning people who don't want to hear from them. I try not to be rude but I am often not successful. It's like they set me up to fail.
This is the phone call I received this morning.
- Hello. Is this Mr. or Mrs. Sylph? Hello? Hello?
- Yes.
- My name is ...unintelligible... I am the vice president of ...mumble mumble... Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- I have here a hand-written coupon with your name on it. Do you live at ...mumble mumble..? Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- Hello? Yes. Do you remember filling out a form on June 17, 2007 at a shopping mall or ...unintelligible..? Hello? Hello?
- No, I don't remember doing such a thing.
- Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- No? I don't blame you. It was a long time ago. Hello?
- Yes?
- If you asked me if I remember doing something from June, I probably won't remember either. Hello?
- What are you calling about?
- Our company has been operating in the States for seven years. We are now expanding into Canada. Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- We are now in Canada and we are located in Woodbridge. Hello?
- Yes?
- So I am calling to offer you a promotional gift. Your name was selected. Hello? Hello?
- Yes?
- All you have to do is...
- What does your company do?
- We offer vacation ...mumble mumble...
- Vacation? No no, I'm not interested in vacation scams.
- Hello? Hello?
- No thanks. Good bye.
If I am going to get scammed, I want it at least to be a good experience. I want to know what technique is being employed, I want admire the cleverness of the maneuver, I want to delight in the audacity and eloquence of the delivery. To satisfy this appetite, I always let telemarketers go on for longer than necessary.
But that was a pretty bad pitch on his part. I couldn't understand him. His cell phone didn't seem to work for him. I had to ask him what he was calling about and what his company did. He made me do a lot of work. All that so he could scam me? No thanks.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Waste Not
In Brazil, the government funds human milk banks. Nursing mothers who have too much milk express the excess and donate it to the bank. The bank pasteurizes the milk, packages it, and gives it to babies whose mothers have trouble lactating.
A friend just got back from Brazil with photographs of such a bank and its staff.
Biodynamic farming is apparently the next step up from organic farming. This was the subject I learned most about in India while chatting with marchers from Germany. The practice allows small farmers to treat farm land as a self-sustaining whole. Farmers do not use chemicals to control disease and encourage growth. They bury dead plants and animals so when decomposed, nutrients return to the earth. They practise crop rotation so the same minerals and nutrients are not sucked out of the soil by the same crop year after year. They use the calendar only as an approximate guide for planting and harvesting; they rely more on the "feel" of the weather for the precise time to plant and harvest.
The Turkish salwar is sewn using two leg-lengths of cloth without wasting a scrap. This is how they cut the pattern.
That flap that comes out from the crotch is just the leftover fabric from the leg turned upside down.
I like the simplicity and non-waste of these practices.
A friend just got back from Brazil with photographs of such a bank and its staff.
Biodynamic farming is apparently the next step up from organic farming. This was the subject I learned most about in India while chatting with marchers from Germany. The practice allows small farmers to treat farm land as a self-sustaining whole. Farmers do not use chemicals to control disease and encourage growth. They bury dead plants and animals so when decomposed, nutrients return to the earth. They practise crop rotation so the same minerals and nutrients are not sucked out of the soil by the same crop year after year. They use the calendar only as an approximate guide for planting and harvesting; they rely more on the "feel" of the weather for the precise time to plant and harvest.
The Turkish salwar is sewn using two leg-lengths of cloth without wasting a scrap. This is how they cut the pattern.
That flap that comes out from the crotch is just the leftover fabric from the leg turned upside down.
I like the simplicity and non-waste of these practices.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
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...
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...
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, January 25, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
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...
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...
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
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.
"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.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
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.
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.
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