I Am Everywhere

We just got back from a great weekend in Montreal. Truly fun and relaxing. Satisfying seeing the boys wonder off to explore a city on their own and still hook up with us for dinner. Even the disappointing food was good, but generally great food all weekend. Lots of walking so I even lost a pound. Excellent company (there were 11 of us altogether) despite mom being pesty and complaining.

For me though, it's always The Boy. At times, he's still like my favourite toy.

When we checked in at the hotel, I gave the boys their keys while I sorted the rest of us out. By the time I returned to the registration desk to finish our details, the boys were already in their room. As I was talking to the hotel receptionist, she said, "What timing. That's your boys phoning the front desk now." I asked if I could answer the phone, so she handed the phone to me.

Me - Yes? What can I do for you, Boy?

Boy - Huh? What?

- What would you like?

- Mom? How...why... What are you doing?

- You want something? What are you calling about?

- No way. How...?

But I couldn't talk to The Boy without laughing hysterically, so after a while, he just hung up on me.

The next day, the boys were off on their own. Mom and I walked the streets of Montreal. At one point, I saw a man sitting on an armchair on the sidewalk. A film camera was pointed at him. A woman was in front of the camera giving direction. I thought, what are they doing? So I stepped closer to the man in the armchair to have a better look. He was just sitting there. So I went on my way.

When I got back to the hotel, I called The Boy's room to give them the dinner plans. The Boy answered and said, "Mom? Where are you? What were you doing?"

- I'm in my room. I just got back from walking around.

- We just saw you on TV.

- Where?

- You were walking behind a man sitting on a chair. The camera focused on pau-pau and gave her a closeup.

- There you go. Now you know what we were doing.

Later, I said to The Boy, "You know, I am everywhere."

He said, "Yeah, I know. Scary."

The Traveller's Wife

I have a much better appreciation of The Time Traveller's Wife these days. When I read the book, I thought it was creepy and sappy. I mean, you have this guy who travels back in time to meet his wife when she was six years old. How pedophilic is that?

But with The Man coming and going so often these days, I feel he is always leaving me. Just like the wife in the book. Except I know when to expect The Man's comings and goings. I help arrange his travels.

The part of the book I appreciate more now is the wife's constant waiting and yearning, trying to build a life with her husband while living on her own. As strange as that sounds, it is also kind of romantic. It's like always anticipating the lover's return while denying his existence. Like Etta waiting for the Sundance Kid but rides the bike with Butch. Like the queen waiting for her musketeer lover while serving the king.

So The Man left me again tonight. When I got home from dropping him off at the airport, he's already left a sweet message on the phone for me. And I think, wait, wait. Is that from the lover or the husband? Then I said, Does it matter? Even in my over-romanticized fantasy of my marriage, it doesn't.

Deer Crossing

It's not true there is no communion with nature during camping. One of the fond memories I have of this trip was when we came back from a movie late one night. It must've been after midnight.

We drove down the road towards the park with the high beam on. Far in the distance, we saw the hind legs of a deer jumping into the bush on the left side of the road. When The Man came to the spot where the deer crossed, he veered the car slowly towards the trees to get a better look. We saw nothing.

Then on the right side of the road, a small head poked out from the bush. I said, "Look guys, over there!" We all held our breath and stared at the little head. It was a baby deer, following its mother. The fawn stepped gingerly onto the road. With the car head lights blazing at it, it crossed the road slowly to join its mother.

That was quite a treat, to have this late night private viewing.

It Is What It Is

It's hard to describe the pleasure I get from our family camping trips.

They are disorganized despite planning them five months in advance. They are confusing as plans fly about, we try to accommodate each other, and no one is sure what they are doing for the day until last minute. They are noisy as children start shouting as soon as the sun rises. They are a lot of work, both in preparation and decamping. But god, I love them.

The pleasure for me is multi-fold.

I get to live outdoors, like the vagabond I am at heart. Even at home, I try not to be inside the house. It is a sensual, spiritual experience, sitting in front of an open fire, tending it, feeling protected by the night, the forest, and all my favourite people around me.

I get to spend six days with my favourite people doing nothing more mind-boggling than talking, shopping, planning and making meals, laying about, you know - shared living, like in a commune, but still have your private tent. And everyone just kind of shrugs and says, oh well, if things don't quite work out.

I like cooking and eating outdoors. Food just taste better.

I love seeing the joy and carefree faces of the kids, shy at first, then purposeful and jubilant as they get used to each other, as they seek each other out to play, as they run errands for their parents, as they walk along singing and talking, oblivious to me watching and listening to them. At the end of the trip, all the kids want to camp together again next year.

I love how the different generations and different aged kids can spend time together and enjoy themselves.

The Boy plays guitar now. I love listening to him play and how he gathers the younger kids around him, coordinates them to sing back up as he strums out a tune and sings off key.

I love how we wear similar clothes. That is, we own the same items. Which means we buy things from the same store - my mother, my neighbour and me, my neighbour's girls. Which is incredible, that the same store satisfies the needs of three generations with the same line of clothing. That, or we are just not fashionistas and we are happy wearing basics.

I like the showers at the comfort station. They are fierce and pound on your head after shampooing so you are rinsed off in seconds.

I especially loved seeing how helpful The Boy was this year, during walks to the beach, at meal time, and when decamping. I thought he was responsible and gentlemanly through out. I only needed to yell at him a couple of times.

And oh oh, even though The Exchange is even more like a son to me than before, I still like how he hugged me in the lake because the water was cold.

Yes, these camping trips are a social outing. No use pretending we are seeking solitude or communing with nature.

Flattery Got Me

I had a steam cleaner come in today to clean the basement carpet, the dining room rug, the stairs and the couch. A tall, husky man in his fifties showed up wearing a necklace and big rings on his fingers. I thought, Uh oh, does he know how to clean?

The cleaner said in a European accent, My machine is 400 whatever power, most people use only 100. That means the suction is very strong and your things will dry in half a day, not four days.

Well, okay.

The cleaner was smiling as he cleaned. He said - I like your house very much. It's very clean.

- Oh, thank you.

- You won't believe the filth and mess some houses are. Makes cleaning very difficult. Have to move things all over the place.

- We still have to move things here.

- But they are big pieces, no mess on them. Easy to do. You keep your house clean.

Well, with that kind of flattery, I was ready to forgive the way he looked and give him whatever he wanted. He wanted water. To drink and to put in his cleaning machine.

During the cleaning, I was mostly in the backyard, trying to stay out of his way. He just did his thing. When I came in to see the last bit of the cleaning, I saw that it was true what a powerful machine he had. The parts he went over came out light. The dirty parts were several shades darker.

When he finished, he said he preferred payment in cash. I went to the bank to get it for him. I didn't want him to leave. I wondered if he did windows. What about roofing, or gardening. Nope, he just did carpets and upholstery.

Sigh. A blinged man who cleans with powerful suction.

Return Of The Exchange

Well. He's back.

I picked up The Exchange at the airport today. He looked tired, he had a long flight. He's the same height as The Boy, so The Boy must've shot up this past year. He wears his hair longish, just like The Boy. He looks more boyish than ever, still beautiful, still charming. He was happy to see The Boy. I was happy to see him. But I wondered what the fuss was about last year.

It felt like we picked up where we left off. For one thing, he's more at ease with us. He came down for a shower as soon as we came home. The front door was still open. He was in his underwear. I laughed, because that's what The Boy does. After, still in his underwear, he held up his soiled clothes and said, "Where I put this, in the garbage?" He's more of a kidder, more fluent in English.

The boys got ready to go to a small birthday party. I said, "It's after midnight for you. Are you not tired?" He said "It's okay. I had four coffees today. I never miss a party."

After he changed, he whizzed by me in a red T-shirt and jeans. I thought it was The Boy, then I saw The Boy in the next room. I stood them side by side. They both had on red T's and pants. It was difficult to tell them apart from the back. I gave them dinner and went outside to visit with the neighbours in the street. When they were ready to leave, they had both changed. The Boy in a blue T, The Exchange in white. I don't know why they changed and I didn't ask.

The Boy seems pleased to have The Exchange here. The Exchange is operating on second wind. I invited a neighbour to drive with me. We dropped the boys off at the birthday party. We saw through the window of the birthday girl's house that all the guests inside were girls. When I looked back at them entering the house, I said to my neighbour, "Yup, they're two good looking young men out to impress the girls."

On Frog Pond

Dead giant tadpoles, at least 3 inches long, were everywhere in the water. They were strange looking, with frog arms and legs, and a long whip tail. If they matured, they would have been bullfrogs.

But their amphibian presence was seen and heard through out the lake. You see them on land and sitting half submerged in water. At night, you hear them. Oh you hear them.

The first night, there was a cat fight of sorts between the frogs, loons, and ducks. There was loud, confrontational squawking, screeching, hooting, ribbiting, fluttering, and splashing. After that, the frogs settled into a rhythmic lull, a constant plucking and tuning of the cello. There must've been three frogs vibrating their vocal cords on our site, producing that single note - rrrib - over and over again. Across the lake, other frogs were busier tuning their strings, testing and retesting the same series of notes like a bow drawn across a cello.

Occasional, a loon added his vocal shriek, an owl hooted his percussion beat, and lake creatures offered a splashing of water. So it was to these sounds that I fell asleep at night.

During the day though, it was different. The next day, we waited for two others to join us. Two of us took the canoe out to find a hiking trail. We didn't find it. But we picked up firewood wherever we stopped. That little paddle that felt like an hour long actually took three hours. Time gets lost on the water.

Our friends never arrived that Friday. We speculated on what happened to them. They were to provide two days of food. If they didn't show at all, would we leave the park early, or could we ration and stay till Monday? To our horror, we realized we had enough food for seven days for the three of us. Part of me regretted our friends weren't there to enjoy the beauty of the lake, part of me wished they wouldn't come so we could truly try to survive on seven days of food in five.

On Saturday afternoon, our friends found us. This is their story. At 5 am Friday, Jan phoned Lia and said, I forgot the eggs, do you have eggs?

Lia said, Huh? Who is this?

- I am on the highway now, coming to pick you up. We agreed we'd leave at 5 am.

- No, we don't leave for another two weeks.

- No, we leave today.

- Oh my god.

So Jan turned her car around and went home. That night, she had dinner with her kids and ex-husband. Lia scrambled to rearrange her weekend. She had booked appointments for that Friday and had to keep them. But she cancelled her appointments for the Monday, called a friend to take her other to the airport for Sunday, then packed what she could to join us in the wild.

They left Saturday morning at 5 am, drove four hours to the park (that's fast driving without stopping), got into the lake by 10 am, and found us by 2 pm. Lia couldn't arrange for a dog sitter so brought her little dog, Kuku. After they unloaded their canoe, the first thing Lia said was, Uh oh, Kuku caught a frog.

Out There

The mosquitoes were vicious, the deer flies were ferocious, the horse flies and dragonflies had a plan. The horse flies buzzed about you while the dragonflies smacked against you on a suicide attack if you enter their water. Thank god nature had already extinguished the black fly army. I have never been bitten as much as I was on this camping trip. I bear the warrior scars of having battled and lost to an unvanquishable, bloodsucking enemy out in the wilds. I can't tell if I am swollen from bites, muscle ache, or sunburn.

Still, it's hard to come back to the city.

On our first day out, three of us met in the parking lot of our access point to Killarney like we happened to be shopping and bumped into each other. It as almost 3 pm before we put the canoe in the water. The paddling across Bell Lake was easy. Even the first portage of 745 m after an hour of paddling didn't faze us.

I decided to carry the 17-foot Kevlar canoe by myself. It weighed only 39 lbs, a far cry from the 80-lb aluminum or 65-lb fibreglass canoes of yore. Still, at 5' 3.5", balancing 17 feet of boat on my shoulders was a trick, especially with my arms anchored for balance and mosquitoes saw me weaponless without swatting hands. I think they are mutant biting bugs this year; they like DEET and citronella. Despite losing the battle to the bugs this weekend, this was my personal triumph, that I could portage the canoe on my own. I feel stronger, more balanced, and more fit than when I was young. In fact, it's a powerful feeling.

After two portages, we got onto David Lake. All the camp sites we passed were occupied. The sun was getting ready to set and still we were homeless. Finally, we got to the end of the lake and saw a large rock jutting into the water. There was no one on this piece of land. Let this be a campsite, let this be a campsite, I prayed. And there it was, the coveted orange and black triangle nailed to a tree to indicate this was a designated camp site.

It was a beautiful spot. Two large rock masses dipped into the water. I designated one our luncheon rock, the other our dining rock. There were soft tent pads on several spot so we each pitched our own tent on private real estate. There was shade in between the trees and sun out on the rock. One side of the site opened to a small marsh where animals could come to feed. The other side opened to the large lake where the canoe route was far away. Perfection. I would have chosen this exact site if I had the choice of many. It was like a gift waiting for us at the end of our day. Even when it rained at night, I thought, this is good, this is all a gift from above.

Into The Wild

Here we go, into the wilds of Killarney for 5 days.

My wilderness camping buddies are a particular group of women. I really think half of the things we pack are food related. That's because we want only fresh, gourmet food during the whole five days out. No freeze dried stuff for us.

I usually provide the first dinner. It is usually a soup or stew type dish, prepared the week before camping and frozen. It travels in a collapsible cooler, with salad, vegetables, and real cake for dessert. After that, lots of fresh fruit, vegetables, dips, pita, pasta, rice (not minute rice), and legumes (not canned beans). Which means large pots and frying pan, lots of fuel for the two stoves, chopping board, kitchen towels, and napkins. And camping isn't camping without fresh brewed coffee and herbal tea. So all the equipment for that go into the "kitchen" pack. It's just a matter of time before we pack table and chairs for our canoe trip, we are wild and crazy like that.

We want our own space to keep our snoring and thrashing to ourselves, so we each bring our own tent. That's one person per tent. People only share if they are newbies to our trip. We sleep on Thermarests, with sleeping bag, blanket, and pillow. I won't budge on this. I can't sleep without a pillow.

But these women are also environmentalists. They are careful not to produce waste. I don't call myself an environmentalist, but I don't like to add my mess to nature and try to leave a camp site cleaner than when I found it. We are very careful to leave no footprint.

Our route usually takes us over two short portages to get to a site. We try to get a site on an island. Then we set up tent for the whole of our stay, though we've certainly moved sites on a whim too.

I love the mornings and evenings best. In the early morning, we can usually spot moose drinking not far from us. The air is blue and mysterious. You feel like you don't know what the day will bring, yet you know exactly that everything will still be there the next day. I mean, no matter what happens to us, what we do and where we go for the day, you know that the blue, hazy morning will come again the next day and clear with the sunrise, the water and tree lines that obstruct the sunset will still be all around, the wind will swirl the trees to make that whooshing sound with the leaves, the birds and animals will still call out and splash the water, then night will descend again.

At night, I like lying on a rock, stare up at the sky, and listen to the water and frogs. When a loons calls or when a wolf howls, we freeze, as if the slightest movement on our part will send these animals away, even though we suspect they are quite far from us.

I always try to decipher which are the clouds and which The Milky Way. Sometimes, I try to find the constellations. The Big Dipper is always there and easy to spot. I often see Draco. But the others, I don't know what they are. That's the moment I say to myself, I should have brought my book of constellations. I say that every year. If I am lucky, I see a shooting star. I have yet to see the Aurora Borealis in action, though the sky is often pink and green late at night.

During the day, we go for short paddles and hikes, and we eat.

I have no idea what our route is each year. I let the others plan it out on the pretext I don't have a map of the park. I really don't care where we go, as long as I see no cars and concrete buildings, and I can smell the earth, stoke the fire, taste the air, and swim naked in the lake.

Get Your Butt Over Here

That's the sign on the door of the waiting room at the hospital where I was today. I had a little procedure done. A routine scan. A screening for colon cancer. Not that I have reason to suspect I have colon cancer. It's just that when you enter your fifth decade, the doctors highly recommend it to screen out the cancer. Colon cancer is apparently the second killer of Canadians after heart disease.

To prepare for the colonoscopy, I fasted the day before. No solid food all day. No dairy, no grape juice. But clear liquids and non-grape flavoured jello are okay. I just had water and coffee. I took two laxatives in the morning, then at 4:30 pm, I started to drink 4 litres of electrolyte water. I had to drink it all within four hours. That's a 6 oz glass every 10 minutes. My god it was not easy.

In the middle of the drinking, my system started to clear. It was most uncomfortable. Every time I bent over, the motion triggered the urge to purge, which triggered a everyone-and-everything-out-of-my-way beeline to the bathroom. By the second litre, I was simply passing water. But you know, I felt my inside cleaning out as the water passed became clearer and clearer. Really, it was almost like the water went in one end and within seconds, came out the other. By the fourth litre, I couldn't tell whether I was peeing or pooing.

The instructions said not to take in any more liquid after midnight. But my mouth felt dry. So I sipped on tea anyway to moisten my mouth. This morning, I weighed four pounds less than yesterday!

I checked in at the hospital at 11:00 am. The process was not as bad as I imagined. The staff were friendly and understanding. They must know it's an awkward procedure for first timers and tried to put me at ease without being condescending. A nurse explained with an illustration board exactly what would happen during the procedure.

I was put on a stretcher and given sedation, an IV in the arm. Then a nurse wheeled me into the examination room where a TV monitor hovered the bed. I said to the doctor, I want to see what my inside looks like. The doctor repositioned the monitor so that it faced me. A nurse strapped vital sign monitoring things on me and topped up my IV. Then the probing began.

There were little aches and cramps throughout the 30 minutes of the procedure. I saw my innards. I saw fleshy, smooth lining. It was really neat.

I feared I was going to make loud explosions as I expelled water and gas throughout the procedure. I feared I would be drenched in my own mess as the procedure progressed. None of that happened. When the doctor removed the probe, I passed gas quietly a few times. That was it. Or not. Because I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was in the recovery room. When I was given the sedative at noon, the nurse said it could put me out for about 30 minutes. The procedure was over at 12:30. I remember glancing over at the clock. Then at exactly 1:00, I woke up. Weird how exact the dose was.

But you know, I felt so clean after. For the rest of the day, I tried not to eat too much. It was hard. Sis and Bro brought food over for dinner and we had a little party. It was great. And I am clean as can be inside. No cancer, no polyps, no mysterious spots, no aliens from outer space, no evil hidden deep in my bowels. Not a bummer day at all.

The Trickle

Really, maybe my next-door neighbour and I are too familiar with each other.

My 26-year-old neighbour is a good soul. When he was a boy, I tutored him in math. When he was a teenager, he helped out at the street festivals we organized. When his father passed away, we had him and his sister over for dinner a couple of times. When he graduated from high school, we hired him to paint our house. As a young man now, he's driven me to appointments when I am running late, he tells me about specials on sale at our local supermarket where he works, he tells me when I leave the headlights on in my car, he inquires after The Man.

But he's also a rough 'n gruff guy, not the smartest cookie in the jar. He and his friends used to party and make lots of noise. He throws his cigarette butts all over the shared drive. When lightning hit the tree in his backyard and the tree branch came crashing down into our fence, he flew into action to restore the cable on his TV. And last night... last night I didn't want to be that familiar with him.

It was midnight. I was sitting on the second step of my porch smoking. True, it was dark. But I wasn't hiding. I was right there out in the open. Neighbour stumbled out of his house and stood in the middle of the shared laneway. I heard gushing water. I turned to catch a glimpse of Neighbour in the middle of relieving himself. I had an urge to shout at him, but I put my hand up to my face to shield him from my view and sat still. I didn't want to embarrass him, nor did I want to interrupt him in mid-stream.

When he finished, he lit a cigarette and went down the street, turned around after a few steps, and went back into his house. I stayed still the whole time. He had not seen me at all. Now I am convinced he killed my bean plants a few years ago by peeing into the bean barrel out front. They were growing fine then suddenly died one day.

This morning, I went out and hosed the laneway. I think, on so many levels, I enjoy all my neighbours. And then 26-year-old neighbour does something like this. Should I talk to him, or just take the good with the bad? Because reallly, he's a good soul even if he is a blundering baboon.

The Day After

Last night, torrential rain poured. We received 50 cm in one hour. A pool collected at the bottom half of our street, submerging some of the gardens and basements.

While this was happening, I was in pottery class with my neighbour. Her husband phoned to tell us about the flooding at the bottom of our street and the firetrucks, ambulances and city trucks that had gathered there. He said, You may not be able to get home.

By the time we ended class and came home, the water had already drained from the street. You wouldn't know there had been a flood except for one neighbour carrying wet things out of his basement to his front lawn, and a large city truck that was still parked on the street.

This morning, there were six disaster cleaning and restoration trucks on our street. At least four houses had flooded basements. Two houses have large green garbage bins in front that bear the slogan "Bin there, dump that". Everyone inquired of each other to see if their homes survived the storm. Even neighbours who don't get along asked each other, Is your basement okay?

I found out that one neighbour was driving home when the downpour came and drove his dad's car into the pool at the bottom of the street. It was stuck there for a few hours until the water drained. I see there are many new blooms on my potted flowering maples today. I guess I hadn't been water them enough.

By afternoon, we are used to the presence of the disaster cleaning trucks. There are more people walking about today than usual. I am sure they are just neighbours checking on the progress of the cleaning. When a cleaning truck drives away, I think a house just got restored. But of course I don't know that for sure.

I am just glad we did work to seal our basement foundation years ago to prevent flooding.

Competitive Comrades

Gardening is so competitive on our street. But there is also a camaraderie too. None of us hire landscape artists to do the work. We do it ourselves. Even as we try to out-do each other, we help each other build a better garden.

For example, my next door neighbour recently put up some drapes on her porch. From the street, her porch looks like a tent of mystery and excitement. When the wind blows, the drapes billow and you can see smoke coming out from the drapes as Neighbour sits on her porch smoking.

Another neighbour teased, "I wonder how long it will take Sylph to put up drapes to match yours." I said, "One day. I just need to run out and get the drapes." Neighbour then told me where to get the drapes and how much they cost. Of course I didn't get them. I like the look, but it's my neighbour's look. I personally prefer the open window view from my porch.

We have all been tending our gardens tirelessly. I am so pleased with mine. I revamped some parts and incorporated existing plants in the new garden. Neighbour decided that since I revamped mine, he has to re-balance his. So he dug out a big piece of lawn and put in a little garden at the front. I said, I have the perfect spot for that lawn you dug up. So he brought the sod to my backyard where it sat beautifully in a bare spot.

One day, while walking past our garden centre, I saw an urn I liked at 80% off. The week before, one of the neighbours and I had walked by and we both wanted that urn. But we felt it was too expensive even at 50% off. Now at 80% off and on the last day before the garden centre closes for the season, I bought two of those urns and gave one to my neighbour. She was thrilled.

I am growing a front lawn. I want to grow a nice looking lawn because two of my immediate neighbours have beautiful, lush, even lawns while mine has always been browny, spotty, and lumpy. But now, mine is at least green. Another neighbour just put down new sod to grow over her brown spots. She said, I can't stand seeing you all with green lawns while mine is brown.

Our gardens are telltale of our personalities. One neighbour's is neat and organized. His garden looks clean, though not exciting. Another grows small, frilly flowers. Everything looks neat and elegant, just like her. Another just looks neglected no matter what she does to the garden.

Mine is, well, someone said it is intuitively organic. It is aesthetically pleasing in a quirky way. It is not exactly disorganized because now there are cedar bark chips on the ground to bring the garden together. It looks like chaos reigned in. It has a feeling of abundance and abandonment, with a few hurtles just for fun. Sis' fiance referred to it as the Jungle of Nool.

I love that my neighbours give me plants from their gardens. I give them tips on what to put in their garden to protect their homes according to feng shui principles. Not that I am an expert. I am merely repeating what our feng shui practitioner told us about our house. Now we all have turtle figures in our backyards (their hard shell protects the house and its occupants), and a money tree in the kitchen window (there is a direct line from the front door to the back door. The plants blocks the flow of money out the door and attracts wealth into the house). One neighbour keeps fish now (to trigger movement in his career sector) and another keeps the Chinese kitchen gods in his kitchen (to bring luck, prosperity, and safety).

So even as we compete to see who keeps the better house and garden, we look out for each other.

Kinky, Not

If I write in an economical way with everything in lower case that is so fashionable with young people on e-mail, this is what I will have on the weekend:

- sausages
- cream
- room with a view
- wonder boys

That sounds like such a kinky weekend. But it's a weekend with my book club. I am bringing breakfast sausages, coffee cream, and two movies - A Room With A View and Wonder Boys.

They're So Stoopid

There is a store on College I go to sometimes. It used to be an electronics store selling computers, cameras and the like at discount prices. Lately, I see they sell other things too, like toothbrushes, fans, garden tools, bleach, lights, and gadgetry items. Especially gadgetry items.

Last week, I went in for no reason and bought food covers for camping so bugs won't get into your food while you are serving, mosquito bracelets that repel mosquitoes if you wear one, and a pair of battery operated lights that respond to sound. What kind of sound? The packaging said footsteps, banging, voice, clapping. Neat, I thought. I would get a pair and install them by the front door so that when we come home at night, the lights will turn on.

Today, I installed the lights. I was excited at nightfall to try out my lights. I went outside. I slammed the front door. The lights didn't come on. I stomped around on the porch. It was still dark. I called out Hey yoohooyoo. Nothing. I clapped my hands. Nada. I clapped my hands closer to one of the lights. Voila! It came on. I clapped my hands close to the other light. It came on too.

I tested more sounds and did more clapping. I concluded that the lights only come on when you clap kind of close to them. Or at least a loud clap in the direction of the light. The lights stay on for 10 seconds.

Well what the hell good is that? If I come home late and the street is dark, I have to clap loudly and move quickly to get my keys out to open the door. If I don't find my keys and identify the right one for my door lock within 10 seconds, I have to keep clapping to keep the light on so I can continue searching. That is so stupid.

But now that I've bought special batteries for the lights and mounted them with my electric drill and all, I don't want to take them down. What would I do with them anyway if I don't leave them up? But they are such stupid lights. No, I am not stupid to have bought them. It was a great idea that didn't quite live up to its potential.

Soccer Mom

Only in Canada. I can't imagine this happening anywhere else.

Mom said the other day, "You know that Italy won the soccer game yesterday?"

"The soccer game? You watch soccer?"

"Yes, I watched the game at home last night. Last year, Portugal won. It's always either Portugal, Italy, or Spain."

"You follow soccer?"

"Only when the Euro Cup is on."

"You know about the Euro Cup?"

"Can't help it. It's always on TV at the mahjongg club. That's how I started watching soccer."

Who would have known mom followed the Euro Cup games?

I only know a game has taken place when the blast and blare of car horns reach my ear from St. Clair. If I happen to be on St. Clair, I see cars waving the flags of the victors. Recently, I saw a red flag with a crescent and star and mistook it for the Chinese flag. But I noted none of the flag wavers were Asian. I asked several cars that got close to me, "Does China have a soccer team?" They all said yes. What was China doing in the Euro Cup? That was a very confusing evening and I didn't understand how the loyalty of soccer fans worked.

Later, I looked the flag up and realized it was the Turkish flag. That made much more sense. But why did those cars tell me China has a soccer team? Ah, maybe China does have a soccer team, but just not in the Euro Cup. That was my assumption.

I bet mom knew this.

The Big Prep

I got home in the afternoon to find The Boy with a friend listening to music. At 2 pm, the friend left, The Boy went to pick up the corsage for Prom Date. Ten minutes later, the sky broke opened and poured, hard. The Boy phoned me to pick him up at the florist.

He got into the car with a large fuschia gerbera corsage to match Prom Date's dress and two bouquets of flowers. He presented me with one of the bouquets! Then he got showered and dressed in a hurry. We set off for Prom Date's house, running a bit late because of the rain.

When we got there, Prom Date's parents, grandmother, aunt, and cousin were there to witness the arrival of her date. She brought out a box containing a fuschia rose. That was a boutonniere for The Boy. I didn't know that was the etiquette for girls.
P

Prom Date had trouble pinning the boutonniere on The Boy so her mother had to help.


The Boy had no trouble slipping the corsage on Prom Date's wrist.


And here they are, all dressed up, with matching flowers, on her matching deck. Beautiful.


The proud moms with their beautiful children.


The beautiful kids at the pre-prom party. Just a gathering at one of the girls' home with 30 or so of the closest friends in her grade.

I guess short formal dresses for girls are the in thing this season. I don't think any of these girls look slutty, contrary to what some friends had warned. But then these kids have incredible parental support and guidance. Yeah, no diversity, and the kids conveniently paired up, but whatcha gonna do?

The parents were also invited to this party. Am I glad I actually showered and put clean clothes on for this, looking casual, yet respectable. I could just as easily have shown up in a dirty t-shirt and gnarly, greasy hair. Servers walked around at the party to give guests food and the bartender asked the kids to bring their parents over to signal it's okay to give the kids a bit of alcohol. I think the parents were invited to admire these young adults. Do they know how lucky they are?

The Boy and his best buddies with their dates.


Were there moments this afternoon where I felt like crying? Yes there were. That's why they have proms. It's to give the mothers practice for when their kids get married.

So, That's How It is Now

The Boy's prom is tonight. He's one of the few kids in the school who actually has a real date. The others go as a group and randomly get matched up with a friend of the opposite sex as date.

He's asked a girl in his grade to go with him. They've known each other since Grade 10. They commiserated over the unfairness of a teacher who preferred drama students. In Grade 11, she helped him study for his least favourite subject to ensure a good mark. In Grade 12, they hang out, study, and do whatever school friends do together. A few months ago, she said to him, Boy, you better ask me to the prom or I will never forgive you, or words to that effect. That's how he ended up actually asking her to go to the prom with him.

To prepare for it, he's relying on advise from two other female friends, who together with Prom Date and another girl, plan out how the prom will unroll for their group and tell the others what to do. I called them the Prom Protocol Committee (PPC).

They said The Boy had to get a new suit and took him shopping. I put my foot down and said, "Don't spend more than $300 on a new suit." I figured it was okay for him to get a new suit because the old suit he's worn for all those orchestra performances, well it's a cheap suit that cost $130 three years ago and he rolls it up to fit in his backpack, and when he unrolls it to wear, the thing has no wrinkles. But could he really get a new suit for $300? I doubted it.

The girls took him to a mall and they searched and searched and didn't like any of the suits they saw no matter what the price. There was one $800 suit they didn't find too ugly. But if you buy the suit, you have to get a new shirt, tie, and shoes to go with it. You can't wear old, cruddy accessories with a new outfit. That means The Boy would have to spend almost $1,200 to get all new things. Even the kids thought this was outrageous. Wisely, they opted to rent.

So for $195, The Boy rented himself a tux with vest, shirt, tie, shoes - the whole shebang. That the girls chose for him of course. The next day, I heard him say to a friend on the phone, "You rented a tux too? Did you get PPC's approval?" These girls rule.

I told him he should get his date a corsage. He said, "What for?"

"It's part of the prom ritual," I said.

A few days later, he came home and said, "Mom, PPC said I have to get Prom Date a corsage. A wrist corsage." So I helped him order one from a local florist.

Last night, he said, "I was just reading up on how to take your date to the prom. Can I have some money to buy Prom Date's mom some flowers? I'm supposed to knock on the door and give her mother some flowers and say, 'I'm here to take your daughter to the prom.' I've seen it done in movies."

"That's a very nice touch," I said. "Has PPC approved this?"

"No, this is my own initiative."

I liked that he's finally taking an interest instead of letting PPC lead him by the nose. "Yes," he said, "I'm pretty excited about it. I just talked to Friend on the phone and he's just panicked about tomorrow."

There is a pre-prom reception that one of the girls' parents are hosting. They are catering the affair and hired a photographer to take pictures of the kids all dressed up. The kids' parents are invited too, so we can stand as proud parents beside our children. That means I have to find yuppy gear to get into and gt there.

But this prom is expensive. Here's my tally of the expenses for this one evening:

$80 - Prom ticket. He didn't have to buy one for Prom Date because PPC said you buy your own if you attend the same school. But if you bring a date from another school, then you pay for her ticket.

$40 - After-prom party

$195 - Tuxedo rental

$30 - corsage

$20 - flowers for Prom Date's mother

$40 - limousine contribution

$20 - cab fare home from after-prom party

$20 - just in case money

$50 - my car rental for the day so I can drive him, all dressed up, to Prom Date's house to pick her up and go to the pre-prom reception together

That's $495 for his evening. Aside from my wedding, I don't think I've ever spent $495 for a party.

The Birthday Party

Last night, I went to a friend's birthday party. It was a very fine party.

When children are young, they seem to able to play with anyone. You plump kids together and unless they have jarringly different temperaments and social skills, somehow they find ways to get along without judgement or complaint. As we get older, we learn to discriminate. We do different things with different friends. In our twenties and thirties, we are self-absorbed and even hostile to people who are different from us. Few of us naturally reached out to befriend others.

Then as we get older and become more accepting of who we are, so we become more accepting of others. That was the birthday party yesterday. I knew the birthday girl and was plumped into the midst of a group of women who have known each other since grade school. I can just hear Bro feeling the awkwardness of that, and I know in my twenties and thirties, that would have been an uncomfortable situation indeed.

But now in our fifties, we are in our element. Some of the women hadn't seen each other for years and were trying to catch up. This was as good a set up as any for me to learn about them. Some just wanted to spend a couple of pleasant hours together. We got that too. We welcomed each other's company and were interested in what everyone is doing, with no care of how our association may reflect on who we are. Contrast that to our early years when we didn't want to talk to anyone who didn't make up look cool, or The Boy's current insistence on not mixing certain groups of friends. I like our free-form way much better.

One woman commented that in our fifties, we become the woman we imagined we'd be in our early, idealistic teen years. We make things happen and life flows. I reflected on this idea and thought, She's right - I can't deny the existence of this flow in my own life.

No Sale, No Sale!

Our street had a garage sale today. We put an ad in the paper. I put out several items on the lawn to sell.

A woman passed by and asked for fabric. I pulled out a long piece of blue and white striped cotton and an even longer piece of yellow cotton with red peppers on it. She asked about the striped fabric. I knew that if I gave her a price, she would buy it. I was about to part with this precious piece of blue and white striped cotton. I said, "I don't know how much I want for this. It's 18 years old."

"Oh then it will fall apart as soon as I put it in the wash," she said, "I give you $1 for it."

"No no no, I don't want to sell it. This was my son's room curtains when he was a baby. I can't sell it." So I took it back.

Next, an elderly couple passed by and wanted my free-standing hammock. "How much?" the man said.

"Urrr... $10."

He phoned his son to see if he wanted it. I started to panic. I was about to lose my beloved hammock that I've barely rested in. It's so darn big I have no room in the garden for it in summer and no storage room for it in the shed in winter. The Man hates it. I had to get rid of it. The old man came back and said he would take it. I said, "No no no, I want to keep it. It's practically new. I'll find room for it."

That's when my neighbour stepped in and said, "Stop it. You complain about it all the time. Now's your chance to give it a good home."

"You're right," I said. So I sold it to the elderly couple for $10.

The first lady came back and asked about the yellow fabric with red peppers. "I don't know what to do with such a big piece of fabric," she said, "It could just stay in my basement. But how much you want for it?"

That's it. I can't part with my fabric. For one thing, I paid over $300 for it years ago and I keep thinking I could do something fun with it. And besides, she doesn't love it. She wouldn't pay much for it anyway. "Very sorry, I have to keep this. I love it too much."

After this, I sold a cloth bag for 10 cents to a strange man, and The Boy's old broken scooter for 50 cents to the little boy a few doors down. Then I went up the street to give someone $3 for the ad in the newspaper. My haul today was $7.60 and I am still mourning over the loss of my hammock, though relieved it's no longer hogging up room in the garden.

Everything else I put back in the shed, waiting for another bout of courage to hit so I can discard them.

The Tenant

I finally rented out my mother's basement apartment. It's a cozy apartment for the right person. It's bright for a basement apartment, though it's still a basement.

The young woman who took it is in her mid-twenties, maybe early thirties. In conversation, she revealed she had moved to Toronto from Montreal last year with her boyfriend. They lived in a basement apartment where the ceiling almost touched her head. Our basement ceiling, compared to her current arrangement, is tall, she said.

She recently split with her boyfriend and that's why she was looking for her own place. She's currently in hair-styling school. Something about her gave me a good feeling. Maybe it was the modest and gentle, yet enthusiastic way she conducted herself. She seemed like a considerate person, concerned about safety and having a long stay in the apartment. But most of all, she loved the apartment, even when she came back two days later to put a deposit on it, and was so appreciative of the perks, like parking in the drive if she rented a car, use of the backyard, storage in the garage, her own door bell, a mail box. I told her this house was a very safe place for a single woman. I hoped my good feeling about her proves right.

Then this weekend, I visited mom on an errand. The new tenant had already moved in, two weeks before her time! We gave her keys so she could start moving her things in slowly. Not that we mind giving her half a month's rent free. Mom's done that before with other tenants. It's just that we hadn't expected her to move in so soon. She was sitting in the backyard smoking. Her arms were covered in tattoos. She had several piercings in her nostril and ears. I noticed she had dyed metallic red hair. Hmmn.

But at least she was still pleasant and said she was happy to be settling in. She had already called Bell to arrange for phone installation and gave me her new phone number. And she was smoking outside instead of inside the apartment.

The Never-Ending Story

Well. Exams are over for The Boy. He's been busy preparing for the prom and spending time with friends to "unwind."

That is, until this morning. The principal from school phoned to say the boys were late for their whiskey punishment. Both The Boy and Friend had spent the night here. They prepared to leave the house after the phone call. An hour later, the principal called back to say they were now 90 minutes late. I talked to the principal this time.

Apparently, the boys need to spend the next three days at school moving furniture and cleaning lockers. The principal had reminded them about this several times in the last few days. They agreed they would show up. But evidently, they have selective memory and either forgot about it or chose not to observe the agreement. I told the boys at this point, they need to go through with the punishment because their honour is at stake. This is also a trust issue. So not only do they need to do the work the principal assigns, they need to do a good job.

The principal said she's disappointed she had to phone them to get them to come in. That if they don't serve out the punishment, she would ban them from attending school functions till the end of the school term. That means they will miss the prom. Ouch.

Both boys had rented tuxedos for the event and their lives now evolve around the big evening. But the ball's in their court. Will they do the right thing?

He Plays Me

One day last week, the weather plummeted from a choking 33C heat wave that felt like 40C to 14C. The Boy came home sweating. He had been walking fast for some reason. He said, "Mom, I'm so hot. Can you turn the air conditioner back on?"

"No. It's cool out."

"But it's so hot in my room."

"Try opening your window, turning off your computer and keyboard, and turning on your fan."

"I did that but it's still hot."

"Give it more time."

At bed time, he said to me, "I told my friends that you were moving to Afghanistan and I can live in the house. Everyone thinks it's a great idea and they want to live with me. It's one of the greatest thing a parent could do for a child to support him becoming independent. When are you going?"

"That was an idea, a passing thought that flitted through my head out loud. I am not moving to Afghanistan and leaving you the house."

"But mom, I told everyone you were."

"The most that would happen is I visit dad for a few weeks, but not in September. I am going to Orlando with pau-pau, Sis, and the kids in October. So if I visit dad, it will be after that."

"What holiday is that in October? Why are we going to Orlando?"

"Not we. You will be in school. You'll have the house that week I'm away."

"You're not taking me to Orlando? But the kids get to go? They're in school. That's not fair."

"You are in university."

"Well, this is a disappointing day. You don't take me to Orlando, you won't turn the air conditioner on, and you are not moving to Afghanistan. Get out of my room."

Each Day

Each day brings its own surprises.

This summer, The Exchange is coming back. I would like us to all go to France together on the same flight when he leaves. But to give us more vacation days, I asked his father to move his return up by three days. He replied that the flight was fixed and no change could be made.

I am annoyed by this and I am surprised by my annoyance. Since I am hosting his son without sending The Boy there, I think he should try harder to accommodate us. But I know it's because he doesn't know how to make the change. There is a small service fee but it can be done. It tests my patience. I shift into dominatrix robotic and want to take over everyone's lives to simply things.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of receiving an offer to practise highway driving with Bro, an invitation to a dance recital with a neighbour, a visit from one of the women I went to India with, a phone call from a mutual friend while she was here, and a phone call from The Man. Then in the evening as I pondered whether to visit the cemetery on Father's Day and how to get there, mom phoned requesting that I take her there this morning. Of course I would book a car and take her.

This morning, I received a fright. The Man sent a photograph of him and his colleagues standing in front of a plane. They had been to Kandahar. Kandahar! The place where all the killing is. As if Kabul isn't dangerous enough. What the hell? We communicate everyday and he didn't say he
was going to Kandahar.

I wonder what today will bring when I go out.

Lightning Struck

Literally. Last night, the rain pelted, thunder crashed, and lightning lit up the night sky several times. My simple mind said, At least the new plants I put in will get a good soaking.

Late night, my 26-year-old neighbour came over in the rain and knocked on my door. He said, "Is your cable out?"

"We don't have cable."

"You're on satellite?"

"No. We killed cable years ago and never replaced it."

"Oh, I thought you had cable so I came to tell you our cable is out and I've called the cable company. They'll come fix it tomorrow. The cable wire is down. I don't know if it's live or not so don't go into your backyard."

"Huh?"

"You know the lightning that's been going on? It hit one of our tree branches. The branch fell and took the cable wire down. We can't see much out there now, but I bet we'll have to fix the fence."

We poked around outside in the dark trying to see the damage. There was just a blurry of leaves where there shouldn't be. This morning, I went outside to take another look. This is what I saw.

Where lightning hit.


My garden on the hill is under cover!

The Birds And The Bees

The Boy's been bringing home different girls almost every day. They go in his room, listen to music and sing along. They write music, play on the keyboard, strum the guitar. They call down for food and I make it for them. I go in and out of the house, I visit neighbours, I work in the garden. While I am outside, I don't know what's happening in his room, though I suspect more of the same as when I'm inside.

So while he was on his computer one day, I walked into his room and said, "Hey, do you need condoms?"

"What? No."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Do you know how to buy condoms?"

"Mom, this is awkward. I don't want to talk like this with you."

"Look, I'm just trying to keep everyone safe."

"Not necessary."

"Should I just get a box and leave it in your room?"

He looked up at me and in a most serious tone said, "If you do that, I swear I will march up to you and tell you to put up your dukes. Then I will fight you."

"So what are you saying? You want some?"

"No."

"But you know what to do if you need any?"

"I'm not talking about this."

"You know what dad says...'No glove, no love.'"

"You're not half as funny as you think you are."

Well, I think that went rather well.

The Water Flow

One of the jobs mom wanted me to do was to buy her a new garden hose. "The one we bought last year is all twisted up and water won't come out," she said, "It had been working fine until two days ago and suddenly, water just stopped coming out."

I examined her hose. It folds at several places. But when you untwist it and turn the water on, the hose should straighten out. I asked mom to turn the water on so I could try the hose head. She said the water was already on. I squeezed the lever on the hose head. No water came out. Nothing was obstructing the hose though it looked very limp. Maybe water was not coming from the tap, I thought.

I examined the tap. I tried to turn the water off. The knob wouldn't budge. I fiddled with it, then suddenly, it turned. The sound of water hummed from the house. I squeezed the lever on the hose head. Water came spraying out.

I looked at mom with one an arched eyebrow. She looked back at me with disbelieve. "You turned the water on?" she asked.

"Yes, other wise, water doesn't come out."

"Why was the water turned off? I never turn the water off. Someone must've turned it off without telling me." As she said that, the middle of the hose bulged up and started squirting. There was a leak there. The hose connector at the tap also picked up a furious little squirt.

"It must've been spraying like that and your tenant or your neighbour must've turned the water off and really tightened the tap."

I disconnected the hose from the tap. The sealant tape on the coupling was all shredded. Mom mumbled and bemoaned about faulty hose and tap. I put new sealant tape on the tap spout and reconnected the hose to it. I turned the water on and squeezed the hose head. Water sprayed without leaking at the coupling.

"Wow, you really know what you are doing," mom said, clearly impressed. But the middle of the hose was still squirting. "Can that tape fix that hole?" she asked.

"No. You need a hose mender. It's like a clamp that joins two pieces of hose. I will have to cut your hose. I will get a mender and come back to fix it. I've done it many times." I've done it exactly once. But see how the offer to fix things for her just poured out of my mouth before I realized I would have to make another trip back.

But you know, I left mom thinking I'm a water whisperer.

It dawns on me why I do things for her even though I don't always feel like it. That's how I keep regular contact with her to make sure she's alright. It feels limited and a poor form of filial piety to share just the occasional meal with her. This way, we are incorporated into each other's lives in a real, practical, and meaningful way.

Where's My Tail?

Here I go again. Instead of staying home to clean my own house and tend to my garden, I am going to mom's to wash her windows, clean out her garage, take photographs of unwanted items to put on craigslist, nail in quarter-rounds where the floor meets the baseboard, and do who knows what else she's got in mind.

All these are outstanding chores that apparently I said yes to, but keep putting off with reasons like, The Man will be home, The Boy needs help, It's too hot out, I've already got plans, I'm too busy. Mom accepts all these reasons except for I'm too busy. She doesn't understand this one. She keeps asking, "What are you busy with? Why aren't you home? You don't have a job." As if employment is the only justifiable reason for being out during the day or for being busy.

I've stopped telling her how I spend my time. I don't want to hear "Why would you want to do that? What are you bothering with that for?" any more from her. Too negative. I guess I've just taken my time to do what I wanted and let the chores pile up. Not that they are necessarily my chores. It's more that they become mine because I complain to mom about how unsightly her walls are, how dirty her windows are, how messy her garage is. Mom then says, Oh I hadn't noticed, or I don't know how to fix that, or I can't do that by myself. I give a big sigh and say, Look, I'll come one day and help you do it.

So naturally, that repair becomes my task and I can't really say I'm being forced to do it since I pointed out the problems, then volunteered to fix them. The real question is, why do I do that, then feel it's a great imposition on my time that I have to do the chores. I don't know. But it has a chasing my own tail feel to it.

The Nazi Restaurant

The Uyghurs are a Turkic people living in the Jinxiang Autonomous Region of China. This Chinese province is also know as East Turkistan. Uyghurs are Chinese muslims, though unwillingly Chinese. The owners of The Silk Road, the only Uyghur restaurant in town, look more Arabic than Asian. They refuse to serve tea in their restaurant. Too Chinese. But their menu is printed in both Chinese and English. When I've overheard conversations there, I think it's mandarin they speak.

My first exposure to Uyghur culture was at Sis' birthday dinner last year. Bro ordered food from The Silk Road, which introduced my taste buds to a whole new kind of cooking and use of spices. Since then, I've dined at the small, run-down restaurant with plastic flowers a couple of times and with each visit, I like their food more. But not so their service. I mean, the food is just downright delicious, clinging your to palate and beckoning you to savour every morsel, leaving you satisfied and wanting more. Nothing Indian about it.

Any reviews I've read about the restaurant talk about the politics of the Uyghurs, commend the great food, but condemn the terrible service. The owners are very particular about how you may come to dine at their restaurant, reminiscent of the Soup Nazi in a Seinfeld episode. For example, you must order the lamb pillow (a lamb shank with sticky rice and raisins) in advance, especially for take out. Despite the hole-in-the-wall-in-a stripmallness of the restaurant, they want you to make a reservation to eat there. You cannot be seated unless your whole party is present.

Once, we made a reservation for four but six of us showed up. Not only would they not accommodate us even though they had vacant tables, they were rude about it. Bro got so angry, he stormed out of the restaurant and swears to never eat there again. During that meal, we had to move the car in the middle of eating because someone complained it was blocking another car even though we had parked in a legal parking spot.

This week, when we went there, we were asked to move the car again before we even sat down because the waitress didn't like that it was parked by the front door of the restaurant despite that being a legal spot. Then she asked me if we had a reservation even though there were several empty tables in the restaurant. When I said no, I swear, she growled at me.

Every time she brought things to our table, she abandoned them brusquely in front of Sis' fiance, obstructing his use of the table surface and access to the food. She seemed to convey she found us politically offensive, or that she found us unworthy of eating their food.

Oh but the food is so damn good, damn it. The lamb kebobs on long skewers charred just right on the outside and tender inside, coated with mystery spice, the handmade broad noodles in sauce that make you lick your lips again and again, the sticky rice peppered with raisins and lamb. Would I suffer their abuse just to eat there? Yes, again and again.

Tripping Out

So far, my plans for July include a weekend getaway with my book club and a wilderness camping trip with my vegetarian friends. The plans for August include a family car-camping trip, a trip to Montreal, another wilderness camping trip, and a trip to France. For October, there will be a trip to Orlando.

All this planning makes me restless and anxious, especially that trip to France. I don't think we can afford to go. But we're getting an apartment free and The Man's flight will be covered by his employer as R&R.

I want to take mom to Orlando because I had wanted to do that with mom and dad. I've missed the chance with dad. Now I want to take mom. In fact, mom is coming car-camping and to Montreal with us. Sis had asked why I'm taking mom all over the place. Now that I've thought about it, I think it's to honour her while I can, even if she objects, and she does.

She objects to leaving her house. She doesn't want to miss putting out the garbage. She thinks the house will fall apart if she's not there. I think these concerns are age related. I suspect mom is a little depressed. Her doctor says she's deficient in vitamin D. I want her out in the sun a bit more.

Still, I understand the desire to stay put. Maybe it's the weather. We're in our first heat wave of the season and right now, it's raining hard out. There's even a tornado warning for Toronto tonight. My head and my body are on different courses. My head is planning the trips, my body doesn't want to go anywhere.  

I started a pottery class recently. This is a different kind of trip altogether. I get high making plates, planters and a birdbath for my garden. I just want to stay home and work on my garden, dig up the front yard, put in new plants. Now this is the kind of trip I'm talking about.

It Wasn't Over

It felt like nothing's been happening in the last while. But when I talk to The Man and friends, I realize that's not so. There is the summer to plan (The Exchange is coming back!), my mother's basement apartment to rent out, my garden to clean, weed, and plant. And The Boy's episode with whiskey wasn't quite over.

The principal had banned the boys from going to the cast party. But the party was held in in a private home after hours. She had phoned the parents hosting the party to say the two boys weren't allowed to attend. Did she have jurisdiction over The Boy's private time on private property? This was a grey area for me. Without the musical production, there certainly wouldn't have been a cast party. 

Another teacher met The Boy in the hallway and threatened to ban him from a June solstice concert if she found out he attended the party. This was uncalled for and amounts to bullying on the teacher's part. I had issue with that. The Boy had been invited to play in the teachers' rock band, he had been rehearsing with his own rock band, he had been working hard at transcribing a music score for the orchestra so they could play backup music for his rock band.

The Boy was incensed and felt violated on being banned from the cast party and being threatened with a ban from playing in the solstice concert.

That night, I attended the musical performance at the school. An excellent production as always. But what transpired during the day was, the boy whose parents were hosting the party sent word to The Boy that they still wanted him to come to the party, that they would cover for him and lie to the school if needed. Now it was my turn to be incensed.

In those few split seconds in the hallway while I weighed whether The Boy should go to the cast party, I understood the following:

1.  The Boy and his friend had done wrong.
2.  The principal had a responsibility to apply punishment as a deterrent to other students.
3.  Whether the principal had jurisdiction over The Boy's private time on private property was in question. But she did waive giving him a permanent record in favour of a party ban to reduce permanent damage.
4.  The Boy felt violated and great injustice had been done to him because his private activity had been interferrred with.
5.  The teacher in the hallway had bullied The Boy.
6.  The Boy felt greater injustice at being threatened. He felt he must attend the party now on principle, to make the point that the principal and teacher had no right to violate him. He felt safe because the host parents would cover for him.

While all these principles were at issue, my gut told me something else. It said there was already enough damage done; my maternal instinct needed to protect The Boy and contain the damge. As his mother, I had greater interest in and concern for his long-term welfare than anyone else. If I didn't look out for him, protect him from himself and the situation, who would?

The teacher had escalated the problem by threatening The Boy. He would escalate it further by attending the party. His participation in the solstice concert was at stake. Because of the work he's already put in preparing for this concert, he would feel worse being banned from it than not atttending the party. Further escalation of the problem means more people would know about what happened. The school's reputation was at stake. More importantly, The Boy's reputation was at stake. I didn't want him to end his high school year on a sour note after having given so much of his energy and affection to the school.

And while the host parents should have consulted with me instead luring The Boy to the party, I interpreted their invitation as a first response based on affection for The Boy. I drew to The Boy's attention that because of their affection for him, he had a greater moral responsibility to not put them and all the other kids attending the party in a compromising situation where they are required to lie for him. 

Because of all of the above, I discouraged The Boy from attending the party and took him home. I am thankful he trusted me, heard some of what I tried to say to him, and came home willingly despite much anger and frustration on his part.  

Had I done the right thing by not teaching him to stand up for himself and fight the principal and the bullying teacher? I don't know.

Friday night, he had the solstice concert. It was fabulous he reported. Being invited to play in the teacher's rock band was no small thing. The teachers have never invited a student to join them before. And this time, he attended the private party after. Then he went to another party Saturday night. I have seen him twice this weekend, for all of 10 minutes each time. He phoned to tell me he's having a good time.

Wake Up

This morning, my friend phoned to tell me about her son, Sonny, who organized a party at his friend's house last weekend, against her advice. The Boy dropped in the party with his friend but they left when a lot of people arrived and things seemed to get out of hand.

The end result is, Sonny's friend's parents were supposed to be in the house supervising the party. But they weren't. They gave permission for the party, then went to Mexico. There were 150 kids on the guest list. They would collect an admission fee to cover some of the costs. Someone arranged for bouncers. The bouncers texted about 1,000 people to let them know about the party. 800 people showed up. $6,000 was collected.

Someone stole the $6,000 and the laptops Sonny brought to the party to sync the music. These laptops belonged to my friend and Sonny. With no money to pay the bouncers, the bouncers started to pound on the door and broke it. The police came. They confiscated three kegs of beer. Sonny's friend's house was trashed. To lessen the impact of the damage, my friend put out $800 to repair their door so the house is at least safe until the parents get home.

Sonny is now sick and demoralized, no doubt due to the stress. He's lost all his homework and notes with his computer. My friend is looking to replace both laptops. It was a bitter lesson for Sonny, who just wanted a good time and trusted his friends.

Ten minutes after this phone call, The Boy's school phoned me. The vice-principal asked me if The Boy's Friend had dinner with us last night and whether we served alcohol. I said no, Friend and The Boy both came to the house after school. They each had a burrito, then went back to school for the evening performance. She said she was trying to verify Friend's story. He was intoxicated before the performance and said he had dinner with The Boy's family where alcohol was served.

When The Boy came down to get ready for school, I asked him how Friend was and how he got alcohol between leaving here and getting to school. The Boy said they had some whiskey here at the house. Please explain I said.

Friend had a small bottle with him. When they got to our house, they each had a burrito and a shot of whiskey in The Boy's room.

All hell could have broken loose. I felt it. But I contained myself and said, "That is not cool with me, sneaking alcohol into my house to drink, and drinking it before a performance."

He said, "But I am 17. I will be off to university next year. Everyone drinks at least a little. We're teenagers. You can't expect us to wave the alcohol in your face and tell you we're going to drink it."

"True. We've never been strict about alcohol in our house because we don't drink a lot. We even offer you wine at dinner. The occasional drink is not a problem. But it is not okay to sneak whiskey in the house when you are under aged, and drink before a performance regardless of how old you are. The school's policies are very clear about that. There are reasons for these policies. Legal, practical, and moral ones. You are under aged, drinking impairs performance, and responsible people don't encourage minors to drink where school activities are involved.

You are an adult soon. A responsible person would have said, I have some whiskey with me. Would you to have a drink with me? I would have said no thanks. And if you are a responsible minor, I might have added I don't think you should drink before your performance."

"We didn't do that because...we're not adults. But we probably wouldn't have drank if you said no."

"The fall out of what happened is, because I didn't know you drank, I've now made Friend into a liar. If I call the school to correct that, I will need to drag you into it, and it will sound like I don't know what's going on in my own house. And now, I will be very suspicious each time you come home with a friend, go up to your room, and close the door. It's bad all around."

He assured me this was the first time they've drank between school and a performance, that now he knows I am not fine with it, and that he will go to school and talk to Friend and resolve the problem, then let me know what happens.

Good morning.

Aftermath: The Boy got to school and was called in to the principal's office with Friend. They fessed up everything. The principal decided not to pull them from performance and no permanent record will be filed. However, they are banned from tonight's cast party, and after exams, they will have to spend a few days washing the school lockers.

Day One On My Own

My goodness. The Man leaves and first thing I do is, I go and spend $200 on annual plants and a fiberglass urn. It's sunny and warm out and I have gardening on my mind.

While planting outside, my neighbour asked about the new car I'm driving, whether I like it. I tell her I like it fine because it's more solid than it looks, but it's a rental until Saturday. The old Volvo station wagon is still hanging over my head until I sell it or trade it in.

She thinks the little rental Cobalt is good looking and roomy. She wants to recommend it to her mother. Yes, that's what it is. The Cobalt is a little old lady car. Great for city driving and the occasional excursion on the highway. But I like that we had the conversation on a sunny afternoon while working in our gardens.

Tomorrow, I resume my workouts in the gym and go to a play. I've signed up for a pottery class. I'm keeping busy doing the things I enjoy. But it feels like I'm mourning The Man's absence.

Normal

Well, that was a whirlwind of a homecoming for The Man. Despite a quirky start, we had a great time. I can't bare to let him go back to Kabul. But he's gone. I can't tell what's normal any more - life with him here, or life with him in Kabul. I just answered my own question. It's life with him, whether here or there.

The Man is barely on the plane when The Boy phoned home after his concert and said, "Can I sleep over at Butterfly Boy's tonight?"

"What? Dad leaves and you don't want to come home for the night?"

"Yes..."

"No, you come home for the night. It's a school night after all."

"Well...okay."

That is normal, The Boy constantly looking for a bed elsewhere, because it's so boring at home, says he. Not that he puts up much of a fuss when I say no. That's because he knows he's being unreasonable. Honeymoon with The Man is over, and oh god, immediately back to normal with The Boy.

Deranged Hydrangea

I am just not a dedicated fitness buff. Which is why I am far from buff.

While cleaning out my garden, I noticed my hydrangea was looking kind of sad. It was blooming on one side only. The other side was scraggly and dry, yet the branches were still firm so I couldn't snap them off. Last year, the plant was full of leaves. It did not bloom at all. I have decided this plant is behaving like a psychotic. It certainly looks like one.

So it was thinking about this hydrangea and wondering what I can do with my garden this year that I gathered my workout clothes and trotted off to the gym. But I did not get far.

I got to the end of the street when I ran into my neighbour coming home with a hanging plant in her hand. We chatted, then I agreed I'd wait for her in the garden centre while she took her plant home, get her purse, and come out again. I said to myself, the gym is open till 5 pm, I could go later.

We ended up buying a cartful of plants. We had to borrow the garden centre's trolley to wheel our purchases home. But of course we had to bring the trolley back. It was after we dropped off the trolley that we decided we really needed coffee. The day was so overcast and cold.

We went for coffee and dessert. Walking back from coffee, we passed by a Japanese restaurant that is now my new favourite. Right there and then we formulated a plan to have dinner at the restaurant. Her family and me. She'd come get me at 6:30.

By now, it was 4:30. Too late to go to the gym. So I potted some of my new plants in urns and cleaned out the garden some more.

At dinner, we had a massive pig out. Her kids loved the food and wanted to try everything. The food just kept on coming.

So instead of going to the gym, I got derailed to coffee and dessert, and a huge supper. Sometimes, I think I am the one who is deranged.

Apartment Hunting

It took some adjustment, but we've settled into a very nice time. We did errands all week. Mostly doctor appointments for The Man. We had dinner with friends on Friday, and now The Man and The Boy are in New York, apparently having a good time, and some father-and-son bonding I hope.

Me, I am always alone, and catching up on my reading, catching up on e-mail, catching up on laundry, catching up on gardening. You'd think for a woman who isn't employed, I'd be on top of things. No, I run around town a lot.

Take yesterday for example. I went apartment hunting with a friend. After taking various factors into consideration, she's determined she needs her apartment to be near her son's school, on the transit line, in a duplex. The apartment needs to be new, at least a two bedroom but preferably three, and preferably under $2000.

Around the $2000 mark, the quality of apartments out there rises a few notches from the basement apartment I am trying to rent to students for my mother. They are well maintained. Even in apartment buildings, the hallways don't smell of old, musty people. They are looked after by property management companies. There is a formal application process.

Our task for the day was just to visit apartments, gauge what's out there, and check out neighbourhoods. We visited several apartments. While the quality of the apartments was good, the space you get varies. For the same money, you can get small two bedrooms, or very large three bedrooms.

The first apartment we saw was a spanking new two-bedroom, brand new floors, washroom, appliances, really cute layout with a joint dining-living room. But the bathroom and bedrooms were small. The agent and I recognized each other from somewhere, our names were even familiar to each other, but neither of us could remember where or under what circumstances we had met.

It was a beautiful apartment. My friend wanted to take it right away. I said, But this is the first one you've seen, and I think it's a bit small. True, she said, If only there's an extra bedroom. But she arranged with the agent to apply for the apartment. Thank god no rent was exchanged and the agent had other showings in the afternoon. When we left the house and calmed down, we decided that was not the apartment for her, as nice as it was.

We went next to an apartment building to see two penthouses. My goodness, they were big, bright, and spacious, with neat trimmings. But it had the feel of an impersonal, factory apartment, and though I would love to live in such a place for a while, I couldn't really think of it as home for anyone. My friend's concern was it was the penthouse, and her son has trouble with heights. It means he won't be able to look out the window or use the balcony. And while she wanted an apartment near his school, this building was right next to the school. It means if he were to look out the window or look down from the balcony, he would see his school below. And the rent was $2300.

We visited a few other neighbourhoods and eliminated some. Then we made an appointment for a 5:30 viewing of a basement apartment. I wasn't keen on it. But we drove by the building. It was in fact a house. Three houses to be exact, melded together with the same brick so that it looks like one large house. The grounds were well maintained. It was in a great area, a ten-minute walk from her son's school. Very nice from the outside. But a basement?

The landlord took us in from a side door. The apartment has its own entrance and garage. We stepped into a charming, new, spacious three-bedroom basement apartment. It was even bright as far as basement apartments go, freshly painted, with new fixtures. The master bedroom had an en suite bathroom. There was a cute nook for an office where the ceiling goes up about 12 feet. It had a separate living room and dining room and its own laundry/storage room. There were three "windows" that open from the hallway into the dining room. We loved it.

Turned out the agent renting out the apartment works with my friend's cousin. And even though there was already an offer on the apartment to move in in July, my friend put in an offer to move in in June. By evening, the apartment was hers. And she came in at $1800, less than what she's paying now.

Here He Is Again

I don't know if I like having The Man home this time. And I was so happy to pick him up at the airport.

In the airport parking lot, he commented, Are we on a spy mission? because of the silver, nondescript nature of the rental car. What, he's getting all blue blood on me already?

The airport parking lot issues you a ticket from a machine when you enter, and when you leave, you insert your ticket into a payment machine, pay the machine, then the machine spits the ticket back out so you can insert it into an exit machine when you physically leave the parking lot. We got to the exit machine. I couldn't find the parking ticket. Because I had parked so close to the exit machine, I could only open the car door a small bit, squeeze out, shake myself out to see if the ticket had fallen on my coat somewhere. The Man shook his head and said, "We're not even out of the parking lot yet." That was a stab.

On the way home, of course he had to stop by an electronics shop to buy an adaptor so he can use his Afghan cell phone. I found him impatient and boorish to the salesman.

I said, You can't be so rigid and demanding when you are home. You don't have a driver and guards to order around any more. You don't have staff here who worship you. And don't expect me to serve you.

Oh, he said, You mean I am no longer in charge.

Darn right.

I told him about an opportunity to buy an ipod for The Boy at 35% less than at the store. He rejected it. On the grounds that it involves a third party. He wanted to do it himself so it would be a gift from him. But either way, you would still be paying for it, I said. No, he just wanted to do it his way.

I stopped talking to him. All this just on the ride home.

Then he makes up for it at home by pulling out a single rose for me from his suitcase. He had picked it from his garden in Kabul and smuggled it into Canada. Scents have just about been bred out of flowers in Canada to enhance visual sturdiness at the expense of olfactory engagement. This rose from Afghanistan was a bit withered, but ever so honey-sweetly perfumed. It is reviving somewhat in water. I could just eat it.

Stealth Operation

Whoo, that was so stressful and anxiety-ridden. I dropped my car off at mom's in the dark of night, travelling on side streets, and lurking in shadow to avoid detection by police.

The Man comes home for a visit tomorrow and I rented a car for the two weeks he's home. I need my parking spot so had to unload the Volvo somewhere. My mechanic wanted to charge me $20 a day to park my car in his lot. That'll be $340 to park a dead car just so I can trade it in later. I decided to take it instead to mom's, where she has a parking pad but no car.

But getting the car there was a problem. I didn't renew the Volvo's license plate in March since it was no longer road-worthy. Legally, the car shouldn't be on the road. And if I take it on the road anyway, what about the billowing smoke from the oil seeping into the engine and burning off as exhaust. I can call CAA to tow the car. They will tow from anywhere to a garage or to my house, but not from my house to someone else's house.

So I loosened the oil cap and dip stick to ease the pressure of oil going into the engine, then drove the car at night to mom's, hoping I would not meet the police on the road. The car runs, but lacks pick up power. It is sluggish. It emits little puffs of smoke as soon as I leave the house, and the longer I drive it, the more smoke it produces. By the time I got to Bloor Street, I had a giant white plume of a tail reaching into the sky.

Lo and behold, on Dundas, a police car was coming towards me. I can lie and tell the police the billowing smoke started as I was driving home tonight. But what can I say about the car license plate being expired? I eased off the gas to diminish the smoke and coasted down the road as the police car and I pass each other. I felt like a fugitive in disguise trying to pass off as someone else. Fortunately, the police car didn't stop me. I turned south off Dundas as soon as I could in case the police changed their mind.

I parked at mom's and looked around to make sure no police car had followed me. Mom was at the window. She came out and said, "Oh so much smoke. Fills up the whole street."

I left my car there for now. My heart took 10 minutes to stop pounding. Then I got on the streetcar and came home. It felt like I had dumped off a dead body.

On Being His Mother

It's Mother's Day. The Boy told me he doesn't believe in these forced celebrations. "Who imposed this corporate agenda on us," he asked, "Why only one day of the year and why this particular day, if we truly appreciate our mothers?"

I am so pleased he is questioning these things.

I said, "Don't limit your questioning to Mother's Day. Question also why people are only nice to each other on Christmas Day and why all the shopping is necessary."

He said, "Why do we celebrate birthdays at all? Why do we celebrate adding one more year to your life?"

"Boy," I said, "I have so much to tell you. But it's important you discover these answers for yourself. I can only tell you right now why I choose to partake in these celebrations."

So I offered my views of our society's need for rituals and joint commemorative occasions to keep us civil, feel our community, and have opportunities to honour each other and extract meaning in our lives. Then I said if you feel observing Mother's Day is philosophically wrong and you choose not to participate, I would accept that. Just don't object out of social or budget convenience, that you'd rather be doing some else with your friends, or you have no money to buy me a present.

He said, "I'm not saying I'm not coming to Mother's Day dinner, I just don't understand why it has to be today. It's true that I have to watch my budget. Are you actually expecting a present from me?"

"Mother's Day is actually tomorrow. But my family is having our dinner tonight. And I would like a climbing rose bush of yellow flowers."

"Can't do it, mom," he said, "No money."

"Fair enough. So just come to the family dinner. But remember that on your birthday, I too could object to arbitrary celebrations."

"Well then you'd be doing that out of convenience or spite."

"Probably," I said, surprised that he heard me, then caught me. "It isn't just today that we have dinner with my family. We do that often, and sometimes at our house. Mother's Day is just another get together."

"I guess. But I still want to question why we do what we do. I don't take Philosophy and Modern Western History then forget the lessons, you know."

"Good."

Happy Mother's Day!

My Book Club

Here's the thing about my book club. We all read the selected book, but we discuss it little when we meet. We say things like, What's with the dead dog he carts around in his car trunk, I think she's been bitchy all her life, Was he really gay or was that an accident?

Sometimes someone brings a list of discussion topics downloaded from book club web sites. We go through each question quickly. For example, How had Tom's character changed by the end of the book and what contributed to this change? We say, He was a jerk at the beginning and didn't know it. He was still a jerk at the end but he knew it now. His wife and girlfriend left him at the same time. When the thugs and cops came to get him, he tried to rat on his father but even the thugs said he crossed an ethical line so he had to accept he was just a jerk.

We have no patience for profoundness.

Then we eat. We always have wonderful food. The person hosting the meeting provides the main course, others bring everything else. Ours is a gourmet dinner club of mostly meat and vegetables by necessity. One woman has celiac, so no gluten at all. One woman can't eat seafood. One can't have dairy. One eats only kosher. One can only drink a certain Australian white wine. We all have to watch our weight.

When I host, these are the simplest meals to prepare. Just a meat with rice or potatoes. Except last night. I grilled chicken and beef. But I forgot soy sauce, which I used in the marinade, contains wheat. So I also did lamb chops in rosemary, lemon, and garlic to provide a gluten-free choice.

We talk about our kids, parents, mutual friends, what we're doing, what we're dealing with at home and at work, for those who work. We don't complain, indulge in self-pity, or patronize each other. We never talk about our husbands except to say, How is your husband?

It's through what we say that I realize we share common approaches to life. Last night, I found out that we all hang our clothes out in the sun to dry when we can, we all shop for groceries with reusable shopping bags, we aim to change our bed linen every week but realistically manage a change every two weeks, we've all been driving cars more than 10 years old and are either looking for a new used car, or just obtained one. We've known each other for more than five years. We have spent weekends, New Year's Eve, family dinners, and some vacations together. We have attended funerals of each other's family members. Slowly these little details of our habits surface.

It's in this way - the discovery of how we live, that I spend a few pleasurable hours with my book club friends every few weeks.

The Rest Of The World

While I sleep through most of my days, my friends are having a much more difficult time.

J went to Europe for four days. While she was away, her teenage son invited six friends over to their apartment. One kid texted a friend to say where he was. Next thing you know, 20 kids were pounding on the door to get in. J's son called the police. Meanwhile, the neighbours upstairs got upset.

They happen to be the landlady's son and daughter-in-law. The landlady's son is an alcoholic. He came home drunk and tried to strangle J's son's friends. The police arrived, told the kids to go inside, and dealt the drunk. The daughter-in-law emailed her mother-in-law, the landlady, and said 80 kids were inside the house having a wild party with loud music.

Next thing you know, J is evicted from her apartment. She needs to be out asap. This is on top of having to take care of her mother, who is in a nursing home and quite ill. She is also looking for work.

T's mother has alzheimer. T and his wife had arranged for a full time caregiver to live with her. But last week, T's mother locked her caregiver out and became violent. T called his friend N, who lives in the neighbourhood, to check in on his mother.

N went and stayed two hours. He came back shaken.

This week, T knocked on my door after midnight looking for a bed for the night. He had had a bad row with his mother, both got physically aggressive with each other. The bad thing is, T's mother had been taken by police into the hospital for assessment on order of the psychiatrist who came to see her at her home. She pleaded with T to get her out. Reacting emotionally and without a plan, T came into town, signed papers to say he would take her to his home to live with his family, in order to get her out of the hospital. All this was against doctors' recommendation. Now the hospital has washed their hands of his mother's care. T and his wife run an inn. They have no way of looking after his mother, who is now so prone to episodes of verbal abuse and physical violence.

Meanwhile, N was just diagnosed with prostate cancer. Two days before T's phone call, N's teenage son broke his collar bone. While he was digesting the news of his illness and nursing his son, T called him to check in on his mother.

I have nothing to complain about.

Blame It On The Bees

I thought you were supposed to feel good when you go to the gym. I've been exhausted, sleepy, with muscle aches. I am narcoleptic.

I took a few days off to rest my body. But the sleepiness persisted. I became short of breath, lethargic, can't focus, but happy. Now that's familiar. I blame it on those crazy bees and the drugs they make. I am also taking bee pollen.

That's what you get for taking the advice of a guy in a health food store. I went there to ask what I can take to prevent allergies. The owner said, bee pollen. It is nature's most complete food. It has miraculous healing properties. It's been proven effective in deterring allergies. It makes you feel good. It helps you lose weight. Well then, bee pollen is for me.

When I went to Indonesia, the supermarket I visited stocked shelf after shelf of bee pollen power, tablets, and capsules of various brands. Bee pollen is a popular food in Indonesia. So on coming back to Toronto, I got me some bee pollen capsules.

I think bee pollen makes me happy. It enhances the active agents of fluoxetine in me. That's why I feel I am overdosing on Prozac even though my dosage remains the same.

I am now lowering the dosage of my daily happy pill. Who knew those busy bees could have such an effect on me.