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.

Wonky World

It suddenly turned cold. The first day was 4C and raining. I turned the heat back on. The next day was colder. I went out with coat and gloves. I feel discombobulated. A house on our street just listed for $599,000 and it's a crappy reno job inside. I phoned a restaurant to confirm they were open for dinner Monday but when we arrived, they were closed. A good friend's husband has been diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer. The world has gone crazy.

I dreamt last night I was walking through a hospital with my 6-year-old niece, Kid2. A nurse brought us into a room and asked if I had told Kid2 about my father. I said no. She then told Kid2 my father had died. We wept inconsolably. I woke up and thought, what was that about?

Mom went home from my house by public transit. Where she usually transfers to a bus, the bus stop was gone. A woman took her into the subway and put her on the right bus. But the bus took her all over town before getting to her destination. It took her almost two hours to get home. She phoned me and accused, "Why didn't you tell me where to get the bus? Why didn't you tell me the old bus stop is no good any more?" I said, "I had no idea they moved the bus stop and changed the route. I can't tell you things I don't know."

I took away The Boy's cell phone because he stays up all night to talk to friends, then sleeps in and misses school. This morning, he said, "I hate you." I said, "That's belligerence." He said, "But I do hate you." I said, "You have to feel what you feel, but don't be rude." He said, "Can I have my phone back?" I said, "No." Will he learn he can't tell people he hates them, then ask them for something?

Wonky.

An Afternoon

Here's how I spent yesterday.

In the late morning, I headed out to the gym. A trumpet playing King Of The Road (Trailer for sale or rent, rooms to let fifty cents, no phone, no pool, no pets, I ain't got no cigarettes...) greeted me as I walked out onto St. Clair. An elderly black man with smidges of white hair, wearing a plaid vest, was playing his trumpet in front of the liquor store.

I stood and listened for a while. He was good, though he played slowly. I had two $5 bills on me so put one in his trumpet case. He gave me the deepest bow I have ever received from anyone, while still playing his trumpet!

At the gym, as I was changing into my workout clothes, a woman said, "Oh, you sound tired." It's true, I have been sighing loudly recently. It's fatigue from going to the gym four times a week, trying to buff up for summer. But that little comment from her started a conversation.

Now, I think the woman is a little flaky. Despite that, we sat in the change room and talked for an hour. Or she talked mostly.

I found out she's a recent breast cancer survivor, her treatment continues, she's written two movies that have yet to be sold, she works as background in movies, she worked in sales in Cuba for two years a few years back, she's the eldest of four with two younger brothers, one of her brothers works as an executive chef in Russia, one runs a private high school in Toronto, she has one sister who is a homemaker with two teen daughters, and she's single with no kids.

We talked about India and my love of Bollywood movies. Her favourite movies are Moulin Rouge and My Life As A Dog.

She lives on a street next to the gym. She's working out to shape up so she can take part in a 2-day, 60K walk for breast cancer in November. I offered to sponsor her and she welled up in tears. Then she said, "It's so good to have a conversation and to have someone actually listen." I think she may have been lonely.

Walking home from the gym, I saw a fat wooden butler figure placed outside a shop that runs up a side street. The shop window said "Lunch Dinner" and nothing more. This is a new shop. I went in to investigate.

A woman saw me through the window and waved me in. Her shop opened the day before. The place was small, so it was for take out food, though not quite set up yet. The first thing this woman told me was, "I am the best biscotti maker in the city." And to prove it, she gave me two delicious pieces of biscotti to try.

This woman used to teach salsa dancing at my gym. Now she's focusing on food and catering. The little shop has promise. The woman is vibrant. I can't wait to buy food from her.

Leaving this shop, I walked a few doors over to The Cupcakery. The store window has a pink tutu on display. The shop sells only cupcakes. I bought one. By now, I've put back all the calories lost at the gym.

There is a new tapas restaurant on the street, though the white table clothes are all wrong. Maybe that's why I have yet to see anyone eating inside the last three times I've passed it.

There is a new video store. They specialize in foreign and independent films. No more Blockbuster for me. I rented Jasmine Women and Sancho The Bailiff. Both beautiful and full of grief. I have to go back today to rent Harold and Kumar to balance all that despair.

It's a pretty interesting hood I live in.

The Adult Teen

I was in the change room of the gym the other day. A woman beside me was in her underwear, blasting her radio. She looked to be in her 20's, maybe even early 30's. Suddenly, an old man slumbered in. Immediately, he said, "Sorry, wrong change room", turned around, and left.

Earlier, I almost walked into the men's change room. I accepted that the old guy made a mistake.

But the half-naked woman beside me didn't. Granted, she was undressed and I wasn't. She felt she had been caught naked and I didn't. Here's what the woman did. She said, "Hey man, that's not even cute. No way, man. That's not right." For sure, he shouldn't have walked in. But he didn't do it to be cute. Part of me dismissed the incident because really, there ain't nuthin' on a body I hadn't seen, and the old man must've seen it all in his day too.

Then the woman phoned someone and said, "Call me back in 10 and I give it to ya." Wow, she had to tell a friend about it as if it was a talk-worthy incident. When she walked out to the front, she complained to the reception, "A man walked in to the change room and saw me. She was lucky, she still had her clothes on. He said he made a mistake. But that's not right, man, for him to walk in." Did she want the person at reception to undo what happened?

Beyond what she did - blasting her music, phoning a friend, complaining to reception when the old man acknowledged his mistake - it was her tone that made me take notice. It irked me. I thought she was going to ask reception to do something to mark the men's and women's change rooms clearer, but she complained about the injustice she suffered. Something was not right about how she behaved and how she looked.

After thinking about it, I conclude it's because she looked like an adult but behaved like a teenager of the trashy kind. None of the teenagers I know actually behave like that. All judgment aside, I had to ask myself, how many adults do I know who never got over their teen image? More importantly, am I one of them, and do I behave like one in at times? I have to think about this.

The Line

A few nights ago, The Boy came home with four friends to spend the night. Just before bedtime, the kids went out. A little while later, The Boy came back alone.

"Where did your friends go?" I asked.

"They wanted to go for a walk," he said.

"Really? Or are they doing drugs?"

"Are you going to be a cool mom or are you going to chastise them?"

"I won't say anything to them. They have the good sense not to do it in the house, and made a point of not even being near the house."

"They don't do anything worse than pot. That's in fact all they do."

"You're not doing it with them?"

"I can't tell you how much I am against drugs of any kind. Really, you don't have to believe me. I've tried pot, but I don't do it."

"I believe you."

The thing is, a part of me wanted to ask where the kids got their pot from, and whether they could get me some. But I refused to cross the line. I wanted to remain authoritarian parent. So I didn't pursue the subject any more. The kids came back, went to bed, and all was well the next day.

Let The Sun Shine In

The weather has been glorious, around 23C. The sun is out, birds are chirping, little buds on trees and plants are poking through, I've already hung my laundry on the line to dry. Windows are open and neighbours are outside.

Skateboards fly pass my window. A bum in the parkette at the end of the street took his shirt off and rubbed his pasty back against a tree trunk, grunting in satisfied ecstasy, humph, ahh, ohh. That's a tree I won't be hugging in the near future.

I walked up our street and exchanged hello, happy Spring, yippee freedom, holla back world, etc. with several neighbours. My mother is who knows where soaking up the sun to address her vitamin D deficiency. Everyone's cleaning out their gardens and yards of winter's debris. I am sweeping out the leaves that I missed in the fall. A few of our clay pots have cracked over winter. My neighbour said plastic is the way to go. She then invited me to go shopping with her along St. Clair.

It was something to walk along a familiar street with someone. We pointed out shops that the other doesn't frequent. It's like we've walked on different streets and now these streets merge. But Neighbour and I, we are such kindred spirits.

We stopped at Markett where they were grilling mini angus burgers outside. We each had one, then we looked at the meat the shop sold and planned a BBQ for later in the month. I pointed out my yoga studio to her, she showed me a shop that sold garden and home knick-knacks. Neither of us had noticed the other's store before.

We went to Joe Fresh and looked at tops. Of the four items we chose separately to try on, three were the same. We each bought an identical shirt.

On the way home, she said she needed to stop by the health food store. I said, Great, I need to get some soap there. She said, Me too, that's what I'm stopping to get. We went in and both bought soap.

Then she said, I'm just going in to Shoppers for a sec. I said, Me too, I need to get hair dye. She said, That's what I'm getting. So we went in and got hair dye, though different brands.

We got home, where she puttered in her yard and I puttered in mine.

That's when another neighbour invited me over for a BBQ. Except I was putting together shelves for my potting shed so I declined. It was so great to see everyone outside, wearing T-shirts and smiles on the first truly warm weekend of the year.

On The Road

Is this not an amazing doorway. We pass by several like this each time we leave our hotel and go down a street that looks like a lane way.


When we are on the motor scooter in Seminyak, this is the kind of traffic we encounter.



We often pass by these wild, crazy, expressive statues.






Once, we drove beside a procession going to a temple.


For our bicycle tour in Ubud, we stopped at a restaurant for breakfast. This is the view from I sat. That mountain is a volcano. The dark part is the remnants of lava from the last eruption in 1963.




One of the stops on our bike tour was a coffee plantation. This man is hand-roasting coffee beans.


We also stopped at a Balinese home.



Inside, the women and children in the family were making bamboo mats, which they sell to generate income. The mats are used to sit on as well as to cover the roof.




Roosters are kept in cages to prevent them from killing each other between cock fights.


Each home compound houses several families, usually related. While the property is large, the extended family is poor. They open their home to tour companies to supplement their income.


That's our little bike tour group on the road.


We rode through many villagers.





And hi-fived many kids.




We stopped at a sacred banyan tree and one of the drivers made an offering. I think our guide said this tree is 2,000-years-old and the village has to trim the hanging vines to prevent the roots from spreading. You suffer severe punishment from the villagers if you are caught climbing or swinging on this tree.

Another Senior Moment

After the production of Tartuffe at The Boy's school, I went up to the lead actor and introduced myself, congratulating him on his excellent performance. Kids need to hear praise from adults other than their parents and teachers.

I wanted to find the other lead actor to congratulate him too. But I didn't see him. That night, I took mom home and The Boy went to a party with the cast. Then he came home with three friends to sleep over. One of the friends was Phil.

The next day, the kids went off to do their weekend thing. The Boy and Phil went back to the school for the final performance of the show. That night, Phil came to spend the night again. I made them BLTs for lunch the next day.

Today, I had dinner with The Boy after our dentist appointment. The restaurant had a poster of his school's production of Tartuffe on its window. So The Boy and I talked about the play for the first time since I saw it. He really hadn't been home much.

I told him I said hello to the lead who played Tartuffe. The Boy said, Yes, the student told him he met me. I told him I looked for the other lead but couldn't find him. The Boy said, "What do you mean?"

I said, "I mean I looked for him to say hello and congratulate him but I didn't see him in the hall way."

"Mom, that was Phil," he said.

"Your friend Phil?"

"Yes, the guy who slept over two nights in a row and you made him food. You've met him many times."

"Wow. He looked completely different on stage."

"No he didn't. He parted his hair and wore a costume."

"Well, tell him I thought he was terrific."

How did I miss that? These kids are real actors. Phil looks and acts totally like a normal teenager in real life.

The Case Of The Magic Bullet

A magic bullet is a blender. The blender is shaped like a bullet. One half is the motor and blade, the other half is the cup that holds the pureed and blended liquids. It's magic because you open up the bullet and drink right from the cup.

Apparently, teenage girls love the magic bullet. It allows them to mix sauces, fruit and vegetable juices to their heart's content.

But Mom also likes the magic bullet. She commented on the convenience and prowess of the magic bullet several times so I got her one for Christmas. She claims to love it.

While I was in Bali, Mom came each week to stay with The Boy for one night. When I got home, I saw Mom's magic bullet on my kitchen counter. I packed it up one day and put it in the Autoshare rental car I was using for the day, intending to return the bullet to Mom.

Only, I saw Mom, did my errands, went to my outing, and at the end of the night, I had forgotten to return the bullet to her. That was Friday night.

On Monday night, lying in bed and having trouble falling asleep, I suddenly bolted straight up in bed. My god, I left the magic bullet in the trunk of the rental car! The car is parked just down the street five minutes away. I need to go see if the bullet is still there.

The Boy was just coming up to bed. I told him where I was going. "That's not Pau-Pau's magic bullet," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"That's K's magic bullet. She brought it to make juice and left it here."

"Well, it's in the trunk of the rental car in the rental parking lot now."

"But mom, mom...."

So at 1 am, I got into my coat and boots, trooped down the street to the rental car parking lot, and opened the car trunk. Thank god the magic bullet was still there.

Temples

The first temple we visited with our guide required that we wear ceremonial sarongs to enter.


The temple was built in 944 and is still in use today. The temple consists of several structures and gardens.





There were gargoyles and statues all over the place.






This is Spanish painter Antonio Blanco's home. He went to Bali and married a Balinese dancer. His home now serves as a gallery for his art work. His widow and son still live on the premises. But it ought to be temple.



What home keeps a pagoda?


This garden leads to the Temple On The Water.


At the water's edge, there are many gardens, restaurants, and shops.



Across the water sits this little island where a man was fishing.


And there are the two small temples on the water.


While we were there, the fog rolled in.



An artist doing my portrait by the temple. He asked me to take my hair down for the sitting. "Hair up, look pregnant," he said. But I think it was his polite way of say, "look fatter."